My heaving chest swelled with pride at Washington’s magnificence. Every peak was proud and eccentric, boldly looming over the sweeping valley it watched over. Occasionally filling my nostrils with the smell of Christmas, Evergreens lined my vision and contrasted the light tan of vast, rocky mountain ridges. I glided from ridge to ridge. Tan lines were fully imprinted on my skinny, powerful legs that leapt and bounded over the small mountain streams that quenched my thirst. Pumping like pistons, they deftly maneuvered over rock, root and water without bothering to ask my mind for permission.

I was running home.

Whether it was of a moment of agony or elation, every memory and feeling I had experienced on trail was turning into a nostalgic montage in my mind as I traversed my mountains: the sweat-soaked, dirt-crusted socks of southern California’s desert, the utter loneliness after seeing my girlfriend at Steven’s Pass, an inspired nurse’s Marion Berry Danish outside of Ashland, the magnificence of the rigid stone goliaths the lined the High Sierra, the embrace of my mother right before crossing into Washington. As my evocative daydream carried into the night, the trail bestowed upon to me a “Supermoon.” While I still needed my headlamp to truly see the path, the mountains were ignited by moonbeam. That night, after my exhausted limbs retreated to my sleeping bag, I lay under the stars having enveloped the West’s most wondrous beauties.

I awoke to the smell of barbeque. I sniffed again, Is that me?! I thought. I knew my lack of showers took a heavy toll on the nostrils of my crew, but how in the world did I smell like this? As I peered out of my tent towards those moonlit mountains, I realized that there was a haze obstructing the pristine view. The smell and haze were from wildfires! The lack of thick, black smoke told me that I was not in imminent danger, but longed for clean air to return the magnificent sights that had characterized my PCT experience since central California.

Nevertheless, on August 10th at 4:15 A.M., I began my last 27-mile journey. After today, I wouldn’t have to spend 10 minutes of every morning just to put on those unwieldy compression socks. I cherished eating my last cream cheese bagel knowing that my future breakfasts would have variety. I switched my maps for the final time and took one long, sentimental look at Colin’s smiling picture and his red octagonal wooden block, both of which I had carried with me for over 2,600 miles.

Fall 21: Sharp rocks ruined my nostalgia. As my lanky frame tumbled over the stone that had caught my foot and my full attention, my knees and hands were torn to shreds by the rubble on the trail. I watched in slow motion as my headlamp –that moments before had been in my hand– toppled over the top of a cliff, never to be seen again. There I lay, bloody and frustrated. It was just before 4:50 A.M. and I was without my guiding light. As I hobbled up the trail, the Romantic in me perished as I cursed the PCT’s cruelty and the two wood blocks beneath my legs that I called feet.

Fall 22: My final day was going better after that disaster of a start! I climbed my final ascent for the rest of the trail contemplating all the mountains, ridges and switchbacks that I had climbed. The next eight miles were all downhill. I couldn’t help but give the few convenient day hikers a big, smelly hug of excitement at this peak before letting my legs loose one last time.

Maybe I should have been attentive to the given moniker of the steep, rocky switchbacks I was descending: Devil’s Staircase. Predictably, my foot caught another rock and once again I threw my trekking poles to free my hands. I filled with rage at another blunder, but my anger quickly quelled as my legs managed a few heroic, hectic steps to catch my fall.

Sadly, the war was already lost. But this time, as I crumbled forward to the ground, the top of a trekking pole caught on a rock, its metal tip aimed directly at my face like a spear. As I instinctively turned my head, I felt my ear ripped by the sharp tip. Grasping my head, I assessed my situation in the fetal position. Blood was gushing from my ear, but at least it had missed my temple and my ear canal. I couldn’t believe I had done it again; I lay bloody and frustrated. Finally, as my fears of permanent brain damage and inappropriately located ear piercings faded away, I rose with a confident grimace. While the bleeding had not stopped, I knew I could make it to the finish intact. I was only 6 miles away after all. My journey was so close to being over.

Fall 23: Are you serious? Again! I could not believe myself. Bad, BAD Joe! I thought. I was a wimpy three miles from Canada. I averaged less than a fall per 100 miles, yet I had managed to fall three times in 24 miles. Twenty-three falls to match 23 years of age. Although dirt and rock were driven deeper into my freshly cut knees and palms, the biggest injury was to my dignity. I had lost it. 2660 miles into the trail, and I was broken. This day, the final day, the one I had dreamed about for the past year, was a failure. I didn’t wonder at the marvelous wilderness I might never see again. My heart didn’t ache at Colin’s passing. I didn’t reminisce over the wonderful people I had met over this long journey, at the kindness and dedication of my support crew. My thoughts became fully engaged with finishing this damn thing. I finally wanted out.

Of course, the finish line was still where it always had been: the Canadian border. My support crew was waiting, avid and exuberant. They smiled with pride as I climbed up onto the tallest of the wooden pillars marking the border. I clenched my fists as my heart clenched in my chest and let out a cry of anguish and triumph. My shoulders and back lightened as the burden of the trail was lifted from my being. We had done it.

I had never truly laughed and cried at the same time. My heart was wrenched from its holding, yet it was stronger than it had ever been. I laughed at the salty tears mixing with the saliva of my chuckling mouth. I struggled for breath as I recounted all the trials and triumphs of the trail. As I sat down on the lowest monument, unable to wrench my head from my hands, I noticed a small, red heart pin stuck into the monument, “We should put Colin’s picture on it,” said Dills.

I immediately knew in my heart that was the right thing to do. I took Colin’s jubilant smile from the protective pocket of my pack, and pinned his picture upon the well-worn wood.

And in one photo I saw the world

A world who never saw the world I knew

Mountains, valleys, fires and snow

Despair, aspiration, hunger and star-struck eyes

A world where my soul could not be disguised

Shirt, shorts and concealing brush can’t fight the sleepless cold

Hands hung over father’s shoulders protect me, warm my soul

Rock, trip and knee split; disloyal legs won’t carry me farther

Mountain stream purge me clean, swallow wild’s cool elixir

My tears swell of joy yet drown in their misery

My heart pounds with pride but still beats me down

And this world in front of me beams with brilliant eyes

On the night of August 7th, I was still 141 miles away from the elation and pain of the finish. On that night, I was questioning whether I would get to the finish at all, let alone make it through the night. I showed up to mile 2522.1 expecting to see Jordo, Dills and Jack. They were supposed to have a long hike in to meet me with food, supplies and a tent, but they would have made it to the checkpoint before 11:30 PM. Something must have gone wrong.

I last saw my crew at 5 A.M. some 55 miles ago. Shivering in my skimpy shirt and running shorts, I was now scared, cold, hungry and exhausted. To add to my misery, I had conveniently left my satellite phone in the tent that morning and had no means of contact with my saviors. The joy of having a support crew means you can have an ultralite pack with only the bare essentials of food and water. The trouble with a support crew is that you only carry an ultralite pack with only the bare essentials of food and water. I was stranded in the middle of a forest in the Northern Cascades, miles away from any hiker and even farther from any civilization. I had no tent or way to make a fire. My dinner, where I tend to consume ~3000 calories, now consisted only of a bag of nuts and a Nature Valley bar.

At this point, I went into survival mode. First, I had to determine an escape plan. My map informed me that 40 miles out there was a trail meet-up to a small village (Holden Village) I used to frequent on Boy Scout 50-milers, but I didn’t know how long the trek would take into town. My other option was a ranger station 58 miles away. I assumed there would be a ranger who could provide me with a sleeping bag and maybe even some food. Also, through word of mouth and my analysis of the elevation map, those 58 miles were considered the 2nd most difficult section of the PCT next to the High Sierras. In those mountains I had averaged 42 miles a day. My stomach twisted as my resolute confidence in the human body committed myself to do those 58 miles under any condition. I was going to get there or die trying, I thought.

Next, I had to get some kind of rest without freezing. I was having an Eagle Scout/Bear Grylls moment, tearing up huckleberry bush after huckleberry bush. I spent 30 minutes or so trying to gather enough brush to cover my body. They would provide me a little protection from the cold mountain air. I settled down, covered myself to the best of my ability, and stared longingly at the two energy bars that were supposed to sustain me for the next 58 miles. Then, I closed my eyes.

Luckily, the ground was littered with dead pine needles to provide insolation from the heat-sucking ground, but, pardon my language, I was still freezing my ass off. If hell froze over, it would still be hell, I thought. I was shaking. I grabbed my headlamp and looked at my watch, “1:15 A.M. “ it read. I had only slept for an hour?! My whole body shaking, so I jumped out of the leafy cocoon. Jumping jacks, panting, more bushes. All I needed was more huckleberry bushes. I ventured deeper in the forest, past all the foliage I had torn up just an hour before. Rip, tear, throw. Pick up, compile. More. Too hard to tear, aching hands. 1:45 A.M. Need to sleep. Lie down, cover body, turn off headlamp.

I awoke again. It was still dark out. How was it so damn cold?! I checked my watch again, “4:09 A.M.” I should sleep again, I thought. NO! Not today. Today I was going to run 58 miles. I could sleep all I wanted later, but now I must to get up. I had to get up. My survival might depend on it.

So, I began my long day completely out of my mind. How could I manage those kind miles over that kind of terrain without muscle recovery or sleep, on only two energy bars? Even if I made it to the ranger station, who says anyone is even on duty? What happens if I get injured? My shin problem, which had brought excruciating pain and slowed me for the last two weeks, had finally simmered down. What if it comes back? These are the problems a sane person might consider. These were problems I didn’t have time for.

As I began my ascent over Fire Creek Pass, I finally ran into some fellow hikers. Nowhere in the world is there a community as overly sincere and supportive of thru-hikers. ‘Neon’ ran after me for three hours just so we could camp together. Nancy Williams found me on the trail with a warm grilled cheese sandwich near Bucks Summit. I’ve seen countless gifts, hugs and favors exchanged throughout my journey, but today would be the ultimate test of the kindness of thru hikers.

Due to extreme hunger, I pretty much bummed food off of everyone I came across. Completely embarrassed and guilty, I’d tell a hiker that I was in a bit of trouble and without a moment of hesitation my requests would be satisfied. Not once was I turned down, and my guilt grew as no one even chided me for being so unprepared in the wilderness. I was gifted almond butter packets, Orchard Park bars, homemade trail mix and whatever else the good Samaritan’s could spare. My record attempt and health were salvaged by the people I met on the trail. If you, reading this, happened to be around the Glacier Peak Wilderness on 8/8/14 and were one of those unlucky hikers who I stumbled across, I am forever thankful.

While my strength grew throughout the day from their kindness, the PCT did not answer my pleas. At this point, I was very accustomed to a solid four MPH pace. As I summited Fire Creek Pass, blindly hoping to have travelled 16 miles in the first four hours of my day, I hadn’t even reached 9 miles. The extra stops to talk, washed-out river crossings, steep uphill and my lack of sustenance had led to the slowest start of my entire trip. And now, for my next trick, I had to cross an icy, steep snow field. About 100 feet long, it was not particularly intimidating until you realized that the man-made foot holdings were not more than two inches wide and the snow had iced over. On top of that, a fall down the mountain meant sliding on ice for 40 feet before being thrown onto a mountainside of sharp rocks.

In my New Balance trail running shoes, I knew I wouldn’t get the same traction that other hikers had with climbing crampons. With each step, I slammed my foot into the tiny ledges of snow, making sure it had caught before jamming my trekking poles into the snow for support. Then, repeat 50x until three steps from the finish. As I lifted my trail leg to plant in front of me, the snow went out from under me. On all fours, I shot down the snowfield. My heart skipped as my legs and hands grasped for anything. Miraculously, my right foot caught some snow, and my trekking poles stopped me from falling over backwards. So there I was, stuck on the side of a snowy mountainside. After I recollected myself, it took me a few minutes to meticulously shimmy over the few feet I had left. The proceeding downhill was even filled with un-runnable scree that further slowed my day. After a crossing over Milk Creek, the PCT was still toying with me: 120 consecutive uphill switchbacks with wet brush up to my waist. I couldn’t believe my luck, but that is the nature of the PCT.

I had hiked for over 2,500 miles at a blistering pace, yet I was completely subjected to the trail’s will each and every day. It had shown me the most beautiful desert sunsets and sections of debilitating heat with no water sources. It boasted the most incredible mountain views and freezing, blinding fog. It had dehydrated me and it had quenched my thirst. It had fed me and sapped me of all my energy. Here, through the Glacier Peak Wilderness, the trail reminded me that I was a simple man, a subject of nature.

But, while the trail may beat you up, throw you around and spit you out, it is ultimately forgiving: an entrancing, majestic sunset on a long, slow day over Dick’s Pass, a sleeping bag from a ranger when my support crew couldn’t find me on my birthday, a small mountain stream when my maps predicted I’d be waterless for the next five miles or –in this case– two hikers named Mammoth and Halfdome.

My tender knees, still moist from the overgrown Milk Creek switchbacks, were finally on some steady ground. The trail had cleared of brush and a long downhill awaited me. As I ran over streams and around green mountains tops, I saw two hikers in the distance. A tanned, well-built guy who looked like he belonged in Southern California yelled, “Dude! Are you the guy going for the record? String Bean?”

“I believe I am ‘that guy.’ How did you know?” I wondered.

“People talk. Also, we’re in the middle of nowhere, you’re running and you don’t have much of a pack,” he responded. I chuckled at this, because I had always thought the same thing. On the PCT I was generally in places that people don’t run, and I rarely carried overnight gear. People should guess that I am crazy or that I am that crazy guy trying to run the PCT. After brief introductions, Halfdome had an excited gleam in his eye, “String Bean, we are going to run with you, my man!”

With that, we were off. I was ecstatic. Only two other hikers had run with me on the whole trail, and here I was with Mammoth and Halfdome! The race to the ranger station was completely out of my mind as I enjoyed their company. We exchanged backgrounds and funny stories. Halfdome had earned his name because of his passion for rock climbing. His well-toned arms shocked me. Sure, thru-hikers have to be in good shape, but we aren’t known for upper body strength.

Mammoth’s blond hair and fair skin betrayed his half-Swedish background. Having been in the U.S.A. a little over a year, he was inspired by Peter Jenkin’s book, A Walk Across America. He landed in New York over a year ago and hiked all the way to San Diego. After arriving there, he decided he wanted to do the PCT. After walking to Campo, CA, he began his next journey. Mammoth didn’t believe in hitchhiking, and let his feet carry him to his destinations. Intrigued, I asked what his plans were after this trail. “I plan on exiting the PCT through Ross Lakes before heading to Seattle. Then I am going to hike to New York or whenever the money runs out,” he soberly stated.

“Oh, you’re just going to hike across America again?” I responded.

These are the amazing free spirits that made up the Pacific Crest Trail class of 2014: drifters, nurses, recent college graduates, surfers, computer geeks, nature-lovers and dreamers.

My mind refreshed, dreaming of Halfdome’s climbing feats and astonished at Mammoth’s hiking perseverance, I cruised up Cloudy Pass for the final 16 miles of my day. As I ran the prolonged downhill towards the ranger station, it began to get dark. The dark wasn’t threatening, however. My miserable night, treacherous fall and constant hunger were at the back of my mind. I had overcome the challenges that had been thrown in front of me, and my controlled breathing would rhythmically guide my body to safety like the pumping of my tired legs.

At 11:04 P.M. on day 51, I saw a light on in the ranger station. My eyelids were heavy from the tunnel vision of my headlamp. I had been on the trail for about 19 hours. My legs ached and my feet burned. The ranger was kind enough to give me some food and a sleeping bag. Highway 20 was only a short 20 miles away. I knew my crew would expect me to be there, or at the very least I could flag down a car with a cell phone. As I laid out the sleeping bag amid brush and trees, the worst was over, and I longed for the comfort of my crew.

Jordo found me 6 miles away from the highway the next day. We both gave each other a long, heartfelt embrace. Finally, I could be fully at ease. We recounted our stories from the days before. Apparently, their 9 mile “well-worn” hike in (from the words of a ranger) was actually 14 miles, incredibly mountainous, snow-covered and overgrown. By the time they made it to the White Chuck River at one in the morning, a mile from where I was sleeping in huckleberry bushes, the trail simply stopped.

Having Jordo blindly run in on the trail to find me epitomizes Jordo’s, Dills’ and Jack’s devotion to our cause. Each of them had sacrificed to be here: the summer was the premier opportunity for Jordo to find a coaching or teaching positions while moving from Buffalo, Dills had to delay multiple film projects he was legally bound to and Jack flat out quit his job. On top of this, they fully embraced their duties as a support crew. They went to bed with me around 11-12 every night and would wake up with me at 5. Jordo would roll out and work out any knots or tightness in my legs. Dills would run 8 miles at the end of the day if I needed someone to push me. With sincerity, Jack would always check to make sure I was doing okay. They were attentive to my physical, mental and emotional needs the whole way through.

When I think about what makes sets my trip apart from all the others that have attempted a record attempt on the PCT, I think about my crew who followed me around for the whole summer. It wasn’t just that they’d hike or drive to make every checkpoint possible, set up camp and provide me with food and water. They did much more than that. They made me laugh; they gave me company; they kept me healthy; they kept me alive. These three guys were the best support crew because they genuinely cared about me as a friend, and that is why we succeeded.

So, when I left my crew after eating chicken strips, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, blueberries and pudding cups, I couldn’t help but feel exposed. I was to take on the last 60 miles alone. My big pack, “Goliath,” was stuffed with food, water, headlamp and sleeping bag. They were sending me off from the last checkpoint. Whatever happened before Canada was completely on my shoulders. We had traveled 2,600 miles on the Pacific Crest Trail as a team, but I had to take this last journey on my own, whatever it might hold.

-String Bean