“Are you okay?”

It was my last full day of hiking. I began the day with the blissful energy of knowing that I didn’t have to push too hard to make the mileage. My pack was feeling lighter since most of the heavy food was already in my tummy. I had looked at the elevation changes and discovered that most of my day would be spent floating along the ridge lines and spines of the mountains. No heroic climbs out of deep valleys. Yay!

The only obstacle on my path were the clouds and the constant threat of rain. The Smoky Mountains were living up to their name. Every day at around 3pm for the last few days, the rain would begin and last heavy into the night. Every “vista” was an opportunity to gaze into the bright white cloud of unknowing.

I crossed paths with very few hikers on this penultimate day. The trail was remote because it was ridge line and there were no ‘feeder trails’ where people on a day hike might intersect with the AT. My thoughts were turned inward and I was preparing myself to complete my journey, which is always a bitter-sweet pill. I was glad to imagine yummy food, a hot shower, and a soft bed. I was sad to imagine leaving the trail, the trees, the animal companions, the pop up community of other hikers, and the simplifying purpose of traveling each day on foot and letting the world unfold.

After lunch, the clouds became a mist and I was walking through veils of damp air. Around 2:30 pm I could hear actual raindrops hitting the canopy of leaves, but down below on the trail I was still sheltered. I was traveling through dramatic forests of spruce, balsam, and fir trees. In one miraculous moment I saw a young buck, with felt still on his antlers, nibbling along the side of the trail, completely unafraid of my presence. I felt enclosed, like I was traveling in another world, maybe a fairytale story, or Narnia, or Middle Earth. I imagined that at any moment this buck might turn and speak to me with words in my own language.

The rain began to penetrate the canopy of trees after 3pm and I stopped to put on my rain jacket. I usually don’t wear it because I sweat as much inside the jacket as the rain would soak my skin from the storm. But at this elevation, the temperature was cool and the prospect of being wet and cold felt dangerous. I also discovered at this point that I had consumed almost all of my water. I kept chuckling to myself that there was water pouring on me from the sky… but there was little to no chance that I would find a spring along the mountain ridges. So, as the trail filled up with puddles of water, I imagined that if I got desperate I could always stop and pump some water out of the muddy puddle.

An hour went by and I began to notice my thirst. I began to feel how long I had been hiking without interruption. I began to wonder how much longer I would be walking before I reached Ice Water Spring Shelter and my last night in the woods. I felt tired. I felt thirsty. I was feeling done with this eternal ridge. The rain was relentless. Suddenly, I peered out of my hood, through the rain, pretty sure I was seeing the figure of a person sitting on the trail up ahead.

Yes, it was a person. A woman was sitting beneath a big balsam tree with her pack thrown off, a piece of paper she was studying in her hand.

”Hi! Are you okay?”

“Ummm. Yes.” She looked up at me with a little surprise and defiance. “I’m okay. I’m just waiting on the rain to stop.”

”Oh, well if it is anything like the past few days, it won’t stop until after dark. Which way are you going?” I got a glimpse of her paper. It was a spread sheet listing all the shelter sites and their relative mileage from each other.

”I’m heading north.” She pointed to her paper. “I’m going to Davenport Gap.”

”Oh, I stayed there two days ago.” I was beginning to get concerned. Davenport Gap was about 30 miles away. Her pack was soaking wet. She only had a wooden cane to hike with and I was trying to estimate her age, 60-something? I passed the closest northbound shelter over 4 hours ago. “Where are you planning to stay tonight?”

”I don’t know. It’s okay, though. I have a tent, I can camp anywhere. I’m just waiting for this rain to let up.” She looked up at me. “I can just set up my tent anywhere.” She meant her words to sound positive and reassuring, but they seemed to me like unrealistic and fantastical thinking. I wondered if she was delusional or suffering from lack of food?

There is a phrase that hikers use when they encounter another hiker who is doing something that they personally would not choose. Rather than casting judgement or offering advice, we say, “Hike your own hike.” It is akin to “live and let live.” In this moment, in the pouring rain, I was staring at this thin, fragile, woman sitting in the growing puddles and I realized that I could not say, “hike your own hike.” I felt a sense of emergency that if I walked away from her, I would be reading about her in the newspaper when they found her body next week. I was no longer aware of my own tiredness or thirst, I was completely focused on this woman.

”What’s your name?”

”Karen.”

”Karen, I have been hiking on this ridge line for the last four hours or more. There is nowhere to set up your tent along the spine of the mountain. And if this rain is like yesterday and the day before, it won’t stop until after the sun goes down. I do not think you should keep hiking north.”

”Well, I don’t want to go backwards. My husband just dropped me off at Newfound Gap this morning.” She stared back down the trail. “But I didn’t imagine that it would rain like this. I was having a hard time with the wet rocks. It slowed me down.”

”When was the last time you ate?”

”I’ve had lunch.” She sounded defensive. “And I’ve got plenty of water, see.” She started pulling out bottles of water stashed around her pack.

”Oh wow, maybe we can help each other. May I have some of your water? I ran out a little bit ago.”

”Sure, here you go.” She handed up a bottle and seemed to relax. “You really don’t think I should keep going?”

”No, I don’t. The trail is very narrow and you won’t get off the ridge until dark. There is nowhere to set up your tent. Honestly, I am concerned for you. I want you to come with me to the shelter you passed earlier today.” I paused and let the silence grow while she considered it.

”It’s not that far to the shelter, I passed it…. My mistake was that I hiked out to Charlie’s Bunion and spent too much time there. I didn’t think it would take me so long. I didn’t think it would rain. I thought this would be easier.”

“It’s okay. I’m really glad our paths crossed. I needed some water. And you need some help, too. Let’s walk together back to Ice Water Springs. Together we can make it.”

She consented and I exhaled with relief. Karen kept flipping between gratitude for my help and sharing her list of marathons and her physical ability and her confusion about why today was so hard. She bent over to pick up her pack and she could not move it. Her hands shook and she seemed very unstable to me.

”Oh, its probably soaking wet right now and really heavy. Let me help you.” I lifted her pack and held it open so that she could slip into the shoulder straps while standing. “Do you have a rain cover?”

”No, this is my husband’s pack. I should have brought mine, it has a rain cover. His is old – I don’t know why I brought his?”

”It’s okay, we’ll get moving and soon you can take it off at the shelter.” The waist belt was way too big and the chest strap buckle was broken. We tied things together as best we could and then stepped out from under the gracious balsam tree to hike through the pouring rain.

I don’t know how long we hiked… it felt like a long time. The trail was no longer visible beneath the rainwater. We were hiking through a stream that covered our ankles and I walked ahead to show Karen where to find firm footing. At every slippery or steep place I paused and watched her, encouraged her, and kept celebrating the fact that we found each other. In the time that passed I began to realize how many unrelated events and changes in the last nine days of my hiking trip allowed me to intersect with Karen on this day, at this moment, when she needed help. If my trip had gone according to plan, I would have been on this section of trail the following day… maybe I would have found her body?

Karen shared more and more of her life story with me as we walked. I learned about her fight with breast cancer, her daughter’s lives, her husband’s career as a teacher and administrator for international schools abroad. They were headed to Pakistan in a few weeks so he could begin a new job as a principal. After so many miles of river/trail, the shelter kind of snuck up on us and suddenly we were there.

Ice Water Springs Shelter is only 3ish miles from a well traveled parking area in the Smoky Mountains. It is usually crowded, and in a downpour on the AT, this was doubly true. One retired US Airborne Ranger and 5 college students were spread out among the bunks and benches under the tin roof. I crossed the threshold ahead of Karen and had a moment to explain to 6 guys, “I am hiking with a woman I picked up on the trail a few miles ago. She is soaking wet and I don’t think she is doing very well. She needs to get dry and whatever other help we can give her.” They all heard me and my conspiratorial invitation and at once they jumped into action.

In the most loving and casual way they welcomed Karen into the shelter, gave her a place to sit down, removed her pack, offered her food, helped her unpack wet gear and encouraged her to put on dry clothes. One young man even put his own fleece on her as the temperature dipped and the sun went down. They took care of her like she was their own mother, stranded on the trail and in need of assistance. No shame, only compassionate care. It was beautiful.

The next morning, Karen was ready to go. She had (with some embarrassment) called her husband and asked him to come back and pick her up… she was not going to Davenport Gap. I was moving a little slower, cooking my last packets of oatmeal and enjoying my coffee and the sunrise. It was only a short 3 mile hike to the parking lot, but she was worried that she wouldn’t get there before her husband drove in.

As I was cleaning up, she decided to start hiking. “I’m going to get started. Besides, I go so slow, you will catch up with me soon.”

”Okay. I will see you on the trail in a little bit.” I finished packing, I visited the privy, and when I returned to the shelter, Karen was back. “Did you forget something?” I asked.

”Yes, you.” She said very matter of factly. “It is dark out there. I don’t want to be out there by myself.”

”Okay, well perfect timing! I’m ready to go.” Karen and I left the shelter together and hiked the few miles to civilization. She still seemed shaky on her feet and I was grateful that we were exiting the woods together. I wouldn’t have to wonder for the rest of my life what happened to this woman.

Choosing to ask the question, “Are you okay?” Or “Do you need help?” Is one way that we cross the interpersonal boundary of ‘hike your own hike’ and chose the messiness of intervening in the life of another. As soon as I crossed that threshold on the trail, intervening and changing Karen’s direction, I felt all my own neediness slip away. It wasn’t that I was suddenly superhuman, but the priorities changed. My own discomfort and thirst was moved out of the forefront of my mind. I was focused on Karen. At one point during our long hike in the pouring rain, she stopped and said to me, “You would make a great leader of children. You keep me going and I feel safe. You are good at this.” I accepted her compliment at the time with a shy ‘thank you.’ But the experience and her spontaneous reflection has stuck with me. When I have only myself to focus on, I get fragile, grumpy, tired, and aware of my own weariness. Give me someone else to care for, love, nurture, and keep alive – and I step to the plate full of energy.

I used to be sick with this tendency in its addictive form – Co-dependency. But after some years of therapy and 12-step groups, I have developed a warning system for my co-dependent habits. I can feel myself getting sucked into the needs of others and my need to be their savior… a big red warning flare goes off and I develop boundaries. But in the moments when someone really does need help, and I happen to be the only person on the trail, the opportunity to serve another human being lights me up. All my natural tendencies to be empathetic, watch for cues in behavior, look for openings to restore wholeness and build trust, and invite the person to see themselves as beloved; this all kicks in almost automatically. I hardly have to consider what to do next. I am good at this. I am built for pastoring lost sheep and bringing them safely home.

Karen’s husband was stuck in traffic and my parents arrived to pick me up in the parking lot before he got there. I introduced Karen to my mom and dad and I heard them talking while I put my pack and hiking poles in the back of the van.

”I don’t know what I would have done if your daughter hadn’t come along on the trail. I think she saved my life.” Karen said to them. I didn’t really hear what my dad said, something about it being a lucky accident or expressing his own gratitude that she was okay. And then Karen said, “Well, I don’t believe in this, but I feel like maybe God sent her to find me? But I don’t believe in, you know, miracles and stuff.”

I shut the trunk of the van and walked into their conversation. “Well, I believe that God arranged for me to find you and I’m so grateful it happened. May I give you a hug? We made it!” She consented and I hugged her beloved, whole, beautiful, found body. We exchanged phone numbers and she promised to let me know when her husband arrived. Last I heard, Karen was safely headed home to pack for the trip to Pakistan. God is keeping track of her, now.