The Promise
Hikers kept passing me, raving about what was ahead.
Trail magic. Actual trail magic. If you haven’t heard the term, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Strangers who set up food, drinks, chairs, and general human kindness on trail for no reason other than the fact that hikers need it. It is, by all accounts, one of the great institutions of long-distance hiking. I had never experienced it. So I was practically vibrating with excitement.
First instruction: it was at the car park just ahead.
Got to the car park. No trail magic. No hot food. No cold drinks. Not even a folding chair.
I was (and I say this without exaggeration) on the brink of tears.
The Part Where It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better
A group of hikers saw the state of me and delivered the news: it’s just a kilometre up the hill.
I powered on. Climbed the road. Reached the top.
Still no trail magic (in their defence, they probably didn’t know kilometres).
Someone then showed me on their map. It was 3 miles away. Uphill.
Three.
Uphill.
Miles (which in hiker terms is roughly an hour if you’re really fast… or forever, depending on how many snacks you have… or how long it takes to overcome feeling defeated).
When your stomach’s been running on oatmeal, dust and hope, real food becomes emotional currency.
So naturally, I stopped. Had a snack. Refuelled. Recentred. Had a handful of conversations with passing hikers because it’s me and I am constitutionally incapable of walking past a person without talking to them. Then continued on.
It was the longest hill of my life. Officially. Scientifically. No further questions.
Here’s the thing about trail magic though (and this is something nobody tells you before you’ve experienced it)… The chase is part of it. By the time I crested that final rise and saw the tables and chairs and actual food laid out on trail like some kind of Narnia situation, I felt it in my chest. Not just hunger. Something closer to what I felt crossing into the US [FILM]. Which, for me, is saying something.
The Plot Twist (There’s Always a Plot Twist)
Tables. Chairs. Food. Everything I’d been told about and more.
I sat down. I ate. I kept eating. My stomach, which has spent the better part of recent memory surviving on optimism had some thoughts about this.
Those thoughts arrived in the form of what was possibly a stitch, and an internal suggestion that perhaps I would not be leaving today.
Reader, I did not leave that day.
I left the next morning. With a takeaway.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. Zero regrets. Would do it again. Would probably cry again on the uphill section, but that’s just part of the experience now.
Wombat is still away with his trainer Dylan doing the hard yards — becoming a more disciplined dog than I will ever be a disciplined hiker — and I think if he’d been there, he would have kept me moving. Or he would have sat down with me. Honestly, could go either way… depending on the availability of belly rubs.
One final thought: if I were ever to run trail magic as an Australian, I think the hikers out here are missing some critical cultural education. Sausage rolls. Meat pies. Lamingtons. And maybe a flat white for the chaos of it. (if you’re a Kiwi… walk away. WALK. AWAY… just kidding, happy to introduce you to these too 😉).
If you want to follow along properly — for some very strong opinions about what Australians could bring to trail magic — join Entangled. It’s my inner circle and it’s where a genuine community lives. Or if you just want to shout me a warm-up-coffee or a self-pity-hot-chocolate to keep me moving: same link.
Lucy + Wombat 👩🌾🐶
