Day 164: Mile 2642.3 - 2623.0

And today was Getaway Day.

Because today the rains were supposed to start, and tomorrow, the snows. When people would ask when I was going to finish, I would always say by October 1st. The reason? To beat the snows. So got to get out before the snows hit!

In the morning, the weather did start to turn, although more in feeling than in view. Which is to say, I woke to blue and sunny skies, but the sun didn't feel as warm, and the wind felt colder and more biting. And to the south, the clouds were gathering, one even dropping a formation that looked suspiciously like a thunderhead. 

But in the morning, the turn hadn't come quite yet, and as started, hiking the dip between Woody Pass and Rock Pass, I thought: is that what I had hiked? Two nights ago I had been here at dusk and later, and while the skies had been turning from blue to purple to night black, the slopes had been but gray and drab. But now, cast in the morning haze of light still waking, I saw that these slopes were in fact in beautiful color, adorned in swaths of red and yellow, surrounded by slips of gray stone. And so I hiked the dip (marveling at how pretty it actually was), and climbed out the other side up to Rock Pass (marveling at how steep it actually was, and thinking, I've hiked this far and *still* have trouble on these slopes?), and from there crossed down into the green tunnel--which was less green-tunnel-y than I had remembered--all the way to the Holman Creek junction. Only this time I did it as a day-hiker: not worried about miles, not worried about time, just hiking and sightseeing. And there was plenty to see: this bit, from Rock Pass through Woody Pass to the high point right before the descent to the Terminus, was pretty stunning: the trail is high up, looking down on meadows and treelines, looking across at slopes, and looking up at peaks right over there. I did stop to take a lot of pictures, repeating many that I had taken but two days before (although every photographer will tell you photography is light, and if you change the light--as time of day will--the shot will completely change as well), but that was ok: that's what day-hikers get to *indulge*.

At the Holman Creek junction, I stopped to grab a quick bite to eat when who should come up but Fedex, having tagged the border yesterday. His original plan was to hike 20 miles today to within 5 miles of Harts and get out tomorrow, but now in the moment, with rain in the forecast, he was thinking of doing the last 5 miles as well. And we got to talking and chatting and my quick bite to eat became an hour long meal. And while we breaked, the sky went from blue to now cloudy, and the cold started to come in, and I started to believe that, yes, today it will rain.

Only not right now: there's a climb out of Holman Creek and at the top, it was sunny again for a brief spell. And I looked out over another valley, over to another ridge, where the slopes were cast in almost orange soil, with strips of red and yellow and green, against a blue sky becoming increasingly cloudy, and it was amazing still. And this scene I recognized--I had seen it a couple days before--but as a thru-hiker it had been nice to see and snap a shot and move on, but as a day-hiker I could take more time and glance up and try to arrange a shot or two.

And then the weather finally did turn. And it turned fast. First it went overcast in about 15 minutes, then a sprinkling that nonetheless made me put on my rain jacket and pack cover, then after about a half hour under gray but dry skies, I looked back and saw that the valley behind me was now opaque with fog, and the rain started. And it was now full rain pants and umbrella and you'd think fewer photo opportunities, but I would still stop and snap shots. And I remember I was standing on a hillside, now in full rain, looking at the hills across the valley where this was this peculiar little hut or watertower or something, and snapping shots, and Fedex came up behind me (Fedex takes a lot of breaks to rest his feet, but hikes very fast--he's in the 3+ mph crowd) and he said, incredulously, still taking photos? And the answer was yes because, well, day-hiker! They do that sort of thing! Because they know that, at the end of the day, they're not rushing to find a campsite that's sheltered and hopefully under a tree, and not in a depression that'll become a lake by midnight, no, they're going into a car that seals shut and is waterproof and warm inside. So it doesn't matter how bad the weather is: in a few hours, everything will be gravy! 

And some of the sights: towards the end, close to Harts Pass, the trail walks along a ridge that overlooks a deeper valley, and down below I could watch the fogs roil and weave between the canyons and shoulders of the hills. And I could simultaneously appreciate how beautiful it looked, and understand how I would *not* want to be down there right now!

And so the rain continued, off and on, sometimes hard, sometimes letting up, the rest of the way to Harts Pass. And then, suddenly, I was at the pass, and the hike was ended. And there weren't many people there--most people had pushed and hiked out yesterday, when the weather was still good, whereas now with evening coming on, the rain was starting to come down too. And there was Fedex there--he'd drove a car up from Seattle and so was sitting in his car--and there was also Tyler "Nomad", who was coming back from his trout seeding trip, getting into his car too. And he checked: do you need a ride? Because he was planning to be the ride-of-last-resort to any hikers still coming in. And I said, no, I'm waiting for my friend--Ian--and he had messaged me that he'll be a little late due to traffic, but he'll be here. Ok, said Tyler, then, do you at least want a banana? And that I did take because, well, it's fruit: you always take fresh fruit when it's offered on trail because it's so rare to have!

And since the rain was coming down now and I was just standing there--albeit under my umbrella so I was fine but still, just standing there--Fedex said, hey, do you want to at least wait in the car? And I agreed, and eventually as it was getting later, he said, hey, why don't we drive down the mountain? It's a one lane road: if your friend is coming up, he'll have to pass us on the way up so we won't miss him. And since it was starting to get dark, and it was raining, and there was nobody else left at Harts Pass by now, I agreed and we headed on down. And about halfway, maybe a little before halfway, down, we did indeed see another car coming up and, yep, it was Ian! And he looked a bit confused to be talking to a random car on the mountain, only to discover me in the passenger seat!, but since it was full raining by now, I ended up staying in Fedex's car and heading down the mountain with Ian following until we reached the gas station at Mazama and there I switched over. And began the long drive from Mazama to Seattle, where we were treated to these fogs that would roll in and kill visibility, but wouldn't last and would pass just as quickly. And in the end, after much driving, we did finally arrive in Seattle after midnight, and got to the hotel, and I was back, fully ensconced, in civilization.

Emotionally, I don't think the end of the trail has hit me just yet. I bumped into Apocalypse at Harts--he was just leaving and aiming to get about 5 miles in before making camp--and he asked whether the monument was anticlimactic. And I had to admit that, yes, it was. But I also think that perhaps the emotion of the hike ending hasn't hit me yet. I remember watching the Whimsical Woman's PCT series on YouTube, and how at the end of the hike she went back to Lake Tahoe to visit family, then drove up to Washington to start work. And on the drive up to Washington, on the highway, she crossed the PCT at one of the numerous places it crosses the freeway. And she hadn't meant to, but she stopped and she got out and she walked along the trail a bit and started crying, saying, where am I going? Because *that's* home, the PCT, *that*. And she just wanted to get back on the trail, and hike down to where it bent around a corner over there, and go. And so for her, I think it took--what, a week?--before the emotion of the trail ending really hit her. And I suspect for me, it'll likely be similar. But we'll see: I'm planning to spend a few days in Seattle still, then take a train back to southern California, so we'll see how I feel over the rest of this week.

And that was the hike!

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Some notes:

-- Campsite > Rock Pass > Holman Creek Trail Junction > Foggy Pass > Buffalo Pass > Harts Pass > Seattle

-- I will say this about timing: I was thinking about it, and realizing that the SOBO hikers start from here at the beginning of July at the earliest, so more likely early-to-mid July, to avoid the snow (which can be no joke on some of these slopes, I agree). And then the NOBO hikers try to get through here by mid-September, say, to properly avoid the snows. That means this section is unsnowed for only a very small window: about 2 months from mid-July to mid-September. Now it's absolutely beautiful during that window, especially as the fall colors start to come in, but the fall too, is short: Fedex mentioned that for folks he knew who had come through only two weeks earlier, the slopes were all still fully green, and fall hadn't started yet. So in reality, I got to see this section in the middle of a very very small window--perhaps only a couple weeks long--and am very very lucky.

-- And I met some other hikers today, heading out towards the terminus, including Spot and Ziploc. And Spot seemed a bit agitated, and Ziploc explained that she was worried about the snow. Whereas he had done the AT a few years ago, and so was more comfortable with rain and snow. And the forecast for tomorrow does indeed include snow in addition to the rain. But I'm pretty sure they'll make it nonetheless!

-- And just a bit behind Spot and Ziploc, I passed McQueen and Pain Perdu, also headed up to the terminus. And wearing these brightly colored ponchos that looked so thin, but that McQueen said were surprisingly warm. And though they were in a hurry, they stopped a bit to talk. And McQueen was hurting by now--shin splits, tendons in legs and feet messed up, lots of pain. But they were going still pushing it: 30 miles today to get to the campsite before Rock Pass, then 30 miles tomorrow to get to the border and back (and likely *not* slack-packing it due to the weather), and 15 the day after back to Harts. The idea is they'll skirt in just before the weather turns--they'll get some snow, but nothing that sticks (hopefully). And they congratulated me, and I congratulated them because, make no mistake, they'll make it to the border! And it was a fun and happy little reunion, in the rain

-- And about a mile from Harts, I got passed by Tyler, coming back from his trout stocking of Hopkins Lake. And I got to talking with him some more, and it turns out after he had finished the PCT in 2015, he was sure he was done with thru-hikes and headed to grad school. And as he finished that up, he found himself longing for the trail again. And ended up doing the AT, and then the CDT--he's a triple crowner--so clearly he wasn't! And there are some smaller trails he's interested in, but these days he works for the one of the Washington wilderness departments, mostly concentrating on the intersection of human populations and the wild and making that coexistence as good as possible for both parties. And I must say, Tyler was *fast*: keeping up with him, even here at the end when I was at my strongest, was a bit of work!

-- And right as I was walking into Harts Pass who should I bump into but Apocalypse! And he was leaving Harts Pass pretty late, but planned to only go about 5 miles before making camp. It was good to see him, and amazing that, even though we'd really only hiked together for a couple of days on trail past White Pass, it still felt like meeting an old friend. And, to a certain extent, that's what the trail *does*. You meet people on trail, and you feel a certain kinship. And maybe it's because you're all striving for the same thing, albeit each doing it in their own way (hike your own hike, as they say), and maybe it's the expectation that you'll meet people again up ahead (an expectation which, sadly, ends today), but you form bonds with some folks, and you form them quickly and easily.

-- And I just missed out seeing J-Pro again: he had passed me at some point (not surprising) and gotten to Harts ahead of me. He was getting picked up by Jedi (of whom I'd heard of since Cajon, but never met) and by the time I got there, they'd already left. And also taken with them a couple who I'd met at the terminus, and asked about my ride down when they passed me on the way back to Harts. Granted I would have liked to see him again, but I'm also happy that he got out before the rains started in earnest with the evening, and also happy that he and Jedi were able to help out a couple of other hikers at the same time!

-- Lots of conversations with Fedex today, first when I ended up taking the impromptu lunch at Holman Creek Trail junction, and second when he drove me down from Harts Pass to Mazama. And we talked about plenty of things. He's retired now, and the PCT was just one of the things he wanted to do: his big thing is actually sailing, and his next project is to sail up the coast of North America to Alaska. And we discussed whether to take inland passages or be exposed to the open ocean, and I noted that it was possible to go pretty far up the East Coast taking only inland passages--leveraging my knowledge acquired from Windbreak--but evidently the mast of his boat is too tall: it's a 65 foot clearance for most of the bridges on the East Coast inland passages, but his mast is closer to 80 feet. And then there's always the tides to worry about on those passages too. We also talked about retirement in general, and he advised having an idea of what you want to *do* in retirement. And then repeated a sentiment that I had had a long time ago, when I first started working at JPL: the feeling of closing doors. Because when I had left university, I had thought that all these doors would be open, but as I started working, I realized that a lot of them would be closed. And closed by me. Because I started to realize I only have so much *time*, and so I just *can't* do all the things I want to do. For example, it turns out Fedex plays the piano--self-taught mostly--and if he had his way, he could spend 6 hours a day at the keys, playing away. And that would be a good time, and he would be happy. But if he did that, then he wouldn't be able to hike the PCT (as I've found whenever I've have the rare opportunity to sit back down at the keys along the trail: my hands have atrophied badly in just these few months), he wouldn't be able to sail up to Alaska, he wouldn't be able to go on these adventures. In the end, you have to pick and choose, because there's so much you want to do, but just not enough time in a lifetime to do it all. So you end up closing doors. And to hear that someone else feels that way was retroactively reassuring to me. I know "you can't have it all", but that's usually in terms of family and career and outside hobbies; to hear "you can't have it all" also in terms of just which resonances you pursue, that's different. To me, it's much less abstract, much more concrete, much more influencing not the arc of a year, but the day-to-day of tomorrow. Because tomorrow--or, more likely, in about a week--I'll be back at home in southern California, and I'll need to start making decisions about what to do with my (limited) time, as in, what do you want to pursue *right* *now*, what do you want to work on *this* *week*. And that will involve opening some doors, and closing others.