Why I’m Choosing A Trail Name For My Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike

Those who aren’t familiar with thru-hiking/trail culture might be wondering “what’s a trail name?”

A trail name is a moniker you adopt while you’re hiking, instead of your civilian name. It’s usually given to you by a fellow hiker or a member of your trail family (tramily) once you’ve done, said, or accomplished something that seemed name-worthy. If you’re known for spotting dropped pieces of gear on the trail, you might get the name “Hawkeye.” If you’re known for carrying a few avocados from town into the woods, you might be named “Guacamole.”

Most hikers accept their fate and resign themselves to accepting whatever name is given to them.

But there are a few who want to choose their own name - or even go without. I’m one of them.

Here’s why:

Self-Actualization

Over the past couple years, I’ve gotten out of the bad habit of letting others decide who I am and what defines me. I have already lived my life within the confines of others’ comfort zones and expectations.

I was married, convinced to change my name to his, converted to Catholicism despite my misgivings about Christianity as a whole… I was erased and unrecognizable as the person I’d been. For a decade, I got very good at making myself small to keep my ex-husband and his family happy.

Not changing my name to theirs after marriage was unthinkable. The one time I mentioned the possibility of keeping my own name was met with tears, screaming, and guilt trips. As a too-young woman who wanted desperately to “fit” into the family of the person I loved, I folded easily to their demands.

When I considered the possibility letting someone “choose” a trail name for me… it didn’t sit right with my gut. And these days, I’m practicing trusting my own intuition above all things. So, I’ll be choosing my own name.

I’m Not A Purist

There’s a strange, dark underbelly of hikers in the community that believe you have to “do” the trail in a certain way for it to “count.” No slack packing. A base weight over “X amount” is an automatic disqualification. You must accept the name “Cheeto Puff” from a fellow hiker you spoke to for 4.5 minutes, or your entire hike is rendered invalid.

There are many fun traditions I can’t wait to take part in: such as the half gallon challenge, for example. But to me, the point of the trail isn’t to qualify for entry into an exclusive club that “did it correctly.”

Don’t get me wrong - I want to make it to Maine, and I personally want to walk every inch of trail to get there. But if I don’t make it to Maine, or slackpack, or disqualify myself from the Cool Kids Club in some other manner… it’s not going to be the end of the world.

To me, the Appalachian Trail is an accomplishment and a goal that I’ve wanted for years, but the hard part? Separating from the life that kept me from chasing this, or any one of my most meaningful goals? Navigating the world as a newly single person who hadn’t needed to date since she was 16 years old?

Looking back with 20-20 hindsight and seeing every time I betrayed myself to keep others happy with newfound, and profoundly uncomfortable clarity?

To me, the hard part’s already been done. To me, the trail is a victory lap. But there is one place that I want to make it to before I call it quits.

Newfound Gap

5 years ago, I stood on the Appalachian Trail at Newfound Gap and knew that one day, I would be there again - thru-hiking from Georgia.

I knew it in a strange way, a deep-down-in-your-bones way that surprised and terrified and thrilled me all at once. I don’t really believe in fate anymore, but in moments like that, I reconsider my stance.

That’s why my trail name is Newfound.

The moment I stepped on the trail at Newfound Gap, before all the hurt, before the loss, before All Of It… I knew that one day the trail would be home to me. I knew that one day I was going to make it. I had no idea how, or how much I was going to have to lose to get there… but I knew that one day, I would.

All that I have gained in the past 5 years far outweighs any loss. So for me, the goal isn’t necessarily Katahdin, though I intend to make it all the way to Maine. If I make it to Newfound Gap and decide my journey is done, I’ll be happy that I kept the one promise my 23-year-old self made to herself that day.

And every time I sign my name into a logbook, I’ll remind myself to keep that promise for just a little longer.

See you out there.

-Newfound