The Scottish summits walk and the one that preceded it, a 1,300-mile traverse of the mountains of Norway and Sweden, both took place in mostly wet and windy weather. In between them I had spent two weeks hiking in the Grand Canyon. Having had enough of dampness and mist and loving the sharp clarity and burning sunshine of the Southwest, I decided my next long hike would be the 800-mile Arizona Trail, a route still incomplete in many places. On the Scottish and Scandinavian hikes I never carried more than a pint of water, and mostly I carried none. In Arizona I often carried a gallon and sometimes three gallons. (The story of that hike is told in Crossing Arizona.) Water went from being an insignificant concern during the planning stages to the most important factor. (For more on long-distance hiking, see my book The Advanced Backpacker.)
Spring backpacking by the Dubh Lochain, Beinn A’Bhuird, Cairngorm National Park, Scotland.
Moose, Kidney Lake, High Uinta Wilderness, Utah.
Planning a hike, whether for a weekend or a summer, takes time and energy, and the adventure itself can vanish in a welter of lists, logistics, maps, and food. This is only temporary, of course. When you take that first step, all the organization fades into the background. Then it’s just you and the wilderness.
chapter two
the load on your back
choosing and using equipment
TO EQUIP A PEDESTRIAN WITH SHELTER, BEDDING, UTENSILS, FOOD, AND OTHER NECESSITIES, IN A PACK SO LIGHT AND SMALL THAT HE CAN CARRY IT WITHOUT OVERSTRAIN, IS REALLY A FINE ART.
—Camping and Woodcraft, Horace Kephart
Backpacking is about enjoying nature, about experiencing the wilderness—not about suffering. But many people are put off by the prospect of carrying on their backs everything they need for days, maybe even weeks. To the uninitiated the load looks backbreaking, a burden that will take all the joy out of walking, all the pleasure from a day in the mountains. For the uninformed novice, this may be true. It certainly was for me when I began. I am not a masochist, however; I don’t like aching shoulders, sore hips, and trail-pounded, blistered feet. Nor do I like being wet or cold. After suffering all those conditions in my first attempts at backpacking, I developed a keen interest in techniques and equipment and learned that backpacking can be pleasurable and pain-free.
While experience and skill play a large part, no amount of technique will allow a poorly designed pack to carry 50 pounds comfortably or make a leaking rain jacket waterproof. Experienced backpackers are likely to avoid such problems, however. The right equipment can make the difference between a trip you want to repeat and a nightmare that will make you shudder every time you see a pack. I’ve met walkers who recoil at the mere mention of backpacking, muttering about their one attempt on the Appalachian Trail—how their backs ached, their knees gave way, their tents leaked, and they suffered for weeks afterward. It doesn’t have to be like that.
My interest in equipment was born from a couple of day hikes on which I got soaked (inadequate rain gear) and then lost (no compass), resulting in difficult night descents (no flash-light on the first occasion, dead batteries and no spares on the second) and near hypothermia. On my first camping trips I lugged a heavy canvas tent that leaked at the merest hint of rain in a pack that resembled a medieval torture rack. Not that I ever carried the tent into the wilderness—reaching a valley campground from a bus stop was exhausting enough. I used this equipment through ignorance; I didn’t know anything better existed.
Two long-ago experiences showed me what was possible. Once, another hiker was horrified at the sight of my huge pack frame. “No hipbelt?” he exclaimed. “What’s a hipbelt?” I replied. He handed me his pack, an even bigger one than mine. I put it on and tightened the hipbelt. The weight of the pack seemed to melt away. Ever since, I’ve viewed a hipbelt as the key feature of any pack designed for heavy loads. The other occasion was at a roadside campground when I was using a very heavy wooden-poled canvas tent. Sitting outside this monstrosity, I watched a walker with a moderate-size pack come down from the mountains and pitch a tiny green nylon tent. The next morning he packed everything up, shouldered his modest load, and headed—effortlessly it seemed—back into the wilderness. The realization that it was possible to backpack in comfort led me to visit outdoor shops, write away for equipment catalogs, and read everything I could find about backpacking.
A wild camp.
PEACE IN THE WILDERNESS
It’s good to be alone. I don’t go far the first day, camping in a spruce grove above a cool, rushing stream after only a couple of hours. Miles traveled are irrelevant; I’m content just to be here.
Later I worked in an equipment shop and started writing reviews of gear for outdoor magazines. I’ve been doing this since the 1970s and have acquired a fairly detailed knowledge of what to look for in equipment. It’s important, though, not to assign gear a greater value than it deserves—it’s only a tool. Backpacking is not about having the latest tent or trying out the new clothing system “guaranteed to keep you comfortable in all weather.” If you know enough about equipment to select what really works, you won’t need to think about your gear when you’re in the wilderness. You can get on with what you’re really there for—experiencing the natural world. Worrying about getting wet because you don’t trust your rain jacket to keep you dry, or shivering through the night in your threadbare sleeping bag will come between you and the environment and may even dominate your walk. In extreme circumstances, inadequate gear could even be life-threatening. So it’s worth taking your time when choosing equipment. It will be with you for many miles and many nights. Don’t forget, though, that you also need the skills to use it properly. No gear is magic, despite what many advertisements imply. Just having the latest jacket doesn’t mean you can cope with a mountain storm, nor does having the fastest-boiling stove on the market necessarily mean you can produce anything edible.
Weighing the pack at the start of a ten-day trip.
WEIGHT
Three major factors govern choice of gear: performance, durability, and weight. The first is simple—an item must do what’s required of it. Rain gear must keep out the rain; a stove must boil water. How long it goes on doing so efficiently is a measure of its durability. It’s easy to make items that perform well and last for ages, but the backpacker’s (and equipment designer’s) problem is the weight of such gear. Backpackers probably spend more time trying to reduce the weight of their gear than on all other aspects of trip planning. Such time is well spent. Saving 2 pounds means you can carry another day’s food; the difference between a 25-pound pack and a 35-pound pack is considerable, especially near the end of a long, hard day. Although your pack is supported by your shoulders and hips, it’s your legs that carry the weight and will feel most tired with a heavy load. The heavier your load, the more often you need to stop and rest, the slower you walk, especially uphill, and the sooner you are likely to stop and make camp. Even if you aren’t planning on high-mileage days or thousands of feet of ascent, the lighter your pack, the more comfortable you’ll feel.
The total weight carried includes everything: everything you wear, everything hung round your neck, everything carried in your hands, and everything in your pockets as well as what’s in your pack. Actual pack weight varies according to how much food, fuel, and water you’re carrying, how much clothing you’re wearing, and what’s in your hands or pockets. In the following discussion the weights mentioned are for all nonvariable gear, not just what’s in your pack. To this must be added approximately 2 pounds a day for food and fuel plus a pound for each pint of water carried.
GEAR FOR AN ELEVEN-DAY EARLY-SUMMER TRIP IN WET COASTAL MOUNTAINS
On this hike I expected rain and strong winds but relatively warm temperatures with only a slight chance of an overnight frost. In fact, the lowest overnight temperature was 40°F (5°C) and daytime temperatures were between 45 and 65°F (7 and 18°C), though the stormy weather meant it often felt colder. Rain- and windproof garments and a good tent were essential, whil
e the fleece and insulated garments kept me warm at rest stops and in camp. It rained at some point on nine days. On four of those days it rained heavily all day. I risked taking ultralight rather than standard rain gear because the windproof jacket and nylon pants were very water resistant. I set off with two fuel cartridges, since I knew I could buy cartridges in stores during the second half of the hike. This, along with the expected above-freezing temperatures and the low weight, was why I chose to take a cartridge stove.
Weight variations in the sidebars for similar items are due to different models worn (e.g., trail shoes) and different items carried (e.g., first-aid kits).
I was usually wearing or carrying about 6 pounds, so my pack weight without food and camera gear was about 16 pounds. I had 5 pounds of camera gear and started out with 12 pounds of food—enough for six days. That was my heaviest load—about 33 pounds (16 + 5 + 12).
Equipment used to fall into two rough categories: standard and lightweight. There is now a third: ultralight. With standard equipment compromises are made between weight and durability; it is reasonably light but strong enough to withstand years of average use or the rigors of a multi-month expedition. With standard equipment, a load for a summer solo trip is likely to weigh about 25 to 35 pounds. If you’re traveling with a group, sharing camping and cooking equipment will reduce this a little; specialized and warmer gear for winter conditions will add to it. With lightweight gear the weight can be reduced to 20 to 25 pounds; with the latest ultralight gear and a severe look at every item, 10 pounds or less is possible. Ultralight gear usually won’t be as tough as standard gear (though there are exceptions), but the best is surprisingly durable.
To some extent, the way weight feels is subjective. If you set out deep into the wilderness with two weeks’ supplies and a total pack weight of 70 pounds, the 40-pound load you emerge with feels amazingly light. But set off cold with 40 pounds for a weekend, and the burden can seem unbearable. There are limits, of course. Once, when I was young and foolish, I carried more than 110 pounds (including snowshoes, ice ax, crampons, and twenty-three days’ food) through the snowbound High Sierra. I couldn’t lift my pack; I had to sit down, slide my arms through the shoulder straps, then roll forward onto all fours before slowly standing up. Carrying this much weight was not fun, and I was exhausted by the end of every 12-mile day. I wouldn’t do it again, though the hike through the Sierra was marvelous despite the load. Since then, I have started sections of long treks in remote wilderness with 80 pounds in my pack and found that too much. Only after the first week do such loads slim down to a bearable weight. I now try never to carry more than 50 pounds on any trip. Sometimes I have to break that intention—I had to carry three gallons of water and six days’ food on one section of the Arizona Trail, pushing my pack weight up to 70 pounds—but the exceptions are rare. I find 50 pounds manageable as long as my pack can support the load and I’m not planning to cover more than 12 to 15 miles a day or climb thousands of feet. If I want to cover more distance or ascent, 30 pounds is my target pack weight, since I’ve found this to be the weight at which the load starts to slow me down noticeably. On one- or two-night trips, the average weight, including food and fuel, is now 20 to 25 pounds, a good 10 pounds less than when I started backpacking. The weight goes up for longer trips only because of extra food and fuel, not because I carry more equipment.
If the total weight seems excessive, I look for any item I can replace with a lighter option or even leave out—a lighter fleece jacket, say, or no extra socks. (It’s a bit late to decide you could do with a lighter tent or sleeping bag when you’re packing for a trip, though, which is the reason your original gear choices are so important.) When the only difference between two items is weight, I go for the lighter one every time. The big items—tent, sleeping bag, pack, stove—add weight most rapidly, but it all has to be carried.
I like to know the weight of everything I carry, down to the smallest item. I use a digital scale that measures to the nearest tenth of an ounce. If you can’t decide between two items and the store where you’re shopping doesn’t have a scale, you might want to take yours along. Manufacturer’s advertised weights are often inaccurate, and descriptions such as “lightweight” often bear little connection to reality. I also find that it helps to set maximum target weights and to disregard all heavier items. (See table, page 29.)
As an exercise, I once compiled two lists of gear from a mail-order catalog. The first consisted of standard items, chosen regardless of weight; the second contained the lightest gear in each category. The difference between items was small, often no more than a few ounces, yet the overall weights were 25 pounds for the lightweight gear and 35 for the standard.
I conducted a second exercise for a magazine feature on a spring weekend in wet coastal mountains with two hikers, one carrying his standard load, one an ultralight load that he was testing for a forthcoming Pacific Crest Trail through-hike (which he successfully completed). The standard hiker started with 33.5 pounds of gear and provisions, including clothes and footwear worn and two days’ food; the ultralight hiker carried 19.5 pounds. They started out on a cool, breezy day, wearing a fair amount of clothing and with packs weighing 26 and 12 pounds, respectively. That’s a huge gap. The packs themselves accounted for much of the difference: the ultralight pack weighed 14 ounces, the standard one 76 ounces, a difference of 3 pounds, 14 ounces. Shelter was significant too. The ultralight hiker had a tarp weighing 30 ounces including stakes and groundsheet, the standard hiker a tent weighing 68 ounces. That’s another 2 pounds, 6 ounces. The variation in clothing was also startling. Leaving out clothing worn all the time (boots, socks, long pants, base layer), there was a difference in weight of 2 pounds, 4 ounces, with the standard load including 5 pounds, 6 ounces of clothing, the lightweight one 3 pounds, 2 ounces. Together, pack, shelter, and clothing constituted two-thirds of the difference between the two loads. After the weekend the standard hiker became interested in reducing the weight of his load, feeling he could do so without affecting his comfort, while the ultralighter felt he couldn’t reduce his load any more without compromising comfort too much.
The Ultralight Approach
In the past ten years ultralight hiking has boomed, though it’s still a minority pursuit among most backpackers. A wealth of ultralight gear, books, and Web sites has aided its spread. As the name suggests, it involves using the lightest gear possible and carrying the absolute minimum. If you leave an item at home, you’ve cut its weight completely. Ultralight hikers modify gear too, shaving away every possible fraction of an ounce. Straps are trimmed and labels and even toothbrush handles are removed. When your total gear weighs only 10 pounds, removing ounces makes a difference. When it weighs 30 pounds, a few ounces here and there aren’t so significant. Hiking styles go in cycles, and ultralight hiking has boomed before. Usually it’s received with great enthusiasm; then, as the reality of hiking with minimum gear, especially in wet and cold weather, sets in, pack weights start to rise again. Gear designers can’t help tinkering, either, adding extras here and there until their ultralight gear no longer merits the name, though it might be more comfortable or functional.
There’s always been an interest in how little you need to carry, going right back to the early days of recreational backpacking. John Muir famously traveled with very little equipment or food. In the early twentieth century, Horace Kephart described in Camping and Woodcraft a summer load weighing 18 pounds, 3 ounces without food and a “featherweight” one of just 10 pounds including pack, tent, down sleeping bag, and spirit stove. The current surge in popularity can be traced back to 1992 and the publication of Ray Jardine’s The Pacific Crest Trail Hiker’s Handbook. Ray and his wife, Jenny, hiked the PCT with packs averaging an astonishing 8.5 pounds without food, and Ray described how he did this in that book and later in his influential and provocative Beyond Backpacking.
GEAR FOR A NINE-DAY SUMMER TRIP IN HIGH MOUNTAINS
This hike took place mostly at or abov
e timberline—10,500 to more than 11,000 feet. I expected hot, sunny weather with occasional afternoon thunderstorms and cool but not cold nights. As it turned out, the lowest overnight temperature was 36°F (2°C), and most nights were in the upper 30s and lower 40s. The daytime temperatures were in the 60s and 70s, so I mostly hiked in a trail shirt, shorts, and sandals. I wore the trail shoes on the one rainy day; otherwise the sandals sufficed. A pair of waterproof-breathable socks instead of the trail shoes would have meant less weight and bulk to carry and would have kept my feet drier in the rain. On the wet day I found the EPIC jacket and my wide-brimmed sun hat were enough to keep me dry. I never wore the rain jacket and pants. I wore the two wicking base-layer tops in camp, but they weren’t really necessary. The synthetic sleeping bag was a test item. It kept me warm and comfortable, but a lighter, more compressible down bag would still be my first choice. There were no opportunities to resupply, so I carried all my supplies. The two fuel cartridges lasted the trip. There was just enough fuel left to make a hot drink and some soup while waiting for my ride at the end of the hike.
The author with gear for a nine-day hike in the Uinta Mountains, Utah.
To this must be added 5.75 pounds of camera gear and, at the outset, 18 pounds of food, giving an initial total weight of 48 pounds. Since I wore or carried at least 4 pounds of the basic load plus 3 pounds of cameras, my pack weighed about 41 pounds at the outset and 23 pounds at the finish. The ultralight pack had no padding in the hipbelt and was not comfortable with loads of more than 30 pounds. I reduced the discomfort considerably by threading a padded lens case and a padded compact camera case onto the hipbelt. When I got home I secured foam pads to the belt with duct tape.
Chris Townsend Page 4
