This time, it was really over. The trail ahead was messy and interrupted by fire closures.
I said goodbye to my trail companion—he planned to make it to the Canadian border solo via a detour through whatever trails remained open.
I hopped on a bus to Seattle to meet with my brother and the rest of my family in town.
I put on fresh jeans, a cotton T-shirt, and normal shoes.
I said goodbye to my trail companion—he planned to make it to the Canadian border solo via a detour through whatever trails remained open.
I hopped on a bus to Seattle to meet with my brother and the rest of my family in town.
I put on fresh jeans, a cotton T-shirt, and normal shoes.
We met at a sushi restaurant—fresh fish after weeks of cup noodles. I shared stories from the past few months, the trail family I found, and when it came to the end, how I’d left my hiking buddy as he trudged onward.
My mom looked up at me. Go back.
To this day, I’m not sure what it was. Something in her face, her eyes, made me realize that it was real. This thing that I thought was a thing they did, that had for so long been an online proxy experience had become my life.
She told me, “Go back. I can tell you have something to prove to yourself, and even though you’re tired and you just want it to be over, you will forever regret not hiking these extra two weeks to reach the Canadian border.”
For my family, I had become the role model, their equivalent of what Courtney and Elina had been to me.
When did someone else’s challenge become mine? When did this online odyssey turn to my own life? When did I start wanting my own “We did it!” moment with my picture at the Northern Terminus monument?
My mom looked up at me. Go back.
To this day, I’m not sure what it was. Something in her face, her eyes, made me realize that it was real. This thing that I thought was a thing they did, that had for so long been an online proxy experience had become my life.
She told me, “Go back. I can tell you have something to prove to yourself, and even though you’re tired and you just want it to be over, you will forever regret not hiking these extra two weeks to reach the Canadian border.”
For my family, I had become the role model, their equivalent of what Courtney and Elina had been to me.
When did someone else’s challenge become mine? When did this online odyssey turn to my own life? When did I start wanting my own “We did it!” moment with my picture at the Northern Terminus monument?
With my family, I rested for one week, and then returned to trail.
I quit on quitting.
On the morning of September 7, 2024, I walked the last mile to the Northern monument and reached the Canadian border. My new reality superimposed on the videos I used to replay: our group popped the champagne, we signed the log book, took our pictures and shouted.
I finally believed: me too. What I had seen in them, what had impressed me about the thru-hikers I’d admired, was in me too. I just did it.
Three years after opening the URL my friend Avi had texted, I understood. I realized the impact of role models and the meaning of being inspired. This is how an online narrative can plant a dormant seed for years before sprouting to become one’s own version of their story.
When people ask me what I gained from hiking the PCT, I reply: “I learned that whatever happens in my life, I can now quit. I can walk off, carrying only a backpack, and I know that everything will be fine. It will not be easy, but it will be fine.”
The elsewhere of online content is just outside, and I can step into it anytime.
—Emma, aka “Marmot”
(NEWSLETTER, IG) @thelmanvr
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