Trail Magic: Hiking the Pacific Crest

November 26, 2014

The book "Wild" tells the story of Cheryl Strayed's journey on the Pacific Crest Trail. The author made the trek along the mountain ranges between Canada and Mexico after struggling with her mother's death, and her own addictions. Around the time the book came out, Luke DeGroote also turned to hiking the Pacific Crest for a kind of therapeutic journey.

2,211. That's how many miles I've walked. When I look at that number it doesn't even seem real. It feels like I just stepped onto the trail last week, and at the same time, it feels like walking the trail is all that I've ever done.

There are so many stories. There's the one about a sleepless night, a trail run, the river that swept me away, a forsaken roadwalk, a pile of pancakes washed down with a strawberry shake, and a blazing hot climb. There's also the one about a shot of Jameson, an interrupted shower, a hot spring, a 20-mile trail run in 5 hours, and a good conversation in an inflatable raft on a liquid black lake with nothing but the moon and shooting stars to light the way. That one's probably my favorite. But stories like that and others are best told over a beer and a campfire. Instead what I'd like to talk about is what hiking the trail is really like. In order to do that you first have to understand one term that thru-hikers hold dear: trail magic.

When I first heard about trail magic, I heard it associated with food caches along the Appalachian Trail.  Generous, kind-hearted people (trail angels) put food or drinks along the trail for thru-hikers—dehydrated meals, cookies, sodas, beer and so forth. You have no idea how energizing these things are when you're trudging along, hot and thirsty after so many miles. There are also trail angels who take us into their homes, or buy trailers and tents for shelters, let us get cleaned up and feed us when we're tired, dirty, and hungry (which is just about all the time). But the magic goes even further.

I met a girl who was hiking a section of the trail in Oregon. She realized she was in over her head when she started hitting the snowfields. She found herself sitting by the side of the trail not knowing what to do, thinking she might have to turn around or skip a section. All of the sudden, another hiker with a GPS who was having trouble finding the motivation to push on walked up. They needed something at the same time and they found it in each other.

The trail has a way of breaking you down, tearing you up, taking away what you thought was important but in return it gives you something beautiful. Something you needed, something you were looking for, even if you didn't know you were.

The magic, the beauty of the trail—it changes you.

I started the trail full—full of the noise. And with each step and each mile, I found myself gradually reduced. Worries about money, material goods, politics, slowly slipped away. Finally I was left with the contraction of muscles, the breath in my lungs, water from clear cold mountain streams, and thoughts about my friends and family.

But some things don't just slip away. Eventually you find yourself in the middle of the trail face to face with all the thoughts you want to avoid. Mine came to haunt me around Ashland, Oregon. About a month and 400 miles in. Not long before I started hiking someone very close to me had been raped. And thoughts of her and other friends who suffered sexual abuse weighed on my mind. I thought about how they had been hurt, sometimes by people they loved or trusted. And, then, somehow, I started thinking about all the people that I had hurt, not physically, but emotionally as we all invariably do. All the mistakes I had made with the people that I’d loved.  And on the trail there's no escape.

Photos from the Pacific Crest Trail courtesy of Luke DeGroote.