The Mountains-to-Sea Trail starts at Clingmans Dome, the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains, and ends at Jockey's Ridge on the Outer Banks. 1,175 miles across North Carolina. I've completed a large portion of it over the past several years, and I can tell you this: I never set out to review gear. I set out to hike.
But when you spend that many days on trail, you learn things about your equipment that no product listing or YouTube video can teach you. You learn what fails at mile 30. You learn what you stop reaching for. You learn what earns a permanent spot in your pack and what gets mailed home from the next town with a post office.
This is the story of 80 pieces of gear tested across hundreds of miles of mountain ridges, river valleys, piedmont forests, and coastal plains. Not a product roundup. A trail journal with some hard-won gear wisdom mixed in.
The First 50 Miles: Learning What Weight Really Means
I remember standing at my car on day one with my pack laid out on the tailgate. Everything looked reasonable in isolation. A solid pair of waterproof boots, a full-featured backpack, trekking poles, extra clothes, a camp kitchen that could feed four people. Each item made sense on its own. Together, they weighed 42 pounds.
By mile 15, I understood what experienced thru-hikers mean when they say every ounce matters. That phrase sounds like something people repeat to sound knowledgeable. It is not. It is a physical reality you feel in your knees, your shoulders, and your lower back with every step uphill.
The boots were the first thing I questioned. They were waterproof, well-built, and weighed nearly three pounds. Great for weekend trips. For 20-mile days on the MST, they were anchors on my feet. I eventually learned that most long-distance hikers trade waterproof boots for lighter trail runners and accept wet feet as part of the deal. I kept the boots for rocky sections and stream crossings but started alternating.
The backpack situation was similar. My first pack had every feature you could want: rain cover, multiple compartments, adjustable everything. It also weighed over five pounds empty. On the MST, I watched a woman cruise past me with a pack that looked half the size of mine. She was moving faster, smiling more, and carrying everything she needed. That image stuck with me. I started researching lighter packs that night at camp and made a switch before my next section.
I picked up trekking poles after a brutal stretch near Linville Gorge. I had resisted them because I thought they were for people with bad knees. Turns out they're for people who want to keep their knees from becoming bad. On rocky terrain and steep descents, poles distribute the impact across four points of contact instead of two. After one day with them, I couldn't imagine hiking without them. They became non-negotiable gear.
Mountain Storms That Changed My Gear List
You can read weather forecasts all you want. The mountains along the western MST do whatever they feel like doing.
I got caught in a storm near the Black Mountains that came in fast and hit hard. Thunder, sideways rain, wind that made the trees groan. I had a budget rain jacket that I'd bought because it was light and cheap. Within 20 minutes, water was coming through the seams. My base layer was soaked. My morale followed.
That night, huddled under a tarp I'd thankfully packed, I made a mental list of everything that needed to change. A quality ultralight rain jacket went to the top. Not the cheapest option. Not the lightest option. The one that actually keeps water out when the sky opens up. I spent more than I wanted to on a replacement and never regretted it.
That storm also taught me about dry bags. I had been using a garbage bag liner inside my pack, which works fine in light rain. In a serious downpour with wind pushing water sideways, everything got damp. Proper dry bags with roll-top closures changed the game. I started packing my sleeping bag, extra clothes, and electronics in separate dry bags. The weight penalty was minimal. The peace of mind was significant.
The tarp became a permanent part of my kit after that trip. I carried a lightweight one that could serve as a rain fly, a ground cloth, or an emergency shelter. On the MST, where some shelters are spaced far apart and weather moves fast, having a backup plan for staying dry is worth the extra 12 ounces.
Camp Kitchen Evolution
My first camp kitchen was absurd. A two-burner stove, a nested cookware set with three pots and a frying pan, real silverware, a cutting board, and spices in glass jars. I cooked great meals. I also carried an extra eight pounds of kitchen gear.
The evolution happened gradually over multiple sections of the MST. First, I dropped to a single ultralight backpacking stove. The kind that screws directly onto a fuel canister and boils water in three minutes. That one change eliminated pounds and simplified everything. Most trail meals only need boiling water anyway.
Then the cookware shrank. Three pots became one titanium pot with a lid that doubles as a plate. The frying pan stayed home. The real silverware got replaced by a long-handled titanium spork that cost twelve dollars and weighs nothing.
By the time I was deep into the piedmont sections of the MST, my entire kitchen weighed under a pound. I ate just as well. Better, honestly, because I spent less time cooking and cleaning and more time sitting by the fire watching the light change through the trees.
The lesson: you don't need a camp kitchen. You need a way to boil water and something to eat out of. Everything else is weight you carry for an experience you can have without it.
The Gear That Saved Me
Some gear sits in your pack for weeks without being touched. Then one day it saves your trip, your safety, or maybe more. This is the stuff I never leave home without, even when I'm cutting weight everywhere else.
A solid first aid kit is the obvious one. I've used mine more than I expected. Blisters, scrapes, a nasty cut from a sharp rock on the Nantahala section, an allergic reaction to something I brushed against. The kit paid for itself multiple times over. The key is having one that's comprehensive enough to handle real problems but light enough that you don't resent carrying it.
My headlamp saved me twice when I misjudged daylight and ended up hiking in darkness. The MST is not always well-marked, and navigating trail markers in the dark without a good light is a recipe for getting lost. I carry a headlamp with a red light mode that preserves night vision and a high beam for scanning the trail ahead. Cheap headlamps die at the worst times. Invest in one that runs reliably on rechargeable batteries.
An emergency radio might seem like overkill until you're in a section of the MST with no cell service and weather is moving in. The mountains block signals in ways you don't appreciate until you're standing on a ridge holding your phone above your head like it's 2005. A hand-crank radio with NOAA weather channels gives you storm warnings that your phone can't deliver. I've changed my plans based on radio forecasts at least three times, and each time I avoided hiking into something ugly.
Bear spray rides on my hip strap on every section through the mountains. Black bears are common along the western MST. I've seen them on trail, at camp, and once standing in the middle of a path I needed to use. I've never had to deploy the spray. I don't want to find out what happens if I need it and don't have it.
The Small Stuff That Made a Big Difference
Not every important piece of gear is expensive or dramatic. Some of the biggest upgrades I made cost under twenty dollars.
Good socks changed my entire relationship with long-distance hiking. I started the MST in cotton socks because that's what I had. By day three, I had blisters on both heels and one forming on the ball of my left foot. Merino wool socks solved the problem almost immediately. They wick moisture, reduce friction, and don't stink after three days. I now carry three pairs and rotate them daily. This is the single best gear upgrade I can recommend to any hiker.
A GPS watch became essential for planning and pacing. On the MST, knowing how far you've come, how far you have to go, and what elevation change is ahead makes the difference between reaching camp before dark and scrambling to set up in the last light. I use mine to track daily mileage, monitor elevation profiles, and navigate when trail markers are ambiguous. It replaced my phone as my primary navigation tool, which also saved phone battery for emergencies.
What I'd Pack Differently Now
If I could go back and repack for my first MST section with everything I know now, here's what would change.
I'd start with a lighter pack from day one. The transition from a heavy expedition pack to an ultralight frameless pack was the single biggest comfort improvement I made. It forced me to carry less, which meant every other decision got easier.
I'd skip the waterproof boots for most sections and bring trail runners with good grip. Save the heavy boots for winter sections or known rocky stretches. The weight savings at your feet is worth more than the weight savings anywhere else on your body.
I'd bring half the clothes I originally packed. One hiking outfit. One camp outfit. Rain gear. That's it. Anything more than that sits in your pack unworn and adds weight you carry for no reason.
I'd invest in good rain gear from the start instead of learning the hard way. A quality rain jacket and a set of dry bags are cheaper than the misery of being cold and wet in the mountains.
I'd bring the trekking poles from mile one instead of mile 200. My knees would thank me.
And I'd bring better socks. Always better socks.
The Honest Truth About Gear
After testing 80 pieces of gear across hundreds of miles of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, here's what I've learned: the best gear is the gear you trust enough to stop thinking about. When your pack is dialed in, you stop fussing with equipment and start paying attention to the trail, the trees, the sound of a creek in the distance, the way the fog sits in the valleys at dawn.
That's the whole point. You don't hike to test gear. You test gear so you can hike.
I'm still building toward my AT thru-hike. Every section of the MST has been preparation for that bigger dream. The gear I carry now is lighter, simpler, and more reliable than what I started with. Most of the original 80 pieces have been replaced, donated, or retired. What remains has earned its spot through miles of proving itself.
If you're building your own gear list, whether it's for the MST, the AT, or a weekend in the Pisgah, do yourself a favor: start simple, start light, and let the trail teach you what you actually need. It's a better teacher than any review, including this one.
Brian