backpacking – Emily Takes a Hike

January 23, 2023April 30, 2023

10 Tips for Backpacking Beginners

After stepping away from my blog for a year and a half, I’m back and excited to start writing again. I’ve missed it, but I needed time and space to think about changing directions. I’m still maintaining my monthly commitment to hike at least one trail I’ve never hiked before, and I’m proud to share that my current streak stands at 64 consecutive months. It’s an accomplishment that humbles me as much as it inspires me to keep this tradition going for as long as it continues to feel more like a passion than an obligation. I thoroughly loved documenting every new hike throughout the first few years of this journey. When I think about the support and empowerment I’ve received from loved ones and strangers who’ve read about my experiences, I feel deeply grateful. There’s so much power in community, and I feel constantly blessed by the time and attention others have invested in my journey.

With that in mind, I’ve decided to shift my focus away from writing about my isolated experiences when hiking a new trail for the first time. I’m sure I’ll still do some of that, but I feel like these snapshots have become part of a much larger picture. I spent a lot of time thinking about this while I took a break from writing. When I started this adventure, I’d barely hiked at all and just wanted to see a little more of the wild world around me. Now, I’ve completed about a dozen multi-day backpacking trips (including my first one alone) and regularly lead guided group hikes on a volunteer basis. I’ve learned so much along the way, and it’s time for me to start sharing that knowledge more categorically. Encouraging others to explore new trails will always be my primary goal for this blog, but I think my experience (or the lack of it, in many cases) has put me in a position to help other hikers enjoy their time on trails safely and responsibly.

The jump from day hiking to backpacking can be a daunting hurdle for any first-timer. When I wanted to take this leap, I summoned my friend, Megan, who shared my backpacking inexperience and blind ambition. We were a perfect storm. I learned more from my first backpacking trip than I have from the combined experience of every backpacking trip since then. That’s a testament to the mistakes we made, despite completing our intended journey and having a surprisingly good time while doing it. Making mistakes on your first backpacking trip is inevitable. Keep an open mind, and remember that comfort and preparedness can be as variable as the environment you’re hiking through. However, I faced the repercussions of many avoidable mishaps on my first backpacking trip, and hindsight has beckoned me to share the following advice with new backpackers.

This photo is from one of my favorite new-to-me hikes (and the longest at 41 miles) throughout this journey: Rae Lakes loop in Kings Canyon National Park

Having the Right Gear Matters

First and foremost, having the right gear doesn’t necessarily mean owning the right gear. The cost of buying backpacking gear accumulates quickly and mercilessly, and choosing gear that’s appropriate for your environment and personal preferences can feel really overwhelming. As a beginner, you may be tempted to make it work with the day-hiking or camping gear you already have, like Megan and I did. While there’s plenty of gear that will work for either purpose, you’ll feel a lot more comfortable (physically and otherwise) when carrying items from the following categories that are specifically designed for overnight treks: backpack, tent, and sleeping combo (bag and pad).

When considering backpacking essentials (REI has a great packing list), that trio might contribute more to your experience than the rest of your gear combined. Feel free to argue with me about that in the comments though. As fate would have it, those are also among the most expensive items a backpacker can buy. Before committing to expensive new gear, explore alternative options, like borrowing from a friend or buying used gear. Many outdoor retailers offer rental equipment, and keep in mind that your preferences may change as you gain more experience. Choosing your backpacking gear can feel like dating, in a lot of ways. You may find your perfect match on your first outing, but it’s usually smarter to cycle through some options before committing.

How You Pack Your Gear Matters

I have never felt as physically sore as I did after my first backpacking trip, and my non-hiking exercise of choice is boxing. In pursuit of the strength and stamina required to make long days and tough miles on my beloved trails enjoyable, I happily endure endless hours of throwing punches and flinging ponytail sweat across the room. I love the intensity of boxing, and the physical and mental strength I’ve gained from it. I could write an entire post about the impact that boxing has had on my hiking journey and general wellness. However, my very poorly packed backpack absolutely wrecked my strong and capable body on my first backpacking trip.

I did not learn the lesson of proper packing before my second backpacking trip either. I still cringe when I look at the shape of my pack in this photo and the horizontal distribution of the weight I carried. Ouch!

Don’t wait until the night before your trip to develop a packing strategy or make sure your pack fits your body comfortably when loaded up. If you have the opportunity to do a short day hike on a local trail (or even a walk through your neighborhood) with a loaded pack in advance of your backpacking trip, do it. People may look at you like you’re nuts, but the real ones will know what you’re doing and respect you for it. There are many online resources on properly distributing the weight in your pack when backpacking. I can’t offer any groundbreaking tips on this, just a strong recommendation to do some research and testing before you hit the trail.

Be Conservative about Your Comfort with Distance and Difficulty

Before my first multi-day hike, I had plenty of experience covering double-digit mileage over steep and strenuous terrain, but hiking with the weight and bulk of an overnight pack changes everything. When planning my first backpacking trip, I picked a remote and challenging 16-mile route that would have been difficult to enjoyably complete as a day hike. At the time, I thought stretching this hike into a 2-day adventure was a brilliant move. I was so excited about the possibilities that the world of backpacking offered, knowing that the finite number of hours in a single day had placed prohibitive bookends around all the hikes I’d ever done. In hindsight, my appetite for mileage overshadowed my capacity for reason.

As a new backpacker, it’s easy to fall into this trap and commit to that trail that’s been on your bucket list for a while but doesn’t seem appealing as a day hike. I learned the hard way that your first backpacking trip doesn’t have to be an ambitious quest to cover as many miles as possible. In fact, I recommend taking the maximum mileage and elevation gain you’re comfortable hiking in a day and cutting those numbers in half to create a reasonable daily range to aim for when planning your first multi-day trip. Additionally, if there’s a trail you’ve already hiked in a single day that has backcountry campsites along the way, consider splitting the distance over two days. You’ll feel more confident on a familiar trail, which can make a big difference when facing the many other unknowns of beginner backpacking.

It still counts as a backpacking trip even if your route doesn’t require you to carry all your gear the whole time. If you’re hiking an out-and-back trail with campsites on the way to your end point, set up camp on the way out, drop off your overnight gear, and spend the rest of the day hiking with a much lighter pack before returning to your campsite. Remember to properly store any food or smellables you leave unattended though, or carry them with you.

Talk to a Credible Source about Your Plans Before You Go

There’s no source more credible than a Park Ranger, period. Sure, talk to someone you know who’s hiked the same trail with a similar itinerary. Read reviews on blogs (like mine, wink wink) and apps like AllTrails. However, individual feedback, whether it’s from someone you know or a stranger on the internet, is inherently subjective. The heroes who manage our public lands accumulate collective backcountry information that’s current, reliable, and objective. They’d rather offer guidance in advance of your trip than receive an emergency call because you made an avoidable mistake. Trust me, I speak from experience.

When you call, start the conversation by providing specific information about your itinerary and primary concerns. For example, “Hi, this is (name), and I have permits/plans to hike (trail name) over (number of days) and camp at (site/sites, listed consecutively). I’m hiking in on (date) and hiking out on (date). Based on the information you have, are there any abnormal trail conditions I should be aware of?” Abnormal trail conditions could include (but are not limited to): partial closures or noteworthy trail obstructions, wildlife activity warnings, flooding, etc. You may also want to ask about conditions that could vary seasonally, like water availability or fire bans.

You Probably Need More Water Than You Think

You’ll almost certainly use water for at least one purpose that isn’t personal hydration, on your first backpacking trip and all the ones after that. Cooking hot food, extinguishing a campfire, rinsing minor wounds or blisters, and countless other common backpacking activities require water that you don’t want to subtract from your precious drinking supply. Natural water availability along the trail should absolutely influence how much water you carry, whether you’re hiking for a few hours or a few days. There’s no magic formula for how much water you should carry based on your hiking itinerary because every environment is unique and variable. On your first backpacking trip, I highly recommend choosing a trail with camping areas close to water. Let me say it louder for the people in the back. As a beginner backpacker, minimize the risk of underestimating how much water you’ll need by hiking a trail that has access to a reliable water source.

Another perk of camping near water is the opportunity to soak your sore muscles after a long day of hiking or go for a swim if it’s safe to do so.

You Probably Need Less Food Than You Think

Surprisingly enough, I’ve overpacked food on every backpacking trip except my first one. Finding the right balance can be tricky, and when in doubt, bring that extra snack. However, keep in mind that the weight of food adds up quickly, and starving to death because you didn’t pack a vending machine should be pretty low on your list of concerns about your first backpacking trip. You’ll need hearty snacks and meals to fuel your journey, but don’t expect your stomach to instantly double its capacity for food as soon as you leave the trailhead parking lot.

You’ll likely only be on the trail for a night or two as a first-timer, and you can minimize your pack’s weight by carrying foods with a high calorie per ounce ratio. As a general rule, I try to maintain a minimum average of 100 calories per ounce when packing food for an overnight trip. For longer trips, I may aim for a higher calorie per ounce average. The number of calories you’ll need depends on your size and the intensity of your hiking itinerary. Planning your trail meals and snacks in advance can help you put some tangible parameters around how much food you’ll realistically need. It’s important to pack a variety of foods that you actually enjoy as well. Give yourself the triumphant bliss of satisfying a craving for your favorite snack after a long day on the trail.

My favorite backpacking meal is instant mashed potatoes topped with chili cheese Fritos. Both foods are common staples in a backpacker’s diet, and the textural combination of these starchy carbs really hits the spot. Pro tip: Mix in a packet of hot sauce (compliments of your local Taco Bell) to give this dish an extra dose of flavor.

Hiking’s Only Part of the Work

When Megan and I hiked into our campsite with two or three hours of daylight remaining on the first day of our first backpacking trip, we thought we were destined for a leisurely evening of Ramen noodles and beef jerky beside an effortless campfire. Fast forward to us vigorously gathering firewood by the light of our headlamps as we shivered in the freshly fallen darkness, ravenous for the dinner that was supposed to be in our bellies already. Needless to say, we vastly underestimated the amount of time and energy it can take to do the many backpacking things that aren’t hiking.

We’ll talk more in the next section about the fine and tedious art of building a fire in the backcountry, but this was just one task that took much longer than we’d expected. When you’re working with new (or new to you) backpacking gear, like a tent or cooking tools, you probably won’t have the same level of dexterity as the social media influencer or outdoor retail employee who inspired your gear choices. As a newbie, you’ll have a learning curve that experienced backpackers may unintentionally overlook when recommending gear and practices that have become familiar to them over time. I’m not trying to discredit reliable sources of knowledge. Just don’t hold anyone else accountable for interpreting your experience and backpacking environment. Budget for extra time when you think about how long it’ll take to erect your tent, gather firewood, retrieve and boil water for cooking, securely store your smellable items, etc. This logic also applies to repacking the next morning.

Most importantly, practice with your gear in a low-risk environment (like your house) before you have to use it in a high-risk environment (like nature). Assemble and dissemble your tent in your living room. Unroll your new sleeping bag to practice rolling it tight enough to fit back into its little sack. Test your cooking setup and its connection to the fuel canister you’ll be using on the trail. Megan and I were forced to precariously balance our cooking pot over the campfire to boil water, because I brought a fuel canister that wasn’t compatible with our portable stove. We successfully boiled water eventually, but we struggled to keep the pot still over an open flame, which prolonged the process. Little oversights like that, which are common when you’re new to backpacking, can add some unexpected time and effort to your trip.

We learned so many tough lessons throughout the first day of our first backpacking trip, leaving us feeling thoroughly drained. Although, after questioning our decision to carry the extra weight of the wine we packed in, I have to admit we were grateful for the liquid morale boost before bedtime.

Fire Is a Gift, Not a Given

While brush and small sticks provide necessary tinder and kindling when starting a fire, you’ll need to add larger pieces of wood to your fire to keep it going. If you’re backpacking in my neck of the woods (eastern Tennessee) or another area that receives frequent rain, finding dry firewood in the backcountry is usually challenging if at all possible. In accordance with Leave No Trace Principles, only gather down wood for your fire. Never cut from a living or standing tree. The complication there is that the wood that’s appropriate to burn dries slowly after rain, especially in humid environments. In drier environments, like deserts or areas at high elevations, fire bans are common because the lack of rain increases the risk of wildfires.

Wherever you’re backpacking, research local fire management policies before you go, and always practice Smokey Bear’s tips for backcountry fire safety. Areas that allow campfires likely receive enough precipitation to place some significant limitations on the availability of dry wood. Due to wet conditions, I’ve been unable to start a fire on about half of my backpacking trips on this side of the country, and out west, I’ve usually been unable to start a fire due to local restrictions. If circumstances allow you to have a campfire on your first backpacking trip, count your blessings and enjoy the experience responsibly. However, avoid putting yourself in a situation where you’re dependent on fire for warmth or food and water preparation, just in case it doesn’t work out.

Prepare for Extreme Variations in Temperature

With a respectful acknowledgment that we can’t control the weather, let’s talk about warming and cooling tactics that we can control. Mostly, they’re physical and currently occupy space in your closet. When preparing for a backpacking trip, adopt a layering strategy with the clothes you pack. This ensures flexibility when hiking through an unpredictable and highly variable climate. In almost every environment, temperatures drop at night and rise with the sun. In environments without the insulation of buildings, electricity, and population density, these variations are usually more extreme. That sounds obvious, right? Before my first backpacking trip, I wasn’t quite prepared for the wide range of temperatures. I thoroughly learned that the forecast in the nearest town isn’t a reliable indicator of the weather conditions you’ll encounter in the backcountry.

Also, consider that movement elevates body temperature and rest has the opposite effect. When backpacking, we’re usually active while the sun is up and stationary at night when temperatures typically bottom out. Other environmental factors, like altitude and precipitation, contribute to your body’s ability to adapt to its surrounding conditions. Weather patterns at higher altitudes tend to be more volatile, so plan accordingly. Regardless of the forecast, always include rain protection for yourself and your backpack when preparing for an overnight trek.

Here’s a photo from my coldest backpacking trip, a very strenuous 34-mile trek in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I’ve experienced a range of temperatures from zero to one hundred fifteen degrees on my assorted backpacking trips. You’re not likely to encounter that much variance on a non-thru hike (if you do, please tell me so I can never hike that trail), but it’s reasonable to expect sudden and extreme weather changes in the backcountry.

Give Yourself Grace

Finally and perhaps most importantly, understand that there’s a frustratingly beautiful learning curve with backpacking. It’s just not supposed to be easy. You will make mistakes and feel discomfort on your first backpacking trip and most of the ones after that. You’ll also experience a sense of blissful self-reliance unlike anything else. There’s something so invigorating and humbling about venturing into the wilderness, with nothing but survival essentials on your back. You will feel vulnerable and capable at the same time, and it’s important to embrace the challenges and accept the risks, controllable and uncontrollable. Prepare as much as you can in advance, practice safe and responsible behaviors while on the trail, and don’t feel discouraged when something inevitably doesn’t play out how you thought it would. Adapt and keep going.

For anyone reading this who has additional backpacking advice or words of encouragement for newbies, please share your insight in the comments. As always, thanks for reading, and happy trails!

My final piece of advice: Backpack with people who will lift you up when things get hard and celebrate small victories at every opportunity. Also, make sure they’re people who love you enough to tolerate your body odor, snoring, and most annoying personality quirks. They say you don’t really know someone until you live with them. I think that’s especially true when you’re living in a tent.

April 14, 2021April 14, 2021

Cheaha State Park: McDill Point via the Pinhoti Trail

Alabama’s got a reputation for exceptionalism in many areas (college football, barbecue, mega churches, reality dating show contestants, etc.), but hiking trails isn’t one of them. This isn’t because the state lacks incredible trails. They’re just more sparse and off the beaten path than their more popular Southeastern neighbors in Tennessee, Georgia, and North Carolina. Alabama hosts a handful of spectacular trails that will make you ask yourself the question that’s every hiker’s greatest joy or most horrifying nightmare when hiking a new trail: “Where am I?” Context is everything, of course, and I’m constantly amazed by the immense beauty I encounter on trails in seemingly ordinary locations.

If you’ve ever wondered why the state’s unofficial motto is “Alabama the beautiful”, hike the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point.

While visiting my brother and his wife in Birmingham, I decided to make the 90-min. drive to Cheaha State Park and hike to McDill Point via the Pinhoti Trail. The Pinhoti Trail traverses 335 miles across northern parts of Alabama and Georgia. This includes a section that runs through Cheaha State Park, home to Alabama’s highest peak, Cheaha Mountain (2,411 ft). Before embarking on my hike, I drove to the summit of Cheaha Mountain, because that’s possible and only a couple of miles from my intended trailhead. Candidly, I have nothing positive to say about visiting Alabama’s highest point. There’s no overlook at the top of Cheaha Mountain, only a musty lookout tower and equally decrepit information center. The tower isn’t even taller than the surrounding trees, so there’s nothing you can see from this obsolete structure that you can’t see from the parking lot. I visited on a Tuesday in November, and I’m not sure whether facilities were closed for the winter season or due to COVID, but I think there’s a fee for accessing the highest point in Alabama when facilities are open. Unless you just feel compelled to visit the highest point in the state, save your time and money and skip this underwhelming destination. However, there are bathrooms (permanent ones, not the portable kind) near the summit, and these were open when I visited, so maybe the side trip wasn’t a complete waste of time.

After the disappointment of visiting the Cheaha Mountain summit, I honestly didn’t have high hopes for the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point. However, those reservations quickly faded after I began this gorgeous trek. The hike was more challenging than I expected, but this one packs in some incredible scenery over a short distance, making the effort entirely worthwhile. The section I hiked covers about 2.5 miles (one way), and although there’s only about 1,000 feet of elevation gain, exposed roots and loose rock dominate the terrain of this rugged trail, so allow more time than you think you’ll need based on the distance and elevation gain alone. Also, the trail can be difficult to follow in certain spots, so I’d highly recommend bringing a map that doesn’t rely on a cell signal. The AllTrails route (linked here) is accurate, but keep in mind that you’ll need the Pro subscription to download the map for use without cell service, and I had none from start to finish on this hike.

I love a rugged trail, so I had no complaints about this one’s rocky and rooty terrain, but it’s not for everyone. I recommend shoes with good grip and ankle support for this trail.

I expected an impressive overlook at McDill Point, but I didn’t expect so many smaller ones with incredible views along the way. The trail traverses a ridge up and over the summit of Hernandez Peak (Alabama’s 4th highest point at 2,307 ft) and then dips slightly before the final ascent to McDill Point, accessible via a short spur off the Pinhoti Trail. Several of the magnificent viewpoints along the ridge have primitive campsites as well. Because views from these campsites extend for miles and miles to the west over a luscious sea of green forests below, I’m sure the sunset views are spectacular.

I haven’t seen many campsites with views like this, and this spot’s only a mile or so from the trailhead.

Just before the split to McDill Point, I encountered a very narrow and brushy section that was covered in down trees and limbs. Navigating through this wasn’t difficult, but it slowed me down. In warmer months, I’d have been extra cautious about snakes, but I saw none on this breezy day in early November. After emerging from the brush, the trail flattens and widens, and the remaining stretch to McDill Point (less than half a mile) is the easiest section of the hike. At the split, I saw something unusual that I’ve never seen on any hike: airplane wreckage. I’d read about debris from a fatal flight that lay scattered throughout Cheaha State Park, but I didn’t expect to see so much of it so close to the trail. The wreckage can be found in two areas along the trail. The first includes several large pieces of debris off the trail to the left of the split between the Pinhoti Trail and the spur to McDill Point. There’s even more debris, including the decaying metal frame of the body of the plane, easily noticeable from the spur to McDill Point, just before a small collection of primitive campsites adjacent to the overlook. After some research, I’ve since learned that the wreckage includes the remains of a small single-engine plane that crashed on the day after Christmas in 1972. The only victim was the pilot, a man flying alone from Texas to Atlanta before the journey abruptly ended in Cheaha State Park due to low visibility and bad weather.

wreckage as viewed from a short stint of off-trail hiking from the split between the Pinhoti Trail and the spur to McDill Point

the body of the plane that crashed into Cheaha State Park, visible from the spur trail to McDill Point

The many unique sights along the trail to McDill Point make this hike worthwhile, but the overlook at the end completely shattered my expectations. The expansive views from McDill Point rival those from my beloved overlooks in South Cumberland State Park in Tennessee. If you’ve been following my journey and know how enamored I am by the beauty of South Cumberland State Park, I hope that puts McDill Point into perspective. This overlook (which is actually two overlooks separated by about 100 yards of trail) drops the mic hard. I was lucky enough to experience this place with only a few other people present since I was hiking in the middle of the week, but I’m sure it’s packed on weekends. Photos really don’t capture the magnitude of the views, which extend so far that they eventually just fade into the horizon.

big views over Alabama from McDill Point

I enjoyed a leisurely lunch of tuna and almonds at McDill Point and basked in the warm sunshine, immensely happy to have had the opportunity to experience this place on an uncommon day off work in the middle of the week. I remember thinking, “This is what they call a mental health day”, and pledging to take more of these in the future. I’d traveled to Birmingham to visit my brother and his wife, and I’d been working remotely from their house throughout my visit. I spent quality time with them the previous weekend and in the evenings after work, and I’m so grateful for our time together. I always welcome a change of scenery and time with family, but nothing makes me feel as refreshed and invigorated as time alone on a beautiful trail, and the Pinhoti Trail to McDill Point provided a stunning addition to my time well spent in Alabama.

views for miles and miles from McDill Point

March 7, 2021

Nankoweap: Backpacking the Grand Canyon’s Most Difficult Trail

Over the past several months, I’ve really struggled with the decision to share this story. It’s not an easy one to tell, for reasons that will soon become abundantly clear. To say the least, I’ve never felt more vulnerable on any trail than I did on Nankoweap, and in many ways, writing about this experience makes me feel like an imposter, pretending to be somebody else in a place where I didn’t belong. However, publicly acknowledging my own naivety isn’t the most difficult part of telling this story. The more overwhelming challenge lies in allowing the severity of this place to outshine its unparalleled beauty. This trail is in a league of its own. As Megan, the friend who joined me on this hike, and I have discussed many times since, there are no words that accurately describe Nankoweap. They don’t exist, and nobody who hasn’t experienced this trail firsthand can possibly understand what it’s really like to hike what the National Park Service identifies as the most difficult named trail in the Grand Canyon.

moonrise over Tilted Mesa, about half way between the North Rim and the Colorado River on Nankoweap

My greatest hesitation to share this story is the risk of exposing Nankoweap’s relentless allure to others like me, experienced hikers who foolishly disregard precautionary tales and adopt the “that won’t happen to me” mentality when chasing their next great adventure. I know it sounds ridiculous and arrogant, but it’s easy to succumb to an invincibility complex when you’ve never really been threatened. With that in mind, this post is not intended to provide guidance to anyone considering this trail. If anything, I hope my manifesto of stupidity discourages others from attempting it, because simply avoiding my errors won’t be enough to protect you here. Please accept this story as nothing more than an ode to all the mistakes that could have killed me. Under no circumstances should anyone attempt to hike this trail without extensive experience hiking below the rim of the Grand Canyon.

sunrise over the Grand Canyon, as viewed from Saddle Mountain trail, which provides access to Nankoweap

Our journey to Nankoweap began with botched backpacking plans at Yosemite. Due to the wildfires that plagued California last September and the unpredictability of COVID-related travel restrictions, we realized a few weeks in advance of our planned trip that we’d need to change our destination. We decided to fly into Las Vegas instead of San Francisco and rent a camper van for a road trip through Utah and Arizona. By the time we set our sights on the Grand Canyon, we’d missed the window of opportunity to apply for camping permits along one of the more forgiving (but still very strenuous) corridor trails. A rim to rim hike along the standard route would have been ideal, but aside from missing the deadline to apply for permits, we didn’t have any transportation options for returning to our starting point after the hike, because shuttles weren’t running due to COVID. To put it into perspective, it takes several hours to drive between the trailheads for the corridor routes through the Grand Canyon, because you have to literally drive around the canyon to get from one rim to the other. Ride share services aren’t reliable because of the distance and remoteness of the area. Since we’d be traveling to the Grand Canyon from Utah and working with a limited time frame, we knew we’d need to start from and return to the North Rim, where trailheads with access to the bottom of the canyon are much more sparse than they are along the South Rim.

I’d read legends about Nankoweap, but I didn’t think it’d be a realistic option for us until we had no other choices for hiking to the Colorado River and back during our small window of opportunity. I wanted to hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon so badly that blind ambition guided my decision making more so than logic. We applied for permits about three weeks before our trip, but never expected to get them on such short notice. Based on National Park Service data, fewer than 200 people hike Nankoweap annually, partially because extreme weather and remoteness limit the trail’s accessibility to a couple of months in Spring and Fall, but also because there are only two very small areas with enough flat space for a tent between the trailhead and the bottom of the Canyon. The trail descends 11 rugged miles from the Nankoweap trailhead at the park boundary (1,000 vertical feet below the North Rim) to the Colorado River, but accessing the official trailhead requires a strenuous hike from one of two adjacent trails, each over 3 miles in length. Add the return distance, and the total mileage for this hike includes 28 grueling miles from rim to river and back, at minimum. This brings me to the first of many mistakes, which was assuming we’d be able to cover this distance in only two days. Mathematically, 14 miles (one way) in 12 daylight hours sounds perfectly reasonable for two tenured hikers, right? Wrong. There’s no amount of backpacking experience anywhere else that equates to backpacking experience below the rim of the Grand Canyon.

Nankoweap includes more elevation variation between rim and river than any trail in the Grand Canyon.

Because NPS issues such a small number of permits for Nankoweap, Megan and I were shocked to learn that our request had been approved. I’m grateful that she trusted my judgment as we planned this adventure, but I still carry a lot of guilt for leading my best friend into a dangerous situation that we weren’t prepared for. I must have read NPS’s guide to Nankoweap a dozen times before our visit, but I misinterpreted one very critical detail that I’ve only come to realize in the aftermath of our emergence from the Grand Canyon. The guide says, “The majority of hikers take two days to complete the journey, spending the night on the way down at either Marion Point or Tilted Mesa”. I thought “two days to complete the journey” meant two days total, but in hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the second part of the sentence and understood that most hikers actually take two days to go down AND an additional two days to come back up.

Aside from NPS’s two-page overview, there’s just not much reliable information available about Nankoweap. Almost every other source subjectively recounts the experience of someone qualified to hike this trail, and it’s really difficult to put this into perspective unless the author explicitly states their prerequisites. Admittedly, I should have been more discerning. I relied heavily on personal blogs and social media to connect with a small handful of others who hiked this trail within the past few years. I’m the only person I can hold accountable for trusting the guidance I received, because it’s not anyone else’s responsibility to understand my qualifications when offering advice about their experience, on Nankoweap or any other trail.

Megan and I approached the trailhead from the west, via FR 610. We chose this approach simply because it was the closest one from the direction we were traveling from. We began our descent into the Grand Canyon shortly after dawn, which (as we know now) is not early enough for hikers attempting to reach Nankoweap Creek in a single day. The 3-mile approach to the Nankoweap trailhead at the park boundary, along the Saddle Mountain trail, was much more strenuous and slow than either of us expected. It’s narrow, brushy, and never flat. The trail ascends and descends constantly. By the time we reached the Nankoweap trailhead, we were already behind our intended schedule, but optimistic that we still had plenty of daylight hours between us and a luscious creekside campsite, about 9 miles from our current location and 12 miles from our starting point on the North Rim. I should also add that despite the unforgiving terrain along the Saddle Mountain trail, the sunrise vistas across the Grand Canyon were infinitely beautiful, and Megan and I hiked onward like moths drawn to Nankoweap’s illustrious flame.

the majestic descent into the Grand Canyon

We’d read about the importance of caching water on the descent, and we approached the trail with a well-intended but ultimately dangerous plan for this. We each carried 4 liters of water in our backpacks, with the mentality that we’d be able to move quickly over Nankoweap’s brutal terrain with a lighter load. To put this into perspective, NPS recommends drinking at least 4 to 6 liters of water per day when hiking below the rim. That’s a general recommendation that doesn’t take weather, distance, or trail difficulty into consideration. We planned to cache two liters of water at Marion Point (5 trail miles and 2,700 vertical feet below our starting point) and another liter at Tilted Mesa (8 trail miles and 3,300 vertical feet below our starting point). This plan provided us with 5 total liters of water to split on the way down to Nankoweap Creek (12 trail miles and 6,000 vertical feet below our starting point), where we’d have access to as much water as our thirsty hearts desired. There are no reliable water sources above Nankoweap Creek, and in all of our planning, we never considered the possibility that we may not be able to reach this critical water source before nightfall. This failure to have a contingency plan actually could have killed us, and reliving our thought process as I’m writing these words fills me with conflicting emotions of self loathing over my own stupidity and overwhelming relief that our situation wasn’t worse than it could have been.

Megan, hiking along a rare (and short) flat section of trail between the park boundary and Marion Point.

We arrived at Tilted Mesa around noon, already exhausted and not nearly as far along the trail as we thought we’d be when the midday heat reached its peak. As planned, we’d cached two liters of water at Marion Point, under a bush where we discovered another water cache left by hikers that we assumed were further down the trail than we were. Several factors influenced our next decision, and for the sake of keeping this already lengthy blog post from evolving into a full-blown novel, I have to sacrifice some details that factored into that decision. By the time we reached Tilted Mesa, we’d already realized that we were in over our heads and needed to adapt. Hiking to the Colorado River (6 trail miles and 2,800 vertical feet below Tilted Mesa) no longer seemed like a realistic option, considering our remaining daylight hours and already anticipating the arduous climb out of the canyon the following day. We decided to ditch our overnight packs and carry our day packs down to Nankoweap Creek (4 trail miles and 2,100 feet below Tilted Mesa), replenish our water supply, and hike back up to Tilted Mesa to camp before returning to the rim the following day. We thought we’d be able to move faster with lighter packs. We did not consider the impact of hiking in 100+ degree heat, with a diminishing water supply and absolutely no shade. We’d both hiked through extreme heat in the South, but dry desert heat hits different than steamy Tennessee heat. The elevation change over the distance we’d need to traverse on our descent to the creek seemed manageable, but once again, we underestimated the environment we were hiking through. The trail is loose, gravelly, and thoroughly exposed to the sun.

After hiking no more than 2 miles from Tilted Mesa toward Nankoweap Creek, we came to the grim realization that we wouldn’t be able to reach the creek, retrieve and filter water, AND make it back up to our camping gear at Tilted Mesa before nightfall. We knew that in our quickly deteriorating condition, we’d struggle to climb back up to Tilted Mesa with heavier packs after replenishing our water supply. Also, we only had the capacity to carry 5 liters, since we’d cached 2 liters at Marion Point and left one at Tilted Mesa when we started the hike down to the creek. In hindsight, I don’t think that this would have been enough anyways, even if we’d set aside the time to drink water beside the creek and rest before heading back up with our load. By hiking as far as we did in our attempt to reach the creek, we burned valuable energy and lost more fluid than we realized as we sweat in the scorching afternoon heat. Sweat tends to linger and drip in the thick humidity of my beloved wild places at home in Tennessee, but in the dry heat of the desert, sweat evaporates into the air soon after our skin releases it. Because our bodies use sweat as a cooling mechanism, we produce more of it in dry climates than in humid ones, even though we don’t notice it as much. Megan and I took small, infrequent sips of water and rested often as we returned to Tilted Mesa, feeling utterly beaten and very apprehensive about the next day’s ascent with a nearly depleted water supply.

I’d give this view 43 points on a scale of 1 to 10.

After a monstrous struggle with our tent, we established camp for the night with about an hour to spare before sunset. For the first time since our descent into the Grand Canyon, we had nothing to focus our attention on besides the impeccable beauty of our surroundings. We consciously decided that despite our circumstances, we needed a moment of joy. We needed something wholly positive that we could carry into the night and the difficult day ahead of us. I have never seen anything, on any hike, as breathlessly magnificent as the views from our campsite at Tilted Mesa. We didn’t know how we’d find the strength or energy to hike out of the canyon, but in that golden hour, Tilted Mesa numbed every fear and hopeless thought. I don’t say that lightly. I mean it. Megan and I were immersed in one of the world’s most stunning landscapes, miles and miles from evidence that any other humans existed, and dehydration could never take that feeling away from us. Aside from the incomparable beauty of this place, I remember the quiet. I’m still in awe of the pure and invigorating noiselessness of Tilted Mesa, and this silence somehow amplified the visual impact of our surroundings. In Tennessee and every other place where I’ve hiked, human footprints barely make a discernible sound above the noise that’s already there, between wind and wildlife and water. I never thought about noise on a trail until I hiked through its delightfully eerie absence on Nankoweap.

By the time we woke up on the following day, our mouths were too dry to swallow food. Although we’d failed to carry enough water, we did carry the right types and quantity of food. We had plenty of salted nuts, beef jerky, dried fruit, granola bars, and an assortment of additional snacks suitable for hiking below the rim. In the Grand Canyon, these snacks are useless unless accompanied by water. I distinctly remember waking up before sunrise and nearly choking on a bite of almond butter because it stuck in my throat when I tried to swallow it, blocking my trachea until I reached my hand in to pull it out. We drank the last remaining drops of our water and held onto the hope that the 2 liters we’d cached at Marion point would be enough to carry us out of the Grand Canyon. 3 trail miles existed between us and this water, which may not seem like much, but there are no easy miles on Nankoweap. The stretch between Marion Point and Tilted Mesa is precariously narrow and uneven, with sections of trail that require hiking within a couple of inches of 100+ foot drop-offs into the canyon below. There’s no margin for error here, and in addition to dehydration, we were starting to feel the dizzying impact of hunger and low electrolytes too. I cannot properly describe the agony of hunger when there’s food within reach that you can’t eat because your body can’t produce any saliva.

Megan was hiking slightly ahead of me, and when I reached Marion Point, I thought she’d be there waiting, but she wasn’t. I shouted her name into the canyon and heard no reply. Honestly, this was the most terrifying part of the journey for me. I thought she’d fainted from thirst or hunger or heat, and I scrambled upward in pure panic mode to get a better view of the trail ahead. I had the water canister in my hand, and I could see that it was full, so I knew she must have passed it without realizing it and continued on, thinking she’d find it later. I ventured to the edge of the point and screamed as loud as my exhausted lungs would allow, and I heard a faint confirmation from Megan that she was OK, fifty or so yards ahead and around a curve in the trail. She’d overlooked the water cache initially and came back to Marion Point to meet me. I still hadn’t taken a sip of the water, because I thought we should make a joint decision about how to proceed.

We didn’t take many photos on the second day, but this one from the first day displays Marion Point’s prominent Esplanade Sandstone profile, which towers over its surroundings in the upper canyon.

The other water cache we’d passed on the way down was still there, the one left by hikers we assumed were now deeper in the canyon than we’d descended on the previous day. This 3 liter cache rested only a few inches from ours and probably would have provided the supplemental hydration we’d need to hike out of the canyon from Marion Point. Without even discussing it, we both knew that this water was not ours to take. As dire as our circumstances were, we couldn’t force anything similar on somebody else, especially somebody who’d planned appropriately. We drank most of the water from our cache, saving about a half liter for the remainder of the journey. Megan’s body was responding to dehydration more productively than mine was, so we agreed that she should take our remaining water and hike onward. We’d read about a seasonal spring close to the Nankoweap trailhead at the park boundary, two miles ahead of us, so Megan planned to search for it and bring water back to me if there was any available.

We remembered having a very weak but present cell signal somewhere between Marion Point and the Nankoweap trailhead at the park boundary. We wouldn’t have separated without this realization that either of us could call for help if absolutely necessary. I was hiking with a GPS, but it was only equipped to provide maps and location tracking and could not send an emergency signal, so we needed cell service in order to request help. A few minutes after Megan left, I became nauseous and vomited every sip of water I’d just consumed onto a defenseless cactus beside the trail. For a brief moment, I couldn’t see. Dark spots dominated my vision, and my arms flailed in reach of something to grab onto before collapsing and potentially falling into the canyon. I didn’t lose consciousness, but I came close enough to realize that I couldn’t continue to traverse this exposed ridge in my current condition. I hiked and crawled along the trail, grabbing anything I could for support and vomiting one more time along the way, until I found a cell signal. I tried to call Megan, but I wasn’t surprised when the call went straight to voicemail, because by that time she would have already passed the area with cell service. I called my husband, hysterical and incoherent, and asked him to call Megan. Andy wasn’t able to reach Megan either, so before I hiked beyond the area with a cell signal, I called Grand Canyon Emergency Services, a number I’d saved in my phone before our trip but never thought I’d actually need.

I spoke with a Park Ranger named Shane, sobbing but too dehydrated to produce actual tears, and I remember a genuine kindness and concern in his voice that I won’t ever forget. Initially, there weren’t any Park Rangers available to come to our aid, but Shane said he’d keep working on it and would stay in touch to make sure I was OK. I trusted him but also faced the terrifying possibility of spending another night below the rim, without water or shelter (Megan had the tent in her backpack) or confirmation that Megan was OK. Shane called again thirty minutes later and told me that he’d dispatched rangers to come to our aid, but I didn’t ask how long it’d take for them to reach us because I was afraid of the response. There’s not an NPS ranger station anywhere close to the Saddle Mountain Overlook, where Megan and I started our hike, and the Rangers would have to hike down 4 miles and 2,000 vertical feet from there to reach my location.

I took a photo of the view from my location after I spoke with Shane, the last one I took on Nankoweap and the most significant one from the experience. I look at it often to remind myself of what happened here, what could have happened, and what I cannot allow to ever happen again.

I crawled underneath a small tree beside the trail and instantly, but unintentionally, fell asleep. An hour later, I awoke to the sound of voices, but these weren’t the voices of Park Rangers. The voices belonged to the same hikers who’d cached the water that we saw at Marion Point, and after assessing my condition, they offered me some of this water, which they didn’t need because they’d carried more than enough with them on a 4-day excursion from rim to river and back on Nankoweap, which explains why we never saw them. If this isn’t proof of karma, I don’t know what is. Megan and I didn’t even consider drinking the water when we found it cached along the trail, because it felt wrong, regardless of our circumstances. However, when the owners of this water found me in a depleted state, they shared it without hesitation. They didn’t have to do it. I’d told them that the Rangers were on their way. I learned that their names were Chris and Sean, and that they lived in Sedona. Chris and Sean each had years of backpacking experience below the rim and had hiked many different trails in the canyon, but this was their first time on Nankoweap. They stayed with me until I felt well enough to hike to the park boundary, where it’d be easier for the Park Rangers to reach and treat me. When I was ready, we hiked to the park boundary together, and they didn’t leave me until the Park Rangers arrived. Over the course of two days on Nankoweap, Chris and Sean are the only hikers I saw beyond the park boundary, besides Megan of course, and honestly, hardly a day has passed since when I haven’t thought about their compassion.

Despite all the hiking I’ve done over the years, I’ve had very few interactions with Park Rangers, aside from brief conversations via phone or at a ranger station to ask about trail conditions or routes. I’d certainly never needed their help in an emergency situation. I often think about the distance that these Grand Canyon Park Rangers traveled, by road and by trail, to reach Megan and me because I’d failed to plan appropriately, and the fact that park resources are so limited. Honestly, I just didn’t think I deserved their help and wasn’t ready to confront all of my mistakes on Nankoweap while the wounds were still so fresh. I felt like a child who’d been sent to the principal’s office, except what I’d done was so terrible that the principal was coming to me instead. I felt slightly rejuvenated after drinking the water that Chris and Sean graciously shared with me, but still far from well enough to complete the ascent from the park boundary to our camper van at Saddle Mountain Overlook. I needed these Park Rangers, but I dreaded the interaction. I expected a well-deserved lecture about Nankoweap’s dangers and the fates of hikers who haven’t survived mistakes similar to mine when hiking this trail. I already felt so entirely defeated, physically and mentally, and aside from asking about Megan, I struggled to say anything at all to the Park Rangers when they reached me. They confirmed that Megan was OK and reached Saddle Mountain Overlook shortly before they did, and that the spring she’d searched for was currently dry. She’d hiked onward, thinking that she may find help on the Saddle Mountain trail or that if she made it back to the van, she could rehydrate and bring water down to me.

My anxiety about the Park Rangers, whose names were Tim and Jesse, quickly diminished after I actually met them. They demonstrated so much empathy and reassurance, and time passed quickly as they provided the medical attention I needed and fed me water and snacks that they’d carried down the trail in their backpacks. I told them everything about mine and Megan’s Nankoweap journey, and how we rationalized the poor decisions we made both before and during our experience on the trail. I didn’t tell them because they asked for an explanation, but because they listened. If they had any resentful or patronizing thoughts, which would have been completely valid, they didn’t express them. I’m sure it was nothing more than professional courtesy for two Park Rangers with extensive search and rescue experience, but from my extremely vulnerable position, their kindness felt personal and genuine. We talked about their jobs and adventures within the Grand Canyon and beyond. I learned that Jesse grew up close to Nashville and had hiked many of the same trails that I’ve explored in Tennessee. He also attended the University of Tennessee at the same time as my husband, although they didn’t know each other.

After allowing plenty of time for me to rest and ensuring that I felt strong enough to hike out to the trailhead under my own power, we began the ascent toward the Saddle Mountain Overlook. They stayed with me the entire time and allowed me to set the pace and stop for breaks as needed. We reached the trailhead before sunset, and despite my immense relief that the journey was over, I felt so much regret about how it ended. The pain and the mistakes loom large over an otherwise extraordinary adventure through an entirely magnificent part of the Grand Canyon that so few people ever get to see. Also, I’m grateful to have met the people who helped me on Nankoweap. Chris and Sean reminded me of the powerful and lasting impact that a small act of kindness can have on a stranger. I’ve also immortalized Shane, Tim, and Jesse for their incredible capacity for balancing heroism and compassion on a daily basis. It’s unlikely that I’ll cross paths with any of them again, but for the rest of my life, I will always remember the names of these incredible people and hope that someday I’m able to pass the good will that they’ve inspired in me onto someone else who needs it.

We hadn’t even left the state of Arizona before Megan and I decided that we would return to Nankoweap one day, after we have enough backpacking experience on other trails below the rim of the Grand Canyon. We’ll approach it with more careful preparation and humility, but I have no doubt that even if we were to hike this trail a hundred times, it’d still find new ways to surprise and challenge us. That’s part of the allure. This trail nearly killed me, but I fell in love with it anyways. Years will likely pass before my to return to Nankoweap, but when the day inevitably comes, I’ll be ready.

pro tip: Carry a collapsible tripod with bluetooth remote in your backpack so you’ll never miss a photo op.

June 22, 2020

Backpacking in South Cumberland State Park: Collins Gulf & Rim Trails

In the beginning of 2018, I made a New Year’s Resolution to explore at least one new hiking trail every month. Nearly two and a half years later, I’m still committed to this adventure. Every new hike presents an opportunity to do something I’ve never done before, and I’ve experienced so many firsts throughout this journey. I hiked alone for the first time ever on my first new hike of 2018, and that magical winter hike to Virgin Falls in Tennessee has influenced every new hike I’ve taken since. In September of 2018, I visited Colorado for the first time in my life and climbed the highest mountain in the state, my first fourteener. A year later, I made my first successful solo ascent of a fourteener, and then summited an adjacent fourteener on the same day, also by myself. I’ve had my first bear encounter, my first rattlesnake encounter, my first buffalo encounter, and a million other firsts not related to animal encounters. In the early morning hours of my wedding day, before make up and mimosas, I explored a new hiking trail with my maid of honor. Then on my first day of marriage, I hiked another new trail with my new husband. These firsts have significantly influenced my life on and off trails, and in March, I added another incredibly meaningful milestone to this journey: my first overnight backpacking trip.

Located less than a mile into this sixteen-mile hike, Suter Falls provided a stunning backdrop as we began a two-day journey through Collins Gulf.

I’d been waiting for the right opportunity to venture into the world of backpacking for a while. I’d accepted the fact that I should be a relatively experienced hiker before transitioning into overnight backpacking, but also that no amount of experience would really prepare me for the impact that a 25-lb backpack has on a long, remote, and difficult trail. As much as I planned and prepared, this trip taught me countless lessons about the do’s and don’t’s of backpacking that can only be taught by experience. I won’t share them all here. It’s too much, and call me crazy, but I genuinely enjoyed the roller coaster of emotions that I experienced on this hike, and I’d hate to ruin that ride for other wannabe backpackers who might be reading this.

My friend, Megan, and I decided to hike the Collins Gulf loop in South Cumberland State Park. If you’ve been following my adventures, you know that I’m no stranger to this state park. In my humble opinion, it’s the best hiking destination in Tennessee. While most of the trails in this park can be hiked in a day, several require a little more time and ambition. Collins Gulf and Collins Rim trails meet at both ends to form a very strenuous fourteen mile loop (sixteen miles if you include the added distance to and from the Stagecoach Road campground, where Megan and I camped) that traverses the most magnificent scenery I’ve witnessed on any trail in Tennessee. This hike combines all of the features that define my love for exploring the deeply intimate and enchanting wild spaces in my home state. The trail passes secluded but mighty waterfalls, high cliff walls that form canopies over rocky trails, caves so subtle you’ll miss them unless you’re looking from the right angle, creeks that seamlessly flow above and below ground to carve out rugged and captivating boulder formations, and stunning overlooks high above it all where views of a breathtaking sea of velvety green tree tops obscure these wonderful things from the distant eye. I just threw a lot of adjectives at y’all, but I cannot contain my excitement about this Tennessee gem that receives little recognition and even less foot traffic. Regardless, words and photos don’t adequately capture the magic of this trail or the thrill of having my first backpacking experience there.

sunset views on the rim of the gulf after a long first day on the trail (celebratory wine not pictured)

Megan and I didn’t have all of the appropriate supplies for backpacking, but between the two of us, we had enough of what we really needed: large backpacks, a tent, sleeping bags, matches, a water filtration system, headlamps, ramen noodles, wine, and an iPad with previously downloaded episodes of Parks & Recreation. Obviously, we brought other things too, but in hindsight, those are the ones that added the most value to our experience. Our first mistake was not packing and weighing our backpacks until 10 PM the night before we drove from my house in Nashville to the trailhead. Walking from my guest bedroom to the end of my driveway with a loaded backpack is one thing. Carrying that backpack sixteen miles down, through, up, and around an isolated and rugged canyon in the backwoods of Tennessee is a different game all together.

Another mistake, one that I take full credit for, was hiking the trail clockwise, descending into the gulf and hiking back up to the rim before taking the spur trail to our campground, on the first day. I’d made a foolish assumption that this route would ensure a relatively easy hike along the rim of the gulf on our second day. In my experience with trails in this area (in this park nonetheless, at Fiery Gizzard and Big Creek Gulf), it’s easier to hike through the gulf first, and then return along the rim. I’ve since come to learn that this is not true of the Collins Gulf loop. The elevation gain hits different (as people younger and cooler than me would say) when hiking clockwise at Collins Gulf because the ascents are steeper and more frequent than the descents.

Although we certainly (and accidentally) made this strenuous trail even more challenging by hiking clockwise, this gave us the opportunity to witness two of the trail’s most beautiful features within the first three miles of our hike. After less than a mile of following the loop access trail and descending into the gulf, we began hiking under a concave cliff wall that formed a hook-shaped arch above the trail. This part of the trail runs parallel to Collins River, which flows mightily downstream of Suter Falls, an absolutely secluded and stunning waterfall that’s only visible when you’re already in front of it. This is what I love about hiking in Tennessee: the intimacy of experiencing a place that cannot be seen without effort and close proximity.

Suter Falls, located on Rocky Mountain Creek, just before it joins Collins River, the enigmatic river that flows both above and below ground at the bottom of the gulf

Horsepound Falls lies only two miles beyond Suter Falls, accessible via a very worthwhile and short spur off the main trail. Hiking to Horsepound Falls and back from the Collins West trailhead only covers about 4.5 miles. Many day hikers seeking gorgeous views opt for this journey, and I must admit that the magnificent scenery at each of these waterfalls would have provided a glorious finale to mine and Megan’s extended hike, if we’d hiked the loop counterclockwise. Regardless, both of these waterfalls are among the most dazzling I’ve seen in Tennessee, and whether you take the long or the short journey to them, you’re likely to encounter very few (if any) other hikers at either destination. I can’t say that about any other significant waterfalls in the area that I’ve hiked to, and that makes these two even more special.

A short and clearly marked spur off the main trail provides access to Horsepound Falls, a mighty waterfall that flows downstream of Suter Falls

Beyond Horsepound Falls, the trail runs along the bottom of Collins Gulf for a couple of miles. The only other hikers we encountered were boy scouts with leaf blowers, charged with clearing the trails for the annual Savage Gulf Marathon. Yes, this is a thing. I’ve hiked most of the terrain that the marathon covers, and even as a relatively fit young-ish adult with a resting heart rate that hovers around 60 BPM, I do not understand how anyone can run 26.2 miles over this extreme terrain in a single day. I certainly admire these mythical creatures. I haven’t met a single person who’s actually run this marathon, but I have faith that they exist.

Anyways, Megan and I continued onward across multiple creek crossings and countless boulder fields at the bottom of Collins Gulf, feeling the weight of our backpacks more and more with each step. The scenery was breathtaking, even more extravagantly wild and elusive than what I’d previously experienced on other trails int he area. As much as I wanted to focus exclusively on the scenery, my body and mind suffered beneath the weight of my backpack. I expected to feel the burden of the weight mostly in my upper body, but honestly, this hike hurt everywhere. My lower body ached from the added pressure of carrying much more than my own body weight through the elevation changes along the trail. My core had to work harder to balance a top-heavy load when crossing rugged boulder fields or slippery creek beds. Previous hiking experience on other challenging trails, combined with a moderately strenuous indoor fitness routine (I take boxing classes about four or five times per week), did not prepare me for the rigors of Collins Gulf. To put it lightly, I struggled, consistently and sometimes tearfully, on this trail.

The section of Collins River that flows through the gulf usually appears dry, but this is one of several rivers in the area that primarily flows underground.

The greatest challenge of day one arrived about six or seven miles into the nine miles of hiking we’d planned before settling into our campsite for the night. At this point, Collins Gulf Trail splits into two strenuous options for climbing out of the gulf, via the connector trail that ascends toward the North Plateau or the steeper and shorter trail that ascends to the South Plateau via Stagecoach Road. Mine and Megan’s route included an exhausting and slow ascent towards the South Plateau via Stagecoach Road. Despite the intensity of this route, we felt overwhelmed and humbled by the opportunity to experience this historically significant trail segment. In the 1800’s, wealthy landowners commissioned Stagecoach Road in an attempt to build a highway between McMinnville and Chattanooga. Hundreds of slaves labored over this road’s construction, although the project was never completed. This trail segment remains, and to this day, ancient metal and iron cables still lie on the forest floor surrounding the trail, a haunting reminder of the cruel disdain that the road’s benefactors demonstrated toward the land and those who risked their lives in that extreme environment in order to build it.

A small waterfall provides a welcome sight at the top of Stagecoach Road

There’s another waterfall at the summit of Stagecoach Road (Yes, I’m calling it summit. Hike it from the bottom up with a massive backpack after traversing six miles of slippery boulders before you judge me). It’s a refreshing sight after an arduous uphill climb. Beyond the waterfall, a relatively mild one-mile spur trail toward the Stagecoach Road campground was all that remained between us and cozy night by the fire with a Bota Box and April Ludgate’s one-liners. I failed to realize however, that tents don’t assemble themselves, and not all wood is firewood. Even after blissfully separating from our backpacks upon arrival at our campsite, Megan and I still had plenty of work to do before nightfall. Luckily, Megan knew how to build a proper fire, but wood doesn’t dry out after rain as quickly in March as it does in summer months. Without an ax, we had to scavenge the forest surrounding the trail for dry branches and limbs, so we were mostly reliant on smaller pieces of wood that burn quickly. We had to make several expeditions to scavenge for firewood after dark, powered by headlamps (one of man’s greatest inventions, in my humble opinion), but I’m proud to say that we survived to see the sunrise on day two of our backpacking adventure.

Megan and Maggie in our carefully assembled tent at our campsite at Stagecoach Road

This is me volunteering for chef duties because nature is cold after dark and fire isn’t.

We woke up at sunrise after a night of little sleep, freezing temperatures, and the intermittent howl of coyotes. Hikers at a neighboring campground gifted us some firewood before they packed up and headed out, and this provided warmth for our stiff, cold muscles and our gourmet breakfast of ramen noodles. We expected a relatively mild day of hiking eight miles along the rim of the gulf, but this section of trail is far from flat. The elevation gain and loss isn’t significant, but it’s constant. Our bodies already felt thoroughly sore and exhausted after the first day of strenuous hiking with heavy backpacks, and that didn’t help. Other than conversation and commitment, scenery was our only source of comfort, and although the views weren’t as diverse as what we witnessed in the gulf, the trail provided countless reminders of why we’d embarked on this journey, so we pressed on.

Another peril of hiking clockwise involves crossing a seemingly endless uphill sea of unstable boulders that starts about two miles from the finish line. The boulder field looks magnificent. It’s easily one of the most beautiful sections of a trail, packed with with gorgeous moss-capped stones resting between an imposing canyon wall and the rocky banks of the powerful Collins River. If we’d hiked the loop counterclockwise, I’d have had energy to take photos as we descended through this enchanting area. However, by the time Megan and I reached the boulder field, fourteen miles into a brutal and exhausting sixteen mile hike, we were prepared to spend every drop of the dwindling energy we had left on getting up and out of the boulder field. The ascent through the boulder field rivaled the previous day’s ascent of Stagecoach Road. After reconnecting with the access trail, a mile or less from the Collins West trailhead, we completed the final stretch of this glorious hike with astounding speed, motivated by visions of cheeseburgers and indoor plumbing.

Maggie leads the way across a suspension bridge over Collins River, the final section of flat terrain before the arduous boulder field.

The timing’s a coincidence, but Megan and I completed this hike on International Women’s Day, and that makes the journey feel especially satisfying. Several people (male and female) told us, in so many words, “I wish a man were going with you”. As a woman who often hikes alone, I hear this a lot, and I’ve always thought that kind of statement says much more about the messenger than it does about me as the recipient. Megan had never backpacked before either, but neither of us ever felt vulnerable enough to question our decision to hike sixteen miles over two days on a remote and very challenging trail without a male chaperone. We were strong enough to carry everything we needed, resourceful enough to filter drinking water from a stream, competent enough to build a fire, and brave enough to spend a night in the woods without a man there to protect us. We prepared well (enough) and trusted our instincts. We didn’t execute perfectly, but at the end of the day, we accomplished something big, something new and important that neither of us had previously done before. This may have been my first overnight backpacking experience, but I can promise you that it won’t be my last.