The last day.
I set out in the dim light to try to find the shortcut trail to the fire detour. I had given up searching in the darkness the previous night, but with the glowing morning light I could see that I needed to be on top of a nearby mountain. The question was how to get there. It appeared I could take the faint trail I had started down the night before, but it seemed to head the wrong direction. The other thought was to just take the long road to the top. As I stood on the roadside pondering my options, headlights approached-- my ride to the top of the mountain. A trip in a truck would skip at least a mile of uphill road walking and save precious time and energy. I thought about sticking a thumb out, but instead just stood there indecisively and stared dumbly as the truck passed me, taking my chance for an easy way up with it. Looked like I would end up walking; that is what I had come to do anyway.
I walked up the road until the mountaintop trailhead towered above me. The road continued further before making a switchback to the top. Ain't nobody got time for that. I turned off the road and cut straight up the rocky mountain. I found the truck sitting at the trailhead parking lot and kicked myself for not at least trying to get a ride.
I watched the sun rise over the valley before making my way down in switchback after switchback on the fire detour trail. It was lovely for a short while, and I happily hiked through the open valley before turning into the green tunnel of woods. It was all flat or slightly downhill so I made good timing on a pretty boring stretch. My breath hung in the cold air, as the sun hadn't yet broken over the mountains and I was shaded by trees. The map for the detour had been vague so I was worried I would make a wrong turn, but the trial was well marked. I celebrated with each section of the fire detour completed. 2 miles. Turn. 2.3 miles. Turn. I began passing thruhikers coming back from the border, radiant. 10.6 miles. A long stretch, I started to get impatient with monotony and seemingly endless miles. The trail ran by a stream the whole way but it did little to add to the scene. The sun broke over the mountains. Finally, the next turn.
6.7 miles. The detour trail started climbing up the mountain again as it made its way back to the PCT. I stopped halfway into the final stretch for a 10 minute lunch break. I was cutting it close on time if I wanted to make it to the border before dark. I pondered the frustrating fact that I might not even make it that day before the sun set. I would have to book it; no more breaks. Time stress settled down once again and I picked up my pace. As I continued up the mountain, sweating and panting under the hot sun, I started to get angry. Angry at being forced to hike so darn quick and not being able to enjoy the last day. Angry at the fire detour for being so ugly and adding a couple miles to the already high-mileage day (34 miles). I was missing a beautiful section of the PCT, probably closed for no reason at this point; the fire was out. The trail was overgrown and grassy. I was hot, tired, and just not having it. Charging up the trial I nearly stepped on a snake, breaking my stride. "Sh*t. Move!" I screamed, and threw rocks at it. It stuck its tongue out at me and slithered away. Thirty feet later I stumbled across another one, forcing me to stop again. "Sh*t. Stop! Go!" This one was faster to move. Fifty feet later came a baby one. It was faster to move.
As I pushed up the mountain I grew more upset. The stress, the hill, the fatigue. I just wanted it to be over. Everything. I was done. My throat tightened with stress which made breathing under a quick pace difficult. I wanted to cry it out but my eyes were stubborn. I managed to force a few tears to relieve the tension and calm down. It was almost over.
Finally. Turn. I broke onto the PCT. I could tell it was the PCT because it was beautiful. Ten miles to go. The trail followed a ridgeline for a while, offering stunning views. The mountains crowded each other, hundreds of peaks rising up in layer after layer. Nearby golden browns faded into snowy blues beyond. Incredible.
And there ahead, the mountains. A range looming in front of me with three peaks. It was so close, and it was in Canada. Canada... I could see Canada. It was right there... I would make it.
That was my moment of victory, on top of that ridge, when I knew I had it. I could see it. Tears of relief dripped down my face as I moved along. Toward Canada.
The trail started cutting downhill to the final destination. The countdown had begun. 5 miles. 3 miles. 1 mile. The sun was getting low, setting at the end of the day, closing out a long journey. And there it was. The Monument, in front of me. Insignificant, really, to the casual hiker-- a few blocks of wood thrown together, squatting in a valley in the middle of a clear-cut tree line marking the US/Canadian border. I walked up to it, emotionless. No feelings of joy. No feelings of relief or sadness or excitement or victory. Just emptiness. My moment had been miles earlier when I saw the Canadian mountains for the first time. Now, I was simply empty. Still, my eyes filled with tears because that seemed to be the thing to do. I reached out to touch the sign. It was over.
