Moving efficiently down a trail has a lot less to do with speed than we think. When hikers talk about moving efficiently, we almost always start with weight. How much does your backpack weigh? What’s your base weight? How many ounces can you remove?
Weight absolutely matters. Base weight leaves out food, water, and fuel. Those count too, as does what you wear: your body has to move all of it through the woods.
But after thousands of miles of hiking, I’m increasingly convinced that pack weight is only one part of a much more complicated equation. Because moving efficiently isn’t necessarily the same thing as moving fast. You can move fast and inefficiently. You can move slowly and efficiently.
And two hikers carrying exactly the same pack weight over exactly the same trail can expend very different amounts of effort getting from one end to the other. Things like fitness, anatomy, strength, flexibility and mobility, balance. Some is simply experience. And some of it is simply learning how to walk through the woods.
For me, that means scanning ahead while checking nearby footing, assessing traction, and choosing a line that fits my capabilities. The aim is to spend less effort moving at a comfortable pace.
I bought trekking poles to walk faster
In 2015, at 35 years old, I intentionally bought trekking poles for the first time. I wanted to move faster.
Before my 2016 Appalachian Trail thru-hike, I was curious enough about this that I started timing myself. I’d hike similar terrain with the same general pack weight with and without trekking poles. There was a noticeable difference. From what I remember, it was something like three-quarters of a mile per hour.
That’s not a controlled experiment. I was also becoming a better and fitter hiker during that period, so there were plenty of variables I wasn’t accounting for. But the poles clearly did something useful. They gave me additional points of stability. That stability allowed me to move more confidently. So I took trekking poles on the Appalachian Trail.
Then something interesting happened. I got better at walking. By somewhere around Pennsylvania, roughly halfway through the hike, I found myself carrying my trekking poles in my hands more often than actually using them. Which is particularly funny because Pennsylvania is Pennsylvania. Rocksylvania.
There were even days when we were slackpacking that I didn’t bother with taking my poles at all. I’d carry a phone and a bottle of water and walk to wherever we were getting picked up.
Something that had previously made me substantially more efficient had gradually become less important.
Then I carried my trekking poles the entire PCT
I brought trekking poles on the Pacific Crest Trail too. I used them in the snow in the Sierra. I used them for creek crossings. I needed them to pitch my tent. But for normal hiking? Most of the time they lived in my backpack.
There was one day that illustrates this perfectly.
Dingo and I were trying to do a 50-mile day. We came into a section of loose volcanic rock and gravel where I was having trouble getting good traction. I wasn’t necessarily falling. The trail just felt soft underneath me. Finally, I pulled my trekking poles out. This was apparently noteworthy enough that Dingo noticed. I used them for maybe two minutes. Then I realized that whatever I was looking for, the trekking poles weren’t giving it to me. So I stopped using them. I carried them in my hand for a while and eventually put them back into my pack when we reached trail magic with Coppertone, who was famous for serving hikers root beer floats. Dingo said couldn’t believe that, after finally pulling the poles out, I was already carrying them within a minute or two.
Something had changed between the guy timing himself with trekking poles before the Appalachian Trail and the guy carrying those same poles the entire PCT. It wasn’t that trekking poles had stopped working. I had changed.
Dingo and I on our 50+ mile day.
We talk about the weight. We don’t talk about the walking.
This is one of the strange things about backpacking. We’ll have extraordinarily detailed conversations about equipment. We’ll debate whether removing four ounces from a backpack improves hiking efficiency. We’ll discuss shoe weight, cushioning, stack height and heel-to-toe drop. We’ll calculate gear weight down to the fraction of an ounce. But the human carrying all of this equipment is not a constant. Two people with identical gear don’t necessarily move through terrain the same way.
Watch an experienced trail runner. They’re moving considerably faster than most backpackers while often carrying very little. But don’t just look at the speed. Look at their eyes. Look at their feet. Look at the decisions they’re making. Or, more importantly, look at the decisions they don’t appear to be making.
They’re generally not stopping mentally at every rock and asking: Where should my foot go? The terrain is being processed continuously. That is a skill.
Defensive hiking
I own a risk management business, and somewhere along the way I realized that the way I move down a trail has become remarkably similar to defensive driving. One of the principles taught in the Smith System of defensive driving is Aim High in Steering. Look farther ahead.
Imagine driving through traffic while staring at the license plate of the car immediately in front of you. That car brakes. Then you see its brake lights. Then you brake. You’re constantly reacting to whatever the driver directly ahead does. Now look several cars farther down the road. Five cars ahead, brake lights illuminate. You see them before the car immediately in front of you reacts. You already know what’s coming. Your response can begin earlier and more gradually.
I think hiking works much the same way. If I’m staring at the ground immediately in front of my feet, every obstacle becomes a new event. Root. React. Rock. React. Mud. React. Another rock. React. You’re constantly discovering the trail as it arrives underneath you.
Instead, I generally look farther down the trail. Maybe there’s a fallen log 20 yards ahead. I’m looking toward that log, but in doing so I’m also seeing everything between me and it. There’s a root closer to me. A rock after that. Something muddy farther ahead. I’ve already seen them. As they get closer, I don’t need to discover them again. I just need to know when each one becomes relevant to my foot placement. I’m constantly updating the picture.
I’m not trying to react faster to the trail. I’m trying to see the trail early enough that I don’t have to react.
The next three steps that matter
That doesn’t mean I’m consciously planning every footstep for the next 20 yards. Quite the opposite. Most of those footsteps don’t matter. That’s part of the efficiency. I’m looking for the next three or five steps that do matter. There’s a root on the left. A loose rock farther ahead. A muddy section where I want to enter on the right. Those are decisions. The ordinary dirt between them isn’t.
On a dry, sound bridge, I may be able to look toward the far end while checking the boards nearer my feet. Wet, icy, damaged, or uneven boards need closer attention. The mud at the exit needs a decision too.
That allows most walking to happen automatically while my attention is reserved for the places where attention actually provides value.
Somebody once told me I floated down the trail
Shortly after finishing the Appalachian Trail, I wanted to stay involved with hiking, so I joined a Meetup group for a day hike somewhere around the Smokies or Blue Ridge Parkway. Most of the people had considerably less trail experience than I did at that point. Others not much at all. Someone hiking behind me made a comment that stuck with me. She said I seemed to float down the trail. I didn’t understand what she meant.
It was an out-and-back hike, so on the way down I started paying attention. What was I doing differently? Then I started watching other people’s feet. On rocky terrain, many people were carefully placing their feet between rocks or walking around them. I was frequently stepping directly on top of them. That’s a much straighter line. But doing that requires something else. I have to believe that rock is stable. I have to have a reasonable understanding of how much traction my shoe will have on it. And I have to trust what happens if my foot doesn’t land perfectly flat.
Growing up in Rocksylvania probably helped
I grew up hiking on the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania. That’s important. I had been walking across rocks and roots long before I ever thought seriously about hiking efficiency. Over years, I developed a pretty good understanding of what my ankles could and couldn’t do. If I step onto the angled surface of a stable rock, I don’t necessarily need my foot to land perfectly flat. My ankle can move. I know roughly how far it can move. And I have enough confidence in it that I don’t have to route myself around every imperfect surface. That doesn’t mean my ankles don’t roll. They absolutely do.
I can think of at least two occasions on the PCT where one of my ankles rolled far enough that it could have been a serious problem. What struck me afterward wasn’t simply ankle strength. It was how far the joint had moved without becoming injured.
That’s made me skeptical whenever the conversation about ankles gets reduced to: “I have weak ankles.” For years, I’ve thought about this mostly in terms of strength and flexibility. But those are observations from a guy who has spent a lot of time walking through the woods, not an explanation of what’s actually happening inside the body.
So I asked my friend Lee Welton of Trailside Fitness to explain it.
Lee works specifically with hikers on strength and conditioning, and his explanation of “weak ankles” is considerably more useful than mine.
“When hikers talk about having ‘weak ankles,’ I think we often oversimplify what’s actually happening. Hiking on uneven terrain requires more than strength. You need enough usable range of motion to allow the ankle to adapt to the surface, enough strength to control that movement, and the balance and proprioception to know where the foot is in space and respond to changes in the terrain.
That’s particularly important when it comes to foot placement. A stable, experienced hiker doesn’t necessarily need every foot to land perfectly flat. They can place their foot on an angled rock, let their ankle move, and control that movement rather than immediately stepping around the obstacle.
Those are qualities we can train. Strength exercises help build the capacity to control the ankle, mobility work can improve the range of motion available to the joint, and balance and single-leg exercises challenge the nervous system’s ability to control the foot and ankle. These all improve your movement efficiency, and greater efficiency means less-stressed tissues and, in turn, a lower risk of injury. But there’s another piece that’s harder to replicate in a gym: exposure to uneven terrain. Using your training hikes to walk on rocks, roots, and other variable surfaces gives the body thousands of opportunities to practice these skills.”
Lee Welton, Trailside Fitness
Lee Welton is a physical therapist assistant and personal trainer in Southeast Idaho specializing in hikers and backpackers. He thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2018, the Pacific Northwest Trail in 2024, and has trekked through the Dolomites in Italy. He can typically be found hiking and exploring the trails in Idaho and Wyoming. For more information, videos, and resources from Welton, visit trailsidefitness.com.
That last part—exposure—helps explain why growing up in Rocksylvania, thru-hiking, and ordinary weekend walks mattered. What looked like floating down the trail was probably the result of years of practice.
Lee also gives me better language for what I had called flexibility: usable range of motion, control through that range, and the ability to respond to uneven ground.
It’s also a subject worth exploring separately. We’ll come back to Lee for a deeper look at what hikers actually mean when they say they have “weak ankles,” what can be trained, and what hikers can do before putting a loaded backpack on and walking into technical terrain. For now, what’s important is that all of this affects how we move. If one hiker can confidently put a foot on an angled rock while another has to slow down, route around it or establish another point of stability, they’re solving the same piece of terrain differently.
Neither one is necessarily doing it wrong. Their bodies currently have different capabilities. And those capabilities aren’t necessarily fixed.
Trekking poles can provide stability. So can experience.
This brings me back to trekking poles. When I first started using them, they gave me something valuable. Additional stability. Four points interacting with the ground instead of two can provide information and support that your feet alone aren’t providing. For me, that made a measurable difference.
But thousands of miles also gave me something. I became better at reading terrain. I became more confident in my foot placement. I developed a better sense of traction. My balance improved. My body accumulated thousands upon thousands of repetitions over uneven terrain.
Eventually, the stability I once sought from trekking poles wasn’t as valuable to me during ordinary hiking. That’s not an argument against trekking poles. Someone else may use them for their entire hiking career and be considerably more efficient because of them. That’s the point. Efficiency is individual. The mistake is assuming the equipment itself is the efficiency.
The experienced hiker may actually be processing more
There’s a common criticism of people who hike quickly. They must be missing everything. They’re moving too fast to look around. I don’t think that’s necessarily true.
During the Appalachian Trail, I spent an embarrassing amount of time on my phone. Snapchat was huge at the time. I was taking pictures, recording videos, texting people and doing all kinds of things that had very little to do with carefully watching every footstep.
Yet I could keep moving. Today, I can be walking down a trail at around three miles per hour while having a conversation or thinking through something completely unrelated to hiking. My brain is still processing the trail. I just don’t have to consciously participate in every decision anymore. A root 15 yards away gets registered. As I approach it, I already know it’s there. Three steps. Two. One. My foot goes where it needs to go. My attention is already farther ahead.
What looks like less attention may actually be earlier attention.
Experience changes the cost of a step
Two hikers can carry identical 25-pound packs over the same rocky mile at similar speeds and still experience it differently. One may hesitate and correct their balance repeatedly; another may recognize stable footing earlier and move more smoothly.
That’s the efficiency I’m describing: the effort of moving through terrain, not just the number on a scale or watch.
You don’t have to walk faster
And this is where the distinction matters. The objective doesn’t have to be hiking three miles per hour. It doesn’t have to be hiking 30-mile days. It certainly doesn’t have to be doing a 50. Someone hiking two miles per hour can be moving beautifully and efficiently.
The goal isn’t necessarily speed. It’s eliminating unnecessary effort. Don’t make five balance corrections when one will do. Don’t route around a rock you can confidently step on. Don’t discover a root when it’s already underneath you. Don’t process every footstep as a new problem. Look ahead. Get the big picture. Identify the things that actually matter. Choose your line. Then walk it.
We spend an enormous amount of time trying to make the backpack more efficient. Maybe we should spend a little more time thinking about the person carrying it. Because eventually, after enough miles, something strange happens. The rocks don’t disappear. The roots don’t disappear. Your backpack doesn’t magically become weightless. You just get better at moving through them.
