AT Trail Days 2026

The Annual Reunion That Still Feels Like Magic

Every year, this tiny mountain town in southwest Virginia turns into something completely different.

For one weekend, Damascus no longer feels like a quiet trail town tucked into the Appalachians. It becomes loud, alive, overflowing with hikers, stories, smells of campfire smoke or freshly showered thru-hikers, and enough energy to make you forget sleep is important.

And somehow, despite the crowds, it still feels personal.

That’s the Appalachian Trail (AT) Trail Days.

And this year, it hit me a little differently.

Maybe because I wasn’t arriving as the guy chasing a thru-hiking dream anymore. Maybe because this time I showed up with a new book, a presentation to give, and people actually coming up to tell me my story meant something to them.

That still feels surreal to type.

Years ago, I walked into Damascus during my Appalachian Trail thru-hike dirty, both exhausted and exhilarated, and joyfully discovering who I was becoming out there. This year, I returned on a book tour, standing in front of a room talking about A Fabulous Thru-Hike.

Life is weird sometimes.

Beautiful weird.

And Trail Days has a way of making you feel all of it at once.

The moment you get into town, you feel the shift. Hikers everywhere. Packs tossed onto sidewalks or under trees. People yelling trail names across the street like no time has passed at all.

And honestly? It doesn’t matter if it’s been one year or ten. Trail people reconnect fast. Faster than most people in “regular” or as I prefer to say, off-trail life.

Maybe it’s because suffering together on a long trail skips past surface-level conversations. You already know each other differently.

There’s also this beautiful chaos to Trail Days.

Music somewhere in the distance. Tent City buzzing all night long. Gear talk. Trail stories. Random conversations with strangers that suddenly become deep discussions about life fifteen minutes later.

And no one thinks that’s weird.

That’s the charm of this community.

Nobody really cares what you do for a living out there. Nobody’s impressed by titles. People care about stories. About miles walked. About what the trail taught you.

The Appalachian Trail has always been the great equalizer like that.

This year I spent a lot of time at the Farm to Feet booth signing books, laughing with hikers, catching up with old friends, and meeting people who knew me from my writing or social media.

And honestly, even saying that feels surreal sometimes. Farm to Feet even designed a pair of “Fabulous” socks inspired by my adventures and introduced them during Trail Days, which is still one of those things I haven’t fully wrapped my head around yet.

Every now and then, I’d pause for a second and take it all in because the truth is… this version of my life still catches me off guard sometimes.

Not in an imposter syndrome kind of way.

More in a humble, “How did kid-from-New-York end up here?” kind of way.

And maybe that’s what made this year emotional in ways I didn’t expect.

Because Trail Days doesn’t just reconnect you with people—it reconnects you with versions of yourself.

The thru-hiker version.

The uncertain version.

The version that started walking north without fully knowing what waited ahead.

And standing there this year, I realized something.

That version of me is still here.

Just older. A little wiser. Probably more emotional than before.

But still deeply connected to the trail and the community around it.

That’s the thing about thru-hiking. You never fully leave it behind. The trail follows you in quiet ways. In how you see people. In how quickly you connect. In how you learn to appreciate simple things.

And every year, Trail Days reminds me of that.

As the weekend wrapped up and people slowly packed up tents, loaded cars, and headed back to their regular lives, there was this familiar feeling hanging in the air.

Bittersweet.

Like leaving summer camp as a kid.

You spend a few days surrounded by people who just get it, and then suddenly it’s over.

The streets quiet down again.

Damascus exhales.

And everyone disappears back into the world carrying fresh memories, inside jokes, tired legs, and probably a slight lack of sleep.

But for a few days every year, this little trail town becomes home again.

And honestly?

There’s still nothing else quite like it.

More soon — I’m still thinking about this one.

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