Six Questions To Ask “Budget” Thru-Hikers And One Question To Ask Yourself

One of the questions frequently asked in hiking social media groups is how much it costs to complete a Thru-hike, or more to the point, “is it possible to hike the entire Appalachian Trail on $800?”  And they will definitely get an answer to that question, but unfortunately they will also get 843 other answers to that question.

Invariably, a few of those answers will be hikers saying it’s definitely possible (and I suppose it is), but I suspect the better question is, “yeah, but is it probable?”

I’m not going to answer either of those questions.

What I’m going to do instead is run through six questions you might consider asking someone who says they hiked the trail on what sounds like an extremely low budget, with one question to ask yourself.  Because if you’re like me, those claims always sound a little bit suspicious.  And if the people making those claims are also like me, they’re at least a little bit full of crap.  This isn’t to say that everyone who says they’ve hiked on a small budget is lying about it.  It just might be that they’re leaving some information out.

Sitting in an air-conditioned room drinking beer
and soaking my feet instead of sweating my
nards off in the free camping area in Waynesboro.

When did they hike?       

One of the problems with social media is that you tend not to really know anything about the person answering your questions.  So while the guy who says, “oh, yeah, I hiked the entire AT on a dollar a mile” might not be lying, he might also not think it’s important to point out that he did that in 1983.  It’s not malicious.  Most people know in some part of their brain that things get more expensive, but they don’t really think about how much more expensive, particularly when they remember their hike like it was yesterday.  Which it wasn’t.

And when you point out to someone that “a dollar a mile” in 1983 is about $5,600 now, they’re genuinely shocked.  That’s still a pretty normal amount to spend on a Thru-hike, by the way.  And it’s an incredibly cheap 4-6 month vacation.  A one bedroom rental at the Jersey Shore in the summer will run you about $1K per week.  Just for a place to stay.  Five months worth of weekly Disney passes will run you $11,550.  Just to get into the Park.

Was it their first Thru-hike?
It may not make a lot of sense if you’ve never attempted a long hike, but people who have done one before tend to be the sort of people who can do them for cheaper.  Why?  Dunno.  Maybe they just know all of the budgeting tricks of the trade from the get go.  Maybe they’re doing the same trail again and they know a lot of trail town folks.  Maybe it’s because in between Thru-hikes they live a pretty spartan life anyway, so as to be able to afford another Thru-hike.  If I’m living in the bed of my truck to save rent, staying exclusively in my tent on a hike isn’t as big a deal.  Because neither of them have showers.  Or actual beds.  Or chairs with backs.  But mostly I think it’s because previous Thru-hikers have a better idea of what they need and don’t need to stay happy on trail; they’re not learning about the trail version of themselves as they go.

Note: I can combine these first two questions to give you an example of both at the same time.  ALL of my hikes have cost around $5K.  And I did long, multi-month hikes in 2000, 2008, 2012, and 2015, with the first and last being the Appalachian Trail.  But in 2015 dollars, my first AT Thru cost about $6,800.  And my second one, as mentioned, cost about $5,000.

Are they only telling you what THEY spent?

There’s a case to be made that “what was the total cost of the hike?” is a better question than “what did YOU spend on the hike?”  Because sometimes when you dig into this sort of thing, you discover that, yeah, THEY spent eight hundred bucks.  But their grandparents paid for them to get to and from the trail, their parents bought and shipped all of their food, and they started a GoFundMe in New Hampshire when they ran out of money that pretty much nobody contributed to.  So they “borrowed” five hundred bucks from their Uncle Steve and he is definitely never going to see that money again.  Don’t worry.  Uncle Steve knew.

Everyone says Uncle Steve is too nice.

Did their hike rely on work-for-stay/hiker boxes/mooching?

The former two are strategies for making a hike cheaper; the latter is a strategy for having everyone around you think you’re a monumental pain in the ass.  The problem with the first two is that you really can’t count on them, and therefore they shouldn’t be part of a plan.  Work-for-stay is nice if you want it, but a lot of places you might end up won’t need any work done.  And sometimes you’ll be so exhausted that you don’t want it even if it’s available.

As for hiker boxes, there will occasionally be some nice finds, particularly in places where a lot of people ship food.  And you should always check the hiker box before you head off to do your resupply or get new gear.  My hiking partner found a brand new pair of shoes in Pearisburg right when he needed new shoes. But everyone who’s been on trail knows that hiker boxes are frequently full of stuff the original owner didn’t want, and neither did any other hiker who was there before you.  The mystery bag of white powder is not a myth.  And guess what?  It’s also not powdered milk.  Enjoy your foot-powder breakfast cereal.

So work-for-stay and hiker boxes are solid ways to spend less money while on trail, but they’re not really something I would recommend planning on.

As for mooching, just don’t.  Don’t be that hiker.  Yes, people like you and want you to stick around.  We all know this.  You’re very likable.  At first.  Yes, at first that cool couple you met at that shelter that time and “hey!  We’re all here in town together” will let you use their shower after they’ve used their shower.  Even though that’s theft of services.  And those people you’ve been hiking with for a month?  They’ll definitely let you have a couple of slices of that pizza.  At first.

But pretty soon everyone starts to notice that you never chipped in for that shuttle and you drank half of that case of beer they paid for and I just noticed you’re wearing my rain pants to do laundry and now your balls have been all over the inside of my pants.  Now you’re no longer likable, and at this point nobody wants you around anymore.  Especially me, because that thing with the rain pants was not cool.

How many days was their hike?

One of the best pieces of advice for budget hiking is “a faster hike is a cheaper hike.”  So you might discover that that guy who did a hike for what you think of as pretty cheap also did that hike in 90 days.  And that’s fine.  For some people that’s the kind of pace they want to do.  But are you that kind of person?  Maybe.

Or maybe you’re like me, and the only way you would hike the AT in 90 days is if a series of bears were chasing you the entire time.  Weirdly, I’ve actually gotten faster as I’ve gotten older.  But I’m never really gonna be interested in hiking much more than about a hundred miles a week repeatedly unless I have a really good reason, and I’d rather not have my pace dictated by my budget.

Did they hike the entire trail?

Not really something you’d think you’d have to ask someone who says they’re a Thru-hiker, and yet here we are.  It should go without saying, but someone who only hikes half of the trail on their “Thru-hike” will spend about half of what they would have spent if they hiked the entire trail.  So it doesn’t really matter if they’re “going to go back and get those miles someday” (they’re not).  If they skipped all of Virginia and Pennsylvania you should probably take their budgeting answers with the amount of salt in a Mountain House meal, or at the very least with a grain of salt.  

Unless you’re also planning on skipping all of Virginia and Pennsylvania.

And finally, one question for you:

Do you have a plan for when the plan doesn’t work out?

"Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.”

                                          —Boxer/Philosopher Mike Tyson

It’s really heartbreaking to see people quit the trail for no other reason than they’re out of money.  I’ve seen it happen a ton of times over the past twenty years.  So, yeah, sure, right now you’re “not out there to spend time in town,” and you’re “going to get into town and then get right out again” and you’re “fine with splitting laundry with five other people and discovering once back on trail -- later that same day -- that you’ve lost half of your socks.”  And maybe all of that will be the case.  Or maybe not.

Maybe after six straight days of cold rain/snow/sleet you’re going to split a hotel room and eat an entire Meat Lover’s Pizza.  While sitting, not standing, in a hot shower.  For 45 minutes.  And then ordering another Meat Lover’s Pizza.  Or maybe you’re going to be in Virginia, chafed to the point of considering field amputation and so encrusted with sweat salt that you’re starting to look like Sean Patrick Flanery in Powder.  And the only thing you want to do for an entire day is ice your crotch and sit in front of an air conditioner going full blast.  While eating a Meat Lover’s Pizza.

Or even more simply — and definitely likely —maybe you’ll discover you really like the people you’re hiking around and you want to stay with them, even though you started out thinking this was going to be your big amazing self-sufficient solo adventure.

Which is to say: it’s fine to plan a “cheap” hike — go for it.  But maybe consider using the same discipline you think you’ll have on trail to save up enough before the trail to deal with the possibility of that plan not happening.

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