Fastest Known Times aka FKTs are hot press in the thru-hiking community, gaining more and more momentum every season. Achieving accomplishments like Calendar Triple Crowns, which is thru-hiking the Appalachian, Pacific Crest and Continental Divide trails in a single calendar year are incredible feats of mental and physical strength, one that I personally admire. 

For your pure curiosity, that means 7,000 miles in twelve months. To accomplish this, speed, high mileage and little to no zeros (days not spent hiking) are undoubtedly critical, not to mention the willingness to hike through all seasons and weather conditions.

However, my style of thru-hiking is on the other end of the spectrum, what I like to call the SKT, or Slowest Known Time. It took me eight months to complete the Appalachian Trail and two years to hike the Continental Divide Trail. Nearly 5,000 miles of trails have led me to become a huge advocate for the SKT. Here’s why.

But First … 

What got me into this type of hiking one may ask? On February 22, 2021, I woke up to the rising sun at Gooch Mountain Shelter, mile 15 on the Appalachian Trail. Surrounding me the night before were dozens of tents and nervous chuckles of first-time thru-hikers eager to start their adventures.

But now, at 9:30 am, none remained. Was I late for something? As I packed up and set off down the trail, I pondered about the other hikers and why they had taken off so early.

Weeks passed before I understood that thru-hiking had become this game of how many miles one could do in a day. In fact, many of the conversations I had were centered around miles, to the point where I came up with my own set of responses. I’d say, “It doesn’t matter. It’s wherever my body and feet take me today. When they tell me to stop, I stop.” Some would be impressed by my commitment to my body while others belonged to the “You’ll never make it in time” crew.

Now, I’ll admit early in my thru-hike, I frequently compared myself to other hikers. Why can’t I climb fast enough? When will I be able to do twenty mile days? Will I ever get a tramily because I can’t keep up? These thoughts swirled in my head like a tornado until finally my body decided that it was enough.

By the time I got to Franklin, North Carolina, my right ankle was swollen and painful, forcing me to take six days off trail. Inside my hotel room, I felt my mindset shift as I worried about the possibility of my ankle ending my hike. Was the risk of pushing my body worth keeping up with others? And more importantly, was it worth my happiness?

With rest, time and a fresh pair of boots, my ankle improved and my outlook changed. Thru-hiking was about independence, setting up camp in beautiful places, chasing the sun and doing it at my pace. The only one that could hike the trail was me. I embraced these newfound revelations and took my time. 

Taking It All In

One of the benefits of slowing down is being able to fully immerse in nature. To simply exist is enough for me. There’s nothing to prove and no one to answer to. The moon rises, the sun sets, while the earth takes a deep exhale that makes the golden fields of hay dance in rhythm.

This, I have all seen, as I have existed with nature as it exists around me. The simplicity of the trails allowed me to be more present and in-tune with nature and myself. Hiking mostly solo, I lived by my own rules, such as: never pass up a good campsite or a good overlook. Instead of being amped up on miles, I became amped up on incredible scenery.

Seeing the forest emerge from a blanket of powdery snow then becoming lush meadows dancing in a sea of wildflowers was a humbling experience. To hike through four seasons on both trails, opened my eyes to the true personalities of nature.

I allowed myself to be distracted by a cluster of butterflies drinking from a spring, or the sweet bursts of berries in my mouth. Beauty is not something that can be rushed, it is meant to immerse in. It freed me from society’s narrative that says we must be doing something productive to be worthy.  

Meeting People

Taking zeros (a day off) on trail is a great way to meet other hikers, especially in a hostel. Slowing down has an added perk of socializing and engaging in trail culture. Thru-hikers are generally nice, outgoing and welcoming folks, given that we share a similar goal. Everyone has a story to tell and slowing down allows you to hear their stories, cook dinner together and maybe spend a day together in town.

On the CDT,  I went weeks without seeing other thru-hikers, which intensified my need to socialize. Once in town, I’d book a bunk, always a double zero, arrive at the hostel and be greeted by a plethora of hikers who eagerly wanted to hand me a beer and pizza.

There was also tons of trail magic on the Appalachian Trail. Breakfast or burgers were cooked by kind people in the hiking community called Trail Angels. Often, there would be chairs set up in a circle for hikers to rest, socialize and enjoy a break. It was an open invitation to slow down, and so I did. 

Time and Flexibility 

There’s a saying, The last one to Katahdin wins. Why rush back into the confines of civilization? Yet, when I thru-hiked the AT I experienced what I call, The Panic.

Panic can creep up on a hiker like a vine, convincing them that they will not make it through their thru-hike before weather closes Katahdin. The result is pushing through big miles and fretting about those miles constantly. 

I’m fully aware that it’s important to ‘make miles’ when snow or park closures are imminent, but there are other options too. As someone who hikes slowly, I have faced this fear on both trails, requiring me to be flexible.

October on the Appalachian Trail brought imminent threats of snowstorms, which would force Baxter State Park to close at any moment. With hopes of summiting on my birthday, I tried to push my way through the rocks and roots, without progress.

I ended up flipping up to Katahdin on October 7th 2021, meaning I caught a ride to the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. From there, I then hiked south, back to the border of New Hampshire.

As I descended Katahdin, it felt like a huge boulder was being ripped off my back, allowing me to hike without worry. My thru-hike is about completing it, not about the terminus, I told myself.

Being slow doesn’t equate to not completing a thru-hike. Instead, it encourages personal growth in being able to adapt. Things can and will go wrong. Making adjustments, such as flip-flopping, section-hiking or taking two seasons does not equate to failure or not being a real thru-hiker as others may judge. Giving yourself ample time sets you up for success.

Cost of Injury

Injury is one of the biggest reasons thru-hikes fail — 20% of thru-hikers who had to call it quits on the PCT in 2023 reported that it was because of injury.

Starting a thru-hike like a galloping horse before the body has had time to adjust, can spell disaster. Slow and steady, gives the body time to build up “trail legs” and physically adjust to the changes of its new adventure. I’ve learned that if my calves are burning and I’m panting like a dog while I am climbing that I am pushing too hard.

In 2022, I completed nearly half of the Continental Divide Trail before being injured ended my hike. After six months of physical therapy and nine months not hiking, I found myself on a paved road in Grants, New Mexico, where in 2023 I began the second section of my CDT thru-hike.

With a stronger yet still painful right ankle, I vowed to be kind to my body by stretching, taking breaks and most importantly, not doing twenties. Did I listen? Partially.

New Mexico, a vast wilderness of scorching heat, long water carries, enchanting canyons and what seemed like eternal daylight, was also predominantly flat. Flat meant that miles came easier, so I ramped them up, starting with sixteen mile days. Two months later, my ankle swelled up and my achilles was a deep purple bruise. Fearing the end of my hike, I sobbed and rested.

Time was in my favor, thanks to section hiking the CDT over two years, so I hiked on like a tortoise. As part of my routine, I took breaks every hour, allowing my feet to breathe and my ankle to rest. By being kind to my body, I was able to cover hundreds of more miles and finish my CDT thru-hike. 

Final Thoughts

Void of recognition or any registers, SKTs don’t get the credit they deserve and that’s okay. Happiness does not depend on being added to a list. Memories of my thru-hikes are logged in my GoPro, my journal and most importantly, my heart. Looking back on them, I have no regrets.

I got to sit down at every view, camp in every beautiful spot, and do exactly what I wanted at my own slow pace.

Going slow can be beneficial for a variety of reasons, such as preventing injury, fostering self growth and being present with nature. Miles will come and go, but when it all ends, what will you remember? Will it be the miles or will it be the serrated peaks piercing the sapphire blue sky?

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