There are two standard approaches to resupply: mailing ahead and buying as you go. They are not mutually exclusive. Each has its benefits and pitfalls, and each has enjoyed a few years or decades of supremacy. Once upon a time, no more than a handful of towns lined the trail, and a thru-hiker necessarily carried an enormous load of food, ate it up, then either foraged or went hungry until he reached the next town (see: Eric Ryback). That's "resupply as you go" at its most daunting. In the realm of my imagination, if you couldn't shoot, clean, and cook a rabbit--and a host of other creatures--you probably wouldn't be able to hike the PCT. But then, in my mind, these early hikers were more aptly explorers, like Lewis and Clark, with all the rights and privileges and problems thereunto appertaining.
As more small towns sprang up in California and hiking became more recreational, people sought to enjoy the traverse, rather than just surviving it. Somebody hit on the idea of mailing boxes of supplies via General Delivery to the towns along the trails. This would enable one to resupply at more frequent intervals, allowing one to carry a lighter load and a smaller, lighter pack; mitigated bouts of starvation; and best of all, a reliable infrastructure was already in place. Put that postal system to work! For a long time this seems to have been the most convenient (and economical) approach. Rural areas didn't necessarily support grocery stores--perhaps people still grew a lot of their own food?--and small grocery stores or gas stations might not stock suitable travel food, or only at very high prices--but the majority of towns definitely had a post office, or at least a small business, like a gas station, that would accept boxes. Hikers prepped a few dozen parcels of dehydrated food at home, mailed them ahead, and collected them along the way. You might not get a lot of variety in your diet this way, but the system worked.
The trend seems to have reversed significantly of late. Not too surprising that during "times of economic hardship" backcountry resorts shut down, and mailing rates increase. Due to budget cuts, post offices in many trail towns offer only limited hours and services; some have closed entirely. There are a lot more hikers now, too, so small businesses might not have the space (or inclination) to accommodate hundreds of resupply packages for a lot of smelly itinerants. (Regrettably, it only takes one rude sheepwit to convince a business that it isn't worthwhile to accept hiker packages.) Some resorts and stores decide to compensate for the annoyance of vagrants washing socks in their sinks by charging a "holding fee" on hiker packages. This can range from $5 to $20 per box. Even compared to the high markup on groceries from a small town store, once you've paid for contents, postage, and collection, the financial benefit of mailing supplies to yourself is negligible.
People living in rural areas, of course, have cars, and they drive to adjoining towns to take care of their commissary needs; hikers may have no choice but to hitch a ride in order to do the same. So here's my theory: if there's no post office on trail, and you have to hitch to a town in order to collect a resupply package of oatmeal and ramen that cost more to mail than to fill, then why not save yourself the inconvenience (and expense) of the postal service altogether, and just go to the goddam grocery store? Then you can pick out whatever you fancy eating at the time! And inhale a quart of ice cream while you're standing in the checkout line.
Reading other hikers' accounts, I see that some prefer not to have to "bother" going to the store, to deal with the stress of meal-planning when they are already tired from a long day of hiking, and I saw the logic behind this for, I think, forty-eight whole hours before I realized that in my case it's bull-malarkey. I love buying food. An hour at the grocery store better restores my sense of well-being than an hour at the spa. And without engaging too much with the question of what I will eat on this trip, because I'm not quite ready for that yet, can I just state one obvious fact? You can't put a cucumber in a resupply box. You can't put strawberries in a resupply box. You can't put any fresh food in a resupply box. The dearth of freshies is going to drive me crazy, and town days will loom large in my mind for the promise of salads as much as showers. Hell or high water, I will find a way to buy fresh food.
People living in rural areas, of course, have cars, and they drive to adjoining towns to take care of their commissary needs; hikers may have no choice but to hitch a ride in order to do the same. So here's my theory: if there's no post office on trail, and you have to hitch to a town in order to collect a resupply package of oatmeal and ramen that cost more to mail than to fill, then why not save yourself the inconvenience (and expense) of the postal service altogether, and just go to the goddam grocery store? Then you can pick out whatever you fancy eating at the time! And inhale a quart of ice cream while you're standing in the checkout line.
Reading other hikers' accounts, I see that some prefer not to have to "bother" going to the store, to deal with the stress of meal-planning when they are already tired from a long day of hiking, and I saw the logic behind this for, I think, forty-eight whole hours before I realized that in my case it's bull-malarkey. I love buying food. An hour at the grocery store better restores my sense of well-being than an hour at the spa. And without engaging too much with the question of what I will eat on this trip, because I'm not quite ready for that yet, can I just state one obvious fact? You can't put a cucumber in a resupply box. You can't put strawberries in a resupply box. You can't put any fresh food in a resupply box. The dearth of freshies is going to drive me crazy, and town days will loom large in my mind for the promise of salads as much as showers. Hell or high water, I will find a way to buy fresh food.
With the exception of Warner Springs, southern California is so riddled with settlements that getting from the trail to the nearest Safeway or mini-mart every four to seven days poses little challenge. The areas so desolate as to require a long hitch, I'll likely be delighted to get off the trail to stand in an air-conditioned supermarket for an hour, regardless of how "out of the way" it may be. Just another aspect of thru-hiking, right? Most of the Sierra is so remote that you either carry a huge load through the mountains and enjoy the unbroken wilderness, or you gracefully integrate longish side trips to resupply points as part of your journey. Northern California looks like the real crapshoot. A few places lie so conveniently close to the trail that I intend to send myself a food box; other places, there's a small store where I might eke out a resupply if I'm not too picky and not too many ravenous male hikers were there ahead of me; other places, it seems like I won't have an alternative, I must find a ride to an adjoining town. It isn't until Oregon and Washington that the wilderness grows thick enough, and the gas stations skeezy enough, to warrant consistent maildrops. But I can hardly imagine what or how much I'll want to eat by then, so there's no point putting them together now. I'll send those boxes ahead from Ashland and Portland, later.
So this is what the plan looks like, constructed after much study of Yogi's Trail Town Guide, Wandering the Wild's food resupply outline, and Craig's PCT Planner. I'll prepare five parcels from home, mailing the first at the beginning of April, leaving the rest with Mom. (This also gives her an opportunity to send me treats from Trader Joe's.) I like having a plan. It makes me feel very clever and prepared. Later, when I cast it impatiently to the four winds, I'll feel like I'm being very clever and rebellious.
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