We had set out from Stehekin sure in the knowledge that the next time we were in civilisation we would have completed the Pacific Crest Trail. I don’t think we really faced this reality until our first encounter with thru-hikers no longer heading North. It’s a funny fact of the trail that after 2,650 miles most of us don’t actually through the faff of securing a Canadian Entry Permit and instead turn around at the terminus, walking 35-miles back to a trail head to catch a hitch into the town of Mazama.

The first time we crossed paths with some of these post-terminus turnaround hikers was surreal. We said hello, shared trail names, passed on our congratulations and then watched them retrace their steps towards reality.

The summer sun had faded, the days were shorter. September was drawing to a close and as if to dispel any dreams of prolonging our time on trail, the Washington cold had begun to bite. Standing on a ridge looking north we knew that in amongst the endless snow-capped peaks, a dividing line was drawn. Canada was in our sights.