Trash Pocket Project

Over the summer of 2025, I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail (AT), a continuous footpath nearly 2,200 miles long stretching from Georgia to Maine. Never spending any significant time on the Atlantic-facing side of our country, I had no conception of what this trail would look like — whether the trees would be tall and needly like ours or whether the mountains would be as jagged and bare. I dreaded oppressive heat, thick humidity and relentless bugs. I fantasized about walking with spring, seeing bears and meeting other hikers. I feared and welcomed the unknown.

Beginning my northbound hike, these answers became apparent. The forest was thick and low to the ground with Rhododendrons and Mountain Laurel dominating the South, hence the trail’s nickname “The Green Tunnel.” Climbing the southern terminus of Springer Mountain, I said “This is a hill, not a mountain.” It’s hard not to be underwhelmed when you see Mount Baker or Rainier on your daily commute. The highest peak on the AT, Kuwohi, is only 6,643 feet. It is shocking when you learn that the AT has the most elevation gain of any of the “Triple Crown Trails,” which also includes the Pacific Crest Trail and Continental Divide Trail (CDT), even though the AT is hundreds of miles shorter. So how does the AT have more elevation gain? Because it is a rollercoaster of a walk, with never-ending ups and downs. Flat is not a word that exists on the AT. Hikers learn to bond over this common antagonist.

One of the things I found most surprising was how integrated the AT was into civilization. After reading Bill Bryson’s “Walk in the Woods,” I conjured up an image of a completely immersive wilderness adventure. However, this was not always the case. Especially in the south, the trail literally followed the Main Street of some towns. In New York, you could see the City from certain mountain peaks and catch a short train ride there from the base of Bear Mountain. On Memorial Day in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, one of the campsites, which has a capacity for a few dozen people, was filled with over a hundred. In Virginia, sounds from a rave rolled up the side of a mountain we were camping on. This proximity to civilization makes more sense when you discover that one of the original trail creator’s, Benton Mackaye, wanted the trail to be readily available to the urbanites of the early 20th century. His vision was for the trail to have self-sustaining farm communities that hosted classes and integrated people back into nature — a utopian agro-urban society. While his dream only resulted in meager lean-tos for hikers, rather than vibrant communities, the trail is still just as accessible and beautiful.

The accessibility can also come with its fair share of drawbacks. Day-hikers from urban areas are not always familiar with the “Leave No Trace” philosophy and end up leaving the forest worse than they found it. As thru-hikers who literally live on the trail for months on end, you gain an incredible attachment to the environment and path itself. The trail feels like a part of you. Because hikers care so much for a trail, in a way, they become its ambassadors and stewards. I took this job seriously. I kindly let day-hikers know that they were trampling on alpine plants that had taken half-century-grow or to not feed the squirrels. My main pursuit was picking up every piece of trash I saw and stuffing it in the left pocket of my shorts. I picked up band-aids, shotgun shells, and whole plastic water bottles. At mile 1,555.6 in southern Massachusetts, I began documenting every piece of trash I picked up. Nearly 642 miles later when I reached the northern terminus of Mount Katahdin in Maine, I had picked up and documented over 250 pieces of trash. This is equivalent to picking up a piece of trash every two and half miles; or picking up a piece of trash each hour of the hiking day for two months. It is important for our outdoors to be accessible to everyone, but there also needs to be better education around it.

I documented and assembled this collage to show how collective mistreatment of our forests can add up and how each individual can make an impact in its restoration. We often have this jaded mindset over the environment. “Oh, how is one chip bag going to make a difference.” And it’s true that the biggest changes that need to be made are in our systems and at the corporate level. But I also think that we don’t have to be complicit. Everyone can make a difference. Use your own trash pocket!