Somewhere around mile 100 of the Appalachian Trail, on a fog-bound mountain in North Carolina, a group of thru-hikers invented a tradition that's spreading up the trail behind them: the Dump Truck Challenge. It's part race, part rite of passage, and — depending on your sense of humour — a photo tradition involving bare backsides.
The idea came from the Pacific Crest Trail. On the PCT's Washington section, hikers have long run an unofficial time trial up a brutal 0.7-mile pitch between Snoqualmie and Stevens Passes — roughly 700 feet of climbing that works your glutes, hence the cheeky name. The challenge entered the 2023 PCT season via a comment thread on the FarOut navigation app, where finishers post their trail name and time.
This March, a hiker writing for The Trek and a companion called Show decided to transplant the concept to Albert Mountain in North Carolina, whose fire tower marks the northbound 100-mile point. Their version is shorter — about 0.3 miles and just under 400 feet of gain — but deceptively brutal. The writer tagged the tower in 9:37 after blowing up halfway; Show won in 7:25. Three more hikers finished behind them, all gasping, all grinning. They left an invitation on the FarOut Albert Mountain waypoint — "how fast can you blast your ass?" — and by their own account, plenty of hikers later in the season have taken up the challenge and posted times.
The 100-mile summit also produced a second tradition: a group photo, rear-ends to the camera, taken by a tripod strapped to the fire tower scaffolding. The five hikers — who'd bonded over misty mornings, a gradual climb up Standing Indian Mountain, and the first spring ephemerals of the year (tiny azure bluets, plus cold-stressed maroon galax leaves) — went on to repeat the "butts out" photo every 100 miles. It's how they got their trail family name, the Dump Truckers.
The writer is refreshingly careful about the photos: they'll appear only on the blog, pixelated, never captioned with names, and only with each person's explicit consent. That's a decent model for anyone sharing trail content involving other people.
Beyond the comedy, the piece captures what early-season Appalachian Trail hiking actually feels like: socked-in ridgelines with zero views, frigid stream soaks for aching feet ("soaking the dogs"), crowded shelters near Rock Gap, and the town resupply pull into Franklin, North Carolina. You also get a feel for trail-community dynamics — meeting a Boston-accented repeat thru-hiker named Pantry, comparing start dates, and the way a random group of strangers becomes a unit with inside jokes and a group chat name.
Why care? If you're planning an AT thru-hike or a section hike through the southern Nantahala, Albert Mountain is a fun milestone to build in — sprint it if you dare, or just climb it for the fire tower. The story is also a nice primer on trail culture: how traditions start, spread through apps like FarOut, and give a long walk its personality. Consider yourself warned: if you pass a comment thread urging you to blast your ass up Albert, you're expected to log a time.
