If there's one thing as large as a thru-hiker's appetite, it's the generosity hikers experience along the trail. Indeed, for many hikers, trail magic, as it's called, is one of the biggest surprises of the trip—and it
has one of the most lasting impacts.
Pastor Karen Nickels dispenses trail magic at the Presbyterian Church of the Mountain in Delaware Water Gap, Pennsylvania. The church has long been a favorite stopping point for AT hikers. But some of them need the kind of
friendly counseling Pastor Karen provides.
"At this point in the hike some people are really debilitated," she told me when I stopped at the church on my 1994 thru-hike."They might have physical problems: illness, dehydration, orthopedic problems. The trail can
be so difficult: Every bone and muscle hurts every day. I see a lot of depression. One hiker told me, 'I came out on this trail to think great thoughts and commune with God, and all I have done is be afraid: Will I have
enough water? Will I be safe at night?'" Sometimes she counsels rest. Sometimes hikers leave the trail.
She also finds herself in the role of marriage counselor to couples who hadn't anticipated exactly what it's like to spend 24 hours a day with their beloved. As one half of a hiking couple myself, I knew just what
Pastor Karen meant when she said, "There's additional stress when you have to negotiate every single issue: how many miles, how fast, when to hike, when to take breaks. Sometimes couples split. Or one will get off the trail and act as a support crew."
But Pastor Karen also sees the other side of the story: the transformative nature of the thru-hiking experience. "People learn what it is to be a human, a creature," she said. "They respond to the trail magic, to
the accumulation of kindnesses that every thru-hiker has experienced. This trail has an enormous effect on lives: People gain a sense of confidence, sometimes for the first time. They learn to relate to others. They find new
faith.
"Some find that their priorities change. I remember one hiker, a real estate broker, who told me, 'I used to think people had something in their pockets, and I was out to transfer it to mine. After hiking this trail, I don't want what's in the pocket.'"
She paused a minute, then summed it up. "This trail changes lives."
When the Blazes End
Many hikers find that ending the trip of a lifetime can be every bit as difficult as starting it. For some people, it's the shock of complexity: For six months, the life of a thru-hiker boils down to a few simple decisions:
how many miles? Where's the water? What's for dinner?
For me, it's the feeling of four walls and a roof, and the fact that the sky in my suburban New York town is so much smaller. I find myself startled when a car passes me, or when I hear honking horns, or see too many lights on
an interstate. I have trouble remembering why I am supposed to care about the differences between deodorants or how long hemlines are this year. I forget that I'm not supposed to say hello to strangers on the street.
I've also become addicted to the independence, so I'm now self-employed.
There's also the business about weight. As it turns out, Club AT might be the best diet plan in town, but like any other diet plan, it only lasts as long as you stick to it. Two months after a thru-hike, I'm already waxing
sentimental about the shape I used to be in.
But the most important thing is this: I carry Katahdin with me, everywhere. What I learned on the Appalachian Trail, and what I will never forget, is that if you keep putting one foot in front of the other, you will get where you're
going. And between now and then, it's how much you enjoy the journey that counts.
