A hot dinner, affable conversation — and poof! You’re a trail angel.

I had never heard of a trail angel until last week when I was told that’s what I was.

My nephew Keith Barbo sacked seed for us one summer — a lean, cheerful, determined 16-year-old who made light of lifting 50-pound sacks for eight hours a day.

I was impressed, but not surprised, when I heard that he and his lovely and equally energetic wife, Taylor, now in their mid-30s, planned to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, starting at the Mexican border in April.

“I would like to meet you and bring a meal when you come through Oregon,” I messaged him. He said they would be happy to meet up, and it would likely be in August.

Weeks and months went by. I followed their posts on social media, grinning shots of the two of them on a trail in the desert or up on a mountain. Sometimes I thought, “Here I am, in my house, loading the dishwasher, and Keith and Taylor are out on the trail again, walking, walking and walking.”

Eventually, Keith sent a text saying we could meet for dinner at Odell Lake, near Highway 58, on Aug. 3. I made a menu, remembering Keith’s teenage appetite and taking into account Taylor’s gluten and dairy restrictions.

At the Restaurant Supply store in Springfield, I bought a plump bag of beef roasts and another of large russet potatoes.

On the appointed day, I browned 6 pounds of beef and placed it in a roaster along with fresh sage and rosemary from the flower bed. It went into the oven, followed by nine large potatoes rubbed in olive oil and sprinkled with kosher salt.

I pulled blueberry muffins from the freezer, prepared cole slaw for a salad, made gravy from the drippings and baked a sweet gluten-free apple crisp with Gravensteins from our tree. I also packed fresh peaches, containers for leftovers, iced tea, a checkered tablecloth and real plates and flatware.

At 4 p.m., I pulled the roaster from the oven and placed it on top of two folded towels in a cooler. The potatoes went on top of the meat, with more towels on top, and the apple crisp on top of that.

We loaded it into the car and set out, my husband, Paul, daughter Emily and me. Paul was sure I had made three times too much food.

Keith and Taylor, a bit trail-worn but upbeat, were on the front porch of the little store at Shelter Cove when we arrived.

We set a picnic table near the lake, gathered around it, prayed a blessing and cut the roast.

Watching trail-hikers dig into a hot meal is even more satisfying than feeding teenage boys, and as they piled their plates with slabs of meat and cut open the potatoes, Keith and Taylor told us about life on the trail, a completely foreign way of life with its own vocabulary, customs and rules.

About 5,000 people attempt the 2,600-mile hike every year, they said, with most starting at the southern border in April and reaching Canada in September. The two of them are typical age-wise, but one of the few married couples doing the hike together.

Hikers all have trail nicknames that evolve organically, used to sign in guest books at campgrounds and hostels. Keith is “Ox,” short for Oxiclean, because he wore a distinctive white shirt that could be seen for miles in the desert in California. Taylor is “Glitz,” because she likes to wear a bit of glitter on her cheeks and even handed out small bags of glitter to other hikers.

“Tramilies,” or trail families, also evolve naturally as a group of people hike at the same pace in the same area, eating and camping overnight as a group. “Suddenly you have six new best friends, which can be hard for an introvert,” Taylor said. But it also gives her and Keith a bit of breathing space when they interact with others, as they are spending more time together than ever before in their eight-year marriage.

Their eyes lit up telling us about trail magic — basically people showing up to bless the hikers with anything from a cooler of drinks placed along the trail to a hot breakfast with coffee and eggs and pancakes. Word spreads through Facebook groups and other PCT-specific messaging: trail magic on this day at this place.

It’s the most motivating part of the trail, they explained. Maybe they were planning to do 20 miles the next day, but there’s trail magic at 23 miles. So they do the extra miles to get to the spaghetti dinner.

“Trail angels” coordinate the magic. The term includes not only the ones bringing food and drinks, but also people like the nurse who lives near the trail, who cleaned and wrapped Taylor’s leg when she climbed over a fallen tree and got a deep gash on her shin from a broken branch. 

Fascinated, we kept asking questions as the sky turned pink and the food disappeared. I served the apple crisp and fetched the containers for leftovers.

“One of the most precious things on the trail is Ziploc bags,” Taylor told us. Amazing, then, that I had grabbed a handful, just in case.

We packed up the nearly empty roaster and serving bowls, hugged goodbye and headed home.

Apparently, the term “trail angel” also applies to aunts who meet you at Odell Lake with a hot dinner. 

We are not all walking 20 miles a day on the PCT, but even here in the Willamette Valley, many of us are all walking a trail that sometimes feels like it’s going up mountains and through miles of California desert.

Maybe we all have the honor of coordinating a little trail magic for others — not a cooler of drinks but a hug, a smile, a text that asks how they’re doing, a cup of tea. Because few things are as fun and rewarding as being a trail angel for an exhausted and hungry hiker, and even an out-of-shape aunt can qualify for the title.