Every yearĚýthousands of hikers attempt the audacious calling of walking from one end of the country to the other on aĚýstoried long-distance trailĚýthat winds through America’s wilderness.ĚýBut for many of them, the monumental task of completing the entirety of the footpath is out of reach, cut short by a myriad of obstacles that force them to head home.

For thru-hikers, one of the greatest fears along the journey is having to quit. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy only one in four hikers finish their odyssey each year.

While there’s little data on this aspect ofĚýlong-distance hiking, some have tried to track the reasons why backpackers end their treks. Annual surveys of and thru-hikers by the Ěýblog, a site dedicated to thru-hiking and other outdoor adventures, ask hikers why they quit.ĚýItsĚýpolls have found that peopleĚýleave due toĚýinjury, wildfires, snow, relationships back home, drained finances, and many other reasons.Ěý

This year, however, there’s a new reason: the novel coronavirus, which has prompted trail-conservation organizations to plead with hikers to stay off the major routesĚýand go home.

Quitting can be tragic—a dream aborted, a never-ending itch of what-ifs. But what about those thwarted hikers who came back?Ěý

Here are five such stories of backpackers who decided to reattempt their adventure of a lifetime. They had to overcomeĚýaĚýfear of failing again, ofĚýleaving home months after a devastating injury or a mental block. But they succeeded, making their accomplishment that much more extraordinary. And for those whose journeys were canceled or cut short this year, these stories offer some inspiration.

Eitan “Trout” Feldstein

Pacific Crest Trail, 2017–18

Eitan Feldstein got to the top of central California’s Kearsarge Pass in early June 2017, exhausted and broke. It wasn’t his first thru-hike; he’d finished the Appalachian Trail just four months before starting his northbound trek on the opposite coast.

Affable and gregarious, Feldstein is more likely to convince a fellow thru-hiker to stick with it than quit. But the Pacific Crest Trail that yearĚýwas unlike most treks. Dogged by deadly heat in the Southern California desert and then a heavy snow year in the Sierra Nevada, it left most hikers, including Feldstein, worn down. And working offĚýa $2,200 budgetĚýfor theĚýtrip, he soon found he didn’t have enough money to eat sufficiently in the grueling conditions of the high-altitude backcountry.

Just a week into the Sierra, he was ready to go home. He put his thumb out near Independence, California, and hopped in an L.A.-bound semitruck.

“Don’t worry,” he told the driver, “I’ll be back next year.”

He saved up and worked at a flower shop in Georgia, a hostel in Big Bear,Ěýand on a construction site in San Francisco. He knew he couldn’t leave the trail unfinished, and he knew thatĚýhe couldn’t start where he left off. A year later, he set off northbound once again from the trail’s southern terminus in Campo, California, duringĚýa season that sawĚýcooler temperatures in the desert and far less snow in the Sierra.

When Feldstein’s on the trail, he’sĚýat home, with those who feelĚýlike family. For himĚýthe PCT wasn’t about the hiking; it was about the people. At the northern terminus in British Columbia that fall, he collapsed, crying. Finishing the trail meant the journey was over.

“Out there,” he says, “I was my best self.”Ěý

Becca “Rattles” Goodman

Appalachian Trail, 2018–19

With around a week left in their 80-day fastpack of the Appalachian Trail, spouses Becca and Tyler Goodman scaled the SUV-sizeĚýboulders of Mahoosuc Notch—a deep gap in the mountains of western Maine—cruising to the second finish of their triple crown. They had finished the Pacific Crest Trail three years earlier and were comfortable hiking, clockingĚý30-mile days with ease.

But as the rain fell that August morning in 2018, Becca slipped on one of the giant rocks. Her leg didn’t feel quite right. Stubborn, she continued the descent. Moments later, she fell on loose scree and mudĚýand heard the muscles in her quadriceps tear. She knew the hike was over.

Still 25 miles from the nearest road to hitch out, the couple hiked on in tears. “It was probably the most devastating thing that I have ever experienced,” she recalls. “We immediately knew we had to get back out there.”

The coupleĚýhad already planned to thru-hike the Continental Divide Trail the following year. If wildfires picked up, they thought, they could take a break and finish the AT midway through. But it wasn’t fires that provided the opening to head back to Maine, it was monumental snowfall inĚýColorado.

In early June 2019, Becca and TylerĚýbailed on the CDT just before Wolf Creek Pass and headed back east. As they scrambled up Mount Katahdin at the northern endĚýof the AT, they wereĚýovercome with joy.

“What we did wasn’t a failure,” BeccaĚýsays. “We did it fast and kicked ass.”

They ended up accomplishing their goal—finishing in 80 days—but with a ten-month gap in between. In September, back in the Mountain West, the coupleĚýfinished the CDT, completing the triple crown.

Bryan “Open” Walsh

Continental Divide Trail, 2018–19

A thru-hike can be hard on aĚýrelationship. Couples go out on the trail together and struggle to retain a partnership through the stresses of an unforgiving wilderness. Other times, hikers will leave a partner back home,Ěýstart a trail,Ěýand find thatĚýthe long gaps between cell service and the distanceĚýmake the commitmentĚýunsustainable.

Bryan Walsh set out to finish his triple crown on the Continental Divide Trail in 2018 while in a relationship with a woman he had known for years. By the time he reached Colorado, they were at a crossroads.

“It felt like it wasĚýthe relationship or the trail at that point,” he remembers. At Lake City, Colorado, he got on the phone and told his girlfriend he wanted to go home, to the Denver area. He wanted to focus on their partnership.

After several months, though, the relationship faded as his desire to getĚýback onĚýthe trail grew. They both knew he needed to finish the triple crown; it was impacting his self-image and relationships with people around him, including theirs. A deep part of him wanted to return to trail life—that “true thru-hiking experience,” he says.ĚýIn April, he once again set forth from southernĚýNew Mexico to complete the entire CDT.

Getting past the place on the trail in Colorado where he quit was powerful, he recalled. “It felt almost impossible for so long,” he says. “It’s pretty reaffirming of the choices I made, including coming off the trail last year.” He finished the CDT in September.

Karen “Wang!” Wang

Pacific Crest Trail, 2016–17

“I’m not going to get injured,”ĚýKaren Wang told herself at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail in April 2016. She never overdid her mileage. She never pushed her limits. She always listened to her body. When faster hikers passed, she made way with an ear-to-ear smile.

But her caution couldn’t protect her from a field of felled trees in southern Oregon, some 1,800 miles into her northbound journey. That August, as she tried to cross from one blowdown to another, a dead log crumbled beneath her left foot and she fell through, pinned down to her waist. AĚýpain in her ankle shot up her leg.

She thought it was a sprain—a bad one. With the help of a friend, she hiked the 29 miles to Crater Lake, where she got a ride toĚýa clinic in Medford, Oregon. Then she called her friends back in Seattle with the news: her ankle was fractured, and she was coming home.

Over the next tenĚýmonths of recovery, a dark cloud hung over her head. “I wanted to finish the trail so bad, but I wanted a normal life and toĚýdo normal things again,” WangĚýsays. “I knew if I didn’t finish it next year, this would follow me the rest of my life.”

The second time around, it was more about closing a chapter. As much as she wantedĚýto start again from the U.S.-Mexico border, she knew that she wasn’t mentallyĚýready for it. So she started from Crater Lake, slowly, in July 2017, making sure every step was careful, maxing out around 15 miles a day.

She grew more confident with each step,Ěýeven knocking out a 30-miler in Washington from Rainy Pass to Hart’s Pass. She felt back home on the trail.

Crossing the U.S.-Canada border that September, she thought, Oh my gosh, finally.

Kate “Elevated” McGuinness

Continental Divide Trail, 2015–19

Kate McGuinnessĚýstarted as a thru-hiker and ended as a section hiker. Before setting off to tackleĚýthe Continental Divide Trail in April 2015, McGuinnessĚýhad never hiked longer than a weekend backpacking trip.

One hundred miles into her expedition, she couldn’t walk on her left leg. She figured it was shin splints. X-rays at a clinic in Silver City, New Mexico, confirmed it was worse: a stress fracture. It had never entered her mind that she’d fail. But there she was, alone and on crutches near the beginning of her adventure, planning to return to her native Australia.

“Why did I have this massive miss?” she mulled for weeks.

She took her questions to physical therapy and found an answer: “I’m just not built to hike,” she says. It took nine months of therapyĚýto work through her gait issues.

When she decided to hike southbound from Glacier National Park, in Montana, on a secondĚýattempt in 2016, her pace wasĚýcautious. Long distancesĚýwere out of the question. She made it 800 miles before stopping in late August, realizing that if she were to finish the CDT, it would be as a section hiker.

Since then, McGuinnessĚýhasĚýpicked off 100-mile sections of the trailĚýpiece by piece with aĚýdogĚýnamed Atlas. Last summerĚýshe finished her final stretch, from Monarch Pass to Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado.

“The thought of walking away from it because I couldn’t do it wasn’t something I was willing to accept,” she says.

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Sandra Visentin woke up to a nightmare in Paris. Just two weeks before she was supposed to fly to the U.S. and begin her thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, President Trump imposed a ban on travelers from European countries in response to the novel coronavirus. She spent all day in denial. She would have to delay the hike that she’dĚýquit her job for and spent more than a year planning.

“I’m extremely disappointed,” VisentinĚýsaid from France,Ěýwhere all residentsĚý to stay home for 15 days to prevent the spread ofĚýCOVID-19. “I hadĚýpacked all my stuff in boxes and moved in with my parents until departure.”

Hikers almostĚýeverywhereĚýare beginning to experience the impact of theĚýdeadly virus that has forced widespread lockdowns around the globe. Many backpackers have canceled their adventures. Others have decided to go ahead with their journey, excited for added solitude. However, officials at the nation’s top scenic-trail conservation groups areĚý thru-hikers to postpone their trips this year.Ěý

“We are asking hikers who haven’t started to reconsider hiking this year,” says Sandra Marra, president and CEO of the .Ěý“It’s not about you and the hike. It’s about us belonging to a global community.” The ATC’s guidanceĚýĚýwith the worsening situationĚýin the U.S. While the organizationĚýinitially pushed simply social distancing and good hygiene practices, evolvingĚýĚýforced the conservancy to expand itsĚýwarning to hikers. The ATC, Ěý(CDTC), and theĚýĚý(PCTA) have since asked hikers to cancel or postpone their trips this year.Ěý

Hikers are not isolated wanderers.ĚýThey interact with fellow hikers, drivers who offer ridesĚýinto town, and members of the communities adjacent to trails. In any of these settings, they risk spreading the highly infectious virus, says Scott Wilkinson, director of communications and marketing at the (PCTA).Ěý“It’s a paradox,” he says. “You’re out in these remote areas, but you rely on civilization. It’s almost impossible to avoid any social contact in a thru-hike. You can do it for a few days, but you’ll have to get back.”Ěý

If they were to contract the virus, hikers need to be ready to self-quarantine in a motel for two weeks, while also relying on a rural health care system thatĚý by the influx of coronavirus cases, says Amanda Wheelock, policy and communications manager at the CDTC. (In a worst-case scenario, hikers might haveĚýto be prepared to pay for a medevac to a larger community with better health care options.) The coalition has already stopped its southern-terminus shuttleĚýand New Mexico water-caching services for the next month.

“We want people to think of the effects on trailside communities,” WheelockĚýsays. “We rely on rural, small communities that back up right to the trail. We very much care about the folks who live and work there.”

These communities are already reacting to the global pandemic. On Monday, public-health officials in Summit County, Colorado, which surrounds a section of the Continental Divide Trail,Ěý of restaurants, bars, hotels, and bus services due to the COVID-19 outbreak. Officials in Inyo County, California, which encompasses a large part of the Sierra Nevada section of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT),Ěý to stay home in order to protect itsĚýsmall-town populations, which are substantially elderly and have limied resources. An outbreak there, they said, could be devastating.Ěý

Meanwhile, leaders from theĚýmajor scenic-trail organizations are keeping in close contact throughout this global crisis. Like they did last week, theyĚýwill hold another working group call on Friday to share ways they are handling the ever evolving situation. All are in the same boat, staff fromĚýthe organizationsĚýsay, struggling with the same questions, cancelling their annual events, and taking volunteer work crews off the trails for the foreseeable future.

A reduced number of volunteers could also have tremendous consequences on this thru-hiking season. Hikers depend on the kindness of strangers—an unofficial network of trail angels. Many of these volunteers, however, have had to rethink their plans. For the last 15 years, Barney “Scout” Mann and Sandy “Frodo” Mann have welcomed thru-hikers into their San Diego home, allowing it to be used it as a launchpad for a northbound PCT hike.Ěý

But this week, the MannsĚý to cancel their services in the name of safety. “Things with the virus have continued to cascade,” says Scout, who is also board president of the ,Ěýa group that brings together individual organizations and federal agenciesĚýfor the benefit of the country’s trails. “We can’t open this season. We just can’t.” The decision has gutted the couple, who look forward to meeting hundreds of hikers from around the world each yearĚýandĚýmentoring a new generation of long-distance backpackers.

Other volunteers have tried to fill in some of the gaps left by the virus. In San Diego, Ashley Cushing has begun offering thru-hikers rides from the city to the PCT’s southern terminus in Campo, California, helping up to sixĚýpeople a day.ĚýShe asks that hikers load their own packs into her car, which she wipes down thoroughly with disinfectant. Still, she remains cautious; she doesn’t want to be responsible for spreading the virus. “I knew I needed to take precautions if people are carriers,” she says.

Businesses along the trail have also had to make changes due toĚýthe epidemic. Along the AT, Taft Ring, owner of the Nature’s Inn Hostel in Flag Pond, Tennessee, decided to shut down out of an abundance of caution, despite the losses he’d sustain. He’s used to dealing with hygiene issues with thru-hikers—every year he cleans his hostel thoroughly to prevent the passing of a norovirus. But this year felt different. “I hated doing it,” he says. “The truth is, if I got sick, then that’s not only going to cut out the hostel, but it would limit my ability to make a living elsewhere.”

On the opposite side of the country, Larry Smith, owner of the Canyon Creek Inn in Wrightwood, California, decided to stay open this year for PCT hikers. If businesses closeĚýin his community, he says, that not only impacts the local economy, but it hurts hikers looking for groceries, a place to stay, or other essential services. “We are coronavirus ready,” he says. “We are making all the necessary precautions that we can do to be ready for hikers.”

Trail organizationsĚýcan’t force hikers off the trail. But the PCTA’s WilkinsonĚýsaysĚýthis time calls for self-sacrifice. Talking to hikers who have had to cancel their trips, even after quitting jobs or letting go of apartments, has moved him to tears. It’s heartbreaking, he says, but challenges like this happen.

“Everyone has got to consider the impacts that they have on others,” he says. “We’ve all got to act together.”

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Of all the threats that our environment faces, one of the most insidious is voter complacency. According to the (EVP), around 15 million “super environmentalists”—which the group defines as those citizens who rank protecting the planet as one of their top priorities—didn’t vote in the 2014 midterms. That stat baffles Nathaniel Stinnett, founder of the Boston-based nonprofit. “Maybe the environmental movement doesn’t have a persuasion problem,” he says. “It has a turnout problem, and nonvoters are a low-hanging fruit.”

Indeed, the numbers suggest that, as a voting bloc, engaged environmentalists could make a difference. Six out of ten Americans think on their community and believe it is . So why don’t they take that knowledge—and anger—to the voting booths?

According to Kevin de León, the Democratic president pro tempore of the California Senate, it’s because the environmental movement has a messaging problem. “Historically, climate change and the environment have been aligned with elites,” he says. “We must democratize the issue so everyday families can get access to the latest and greatest green energy technology. It can’t just be a boutique industry for those who have the financial wherewithal.” Messaging around the issue has also been framed as an either-or problem, pitting the economy against the environment, says Sean Casten, an Illinois Democrat running for a House seat next month.

Then there’s the futility factor. It’s hard to convince people their votes will have any impact. “We don’t have rivers catching on fire anymore,” says Emily Norton, executive director of the Charles River Watershed Association and a city council member in Newton, Massachusetts. “When you can’t always smell it, you can’t see it, you can’t taste it, it has to be pretty bad before people act.” The right may have its climate deniers, but the left has its share of climate despair, says Alice Hill, a former special assistant to President Barack Obama and National Security Council member. That despair can be just as dangerous. “When I talk to people about climate change, it can feel quite overwhelming to them,” says Hill, who now serves as a research fellow for Stanford University’s Hoover Institute. “They have a sense of hopelessness. It’s easier to engage on other issues that they can influence.”

In short, the best way to get people to vote for the environment might be to not mention the environment at all. After all, just 4 percent of voters say they want candidates to in the upcoming election, according to a June poll by the Pew Research Center. Even among Democrats, just 5 percent said the environment was the most important problem facing the nation.Ěý

Stinnett doesn’t want the EVP to proselytize; he just wants people who already say they care about the environment to show up next month and prove it on the ballot. He has a simple three-part plan to activateĚýenvironmentally focused voters: emphasize that voting is a societal norm, make them pledge to vote, then remind them close to the election that they promised to vote. The guilt works, according to the group’s 2017 election efforts. When the EVP was able to connect with targeted environmentalists through at least two methods of communication—calls, texts, direct mail, email, in-person canvassing, or digital advertising—voter turnout in that group increased anywhere between 2.8 percent and 4.5 percent. The EVP and its 1,800 volunteers will target 2.4 million environmentalists with poor voting records in Colorado, Florida, Georgia, Massachusetts, Nevada, and Pennsylvania this month for November’s elections. In those six states, Stinnett ambitiously expects to add as many as 108,000 people to the electorate through calls, texts, and door-to-door canvassing.

The EVP isn’t alone in this initiative. The League of Conservation Voters will target swing voters with the goal of convincing them that their votes can directly affect their communities, from public land access to clean water and air protections. Pete Maysmith, the league’s senior vice president of campaigns, says he’s targeting four Senate races with $3.1 million and 25 congressional seats with $15 million—four times the amount the league spent in 2012. “We want to turn out all voters who support pro-environment initiatives, no matter if it’s their top priority or at the bottom of their list,” Maysmith says.

Not everyone believes in this if-you-register-them-the-policies-will-come approach. Jamie Henn, a co-founder of climate change advocacy group 350.org, admires the EVP’s efforts but thinks it will take a lot more proselyting to enact progress at the federal level. Groups and individuals who want to see actual laws passed to protect the planet, Henn argues, must build movements among broader coalitions and start iconic fights—like those against ExxonMobil or TransCanada—to get people organized and fired up. “We can’t wait around for politicians to suddenly see the gospel and start preaching it,” he says. “We can do it ourselves and pull politicians—and, by extension, voters—with us.”

The Trump administration’s anti-environmental actions have brought new focus to the movement, Maysmith says. “People are taking to the streets, they’re so concerned,” he says. “Now that we’ve done that, what’s the next thing we can do? Vote.”

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Every day of the past five months, as I’ve made my way through 2,000 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail, I have been in a constant state of hunger.

Besides the number of miles I’ll cover in a given day and where I’ll sleep at night, I put the most thought toward what I’ll eat during the journey from Mexico to Canada. I constantly wonder if I’m getting the right nutrient balance and a sufficient number of calories, as any shortcomings in these areas could mean less energy, dramatic weight loss, or illness.

But finding the right mix of food to fuel hiking 30-mile days while still fitting it into a backpack is beyond difficult. Only now, with less than 600 miles remaining, have I figured out a good system. Although it might be almost too late for me to benefit fully from this knowledge, I’m here to pass along my lessons.

For me, the biggest challenge was finding the right ratio of calories to weight. It’s tough, because you move through areas with varying terrain and degrees of difficulty, and your gear and calorie expenditure differ pretty greatly from section to section. The average male needs 3,500 to 4,000 calories per day depending on the ruggedness of the path that day, while a woman needs to eat 3,000 to 3,500 given the same considerations. To cope, I tried everything from overloading my pack with more than a week’s worth of backpacker-friendly food to relying on luxurious items like cheese and salmon packets for just a five-day supply (which worked much better for me).

Here’s what I learned.

Morning

Many thru-hikers swear by oatmeal, but I have found a simpler way to eat in the morning. As I break camp at 5:30 a.m., I chug water and eat a dense protein bar. I switch between and . While pricey, they’re packed with fruit and nuts, have plenty of flavors to choose from to avoid flavor fatigue, and keep me full until the first water and snack break a couple hours later.

Why It Works: When Matt starts with a Pro Bar or RXĚýBar in the morning, he’s striking the right balance of carbs, fat, and protein to provide sustenance until his next snack break, says Brenda Braaten, a retired registered dietitian and thru-hiker.

Somehow, I weened myself off coffee and don’t need a caffeine hit in the morning. But Mio iced coffee squeeze is a good substitute when I decide I really need a fix.

As I travel before lunch, I use every stream or spring to fill up on water and eat more food. Between breakfast and lunch, I stick to three items: a Clif Builder’s Protein bar, a , and beef jerky. Once the jerky runs out, which tends to happen in the first two days of my preferred five days’ worth of supplies, I lean on extra nuts packed for backup. I used to eat , which are delicious, but I switched those out for a clementine at lunch. While it weighs more, there are few better pick-me-ups on the trail than fresh fruit.

Why It Works: Of all his snacks, Braaten likes Kind bars the best because they’re good sources of quickly digested glucose that your body burns as fuel. “Keep the sugar coming in a pretty steady stream all day long so you don’t deplete glycogen stores,” she says.

Noon

A staple of the hiker lunch is a flavored on a . Filling and protein-heavy, it’s also unbelievably easy to assemble. When we stay over in a town, I’ll pack out a block of cheddar cheese from the general store to add to the tuna. Cheese, while warm toward the end of the week, won’t spoil. In the bigger towns with better supermarkets, I’ll swap the tuna packets for an avocado or summer sausage. For more flavor and calories, I drizzle olive oil and hot sauce on the wrap.

After the tuna, there’s always a dessert wrap lathered up with or peanut butter and occasionally some dried banana chips. I’d caution against dehydrated peanut butter—it just doesn’t taste good.

To really make lunch filling, I typically supplement the wraps with a , a few handfuls of or , that clementine I mentioned, and a liter of water with four squirts of .

Why It Works: These wraps provide fat, protein, and carbohydrates in one sitting, making them a great choice for trail lunches, says Braaten. The tortilla is especially key because it’s made of carbs that quickly convert to sugar to help fuel muscles. Since the body doesn’t have to reach deep into its glycogen stores for energy, the protein and fat aren’t used until later, providing greater sustenance and aiding muscle building, she says.

After a substantial lunch and with fewer miles to hike for the rest of the day, I only need two snacks to hold me over through the afternoon. I stick to another Kind bar and either a , a , or a pack of .

Why It Works: Planning for multiple snacks post-lunch is a good idea. “Small, frequent meals are much more efficiently digested than only two meals a day,” says Braaten.

Night

A is your tastiest bet, but it’s cost-prohibitive. A dinner pouch can run you upwards of $9. And though many hikers advocate for Knorr-brand sides and instant mashed potatoes, I quickly got sick of them.

Eventually, though, I found two meals that serve me well. The first, , is easy to make and filling and comes in many flavors, like broccoli and cheese, Mediterranean curry, and mushroom and herb.

The second came as a result of my rapid weight loss in the Sierra mountains: precooked quinoa, mushroom, and rice pouches sold in Safeway. Then I add a salmon packet for more protein. For flavor, I throw sun-dried tomatoes, olive oil, hot sauce, and taco seasoning into the pouch.

Why It Works: Timing of the meal is crucial. Hikers should eat dinner within 20 minutes of completing the day’s hiking to replenish their glycogen supply, says Braaten. While precooked meals make preparing dinner easier and quicker, be mindful that they’re generally higher in carbohydrates than protein. Braaten suggests supplementing these meals with a high-quality source of protein, like the salmon packet Matt uses.

I usually top the night off with a handful of , a half-liter of water with a , and a cup of green tea.

Why It Works: Staying hydrated on the trail is vital. While the amount of water a hiker should drink varies from person to person, Braaten says hikers can use how many bathroom breaks they take as a guide to whether they’re drinking enough water. Ideally, hikers should go to the bathroom immediately after waking up and take at least five breaks throughout the day. If they choose to have coffee or tea, both of which both contain caffeine and have a small dehydrating effect, hikers need to add an additional cup of water to their hydration plan to make up for water loss.

—Additional reporting by Colette Harris.

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