And They Shall Call Me “Tunes”

shot by Synjon Dudgeon on one of the disposable film cameras I carried on trail.

April 1, 2018. Day Two on the PCT. I’d picked out what looked on the maps like the perfect place to camp that night. Relief and grateful exhaustion exploded in my mind as I reached the bottom of my last descent of the day and turned a corner to find the clearing, right where I expected it, and alive with four other hikers sitting around, chatting.

The others, two couples by the looks of it, welcomed me into our home for the night and introduced themselves. I threw down my pack and surveyed the remaining open space, finally laying my tent out on a semi-flat patch of dirt between two tall pines. As I pitched my little grey and yellow nylon house, Groover, whom I’d met at Hauser Creek the night before, pointed to a patchy use trail leading into the woods and told me, “The road to Poop Town’s that way.”

Over the next few hours between twilight and total darkness, three more hikers hobbled in, I nursed a Coors Light tall boy, and a few among us made the trip to Poop Town. We covered all the most common topics of early thru-hike conversation -- gear, foot pain, food, back pain, mileage plans, shoulder pain, weather, blisters, anticipation for upcoming sections, and, finally, trail names.

Groover and his partner, Pacecar, being the only hikers in our group who already had trail names, told us the stories of how they acquired theirs (Groover’s trail name has nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with, well, poop, while Pacecar’s has nothing to do with poop and everything to do with, well, pace) and proceeded to engage the group in a rousing game of “Let’s see if we can come up with a trail name for you.”

We went around in a circle, telling stories and asking questions about each other, someone occasionally piping in with what they thought would be a super trail name. For the guy wearing all camouflage clothing, “Camo.” For the Austrian wearing tighty whities, “Tighty Whitie.” One of those two ended up sticking, I’ll let you guess which one. And for me, the girl with a tiny speaker clipped to her pack and a vision of uniting fellow hikers through shared music tastes and filling every campsite and town motel room with the sweet sound of good tunes, “DJ.”

I went to sleep that night tired, hungry, and extremely satisfied. I was proud of my 16-mile day, reeling over how new and exciting this life still felt, and thrilled with the immediate sense of belonging. “DJ” didn’t feel quite right to me, -- it seemed too much like a real-world name, one you might find on a Yelp review or FOIA request form, to be my trail name -- but that was a problem for another time. It may not have been perfect, but it was mine. An external indicator of my place in this community I’d dreamed so long of joining. A shiny membership card I could pull out at any moment, proving to everyone, chiefly myself, I was a part of this thing. With my new nickname, I felt suddenly transformed from obsessed observer to insider. 

I walked with my new trail name for two days and tried it on by introducing myself alternately as “DJ” and “Sarah,” the former consistently feeling like a front. I still wasn’t smitten with my new identity, but I wasn’t ready to slough it off just yet. I didn’t like the sound or feel of “DJ,” but I loved what it represented: the importance of music in my life and my desire to share the music I love with others. I had grown so much over the two years prior, strengthening my understanding of self, empathy, confidence, and relationships. Much of that growth came through the pursuit and mutual love of music I found and explored with friends old and new. It had always been a powerful force in my life, but music had taken on a new role in the months leading up to my hike. It was a portal, a mentor, a yellow brick road from an unsatisfied past to an unforeseen future. More than a backdrop, the music I was discovering illuminated, accompanied, and reinforced the things I was learning about myself. The things that led me to where I was now, traveling down a dirt path in the mountains of Southern California.

Music was a huge part of me, and so it seemed appropriate that one of the first interpersonal signifiers of who I was - my trail name - would convey that. Just maybe not in the form of an acronym that calls to mind images of Vegas pool parties for some, the eldest sister from Full House for others. 

I hiked with my thoughts until they became tiresome, then I pulled out my phone and put in my earbuds. I opened Spotify and went to the first playlist in my Library, a collaborative playlist I’d started with my friends before the trail so I wouldn’t have to miss out on any of the new music coming out. They would add their favorites of the songs they’d found, and I would download in town and listen on trail. It was called PCTunes. It was, and is, an incredible playlist.

I arrived at camp early the evening of April 3rd, Day Four. My friend Synjon (that’s his given name, he’d later take on the trail name “Jukebox”) was already there, exploring the boulder field three of us had all said we’d likely camp in that night. And it was way too awesome to pass up. We climbed around the boulders and shared snacks while the setting sun cast an orange tint over the crinkly beige desert in front of us. Butterscotch rolled up a little later, and we all sat around talking until well after dark. The conversation drifted, as it so often does, to the topic of trail names.

“DJ just sounds too much like a person’s actual name, but I like the idea of it,” I floated to the group, fishing for a little validation. “I know you’re not really supposed to pick your own trail name, but...”

Butterscotch, a veteran of thru hiking, chimed in: “Do what you want, there are no rules!”

“Well…” I went on, “I’ve been thinking, I kind of like Tunes.”

“Tunes?” said Butterscotch, “That’s a good trail name. I never heard of anyone with that trail name before.”

“Yeah,” I smiled and leaned back onto the boulder behind me, tilting my head back to scan for shooting stars and satellites.

The next day, to whomever I met, I introduced myself as “Tunes,” and it fit like a worn old t-shirt, soft and special and mine.