The best hiking pants earn their place in our packing list the hard way—through scree scrambles, sweaty switchbacks, and the kind of bushwhacking that tests each and every seam. We’ve worn them on short hikes and multi-day backpacking trips, in hot and cold weather, through light rain and high-alpine winds. The through line of our editors’ favorites? They’re made with durable, breathable, and stretchy fabric (often a smart blend of recycled nylon and spandex or elastane). They also feature articulated knees for freedom of movement, and waistbands that don’t restrict but still stay put—be it with an integrated belt, drawcord, or internal drawstring.

From relaxed-fit cargo pants with zippered thigh pockets to ultralight, quick-drying softshell pants with a DWR (durable water-repellent) coating, our lineup of the best hiking pants balances true functionality and style. These pairs offer a full range of motion, UPF sun protection, and the versatility to roll up, zip off, and head straight from trail to town. We’re including a mix of our editors’ most-worn pairs and top-rated options from trusted brands like Arc’teryx, Prana, and Patagonia. Read on to find your new go-to pair for every outdoor adventure.

To get the most out of your next hike, download the AllTrails app, which allows users to find interactive maps of trails around the world. The app’s in-house trail experts have put together interactive maps of their top destinations of 2026.

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Standing on a clifftop outside Vila Nova de Milfontes, I’m getting a glimpse of what draws hikers to the Fisherman’s Trail along the Rota Vicentina in southern Portugal. Copper-colored cliffs plunge into the Atlantic below, where the water shifts from deep sapphire to turquoise in the shallows—deceptively inviting despite hovering around 60°F year-round.

“During spring, this would look like a Moroccan rug—covered with red, blue, and yellow flowers,” says Ricardo Estêvão, a local guide and one of the trail co-founders, who is showing me this section of the hiking route. Even without spring’s wildflower display, it’s easy to see why this coastal walk along the protected Vicentina Coast, starting from Porto Covo in Alentejo to Lagos in the Algarve, is becoming one of Europe’s most spectacular multi-day hikes.

What draws many people is the region’s famously unhurried pace. Locals joke about their reputation for taking a siesta under cork trees, but the slower rhythm is precisely the appeal. Estêvão notes that many don’t just come for the hike, but to disconnect from the chaos of life and process major life transitions—grief, broken hearts, a health diagnosis—finding clarity in the expansive ocean views and long stretches of solitude.

Want to hike it yourself? Here’s how.

How long does it take to hike the Fisherman’s Trail?

Often called the “Camino of the Sea,” the 140-mile trail can easily fill 12 days, hugging rugged cliffs and deserted beaches, while winding through fishing villages with restaurants serving regional cuisine and accommodations ranging from simple guesthouses to boutique eco-lodges. The reward after a day spent journeying through these wild landscapes? Carne de porco à Alentejana (a stew combining pork, clams, and potatoes), mineral-rich wines, and seafood so fresh it’s almost alive.

If you don’t have 12 days, the trail easily breaks down into shorter sections, with three to six hours of walking between towns. You can hike just one section as a day trip or string together a few for a long weekend.

When to go

Taking on the trail during the shoulder seasons will give you the best experience. Spring (April-May) and fall (September-October) offer ideal conditions: blue skies, minimal rain, and comfortable temperatures. Avoid summer, which brings sweltering heat with little shade and peak accommodation prices, or winter, as many guesthouses close in December and January.

There’s no permit required to hike, and the well-marked trail is easy to navigate independently. If you’d rather leave the logistics to someone else, companies like Vicentina Travel—founded by Estêvão—offer guided and self-guided packages, both on foot and with e-bikes.

How to pack (and deal with luggage)

Pack light: Hours of trekking through sand dunes will make you question every extra item in your bag. On the trail, bring a daypack and always have two to three liters of water on you—shops can be hours apart. Pack high-SPF sunscreen, blister band aids, snacks, swimwear, a rain jacket, and a basic first-aid kit. Wear worn-in hiking boots and sun-protective clothing, including a wide-brimmed hat. For your larger bags, use luggage transfer services—Vicentina Travel also offers this—to shuttle bags between towns.

Camping and hotels

Book at least three months ahead—these small coastal villages fill quickly in peak season. You’ll find hostels, guesthouses, hotels, and luxury farmstays in villages along the route, plus some properties off the trail (most can arrange transfers). The trail runs through a Natural Park where wild camping is prohibited, but unique camping options include Salema Eco Camp, with glamping and traditional camping, and Portugal Nature Lodge, where you can stay in a South African safari tent or a Mongolian yurt.

Days 1-3: Porto Covo to Zambujeira do Mar

Length: 36 miles

The walking is glorious on the Wine & Wilderness Trail in South Australia‘s Clare Valley. We pass blue gum flowers on the crest of hills as well as deep purple patches of wild lavender. Rustles in the trees at times reveal a wallaby. My guide, Tim Grigg, says he often sees echidnas and koalas, but I was holding out for a kangaroo; perhaps he and I would see one scampering between the orderly rows of vines.

Little Tinnie roaming gin bar at Clare Valley Distillery

Tourism Australia/South Australian Tourism Commission

Until recently Clare Valley, which is less than a two-hour drive north of Adelaide, has been overshadowed by its better-known neighbors: McLaren Vale, Adelaide Hills, and the Barossa Valley. That is changing fast, thanks to the elegant Shirazes and outstanding dry Rieslings and to new accommodation and experiences like this six-day, 62-mile trail, which was finalized in 2024 to help combine the best of Australia’s wilderness with its exceptional food and wine. Grigg has been guiding in this area for 25 years and knows, for example, that in warmer weather all the hiking should happen in the morning, allowing travelers to admire the eucalyptus and riverbeds in the Spring Gully Conservation Park before languid lunches of slow-roasted lamb and heritage asparagus at estates like Skillogalee, a historic vineyard with cottages for overnights and a newly imagined main house to open this year. Other new openings here include the upscale Stillhouse at Clare Valley Distillery, a luxury cottage that sleeps eight, as well as Taylors Wines, the celebrated producer that is now the only local vineyard to be part of the premium Ultimate Winery Experiences, which allow travelers to go beyond standard tastings to truly get to know the wine, its makers, and its production. At Taylors, that means a behind-the-scenes winery tour and guided river walk.

“She looks different,” I said, staring at the mountain. My boyfriend, Adam, and I were sitting in a rocky meadow dotted with miniature bluebells of Alpine gentian and eating ham, cheese, and cornichon sandwiches we’d packed that morning. We were at the Col de Balme, a 7,228-foot pass that marks the transition from Switzerland to France. Before us was Mont Blanc, the highest mountain in Western Europe. We’d left Chamonix nine days earlier to complete the Tour du Mont Blanc, one of the most popular treks in the world—100 miles through France, Italy, and Switzerland, with 30,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain.

“You can’t get the scope of her when you’re in the valley,” Adam agreed. From here, the mountain, which had acquired a feminine pronoun during our hike, was broader and softer but also larger and surrounded by jagged aiguilles and compact glaciers. In one more day we’d be done circumnavigating Mont Blanc.

Until recently a 10-day trek through the Alps felt impossible to me. Not because I don’t like treks. I love them. I grew up backpacking in the Rockies. After my first divorce I walked the Camino de Santiago alone. No, a trek like this was actually very “me,” but an older—and by that I mean younger—version of me. But then I became the married mother of two small children. “Maybe someday I’ll walk like that again,” I’d say to myself. Then life changed. Suddenly I was no longer married and had my children only half the time. Last summer my coparent and I agreed to give each other two weeks off. Two weeks when he would take the children on a daddy vacation, and I could…do whatever I wanted.

After the tumult of the previous few years, I could have lain on a beach. But I wanted to walk. I wasn’t after catharsis, exactly, but I was after a connection: with nature and with myself. An alignment in rhythm between my body and mind. Eleven years ago, at 30, I walked across Spain, wondering what the next decade would bring. Now, at 41, I was asking the question again.

The Arve River in the French town of Chamonix

Jade Stephens/Stills

Atop a blustery grassy lookout high atop the Kitayamazaki Cliffs, a comical young fisherman and his girlfriend sold us raw-milk soft serve ice cream with spoons made from black kombu seaweed. Totally drunk at 10 a.m., they were cutting up and portioning freshly dried seaweed into bags and cracking jokes in English. Eventually he removed his cigarette and asked, “Are you going to visit the tsunami memorials?” I nodded but said nothing, not wanting to kill the jovial mood.

The farther south we traveled, the worse the tsunami damage became. We reached Takada Matsubara Tsunami Reconstruction Memorial Park, an austere elegy designed by architect Hiroshi Naito. The elongated white museum sprawled across a field that waves had stripped bare. A slim bridge led to the seawall, where we walked until we couldn’t stand the cold. Nearby lay the ruins of a youth hostel, half-sunken in an estuary. Controversially, many of the damaged buildings have been intentionally left as reminders of what happened here.

Miyagi prefecture, farther south, suffered the most casualties. We stopped at the former Kadonowaki Elementary School and the Ishinomaki Minamihama Tsunami Memorial Park. Ground-floor classrooms had piles of debris; others on the upper floors were untouched, with notebooks still open on abandoned desks.

This stretch of coast now has so many memorials—61, to be exact—that it’s called 3.11 Densho Road, a name that combines the date of the disaster with a word meaning “to pass on to the next generation.” These sites are places of mourning, but they are also places of learning, with museums and educational centers that aim to mitigate future disasters. They embody the resilient Tohoku spirit of enduring suffering with patience and dignity while also striving to move on.

Sanriku Fukkō National Park encompasses some of Japan’s most scenic shorelines and wild spaces.

Graydon Herriott

Moving on is what I did too. In the picturesque port town of Matsushima, I said goodbye to Quinlan before exploring the city’s busy shrines, parks, and temples on my own. That night at a bustling izakaya counter over tuna sashimi and agedashi dofu—golden pillows of fried tofu in warm dashi broth—I felt grateful to be back in the present. My trek had opened my eyes to both joy and suffering, giving me souvenirs I’ll cherish forever: the moss deep in the woods, the quiet black pony, the jovial young fisherman.

Remote Lands can organize trips throughout Japan, including a guided trek along the new Michinoku Coastal Trail (from $11,000 for four nights; remotelands.com). This article appeared in the November 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.

Egypt’s Sinai can seem like an endless expanse of rugged mountains and desert. On its southern tip, it’s home to Sharm El Sheikh, the beach resort town famed for its diving sites, luxury hotels, restaurants, and nightlife; and the more laid-back Dahab, which lies an hour’s drive to the north. But the rest of the triangular peninsula—an area larger than Switzerland, framed by the Mediterranean to the north and hugged by the Red Sea’s two gulfs to the south—is less explored.

Sinai has significance in Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. The story of the Exodus begins with Moses fleeing to Sinai as a fugitive, where he encounters the Burning Bush through which God commands him to return to Egypt and free the Israelites from slavery. The sixth-century Saint Catherine’s Monastery—the world’s oldest continuously functioning Christian monastery—sits at the foot of Mount Sinai, known locally as Jebel Musa, and preserves sacred manuscripts and icons. The Muslim Jebeliya tribe, long-time protectors of the monastery, has safeguarded the sacred site for centuries.

On my first hike to explore Sinai four years ago, my family and I left our hotel in Dahab in the middle of the night to reach Saint Catherine’s Monastery, starting our three-mile ascent to the top of Mount Sinai at one in the morning. From there, we made the steep climb to the top of the summit—a mile and a half above sea level, and where Moses is said to have received the Ten Commandments—in time to watch the sunrise. Although it was an undeniably beautiful experience, any sense of spirituality was undone by the droves of people gathered with us at the top.

This time is different: I’m on a hiking and camping trip with Sinai Hikes, a Sinai-based hiking and trekking specialist led by local Bedouin guides, which promises a more authentic experience. My 12-person group is led by Ahmed Mousa, a local Jebeliya tribesman and entrepreneur, who shows us the way via unmarked trails where we barely encounter another soul.

“We have scenery and summits and dramatic valleys, and at the same time we have heritage and culture and traditions,” explains Mousa, who grew up in a nearby village and began guiding with his uncle as a teenager. “It is a beautiful place, but when you know who was in this place, the story is complete.” The charismatic 28-year-old, fluent in English, launched Sinai Hikes in 2022 and has since built a team of five head guides and five camel handlers. His company offers small-group hikes, or fully personalized tours, from 4 to 13 days in length, taking in the mountains and valleys around Saint Catherine’s Monastery, as well as day trips, jeep rides, and camel safaris.

I was halfway up a cliff in northern Oman when I realized I hadn’t thought about my prosthesis in more than an hour—which, if you’ve ever worn one, you’ll know is no small thing. The socket was slick with sweat against my thigh. The ridge of my liner had started to roll slightly, but not enough to make me stop. I’d already hiked for five hours that day and was now hauling myself—and my leg—up the blunt edge of a rock face.

A steel cable snaked along the cliff, bolted in intervals above a sliver of a ledge. Below, a drop that would turn your stomach inside out if you dared to look down. I didn’t. I wasn’t scared. Or rather, I was, but not of falling. I was scared that after such an intense day, my reserves were starting to slip, that the engine was sputtering just as the terrain got harder. But the adrenaline didn’t care. It surged forward, dragging me with it, past the point where reason said stop.

Jabal Akhdar, Oman

alexeys/Getty

Solo travel comes with a strange kind of liberty. People project onto it: courage, loneliness, madness. It’s none of those things. When I travel alone, I’m not someone’s daughter or patient or quiet cause for concern. I’m not “the woman with one leg”. I’m just Zainab.

This wasn’t my first solo trip. I’d wandered the alleyways of Jordan, roamed Istanbul, gotten lost on purpose in countless cities. I’d learned how to pack light, how to listen to my body, how to push it past the borders of comfort. Yet Oman was different. There was something elemental about it all: the land stripped to its bones, the quiet confidence of the men I’d found online to hike with, the challenge I’d set for myself. Not to prove anything. Just to see what I could do.

But I didn’t always know I could do this. There was a time when I didn’t even know I had a choice—not about travel, or mountains, but about how to exist. I was seven. We were in the garden of our house in Baghdad. It was hot, still. I was fiddling with the handlebars of my bike, which were damaged and needed to be fixed, and my dad came out to help. My youngest sister was on the swing nearby. We found a piece of scrap metal in the garage—something heavy, solid. He thought it might help. It looked like a screw. It wasn’t.

Even if you don’t have time to participate in a full-blown excursion, it’s always worth chatting up a park ranger for their expertise. “Rangers are deeply knowledgeable about the area and can help make your experience both safer and richer,” says Christa Hayes, an expert and interpretive park guide in the Greater Yellowstone area. “They can alert you to recent animal sightings or trail closures, offer insights about flash flood danger or trail conditions, share tips about hidden viewpoints or must-see features, and suggest how much water or gear to bring.”

4. Hire an expert guide

Even the most seasoned hikers can benefit from expert guides, who can be booked for group park tours and private excursions via local adventure companies. “There is nothing like the feeling of discovering a hidden waterfall yourself,” says Sam Highley, founder of All Roads North, a luxury road trip specialist. “But there can be some huge benefits to spending at least some of your time with an experienced guide.”

For an immersive national park experience with deep local ties, consider Indigenous tour operators. Ed DesRosier of the Blackfeet Nation, for example, broke new ground in Montana over 30 years ago when he became one of two Indigenous-owned (and -staffed) businesses recognized as an NPS concession company at the time. Today, his company, Sun Tours, operates half and full-day cultural interpretive tours of Glacier, which is located on ancestral Blackfeet land.

Whether it’s a geologist, astronomer, wildlife biologist, or seasoned trail guide, “seeing things through expert eyes can be the highlight of your national park visit,” Highley says, adding that “for many people, a guide is the difference between simply ‘visiting’ and truly connecting with the place.”

5. Prepare for remote environments

The off-grid locations of US national parks are part of the draw, but can also result in logistical challenges if you aren’t prepared. Many of the more remote parks may have little or no phone coverage. “Make a plan with your group ahead of time for how and where to meet up if you get separated,” Hayes says. “In areas with no signal, old-school methods—like choosing a meeting place or time in advance—are essential.”

If you plan on driving to the park, be sure to fill up your gas tank before you enter, Hayes adds, as services inside can be sparse and expensive. As for navigation, download your trail maps and park routes before you hit the road—or, kick it old-school and pack along the printed version of the map with you.

6. Reserve your camping spot

America’s national parks may be wild places—but they are also wildly popular. The most highly-sought after campgrounds, like those at Acadia National Park, can book up minutes after they become available online—so plan accordingly. Most parks open up their camping reservations on Recreation.gov 6 months in advance and release additional spots on a rolling basis; but some, like Yellowstone (13 months) and Yosemite (2 weeks), vary. As mentioned, NPCA’s Know Before You Go page is a helpful park-by-park guide for visitors planning where to camp. (Only a handful of parks—like Cuyahoga Valley and Gateway Arch—completely prohibit overnight camping.) Tools like Campnab, CampScanner, CampsitePhotos, and Campflare can help in a snag—they constantly monitor Recreation.gov and park releases, alerting you the instant a spot frees up.

7. Pack smart—and lock up

Think of your daypack as your mobile comfort zone. You won’t find a Whole Foods or espresso machine deep in the wilderness, so bring the essentials that can make your day better—whether that’s healthy snacks and instant coffee or your favorite sunscreen and lip balm. “Park concessions are often limited in their offerings, so being self-sufficient with personal luxuries means more time exploring and less time waiting in line,” says Mike Augustine, trip consultant at adventure company Mountain Travel Sobek. “Oh—and whatever you do, lock up your food. No one wants to return to their car to find a bear in their cooler.” Some bear country parks include Denali National Park and Preserve, Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve, Kenai Fjords National Park, Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park, and Lake Clark National Park and Preserve. Travelers should read more about bear identifications and sightings before visiting any national park on the NPS bear safety website page. And while you can’t fly with bear spray, you can buy it near any American national park. In any case, though, Hayes recommends packing “layers for shifting temps, sturdy shoes, sun protection, a rain jacket, and a reusable water bottle with a filter.”

8. Check when permits are required

Before heading into any national park, it’s essential to research and secure the proper permits for activities like fishing, backpacking, and rock climbing. These are separate from park reservations, and help manage visitor impact, protect wildlife, ensuring a safe experience for all.