Three Days Supporting Aurélien Sanchez’s PCT FKT
The clock had just turned past 10am when I cracked the first of two Rainiers purchased from the Mazama Store. The crisp, familiarly trashy elixir effortlessly complimented pieces of the salted baguette I ate like a caveman alongside a melting ice cream sandwich. The nearby tourists side-eyed me aghast at my willingness to make myself at home on the patio. I had just returned from a beautiful and relaxing three-day backpacking trip with my friends Shelby and Hannah, an early birthday celebration for Shelby and my yearly reminder that, yes, there are actually other ways I can enjoy the backcountry besides pushing my physical and mental limits. The trip was chock-full of quality time with two of my favorite humans, and this carb-heavy feast was a source of great anticipation for me during our swift 10-mile jaunt back to the car that morning.
I sat alone at a table on the patio and caught up on messages and other coming-back-to-cell-service activities while Shelby and Hannah browsed the store’s many wares. When I opened Instagram I saw I had a message from Kailei, a fellow employee at Snoqualmie Pass currently hiking the PCT. She had sent over a story post from Aurélien Sanchez’s account that was no longer visible, along with the message, “He’s going for the PCT FKT supported. Very nice and his English is strong. Thought maybe you’d be interested in helping?”
I straightened my posture and put down my beer, immediately excited at the proposition and very flattered by the thought. I knew of Aurélien’s FKT effort, as I naturally take an interest in anyone attempting something major on the PCT, but hadn’t followed too closely up to that point, my own mountain projects and plans dominating my attention throughout the end of June and beginning of July instead. I had relied on intermittent updates via my Instagram explore page and videos from Troy Croxdale, known on trail as Punisher, who had joined Aurélien’s crew a few weeks prior. Kailei happened to meet Aurélien at Bucks Summit around that same time, and as such had been following the effort closer than I had to that point. Now, Aurélien was entering Washington hovering right at record pace, and his team had put out a post asking for any sort of pacing or crew support throughout Washington, where logistics for support become more slightly more challenging and road crossings become increasingly infrequent.
My excitement quickly morphed into anxiety. The world of ultrarunning was still relatively new to me. Since hiking the PCT in 2024 my interest in long-distance endurance activities had skyrocketed, and I’ve been trail running regularly since, incorporating a number of speed-oriented outings into my yearly spread of mountain projects, but I’d yet to make an attempt to truly put a foot in the door of the culture at-large, rather observing from the outside and longing to one day find myself accepted within that community, a self-imposed barrier reflective of my chronic inability to accept myself and appreciate my capabilities. This, however, wasn’t about me or my capabilities. This was something far bigger than me. This was a chance to contribute to the community that had been one of my greatest sources of inspiration for the past three years, to make a meaningful difference for someone stretching the very limits of human endurance and of themselves.
I replied to Kailei, “Omg that sounds amazing, I’d love to! . . . were there any details on what they were needing?”
I reparked my car for the final time of the afternoon, a bihourly response to the moving shadows cast by the Douglas fir trees surrounding the trailhead at Rainy Pass. It had been a hot day, a day I spent alone sweatily rereading Graham Zimmerman’s memoir and pretending to edit photos while anxiously awaiting Aurélien’s arrival, and shade was coming at a premium. With no cell service and no one else from the team around I could only guess as to when Aurélien might come jogging around the corner towards the trailhead. Though I was parked next to his crew’s SUV and Troy’s van I was the only one present, the rest of the team having hiked out the night prior to meet Aurélien at High Bridge.
I had a few roles and responsibilities for this final leg of the journey. Through discussion with Aurélien’s partner, Lucille, I had volunteered to meet him at Rainy Pass to provide whatever food and moral support he was willing to accept. When he left Rainy Pass I would wait for Lucille and Troy to return from Stehekin to take whatever overnight gear they didn’t want to carry to the terminus and put it in my pack to carry for them. I would then drive to Harts Pass and hike 24 miles through the night ahead of the rest of the team to a camp set up at Hopkins Lake by Martin, Lucille’s cousin and the other core member of Aurélien’s crew, and Jean, the team’s videographer. After dropping all the gear at camp, I planned to make my way down to the terminus and set up to photograph the finish.
Aurélien had put up a monster evening effort the night prior, putting himself over a dozen miles ahead of record pace and roughly 25 miles from Rainy Pass. Throughout the day I made multiple futile attempts at estimating his arrival time, the ultimate goal being to time my cooking of his food, a burrito from the Mazama Store, such that it would be ready upon his arrival. Once my second estimate had long passed, I decided I would just go ahead and start cooking anyway. I kept an anxious, watchful eye on the distant pavement, knowing that he could appear at any second and it would be time to get moving.
I finished cooking the burrito and put my stove away just as I saw two vest-clad figures down the road, the pacer clearly distinguishable from the beleaguered figure of Aurélien. It was go time. His pacer approached first and introduced himself as Taylor. Aurélien came walking up behind him, looking weathered and somewhat traumatized. I quickly introduced myself and offered him the burrito and a sparse selection of donuts I had scrounged from the Safeway in Wenatchee. He meagerly accepted, exceptionally polite and grateful even in his ragged state. He opened the SUV with a key stashed beneath the roof bag and began resupplying himself, something clearly organized by the team ahead of time. Suddenly I felt useless. I wanted so badly to help but had no clue where to begin or what was needed, let alone where anything he might need was.
I asked Taylor how Glacier Peak Wilderness had been, to which he carefully responded, “Sounds like it was pretty rough, but he’s through it now.” Why the fuck would I ask that? Did I expect a different answer?
Aurélien sat in a camp chair and ate after changing his shoes, shoes that had completely fallen apart the day prior, frequently resting his head in his hands and exhaling with the exasperation of a someone who lived multiple lifetimes in Hell itself. I felt obsolete. I may as well have been a piece of gravel in the parking lot.
It was a very brief 15 minutes of rest and resupply before Aurélien stood to make his exit. He thanked me once more for the food and told Taylor he was heading out. Taylor, still grabbing supplies, said he would catch up with Aurélien in a couple of minutes. Aurélien acknowledged and in the blink of an eye was gone. As Aurélien disappeared into the trees, Taylor approached me and said “He’s in so much pain right now. I keep trying to get him to take Ibuprofen or something, and he keeps saying ‘I’ll think about it,’ but never ends up taking it.” The tone of his voice betrayed how much emotional legwork Taylor had put in throughout the afternoon, and I gave him a Coke as a meager form of consolation. I felt guilty for not having put in the same amount of work as him.
Minutes later Taylor was gone too, jogging towards the trail to catch up with Aurélien, and I was alone once more. Those 15 minutes were simultaneously nothing like I expected and exactly what I had expected. I still felt useless but there was no point in letting that feeling make itself at home - again, this wasn’t about me. I scolded myself for pitying myself and began to pack my overnight bag.
20 or so minutes later a white truck pulled up to our little gravel parking spots. It was Lucille and Troy, back from Stehekin, along with the truck’s owner, a trail angel named Tracy. I introduced myself to the group and they asked if I had seen Aurélien, to which I gave them a rundown on his brief stop. Lucille asked how he was doing, a question I didn’t fully know how to answer despite an overarching expectation that things might be sort of rough. The fact that he was still moving well in spite of everything was clearly a relief to the group.
We all got to work on prepping to head to Harts Pass. Aurélien was expected to reach Harts Pass sometime around 1am, where he would stop to sleep for a few hours before the final push to the terminus. So long as he moved well from Rainy to Harts, he would have plenty of time to spare for that final push. My plan was to hike out starting around 9 or 10pm to allow myself to move at a comfortable pace and get properly set up at the terminus, perhaps with a nap sprinkled in along the way. I took as much overnight gear as Lucille wanted to give me and stuffed it in my old ULA bag, the same backpack I had hiked the PCT with a few years prior and a substitute for my usual pack, one that is far too small to handle the weight of two people’s gear.
Troy was the first to leave for Harts and we all followed suit shortly after. I used my fleeting moments with cell service in Mazama to check Aurélien’s tracker and saw he was already past Cutthroat Pass. He was moving very well. I found myself suddenly overcome by the weight of that reality - he was going to do this. There wasn’t much time to waste, so we drove as a convoy up to Harts Pass.
We reached the pass an hour before sunset and everyone settled into spots at the Harts Pass campground, except for me, as I planned to leave my car at the Slate Peak Road Trailhead a mile further up. Troy busted out the stove and “opened the kitchen,” as Lucille referred to it, cooking up burritos for Lucille, Tracy and himself. I had about an hour to kill before I intended to leave, so I sat with the group for some social time. It was in conversation with Tracy that I learned how he became involved with the team.
The team’s SUV had broken down at McKenzie Pass in Oregon, a common spot for hikers to hitchhike from in order to reach Sisters or Tracy’s hometown of Bend. Tracy happened to be at the pass at the time and selflessly gave the team his truck to use while he figured out how to bring the SUV to town to have a major repair done. In order to allow the team to continue unencumbered by unwelcome logistics, Tracy paid for the repairs and drove the SUV back to the team further up the trail. He dropped everything in order to help the effort and had been a vital part of the crew ever since. I couldn’t believe the generosity of this man, the passion with which he devoted himself to the effort and the joy it so clearly brought him. He’s one of those people who, no matter who you are, where you are, what mental state you’re in, can make a positive impact on you with a mere 30 seconds of conversation. I found myself much more comfortable and at home as a part of the team almost immediately.
The sunset burned a brilliant pink across the scattered clouds to the north, signaling that my time to leave was near. I said goodbye to the rest of the team as they finished dinner and began to prep for Aurélien’s arrival before driving the short but bumpy road to the upper trailhead on the flanks of Slate Peak. The dying light of the day silhouetted the familiar forms of Mount Ballard and Azurite Peak, two chossy friends of mine spearheading the Slate Creek valley, as I donned my headlamp and pulled the heavy ULA pack on, clipping a hip belt for the first time in years. By 9:30 my feet touched trail, and I was off.
Though my pack was heavy, the hiking started off pleasant and I made good, mostly effortless time. The stretch of trail from Harts Pass to Hopkins Lake is (I think) my favorite part of the entire PCT, and I especially adore the miles from Slate Peak to Windy Pass, particularly when hiking northbound. I passed a curious pair of deer grazing the meadows near Buffalo Pass, their eyes glowing comically in the light of my headlamp while the developing clouds to the west began to erupt with flashes of lightning. Please, for fuck’s sake please don’t start any more goddamn fires. Nobody wants you to do that. As I passed various way trails leading to campsites at each pass, I was reminded of my typical routine on the PCT: hiking past sunset to arrive at camp after dark, much to the chagrin of any unwitting neighbors. I was sure to be a source of confusion for more than a few campers that night.
As I climbed the northeast shoulder of Tamarack Peak I caught my first glimpse of the Ptarmigan Fire, its haunting, bright orange glow emanating from the Pasayten River valley miles in the distance. At the time, not much information was available about the fire, save for its estimated size of around 1000 acres. The fire burned in terrain I had just traveled a few weeks prior on my attempt of the Cougar Traverse. I thought of Tatoosh Buttes and the surrounding wreckage I had fought through consisting of thousands of burned trees violently discarded by fires of the past, all providing fuel for this new, visibly-hungry blaze. The Pacific Northwest Trail had been closed through the area, along with any trails leading from the PCT into the valley, but the PCT itself was still fair game, and as such I could pretend I was insulated from any immediate danger. In reality, however, the amount of dry, prime timber and brush that lay between me and the blaze was plenty of reason for concern. I hoped the river itself would keep the fire from fulfilling its desire for uphill travel, at least in the PCT’s direction.
My personal goal for the night was to get a single hour of sleep, as I feared any more time may put me too far behind schedule. I wanted to get at least 10 miles out of the way before my dirt nap, so I powered through the undulating terrain between Tamarack Peak and Devil’s Backbone, donning my bug headnet the entire time to offer some measly reprieve from the seemingly millions of moths desperate for the glow of my headlamp. I may as well have been Christ himself the way those little fuckers flocked to me.
The set of campsites north of Shaw Creek were filled to the limit with thru-hikers, so I had to settle for the tread of the trail a few hundred feet further. I set up my pad and quilt right on the trail, an unfathomably luxurious setup as far as dirt naps go, and by 1:15am I was asleep.
As if I had smoked a hefty dose of salvia, it felt as if I lived an entire lifetime in the 45 minutes I managed to sleep before being violently jolted awake. But my alarm didn’t go off?. . . why was I awake? My dazed confusion and subtle frustration turned to true frustration as the second raindrop hit my face. Goddammit. Before the word could even escape my mouth the onslaught began, a barrage of medium-sized drops raining down from the thunderclouds I watched to the west just hours ago. I packed up as fast as I possibly could before my down gear could take on too much moisture, threw my rain jacket on and got back to plodding towards Holman Pass.
It wasn’t until I was 100 feet from Holman 20 minutes later that I realized I hadn’t used my pack liner to waterproof my backpack. God fucking dammit, dude. I cursed and ranted as I scrambled to empty the pack, untangle the contractor bag I use for a liner, then frantically repacked once more, ensuring anything I didn’t want wet was secure within the plastic confines. With an incensed exhale I pulled the pack back on and moved on, the rain only intensifying. Someone didn’t get their beauty sleep.
The climb to Rock Pass was wet and soggy, but the peace of mind afforded by the simple pack liner was enough to put me at ease - at least enough to stop asking the sky to knock it off. It was around 4:45 by the time I cruised over the pass, the first light of day beginning to give me a glimpse of my impressive surroundings. It was smoky, much smokier than when I had left, a byproduct of much-needed moisture striking the flames far to the east. Magically, that moisture began to subside the second I reached the pass. It was a literal clouds-parting moment, a glorious relief as the sun began to rise and the rain let up. I had made it through the night. Aurélien’s probably leaving Harts now.
As I neared Woody Pass, the second to last climb before the terminus, a runner came flying by me in the opposite direction. My sleep-deprived brain took far too long to compute what was going on - that had to be Martin, Lucille’s cousin and the other core member of Aurélien’s crew. Thankfully, another runner was coming my way, and as they passed I asked “Are you guys heading to meet Aurélien?”
“Yes, we are!,” the second runner replied. “Are you heading to finish the PCT?” I certainly looked the part. I explained that I was helping the crew and introduced myself. The second runner was thrilled to hear that and introduced himself as Jean, the videographer for the crew. Jean, Martin and one other Frenchman named Antoine had hiked out to Hopkins Lake the day prior to set up a basecamp, and were on their way to meet Aurélien as he made his way through the final stretch. Jean called down to Martin in French and explained what I had just told him, to which Martin, already multiple switchbacks down from us, put two thumbs up in my direction and called out, “Thank you!” I wished the duo well and they continued jogging down the switchbacks I had just ascended, while I made my way up towards the pass. Spirits were good and things were getting real.
The clouds continued to clear as I rounded the west facing corner past Woody Pass. I watched as the northern core of the North Cascades slowly come to life, the filtered sunlight slowly finding gaps to penetrate in the clouds and painting dappled light on peaks from the mythical Pickets to the Chilliwacks to the nearby Hozomeens. Smoke from the burgeoning Luna and Border 2 fires settled in the deep valleys far below like a perverted cloud inversion. The PCT offers such a stunning and unique vantage point of these incredibly remote subranges, a vantage point I only got to see bits and pieces of on my 2024 thru hike due to poor weather. These mountains are my spiritual home, and I found myself rooting for them to have the same profound impact on each and every individual lucky enough to walk this ground.
After a few more delightful miles climbing the ridgeline affectionately named Devils Stairway (why do people hate walking uphill so much?) I began the final descent to camp at Hopkins Lake. I was so excited to get that backpack off of me, to have relief from the diabolically constrictive hip belt. It had been the first all-nighter I’d pulled in quite some time, save for that borderline-psychedelic 45 minute nap. The switchbacks to the junction with the lakeside trail flew by, and I very quickly spotted a pair of tents tucked into a campsite surrounded by krummholz.
I entered the seemingly empty campsite and offered a “Hello?” A voice responded from within the smaller of the two tents, its rain fly loosely draped over the freestanding frame, “Yo yo.”
“Are you Antoine?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I introduced myself to Antoine and explained my role, quickly realizing why he was seeking refuge in the tent - the number of mosquitos already swarming me was absurd. Antoine said he was planning to get to the terminus around 11am, a six mile hike from our camp. It was about 7:30, meaning I could possible scrape together another 30 to 45 minutes of sleep if I was lucky. I migrated to a campsite on the other side of the krummholz, quickly setting up my tent before flopping down inside, relishing the safety afforded from the mosquitos.
My plan to sleep was not meant to be. I instead tossed and turned for 40 minutes in the rising heat as the sun pushed away the remaining clouds and began to bake my Dyneema fortress. Accepting defeat, I began to prep for an extended stay at the terminus, packing my running vest with supplies and food for myself and Aurélien, largely a smorgasbord of pastries, donuts, and candy given to me by Lucille. The man loves his donuts, and I can’t blame him one bit. I stopped by the other campsite on my way out and announced that I was heading to the terminus, but got no response. Antoine was nowhere to be found, which had me questioning whether I did actually sleep in those 40 minutes and missed his departure. I figured I’d just see him at the terminus.
I came up behind a hiker with a PCT bag tag shortly after passing Hopkins Pass. I announced my presence and they pulled off to let me pass. I asked if they were finishing the trail, though as soon as they began to answer I recognized the voice as Antoine’s! I properly reintroduced myself and we shared the next three miles past Castle Pass.
Antoine had originally been in the US to hike a large portion of the PCT with his father, who had set out to hike the entire trail that year. Upon reaching Lake Tahoe, however, the duo had decided instead to rent a car and embark on a road trip across the western United States, visiting every national park and seeing as many sights as they possibly could in the three months Antoine’s visa would last. The duo happened to be in Washington as Aurélien made his way through the Evergreen State and, serendipitously, Antoine’s boss back in France is a trail runner who knows Aurélien. He decided he wanted to help the effort and ended up joining Martin and Jean on their trek out to Hopkins the day prior while his father dealt with the now-broken down rental car, a victim of the rigorous drive to Harts Pass with just front wheel drive. It seemed like Antoine and his father had a wild and memorable past few months, and I found myself equally impressed and jealous of their time together.
Past Castle Pass the trail conditions deteriorated quite a bit, with plenty of brush encroaching on the trail, wet from the night’s rain, in addition to a large number of blowdowns. I didn’t remember these blowdowns being there in 2024, the chaos instead a product of windstorms and avalanches from the previous two seasons. After my misadventures in the Pasayten earlier in the month these blowdowns were of absolutely no consequence whatsoever to me, though I knew they would likely be one final mental battle for Aurélien, one final test of resolve.
Before long I reached the northern terminus, a large and wildly uneven patch of dirt set among the incredibly stupid clearcut designating the US-Canada border. A spot that marks the end of a life-affirming journey for some, for others the start of one, and one that holds great emotional weight for me (you can read a bit about that emotional weight here). It was frankly a bit bizarre to be back there not in the context of a thru-hike. I sat down and began to organize my camera gear, preparing for what I was quickly beginning to consider one of the most important moments I’d ever had the opportunity to capture.
Antoine arrived shortly after me, and once I was finished organizing my gear, a meager exercise that represented some amount of control over a situation I felt lots of anxiety about, we laid down in the dirt and began to wait. With no timetable for Aurélien’s arrival, all we could do was sit, chat, speculate, attempt to sleep, drink too much coffee to further zombify myself when sleep avoided capture, and think. Multiple parties of hikers came and went, some finishing their northbound journeys and some starting their southbound ones. Everyone knew what we were there for, what we were waiting for, and shared in our anxious anticipation as long as their patience would allow them. I wished I had brought more food.
It was three hours after our arrival, shortly after 2pm, when we heard a loud scream echo through the trees. I shot up from my prone position and my pulse immediately quickened. He was here. He was going to do it.
I raced a few hundred feet up the trail to a spot I had scouted for an initial photograph. Antoine and I called out with whoops and hollers of our own, a language everyone spoke and understood. A figure came bolting around the corner up the trail from my position - it was Jean, navigating the last of the blowdowns with his camera in hand. He beamed with excitement as he passed by me. “He’s doing well,” he announced as he hurriedly made his way to the terminus clearcut where Antoine awaited.
After another series of hoots and hollers through the trees, Aurélien emerged from around that corner up the trail, trailed by Lucille and Martin. The smile on his face and the sobs of joy he let out put tears in my eyes. I looked through the viewfinder with blurry eyes and fired away as he slowly jogged towards me. After shooting a few dozen frames, I sprinted back to the clearcut to capture the final moments.
Aurélien sobbed as he made those final steps to the terminus, the weight of the universe lifting from his shoulders with each strained foot placement. As he reached the monument he turned and put an arm out towards Lucille, wanting to share that final moment connected with his love, before reaching with his other arm towards the monument and collapsing into the wooden pillars. He had done it, sixteen hours faster than the previous record time. Every emotion from those past 45 days, 20 hours and 15 minutes came out there and then.
I’ve never felt more honored to be a part of something, a moment so beautiful and vulnerable and deeply profound. It was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever witnessed in person. Tears escaped my eyes as I held down the shutter button, switched lenses, bounced back and forth between angles, switched lenses again. Jean and I worked in sync to capture the moment in our respective mediums. What an incredible achievement, what a remarkable human, surrounded by a remarkable group of dedicated and passionate individuals.
After the initial rush of emotions the core trio sat around the monument for a while, soaking in the moment and starting the process of comprehending the enormity of the achievement. As the sole non-French speaker at the terminus I couldn’t understand the exact words they said to each other, yet I understood perfectly what they spoke about. Aurélien eventually stood, hugging and thanking each person present. I had spent less than 20 minutes in his presence over the course of the past few days, yet we embraced as if I had been along for the entire ride.
Aurélien sat back down at the monument and was given a small square book. From what I could gather, the book was full of messages from people in Aurélien’s life. I didn’t ask, as it felt too personal a moment for me to involve myself, but to watch him read through the various messages was viscerally emotional. I snapped photos from afar so as not to intrude.
In one final celebratory act before settling down for some rest, Aurélien opened the ammo crate tucked behind the monument and pulled out the logbook to leave one last message for the trail.
“It was so intense, but with Lucille and Martin, I did not give up!
The Phoenix has risen! Aurélien Sanchez”
He returned the logbook to the ammo crate and walked over to the sleeping pad Antoine had set up for him, settling in for a few hours of hard-earned inactivity. I brought him his selection of pastries selected by Lucille, and as expected he grabbed one of the donuts. His attention shifted quickly to ensuring that everyone else on the team, including myself, had something to eat. Lucille and Martin cooked up dehydrated meals for everyone, which I was extremely grateful for, as at that point the Sour Patch Kids I had been housing were doing very little to satiate me. We sat around the terminus for a few hours, eating and reflecting on the journey, which despite the festivities was still far from complete. I appreciated that, despite the group’s discussion in their native French, they would often switch to English specifically to bring me into the conversation, a small gesture that made me feel welcomed and acknowledged.
By 4pm we were on our way back to camp. We took our time, as Aurélien was completely wiped, but still made it back in good time. I couldn’t help but be amazed by his resilience. It’s hard enough on the mind to have to hike those roughly 31 miles back to Harts Pass after finishing a thru-hike, a mental battle exacerbated exponentially by being in the state he was after an experience like the one he’d had. I could only imagine the physical pain he was in.
Despite the journey still ahead, to be at camp was a great relief to us all. While I had my own meal covered for the evening, Lucille and Martin once more got to work preparing food for everyone, and Aurélien made sure I knew I was invited to come sit and eat with everyone. It was another small gesture, but one I greatly appreciated again. The kindness and selflessness of everyone on the crew continued to warm my heart. I felt so lucky to be out there with them all, and I could not WAIT to sleep.
I felt mostly rested when my alarm went off at 5am the next morning. I took a few beats before getting moving, as did the rest of the crew. Aurélien and Lucille were the first to leave, understandably wanting a head start to account for anticipated physical and mental struggles throughout the day. I took all of Lucille’s overnight gear once more and they started up the switchbacks on Devils Stairway. 10 minutes later I followed suit.
Sunrise was stunning, and though the smoke had largely cleared what smoke remained accentuated the sun’s morning glow, while a majestic layer of clouds filled the valleys to the west. Even in late July the wildflowers were still in peak form, luscious bunches of color contributing to the magic. It was a quintessential North Cascades morning, and even from a distance I could tell everyone was stoked about what they saw.
Despite a front row seat to the earth’s majesty, the day was extremely tough for Aurélien. His body and mind fought him tooth and nail, each of the many inclines a battle with himself. Every so often he would scream in agony or frustration or a horrible combination of both. I wished so badly I could somehow shoulder some of that weight and pain for him. It felt wrong somehow to have the walking come so easily for me while he was at war.
As we began the final gradual incline towards the trailhead Martin and I decided to power ahead. I wanted to capture Aurélien’s return, the true finish of the journey - the physical side, at least. I hiked with such vigor that a pair of hikers headed northbound asked me if I was the one who set the FKT.
Finally the trailhead came into view, a paper plate labeled “FKT Crew” pointing in its direction at the junction with the PCT. Martin sat in the grass next to the trail and I saw Troy’s van and Tracy’s truck parked next to my SUV. I let out a whoop, getting one in return from Tracy down below. I hurriedly trotted down to my car and unloaded the heavy pack from my shoulders. Tracy and Troy gave me a Coke and a LaCroix which, while exciting, would have to wait a little longer. I quickly exchanged my trail runners for sandals, grabbed my camera and headed back up the trail. Antoine came walking down next, then finally Aurélien and Lucille came into view.
As he made his way down those final steps of the trail, tears the product of relief, astoundment and joy streaked down Aurélien’s face. Lucille and Martin walked with him as I snapped photos and Jean shot video. Almost dumbfounded, Aurélien said in English to Lucille, “I just finished the PCT.” This incredible, yet equally devastating chapter of his life was now over.
When he reached the road he walked straight to Troy, wrapping him in a tight embrace as Troy beamed with excitement, telling Aurélien how proud and happy he was for him. Troy had been such a vital piece of the journey for the past few weeks, and you could feel the connection the two had formed during that time just by watching that embrace.
Aurélien made his rounds, hugging and thanking Tracy, then Martin, then Antoine, then me, and finally Lucille. The couple held each other for a long while. What they had both accomplished over those 45 days was and will continue to be beyond words for me. Lucille and Martin’s spearheading of the support effort was a feat in its own right, and they deserve all the credit for the relentless work they put in through setbacks and major obstacles that threatened to derail the entire journey; from the trip nearly ending in the Sierras, to the infection that sent Aurélien to the hospital, to the crew’s SUV breaking down at McKenzie Pass, the two of them found a way to keep the wheels moving so that Aurélien could keep pushing, all the while continually showing unmatched generosity and concern for those around them. It was a labor of love, and I can’t imagine a better team to have supported Aurélien.
Troy and Tracy had prepared a massive spread of food for everyone, and we wasted no time getting to eating and celebrating - though the celebration would be soon be halted. About 30 minutes after we returned to the trailhead a Forest Service truck pulled up next to our cars. I originally thought it might be the resident Harts Pass ranger coming to offer congratulations. Instead, a different ranger exited the truck and came over to our group. “Hey guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re going to need you guys to leave. We’ve got a fire on the other side of the valley that’s growing pretty quick and is projected to grow a lot more, so we’re evacuating the area and closing the PCT.”
We were shocked at the news. The suppressed concern I had felt upon seeing the Ptarmigan Fire’s glow two nights prior had come to fruition. The timing was almost unbelievable and strangely magical in a sort of fucked up way. Had Aurélien began his attempt one day later, it’s very possible that he would not have been able to finish. It could not have happened any other way.
We thanked the ranger and quickly packed up our feast before driving down to Harts Pass proper, where the crew’s camp from the previous two nights still needed to be broken down. As I drove the bumpy 1.3 miles back down to Harts my mind scrambled to comprehend all I had experienced and was currently experiencing. I thought of the unbelievable timing, how lucky we were as a group and how lucky I felt to have been a part of the team. I thought of the hikers who we had passed that very afternoon, unaware of the impending closure until their Garmins or FarOut app told them to get the hell out of Dodge. I hoped they would all make it to safety. I thought of the vast West Fork Pasayten valley, primed to burn yet hopefully insulated to some extent by the scar of the river itself. I dreaded the possibility of Harts Pass, this beautiful place that’s become sacred to me over the years, burning, wholly unable to withstand the flames of a potential Pasayten megafire. I couldn’t control any of it, I could only hope.
For the time being I could only focus on and control the present, which involved helping the team break down their Harts Pass camp before plotting our next move. Though I ended up spending the next few days with the crew, at the time I didn’t know what lay ahead for me. It was the magnetism of the crew, of Aurélien, Lucille, Martin, Troy, Tracy, Jean, Antoine, magnetism born from each individual’s kindness, selflessness, passion, and drive, that inspired me to stick around as long as I could, and not a day has gone by since that those same qualities of those same individuals hasn’t brought me immense inspiration.
I’m so proud of and so happy for Aurélien and the team. I’m so thankful they allowed me to be a small part of their incredible journey, and I can’t wait for our paths to cross again.