If long woolen skirts, fussy three-piece tweed suits, and lush muttonchop sideburns were all the rage when many hiking trails were built in the White Mountains, then sustainable trail-building practices most definitely were not.

Few people know this better than Liesl Magnus '17, a Professional Trail Crew Manager for the Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC). She's just one of the people responsible for rehabbing the steep and now-heavily-eroded trails blazed by our mutton-chopped forebears in the Victorian Era.

"It's just really bad for sustainability, and a really steep trail is also a trail that's very prone to erosion," Liesl says. "A trail that has a lot of rocks is liable to make people want to go around the rocks, so the trail just gets bigger and bigger. Our focus–no matter what we're working on, no matter what we're doing–is keeping the people on the trail and the water off."

Last summer, Liesl oversaw seven professional trail crews in the AMC's Northern Region, which covers New Hampshire and Maine–including approximately 300 miles of trails in the White Mountain National Forest. Maintaining this network of aging, eroded trails, many of which rocket up steep mountainsides with nary a switchback in sight, is a massive undertaking. Just consider the Franconia Ridge Trail Loop, an 8.9-mile circuit listed on innumerable internet listicles–"Top 10 Most Beautiful Hikes Ever!"–that clog the Instagram feeds of the outdoors-curious.

The trails that comprise the Franconia Ridge Trail Loop, all built between 1826 and 1958, see more than 1,000 hikers a day during peak season and have become deeply eroded–so much so that parts of the trail resemble a ditch that runs several feet below the surrounding forest floor. If you've hiked the loop within the last four years, you've probably encountered Liesl's trail crews toiling away in all kinds of weather: driving rebar in cold rainstorms, laying down fresh wooden boardwalks over pungent mountain bogs, and muscling heavy granite blocks into timeless rock stairways.

Granite stairways are built into hiking trails to mitigate erosion.

The five-year project, funded by a $1.1 million federal budget appropriation, is absolutely essential for preserving one of the country's most heavily used trails. It's also not without controversy, as surprised hikers encounter the gentler treadways, skillfully built rock staircases, and fresh wooden boardwalks that will protect the trail against the millions of footsteps it receives every year.

"The project has been going on for four years now, and it's challenging because of just the sheer volume of public use that it gets, which introduces a whole mix of public opinion," Liesl says, laughing. "It ranges from 'This is amazing!' to 'You're ruining God's creation.' That's a line we hear a lot."

If anyone is equipped to process that kind of public feedback, it's Liesl. An environmental studies and government major while at St. Lawrence University, Liesl had considered attending law school before taking a recreation ecology class her junior year. The class, which studied the interaction between people and landscape through the lens of recreation, helped Liesl discover her true passion. After a professor encouraged her to apply for a Wilderness Ranger Fellowship with the Selway Bitterroot Frank Church Foundation in Missoula, Montana, her postgrad plans changed. Instead of sharpening her pencils for the LSAT, Liesl found herself clearing trails in the Idaho backcountry with crosscut saws and hand tools.

Liesl stands in the Idaho mountains clearing trees with a long-bar chainsaw.

It was tough but rewarding work. Liesl and her crew would camp and work in the Idaho backcountry for nine days at a time, often clearing 1,000 trees over 40 to 50 miles of trail. Over those arduous miles, Liesl found a community and a vocation that were incredibly fulfilling. "You work so closely with a group of four or five, and you live together and travel together and work together for months," Liesl says. "You know, the work is brutal–there's no getting around that. But it really is the people that get you through and the people that keep you coming back."

After that first summer in the Idaho backcountry, Liesl took on a series of fascinating outdoor jobs. Over the next several years, she worked as a winter caretaker at Carter Notch Hut in the White Mountains; joined the Montana Conservation Corps, where she led a Women's+ backcountry chainsaw crew and developed curriculum to train other group leaders; and spent a winter as a snow ranger in the Nez Perce Clearwater National Forest in Idaho. Today, she's using those experiences–and the skills she acquired through them–to give back to the trails and the mountains that nurtured her love for the outdoors. 

A New Hampshire native, Liesl grew up running, hiking, camping, and skiing in the White Mountains, and was an active member of Holderness School's Outing Club while a student. She credits Alexandra Disney, a former faculty member, with helping foster her love for the outdoors. "She was just absolutely fundamental in encouraging me to keep pushing and trying to explore in whatever way that meant for me," Liesl says.

Today, she's returning the favor to her alma mater. When the inaugural Holderness Community Trail Work Day took place last August, Liesl showed up, chainsaw in hand, to lend a hand. She spent the day clearing blowdowns from Livermore Trail off the Kancamagus Highway, one of the trails adopted by the school in recent years. It wasn't your typical alumni event, where old friends chat over cocktails at happy hour. "I see all these alumni events, and it's usually on a boat, and it's never anywhere near where I live," Liesl says. "I wouldn't say that I'm particularly comfortable drinking cocktails on a boat, but I saw this and said: okay, trail work. This is something I can do. This is a way that I can be involved."

Liesl clears blowdowns during the Holderness Community Trail Work Day; summer of 2025.

That urge–to be involved, and to be of service–is something Liesl learned at Holderness. "I think Holderness uniquely prepares people to live in community with each other and be interested and willing to serve others," Liesl says. "That's a message that doesn't always stick when you're 17 years old, but I think about it a lot."

That lesson may not have made an impression on 17-year-old Liesl, but it's a lesson that led her to where she is today. She's found a job that she loves, and she's carving a legacy in granite that will serve the region's hikers for decades–and perhaps centuries–to come.

"Nobody is doing trail work for the money. I'm here and I do my job because I believe completely in the effects that it has to steward and care for public lands," Liesl says. "The impact our crews have towards improving the accessibility, durability, and sustainability of natural resources is unbelievable, and it's my privilege as program manager to see that big picture."

Originally published in the Spring 2026 issue of Basecamp. View the spread on Issuu below.