Why I Don’t Do Trail Highways
- Jason
- 13 hours ago
- 6 min read
There’s a certain type of trail I quietly avoid.
Well-known, well-marked, well-maintained. Wooden shelters every so many miles. Big parking lots, big crowds, and a steady stream of people chasing miles, badges, or content.
You know the ones: the trail highways. The AT, the PCT, the marquee routes that live rent-free in gear ads and social media feeds.
I don’t have anything personal against those trails. They clearly mean a lot to a lot of people.
But they’re not why I go outside.
When I shoulder a pack, I’m usually heading into National Forests, State Forests, and State Game Lands—the kind of places where the map lines don’t always match the ground, where the tread fades in and out, and where the most you’ll see of another human is an old fire ring or a boot print going the other way.
That’s my lane. And there are reasons for that.
What I Mean by “Trail Highways”
Just so we’re talking about the same thing:
When I say “trail highway,” I’m talking about routes that are:
Heavily trafficked
Heavily maintained
Heavily publicized
Think:
Blazed from end to end
Regular shelters or camps every few miles
Well-established water sources and infrastructure
Seasonal bubbles of thru-hikers and section hikers
Entire support ecosystems built around them—shuttles, hostels, resupplies, social media content
Again, none of that is evil. In fact, those trails have opened the outdoors to millions of people who might never have gone beyond the picnic area otherwise.
But they’re not where I go when I need real quiet.
Why Trail Highways Don’t Work for Me
When I head into the backcountry, I’m not looking for crowds or clout.
I’m usually chasing three things:
Solitude
Reconnection to nature (soul cleansing)
That deep mental reset you only get when it’s just you and the land
Trail highways fight all three.
1. I don’t want to see anyone
I’m not out there to socialize. I’m not trying to pass or be passed every mile. I don’t want to compare gear lists in shelters or debate brands at a water source.
My ideal trip?
No voices but the wind and the birds
No headlamps but my own
Maybe one vehicle in the parking lot when I return—maybe
You just don’t get that on a high-traffic corridor designed to move large volumes of people.
2. I like having to think about where I’m going
On a trail highway, the navigation is largely done for you:
Blazes tell you where to go
Shelters tell you when to stop
Water reports and apps tell you how far to the next source
That’s not a bad thing. But I enjoy a different kind of mental work:
Reading terrain and contour lines
Deciding if that faint old logging road is still worth following
Choosing whether to drop into a hollow or stay high on a ridge
Knowing that my decisions—not the paint on the trees—determine how the day goes
That kind of thinking develops a different confidence than “follow the blaze until you’re tired.”
3. I go out there to get away from performance
Some folks turn backpacking into a public performance:
Miles as identity
Trails as personality
Gear as costume
Every trip filtered for audience approval
Again, they can do what they want. But I’m not interested in backpacking as spectacle.
I’m interested in the quiet, unphotogenic moments:
The way the woods feel when the last light leaves the canopy
The sound of wind across an empty ridge
Sitting alone with your own thoughts and no easy escape from them
Those moments are harder to find when you’re leapfrogging through crowds on a famous route.
Off-Trail Isn’t Automatically “Wrong”
This comes up a lot online, usually from people who’ve only ever seen the outdoors through the lens of high-traffic trails and parks.
You’ll hear blanket statements like:
“Going off trail is illegal and immoral.”
That sounds strong and ethical… until you step back and look at the actual landscape.
The reality:
There are places where going off trail is absolutely inappropriate:
Fragile alpine zones
Sensitive vegetation
Closed areas and restoration zones
But there are also huge swaths of public land where:
There is no official “trail” at all
Hunters, rangers, and SAR teams move off-trail as a matter of course
Old roads, game trails, and terrain features are the navigation tools
In those places, off-trail travel—done thoughtfully, legally, and with respect—isn’t some moral failure. It’s just how the land is meant to be moved through.
The difference is nuance:
Knowing the local regulations
Understanding the land you’re in
Choosing durable surfaces whenever possible
Avoiding obvious damage and sensitive areas
“Never leave the tread” sounds simple and righteous, but it’s not how actual wilderness works in a lot of National Forest and game land contexts.
Why It’s Okay If You Do Love the Big Trails
Here’s the important part:
Just because I avoid trail highways doesn’t mean you have to.
There are real, valid reasons someone might love the AT, PCT, or similar routes:
Community. Some people thrive on the social side of backpacking—the shared shelters, trail families, and campfire stories.
Logistics. For many, these trails are the most accessible way to get extended time outside: clear logistics, known water, defined resupply.
Confidence-building. Following a well-established route can be the perfect stepping stone from day hikes to longer backcountry trips.
Safety net. For some folks, especially newer backpackers, it helps to know others are around.
None of that is wrong. It’s just a different set of values and goals.
The only time I really bristle is when someone turns their chosen trail into a weapon:
Using it to look down on people who prefer wilder routes
Pretending their narrow experience is the moral standard for everyone else
Intimidating new hikers with absolutist talk about what’s “illegal” and “immoral” without context
That’s not about trails anymore. That’s about ego.
A Note for New Backpackers
If you’re new to this and caught between loud opinions, here’s what I’d tell you if we were sitting at a trailhead:
It’s okay to start on trail highways.
It’s okay to prefer lonely, half-forgotten footpaths.
It’s okay to want both at different times of your life.
What matters more than the logo on the trail marker is:
Are you respecting the land?
Are you honest about your skill level and experience?
Are you learning to think for yourself out there instead of parroting the loudest voice you heard online?
If a certain kind of “expert” makes you feel small, stupid, or unwelcome, remember: they don’t own the woods.
Why I Choose the Quiet Places
In the end, my choice is simple:
I like National Forests, State Forests, and game lands
I like faint trails, unmaintained trails, old roads, game trails and untouched wilderness
I like not seeing another soul the entire trip
I like the being out there soaking in the natural wilderness—responsibly, deliberately, and with my eyes open
Trail highways don’t give me that, so I don’t hike them. You don’t have to adopt my preferences to be “real.” You just have to be honest about what you’re chasing and thoughtful about how you impact the places you move through.
If the well-known routes light you up, hike them. If the blank spaces on the map call to you, answer them.
The important thing is that when you shoulder a pack, you know why you’re out there—and you’re doing it on your own terms, not someone else’s.
Author’s Note
I’ve spent a lot of nights out there in the quieter corners of the map—National Forest ridges, game lands hollows, places where the GPS and the ground don’t always agree. I don’t claim to have it all figured out, but I do know this: the trips that changed me the most weren’t the ones anyone could “like” or “share.” They were the ones where it was just me, my pack, and the decisions I had to live with until I hiked back out.
Want a Clearer Way to Think About All This?
If you’re tired of the noise, the gatekeeping, and the “one true way” crowd, that’s exactly why I built my framework, The Backpacker’s Ten.
My online course, The Backpacker’s Ten: Strategic Wilderness Foundations
is a beginner-friendly way to learn how to:
Plan trips that fit your risk tolerance and experience
Make better decisions when the trail fades, the weather turns, or the plan falls apart
Tie together gear, navigation, safety, and mindset into one clear way of thinking about the backcountry
No hype, no flexing—just a practical, repeatable system you can lean on when it’s just you and the wild.
Comments