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One day last fall, I decided I was going to quit my job and go for a walk.

While I've been known to leave my house on a warm spring afternoon and return 21 kilometres later, this wouldn't be one of those jaunts. This would be an epic stroll, spanning more than 4,200 kilometres, grazing the edges of three countries and passing through 24 national forests and about a dozen national and state parks. It would take the better part of six months.

I had been dreaming of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail for years after reading an obscure reference in a California guidebook. The trail winds its way from the Mexican border through the searing Mojave Desert, up snow-covered passes into the majestic Sierra Nevada mountains and through the volcanic landscape and lush forests of Oregon and Washington. It ends in the British Columbia interior.

According to the guidebook, the trail, which follows the crest of the mountains far inland from the coast, was remote enough to require travellers to mail themselves food and supplies.

It was treacherous climbing in places, so much so that some hikers used an ice axe and crampons to navigate mountain passes.

It sounded like fun.

One day, I mused, I would win the lottery and go. And there the thought sat for years, a dream that filtered its way into my head while I sat in traffic during the commute to work.

Then the economy began its spectacular nosedive. As a relatively junior employee in a workplace about to suffer massive buyouts and layoffs, I could see the writing on the wall. I could stay and wait for a pink slip to find its way onto my desk, or I could take a hike.

I did the math and realized I didn't need to win the lottery. All I needed was a few thousand dollars and courage: The courage to quit my job, sell my car, give up my home and toss out all of my worldly possessions.

So I did.

And now I'm here, at the base of the Pacific Crest Trail, one of 11 National Scenic Trails designated for protection by U.S. Congress. It's the second-longest of the three major trails, which include the 5,000-kilometre Continental Divide Trail from New Mexico to Wyoming, and the much more popular 3,500-kilometre Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine.

The Canadian portion of the Pacific Crest appears to have been a bit of an afterthought. Of the 4,260 kilometres, only about 12 are in Canada, and those were added after the trail was extended to allow hikers access to the nearest road – Highway 3 within E.C. Manning Provincial Park near Hope, B.C.

About 300 people attempt to hike the entire trail each year, a feat known as “thru-hiking,” although only about 60 per cent will finish. This year, the Pacific Crest Trail Association has processed more than 450 thru-hike permits. Of those, nine are for Canadians, though we're a geographically diverse group. I've counted three from Ontario, three from B.C., one from Manitoba and two from Quebec.

Preparing for this six-month hike is an immense task, and requires thought around matters as serious as surviving a mountain lion attack and as mundane as chafing. I enlisted friend and fellow hiker Brendon Melville, a nomadic Australian expatriate who routinely gets up early and hikes long distances for no good reason –unlike me, he turned down a $100,000-a-year job to hike the trail.

When you carry all your belongings on your back for six months and travel miles from civilization, every item must be analyzed with the precision of a subatomic physicist. To shave weight from their backpacks, many hikers forgo a tent for a tarp, using their hiking poles to hold it up. Some have removed the rear padding from their backpacks and replaced it with a sleeping pad. Several use stoves fashioned from Pepsi cans that run on alcohol or gasoline.

We'll have to carry around six litres of water a day – about 12 pounds – for long waterless stretches in the desert. And we'll add a hard plastic bear-proof food container for use in areas such as Yosemite National Park. When you consider that a trip into town to buy food involves a 10-kilometre hitch down a sparsely travelled road, you see why hikers spend weeks figuring out the details – from bears to bureaucracy. Even Canadians must get permission from the Canadian government to re-enter the country at a non-border crossing on the trail. The Canadian Border Services Agency runs a Pacific Crest Trail processing centre in Surrey, B.C.

We'll live mostly on the trail, occasionally taking a rest at a hotel. We'll buy food along the way and mail packages to places with no stores. We'll sleep in a tent and take toilet paper in a Ziploc bag. We'll shower when the opportunity presents itself. We'll have to average about 30 kilometres a day if we hope to make it to B.C. before the snow hits in late fall.

But all of the logistical considerations aside, the most difficult question is why someone would want to walk 4,200 kilometres, live in a tent, eat out of a pot and shower once a week or less.

For me, it's the adventure of waking up each morning not knowing where the day will take you. It's the complete freedom to set your own schedule, live by your wits and chart your own course. It's the beauty of sitting by a lake and drinking in a sunset that is yours and yours alone.

Perhaps the simplest explanation is probably the best: If one happens to be in California and there is a trail that leads all the way home to Canada, why not take it?

After all, it's only a walk.