On Tuesday morning, three days after Hurricane Helene ravaged swaths of the Southeastern United States, I began making calls to old friends and hiking experts who live along the Appalachian Trail.

I had seen the of Hot Springs, North Carolina—a place I called home for years and one of the few towns the 2,200-mile trail bisects via sidewalk—drowned in the brown waters of an incoming creek and the mighty French Broad. I had seen images of the in Erwin, Tennessee, which leads just past one of the trail’s famous hostels and from one sweeping ridgeline to another. And I had seen the near Damascus, Virginia, one of the trail’s spiritual epicenters, cracked in pieces like overcooked pecan brittle. I had seen reports of the 220 dead and many more missing. Communities of longtime friends were entirely marooned, and little towns I’d cherished as a lifelong Southerner were ripped open like wet cardboardÌęboxes.

I asked them about the state of the trail—a pathway that has changed so many lives (including my own). I assumed the worst, that it was either washed away or buried by landslides in extended stretches. Online prognosticators didn’t improve my assumption.

“One-third of this trail is destroyed,” a TikToker named said in a by Wednesday. Using a map of the AT as her greenscreen, she speculated about the devastation. “This catastrophic storm is actually going to change the map of North Carolina and Tennessee, the actual topography.”

But my phone calls yielded a surprise. As best as anyone can tell right now, the claims of complete destruction aren’t true, either for the AT or for the half-dozen other long-distance trails that radiate through the lower reaches of some of the world’s oldest mountains. Misinformation and assumptions based on that request—and then broadcast for TikTok likes—make a bad situation worse, unnecessarily adding to the weight of a region’s already seismic loss. The Appalachian Trail is a point of pride for people there, for people in the midst of losing everything; saying it is destroyed based on no data adds insult to inestimable injury.

While it is true that the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the nonprofit that helps manage the path and the lands surrounding it, has , or its lower third, it is not true that those miles are destroyed. Sources I spoke to talked of toppled trees, down branches, and flooding.

“It should be posted that—on four miles of this 2,200-mile trail—there’s a lot of devastation. It’s four miles of flood devastation like I’ve never seen before,” Warren Doyle, a longtime AT expert and the person who’s hiked the AT more than anyone else ever, told me Wednesday afternoon. Doyle’s estimation takes in the stretches that pass through the towns hit the hardest along the trail. “But that doesn’t mean you close the whole trail down,” he said.

The same seems to hold for the , which takes an alternate path through the Appalachians. “Nothing out of the ordinary—branches, limbs, and a few blowdowns,” the president of the trail’s association, Bob Cowdrick, told me late Wednesday of the trail’s southern half. He hopes to get eyes on the rest of it within two weeks.

But information on trail conditions remains scant, as efforts to save lives and communities continue. In that light, the ATC’s request is reasonable.

Joshua Niven and Amber Adams Niven live just outside of Hot Springs, the Appalachian Trail oasis 275 miles north of the southern terminal. Its famous outfitter has been ripped apart like a box of candy by a black bear.ÌęIt is the Nivens’ favorite place in the world, Joshua tells me, and it will not be a functioning trail town for a while. The safety of its own residents, of course, is paramount now.

But Niven can see the trail from his window, and he seems almost sanguine about its status. He and Amber are chronicle of the trail for Falcon Guides; he ticks through the places in those first 865 miles that may be a problem and names surprisingly few—perhaps the Roan Highlands, where Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina meet, or maybeÌęthe steep embankments leading north out of Hot Springs itself. Like Doyle, he is concerned for the tiny Appalachian towns themselves but suggests workarounds for hikers.

“Saturated trees—that’s always going to be a thing. But I haven’t seen anything that’s catastrophic that a hiker couldn’t navigate,” Joshua said, adding the caveat that there will likely be pockets where destruction is greater. “It might be unpleasant, given how many trees are there,” he said. “What’s the issue with hiking in woods that have trees down?”

And there are, of course, a lot of trees. To put it in perspective, the highest point on the Appalachian Trail is , at 6,644 feet (The entire range tops out at 6,684.) There are many trailheads on the Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental Divide Trail higher than that. This means that the AT rarely exits treeline—that is the essence of its so-called “green tunnel.” It’s constantly passing through terrain where wet ground and even mild winds can clot the trail with a seemingly infinite number of downed trees. That’s the worry.

Betsy Brown is the associate director of Friends of the , an 1,175-mile path that meets the AT atop Kuwohi before extendingÌęeast toward the North Carolina coast. More than a third of the trail is , as employees await reconnaissance on its conditions. So far, one volunteer has been able to hike just two miles near the famous Blue Ridge Parkway, which has been . There were 27 new trees across it. That kind of cleanup will take time to complete.

“The trees down is a huge problem,” says Brown. “But the bigger problem is that, in these more remote places, our volunteer crews are smaller, with vigorous retirees. Having to walk in with chainsaws and fuel is hard. And for now, they’re dealing with their own issues, just trying to get back to normal.”

Indeed, time will be key to reversing the damage—not outright destruction, at least in most places—on the trail. Dan Ryan, who works with land stewards along the AT, outlined an extended process for clearing the trail of downed trees and fixing any sections where running water ripped it asunder.

He told me that, over the next month, the National Forest Service and National Park Service will assess damaged areas and offer a report about what needs to be done where. Only then, Ryan said, can the ATC begin deploying its half-dozen volunteer trail crews to begin work. Restoring every mile, he said, may take years; some of its most beautiful places have been forever changed, as hiker and runner Sarah Baker recently noted at the Walnut Mountain trailhead, an exquisite bit of Appalachia. Ryan worries, too, about the damage so many newly downed trees might have on long-term ecosystem health, from new pests to wildfire risks. But they have to start somewhere.

“Trail clubs are champingÌęat the bit to get out and help,” Ryan said. “It won’t be a challenge of deploying resources, because those are in place, regardless. It’s just a matter of putting them where they need to be—in safe conditions, in the priorities those agencies have dictated to us.”

While these agencies assess damage and determine how to address it, the ATC is advising that hikers—even southbound thru-hikers, with less than 1,000 miles left in their walks—to stay off trail. Visitors will require resources from towns simply trying to survive and rebuild, like Hot Springs. Again, this seems reasonable enough. But I also understand the perspective of Doyle, who sees the trail as an absolute avenue of liberation and is still more than miffed about the ATC’s stance on Covid-19 back in early 2020, when the trail was actually closed.

“It is another liability-informed directive from the ATC,” he told me. “It’s an overreaction.”

Still, even Doyle—perhaps the AT’s most important living evangelist—had to change his plans for the week when he learned how many trees had fallen near his home not far from flood-ravaged Damascus, Virginia, one of the epicenters of AT hiking culture. On Tuesday, he took five new students at his Appalachian Trail Institute for a six-mile hike. I’ve done that walk in Doyle’s weeklong seminar before, and it takes a few easy hours. His students spent six arduous hours climbing over fallen trees.

So on Wednesday, he dropped them off again, and told them to hike two hours in one direction, and then walk back to the car. The damage is extensive, he told me, but it can be overcome. “When they came out of the woods yesterday, they were talking and laughing. They worked as a team, and they learned a lot of important things about each other,” he said, sitting in his car, awaiting their return. “They experienced adversity.”

Doyle knows, of course, that such adversity withers in comparison to what his neighbors are facing just down the mountain road. But he’s still proud to be teaching people to get ready to hike the AT, hopefully next year.

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Brad Smith hiked into Damascus, Virginia, on the Appalachian Trail just as the rain from Hurricane Helene thickened into a torrent.

“The last 6 miles was the worst weather I’ve been outside in, and I’m 49
I could have kayaked off the mountain if I had one,” he wrote in a message. “The trail was a small river. Guessing I was one of the last customers at the Damascus Diner before Laurel Creek took it and the street over.”

More than are dead and many more are missing after Helene carved a 500-mile-long path of devastation through the southeastern United States with 30 people losing their lives in North Carolina’s Buncombe County alone. Among the hardest-hit communities were trail towns in Tennessee, North Carolina, and Virginia that some of the AT’s best-known businesses and trail angels call home.

Drew “Birdman” Glines, an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, rafting guide, and North Carolina local told Backpacker that the “devastation” inflicted on riverside communities was hard to describe.

“Roads and bridges have been completely destroyed, making some areas still completely inaccessible to even emergency vehicles,” he wrote in an email.

While destinations like the Nantahala Outdoor Center, the Western Smokies, Gatlinburg, and Pigeon Ford escaped major harm from the hurricane, other areas were not so lucky. Glines rattled off a list of landmarks affected by the hurricane.

“ in Roan was flooded. Hot Springs was hard hit
as was Hartford,” he wrote. “ is devastated.” The majority of western North Carolina is out of cell service, water, and power, although ‘disaster roaming’ has allowed locals to connect to any functioning network in the wake of the tragedy. The town of Asheville is still largely isolated due to infrastructure damage and washed-out roads.

On Trail When the Hurricane Hit

Smith wasn’t the only hiker caught in the weather. Lisa Woodward was hiking through Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee when the hurricane struck.

“[We] experienced torrential downpours and wind gusts of up to 80 miles per hour or so at almost 6,000 feet elevation,” she wrote in a message. “Had to take a zero on Fri. at TriCorner Knob Shelter to wait out the worst of it. Made it out on Sunday via the Low Gap Trail to Cosby CampGround, where Ken from Discerning Hiker Hostel ‘rescued’ us.”

Mollie Dembek was on trail near Hot Springs when the weather turned.

“I was at Flint Mountain Shelter, north of Hot Springs, NC when it started raining HARD on Tuesday,” she wrote. “I decided to hike the next day to Hemlock Hollow Hostel and Campground in Greeneville, TN the next day to get out of the rain. I am SO GLAD I did. I stayed the night there, warm and dry, but was watching the weather and news the entire time growing more and more anxious,” she said.

Dembek was able to make it to Asheville to stay with a friend. On Saturday, they decided to leave the area. Strangers lent her gas money at a station in Weaverville that was only accepting cash. (“They said it was ‘trail magic,” she recalls. “I absolutely started crying.”)

“They ended up following us over the mountains because we were able to get turn by turn directions from my friend using my Garmin InReach,” she wrote. “I was able to communicate with friends and family using my Garmin and got seven people to safety because of the technology. I was never so grateful to get to Maryville, TN and get a cell signal.”

Hot Springs, North Carolina. My grandfather’s summer mountain pasture was over on Spring Creek, near this lovely little town.

— Anne Margaret Daniel (@venetianblonde)

While locals are still fighting for their lives, other members of the trail community are rallying to support them. Trail Angels like “” Hensley of Erwin, Tennessee are scrambling to support flooded communities in the wake of the tragedy. Matthew “Odie” Norman, a thru-hiker, trail angel, and former owner of the Hiker Yearbook, was in New Jersey for the hurricane but is preparing to drive south to support local trail communities.

Trail Organizations Warn Hikers to Stay Away for Now

Determining when hiking should resume in the southern part of the Appalachian Trail is a sensitive topic. Norman said that “most hikers should not attempt to hike in the south at this time.”

In a statement, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) warned visitors to stay off trail between Springer Mountain (NOBO Mile 0) and Rockfish Gap (NOBO Mile 864.6).

“Over the coming weeks and months, the ATC will be working with the National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, and state and local partners to inventory the damage to the treadway, trailheads, bridges, overnight sites, privies and other A.T. features,” the organization said. “Landslides and falling trees could continue for some time, so we ask volunteers and trail crews to pause work on this section of the Trail and to coordinate closely with regional ATC teams.”

Hensley said that the devastation in trail communities like Damascus and Hot Springs is “dire.”

“These communities are asking us to please stay away
They cannot handle the infrastructure or any people walking into town,” she said. In the event that hikers choose to continue hiking through southern Appalachia and they get into trouble, she adds, emergency services are unlikely to be able to help in a timely fashion.

Hensley said that hikers should stay informed and start making plans once they reach Virginia.

“When people come through the Shenandoah they need to be deciding what they’re going to do,” she said. “But hiking through this area would be ridiculous and it’s going to put lives on the line.”

Norman said he recognizes that as the weeks stretch on, deciding when it’s the right time to hit the trail again could pose a difficult question—and that different hikers could have different answers.

“The hiking community will be walking a tightrope in the next few months. Should hikers continue their hike? Would it be detrimental to the trail towns? What if there’s an emergency and emergency services are already stretched thin?” he said. “But there are other questions: what if hikers have nowhere to go? What if they’re hiking off war, drug addiction, any number of traumatic events? What if they’re hiking to help?”

One thing Norman is certain of: When hikers are able to come and help, they will.

“I can tell you for a fact that I watched hikers assist trail towns in 2020 and they will do it again in 2024,” he said. “It will not be publicized on Facebook, it will not be filmed, it is not done for recognition, it is done because that’s what hikers do.”

Readers looking for guidance and direction around post-hurricane support can find more information from the . Official trail closures are available on the .Ìę

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There’s something about late summer. The last of the snow melts, the summer rains stop, and the air finally begins to cool. In short: it’s the perfect weather for a long hike. Or—if you happen to be a top-tier endurance athlete—for smashing your heroes’ records to smithereens.

Over the last few weeks, trails across the United States have seen some stunning new (FKTs). What’s more, they’ve been rolling out at a pace that’s left our news team scrambling to cover them all. From an astonishing controversial three-hours sprint up the Grand Teton, to a grueling 40-day, 18-hour Appalachian Trail sufferfest, it’s been a fast, fast summer.

The season’s perfect weather—cool, dry, mercilessly free of wildfire smoke in many regions—has helped bolster the rate of new records. But a big part of the uptick may actually be post-pandemic timing.

“There was a during Covid,” said Will Peterson, who set a new FKT on Vermont’s 272-mile Long Trail FKT on September 1. “Some people went back to doing races, but many athletes have stuck around because they got into FKTs during the pandemic and really liked it.”

According to Peterson, FKTs have become more respected over the past few years—which has made them a target for big-name celebrity runners as well as speedy underdogs who would normally eschew traditional competitions.

“In some ways, it’s more accessible and more relatable than running races,” Peterson said. “That’s why I got into it—it’s something anyone can do. You don’t have to have a ton of money or sponsorships to go out and set an FKT.”

Today, more people seem to be chasing long-trail records than ever before, Peterson said. Between the increased awareness and expanded pool of contenders—many of whom have now been training for exactly this sort of objective for several years—it’s perhaps no wonder that record-setting is entering a golden age. Here’s a look at five perfect case studies from this summer.

Brent Herring Fought Hallucinations to Score a Colorado Trail FKT

On August 22, Durango, Colorado-based endurance athlete and skimo racer kicked off FKT season when he stumbled across the finish line of the 500-mile Colorado Trail with a new self-supported record. His time—10 days, 17 hours, and 38 minutes—was about four days faster than the women’s record, which set in 2020.

While popular, the Colorado Trail is no walk in the park. Many hikers need four to six weeks. After all, the distance is only part of the challenge. Much of the route lies above 10,000 feet, and numerous grueling climbs and mountain passes rack up around 90,000 feet in total vertical gain. On his very first day on the trail, Herring suffered from heat exhaustion and nearly quit. A week later, he started , another symptom of extreme fatigue. But he pushed through to the finish, cruising into his hometown just after midnight where his wife—and a large pizza—were waiting.

Anton Krupicka Ran the LA Freeway in Just Over 13 Hours

On August 31, ultrarunner Anton Krupicka practically sprinted the , a 34-mile traverse of the Continental Divide, which he took down in just over 13 hours. The route is as technical as it is long: It includes considerable stretches of fourth- and fifth-class terrain and connects the highest points of Colorado’s Indian Peaks Wilderness and Rocky Mountain National Park. The entirety of the traverse lies above 12,000 feet in elevation.

To prep, Krupicka spent as much time at altitude as possible. “I climbed Longs Peak 30 times over the course of the summer,” he said. “But to be honest, I didn’t think I was going to set the record this year.” He’d initially planned for a July attempt, but by then, the ephemeral streams lacing Colorado’s highcountry he would rely on for hydration had all but dried up. Krupicka knew the unsupported record would be impossible without on-route water.

“I’d pretty much given up,” he said. But a last-ditch reconnaissance mission in August revealed reemerging springs after a few weeks of heavy rain. Krupicka immediately started prepping for a record attempt. On August 31, he went for it—and finished the route in a cool 13 hours, 20 minutes, and 48 seconds, shaving more than three hours off runner Kyle Richardson’s 2018 time.

Will Peterson Broke the Long Trail’s Four-Day Barrier

Over Labor Day weekend, thru-hiker Will Peterson scored the overall FKT on America’s oldest thru-hike: the 272-mile Long Trail in Vermont. He completed the route in just three days, 21 hours, and ten minutes. In doing so, he became the first person to finish the trail in under four days, and beat the previous record by more than six hours. The feat comes about a year after Peterson set the trail’s unsupported record in August of 2023.

For Peterson, the early-September timing was purely related to the Labor-day school break he had: as a third-year medical school student, weekends and holidays are pretty much the only time he has to bust out big multi-day adventures. During the week, he works or studies for eight to ten hours per day, and spends the rest of the time training.

To notch the record, Peterson averaged around 70 miles and up to 22,700 feet of elevation gain per day (which is a lot, even by ultrarunning standards) and relied on a team of 30 pacers and crew members—only about half of whom he knew.

“I put out an appeal to the local running community, saying that I needed help with a supported attempt,” he explained. “About half the people who responded were friends and family members. The rest were total strangers.” But together, they helped him battle debilitating quad pain, long stretches of night running, and total exhaustion to crush his previous record by about 15 hours.

“It was truly a team effort,” he said.

Michelino Senseri Attempted a Controversial FKT on the Grand TetonÌę

On September 2, Idaho-based endurance athlete Michelino Senseri announced that he’d bagged a sub-three-hour speed record on Wyoming’s Grand Teton. In the following days, Fastest Known Time reviewed his claim—and then rejected it.

In their review of his claim, Fastest Known Time noted that Sunseri cut at least one switchback. That means that, while he did climb the Grand in a very fast time, he did not follow the sanctioned route. Because he was essentially competing on a different field of play, his claim was ruled invalid.

His feat is still impressive. It takes most experienced climbers a full day to summit and descend the 13,770-foot peak. The fact that Sunseri was able to do it in just 2 hours, 50 minutes, and 50 seconds speaks to his athleticism and dedicated preparation: he completed more than 40 climbs of the Grand over the course of several years before making his effort. But a few decision-making errors cost him the ultimate triumph.

Tara Dower became the Appalachian Trail’s New Speed QueenÌę

On September 21, just a few minutes to midnight, Virginia-based thru-hiker and endurance athlete Tara “Candy Mama” Dower jogged the final hill to the top of Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. When the clock stopped at 40 days, 18 hours, and 5 minutes, she became the fastest human—woman or man—to complete the Appalachian Trail supported.

Dower ran an average of 54 miles per day to snatch the record from previous FKT-holder Karl Sabbe. She also ate upwards of 10,000 calories each day and woke up at 3:00 AM every morning to stay on pace. It paid off. In a , Dower called the feat “a dream come true.”

“If I’m to be honest I didn’t think it was possible,” she wrote. “However, I had people on my crew who believed in my abilities and pushed me to my limits. That’s all it was.”

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One of the most grueling records in American endurance sports fell late Saturday night in northern Georgia. Tara Dower, a 31-year-old ultrarunner and long-distance hiker born in North Carolina and based in Virginia, reached Georgia’s Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, at 11:53 P.M. She completed the arduous southern thru-hike of the iconic trail, crossing 14 states and 2,197 miles, in 40 days, 18 hours, and 5 minutes. It’s the fastest known time for hiking the iconic trail in either direction.

Her finishing time cleaves approximately 13 hours off the 2018 benchmark set by Belgian runner Karel Sabbe, who in 2018 hiked the trail from south to north. It alsoÌęreturns the overallÌęrecord to a woman for the first time since 2015, when Scott Jurek eclipsed Jennifer Pharr Davis’ then-record by only three hours. What’s even more impressive is that Dower, who goes by the trail name “Candy Mama,” had to come from behind to topple Sabbe’s record after falling off pace during a particularly rainy spell in New England.

“The number of people that have hiked the Appalachian Trail before Tara in less than 50 days is ten, only one of them a woman,” explained Liz Derstine, who set the women’s record for a northbound hike in 2020 at 51 days and joined Dower for a stretch of the trail earlier this week.

“And Tara has done it faster than all of them, including the men,” Derstine added. “This is one of the greatest achievements of all time. It’s huge.”

Statistics aside, what’s most remarkable about Dower’s achievement may be her rapid and unexpected rise through the ranks of distance hikers and runners. Less than a decade ago, when Dower was a student at East Carolina University, she became fascinated byÌęthe Appalachian Trail after idly watching a National Geographic documentary. She graduated in 2016, and the next year she set off northward from Springer Mountain, making it only 80 miles before her grandparents picked her up.

“I had really bad, untreated anxiety, a panic attack on trail,” Dower told me Wednesday morning as she pushed through Great Smoky Mountains National Park. “I vowed not to thru-hike again and was pretty bummed.”

Of course, she did not keep to her vow. I met Dower on the Appalachian Trail back in 2019, when we were both 200 miles into our respective first-time thru-hikes. She and her husband Jonathan had gotten married six months earlier; withÌętrail names “Candy Mama” and “Sheriff,” they were still in a sort of honeymoon glow, doing handstands atop Appalachian balds and beaming for her . The couple did not push for speed during that trek, and they reached Maine in a little more than five months, a perfectly average time.

Dower had seen a clip of Karl “Speedgoat” Meltzer’s 2016 record-setting effort and assumed that wasn’t for her. “He was so tall, so athletic, and I thought he had this perfect endurance body,” she told me. “I couldn’t fathom doing anything close to that.”

Dower’s perspective changed during the pandemic. She moved to Hot Springs, North Carolina, an iconic AT trail town, to work for a guiding service owned by Jennifer Pharr Davis, the earlier record holder. Dower began running the mountains around her, and in 2020 she paced Derstine on two nearby sections during her own FKT attempt on the AT’s northern route. Dower then spent that September racing east across North Carolina on the 1,175-mile Mountains-to-Sea Trail, establishing a new speed record of just over 29 days.

“That felt plenty hard and plenty long. It was a struggle, and I was unhealthy” she said, laughing as she tried to cough up a bug she’d swallowed while moving down the trail. “It didn’t cross my mind to try something else.”

But she soon began mounting an impressive running resume—four ultra victories in 2021, plus a course record on the Devil Dog 100-miler in 2022. She set a new record for the 300-mile Benton MacKaye Trail, often seen as a miniature AT, that year, and then shattered a long-standing women’s benchmark on the 567-mile in a cooperative effort with Derstine.

Along the way, Dower also went viral in the ultra-running world due to a painful encounter with a cholla cactus—while she wore cat ears, no less.

Dower pondered and planned her record-breaking AT attempt for more than a year, but in 2023 she chose to lean into extreme endurance training to prepare her body, rather than rest her legs for the attempt. An overall win in North Carolina’s Umstead 100-miler that summer became her preamble for one of running’s most daunting races, Colorado’s Hardrock 100. Dower finished fourth, seven hours behind one of her inspirations, Courtney Dauwalter.

In fact, Dauwalter’s record-breaking wins last year at the Western States Endurance Run and the Hardrock 100 within a three-week window—followed by her subsequent victory at Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc—inspired Dower to start the AT just a month after the 2024 Hardrock 100.

“A lot of people told me what I shouldn’t do, especially doing Hardrock so close to the AT. But no one’s ever tried it, so I wanted to see if it helped,” said Dower, pausing a playlist of Madonna and Ice Spice to talk. “I knew I would have mountain-racing legs and would be acclimated to 10,000 feet, so I’d have an advantage in Maine. And I felt like I was on Cloud Nine.”

Appalachian Trail guru Warren Doyle told me that one of Dower’s secrets to success was her consistent speed on the trail. On most days she hiked slower than Sabbe’s pace, he said, but she traversed more total miles. “She put in longer workdays,” Doyle explained Friday, just as Dower neared the North Carolina-Georgia border. “I hope this puts it to rest: It’s not about speed. It’s about endurance. It’s not the Fastest Known Time. It’s the Shortest Known Time.”

In recent years, as the popularity of FKT attempts have grown, corporate sponsorships and larger support crews on trail have become de rigueur. Dower, however, kept her posse small, with only her mother, Debbie Komlo, and a hiker she befriended on the AT in 2019, Megan “Rascal” Wilmarth, joining her the entire time. (Multiple other hikers others paced her or arrived at assorted trailheads to offer help, but they came and went.)

Dower and Wilmarth slept in a Ford Transit van nicknamed “Burly,” while Komlo trailed them in her Dodge Durango. They worked relentlessly to get her in bed by 10 P.M. and up at 3 A.M., feeding her upwards of 10,000 calories each day. They also replenished Dower’s massive snack box of, as Komlo put it, “not a lot of healthy stuff” with Rice Krispies Treats, Twizzlers, Gushers. Four times a day, Dower downed a 320-calorie protein shake.

“At stops, we just shoveled food into her face,” Wilmarth told me. “We’d always have a sit-down meal, but, of course, she wouldn’t sit down.”

What’s more, rather than emblazoning Burly with a corporate logo, the rear window of the van listed the 14 states of the AT, which Dower systematically crossed out as she reached each border. More prominent on the window, though, was a call for , a nonprofit that teaches kids through physical education. When Dower reached Springer Mountain, she’d raised $21,000 of her $20,000 goal for the organization.

I spoke with Dower a half-dozen times during her trek. I rarely got the sense she was frustrated, angry, or even in much pain. She laughed a lot, making jokes about the bugs she swallowed or her struggles with the rains of New England and the resulting sores on her feet. She seemed, more or less, like the same lighthearted person I’d met on trail in 2019: Candy Mama, just with a tougher shell. It was inspiring to witness, really, an old friend realizing new potential without forsaking herself in the process..

Endurance athletes often talk about grinding through our favorite activities, the very things we do for fun. I’m as guilty as anyone of these complaints. But as Dower approached Newfound Gap, at the border between Tennessee and North Carolina, it finally struck me that she had instead chosen to glide through this challenge, and toward this astonishing endurance record. She could, however, probably do without swallowing bugs.

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Baxter State Park is a busy place as the fall hiking season draws to a close. The energy in the park is invariably buzzing: families are getting in their last trips before school, leaf-peepers are making the pilgrimage to see the changing foliage, and Appalachian Trail thru-hikers are making their way to the summit of Katahdin. For years, restrictions around the AT’s northern terminus have caused the park to gain notoriety among thru-hikers. For some long-distance hikers bringing their journeys to a close, navigating the park’s crowds and camping reservation system can feel uninviting at best, and like a downright stressful end to the trip of a lifetime at worst.

In 2015, tensions between thru-hikers and park administration came to a head when ultrarunner on the AT and celebrated with his team with a bottle of champagne on the summit of Katahdin. Officials him for consumption of alcohol inside the park, hiking with a group larger than 12, and littering (spraying champagne in the air). The incident kicked off a debate about the commercialization of the outdoors and the park’s relationship with AT hikers.

A few weeks later, I made my way to the northern terminus feeling anxious about . Word on the trail was that the rangers were mad at the example Jurek had set for other long-distance hikers, and that they were strictly enforcing rules to fight back. At that time, Katahdin already had the reputation of being a logistical challenge for long-distance backpackers: standard campsites fill up months in advance, and the park has just one 12-person walkup shelter reserved for thru-hikers. As rangers were up in arms about the regulations, thru-hikers like myself felt entitled after traveling 2,200 miles to make it to Katahdin, and might’ve even considered breaking the park’s rules if the camping reservation process proved difficult to follow.

The scene I found upon my arrival was nothing like my nightmares. The Birches shelter, where thru-hikers can camp, was far from full. And it was actually really easy to follow the rules: My trail partner and I picked up permits for Katahdin before waking at 3 a.m. for a sunrise summit. At the time, my anxieties about finishing my hike at the northern terminus left me wondering how we got here—and even whether there might be a place better-suited to handling the AT’s growing crowds. Katahdin could live without thru-hikers, but could thru-hikers live without Katahdin?

While Baxter State Park itself is home to hundreds of miles of trails, it’s best known for Mt. Katahdin, which sees the majority of traffic within the region. The park faces a unique challenge in that it’s not only the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, but it’s also held in a trust with very specific guidelines surrounding its management. The park’s former owner, Percival P. Baxter, released it for public use in 1931 under an endowment that required limiting vehicle size and the number of campsites within the park. As a result, officials are not allowed to develop new campsites even as the park becomes more popular.

Leah Beck, the Maine Regional Manager for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC), told me that in 2015, officials realized they needed to come up with a plan to balance thru-hikers’ and visitors’ needs with park regulations. While 2015 was the most notable example of the strain between hikers and rangers in the park’s history, every year, a few hikers set a poor example in Baxter State Park by doing things like “stealth camping” in undesignated areas and otherwise ignoring the rules.

One of the ways that officials have monitored unruly hikers is by crowdsourcing information both in Maine and south of the region. Baxter State Park, Search and Rescue members, and the Appalachian Trail Conservancy regularly work together to create awareness about big groups of hikers or known rebels who are headed to Katahdin. Since a monthly meeting was established to address these issues, “we hear very few reports of any summit behavior issues,” said Beck.

In addition to regularly discussing community and hiker concerns in the region, an ATC ranger is stationed at Abol Bridge—the gateway into —to assist hikers looking to find camping. It’s often easier than many thru-hikers imagine, since the thru-hiker shelter seldom fills up. When it does, rangers help hikers find other legal camping options in or near the park

“It’s actually less common than people think for the Birches to be full and for them not to have additional sites at Katahdin Stream or another campground,” said Beck.

Baxter State Park Ranger Bruce White told me that nearly 3,000 thru-hikers came through the park in 2022 compared to about 2,000 in 2015. Yet the park’s rules and regulations remain largely the same.

“As far as restrictions, there really aren’t a whole lot other than we do require them to be in designated campsites,” he said. “
.But I think there’s a little animosity. People feel that they won’t get a site in Baxter Park. And in August that is a possibility.”

Occasionally, the park receives really big groups of thru-hikers, which causes another technical strain on the trail since group sizes are limited to 12 people within the park. Adhering to this regulation forces officials and hikers to collaborate to ensure that the park remains within its legal trust limits.

White added that since 2015, the nearby town of Monson has also made it much easier for hikers to shuttle to and from the park, with several privately-owned businesses like offering rides to reduce the stress of finding a camp spot in park bounds. Still, since Baxter State Park cannot legally change campsites and permits issued to accommodate growing traffic, if hiker numbers keep growing, there will come a point when it will have to turn people away with more regularity.

Interestingly, Katahdin wasn’t always the end point of the AT. When the idea of the Appalachian Trail was born, according to Beck, the original maps Benton MacKaye drew designated Mt. Washington as the northern terminus, with potential extensions or “branch trails.” One of those branches became the 330-mile route between Mt. Washington and Katahdin that hikers tackle today. It wasn’t until four years after that early map that Katahdin was labeled as the northern terminus, and the designation became official in 1928. As of 2024, Mt. Washington is the only northern terminus aside from Katahdin to ever formally be considered.

A benefit of considering an alternate terminus is that there may be fewer camping and summiting restrictions in place, which could alleviate some of the stress of finishing the trail. The ATC suggests that moving the northern terminus to a location with fewer legal limitations could resolve some of the camping and usage issues of Baxter State Park, but wouldn’t solve problems related to hiker behavior.

“Moving the terminus to an area with different management mandates will likely have no impact on the behavior of the very small percentage of AT hikers causing the problem,” said Beck. “There could be fewer restrictions for them to bump up against, depending on where the terminus moves, but the problem behavior will still exist.”

Despite recognizing some of the benefits of an alternative northern terminus, neither the ATC nor Baxter State Park currently has plans in place to advocate for such a monumental change. Doing so would involve obtaining trail rights in areas where they don’t already exist, and working with private landowners to acquire access in non-public areas.

Thru-hikers’ anxieties remain high during peak season and in October, when the park seasonally closes Mt. Katahdin to hiker traffic. Even in optimal conditions, climbing Katahdin involves light bouldering, lugging yourself up iron rungs, and tackling extremely steep terrain. When winter comes, those conditions are generally considered to be unsafe for hikers by Baxter State Park.

Even if authorities decide that a change as drastic as moving the terminus is eventually necessary, that point would be years away at least. The number of hikers on the AT has held steady or even dropped since Covid, suggesting that nothing needs to change yet. But growing interest in one of America’s most beautiful and difficult trails could flip the narrative.

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Hi Tough Love readers! We’re trying something new with this column. I came across this question on , from a woman who’s not sure if she should pressure her husband to finish thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. It’s his lifelong dream, but he’s miserable, and she worries about his mental health if he quits. My heart went out to the couple. I don’t know if they’ll find this response, but maybe the answer will reach someone else in a similar situation. (The post below has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity).

My husband is currently NOBO on the AT and is not enjoying the experience at all. He’s been dreaming of doing the AT since he was about 12 (he’s in his fifties now) and over the years, he has read every book, watched every documentary, done so much research, etc. He’s healthy and is under no time constraints and we are fine financially to cover whatever he needs. But he is miserable. We’ve been married for almost 25 years, so I know him well, and I know that if he quits, he will seriously regret it later and that could lead to some very challenging (if not dangerous) mental health issues. So I want to keep encouraging him to continue.

At the same time, I feel like I’m almost “forcing” him to keep doing something he’s hating. So I’m not sure what the right thing to do is or how best to support him. Finishing the trail would have so many benefits for him, whereas quitting would open the door to a lot of bad things. I’m not sure where the line is between supporting him in being okay with leaving the trail and pushing him to do something I know he’ll be happy with in the end. Does anyone have any experience with this on either side and could offer insight? Or any hikers have ideas of what I could do? Thank you in advance!

Before I ran the Iditarod, I was terrified that I wouldn’t finish. My husband and I had sacrificed so much: years of work, any semblance of routine, and our financial stability, all in pursuit of this goal. Most of all, I thought of the wonderful people who supported me: sponsors and fans of the team who sent letters and bought dog booties and cheered us on every step of the way. I felt like I was gambling years of our lives, and extraordinary amounts of other peoples’ kindness, on a dream thatÌę might not pan out.

Plus, I had a second fear: that after all that exhausting, extraordinary effort, if I didn’t finish the Iditarod, I wouldn’t be able to rest until I did. And I was tired! I wanted to rest. It wasn’t that I was averse to running the race a second time. But if I did, I wanted it to be for the experience alone; not because my life felt unfinished without it.

And so, as we drove to the opening banquet, I asked my husband to not let me quit. As long as the dogs were happy, I told him, he should pressure me to keep going. I assumed he’d be happy to oblige. But he didn’t answer for a long time. He kept his eyes on the road.

The longer we sat in silence, the more nervous I felt.

“It’s not up to me,” he said finally.

“I know,” I said. But I also knew that I wouldn’t let myself stop if he asked me not to. We’d prepared everything together. It felt like our race, not just mine.

He shook his head firmly now. “I don’t want that to be my role. If you want to scratch, that’s not a choice you’d make lightly. I’m going to support whatever you choose. I want you to know I’m always on your side.”

Right now, you’re in the same position that my husband was imagining (and dreading). You want to be on your husband’s side—but which side is that? The side he’s on now, or the side of his imagined future self?

Here’s some mushing wisdom: never, ever scratch from a race right after you reach a checkpoint. That’s when you’re depleted. You’re freezing. You’re not thinking clearly. You should get yourself back to baseline, or as close to it as you can. Care for your dogs. Eat. Warm up. Above all, sleep. Let the clock run. And only when you’re full, dry, and rested should you approach the question of continuing.

When does your husband most want to quit? Is it while he’s hiking? At night? When he wakes up in his tent? The times that he fantasizes most about quitting are exactly when he should avoid making that decision. So when he talks to you about , assure him that he can, but now’s not the time to do it. Do his feet hurt? Is he covered in mosquito bites? Figure out his limiting factors, and address them first. Get him a hotel room in town, where he can soak in a hot bath and take a few days off. Let his body rest before his mind has to decide.

Once he’s rested, does he still want to quit? If so, see if he’s open to shortening his goal distance, rather than stopping outright. Maybe he doesn’t need to finish the whole dang trail at the summit of Mount Katahdin. He could, for example, aim for the thousand-mile mark instead. Or he could try to cross the border into the next state, then reconsider stopping. Looking back, there’s a huge difference between “I quit the AT,” and “I hiked 1,000 miles of the AT” or even “I walked across three states.” Reaching a smaller goal—that’s still a goal!—gives him an accomplishment he can tell people about, and a story that matters.

And of course, once he achieves that feat, he can choose to continue too. One hundred more miles. One more state line. Then, when he gets there, he can quit with pride—unless he chooses, once again, to keep going. Step by step, goal by goal, with countless little victories along the way.

Finally, he should know that if he quits outright, that’s okay too. But more importantly, if his mental health is truly precarious, then working on that should be his—and your—primary goal. Hiking the AT isn’t a band-aid for mental illness, and finishing the trail might be a triumph, but it’s not a short- or long-term solution.

I’m incredibly proud and grateful that I finished the Iditarod. But my primary fear about dropping out—that doing so would mean letting people down—proved unfounded. A few hundred miles into the race, a musher I admired made the hard choice to scratch. I saw how devastated she was—and I also saw the outpouring of love and support she received for making such a difficult choice. It touched my heart deeply. I realized that the folks who supported us athletes did so because they cared about our journeys, our adventures, and our best judgments, not just our finish lines. I felt, too, deep admiration for her choice to scratch. It wasn’t a weak decision, I saw. It was a brave one.

I still desperately wanted to finish, but not because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t. It took risking the heartbreak of failure to realize that as long as I cared for myself and my team, I wouldn’t be letting anyone down—including myself. I hope that, with your help, your husband can reach the same clarity.

If you or a loved one are experiencing a mental health crisis, you may call or text 988 for 24/7, free and confidential support from the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. For more information, visit .

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In late May, published her memoir about hiking the Appalachian Trail. A week later, Curtis, who is also known by her trail name “Dragonsky,” completed the final leg of the 2,190-mile pathway.

Her journey had begun nearly four years earlier. In 2020, Curtis—unemployed after COVID-19 ravaged the veterinary office where she worked, her longtime struggles with mental health then spiraling—had heard about the iconic American footpath during a stroll in a New York state park. The idea of walking from Georgia to Maine filled her with wonder and intrigue, providing a sense of possibility during that deeply bleak spell. But as she began to explore the logistics of a thru-hike, the barriers to entry for a Black queer woman who had long struggled with suicidal ideation and hospitalization seemed immense, from encountering potential racism to affording the privilege of not working. After solidifying a clutch of sponsorships and a gig writing for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, Curtis, then 28, set out from Springer Mountain in February 2021, finishing the bulk of the trail by that November.

shares the story not only of the trail but the travails that led Curtis to it. One of the most unflinching and candid Appalachian Trail memoirs in recent memory, it frames the trail as a kind of existential test, a gauntlet by which you can decide if you want to carry on—northward to Maine, onward with life. And so, when Curtis, now 32, knocked out those final miles just after releasing Pack Light in May, it was its own kind of happy ending, a proof of a life sustained and enhanced by going outside.

OUTSIDE: Your journey on the Appalachian Trail began, at least in part, with a question you posted to Facebook that generated lots of attention: “Should I be concerned as a Black woman hiking in the South?” Now that you’ve finished it, how would you have responded to your own question?
I would not do the AT again. It’s not the trail where I feel safest. I would section hike it, yes, but I don’t feel safe hiking through Eastern Tennessee, Georgia, or southern Virginia. But the Continental Divide Trail is the best experience of my life, and I want to do it again and again and again. I remember starting in East Glacier, Montana, and I was sitting around with all these queer thru-hikers, people of color, international people. People were looking out for me on the CDT—‘Watch out for Lincoln, watch out for this town.’ They had my six. And in New Mexico, people were hugging me, telling me I’m beautiful, giving me water. There is such a difference between the West and the history of the Appalachians—the heavy Civil War history, the history of enslavement, the Confederacy. On the AT, I would still be concerned about my safety.

How early in your Appalachian Trail hike did you first feel threatened?
I was setting up my tent within the first two weeks, and a white man comes over to me and says, “How can you say the word ‘n___’ and I can’t?” I don’t know who this man is, and he immediately starts talking about how he has a Black niece. I was flabbergasted, mouth ajar. He said, “I just want to have this conversation, because you’re the first Black person I saw on trail.” And then I was featured in the Appalachian Trail’s magazine, and someone saw it. “I know who you are,” he said, immediately just mad. “You’re the racist that writes about racism, and you get handouts.” And another white hiker was in the corner, and he says, “I understand what it’s like to be you, because I am white and poor.” I went off, because everyone in this room had just said they were allies. But they were sitting in silence, looking at me like I’m the villain for speaking up.

You have suggested compiling a for hiking, similar to the “Bible of Black travel” that guided folks to safe resources during Jim Crow. And on the Continental Divide Trail, you would sometimes leave comments on the FarOut app advising people of color not to visit certain places. What would a Green Book look like on trail?
On the AT, I was very careful about what I was writing in FarOut or trail registers. That was my first hike, so I was not as outspoken. When I saw one hostel with a Confederate flag, though, I said that. But I wasn’t like “Hey, BIPOC LGBTQIA, this is a good place. Look out for this!” But I got injured in 2022 on the CDT, so I thought about how I could create awareness on trail. I was also hiking with two trans folks, so I thought I needed to take a stand, to use my platform to say what these towns are like. The things they have to think about, I don’t have to worry about. People were looking out for me, so I wanted to look out for people.

I show up on trail. I hike. But, as an individual, I can only do so much. I have a platform. I can call out companies, like talking about access to gear. But looking at the Green Book and what it was used for in the past, I thought, “How can I create change?” There are places that are sketch. But there are places like Woods Hole and Angel’s Rest in Virginia and The Notch Hostel in New Hampshire where you have real allies. I don’t want people to get into a situation like I got into—tired and hypothermic, at a hostel with a Confederate flag and people following me. “OK, what do I do now?” The Green Book is a project that would entail me going back through the trails, but I feel very passionate about it. I want other people who look like me to have good experiences, to feel welcomed. I want to say, “Here are safe places, people who will really advocate for you.” We’re not going to continue a cycle of silence.

Your hiking life also began with this childlike wonder at the very possibility of walking from Georgia to Maine. You’ve done that now, as well as the CDT. So why do you hike right now?
The mountains show me that I want to live. Any time I take a step on a mountain, I know there’s a drop right here. But I am being cautious, because I am choosing to live. That’s what mountains and the AT really taught me about life: When I’m feeling depressed and I have suicidal ideation, I think, “Go to the mountains. If you’re standing on the edge, you’re not going to want to fall off that ridge.” When I started the AT, I thought it was about representation for me. That’s still true, but I had to dig deeper into myself to say, “What do I want?” It was thru-hiking that first taught me that I really want to live. No matter what, I can run to the mountains, scream, throw rocks, hug trees, stick my face in the river, dance. That makes me choose life.

The Appalachian Trail Conservancy helped fund your first hike after a staff member saw that first Facebook post about race. You’ve talked about how much that changed your life and sense of possibility. Are these direct diversity grants, scholarships, and gigs the fastest way to boost representation on trail?
The Appalachian Trail Conservancy really gave me wings to fly. I’d just lost my job. It was COVID. I was mourning my job. I didn’t know how life would make the way to hike. But I felt heard. And that is how you make change, pouring your money into representation of people you don’t normally see on trail—queer people, people of color. If you want to see representation, you have to meet people halfway.

But I wouldn’t say it’s the fastest route. I don’t think you can just throw money at anything and fix it. It’s more in combination with education about representation. I wouldn’t have gotten on trail if I hadn’t researched if Black people actually did this and come across and . Seeing someone that looks like you in conjunction with funding in conjunction with reflecting [diversity with] your staff. I grew up in north New Jersey, so this was white people shit. I was even in Atlanta last week, and people were still like, “Black people don’t hike!” I do.

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In a fast-changing world, the permanence of our favorite hiking trails is comforting. Apart from the occasional closure, reroute, or , most of us could go back and hike the same miles again and again, and enjoy the enduring views. But decades from now, will that still be true?

With the help of the National Park Service’s historical photo archive, we’ve collected nine photos of popular American trails taken between 1930 and 1996. You’ve probably heard of most, if not all, of these well-visited spots. See if you can recognize what they looked like back in the day; you’ll want to pay attention to geological formations, the skyline, and the few clues we’ve offered you. Scroll to the end for the answers.

1.

This trail is a household name in the US and around the world, with more than 10,000 people having finished it. But it wasn’t always that way, especially in the decades before the hike enjoyed the amenities it does now.

2.

This burly hike is the most straightforward way up one of the National Parks’ most iconic peaks, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Hikers who brave it still need to keep an eye on the weather and watch out for snow that could send them tumbling down a steep drop.

3.

Want to hike this popular trek in the desert southwest? Hope you’re ready to get wet. Whether you do it as a dayhike or an overnight, you’ll spend miles wading up a river and marveling at the geological scenery.

4.

This might as well be America’s national hike. In the 100 years since construction began on it, it’s drawn millions of day-, section-, and thru-hikers, and has become a byword for finding yourself.

5.

As you might guess from the retro-casual apparel, this hike is more of a stroll than a true wilderness experience. But the wildlife—which is bigger and toothier than most national parks’—is enough to capture your attention.

6.

It’s still possible to traverse this iconic, steep trail by mule. But today most visitors who brave it carry their own gear, with a few hardy souls attempting to run it.

7.

Look hard at this black-and-white snapshot, and it may begin to look familiar: Some of the most famous scenery in one of America’s most beloved national parks is visible in this mid-trail picture.

8.

You’ll need a permit nowadays to hike this famous high-country trail, which crosses through three different national parks over its span.

9.

All right, so it’s not technically a hike. But this ultra-classic (and ultra-ultra-popular) lookout is accessible by a number of different trails. (Start early, and carpool if you can.)

Answers

1. Pacific Crest Trail. In this undated archival photo, hiker Dick Kerns poses next to Tunnel Falls on an Oregon section of the trail which doubles as a beloved local dayhike, the Eagle Creek Trail.
2. Keyhole Route, Longs Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park. The rock formation that gave one of RMNP’s premier hikes its name is visible in this undated archival photo.
3. The Narrows, Zion National Park. A group of hikers enter the Narrows via Deep Creek in this 1955 snapshot.
4. Appalachian Trail. It’s a little hard to tell where on the AT photographer Richard Frear snapped this undated photo, but it’s a safe bet that hikers are still enjoying that scenery today.
5. Anhinga Trail, Everglades National Park. This 0.8-mile boardwalk, pictured in 1971, traverses a freshwater sawgrass marsh. A variety of birds—as well as alligators—are common sights there.
6. Bright Angel Trail, Grand Canyon National Park. Bright Angel was considerably quieter in 1930, when this photo was snapped.
7. West Rim Trail, Zion National Park. Visible from left to right, eagle-eyed viewers will spot the Great White Throne, Angels Landing, Gothic Arch, and East Temple, all snapped in 1932.
8. John Muir Trail. The alpine lake and peaks of Evolution Basin tower over the trail, which runs concurrently with the PCT at the spot, in this 1976 photo from Kings Canyon.
9. Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park. Back in 1996 when this photo was snapped, anyone could drive to the top; starting in 2019, however, the national park began requiring reservations. Yet another reason to hoof it.

Lead Image: A snowy scene high on the Pacific Crest Trail

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What is a national monument, anyway? That’s what I kept asking myself as I rode a mountain bike down a rocky trail on sedimentary layers in the Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument. I was rapidly approaching a lower point on the northern rim of the canyon, which is more than a mile deep at some sections. I stopped 2,000 feet above the bottom of the gorge and watched the Colorado River curve through steep cliffs.

The scenery is stunning, the landscape huge
so how is it different than a national park? Turns out, not all that much, at least from a visitor’s standpoint. Most national monuments protect vast landscapes of environmental, cultural, or scenic importance. Ditto national parks.

The real difference is how they’re created: national parks are voted into place by Congress, national monuments are designated by presidents via the Antiquities Act. With monuments there’s less red tape, but sometimes more drama (see Bears Ears, below). Also, while many national monuments are managed by the park service, some are managed by the U.S. Forest Service and others are run by the Bureau of Land Management.

There are 133 national monuments scattered across the U.S., usually no less magnificent than their more famous national-park cousins. Sometimes they have fewer amenities (many lack visitor centers, some have no paved roads), and most of them have fewer crowds. Traveling more than 100 miles around last May, I never saw anyone outside of my own group. That would not have been the case in Grand Canyon National Park. Meanwhile the adventure was just as epic.

I’ve gathered 11 of the greatest national monuments in the country, from green mountains on the East Coast to canyons full of cliff dwellings in the Southwest, to fields of wildflowers on the West Coast. Most of these monuments aren’t famous, but all deserve to be on your bucket list.

Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument, Maine

Katahdin Woods and Waters encompasses 87,563 acres of remote mountains, rivers, and backcountry ponds in northern Maine, sustaining healthy populations of moose and black bears. The monument sits to the east of Baxter State Park, where the Appalachian Trail finishes on top of 5,269-foot Mount Katahdin.

While this neighbor park hosts the last, most difficult gasp of the “A.T.,” Katahdin Woods and Waters has 30 miles of the (a northerly variant that begins here and extends through New Brunswick, Quebec, and a ferry route to Newfoundland), along with a tumultuous portion of the East Branch of the Penobscot River, which flows for 25 miles south through the monument, dropping more than 200 feet in its first 10 miles in a series of waterfalls. Cross-country skiing is popular during the winter; hiking rules in the summer.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: If you want a quick taste of the monument, the 17-mile Katahdin Loop Road offers short hikes and grand scenic overlooks. But to truly experience Katahdin Woods and Waters, tackle the 10-mile round-trip hike to the summit of via a portion of the Appalachian Trail. You’ll have to ford the thigh-deep Wassataquoik Stream and climb almost 1,600 feet, but 360-degree views and a historic fire tower reward you at the 1,942-foot summit. The monument is primitive, without a lot of developed facilities (nor any flush toilets). There are , but you need reservations.

Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, Utah

Sandwiched between Bryce Canyon and the Grand Canyon, gets its name from the series of plateaus that descend between those two massive and scenic ditches. Not to be outdone by its more famous neighbors, which cover 36,000 and 1.2 million acres respectively, Grand Staircase is nearly 1.9 million acres of colorful sandstone canyons, cliffs, and arches.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Connecting in the Dry Fork area of Grand Staircase-Escalante makes for the perfect entry into this unique terrain. It’s a three-mile loop, but plan on a whole afternoon exploring the narrow red- and purple-walled gulches. Some of the passages in Spooky get tight, and there is mandatory scrambling, but no technical climbing is required. If you want to explore more technical canyons, has been guiding canyoneering trips in the monument for more than two decades, and offers a rotating roster of full-day adventures packed with rappels (from $225 per person).

Bears Ears National Monument, Utah

Named after twin buttes rising from the desert floor of Southeastern Utah, has seen more than its share of debate since it was established by President Obama in 2016. The 1.36-million-acre monument is a place of scenic glory and cultural significance: massive red rock cliffs and canyons abound, and a bevy of Native American historical artifacts, from cliff dwellings to pictographs, have been found here.

Today, the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, Navajo Nation, Hopi Tribe, Ute Indian Tribe, and Zuni Tribe all participate in stewardship of Bears Ears as a sacred place. In 2022, the Biden administration signed an agreement that gives those five tribes input into management of the area, and the five Tribes of the Bears Ears Commission (the Commission) and federal agencies released a this year. As for recreation, the Indian Creek Unit, in the northern section of Bears Ears, is a mecca for climbers, who come for the seemingly endless number of cracks in the red rock cliffs. Hikers and bikers follow trails and view artifacts across the region.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Bears Ears holds world-class climbing. Sadly, I’ve never climbed in the area (it’s on my list), but I’ve bike-packed through the monument and was awestruck by the sheer volume of towering rock. There are thousands of climbing routes, though not many for beginners. Supercrack Buttress has a high percentage of classic climbs, including the historic Supercrack of the Desert, a sustained and strenuous 5.10+. Consider a full-day guided climbing adventure in Indian Creek with the Moab-based (from $220 per person).

To see some of the cultural artifacts within Bears Ears, hike an easy through Mule Canyon where the payoff is access to a series of cliff dwellings tucked into a sandstone overhang. The most notable home has been dubbed “house on fire,” because of the fire-red-toned rock that forms its ceiling. The hike itself is relatively flat as it traverses the dry gorge, with some optional scrambling up sandstone slopes at the end.

There are three designated campgrounds in Indian Creek, all first-come, first-served ($15 a night). has 10 sites tucked into mushroom-shaped outcroppings. Always bring plenty of water; there’s no potable water at any of the established campgrounds.

Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming

Created by Theodore Roosevelt in 1906, was the first national monument in the country, and it’s still one of the most distinctive. The center of the monument is Devils Tower, a solitary butte rising almost 900 feet from the prairie. The monument is not large, at just 1,346 acres, and there are only five hiking trails within the designated area, and all can be combined for a full day of hiking. Tackling only the will give you a good sense of the landscape, as it delivers views of the massive tower and the more serene Belle Fourche River Valley.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Climbers have been drawn to Devils Tower for many decades. Parallel cracks divide the formation into large hexagonal columns, and create a variety of crack and corner climbs for experienced traditional climbers. Routes range from 5.7 to 5.13. Durrance, a 500-foot, six-pitch 5.7, is widely considered the easiest way to the summit. Register your climb at the trailhead to Tower Trail, the approach to the monolith, and heed the June voluntary climbing closure, which was implemented out of respect for Native American tribes associated with the tower, which perform ceremonies at the tower during the month. has 46 first-come, first-served sites under cottonwood trees ($20 per night).

Dinosaur National Monument, Colorado and Utah

preserves 210,000 acres of western Colorado and eastern Utah, where the mighty Green and Yampa rivers converge, creating 2,500-foot-deep canyons. Within the monument are whitewater rapids, red rock canyons, dinosaur fossils encased in rock, and 1,000-year-old petroglyphs and pictographs left by the Fremont people. You can get a sense of the monument by car; Harpers Corner Road is a 32-mile one-way scenic road with views of the Green and Yampa rivers.

If you have a 4WD, peel off the paved road and head to the Echo Park area, the monument’s signature landscape where the Yampa flows into the Green and the conjoined river wraps around the massive Steamboat Rock. There’s a picnic table if you just want to take in the view, or you can camp (see below).

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Raft the Green River through the heart of the monument. The classic run starts at the Gates of Lodore in Colorado and ends at the Split Mountain Campground in Utah. It’s a class III trip, appropriate for families. runs four-day trips with catered meals (from $1,499 per adult). There are six established campgrounds, all of which are located on either the Green or Yampa rivers, within the monument. has a small campground with 22 sites, first-come, first-served ($10 per site).

Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument, Arizona

While Grand Canyon National Park encompasses arguably the most dramatic swath of “the great ditch,” the lays claim to more than 1 million acres in northern Arizona, including the less crowded and still awe-inspiring northern stretch of the Grand Canyon. The terrain is a mix of Mojave desert, ponderosa pine forest, broad plateaus, and deep canyons.

Just traveling through the monument is an adventure, as there are no paved roads, only 4WD routes and hiking trails. Don’t come looking for a visitor center or developed campgrounds. You’re on your own. I spent a few days driving ATVs, biking, trail running, and camping in and around this monument and was amazed at the views and solitude.

The roads in this monument are rough. This is legitimate 4×4 terrain, so always bring spare tires, and if you’re not comfortable with that sort of travel, this may not be the monument for you. There are others!

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: If you have a high-clearance 4WD, Grand Canyon-Parashant offers nearly limitless options. Try the 80-mile trek to , which passes through ponderosa pine forest and fields of grazing cattle on its way to a three-sided perch on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, with views of Sanup Plateau, Burnt Canyon, and Surprise Canyon. The dirt road turns to clay as it approaches the Grand Canyon, which can be impassable after a heavy rain. There are a number of primitive campsites along the rim of the canyon; only pitch a tent in sites with existing fire rings.

There aren’t a lot of designated hiking trails within the monument, but check out the six-mile out-and-back up , which leads to a doozy of a view of the Grand Canyon. The trail follows an old roadbed up the side of the 7,072-foot peak crossing over chunky, volcano rock towards the summit. On a clear day you can see Mt. Charleston, outside of Las Vegas, on the horizon, as well as the western end of the Grand Canyon.

Colorado National Monument, Colorado

High on the Colorado Plateau, near Grand Junction, the 20,533-acre could be considered a mini Grand Canyon, as the red rock canyons the monument encompasses are full of towers and rock formations, like the puffy-looking Coke Ovens pinnacles. You can glimpse much of the monument from the 23-mile Rim Rock Drive, which runs along the edge of the canyon with near-constant high views.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Climbing Independence Monument, a sandstone spire that rises 450 feet from the heart of the canyon, might be the signature adventure in the monument. A number of different routes ascend the tower, most of them four to five pitches, followed by a double rappel to descend. The 5.8 Otto’s Route is the classic line. leads day trips up Independence (from $375 for the first climber). has 80 sites, with half first-come, first-served, while the other half can be reserved in advance ($22 a night).

A number of short hikes begin at Rim Rock Drive. is my favorite, as the 1.5-mile out and back leads through some impressive sandstone outcroppings, including the Devils Kitchen, a large natural opening surrounded by towering upright boulders.

Misty Fjords National Monument Wilderness, Alaska

is quintessential Alaska: 2.2 million acres of rainforest, coastal cliffs, and narrow fjords where glacier-carved rock walls rise 3,000 feet from the sea. In this monument, part of the Tongass National Forest in Southeast Alaska, waterfalls drop directly into the bay, while backcountry lakes and streams are surrounded by thick vegetation. Most people experience Misty Fjords via a scenic flight or boat cruise from nearby Ketchikan, but kayakers have free rein.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Kayaking is the best way to explore this monument, with its complex shores and many secluded coves. The Behm Canal, a natural channel of calm water carved by glaciers, slices through the heart of Misty Fjords like a highway for boaters. On the east end of the canal, Walker Cove and Punchbowl Cove, where 3,000-foot granite walls rise from the edges of the water, are popular boater destinations with day hikes leading from rocky beaches.

Punchbowl Lake Trail is a two-mile out and back that climbs through the rainforest to a small lake with its own granite walls forming a ring around it. runs a six-day guided kayaking trip into Misty Fjords that will have you paddling up to 12 miles a day, hiking to interior lakes, and camping on remote beaches ($1,800 per person).

Thirteen public-use scattered across the monument can be reserved in advance (from $45 a night), as can four first-come, first-served shelters. Punchbowl Lake Shelter, in Punchbowl Cove, might be the best of the lot, as itsits on the edge of a small lake, with access to a canoe.

Carrizo Plain National Monument, California

No cliffs, no caves, no canyons
 is just a massive expanse of rolling grassland, 15 miles wide and 50 miles long, butting up against the 3,000- to 4,000-foot Temblor Mountains in Southern California. This stretch might sound ho-hum until you realize that the vast prairie is absolutely popping with colorful wildflowers in the spring.

The Nature Conservancy, which worked to protect the Carrizo Plain, acquiring the land and partnering with the BLM and California Department of Fish and Game to manage it, compares the landscape to that of the Serengeti because it’s home to California’s highest concentration of threatened and endangered species, including the pronghorn antelope and San Joaquin kit fox. The centerpiece of the monument is Soda Lake, a normally dry alkali lake bed that occasionally fills with water after heavy rains andÌę shimmers white with deposits of sulfates and carbonates after that water has evaporated. It looks like a circle of baking soda surrounded by tall grasses and wildflowers.

(Photo: Courtesy Gaia GPS)

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Soda Lake sits near the north entrance of the monument, and you can see it via the 2.1-mile Overlook Hill Trail. But for a real sense of the scope of these plains, bring your gravel bike and pedal a big loop through the rolling hills past the remnants of former ranches, and look for elk and antelope on the prairie. Show up in spring and you may be greeted by colorful fields of poppies, goldfields, and white and yellow tidy tips that stretch toward the horizon. Traffic is minimal, and you can put together a variety of different rides. A great one is a 60-mile all-day adventure on mixed surfaces, combining Elkhorn Road, Panorama Road, Soda Lake Road, and Simmler Road, covering the heart of the monument and with views of Soda Lake.

Bandelier National Monument, New Mexico

Protecting the traditional lands of roughly 23 tribal nations, is worth visiting from a cultural perspective alone. But the landscape is also remarkable, as the 33,677-acre monument is packed with mesas, canyons and a federally designated wilderness with 70 miles of backcountry hiking. Ancient culture and dramatic terrain mesh in the monument’s cliff dwellings, homes that the Ancestral Pueblo people built directly into the sides of rock walls.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Take your time and explore the archeological sites in Bandelier. The 1.4-mile winds through a series of small alcoves carved in the soft rock walls that you can access via ladders, and into the ruins of large stone houses. From the Pueblo Loop, tack on a one-mile out-and-back side trip to the Alcove House, a massive carved niche that was once home to 25 people. You can reach it by climbing a series of steps and ladders.

(Photo: Courtesy Gaia GPS)

has 57 campsites, 16 of which are first-come, first-served, while the rest can be reserved up to six months in advance ($20 per site).

San Juan Islands National Monument, Washington

Not to be confused with the San Juan Islands National Historic Park, the protects 1,000 acres of the Puget Sound islands, covering a contrasting mix of green-forested coves, sheer bluffs, rocky beaches, and lighthouses, all managed by the BLM and scattered throughout the larger 450-island San Juan archipelago adjacent to the Canadian border.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: The monument is scattered throughout the Puget Sound, so you need a boat to do it justice. It’s tough to decide where to focus your energy in the San Juans, but Patos Island should be on your itinerary. This 200-acre spit of land is managed by the BLM in conjunction with Washington State Parks, and has beaches, hiking trails, a historic lighthouse, and established (from $12 a night). It’s also the northernmost point in the Lower 48.

If you want to explore more of the monument, offers a variety of kayak tours throughout the San Juan Islands. Check out their five-day expedition that features amping on small islands and peeping at orcas from the belly of a boat (from $1,199 per person).

How to Be a Conscientious Traveler

National monuments often lack the same infrastructure as national parks, which means they may not have the staff on-site to help with questions, clean up campsites, or offer guidance. It’s super important to practice principles in these monuments, and be aware of the cultural importance of the landscape. Many of these properties encompass the historical territory of Native Peoples and contain artifacts that are important to their heritage. Be kind and respectful, leave what you find, and whenever you have the opportunity, use local guides and purchase items from local shops.

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national parks columnist. In his opinion, national monuments represent the best of America’s public lands: with all the beauty of national parks, but none of the crowds.

For more by Graham Averill, see:

The 5 Best National Park Road Trips in the U.S.

The 9 Best Gateway Towns to U.S. National Parks

And the 11 Least Visited National Parks Are


The 10 Best Backpacking Trails in Our National Parks

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Free dog treats are usually a welcome gift for pet owners—but a recent sabotage attempt in Pennsylvania marks a notable exception to that rule. At least a dozen fish hooks were found embedded in treats along the Appalachian Trail yesterday, in an apparent attempt to injure or kill unsuspecting pets. Officials made the discovery in the Lehigh Gap area near Slatington, Pennsylvania, and immediately issued a warning via social media.

“All treats that were found have been removed, and authorities have been notified,” wrote the Lehigh Gap Nature Center in a recent . “Hikers with pets should use caution on the Appalachian Trail around the Lehigh Gap.”

The post was shared more than 7,000 times in 24 hours, and Lehigh Gap Nature Center disabled the comment section after conversations became heated.

In a , Chad Schwartz, executive director of the nature center, said this part of the trail sees heavy traffic this time of year. He expressed surprise at the apparently malicious intent behind the planted dog treats and said this is the first time any such activity has occurred within the Lehigh Gap Nature Center. He remains hopeful that this will be an isolated event.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time that malicious booby traps have been set along the Appalachian Trail. In 2016, a hiker discovered a along the Pennsylvania State Game Lands 305 section of the Appalachian Trail. The board seemed to have been set as a trap to harm visitors to the area. In 2019, in Wilkes-Barre, a different part of Pennsylvania, when he rode into a rope, which had apparently been slung across the trail to flip cyclists.

This also isn’t the first case of trailside attacks targeting pets. In 2022, hikers discovered hidden along a trail in Idaho. In previous years, poisoned meatballs, contaminated ground beef, and other forms of bait have taken out pets in nearby areas.

Right now, the Pennsylvania Game Commission is keeping an eye out for further incidences of fish-hook-filled dog treats, and authorities are actively searching for the perpetrators. No dogs have been reported injured at this time. They’re encouraging anyone with additional information to report it to 1-888-PGC-WILD.

In the meantime, locals are encouraged to keep pets on the leash—and to regard any freebie treats with caution.

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