From the Co-op Journal (March 2021)

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When it comes to trail snacks, there is nothing more satisfying.

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Don’t choke on your granola bar. This is serious.

I know the internet is filled with controversial opinions, and I don’t mean to add to the noise, but when it comes to gear that is literally held, there is nothing dearer than a burrito. Simply extricate it from your pocket (or the top lid or stuff-it pouch of your backpack, if you prefer), and it is sure to improve any activity from hiking to camping to skiing.

I first came across the Pocket Burrito on a backpacking trip through Tübatulabal, Mono and Newe lands in the Eastern Sierra in California six years ago. After a 5-mile climb that felt like approximately 55 miles, my group paused to top off water from a nearby stream. I took the opportunity to ditch my pack, laze on a cool granite slab and lament that none of my hipbelt snacks (a close relative of the pocket snack) seemed appetizing at the time.

It was too hot for melty chocolate, sweaty meat or floppy cheese. I’ve never been into gels. There was neither time nor motivation for firing up my stove for something more filling. And so I unenthusiastically unearthed a bar from my pack and began chewing (and chewing) (and chewing some more).

While I was chewing, I spied out of the corner of my eye something shiny glinting in the sun. I turned to see one member of my hiking party delicately unwrapping a Nalgene-size burrito. After three bites of guacy goodness—wherein he probably ingested the nutritional equivalent of one protein bar—he gently folded the foil back over the top and tucked his burrito back inside his cargo pocket. (I’ve since heard it that cargo pockets were conceived with burrito storage in mind.)

Now this anecdote isn’t intended to bash other pocket snacks. I have a drawer in my house containing any number of bars, gummies and pouches, and it is far easier and more convenient to grab prefab nosh than to prepare a burrito or pit-stop at a restaurant on the way to the trailhead. But since discovering the Pocket Burrito, I’ve never once regretted packing one for an adventure.

That’s the main draw of the Pocket Burrito, simple as it sounds: that for a slight upfront investment, you can eat a burrito outside, on a chairlift, beside a campfire or atop a hunk of granite while you watch the sunshine splinter through a diadem of chalky spires. Go breakfast-themed or go lunch-themed. Make it meaty, veggie, vegan or gluten-free—merely stuff your favorite foods inside something resembling a tortilla and park it in your pocket. A burrito is always appetizing.

But beyond its superior taste, the Pocket Burrito holds other advantages over alternative snacks. For starters, no matter your favorite flavor profile, a Pocket Burrito almost always delivers mega nutritional value. Many meal-size burritos exceed 1,000 total calories and 100 grams of carbohydrates—a boon to hungry hikers and skiers who blow through energy reserves faster than they can replenish them.

“But a meal-size burrito won’t fit in my pocket!” you likely protest. And to that I would say, stuff it in like you would an 800-fill down sleeping bag. That’s one of the greatest benefits of a Pocket Burrito: a good smushing can actually improve it by further melding its disparate flavors.

And as the whole package is neatly contained inside a tortilla which nestles inside an enclosed foil or beeswax sanctuary, there is no fear of a mess. I’ve spent many a sticky minute wiping chocolate, peanut butter, crumbs and even tomato sauce (from pocket pizza, which pales in comparison to a Pocket Burrito) from my cargo pockets, but I’ve never had to take care of the detritus of a burrito.

This is even more impressive when you consider the in-out-in-out nature of the Pocket Burrito, which of course is another of its felicities. Like a bar, it requires very little hand-eye coordination to get from your pocket to your mouth, making it ideal for on-the-go snacking. Feeling waifish but unwilling to ask the group to take another break? Enjoy a quick bite. Creeping up on dinnertime but you still haven’t reached camp? A nibble of Pocket Burrito will tide you over. You barely even need to break stride.

Neither is dexterity necessary when it comes to burritos. Just peel back the foil and smash it into your face—a prehensile practice that’s easily handled while wearing gloves, should you be enjoying a Pocket Burrito in winter or on a chairlift.

In my experience, one Pocket Burrito can provide three days’ worth of munching when stored appropriately (say, in the snow or in a watertight stuff sack anchored at the bottom of a creek). Just make sure your burrito doesn’t contain anything that’d spur on early-onset sogginess, and you, too, could enjoy a burrito on day three of a multiday ski-mountaineering trip when your partners are relegated to pocket peanut butter. (It might sound tasty, but it gets old.)

And now that I’ve typed some 800 words about burritos—brace yourself for the follow-up article—I think I will excuse myself for a snack.

From Backpacker (January 2019)

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Trek deep into the heart of the mountains to find an ancient city.

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I’ve been hiking for 10 minutes along a wide, dusty track when I turn a corner and the world ends. The red dirt gives way to 5,000 vertical feet of air between me and the teal ribbon of the Río Apurímac, wedged between slopes of broken limestone on one side and jungle across the way. The mountains form a perfect V where the river splits them, like a gunsight straight to the glacier-mantled high peaks of the Andes.

I can feel my heart respond, thumping in my eardrums, and I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t be surprised. Peru sits at the epicenter of contrasting topographies—where the Pacific coast rushes up to meet the western cordillera of the Andes. It results in a tapestry of deserts, plains, rivers, arroyos, jungles, and mountains, 25 of which stand more than 20,000 feet tall, all within an area half as big as Alaska.

On this 40-mile loop, I’ll cross a high desert and dive into a tropical cloud forest at 10,000 feet in the “foothills” of the Andes, steering clear of the big peaks, but always standing in their shadows. And in that seam, hidden in the greenery and tucked behind the ridges and ravines that splinter out from the range, sits an ancient citadel constructed 500 years ago. That’s where I’m headed: perhaps the last refuge of the Incas, just what you’d expect at the end of the world.

The city, Choquequirao, is often heralded as Machu Picchu’s “little sister.” Officially discovered in 1909, lost to time, and rediscovered in the 1960s, it’s as wrapped in mystery and lore as it is tangles of the untamed pepper trees that try to devour it. Most researchers agree that it was commissioned by Pachacuti—the same Incan emperor responsible for Machu Picchu—for religious purposes, their logic basically, Why else would it be so far away from anything else? They have a point: Choquequirao (literally “Cradle of Gold” in the native Quechua language) is a 15-mile walk from Cachora, a teeny village on the outskirts of Cusco, and remains as hard to get to today as it was 500 years ago.

I hike on the same trail the Incas used to reach the citadel in the early- to mid-1500s. It’s also the same path that American archaeologist Hiram Bingham III followed when he found the ancient city in 1909. Choquequirao had been abandoned for more than 300 years at the time, so it probably didn’t look like a ritual worship place or an opulent kingdom, its stone walls and terraces wrapped by the jungle like a squid pulling down a ship. Bingham marked the place on his map, then continued on the ancient Inca Trail until he found something that made him forget all about Choquequirao: Machu Picchu, perched high on a truncated mountaintop and framed by impossibly slender peaks. Excavations began the next year.

The world was instantly smitten. Today, Machu Picchu sees as many as 5,000 people per day, though the site itself is estimated to have housed just 1,000 souls at its most populated. The result? Machu Picchu is literally sinking under the weight of all those footfalls, while pollution is harming the 350 varieties of orchids that paint the surrounding peaks and is expected to affect the already endangered spectacled bear. Despite quotas and price hikes, the world can’t seem to get enough of Machu Picchu.

Meanwhile, Choquequirao fell back off the map until 1968, when Peruvian authorities included it in the Official Register of Archaeological Monuments for the first time. Excavations started in the ’70s, and even today, it’s only an estimated 30-percent restored. Any hiker can reach it, but information is lacking, and the dearth of beta means your best bet is to hire a local guide to show you the way. The guides know a ton about the local culture, flora and fauna, and economy, but, like scholars, historians, and everyone else, even they can only speculate about Choquequirao’s origins and ultimate fall. That means that, without the assist from informational placards, roving tour guides, or interpretive trails, people who visit the place aren’t spoon-fed its history or significance. In Choquequirao, you get to use your imagination.

The edge of the world is not as final as it first appeared. From my aerie overlooking the Andes, the trail crashes 50 stories down to the Río Apurímac on an elevator shaft-steep path. At the bottom, we pass Playa Rosalina, where a few locals raise crops and mules and offer me and my small hiking group tea. It’s 10 miles from Choquequirao and the last reliable water on the way; I can imagine pilgrims stopping here on their way to appointments with the divine. My motivation is different, of course, but there’s something powerful in taking the same path to the same place at such different times. I feel my anticipation for whatever lies beyond this canyon grow with every step.

After Playa Rosalina, we cross the roiling whitewater of the Río Apurímac on a newly installed suspension bridge. On the other side, we have plans to splash in the shallows and spend the night on the riverbank nearby, but the humid, 80°F weather and the prospect of a camp higher—and closer to Choquequirao—propel us onward. So we continue up the other side of the canyon, mules hauling our night’s water and much of our overnight gear.

But mules or not, all pilgrims suffer. Switchbacks decorate the lush north wall, dancing up the mountainside until they disappear into the sky. It feels good to climb out of the oppressive heat, but it’s a grind: There are no campsites between the riverine one we passed and the one we’re gunning for below the ruins, another 5 miles and 5,000 vertical feet ahead. The forest grows thick around the trail, and before long I feel tunnel vision set in. But each time I come across a break in the vegetation—where a mule has chomped away the ferns or scratched its back in the shrubs—I can see the Río Apurímac shrinking.

At the top, the trail follows a ridge that eventually runs past Machu Picchu all the way into the Andes, topping out on 20,574-foot Salkantay. We won’t go that far—we link air-starved meadows popping with red cantuta flowers a few more miles to Marampata, an itty-bitty village built for trekkers on a sheer canyon wall high above the confluence of the Ríos Apurímac and Chunchumayo. There, locals have carved campsites into the grassy slope, like portaledges hanging above the sleepy hamlet. It’s about as civilized as the hike to Choquequirao gets, but as with many international treks, “village camping” is as much a part of the experience as the landscape itself.

And yet for something that seems so inherently part of the trip to Choquequirao, this piece of the journey—and everything that comes before—would be eliminated, or at least irrelevant, if long-term goals to install a tram ever move forward. In 2013, the Peruvian government approved plans for an aerial tramway that would whisk visitors 3 miles from San Ignacio to the main Choquequirao complex, bypassing the trail completely. Fortunately, the project stalled two years later when it got hung up on the rocks of local bureaucracy: The cable car would start and end in different states, and neither side could agree on how to share profits. Though it’s possible they could still break ground on the tramway, my guide, a local, thinks it’s extremely unlikely—or maybe that’s just her wishful thinking.

As with all hikes, much of the power of Choquequirao is in the journey. The prospect of the tram makes me sad, and that night, as I watch the last rays of sunlight on Coisopacana’s snowy summit from my tent, I think about the fall of the city. Like its origin, everything about Choquequirao’s demise is up for speculation, but if the citadel was indeed abandoned in 1573, as many researchers believe, that means it very well could have stood longer than every other major bastion of the Incan rebellion, including Machu Picchu. The Sons of the Sun must have fled the Sacred Valley during the Spanish conquest, heading even deeper into the mountains and jungles to a stronghold where no one could find them, where their way of life would be safe. As the stars pour tiny light onto the terraces and facades around me, I can feel the ancients still here.

The next morning, we continue 3.5 miles along the trail, crossing into the designated archaeological complex, a 7-square-mile parcel of jungle so dense that I wonder how the Incas were able to coax livestock back here, let alone haul stones and building materials. The path tunnels through the rainforest, all muddy chutes, slick roots, and grabby ferns that leave me battered when I emerge into the main square.

At 10,000 feet, the jungle gives way to a manicured lawn so abruptly that I feel whiplash from the sudden change of scenery. The meadow, perfect as a putting green and rimmed with stone walls and fig trees, balances on a skinny ridge a vertical mile above the Río Apurímac, like it was dropped here by angels. On one side of the plaza, stone rooms and buildings fleck the forested mountainside in the shadow of glaciated summits. On the other, terraces climb a truncated peak, where the ruins of the main temple kiss the heavens. There, another manicured garden framed by broken and crumbly stone walls towers above the one on which I stand. In any other context, I’d think it was a helipad. For now, at least, it’s not.

For now, we have the place to ourselves, save for a party of two. They’re the only other people here beyond the few locals who are working to free the remaining ruins from the cloud forest. So after exploring annexes and buildings off the central plaza, we embrace our solitude and venture down ancient canals to see the Llamas del Sol, where white granite pieces embedded into the gray limestone terraces create the shapes of llamas. They could be a tribute to a sacred creature, a badge of an army hiding in a fortress, or an ostentatious decoration required by a king. This is a place where some things will never be known.

That night, we decide to return to Choquequirao by headlamp. When we abandon daytime perks, like easy footing, long views, and warm sunshine, we see the ancient city in a new light. I notice the original stone blocks, rough and mossy, as well as the first attempts at restoring them, where cement and rebar indicate doorways revamped in the 1970s. When the walls glow in the starlight, they seem taller. If this was the last refuge of the Incas, I feel it.

In the central plaza, I throw my sleeping bag down in the grass and watch the night sky go through its paces. From here, the Milky Way looks like a llama; I can see the purple smear form a long neck and pointy ears. At night, everything seems plausible in this kingdom of kings. The only mystery is how long it will stay this empty.

Maren Horjus is a senior editor at BACKPACKER and author of Hidden Gems: 100 Greatest Undiscovered Hikes Across America.

Do It

Getting there From Cusco, drive four hours to Cachora. Walk 45 minutes down the cobblestone road to the starting point at Capuliyoc. Season Year-round; the weather is fairly consistent, but there’s a bit more rain December to March. Permit Required (less than 20 cents per person); pay the attendant when you enter the Archaeological Park. Itinerary Do it in as few as three days, camping at Marampata and Choquequirao. Loop around to end at Villa Los Loros in Huanipaca for a 30-miler. Guide It’s optional, but hiring one means you get fun facts on tap, mules to carry your stuff, and meals. Inquire with SA Expeditions .

From BACKPACKER (January 2019)

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You don’t have to go far away to get far away in this winter-perfect national park.

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When we finally drop our packs, it almost feels arbitrary. The water jug awkwardly lashed to my Gregory thuds to the desert floor, sending a small poof of bronze dust skyward. I curse the heavy load under my breath, but my frustration is short-lived. We’re standing at the mouth of a slot canyon, its carrot-colored walls reaching for the heavens and closing in around us at the same time. It’s the kind of place where talking mars the beauty. This is camp.

By the basic laws of backpacking, this sandstone cathedral in the Grapevine Mountains should be hard to reach. It’s a stunner, it’s ideally positioned for day trips deeper into the range, and it’s devoid of evidence that humans have ever set foot here. It should require a gonzo, 40-mile haul, or at least a super-hard-to-get permit. It doesn’t. If I walk around the canyon’s mouth, I can still make out the road where we started hiking. There’s just one catch: There’s no trail.

For backpackers, hiking off-trail is like the deep end of the pool. It’s mysterious and a little bit scary, but there’s something exciting about letting go of the wall. This late-fall trip to Death Valley National Park is my first time taking the plunge, and I couldn’t have picked a more forgiving introduction. My group of eight caravanned up Scotty’s Castle Road, the main drag through the northern folds of the park, paralleling the Grapevines. When we pinpointed a canyon across the open, treeless alluvial fan, we parked and walked 2 miles to it. That’s it.

After divesting ourselves of our overnight gear, we continue deeper into the range in search of an unnamed, unmapped arch that’s supposedly in our general vicinity. We carry a topo map, compass, and GPS unit, but don’t use them. Instead, we follow tight chasms east into the crumbly maze, squeezing through narrows until we hit a dead end. But we don’t turn around. We scramble up the sloping, 30-foot-tall wall and follow it to a high, sinuous ridge that overlooks the rocky labyrinth. The Cottonwood Mountains anchor the horizon 15 miles west and the 8,000-foot-high peaks of the Grapevines sprout out of the rubble around us. We don’t find the arch, but no one seems too upset about it. As we retrace our steps to camp, we wonder if we’re the first people to walk along this spine, through this cavern, and around this column.

That night, the mercury drops into the 50s. There are no bugs and the skies are clear. With conditions and stoke aligned, we choose to forgo our tents and arrange our pads on the desert floor. For one of us, it’s her first time sleeping under the stars without a mesh barrier (OK, me again). It’s a trip of firsts for me, and yet it’s so easy, it feels like cheating. Modest mileage be damned, this is desert camping at its finest.

DO IT Off-trail newbie? Do it like the writer, and drive north on Scotty’s Castle Road, stopping anywhere before the road closure in Grapevine Canyon. Park about 26 miles north of the Stovepipe Wells Ranger Station (near 36.8365, -117.2264) to try her route. Navigation pro? Tackle the three-day, 26-mile Cottonwood-Marble Loop. Plan to pack in water wherever you go. Season October to April Permit None required, but we recommend filing a voluntary permit at a ranger station (always good practice, regardless of your route—and especially in Death Valley). Contact nps.gov/deva

From BACKPACKER (June 2017)

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Easy effort, big payoff: Turns out the same formula that works for you, works for your kid. But instead of wide views and boring grown-up stuff, these 18 backpacking trips offer rewards like water slides, dinosaurs, and pirates—and are 100 percent guaranteed to bring out the kid in all of us.

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NORTHEAST

1. Toddlers
Tom Jones Lean-to, Harriman State Park, NY

Take a deep breath, mom and dad. Actually, don’t. You won’t need it on this easy, 1-mile out-and-back along a quiet footpath to an even quieter backcountry hideaway. Between the gurgling brooks and unending birdsong, there’s enough to hold Junior’s attention while you stroll beneath a canopy of mixed hard- and softwoods.

Link the Victory and Ramapo-Dunderberg Trails .5 mile to the Tom Jones lean-to (first-come, first-serve). For more solitude, pitch your tent in the grassy area above the shelter.

Trailhead Victory (41.230311, -74.140031) Permit None Season May to October

2. Little Kids
Franconia Falls, Pemigewasset Wilderness, NH

The only problem with this trip is that it might spoil backpacking for your kid when he learns that not every trip ends in a 20-foot water slide. That’s a shame because you’ll probably never see your tyke hightail it to camp faster.

Take the flat, 3-mile Lincoln Woods Trail to the first-come, first-serve Franconia Brook Campsites (there are 20), which are a quarter mile below the natural water park. Set up, then it’s off to take your pick of pools, falls, and chutes in Franconia Brook.

Trailhead Lincoln Woods (44.063666, -71.587971) Permit None Season May to October

3. Big Kids
Chimney Pond, Baxter State Park, ME

Calling all mini mountaineers: This trip promises a taste of the heady stuff, without all the commitment. Basecamp at an alpine lake in an amphitheater of Maine’s tallest peaks, then let your kid choose what to do, be it summiting any of the parapets around you (Katahdin is just a 1.3-mile, class 3 scramble via the Cathedral Trail), trying to withstand the icy water, or crawling through the Pamola Caves (.7 mile east of camp).

Climb the Chimney Pond Trail 3.3 miles, ascending 1,400 feet, to the nine lean-tos ($21/night; reserve in advance).

Trailhead Roaring Brook (45.919666, -68.857353) Permit None Season June to October

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SOUTHEAST

1. Toddlers
Little Manatee River, Little Manatee River State Park, FL

Step up your I Spy game on this flat, 6.5-mile loop that all but guarantees glimpses of softshell turtles, red-bellied and pileated woodpeckers, alligators, and manatees. Take the Florida Trail 2.5 miles through alternating woods and marshlands to camp in a grove of oak and longleaf pine ($5/person; reservation required).

Trailhead Florida (27.675295, -82.348846) Permit None Season Year-round

2. Little Kids
Ocracoke Island, Cape Hatteras National Seashore, NC

Try selling your kiddo on the maritime woods, dunes, and salt marshes that overlook the Pamlico Sound on the .8-mile Hammock Hills Trail, but keep this tidbit in your back pocket for emergency use: The nefarious Blackbeard sailed these waters.

Pitch a tent at the quiet National Park campground across the street ($28/night), and save this next piece of the story for when you’re roasting s’mores: Local legend claims that you can still see the pirate’s head bobbing in the surf.

Trailhead Hammock Hills (35.125481, -75.923832) Ferry Free Permit None Season Year-round

3. Big Kids
Overmountain Shelter, Pisgah National Forest, TN/NC

Who knows? This could be the trip that turns your little one into an end-to-end thru-hiker. Hop on the Appalachian Trail off US 19 in Tennessee and roller-coaster over Hump and Little Hump Mountains, grassy balds with big views across the Roan Highlands, to Yellow Mountain Gap near mile 4.5. From there, a quick jaunt south (into a new state!) lands you at a giant, two-story barn that sleeps 30 (first-come, first-serve). The ensuing game of manhunt proposes to be ridiculously fun, especially if your kid can convince the other thru-hikers to join in. And we bet mom and dad won’t mind the vista south down the Roaring Creek Valley from the bedroom window.

Trailhead Appalachian US 19E (36.177421, -82.011800) Permit None Season April to November

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MIDWEST

1. Toddlers
Au Sable Point Light, Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, MI

Mom and dad get history, while Junior gets a shipwreck, enough to keep all parties smiling. Take the mellow former Coast Guard road 1.5 miles across the bluffy promenade overlooking Lake Superior to the wooded Au Sable East campsites ($20; reservation required) with views down to the shore. On the return, follow the beach 1.5 miles back to complete the loop.

From camp, visit the Au Sable lighthouse next-door or venture to the 1918 Gale Staples shipwreck, which pokes out of the sand. Older tots may want to climb on the exposed wooden beams, while the younger ones may simply work at excavating them.

Trailhead Hurricane River (46.665616, -86.166941) Permit None Season May to October

2. Little Kids
Paluxy River, Dinosaur Valley State Park, TX

Kid wisdom: Dinosaurs make everything better. Long-necked Sauroposeidon and T.Rex-like Acrocanthosaurus used to roam through this area, stomping through the rocky area beneath today’s Paluxy River and leaving massive, 3-foot-long prints that fossilized into the limestone.

Set out on a 7.5-mile overnight scavenger hunt on the Cedar Brake Outer Loop Trail. Scan for tracks within the first mile (and wherever you cross the riverbed thereafter). Camp on the wooded ridge overlooking the brown water near mile 3 (reserve in advance) before dropping back down to the river for more sleuthing.

Trailhead Cedar Brake (32.249494, -97.812395) Permit None Season October to June

3. Big Kids
Big Plateau, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, ND

Be honest: You pretend like you’re taking the kids to see bison as a favor to them, but, really, you want to see the 2,000-pound behemoths just as bad. A herd of some 300 of the massive animals grazes year-round on the aptly named Big Plateau, so make it the centerpiece of a 14-mile loop into Teddy’s country.

Day one, walk 8 miles through petrified forests (where kids can examine entire trees turned to stone) to camp on the plateau overlooking the maze of ragged, dusty-brown badlands. Next day, follow the plateau 6 miles to close the loop.

Trailhead Petrified Forest (46.995944, -103.604819) Permit Required (free) Season April to October

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MOUNTAIN WEST

1. Toddlers
North Twin Lakes, Medicine Bow National Forest, WY

You could throw a dart at a map of the Snowy Range and end up with a quiet alpine lake that’s less than a few miles from the nearest trailhead and totally vacant. That’s good news for any backpacker, but particularly those carrying a kid.

A good bet: Take the Sheep Lake Trail, which “climbs” 200 or so feet in 1.5 miles to the North Twin Lakes. Like it here? Throw down. Still feeling squirrelly? Keep going. There are dozens of named and unnamed pools on either side of the trail, which wraps north around the Snowies and stays above 10,000 feet. And don’t forget your rod; the fishing here is renowned.

Trailhead Brooklyn Lake Permit None Season May to October

2. Little Kids
Mohawk Lake, Arapaho National Forest, CO

Mini prospectors, mini trainiacs, and mini hikers are in luck, because this 2.6-mile out-and-back has it all. (Plus a seldom-used alternative trailhead that knocks off a mile each way. Score!) You and your brood can duck into abandoned logging cabins and tiptoe along the tracks of an old ore trolley en route to twin Mohawk and Lower Mohawk Lakes.

The trick is to start midway up the Spruce Creek Trail (instead of the popular trailhead down lower off CO 9). From there, link up with the Mohawk Lakes Trail and take it to camp on the west side of Mohawk, the higher of the two tarns.

Trailhead Mohawk Lake (39.421531, -106.074023) Permit None Season June to September

3. Big Kids
The Beaten Path, Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness, MT

Got children who want to hike like adults? There may be no better introduction to life-list trekking than the 26-mile Beaten Path. It’s got everything you want from your own bucket-listers (mainly never-ending Northern Rockies scenery), and there’s no right way to do it. So let your kid plan it out because big mountains, lakes, waterfalls, and even wildlife are guaranteed, no matter where she deems worthy of pit-stopping.

Do it southbound, and encourage nights at Rainbow Lake (mile 8) if fishing is on the docket and Skull Lake (mile 17.8) for its primo meadow campsites.

Trailhead East Rosebud (45.193024, -109.640937) Permit None Season June to October

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NORTHWEST

1. Toddlers
Oregon Dunes, Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area, OR

Most people will flock to the Olympic Peninsula in search of easy-access beach hikes. Let them. New parents should venture south to the quieter Oregon coast, where the 2-mile Tahkenitch Dunes Trail leads through stands of conifer and shore pine to prime seaside real estate.

Set up your tent above the high-tide line near where the Tahkenitch Creek spills into the Pacific and enjoy surfy solitude. The sand alone is plenty entertaining for the youngest tykes, and older ones can climb driftwood beams or explore starfish-filled tide pools.

Trailhead Tahkenitch Creek (43.812965, -124.154343) Permit None Season May to October

2. Little Kids
Sawtooth Berry Fields, Indian Heaven Wilderness, WA

This hike is berry cool, we promise. (And yes, you can use our dad jokes with your kids.) Less than a mile into this overnight adventure into the Sawtooth Berry Fields, huckleberry bushes ripe for picking in summertime begin to line the trail. Let your kids fill up for a midhike snack, and be sure to harvest enough for dessert and pancakes the following morning (each person may haul a gallon per day).

Keep going 6 miles on the Cultus Creek and Pacific Crest Trails to camp at Blue Lake, where you can cast a line for trout to complete a DIY meal.

Trailhead Cultus Creek (46.047665, -121.755311) Permit None Season May to October

3. Big Kids
Four Lakes Loop, Trinity Alps Wilderness, CA

With nonstop swimming for the kids and nonstop vistas for the adults, this 17-mile lake-to-lake epic has only two challenges: 1) deciding how long to basecamp in Siligo Meadows and 2) determining when to summit 8,162-foot Siligo Peak, which will make you look like a hero when the kids realize the views-to-effort ratio.

Take the Long Canyon Trail 6 miles to Siligo Meadows, which nestles beneath folds of granite. From there, check off the 5-mile loop connecting Deer, Summit, Diamond, and Luella Lakes, summiting Siligo en route.

Trailhead Long Canyon (40.923136, -122.812622) Permit Required (free) Season June to October

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SOUTHWEST

1. Toddlers
Dunefield, White Sands National Monument, NM

It makes sense, right? White Sands is literally a 275-square-mile sandbox. Nab a permit for one of the 10 backcountry sites, then walk a mile into the dunefield to set up for the night (pack in water). Your tot will enjoy scooting in the white gypsum sand, while you probably won’t mind the view of the 8,000-foot San Andres Mountains.

Trailhead Backcountry Camping Loop (32.810069, -106.264234) Permit Required ($3/person) Season March to November

2. Little Kids
Weaver’s Needle, Superstition Wilderness, AZ

For the past century, people have combed the Superstitions for the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine, and all have come up empty—meaning it’s still out there for your little one to find. Some folks say the fortune is buried in the shadow of 4,553-foot Weaver’s Needle, so go there on a 6-mile out-and-back treasure hunt.

Hike north on the Peralta Canyon Trail (#102), cresting the Fremont Saddle near mile 2.5. From there, follow the social path northeast to camp below the Needle, and keep your eyes peeled for the glitter of gold.

Trailhead Peralta (33.397540, -111.348077) Permit None Season October to June

3. Big Kids
Little Death Hollow, Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, UT

Whether you’re looking for entry-level canyoneering for your kid or yourself, this will do the trick. Despite its name, Little Death Hollow is neither technical nor scary: It’s 7 miles of typically dry, sinuous sandstone adorned with easy-to-spy petroglyphs. In spots, it’s so narrow that you can touch both walls at the same time.

Tackle it on an 18-mile loop: Descend into its belly and follow the slot on day one. Pop into Horse Canyon near mile 8.5, and find a campsite in a cottonwood grove a mile north. Next morning, turn east into the next canyon and follow Wolverine Creek back to the road, just a half mile north from your car.

Trailhead Little Death Hollow (37.784024, -111.180372) Permit Required (free); self-register at the trailhead Season Year-round; don’t go if rain is in the forecast.

From Backpacker (March 2017)

From SKI (December 2015)

From Skiing (November 2015)

From BACKPACKER (November 2015)

From BACKPACKER (March 2015)

From Backpacker (October 2014)