We Are The Appalachian Tramps

Hiking the Appalachian Trail in 24 Million Steps

We are Appalachian Trail thru-hikers—2,000-milers. The trail doesn’t hand that title over easily; you have to bleed for it, love it, fight for it. And we did, every mile, carving our own path. Each morning, no matter how worn we felt, we shouldered our packs and walked.

Sometimes the beauty wasn’t easy to find; it was raw, brutal, demanding—the kind that grows from hardship, from the rough places. It wasn’t superficial beauty; it was the kind that shines from within.

The trail doesn’t give; it reveals. It forces you to face everything you are and everything you could be. To say we “conquered” it would miss the point. We didn’t conquer anything. We walked it, and it changed us.

The trail doesn’t care who you are or what you think you’re made of. It chews you up and spits you out, over and over, until you finally let go of any illusion that you can tame it. You don’t conquer the trail. You endure it, surrender to it, and let it strip you down to who you really are.

It was a journey that revealed exactly who we were meant to be and how deeply we are connected—to the earth, each other, and something greater than ourselves.

We did it. We are officially Appalachian Trail thru-hikers. After more than seven months, we’re finally here—at the end of an over 2,000 mile journey, with mountains and rivers and miles of forest behind us. We are The Appalachian Tramps, and we did it.

Every step of this journey changed us, in ways we’ll spend a lifetime trying to understand. We pushed through storms, through aching muscles, through obstacles and doubt.

Now, as we stand at the trail’s end, we’ve joined the ranks of all those who walked before us—and all who will come after, searching for something only a long journey that pushes you to your limits can teach.

This isn’t an ending; it’s a beginning. We’re ready for whatever adventure comes next.

I’d love to say I knew we’d make it, but I didn’t. I wanted us to make it. I pushed for it, but within the span of a collective 24 million steps, anything can happen.

It is estimated that it takes an adult 3 million steps to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. If that estimate is true, then between the five of us, we would take about 24 million steps—3 million apiece for The Tramp and me, 4.5 million apiece for Super Tramp (10) and Bro (8), and 6 million steps for Ice Cream Sandwich (5).

We began our journey on a blustery day in early April. We were a family of five with a wild, audacious idea—one that both thrilled and terrified us.

Standing atop the graffiti-covered High Rock in Pennsylvania, excitement buzzed around us. Freezing rain stung our faces as we hugged my parents goodbye. We turned to face north, took a deep breath, and began the blue-blazed approach to our first steps on the Appalachian Trail.

There was magic in the air. It didn’t matter that it was cold and rainy. The boys squealed with excitement and bounded along as we lumbered, heavy-footed, down the trail. Within an hour, Ice Cream Sandwich had already fallen and bloodied his bottom lip on a rock. Bro and Super Tramp had fallen several times as well. It would take us a while to get into our rhythm. On that day, four rainy miles stretched on forever.

Our flip-flop thru-hike took a winding, unconventional route. We started in Pennsylvania, got frozen out just a few days in, then slacked south to Northern Virginia until things warmed up. When the cold lifted, we jumped back to Pennsylvania and hiked north all the way to Katahdin, where we had to obtain a special permit so Ice Cream Sandwich could reach the summit. Next, we flipped south to tackle the Great Smoky Mountains before the cold set in. Then headed down to Springer to work our way back up, hiking through to Erwin, Tennessee, where we narrowly escaped with our lives. Finally, we returned to Northern Virginia and hiked south all the way back to Erwin. It was a convoluted path, but we adapted to each challenge thrown our way. In the end, we crossed the finish line—we made it.

We walked into the Appalachian Mountains carrying our hopes and fears, and slowly, the trail showed us what we were made of.

I think about all the ways we grew out there, as individuals and as a family. The kids learned things that no classroom or city could ever teach. They figured out how to make the best of the little they had, and they were unplugged from screens—my dream come true. Sticks, rocks and pinecones became their beloved toys. While The Tramp and I were there to facilitate their unschooling education, the forest was their classroom, and nature their teacher. They learned to appreciate food, shelter, warmth, dry socks, and clean water. In them now, I can see a wisdom beyond their years, a maturity that wasn’t there before. It’s the kind of knowledge that only real experience can bring. They whine less and communicate their needs more clearly, while understanding the difference between want and need. As siblings, they fight less and have formed a genuine bond with one another.

We gathered inspiration from the hiker families that came before us, and then took our own leap of faith. To us, this journey is woven from our blood, sweat, and tears. We left fragments of ourselves out there—laughter, arguments, joy, and struggle.

There were some seriously intense times—moments when exhaustion hit so hard that The Tramp and I could barely sit up in our sleeping bags. Every morning, it was the same wet, sometimes frozen socks, same soggy shoes, same clothes, and we just kept walking.

We got swarmed by black flies and mosquitoes, dug cat-holes for most of a year, hiked through freezing rain and hail till midnight, got charged by a bear in Gatlinburg, sank waist-deep in bogs, stumbled along trails in the dark, hitchhiked in a trash-filled truck, forded rivers, and almost drowned in a flash flood. There were definitely times when The Tramp and the boys wondered why we were out there.

But I always knew we’d keep going. Every miserable moment weirdly made the whole thing that much more incredible. I remember plenty of times when, with everything falling apart around us, I’d hike at the back of the group, grinning ear to ear, laughing to myself, muttering, “I love this.” Maybe because I’d done this before or maybe because I knew we all needed the hard times to appreciate the good ones. All I know is that I loved this journey—every funky, intense moment of it.

The trail taught us that sometimes you don’t need an answer. Sometimes you just keep walking, through blisters and bruises, through aching muscles and tired minds. Strength isn’t just about pushing through pain; sometimes it’s about just being willing to show up, even when it’s hard.

There were only three moments when I doubted we were either physically or psychologically capable of completing this 2,197.4-mile journey. The White Mountains encompassed two of those times. They were not actually beyond our capabilities, but it certainly felt like they were. We pushed ourselves to our absolute limits day after day, and we did it.

I stressed out for a month before we reached the White Mountains. Having been through them 10 years before, I knew how hard they were, and I could not wrap my head around how we were going to make it through.

In the Whites, the fierce competition for a campground spot adds pressure to move quickly, but the terrain will not allow it. And the limited campground availability means there may not be a spot for you when you get there. Seasoned thru-hikers cut their mileage in half through the Whites, but because we weren’t hiking huge miles to begin with, we did not have that luxury.

To witness Ice Cream Sandwich keeping up with the strongest of hikers was an incredibly proud feeling. The first two days of hiking in the White Mountains were the only times that I doubted we were physically capable of this journey. I thought to myself, “If we can make it through the Whites, we can do anything”.

After Hurricane Helene, I finally started to doubt us, mentally. Coming home after that ordeal felt necessary—we needed time to regroup and resupply. But while everyone else seemed thrilled to be back, wrapped in the comfort of warm beds, hot showers, and real food, I felt a strange urgency tugging at me. I was the only one who couldn’t fully settle in, the only one who wasn’t totally delighted to be home. Everyone still wanted to finish the trail, but they were in no rush to leave our cozy cocoon. We spent time with friends and family, making it even harder to pull ourselves away. For them, the trail could wait; for me, it couldn’t.

With only 500 miles left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had to finish what we’d started. I knew we’d put too much of ourselves into this to leave it undone. So, I gently nudged them out of the nest, reminding them of the journey we’d set out to complete, and I knew we were meant to cross that finish line as a family.

We hiked as a team, and we were only as fast as the slowest one of us—five people tied together in a vast wilderness. Together, we felt the beauty of fog-drenched valleys, ridges that scraped the sky, sunsets that felt like something ancient was burning down to embers. We also felt the aches and pains of bloody falls, biting insects, mud that tugged at our shoes, and rain that soaked us through.

Some days we laughed, some days we barely spoke, but every day we faced the trail together. The kids took on each mile with a kind of quiet resilience that reiterated what I knew they were capable of.

The trail humbled us, lifted us, made us belong to something vast and ancient, something that doesn’t change for anyone.

We learned to find peace in the quiet things—rain tapping on our tent while we were warm and cozy inside of it, a morning mist over the mountains, a shared meal warmed over a tiny stove.

There were days the trail gave us nothing and demanded everything. Our kids grew stronger, braver, kinder. The lessons buried in those grueling miles will guide our children throughout their lives.

Ice Cream Sandwich, at his age, is now part of this legacy, a true thru-hiker, the second youngest to ever complete the trail. He’ll carry that strength and those memories for life. Bro and Super Tramp have also joined the ranks of the child thru-hikers that have come before them. Those miles have built a foundation of strength and resilience for a lifetime.

We averaged slightly under 9 miles a day. Our shortest day of 4 miles was at the beginning, and our longest day of 14.5 miles was somewhere in the middle. We hiked Katahdin in 14 hours. We spent many 12-hour days pushing through the White Mountains. We night-hiked a lot, at least 30 times.

I never thought we’d come to appreciate rain in quite the way we did. Some days, it was heavy, a cold weight that drenched our gear and swamped the trail; other days, it was a gentle mist, cooling us, lulling us into a kind of rhythm that made each mile blur into the next.

The sun, too, had its way of teaching us patience, especially on long stretches without shade, where every step felt like dragging ourselves through some molten landscape. But each challenge brought us closer to the quiet magic of just existing out there, under open skies.

We each walked our own trail. It was a long trail but not a lonely one. It was a trail brimming with hope, love, and togetherness. The trail taught us each different things in our own time. Revealing to us what we could handle, and what was too intense to endure, was softened by being surrounded by people who love us.

Somewhere along the way, the miles stopped feeling like a goal and became something else—moments strung together, like pearls. A sunrise that filled the world with gold, a silent mist that added an edge of eeriness to the forest, a ridge with a view that took our breath away. These are the riches of life that no money can buy.

It was in these moments that I felt a gratitude so vast that no breath was big enough to breathe it all in. To be living in the wild with my family, to see my children face challenges and discover their own strength, to know we were sharing something that would stay with us forever—that’s worth everything.

“It’s been worse.” “We can do this.” “We’ve been colder.” “You’ve been more tired.” “We’re almost there.” “You can do this.” I must’ve said these things a thousand times. And somewhere along the way, as I kept telling my kids they could handle it, they actually started to believe it. The whining faded, and complaints only came when something really needed our attention.

We lived by the rise and fall of the sun. We became part of something bigger, and in the quiet moments, we felt it—a kind of peace, a feeling that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. I love the feeling of being tiny in a vast forest. Sometimes it felt like we were the only people in the world, especially in the Great Smoky Mountains, when we’d go days without seeing another hiker.

We ended in Erwin, Tennessee, at the end of the road, staring out over the expanse of a washed-out bridge, feeling everything and nothing all at once. There was no glitzy fanfare, no audience, no confetti—just us staring at the end of an imaginary line that runs from Georgia to Maine. Just a road to nowhere that was lost to hurricane-laden floodwaters—a quiet reminder that the trail doesn’t owe us anything. It didn’t need to celebrate our finish. We had already changed, and we knew the most important part was simply having walked it.

There was a quiet pride and a sense of profound gratitude that hung in the air among us. Collectively, we were speechless. There were no tears, no profound speeches, and no plaque to mark our finish line. The journey itself and the lessons the trail imparted along the way were the reward.

And now we’re here, at the end of a journey that has not just given us memories, but a lifetime. We came for the trail, but we stayed for the wild places that carved us. We came to the trail as dreamers, but we leave as something more—a family bound by miles, by laughter and bruises, by lessons we never expected to learn.

The Appalachian Trail didn’t just take us from Georgia to Maine; it brought us closer to something deep and enduring within us—a connection to the earth, to each other, and to the strength we didn't know we had.

We leave this path not as the same family who set out, but as five people, bound together by miles of laughter, tears, and a quiet understanding that we accomplished this very challenging thing, we did it together, and we’ll carry it with us always.

A heartfelt thank you to the wonderful trail community, and gigantic congratulations to the amazing 2024 thru-hikers! You’ve reignited my faith in the goodness of humanity. As you step back into life beyond the trail, I hope your journey continues to bring you joy, fulfillment, and countless adventures. May the winding path ahead always lead you to something beautiful.

Here’s to the trails yet to come. Happy hiking!