the Finish Line: What Completing The PCT Truly Feels Like
The final entry of our Pacific Crest Trail journey
August 9th-18th | Stevens Pass to The Canadian Terminus
What No One Tells You About the Mental Fatigue
After 2,500 miles of walking north, the end came rushing towards us faster than expected. We pushed hard to get here, and now I feel dizzy– overcome with the thought of this journey coming to an end so soon.
The mental fatigue of a thru-hike is real. Everyone hits that wall eventually: months of living outside, wearing the same salty outfit, no shower, no chair (oh sweet lumbar support), no bed, no running water.
Every day, you push your body to its edge, and every morning, you do it again.
Because that’s the deal—you walk, or you don’t make it before the snow. It’s a brutal and beautiful dance.
The Dizzy Edge of the Finish Line
It’s funny how slow life moves on foot, yet how rushed it feels.
Now, more than anything, I want to slow down. To savor these final days, the connectedness I feel with this land, with the people, with myself.
Everything has become so beautifully simple.
I know exactly what I’m meant to do and where I’m going.
My body feels strong and capable, like it finally knows its purpose.
I trust it to survive, to endure, and to thrive with almost nothing.
The Sacredness of Trail Community
And then there’s the camaraderie—the quiet, wordless bond between hikers who “get it.”
Out here, we all speak the same unspoken language. It’s rare, and it’s sacred.
The thought of returning home to a world that doesn’t know this version of me feels… strange.
How could anyone truly understand what we’ve walked through?
But maybe they don’t need to.
Maybe the beauty is in knowing that each of us will never really understand what we haven’t lived beside.
Maybe that’s why I walk—to experience life deeply, to earn understanding through the soles of my own two feet.
Because the only way to truly know your own edge is to live it, and what that looks like is different for all of us.
Section k: the last test
The evening we left Stevens Pass, something in the air shifted.
We were heading toward our very last resupply of Stehekin, and the reality of it was setting in.
We were closing in on the end, but it took real focus to stay in the game and keep the motivation alive.
It was bittersweet. Our bodies and minds were exhausted, but at the same time I knew I wasn’t ready for it to be over.
The infamous “Section K” loomed ahead, often called the hardest stretch of the PCT.
The climbs were long and steep, the views were spectacular, and the descents made our knees wince with every step.
In adventure sport lingo, we’d call this type of terrain “extremely rewarding”, which is a gracious reframe for very challenging.
It was technical, wild, and utterly stunning—the kind of splendor that makes you work for every step.
To add to the challenge, this year yielded miles of blowdowns left uncleared due to budget cuts.
We had heard horrible whispers over the past couple weeks leading up to this section. Luckily, some kind trail angels had left machetes for hikers to put to good work.
The Southbounders had already done their part, hacking a path through, leaving the forest slightly tamed for us.
And after experiencing the blowdowns in NorCal, this was refreshingly easier than the hype made it out to be.
We were able to enjoy the views and cruised through, fueled by excessive berry consumption. I’m telling you, the bears would be seriously impressed.
My shirt was really falling apart at this point. The back had huge holes in it and you can see the shoulders starting to go. I was determined to make it last until the border.
Stehekin: the last resupply and a taste of heaven
Stehekin. Our last resupply.
A stunning little mountain town nestled on Lake Chelan, reachable only by boat or foot.
It’s quaint, serene, and has a legendary bakery that hikers start talking about on day one at the Mexican border.
The Bakery we Walked 2,572 Miles for
The shuttle from the trailhead to town stops at Stehekin bakery, and it’s mayhem— sleep-deprived hikers with hollow legs anxiously line up for cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates.
We strategically loaded up paper boxes with our breakfasts for our last stretch. Wow, was the bakery worth the wait!
That evening, we camped in town, played in the water with trail friends, did laundry, took coin showers, and ate dinner as a community under a soft orange sky.
Everyone remarked that the energy felt like summer camp—the end was palpable, and no one wanted to say goodbye.
Less than 100 miles stood between us and the border, and we were savoring it.
We grabbed our box at the post office, which had a whole shed for PCT boxes (common in these little trail towns). At this point in the season, they said they were still receiving more boxes than hikers were picking up.
Rainy Pass and the Pancake Morning
In Stehekin, we met a weekend hiker who had finished the PCT in 2022. She hiked out with us, heading back to her car at Rainy Pass.
We almost convinced her to quit work and come to Canada with us.
We hiked in the rain, which felt poetically fitting.
At Rainy Pass trailhead, the parking lot turned into a pop-up hiker village—tents in parking spaces, laughter in the drizzle, and a few desperate souls even opted to sleep in pit toilets just to stay dry.
We hung out in our new friend’s car, windows cracked, music playing, sipping hot cocoa as the rain danced on the roof. The next morning, pancakes flipped off the back of a pickup truck as hikers lined up for their pre workout meal.
It was simple, pure, and fleeting.
This last section was one of the most memorable from the entire trail.
Not only was it wildly gorgeous, but I was overcome by emotion with every mile that brought us closer to Canada.
The trail had changed me, and I had been here for every step of it, more present than any other time in my life.
I could close my eyes and remember every place we camped over the past 5 months in perfect order…
I could remember how my body felt each day, the views we took in, the meals we shared, the conversations that carried us through long climbs.
This was an experience of living and breathing with more presence than I knew was humanly possible.
Our last mile marker before the border felt surreal.
I wish I could bottle up this view to experience it again.
Our last night on trail was quiet.
We lay in our tent, deep in the North Cascades, the fabric rippling softly in the breeze. I looked over at my husband and smiled, remembering the phrase we’d said countless times:
“Anywhere can be home when I’m with you.”
The PCT tested that idea and proved it true.
Home isn’t walls, it’s a feeling. It’s a patch of dirt and a partner who makes you laugh even when your legs are screaming. It’s creature habits and stillness and the ability to be your whole authentic self.
We laughed that night, too, remarking at how broken our bodies were, knowing that at home we’d swear we couldn’t walk another step… and knowing we’d still wake up and hike 30 miles the next day.
Because our bodies were capable of far more than our minds had ever allowed us to believe.
That realization alone was worth every blister.
Home.
The Final push
August 18th.
I woke up buzzing like it was Christmas morning. I made my favorite Mexican mocha, pulled on my fleece (my shirt was now more holes than fabric), and started down the trail, practically running.
It was a PERFECT day. The views were unreal. Staggering and panoramic. Tall fragrant trees, turquoise alpine lakes, severe and ancient granite faces. The air was sharp and electric.
I counted down the miles out loud—“Nine more to Canada– I can see it in the distance! Eight… Seven…” until I was crying and laughing all at once.
We rounded a corner, and there it was.
The Canadian monument.
Tears came hot and fast. It’s impossible to
put the feeling into words.
The journey that had brought us here.
The people who had lifted us up.
The trail angels who gave freely.
The strangers who became family.
The mountains that carved us open and put us back together.
We made it.
But it wasn’t the destination that made it worth it
—it was every single step in between.
A Monument in the Woods
The monument itself is simple. Just a carved wooden marker in the woods—no welcome committee, no town, no crowds.
Canada on one side, Washington on the other.
We were in the middle of nowhere, and it couldn’t have been more perfect.
We still had to hike 30 miles back to civilization, but we didn’t care. The monument wasn’t the point. It was a symbol of transformation—of the people we’d become and the bond we’d built, step by step, side by side.
157 days.
2,655 miles.
Over 500,000 feet of elevation gain.
Through heat, snow, frozen lakes, frostbite, and fire. Through laughter, blisters, silence, and awe. Through growth as individuals and as partners.
We made our original goal ahead of schedule, despite every obstacle this wild year threw at us.
We made it.
And though the monument marked an ending, I knew it was also the beginning of something new, something quieter, deeper, and far more lasting.
The real journey was just beginning.
We finished this journey, not just with stories, but with truths.
That home is a feeling.
That the human body is extraordinary.
That the mind is stronger when you lead with purpose.
And that the world opens up when you do.
March 14th at the Mexican border: We had no idea what was ahead
Forester Pass: Our hardest, most life-changing day. Adrenaline pumping, frostbite setting in. We almost quit—and it would’ve been valid. But I’m proud of who we met on the other side.
The valley between Mather Pass and Muir pass: My most transcendent moment. Standing on a boulder, crying into the mountains, feeling small, deeply alive, and affirmed by the journey I was on.
If you’re reading this…
If our story stirred something in you, chase it.
Go walk. Go climb. Go explore. Whether it’s an expedition, a trip abroad, or simply a day hike—go. The world opens up when you do.
Let discomfort be your teacher.
Let nature strip away the noise until you remember what’s real.
Thousands of small steps can shift your entire horizon.
Every single one matters.
It’s a truth I’ll be reminding myself for the rest of my life.
Support my work
If you’ve enjoyed this series and want to support my work and upcoming endeavors, you can send a contribution on Venmo at @Dakota_Storm. Every bit helps me continue creating from the trail and beyond.
Thank you for simply being a part of this journey. Your presence, readership and words of encouragement have meant more than you know.
Happy trails.
