My PCT Hike

I took my final step onto the Canadian border marker, tears welling in my eyes, my legs trembling—not just from fatigue, but from awe. After 2,650 miles, the Pacific Crest Trail had become more than a line on a map. It was a story etched into my bones.

I remember the first day, standing at the Mexican border, my pack still stiff, my nerves frayed. The desert heat nearly broke me. I blistered, I limped, I questioned every decision that had led me there. But with each mile, my stride found rhythm. I learned to ration water, to read the land, to sleep under a quilt of stars and wake with the sun.

The Sierra Nevada was another world—snowfields, granite spires, river crossings that made my heart pound. I hiked through weeks of solitude and moments of deep connection, sharing meals and trail wisdom with fellow hikers who became family. Trail names replaced real names, and everything unnecessary was stripped away.

In Oregon, wildfires rerouted us. In Washington, rain soaked through every layer. But nothing stopped me. I had learned to adapt, to endure. I had learned to trust myself.

And now, here at the border, I looked back at the trail—not just the physical one, but the inner path I had walked. I had crossed deserts, mountains, and forests, but I had also crossed fear, doubt, and loneliness. What I found was strength. And freedom.

I touched the monument, smiled through the tears, and whispered to the wind, “I made it.”