Chris Townsend

by The Backpacker's Handbook - 3rd Ed

Altimeters

  Wrist altimeter-watches have become popular in recent years, mainly owing to Suunto and Casio, which make large ranges. For Alpine and Himalayan mountaineers altimeters are important navigational aids. For backpackers, a map and compass have always been adequate. Initially I was dubious about the usefulness of altimeters for backpacking (and I still don’t think they’re essential), but after using one for over a decade, I now find one very helpful, especially for cross-country travel.

  On an ascent, knowing the height and the time means you can monitor progress and work out how long it will take to reach the top. If you know the height at which you need to leave a ridge or start an ascent from a wooded valley, an altimeter will tell you when you reach that point. During a long traverse on steep, difficult terrain during a ski tour in the High Sierra, I could see from the map that the only safe descent to the valley was through a tiny notch that led into a wide, shallow gully. By using the altimeter I was able to ski through trees in growing darkness directly into the notch. It would have been much harder to find by map and compass alone.

  A wrist altimeter for navigation. The Suunto Altimax.

  Altimeters are barometers—they work by translating changes in air pressure into vertical height. To maintain accuracy, they must be reset at known heights. Temperature changes can cause inaccurate altimeter readings. The best altimeters are temperature compensated, but the least expensive ones usually aren’t. The best way to minimize inaccuracies is to avoid temperature variations by keeping the altimeter at the same temperature as the outside air. For quick reference, you can wear a wrist altimeter on the outside of your jacket.

  The altimeter I currently use is the temperature-compensated Suunto Altimax, which will measure the altitude from −500 to over 9,000 feet at a resolution of 10 feet. I wear it on my wrist, though of course the temperature reading isn’t accurate if it’s worn this way. The Altimax will record the ascent during a trip and the time taken, useful data for future trip planning, and tell you the rate at which you’re ascending or descending, which can be useful in timing your progress. Because it’s also my watch, I wear the Altimax even when I carry the SAK Altimeter knife, which simply gives the height with no other data. And because the SAK Altimeter is also my knife I carry that when I also carry the Sherpa Atmospheric Data Center to measure wind speed, which includes a barometer/altimeter. This means I’m sometimes carrying three altimeters! I’ve compared them at times and found that they rarely disagree by more than 20 feet.

  Navigating by Natural Phenomena

  There are many ways to navigate without a map or compass, but I habitually use only two—the sun and the wind, and then only as backups. Knowing where they should be in relation to my route means I’m quick to notice if their position has shifted. If I’ve veered off my intended line of travel—easy to do in rolling grassland or continuous forest—I stop and check my location. I also check that the wind hasn’t shifted and see what the time is so that I know where the sun should be.

  Learning More

  There are many helpful books for those who want to learn more about navigational techniques. The classic is Be Expert with Map and Compass by Björn Kjellström; a good modern one is David Seidman’s Essential Wilderness Navigator. To learn more than these books can teach, you’ll need to take a course at an outdoor center or join an orienteering club.

  Waymarks and Signposts

  Paint splashes, piles of stones (called cairns, or ducks), blazes on trees, posts, and other devices mark trails and routes throughout the world. (In Norway, wilderness ski routes are marked out with lines of birch sticks.) These waymarks, combined with signposts at trail junctions, make finding many routes easy, but I have mixed feelings about them—part of me dislikes them intensely as unnecessary intrusions into the wilderness; another part of me follows them gladly when they loom up on a misty day. But waymarking of routes doesn’t mean you can do without map and compass or the skills to use them. Useful though it is, I would not like to see waymarking increase. I’d rather find my own way through the wilderness, and I don’t build cairns or cut blazes, let alone paint rocks. In fact, I often knock down cairns that have appeared where there were none before, knowing that if they are left, a trail will soon follow. Painting waymarks in hitherto unspoiled terrain is vandalism. On a weeklong hike in the Western Highlands of Scotland, I was horrified to discover a series of large red paint splashes daubed on boulders all the way down a 3,300-foot mountain spur that is narrow enough for the way to be clear. There wasn’t even a trail on this ridge before. Now it has been defiled with paint that leaps out from the subtle colors of heather, mist, and lichen-covered rock. May the culprit wander forever lost in a howling Highland wind, never able to locate a single spot of paint!

  Trail markers. Know what they mean, but please refrain from making your own—you might confuse future hikers.

  A cairn or duck marks the line of a trail.

  Tree blazes also show the line of a trail.

  Guidebooks

  There are two kinds of wilderness guidebooks: area guides and trail guides. The first give a general overview, providing information on possible routes, weather, seasons, hazards, natural history, and so on. Often lavishly illustrated, they are usually far too heavy to carry in your pack. I find such books interesting when I return from an area and want to find out more about some of the places I’ve visited and things I’ve seen. They’re also nice to daydream over.

  Trail guides are designed as adjuncts to maps. Indeed, some of them include the topographic maps you need for a specific location. If you want to follow a trail precisely, they’re very useful, though your sense of discovery is diminished when you know in advance about everything you’ll see along the way. Some cover only specific trails; others are miniature area guides, with route suggestions and general information. Most popular destinations or routes have a trail guide, and many have several. Since trail guides frequently contain up-to-date information not found on maps, I often carry one, especially if I’m visiting an area for the first time.

  There are a vast number of guidebooks. Good trail guides include the 100 Hikes series from Mountaineers (mountaineersbooks.com); the 50 Hikes series from Countryman (countrymanpress.com); the Sierra Nevada guides from Wilderness Press (wildernesspress.com); the Sierra Club’s guides (sierraclub.org/books), which cover areas from the Smoky Mountains to the Grand Canyon; and the hiking guides from Falcon (now part of Globe Pequot, globepequot.com), which cover a selection of states and wild areas. The Appalachian Mountain Club’s White Mountain Guide, now in its twenty-seventh edition, is a classic for this region. Lonely Planet (lonelyplanet.com) has an increasing number of good hiking guides, including excellent ones to the High Sierra and Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, as well as a good overseas travel guide series. Bradt (bradttravelguides.com) publishes a series of invaluable trekking guides to remote places, from South America to Spitsbergen.

  The big three long-distance trails all have detailed guidebooks. Those on the Appalachian Trail are published by the Appalachian Trail Conference, those on the Continental Divide Trail by the Continental Divide Trail Society, those on the Pacific Crest Trail by Wilderness Press, which also publishes a guide to the John Muir Trail. There are also a couple of very useful annual guides to the AT: Dan “Wingfoot” Bruce’s The Thru-Hiker’s Handbook and the Appalachian Trail Long Distance Hikers Association’s Appalachian Trail Thru-Hikers’ Companion. (See Appendix 2.)

  Trail sign at a junction with distances to trailheads and other trails. Mazatzal Mountains, Arizona.

  On Being “Lost”

  What constitutes being lost is a moot point. Some people feel lost if they don’t know to the yard exactly where they are, even if they know which side of which mountain they’re on, or which valley they’re in. It’s possible to “lose” a trail you’re following, but that doesn’t mean you’re lost.

  I think it’s very hard to become totally lost when traveling on foot; I’ve never managed it
. I was “unsure of my whereabouts” during the week I spent in thick forest in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, but I knew my general position, and I knew which direction to walk to get to where I wanted to go. Although I couldn’t pinpoint my position on a map (indeed, I couldn’t locate myself to within twenty-five miles in any direction, and I’ve never been able to retrace my route on a map), I wasn’t lost, because I didn’t allow myself to think I was. Being lost is a state of mind.

  SORT OF LOST

  On the Pacific Crest Trail, two of us mislaid the trail in the northern Sierra Nevada after a “shortcut” took us off the map. The evening this happened we “camped above a river we think may lead to Blue Lake” (journal entry, June 22, 1982), the lake being the next feature we expected to recognize. My rather confused journal entry for June 23 describes what happened next: “Took three hours before we were back on the trail and even then we weren’t sure where. We must have been farther north and east than we thought. The hill we thought was the Nipple wasn’t and when we’d finally given up trying to reach it we found ourselves traversing the real Nipple just after I’d been talking about Alice in Through the Looking Glass only reaching the hilltop by walking away from it.”

  We didn’t know we were back on the Pacific Crest Trail until we found a trail marker telling us so. Once we knew exactly where on the trail we were, all the other features fell into place, and the terrain we’d been crossing suddenly made sense. That’s when we realized we couldn’t reach the peak we were seeking because we were already on it!

  The state of mind to avoid is panic. Terrified hikers have been known to abandon their packs in order to run in search of a place they recognize, only to die from a fall or of hypothermia. As long as you have your pack, you have food and shelter and can survive, so you needn’t worry. I’ve spent many nights out when I didn’t know precisely where I was. But I had the equipment to survive comfortably, so it didn’t matter. A camp in the wilderness is a camp in the wilderness, whether it’s at a well-used, well-posted site or on the banks of a river you can’t identify.

  The first thing to do if you suspect you’re off course is to stop and think. Where might you have gone wrong? Check the map. Then, if you think you can, try to retrace your steps to a point you recognize or can identify. If you don’t think you can do that, use the map to figure out how to get from where you are (you always know the area you’re in, even if it’s a huge area) to where you want to be. It may be easiest to head directly for a major destination, such as a road or town, as I did in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, rather than trying to find trails or smaller features. Often it’s a matter of heading in the right direction, knowing that eventually you’ll reach somewhere you want to be.

  I don’t mind not knowing exactly where I am—sometimes I enjoy it. There’s a sense of freedom in not being able to predict what lies over the next ridge, where the next lake is, and where the next valley leads. I enjoy the release of wandering through what is, from my perspective, uncharted territory. I never intend to lose myself, but when it happens I view it as an opportunity rather than a problem.

  Checking the map on a high point with a good view of the surrounding terrain.

  COPING WITH TERRAIN

  On and Off Trail

  As long as you stick to good, regularly used trails, you should have no problems with terrain except for the occasional badly eroded section. Don’t assume that because a trail is marked boldly on a map it will be clear and well maintained. Sometimes the trail won’t be visible at all; other times it may start off clearly, then fade away, becoming harder to follow the deeper into the wilderness you go. Trail guides and ranger stations are the best places to find out about specific trail conditions, but even their information can be inaccurate.

  Many people never leave well-marked trails, feeling that cross-country travel is simply too difficult and too slow. They’re missing a great deal. Going cross-country differs from trail walking and requires a different approach. The joys of off-trail travel lie in the contact it gives you with the country you pass through. The 15-to-20-inch dirt strip that constitutes a trail holds the raw, untouched wilderness a little at bay. Once you step off it, the difficulties you will encounter should be accepted as belonging to that experience. You can’t expect to cover the same distance you would on a trail or to always find a campsite before dark. Uncertainty is one of the joys of off-trail travel, part of the escape from straight lines and the prison of the known.

  Learning the nature of the country you’re in is very important. Once you’ve spent a little time in an area—maybe no more than a few hours—you should be able to start interpreting the terrain and modifying your plans accordingly. In the northern Canadian Rockies, I learned that black spruce forest meant muskeg swamps so difficult to cross that it was worth a detour of any length to avoid them; if the map showed a narrow valley, I knew it would be swampy, so I would climb the hillside and contour above the swamps; if it showed a wide valley, I would head for the creek because there probably would be shingle banks I could walk on by the forest edge. It’s useful to be able to survey the land ahead from a hillside or ridge—for which binoculars are well worth their weight—and I often plan the next few hours’ route from a hilltop.

  A well-constructed mountain trail. The John Muir Trail below Selden Pass. Note the rocks lining the trail to keep it in place and the smooth tread.

  A trail through a meadow edged with stones.

  A sketchy trail above timberline. Glacier Peak Wilderness, North Cascades. Keep an eye on the map in areas where trails vanish.

  Compared with walking on trails, cross-country travel is real exploration, both of the world around and of yourself. To appreciate it fully you need to be open to whatever may happen. Distances and time matter far less once you’ve shrugged off the trail network. What matters is being there.

  The Steep and the Rough

  Steep slopes can be unnerving, especially on descents. If you’re not comfortable going straight down and there’s no trail, take a switchback route across the slopes. Look for small flatter areas where you can rest and work out the next leg of the descent. Making a careful survey of the slope before you start down is always wise. Work out routes between small cliffs and drop-offs.

  Slopes of stones and boulders, known as talus, occur on mountainsides the world over, usually between timberline and the cliffs above. Trails across them are usually cleared and flattened, though you may still find the going tricky. Balance is the key to crossing rough terrain, and trekking poles are a great help, though you need to be sure they don’t get caught between two rocks. Cross large boulder fields slowly and carefully, testing each step and trying not to slip. Unstable boulders, which may move as you put your weight on them, can easily tip you over. The key to good balance is to keep your weight over your feet, which means not leaning back when descending and not leaning into the slope when traversing.

  Watch your footing on narrow trails on steep, rocky mountainsides like this one in the Ochil Hills, Scotland.

  You may go crazy trying not to slip on the smallest stones, known as scree, though, so you just have to let your feet slide. Some people like to run down scree—a fast way to descend—but the practice damages scree slopes so quickly that it should no longer be indulged—too much scree running turns slopes into slippery, dangerous ribbons of dirt embedded with rocks. Be very careful if you can’t see the bottom of a scree slope—it may end at the edge of a cliff. Because climbing, descending, or crossing a scree slope without dislodging stones is impossible, a group should move at an angle or in an arrowhead formation so that no one is directly under anyone else. Because other groups may be crossing below you, if a stone does start rolling you should shout a warning—“Rock!” is the standard call. If you hear this, do not look up, even though you’ll be tempted to. Instead, cover your head with your pack or your hands.

  A ladder takes a trail over a rock slab in the White Mountains, New Hampshire.

  A line o
f rocks marking where a trail crosses a large rock slab.

  When descending a steep, rocky ridge—like this one on King’s Peak, Uinta Mountains, Utah—take short steps and watch for loose rocks.

  Traversing steep, trailless slopes is tiring and puts great strain on the feet, ankles, and hips. It’s preferable to climb to a ridge or flat terrace, or descend to a valley, rather than to traverse a slope for any distance. You may think that traversing around minor summits and bumps on mountain-ridge walks will require less effort than going up or down, but in my experience it won’t. (Still, I’m frequently drawn to traversing. Heed my words, not my practice!)

  In general, treat steep slopes with caution. If you feel uncomfortable with the angle or the ground under your feet, retreat and find a safer way. Backpacking isn’t rock climbing, though it’s surprising what you can get up and down with a heavy pack if you have a good head for heights and a little skill. Don’t climb what you can’t descend unless you can see that your way is clear beyond the obstacle. And remember that you can use a length of cord to pull up or lower your pack if necessary.

  However, it’s unwise to drop packs down a slope; they may go farther than you intend. Bad route finding once left two of us at the top of a steep, loose, and broken limestone cliff in Glacier National Park in Montana; foolishly, we decided to descend rather than turn back, and it took us several hours of heart-stopping scrambling to reach the base. At one point my companion decided he could safely lower his pack to the next ledge, even though he would have to drop it the last few feet. The pack bounced off that ledge and a few more before being halted by a tree two hundred feet or so below. Amazingly, nothing broke—not even the skis strapped to the pack. If we’d lost the pack or the contents had been destroyed, we would have had serious problems.