...and then...

The weather gods smiled on us and beamed generous blessings on our endeavour. We awoke each morning to blue jay skies and hiked through crisp, autumnal air. The days would warm as we contoured along the valley walls. Climbing through the turning leaves of huckleberry and blueberry shrubs. Beneath the yellow pine needles of the larch against the evergreens.
It has been an incredible gift to move through such a wide variety of ecosystems through three seasons. The words for the colors in desert spring: red, orange, yellow; are the same colors present in a Washington fall. Yet, creating such a very different atmosphere. For weeks now the awareness of changing season has been upon us. Fortunately the weather remained moderate but days grew noticeably shorter at a quick pace. It remained dark and chilly later into the morning and the sun left us earlier and earlier each evening. As we propelled ourselves toward wintering quarters, so too did the animals prepare themselves. The mice had a growing desperation to seek and gather food; so strong an inclination that it outweighed their fear of being swatted. They became more aggressive in their advances on our food. Of Rif-Raf, Shannon, and I, all three of us ended up with holes in our tents. My visitor fortunately just came in to make a few laps and as too courteous to gnaw into my food. However, he was also too prim to use his entrance door as an exit and so chewed a second doorway less than an inch away.
Shannon seemed to be engaged in battle the most. One night he awoke to hear a visitor taking a tour of his tent and so, as an act of defense, he ate his entire 'crack bag' (a ziplock bag filled with an assortment of hand picked candies) because, well, better him than the mouse. In the morning we all approved of this as very sound logic.
Rif-Raf was our most aggressive warrior; even going so far as taking the life of a rodent nemesis. Again, while the rest of us certainly cold sympathize with his justification, Shannon and I were more likely to attempt to lure them away or buy them off, offering up peanuts, dirty pots and other tidbits to try to distract them rather than to engage in direct combat.
The bears also have been preparing for winter. On one particular, drizzly difficult day Shannon and Rif-Raf and I were stopped for a break, trying to figure out how we could catch up with Frog who was some 12-20 miles ahead of us. As the prospect of the mileage we would have to push weighed upon our weary minds and bodies, I felt drained. Maxed out. But my boys were there and spoke gently and encouraged me with their own sense of determination, so onward and upward we trudged. Up into the hanging meadow bowls above the trees. Into fields of ripe and overripe berries. There we quickly came upon a momma black bear and her cub. They were a safe distance up the hill so we moved slowly and deliberately, speaking to them and snapping pictures. Not but five minutes later, just as we began to regain speed, there appeared another berry field patchworked in the brightest shades of fall and dotted by three large, black, moving spots. As we came closer, the features on the bears stood out. Judging by their sizes and behavior it was a large momma and cub, while the third figure seemed to be a single male. When they became aware of our presence and made an initial pretense of running away, their heavy coats shambled around their bodies, the black catching in the sun, giving off tints of red and brown. Quickly exhausted by the effort to run, we could hear them huffing heavily. Quizzical, long faces watched us warily; even as we did the same to them.
The next morning we continued through the high bowls (which were actually only at 5000-6000 feet but feeling much the same as 10,000 feet would in the Sierras). We passed through an area densely populated by unafraid, silver backed marmots. As we began to traverse down, we passed a young single female, not more than 3 years old, foraging on her own. Within 12 hours we had each more than doubled our bear sighting counts. It was spectacular.

As we came within days of the border, our motivation changed. Every day we gave thanks for the blessing of the weather; how could such a gift not be construed as heavenly approval of our efforts? A reward. A goodbye kiss. With all the same passion and melancholy. I paused often, looking backward and forward. Rotating slowly, attempting to infuse myself in that place and moment thereby allowing it to emblazon on my soul. I do this often throughout my life, in special moments. It never sticks as thickly as I would like but it does leave an imprint.
Then, at 8:07 pm on October 1st, there we were. Just as night fell we began down a small group of switchbacks. While our eyes had adjusted to the dim and we were not wearing our headlamps yet, a bright light shone around from below us. We wondered whether it might be a border patrol of some sort. But no, it was just little Miss Pony, our friendly local pyro. She had just accidentally thrown her pen into her campfire and returned to the monument to dig another out of the receptacle there. The marker which stands at the northern terminus is identical to that at the southern. The only difference being that rather than standing in an open desert near barbed wire and a 15 foot tall corrugated fence, this one is placed in the middle of a road wide strip cut out of the thick trees, running up and across the hills; the only demarcation of a border at all.
For just a fraction of an instant was I able to taste the reality. Tears welled up and I laughed. So this is what I had been working so hard for all of these months. For this, I had risked my life. It was just exactly right. Just that tiny hint of comprehension and then it was gone and I was standing in the forest at night with my friends celebrating an accomplishment which we had all admitted was beyond our comprehension.
That night, as we sat around the campfire I looked at those around me and gave such a deep thanks. I was incredibly honored to be finishing the trail with three individuals who now had two thru-hikes under their boots. To be one of them and to share this with each and all.
The next day was another 8 miles to the nearest civilized establishment, Manning Park Canada. It, as with the following couple of days, was anticlimactic at best. In Manning Park we encountered other hikers and sort of moved around, purposeless. Who were we now? Why bother to tell our story to the tourists passing through? They didn't seem to believe and even when they did, their congratulations felt almost innocuous.
Shannon explained it best when he spoke of each hike as being a life in and of its own. The idea is born and, with time, gives way to action. The experience of investing in its life. The blessings and tribulations. Gaining from each. We grow and learn within it and are defined by it. It matures and we gain confidence, it becomes routine and we are good at it. Then we recognize that it is not infinite, that soon this too shall pass and so we seek to hold on to the moments. Then. It's over. And we mourn. And we celebrate. And we gather ourselves together and each of us asks, "where to from here?"