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I decided to hike the entire Trans-Catalina Trail in one go, overnight, without camping - because sometimes the only way to shake out the winter cobwebs is by pushing your body and mind to their limits.
The Hows and Whys
This winter, I hadn’t been able to get out much, and I’m sure I’m not alone in that feeling of accumulated psychosis that builds when separated from the temple for too long. Eventually, it has no choice but to find an outlet. In my case, I wanted to get the most bang for my buck out of a local backpacking journey, but with wildfires and preemptive closures shutting down our local mountains, I cast my gaze across the channel to Catalina Island.
I’d wanted to either hike or ride across the island for years but never had the right excuse to do it. The Trans-Catalina Trail typically takes 3-5 days, but last-minute camping reservations were a logistical nightmare. The easiest solution? Don’t camp. If I just kept moving, I could do the entire 38.5-mile trail in one shot, through the night, in under 24 hours.
Is Night Hiking Legal? Do Not Attempt This
The legality of night hiking on Catalina is murky. The Catalina Island Conservancy’s official “Rules & Regulations” page doesn’t explicitly prohibit it, but the Catalina Island Company (which is not the Conservancy) seems to imply it’s discouraged. Given that I have experience with land navigation and night vision, I felt confident in my ability to attempt it. Obviously, do not try this if you can’t say the same. Yaddah yaddah, FOREST CLOSED amirite Taco?
Getting There
With my plan set, I booked ferry tickets and snagged the required (free) hiking permit from the Conservancy. Again, while it’s technically called a “day hike permit,” nothing in the agreement explicitly mentions night hiking.
I caught the 10 a.m. ferry from Long Beach, arriving in Avalon just after 11. I grabbed an overpriced meal, then began my march past the endless rows of shops, Airbnbs, and golf carts toward Hermit Gulch, where the trail officially begins.
Avalon to Blackjack Campground
I set off carrying a 3L Osprey bladder, leaving my empty Nalgenes in my ruck’s flank pockets to save weight, planning to refill at my first stop. Strava initially tried to route me up Airport Road, but I was here to hike the TCT, not an access road lined with tourist Humvees.
The drizzle set in, and while I was fine staying warm while moving, I knew I’d need to layer up soon. As night fell, the marine layer thickened, turning the interior of the island into a desaturated oil painting.
Once total darkness hit, I jogged some of the downhills to make up lost time from messing with my camera equipment. About a mile before Blackjack Campground, I finally caved and broke out my headlamp. I was looking forward to a hot meal before venturing out into the void, but first, I had to eavesdrop on a surreal campfire discussion about AI as an existential threat, all while “In the Arms of an Angel” played softly in the background. You can party however you like, but… are you guys okay?
After topping off water, calories, and caffeine, I set off into the night, choosing the official TCT route instead of taking the “cheat” route up Airport Road to the airport. The moon was only 10% illuminated, and it wouldn’t rise until 4 a.m.—if it could even push through the thick clouds.
Then the Rain Hit.
Out of nowhere, gale-force winds slammed into me. Fog swallowed my vision, and the rain arrived sideways, soaking my shoes and pants instantly. Was this an omen? I scrambled for my rain layers, ducking under a thatch-roof shade structure that, you know, might have been useful if it had actual walls.
With my Fjällräven jacket barely keeping me dry and my patrol poncho acting as a makeshift ruck cover, I pushed on. I felt like I was cheating when I switched to my headlamp to navigate some of the sketchier sections. The fog devoured the beam, cutting my visibility to just a few feet.
There’s an inherent claustrophobia to the nighttime, and I think a lot of people lose their nerve in it. I’m not immune either—especially when it feels like the whole hike is now threatened by the storm.
Little Harbor, Bison, and the Climb to Two Harbors
Eventually, the rain cleared just enough to lift my spirits, and I kept a solid pace descending into Little Harbor. Just as I was drying out and feeling good, I spotted a group of large, fuzzy black shadows.
Bison.
The last thing I wanted was to deal with nocturnal bovines 20 miles in, while navigating with magic wizard technology strapped to my face. Luckily, I had a thermal monocle for just this scenario, and after confirming they were far enough off-trail, I carefully skirted around them—dodging cacti along the way.
Fueled by Chocolate Outrage GU packets, I began the brutal climb out of Little Harbor. The elevation gain hit hard, and by the time I reached the final ridge above Two Harbors, fierce winds and torrential rain hit again. This time, there was no shelter.
Shoes clogged with three pounds of sticky clay mud on each foot, I goose-stepped downhill toward town, my night vision bezels now funneling rain directly into my eyeballs.
Final Push to Parsons & the End
I sheltered under a playground structure in Two Harbors long enough to charge my phone and dry out, then pushed on toward Parsons Landing as dawn broke. With only nine miles left, I knew I had enough water and time to finish the job.
The sunrise over the Pacific was stupidly gorgeous, and at that moment, I knew I wasn’t stopping.
The final 6 miles to town were brutal, but as I neared Silver Peak, I was blessed by a native bald eagle soaring overhead. Divine trash raptor, I accept your blessing.
From there, it was a steep, agonizing descent. My toes felt like they were being curb-stomped, but 42 miles and 27 hours later, I stumbled into Two Harbors.
I was so wrecked that all I could do was sit on a bench and stare at the floor for a while before paying $38 for Advil and a sandwich.
Final Thoughts
This was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but there’s immense pride in finding a challenge at the edge of your limits—and pushing through.
Log off. Go do hard things.
