My food philosophy: moderation, metabolism and the inverted pyramid

When I was young, our family’s refrigerator had a food pyramid magnet. Their levels rose in an orderly fashion: grains on the broad base, fruits and vegetables on top, proteins even higher up, and sugars confined to the narrow peak.

I used to turn it around, much to my mother’s exasperation. It was a small internal rebellion that probably drove her to the walls.

At that time it was a prank. On a long distance hike, it becomes physiology.

The path inverts the pyramid. What is normally rationed (sugars, starches, fast carbohydrates) becomes a necessity. What is normally regulated becomes fundamental. Energy expenditure rewrites the hierarchy.

My sister, a registered dietitian, has long said, “Everything in moderation.” It is wise advice in ordinary life. But the long-distance hiker inhabits a different metabolic economy. Moderation is not abandoned; It is recalibrated at mileage.

A body that walks twenty-five miles a day means that food must equal output cxv6.

Caloric sufficiency

People often ask how I get my calories or how I make sure I get enough protein. The first guiding principle is caloric sufficiency.

On long walks, I estimate I consume between seven and eight thousand calories per day. That figure sounds excessive in a sedentary life. Along the way, it’s arithmetic.

When spending increases to such levels, the deficit worsens quickly. Without sufficient intake, physiological recovery slows, muscle repair decreases as does mental recalibration.

Without power, nothing else works. Therefore, calorie density becomes decisive. Food must justify its weight. Ounce for ounce, fats provide more than twice the energy of carbohydrates or protein. Higher fat content carries a strategic advantage.

Over the years, I have tried almost every common chocolate bar. I enjoy Snickers and Butterfinger, but the most calorie-dense bar I’ve consistently found is Payday. The concentration of peanuts, rich in fats and proteins, makes it remarkably efficient.

Protein intentionality

Calories move the body; the protein preserves it.

The second principle is the intentionality of proteins.

It is entirely possible to consume plenty of carbohydrates on the trail and neglect adequate protein. I have done it: I have lived days eating pasta before recognizing the imbalance.

Correction requires deliberation. I pair Knorr pasta or rice sides with tuna or chicken packets. Easy Mac with Tuna is still one of my most trusted meals. Idaho mashed potatoes serve as a versatile base. Mediterranean couscous accepts additions such as summer sausage. Olive oil supplies calories from fat, the most energy-dense macronutrient available, increasing total caloric value without increasing volume.

Calories keep you moving. Protein maintains continuity.

hiker’s hunger

At a certain point during a long walk, appetite takes over. Hikers talk about “hiker hunger,” a phrase that sounds almost whimsical but describes a genuine metabolic shift. It is a voracious, even wolfish, appetite.

Perhaps nowhere is this more vividly illustrated than when a group of hikers enter an all-you-can-eat buffet. The look on the restaurant owner’s face at that moment is unforgettable: a visible recognition that certain economic assumptions are about to be tested! You can almost see the new calculation behind the counter. The dishes pile up. Hikers stuff themselves until they are gorged and then rise, shamelessly, for another round. But this is not indulgence. It’s metabolic arithmetic.

Pueblo, Trail Magic and the social party

Food on most trails is rarely private.

In the city, appetite becomes a spectacle. Some hikers split pizzas; others consume an entire one without ceremony. Portions are recalibrated under mileage.

On the Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, and Continental Divide Trail, another institution appears: trail magic. On the side of the road there are coolers with soft drinks. Strangers offer hot dogs and hamburgers on portable grills. Anonymous generosity comes in the form of cold drinks and fresh fruit.

Within a “tramily” (a family of trails formed by proximity and shared hardships) food becomes communal. Orders are divided, desserts are negotiated, mugs of beer are passed around. Calories are consumed collectively; morale multiplies.

My current hike from Guadalupe Peak into Alaska is largely solitary. The community festival is non-existent. If I buy more than I can eat in town, I pack it. The surplus becomes provision.

Wherever there is a Metro, I lean toward it, not out of brand loyalty but out of practicality. The subway fills up well. My routine is consistent: one foot-long to eat in (often a hot sandwich like meatballs or Philly cheesesteak) and another to go, topped with layers of meat, lettuce, and banana peppers. The second becomes both lunch and tomorrow’s margin.

Community food is camaraderie. In solitude, it is strategy.

Condiments and ‘theft of services’

There is another ritual associated with stops in the city.

It’s almost standard operating procedure for daytrippers, whether sitting in a restaurant or standing at a convenience store counter, to collect condiments: ketchup packets, mustard sachets, gelatin tubs, butter sticks, sugar packets. These small units are saved for later use.

They become road currency. A packet of mustard rescues the soft meat. Gelatin redeems stale bread. Sugar restores weak coffee.

Some might describe the practice as “theft of services.” Hikers are generally considered paying participants in the condiment economy. It is rarely perceived as kleptomania, but rather as pragmatic supplementation.

Food cravings and fantasies

Beyond hunger are cravings.

These cravings change with temperature, terrain, and effort. On cold days, the body demands heat and fat. In long desert expanses, exposed and hot, look for salt. After weeks of canned food, you crave freshness.

Food becomes the dominant topic among hikers. They debate menus, compare city foods, rank chocolate bars, and defend preferences with surprising intensity. They fantasize constantly: about cheeseburgers, shakes, salads, ice cream and buffets. Long before reaching the next town, many have already decided what they will order at the restaurant there. Food is imagined, rehearsed, refined. Food occupies the interior landscape.

My own cravings often turn to dairy. When I get to the town I buy a liter of milk and drink it immediately. Cheese is next: Mini Babybel wheels travel well wrapped in wax. In summer, ice cream becomes insistent. Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough is still a favorite!

Weight, water and calculation

Base weight excludes food and water.

A liter of water weighs approximately 2.2 pounds. Three liters is close to seven. I estimate about a liter per day under moderate conditions, including cooking water. On remote stretches, like the Continental Divide Trail or my hike north into Alaska, water needs to be calculated as carefully as calories.

Summary

A long-distance walk does not tolerate excesses or negligence. Carry too much and you work unnecessarily below avoidable weight; carry too little and one risks where prudence would have been sufficient. Precision replaces guesswork. The pyramid remains inverted only as long as the kilometers require it. Food on the road is not aesthetic but structural: sufficient calories, intentional proteins, calculated water, interpreted cravings. In the end, provisions are not indulgence but design. They exist for a single, unadorned purpose: to keep the walker walking.