I’d been counting the miles since California. At first in dozens, then in hundreds, now in single digits. Fifteen left. Fifteen miles between us and the northern terminus.

We cowboy camped in the clearing, pads unrolled, packs propped against a log. The three of us sprawled out like kids at a sleepover, only dirtier and a lot more broken. Boat Girl had her headlamp on, scribbling something in her trail journal, while Vacay scrolled his inReach messages like civilization was waiting just on the other side of the tree line.

Me? I just stared at the sky. Stars everywhere. After four months of dirt, sweat, and sore feet, this felt like a reward - lying under an open sky, nothing between me and the finish but sleep.

Then I felt the first drop. Cold. Sharp. Right on my cheek.

“Rain?” I muttered, half hoping I’d imagined it.

Another drop hit my arm. Then another. Within seconds it wasn’t drops - it was a sheet. Boat Girl cursed, Vacay groaned, and the three of us scrambled. Tents. Stakes. Rainflies. Months of repetition made the routine fast, but clumsy in the dark, our gear half-damp before it was even up.

And then it happened - the sky ripped open. Thunder crashed so close the ground shook, and the forest lit up white as day. The crack of lightning split the night, and for a second I saw it, clear as if someone had pointed it out: a tree less than a mile off, engulfed. Flames clawing upward, already hungry.

“Shit,” Boat Girl said, voice tight.

None of us had to say it out loud. We couldn’t stay here. Not with fire that close.

I looked at my tent, already sagging under the weight of water, and then at the others. “Tear it down. Now.”

We yanked our gear back into our packs with frantic hands. Everything was wet, heavier than it should’ve been, but adrenaline pushed us faster. The thunder kept rolling, each crack rattling my ribs, and every time the sky flashed I saw the glow through the trees. The fire wasn’t waiting - it was moving.

Vacay snapped his buckles shut. “North. We move north. Closer to the terminus.”

Boat Girl’s face was pale in the beam of her headlamp. “It’s uphill that way. And the wind-”

“The wind’s not on our side,” I cut in. I could smell smoke already, bitter and sharp in my throat. “But it’s worse if we stay.”

I thought about the absurdity of it: four months of hiking, thousands of miles behind us, and now-this. So close to finishing, only to maybe end up as ash in a forgotten clearing.

We left nothing but trampled grass and wet dirt behind. Packs on, poles in hand, we pushed north, headlamps carving weak tunnels of light through the downpour. The rain hammered us, but the smoke pushed harder, curling into the trees, mixing with the steam of our breath.

I pulled my inReach from its shoulder strap, fumbling to type with numb fingers. Quick. Direct. “Active fire north of Hart's Pass by approximately 10 miles, less than 1 mi from PCT. Three hikers moving north.” Sent. The screen blinked. No reply yet.

We hiked fast, but the forest seemed to close in tighter with every step. Roots snagged our boots, branches slapped our faces. The fire popped and cracked somewhere behind, too close, like it was stalking us.

Boat Girl fell once, her ankle twisting before she caught herself on her poles. Vacay and I hauled her back up, not even pausing. Time was distance now, and distance was survival.

The rain should have helped, should have drowned the flames, but lightning kept striking - each flash a reminder the night wasn’t done throwing things at us.

We didn’t speak much. Just the sound of boots, breathing, and the constant drum of water on nylon and skin. Every so often, I checked over my shoulder. The glow was still there. Bigger. Brighter. Closer.

By the time my watch read past midnight, I knew one thing: we weren’t outpacing it.

“Keep moving,” I said, voice rough. “We find higher ground. Somewhere open.”

We didn’t have a plan beyond that. Just north. Just away. And the hope that someone, somewhere, had gotten the message.

Continue reading (Chapter-2) » Into the Smoke