Part Nine: So Long, Montana

I. Dillon, Montana

We waved goodbye to Mark as he slowly drove off, the large silhouette of his 18-wheeler fading into the distance while its roaring engine merged with the symphony of city noises. After five days of intense hiking, we had finally made it to Dillon, Montana—our backpacks empty but our stomachs eager to be full again with a good meal.

We spent two days in the modest Montana town, rediscovering the comforts of civilization. For the first time in a while, we felt human again. We went to the movies, enjoyed casual drinks at the bar, cooked in the cozy familiarity of our Airbnb, and slept in real beds.

Little by little, I learned what it meant to exist within a group—to be part of a relationship, whether friendly or romantic. I fought the urge to please and compromise, gradually realizing that I could prioritize my own needs without neglecting my social connections. I didn’t have to be alone to do the things I wanted; I could still be myself, unapologetically, within a community. Choosing to honor my own desires wasn’t selfish in a negative way—it was an act of self-respect. And in doing so, I remained loyal, kind, and true to both myself and those around me. 

II. Entering Wyoming

Friday, August 2nd

As I walked along the overgrown trail beneath the scorching sun, I reflected on the past few days. After the reset, I had thoroughly enjoyed the last two weeks. My body felt strong, and every day, I encountered something new that kept my inner child engaged. But one thing still weighed on me.

I had been hiking with “Lennon,” “Grazer,” and Tom since Augusta. “Three Moons” had joined us around Darby. I truly enjoyed their company—our humor aligned, and our hiking pace had always matched. Or at least, it used to. Lately, I felt like I could do more. At times, I felt like a horse on a leash, ready to sprint the moment it was set free.

During the day, I hiked solo to get the alone time I needed, and in the evenings, we always regrouped at camp, laughing and chatting. We never ran out of things to talk about. We were a good team.

So why did I feel the pull to leave? I wondered. Was I running from something? Or was this discomfort a sign that I needed to move on alone? I wasn’t sure.

In my head, I knew what I wanted—to push for longer days, to camp alone sometimes, to experience full autonomy. I missed the deep silence of solitude. The “hike alone, camp together” arrangement wasn’t enough anymore. But even so, I wasn’t ready to leave them just yet. Maybe I’d set out on my own after Yellowstone—find my own rhythm for a while and see how it goes.

 

Sunday, August 4th – Island Park, Idaho

We left the resort town of Island Park in the late afternoon— the last stop before entering the State of Wyoming and Yellowstone National Park.

Alone, I walked along the edge of the asphalt road as tourists passed by in their cars. Some waved; others simply stared, their wide, questioning eyes following me. I watched their mouths move, imagining the conversations inside those vehicles. Where is he coming from? Where is he going? Where is his home?

I thought as if I was answering them: My home was here—on the trail, on the road. A lone traveler.

On Monday, August 5th, I reached the Wyoming border. A quiet excitement stirred within me—a new state, a new chapter.

“Barefoot,” “Lights Out,” and “Corona” were sitting near the made-up sign and invited me into their conversation. They were reminiscing about Montana, sharing their favorite towns, meals, and sections of trail. Then, “Lights Out” turned to me.

“So, “Yeehaw,” what do you think is the biggest thing you’ve learned so far?”

I stayed silent for a few seconds, reflecting.

“I think I re-learned something I had forgotten,” I said. “I re-learned how to let go of expectations. When I started the PCT, I went in with an open mind, with no expectations at all. But this time, I made the mistake of coming in with high expectations, even though I told myself not to. So I had to reset—learn to be open-minded again.”

“Well, you can run away a lot for a little while, but you can’t run away from it all forever. You certainly can’t outrun yourself.” — Bruce Springsteen, Chasin’ Wild Horses

That night, we camped among more than a dozen thru-hikers. Laughter echoed through the trees, voices weaving together in shared excitement. But as the others fed off the energy of the crowd, I felt something else—a quiet pull, deep and insistent.

The call of solitude had been growing in me, stronger with each passing day. I craved the stillness, the space to walk and sit with my own thoughts in silence. To simply be. This was the reason I had come to this trail—what I had been searching for all along. 

Hiking had always been more than movement for me; it was a kind of therapeutic process, in which I was stripped of everything, down to my rawest form. Out there, there was no escaping myself. I could try and run (or in this instance, walk) away from it for a little while, but I couldn’t do it forever. I had to face it all — the light and the dark, the strength and the doubt. The trail held up a mirror with each step I took. It demanded honesty, forced acceptance. And in that, I had found something unexpected: pride. Pride in who I was, and in the road I had traveled so far, both on the earth and within my own mind.

But revelation required solitude. To reach that place of knowledge, I had to walk this road alone for a while.

It was time.

 

III. Yellowstone

The world was still dark when I woke at 4:45 am. I packed up in silence and stepped onto the trail before the sun shined its first light, eager to explore the unique beauty of Yellowstone.

I reached Mystic Falls and sat for a moment, watching the water tumbling down the rocky formation, before moving on toward the boardwalk and its thermal pools and geysers. Steam rose, and boiling water bubbled loudly as I wandered between the slow-walking tourists.

Like a typical thru-hiker, I passed them left and right, until a dad looked at me and my gear, before exclaiming: “This guy looks like he walked from Glacier to here!”

I turned, smiling. “Actually, I did!”

His eyes widened with shock and amusement, and we both started laughing. Moments like these never got old.

By midday, I met up with “Lennon,” “Grazer,” “Three Moons,” and Tom, and we indulged in a well-earned lunch buffet. A feast, really. Thru-hikers had heard about it and had invaded the room. Scattered among the fresh-faced tourists, our sun-faded clothes, tired eyes, and many plates —overflowing with so much food they nearly spilled— set us apart.

Afterward, I left the crew and stood among the gathered crowd to watch Old Faithful live up to its name. It rumbled from deep within the earth before launching skyward, a column of water and steam defying gravity. Back on the lonely and quiet trail, I crossed paths with Jamie Lambert, who was heading northbound. We had been exchanging on social media about our respective trail experiences, both wondering when our journeys would finally intersect. And here we were—two distant stories converging for a brief moment. We talked for a few minutes, our words flowing naturally as the trail beneath our feet. A meeting neither of us had expected but somehow felt right.

We wished each other luck and carried on with our own journey. Later, the trail led me toward Moose Creek, where the mosquitoes were relentless. Swarms of them followed me like infatigable zombies, clinging to my skin, swarming my hands, biting through the fabric of my shirt. In despair, I threw on my rain jacket, gloves, pants, and head net. I was wrapped in layers not for warmth, but for survival. With the heat, I was suffocating and drenched in sweat, but I couldn’t take the itching anymore. I had never seen anything like this before. 

Worst. Mosquitoes. Ever.

 

IV. The Bear

From the top of their horses, one of them turned to me and asked: “Where are you from?”

“France!” I replied proudly.

“You’re missing the Olympics!” he said jokingly.

I had totally forgotten about that, but I also couldn’t care less.

“Nah, I’d rather be where I am now!” he smiled. “Right on, brother!”

I had left the boundaries of Yellowstone National Park and was now walking through the Bridger-Teton Wilderness. Along the trail, I passed small groups of cowboys travelling with mules. For a while, I followed one through a dusty burn area, their horses kicking up clouds of earth and leaving deep imprints in the muddy ground. We spotted two moose before eventually reaching a fork in the trail. I paused, watching one path disappear to the left while the CDT stretched onward to the right— one dream slipping away as I turned to chase another.

Within minutes, the sky darkened. Heavy storm clouds rolled in, and thunder cracked through the stillness. I rushed forward, but fortunately, the storm veered away, leaving behind a welcome coolness in the air.

The trail led me to a vast green meadow. In the distance, four dark shapes suddenly caught my eyes. I wasn’t sure if they were moving or if my mind was playing tricks on me, but something about them held my gaze. I had a feeling about what it could be, but I didn’t want to jinx it…

I walked slowly, watching uninterruptedly. Suddenly, one of the specks rose and bolted toward the largest figure. A surge of excitement rushed through me. “Bears!”

I remained still, watching in silence. A mother grizzly, that I identified with the pronounced hump behind her head, moved slowly toward the trail, her three cubs playfully trailing close behind. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. A part of me wanted to step closer, to capture the moment with my camera. But another part of me knew better. This wasn’t a game. It was real, and I was an unwelcome visitor stepping on foreign ground. I had to stay cautious — one wrong move, and she would have every reason to defend her young.

She paused behind a sagebrush, lifting her head just enough to see me. I could feel her hesitation, her silent calculation. Who was this human, and what did he want? She had every right to be worried. A sad consequence of our history. My presence unsettled her, and I moved on. Even as I walked away, the moment lingered. Seeing a grizzly with three cubs was rare, and I felt nothing but gratitude.

What a magnificent animal.