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.
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.
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, while 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.
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 above 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.
Lightweight hiking shades into ultralight hiking instead of being clearly separate. Arguably a pack weight below 20 pounds, including food and water, defines the ultralight hiker. Ultralight hiking works best in summer conditions on good trails in places with generally benign climates and is best suited to those who like to keep moving and spend as little time as possible resting or in camp. It also requires expertise and fitness—there’s no backup gear to get you out of trouble. I’ve tried the ultralight approach on weekends when I wanted to cover high mileage, managing to get my total load down to 16¼ pounds including food for two days (see sidebar, page 30). I enjoyed the light weight, but I worried that any extended period of stormy weather would be unpleasant. I wouldn’t want to travel with such minimal gear for long, but if you’re interested in high daily mileage and stoic enough to endure minimal comfort in camp in bad weather, this could be the way to go.
Even though I don’t try to reduce my pack weight to the absolute minimum—I like a pack with a hipbelt, a roomy shelter, enough warm clothing to sit outside in comfort, a proper stove, a paperback book, and more—my overall pack weight has come down because I’ve incorporated some ultralight items and because there’s been a general reduction in weight of much standard gear. These days my average loads are a good 10 pounds lighter than those from several years ago; the ultralight movement has certainly benefited me and, I think, all backpackers.
Given our interest in unspoiled wilderness, it’s not surprising that many backpackers and hikers are deeply concerned about the environment and involved with conservation groups. This concern spills over into outdoor equipment companies, and many of them are also involved in the environmental movement in various ways, usually by making cash donations. Companies often list the campaigns and organizations they support in catalogs and on Web sites. Some have environmental audits and do their best to minimize their impact on the environment. Many use recycled materials in both products and packaging. Whatever the companies’ motivations (and the more cynical—or realistic—may have doubts about some of them), using recycled materials does less damage to the environment than using virgin materials and is therefore recommended. Patagonia was first on the market with recycled fleece garments way back in 1993, and it still makes these along with other environmentally friendly stuff. It also promotes various environmental and conservation causes through its catalog and Web site (patagonia.com) rather more strongly than most companies. Even some huge corporations pay attention to the environment these days. Nike, for example, has a Reuse-a-Shoe program whereby you can return old sports shoes (any make, not just Nike) for recycling. The rubber from old shoes, called Nike Grind, can be found on several of the brand’s hiking shoes (see nike.com/nike biz).
Using gear made from recycled materials is only a first step, of course. What happens when you’ve finished with it? Donating it to a worthy cause, selling it, or passing it along to friends is preferable to sending it to a landfill.
Buying quality gear in the first place is a good idea too. Top-quality items usually last longest, covering the high initial cost, and perform best, making it less likely you’ll want to replace them. Equipment lasts longer with proper maintenance, too. Annie and Dave Getchell’s The Essential Outdoor Gear Manual covers repair and care of everything from packs to kayaks and is highly recommended. Repair centers exist, but unless you live near one or near an outdoor store that will forward gear, you will have to mail your gear to them, so they’re worth using only for major problems you can’t fix yourself.
TARGET WEIGHTS
For any walk you have to decide exactly what to take. Here I find a checklist essential (see Appendix 1). No two hikes are the same, and I doubt I’ve ever taken exactly the same gear twice. When, where, and for how long you go will determine what you carry. You need to know about the weather, the terrain, and the environment. I work from a complete list of all my gear, then distill a shorter list for the walk at hand. Because I know what each item weighs, I can work out how much gear I’ll be carrying. Adding about 2 pounds of food per day, plus the weight of my camera gear, tells me what the total load will be. At that point I review the list to see if anything can be left out or replaced with a lighter alternative. For a major trip that will last many weeks, I repeat this process obsessively, though this rarely makes much difference. With experience, you’ll probably find that your first list needs only a little tinkering.
ULTRALIGHT OVERNIGHT SUMMER TRIP IN COASTAL MOUNTAINS
One purpose of this trip was to try a pack with no frame or hipbelt and an ultralight load. I covered 30 miles and 8,600 feet of ascent, mostly cross-country in rough, rocky terrain, and the light load made the trip seem like a day hike. The temperature was in the 60s during the day and the 40s at night with no rain and only light winds.
I wore or held 4 pounds of the items above, so my basic pack weight was 12.25 pounds. My camera gear weighed 3.25 pounds, but this was all carried in a padded case slung across my body. I had 3 pounds of food at the outset, making a pack weight of 15.25 pounds and a total weight of 22.5 pounds.
I keep a list of all my gear on my computer. Before each trip I make up a specific checklist, print it out, then check off each item as I pack it—and not before. (It’s all too easy to remember that an item is hanging up drying somewhere, check it off, and then forget to go and get it. I know. I’ve done it.) You can list the gear on a database that adds up the weights for you. There’s even a little program that does this, which I’ve used for a number of years now: the Backpacking Gear Weight Calculator, developed by hiker Chris Ibbeson. You add your gear in various categories along with the weights and any notes you want to remember. For each trip you check the items you want to take and the program computes the total weight. You can get further details at www.chrisibbeson.com/pages/GearWeightCalculator.html.
The highly competitive nature of the outdoor equipment market means that styles and names change rapidly—companies come and go, brand names are taken over, new materials emerge. While many changes are cosmetic and have more to do with fashion than function, some do involve new designs and practical improvements. There are basically four sources for the latest information on equipment: specialty stores, mail-order companies, manufacturers and importers, and outdoor magazines (see Appendix 3). All of these have Web sites, of course.
If you can find a good store with staff members who use the equipment they sell and know what they’re talking about, give it your support. The employees in such a store can keep you well informed and advised. Popping in to chat and look at the latest gear can be enjoyable, too. Being able to handle gear and see it in three dimensions and talk face to face with real human beings beats cyberspace any day, in my opinion.
Paper catalogs still exist, of course, if you prefer them; however, Web sites are now the norm and arguably the best way to access information. If you don’t have a good store nearby, buying through the Web is a good alternative. Equipment Web sites—from companies like Campmor, REI, Backcountry Equipment, and Mountain Gear—often feature equipment comparison charts and may have “house brand” items not available elsewhere. Many small specialty manufacturers whose products you may never find in a store have Web sites. Indeed, the Web has provided the opportunity for these companies to market their gear much more easily.
Gear manufacturers and retailers can hardly be expected to be objective about the gear they make their living from; for that you need to consult outdoor magazines and the plethora of hiking Web sites. Most test and review gear, often in great detail. They also carry news of the latest items and developments. (See Appendix 3.)
The leading specialty magazine for many decades has been Backpacker, which regularly carries detailed comparative gear tests and publishes an annual gear guide (March issue) listing specifications for thousands of items. Backpacker also publishes an Editor’s Choice issue (April) of new gear. I find Backpacker’s gear reviews useful and informative. When the magazine’s staff reviews gear I’ve tried, I usually agree with the findings, though not always. (I’d be worried if I always did!) Outside and National Geographic Adventure cover a much wider field of activities but often have features of interest to backpackers. In Canada, the same applies to Explore.
Of the many hiking Web sites, three stand out for their gear reviews. The site BackPackGearTest.org has masses of detailed reviews provided by readers. These vary in quality but can be interesting and useful. Ryan N. Jordan’s Backpacking Light (backpackinglight.com) is more authoritative and has detailed comparative reviews as well as features on lightweight backpacking in general. As of June 2004, Backpacking Light is also a print magazine, published quarterly. The Lightweight Backpacker (backpacking.net) was one of the first backpacking sites and has grown to a vast size. It has both staff and reader reviews, backpacking philosophy, checklists for different types of trips, and much, much more. For general information on ultralight gear, Trail Quest (trailquest.net) has much useful stuff including gear reviews and details of how to make your own gear. Many of these sites sell gear too.
Today, outdoor companies are international. Globalization is the name of the game. Much high-quality equipment from reputable companies is made in the Far East, a region once known only for budget items. You may want to buy gear made at home for patriotic or environmental reasons, but you don’t need to do so to ensure that you’re getting good quality.
It’s wise to check carefully and thoroughly every bit of gear you buy. However reputable the company, and however good the quality control, a faulty item occasionally slips through. It is better to discover that your tent door zipper jams or that the snaps fall off your jacket when you’re home rather than when you’re out in a raging blizzard. Check that stitching is neat and unbroken and that seam ends are finished properly. (With filled garments and sleeping bags, you can’t see the interior work, but if the shell is put together well, chances are the insides are too.) All waterproof-breathable garments should have taped seams; check that the tapes are flat and run in straight lines. The same applies to tents with pretaped seams. You should be able to spot any gross manufacturing defects before they cause problems in the field.
Buy the best you can afford. During a mountaintop blizzard, a few dollars saved on a cheap jacket are meaningless. This doesn’t mean you need to buy the most expensive items or that you can’t go hiking if you can’t afford top-of-the-line gear. There are huge price ranges—especially in clothing, where high prices often just mean the latest style, color, or fabric rather than better performance. Indeed, the most expensive gear is often too complex and heavy for backpacking. The simplest, lightest designs—not the most costly—are best. If you don’t want the latest colors or styles (and why does this matter in the wilderness?), last year’s models can often be had at knockdown prices. Cosmetic “seconds” can be good value too. Before I started testing gear for magazines, and therefore had an endless supply of the stuff pouring through the door, I looked for gear at sales and in surplus stores. My first down sleeping bag had a patch on the inside where it was torn in the factory. This didn’t affect the performance, but the cost was half that of a perfect bag. I used to wear army surplus wool shirts—itchy next to the skin but fine if worn over another layer. I enjoyed sorting through piles of gloves, socks, hats, and other items in surplus stores—a sort of treasure hunt where I never knew just what wonderful bit of gear would turn up. I still occasionally go through the bargain bins in outdoor stores and have to remind myself that I really don’t need another hat, however inexpensive. Web sites like eBay can provide bargains too, though I have never bought anything on them. As I write this, a quick look at eBay’s Camping, Hiking, Backpacking section reveals an REI down sleeping bag for $9.99 “suitable for a youth or small adult” (no other specifications listed) and a new Arc’teryx Khamsin pack for $150 (list price $233) among a mass of car camping gear and some rather dubious “genuine black leather” packs (new, $7.95—for genuine leather!). Thrift shops may have hiking gear too, especially clothing. With care you can put together a top-quality backpacking outfit for very little money from sales, seconds, and secondhand stores. Doing this is certainly better than buying brand-new budget gear that probably won’t last long.
Depending on where and when you plan to go, there are critical items for which money should be no object, but other items need not be expensive or even cost anything at all. You probably have clothing in your closet that will do for most hiking. Remember, too, that good gear isn’t a substitute for skill. Equipment is no use if you don’t know what to do with it. An experienced backpacker can function more efficiently and safely with a minimum of basic gear than a novice can with the latest high-tech designs. Many of us learned with gear that seems primitive now, but it let us get into the wilderness and survive there. Don’t let a lack of gear keep you from getting out there. Just be careful to tailor what you do to your skill level and the gear you have.
One way to cut costs is to make your own gear. This is also a way to design items the way you want. I’ve never made my own gear, but I’ve hiked with people who have and I greatly admire them. I can see that using an item you’ve made gives it a value and personal meaning that a store-bought item just cannot have.
Making complex items like geodesic dome tents is of course way beyond most people’s skills, so home gear making tends to be the province of ultralight hikers who want very simple, basic gear. Ray and Jenny Jardine made their own gear for their ultralight long-distance hikes because they couldn’t find what they wanted commercially. There are details of how to do this in Beyond Backpacking. There also are many Web sites about making your own gear, especially alcohol and solid fuel tablet stoves made from soda cans. The Lightweight Backpacker has a whole section on making gear, with instructions for everything from packs and shelters to stoves and headlamps. Trail Quest has a fair amount of information on making gear too, though it is scattered among the other topics.
When I began backpacking, most items were green, brown, or blue, with an occasional splash of orange. However, the past two decades have seen an explosion of brilliant colors and multihued equipment that shows no sign of abating, to the point where some dully clad hikers—who don’t go to the wilderness to see bright displays of nylon—mutter about “visual pollution.”
Overall, I’m with the “dull crowd” rather than the peacocks. I prefer being inconspicuous when outdoors, blending in with my surroundings without broadcasting my presence like a neon sign. For a while, I was concerned I might be mistaken for someone using the outdoors as a backdrop for pseudomilitary games. At least one bright item of gear ensured this was unlikely (as would a Sierra Club or Greenpeace badge on my pack). Now, however, the outdoors is also used as a backdrop for “adrenaline sports,” which seem to require tight, shiny, and very bright clothing. I don’t like the idea of nature’s being a backdrop to anything, but I no longer worry about being mistaken for those who use it as an adventure playground or a mock battle-field. If I’m going to worry at all, I’ll worry about the future of wilderness.
GEAR FOR A TWO-MONTH ARIZONA TRAIL THROUGH-HIKE IN SPRING
Although this trip lasted two months, the same gear would be suitable for much shorter desert trips in spring or autumn. I took the large, heavy pack because I knew I would have to carry a great deal of water. I carried a gallon for a few hours most days, and three gallons on a few occasions. I took eight small water containers rather than a couple of large ones so that if any of them sprang a leak, most would still be OK. The rigid water container was for filling from trickles and shallow pools. The plastic coffee filter was for filtering visible dirt. Because I was resupplying in small towns along the way, I took a multifuel stove. Automotive gas was always available. Most nights were above freezing, but some were below, and the lowest overnight temperature was 21°F (−6°C).
A different visual issue is photography. When I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, I wore dark blue and green clothing and used a sludge-brown tent. In the photographs, I look like a black smudge, and the tent blends neatly into the background. A bright garment, especially a red one, can give a splash of color that makes a striking photograph, assuming the wearer is meant to be prominent.
Why object to bright colors? There are many vivid hues in nature, but there’s a difference between a field of flowers and a sheet of red nylon. I remember reaching a mountain pass and staring down on a beautiful green bowl dotted with green groves and blue pools and having my eye drawn instantly to a searing yellow tent pitched in the center of a meadow. On another occasion a line of orange- and red-clad hikers dominated a distant ridge, destroying any feeling of wildness and solitude. These are aesthetic reasons, but I think they’re important, especially in popular backcountry areas where blending in helps make the place seem less crowded. Of course if the background is colorful, bright gear may not stand out. A red tent can disappear into the fall colors of a huckleberry-covered mountainside.
Of this total, 5 pounds were worn or carried every day, leaving a basic pack weight of 27 pounds. I also had 6.25 pounds of camera gear; 3.75 pounds of it were normally in a case slung across my body. The remaining camera gear upped the basic pack weight to 29.5 pounds. The pack never actually weighed this little, however, since I always had food, fuel, and water as well. At one point I carried six days’ food (12 pounds) and three gallons of water (24 pounds), which, with stove fuel and extra items like camera film and paperback books, made for a total pack weight of 70 pounds.
On the Arizona Trail above Coyote Canyon.
The basic pack weight was on the high side for a desert hike. On future trips in similar conditions I would take a smaller tarp, an LED headlamp (not available at the time of the hike), and a much lighter rain jacket. I wore the rain jacket for only a few hours. I would also take a pack weighing about 4 pounds or less rather than 6.8 pounds.
I don’t stick strictly to my inconspicuous dogma. Sometimes I have bright items to test (sometimes I’m so embarrassed by them that I try them only in really remote or little-visited areas or, with clothing, when cycling on a road—highways are one place I really want to be noticeable). And in winter all colors tend to look black at a distance except for very pale ones. Against snow, green is just as conspicuous as blaze orange.
Many companies spend a great deal of time and money conducting laboratory tests on equipment and fabrics, and the results often appear prominently in their catalogs, Web sites, and advertisements. There are tests for everything from waterproofness to wind resistance, from heat output to tear strength. Test methods vary, however, so comparing results can be difficult, and each company seems to find a method that shows its products are better than its competitors’. Moreover, although these tests can suggest how a garment might work in the outdoors, they don’t guarantee performance—and performance is often a subjective judgment anyway. This applies especially to warm clothing and sleeping bags—what keeps one person cozy may not stop someone else from shivering. Read and note laboratory test results by all means, but don’t assume an item that works perfectly in a lab will perform perfectly in the real world.
The chapters that follow cover the intricacies of equipment and techniques. Technical details on gear and descriptions of techniques are interwoven because, as I’ve said, no equipment, however good, is of any value if you don’t know how to use it.
The views here are my own, and experienced backpackers will undoubtedly find much to disagree with, which I hope will amuse and entertain them. Those who don’t have enough experience to have strong views of their own should note that many of the techniques and items of equipment I describe are those that have worked well for me. No one can try out even a fraction of what’s available, and there’s plenty of undoubtedly excellent gear I’ve never tried. I’ve named names only to make it easier to illustrate details. So take the things I say as guides, not rules. I make no claim to objectivity. In putting my thoughts on paper, I’ve reappraised my views about gear and techniques. The general outline holds true even if the gear I describe changes form or name or even ceases to exist, as is bound to happen with some items. The reason for describing specific items is to illustrate types of gear and basic principles, not to say that a particular item is the only one to use.