70 Miles Through the Laurel Highlands: My History With the LHHT

The first thing I remember about the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail is the silence. Not true silence — wind through the trees, distant birds, boots against dirt — but the kind of quiet that makes you pay attention to where you are. Over the years, the trail became more than just a place to hike. It became a place where I pushed myself through a through-hike, suffered through a 50K, photographed landscapes and runners, and eventually brought my son into the woods with me.

I spent most of my life completely oblivious to the 70-mile trail in my own backyard. Honestly, I had no idea people could walk that far — at least not normal people. Or even less than normal, as I saw myself then. Someone with no athletic potential whatsoever.

You see, I walked the mile in high school.

Something changed in my mid twenties. Fueled by heartache, I started to run. A lot. I also started hiking as much as I could. I looked for any excuse to get lost outside, alone on the trail. My mind would go quiet and stop replaying everything I’d ever said or done. Out there, all that mattered was the next step.

I became highly alert to every sound, watching around every bend just in case a bear or snake was ahead. Yep, I was scared. All the time. Even of deer, because who knows — maybe they were rabid? But I also felt more alive because of it. As my body physically changed, so did my mind and the way I saw myself.

I could do things.

Actually, I could do extremely difficult things.

Things most people I knew thought were completely crazy.

So I started planning: a 70-mile through-hike for my 27th birthday.

Planning in 2015 looked a lot different than it does today. Online information about the trail was sparse. I found one helpful website here, the official trail map, and whatever backpacking advice I could piece together online. I had a hand-me-down backpack nowhere near my size, a large awkward stove from Walmart, and a water filter. I was ready-ish.

I did a few overnight trips to test my gear, scheduled my shelter reservations, and told my family about my plan.

My two best friends dropped me off and watched me stumble up the infamous stairs that used to officially begin the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail. The stairs have recently been removed in favor of a switch back.

My memories of that trip come back in flashes.

Humidity. Mud. Fire. Thirst.

Constant thoughts of water. Where is it? Will I have enough? Will the pump be working?

It was August on a ridge, every day revolved around finding water. I passed countless people and walked through what felt like a million spider webs. I walked over rock after rock, after rock. My journey lasted five days.

The evening before my final night, I met a father and his two sons in the parking lot at Route 271. They had started in Seward, hiked all day, and decided they were done.

What? They were quitting after one day?

I’d been out there for four days by myself.

They couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it.

The perception we have of ourselves can be wildly different from the way others see us — even in the exact same moment.

I saw myself as inexperienced, exhausted, and more than a little smelly. They saw someone brave, strong, and determined.

Never mind the smell.

They pumped water from the old rustic pump for me while I filtered it, and then off I went to my final shelter.

I started my hike in Ohiopyle. It’s busy and booming there, especially in the summer. As fun as it would’ve been to finish the hike there, I preferred ending somewhere quiet and alone. Seward felt perfect for that. Just a quiet parking lot in the middle of the woods — and close enough to home that my friends had the perfect opportunity to vandalize my car with celebratory messages while I was gone.

The Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail stretches roughly 70 miles across all four counties of the Laurel Highlands region. It passes through state game lands, forests, parks, private land, and even through Seven Springs Mountain Resort. True to its name, mountain laurel thrives there, and in some sections the plants form natural tunnels over the trail. Yellow blazes mark the main route roughly every hundred feet, while blue blazes guide hikers toward shelters and parking areas. Every mile is marked with a stone mile marker.

I only completed one full through-hike across the ridge, but the trail never really left me.

A few years later, I returned to compete in a relay race. My section began at Route 653 and covered more than thirteen miles of trail. That same day, I photographed runners and teams attempting to complete the entire trail within the event’s 22-hour cutoff. Some finished in as little as eleven hours.

Over the years, I logged countless training runs on the trail, crewed and paced runners attempting the 70-mile ultra, and photographed both athletes and the landscape itself.

Then in 2022, I returned again — this time for my first 50K.

Starting once more in Ohiopyle, I ran 32 miles along the trail. My first ultra came much later than it should have. Self-doubt and disbelief had delayed the attempt for years. But when I finally decided enough was enough — that I deserved to call myself an ultrarunner — I knew there was no better place to begin than the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail.

Ironically, I remember even less about that day than I do my through-hike.

After all, it only lasted six hours and 45 minutes.

I remember the start line, running alongside Steph, the sound of endless cowbells, and eating pie at the finish. I remember coming up short and pacing the parking lot until I officially hit 32 miles on my Garmin.

Through-hiking taught me to slow down and notice the trail. The 50K taught me how brutal and beautiful the same terrain could feel at speed.

Years passed again after that. This time, I didn’t set foot on the trail at all. No day hikes. No training runs. Nothing.

The trail disappeared from my life while I moved to Washington with my husband and started our family. Eventually, we found our way back to Pennsylvania, and before long I found myself back on the trail again — this time with my two-and-a-half-year-old son and a camera in my hand.

I simply let him explore while I photographed the experience.

I could see in his eyes everything I had felt when I first discovered the trail myself.

We visited the section near Route 30. I kept things simple: my 5D Mark iv, my 135mm lens, and natural light filtering through the trees during golden hour. Easy. I dressed him in a red flannel and yellow rain boots. He looked like an early explorer ready to forge a new path — a literal trailblazer.

Later this year, during the trail’s 50th anniversary, I’ll take him on his first overnight backpacking trip.

Camera included.

I always want him to know — and truly believe — that he can do hard things.