Photo provided by Heather Anderson

The planning and logistics of completing the CYTC are overwhelming. Most people plan for a year to complete a single Triple Crown trail. I was planning for three of them. There were permits to align, negotiating the PCTA permit system within the confines of needing to hit it just right with regard to my other hikes was a huge hurdle. Additionally, I had flights to book, shuttles to arrange, gear to purchase, and food to plan. I dreamed in spreadsheets.

The one thing I didn’t have to worry about was navigation. Having completed each trail twice before and with the FarOut app of each trail downloaded knowing where I was at was a breeze. Coupled with the Ley maps and Delorme Atlases for the CDT, staying found was never a concern.

I spent the weeks prior to my start date packing boxes and shipping supplies to myself along the way. Friends offered airport pickups and places to stash extra gear. Once I finally started walking, I spent the first two months battered by one winter storm after another. I discovered that I needed the FarOut app more than I thought I would on the AT as deep snow blanketed the trail. I fought my way north, climbing over Killington in snow that was 6 feet deep. After I reached Hanover, I caught a flight to New Mexico.

Photo provided by Heather Anderson

Photo provided by Heather Anderson

As I traversed the scorchingly hot desert my body was shocked by the dramatic shift. My navigation app became a way to find the essential: water. I carried a gallon jug with me in addition to my water bladders and bottles. The national forests throughout NM closed due to wildfires just days after I reached the Mexican border.

Along the Crest, I relished the clear footpath and perfect conditions as well as a community of hikers. The FarOut PCT guide was populated with updates on water caches and news of trail magic ahead. The struggles of the early miles that year faded, even as my body began to weaken.

Autumn was in full swing by the time I reached the CDT and it became a race against winter. All the comments in the app were now the words of hikers that I’d never see—ghosts from the prime season.

Photo provided by Heather Anderson

The CYTC took me farther than I’d ever gone before—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Now, 8 years later, I’ve written that story down.

My newest book, Farther: 8 Months on America’s Triple Crown Trails is now available. I hope you’ll join me on that journey vicariously.

Related Guide: The Official App of the Continental Trail Coalition

For me, part of the allure of the CDT is the fact that it offers a more remote and challenging experience than either of the other long-distance hiking trails.  As a solo hiker, I knew I’d likely face some unique challenges.  Of all the challenges I anticipated potentially encountering on the CDT (extreme weather, long water carries, loneliness, wild animals), the one that created the most anxiety for me was the fear of getting lost in the wild.  I can have a pretty vivid imagination.  I’ve heard enough stories about people becoming disoriented and wandering off well established trails never to be heard from again that I questioned my ability to safely navigate a trail like the CDT alone!  After all, the longest hike I had completed prior to beginning the CDT was a 140 mile well maintained section of the Colorado Trail, which I hiked with my husband in 2022.  Other than that, I’d only completed two shorter 40-60 mile solo backpacking trips and four 1-2 night backpacking trips with my daughter or husband.  I had minimal cross country navigation experience.  I’m not one to let my fears keep me from missing out on an adventure or new experience, but my biggest goal is always to return home safely to my family.

A similar scenario was to play out literally hundreds of times as I hiked across deserts, climbed over mesas, navigated my way up the Gila River, worked my way through burn areas and blow down forests, bushwhacked through overgrown trail, scrambled up rocky peaks, and crossed open tundra on my journey from the Mexico – New Mexico border through the San Juan Mountains of Colorado.  Each time I “lost” the trail, my FarOut app helped me get back on track.  I could feel my confidence growing.  I might not know exactly where I was at times, but I knew I would be able to find my way again.  Before long, instead of feeling anxious, I found myself almost looking forward to those sections of trail that were less than obvious to follow.  It began to feel like a game of “find the route”. Each time I completed a particularly navigationally challenging section of trail, it felt rewarding.  Thanks to the CDT and FarOut, I definitely feel more confident in my ability to navigate challenging terrain.  I’m looking forward to the next stage of my CDT journey and whatever adventures await!

Photo provided by Michelle Bentley

FarOut: The Official App of the Continental Divide Trail Coalition

Photo provided by Raymond Rogers

Related Guide: Eagle Rock Loop Trail

26 miles • AR, USA

Setting Out: Optimism Amidst Gray Skies

The journey began with four men in a clockwise direction on a Friday afternoon, with my backpack carefully packed and my spirits high. Despite a cloudy forecast, I was undeterred; after all, Arkansas weather is famously fickle, and I hoped the rain would pass quickly. As I entered the trailhead near Albert Pike Recreation Area, drops of rain began to fall, gentle at first, then steadily intensifying. I pulled on my rain jacket, cinched down the pack cover, and ventured forward, determined not to let the weather dampen my enthusiasm.

The First Miles: Navigating Mud and Mist

Within the first few up and down miles, the trail transformed. What had been dusty paths days before were now wet and somewhat rocky, forcing me to choose each step carefully. The canopy overhead dripped with water, creating a constant rhythm that mingled with the sounds of distant thunder. The rain obscured some of the famous views, but in return, it gave the forest a mystical quality. Mist curled around the trees, and the Little Missouri River swelled, rushing past with newfound energy.

Photo provided by Raymond Rogers

Photo provided by Raymond Rogers

Moments of Beauty: Nature’s Rain-Soaked Splendor

Despite the discomfort, the rainy landscape revealed wonders that fair-weather hikers might miss. Wildflowers glistened with droplets, their colors more vivid against the gray sky. Little Missouri Falls, usually modest, cascaded with a vigor I’d never seen before. The sounds of the forest—frogs croaking, birds singing, rain tapping—created a natural symphony. I found myself pausing often to take it all in, grateful for the solitude and the wildness of the moment.

Photo provided by Raymond Rogers

Resilience and Reflection

Rain ended on the final night, leaving the world washed and refreshed. My feet were sore, my gear muddied, but my spirits were high. The trip taught me patience and perseverance; sometimes, plans are upended by forces outside our control, but when we embrace the challenge, we discover new strengths. The Eagle Rock Loop, in all its rain-drenched glory, offered more than just a physical journey—it was a reminder that beauty and growth often arise from adversity.

In the end, my rainy backpacking trip to Eagle Rock Loop became a cherished memory, a story of grit and gratitude. The next time I shoulder my pack and step into the woods, I’ll know that no matter the weather, adventure is always within reach.

Photo provided by Raymond Rogers

Related Post: 5 Tips from my Recent John Muir Trail Hike

I made it to camp and finally got a message from my friend who was unharmed. We would meet up the following day at VVR. In the morning, while waiting at the ferry dock, I chatted with some hikers who mentioned the fatality. Someone had fallen on the rocks beside Mono Creek. I passed right by it. The person I thought was sunbathing was deceased. The two hikers I saw there had just attempted life saving measures to try and revive this person, albeit to no avail. This explains the strange feelings I had when I passed.

Hearing this was like getting the wind knocked out of me. I suddenly felt so incredibly stupid. Why hadn’t I realized what happened sooner? Why did it take me until the morning to put the pieces together? How dumb could I be? If I had figured it out earlier, I could’ve possibly helped those hikers or at least provided some support for them during some very difficult moments. I started to kick myself for not being more astute. After dwelling on this for the 45 minute ferry ride, I concluded that it happened the way it was always going to happen. There was nothing I could’ve done differently. Even if I showed up earlier than the two hikers, or if I recognized what had happened in the moment, it was unlikely that I could’ve done anything to change the outcome.

As planned, I met my friend when he arrived at VVR on the evening ferry. I found myself so incredibly grateful to have a hiking partner from that day on. Luckily, I have a very gracious friend who was kind enough to let me completely unload on him. I think he knew I needed it. In the following days while we hiked, my thoughts were on the fate of that person who was out here doing the same thing so many of us were. The harsh reality was that they would never finish the trail nor hike any trail ever again. There was a devastated family out there, who maybe had reservations to begin with about their family member hiking solo, who just received worst news of their lifetime: Their loved one’s life was cut short in one of the most beautiful places in the United States, doing something that they loved, and they would never see them alive again.

I tried to honor their life with every step I took, aiming to finish this thing that they didn’t get to, and the following is what I pondered the rest of my journey and beyond. Nothing is promised. Every single day is sacred. It doesn’t matter how skilled or proficient you are, accidents happen and no one is immune to tragedy. This sounds really depressing, and it is anything but. It’s an invitation to start living. We don’t know what our futures hold. Why do we walk hundreds of thousands of miles through inclement weather, difficult terrain, loneliness, heartache, physical pain, scary people or animal encounters, and logistical nightmares? Because we want to LIVE.

My friend and I summited Mt. Whitney together on August 3rd. There was a poeticism in the duality of the heartbreak of separating from this incredible camaraderie that we shared over our journey together, and the grandeur of this hallowed journey ending on such a pinnacle as the highest peak in the lower 48. This trek undid me in an unexpected way, and I can’t help but wonder, if we thought more intently about how fragile life really is, would we love others more? Make more time for them in our lives? Do things now that we were putting off until later? Finally prioritize ourselves? How differently would we conduct ourselves if we believed every action and interaction was sacred? Mary Oliver ends her poem The Summer Day with a question, a sort of call to action, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”.

Backpacker, thru-hiker, adventurer, human; our days here are numbered and the decision is ours alone.

Related Post: 5 Tips from my Recent John Muir Trail Hike

Peak of Mt. Whitney, Dave Cheney and me. Despite the sign behind us, the accepted elevation is 14,505 ft now.

Photo provided by Russ Ellsworth

I had never come across “graupel” before, an unusual form of precipitation that isn’t hail, isn’t sleet, isn’t snow, but somehow is all three at once.

I had never camped out in freezing weather until this trip, nor come so close to hypothermia. And I had never dealt with wildfire smoke – sometimes so thick that I joked with other hikers that “I never realized a 2-pack-a-day habit was needed to prepare me for this.” Surprisingly, the near hypothermia was not from the overnight cold, I was prepared for that, but a combination of a rain suit wetting-out in the aforementioned graupel and thunder storm, coupled with my own laziness in dealing with it until it was almost too late. Fortunately, an off-duty ranger gave us a ride to Tuolumne Lodge and I took a 30-minute hot shower to get my core temperature restored.

For about a week, our hike took on a Groundhog Day quality to it: get up in the morning, hike over the “pass of the day” (Donohue Pass, Seldon Pass, Silver Pass, Muir Pass, Mather Pass, Pinchot Pass, Glen Pass, Forester Pass, Trail Crest) and down the other side to set up camp and rehydrate supper. We were fortunate to have acquired North-to-South permits for this trip. My biggest fear – Acute Mountain Sickness – never came to pass. At first, whenever I wanted to drink, I had to stop to catch my breath first. But by the time we hit the higher passes to the south, we were well-acclimated to the challenge, and breathing was much more natural. I think the North-to-South itinerary mitigated this danger.

There were disappointments: stargazing, and my chance to see the Milky Way in all its glory was first prevented by the wildfire smoke, then by that giant spotlight that came up over the mountains every night for two weeks. By the time the moon waned, the central core of the Milky Way was well below the horizon before sunset and what I could finally see was a disappointing view of its outer limits.

One of the many passes on the JMT

Photo provided by Russ Ellsworth

Devil’s Postpile near Mammoth Lakes and Red’s Meadow

Photo provided by Russ Ellsworth

In the south, “escape” from the JMT becomes progressively harder. Resupply at the wonderfully hiker-friendly Mt. Williamson Motel in the town of Independence was a two day out and back over Kearsarge Pass. Thoughts of bypassing the remainder of the trip were at one point suppressed for no better reason than that getting off the trail was more challenging than continuing on to Mt. Whitney and finishing what we started.

Early on at Yosemite, a ranger named Erich advised us against climbing either Half Dome or Cloud’s Rest due to impending thunderstorms. In retrospect, we were glad we took his advice for another reason: this trail is hard enough for two 67-year-olds without making it harder with unnecessary side treks. It took us 24 days, with one nearo, one zero, and that side trip to Independence. At one point, every step was a new record single-hike distance for Dave, and a new elevation record for me. Dave has climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, so he will always have me beat there, and my longest LASH was 566 miles, so I hold the advantage there.

This was Dave’s third trip to the peak of Mt. Whitney. His first was in 1963 when he was 5, and the second was a “day hike” just last year. That “day hike” started at 3 am and ended at 11 pm, so hiking to Whitney Portal in daylight was as new an experience for him as it was for me.

Mt. Williamson Motel, Independence, CA

Photo provided by Russ Ellsworth

Did I underestimate this hike? In some ways yes. A trail graded for pack animals sounds benign, but the horses and mules we came across were part equine, part Billy Goat. The daily effort to cover “just” 8 to 14 miles was more than I expected. On the other hand, there are plenty of stories about the dangers of climbing Mt. Whitney – and these dangers are real – but we had no issues with it, again most likely due to us coming from the North and acclimating well.

Mule Train

Photo provided by Russ Ellsworth

In other ways, it was about what I expected. My first thought (“This is 206 miles? That’s two weeks!”) was quickly reset by Dave’s more realistic “3 weeks and then some” agenda. Hiker-friendly switchbacks (and yes, there are 99 of them between Trail Crest and Trail Camp on the Whitney Portal Trail, I was bored and counted them all) make the going easier than they might otherwise have been, and there are no “stow the poles and get ready for some real climbing” ala Mt. Katahdin in Maine.

The turning point probably came after we were no longer congratulating the north-bound hikers for being almost finished, and the north-bound hikers were congratulating us for a job well done.

Despite the freezing mornings, seemingly never-ending climbs (as one hiker put it when we were climbing Mt. Whitney: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time,” to which I later remarked “This Mt. Whitney is one big chewy elephant!”), or the stubbed toe reminding me of its existence every step for four days, I wouldn’t give up the memories of the vistas, the swims in cold Alpine Lakes, or the sense of accomplishment for all the comforts of home. And the JMT can keep the twenty pounds I lost out there.

Related Post: FarOut’s “Before You Go” Checklist

Create Your Own Routes

FarOut lets you design your own routes along the paths in the downloaded map. This feature is great for planning, as it lets you see the elevation profile of your route, even if you’re deviating from the main redline. It also lets you quickly visualize your day’s mileage, ascent, and descent.

To create a route, hit the tool icon, followed by “Create a Route”. Long press a waypoint or spot on the trail you’d like to start from, and then wherever you want your day to end. The app will automatically route the shortest path so, if you want to take a different direction at a junction or a detour, go back and long press some points along the path you want to take. When you’re happy with your route, hit the check mark and name your path. Now, when you click the mountain/elevation button, you’ll see the elevation profile for your customized route.

Photo provided by Katie Jackson

By using these features to maximize community data, offline navigation, and custom planning, you effectively upgrade FarOut from a simple map into your indispensable logistics partner. Happy Trails!

Related Post: FarOut’s “Before You Go” Checklist

But even if you don’t have time or resources to hike 2,000+ miles on a long trail, you can still get a taste of wilderness during your long weekends using FarOut’s resources. That’s how I’ve hiked hundreds of miles since settling into a more static lifestyle. From the sunkissed splendor of Southern California to the old-growth valleys of the Pacific Northwest and beyond, FarOut’s comment features, water resources, elevation profiles, and campsite icons have empowered me to get outside and they can for you too.

I like rough sections of trail. But sometimes, rough is too rough. That’s why l check out the latest trail conditions from other hikers’ comments on waypoints. This helped me a ton in November 2024, when I hiked Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) SoCal Section C from Highway 10 up to Big Bear through Whitewater Preserve and Mission Creek the week of Thanksgiving. This 70-ish mile section was closed when I thru-hiked in 2016, and recent comments helped inform my navigation strategy through an eroded, tough stretch of trail in the fall. In turn, I left comments with additional perspective to help the following spring’s crop of fresh thru-hikers through a section that felt more aligned with unmaintained portions of the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) than the normally carpet-smooth PCT. FarOut even helped me devise a plan to walk directly into the town of Big Bear to wrap up my section. Three days of hiking in the high desert of Southern California was a welcome respite and dose of vitamin D for me.

The same goes for remote trails in the Pacific Northwest. I live in Western Washington, so I keep FarOut guides for the Wonderland Trail (x2), Pacific Northwest Trail (PNT) and PCT Washington downloaded at all times. My partner and I hiked some of the final miles of the PNT over Memorial Day Weekend 2025, trekking from Oil City up to Norwegian Memorial on the rugged coast of Olympic National Park. Tides are a major challenge here: you could be at risk of being swept away by a tide or stranded at chokepoints while waiting for it to recede. Even though we planned ahead with a tide chart, we still encountered waves and scratched our shins on barnacles. We were able to mitigate our risk by cross comparing comments from previous hikers about wave depth with our own NOAA resources, ensuring we safely passed all danger points for a successful trip.

Photo provided by Joseph Gonzalez

Those are just a few examples of close-to-home weekend trips. If you’re willing to take a couple extra days off work, you can also use FarOut to plan trips a bit further out, like when I hiked the Trans-Catalina Island Trail in 2022. I used the Catalina Island Conservancy website to book campsites and about the trail, then consulted a few blogs to help build back my travel and accommodation plans. But for the actual 39 miles of hiking? That was planned completely using FarOut. Using the elevation profile to learn where big climbs were was a huge help, especially for a spring hike in warm weather. It was a four-day trip, but felt like an exceptional spring-time oasis.

Photo provided by Joseph Gonzalez

It doesn’t matter if it’s 226 miles or 24. Even if FarOut isn’t your primary tool for a specific trip, it can still be an asset in your toolbelt. My family and I hiked a Rim 2 Rim across the Grand Canyon in June 2025, right before the tragic Dragon Bravo Fire, that ravaged the North Rim of the park. Grand Canyon National Park does an exceptional job preparing hikers for the journey, but having FarOut’s Arizona Trail guide downloaded helped me contextualize the outrageous ascents and declines we should expect to toil through for my party.

Photo provided by Joseph Gonzalez

It’s not sexy, but the truth is most of us don’t have time or aspirations to thru-hike around the clock. For the “average” hiker, a long weekend outing is what fits best with their schedule. It’s never been easier than now to explore outings like these with the help of FarOut. In fact, they’ve recently released guides focused on short hikes, hikes near major cities, and more to make adventures like this more manageable.

I’ll enjoy the remaining weeks of fall before spending winter planning my 2026 trips, applying for permits and dehydrating food. How do you plan on Going Far Out soon?