What do you do after you walk the length of a country? Walk some more, I suppose was the answer, because the border of Canada doesn’t end conveniently with a plane back home. There was an eight-mile trek in between the border and Manning Park, where Warm Boy and I stayed the night. After four miles of trail, I walked down a gravel road, eventually to a wide, maintained trail with borders and bridges over creeks. It felt like I was reentering civilization by degrees. At the road from the trailhead, I made a wrong turn and the lead Warm Boy had on me increased by a lot. By the time I figured out I was going the wrong way, turned around, and arrived at Manning Park, she had been looking for me a while. We got food at the restaurant there and then found there were no more rooms at the hostel, necessitating a more expensive hotel room. We each showered, and I finally peeled off the leukotape from where my backpack had chafed my back and armpits. With the wifi and TV, we stayed up past hiker midnight (nine at night). Even so, the next morning, I woke with the sun and lay in bed, pondering how strange it felt not to have to walk that day. I also wondered how long it would be until I didn’t want to eat everything in sight (it was a long time).

After breakfast, we checked out and borrowed a sharpie and cardboard to make a hitching sign. I had a flight the next night back to Michigan from Seattle. The first step was to get to Vancouver, along Highway 3. There used to be a bus from Manning Park to Vancouver, but no longer. It was a long hitch to try. First, Debbie and Teresa picked us up very soon after we started hitching outside the resort. They gave us pizza and cookies and told us about a Belgian girl who was murdered after hitching along that same highway. That felt great. They took us to Hope, where we set up hitching by the onramp west towards Vancouver. It was disheartening to see so much litter everywhere and knowing that was the world we were going back to, away from the beautiful pristine mountains that felt more like home. The next to take us on were Amber and Tim, with their puppy, Frank, who was the best part of the day by far. They took us to Chilliwack, where another Tim picked us up. When he dropped us off in Langley, it started raining, harder than it had ever rained on trail. We stood for a long time along a busy road in the rain, until a kind old man rolled down his window and told us we were hitching in the wrong place to go the direction we wanted. Once we were in the right place, it took quite a bit longer to get a ride. A woman named Lisa finally stopped and told us that it probably took a long time because hitchhiking was illegal in Canada. She had read a book about the PCT so she at least knew what we were talking about and was really excited for us. She took us right to the SeaBus in Vancouver. Before we got on, we stopped at a Starbucks to use the Wifi and plan our next move. I’d found a cheap hotel near the bus station that could take us to Seattle the next morning. We navigated the SeaBus with difficulty. It was really shocking to be amongst so many people, hurrying in all different directions after the small trail towns of the last few months. In the tiny hotel room, we finally slowed down enough to process some of what we’d gone through and what we knew was ahead of us. It was a lot. We rallied for food, naturally, and got pho at a restaurant nearby. I made the mistake of ordering a Vietnamese coffee, which took the whole meal to finish dripping through the grounds and then kept me up late that night.

The bus took us to Seattle the next morning and I got a barrage of texts from family and friends as we crossed the border into the US and my cell service resumed. I started texting a family friend, Theresa, who lives in Seattle and offered to pick us up and show us around. We got off the bus and went to Pike’s Place Market, where we got more food and then ice cream. We checked out the Seattle library and the Amazon HQ spheres. I planned to take my whole backpack on the plane as my carry-on, so I had to send my knife, trekking poles, stakes, and bulkier items back home from a post office. It came time when we were to meet Theresa, who showed us around Seattle and took us back to her home. Theresa and Laura made us feel welcome, fed us, and offered me a ride to the airport that night and Warm Boy a place to stay. Their dog, Leo, was adorable and brightened my day. They were the perfect final trail angels. It felt good to have a safe, quiet place to stay for a while and kind people to be around after the overwhelming transition into the “real world.” Theresa took me to the airport and I left the west behind.

Even after four-ish years (when I’m finally finishing this thing), I haven’t grasped the full meaning of the trail. Was it my life, lived as I always wanted? Was it, like Warm Boy and I mused, the storybook adventure that you dream about as a kid? Possibly, it was an escape from the rest of life, simplified to motion from south to north. I think it’s all of those and more. I struggled for a long time afterward, trying to mesh trail life and the rest of life. It was difficult, knowing I had changed so completely, but ended up in exactly the same place as before. I returned to work, doing the same things, but as a different person, someone I felt no one could see. On trail, I was immediately identifiable as a hiker. A meeting with another hiker was to meet a new friend. I missed the community of the trail and I missed the mountains. Less than a year later, I moved to a new city and a new job. I know that someday I’ll do another long trail. Somewhere in Washington, I met Al, the recordholder for the oldest PCT thru-hiker, who completed the trail at 81. So, I’ve got time.