How to Survive Your First Backpack Camping Trip (and Actually Enjoy It)
By Kelly McMurtry
Editor’s Note: Due to Hurricane Helene, some trails mentioned in this article, including the Art Loeb Trail, may be closed or damaged. Please check local trail conditions and take necessary precautions before planning your trip.
Day one of a three-day backpacking trip is always the same. It begins with naive optimism, like a toddler with a popsicle, unaware of how quickly things can melt.
I stood at the trailhead, weighed down by the overambitious bulk of my pack. The smell of pine was thick in the air, mixing with the scent of my brand-new gear, which still had that sterile, factory-fresh aroma. I had been here before—three years ago, in fact, on my very first backpacking trip. I had no clue what I was doing then, and if we’re being honest, I’m not that far ahead now. But I’ve learned one thing: it's all about embracing the pain, like a life coach from REI might say, but with fewer motivational posters.
The trail I had chosen was the Art Loeb Trail, a 30.1-mile trek through the Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina. It’s one of those trails you hear seasoned hikers rave about with a gleam in their eye, the same gleam I would develop if I survived the next three days.
Now, before we dive into the chronology of my suffering—I mean, my adventure—let’s get the basics out of the way. Backpacking is a beautiful exercise in minimalism. You carry everything you need on your back, walking a fine line between packing too much and being unprepared for what nature throws at you. I had learned that the hard way on my first trip. On this one, I’d honed my setup: an Osprey Atmos AG 65 pack, an MSR Hubba Hubba NX tent that packs down small enough to make me look like I know what I’m doing, and a Jetboil Flash stove that promised to boil water faster than my temper would flare by mile nine. Oh, and don’t forget the ultralight sleeping pad—a glorious half-inch barrier between you and the cold, hard ground. If you want something similar, the Therm-a-Rest NeoAir XLite Sleeping Pad will treat you right. All this gear (and, more importantly, how to use it) was the difference between a painful, sleepless night and something resembling restful slumber. I wasn’t about to repeat the mistakes of my first trip.
Day One: Optimism Meets Reality
The first few miles of the Art Loeb were surprisingly forgiving, with the trail winding through dense forests, occasionally breaking into scenic overlooks that made me feel like I was starring in an inspirational calendar. My pack felt heavy, sure, but manageable. I stopped at Shining Rock Gap for lunch, unpacked my Jetboil, and felt smug about how smoothly things were going. A cup of instant ramen tastes gourmet after a few hours of hiking, and I savored it like I was on a food tour through Italy.
By late afternoon, the reality of the trail set in. The gentle slopes turned into steep ascents that made my thighs scream for mercy. A fellow hiker passed me, barely breaking a sweat, while I looked like I’d been on the losing end of a water balloon fight. “Just a few more miles to Black Balsam Knob!” he shouted, as if it were a rallying cry. I nodded, suppressing the urge to throw my trekking pole at him.
When I finally arrived at Black Balsam Knob, I was rewarded with panoramic views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The sky had started to blush with sunset hues, and I set up my tent under the open sky. Pro tip: always check your tent for rocks before lying down for the night. I didn’t, and paid the price.
Day Two: The Honeymoon Phase Ends
I woke up early, body stiff but spirits intact. Day two was the longest leg of the trip, with a mix of ridgelines and dense forest trails. I’d spent the night dreaming about pancakes, but breakfast was a crushed protein bar and some electrolyte powder mixed into questionable water I’d filtered from a stream. The Jetboil wasn’t worth unpacking for this culinary masterpiece.
The trail pushed on toward Pilot Mountain, a climb that made me question my life choices. Halfway up, I realized I had packed too much food. I know what you’re thinking—more food is never a bad thing—but when your pack starts feeling like a rebellious toddler clinging to your back, every ounce counts. On my next trip, I vowed to embrace the dark art of dehydrated meals.
After the climb, I reached Deep Gap Shelter, where a few seasoned hikers were already relaxing. We traded trail stories—one guy had been on the Appalachian Trail for months and made my three-day jaunt seem like a walk in the park. I cooked up a fancy backpacking dinner—freeze-dried lasagna, which I highly recommend if you enjoy eating soggy paper. But the camaraderie of fellow hikers made it taste better. I slept soundly that night, the aches in my body strangely comforting, as if I had finally become part of the landscape.
Day Three: The Home Stretch
The third day was a sprint—at least, that’s how it felt after two days of brutal climbs and bug bites in unmentionable places. I made my way through Ivestor Gap, the trail opening up to wide expanses that felt like a scene from a cowboy movie. The wind was strong enough to knock over anyone foolish enough to stand upright for too long, so I kept my head down and pushed through.
As I neared the end of the trail at Davidson River Campground, I started to feel a little sentimental. Backpacking had gone from a terrifying, uncomfortable ordeal to something I—dare I say—enjoyed? Sure, my feet felt like they’d been pounded by hammers, and I could smell myself before I could see my reflection in the river, but I’d survived. No, more than that—I’d thrived. Three years ago, I couldn’t have imagined getting through a trip like this without several tears and a desperate call for extraction. Now, I was planning my next trip before I’d even reached the car.
Final Thoughts: Gear and Grit
If you’re thinking about backpacking for the first time, do yourself a favor and invest in the right gear. You’ll thank yourself when you’re not sleeping on a rock or boiling water over a questionable flame. But more than that, remember that backpacking is about embracing discomfort and finding joy in the little things—like the taste of a crushed protein bar after eight miles uphill.
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