October 12, 2016 Mile 2638.7-2650.1 (+9) 20.4 miles “Hey Roadside!” It’s 3:15am, and I haven’t slept for hours. Roadside stopped snoring a few minutes ago and I’ve heard him groan a couple times, so I think he’s probably awake. “Hey!” louder now. “Roadside!” He doesn’t answer. Damn. I was hoping we could start hiking now. I’m not going to be able to sleep anymore. I try to lie on my front, with my arms folded in front of me to try to use the heat of my body to warm them up. I can feel the frozen ground through my sleeping pad, and the down sleeping bag isn’t keeping me warm above either. I roll back onto my side and curl into a ball, but it’s no use. I’ve tried this position several times already and I might as well try to sleep on a slab of ice—every time I relieve one part of my body, another part suffers. Two hours later the alarm goes off and we race as fast as we can to get the blood moving before the icy air can penetrate too deep. I finish first, and as I stamp my feet and blow on my hands I see something moving on the ground. “What is that?” Roadside asks. Each time we move our lights towards it, it scurries off. There is more than one, in fact. Finally he catches a three of them in the beam of his headlamp for a second. Mice! It seems impossible that mice could still be alive and about in this cold, but there they are. In fact, these are the first mice I’ve seen on trail, which is sort of crazy—all of the trail journals I read before I got out here complained about mice from Oregon all the way up to the Canadian border. There were stories of mice climbing up tent strings, running across people’s faces all night, chewing their way through tent walls and sleeping bags to get to food. In some ways, mice were a bigger fear for me than bears, if only because they seemed a more likely and persistent problem, but I never once had to deal with them. It’s like the trail is sending us one last reminder of how varied it can be. “And don’t forget the mice!” Oh well, I’m just grateful they weren't running across my face in the middle of the night. The climb to the pass is fast. At the top we have to tread carefully, as there are layers of smooth ice running across the trail and a long drop into a deep valley right beside us. In a couple weeks when I learn that Sherpa has gone missing in northern Washington, this is the moment I will remember—a simple, unexpected danger that could easily sweep one from the trail. The hike along the ridge is more spectacular for being our last. The starlight that reflects off the ice and snow is so pure that I want to bottle it up and drink it as an elixir. I am hyperaware of every crunch of the trail, every tree and rock, every line and contour of the landscape, the interplay of light and dark, the cut of the air as it moves into my lungs, the heat and cloud of condensation as I expel it back out, the burning and aching in my muscles, the presence of and connection with Roadside, our smallness in the wilderness, on the planet, in the universe. In the early light, white-capped mountains glow against the still-dark western skies. From this ridge I can see the breadth of the cascades spread around us in nearly every direction. The sun rises silver and piercing in a cloudless purple sky. The last sunrise, and somehow we’ve timed it perfectly for the last big view of the trail. The s’mores-flavored pop tart I shove in my mouth for fuel almost doesn’t disgust me. We drop down off the ridge toward and pass Hopkins lake, the final lake before Canada. Sunlight glints off the surface and from a halo of snow and ice around the shore. Impossibly, the lake isn’t frozen over yet. The temperature seems to be dropping precipitously again, dangerously low like it did two days ago. The trail continues down into a valley, and I’m almost jogging now, as much from eagerness as from a desire to get warm. Roadside falls behind and I open up a long stride on the level trail. A few trees lay across the path, just a minor inconvenience to hop or climb over, and then several more at angles across the slope, enough to slow me. It seems like I should be at the border by now. Where is it? I reach some descending switchbacks, and at the first one I can hear people whooping and hollering down below. That has to be the terminus! I didn’t realize that I could hike any faster without running, but I do. Two more switchbacks, and I see PIF, Superstar, and the other two hikers they were with all gathered around the border monument taking photos. “Is that Zigzag?” PIF says when he sees me, “I thought you quit!” “Yeah, I just needed a warm, dry night. There’s no way I could quit that close to the end.” “That’s awesome. You made it!” Roadside shows up a minute later, and we do our own whooping and hollering. Someone hands me the trail register and I try to think of something to write. It’s filled with inspirational quotes and trail reflections, but I can think of nothing to sum up the totality of my experience, so I just write “Zigzag was here.” It’s difficult to move my hand steadily, I’m beginning to shiver so hard. As an afterthought I add “It was cold,” then pass it on to Roadside. Roadside and I each take photos of each other at the monument, and then ask PIF to take some of us together. Roadside stands next to the Canadian flag and I stand next to the American flag, and we try to hold still in the freezing cold while PIF takes several photos. Afro-man and another hiker I haven’t seen come from the north. They tell us they crossed the border yesterday afternoon and now they’re headed back to Hart’s Pass, or maybe even Rainy Pass, to hitch a ride back to Seattle. The rest of us are headed to the Manning Park, nine miles ahead, where there’s a restaurant, lodge, and a free beer for thru-hikers (as well as the nearest road). Nine miles would normally take a little over three hours. I wonder how much faster I can go. We all book it out of there at the same time. I pass everyone in the other group on the uphill, but Superstar passes me as soon as we start the long downhill. I turn a corner onto a dirt road, and I can see a quarter of a mile or more, but she’s already out of sight. Now I know why they call her Superstar. I break into a jog on the downhill, since there’s no reason to save any energy for later. These last nine miles are a strange combination of victory lap and extraneous mileage. I’ve already finished the trail, now I just want to get there already! There’s also an undercurrent of dread—once I finish these last miles, I’m going to have to figure what’s next. Lots of food and hot showers, of course, but then what? I’m scared that I’ll lose what I’ve gained on the trail: stillness, independence, awareness, focus, presence, interconnection, and egolessness, among others. Will I regain the ability to sleep in a bed? Do I even want that? I’m looking forward to watching movies and being around my friends and family again, but I know there will be a tradeoff—in sunsets and sunrises; in bracing cold air and searing sunshine that each ring a bell and say “Wake up! You are alive!”; in the tender soles and blisters and mosquito bites that hone the discipline of mind over body; in the unknown sounds in the night that make me fear for my life and remind me how improbable it is that we are alive at all; in the camaraderie and stolid silence of Roadside, my friend; in the freedom of no goals, no expectations; in the curiosity of “what’s around that turn?”; in the smell of pine and clay and pure water; in the simple repetition of one foot in front of the other and keep going until you’ve crossed an entire country for no other purpose than simply to see it, to be on the earth and be a witness to the land and the trees and the water and the weather. Fuck, I’m gonna miss this. In a clearing on the side of the road, someone has arranged rocks to say “Yay PCTers! You rock!” I’m overcome with goosebumps as it becomes real. I’ve finished. The path levels and widens out and frozen ponds appear on either side. I’m close now, I can feel it. Someone is on the trail ahead—it’s Brian! He meets me and congratulates me, then offers to carry my pack the rest of the way. He tells me Superstar just passed through here a few minutes ago. Roadside gets to the restaurant just a few minutes after us, and PIF’s group a few minutes after that, and we all sit together at a long wood table and drink our beer while we wait for our food to come. There’s no one else in the restaurant except the bartender, and somehow that feels right for us. We celebrate in a subdued, personal manner, talking quietly about our favorite places and our plans for our first meal at home. So many thru-hikers have come through here, and there will be so many more after us, but right now it’s just us, in a sort of halfway house between the trail and civilization, trying to get our bearings and decide what’s next. The Greyhound bus comes in the middle of the night, headed for Vancouver and then Seattle. Roadside is headed toward Alberta, in the opposite direction. I wished him farewell earlier in the evening and promised to stay in touch, but it feels like something is missing without him here. As we climb aboard and settle into the seats I notice an old familiar feeling as I wonder about my life ahead and ask myself “What’s around the next corner?” This is not quite the end! Over the past four years I've completed all of the sections I had to skip due to fire closure. I should have those up soon. If you'd like to be updated when they come out, you can head over to my new (incomplete) website to sign up for my email list. I send one email per week, usually on Saturdays.
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Nick is a teacher, writer, and amateur adventurer. Archives
June 2020
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