wonders of the trail

A foal wobbled by, nudged along by its mother and unfazed by the sweaty stranger gawking at him. Another pony beckoned to be petted and I’d cautiously reached out, heart pounding and chest brimming with affection. I was in love.

Gypsy Dave, my cheerful shuttle driver, had told me I may see some ponies along the trail—descendants of coal transport ponies from the 1950’s and ‘60’s—but I hadn’t expected to see so many so soon into my adventure.

I’d abandoned my pack and run-walked down steep rocks to the clearing where the ponies congregated. They’d been encountering hikers for so many years that instead of fear and panic, they exuded indifference or, in some cases, outright greediness for attention. The fuzz-for-manes, teensy ponies playfully nuzzled each other and galloped around from friend to friend, while the elders swished their tails and investigated my pockets. I marveled at my surroundings—fifteen or so ponies grazed peacefully around me and told me, silently, that this is where I was meant to be in this moment and it would all be okay.

Along the Appalachian Trail, I encountered surprise snakes (which are especially disconcerting while relieving oneself), crunchy mac and cheese (thanks to a dud lighter), a plethora of cows, “trail magic” (gifts from hikers), and gut-wrenching urges to capture the breathtaking views and remember them forever.

Days later, as I sat in a diner gobbling pizza, I thought back to the moments I genuinely thought I wouldn’t make it. Despite the bruises, blisters, spiders, and exhaustion, I found my strength on that 26-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail. In eagerly flipping through shelter logs to see what messages hikers left and making friends with passersby, I’d discovered that the Appalachian Trail has an immense, thriving culture of its own--trail names, a network of support, a mutual reverence for nature, and shared desires for independence and simplistic living.

I strategically planned my trip so that my hike ended in Damascus, Virginia during the Trail Days festival in mid-May. There, I immersed myself in raucous conversations at drum circles, took in the expanse of mist-covered tent city in this typically small, quiet town, and cheered along the thru-hikers at the parade. I was welcome. I was home.

Something had changed within me as I powered through those endless switchbacks. I’d be back. I’d go further. I’d bring snacks for the ponies next time.