I pushed north into the abyss. The miles went by and the mist began to subside. As the clouds lifted so did my spirits. The vast scale of this place was like nothing I had experienced. Countless snow capped peaks stretched out to the horizon. The mountain meadows obscured nothing and this sky seemed more immense than any I had witnessed. Perhaps the grandest feature of all was the unspoiled silence. Shivers ran down spine regularly with the realization that I was actually here.
I met several other hikers that day including a young lady from Brooklyn and a surprising number of Germans. That afternoon I encountered a middle aged Hispanic man. He was limping southbound with an incredibly large pack. He asked me about an upcoming water source and we parted ways. That evening I sat on log cooking dinner in a cold rain. My solitude was interrupted by approaching foot falls. The hispanic man I met earlier approached. He introduced himself as Hot Rod and laughed as he explained he made a wrong turn and hiked several miles south before realizing his mistake. For the next three days we continued north together. Hot Rod would eventually confide in me that the impetus for his hike was his late wife. Cancer had taken her and his vow to spread her ashes on the PCT brought him here. One afternoon we stood atop a ridge gazing into an endless valley. Emotions ran high when he whispered this “This is her spot”.
Hot Rod and I would part ways at Hopkins Lake a mere 6 miles from the Canadian border. I was not making the miles I had planned, my food supply was dangerously low, and the discomfort in my left knee was growing. The urge to throw caution to the wind and tag the border was overwhelming. However, after careful consideration and a few prayers, I made the wise choice to head south towards Harts Pass.
I met even more great hikers during my journey south. I chatted with a bubbly Canadian named Siesta, a U.S. Army veteran, and a physical therapist. Despite the good company, it was strange not having Hot Rod around. Previously when I gazed at the horizon I would inevitably catch a glimpse of his blue pack. Now that ribbon of distant trail was empty.
I wouldn’t see Hot Rod again. However, his story touched many people and he would grow into a legend amongst the southbound hikers.