When invasive plants jeopardize the AT, this ‘strike team’ fights back

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When invasive plants jeopardize the AT, this ‘strike team’ fights back

At first glance, garlic mustard blends into the forest floor, but its ability to outcompete native plants makes it a quiet threat along the Appalachian Trail. Cory Vaillancourt photo

During the sunny mid-morning hours on the Tennessee border in Pisgah National Forest, a small group of volunteers at the Appalachian Trail’s rugged, remote Lemon Gap trailhead prepare for battle — not with litterbugs, poachers or vandals but instead with one of the many invasive plant species that threaten the region’s delicate natural ecosystems.

They came armed with gloves, garbage bags and a practiced eye, fanning out along the trail corridor in search of a plant that, at first glance, hardly seems like an enemy at all. Emily Powell, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy’s non-native invasive species program coordinator for the southern region, knows better.

“We’re out here hand-pulling garlic mustard, an invasive plant that is a biennial,” Powell said. “In the second year, it bolts up, and that’s when it flowers, and we are pulling it before it goes to seed.”

Garlic mustard (Alliaria petiolate) was probably first introduced to the United States in the 1860s by settlers on Long Island, New York, for medicinal and culinary utilization. It’s a member of the Brassicaceae family, commonly known as the mustard family, which includes a wide range of familiar and delicious crops such as broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower, kale, mustard greens, radishes and turnips.

In its first year, it forms a low basal rosette of kidney- to heart-shaped leaves with scalloped margins and long petioles. In its second year, it bolts, producing an erect stem that can reach 3 feet in height, bearing alternate, triangular leaves with coarsely toothed edges. The plant produces small, four-petaled white flowers arranged in terminal clusters, typical of the family, followed by slender, upright seed pods known as siliques.

It’s edible and predictably packed with vitamins A, C and E but not widely consumed. Roots can substitute for horseradish.

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“If you crush up the leaves, it smells like garlic,” Powell said. “You can make a pesto out of it, but in my opinion, it’s nothing to write home about.”

The plant spread rapidly and now presents a number of challenges across the country, from Georgia to Washington and nearly everywhere in between.

What makes garlic mustard particularly dangerous to local ecosystems isn’t just its ability to spread, but how it reshapes the space around it. Native wildflowers, especially delicate spring ephemerals, rely on a narrow window of sunlight before the forest canopy filters the sun’s rays. Garlic mustard competes directly for that light while also waging a quieter, more insidious form of insurgency. The plant is allelopathic, meaning it releases chemicals into the soil that inhibit the growth of surrounding species. In dense patches, it can create a monoculture, choking out biodiversity and altering the composition of the forest floor. Pollinators lose habitat. Native plants fail to germinate. The disruption cascades outward. The imperiled West Virginia White butterfly faces increased risk when their larvae mistake garlic mustard for a similar-looking host plant, only to be poisoned.

The problem isn’t isolated, Powell said. To date, ATC has pulled over 30,000 pounds of garlic mustard trail-wide. That number reflects years of sustained effort and the scale of an infestation that could grow substantially due to a recent natural disaster.

Powell described Hurricane Helene as a kind of ecological “release event,” in which widespread disturbance — downed trees, exposed soil and openings in the forest canopy — created ideal conditions for invasive species to expand rapidly. With increased access to sunlight and fewer natural checks, species like garlic mustard, multiflora rose and tree of heaven are able to establish and spread more aggressively, outcompeting native plants and accelerating changes to the landscape.

For the ATC, the work has evolved from scattered volunteer efforts into a more coordinated, science-driven campaign.

Matt Drury, the organization’s associate director of science and stewardship, has been returning to Lemon Gap for more than a decade, watching the site change year by year. The results, he said, are measurable and substantial.

“Where we used to pull 300-400 pounds, some years we’re less than 100 pounds,” Drury said. “The overall trend is a drastic reduction in the amount of [invasive] plants here.”

That progress underscores the value of consistency. Garlic mustard operates on a two-year life cycle, meaning that sustained removal over time can gradually exhaust a population. Without that effort, Drury said, the consequences would be far more visible.

The work at Lemon Gap is part of a broader push by the ATC to build capacity in combating invasive species. Through a combination of federal funding through President Joe Biden’s American Rescue Plan Act, partnerships with multiple national forests and private donations, the organization has expanded its reach across a corridor stretching from Georgia through Virginia.

Still, Drury emphasized that funding cycles fluctuate, making long-term planning difficult. In that context, volunteer labor remains essential — not just as a supplement, but as a cornerstone of the effort.

That’s where people like Priscilla Estes come in, adding an additional pair of hands to what’s called the “Non-Native Invasive Species Strike Team,” which, bafflingly, doesn’t yet have a cool logo or merch with which to identify its members or supporters.

A Haywood County resident and volunteer with the Carolina Mountain Club, the oldest and most expansive hiking and trail stewardship group in the Southeastern United States, Estes joined the strike team that day less out of expertise than curiosity and a desire to contribute.

“My friend Barbara Morgan told me that we were going to be pulling this garlic mustard today,” Estes said. “I don’t even know what that is, so I said that would be great.”

For Estes, the appeal wasn’t just the work itself. It was the setting, the chance to spend a day in a place she values, doing something tangible to protect it. The Appalachian Trail, she said, holds a special kind of significance.

“The AT is sacred,” Estes said.

That economic impact is also real. In Western North Carolina, outdoor tourism supports local businesses and communities to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars annually.

“We just need to preserve the land as it was meant to be, and invasive species aren’t meant to be here,” she said, her perspective mirroring a wider philosophy within the ATC — one that ties ecological health directly to the experience of those who travel the trail. Drury framed that connection in practical terms.

“It helps protect what we refer to as ‘the hiker’s experience,’” he said.

A forest overtaken by invasive species may still look green and may still feel like wilderness, but something essential is lost. Variety fades. Subtle transitions blur. The richness that defines the Appalachian Trail becomes harder to perceive.

“You appreciate the diversity of green stuff or notice the difference in ecosystems that you’re passing through,” said Drury. “It really enhances the hiker’s experience, whether you’re conscious of it or not.”

On that late April morning, the connection between the constant toil of conservation and the hiking experience was more than theoretical. As volunteers worked their way along the trail, they encountered backpackers moving north — among them a pair who had come from much farther away.

Rebecca (trail name: “Barney”) and Fabian (trail name: “Point-five”) had traveled from Munich, Germany, to attempt a full thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. They started their journey in Georgia and by the time they reached Lemon Gap, they had already covered roughly 260 miles.

“I think it’s day 24?” Barney laughed.

Their goal is ambitious — to complete the entire trail within the six months allowed by their visas. Their decision to visit the United States was driven solely by the trail itself. Germany has a strong hiking culture, but the kind of freely permitted, long-distance wild tent camping common on the Appalachian Trail is generally absent from Germany due to stricter land-use laws and environmental protections there.

“It’s quite unique to have like a 2,200-mile stretch just for hiking,” Point-five said. “No bikes, no horses, no nothing.”

Germany is only about 550 miles from north to south and about 550 miles from east to west. That unimaginable, uninterrupted 2,200-mile footpath, uniquely American, creates an experience that is difficult to replicate — something Barney and Point-five appreciated.

“Having the nature and having all these different kinds of environments and biospheres, that’s very special,” he said.

What stands out just as much, though, is the effort required to keep it that way with work that often happens out of sight of the hikers who benefit from it. Work that happens because of people who will never experience the entire trail themselves. A culture of maintenance and generosity is woven into the trail itself, shaping the experience in ways that go beyond scenery.

“I think we both enjoy this trail super much, and it’s super well-maintained,” Barney said. “The people who all take care of that is really special. We met trail volunteers who are doing trail work and they are also doing ‘trail magic’ for hikers. We never experienced that in Europe before.”

For Drury and others with the ATC, that kind of feedback reflects something deeper than appreciation — it signals that the underlying work, from clearing blowdowns to removing invasive species, is preserving not only access but also integrity. The ATC is a nonprofit founded in 1925 that serves as the primary steward of the Appalachian National Scenic Trail, ensuring the footpath and its surrounding landscape remain preserved, accessible and sustainable for future generations. At Lemon Gap, that reality plays out in the steady rhythm of the work itself — looking, bending, pulling, bagging, moving on.

For the volunteers working that morning, the objective was straightforward.

Remove what doesn’t belong by the roots. Leave everything else.

For more information on the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, visit appalachiantrail.org.

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