Date: 2017-12-28
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Miles today: 0.0

The greatest magic of the Appalachian Trail is its very existence. I've already written a little about how the trail came to be, from its conception by mystic forester Benton MacKaye, its rapid buildout under the cajoling whip of Myron Avery, the ceaseless efforts of now 31 maintaining clubs and more than 6,000 volunteers, and the cooperative management system binding together the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, agencies in the 14 trail states, the clubs and Appalachian Trail Communities. It's a rare example of a public-private partnership that actually works. I never left a board or committee meeting of ATC without amazement that it functions at all. There are so many strong personalities and inherent conflicts in the missions of its partners. And yet for over 80 years, this fragile footpath of changing route and length, seldom more than a couple of feet wide, has endured and even thrived.  In July 2000, I met a retired colonel at one of the Appalachian Mountain Club huts in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He had started in snow in Georgia and was relentless in his quest of Katahdin in Maine. He thrived on anger and had brought his own ready supply. To anyone who would listen, and no one would for long, he decried the lack of a command structure on the Appalachian Trail. He viewed the confused and conflicted cooperative management system of the Appalachian Trail as an affront to his sense of order and discipline. The months and miles had only added to his disdain. And yet, there he was, and there the trail was. I have little doubt that he completed his journey and can easily imagine him speaking to veterans groups about how wonderful the Appalachian Trail could be if it were organized according to his precepts. Magic had no place in his life.You know that I love words and language, so bear with me a little. Magic entered Late Middle English from the Old French magique, which in turn derived from Latin magica and Greek magik. At this time of year, we remember the Three Magi. The Oxford Dictionary defines magic as a noun meaning "the power of apparently influencing events by using mysterious or supernatural forces, in the sense of a mysterious trick, an exceptional skill or talent, or a quality of being beautiful and delightful in a way that seems remote from daily life."  It is this latter meaning that applies to magic on the Appalachian Trail.  Most long-distance hikers on the Appalachian Trail view their life on the trail as very separate, even remote, from their ordinary existence, sometimes referred to as their real life. For those of us who have hiked for many years, the distinction blurs, but there's still a sense that being on the trail is different, that it isn't Kansas, Florida or Vermont anymore. I haven't lived in Burlington long enough that looking out over the snow-shrouded city and across Lake Champlain doesn't amaze and delight me, but I'm sure at some point I will take it for granted. I had gotten that way about Sarasota Bay. On the other hand, each day when I'm on the Appalachian Trail, I see or experience something that leaves me with a renewed sense of awe, even a feeling of having been blessed. Magic can be a majestic view, seeing or recognizing a showy orchid for the first time, or finally seeing a moose. Magic can mean that when I am hurting and ready to give up, a friend hands me the bottle of beer that he's carefully carried out of town wrapped in his sleeping bag. Magic can be as simple as a car doing a u-turn to pick me up and carry me into town. Magic can be coming upon a volunteer who allows me help clear a water bar or to paint a blaze. Magic can be comforting an inner-city youth who has just heard his first barred owl, perched right over his tent.What do these instances have in common? Whether the view, the orchid, the moose, the ride, the beer, the opportunity to paint a blaze or to comfort a frightened child, each was unexpected. Each was an opportunity for grace. In our regular lives, we become accustomed to saying no. No to the phone call promising a free dream vacation. No to the investment opportunity of a lifetime. No to the panhandling alcoholic. We control our volunteering to fit into our schedules and preferences. We give to charities of our choosing. On the other hand, hiking the Appalachian Trail is an opportunity to say yes, to give and to receive blessings. That is magic.Before I continue my descent into maudlinism, time out for some definitions. There are several common terms associated with trail magic on the Appalachian Trail.  A trail angel is someone who does trail magic without the expectation of compensation or reward.  A hiker feed is an organized effort to provide food and/or beverage to hikers, usually thru-hikers.To yogi is a marvelous verb meaning the art of getting people to give you what you need or want without asking directly for it. It derives from Yogi the Bear, the Hanna-Barbera cartoon character who debuted in 1958. It means neither stealing picnic baskets nor asking for them, but enticing people to offer them and whatever else you need. Yogi can also be used as a noun.Trail magic is spontaneous and unexpected both on the part of the hiker and the trail angel. To my purist nature, trail magic excludes many acts that are wonderfully well-intentioned and much-appreciated, but lacking in spontaneity. For example, most of the springs along the trail in Pennsylvania were dry on my second hike through that state. Local people would bring out gallon jugs of water and leave them at trailheads. This was obviously a planned activity, and to a thirsty hiker, there could have been no greater gift. But was it magic? Did bells ring when these putative trail angels received their wings?  In 1997, I came across a car parked at a Virginia trailhead on a rainy day. The driver was a former thru-hiker who had filled his trunk with doughnuts, muffins, fruit, juice, and soda, and allowed me to sit in his clean car out the rain until I was sated. He had obviously planned his generosity, but it was totally unexpected by me. Was it magic or just an act of great kindness and generosity? Especially in the south at the height of thru-hiker season, there are hikers feeds at many road crossings, complete with large pavilion tents, grills, ice chests, and chairs for hikers. Sometimes they are sponsored by church groups, on one occasion included an evangelist with a burger in one hand and a Bible in the other. That's rare. Usually they are put on by former hikers or groups of local residents wanting nothing more than the good feeling that comes from helping, or in this case, feeding others. Word of a major feed spreads up and down the trail via cellphone and hikers will adjust their schedules accordingly. Is this magic or a nuisance, contrary to the vaunted pride most hikers take in self-reliance? I met a super nice lady in Virginia who each Memorial Day provides an ice cream social for hikers at a gap south of Waynesboro at considerable expense and inconvenience to herself. Her heart is pure, but as a hiker, should I walk through the woods hoping for ice cream or a burger and feeling disappointed not to find them? What about unattended ice chests left in the woods with sodas and snacks, or cribs of beer left cooling in a stream, both opportunities for serious littering? Or even the jugs of water in a drought?  It's a controversial topic for both hikers and trail managers, and there isn't an effective way to control it. As a hiker, I could be noble and walk by the ice chests and feeds, but I don't. Just the thought of a juicy burger, a piece of fruit, homemade cookies, or a cold drink on a hot day overcomes my scruples. I'm joyful in my gluttony and express only gratitude, but somewhere in the back of my mind or deep in my heart, theres a niggling fear that my soul has suffered. I confess; I repent; and gladly do it again at the next road crossing.  Harold Allen, an early volunteer with both the Appalachian Trail Conference (now Conservancy) and the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club, was a key figure in creating Shenandoah National Park and in protecting the Blue Ridge. Sometime in the 1930's he described the Appalachian Trail this way:     Remote for detachment,   narrow for chosen company,   winding for leisure,   lonely for contemplation,   the Trail beckons not merely north and south   but upward to the body, mind and soul of man.The proliferation of feeds and the well-intentioned kindnesses of so many, and indeed, the increasing number of hikers itself, risks the loss of that sense of remoteness. You will recall one of the definitions of magic cited above, a quality of being beautiful and delightful in a way that seems remote from daily life. When magic becomes ordinary and expected, it ceases to be magic at all.Let's end this on a more cheerful note, with a discussion of yogiing, the art of enticing people to give you what you want. In 1995 as I was nearing the north end of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I saw an older couple sitting on a picnic blanket near the trail, and even from a distance, I could smell excellent coffee. I don't bring coffee with me on the trail because I haven't found an instant coffee that I can tolerate, and I'm not willing to carry the paraphernalia to make real coffee. To ask directly for a cup would have been begging and would violate the spirit of yogi. Instead I engaged them in conversation and soon found out that they were scouting for a wildflower hike they would be leading the next day. I was able to tell them where certain flowers could be found, and that earned me an invitation to sit down and join them not only in fresh coffee but also for homemade cookies. We all went away happy. It was my only successful yogi of a picnic, but not for a lack of trying. I've walked by picnickers along the trail and also through picnic areas near the trail in Shenandoah National Park and along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I've carried my pack and done my most pathetic impression of a starving hiker, even closing my eyes and groaning while blissfully inhaling the wonderful aroma of fried chicken. I've tried commenting, "Oh, what a lovely day for a picnic."  Nothing has worked.  I was more successful, without really trying, at Max Patch in 2005. Max Patch is about 15 miles trail north of the Smokies and is the site of an old homestead and logging camp. The mountaintop was cleared for grazing sheep and cattle. Today Max Patch looks like a small grassy knoll, but is actually 4,629 feet in elevation and is ringed by mountains that include Mt. Mitchell (6.684') to the east and Mt. LeConte (6,594') in the Smokies to the southwest. A gravel road leads to a parking area with an easy path up to the broad grassy summit. It's a favorite picnic spot for students from nearby Mars Hill University, a private liberal arts college. It is for me one of the most beautiful spots on the entire Appalachian Trail, and I've always made it a point to take a long rest there. This time, I arrived about 12:30 on a warm sunny day with puffy white clouds and a gentle breeze. I spread my Tyvek groundcloth, propped up my pack with a hiking pole to signal that I was a hiker, and started eating a granola bar. It was just late enough for picnickers to have realized that they had brought far too much food. Soon, I was surrounded by offerings, including a bottle of wine, iced tea and juice, loaves of bread, cold cuts of every description, potato, pasta and green salads, fruit glorious fruit, pie and cake! It was the reverse of the miracle of Jesus feeding the 5,000, far more than I could eat or carry, so I had to wait for other hikers to come along and share in the bounty. I was simultaneously the grateful recipient of trail magic (with perhaps a little yogi thrown in) and a trail angel.