Written by
Jenn Pharr Davis
Astral Archetype, Jennifer Pharr Davis, is an internationally celebrated adventurer, author, mother and business owner who set the fastest known time on the Appalachian Trail.
Like most backpackers, I am all about efficiency. I love gear that serves multiple purposes. My backpacking philosophy has always been that every item should earn its place, and if one piece of equipment can do the work of two, even better.
That philosophy extends beyond the trail. When I travel for speaking engagements, I love a comfortable “do everything” shoe like the Loyak EZ HT. It fits like a glove, has enough cushion for airports and city sidewalks, and still looks polished enough for a meeting or keynote. Why pack two pairs of shoes when one can handle it all?
There is, however, one significant exception to my multi-tool mindset.
On the trail, I wear trail runners when I’m running. I wear hiking shoes when I’m hiking and backpacking. PERIOD.
And I learned that lesson the hard way.
When Lightweight Changed Everything
When I started backpacking more than twenty years ago, heavy leather boots were still the standard. Around the same time, lightweight backpacking was beginning to transform the outdoor industry. Suddenly people were cutting toothbrushes in half, trimming straps off their backpacks, and debating every ounce they carried.
Footwear followed the same trend.
The old leather-and-GORE-TEX boots gave way to lightweight hikers, running shoes, and eventually trail runners. The reasoning seemed simple enough: weight on your feet costs more energy than weight on your back, so lighter shoes should help you hike farther with less effort.
I bought into that idea completely.
As someone who loved both thru-hiking and trail running, trail runners felt like the perfect solution. One shoe for everything. I could run in them, backpack in them, day hike in them, and save money while packing fewer pairs.
It seemed like the ultimate efficiency.
Until my body disagreed.
The Injury Cycle
The shin splints arrived first.
Then came plantar fasciitis.
Not long after that, Achilles tendonitis.
Every time one injury healed, another seemed to appear. Because I was hiking thousands of miles every year, I assumed the problem was simply overuse.
After all, if you hike all day, every day, isn’t pain just part of the deal?
I accepted sore feet as normal. Tight calves? Normal. Inflamed tendons? Part of the process.
But looking back, my body was trying to tell me something.
Running and Hiking Aren’t the Same Movement
Although they happen on the same trails, hiking and running place very different demands on your body.
When you run, you’re moving forward quickly with shorter ground contact times. Most trail runners are designed to encourage that movement. They’re lightweight, flexible, and built to help transition you efficiently from landing to push-off.
Hiking is different.
Especially with a backpack.
Your stride becomes longer and slower. Your center of gravity shifts backward under the added weight. You spend more time standing on one foot, stepping down from rocks, and stabilizing over uneven terrain. Instead of propelling yourself forward, you’re often controlling your body on descents or balancing through technical sections.
That requires different support.
Many hiking-specific shoes have a stiffer sole that reduces excessive bending through the foot. They often include more torsional stability to keep the foot from twisting over rocks, additional underfoot protection from sharp terrain, and a rocker-shaped design that helps you roll naturally through a walking stride rather than encouraging a running gait.
Research on walking and running biomechanics consistently shows that these activities load the foot, calf, Achilles tendon, and plantar fascia differently. Small differences in shoe design—flexibility, cushioning, rocker geometry, and stability—can change how forces move through the body over thousands of repetitive steps. One hike might not matter. Five million steps over a thru-hike certainly can.
My Unexpected Experiment
I didn’t discover this through a laboratory study.
I discovered it when I started wearing the Astral TR1 Mesh. A shoes that had all the lightweight features I wanted and that was designed for hiking. Nothing else changed. My training was the same. My mileage was similar.
But something remarkable happened. The nagging shin splints never appeared. My plantar fasciitis slowly disappeared. My Achilles tendon stopped complaining.
It wasn’t overnight, but after months and now years of hiking in footwear designed specifically for walking rather than running, my chronic overuse injuries faded away.
Even better?
I actually enjoyed hiking more. The shoes felt more stable on rocky descents. My feet weren’t working as hard to stabilize every uneven step. They remained breathable and lightweight, but offered more protection underfoot than my flexible trail runners. For me, it was the missing middle ground between bulky boots and minimalist running shoes.
Shoes Are Tools
None of this means trail runners are bad. I still wear trail runners. They’re my first choice for trail races, training runs, and fast adventures where I’m moving with a running stride. But I no longer ask them to do a job they weren’t designed for.
We don’t expect a road bike to excel on technical mountain trails or a ducky to navigate class 5 whitewater. Shoes deserve the same consideration.
Choosing Companies That Share My Values
Although my rankings are changing with age, I admit that performance is still the biggest reason I choose my hiking footwear, but company values are a close second.
As I’ve spent more time in the outdoor industry, I’ve become increasingly interested in supporting companies whose mission aligns with the places I love. I want footwear that’s thoughtfully designed, ethically manufactured, and created with an eye toward reducing environmental impact. That’s one of the reason I’ve been drawn to Astral.
I first got to know the company when it was headquartered in my hometown of Asheville, North Carolina. And by “got to know,” I don’t just mean seeing the logo on a shoebox. I met the founder, the shoe designers, the marketing team, and the sales reps. It was a small, creative group that cared deeply about performance, conservation, and thoughtful design. More than once I watched employees skateboard through the warehouse in an old industrial complex beside the French Broad River between meetings.
When the company later decentralized operations, I was sad to see friends move west, but I also appreciated the decision. Shortening manufacturing and distribution distances was another example of putting environmental values into practice rather than simply talking about them.
I’ve been around outdoor gear long enough to appreciate the enormous amount of engineering that goes into a shoe—countless prototypes, athlete feedback, field testing, and refinement. I’ve also watched companies decide what they want to stand for beyond the products they sell.
For me, both matter.
You’ll still see me wearing trail runners at races and community fun runs. But when I’m hiking for days at a time, carrying a backpack through the mountains I love, I choose footwear designed specifically for hiking and sharing my values.
Sometimes the most efficient choice isn’t finding one tool that does everything. It’s choosing the right tool for the job.
