Trail Naming: Alias, Alter Ego, and the Enduring Ritual of Trail Naming

As I walk north from Mexico toward Alaska, all alone through long stretches of desert, roads, grasslands, and mountains, I find myself thinking about trail names. More info: cxv6. So far I haven’t seen any other long distance hikers. There are no shelter records. There are no overlapping seasonal “bubbles.” There is no congregation of hikers around a picnic table.

On a lonely road, there is no one to give you a name. No one who witnesses your habits, repeats your phrases or laughs when something sticks. And yet, I still respond to Outback.

The contrast makes one thing clear: trail names do not arise in isolation. They require proximity. They depend on the community. They are born not only of miles, but of shared miles.

What is the name of a trail?

A trail name is an alias (an alter ego) given sometime between the first awkward introductions and the first shared difficulties. It is not chosen in advance, submitted on an application, or printed on a credential. It arises from repetition, recognition and a slight irreverence. It removes the occupation and the resume and replaces them with something forged under the sun, sweat and camaraderie.

The tradition runs deepest along the Appalachian Trail, whose decades of lodge records created a written archive of passing cohorts. There, the hikers stopped signing Michael or Sarah and started signing Moose, Sunshine, Stretch, or Turtle.

It’s worth noting that you don’t have to be named after a trail to become legendary. Colin Fletcher, often called the father of modern backpacking, trained generations of hikers through his manuals and solitary expeditions. As far as history records, he did not walk under an alias. He was simply Colin Fletcher. His legend derived from miles and words, not from a nickname. The absence is instructive. The name of the trail is not a prerequisite for endurance; It is a product of the community.

Long before contemporary naming rituals matured, Emma Rowena Gatewood became known as Grandma Gatewood when she completed the Appalachian Trail in 1955, at the age of sixty-seven, carrying her belongings in a small denim sack over her shoulder. What started as a description became an identity. The name became legendary.

Then there’s Nimblewill Nomad-born MJ Eberhart, nicknamed «Sunny» in childhood, who combined Nimblewill Creek near Springer Mountain with his wandering disposition. When he completed the Appalachian Trail at age eighty-three, widely recognized at the time as the oldest to do so, his trail’s name carried geography and endurance in equal measure. I had the privilege of meeting Nimblewill Nomad on my 2022 expedition to the Eastern Continent.

Some names remain seasonal.

Some become legendary.

Trail names range from the simple (Doc), the appropriate (Longstride), the sublime (Skywalker), the silly (Noodlehead), and the downright absurd (Sir Trips-A-Lot). Others are playful tributes: A hiker known for his carefully edited, cinematic vlogs once earned Spielberg’s name for the theatrical quality of his storytelling. The spectrum is wide and the imagination of hikers even broader.

Memory and word association device

Custom also has a practical dimension. On a long trail, one can encounter hundreds of hikers over the course of a season. First names are confused. The names of the trails do not. They function as a mnemonic device, a small cognitive instrument that helps remember. Through simple word association, a characteristic is linked to a name (Sunshine for unceasing joy, Backtrack for habitual detours) and the pair lodge in memory more easily than Michael or Sarah.

What begins as humor reveals its usefulness. In a community defined by movement, aliasing becomes not only playful but also practical. Helps the mind keep pace.

The rules for naming trails

The ritual operates under a vague but widely respected code:

First: You can’t name yourself.

Self-designation violates the spirit of the exchange. A trail name must be given.

Second: Arises from habit, mishap, similarity or repetition.

If you miss enough junctions, you will become Backtrack. Carry a five-foot log and you’ll become Log Man. Walk with a bow and arrow and someone will inevitably call you Robin Hood!

Third: You can accept or reject it.

A proposed name has not yet been obtained. If you answer him, he lives. If you reject it, it fades away.

The process is democratic, slightly ruthless, and almost always loving.

The names of the female trails are no less striking. A relentlessly cheerful hiker becomes Sunshine. A woman who never lets a fire out of her sight and moves with quiet authority could earn the name BlazeQueen. The caregiver within a family may be called Mama Bear. Someone who appears silently from the woods without warning could be baptized Sasquatch. The names are observational and offered with amusement and not cruelty. They are maintained because they are precise enough to be repeated.

The ‘Outback’ donation

My first walk was the Bibbulmun Track in Western Australia – about 1,000 kilometers of eucalyptus forest and coastal wind. That same year, I flew from Perth to San Diego and hiked the Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada.

From the first few miles north of Campo, in Southern California, I talked frequently (perhaps too often) about Australia. Kangaroos. Wallabies and other marsupials. Shelter systems. The track Bibbulmun came up in conversations with suspicious regularity.

By the end of the first day, a consensus was formed.

«Inside.»

Trail names are not dependent on cartographic accuracy. They depend on repetition. I answered him. He followed me north. Over time, it stopped seeming accidental and became an alter ego: the most alive version of myself under the open sky.

Names I walked with

On the Pacific Crest Trail, I hiked hundreds of miles with a man from North Carolina known as Rabbit. The name derives from his resemblance to Trooper Robbie “Rabbit” Roto from Super Troopers. The resemblance was enough. The name stuck from day one.

Another Washington hiker had a habit of skipping intersections and retracing his steps. It became Backtrack. It was awarded after enough wrong turns to establish a pattern.

On the Florida Trail, I hiked with a man known as Tank. He carried a heavy olive green backpack that looked like it had been purchased at an army surplus store. While others debated ultralight fads, he carried on without a care. If the brush blocked the path, he crossed it. If water covered the hallway, he crossed it. I preferred deer tracks to official routes when they seemed more direct. The weight did not worry him. He moved forward like a machine: constant, unhurried, unstoppable. The name was appropriate.

On the Pinhoti Trail, the ritual took one of its most fun forms.

«Do you have a trail name?» I asked a fellow hiker.

«No.»

“What do people call you?”

«Just Doug.»

«Okay,» I said. «Just Doug.»

He paused. «No. Just Doug.»

«That’s what I mean.»

There was a brief silence and then laughter.

After an hour he was already responding.

After that, every time I saw him on the road, he would bark, «Hey, just Doug!» And he would turn back.

It got stuck.

Support characters along the way

Not all enduring names belong to those who carry backpacks.

On the Appalachian Trail, one of the most admired figures is known as Fresh Ground, who made his name grinding fresh coffee beans for hikers before expanding to full meals served in his van. Breakfast, lunch, dinner: bounty delivered at road junctions and trailheads. I ate with Fresh Ground numerous times and respected not only the food but also the consistency of their delivery.

On the Eastern Continental Trail, a friend from Colorado joined me, not on foot, but in an RV. He would jump ahead, calculate the mileage like a support team, and get to the camps before me. When I arrived at the camp, abundant Italian meals awaited me: thick pasta with sauce, bread accompanied by intoxicating wine.

He was also a racing car enthusiast.

The analogy arose by itself.

Like a motorsport support team waiting to refuel, they prepared the next stop. So I named it Pitstop.

The name was appropriate.

A lasting ritual

Some names disappear in autumn.

Some travel thousands of kilometers.

Some become legendary.

You can get to the trail as yourself.

You leave as someone remade by the kilometers, the weather, the fatigue and hunger of the hikers.

And once granted, the name of a trail never completely lets you go.

It lives on in shelter records, in yearbooks posted next to border monuments, in online magazines, and in campfire stories. It echoes when an old hiking buddy calls it out years later in a parking lot and you instinctively turn around.

Long after the runners retire and the backpack is put away in the garage, the alias remains.

And that’s the secret: a trail name is not just a nickname. It is evidence that you walked far enough, long enough, and with others close enough to be called something new.

The ritual endures because the kilometers leave their mark.

And because the name, once others tell you it, lasts longer than the ride itself.