The Final Chapter: days 120-124
There’s an odd tension when you arrive at the end of a journey. On one hand, you’re so close to the end that it’s maddening. You’ve been working towards this goal and this goal alone for thousands of miles. You’ve been dreaming of this moment during every hard day since the beginning. You can’t help but want it to be there as fast as possible. On the other hand, though, somewhere along the way you seem to have lost the goal. The journey itself has been so full of joys and wonders that you can’t help but wish it could go on just a little bit longer. You wish you could conjure up more trail out of nowhere or, in my case, at least more time. Life in the moment has been comfortably uncomfortable, joyfully difficult, steadily unsteady. It seems like madness to live in any other way, yet you know there’s only so much left to go. Each mile left to hike seems to take an eternity to complete, but you can’t help wishing they could have lasted a little while longer. Especially when there’s more trail left to walk, there was a part of me that wanted nothing more than to keep going and live in the world of the hypothetical — but I had to accept the reality of my situation. Earlier on trail, I wrote a poem about that feeling:
Strands of possibility pass through my mind Like shooting stars on a moonless night; Worlds of ‘what if's’ and ‘could have been's’, But ultimately never came to pass. I've met men who chase them, seeking perfection As signs of life in distant habitable zones; Becoming soothsayers, ever pining, divining Designing the future, but left only to be Untethered astronauts, the missing ones Who look straight through you, eyes far away Lost in worlds of only imagination While reality passes by, unheeded, unwanted. But for me, I'll take a world of broken glass Of sore feet and drooping eyelids A life of empty pockets and fallen trees A smudged reality, this cloudy night. For only in the deepest darkness Is the candle’s beauty truly seen- And only there can exist fresh coffee, sipped slowly, while dew gently gathers on my beard Or hidden places, softly lit and shared with friends, filled with the warm aroma of laughter And the feeling of dirt beneath my bare feet, gritty, rough, hard– but real.
The beautiful views along the final high ridge of the PCT in Oregon certainly didn’t help ease the tension. Although the trail was difficult, it rewarded me with incredible views of the broken top of Mt. St. Helens to the northeast and the dominating slopes of Mt. Adams to the northwest. I definitely gave a shout of triumph when I spotted the cloudy shape of Mt. Rainier faintly in the distance. Just before descending from the ridge, there was a moment when the treeline broke and all three mountains were visible at once. That was a hard place to leave.
This may sound crazy, but I actually broke away from the final 15 miles of the PCT to take a blue blaze down into the Columbia River Gorge to Cascade Locks. Those miles of the PCT run through a desolate burned ridge, whereas the blue blaze drops steeply into the Eagle Creek Gorge and tracks alongside some of the most beautiful waterfalls in Oregon. It’s a no-brainer for most thru-hikers to take the blue blaze, and I certainly wasn’t disappointed. The powerful waterfalls were breathtaking, at times cascading down hundreds of feet from the walls of the gorge, at times plummeting straight down in a wonderful tail. The most famous waterfall in the area, Tunnel Falls, even has a small section of trail carved out of the rock of the cliff face, allowing hikers to walk behind the waterfall. It’s surreal. I took a mesmerizing lunch break at the base of the waterfall, watching other hikers pass through the tunnel. I finally braved the final few miles down into the gorge through scorching heat along exposed trail. It was a great relief to finally reach the junction into the Columbia River Gorge, the area that marks the border between Oregon and Washington. The miles were finally in the single digits, dropping down to 3 left to walk, then 2, until I reached the last mile. Slowly, the Bridge of the Gods came into view, the climax that this whole journey had been building towards, the last section of my time on the PCT. Emotions came in waves – disbelief, awe, sadness, gratitude, excitement, rinse, repeat. Soon enough, I was rounding the final bend, climbing up the ramp to the bridge, stepping out onto the surface.
The Bridge of the Gods is one of the most iconic PCT landmarks. For one, it’s where Cheryl Strayed ended her hike in the memoir (and now the movie) Wild. She reached the edge of the bridge and gazed out over Washington. It’s also just an experience. The bottom of the bridge is a grated metal mesh, meaning you can look down to see the water of the Columbia River flowing beneath you. At least, you could see the water flowing if you had time to look down. The bridge is open to cars and trucks and has no sidewalks. It’s barely wide enough for two cars to pass by each other in the opposite direction, let alone throwing a hiker in the midst of that chaos. Just as I was beginning to cross, I threw in my headphones to drown out the noise of the passing cars. Beautiful Life by Switchfoot came on, and that’s when it was officially over for me. I’ll let the words of the song speak for themselves.
Open my eyes to see / it’s a beautiful life / it’s a beautiful life. / Ain’t it bitter and sweet? / It’s a beautiful life / it’s a beautiful life. / I’m still learning to breathe / I don’t have what I want / but I have what I need / Open my eyes to see.
Needless to say, I was crying almost as soon as I stepped foot on the bridge, in full view of the slowly passing cars looking directly at me. The beauty of the high walls of the gorge around me and the flowing water beneath me was just overwhelming. The wind was blowing through my hair and my pack was light against my back. I think I let out a full-fledged victory shout when I crossed the border into Washington. And just like that, one foot in front of the other, a journey of 2152 miles was finally over.
Okay, almost over.
Waiting for me on the other side of the bridge was a trail angel from a nearby town. He picked me up (I apologized at least three times for being an absolute mess) and drove me back to his house. As I walked in the door, I was greeted with loaner clothes, directions to the shower, and a cold beer to enjoy in the meantime. I think very few things in life are more satisfying than a cold shower beer to celebrate the end of a journey. Once I had become a normal person again, I wandered downstairs and joined Kevin and Peggy, my hosts, along with AO, another section-hiker, for dinner. We had delicious hamburgers and watermelon (which brought me straight back to Scissor’s Crossing) and ended the evening with a solid half hour in Kevin and Peggy’s hot tub as AO and I got to know each other. Ironically, he was another hiker who had begun the PCT in 2025 and had to leave around Crater Lake to go back home for his job. I was in awe of just how similar our situations were. The next morning, Kevin and Peggy drove me into the small town of Cascade Locks to fulfill a promise I had made to Queen and the Bougie Bunch back at Crater Lake. My peanut butter and chocolate malt was even better than I hoped it would be and I’m proud to admit that I put it down well faster than I should have. I parted ways with Kevin and Peggy, who had become friends in the short time that I had known them, and watched a bit of the World Cup at a bar in town with AO. Around noon I got a call, wished AO goodbye and good luck on the trail, then stepped out into the afternoon soon to meet my dad.
If you’ve read my July newsletter, I apologize that I’m going to repeat myself here. Essentially, as soon as I found out I wasn’t going to be able to finish the PCT in 2026 I began brainstorming other ways to finish the journey from Mexico to Canada. I remember at one point Cujo had talked about his hopes of bikepacking after he finished thru-hiking for the year, and that conversation sparked a new idea. I called my dad to see if he could help me plan a route, and that conversation very quickly became an invitation to join me. He booked his flights, got a rental car in Portland, picked up rental bikes, and met me in Cascade Locks with all the gear we needed to bike three hundred miles to Canada. My mom came out as well, not to bike but to be our support vehicle (aka the “Sag Wagon”) and follow us during the ride. After big hugs, we geared up for the first time and set out from the Washington border to get to Canada.
There are a few things that need to be said here. First, I’m not a biker. I actually dislike biking relatively strongly. I realized in the first few miles that a bike accident would be a horrible way to die and resolved very strongly to try and avoid that possibility. Secondly, I need to say how much of a legend my dad is. He’s an experienced cyclist but he’s also a busy man. He made time to plan the route, fly out for five days, and teach me how to long-distance cycle, knowing full well that I might not be physically able to complete the journey. Yet he was willing to give it a shot for the memories that we would form together. And memories we would indeed form. Our first day took us along a sketchy, high-speed road, then up a steep hill into the farm country, through a thunderstorm, and into the greater Portland suburbia. I was especially worried that my foot pain, which had gradually become more and more bareable, would flare up again when I switched to biking. Thankfully, it seemed that the worst of the pain was over. In fact, the only real problems I faced on the bike were a pair of clip-in biking shoes that were entirely too small and saddle sores. By the end of the day, I was sore and completely exhausted – but also 60 miles closer to Canada.
We were right back at it the next day, climbing up the low Washington hills in the early morning. We had decided to use the first day to bike down the Columbia River Gorge and into the low country, then cut north and follow the I-5 corridor. That day was much quieter in terms of traffic, giving us time to bike together, to catch up, and to count cows as we biked along the countryside. By the end of the second day, we had discovered that I was a hill-climbing master, consistently blowing my dad out of the water on the way up, but that he was much faster on the way down. He would blow past me as I was waiting for him to catch up and the cycle would begin again. That night, we were both sufficiently exhausted and it took a lot of mental strength to get back on the bike. We biked north to Olympia, paid a visit to the Washington state capital building, then turned and followed the 101 up to the Olympic Peninsula. That was perhaps the greatest surprise of our route, a secret that I had discovered while staring at Google Maps. Although my original idea was to bike through Seattle and into the Vancouver area to reach Canada, I realized that there was a cheap ferry that ran from Port Angeles, WA to Victoria, BC which would cut off about 100 miles from our route and give me the chance to visit Olympic National Park. Even though we were worried about the conditions on the 101, it was worth the risk to cut off that much mileage. Once we got used to the pace of the road and the rolling hills along the peninsula, we began to enjoy greatly the views of the bay around us. That night we had dinner at a roadside bar with live music and watched seals playing in the water as we enjoyed our food. It was wonderful.
And finally, we arrived at the last day of the bike trip. We got off to an early start in the hopes that we could catch a midday ferry. If we didn’t make the noon ferry, my parents would have to stay behind and I would journey to Canada alone. My dad and I were determined to finish the journey together and set out to make it happen. We had a momentary roadblock when the sleepy 101 merged with another highway and quickly became a 2-lane fast-paced anxiety fest, but were relieved to discover a bike trail that ran parallel all the way to Port Angeles. With the end in sight, we lowered our heads and pushed through the miles, faster and faster until we rounded the bend and got our first view of the port ahead. My mom was waiting for us just outside the ferry with fresh clothes, snacks, and the first round of congratulations. We boarded the ferry with plenty of time and soon enough were cruising out into the Straight of Juan de Fuca with the mist covered Olympic mountains behind and the distant shores of Canada ahead. I was thoroughly exhausted, a physical wreck – but I was extremely grateful. I had reached the end of a journey that had pushed me farther than I ever thought I could go, although I could never claim all the credit for that accomplishment. Credit belonged as well to every person, every trail angel, every friend who helped me in countless ways throughout the journey— including you, dear reader, you who have joined me for so many miles. I’m honored that you followed me along this path and shared the joys and the fears of the trail.
As I wandered out to the observation deck of the ferry, my confident trail legs struggled to figure how to handle the rocking of the boat beneath me. There was a finality blowing in the wind, as tangible as the salty spray from the sea below. Whether or not my path leads me back to the PCT in the future, a distinct chapter of my life was ending. I was sailing on a ship to an unknown city just as quickly as I was moving into a new and unknown future — but I wasn’t afraid. A journey of one thousand miles (or perhaps two thousand) can only be taken step by step. As the mist from the waves below washed away the gentle tears of gratitude that ran down my cheeks, I knew that wherever the next chapter may lead, that’s how I would face it: step by step, mile by mile.
See you on trail,
Shakespeare.
