For the Love of the Trail: My Life as an Appalachian Trail Ridgerunner

For anyone unaware of the job title, Ridgerunners are a vital resource along the Appalachian Trail, functioning as a trail guide, maintainer, and Leave No Trace educator. Working during the peak of northbound thru-hiker season, RRs bridge the gap between trail managers and users, documenting everything from hikers encountered to eroding tread. 

Looking back, I can say candidates are highly qualified individuals who understand the nuances of backpacking culture while maintaining a professional image, often working alongside State and National Forest personnel. And for the record, I originally wanted to title this article "Angels, Assholes, and Everything in Between: 3 seasons as an AT Ridgerunner."

I may not be an A.T. Thru-Hiker, but I serve the Trail with pride.

Midway through my third season, I found myself pausing more often; not just to catch my breath but to reflect. Over three summers I had walked over a thousand miles, taught countless hikers Leave No Trace principles, treated both physical and emotional injuries, led the flagship Junior Ridgerunner project, volunteered with maintenance groups, and even assisted in a large-scale search and rescue. This season felt different, knowing it would likely be my last. I made a conscious effort to soak it all in.

Though I once planned to cover every section of PATC territory, next spring I’m trading the green tunnel of the AT for the varied landscapes of the American Discovery Trail, hiking coast to coast from California to Delaware. Before that, I wanted to reflect on the trail that shaped me. Not just as a hiker, but as a human.

Starting out was awkward. I felt like the least qualified of the group and I was the only non-thru-hiker.

In April 2023, just as I finished my first major sewing project (a sleeping quilt and backpack), I got the offer to serve as a Maryland Ridgerunner. Being in my home state, I was honored, but imposter syndrome influenced me otherwise. I wasn’t a thru-hiker and I didn’t really feel qualified. I immediately thought I was the lowest ranked hiker in the group.

Surrounded by Ridgerunners who had completed so many other trails (in addition to being AT thru-hikers) I questioned whether I really fit in. While I backpacked hundreds of miles every year, they were usually shorter trips, not months on end. My biggest accomplishment at the time was hiking the 250-mile Tuscarora Trail. I never mentioned the countless “failed” trails I’d quit.

I met my MD coworker and housemate, Tyler “PrePack,” at the Harper’s Ferry Flip-Flop Festival, unaware of the bond we would soon share. I was anxious to work with someone who had already completed the AT and PCT while I hadn’t even hiked outside the Mid-Atlantic. But he reassured me; I was hired for a reason. Simple conversations turned into life-long advice I still hold onto. 

I remember hoping my roommate wouldn’t be a total weirdo. Turns out, he hoped the same. From day one, we clicked like two peas in a pod. We bickered like an old married couple, traded trail gossip, gave each other hell, and always had each other’s backs. Somewhere between the miles and mosquito bites, we became brothers, like chosen tramily. I can’t imagine that first season without him. We shared weather mishaps, hiker stories, trail drama, frustrations, and those small weird joys of the job. Having someone I could trust and look up to meant the world, especially during moments of adversity.

The learning curve of the job was interesting, but I quickly picked up on the minor details. 

At first, I thought the job would mostly involve hiking and clearing blowdowns but I soon learned it was just as much about listening and slowing down. The Appalachian Trail isn’t just a path through the woods; it’s a living ecosystem, shaped by every footprint, decision, and fire ring left behind.

The first few weeks were fairly standard: hikers asking about water sources, weather, and nearby towns. I remember one hiker debating whether to skip all of Pennsylvania to jump ahead to New Jersey. PrePack handled a group spray-painting at High Rock after they saw it on TikTok. That spot became his pet peeve for the season. People assume that because graffiti’s already there, it’s fine to add more. But it’s not. It looks like shit and every new tag is another reminder of how quickly we normalize environmental damage. The graffiti also caused the rocks to lose traction, forcing the park to install a safety rail.

Over time, I felt like more than just an ambassador. I was becoming part of the environment. Trusted by hikers, trail volunteers, and park staff alike, my daily goals were rooted in environmentalism. While I grew into a more self-reliant hiker, what really mattered was becoming a better steward. I could spot early signs of erosion or a struggling hiker before either deteriorated too far. I was molded into the backcountry.

Then came my first real test.

At a backpacker campground, I encountered a transient man reported by other hikers. He wasn’t just camping... he was having loud sex in his tent... 100 yards from the campground... occupied by a father and son among a group of thru-hikers. I called it into the rangers immediately. Before they arrived, the man tried to smooth things over, claiming he was a thru-hiker "from the area" and his girlfriend had just joined him. He offered food to nearby campers, who looked visibly uncomfortable, disgusted even. I stayed calm and tried to keep things neutral, but the vibe was so strange.

Park police confirmed he was a repeat offender, but without testimony in a court of law or solid evidence, they couldn’t do much. Later that night, he started screaming and cursing, breaking the silence of the night. Eventually, he packed up and left. It was the first moment where the job felt truly unpredictable and out of my hands. I knew I could hike out, but I felt safe in the company of other hikers. Hikers told me my presence made them feel safe in return. That was the moment when I realized I could handle a lot more than I thought.

My home-state provided more adventure and oddities than expected.

Maryland, often called the “easiest section of the AT,” wasn’t without its challenges. It’s a crossroads of trail culture: thru-hikers hitting their stride, section hikers crossing from Pennsylvania to West Virginia, flip-floppers starting out, and locals on weekend escapes. The work was steady: no campfires at Annapolis Rock, constant toilet paper blooms, and leash-less dogs. Being a Ridgerunner wasn’t just about trail knowledge., it was about inspiring people to make ethical choices in wild spaces.

That season I found my "Ridgerunner Voice". I learned how to ask hikers to leash their dogs without confrontation and how to explain Leave No Trace in ways that landed. I noticed patterns in both people and the land; where erosion crept in, where vegetation vanished under illegal campsites, and where the last great American Chestnuts were still holding on. Most hikers pass them without noticing but I always make a point to stop. My friend Scatter jokes my trail name should be “Billy Bryson” instead of “Bones” because I can't seem to shut up about Castanea dentata.

My 2024 season brought me to Pennsylvania’s Michaux State Forest. It felt different right away being powered entirely by volunteers. Trail crews, maintainers, sawyers, and hikers, all doing the work simply for the love of the trail. I wasn’t just in a new place, I was part of a new community.

Making an impact one section of trail at a time…

The work was similar but quieter with fewer hikers. I spent more time monitoring tenting impacts and reminding folks that burn bans exist for a reason. Off-leash dogs were still a battle, but not as frequent. I get it, people love their pets, but even the friendliest dog can stress wildlife or other hikers.

It was a season of long walks between campsites, thoughtful conversations, and repeated reminders. One night, Tumbling Run’s maintainers texted me about a group of 14 equestrians on the AT. Another time, federal agents searched for a fugitive out on a warrant. I endured a heatwave and torrential storms all Summer. There was never a dull moment.

This season is where I leaned fully into my identity as a steward. I tracked trail widening, social paths, and kept my Chestnut inventory going strong. Whenever I found one of those big, beautiful, dying trees, I’d snap a photo or drop a GPS pin to Scatter or PrePack. It became a ritual. A reminder of why I do this work. By the third patrol, I had my favorite lunch spots mapped out.

Michaux deepened everything for me. It stripped away the noise. I connected not just with the trail, but with the people who manage it, quietly and without fanfare. I was playing the long game. 

I never knew Pennsylvania could feel so magical. 

One night at Quarry Gap Shelter, I met the maintainer “Innkeeper.” I commended his work, noting how hikers call his shelter one of the best on the whole trail, next to Tumbling Run. He replied with something that’s stuck with me since:

“When you start to believe the folklore people say about you, you lose what inspired you in the first place. Be your own personal legend. Don’t live by someone else’s standard.”

The season ended early, but was marked with a 1,200-mile southbound hike from Katahdin. Two seasons of Ridgerunning had given me confidence. I walked into that “thru-hike” feeling like I belonged. But due to Hurricane Helene, I ended the hike in Harper’s Ferry and felt like a failure. I spiraled. After giving everything to the trail for years, I felt like it had amounted to nothing. The following winter I spiraled into a depression. 

Struggling to find a job, a friend encouraged me to take a job with Appalachian Mountain Club in northern Maine doing cabin maintenance instead of trail work. While I loved the environment, I naturally gravitated toward trail and tree work at any chance I could get. I started browsing crew lead opportunities, trail job openings, and USA Jobs, feeling a give in the struggle I felt previously while job hunting. Before long, I was arranged to be a PATC Ridgerunner yet again, this time in Shenandoah National Park.

New adventures with new anxieties. 

In May 2025, I arrived in the park unsure what to expect, especially given the recent federal budget cuts. While I felt solid in my skills, I wondered how funding losses would affect the park. I’d already been part of SARs and medical incidents, but anxiety crept in as I wondered what would the Summer would bring.

I was overwhelmed at first, simply by the sheer volume of cars along Skyline Drive, but I quickly adjusted. The hustle of the Mid-Atlantic felt familiar and this time I moved through it with confidence.

My first solo patrol felt all too familiar. Clippers and handsaw in my fanny pack, trash bags and nitrile gloves at the ready. A new housemate (Marissa “Mosey”), a new section of trail, and new future memories. 

It didn't take long for things to get weird.

I noticed non-compliant alterations to shelters and privies on my first day. It turned into a dispute between the Park Service and the person responsible ultimately received a civil citation. Passive-aggressive journal entries were found at a few shelters for the next few weeks. Funnily enough, I never even met the guy.

Later that season, I witnessed one of the weirdest moments of my career. At a shelter, I heard someone talking inside their tent, which seemed normal enough. But by 4am, they were screaming: “Oh shit!” and “Fuck!” repeatedly. It woke me from a dead sleep. I ran over, offered help, and got a very relaxed “I’m okay, thank you.” And then dead-silence. He packed up and left before I woke up at 7am.

That same week, I supported a SAR for a missing person on a side trail near the AT. It didn’t end how we hoped. I'm not at liberty to share the details of my role, but the memory will last a lifetime. My deepest condolences to the family.

Season after season, I’ve found my “Ridgerunner voice”, though not all at once. It came in pieces through hard conversations, unpredictable encounters, and the realization that intention matters more than being perfect. 

Not your average summer gig. 

The job served me so much more than just a Summer job. It gave me purpose. I’ve since joined PATC as a donating member, adopted two 1.5-mile sections of the Tuscarora, and kept me in-check with  maintaining an current Wilderness First Aid and Forestry Sawyer certifications. Not to mention, my boss Dan is the best supervisor I’ve ever had.

Jack and Charlie, my kids, have been part of this journey too. Each season, they join me for at least a few days on trail, soaking up the rhythm of Ridgerunner life. We’ve watched the sunset at Annapolis Rock. They climbed their first 4,000-footer with me at Hawksbill, the tallest peak in Shenandoah. Seeing the trail through their eyes reminds me why I do this work. The trail raised me in a way, and now it’s starting to raise them too. Hearing my boys say "I want to be a Ridgerunner when I grow up" was one of the highest peaks of my life. 

These last few years have reshaped me. Mindfulness, thoughtfulness, and empathy occur with the nature of the work. Caring for the wild, for others, and for myself. Outside of the PATC realm, this work has inspired me to become a member of Appalachian Mountain Club, and work as a Trail/Saw Crew Leader with Appalachian Conservation Corps., teaching mindful sawyers and future environmentalists. The inspiration started from the AT, but the ripple effect from it has taken me to so many other incredible places. It's been therapeutic. 

Onto the next adventure…

Letting go of this season was hard. I don’t know what I would've been doing without this job. But right now, I feel a new calling. It feels like the same one that led me here in the first place. Only now, I'm supported by a countless list of new friends, borderline family members. 

For the next 10 months, I’m manifesting a thru-hike of the American Discovery Trail. 5,057 miles. Pacific to Atlantic, Coast to Coast. June 2026. It's happening. 

Good Hiking,

Bones 

PATC Ridgerunner x3

Appalachian Trail ME->GA ‘24

Tuscarora Trail ‘20