Part Eight: The Trail Humbles

This trail had humbled me. It pulled me down and back to earth, where I came from and where I would end. It pulled me down from this pedestal I put myself on, for the sole and completely unjustified reason that I had done a thru-hike before, so I’d know what to expect. At least, I thought. And there laid my biggest error, one that could affect anyone’s ability to see right: expectations. Now that I was aware of it, I was able to reset my mind just like you’d do with a computer. I updated my subconscious, uninstalled any expectation, and emptied the bin, so that I could approach the remainder of this journey with an open mind and optimistic eye. Finally, I was ready to enjoy this trail.

I. When I look inside, I see Montana

We bumped along the dirt road in an old, rusted pick-up truck as the sun continued its climb in the sky. The wheels kicked up clouds of dust, trailing behind us as we made our way to Leadore — a forgotten mining town, clinging to its past while slowly fading away. All that remained of its former hustle were a post office, a small convenience store, a restaurant, and a hostel, all lined up along the stretch of asphalt that vanished into the vastness of the desert ahead.

The hiker hunger led us straight to the convenience store, where we devoured everything we could. On the picnic table outside, we met “Mugwort” — a laid-back guy from California, hiking his way to complete the Triple Crown. He complimented my PCT documentary, which was a nice surprise. Carrying a camera himself, we got into a conversation about filmmaking, and before we knew it, he was showing off his talents as a muffin-eating juggler. It was one of those serendipitous moments that made the whole trip unique.

We spent the night at the Mustang Inn, a hiker hostel. I called my family, sharing how much I was enjoying the trail again. We did some chores, bought food for dinner, and ended the day with homemade margaritas as a storm rolled in. We watched the sky change hues, the air thick with the promise of rain. 

The following day, we headed back to the convenience store to buy our resupply for the next stretch, but the choices were limited, and the prices were steep. I opted for a light resupply, knowing full well I’d regret it later, but at least my pack would be lighter. Tom laughed at my decision, knowing he’d be just as hungry as I would be after opting for the same strategy.

Friday, July 26th

This morning, the sun was red when it rose and casted an eerie glow across the sky. Wildfires were raging in Oregon, thousands of miles away, but the smoke had traveled this far, tinting the horizon. My heart ached as I thought of the Pacific Crest Trail and the hikers still on it, knowing how the path was slowly being swallowed by flames, year after year. A thought that felt more real with each passing day.

In the afternoon, I ventured through the barren hills of Southern Montana, feeling like a mere speck in the vast landscape. The trail occasionally disappeared, leaving me to wander through dry grasses and steep hills. The scenery was apocalyptic in its beauty, and reminded me of how small I was in this enormous world. The sky suddenly darkened, and the unmistakable sound of thunder rumbled across the valley, on the other side of the hill I was climbing. I rushed to the summit, hoping to beat the storm before it hit the highest point. When I reached the top, I stopped to marvel at the spectacle unfolding before me — nature’s raw power on full display. There was something hypnotic about walking toward a thunderstorm, something thrilling despite the danger.

II. It’s Not About Letting Go, It’s About Letting Be

Sunday, July 28th

Last night, tucked into the warmth of my quilt, I heard a strange sound coming from the trees above me. It wasn’t the usual chirping or rustling. I grabbed my phone, opened the bird-identifying app I’d downloaded at the start of the journey, and held it up. The app buzzed with excitement: “Great Grey Owl.” No way! I’d never even heard one before. I drifted off to sleep, hoping I might catch a glimpse of one someday.

The next morning, I set out early, before the rest of the crew, eager to tackle what I knew would be a tough day. The green hills were alive with an almost eerie stillness, the red sun casting an unnatural glow over everything. The sky was thick with smoke from the distant wildfires.

In a dense green forest, I moved fast until suddenly, a large creature flapped its wings and soared into a nearby tree. I froze, my heart racing as I looked up: there it was— a Great Grey Owl. Its piercing yellow eyes locked onto mine, and for a few seconds, I was mesmerized. It then turned its head, and without a sound, took off, its powerful wings cutting through the air in perfect silence. I stood there, stunned, but exhilarated.

Still in awe from that brief, intimate moment with the feathered creature, I pressed on toward the final ridge walk before reaching Lima. Before going up, the trail quickly became a nightmare—overgrown, swampy, and thick with the relentless swarm of biting flies. The moment I stepped into the tangle of brush, they descended on me like a wave, filling the air with a constant, maddening buzz. They attacked without mercy, landing on every inch of exposed skin, biting with unyielding ferocity. I couldn’t stop—not for a break, not for water—their oppressive swarm pushing me forward. Every time I swatted one away, two more took its place. My face, neck, and hands were a battlefield. The incessant buzzing, the gnawing on my skin, the panic of knowing that any pause would invite more of them—it was suffocating. I pushed harder and jogged up the steep slope, gasping for breath, my movements frantic, just trying to reach the ridge. The flies clung to me, suffocating my focus. Only when I reached the top of the ridge and the wind finally swept through, scattering the tormenting swarm, did I feel a sense of relief.

The ridge walk itself was nothing short of breathtaking, yet brutally taxing. Defined by towering slopes that seemed to rise and fall endlessly, their steep angles demanded every ounce of energy. Below, expansive valleys stretched out like vast, rolling seas of yellowish-green and brown, while above, the sky spread wide, unbroken, and infinite. For a brief moment, I felt both insignificant and infinitely connected to the wild beauty surrounding me.

Before beginning the final descent toward the road, I paused one last time on the side of the trail, taking in the vast landscape before me. I thought of everything and nothing at the same time. The past, the present, and the future. It wasn’t about letting go, I realized. It was about letting be. The idea of “letting go” had always felt like an effort to release something—or someone—that held on tight, leaving us drained and disconnected. “Letting be” was about accepting things as they were without resistance, judgment, or the urge to change them. It was the idea of allowing something to simply exist, even if it was uncomfortable, difficult, or unresolved, and finding peace in that acceptance—a quiet surrender. I gazed up at the sky as my eyes began to well with tears. The sun pierced through the shifting clouds, casting a light over me and the barren plains below, as if the divine were guiding the way. The beauty of it all was so overwhelming, so pure, it was enough to make even an atheist pause and wonder.

The following day, we reached Highway 15, our food bags empty and our stomachs aching, but our hearts full of memories. We hitched a ride to Lima, then caught another one to Dillon. Thumb out, grinning like fools, we tried our luck with a passing 18-wheeler. We figured it was a long shot, but to our surprise, the truck slowed and came to a stop. “Are you going to Dillon?” we asked, incredulous. “Yeah, it’s on my way. Hop in!” the driver, Marc, replied with a grin. We could hardly believe our luck.