I’m back in Portland this week after a whirlwind trip to Arizona, which included speaking at the Spirit World fundraiser for the Arizona Trail. What is funny is that even though I spent a good amount of time writing and prepping for this speech leading up to the event, when it was time actually to speak, I pivoted.

For many places, it used to be that winter meant downtime. A chance for the soil to settle, tools to be cleaned, and crews to take a breath. But lately, the off-season has disappeared. Trails that once held through a steady drizzle now vanish under a single storm. Water cuts deeper, drains fail faster, and what was once routine maintenance now feels like emergency response.

Around the globe, trail builders are discovering that climate resilience is no longer a side note in their work. It is the work.

Somewhere between a rusting welcome sign and an empty storefront, a hand-painted banner flaps in the wind: Welcome Riders! Trail Town USA. It’s hopeful, maybe even inspiring, but is it true?

Across North America (and beyond), small towns are embracing the label of “trail town” in a bid to bring in new energy, dollars, and identity. The idea is simple: trails bring riders, riders bring money, and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to kickstart something new.

But here’s the catch: not every town with a trailhead is ready to claim the title. And sometimes, rushing into the trail town identity can do more harm than good.

Discover how brands and nonprofit trail organizations can build real impact through local dig days and trail events. Learn why showing up matters, how to create sponsor-ready partnerships, and how authentic collaboration leads to stronger communities, lasting relationships, and more trails on the ground.

The Sweet Protection Arbitrator MIPS is a true two-in-one helmet, giving riders full-face confidence and half shell versatility. Trail Builder Magazine tested it at Timberline Bike Park and local Portland trails, finding it durable, lightweight, and comfortable for long days. Perfect for trail builders who ride after a dig day.

A decade ago, Gallup, New Mexico wasn’t exactly known as a trail town. It was a rural hub on the edge of the Navajo Nation, surrounded by wide desert, mesas, and sandstone formations, but not much in the way of tourism buzz.

Then came the High Desert Trail System, a volunteer-built network of singletrack that began attracting riders from across the region.

You show up early with coffee and donuts. The crew is ready, shovels in hand, eyes on the ribbon of flagged trail that’s been months in the making. But just before tools hit the ground, a ranger rolls up with a clipboard and an apologetic shrug. “Sorry ... still waiting on clearance from the district supervisor.” You sigh, again.

This is the part of trail building that rarely makes the highlight reel. The part where advocacy, politics, and patience collide.

The first time I saw an adaptive mountain bike on a trail, it was humbling. Not because the rider was struggling, far from it, but because I realized just how much I take for granted: the trail width, the turning radius, and even access to the trailhead itself. What I saw that day was joy. Pure trail joy.

But I also saw limits. The trail narrowed, and just like that, the ride was over. Not because the rider wasn’t capable, but because the trail wasn’t.

It was a reminder that “everyone’s welcome” only means something if the trail itself is saying the same thing.

Imagine your brand’s logo on a dig day banner. Shovels hitting dirt, a new trail taking shape, and later that evening, riders are sipping beers at your brewery, still dust-covered and grinning. One of them tags your business in a post that gets reshared across the local MTB scene. Another walks away with a branded pint glass. The next weekend, they bring two friends.

It’s easy to think of trail support as goodwill. But what if it’s more than that?

What if it’s one of the smartest local investments your brand can make?

It’s easy to overlook a belt … until it fails halfway through a trail day. If you’ve ever had to re-tighten an old canvas belt mid-dig while balancing a McLeod on your shoulder, you know what I mean. That’s where Arcade’s belts come in. They’re not trying to be flashy. They’re trying to do their job and disappear into your day. And they do.