I first experienced the Sierra Nevada while thru-hiking the Pacific Crest Trail when I was 20. As I approached from the south, the prominent mountains were an intimidating sight, rising thousands of feet from the desert. I was new to thru hiking, and didn鈥檛 know the first thing about snow travel, but I was immediately hooked because the scenery was so breathtaking.

That was also my first foray on the John Muir Trail, as much (but not all) of the 211-mile JMT overlaps the PCT. I was so inspired that over the next ten years I returned to the JMT three different times, completing two immersive thru-hikes and later setting the on the classic trail. Each time I covered it differently: with a friend, then alone, and, finally, with very little sleep while going for the record.

What makes the JMT so special? The campsites are incredibly beautiful, as only pristine backcountry sites can be, the alpine lakes pristine, and the trail culture a major part of the endeavor. Yet even with the significant elevation and distance, it鈥檚 accessible for every level of hiker. With some planning, resupplying is straightforward, and enough other hikers are typically around that you never feel completely alone.

After I backpacked the JMT in 2011, as part of my Pacific Crest Trail thru-hike, the pictures and stories of adventure I relayed to my parents encouraged them to take three weeks off work and fish their way along the trail, something I helped them plan. From bear-can basics to can鈥檛-miss campsites, there are a lot of logistics to consider. But you can tackle it鈥攁nd should鈥攂ecause the John Muir Trail is ideal for everything from a short backpacking trip to the full go from start to finish.

Which Direction Should I Walk the Route?

Most JMT thru-hikers start from the northern terminus in Yosemite National Park and head south to finish atop Mount Whitney. The reason: altitude acclimatization. Because Yosemite is the trail鈥檚 lowest point鈥�4,000 feet elevation鈥攁nd Whitney the highest鈥�14,505 feet鈥攂ackpackers usually take a couple days to get used to the thinner air before slowly making their way to the trail鈥檚 higher terrain. It鈥檚 a better experience.

The first half of the trail, when setting out from Yosemite Valley, stays fairly low in elevation, with only brief sections above 10,000 feet. The highest passes happen on the southern end. Organizing your trip from north to south means you can hike yourself into shape and have the stamina to more fully enjoy the difficult sections later; however, since most thru-hikers opt for southbound route, those can be tough to come by (I go into the permit process in detail below). Here are three different starting points at Yosemite to choose from.

The Most Popular Yosemite Trailheads

Happy Isles Trailhead: This is the official start of the John Muir Trail and, as such, the most competitive for permits. Located in Yosemite Valley, this option includes access to the backpackers-only campground the night before your permit date. From Happy Isles, the trail gains over 5,000 feet elevation in the first 12 miles, passing both Nevada and Vernal Falls and the cutoff trail to Half Dome.

Glacier Point Trailhead: This is a more difficult trailhead to get to from Yosemite Valley, but an easier permit to land. A tour bus heads up to Glacier Point from the Yosemite Valley Lodge, so get your bus ticket ahead of time. Or, if you鈥檙e up for tacking on four extra miles with 2,000 feet of elevation gain, you can hike to the trailhead from Yosemite Lodge.

Lyell Canyon Trailhead: If you choose this option, you鈥檒l miss out on the first 23 miles of the JMT and start higher up (at 8,500 feet), giving you less time to acclimatize. However, by starting on this trailhead, you鈥檒l avoid Yosemite Valley and still see the most striking points of the trail.

How Long Does It Take to Hike the John Muir Trail?

That depends. I鈥檝e completed the whole thing in three days (technically 3 days 47 minutes and 56 seconds) and also in twenty days. This is a thru-hike worth enjoying, and taking around three weeks to do so takes some of the stress out of the experience. I recommend allowing 20 to 25 days to thru-hike its entirity.

What鈥檚 the Best Time of Year to Tackle the JMT?

Wildfires, high snow levels, and flooding can impact the trail, so the answer to this may vary from year to year. For example, in 2023, record snowfall in the Sierra resulted in severe runoff that took out a major bridge across the South Fork of the San Joaquin River.

But barring extreme conditions and natural disasters, the best months to hike the John Muir Trail are between June and September. In June and July, there tend to be fewer wildfires nearby and fewer mosquitoes on the trail but a higher likelihood of encountering snow and intimidating stream crossings, so your pace will probably be slower.

The prime weather window for the trail is late July through August, because the snow has largely melted and stream crossings are tamer. Permits are obviously more competitive during these weeks, though, and crowds on the trail tend to peak. My personal favorite time to hike the JMT is late summer. Early September isn鈥檛 very buggy or crowded, there鈥檚 minimal snow, and stream crossings are manageable.

The downsides to thru-hiking the trail late in the season are much colder nights and an increased chance of a blizzard. You can snag a permit relatively easily though.

When Planning Your Hike, You Should Think About These Five Things

1. Your Resupply Strategy

The JMT has numerous resupply options, but all require advance planning. Shipping time to most locations can take weeks, and options to buy food along the trail are limited, so decide on a resupply strategy as soon as you have a permit, and stick to it.

I recommend stopping at the town of Mammoth Lakes. From Yosemite, it鈥檚 about 60 miles and the best place to stock up on food or make gear or apparel swaps before tackling the more difficult part of the trail.

No matter what approach you land on, head into the adventure with the mindset that you鈥檒l only have what you mail yourself along the route, and utilize Mammoth and the other small access points along the way to round things out.

Resupplying options, from north to south, include:

(seasonal), at mile 23.9: You can resupply here or hitchhike into the town of Lee Vining, but most thru-hikers skip this spot and push on to Red鈥檚 Meadow.

, at mile 57.3: I recommend catching the bus or hitching into Mammoth Lakes from Red鈥檚 Meadow and making full use of its amenities. But Red鈥檚 Meadow does accept resupply packages (for a fee) and has a small convenience store and cabins to rent.

, at mile 86.5: VVR is a ferry ride across Lake Thomas Edison, or a five-mile hike, from the JMT, but its caf茅 accepts packages.

, at mile 106.4: The hiker box at Muir Trail Ranch is legendary, but the cost to ship a package here is steep. Expect few amenities, because everything is packed in by mule, but make use of it if need be鈥攖his is the last chance to resupply before the five highest passes in the southern section of the JMT.

, at mile 177.9: Onion Valley is a 15-mile round-trip detour over 11,709-foot Kearsarge Pass, but well worth it. Kearsarge is one of the prettiest passes in the High Sierra, and this is the last chance to resupply before climbing the highest pass of the JMT. From Onion Valley, it is easy to get a ride out to Highway 395 and the post office in Independence.

2. Permits

are required on the John Muir Trail, and a ranger will likely ask to see yours at some point along the route. Landing a permit is very competitive, especially the lottery process (with about a 2 percent success rate some years). Enter six months from your desired start date. The more ranges of dates you apply for, the more likely you are to secure a permit. It costs $10 to enter the lottery and $5 if you鈥檙e awarded a permit. During the permit process, you must state which trailhead you will start from, as well as your estimated finish date.

However, if this permit route proves unsuccessful, there鈥檚 still hope: the National Park Service reserves 40 percent of JMT permits for release seven days in advance. Of course, this makes planning resupplies difficult, but if you have the time, some of the resupply locations can be reached by car, so you can drop off your resupply packages ahead of time, or ask someone you trust to do it for you.

Once secured, your permit includes backcountry travel and camping along the whole JMT route with an exit out of the Mount Whitney Portal.

Still have questions? The National Park Service offers further clarification on the permit process, along with key dates, .

3. Weather and Trail Conditions

With the route so void of outside communication, having an idea of the weather, stream levels, snowpack, and potential fire issues are essential before starting the trail. There鈥檚 no worse shock than arriving at a stream only to see it flowing well beyond your comfort level.

While several good weather-forecasting resources are available through satellite messengers, the storms in the high Sierra move in quickly, often with thunder and lightning. I鈥檝e used an device to maintain contact and to check the weather daily.

Further, a great resource is , which offers localized weather forecasts for a number of locations throughout the High Sierra.

4. Self-Sufficiency

Cell service is nonexistent on the JMT, so having all the logistics, maps, and itineraries completed and downloaded beforehand is a must. One platform for this is , which I鈥檝e used before. There are several side trails (all over high passes) to get out if something goes wrong, but ensuring that this information is available offline is the only way to be aware of such options. Being this secluded also means that help, if needed, will take time to arrive, so you should have and know how to solve personal health issues should they arise.

5. Your Gear Knowledge

Except for Mammoth Lakes, there are very few areas to change out gear. So practice regularly with your equipment and make sure you鈥檙e comfortable in all the possible weather situations, especially rain and snow. Also, remember that gear can fail, so having a small repair kit can be helpful to alleviate some of the stress that comes with adversity. I once had the hipbelt of my backpack rip out while hiking the JMT. A needle and some dental floss were all it took to sew it up and make it through the trip.

Shoe and sock strategy are crucial to nail down before hitting the trail, too. A bad case of blisters can ruin the experience, and wet feet are inevitable with the many stream crossings. I suggest you put in the miles with various shoe-and-sock combinations until you find those that work for your feet in all conditions.

The Gear You鈥檒l Need

There are a few things I wouldn鈥檛 hike the John Muir Trail without.

• Trekking poles: These help with climbing and balance on snowy terrain and during stream crossings.
• Quick-drying shoes: Chances are good that you鈥檒l get your feet wet a few times each day. If your shoes dry quickly, you鈥檒l be more comfortable, have fewer blisters, and won鈥檛 be weighed down by soggy shoes as long.
• A satellite communicator: Because there鈥檚 no cell service on the trail, there will be no weather updates to your phone and no ability to check on whether your resupply boxes have arrived at their locations. A satellite communicator and a support person on the outside willing to help with logistics issues can make problem-solving a lot easier. Also, most satellite messengers offer weather forecasts, and that lets you plan when to climb up and over the high passes. I use an InReach and haven鈥檛 had issues throughout the Sierra.
• A bear can: For most of the trail, this is required. And since bear cans come in many shapes and sizes, find one that will fit your food for each of the resupply stretches. It鈥檚 not a bad idea to practice how to pack this clunky item in your pack ahead of time鈥攊t鈥檒l make hiking a lot more comfortable. I use a bear can.
• Mapping software: Your phone will work for navigation even without cell service, but downloading offline maps is essential in case something goes wrong. There are a number of mapping applications that work well in the backcountry. Some focus only on the JMT, while others show more side-trail opportunities, too.
• An external battery: Because you鈥檒l be using your phone to navigate, and many of the resupply locations are days apart, you鈥檒l have to recharge your phone each night. Practice with your charger, and know how many times it can recharge your phone, to alleviate anxiety.
• An extra layer: At altitude, the temperature drops dramatically at night, so having another piece of dry clothing to put on at day鈥檚 end will make the evenings more pleasant.

What to Expect and Trail Highlights

The JMT is really a trail of sections, each with incredible scenery, high points, and scenic spots. Here鈥檚 what to expect while thru-hiking the trail from north to south.

Yosemite Valley to Red鈥檚 Meadow: About 57 Miles

The first quarter of the trail is an introduction to the High Sierra. From Yosemite Valley up and over Donahue Pass to Red鈥檚 Meadow, this section features 12,500 feet of climbing and eclipses 10,000 feet twice: 11,073-foot Donahue Pass and 10,226-foot Island Pass. Use these miles to acclimatize to the elevation, enjoy the alpine lakes, and get your hiker legs under you.

Spectacular sights: The first high pass of the trip, Donahue; the majestic Thousand Island Lake; and the unique basalt columns at Devils Postpile National Monument, worth the short quarter-mile side trip.

Red鈥檚 Meadow to Muir Trail Ranch: About 50 Miles

After a possible resupply at Red鈥檚 Meadow, with access to Mammoth Lakes via a ten-mile bus ride (unless you want to hitchhike), the trail and camping possibilities expand dramatically. You can camp at a lake nearly every night! The JMT also begins to stay primarily above 9,000 feet, with 9,750-foot Virginia Lake, 10,781-foot Silver Pass, and 10,800-foot Seldon Pass standing out and signifying the even higher passes to come. Depending on the time of year, numerous waterfalls fueled by snowmelt surround and cross the trail through this middle section, making finding a good campsite inevitable.

Spectacular sights: Marie Lake and the drainage off Silver Pass are particularly pretty campsite destinations, along with the option to take a ferry across Lake Thomas Edison to Vermillion Valley Resort.

Muir Trail Ranch to Mount Whitney: About 98 Miles

As previously mentioned, the last section of the trail is the hardest. While most of the trail remains above 10,000 feet, be prepared to cross high passes and then drop into massive valleys surrounded by granite peaks before climbing up yet another pass. Five high passes鈥擬uir, Mather, Pinchot, Glen, and Forester Passes (11,955 feet, 12,068 feet, 12,090 feet, 11,926 feet, and 13,153 feet, respectively)鈥攚ill require long ascents but jaw-dropping views of jagged peaks and cobalt lakes. And it all culminates at the summit of 14,505-foot Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the contiguous United States.

Spectacular sights: Rae Lakes is one of my personal favorite areas, and it has numerous camping options. Of the five passes Mather is my favorite; I appreciate the difficulty, the ruggedness, and the beauty of Palisade Lakes en route to the top.

Where to Camp Along the John Muir Trail

Camping along the JMT is one of the easier parts of this thru-hike, as it鈥檚 included with your permit and there are many options. Other than a few restrictions, you can utilize numerous established and backcountry sites. Always keep principles in mind.

First, two no-no鈥檚. There are a couple of well-marked off-limits camping locations鈥攏otably Duck Lake, Half Dome, and Thousand Island Lake鈥攂ut these restrictions are limited to about a quarter-mile of protected area. Also, campfires are not permitted above 10,000 feet in Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks.

These are my favorite sites along the trail:

Thousand Island Lake: Few lakes are as striking as this one. Banner Peak rises 12,936 feet behind it, providing the perfect backdrop. The best camping is on the north side of the lake. Camping is prohibited within a quarter-mile of the lake outlet as well as 200 feet from the shoreline.

Garnet Lake: Granite peaks and a very picturesque lake dotted with tree-filled islands make this a worthy spot. Camping here is also prohibited within a quarter-mile of the lake outlet.

Evolution Valley: This entire valley is one of the most scenic places in the Sierra. The views at Darwin Bench, on the south side of the valley as you climb past Evolution Meadow, are remarkable, but you won鈥檛 be disappointed camping along any of the alpine lakes on the climb up to Muir Pass.

Rae Lakes: This is my absolute favorite campsite of the entire trail. It鈥檚 also one of the busiest, but thanks to multiple camping spots, there鈥檚 usually a spot to pitch your tent and gaze upon the massive alpine lakes and admire the deep valley. This is also an awesome spot for stargazing.

Worthy Detours and Side Trips

While the John Muir Trail is simply stunning enough, there are two side trips I recommend that are once-in-a-lifetime experiences.

Half Dome, in Yosemite National Park, is a four-mile round-trip detour from the JMT and offers a wonderful panorama of Yosemite Valley. Usually, there鈥檚 an option to add a Half Dome permit to your John Muir Trail permit if you鈥檙e starting in Yosemite Valley at the Happy Isles or Glacier Point Trailheads.

If you can鈥檛 get a permit for Half Dome, a side trip up in Yosemite National Park is a challenging yet rewarding option. The views of the valley are equally amazing, and a permit is not required. The side trip can either be done as a detour, giving up 6.7 miles of the JMT in exchange for 9.6 miles over Clouds Rest, or a 6.6 mile out-and-back side trip.

Jeff Garmire has been backpacking most of his life, thru-hiking for 13 years, and he set the current fastest known time on the John Muir Trail in 2022. His is about hiking the calendar-year triple crown.

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It was the middle of a long Montana winter, and I needed an escape. The landscape was a canvas of snow-covered peaks, beautiful yet isolating, and the relentlessly short, cold days gnawed at my morale. So I started looking south.听

In late 2020 I had thru-hiked the , and enjoyed the rolling hills, pristine shelters, and deciduous forests. Throughout that trip, hikers and trail angels kpet recommending the Ozark Highlands Trail, a route in the Arkansas mountains. The OHT is more rugged and mountainous, with more waterfalls, lakes, and rivers along the way. It鈥檚 also a lot more remote:听 It avoids most towns and roads along its 250-mile routes, which makes resupplying a challenge. Compared to the Ouachita, it would be less forgiving, and a lot tougher to escape if weather rolled in. It sounded perfect. With a two-week window to finish the trip, I thought I might even be able to do it twice, going for an FKT on the return leg. I booked my ticket.

I flew into Fort Smith, Arkansas, and caught a ride from a good friend and incredible hiker, , aka Lil鈥� Buddha, who drove us to the terminus at Lake Fort Smith to begin the thru-hike. We had last backpacked together in the Sierra when I was a 20-year-old with an external-frame pack and Buddha was out finding himself on the long-distance trails of America. While our lives had run parallel since then鈥攚e both built our careers around our passion for foot travel on trails鈥攚e hadn鈥檛 shared miles in too long.听

It may have been winter, but as we hiked around Lake Fort Smith, it felt like spring. Birds were chirping, and armadillos scampered across the trail. The path meandered around the shores of the lake, crossing small streams that spilled into the lake at each inlet. We had eleven years to catch up on, and by the time we finished,听 we had covered the first 30 miles of the trail. Buddha was as strong a hiker as I remembered: Unlike with other partners, I never had to worry whether he could break camp fast enough or keep pace with me. The trail was peaceful, too. Every night we had a vibrant sunset, soft ground to sleep on, and a nearby stream to have an icy soak in. Before the sun rose every morning, we were back on the trail and heading east.听

After two days with a partner and , I was on my own for the rest of the trail. Shortly after Buddha left, things took a turn for the tougher. A brutal, freezing rain began to fall, and soon morphed into snow. The temperature plummeted, putting my three-season gear to the test. For the next two days, I wore every layer I had packed.听

The weather kept getting worse. The temperature dropped into the 20s, and winter storm warnings pinged my phone. The streams swelled until they spilled their banks. The trail鈥檚 sunny start faded into a distant memory. And then, I arrived at Hurricane Creek.听

Among the many stream crossings on the Ozark Highlands Trail, Hurricane Creek stands out. Despite the name, it is the size of a river and swells quickly with the weather. The water is swift, and the banks are steep and overgrown. Every inch of the creek is different: At one bend, large boulders may be stacked up haphazardly all the way across the water, and around another, the current may have cut a deep channel into the soil. It is remote, with few alternates or suitable fords. When I arrived, it was near its peak flow and icy cold.听

At the first crossing, I found a series of boulders a foot below the raging current and tiptoed my way across. But at the second crossing, there were no rocks. The banks were near vertical and mostly made of soft mud. I slowly side-hilled my way upstream a couple hundred yards, but it took 30 minutes, and . The water was muddy and nearly 30 feet across; I couldn鈥檛 tell how deep it was, so I prepared for the worst. With no way around it, I packed everything in watertight bags and waded into the water.听

With the first step, I sank up to my waist; the second, up to my chest. I quickly realized I would have to swim. One deep breath, and I sprawled out into the water. It was deceptively fast. Buoyed by my pack, I slowly doggy-paddled, aiming slightly upstream and letting the current correct me. The cold was shocking, but with adrenaline kicking in, I barely felt it. I made slow and deliberate progress, focusing on holding my head up and rhythmically stroking my arms through the muddy water. When my feet finally touched the bottom, I gasped. It was eerily similar to swimming the Kennebec River on the Appalachian Trail鈥攁n unwise act I had hoped never to repeat. Once again, I had neglected to plan for changing weather and the impact of torrential rain on water sources, and my thru-hike had included a swim.听

Now, I had another problem: . I quickly started hiking east, hoping exertion would warm my body. Water continued to cascade down the rocks, and then the rain turned to snow. My situation was beginning to feel dangerous. A hotel and a break after the events of the day were much more appealing than huddling for warmth in a damp tent and sleeping bag. I hiked to Highway 7 and thumbed a ride into Clarksville.

A couple with a long history in the area picked me up and spent the ride filling me in on the viewpoints, farms, and the Rotary Club鈥檚 work maintaining trailheads and outdoor recreation through the remote mountain range. I soaked it in. I had missed this kind of history on the 18-inch-wide footpath. What the remote route offered in nature and ruggedness, it lost in its connection to the communities it passed.听

If my ride was an introduction to local culture, I got a full immersion once we arrived in Clarksville. Only one restaurant was open, and it happened to be a dingy-looking buffet. But at $8, I was in. I stuffed myself with crawfish, questionable sushi, barbeque, and pasta. It was a return to my roots: Eat until you can barely walk, and then waddle back to the hotel.听

The next day, I returned to the storm. The trail was a muddy mess. It was cold, with few breaks in the downpour. I thought back to my original plan to thru-hike the trail in one direction and then try for an FKT on the return trip. Now, trudging through the rain, the plan seemed foolish. No one sets a record time on a trail that involves swimming. Knowing it wasn鈥檛 going to happen actually eased my mind: Now, I had the luxury of slowing down and enjoying the views.

The weather had improved overnight. The sky was dotted with fluffy clouds and patches of sunshine. The rolling, forested hills disappeared into the distance, and the trail began to climb more steeply up the mountains. Without the pressure to finish quickly, I felt oddly comfortable on the rough path. Best of all, I had it all to myself.听

My next obstacle was the , where the trail鈥檚 current path ended. I had originally planned on turning around there, but with no FKT in my future, I decided to continue onward along the OHT鈥檚 proposed route to Matney Knob. First, I had to cross the Buffalo, and there was no way I was swimming this one. I sat on the swollen river鈥檚 banks, listening to elk bugle in the meadow nearby. The water was swift and thick with mud, carried down by the rain as it flowed off the surrounding hills.听

Within an hour, a boat launched from the campground on the other side, and I flagged them down. After I explained that, yes, I truly did intend to keep hiking off into the wilderness, they were kind enough to shuttle me over, and I was back on my way.

It was obvious few hikers had ventured beyond the Buffalo: Over and over again, the trail climbed straight up to the top of a 300-foot rock wall overlooking the river, and then suddenly dropped back down to its banks. Branches and thorns hung across the trail, grabbing at my clothing and cutting up my legs. Sometime after reaching Grinders Ferry, my trail disappeared entirely, and I found myself bushwhacking. Blackberry thorns had long overgrown any potential pathway; the route followed the side of a muddy hill, and casual glimpses of the river were my only assurance that I was on track. I climbed up car-size rocks, down fallen trees, and crawled through brambles to connect back to a more maintained trail 15 miles further on. But it seemed pointless. This section of the trail had seen little love (if any), and I needed to change my plan.

I camped for the night and looked at my maps before falling asleep. Gravel roads crisscrossed the area, and they would be my best chance at completing this entire route on foot. I found one road that I could hike to a more popular trail, which I could then follow east. Another storm was coming in, and this time; the forecast was for rain, ice, and a layer of snow on top. My goal changed again: I decided to push hard in hopes of wrapping up the adventure before the snow arrived.听

Regaining the trail the next morning was a treat. The terrain was completely different: The woods were old and eerie, with hundred-foot trees and very sparse undergrowth. I hiked through the mist all day. As night came, however, thunder clashed in the distance, and my tent nearly doubled over in the wind. By 4 a.m., the floor of my shelter was a puddle, and the storm showed no sign of letting up. So, I packed up to begin my last 18 miles: My desire to be comfortable had finally surpassed my hunger for adventure. With the early start, I figured my soaked gear and I could hit the finish line by mid-afternoon.听

After seven more hours of trudging through the swampy forest and across more creeks and ledges, I finally arrived at Matney Knob Trailhead, the end of my thru-hike. My adventure on the OHT hadn鈥檛 been what I expected, but it was every bit as invigorating as I had hoped. As the falling flakes built into a snowstorm, I stuck out my thumb and hitched a ride, bound for Fort Smith and then back to snowy Montana for the winter.听

The Ozark Highlands Trail: Tips from a Thru-Hiker

Mentally prepare for wet feet: Waterfalls and streams are everywhere and keeping your feet dry is impossible in many of the sections. Pick a quick-draining, easy-draining pair of shoes.

Map out all possible resupply points: Even if you intend to do long carries, having a list of the possible early bailouts and resupplies will make any plan changes much easier. The trail is rugged and remote, which makes the miles slow and tough.

Prepare for quickly changing weather: The trail lacks the exposure of many alpine and high-altitude trails, but the weather can change just as fast.听

Both termini are hard to reach from an airport: Set up a ride or have a plan for the start and conclusion of the hike.

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The threw a wrench in my thru-hiking plans, as it did for thousands of others. It felt like all I had wasted all those months of planning, my goals replaced with non-stop doom-scrolling. But then, one evening, instead of sitting in bed and reading the endless news, I decided it was time to get out.

Thirty minutes鈥� drive from my home in Montana, I found a cell-service-free campsite right on the banks of the gently-flowing Madison River. as I spent the evening reading my book. The next morning, my anxiety was gone, and I was still back at my computer at a reasonable hour. It was only car camping, but it got me thinking: Maybe I could squeeze in a short overnight backpacking trip.

On my first attempt, a short hike up to Lava Lake near Bozeman, I realized it only took a couple of miles to leave everything external behind and be present in the wilderness. I started backpacking in the middle of the week. I could leave my house in the evening, hike a few miles, and have my tent set up and in time for the Montana sunset. The morning light would wake me up in plenty of time to hike back to the car and be back at work in the early morning. It may not have been a social media-worthy adventure, but the simple refresher mid-week was a reminder of how much I value the experience of being outside compared to the accomplishment. It might seem like they would pale next to a night on the or , but to me, my little adventures felt just as rewarding.

When you peruse backpacking posts or stories online, it looks like every trip is a life-list adventure or a months-long thru-hike. But your hikes don鈥檛 have to be long, difficult, or jaw-dropping to be fulfilling. That brief disconnection from life鈥檚 stressors and connection to nature will bring you so much more joy than you would think you could pack into a few hours.

In the 鈥�90s, my family would load up packs with 60 pounds of supplies and equipment and hike to a small lake for a weekend every summer. The gear list included a rubber raft, spare shoes, multiple tents, and nets to catch crawdads. We would swim, pick out the constellations, and spend hours hunting for cool-looking sticks. These are the experiences that made me love nature, long before I ever thought about thru-hiking or chasing FKTs. Refinding this style has given me a new perspective on what makes a backpacking trip worth it.

It is too easy to look at thru-hikers鈥� updates with longing, but there are advantages to going small. I always bring a pair of sweatpants, a second dinner, and a dessert鈥攖he things that would never make my thru-hiking gear list. I focus on being present and observing nature without any concerns about daily mileage, itineraries, or grinding toward completing a long goal.

Rediscovering the 鈥渨hy鈥� of backpacking has made me much more content with the adventure I鈥檓 on, rather than being jealous of what other hikers are up to. In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller: 鈥淟ife moves pretty fast. If you don鈥檛 stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.鈥� That philosophy has carried over into other parts of my life. Now, on a trail run, I will jump in a lake, take a side trip to a viewpoint, or even turn that run into a hike. It doesn鈥檛 always have to be about the speed or the distance. And when I do have the opportunity to backpack somewhere epic, my trip is so much richer: I have learned how to immerse myself in the experience at hand without wishing for anything other than what it is.

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Editor鈥檚 Note: On August 29, hiker Jeff Garmire , beating Joe 鈥淪tringbean鈥� McConaughy鈥檚 three-week-old record by a mere 12 minutes and 38 seconds. We asked him to tell his story in his own words.

I had a permit to attempt the record twice this summer but canceled both times. The idea of going for the scared me: I scouted it for a record attempt in 2019 but spent the next three years too nervous to go for it. Then, in early August, lowered the JMT unsupported record time by three hours. It turned out to be the final push I needed.听

The drive to Yosemite was freeing, void of the usual pre-FKT anxiety. I was proud to go after a goal that scared me. It wasn鈥檛 my first time: From the to the , I had managed to topple FKTs by making a plan and sticking to it. But the the John Muir Trail was different: It was shorter, faster, and one of the most competitive records in the world. There was real doubt, and I spent days mentally finding the right headspace.听

At 7:33 a.m., I charged away from the terminus. The clock would not stop until I arrived at the , 223 miles away, or quit. Consistency was the core of my strategy. I planned to cover the same distance every 24 hours and consume the same calories. My target was 72 hours, enough to beat the standing FKT by just more than an hour and a half. It worked out to a three-mile-per-hour average, including breaks and sleep.

Ten hours later, I stood at mile 36 on Donohue Pass. Everything was feeling great. But then I stopped to pee, and it burned. The color was wrong. Was it brown or red? I鈥檓 colorblind and couldn鈥檛 tell. This had never happened after 40 miles, and I feared rhabdomyolysis. I was distraught, so I took off my backpack and sat, trying to calm myself down. When I felt more rational, I started moving again.

, the temperature plummeted, and I pulled out my headlamp. The break to calm down had salvaged my mood. While the issue didn鈥檛 disappear, I knew I was in control enough to solve it, or at least monitor it in case it got worse. I doubled my water consumption and ran through the first night, embracing the cold temperatures and the clear, starry night.听

The first 24-hour segment ended at the base of Silver Pass. Consistency prevailed, and 77 miles in, I still had a shot at breaking the record. While my bladder issues continued, they didn鈥檛 get worse.

Later, on Muir Pass, my energy disappeared. Night two arrived, and I laid down on the side of the trail at 11,500 feet elevation. A five-minute timer set, I closed my eyes and passed out.听

That morsel of rest wasn鈥檛 enough to rejuvenate me. I was still exhausted, and I knew I needed a strategy, a way to focus my mind. I focused on the number five: Five high passes remained before a climb up Mt. Whitney. Pushing my body forward, I crested a ridge next to a stone hut, and five passes became four.听

In contrast to night one, night two was shaping up to be a battle. I struggled to stay efficient. When I tried to run downhill, another wave of exhaustion hit. The sun slowly rose and brought me fresh energy near Palisade Lakes, but I knew it wouldn鈥檛 last. I had another overnight to go, after all.

On , four remaining passes became three. Without pause, I ran down the switchbacks toward Pinchot Pass. I was in the final stretch, with less than 24 hours left, but the lack of sleep was crushing. I craved a nap, finally giving in and grabbing another brief one by the trail. But a quarter mile later, I realized my hands were empty. In a frenzy, I ran back up the hill to my nap spot to grab my trekking poles, ten precious minutes wasted.听

I was quickly down to two high passes, and smiling broadly on the descent off Pinchot. My legs carried me through some of the most beautiful terrain in the country. The sun reflected perfectly off Rae Lakes, and I charged up Glen Pass. Just one more high pass. But as night fell, reality set in. I was going to have to power through the darkness one more time. Did I have it in me? One 13,120-foot pass and a 14,000-foot mountain stood between me and the FKT.听

In the dark, I climbed the final switchbacks of Forester Pass. Now, all I had to do was climb and descend 14,505-foot Mt. Whitney.听

I tried to run but rolled both ankles in minutes. My head screamed, and my vision danced. I couldn鈥檛 focus. The smooth trail seemed to bounce with every step.听

The next thing I knew, I was on the ground, blearily opening my eyes. I had fallen asleep while running. Sitting up, I tried to summon the adrenaline I鈥檇 need to push through the last stretch, but my body wouldn鈥檛 respond. So I made a scary decision: I would take a 12-minute nap. Would it cost me? Maybe, but I could not keep going.

After I woke up, I jogged to Guitar Lake and began the hike up Whitney in earnest. The switchbacks quickly had my heart pumping. I pushed deeper into the pain cave: The rhythm of my panting was a metronome for my feet. I hiked in a trance to the top as the . It was magical, but I didn鈥檛 have time to dwell on it: The FKT didn鈥檛 end until the trailhead. Out of nowhere, I fell hard, then again. My phone screen cracked, but nothing mattered. I jogged on.听

Over trail crest and down to the portal, my legs picked up steam. The clock was running down鈥擨 had two hours left, then one鈥攂ut the trail stretched on. With 45 minutes left, my anxiety skyrocketed: After three days, it would be a photo finish. My jog became a sprint. My bladder screamed, and I tried to alleviate the discomfort, only to end up covered. I ran a six-minute mile, but the trail stretched on. Where did this end? One more corner, and I saw it: the trailhead sign. I ran to it, stopped my watch, and sat down. It was over.

My time: 3 days, 47 minutes, and 56 seconds. I had beaten the record by less than 13 minutes.

The flood of emotions never came; I had nothing left. For three years, I had nursed a goal; for three days, I had lived in it. Now, a part of me was both fulfilled and gone.听

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Vasu Sojitra and Patrick Halgren are professional skiers. They are also sole mates. Sojitra lost his right leg to a blood infection at nine months old, and Halgren lost his left leg at age 23 in a motorcycle accident. In 2013, the two met in Breckenridge, Colorado, and realized their feet were the same size; they鈥檝e been sole mates ever since.

Professional comedian Josh Sundquist first used the term 鈥渟ole mate鈥� when he found a fellow amputee, Stephen, who wore the same shoe size and was missing the opposite leg. In 2011, Sundquist made a about their meetup and decision to begin exchanging shoes. A number of organizations exist for amputees to trade single shoes, but finding a sole mate is a much rarer occurrence, especially for two distinguished skiers.

Since 2013, Sojitra and Halgren have shared 18 pairs of various kicks, including boots, sandals, cleats, and clipless shoes for cycling. As Sundquist says in his viral video, 鈥淲hat are the chances that someone would be missing the other leg, wear the same shoe size, and most importantly, like the same kinds of shoes that I do?鈥�

Despite different career paths, goals, and passions, skiing ultimately brought the two together. Sojitra lost his leg earlier than he can remember, and while growing up in Connecticut and India, his brother was instrumental in pushing him to take up skiing and skateboarding, which ultimately led to several firsts in the adaptive-athlete community: Sojitra became the first adaptive athlete to complete the Rut, a 17-mile trail race in Montana with 7,800 feet of elevation gain; ascend the Grand Teton, in Wyoming; summit and descend Denali, in Alaska, on skis; and land the first 720鈥攁ll without the use of a prosthetic.听In October, the North Face, which sponsors Sojitra, released , a film that explains what it鈥檚 like to be a minority in the mountains and aims to reshape the conversation about disability in the outdoors.

Sojitra now lives in Bozeman, Montana, and uses his platform to highlight what adaptive athletes can do. Through ski films, diversity panels, and cross-brand partnerships, he鈥檚 determined to further the conversation of including marginalized and adaptive athletes in the industry. Recently, he joined pro snowboarder Jeremy Jones to be part of the first adaptive descent of San Joaquin Couloir in Colorado. And he continues to focus on big-mountain skiing and pushing the boundaries of adaptive athletes.

Halgren took a more indirect approach to professional skiing. From before he could walk until he was a teenager in Tolland, Connecticut, he was an avid skier. But the sport soon became too expensive for his family, and in his twenties, he found his attention had wandered in other directions.

On June 15, 2013, Halgren woke up early to make it to his job as a sports-radio commentator, but his motorcycle wouldn鈥檛 start. It took a downhill push to give the bike enough momentum to pop听into second gear, when he jumped on. Already late for work, Halgren took off and sped faster and faster, veering dangerously close to the edge of the road as he rounded each turn. Then he felt his control of the bike slipping away. In a split-second decision, he veered off into a farmer鈥檚 field. The front wheel of the bike hit a rock, and Halgren slammed听into a telephone pole. A month later, he woke up in a hospital bed with most of his left leg missing. The path to recovery was a long one, but an opportunity to ski again soon presented itself.

Halgren and Sojitra met in Breckenridge, Colorado, that same year at the Hartford Ski Spectacular. The event was created to encourage adaptive skiers ages 24 and under to come out for an all-inclusive, weeklong racing clinic. 鈥淲hat a pleasure it was to meet [Sojitra],鈥� says Halgren. 鈥淚 had been watching his ski edits and videos for a long time at that point and was a little starstruck. It was a very surreal moment.鈥�

Their relationship took off. They realized they wore the same shoe size, began corresponding, and even sent footwear back and forth, just like Sundquist and his friend Stephen.

Halgren, who is now settled in Colorado, frequently travels to Europe for multiple races on the World Para Alpine Skiing circuit. He鈥檚 gunning to stand atop the podium at the Beijing Paralympics in March. For years, Halgren worked at ski resorts in New Zealand and Vermont to get in two winters each year and to spend as much time skiing as possible.

The pair share a love of skiing, the outdoors, and shoes. But they also find prosthetics foreign and uncomfortable and opt for crutches. One shoe is all that鈥檚 required.

Although they initially met over a ski boot, Halgren finds Sojitra鈥檚 boots too small for his preference. However, they have since shared just about every other type of footwear. Even while Halgren is chasing medals and Sojitra is chasing first descents, the two premier adaptive athletes will always be linked听as sole mates.

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My friend and I were two millennials with passports,听flexible work hours, and听the dream of exploring Central America. The only problem? We had a听very limited budget. Then, while browsing Google Flights, we stumbled across a deal that sent us packing our bags: $238 round-trip tickets from Denver听迟辞 Costa Rica. We quickly cleared our schedules, booked the flights, and started planning our itinerary. In two weeks, we managed to traverse the 20,000-square-mile country (often labeled the 听in the region) from north to south and coast to coast. Starting in the capital, San Jos茅, we headed to the Pacific beaches of Quepos, Manuel Antonio, and Puntarenas听before going听north to the听volcanoes of Arenal and Cerro Chato. The trip concluded on the Carribean coast, where we explored Lim贸n, Cahuita, and Puerto Viejo. Along the way, we lounged on immaculate beaches, spotted diverse wildlife, and scaled towering peaks, all for less than $500 each鈥攊ncluding airfare. Rather than limiting us, traveling on such a tight budget meant we had better interactions with locals and found spots well off the beaten tourist track. Here鈥檚 how we did it.

Flights: $238

The inexpensive flights, booked through budget-but-not-luggage-friendly Spirit Airlines, necessitated some creativity when it came to connections and packing. From Denver, we took a red-eye to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, followed by a quick layover and a three-hour flight to San Jos茅. Base fares from Spirit don鈥檛 include carry-ons, so to avoid the extra cost, we limited听our luggage to one free personal item each. We fit everything into 40-liter roll-top backpacks by choosing versatile, packable synthetic clothing. In the end, we had one change of clothes and a bathing suit each, the bare minimum for both peak bagging and basking on the beach.

Transportation: $25

We decided to exchange time for savings, relying heavily on hitchhiking and Costa Rica鈥檚 robust bus system. Hitchhiking is foreign to most Costa Ricans, and many drivers responded to our extended thumbs with a similar gesture of their own. Despite this, we received numerous rides near the coast, usually from locals who had lived or traveled in other countries where the concept exists. From the town of Quepos, where we spent a day exploring Manuel Antonio National Park, and north to the small fishing village of , a gateway to the surfing hot spot of Osa Peninsula, we pieced together a free 60-mile ride from an off-duty taxi driver on his way home with a 40-mile lift from a wealthy business owner who chatted and shared fresh fruit with us. From there, to get into the adventure-filled听northern mountains, we rode 100 miles with a doctor who stopped at prominent locations in small mountain towns along the way, including magnificent churches and plunging waterfalls. In the more developed towns and cities, like听San Jos茅, San Ram贸n in the , a port town on the Gulf of Nicoya, we stuck to the bus system, with fares averaging around $3 apiece. The buses were听surprisingly punctual, though rides often took longer than expected. On our five-hour trip from San Jos茅 to the southeastern coastal town of Puerto Viejo, for example, the bus was stopped for 30 minutes at the port city of Lim贸n while cranes moved shipping containers filled with bananas.

Lodging: $135

Upon arrival, we had no scheduled lodging, only a vague idea of our options from scouting Airbnb. Our $20-per-night budget severely limited our choices, so we kept our requirements simple: a kitchen and Wi-Fi. Communication issues further complicated our search鈥攏either of us had switched our phones to an international plan, so we had to strategically work with hosts using limited connectivity in internet caf茅s, restaurants, and our previous Airbnbs. In Cahuita, a village on the Caribbean coast near the border of Panama, we arrived after a four-hour-long bus ride and waited for over an hour to get a response on directions to our听cabina. In the end, though, Airbnb proved valuable for more than just lodging鈥攊t was a great way to connect with locals. Often听we鈥檇 eat breakfast with our hosts, who would give us the lowdown on activities in the area. Without staying at听our Airbnb in , we wouldn鈥檛 have known to stop at Crocodile Bridge over the T谩rcoles River, where we spotted ten of the massive reptiles floating in the shallows.

Activities: $35

Many of the well-known hiking opportunities in Costa Rica require entrance fees into national parks and preserves, ranging from suggested donations to听$18. We were willing to pay at听some places and not at others, instead opting for free alternatives that we found by talking to locals and diving deep into travel blogs. Instead of the near Cahuita, which would have cost $30, we hiked down a nearby abandoned dirt road that wound through a forest, offering views of both the Caribbean and a jungle bursting with toucans, monkeys, and sloths.

Despite our budget, we still managed to see some of the best the country had to offer. In total听we visited three national parks (Manuel Antonio, Arenal, and Cahuita), one private preserve (Green Lagoon), and seven beaches, from Cocles on the Caribbean to Espadilla听on the Pacific. The most expensive and beautiful of the parks was , which cost $18 to enter, more than half of our trip’s听activity听budget. But it was well worth it. The park featured pristine听white-sand beaches, with jungle stretching down almost to the water. Hiking through, we spotted three species of monkeys, giant green iguanas, and innumerable birds. Another worthwhile splurge was climbing the dormant听volcano Cerro Chato in ($10), in the north. We passed sloths and a six-foot pit viper on the way up to the summit, where we swam in a bright green crater lake.

Food: $56

Food was the easiest way to save money鈥攁nd the most tempting way to spend it. After a few days of home-cooked听pasta, one of our Airbnb hosts taught us the recipe for pinto gallo (rice and beans), and we quickly adopted it as a diet staple. Both ingredients were sold in bulk, and we added eggs, salsa, and seasoning for variety. We also put听this听hearty base on tortillas to make burritos, packing them听in bags for a snack听on the go. We did eat out to celebrate my birthday at a local soda (restaurant), a treat that came out to $3 each.

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