March 27, 2025
His attire was not expected when he walked into the commons area of a hostel in New Hampshire last August. A straw hat was perched on the crown of his head; he was wearing what appeared to be a hand sewed black vest, pants, and a homespun white shirt. His beard was full, although his moustache was shaved. As I looked him over, I thought to myself, “Is this guy Amish?”
Having encountered thousands of people while hiking the Appalachian Trail in various attire, this was the first. A few minutes later, two cousins joined him, all three dressed in the customary garb of the Amish. Indeed, the Schmidts were Amish from southern Indiana. Over the next ten days, we would hike the same section of the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, sharing multiple encounters, experiences, fellowship, and conversations along the way.
On two occasions we met them while hiking in opposite directions. One of those times was when they were descending the iconic Franconia Ridge in the Presidential Mountain range. I often joke with people asking them to “level out the trail for us!” I looked at them and said, “I thought I told you guys to level it out!” Without missing a beat one of them looked at me and said, “You think this is bad now, you should have seen it before we showed up!"
We met up again hiking in opposite directions on top of one of the highest peaks in the northeast, Mount Moosilauke. The weather on the mountain that day was miserable. Temperatures were in the 40s and a bitter cold wind blew from the north; the rain was blowing sideways with visibility limited to a couple of hundred feet at best. The first Schmidt came across the top with no outer jacket, only his vest. He was soaking wet. His cousin, maybe 50 yards behind, was not doing much better, holding an umbrella sideways to shield himself from the blowing rain. It was a lost cause; he was drenched. Finally, the youngest of the brood passed us wearing full rain gear. I looked at him as we passed and said, “Your mamma raised you right!”
These guys literally displayed their faith on the outside by their appearance, but there was another incident that proved they had something more going on within. There was a crossing at Beaver Brook, on the far side of Mount Moosilauke. The bitterly cold water was running fast and high because of the rain. Normally one can wade across or even walk across the stream on rocks and boulders. On this day the crossing was dangerous.
Two older women, who had already hiked over Mount Moosilauke, arrived at the brook but were afraid to cross. They had already hiked about seven miles and were not prepared to turn around and hike another seven miles up and over the difficult Mount Moosilauke to the trailhead from which they began. Once they crossed the brook it would only be a mile to the trailhead and road where they could exit, but they had to get across.
The Schmidts arrived at the crossing to discover the ladies and their dilemma. One of the Schmidts had a rope long enough to stretch across the brook, which was, on that day, probably 50 feet across. The rope was tied to trees on both sides of the raging brook. Two of the Schmidts went downstream and while bracing themselves stood in the cold, rushing water in case one, or both ladies, slipped and fell into the swift current. The third helped each one cross using the rope for safety.
The Schmidts didn’t tell the story of what happened, but the ladies did. The story quickly spread among the trail community of the rescue. It not only spoke well of them, but it also spoke well of their faith.
I had a second memorable faith encounter on a beautiful fall day in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia in November. I was hiking solo and had not encountered anything but a turkey on the trail that morning. Then a hiker, probably in his late 30s, crested the ridge heading in my direction. He was dressed in typical hiking gear, a full backpack, a well-tanned face, sporting a beard and maybe a little longer hair than most, nothing unusual about the way he looked.
“Where are you from?” I yelled as he approached.
“Pennsylvania,” he replied. As we stopped to talk, he explained he had done a thorough hike of the AT a few years earlier and was in the process of hiking down to Tennessee to help with hurricane cleanup.
“What’s your trail name? “I asked.
I was taken aback when he said, “Holy Spirit.”
I responded, “I’m a minister and I am curious, how did you get your name?” Because a hiker’s “trail name” is not something they choose for themselves; it is given to them by other hikers.
He looked at me, broke into a big grin, and said, “It’s because I just really love Jesus!”
We talked some more, and I discovered he was a construction worker, who saved his money to take off work to go on long hikes. I took a selfie of the two of us, and we had a prayer meeting on the trail before heading in our respective directions.
Some might consider his name to be blasphemous. But the more I pondered it, he was a living embodiment of the Holy Spirit, whose purpose is to point people to Jesus. He was easy and approachable, there was nothing outwardly that was overly pious or off-putting. He obviously lived outwardly his faith that was very real within, hence his trail name.
Jesus described the Pharisees' outward religion, which seemed to reflect little going on within, when he said, “You are like whitewashed tombs which on the outside appear beautiful, but inside they are full of dead men’s bones. (Matthew 23:27)."
I regret that I don’t have photos of these guys to post with this column. The Amish sect the Schmidts are a part of prohibits photos and I don’t have a way to contact the hiker from Pennsylvania to get his permission. But if you use your imagination you might see in your mind’s eye the four guys I met on the trail. They were simple, quiet, homespun, and humble. They didn’t necessarily attempt to stand out. On the other hand, they demonstrated a genuine faith that radiated from within.
It begs the question, what does your appearance, and more importantly your actions, attitude, and speech reveal about the faith that is within you? Does it resemble a “whitewashed tomb?” Pretty on the outside and dead on the inside. Hopefully it is a living faith that radiates the fact that you “just really love Jesus!”
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Charles Jones is a Southern Baptist historian and a retired pastor. He can be reached via email at cgjonesis@gmail.com.
