Days 136-150, Miles 2,391-2,650: The Victory Lap

Well, we made it. Five months and 2,650 miles after starting our hike, we walked into Canada on Sept. 16. We were skinnier, filthier, hairier and tougher than the hikers we'd been when we set out from the Mexican border in April. We'd shared countless memories together on the trail—and the PCT's home stretch provided more than a few of them.

We slept in a bit on Day 136, then enjoyed crepes prepared by Piotr. He drove us to a viewpoint with a great overlook of Seattle, where we enjoyed the sights and took silly pictures. After running some errands, we visited the iconic Pike's Place Market, wandered the shops and grabbed a beer with Piotr's girlfriend Abby. We enjoyed getting to know her and tell her stories of "Trail Piotr." We finished the day back at Piotr's, eating pizza and watching "Parks and Rec."

We got back on trail the next morning, but Snoqualmie Pass was unrecognizable. Smoke from a nearby fire was blanketing the area. Bits of ash floated down on us and visibility became minimal. We hiked through the pungent smell, seeing only the trail directly in front of us and none of the stunning sights we knew were out beyond the gray nothingness. Even after pulling my neckband up over my face, I felt its effects: heartburn, queasiness, lightheadedness. The day was full of steep climbs and rocky, uneven trail, which did nothing to help matters. Worn out, we set up camp by a creek at the end of the day.

Day 138 was more of the same. Even at midday, the smoke-obscured sun gave off only a faint dusk-like glow. We climbed another 7,000 feet, laboring all the way and commiserating with fellow hikers about the misery of the conditions.

The following day, we hiked past a number of lakes on what we assumed was beautiful terrain. Still, the ever-present smoke robbed our views and continued taking a toll on us physically.

In the afternoon, we got cell phone service, and Matt and I discovered our D.C. friends had recorded a podcast titled "FOMO" for our benefit. They brought us up to speed on events in their lives, told us how much they missed us and mostly made jokes at our expense. For a solid mile, we walked down the trail in gut-busting laughter—a much-needed morale boost after some tough days of hiking.

Soon, we got to Stevens Pass, where we picked up our resupply and a care package from our friends Kyra and John. We added a plethora of snacks and small bottles of wine to our packs, yet another reminder of our great friends back in D.C. We hiked a few miles beyond the pass and set up camp. We'd cowboy camped the first two thirds of Washington, but a wet fog rolled in and finally put an end to our tentless streak.

We hiked through thick fog as we got underway on Day 140, with occasional drizzles dampening our hike. As the weather cleared out, we enjoyed our daily feast on the ever-present blueberries growing beside the trail.

After lunch, we hiked through some of the most stunning views of Washington so far. The Glacier Peak Wilderness awed us with exposed slopes, decked out in autumn maroons and golds. Stands of pines added deep greens to the palette, and striking boulders cropped up to bring a ruggedness to the terrain. Rocky peaks towered in the distance, while ghostly mists rose and fell in the valleys. Energized by our surroundings—and air finally free of smoke—we climbed up to a pristine lake, where we set up camp and took much-needed baths.

As we ate dinner, a familiar face wandered into our camp—Tigre! He'd hiked ahead of us with his friend to Stevens Pass, then gone into Seattle, returning to the trail just a few hours after us. Finally, we were all back together and ready to push on to the finish.

The views got even better the following day. More exposed ridges showed off their colors and gave us views of snow-capped peaks in the distance. As we continued, the trail treated us to close-up views of summits crested with massive glaciers. All the while, clouds and mists wafted through, apparitions adding an eeriness to the spectacle.

As we took lunch, a drizzle started to fall, turning into a steady rain as we hiked through the afternoon. Soon, we were soaked through and chilled to the bone. Thick brush grew over the trail, soaking up rainwater to drench us further as we pushed through it. By the time we got to camp, we were shivering uncontrollably and could barely move our hands. We hurriedly set up our tents and dived into our sleeping bags to warm up.

We found it tough to get going again on Day 142. It was still frigid—some ice chips clung to my tent—and all of our clothes were still soaked. Reluctantly, we broke camp and hiked out. Mercifully, morning fog gave way to sunlight and we gradually started warming up. The trail offered up stunning mountain views once again and we started to understand why Washington—despite its endless steep climbs and challenging weather— is many hikers' favorite section of trail. For every hardship it puts you through, it offers up enough grandeur to make the struggle more than worth it.

After a brief descent, we started back uphill—3,000 feet of uninterrupted climbing. A grueling challenge any other day, this day it was an opportunity to get the blood pumping and finally get warm.

After cresting a ridge at the top, we hiked to a stream coming straight down from a steep rocky slope. We flopped out and soaked up the sun, enjoying "Sound of Music"-esque views as we took our lunch. Most important, we laid our sodden gear—clothes, tents, sleeping bags—out in the open and let the sun get everything dry. We hung out in makeshift outfits while we waited for our hiking clothes to dry out.

We continued on, buoyed by the knowledge that we wouldn't have to spend another day hiking or sleeping damp. The afternoon was spent descending through old-growth forest, past massive trees hundreds of years old. After a long, gentle hike down, we made our way to a river and camped on the far bank.

Our hike the next day started in similar fashion, with a long, continuous 5,000 foot climb. Thankfully, the ascent was gradual, and we cheerfully worked our way up as the mountain started to give us some views.

As we started the hike down, the trail opened up. We were treated to more peaks, rock formations and waterfalls. Forests lined the valley below. Once again, Washington offered a spectacular payoff after making us work. We took lunch among some trees and spent the afternoon descending into a valley, gently following a creek most of the way down.

After a short hike on Day 144, we entered North Cascades National Park and caught a shuttle into the tiny community of Stehekin. We started our visit with massive pastries at the bakery, which we quickly consumed. From there, we continued to the Post Office to pick up our final resupply packages. We were also treated to more care packages. I got goodies from my Aunt Chris and college friend Katlyn, and Matt and I also had a package from our D.C. friend Robbie. With only four days of hiking left, we found ourselves amply fortified—in calories and morale—for the final stretch.

As Tigre and I walked through the small store in town, an employee offered us a pound of bacon that had just passed its expiration date. Not hesitating, we accepted, grabbed a few boxes of macaroni and cheese and cooked up a delicious lunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging by Lake Chelan, reading and snacking. After catching the shuttle back to the trail, we knocked out a few more miles and set up camp.

The next morning opened with some climbing, putting us at higher elevation as the day went on. Just before lunch, we hiked through Rainy Pass and were treated to some trail magic by a hiker who had done part of the trail earlier this year. After grabbing snacks and trading stories, we continued on.

In the afternoon, the trail climbed a series of switchbacks up to Cutthroat Pass. As we crested the top, we walked into one of the most breathtaking panoramas of the trail—rugged peaks in every direction, their jagged, rocky spires towering over swaths of green pines below. Hiking north through Washington, we've come to learn, is a continuous exercise in "you ain't seen nothing yet."

As we started to descend, my right foot skidded on a patch of gravel, rolling my left ankle underneath my leg as it twisted awkwardly under me. Even before the pain registered, I was terrified. So close to the border, I couldn't fathom my hike ending on a freakish sprain or tear. Slowly, I tested my mobility and range of motion. All good. I had a divot of flesh missing from my knee and rivulets of blood running down my leg, but all I felt was relief. Thankfully, a friend of ours named Happy Feet was nearby with some gauze, and she helped me bandage the wound.

We continued along an exposed ridge for the rest of the day, morale soaring along with the endless views. We'd known Washington would be gorgeous, but we'd had no clue the PCT would save the best for last. Coming to a wide, flat ledge, we made camp, enjoying dinner from our vista before getting driven to our tents by a frigid wind.

After some gradual hiking to start Day 146, we switchbacked up a ridgeline that once again gave us exposed views of nearby peaks. Throughout the afternoon, we stayed along open ledges and the spines of mountainsides, giving us constant panoramas.

Late in the day, we came to Harts Pass, 30 miles from Canada and the PCT's last road access point in the U.S. We knew a fire was burning nearby, and our hearts sunk when we saw closure signs at the pass. Thankfully, the fire had only closed the road. The trail remained open—for at least another day. We could hike on.

We climbed above the pass and found a campsite with another gorgeous view as we soaked in our penultimate evening on trail.

The next day was our last full day of hiking on the PCT. We planned to camp three miles from the border, giving us the following day to savor a short saunter into Canada.

Washington could not have given us a better sendoff. A few moderate climbs brought us to yet another stretch of exposed ridge walking. More peaks towered above the trail and stretched out beyond. The foliage continued to display its autumn finest. We took lunch atop a pass, taking in the views with other hiker friends, thrilled to be finishing on such a high note. As we prepared to move on, we noticed massive amounts of smoke billowing from the mountains behind us, growing perceptibly larger in a short amount of time. We worried for our friends behind us, hoping the fire would not close this final stretch of trail before they got through.

The afternoon was spent hiking more ridges and the spines of the mountains, views in all directions. We made our last real climb and started the gradual descent to the border. Just shy of Canada, we made camp, giddy with excitement. After a laughter-filled dinner, we turned in for the night, hoping we'd be able to sleep. It felt like Christmas Eve.

After a few fitful hours of sleep, we started to break camp for the last time on Day 148. I made the group hot coffee, a rare treat on the trail. Warmed up and caffeinated, we made for the border. We hiked the final stretch together, belting out songs and reminiscing about our five months on the PCT.

Our excitement mixed with disbelief that trail life was ending. We'd become used to the routines of hiking every day, the rigors and rewards. We'd gotten hooked on the PCT's weird mix of extreme discipline and total freedom—you can do whatever you want at any given time, but you've got to push yourself, test your limits, to get to the end. For months, we'd spent almost every hour of every day in each others' company, and soon we'd all be going separate ways. We couldn't help but have mixed feelings about the end of our journey.

Still, we all knew it was time. Everyone was battling aches, pains and sores that seemed to get worse the longer we hiked. My injured shoulder had not really improved since I hurt it 1,400 miles before, and each day had become a new test of my pain thresholds. We were all battling fatigue, and Washington's steep climbs made the trail's finish one of its most grueling sections. I was gaunt, 30 pounds lighter than when I started the trail. Matt had lost even more. Shorter fall days meant we were hiking nearly from dawn to dusk, breaking camp shivering with numb fingers. The Cascades' October snows would be coming soon, and we knew the timing of our finish was right.

Before long, we worked our way down a hill and into a clearing where the forest had been cut in a swath to mark the border. A few other hikers cheered us on as we hiked the last few feet to the terminus. We sauntered up and tossed our packs aside, exchanging giant hugs and smiles. We'd done it. Together.

For a while, we basked in the scene, watching as other hikers took photos at the monument. We shivered and laughed as we waited our turn. Once we queued up, we spent a while on our photo shoot, making sure we had plenty of good shots to document our moment of triumph. If you hike the length of the country, you're allowed to ham it up a bit.

We toasted our accomplishment with small bottles of liquor I'd gotten from Katlyn (aptly, I saved a Canadian Mist for the moment). After an hour of soaking in the border scene, we moved on.

We knocked out our final 12 kilometers of hiking (when in Rome, eh?) into British Columbia's Manning Park. Just a mile from the end, a friendly couple met us on trail and offered us Tim Horton's donuts. We could not have scripted a more stereotypical entrance into Canada. We rolled into Manning Park and beelined to the lodge for celebratory poutine and beers. Our day continued to improve after lunch, as we spent hours luxuriating in a hot tub in the park's lodge while we waited for our laundry to finish cycling.

After dinner, we got a few hours of sleep hiker-style—on the floor—while we waited for the 2 a.m. Greyhound to Vancouver. We got into town bleary-eyed at 5 a.m. and made our way to the nearest McDonald's. Fortified by coffee and calories, we made plans for the rest of the day.

In true hiker fashion, our first order of business was to walk to a nearby park and flop down in the grass for a bit. We carried on to a thrift shop, where, for the first time in five months, we dressed in something other than our hiking attire. Looking a bit more civilized, we grabbed lunch at a nearby Ethiopian restaurant.

After we finished eating, Tigre had to head to the airport, and we had to say a hard goodbye. We'd met just a few hours in on the first day and hiked most of the trail together since. In my time on trail, I never met a more driven, gutty hiker. Tigre pushed himself near his breaking point to catch up to us in the Sierra, tallying more miles daily than maybe any hiker going through at that time. He then pushed us through NorCal, driving our breakneck pace that would have been impossible without him leading the charge. No one wanted to get to the finish as badly as Tigre, and hiking with him gave us more than enough motivation and momentum to complete the trail. In camp, his quick, sharp sense of humor kept us on our toes, and his superhuman eating abilities kept us entertained.

As we watched Tigre leave, it once again sunk in that our journey was finally over. I'd hiked with some iteration of The Sandlot from the very beginning, and now the foursome with whom I'd hiked the final stretch of trail was disbanding. The trail has been filled with goodbyes, but these were the last I'd make before returning to "real life." Still, we could part ways happy at what we'd gotten to share and proud of what we'd accomplished together. In this incredibly difficult PCT year, we'd gotten each other through one obstacle after another. We'd all gone through rough times on the trail, and we'd all looked out for each other. Matt, Gravy, Cody, Tigre, Mandy, Mamie, Piotr—I'll never forget any of you. Sandlot forever.

After saying our goodbyes, Matt, Mandy and I made our way downtown to our hotel. Mandy's parents had generously paid for our lodging for the night, and we were excited to finally sleep in a bed. We lounged around our room for a while, then headed out for sushi.

Copious amounts of food later, we headed out for some final reunions with other hikers who were in town. First, we met up with the United Nations, a fun-loving group of internationals with whom we'd hiked part of the trail. After some time catching up, we went and grabbed drinks with Travis and Kelsey, a couple who had hiked near us over the final stretch of the PCT. We enjoyed looking back over the trail, recalling many shared moments. Eventually, we called it a night and headed back to the hotel.

The next morning, Mandy and I went for a final walk. We'd hiked together for 1,000-plus miles, developing an easy rapport and a million inside jokes. Most hikers prefer to pass the day with podcasts and music, but we mostly kept each other entertained with conversation—topics deep, silly and everything in between. We commiserated during rough stretches and reveled together in high moments. It was Mandy who always made us stop to pick wild berries, who was always willing to stay up and stargaze—whose sense of awe always reminded me not to take our surroundings for granted. Many of my best moments on trail were spent sauntering behind the group, arguing a silly hypothetical, laughing about something absurd and sharing in wonder at the sights around us. Mandy took whatever the trail threw at her and never lost her sense of enthusiasm or joy in the moment. After hiking half the trail together, we'd forged a deep, lasting friendship.

Our last hike took us to a bagel shop, where we grabbed breakfast and coffee. We sauntered to the waterfront, sitting on a park bench by the water and telling old stories one last time.

Finally, we walked back to the hotel, where we rejoined Matt and finished packing up. Outside, we said another hard goodbye, and Matt and I headed for the airport.

Five months and one day after we'd boarded our flight to San Diego, Matt and I were returning together. We'd shared the experience with many great hiking buddies and trail angels—amazing people we'd met along the way. But all of it we'd done together, countless experiences we couldn't have imagined a few months ago. Neither of us would have hiked the trail had we not had the other to talk us into it. We'd planned it for more than a year. Looking back, we shared disbelief at how far we'd come since those early discussions about hiking the trail. We'd really done it.

For five months, we'd spent almost every hour of every day together (our last-minute decision to get separate tents may have saved our friendship). We'd had our own struggles, physically, mentally and with the trail itself. In the end, we'd found our friendship strengthened by each ordeal. There's no one else I would have chosen to share this journey. Having started the PCT after years of friendship, we got to watch each other grow and adapt to trail life. Matt quickly became one of the quickest hikers around, setting a blistering pace with his lanky legs. He was our voice of reason in treacherous moments, making sure we stayed focused and took the time to safely handle each obstacle in the Sierra. We got through tough days remembering the best anecdotes from our years in D.C. More often, we shared in the great moments, incredulous that we'd gotten to experience so much together.

We landed in O'Hare and said goodbye, before making emotional reunions with our families. Our journey was over. Best summer ever.