The Rise of the Trail-Bound Family: Thru-Hiking America’s Greatest Wilderness with Children

Word spreads with remarkable speed along the 2,650-mile corridor of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), a phenomenon often referred to by hikers as the "trail grapevine." In the summer of 2023, a year characterized by a historic, record-breaking snowpack in the Sierra Nevada, the grapevine was buzzing with stories of the Netteburgs. It is, after all, nearly impossible to maintain a low profile when you are a family of seven, clad in matching high-visibility yellow sun hoodies, trekking upwards of 20 miles a day through some of the most rugged terrain in North America. To seasoned solo hikers, the feat seemed bordering on the miraculous. Thru-hiking the PCT is a grueling test of endurance for elite athletes; doing so with five children, including a two-year-old, felt like a subversion of the laws of physics and parenting alike.

The Pacific Crest Trail, which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian line through California, Oregon, and Washington, is one-third of the prestigious "Triple Crown" of hiking. To earn the Triple Crown, a hiker must complete the PCT, the 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail (AT), and the 3,100-mile Continental Divide Trail (CDT). Collectively, these trails represent nearly 8,000 miles of walking, hundreds of thousands of feet in elevation gain, and months—often years—of total immersion in the wilderness. For the Netteburg family, this wasn’t just a bucket-list item; it was a lifestyle.

By the time fellow hikers encountered Olen and Danae Netteburg near Lake Tahoe, the family was three months into their 2023 trek. The logistics of their journey invited constant interrogation from the hiking community. At every resupply point—small mountain towns where hikers gorge on calories and collect mail-order packages of dehydrated food—the same questions echoed: How does one carry enough gear for seven people? How do the children keep up with the rigorous pace? What about their education? And perhaps most poignantly, how does a toddler navigate a trail where the snow is often ten feet deep and the mountain passes are shrouded in ice?

The Netteburgs, however, do not view themselves as superheroes. Olen and Danae, both physicians who previously worked at a mission hospital in Bere, Chad, are accustomed to high-stakes environments and unconventional living. Their children—Lyol (16), Zane (14), Addison (11), Juniper (10), and Piper (4)—have essentially been raised in a state of perpetual motion. The family’s journey began in earnest with the Appalachian Trail in 2020. Having lived in central Africa, the children were already well-versed in homeschooling and self-reliance, making the transition to "trail-schooling" a natural progression rather than a shock to the system.

Their 2022 hike of the Continental Divide Trail introduced a new variable: Piper, who was only eight months old when they set out. She took her first steps at the trail’s northern terminus on the U.S.-Canada border, a symbolic milestone that underscored the family’s commitment to integrating adventure into the very fabric of their children’s development. By November 2023, after finishing the PCT, the Netteburgs officially completed their Triple Crown, celebrating the 7,900-mile achievement with a trip to Disneyland—a stark contrast to the sub-zero nights and dehydrated meals of the previous months.

Today, the family has transitioned back to a more stationary life in southwest Michigan, but the "trail legs" remain. Lyol and Zane are navigating the complexities of high school, while the younger girls attend a local forest school, an educational model that prioritizes outdoor learning. Olen works grueling shifts in a hospital emergency room, a job that requires a different kind of stamina, while Danae manages the household. Despite the return to four walls and a roof, their identities are inextricably linked to the wilderness. They speak of "Veggie Tales" singalongs in the tent and swimming in Appalachian waterfalls with the same nostalgia others might reserve for a summer at camp.

The Netteburgs are part of a small but growing vanguard of "trail families" who are challenging the traditional boundaries of childhood. While the stereotypical thru-hiker is often a twenty-something seeking a soul-searching hiatus or a retiree fulfilling a lifelong dream, a dedicated group of parents is proving that the wilderness can be a primary classroom.

Among these families are the Chisholms. Their journey began when Asher Chisholm, then just ten years old, suggested to his mother, Jennie, that they attempt the Appalachian Trail. Living near New Hampshire’s White Mountains, the Chisholm boys—Asher, Elliot, Brody, and Ben—were already seasoned peak-baggers. They had spent years summiting 4,000-foot peaks, earning a level of physical literacy that most adults lack. When thru-hikers told them that if they could handle the notoriously steep and rocky "Whites," they could handle the entire AT, the family took the challenge to heart.

The Chisholms began their journey in 2021. Like many novices, they started with gear that was too heavy and easily saturated by the relentless rains of the East Coast. They faced the "Virginia Blues"—a common psychological slump on the AT—and dealt with the inevitable "hanger" (hunger-induced anger) that comes with burning 5,000 calories a day. Yet, the experience forged a bond between the brothers that is rare in the digital age. In an era where the average American parent spends less than 90 minutes of dedicated time with their children daily, the Chisholms were spending 24 hours a day together for months on end. They learned to "take the small wins"—a break in the rain, a shared joke, or a particularly scenic campsite. Following their AT success, they went on to complete the PCT in 2022 and the CDT in 2023, adding an 800-mile trek of the Arizona Trail for good measure.

However, thru-hiking with children is not without its detractors. Marketa and David Daley, who took their three children under the age of five on the Pacific Crest Trail in 2022, experienced the dark side of public scrutiny. As Marketa shared their journey on Instagram, she was met with a wave of backlash. While many followers were inspired, others were vitriolic, accusing the parents of child endangerment and even threatening to call Child Protective Services (CPS). The criticism hit a fever pitch when the family reached Agua Dulce, California.

"It was such a shitty moment," Marketa recalls. "I started crying. People don’t understand that this would be happening at home anyway—the tantrums, the complaints—but out here, we have a beautiful view and a shared purpose."

The Daleys’ experience highlights a significant cultural divide regarding risk and parenting. Modern parenting often emphasizes "safetyism," a term coined by social psychologists to describe the overprotection of children from any potential discomfort or danger. To the Daleys, the real danger was the sedentary, screen-filled life they left behind. On the trail, their children learned to share everything, to respect the forest, and to find entertainment in sticks, rocks, and the movement of the wind.

Medical experts offer a nuanced perspective on these extreme treks. Dennis Coonan, program manager of the Sports Medicine Center at Children’s Hospital Colorado, notes that children are physiologically different from adults. They dehydrate faster, fatigue more abruptly, and have open growth plates that are susceptible to overuse injuries. "A kid might not be able to communicate that their foot hurts in a way that signals a stress fracture," Coonan explains. However, he also emphasizes the profound benefits. "They are learning their bodies in a way few children do. It’s exercise, it’s outdoors, and it benefits their growth both mentally and physically. There’s not a better thing for a kid to be doing."

The logistics of these trips are staggering. For the Netteburgs, a family of seven, the sheer volume of food required for a five-day stretch between towns can exceed 100 pounds. This necessitates a strategic distribution of weight. While the older children carry their own sleeping bags and clothes, the parents shoulder the bulk of the "communal" gear—tents, stoves, and water filtration systems. In the case of the Daleys and the Netteburgs, the youngest child often becomes "dead weight"—literally the trail name given to little Piper Netteburg—carried in a specialized backpack carrier that adds 25 to 30 pounds to a parent’s load.

The educational component is equally rigorous. Most trail families utilize a "worldschooling" or "unschooling" approach, where lessons are integrated into the environment. Geology is learned by walking over tectonic fault lines; biology is studied through the observation of marmots, pikas, and rattlesnakes; and mathematics is applied through the calculation of miles-per-hour and caloric density.

As these families return to "civilization," the effects of their journeys persist. The Chisholm brothers find that their conflicts are shorter and their patience is longer. The Daley children possess a resilience that serves them in school and sports. For all of them, the wilderness has ceased to be a "destination" and has become a home.

In the final analysis, the rise of the trail-bound family is a testament to a shifting set of American values. As Olen Netteburg famously told fellow hikers: "In life, you either have time or you have money. If you have a little bit of both, take advantage of it." For these families, the investment wasn’t in real estate or stocks, but in the thousands of miles walked together under the open sky—a curriculum of dirt, sweat, and breathtaking vistas that no classroom could ever replicate. Their stories serve as a reminder that while the trails are long and the mountains are high, the capacity of a child to endure, and a family to unite, is even greater.