✨ Final Miles, Forever Memories: A Glimpse into the Last Chapter of Travel Write Paint

This excerpt comes from the final chapter of the book, "Travel Write Paint"

September 5, 2024 - Miles hiked: 30

We are almost out of food, and now the work begins. 

I had hoped for one final send off before we hiked out towards the terminus. “We make our own Magic,” Robert says, winking. Then he reminds me of all the amazing times, the amazing memories we have made already. It feels selfish to wish for more, but I think I had also been wishing to stall, to put off the ending just a few more hours. “Well, that woman wasn’t wrong,” I say as I make up the single packet of instant coffee she gave us, “Hikers will take anything.” Robert laughs, “In a different world, this would have been a form of currency,” and he holds up the bit of salt. It’s true, and such a massive perspective-switch that it pulls me from my selfish mood. “Sam carried his salt all the way to Mordor,” I laugh. The trail provides, I think of these words often and know I never understood them until now. In some strange way, the trail truly always provides, not necessarily in the way you want, but always in the way you need. 

The trail towards the terminus feels relentless, but it is broken each time a hiker coming south smiles and cheers for us. “You’re almost there,” they say, just as we say, “Congratulations.” We hike a rocky pathway, and the view is of the beautiful Northern Cascade. The land is dry and exposed, causing us to check our bottles each time we come across water. There are great gashes in the mountainsides with dead trees and stirred earth, caused, I’m sure, by snowmelt and a gushing river that is now dry. The slopes we hike are sheer, with shale rock that makes me think of sliding all the way to the valley floor. I think of those who hiked southbound, and how intimidating these mountains would feel covered in snow. 

As we crest the ridge, we see a familiar face—a hiker we met at the bakery. He is hiking south, already on his way back from the terminus. “There is a fire,” he tells us, pointing towards the other side of the ridge. We see Hatchet only moments later, with his familiar full beard and long hair. He smiles broadly and gives us each a hug. “Is there a fire?” I ask. Hatchet nods his head sadly before responding, “I’d boogie.” 

There is fear, then, made real by the plume of smoke we see floating upwards. We eat the last two of our bars and begin to hike fast. There is a chaotic fear driving us, the idea that this close, only 10 miles from the border, we could still leave this trail unfinished. We speak feverishly, all the while thinking of what it has taken to keep a continuous footpath, the three fires we have hiked around. “Drop your packs at the lake and slack pack the last 6 miles,” another hiker told us earlier. We had learned this was a typical option, as the trail after the lake goes down 3,000 feet in elevation. Our plan had been to camp at the lake and hike down tomorrow, until the smoke, until the mushroom cloud. So, at 5pm and 10 miles from the terminus, Robert and I find ourselves determined to see it tonight. Eventually, the fear recedes, and the realization that we will touch the terminus tonight is beyond electrifying. I am reminded of how we couldn’t wait to see Italy. It was dark, but still we spent the night walking the streets of Rome. Then, again with the Eiffel Tower—seeing it for the first time in the dead of night, watching as the lights sparkled on the hour. “We’re like children on Christmas,” I say, laughing as Robert and I turn on our headlamps. “There is no stopping us, there is no waiting,” he responds. Perhaps it originally was fear that drove us, or lack of food, though part of me understands that, this close to the end, we are too excited to wait any longer. 

The trail adopts the feeling of a rainforest the lower we go in elevation. It is wet, overgrown, and, in the night, there are large spider webs across the trail. Robert almost falls down when he walks straight into one, and I see a big spider fall to the ground. “I guess it’s on me now,” Robert says, calm and resigned. I reassure him even as he spins around in the spotlight of my headlamp. We collect water and add some to our instant rice, so it can rehydrate in our cups as we hike the last three miles to the Canadian border. 

Around the corner, reflecting through the dark, we see four pillars stacked in a cluster. The moment is surreal, and for a while Robert and I simply stand in silence as we press our foreheads against the Northern Terminus. It is a strange feeling, knowing we are finished. We have completed our footpath from Mexico all the way to Canada. We read each pillar, one by one, and it confirms the unbelievable: “Northern Terminus. Pacific Crest National Scenic Trail. Established by act of Congress on Oct 2nd, 1968.” Just beyond, in the darkness, there is a large billboard: “Welcome to Canada, Northern Terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail.”

There is an ammo box attached to the back of the terminus, and in it is the log book. My writing is large and scribbled. I use several exclamation points and hearts before writing our trail names and where we are from. We stumble around for several more surreal moments, and our uncontrollable exclamations of pure joy are the only sound in the silence of the night. When we get tired, we hike 0.3 miles to the nearest campsite. The ground is damp and there are several blowdowns that have taken over, but we eventually find a cleared space. Robert and I have done this together so many times, we hardly need to speak as we set up our tent. It is the feeling of fluidness, of being on a team that already knows what the other is thinking. 

We eat our cold rice with the single serving of olive oil I collected from the KOA hiker box in Leavenworth. Then we add the rock salt, our Trail Magic from Harts Pass, and it is the single most delicious meal I have ever eaten in my life.