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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.
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The Grandfather Trail: The Most Technical Hike East of the MS River

Touted as the most technical hike east of the Mississippi River that doesn’t require climbing gear, the Grandfather Trail in North Carolina offers an enticing challenge for adventurers who want to channel their inner American Ninja Warrior in the wild. Affectionately referred to as the chutes and ladders trail, this natural obstacle course traverses 2.5 miles (one way) of rugged terrain and thrilling exposure to the summit of Calloway Peak, the highest of a series of peaks along Grandfather Ridge at 5,964 ft. As the moniker suggests, the trail requires hikers to utilize numerous ladders and ropes on the way to the top. If you’re into scrambles and comfortable with exposure, this trail is absolutely exhilarating and offers stunning views of the surrounding Appalachian wilderness.

traversing the Grandfather Mountain ridge, with MacRae Peak ahead on my right, and Calloway Peak on the left in the distance

I live in Tennessee, a rare state that does not charge admission fees to state parks, ever. It’s one of many things I love about my home state, but it’s also set a low bar for what I consider to be “expensive” admission to parks in other places. The Grandfather Mountain Nature Park charges $22 per adult and $9 per child for entry at the park’s main access point. I’m not saying the price isn’t worth it, but this is the most expensive admission fee I’ve paid to enter any state or national park, since national parks charge per vehicle and not per person. I’ve paid $35 for entry to national parks, but this covers unlimited re-entry for me and anyone in my vehicle for a whole week. With this in mind, I think it’s really important to consider where those dollars are going, and in the case of this stunning park, 100% of admission fees are invested into the preservation of the park and its wild inhabitants. There are longer alternative options for hiking to the top of Calloway Peak, for those who want to avoid the admission fee, but these routes also bypass the daunting features that make the Grandfather Trail so unique. The Grandfather Mountain Nature Park offers the best access to the Grandfather Trail and the family friendly amenities close to the visitor center. Consider the admission fee as an investment in memories you won’t soon forget, and more importantly, an investment in the future of this spectacular place as a home for wildlife and an unforgettable destination for future generations of explorers. You can learn more about the organization that supports this park here.*

Most people who enter the park on the road that provides access to the Grandfather trailhead aren’t actually planning to hike this trail. There’s a visitor center across the parking lot from the trailhead and sweeping views along the winding road to the crest of this imposing ridge. There’s an attraction at the visitor center called Mile High Swinging Bridge that’s probably exactly what its name suggests. I may never know, because my husband and I decided to devote all of our daylight hours to the Grandfather trail instead. We hiked this trail in late November, and in warmer and busier months, I think hikers are required to park in a lot below the trailhead that served as our starting point. This may add a mile or so to the trail’s roundtrip distance, along with notable elevation gain on the way up. Leave your kids, dogs, and friends who are afraid of heights at home for this one. They’ll thank you for it later.

Andy and I travelled to Banner Elk, NC for a weekend getaway to celebrate his birthday, and after we climbed Mt Elbert in Colorado on my birthday a couple of years ago, it only felt appropriate to spend one of his birthdays on top of a mountain too.

After half a mile of modest elevation gain, the trail forks, just beyond a gorgeous overlook at Grandfather Gap. This marks the turnaround point for many hikers. For those that choose to press on, the fork to the right continues along the Grandfather Trail and wastes very little time before manifesting its technical and treacherous reputation through a series of ladders and cables that weave over and under the massive rock ledges that dominate the terrain along the ridge. The route is well-marked and easy to navigate, but it traverses several exposed surfaces that require what I like to refer to as “intentional hiking”. This means that every step is critical to the success of the next one, and moving forward requires unrelenting focus and determination. This pattern repeats itself several times along the way up to the summit of MacRae Peak (5,845 ft), accessible by an unconvincing ladder extending at a nearly vertical trajectory above the trail. I expected the climbing to end at the top of the ladder, but was instead greeted (or taunted, if we’re being honest) by an ominously thin cable that I gripped with white knuckles in chilling 25 MPH winds as I finished the precipitous climb to the top of MacRae Peak.

The wind howled loudly as Andy and I emerged breathless and triumphant on the entirely exposed summit. Luckily, we were the only people up there, because space is very limited. The Grandfather Ridge towers prominently over its surroundings, so sitting on the summit of MacRae Peak, with majestic views for miles and miles in every direction, felt like sitting on top of the world. In my humble opinion, these views are the best of many spectacular ones on the entire hike, but they’re also the riskiest to attain. The final ascent to the top of MacRae Peak is not for everyone, so it’s important to trust your instincts and avoid overcommitting to a potentially dangerous situation.

immaculate views from the top of MacRae Peak (5,845 ft)

The thrillingly rugged terrain continues beyond MacRae Peak as the trail traverses the ridge, ascending and descending constantly. Although Calloway Peak lies only two and a half miles from the visitor center at Mile High Swinging Bridge, progress comes slowly. In addition to topography, the trail becomes incredible narrow in many places, especially those with ladders and cables. This makes two way traffic difficult. The Grandfather trail receives significant foot traffic, despite its brutal reputation, so expect to spend some time stopping to wait for hikers coming from the opposite direction to pass. According to the unwritten rules of hiker etiquette, the ascending hiker has the right-of-way, but use your best judgment and communicate with other hikers. It sounds like common sense, but small acts of courtesy and adaptability go a long way in preventing accidents.

After more exposed scrambling, the trail approaches an aggressive ascent through a jagged series of boulders, the final technical challenge that lies between hikers who’ve made it this far and the highest point on the Grandfather Ridge, Calloway Peak. Although the inevitable scramble looks intimidating from the bottom of the gully, it’s not so bad once you start climbing. The route is straightforward and moves upward through a notch. The exposure continues along the ridge beyond the notch for a brief stretch, but the trail eventually retreats into the cover of those sacred Appalachian pines before nonchalantly emerging on top of Calloway Peak. Although the views from Grandfather Mountain’s highest summit aren’t as expansive as the ones from the top of MacRae Peak, they’re just as stunning. The tree cover on the western side of the peak partially blocked the brutal winds that precede winter in Appalachia, and the views to the east from the summit make the ascent entirely worthwhile.

the ascent through the notch below the summit of Calloway Peak

We descended along the same route until reaching a turnoff for the Underwood Trail, a short segment that descends below the ridge line and bypasses the route to MacRae Peak. We’d done some research prior to our hike and knew that this trail would reconnect with the Grandfather Trail without adding any significant distance. Eager to see what this new segment offered, and equally eager for a break from the wind and exposure along the chutes and ladders surrounding MacRae Peak, we followed the Underwood Trail for a half mile or so before reconnecting with the Grandfather Trail near the Grandfather Gap overlook. From here, the trail modestly descends through the dense forest and returns to the trailhead.

The Underwood Trail connects to the Grandfather Trail on each end and descends below the ridge to avoid the wind and exposure of the trail’s most treacherous section. The views aren’t so bad either.

I can’t post about my experience on the Grandfather Trail without acknowledging that anyone with legitimate climbing experience (I have none) who’s reading this is likely scoffing at my ignorance for overusing the word “technical” to describe a trail that doesn’t require any technical experience at all. To be perfectly clear, although this trail does not require technical climbing experience or gear, it’s a strenuous and highly exposed hike along unforgiving terrain. If you’ve got the mettle for it, the effort and anxiety pays off in a big way, but observe caution when embarking on this (or any) trail. Avoid the crowds by hiking in the offseason, like we did, but be aware of adverse conditions like wind or snow and plan accordingly. The Grandfather Trail presents an opportunity for adventure unlike any other on this side of the Mississippi, as long as you manage your expectations wisely.

views from the highest point on the grandfather Ridge, Calloway Peak (5,964 ft)

*This post has been revised as of August 5, 2021 to reflect some helpful and clarifying information graciously offered by Grandfather Mountain Stewardship Foundation.

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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

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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.

roll tide, always and everywhere

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.

sunset over Tilted Mesa

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.
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Zion National Park: Hiking to the Top of Angel’s Landing

This is a story about a hike that almost didn’t happen. My friend, Megan, and I travelled to southern Utah on our way to the north rim of the Grand Canyon, and we passed through Zion National Park. We planned to spend a day or two at Zion, but due to so many factors (mostly COVID, but also toxic bacteria in Virgin River and trail closures due to rock slides), we didn’t expect to do much more than pass through on our way to hike the most remote and difficult trail in the Grand Canyon (more to come on that in my next post). I can’t even remember which trail we’d planned to hike at Zion after our options became so involuntarily limited in the days leading up to our trip, but we were excited nonetheless. Zion National Park is iconic and gorgeous, and even when the must-do trails for first time visitors aren’t an option, I’m sure every hike in this park promises breathtaking views.

Angel’s Landing (center) as viewed from the trailhead

After entering the park, we boarded the shuttle to the now forgotten trail that we intended to hike. If you’re planning to visit Zion, put some advance research into how the shuttle system works, because tickets are limited by design, to protect the park’s fragile ecosystem (always) and to maintain COVID safety protocol (currently). While we were on the shuttle, we overheard someone seated behind us talking about their hike to the top of Angel’s Landing the previous day. This caught our attention, because we thought that the upper portion of this trail was closed due to COVID, based on the park’s website and AllTrails. Angel’s Landing is the most famous trail among countless incredible hiking options at Zion National Park and considered by many to be one of the very best hikes in America. However, climbing the upper section of this trail requires holding onto chains for support while traversing treacherously exposed sections of rocky terrain, hundreds of feet above the bottom of the canyon. Needless to say, social distancing isn’t an option and there’s simply no way to climb to the top without touching the same chains that hundreds of other hands have also recently touched.

After admitting to eavesdropping, Megan and I learned from the other bus passenger that the trail had just reopened a few days earlier and that the park intentionally avoided publicizing the news in hopes that foot traffic on this popular trail would remain light. Angel’s Landing should be on every thrill-seeking hiker’s bucket list, and 2020 has provided resounding evidence that life doesn’t guarantee or owe us anything. After a brief discussion and very little hesitation, Megan and I decided that we could not turn down the opportunity to hike this iconic trail, despite the risks. I’ve been careful and deferential about COVID protocols throughout this pandemic, but honestly, I followed my heart to the top of Angel’s Landing, with hand sanitizer and a mask in tow, and I have absolutely no regrets.

As a native of the Deep South, I’m highly superstitious, not just a little stitious (shoutout to my fellow fans of The Office), and I believe that my lucky cactus shirt played a crucial role in making this hike possible.

Bottom to top, this hike packs in magnificent views. There isn’t a single section of this trail that won’t make your Instagram followers drool with envy, but this hike (and pretty much every other hike) delivers significantly more value than attention on social media. It’s an experience, and one so unique that photos and videos can’t adequately document the journey to the top of this monolith. The impact of this hike goes so far beyond visual appeal, and as vivid as the views will remain in my memory, the emotions and the adrenaline rush are what I’ll always value most from this epic adventure.

The five-mile (roundtrip) hike to the top of Angel’s Landing begins at the Grotto trailhead, located across the road from shuttle stop 6. Before embarking on this journey, hikers can and should take advantage of the bathroom facilities and water station near the shuttle stop. From the trailhead, this hike follows a paved trail with a steady but moderate incline for about a mile on the approach to the first set of switchbacks. This is where the trail really begins to climb at a steeper grade, offering sweeping views of the valley below. After the first set of switchbacks, the trail flattens for about half a mile and moves in a straight line along a creek that flows through a narrow gap between towering red rock walls. After about a mile and a half of hiking, we reached the bottom of a brutally steep set of 21 switchbacks known as Walter’s Wiggles. The Wiggles are affectionately named after Zion National Park’s first superintendent, Walter Ruesch, who built these switchbacks into the side of the mountain in 1926.

Megan and I didn’t take any photos on the Wiggles because we were so focused on the climb, but here’s a photo from the first set of switchbacks. The trail was steep, but the views were spectacular.

From an endurance standpoint, the Wiggles are arguably the most challenging part of this hike, but overall, the most difficult part of the journey doesn’t begin until you reach the chains. At the top of the Wiggles, there’s a beautiful overlook (and “emergency-only” toilets, whatever that means), and the route along the chains to the summit of Angel’s Landing finally comes into view. Many hikers choose not to continue beyond the overlook, as this final section certainly isn’t for everyone. It’s an intimidating sight, and in practice, this climb is every bit as steep and perilous as it looks. The trail is usually too narrow to accommodate two-way traffic, which can be problematic due to the volume of hikers you’re sure to encounter here, even during a global pandemic. One slip or misstep could send you, and potentially others around you, tumbling to a certain death at the bottom of the canyon. We hiked this trail at 9 AM on a Tuesday in late September, when the park allegedly wasn’t advertising that the upper section of the trail had reopened, and the place was still dangerously crowded. Stopping to let someone approaching from the opposite direction pass just isn’t an option along many of the climb’s narrow stretches, so it’s crucial to stay aware of your surroundings and be considerate of other hikers. When the trail is busy, expect to spend most of your time on this part of the hike waiting on others.

After reaching the top, it’s easy to see what all the fuss is about. The stunning 360 degree views from the summit of Angel’s Landing certainly justify the heart-pounding anxiety of getting there. Many words come to mind that could describe how I felt when we finally reached the top, but the one that resonates the most is triumphant. Also, the summit is shockingly flat and spacious compared to the trail, so there’s plenty of room to socially distance yourself from the swarms of other hikers. We lingered for a while, taking photos from every angle despite knowing that we’d never really be able to capture this place accurately and comprehensively enough to demonstrate its immense beauty.

The views from the top of Angel’s Landing are truly (forgive the pun, I’m completely shameless) heavenly.

On the descent, we passed even more hikers than we’d seen on the journey to the top. This made me feel uneasy, not necessarily because of COVID, but because some of the hikers we passed were behaving recklessly and with little concern for the potential impact of their actions on others. While I’d recommend this hike to anyone (anyone without a fear of heights, that is) visiting Zion National Park, I’d advise starting earlier than we did or going later in the afternoon. Hopefully, the park will eventually implement a permit system to limit the risk of accidents due to overcrowding on this trail. Reportedly, at least 15 people have fallen to their deaths while hiking at Angel’s Landing, but there’s no way to know if any of those accidents could have been prevented by limiting the number of hikers allowed on the trail per day. Additionally, this unique and fragile landscape would surely benefit from lighter and more precisely managed foot traffic. Regardless, I’m grateful for chatty strangers on buses and spontaneous friends who share my appetite for adventure.

The upper section of the trail includes about half a mile of this, and it’s absolutely worth the anxiety.
best seat in the house

BONUS: If y’all have been following along, you know I love a short, easy sunset hike. On the evening before our epic ascent to the top of Angel’s Landing, Megan and I squeezed in a stunning hike along the Zion Canyon Overlook Trail. It’s only a mile (roundtrip) and absolutely manageable for hikers of all ages and skill levels. The views from the overlook are magnificent, and there’s no shuttle pass required for this hike. Parking at the trailhead is very limited, so you’ll likely have to park on the side of the road and walk a quarter of a mile or so to the trailhead. However, the views are unbelievable, especially considering the minimal amount of effort required to reach the overlook.

Megan, enjoying the final moments of a glorious sunset from the Zion Canyon Overlook
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Day Hikes in Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks

After my husband and I planned a destination wedding in Telluride, Colorado in 2019, we decided to defer our honeymoon to 2020. We both had so much going on in 2019, personally and professionally, aside from planning a wedding. The year felt like an emotional rollercoaster with no time to spare for the honeymoon we wanted. 2020 was supposed to be a year of stability and settling into our happily normal lives as newlyweds. In hindsight, it sounds so naive, right? To be fair, the inconvenience of planning and cancelling two honeymoons in 2020 cannot compare to the struggles of brides who’ve had to postpone or significantly alter wedding plans this year. After aborted plans to travel to New Zealand in May, and then the Hawaiian island of Kauai in August, we made a third and final attempt to have a honeymoon in 2020 and decided to travel to Jackson, Wyoming. Neither of us had been before, and while it wasn’t the trip we thought we’d be taking for our honeymoon, we were grateful for the opportunity to go and excited to explore this place that’s touted as one of the most beautiful destinations in America.

Andy and I on the summit of Table Mountain (11,106 ft) in Grand Teton National Park

Located in a valley immediately south of Grand Teton National Park, Jackson provides immediate access to an endless array of hiking adventures against a sprawling and rugged mountain backdrop. The road that leads into the park from Jackson actually continues north into Yellowstone National Park as well. Admission to each park costs $35 per car (assuming up to four passengers per car) and covers unlimited travel into and out of the park for seven consecutive days. However, an annual National Parks pass costs $80 and grants pass holders admission to more than 100 federally managed recreation areas, including all National Parks. The annual pass does not cover camping permits or shuttle fees, but it’s an incredibly sensible purchase for anyone interested in exploring America’s public lands.

Despite reviewing multiple hiking resources (AllTrails, travel blogs, local guides, etc.), narrowing down our options in the Tetons and Yellowstone was so difficult due to the immense quantity and variety of attractive trails. I’d hike any of the four trails that we explored again, but for each of them, there are about a dozen others that appeared to be just as gorgeous and rewarding. As is the case in most National Parks, popular trails receive very heavy foot traffic, so I’d definitely recommend visiting in the off season or on a week day, and getting an early start regardless of when you visit. If you have the opportunity to speak to a local, ask for their recommendations. We received several recommendations for trails we hadn’t uncovered through our own research from our Airbnb host and from a friend’s sister who lives in the area. Utilize your social media network as well. Most people will gladly share their experiences and provide insightful tips, even if they don’t know you. Asking a stranger for advice is only creepy if you act like a creep.

We hiked three trails in Grand Teton National Park and one in Yellowstone. Although Yellowstone is seven times larger than its neighbor to the south, Grand Teton National Park is a more sensible option for day hikes. Yellowstone is vast and spread out, and a two-hour drive separates the park’s southern boundary from Jackson, WY. Even after entering Yellowstone from the southern road, visitors still have to travel for miles and miles before reaching any trails that could reasonably be hiked within a day, considering route lengths and the roundtrip travel time from Jackson. During our trip, all lodges and most campgrounds in both parks were closed or operating at very limited capacity due to COVID-19. With all of this in mind, we didn’t have many viable hiking options at Yellowstone. Based on our very limited time in both places, we both preferred our hikes in Grand Teton National Park over the one in Yellowstone. However, I feel like we barely scratched the surface of areas to explore in both parks and hope to see much more of both in the future.

BONUS: If you visit the Tetons in the summer and want to try an outdoor activity that isn’t hiking, I highly recommend renting a kayak or canoe from the Coulter Bay Marina on Jackson Lake. We only had a couple of hours to spend on the lake before heading to the airport, but in hindsight, we wish we’d dedicated an entire day to exploring this massive and beautiful lake beneath the mountains.

Taggart Lake and Bradley Lake Loop

This mild six-mile loop begins at the Taggart Lake trailhead and offers stunning views of the Tetons for less effort than most of the park’s trails. Because of this, the trail receives very heavy foot traffic, especially the Taggart Lake section. Most visitors only hike the Taggart Lake loop (about four miles) and omit the extension that includes trail to Bradley Lake. With little else to do and plenty of daylight, we hiked the full six miles, although I admit that the best part of the hike was the section along Taggart Lake. The trail to Bradley Lake doesn’t provide access to the lakeshore, only shrouded glimpses of the lake through the trees along a ridge above the lake. Beyond the loop, there’s an option to hike to Garnet Canyon, and this section of the trail may provides better access to Bradley Lake. We stayed on the loop, knowing we’d hike into Garnet Canyon on another trail a couple of days later.

The trail weaves in and out of a dense forest, and magnificent views of the Tetons dominate the skyline along the open sections. There’s only about 750 feet of elevation gain, and most of that occurs on the Bradley Lake section. At Taggart Lake, we enjoyed absolutely majestic vistas of the Tetons rising above this sprawling lake. The trail runs along the edge of the lake for almost half a mile and offers many spots where hikers can step off the trail to explore the shoreline and experience uninterrupted mountain views, steps away from the congestion of other hikers along the trail.

Grand Teton (center) towering over Taggart Lake, amid hazy conditions due to the wildfires west of the Tetons during our visit

This was our first of our three hikes in Grand Teton National Park, and it turned out to be the easiest as well. We almost didn’t hike this trail at all, but I’m so glad that we did. Initially, we’d planned to hike the Cascade Canyon Trail, accessible via the Jenny Lake area in the park. However, we abandoned these plans after seeing swarms of people along the access trail. Jenny Lake is gorgeous, and Cascade Canyon is supposed to be one of the most beautiful hiking trails in the park, but we felt so discouraged by the masses we encountered here (at 9:00 AM on a Thursday, by the way) that we left the Jenny Lake area and didn’t go back during our trip. If you’re considering hiking here, especially during the peak summer season, 9:00 AM isn’t an early enough start time, regardless of the length of your planned hike. However, this created an opportunity to explore the Taggart Lake and Bradley Lake Loop, and this proved to be a less crowded option with much better views than we expected.

Bradley Lake, with Teewinot Mountain (12,166 ft) visible in the background, as viewed from the trail

Delta Lake via the Amphitheater Trail

When we asked the owner of the Airbnb rental where we stayed on our trip to Jackson Hole for hiking recommendations, she told us, without hesitation, that Delta Lake via the Amphitheater Trail was her favorite hike in the Tetons. With an endorsement like that, we knew we had to check it out for ourselves. This out-and-back hike covers eight miles roundtrip and about 2,300 feet of elevation gain. The Lupine Meadows Trailhead provides access to several popular hiking trails, so unless you arrive early (before 8:00 AM), plan on adding some additional distance to your eight-mile hike because you’ll have to park along the dirt road that leads to the small unpaved parking lot. Of all the trails we hiked, this one was the busiest. We started early enough to avoid heavy foot traffic on the way up to Delta Lake, but there was rarely a moment on the way down when other hikers weren’t within view.

views from the Lupine Meadows Trailhead at Grand Teton National Park

The trail climbs steadily over the first three miles, mercifully distributing the elevation gain relatively evenly over a series of switchbacks. The trail is wide and easy to follow, and the views become more and more expansive along the ascent. After about 3.2 miles of moderate hiking, a cairn marks the spot where hikers headed to Delta Lake exit the maintained trail and begin a primitive route up through Glacier Gulch and over a series of boulder fields. Although this final mile up to Delta Lake isn’t maintained by the park, there’s a clear route and a few cairns that make it easier to navigate through the boulders. This route is difficult and very steep, ascending nearly 900 feet in less than a mile. There’s very little shade, so if you hike this trail in August like we did, I highly recommend sunscreen.

Delta Lake isn’t visible until you climb the final stretch of trail and emerge through a few trees and right onto the lake’s rocky shoreline. This brilliant turquoise lake lies immediately below Grand Teton, and it’s one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I’ve seen on any hike. Photos don’t accurately capture the magnitude of the scenery around this alpine lake. Nestled in a drainage basin at 9,000 feet, Delta Lake’s still transparent waters reflect images of the surrounding massive granite monoliths. The rocky shoreline offers plenty of space for hikers to spread out and enjoy the scenery around them. A few brave souls swam in the lake, but even in the summer heat, that water felt way too cold for comfort for this hiker from the Deep South. Regardless, we felt perfectly content to sit on a rock at the lake’s edge and enjoy a leisurely lunch before returning to the trailhead.

Grand Teton’s famous shark fin profile rises above the turquoise waters of Delta Lake

Table Mountain

During the weeks leading up to our trip to Jackson Hole, we seriously considered a summit hike to the top of Middle Teton, the least technical of the thee mountains that the range is named for. Although there’s no technical climbing involved, Middle Teton is a massive undertaking, with 13 miles of hiking and more than 6,000 feet of elevation gain, plus class 3 and 4 scrambling near the summit. After arriving in Jackson and seeing this beast in person, we reluctantly decided pick another mountain. I rarely let intimidation prevent me from any hike, and I’m sure we’d have been fine and successful if we’d tried to climb Middle Teton. However, we just didn’t feel compelled to climb a mountain like this one on our honeymoon. Instead, we followed the recommendation of a local and opted for Table Mountain, which is no small feat at 11,106 feet, but a milder alternative to Middle Teton.

Teton peaks (from left) as viewed form the summit of Table Mountain: Mount Owen (12,928 ft), Grand Teton (13,776 ft), Middle Teton (12,806 ft), South Teton (12,514 ft)

The hike to the summit of Table Mountain begins outside of Grand Teton National Park, and the peak lies on the park’s western boundary. Perhaps because the trail isn’t in the national park, or perhaps due to its difficulty, this trail doesn’t receive nearly as much foot traffic as the others we hiked. We ascended via the four-mile Face Trail and descended on the seven-mile Huckleberry Trail. The two trailheads are only a five-minute walk away from each other, and most people who climb this mountain do so by following the same loop that we took. With 4,000 feet of elevation gain over four miles, the Face Trail definitely presents a challenge. Factor in the altitude and the smoky conditions we hiked in, as haze from the wildfires many miles west of us permeated the air in the Tetons, and this trail felt entirely brutal. It felt only slightly less difficult than the fourteener hikes I’ve done in Colorado. For all of its adversity, the scenery is undeniably gorgeous. The hazy air obscured views of distant mountains, but we could see those that were within a few miles of us, and after we passed the tree line, less than a mile from the summit, we were surrounded on all sides by incredible mountain vistas.

the final push, about 300 vertical feet below the summit of Table Mountain

The final push to the summit includes a short class 1 or 2 scramble with some exposure, but the route is straightforward and obvious. As the name suggests, the summit of Table Mountain is flat and spacious, and it provides a truly epic panoramic view of the three Teton peaks: Grand, Middle, and South. The views were insanely gorgeous, but I can’t even imagine how much better they’d be on a clear day. We could have stayed up there all day and never tired of the views, but the wind was howling and thoughts of cheeseburgers and beer started to creep in, so we began the seven-mile return trek along the Huckleberry Trail. We didn’t expect the views to be even prettier along this trail than they were on the way up via the Face Trail, but we were shocked by the endless sea of colorful wildflowers surrounded by mountain vistas that we encountered throughout the descent. Unlike the Face Trail, the Huckleberry Trail offered views of Table Mountain from afar, and it felt really satisfying to look back at the peak we’d just climbed.

The views on the descent from the summit of Table Mountain, along the Huckleberry Trail, were magnificent. The peak shaped like a shark’s fin in this photo is Grand Teton, and the flat summit to the left of it in the foreground is Table Mountain. The terrain on Table Mountain looks deceptively easy from this vantage point.

About three miles from our end point, the vegetation thickened around the trail, and we started hiking through frequent patches of tall grass and shrubbery, often several feet high on either side of the trail. Many of the bushes were covered in bright berries, and we clearly weren’t the only ones in the area who noticed them. There was fresh and ample evidence of recent bear activity along this part of the trail, lying in little piles that we had to step over as we hiked. We saw dozens of bear sized interruptions in the shrubbery, the beginnings of paths clearly formed when these locals wandered off the trail in search of more fruit-filled bushes or water from the nearby creek. We hiked through these conditions for two and a half miles, feeling somewhat anxious considering how limited our visibility was because of the dense vegetation around us. The closer we became to the trailhead, the more surprised I felt that we hadn’t seen a bear. I’d accepted the fact that they were playing mind games with us, dropping bombs in our path and then retreating into the brush to mock us as we carefully moved past them without knowing they were watching.

And then, as if it’d been waiting on us the whole time, a Black Bear wandered out onto the trail about thirty or so feet in front of us, when we were only half a mile from the end of our eleven-mile hike. I spoke, to alert my husband who was hiking behind me, and the bear looked up and slowly started moving toward us. The bear wasn’t displaying any signs of aggression, but likely just investigating the noise it’d heard when we approached along the trail. Bears are curious creatures with poor vision, so it’s best to speak loudly when a bear notices you, so that it acknowledges you and differentiates your human voice from the natural sounds its prey may make. The bear was too close for me to feel comfortable whipping out my phone for a photo, or do anything besides recall the tenets bear safety protocol. We did what we were supposed to do, without using our bear spray, and the bear retreated into the woods on its own after only a minute or two. We safely made it back to our car, relieved and grateful for an exciting finale to one of the most incredible hikes I’ve ever taken.

abundant wildflower views along the Huckleberry Trail, and Table Mountain (center)

Fairy Falls and Grand Prismatic Hot Spring Overlook

As I’ve mentioned earlier, Yellowstone National Park isn’t very close to Jackson Hole. However, the drive up through the Tetons and into the park isn’t exactly boring. The views are immaculate, so the time flies by quickly. Be prepared for traffic jams caused by wild moose or bears on the side of the road, which will add time to your commute even if the animals have disappeared by the time that you emerge from the congestion. There’s no way to know for sure, but we think we experienced this kind of traffic about five times on our six-hour roundtrip journey to and from the Fairy Falls trailhead, even though we only saw one moose along the side of the road.

Yours won’t be the only car in the parking lot at the Fairy Falls trailhead, as this trailhead also provides access to the Grand Prismatic Spring overlook, one of the most popular spots in the park. The main road offers immediate access to this massive hot spring’s steamy edges, but even from afar, we could see throngs of visitors along the boundaries of this intensely colorful hot spring. Our overlook wasn’t lonely but definitely wasn’t as crowded as the boardwalk that leads to hot spring. I haven’t been to the edge of Grand Prismatic Spring, but I’m telling you now, the views from above are better than the ones you’d find along the boardwalk. On our way back to the car, a woman in the parking lot asked me about the overlook, and after I showed her a photo I’d taken, she admitted that she should have skipped the boardwalk trail to Grand Prismatic Spring and only hiked the overlook trail.

Grand Prismatic Hot Spring, as viewed from the overlook on the trail to Fairy Falls

Beyond the overlook, the trail continues along a dirt road before veering off into an evergreen forest along the approach to Fairy Falls. The hike to and from Fairy Falls includes five total miles and less than three hundred feet of elevation gain, making this the easiest of all our hikes on this vacation. We passed through places where the forest had burned and started to regrow, revealing expansive views of the wide open landscape around us. and the thousands of yellow wildflowers that covered the forest floor. A high granite cliff rose above us in the distance on the left, and the trail meandered increasingly closer to this cliff wall as we hiked towards Fairy Falls.

Fairy Falls, an absolutely gorgeous 200 ft waterfall (I couldn’t capture the whole thing on my iPhone) in Yellowstone National Park

The sound of falling water grew louder and the trees became more sparse as we approached a clearing, nestled below the granite cliff. As we entered the clearing, Fairy Falls suddenly presented itself, cascading down from the top of the cliff, 200 feet above us. The water formed a gorgeous pool at the bottom of the falls and then trickled over rocks and fallen trees as it made its way down into the meadow beyond the clearing. I’ve seen dozens of waterfalls in Tennessee. You can hardly throw a rock in this state without hitting water, but they never cease to amaze me. The constant motion of the water and the ever changing flow make it impossible to really see the same waterfall twice. As gorgeous as Fairy Falls looked in the middle of summer, I’m sure it’s even more impressive in spring when the flow is heavier or in winter when it’s covered in ice and snow. Regardless, the trail to Fairy Falls is absolutely worth the minimal effort that this hike requires and an amazing destination in Yellowstone National Park that’s much more secluded than the attractions along the park’s main loop.

Here’s a rare photo of a wild animal that didn’t require any zoom. We encountered this local immediately beside the trail, about a mile into our hike to Delta Lake via the Lupine Meadows trailhead.
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Day Hikes Near Nashville: Barfield Crescent Park

Amid the current circumstances with COVID, I’ve been embracing the opportunity to spend more time on trails close to home. Now more than ever, I feel very lucky to live in a place with close access to many beautiful hiking destinations. I think it’s still so important to spend time outside, while taking the recommended precautions, and that sunshine and sweat are inherently good for physical and mental health.

This mentality led me to Barfield Crescent Park in Murfreesboro, TN. From Nashville, the drive to this lovely park takes about 35 or 40 minutes, and the journey is worth it for those who want to avoid the crowds commonly found at Nashville parks like Percy Warner and Radnor Lake. I love those two Nashville parks, by the way, but sometimes the heavy foot traffic deflates the experience. I certainly wasn’t alone on the trail at Barfield Crescent Park, but when hiking the extended loop on a beautiful Sunday in late May, I encountered very few people beyond the first section of trail that leads to the swimming hole at Stones River. Despite its location in the middle of a sprawling suburban landscape, Barfield Crescent Park often feels surprisingly remote, and social distancing wasn’t difficult at all during my hike here. As is the case with many heavily trafficked urban or suburban parks, the paved sections of trail close to the parking lots and trailheads are wide enough to comfortably accommodate two-way foot traffic, even during a pandemic. Beyond that, more rugged trail options provide an escape from the crowds.

views of Stones River from the trail

Hiking the loop counter clockwise, I stopped briefly at the Stones River swimming hole (located about three quarters of a mile from the trailhead), which is little more than an easily accessible section of creek that’s deep enough for swimming. If you’re expecting to find a swimming hole in Murfreesboro like what you’d find at Cummins Falls or Foster Falls, prepare to be disappointed. There’s no waterfall on this hike. On a hot day, however, the calm and relatively shallow waters provide a safe and refreshing environment for swimmers and sunbathers of all ages. When I visited on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon in late May, I was surprised to find myself in the company of less than twenty people at the swimming hole.

my secluded corner of the swimming hole

I opted out of swimming and continued to work my way around the loop. The trail beyond the swimming hole is unpaved and very narrow, providing access to an immersive experience in a woodland oasis secluded from its neighboring subdivisions and outlet malls. The main trail, Marshall Knobs Trail, forms a 2.5 mile loop (including the paved section that leads to the swimming hole), but visitors can stretch this loop into a 4.5 mile hike with the addition of two horseshoe shaped spur trails, Valley View and Rocky Path. Although the trail is uneven and rugged in many places, there’s little elevation gain, making this an easy and pleasant journey for hikers of all ages and fitness levels. I encountered fewer than ten other hikers on the unpaved parts of the trail, which has never happened on any of the dozens of hikes I’ve taken at Percy Warner Park or Radnor Lake in Nashville, not even on winter days with subfreezing temperatures or summer days with triple a digit heat index from sunrise to sunset.

The trail continues to run parallel to Stones River past the swimming hole before turning inland about 1.3 miles into the hike. From here, the trail passes through a unique landscape littered with dozens of mysterious sinkholes. I’m sure everyone reading this has extensive knowledge of Tennessee’s geological history (jokes, I checked my facts on Google before posting this). However, in case you aren’t familiar with sinkholes or why Tennessee has so many of them, here’s a brief overview. Tennessee’s foundation is loaded with limestone, a notoriously soft rock that erodes more quickly than most other types of rock found below the earth’s surface. Water causes erosion, and Tennessee’s humid subtropical climate delivers a high volume of rainfall. Rain drips into the foundation below the soil and erodes the limestone beneath the earth’s surface over time, creating our state’s vast network of underground caverns and rivers. Eventually, erosion can strip away more limestone from the foundation than what’s needed to bear the weight of the ground above it, causing the surface layer to collapse into a hollow space in the earth formerly occupied by rock. This, ladies and gents, is where sinkholes come from.

one of many sinkholes alongside the trail at Barfield Crescent Park

Barfield Crescent Park is loaded with sinkholes, which might be why this land became a park instead of a residential or commercial development. Regardless, I’ve never seen more sinkholes so close together on any hike I’ve ever taken. It’s fair to assume, however, that most sinkholes in the forest go unnoticed unless you’re looking for them, and I’m usually not. Sinkholes aren’t particularly cute, unless they mature and evolve into caves, which is common in Tennessee but obviously not something that happens quickly enough to notice during a single lifetime.

On this hike, the sinkholes are hard to miss because they’re literally everywhere, dotting the densely wooded landscape like little craters with vein-like roots and vines climbing their smooth limestone walls. Because sinkholes are delicate micro ecosystems, avoid climbing down into them. Also, sinkholes are inherently cool, dark, and damp pits, which makes them prime real estate for snakes. In this park, you’ll have ample opportunity to admire sinkholes from them trail without disrupting their fragility or putting your own safety at risk.

Hiking at Barfield Crescent Park feels like an escape, not a stroll through the neighborhood.

You’ll likely have cell service throughout this hike, and I’d recommend using the AllTrails map for the Barfield Wilderness Trail Loop after the trail turns away from the river. You won’t get truly lost in this park, but the network of intersecting trails can be difficult to navigate, and there aren’t many signs. I accidentally ended up on the bike trail at one point, and I encountered another hiker who was hiking in the opposite direction along his intended course after getting turned around when reconnecting with the main trail after following one of the spurs.

As I completed the loop and returned to the parking lot, where a visitor center and its adjoining bathrooms were locked due to COVID (just an FYI, if you plan to visit soon), I felt pleasantly surprised by this trail. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much, considering the location. I’d originally planned to hike at Old Stone Fort on this particular day, but that parking lot was full when I arrived, and TN State Parks isn’t allowing parking outside of designated spaces right now, as a measure to increase safety by limiting foot traffic on trails. Barfield Crescent Park was my back-up plan, but the accessibility from Nashville and light foot traffic made the experience very worthwhile nonetheless.

scenic views along the trail at Barfield Crescent Park
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Georgia Day Hikes: Cloudland Canyon State Park

In January of 2020, when I began the third iteration of my New Year’s Resolution to explore a new hiking trail every month, I never thought I’d have to factor a global pandemic into my plans. The truth is that we’ve all experienced interruptions to our lives and routines due to COVID-19, and we’re all struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy despite these (cue the trendiest phrase of 2020) unprecedented times. Over the past few months, it’s been difficult to prioritize personal goals and comforts while our global community battles a health crisis that requires all hands on deck. Time passes like a fly through molasses these days, which has given me ample opportunity to think about balance. I’ve questioned my role in protecting the health and well-being of others and felt the overwhelming absence of previously mundane activities like going to the gym or making small talk in the elevator with other people who work in my office building. We all miss the routines we took for granted when the year began, and as a result, we’re desperate to find ways to enjoy the things we loved, only in a new format that’s more appropriate for the world we’re living in right now.

views of the beautiful Cloudland Canyon from the West Rim Loop trailhead

Nature is my greatest source of comfort and vitality. Hiking a new trail every month means more to me than maintaining a sense of normalcy, and despite the very abnormal current circumstances, I wanted to find a way to keep my routine alive, legally and with minimal risk to myself or others. Towards the end of March, Tennessee and most other states closed their parks indefinitely, and distant travel wasn’t a realistic or responsible alternative. Through extensive research, I learned that Georgia’s state parks remained open in April, at limited capacity and with an increase in park ranger presence to manage social distancing on popular trails. I carefully considered the potential risks of hiking during a pandemic. Ultimately, I concluded that by holding myself accountable and trusting the park rangers, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my favorite routine just yet.

enjoying the views from above the rim, dreaming of the views below the trees

This led me to Cloudland Canyon State Park, a magnificent place a few miles south of the border between Tennessee and Georgia, close to Chattanooga and about two and a half hours southeast of Nashville. Under normal circumstances, I rule out day hikes (when departing from and returning to Nashville in the same day) that require more time in the car than time on the trail. However, I think we can all agree that 2020 has wholeheartedly failed to provide us with normal circumstances. Also, I had plenty of time to kill and a good friend that I hadn’t seen in a while who volunteered to chase waterfalls and overlooks with me at a park that’s been on my bucket list for a while.

Cameron and I left Nashville early, hoping to beat the crowds to the popular waterfall trail segment off the West Rim Loop Trail at Cloudland Canyon State Park. Prior to visiting, I’d read that rangers were restricting access to the trails to the bottom of Cherokee and Hemlock Falls to ten parties at a time. I called the ranger station a few days before our hike to ask for advice on how early we should arrive and what to expect from a COVID management standpoint (Should we wear masks? Are the bathrooms open?) Admittedly, I call the local ranger station before most of my remote hikes, regardless of whether I’ve been there or not, to check on trail conditions. I know it’s overly cautious and nerdy, but I also hike by myself and/or on unfamiliar and lightly trafficked trails often. Calling the ranger station helps me plan my hikes and manage my expectations. Also, my mom feels more comfortable with my adventures when I can say in advance, “It’s fine, the park ranger said so”.

Cherokee Falls, stunning and well worth the journey into the canyon

We followed the advice of a park ranger named Austin and arrived early, around 9:00 AM. We parked in the shade, threw some hand sanitizer into our backpacks, and headed down the waterfall trail segment before hitting the West Rim Loop. Honestly, the waterfall segment was the most difficult part of our entire seven-mile journey, consisting of an endless sea of switchbacks and stairs that traversed the steep canyon walls surrounding Cherokee and Hemlock falls. We arrived at Cherokee Falls first, a beautiful waterfall that I’d imagine makes a great swimming hole during warmer and more carefree months. As we’d expected, a vigilant park ranger monitored the area, ensuring that each hiking party remained a safe distance from the next. Luckily, the base of Cherokee Falls offers plentiful views from many angles, which allows visitors to easily separate themselves without compromising their waterfall viewing experience.

Hemlock Falls lies less the a quarter of a mile downstream from Cherokee Falls, but the trail between the two is not a direct route. If you’ve hiked down to Cherokee Falls, you should also take the spur to Hemlock Falls. It adds about a mile roundtrip to the journey, but the scenery along the way is beautiful, and the ups and downs are great for the glutes. Hemlock Falls isn’t as visually appealing as its upstream neighbor, and there’s no direct access to the bottom. Regardless, I’d advise making the most of your time in the canyon by visiting both waterfalls. The inner canyon views are thoroughly gorgeous, and you’ll want to remember those images while you’re climbing out, to remind you that the effort was worth the journey.

the most magical place to enjoy the creek views between Cherokee and Hemlock falls

Aside from the waterfall segment, the West Rim Loop is probably the most popular trail in the park, and after hiking there during absolutely perfect weather conditions, I can understand why. The five-mile loop (measured from the access trailhead, not the beginning of the actual loop) traverses moderate terrain and majestic views overlooking the canyon below. This trail at Cloudland Canyon reminds me of my beloved trails in South Cumberland State Parkin Tennessee, because the enchanting views from above obscure layers of equally impressive scenery below, scenery that can only be appreciated by those who put in the effort to pursue it.

West Rim Loop offers easy access to multiple rocky outcroppings overlooking the canyon. Cameron and I had no trouble finding a scenic spot to break for lunch that provided plenty of social distance from the other hikers on the trail. We explored the trail at a leisurely pace, because the views were incredible and we didn’t have any other obligations. We enjoyed the time we had together, catching up on life and embracing the freedom of a day without other plans. When we returned to the trailhead, after hiking the five-mile loop and the two-mile detour to explore the waterfalls, I felt like we’d only been gone for a few minutes instead of a couple of hours. I love that feeling, the one where time stands still because the circumstances of the present outweigh the obligations to be elsewhere.

Views like this one from the West Rim Loop are plentiful along this amazing trail in northern Georgia.

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Hiking Underground at Mammoth Cave National Park

In the South, there’s no better time for an underground hike than the middle of summer. When August temperatures above ground make even the most heavily shaded trails feel like saunas, Tennessee and Kentucky offer several optimal underground hiking alternatives. None of these is more well known than Mammoth Cave National Park, easily accessible by a ninety-minute drive north from Nashville. As the only national park that’s justifiable as a day trip from my home in the Music City, the fact that I didn’t explore this place sooner completely baffles me. However, I couldn’t have picked a better opportunity to reunite with one of my favorite hiking partners and beat the heat by taking this chapter in the second iteration of my New Year’s Resolution underground.

Megan and I in a low-quality photo from a high-quality underground hike at Mammoth Cave. NPS strictly prohibits camera flashes inside the cave, so this is the best shot my iPhone could manage to produce.

Naturally, Mammoth Cave has been high on my “unexplored hiking destinations within a couple of hours of Nashville” bucket list (yes, I’ve got one of those) since the beginning of this journey in January of 2018. But this local climate that’s nothing short of smoldering for about eight months every year, as I’ve since learned, significantly changes beneath the earth’s surface. My hike at Mammoth Cave with Megan, a close friend who I’ve hiked with more times than maybe anyone, felt different than any other hike I’ve ever taken, and not just because of temperature differential below ground. I’ll admit that part felt so refreshing, because I can’t think of another summertime activity (outdoors and out of water) this close to home that gives me the chills, in the best way.

The entirety of the four-mile trail that Megan and I hiked lay beneath the ground. However, I’d describe this trail as generously moderate, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the National Park Service does not allow mere mortals to explore Mammoth Cave without a guide. I respect this, since Mammoth Cave is the world’s largest known cave system. The cave encompasses more than 400 miles of explored passages, only 14 of which are accessible to the general public, and many experts believe that at least half of the Mammoth Cave system has yet to be discovered. To the federal government, that translates to countless opportunities for unaccompanied and inexperienced tourists to get lost in the dark. As if NPS needs an additional reason to require Mammoth Cave visitors to enter the cave with a guide, it’s also extremely hazardous for the cave’s internal ecosystem to endure the human impact associated with unmitigated foot traffic.

Stalactites hang from the ceiling in several places in Mammoth Cave. Formed by mineral deposits on the limestone surface of the cave, stalactites grow at a rate of 10 cm per thousand years.

Accompanied by two park rangers and sixty other cave visitors, Megan and I descended into Mammoth Cave and embarked on the Grand Avenue Tour, the longest and most strenuous option available that doesn’t require caving equipment or experience. If you’re planning to visit Mammoth Cave, check out their website to learn about your tour options, as many (including Grand Avenue) are only offered seasonally. Megan and I were lucky to snag two of the last remaining spots on our tour about a week in advance. All tours require check-in at the Visitor Center prior to departure via shuttle to one of a handful of cave entrances.

Soon after entering the cave, I began reaching into my backpack for my pullover jacket, as the temperatures inside the cave felt at least forty degrees cooler than those above ground. Besides the chill in the air, the first thing I noticed was the infrastructure built within the cave, thoughtfully designed to accommodate crowds who don’t spend much time underground. The trail was smooth and even, and actually paved with a concrete mixture made from loose rubble cleared from the cave’s passages that are now accessible to visitors. The cave also had electricity, powered by generators along the trail that the enabled the rangers to turn lights on and off as we moved from one area to the next. Ladies and gentlemen, this cave even had bathrooms, and not the portable kind. These toilets flushed.

NPS strategically places small spotlights within the cave that allow visitors to see into the recesses along the trail without obstructing the path or the view.

All things considered, this might be the most civilized hike I’ve ever taken. It’s certainly the largest group I’ve ever hiked with, and the first guided hike I’ve taken since I started this journey. Although part of me feels disheartened about the manmade modifications to such an astounding natural wonder, another part of me appreciates that the National Park Service has made it possible for people like me to safely explore a place that would otherwise be inaccessible. This managed approach grants access to a limited number of guests and only in predetermined areas, all for a price. The controlled nature of this organized system, and the revenue that it generates, helps to preserve the cave for future generations of explorers.

Many of my photos turned out blurry as my phone struggled to focus in the dim light. However, some of these blurry photos, like this one of Megan, appropriately reflect the cave’s mysterious ambiance.

Ranger Steve, the NPS officer who led our journey, provided detailed historical and speleological anecdotes as we moved through the caverns. Speleology is the term that defines the study of caves, and I learned the name of this ancient science through a wise sage called Google. While most of the passages that we moved through didn’t feel cramped at all, this journey included a few spaces that would make a claustrophobe sweat, even in the cool subterranean climate. The rock formations changed as we moved through the cave, and Ranger Steve provided an excellent translation of the story that unfolded through the intricate patterns on those limestone walls. Mammoth Cave developed over the course of hundreds of millions of years, and it’s still a magnificent work in progress.

As my first underground hike, this one will always stand out in my memory as a completely unique experience, and one that I’m so grateful to have shared with my favorite Kentucky native, Megan. Not surprisingly, hiking through dark spaces beneath the earth’s surface produces sub-optimal lighting for photos, and NPS has a strict policy against flash photography in the cave, due to its harmful impact on bats, spiders, and the other species that call Mammoth Cave home. If you’re looking for a hike that will produce an array of likable photos to post on Instagram, this destination isn’t for you. I think that’s part of the appeal. Mammoth Cave presents a rare opportunity for the average tourist to explore one of the world’s most impressive natural phenomenons. There are no mountain vistas or breathtaking waterfalls inside this cave, but that doesn’t compromise the beauty of this enigmatic landscape.

As the downward pattern suggests, a waterfall formerly flowed over this rock face inside the cave. Darkness shrouds the bottom of the cavern below, making its depth impossible to define from the trail above.

Caves feel so personal to me, because of the closeness of the surrounding landscape, both comforting and intimidating at the same time. Despite the fact that I hiked through Mammoth Cave as a member of a large tour group, parts of this experience felt incredibly intimate. I salute NPS for this. While I still prefer adventures above ground, I foresee additional cave hikes in my future, and I’m lucky to live in an area that provides plenty of subterranean options.

This view shows the ceiling in what’s known as the Drapery Room, where stalactites and stalagmites create a curtain effect that dominates nearly every inch of this beautiful space.
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Hope Lake Trail: Telluride, Colorado

I’m sure I’ve referred to at least half of the trails I’ve hiked and written about as “one of my favorites” for some reason or another. While I do have many favorites, I’d never encountered a trail that unequivocally topped them all. I never expected to, because the landscapes I’ve hiked through are as diverse as they are beautiful. It’s impossible to compare hiking in Alaska to hiking at the Grand Canyon or in the cavernous backwoods of Tennessee. Each wild and wonderful place holds its own unique appeal, and every hiking experience is different, even when revisiting a familiar trail. This is why the concept of having a single favorite hike had always eluded me, and I was perfectly content with that. I’m sure you’ve sniffed out the upcoming plot twist by now, but here it is: I was wrong to think I couldn’t possibly have a favorite hike; I just didn’t have one yet. Not until I hiked Hope Lake Trail with my new husband, less than twenty-four hours after I married him. Now, I can say without a doubt that of all the hikes I’ve ever taken, anywhere and with anyone, this one’s my favorite.

Marriage, Day 1: the greatest, most beautiful hike I’ve ever experienced, on Hope Lake Trail near Telluride, CO

I’m specifically referring to this as my favorite hike, not my favorite trail (although it may be my favorite trail too, I’d have to hike it again to be sure), because multiple hiking experiences on the same trail can drastically vary depending on factors like time of year, weather, who you’re hiking with, traffic from other hikers, etc. Those influencing factors can be internal too, like your mood or current physical condition. I’m not sure what I did to deserve a hike with perfect conditions across the board, in one of the most magnificent places I’ve ever seen, the day after my wedding. As crazy as this sounds, I feel like Mother Nature watched God send me the perfect husband and the perfect wedding day, and not to be outdone, rolled her eyes and said, “OK, hold my beer”.

This magnificent view, from just above the tree line on Hope Lake Trail, includes the sparkling waters of Trout Lake (center) and the high peaks behind it that form the Wilson group, which includes three of Colorado’s most challenging fourteeners.

There’s no way that words and pictures could even come close to capturing this perfect hike, and maybe that’s why it’s taken me two months to compose this post. I know I’ve often overused the “words/pictures don’t do it justice” cliche in the past, and while all of my hikes feel deeply personal, none has ever impacted me quite like this one, not even mine and Andy’s Mount Elbert summit hike last year on my 30th birthday. I’ve thought about this hike to Hope Lake every day since, in an attempt to keep the memory whole and vivid for as long as I can. I could go on and on about the significance of such an incredible journey through the wilderness on our first day of marriage and create an elaborate metaphor about marriage as an adventure, but I’ll spare y’all from all that. It feels wrong to let a metaphor overshadow or filter a hike like this one. Besides, I’ve got the rest of my life to draw comparisons between my hiking adventures and my marriage, if I ever choose to go down that path.

The majestic San Juan Mountains, still freckled with thinning patches of snow, towered above an enchanting evergreen forest with a floor full of colorful wildflower blossoms. This was our view as we drove slowly up the bumpy, unpaved road to the trailhead. Although there’s a chance we’d have eventually made it up the mountain in a car, I was grateful that we were in a 4WD SUV with some ground clearance. We’d spent the middle part of the day kayaking at nearby Trout Lake (highly recommend, it’s gorgeous and wasn’t crowded at all when we visited on a Saturday morning in July), so we got a later start than we otherwise would have on this moderate 5-mile hike. There were only a couple of other cars in the parking area, which worried me. This part of Colorado endured heavy snow much later in the year than usual, and I’d read mixed reviews on AllTrails about whether or not the lake was currently accessible without the use of crampons or an ice ax, which we didn’t have. Andy had forgotten to put his hiking shoes in the car and was wearing running shoes, but we decided to give it a shot, knowing we could turn around and hike back out if trail conditions forced us to do so.

Trout Lake, quiet and surrounded by mountains and summer wildflowers, lies only a few miles from the trailhead

Hope Lake Trail offers epic views of the San Juan Mountains throughout the hike. However, the thing about this trek that I enjoyed most was the opportunity to see this gorgeous space during a time of transition. We witnessed the breathtaking visual contrast between competing seasons during the small handful of days when snow still decorates the mountains, but just enough has melted to make the trail navigable all the way up to the thawing alpine lake. Our timing felt perfect. If we’d tried to hike this trail a week earlier, the snow accumulation may have prevented us from reaching the lake. A week later, enough snow may have melted to attract a larger crowd to the area, diminishing the peaceful solitude that’s a rare gift on a trail as beautiful and relatively accessible as this one.

stunning view of Vermilion Peak, a thirteener renowned for its radiant colors, as viewed from the top of Hope Lake Trail

The trailhead rests at 10,750 feet, high above Trout Lake and the valleys of Lizard Head Wilderness. The first mile or so gently ascends through an evergreen forest and crosses a couple of shallow streams, likely byproducts of melting snow flowing down from the surrounding peaks. At this altitude, the forest is thick enough to provide shade, but thin enough to offer frequent and far-reaching visibility across the vibrant mountain landscape. We encountered our first unavoidable patch of snow at the Poverty Gulch creek crossing, about 0.3 miles into the hike. We briefly lost the trail beneath the snow, and at that point, I wasn’t feeling optimistic that we’d make it up to the lake, having encountered a significant snowy section before we’d gained any meaningful elevation.

Andy, still in his kayaking attire, looking up at Vermilion Peak from the creek crossing in Poverty Gulch. Despite the presence of snow on the ground, the temperatures on the trail, even at Hope Lake, never felt cooler than fifty degrees.

As the trail climbs and the distance between trees increases, the views expand, until the tree line fades into the background below, opening up to reveal the brushy, colorful landscape of the mountain range’s upper slopes. As you may suspect, we encountered larger and more frequent patches of snow as we gained elevation. While below the tree line, we could easily navigate around most of them by taking brief detours from the trail, moving cautiously to avoid disrupting the fragile landscape around us (and admittedly, to avoid losing the trail again). Despite extended lines of sight above the tree line, snow covered much more of the terrain, and detours on dry ground weren’t always an option. Staying on the buried trail became increasingly difficult, so when available, we followed footprints left behind in the snow by other hikers. Fortunately, the snow fields were never more than a few inches deep, and soft enough to keep us upright.

High above the tree line at nearly 11,700 feet (according to My Altitude, a brilliantly simple app that I use frequently on mountain hikes), we encountered a large snow field that covered the crest of a ridge. We knew we must be getting close to Hope Lake because of our elevation, but we couldn’t see it yet. We couldn’t see where the snow field ended either, but a clear line of footprints provided enough evidence to assure us that we were still moving in the right direction. Since I was wearing waterproof hiking shoes, I went ahead of Andy to assess trail conditions on the other side of the ridge. I trudged upward through the snow, silently praying that I’d be able to see the lake from the top of the ridge, or at least an identifiable trail. Luckily, I found both.

Hope Lake, the main attraction, as viewed from the other side of the snowy ridge and sparkling at nearly 12,000 feet as it thaws in the July sun

It took me a minute to catch my breath. I’m not sure if it was the magnificent view of Hope Lake or the slow trudge up the ridge at that altitude (probably both). I’d never seen anything like Hope Lake, half frozen and looking absolutely radiant as it reflected images of the surrounding mountains in fragments between its thawing patches of ice. The colors of the lake encompassed almost every imaginable shade of blue, from pale and powdery in places where the ice on the surface had melted to the point of translucence to deep aqua in places where the ice had already vanished. These spaces between the ice shimmered with the dark grey reflection of the high peaks that rose above it, and the beautiful variation of colors and textures on the lake’s surface made me feel like I was looking into a giant still frame from a kaleidoscope.

All of the beautiful views along the trail would have made the hike worthwhile, but Hope Lake against that mountain backdrop, in the thawing alpine wilderness, might be the most beautiful sight I’ve ever encountered on any hike.

Aside from a couple of marmots, we were completely, perfectly alone at Hope Lake. As incredible as the views were, the fact that we had the rare opportunity to witness this place in its most native form felt so refreshing and exhilarating. We explored the rugged landscape along the lake’s northern shore, the only side that wasn’t thoroughly buried in snow. We stayed beside the lake for as long as we could, considering our late start on the trail and that we’d need to allow plenty of time to hike back to the car and then navigate down the precarious mountain road before sunset. We could have planned to spend the entire day at Hope Lake, and that still wouldn’t have been long enough to enjoy those gorgeous alpine views.

In the weeks since this hike, I’ve done more research on the trail and its surrounding mountains. I’ve learned that the trail actually continues along the lake’s eastern edge and leads up to an unnamed pass. The pass provides access to the ridge line that connects the magnificent string of thirteeners that dominate the scenery surrounding Hope Lake. We didn’t realize that the trail continued up to the pass, because it lay hidden beneath the snow and wasn’t part of the map we’d been using on AllTrails. I’ve discovered a couple of accounts from other hikers who have headed west from the pass and traversed the ridge line to summit these spectacular peaks that separate Hope Lake from the much more popular alpine lakes of Ice Lake Basin. On our next trip to Telluride, hiking this extended route tops my to do list, as long as the ground is free from snow, of course.

Vermilion (left) and Fuller (right) peaks are part of a series of six thirteeners connected by a ridge accessible from Hope Lake Trail

During our week in Telluride, I developed an enchantment for the area that I haven’t felt for a place since Andy and I went to Alaska two years ago. I’ve loved so many things about each of the wild places I’ve seen, but this one was truly exceptional. We had some initial reservations about planning a wedding in a place we’d never visited before, but looking back, experiencing a place like that for the first time, especially during such a monumental event in our lives, made us appreciate the time we spent there even more. I left feeling grateful for and humbled by the opportunity to have this adventure, and excited for the unlimited possibilities that the future holds for Andy and me.

Andy and I were married on July 19, 2019, surrounded by a small circle of family and close friends, in a valley beneath the San Juan Mountains in Telluride, CO.