The Arizona Trail: 800 Miles of Dirt, Delusion, and Dehydration

By Jocelyn Smith, (aka @unhingedhiker) Atom Packs Ambassador 

Welcome to the Arizona Trail, where dreams go to dehydrate. It's not just a hiking trail—it's a slow-roasting existential crisis with scenic views. Life technically exists out here, but you must be okay with things that slither. Forget the gentle joys of hiking; the AZT exists to ask one question and one question only: how badly do you want to suffer?

This was my second time on this dusty, soul-scorching 800-mile journey in less than a year. You would think I'd have learned by now. But no—I returned like a masochist drawn to cacti. And guess what? There was still no water. Still all the heat. And I still wonder, is this a fun hobby, or is it a slow-motion mental breakdown accompanied by sunburn?

Drought wasn't just a seasonal concern—it's the main character. The fall SOBOs got ghosted by the monsoons. Then this spring, NOBOs got denied by the lack of snowpack this winter. It's like the trail heard we were coming and said, "Cool story—now suffer." Every day, I played a game called "Will I find water or just another dead cow?" Spoiler: it's mostly dead cows.

What It’s Really Like Thru-Hiking the Arizona Trail

You don't hike the AZT. You saunter through it, conserving every molecule of spit and dignity. You breathe like a lizard doing push-ups. "Slow is smooth, smooth is fast," aka you shuffle like you're heading to your funeral, but make it efficient. Somehow, going faster just makes you slower. Welcome to desert logic.

Most mornings, I woke up and raced the sun before it could pierce my happiness with its soul-melting rays. I'd crank out three or five miles before coffee—a war crime in most societies—just to stay ahead of the heat. Then it was a mad dash to some off-trail water source that may or may not exist, where I'd melt in the still air under a spiky bush we generously called "shade."

Running water was a myth. The shade shifted every 20 minutes like it was playing hard to get. This trail was a series of desperate calculations: How far, how hot, and how much water do I need? I became a heat-shimmering blur of caffeine withdrawal, foot tape, and salt-crusted merino wool.

But somehow, the AZT still had its moments. Even in the horror show of dehydration and blisters, it surprised me. I never thought I'd be so grateful for a bush big enough to shade three hikers. Or for juniper trees that blocked just enough wind at night to let me pretend I wasn't about to spiral. I could never forget the algae-ridden puddles, cow-patty ponds, and wildlife tanks full of "character-building" water.

I struggled. A lot. The days were long, monotonous, and punishing. Motivation and snacks were low, and I often wondered if I'd ever know joy again. But I kept going because of the weird little magic that only happens when you're not alone. Hiking with others made the suffering tolerable—even kind of hilarious. We traded bad jokes and blisters while we found comfort in our mutual descent into dirtbag madness.

Trail joy came in strange forms: a whisper of a breeze, a half-melted Snickers bar, a rumor of an unmarked water cache ahead. I once cried under a saguaro and told myself it was mindfulness. Another time, I filtered from a tank so foul it clogged my water filter with every half-liter. I constantly reminded myself it "was all part of the journey."

There's no room for ego out here. This trail stripped me down—not in a cute, soul-searching Instagram way, but in a "I've been wearing the same shirt for two weeks and my backpack smells like despair" kind of way. My ultralight pack held strong—even when I was 5 liters deep, cursing a dry creekbed and praying to a cloud for the next 20 miles before I found water. I packed light, but not light enough to carry optimism.

But then there are the moments. The light hits the Mazatzal Mountains like a Bob Ross painting. A raven screams from a cliffside like an emotionally unavailable personal trainer. That strange serenity of knowing you should be miserable but somehow feel powerful instead. I was doing something brutal—and I haven't quit. That counts for something.

The Arizona Trail is more than a hike—it tests survival, patience, and resilience. It forced me to be present, adapt, and respect the brutal beauty of the Sonoran Desert, the Mogollon Rim, the Grand Canyon, and everything in between. Whether you're thru-hiking the full 800 miles or section hiking the Arizona Trail in chunks, this trail will challenge you in ways you never expected. 

And now that I'm off trail, freshly showered and marginally rehydrated, I can say this: I'm so happy to be done. Like… ecstatic. My feet still hurt, and I'm sleeping next to my water bottle like it's a life partner. I wouldn't call it fun, but it was unforgettable. Brutal. 

Beautiful. Absurd. Worth it.

Would I do it again? Ask me after a good, long cry.

Actually—ask my therapist. I'll be unpacking this one for a while.