COLIN: The best dress for walking is nakedness. But our sad though fascinating world rarely generates the right mix of weather and privacy for such freedom, and even when it does the Utopia never seems to last for very long. So you always, dammit, have to worry about clothes.*1
The most sensible way to set about deciding what clothing to take on a trip and what to leave behind is to consult weather statistics (this page) and your own experience and so arrive at an estimate of the most miserable conditions of temperature, wind, exposure, humidity, and precipitation that you can reasonably expect to suffer. The worst conditions recorded in at least 20 years. Then all you have to do is judge what you need to take to keep you warm under daytime conditions when you are wearing everything and doing something or at least are only sitting down and doing nothing for short intervals. If you hit this target around about center you can feel reasonably sure that at night, with shelter and sleeping bags selected to match, you will sleep tolerably warm under the bitterest conditions possible if you wrap yourself up in every stitch of available clothing that remains dry. During the day, if you stop doing anything for any length of time and begin to feel cold, or even think that you might soon feel cold, then—provided your clothes and the weather are dry enough—you simply pupate inside the sleeping bag.
This kind of calculation involves not so much a precise balancing of conditions and clothing as an exercise in extrapolating from experience. But it works. I don’t remember being seriously cold at any time in the last 40 years for more than the few minutes it took me to do something about the problem. And although I have never operated in bitter cold—never below zero, in fact—people such as Chip who do so fairly often seem to apply much the same methods of choice and the same techniques.
This general approach works irrespective of the kind of clothing you wear.
Seventy years ago mountaineers scaled formidable peaks—even challenged Everest—wearing tweed shooting jackets. Fifteen years ago most backpackers wore modified forms of their everyday informal wardrobe. (Down jackets, which transformed outdoor wear more than three decades ago, had already become part of that wardrobe. So had windbreakers.) But new synthetics, and older fibers put to new uses, have now seeded
A revolution in the clothes closet—
a continuing renovation more radical than that assailing any other sector of backpacking equipment.
The primary elements are wicking underwear, fleece or pile insulating garments, and waterproof/breathable shells. These three basic ingredients and their variations, alone or with addenda, can constitute a layered system for backpacking in all nonextreme temperatures and in almost any kind of rain you can nightmare up. For the moment, I shall speak of a simple, idealized system—though one of its advantages is that it can be modified to meet the demands of widely differing conditions as well as those of tradition, habit, and idiosyncrasy.
offers solid advantages. Its constituent items are lighter, sometimes more durable, and generally less expensive than traditional equivalents. Properly used, they’re more flexible. Above all, they work far better than traditional garments when they become wet, either from sweat or from rain that has penetrated the “waterproof” shell. Finally, each item, raw or slightly modified, can become—as the down jacket and windbreaker quickly did—a standard part of everyday town wardrobes.
The seeds of the clothing revolution, planted years ago and cultivated by succeeding generations, are now bustin’ out all over; and while it’s just possible that the garden will fail to flourish, I doubt it. A burgeoning band of backpackers, particularly in such aqueous places as the Pacific Northwest, became such dedicated converts to the three-layer system that they convinced the rest of us—except for a few holdouts. For an occasion on which I found it excellent, see this page.
In addition to that system there’s the older but never acutely popular vapor-barrier system—which can be used as an extension of the three-layer system. We’ll examine it in due course.
Before attempting to compare traditional clothing with the slew of new systems we must take a closer look at the newcomers. But first it might be wise to review
The prime purpose of clothes.
For the moment, we’ll ignore protection from rain and sun and also such ancillary matters as beautification and conventional decency (aka prudery), and will consider only warmth. And warmth only in a simple sense. For the different kinds of heat loss and heat barriers, see this page.
Beginner backpackers sometimes overlook two basic and obvious facts. First, when you put on clothes for warmth you are not “keeping the cold out,” as the old saying has it; you’re conserving heat from the only available source—you. Second, you normally wear clothes not to make you as warm as possible but to maintain thermal equilibrium—that is, a state in which your heat production roughly balances your heat loss and you remain within your comfort range whether you’re sitting still, being active enough to sweat like crazy, or, most demanding of all, sitting still after sweating.
To achieve thermal equilibrium under changing conditions your wardrobe must be versatile. Gross adjustments can sometimes be made by putting on or taking off layers in response to the weather and what you are doing. But that’s often foully inconvenient or even impractical, especially in cold or wet. So you aim for as broad a range as possible over which each item or combination of items will maintain you in comfort. Generally speaking, this is best achieved by clothing that will trap dry, still air and therefore insulate you but will also, when you’re being active, allow water vapor from your sweat to pass through and escape. Your sweat can then do its job of cooling you by extracting from your body the latent heat needed for water to turn to vapor. But if the clothing absorbs some of the moisture and therefore remains damp when you cease your activity and stop sweating—as old-fashioned wool does to some extent, and cotton markedly—then the absorbed water will not only reduce the clothing’s ability to hold dry air and so impair its insulative value but will also continue to draw from your body the latent heat needed to turn the water into vapor. Result: you suffer from after-exercise chill. Experiments at the U.S. Army Research Institute of Environmental Medicine showed that “with an absorptive textile [wool-nylon] the after-exercise chill is large and persists for about two hours but with a non-absorptive type [fiber-pile] it is negligible.”
This efficiency in circumventing after-exercise chill is a big reason for the ongoing popularity of the three-layer clothing system.
Some of the fabrics used in the system are now known quantities, but others have only recently achieved widespread success, at least in the backpacking field, and it seems certain that, as almost always happens during any evolutionary process, things will continue to develop. By the time this edition appears some of the current buzzword trade names may have melted away. Perhaps a fiber or two will have been superseded. So in trying to describe what is happening I shall bear in mind that we are living through the rapidly shifting arc of an ongoing continuum. Rather than simply name names, Chip or I will try to describe those properties that fit the new fibers and fabrics so snugly into the backpacker’s clothes closet. With luck, you’ll be able to penetrate beyond outdated trade names and understand the functions of replacement equivalents.
The strata of the present three-layer system are:
1. Next-to-the-skin layer,
2. Insulating layer,
3. Wind- and/or waterproof shell.
Next-to-the-skin layer
The breakthrough in materials came with polypropylene. Now often known as polypro, it’s one fiber in the larger group of polyolefins—sometimes called just olefins; but for our purposes all these terms are interchangeable. The very durable fiber—derived from propylene and ethylene gases—was the lightest and least expensive of the new synthetics. It also absorbs only 1 percent of its weight in moisture. It therefore wicks moisture away from the skin very rapidly by capillary action. (Please don’t ask me to explain “therefore”: the molecular processes remain unclear to me and, as far as I can determine, to everyone else.) The fiber’s nonabsorbency also means that polypro fabric dries out very quickly. One booster told me that “if you put a polypro undershirt in a bucket, then swing it twice over your head and put it on, within a minute it will be bone dry and you will be warm.” I promptly carried out the experiment (purely for you, O buster, bustress), and I have to report that in spite of modifying the prescription to a sextupular waving and subsequently encasing myself in a pile jacket I was back at my desk five minutes later, agreeably warm but clammily short of dry. So our booster trafficked in hyperbole. It’s probably true, though, that if you fall profoundly into the drink a polypro (or other synthetic) undergarment will dry out faster and more comfortably than anything else now known. But polypro was not perfect. The stuff melts at 385°F and therefore can’t be ironed. If put in a dryer at high heat it would shrink, skulkingly. And some users reported that “It’s hard to get the smell of sweat out of the stuff. If you’ve worn it for ten days you may need to wash it twice—with a lemon-scented soap.” More serious was the comfort quotient: the simple, extruded, monofilament fabric, though acceptable to most people in low temperatures, tended to feel itchy as things warmed up.
CHIP: I still keep a few of those original Helly Hansen and Patagonia polypro undershirts and drawers—more for reference than for everyday use. They have a plasticky feel and a disturbing tendency to act Velcro-ish with my short and curly hairs—along with vicious butt and armpit chafing. The reason we liked them was that they didn’t absorb moisture and instead wicked it away from our tender skins. So we might have been itchy and stinky, but we stayed warm. New generations of synthetic fabrics are more efficient at keeping us comfortable while feeling softer and stinking much less. For the most part, trade names change so fast that even I can’t keep track. But the few that catch on seem to last, even as the makers change the fabrics themselves. Capilene (named, I’d guess, after El Capitan in Yosemite), a polyester from Patagonia (the outdoor-clothing makers in California, not the sheep-raising region in Argentina), was soft on the skin and dependably washable, though debates raged about its effectiveness. But the newest version of Capilene soothes all qualms except price. In tops and bottoms ranging from $30 to $70, it comes in four weights—silk, light, mid, and expedition—that are typical of next-to-the-skin garments in general.
Except for light briefs and bras, next-to-the-skin clothing is no longer strictly underwear, except in the sense it’s sometimes worn under garments called outerwear Some walkers add a pair of shorts, for modesty’s sake or to keep from tearing holes when sitting on rocks. Whether you take this to mean that our sense of what’s proper is all shot to hell or that practicality has finally triumphed is up to you. In any event, items like synthetic T-shirts and stretch fleece can be worn alone; over a thin, wicking layer; or under a shell. So, as categories go, this one’s increasingly elastic.
The compounding of today’s fibers and fabrics has grown so madly complex that I’ll shy away from microspecifics. But some solid generalities might help. The first is that our clothing is now engineered from the molecules up. A synthetic compound such as nylon or polyester is chosen for strength, resilience, and water repellency. The resulting fiber may then be treated with a polymer, like DuPont’s Teflon, to make it repel not just water but also stains and body oils. Or it can be combined with another fiber that has different properties. For instance, a nonabsorbent (hydrophobic) core can be surrounded with a highly absorbent (hydrophilic) casing to create a wicking fiber that passes moisture without absorbing, proportionally speaking, very much. Another trick is to create not just fibers but whole fabrics with two or more layers of different materials. The original Duofold underwear—cotton next to the skin and wool outside—was an early shot at this. Newer blends—for instance, Du Pont’s Supplex nylon with stretchy Lycra—are widely used for outdoor-sports briefs, tights, bras, and shorts. Other successful skin snuggers from Du Pont are CoolMax and ThermaStat (see also Socks, this page).
New fibers combined with intricate weaving and knitting techniques now yield relatively thin fabrics with, for instance, a wicking inner face of one material, a stretchy matrix of another, and an outer layer of a third that blocks wind or repels water. To deal with the ever-present stink factor, some next-to-the-skin fibers incorporate chemicals such as zeolites that can either prevent odors from being absorbed or some, like n-halamines (stabilizers for chlorine compounds), that wipe out funkbrewing bacteria. Which leads me to speculate that someday instead of pumping water through a filter we might just strain it through our underwear.
Utterly new for regulating skin temperature are phase-change materials. One such material now on the market is Outlast, tiny beads of wax encapsulated in plastic. How does this stuff work? When a solid melts, the molecules break loose from their regular pattern and begin to circulate freely. The process of overcoming the bonds between molecules in a solid state requires a great deal of energy. A calorie, by definition, is the heat needed to raise 1 gram of water 1°C. But raising that gram of water the 1° from ice to liquid takes 80 calories. This energy hump is called the heat of fusion. When the liquid is cooled and solidifies, the heat is released. Since wax can be formulated to melt at a temperature just below that of the skin, there’s no doubt that it can store body heat and release it. But the amount of heat needed is proportional to the total mass of the wax. The problem is whether a sufficient mass of wax can be placed in a fabric to make a real difference. Various phase-change materials are being tested at Colorado State University, and I’ve asked the researchers for some numbers rather than the high-velocity sales pitch and flashy diagrams the company hands out.*2
The next big thing in your pants might be polyethylene glycol. (Automotive antifreeze/coolant is either ethylene glycol, which is toxic, or propylene glycol, which is less so.) Developed by Tyrone Vigo, of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, polyethylene glycol is a polymer molecule shaped like a spring. It also acts like one, extending its coil as it absorbs heat or tightening to release it, for a temperature-moderating effect. It can be formulated to act at different temperatures. Being hydrophilic, it also draws water quickly away from the skin. Tom Lister, of the patent holder Wisconsin Global Technologies, claims that fabric bonded with polyethylene glycol not only moderates temperature but is nontoxic, antimicrobial, odor-free, anti-static, anti-wrinkle, and non-shrinking. Coming soon to a backpacking shop near you.
But good old natural hemp, which owing to antiquated laws can’t be grown for fiber in the U.S., is gaining a following. It apparently can be grown with much less environmental damage than cotton and is quite rugged, though somewhat coarse in texture. Both pure and blended, it’s showing up in shirts, shorts, pants, and accessories from companies like Seattle’s Manastash and Portland’s Deep E Company.
In the midst of synthetic miracles, wool is also making a comeback. John Gans, the head of the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS), tells me that the only natural fibers they stock in their retail shop are socks made of wool. SmartWool socks (this page) are well known for their comfort and durability, and now the same company is resurrecting wool for long underwear. The top-grade merino wool is processed to remove the parts that cause shrink and scratch. After that, the fibers are coated with something or other, to replace the smelly-but-effective natural oils. The result is a soft, springy, itch-free knit. Merino signifies a breed of sheep with notably soft wool. Lamb’s wool is, of course, from lambs, who are only young once. Virgin wool (having actually herded sheep, I’ll bypass the usual joke) is the first shearing, softer than what grows out afterward—but the fineness varies markedly according to breed. Virgin merino wool is doubly soft. New wool is anything that hasn’t been used before. Reprocessed wool contains mill scraps, recycled blankets, and the like, so the fibers are cut or broken, making them stiff and itchy—best for felt clogs and pac-boot liners. Despite being unable to stand regular wool against my skin (I break out in a rash) I tried a prototype pair of SmartWool longjohns. Their first outing was a winter solo on snowshoes in up-and-down country, with a full pack.
On that trip in the Snowy Range, I wore the midweight SmartWoolies for four days straight—sans itch. It snowed 8 inches, then blew like the devil. After which, it was sunny, sweet, and clear. The lows were around 10°F, highs about 40°. Given that trip, and some shorter ones, my impression is that the SmartWool longjohns are at least as comfortable and unodiferous as the best synthetics, perhaps more so. They aren’t as rugged, though. After a year, the parts that stretch—cuffs and knees—have developed holes.
But back to the problem at hand. More than getting cold, my problem is building up such thermonuclear heat on the uphills that I get sweat-soaked, and eventually chilled. What’s going on? When my skin gets warm, the first thing that happens is that the capillaries open up to circulate more blood, recycling the excess heat: this is called the aerobic stage—the best stage to be in while exercising. If the increased circulation doesn’t lower my skin temperature enough, my sweat glands kick in, to cool me down by evaporation. When liquid water changes state and becomes vapor at the surface of the skin, a tremendous amount of heat is lost: the heat of vaporization is 540 calories per gram, nearly seven times as much as the heat of fusion required to change ice to a liquid. It’s also five times as much heat as it takes to raise water from the freezing point to the boiling point.
If the layer next to my skin sheds all this heat, I’ll cool down fast, maybe too fast. The champions of SmartWool claim that it balances moisture transport and absorption in a way that quickly cools the skin, keeping it in the aerobic phase, without releasing all that heat to the outside air. Which is precisely what the synthetic phase-change materials are intended to do. The box my SmartWoolies came in shows two thermographs comparing heat loss from a layer of wool and one of polypropylene. Wool wins, of course. But there’s not much unalloyed polypro around these days. And as the new generation of multicomponent and phase-change synthetics lopes onto the field, who knows?
Some fabrics, like the zeolite-impregnated ZeO2 from Mountain Hardwear, have qualities like odor-resistance and wicking particularly suited for next-to-the-skin wear. Others in this class are Malden Polartec 100 fleece, in both regular and chamois-like microfiber versions, and Polartec Power Dry. While intended for use as a base layer, these mid- and expedition-weight garments can be worn alone, or over a lightweight base for insulation. Some, like Malden Power Stretch, of 60 percent polyester, 30 percent nylon, and 10 percent Lycra, lend themselves to a variety of uses. A lightweight pile, Power Stretch has a glossy, wind-cheating, abrasion-resistant nylon jersey side and a bum-cuddling polyester velour side. Tights made of it, for instance, can be worn with the fuzz next to the skin as a base layer, or reversed over lightweight underwear to insulate. But that takes us well into the second layer, where most convective insulation comes from
Fleece and pile.
Traditionally, fleece is what covers a sheep and pile is what that unlovable critter leaves behind. For backpackers, though, they both mean warmth in varying degrees.
COLIN: Fleece and pile garments are mostly made of polyesters: the fiber is stiff and springy (in technical jargon, “has a high modulus”) and therefore holds the fabric in a lofted position that effectively traps dead air, the prime insulant.
As a backpacker’s word, “pile” demands some definitions. It’s often used, generically, as I have so far used it, to encompass a group of fabrics that includes “fleece” and “bunting” as well as a different end product known specifically as “pile.” All three fabrics are made from the same base—a rather thin, dense knit that looks like terry cloth. First, this base passes through a “napping” machine: a series of rollers with very sharp wire wrapped around them (hooked and straight wire alternating). The wire picks out and rakes up the loops on one side of the “terry cloth.” The result is a fluffier but still fairly dense fabric: “fleece.” Fleece napped on both sides is called “bunting.” (Polarfleece and most other backpacking fleeces are buntings.) To make “pile” you subject single-sided fleece to further processes. A “napper” machine with very sharp, straight-wire “brushes” frees and combs out the fleece’s entangled surface. Next, the heated cylinders of a “polishing or ironing” machine make the fibers stand erect—and stay that way. Finally, a “shear” machine cuts off wild and uneven fiber. The resultant “pile” is a very open fabric, five times as thick as the terry-clothic base. At present all piles used in backpacking garments are single-sided and about half an inch thick.*3
Piles and fleeces have been around for many years (in carpets, warm-up suits, and teddy bears, for example), but only a couple of decades ago were they introduced as backpacking clothes—by Yvon Chouinard, founder of Patagonia.
At first Chouinard and others used only pile—in the narrower sense of a one-sided, sheared fabric. It filled the bill admirably. The durable fabric makes rugged clothes with a life span still undetermined. Because of its resilience you suffer no cold patches at such pressure points as elbows or knees. The fiber’s high conductivity means that when you put on a pile jacket you experience an immediate sense of warmth—“like slipping into a bed with flannel sheets,” says one aficionado. (For less positive words on the quality of its warmth, see this page.) Polyester wicks almost as efficiently as polypropylene (and various treatments and processes have greatly increased its wickability), so the open-structured fabric dries out very quickly. If it gets soaking wet you can take it off and wring it out, and even while your body heat is drying it out the stiff, springy fibers retain their loft and you remain at least reasonably warm. (“You only need one experience with a wet down jacket,” a certain mountaineer told me, “and you’ll convert to pile.”)
In other words, pile may be less efficient, weight for warmth, than new, dry down, but unlike down it’s always functioning at or close to optimum. That’s why it quickly caught on among boaters and especially kayakers, among fishermen (it doesn’t compress to uselessness under waders), and now among backpackers—notably those who haunt soggy places. Pile also dries quickly, of course, after washing. And you can wash it easily—and repeatedly, to the point where down would simply give up—without causing harm. That makes it perfect for kids: if they wallow in dirt you just throw the jacket in the washer; and if they roll in the snow it will, I’m told, “be dry before you go brush it off.”
Polyester pile (and fleece) has a rather high fiber friction, and you may experience some difficulty in slipping your arms down the sleeves, especially if you’re wearing a chamois shirt. This is an old difficulty with other fibers: hence satin linings in formal suits. Nylon pile offers less friction than does polyester pile and retains its shape rather better (all piles stretch somewhat with use and then tend to fit better). But nylon pile is a somewhat less efficient insulator than polyester. So is acrylic pile, which once dominated the overall pile market.
Though very good indeed, those first-generation piles fell short of perfection. They compressed very little and therefore tended to take up a lot of room in your pack. Because of their open texture, most of them gave very little protection from wind. And the pile’s lack of elasticity meant that jackets required ribbed cuffs and waistbands to prevent warm air from bellowing out. The trouble with this arrangement was that the polypro ribbings sucked water from the pile and dried very slowly. They were the only reason ever to put a pile garment in a dryer. And dryers—especially large commercial ones—can raise problems. At 350°F polyesters “cook”: colors change, and so does the very nature of the fiber. (Some suffer damage at temperatures as low as 120°.) So if you must use a dryer, stick with the LOW or DELICATE setting. Beyond that, you really have to “blow it” to damage pile.
With a few exceptions, early pile was hardly fashion-plate stuff. And because pile garments were worn with the “roughed up” surface inside, to hold air better, the unattractive unbrushed surface was what the world saw. What’s more, wear and washing tended to make the surface “pill,” or generate little balls of fluff. To reduce pilling, the outsides of some piles were resinated—but that made them “boardy.” All in all, no one would accuse pile of beauty. Some called it plain ugly. And that’s where fleece came in.
Double-sided fleece is good-looking stuff. (Recent improvements have markedly reduced the pilling that it, too, used to suffer.) And because general-use “soft goods” now loom large in the turnover of most mountain shops, there’s a tendency for makers and retailers to recommend fleece jackets as good garments for both town and backcountry. Up to a point, they’re right. Fleece can indeed do both jobs. But it won’t do as good a backpacking job as pile: the material is denser and therefore a less efficient insulator, ounce for ounce; and while it wards off the wind rather better (not a crucial factor, as we shall see), its density means it breathes less well and therefore has a narrower range of use. Worse still, dual-purpose garments tend to be designed with one and a half eyes on fashion and therefore to be heavier, more expensive, and less functional than they should be for the backcountry.*4
CHIP: I first saw synthetic fleece for backpacking duds when I worked at Trailhead Sports in Logan, Utah. On fondling a prototype Synchilla pullover, I (loyal to my pile jacket) informed the Patagonia rep that the stuff would never catch on. Why? Because it looked too much like baby pajamas—the kind with embroidered bunnies and the feet sewn shut. He just laughed. And 20 years later, Patagonia racks up $182 million in annual sales, much of it from fuzzy, fussy fleece.
Being thus humbled in matters of prediction, I’ll take a run at the current state-of-the-fleece. Patagonia’s original Synchilla Snap-T is now made from recycled plastic bottles, and more fleece garments ought to be. A lot of the fleece used by Patagonia and others is made by Malden Mills of Lawrence, Massachusetts. A family-owned firm that continues—despite a major fire and rebuilding process—to thrive in its original location, Malden Mills is committed to “quality, to long-term relationships with customers, and to workers and the community that helped build the business.” It also has a crack research-and-development team. In some cases, Malden Mills works with clothing makers like Patagonia and Lowe Alpine Sports to develop new fabrics. This is done under agreements that give the clothing maker a year or two’s exclusive run with the new textile, after which Malden can place it on the general market. That’s why new fabrics show up first under high-end labels in specialty shops and a few years later cover the whole map, from L. L. Bean to Wal-Mart.
Using Malden as our map—as far as fleece goes—here’s a rundown of some recently availables for the insulating layer.
Lightweight fleeces like Polartec 100 are a good insulating layer for active pursuits, like carrying a pack up mountains or ski mountaineering. Generally, this type of fleece stretches in one direction, is not particularly windproof, sheds a bit more fuzz, and pills more quickly than the heavier grades. Used for pullovers, vests, and tights, it’s often doubled up for collars, cuffs, elbows, knees, and other high-wear spots. Despite that, it’s not fragile and is comfortable as hell.
Polartec 200 is standard-weight fleece, used for year-round pullovers, vests, and hats and for cold-weather pants. Besides the ubiquitous two-faced fuzz, some midweight fleece is now made with microfiber, to give both a fuzzy and a chamois-like face, with more wind resistance and in some cases antimicrobial properties. Bi-Polar fleece is not for people with severe mood swings. Instead, it has a pill-resistant outer side with a fluffy shearlinglike inner. This type of fleece, with the addition of a hidden barrier membrane, is called Windbloc. It didn’t catch on at first, but is growing in popularity for vests, hats, and particularly for gloves. My first try with Windbloc was a pair of Lowe Alpine gloves that I sized up as good for skiing. I took them on a winter solo in the Wind Rivers to use as liners and ended up leaving my mitten shells in the pack. I’ve since added a Windbloc vest to my armory. (Windstopper is the Gore equivalent.) Like most midweight fleecies, these can be worn as an outer layer or under a shell.
Real fleece (i.e., from sheep) reenters the field both in 100 percent merino or lamb’s wool for jerseys, vests, and pullovers, some washable. It also shows up in blends with Lycra (for tights). A company called Ibex in Woodstock, Vermont, is beating the natural-fiber drum hard enough to draw considerable notice. Schoeller has come up with a wool-nylon blend called Skifans that is light, tough, windproof, and sort of water-repellent; Ibex uses it in a range of clothing that gets raves from those in the raving business. My recent experience with the SmartWoolies suggests that we shouldn’t write off sheep quite yet—as sources of fiber, that is. Schoeller also makes synthetic Dryskin Extreme, a layered fleece that wicks, insulates, and repels water. Cloudveil, a Wyoming outfit, uses it in the classy Serendipity Jacket (1 lb. 1 oz., $240) and Symmetry Pants (1 lb. 2 oz., $199). The advantage of this stuff is that you can use it as your outer layer in anything short of a downpour.
Back to Malden: Polartec 300 Series fleece is mostly used for zip jackets and vests, like Lowe Alpine’s Aleutian 375 jacket and vest. With a close-cropped outer and shearling inner, Polartec 300 resembles the pile that we started with but is lighter and warmer.
At present Malden’s cutting-edge fleece (forgive the mixed metaphor) is Polartec Thermal Pro, with mysterious hollow interior “pillars” that increase insulating capacity without adding weight and bulk. Still in the way-exclusive realm, it shows up in Lowe Alpine’s technical Core Jacket and Core Vest, both with nice pockets and strategic panels of Power Stretch.
It’s also used in Patagonia’s new Regulator fleecies, which come in three weights. The reviewers at Backpacker like them extremely well: “Warm, soft, nonabsorbent, and virtually indestructible,” says equipment editor Jonathan Dorn. “After using three Regulator jackets, I no longer equate the warmth of fleece with its thickness,” says Southwest editor Annette McGivney.
“Three jackets?” says Chip Rawlins, who intends to wait for the booming and zooming to pass, and then (after the price drops) to take an unhurried look.
Outer shell material
COLIN: A shell acts as both windbreaker and rain jacket. At present it’s usually made of some-waterproof-breathable-Tex or other—which we’ll discuss under Rainwear (this page).
A few further notes on the three-layer system:
As promised, we’ve delineated a simple, idealized system. It will often prove adequate in that form. But it’s wide and pleasantly open to modification. If you like to wear a cotton T-shirt when moving in warm weather you’re free to do so with no more penalty than an extra 3 or 4 ounces—dry weight, that is: soaked and wrung out, it weighs over a pound. But remember to take off the sweaty T-shirt before you bundle up in “the system”; otherwise, the wet cotton will nullify the wicking warmth of underwear and pile/fleece. If habit or tradition dictates a wool shirt or even a thin down vest, well, that’s fine too. I still often take a thin wool shirt for halts, and even around camp. But once again you must guard against damp wool fouling up the wicking system. In bitterly cold weather you can, of course, add compatible layers to the system over your insulating jacket: a sleeveless pile or fleece vest (pretty damned bulky) and/or a pullover of some sort, with a deep-chested or full-length zipper for versatility (and ventilation).
I’ve deliberately concentrated so far on upper-body protection. Under normal backpacking conditions your prime consideration should be head and trunk: if they are warm, and reasonably dry, you’ll likely be comfortable—as long as you keep moving, anyway. Old-style clothing—even shorts—will take care of your legs. But really low temperatures may demand full three-layer leg protection.
As addenda to the system or even possibly as replacement items, there lurk in the wings both old reliables like down and several “high-tech” materials. But in order to understand how the new materials work we had better pause for a look at
The ideal insulator for clothing has to meet demands different from those made on an insulator for sleeping bags (wherein the sleeper maintains a roughly constant metabolic rate). The clothing insulator must be able to cope with radical metabolic changes: when the encasee is sitting still it must, as in a sleeping bag, retain all possible heat; but when he’s active it must draw the heat off, or at least allow it to escape.
The achievement of these already conflicting tasks is further befouled by the existence of four different kinds of heat loss, and therefore four kinds of heat barrier. The percentage of loss by each route, far from being constant, varies according to the channels open at the time.
Convective heat loss—the most common form—occurs when air (or, occasionally, water), after contact or near-contact with the body’s surface, moves away and carries heat with it. Under normal conditions, convection accounts for the highest percentage of the body’s heat loss, and most heat barriers are therefore convective: they encapsulate the body in a layer of dead air, an excellent insulator. Convective heat loss is measured by the R factor, familiar to anyone interested in insulating a home.
We’ve seen how pile, enveloped if necessary by a windproof shell, acts as a convective barrier. Down or synthetic substitutes such as Polarguard or Hollofil work the same way. Ditto Thinsulate, wool, et al.
Well-designed convective barriers are flexible: when you sit down and button up they keep most of the warmth in; as you become more active your increased body heat tends to drive warmed air out through the porous material; and before things get unpleasantly hot you begin to unbutton or unzip.
Evaporative heat loss comes from the conversion of moisture on your skin into vapor: the latent heat required to bring about this change is drawn from your body. That’s why we sweat: it’s the body’s mechanism for shucking excess heat. See heat of vaporization, this page. It’s a very efficient method—the one we use in refrigerators and air conditioners.
But sometimes—as when we sit down after heavy exercise in sweat-soaked clothing—evaporative loss becomes undesirable and uncomfortable, even dangerous (this page).
Fortunately, efficient modern wickers virtually prevent evaporative heat loss—by removing moisture from the skin before it vaporizes. (For the wickers’ role in preventing loss from insensible sweating, see Vapor-Barrier Clothing, facing page.)
Conductive heat loss occurs when heat passes directly from the body into a stationary medium (air, water, fabric) that’s in contact with it and at a lower temperature. Conductive loss is generally minor. But if you fall in a cold lake you’ll lose heat almost wholly by conduction to the water surrounding you (though some will be convected away by moving water), almost none by radiant heat and absolutely none by evaporative heat. In very cold water the conductive loss may be so rapid that you soon die.
Radiant heat loss occurs without warming of the air through which the heat passes: transfer occurs only to solid objects. The sun heats the earth and other planets by radiation: sunlight doesn’t warm the air directly, only by heating the soil or other solid ground objects, which in turn warm the air by convection. That’s why the air is much hotter 1 inch above sunlit soil than it is 5 feet, or 5000 feet, higher.
Radiant heat loss from the human body is usually minor. But when other channels are closed, that can change, radically. If a naked man stands still in a room at the same temperature as his body, two-thirds of his heat loss may be by radiation. But in practical backpacking situations, radiant heat loss tends to occur not directly from the skin but from the fabric next to it: the body heats the fabric by other channels and then, if the next layer offers direct pathways, the fabric radiates heat outward. (Direct pathways may exist, though: hold a batt of Polarguard up to the light and you can see through its holes.)
Radiant heat loss is prevented by reflective barriers: they turn the heat back toward the body. That’s fine in sleeping bags, because you want to conserve such small amounts of heat as you’re generating. But it’s the opposite of ideal in clothing. When you’re sitting still and in the greatest need of heat conservation you’re generating very little and the reflective barrier has no useful work to do; but when you’re active and producing a lot of surplus heat and the problem is to dissipate it, then reflective barriers work hard, turning back toward the body heat that is not wanted there—except perhaps in the most intensely cold weather.
And that, thank God, is all we really need to know about the theory of insulation.
In outline: vapor-barrier (VB) clothing forms a system designed to conserve the heat loss due to “insensible sweat”—a constant seepage of moisture out onto the surface of the skin that we are unaware of but that occurs independently of internal or external temperatures and continues when we’re at rest, including sleeping. The mechanism’s apparent purpose: to keep skin moist so that it won’t crack or chap.
The difficulty with VBs is “sensible sweat”—the normal, obvious moisture that sweat glands secrete when we get too hot. Its purpose: to cool the body by removing unwanted heat through evaporation (this page). Solution to the obvious overheating and soak-wallow problem: matching armpit zippers, or “pit zips,” on all garments. See this page.
The basic system consists of polypro underwear (not always necessary) and a thin but impermeable jacket; also, for wear outside them, a pile jacket for conserving warmth when you get cool and a rain jacket for when any wind blows. All, remember, with matching pit zips.
I used VB clothing for years and still do occasionally under the right conditions; but although the system has—or at least had—true-believer boosters who see it as the Holy Grail, most people disliked it. And today, except for some VB clothing by Stephenson-Warmlite and VB socks for high-altitude or polar conditions (from Black Diamond, in four sizes, $19), about the only VB items sold are liners for sleeping bags.
Given this market dearth, the long VB section in the last edition no longer seems justified. Space constraints. And if the truly curious want something more than the brief summary above, we can only refer them to Walker III, this page—if you can find a copy. Not a wholly satisfactory solution, we know. But who said this was a perfect world?
Will the new clothing systems—strict three-layer and probable successors—make traditional backpacking wear obsolete tomorrow?
I doubt it. For one thing, we are creatures of habit. Beyond that, we rightly tend to favor things we’ve learned to trust. By their very nature, new systems are still used mainly by an avant-garde—and leaders usually run about five years ahead of their pack. Then there are economics: someone with a good, expensive, traditional backpacking wardrobe is unlikely to rush out and buy a radically new one just because he hears or reads that it works rather better; and many people who backpack only occasionally will no doubt continue to make do with the most suitable of their everyday informal garments (though some of the new stuff is already becoming “everyday”). I’m also willing to bet my bottom layer that many converts will still take along shirts or other old-favorite garments for use when the weather smiles.
CHIP: But since the previous edition of this book, the tables have turned: synthetics are the backpacking standard, while (with the notable exception of socks) natural fibers like loden wool and Ventile cotton are worn mostly by a privileged minority. Since I tend not to tear stuff up, I still have some “traditional” backpacking clothes that will serve for comparison and a bit of trend fuddling besides.
Weight. My old wool mountaineering sweater weighs 23 oz., while my Polarfleece zip pullover weighs 17 (6 oz. less). My original (circa 1984) Moonstone Gore-Tex parka weighs 32.5 oz., while the Lowe Lightflite (waterproof/breathable) Anorak I now use for hairballing weighs 10.5 oz. (22 oz. less). (For definitions of parka and anorak, see this page.) My marvelous Marmot Down Sweater—really a coat without a hood—weighs 22 oz., while the GoLite Coal parka I used on recent winter trips, insulated with Polarguard 3D, weighs 15 oz. without the hood (7 oz. less)—and only 18 oz. with it. My outdoor wool pants weigh 18 oz. and my favorite Polartec tights, 10 oz. (8 oz. less). Underwear: A wool-cotton midweight top is 13.5 oz., while a Mountain Hardwear ZeO2 polyester Zip-T is 9.5 oz. (4 oz. less). For comparable synthetics, the net saving so far is 47 oz. or nearly 3 lbs.: no contest.
Also, as Colin observes, a lot of outdoor garments are “overbuilt”—for instance, if you’re layering you don’t need linings, zippers, drawstrings, pockets, collars, and cuffs on every layer. And if you choose your layers to work together, according to the landscape and season, you can be shockingly comfortable with about half the weight of a haphazard selection of outdoor clothes.
Durability. The best synthetics come close to being indestructible though nothing yet made seems more indestructible than top-grade wool. Careless washing and drying, rather than normal use, seems to be the downfall of both. So it pays to be persnickety—after the trip, when you roll into town, don’t let your goofy partner do your wash (or that pizza and beer might cost you a couple hundred bucks in ruined clothing).
Ease of care. Synthetics—nolo contendere. Though hyper-intelligent wool blends win out in some cases—particularly for socks.
Performance when wet: For the most part, synthetics triumph, particularly the newest multicomponent types. Moreover, when layered with due attention to their performance characteristics (wicking, breathability) synthetics are far less likely to get wet in the first place, and will dry out much faster when they do. To confirm this, I soaked two comparable underwear tops (both of which I like), wrung them out and whirled them around until the drips stopped coming, and then weighed them. Afterward I hung them up in the shade (37 percent relative humidity at 62°F) and weighed them at intervals. The synthetic top dripped two to three times as much water, and I was able to wring more from the lower edge.
That is, while the synthetic top dried faster, both dried overnight. Despite lab tests on single synthetic fibers that show only 1 percent absorbence, when those fibers are knit into clothing they trap considerably more water. After all, steel doesn’t absorb much water either, but a bucket holds quite a bit. In clothing, synthetic fibers dry considerably faster with body heat. But Smart Wool socks seem (based on my chaotic and nebulous impressions) to have superior wicking qualities and comfort in boots (see this page).
Bulk. Down triumphs, and new ultralight and microfiber shell fabrics allow the down to loft like cumulus clouds on a hot afternoon. At comparable warmth, synthetics stuff 30 to 50 percent larger. And repeated tight stuffing and washing flattens synthetics out more quickly—Polarguard seems to be farthest along at combining long life and compressibility (though I haven’t personally tested Primaloft or Lamilite at length). For a given warmth, top-grade wool and synthetic fleece are just about equally compressible, while pile outbulks both. The new micropile (e.g., Power Stretch) can be jammed and crammed to some extent, without harm.
Cost varies like crazy. And since the key Gore patent expired, it’s even less predictable. Since the publication of Walker III, there’s been an overall turnaround—good natural-fiber outdoor clothing now tends to be pricier than synthetics. On the one hand you have Ibex selling a retro-chic Stornoway Parka, in 100 percent Ventile cotton for $245 (the first parka I bought, circa 1969, was Ventile cotton; soaked and frozen, as it often was, it weighed about 6 lbs.), while Red Ledge has a TH-4 synthetic waterproof/breathable seam-taped Thunderlight Parka for $50. At skin level the SmartWool 100 percent merino Zip-T runs $82, while the excellent Lowe Dryflo Zipneck top is $55. The big factors up front seem to be research and development, multiplied by labor costs. A generic fleece jacket sewn by “outsourced” Third World contract labor will cost a third or less of what a fashion-color micro-multi coat from a trendsetter does. And (sad to say) the seller of the sweatshop knockoff is probably taking more profit. The key is not to confuse price with value. I have a Patagonia shelled bunting vest that I got in, like, 1983 (bargain-binned because it was Stark Red rather than Tuscan Umber). It’s still in good shape, having faded to a more tolerable hue, with the original zipper. Eighteen years, and I wear it mucho: winter, spring, summer, fall. That’s value, pilgrims.*5
COLIN: Comfort range. The breathability and nonabsorbency of synthetics mean that they can keep you “in thermal equilibrium” under a wide range of temperatures and activities. (And it’s worth noting that more backpackers are now operating in early spring and again in very late fall, when the summer hordes have hibernated back into cities. Also that the new clothing works fine for skiing.) VB systems, even when constantly adjusted, seem to pose difficulties for many people in the temperate weather that houses most backpacking. Traditional wardrobes stand somewhere between these extremes.
CHIP: Comfort against skin. The plasticky, abrasive feel of synthetics is long gone and so is the hook-and-loop problem. New micropiles, like Malden Power Stretch, are less disconcertingly clingy than silk and older synthetics: you can walk for hours without having to haul them out of your bumfurrow. While the stiff, early laminates were hopeless next to or even near the skin without extensive linings, some of the new flexible shell fabrics, like Gore’s Activent or Lowe Alpine’s Triplepoint, can be worn over lightweight underwear for strenuous hiking with little or no moisture buildup. Being prone to frequent overheating and heavy sweating, I fully expected to get steamed—and was amazed, and happy, not to. On buggy summer eves, I even wear Lowe Alpine shell pants (in Lightflite, the predecessor of Triplepoint Ripstop) over bare legs without stickiness. Such material changes have led me to change my thinking on the three layers somewhat. In cold and difficult conditions, rather than putting a thin layer on my skin, piling on insulation, and then covering the whole with a shell, I now tend to reverse the two outer layers. Wicking underwear is still the basis. But the new multifiber fleeces with wind-blocking membranes and durable water repellency make a strikingly good outer layer, even when it’s raining or snowing a bit. In practice, the body heat I produce on the move keeps the wet from penetrating my outer layer (except perhaps under the yoke and pack). Without an outer shell there’s far less moisture trapping going on. When I stop, and am no longer pumping out heat, on goes the shell. Despite initial worries, I seem to stay warmer and drier. After all, arctic mammals aren’t covered in Gore-Tex, but in layers of fur. And I think of the shell as a portable burrow.
Another tack, in cold or blustery weather, is to wear a wicking base layer (thickness depending on how cold it is) under a thin, flexible shell. When you stop, throw on the insulated coat or vest to keep from chilling down. This puts your lofty insulating layer outside the shell—you stow it when you head out again. Given modest and shelter-seeking halts, this keeps your insulation relatively dry, since you aren’t continuously steaming it up from the inside. I came up with this system on strenuous trips in the Wind Rivers, when our science loads were grindingly heavy and it was hard to keep from sweating, unless we stood absolutely still (not an option). But when we’d reach the sampling site or our base camp and dump our packs, we tended to chill hard. Not wanting to squash my dry down vest between sweaty longjohns and a steamed-up shell, I’d slip it on the outside: Bingo! The formidable Mark Twight recommends this tactic in his book Extreme Alpinism, which, despite his focus on high angles and altitudes, has some razor-sharp ideas for backpackers.
Given their balance of water- and wind-resistance, plus breathability, microfiber shells are perfect for this layer-swapping approach. They are, however, cacophonous in high winds. Last winter, climbing a peak on a howling day, I felt like I was being Uzi-ed by my microfiber hood. But it was simply blowing too hard to do without it. So I finally slipped a fleece headband over the bastard, and it ceased fire.
COLIN: Quality of warmth. Both VB and three-layer systems, though they can keep you comfortably warm and may even at times make you too hot, never seem to generate the “toastiness” that you often experience, even sitting still, when wearing a wool or cotton shirt and down jacket. Almost anyone who has tried both new and old systems will know about the difference. I recently confirmed it by ringing the changes on all three systems within a few minutes one windless evening when the thermometer registered 32°F. Yet I’ve never seen the difference mentioned in print, let alone described. The closest I can come is to say that “plastic warmth” rarely if ever seems to move beyond a mere absence of coldness, while “old-fashioned warmth” can and commonly does become a positive, glowing radiance—a luxurious sense of well-being, a sensual pleasure.
It’s interesting, I find, that at least some textile researchers recognize the difference. But although they like hell want to understand what goes on, so that they can do something about it with improved synthetics, the causes remain unknown. Naturally, the researchers will not admit, officially, that old-fashioned warmth is necessarily “better” than plastic warmth. And I guess it could turn out that the latter is more calorie-efficient or something. Still, sensual pleasure is sensual pleasure. And you presumably go backpacking for pleasure. But pleasure can be measured in many ways, and one of them is by the lightness of your load.
So the future remains sweetly uncertain. My guess, as I’ve said, is that traditional clothing based on cotton and wool and on down or synthetic fills will refuse to fade away, especially in dry, temperate places. But the new systems seem likely to make heavy inroads, especially where backpackers can sometimes expect bitter cold or prolonged rain. And they’ll prove irresistible to congenital equipment freaks. As for your personal choice, you will as usual have to balance the conflicting claims of old and new and then judge which works best for you, and when. To balance, that is, likelihood of getting wet against quality of warmth, to weigh the claims of versatility, and to heft your own standards of weight, cost, and perhaps bulk. I only hope you now know enough to go out and make up your own cotton- or polyester-pickin’ mind.
The woman’s wardrobe
CHIP: Since women are increasingly and independently active as backpackers, we consulted a qualified subcommittee. For 12 years I was married to a dauntless outdoorswoman who helped a lot with testing and comments. Also invaluable to us have been the combined wisdom and experience of the many women who’ve written letters in response to the previous Walkers (for names, see the Acknowledgments on this page), and also those many others who kindly answered questions for this one. Rather than trying to shoehorn their contributions under this one heading, we’ll continue to place them under the relevant ones. If Colin and I still get things wrong on occasions, Great Mother forgive us.
Besides word of mouth and magazine reviews, up-to-date wardrobe information can be had from catalogs such as Title Nine Sports and from Internet retailers such as MountainWoman.com [website is no longer active].
COLIN: By all means consult one of the books by and for women backpackers (this page and Appendix IV). See also Underclothing, next page and this page. And this page for keeping your loved ones warm.
An item of advice from the experienced subcommittee that I coopted for the first edition seems worth repeating. She found that by taking along one attractive garment (“something that makes me feel good”) she helped sustain her beleaguered sense of femininity.
It’s now time, I guess, for us to rummage through
THE CLOTHES CLOSET, GARMENT BY GARMENT.
First, a few general considerations:
For most people, choice of clothing is largely a matter of selecting each individual garment carefully for warmth in relation to weight, for toughness in wear, for versatility in use, for performance when wet, and, in rainwear, for water resistance. Also, I suspect, in response to those obscure promptings, probably aesthetic, that lurk, shadowy and often unsensed, behind most of our apparently logical choices.
On purely practical grounds, it pays to choose clothes that are dark but bright. Dark, so that they won’t advertise the inevitable dirt. And bright (especially red), because you can hardly walk away from camp and leave gaudy garments lying on the ground or hanging up to dry; because if you’re brave enough to go out and walk during the hunting season, a plain-as-a-pikestaff exterior may save your life; because in case of accident, worn or waved clothing may attract rescuers’ attention; and because a small splash of red or orange can crystallize an otherwise amorphous color photograph.
But it has been suggested, with reason, that if backpackers chose inconspicuous clothes (and packs and shelters) it would reduce the visual impact of man on today’s semicrowded wilderness. A set of outer garments in some obscurantist shade of brown or green or gray is certainly worth having for those occasions when you don’t want to be seen: fishing, photographing game, keeping out of people’s way, trespassing.
Whether you call it underwear, inner wear, next-to-the-skin wear, upper-mid-wear, or outer-upperwear, for simplicity we’ll title the next part
Torso housings.
Underclothing. A few people still use old-style fishnet underwear. These rather unlikely looking garments are a lot of big holes tied together with string. At least, the original models were.*6
Today fishnet underwear is hard to find. Wiggy’s still stocks “stringies”—but they’re nylon (tops, $37; bottoms, $33). But whatever the fabric, the holes are the important thing: they are what keep you warm when you want to keep warm and cool when you want to keep cool. To keep warm you button up all outer clothing and close neck and wrist openings. The holes of the fishnet weave then hold air in place close to your skin, and your body heat soon warms this air.
To cool off, you simply loosen the neck opening of your outer garments and allow warm air to escape. Loosening wrist openings speeds up the process. If you get too hot you unbutton jacket and shirt and allow all hot air to be replaced by cold. When you’re unbuttoned like this, air circulates freely, and then a string vest is far cooler than conventional underwear. To get full two-way benefit, wear outer clothing that unbuttons completely down the front and carry a scarf so that you can block off the passage of air at your neck.
CHIP: My one set of net underwear chafed me badly—under the shoulder straps and back panel of my pack and in the all-important territory of my groin. Even lacking fishnet undies, women friends mention chafing around their breasts as a problem on backpacking trips, against which sports bras are the weapons of choice. Given the variations in size and shape (of both women and bras) no single type has emerged as the undoubted favorite—and preferences are fierce. Most sports bras are blends of Lycra and wicking yarns such as CoolMax. Sleeveless tops, whether extended-length sports bras or looser tank tops and camisoles, are also gaining popularity not just as a single layer for hot days but also as underwear—for warmth and to lessen the wear and tear of backpack suspensions.
Synthetic T-shirts are now a unisex staple. Nearly as dear as my own skin is my shirt-for-all-seasons, a Lowe Alpine Dryflo crewneck T (6 oz., $39). The piqué knit feels dry and light, and the dark gray-green is such a good solar absorber that I can rinse out the shirt before lunch, give it a good wring-and-swing, and drape it over a boulder in the sun. With a flip or two, it’s dry by the time I finish eating. I have only one, and wear it so much—not only for backpacking but for midwinter skiing and mid-August runs down desert rivers—that it’s showing fuzz where the sternum strap buckles. The rest, though, is still perfect. And of course, Lowe Alpine just discontinued it. For times when I need to change, a Patagonia silk-weight T (4.5 oz., $32) stands in. Both have proved rugged beyond their heft.
Next up in thickness and warmth are long-sleeved crewnecks: one of lightweight Capilene, one of SmartWool (this page) in 100 percent merino. For medium-cold, these are my base layer and they’re also nice shirts-in-general. On sunny days, I ruck up the sleeves (probably why the rather snug cuffs on the SmartWool top developed holes) and use a bandanna around my neck to prevent sunburn.
Then come the zip turtles, some full, some mock. If I lost everything, a zip turtleneck would be the first replacement item. My Zip-T of midweight green Capilene (9.5 oz., $43) is hanging in after lo these many years, but seams blew out at the side and cuffs and needed restitching. A new midweight, Mountain Hardwear’s ZeO2 Zip-T (9.5 oz., $49), is softer, wickier, pricier, and so far indestructible. When the clouds roll in, a turtle slips easily over a synthetic T-shirt. On midwinter trips, it makes a solid base layer that covers nearly up to my ears, warding off both cold and sunburn, and also unzips to vent. Linda, a longtime Capilenista, also likes both the fit and the finance of Recreational Equipment MTS (Moisture Transport System) stretchies, 92 percent polyester and 8 percent Lycra (at a reasonable $23–$32) in colors like Hyacinth and Zen Leaves. When I asked her if that would help sustain her beleaguered sense of femininity, she said, “Huh?” Dressier still is the Zuni Rose Zip-T (Wild Roses, 9 oz., $65) in Malden Power Stretch, with a pantherine cut, double side seams, and an elegantly rounded collar, in black. The distinguishing mark of new outdoor clothing by women designers is that it combines ruthless functionality with reasonably good looks.
Sloping off the stretchy knits, at times it’s nice to have a woven-cloth shirt with retro features like buttons, long sleeves and cuffs, breast pockets, and a flop-over collar. For slip-on warmth, Colin likes fine wool or Viyella, a wool-cotton blend. For different reasons, I keep an eye out for 100 percent cotton twill with a sky-high thread count. Not only does cotton’s aggressive chilling power work wonders for those burning afternoons but also mosquitoes can’t penetrate it. Over the years cotton twills have spared my all-too-mortal husk many gallons of DEET and probably 7 to 10 million festering mini-welts. Columbia makes nice cotton-twill shirts. There are Supplex nylon lookalikes that last longer and dry faster, but most won’t stop a skeeter beak: I watch. Patagonia cotton canvas shirts are also skeeterproof, but they weigh a ton. So on high-summer, deep-desert trips, I take a cotton-twill shirt that’s ready to give up the ghost. And it does. If I was a shirt, that’s how I’d choose to die.*7
Pullovers. Since we’re rummaging my gear closet, I might as well say that there are no longer any wool sweaters in it, though I have a couple for around town. My pullover range begins with an expedition-weight polyester zip turtle from REI (14 oz., $42) that I seldom wear these days. The successor, a Sage Creek Polartec 100 pullover (10.5 oz., $75) that I got two years ago from Wyoming Wear, now ranks as my most-worn insulation. It stuffs with room to spare in a fanny pack, so it’s gone backpacking, skiing, fishing, paddling, biking, and just as often to the post office and grocery. On winter days, working on this book, I’ve worn it around the house. It also makes a dreamworthy pillow. Though now slightly pilled and balding in spots, it’s in excellent shape considering all I’ve put it through. I find it adequate for all but the freezingest days. For cold-cold I switch to a Patagonia zip Synchilla pullover (17 oz.) that has a light nylon lining in front for windproofing and a zip breast pocket. The current Pata-quivalent is the Marsupial (16 oz., $80), while the newest big thing is their R1 Flash Pullover (10 oz., $98) of Regulator fleece.
Jackets. My pile jacket is a museum piece: navy-blue, with pit zips, a really high collar, deep hand-warmer pockets, and matching inner pockets for drying out gloves, etc. The shoulders are silvered by the alpine sun, and the pile is matted but still springy—or stubborn. I’ve donned it for cutting brush, working on cars, and even crawling under the house to solder pipes. But it won’t die. And I’ve had it so long that if I get a new pile coat, it’ll be jealous. So I’m thinking about sending it back to Sierra Designs for new zippers.
A new and somewhat hybridized category is the bi-component knit thingie with shell. I’m not sure what else to call it. The leader of the pack, as far as I’m concerned, is the Marmot DriClime Windshirt (11 oz., $125). I was a grudger at first, because it looked like a damn golf jacket (not sure why I hate golf, but I do). But the wicking liner wicks, the long tail warms, the CoolMax underarm mesh fights off swamp chafe, and the shell fabric wards off meteorological slings and arrows. It has a nice collar and a zip front pocket, too. I wore it walking, skiing, snowshoeing, and paddling on windy spring creeks. In summer, it could take the place of a fleece top and shell. You can also layer it under a shell parka or insulating jacket. It does give pack waistbelts a thousand tiny legs, but so do all of the floating-shell synthetics. In all, though, it was probably the most adaptable garment I tried.
What’s not in my closet? The emerging rage seems to be Malden’s Polartec Thermal Pro (see this page). This is used in Lowe Alpine’s technical Core Jacket (1 lb. 6 oz., $129) with strategic panels of Power Stretch. Roughly the same fleece goes into Patagonia’s new Regulator jackets, the R2 (1 lb., $120) and the R3 Radiant (1 lb. 6 oz., $134). Backpacker gave Regulator fleece their 2000 Editors’ Choice Award. Another BP award winner is the Ibex Icefall (men’s, 1 lb. 2 oz., $225) and Cirque (women’s, 14 oz., $198) jackets, made of Schoeller Skifans, a wool-nylon blend. But I don’t wear insulated jackets much, having a greater liking for
Vests. If you choose a jacket with no sleeves, the world is your pit zip. A vest keeps your breadbasket warm and your back covered while letting your arms swing free. The stark-red Patagonia shelled bunting vest (17 oz., priceless) I’ve worn for centuries has already been held high as an icon for value. Recently, I tried a Windbloc fleece vest from REI (10.5 oz., $45) that I’ve gotten attached to: it’s teddy-bear brown, warm for the weight, and has that open-cockpit look. If I started feeling expeditious, I’d get something like the Lowe Alpine Core Vest (13 oz., $99), made of Malden Thermal Pro fleece and Power Stretch. But my other favorite vest is down-filled, which oozes us into
COLIN: When Western man woke up a few decades ago to the idea of taking a feather out of the birds’ book and making down-filled clothing as well as sleeping bags (the Chinese apparently tumbled to the idea long ago), the result was so much more effective than anything he had used before that it revolutionized polar and high-altitude exploration. Men could operate with safety and even comfort where they once had to battle simply to exist. Even in kinder environments they quickly accepted the breakthrough with gratitude.
Then, a few years ago, synthetics began to challenge down as quilt filling—at least in part because the cost of down rocketed ruinously (this page). As with sleeping bags, synthetic fills in clothing have steadily gained ground and will no doubt continue to do so. Although still less efficient insulants than down, warmth for weight, and less able to bounce back to full loft after many compressions, they remain markedly cheaper as well as nonallergenic—and, most important, they become far less fatally impaired when wet. For a time Polarguard led. Then it was Hollofil or Quallofil. Now Polarguard 3D and Primaloft battle for the lead. Others, capable of being sewn or blown into baffled garments even more easily, seem on the way. But for some years “quilted clothing” mostly meant “down-filled.”
Down clothing is a special case of torso housing (not to mention leg and extremities housing) because it isn’t really compatible with the new systems and therefore has to stand in unabashed opposition; because it has come to epitomize backwoods clothing and also old-fashioned warmth (this page); and because a good, unimpaired down garment is still the warmest for weight by a significant margin.
Down’s weakness lies in the word “unimpaired.” A down jacket dampened by rain or heavy sweat loses appreciable virtue; soaked, it becomes almost useless—and is the very devil to dry. Grime can also reduce efficiency. So, eventually, can wear and tear and repeated washing. And washing a down garment is a pain in the tub (this page). These drawbacks also apply, in varying degrees, to synthetic-filled garments. Yet, although the much cheaper pile is better on all these counts, quilted garments’ advantages (including their much greater compressibility) will surely keep them around.
Unfortunately, down jackets have suffered the same Detroit syndrome as other backpacking garments: they’ve undergone creeping growth. Virtually all of them have for years been made for polar or mountain expeditions or for working on the Alaska pipeline or, almost as bad, for fashion-conscious urban users. So from a backpacker’s point of view they’ve been overbuilt and overstuffed. For three-season backpacking you rarely need a bulging, Michelin Man, expedition-type jacket. And a light ripstop or taffeta shell will save almost half a pound over a more fashionable one that’s designed to resist showers in town but is unnecessary for backpacking, when you’ll be carrying raingear of some kind. Nor do you really need the rash of pockets beloved by town users, or heavy two-way zippers.
Four decades ago I carried on my length-of-Grand-Canyon trip a simple, hoodless jacket that weighed just 1 lb. 1 oz., and although snow fell during the first two weeks I don’t remember that I was ever cold. For years such stripped-down models have been almost unobtainable—though you could sometimes find sleeveless, lightweight “vests” that weighed around ¾ pound. Fortunately, there seem to be signs, as with other garments, of a return to lighter, more genuinely serviceable down jackets.
Overengineering aside, quilted garments seem, like sleeping bags, to have attained a design plateau of excellence. Fine jackets now come from virtually all the established bag makers, and again there is generally little to choose between them. If you select from a reputable catalog or store a model that seems to meet your requirements of the moment, and examine its workmanship as for sleeping bags (this page), you’re unlikely to go far wrong. But it might pay to check certain details.
Strive for a single rather than two-way zip—and not only because of lightness and expense. In a warm store you may be able to align double sliders fairly easily, but in the field—always in a storm and often in fair weather, even in daylight and when you’re not wearing gloves—the damned things generate wills of their own. And rarely if ever, except perhaps in town, do you need or even want to ventilate by unzipping from the waist. But when I tried to get a single zip put on a jacket being made for me by an experienced manufacturer he said he had none of the right length in stock because the overwhelming demand was for double zips on down jackets.
When pervestigating a new jacket don’t overlook closure arrangements at wrists (Velcro or snap fasteners are fine) and waist. (Avoid models without a waist drawstring or at least a hem through which you can thread one: because you can’t trap warm air inside, the jacket loses half its effectiveness.) Pockets are convenient, but they should add a minimum of weight and not reduce warmth. Above all, I would suggest—though by no means everybody would—that you buy a jacket with a hood (see heat loss from head, this page). Snap-detachable hoods are probably the most common. But I have nightmares of mine being whisked away over a cliff in a storm, and I much prefer the safe, built-in kind. When not in use it hangs harmlessly out of the way, and if you’re worried about sartorial elegance back home you simply tuck it inside. I’m told that it’s no big deal to sew on a detachable hood without loss of insulation.
Prices for down jackets are now backbreaking. A simple sleeveless vest often runs from $85 to $150; a good general-duty jacket, perhaps $150 to $225; a bulbous expedition-type “parka,” over $400.
CHIP: I think of this as the puff layer. For a birthday years ago, Linda gave me an unglamorous forest-green Woolrich down vest (13 oz.) that’s still an essential part of my kit. Most often I use it over fleece tops and/or lightweight shells, rather than under, to ward off the chill while making camp in the blues of evening. Folded inside a fleece pullover, it makes God’s Own Pillow. The other quilted stalwart is a Down Sweater (22 oz., now $189) from Marmot’s last days in Colorado. The collar has vertical tubes, so it stands up rather than squashing. The down is lofty and the shell fabric light. The cuffs snug with Velcro. The pockets open upward with a zip, and the front zipper is backed with a subtle draft tube that’s stiffened in front so it won’t snag. The lining is black (wahoo!) and there are two big glove-drying pockets inside. All in all, it’s the very soul of serviceability, while managing to look rather dashing in electric blue.
The synthetic puff-layer rivals right now are Polarguard 3D and Primaloft. The GoLite Coal parka I used last winter is filled with Polarguard 3D that’s quilted to the lining at 6-inch intervals with a floating outer shell of ultralight nylon ripstop. It weighs a mere 15 oz. without the detachable hood, and 18 oz. with (and costs $195, with a silicone-impregnated stow sack). It lacks some of the features the comparably priced Marmot Down Sweater has, like a draft tube, adjustable cuffs, and interior pockets, and the loft averages 1.5 inches (to the Down Sweater’s 2 inches) so it’s not as warm. But the lightness and synthetic-ness make it better for hinge-season extravaganzas, when wet is the rule. I’ve also used it for winter camping in moderate (i.e., down to 0°F) conditions. I was wary of the light-gauge zippers, but they’re holding up, and the lining is a Cremation-of-Sam-McGee yellow that warms me up just looking at it. Polarguard 3D puff-layer coats and vests can be had from Marmot, Patagonia, and others. Primaloft jackets, vests, pants, and suits, with Pertex Microfiber shells are the specialty of Canada’s Integral Designs. The Integral Designers claim that Primaloft loses no insulating value whatsoever when wet, so I’ll have to try it sometime. Wet.
A puff subtype consists of insulated garments made with the same materials, but without the quilting, using the floating shell we saw in ultralight synthetic sleeping bags (this page). This boosts both the insulating capacity and compressibility while letting you slither around freely inside. My GoLite Coal parka is made this way. Patagonia’s Puffball Pullover (13 oz., $145) and Vest (8 oz., $105) are likewise good examples. Like most of the above units, they have matching pants, or as Colin insists on calling them—
Leg housings.
COLIN: Nowadays I tend to walk without underwear. The practice brings you into closer conformity with the Second Law of Thermodynamic Walking: “Give your balls some air.”*8
CHIP: I dispense with briefs altogether. But at times the suspended parts rub against my inner thighs, which suffer first redness, then actual loss of skin. Regular applications of talc help, but so does a pair of light synthetic sports briefs. I can’t imagine wearing boxer shorts backpacking, but microfleece boxers do appear in catalogs.
Being exempt from the Second Law, women friends tend to wear briefs as a matter of course on backpacking trips. Special outdoor models, in a bouquet of synthetics, are widely sold.
Despite jokes about “Lycra Lizards,” tights have long been favored by runners, bicyclists, and ski racers of both sexes, and are often seen in the wilds. There have been studies showing that the support and compression of tights assist muscles under stress. It took me a while to overcome a twofold dislike of tights—first for their clinging feel and second for what the cling revealed: they made me feel nude and spraypainted. But for skiing and hinge-season walking I now wear Insport ski racer’s tights of polypro and Lycra (from which I excised the miserable stirrups) that are surprisingly weatherproof over synthetic underwear. Of a grim and uncompromising gray, they landed in a bargain bin ($12 on sale, and a mere 7 oz.). I also tried some ultralight black thermal leggings of 65 percent DuPont ThermaStat and 35 percent Lycra (now discontinued) that were unexpectedly warm under my racing grays—but damnably fragile. Those accustomed to donning pantyhose may have no problem, but after a week on the trail mine had developed so many toe holes and groin gaps that I looked like a soloist for the Royal Ballet of Hades. There are tougher tights in varying weights, from nylon/spandex lizardslicks to mammalian microfleeces and piles. For reasons I don’t need to explain, you should avoid wearing tights that are even remotely flesh-colored (see this page).
Some leg housings serve equally well as underwear or outerwear. Malden Power Stretch 50 has a glossy nylon face and a brushed polyester inner—delicious stuff, says a biologist friend who likes the familiar-but-not-grabby fit of her Sedona Rose P-tights from Wild Roses (8 oz., $65). The “P-” designation signals a discreet coil zipper that gives the wearer increased freedom to. Zippers, flaps, and similar conveniences appear on tights and pants from makers like Juno Rising, Mountain Hardwear, and Patagonia. Women experienced in their use tell me that one layer is a breeze, two requires some expertise, and with three they’d rather just drop their drawers in the time-honored fashion. In which case, wearing the Player next to your skin means you don’t risk ultimate exposure. (There are also full drop-seats available.)
While men do have the advantage in this one respect, even as a boy I hated those awkward front overlaps that tend to make you pee on your fingers. And my now-favorite longhandles, of midweight Mountain Hardwear ZeO2 (7.5 oz., $44), have no such frontal tomfoolery.
COLIN: To most backpackers, pants still mean things that come down to your ankles. But for years now there seems to have been a sensible drift toward
Shorts. I have long been a wholeheartedly bigoted devotee—so much so that I often find myself wearing shorts until the temperature drops into the low 30s or the wind develops a really keen cutting edge. At least once I’ve arrived at a 14,000-foot peak in shorts. But I hasten to add that there are not too many places and days you can do such things in comfort. Some years ago I wore shorts up 5000 feet of snow, on a cloudless April day of icy winds, to the 12,000-foot rim of Fujiyama and paid for my stupidity for the rest of the week every time I tried to force red, raw legs into the steaming-hot baths that are the only form of ablution in Japanese inns, and which noblesse apparently obliges you to refrain from tempering with cold water. But I remain an unrepentant shorts man.*9
I have for years preferred my shorts to be brown, or some other color that hides the dirt, and to have a built-in waistband, reasonably adjustable so that it can conform to a midriff that, like many people’s, fluctuates in response to prolonged packing of heavy weights and to such other variables as food, love life, and tennis. I also liked my shorts to have pockets that are strong, numerous, and tailored to my fancies (preferably two hip pockets, two sidepockets, and two ticket pockets at the waistband, front—one for bookmatches and the other for fire- or stove-priming scraps of paper). In theory, I maintain these preferences; in practice, as we shall see, I seem to be retreating from them.
Shorts of any kind allow much more efficient ventilation than long pants do. And I long ago reached the point at which I feel, or imagine I feel, dragged down by the restrictiveness of long pants. Fortunately, real cold seems to override the sensation. But several times I’ve started out on bitter mornings in longs and have realized later, after the day had warmed up, that I was making meager progress simply because I was still wearing them. A change to shorts has usually been enough to get me moving well again.
Really pesky insects might, I guess, drive even me to give up shorts for a while.
I used to regard corduroy shorts as best: they’re warm and absorbent, wash well, and wear prodigiously—provided the fabric is good quality. The quality depends on both the sturdiness of the backing and the way the cotton plush is run through it: typically, each strand of plush is attached in a simple V; but superior stuff is double-threaded in a W. Many people, I’m told, look at cords and dismiss them as “too hot”; but, provided leg openings are wide, preferably to the decency limit, I find them plenty cool. They’re also tough (in the backcountry you always use unpadded chairs, often granite-rough) and wind-resistant, and provide the sort of padding I find comforting if not essential under the hipbelts of most heavily loaded packs, at least during the first few days of a trip. Still, there’s no denying that they’re the devil to dry out, even from sweat.
In recent years I’ve moved toward synthetic-fabric shorts, such as Baggies by Patagonia (about 6 oz., $35; now made from recycled materials). The great advantage of such shorts, beyond their lightness, is the speed with which they dry. Even after crossing a river you simply wade out the far side, shake your fanny, then mince on down the trail. A pair of Baggies even felt great during a weeklong snowshoe trip to 10,000 feet in deep snow but brilliant sunshine, with a 58-pound pack. And I’ve had no unreasonable difficulty with two areas of initial concern: wear and discomfort from sitting on the backcountry’s unpadded chairs; and lack of padding against hipbelt bruising with a heavy pack (though this last may be largely due to the excellence of my Gregory hipbelt [this page]).
CHIP: Either Colin transmits some kind of shorts virus or it’s in my genes. Because I wear shorts in all but the deep-snow moons. Mostly, my layering system is a) shorts; b) gaiters with shorts; c) underwear bottoms, gaiters, and shorts; d) sleeping bag. While I carry shell pants for protection from blowing snow or tundra mosquitoes, they spend most of their time rolled up in my pack. My lifetime favorites were from Mont-Bell, of Supplex nylon, I think, with a ventilating cut, deep pockets, and that undefinably perfect feel. After countless sewings-up they reached the point of indecency, so I gave them an honorable burial last year.
I’ve tried to fill the aching void with others. A pair of Wyoming Wear Zephyr Shorts (6 oz., $21) in micro-ripstop are the best for hydromancy. They’re way-short (4.5-inch inseam) and fast-drying. They have deep slash pockets of soft mesh and a flapped-and-zipped cache for things you can’t afford to lose. I like the built-in web belt (preferable to a drawstring). And they dispense with the useless back pocket—like a balcony on a bungalow—too often found on otherwise-perfect shorts.
More commodious and highly crafted are the Mountain Hardwear Pack Shorts, with a 7-inch inseam (mine: 10 oz.; men’s or women’s medium: 8 oz., $75). Given the sobering price tag, I just looked them over with a laser gaze. The cloth is a two-ply Supplex nylon twill, soft yet durable, treated with the same ZeO2 process as their funk-defying underwear. The “seamless conical” waist eliminates the bunch-up found in most shorts. Elastic draws up the casing around the built-in web belt, rather than puckering up all the layers together (smart). The belt has a low-profile cam buckle. There’s a zip front fly. The pockets are unique, as pockets go: deep front scoops with mesh drains at the inside corners (smart), with the right one hiding a zip security pocket actually big enough to get your hand inside. The left pocket hides a lanyard and clip for keys, pocketknife, etc. The rear pockets transcend my dislike: rather than useless little squares, high up, they’re big scoops with a hand-accommodating slant, closed with Velcro tabs. On the trail, I seldom use them except for a map, a bandanna, or a ball cap. But they’re perfect for shuttling water bottles from creek to camp and keeping sundries out of the dirt. Well and good. But the hidden splendor is Micro Chamois—kitty-fuzz polyester that lines the waist and crotch—ending not only testicular chafe (and the woman’s equivalent) but also the savage gnawing of a pack waistbelt under a heavy load. Mountain Hardwear does seem to have its thinking cap on. But it’s embarrassing to grumble about Patagucci prices and then find myself with $75 shorts. Even if I love them.*10
Cyclists started wearing their Lycra bike shorts for backpacking, and some well-seasoned walkers now swear by them. So I’ve been experimenting with a pair of Outdoor Research Obsidian shorts, of 160-denier Spandura (5.5 oz., $55). The support is nice, though the leg circumference of most stretch shorts (and tights) seems to be calculated for reedy thighs—initially they were squeak-tight and the bottom bands pinched like hose clamps. But they’ve let up a bit. They dry nearly as fast as bare skin—a decided advantage. But I miss the air circulation of baggy-type shorts—and miss the pockets severely. The problem with skintight shorts, pants, etc. is that if you put anything in the pockets (usually one skimpy little internal pouch) it rubs on you as you walk.
At the other end of the spectrum are the knee-length ultrabaggy shorts affected by pro basketballers, skateboarders, and other fashion cultists. Not properly shorts, they’re more like divided skirts. It seems as if they’d be maddeningly flappy for serious walking. (If the wind comes up, tack.)
COLIN: For protecting shorts in rain, see Colin’s Kilt, this page. I have several times thought of carrying this idea a step further, following Thermodynamic writ (this page) and Scottish precedent, and wearing a kilt of suitable material in lieu of shorts. But almost all women backpackers seem to spurn skirts, which after all amount to the same thing, so I guess hidden disadvantages lurk.
There are, of course, times when you may want to switch from shorts to longs. And catalogs occasionally feature shorts cunningly convertible to longs with zippers or studs or even Velcro strips. But I’m told they never sell.
A pair of breathing rainpants (this page) or even rain chaps (this page) do a good job of converting shorts instantly to viable leg housings for semicold conditions, particularly if you also put on synthetic longjohns.
Long pants are still probably more popular than shorts among backpackers. And even if you prefer shorts you almost always need a pair of longs in your pack for cold-day or -evening use.
Ordinary jeans still seem to outnumber every other kind: being cotton, they’re very comfortable, breathe well, and are reasonably light—but useless when wet, and difficult to dry. In wet, wool is better, though rather too hot for general use. And now new options exist.
I presently find myself in a state of even greater evolutionary uncertainty with long pants than with shorts.
Except in low desert in high summer, I have for years almost always carried a pair of stout wool-blend whipcord longs, forest-ranger style (1 lb. 10 oz., now around $150). I rarely seem to use them, even on cool evenings, and from time to time wonder just why I carry the extra weight; but occasionally I’m thankful I do (see, for example, this page). A functionally similar but much cheaper alternative: army-surplus pants. And there are now many other options. Chip will deal with them.
CHIP: For scorching trips, I keep a pair of well-worn cotton-twill pants around—besides coolness on sunburnt skin, they’re bugproof. Filson makes great ones, but my present pair are sales-rack scoops (18 oz., about $15). Alas, they’ve worn so thin that the hole I just tore in the knee may prove unpatchable. Good plain-front khakis can be found in thrift shops (in locales where people wear plain-front khakis, anyhow).
Between the traditional pant-pants and waterproof/breathable shell pants lies a good bit of terrain these days. It’s easy to put long legs on a good pair of shorts, so most makers do: Wyoming Wear Zephyr Pants (8 oz., $29) are of micro-ripstop with a water-repellent coating, and roll up to the size of two bagels. The superlative Mountain Hardwear shorts have their counterpart in Pack Pants (15 oz., $110).
Years ago in a bargain barrel, I found some Wild Country guide pants (15 oz.) in a heavy nylon that has prevailed against hell in various forms. Just snug enough to need ankle zips, they have deep zipper pockets that give me peace of mind when operating in steep and snowy locales. The fabric is tough as spun steel, though the seams tend to unravel every few years—they’re about due for a stitch-over. Meanwhile, I’m auditioning Outdoor Research Rhyolite Tights (13 oz., $100) in 160-denier Spandura, with 3 pockets, a drawstring, and ankle zips—not as snug as the counterpart shorts, thank heavens. But they have the same tough, quick-drying fabric in an unobtrusive cut: neither arse-chafing nor loose.
If you don’t mind scary colors and stripes, thrift-store jogging pants are not altogether bad, but avoid the fashionably baggy kind—unless you enjoy cracking like a banner in the gusts.
Matching the materials in jackets, insulating pants come in a boggling array: fleece, pile, Polarguard, down. For years I used Royal Robbins polypropylene sweatpants, now ragged and melted in spots from excitement with stoves. Since my work involved winter camping I got Helly Hansen bunting pants, but found I didn’t use them much. On the move they were too thick, and when I hit base camp I’d usually slip into my sleeping bag. So I gave them to some suffering buffalo defenders on the borders of Yellowstone Park. As a rule-of-leg, besides your own heating capacity, consider whether you’re likely to be moving very slowly or to be stopped, without the shelter of tent and sleeping bag. This is often the case on mountaineering ventures—magazine ads show puffily panted ascensionists by the dozens. But what’s good at 6000 meters isn’t necessarily worth a hell-damn for backpacking. Presently, I take light- and midweight base layers. Depending on conditions, I can choose either one or double them up. Lightweight shell pants top things off. For ice-boxy jaunts, I add Polartec 100 stretch tights (9.5 oz.). That is, three thin, flexible layers rather than a single fat one.
With its tight-knit face and fuzzy-skin side, Power Stretch 150 is a good single layer for cool, windy conditions, or so I hear—by the time I wear out what I’ve got, it’ll be vastly improved. For thicker insulating layers, full-length zippers save your hopping around on one foot like a dingbat. Having seen one person, trying to get out of nonzip fleece pants while balanced on one ski, lose his balance, grab a pack strap, and topple three others, I heartily recommend full side zips.
COLIN: If possible, buy pants with built-in waistbands or web belts. This is not only a question of weight; any belt is uncomfortable under the waistbelt of your pack. When you go off on packless side trips and, lacking a belt bag (this page), need something around your waist to which you can attach a poncho-wrapped lunch and a cup and camera tripod and so on, simply use a few turns of nylon cord (this page).
Suspenders clearly overcome any pack-belt pressure problem, eliminate waist constriction, and increase midriff ventilation. But I suspect that their prime attraction may be an “in” funkiness.
If you wear shorts you may find that in certain kinds of country, especially desert, you need something to stop your bare and vulnerable lower legs from being savaged by scrub, thorn brush, and cacti. The best protection I’ve come across is a pair of Ace bandages (that I always carry anyway; see this page), wrapped puttee-fashion from boots to just below the knees. Or, as Chip does, use tall gaiters (this page).
RAINWEAR
The pitch of your concern about rainwear will vary according to the places you walk. In southeast Alaska or the Pacific Northwest or, to a lesser degree, New England, the problem looms large and almost perpetually; in desert it does no more than peek occasionally. But all of us have to worry, sometime, about how to avoid getting wet when it rains. And nowadays our rainwear can and should triple as windwear and outer-warmth shell.
Even regarded only as rainwear, no single garment is “best” for all conditions. In fact, there may be no final and satisfactory response to prolonged heavy rain except getting the hell out of it. But when you’re backpacking you can’t always shelter. So you have to make the best of trying to reconcile apparent irreconcilables: the need to cocoon yourself against getting soaked by external wetness; and the sometimes equally pressing need to ventilate so that you don’t get soaked in your own sweat. That’s why rainwear has long been the least-efficient part of a backpacker’s clothes closet, perhaps of all his equipment. Today it retains—along with boots, maybe—that dubious pennant. But in the last few years we’ve come a long way, babies.
The efficiency of any rain garment depends on:
• Its fabric;
• Its nature, design, and workmanship;
• The way you use it.
Fabrics
Backpackers and others have long sought the Holy Grail: a fabric that’s waterproof but breathes. (Fabric is waterproof, says a U.S.-government ukase, when it keeps out water under a pressure of 40 pounds per square inch—though heavy wind-driven rain seems ignorant of this ruling [not to mention another that stipulates “25 pounds”]. Fabric breathes, I guess, if you can use it to cocoon yourself against rain in warm weather when walking uphill with a pack and still not get rained on by your own perspiration even if you are, like me, one of the sweaters of the half century.)
For a couple of decades most backpacking rainwear was made of woven nylon waterproofed with an inner liquid coating—usually of polyurethane (urethane-coated). Such fabrics are light, inexpensive, and flexible and will last several years provided they’re dried after use and not overheated. Some alternative and less common coatings offer advantages but are heavier: polyvinyl chloride (PVC; vinyl-coated), acrylic nitrile, and neoprene. Most coated fabrics are reasonably waterproof or better, at least when new. But none breathes worth a damn.
Fine-weave cotton fabrics impregnated with various cunning concoctions tend to breathe appreciably better, but they rarely keep the rain out for very long.
All-plastic garments have always looked good to beginners—mainly because they’re cheap and seem totally waterproof. But the stuff tears at the sound of a harsh word (so much so that you almost never see zippers on it, or even drawstrings). And cold weather makes it so brittle that it may crack along folds. It therefore tends to get discarded in the backcountry—and has become a hideous source of litter. Beyond all that, it breathes like a corpse.
For many years these were the only choices open to backpackers. But dreams of the Holy Grail persisted. All through the 1960s new miracle fabrics burst regularly on the scene claiming Grailhood—and consistently biting the mud because in the field, as opposed to the lab, they leaked, failed to breathe, or did both.
The heart of Gore-Tex is a thin, white, stretchy, microporous membrane that looks like condom material but was originally developed for surgery, to graft arteries. It’s a very light, pliable form of Teflon—a petrochemical polymer called polytetrafluorethylene or PTFE. (Gore-Tex, Helly-Tech, Klimate, Sympatex, and newer versions are known collectively as PTFE laminates.) This membrane has, say its makers, 9 billion pores per square inch, each of them “20,000 times smaller than a drop of water (which makes it waterproof) but 700 times larger than a molecule of water vapor—allowing the material to ‘breathe.’ ” This PTFE membrane or film is bonded to one or two layers of fabric to protect the membrane and make it wearable. A two-layer laminate bonds the PTFE film to an outer fabric (usually nylon). An unbonded lining is sometimes used to protect the membrane. Two-layer laminates are supple and drape well, and the lining gives the garment maker something to which he can attach accessories—storm skirts, drawstrings, and inside pockets—without external, potentially leaky seams. Three-layer laminates incorporate an inner layer of nylon tricot and are normally used without linings. In both two- and three-layer laminates the outer fabric can run from 1.1-oz. nylon taffeta to 3-oz. Taslan. The lighter fabrics save ounces and are cooler (or less warm) but abrade more easily. Heavy Taslan, though it may make the fabric stiff and “boardy,” wears better and is warmer (or hotter).
PTFE laminates are windproof as well as waterproof and, as we shall see (this page), this greatly extends their usefulness.
When it appeared, Gore-Tex was duly proclaimed the Holy Grail. But reports soon began to trickle, then flood, in of leakage through the fabric, not just seams. What had happened, it eventually emerged, was that the surface readily became contaminated in such a way that water droplets in contact with it lost their surface tension and their round, beady shape and broke down into smaller particles that could pass through the membrane’s pores. The culprit might be poor laundering or spilled food or plain, earthy dirt; but the most common, almost impossible to avoid, was ordinary human body oils.
W. L. Gore, the makers, hurried back to their lab drawing board and in 1978 marketed a “second-generation” Gore-Tex that they claimed was “incapable of being contaminated” and therefore remained waterproof yet still breathed like the earlier versions.*11
For a time Gore-Tex garments also suffered, as does a lot of rainwear, from seam leakage. Applying the necessary two coats of seam sealant was too labor-expensive a task to be done in the factory, and users often evaded or botched it. Then Gore came up with a machine that welds a tape onto sewn seams with hot air and pressure. The tape—itself a laminate of Gore-Tex film between tricot knit fabric and a hot-melt adhesive—seems in its latest form to do the job. W. L. Gore leases the sealing machines to its licensees, which “allows the machines to be upgraded quickly…. Only Gore will match the seam tape, adhesive, and the seam-sealing machines to the fabric type and weight.” Factory-sealed garments, now the rule, are certainly a marked improvement. Meanwhile, don’t forget that even factory seam sealing, though good, is not perfect. The machines need good drivers. So check all tapes for wrinkles or imperfectly matched edges.
CHIP: A seismic shift in the waterproof/breathable field was the recent expiration of a key patent held by W. L. Gore. Prior to this, few alternatives existed. Fabrics had to be shipped to W. L. Gore for lamination, adding considerable cost. Further, companies using Gore-Tex had to sign a licensing agreement that ensured quality but also limited them in other respects, giving Gore-Tex a lock on the market. Despite the obstacles, competitors did manage to enter the field: Sympatex is commonly used in boots and Todd-Tex (developed by tentmaster Todd Bibler) is proven in his namesake tents, with Lowe Alpine’s Triplepoint Ceramic established in the clothing end. But with the expiration of the original Gore patent, makers have announced waterproof/breathable fabrics in a bewildering array. Some of them are no doubt fully as good as Gore-Tex, while others most likely are not. It’s hard to tell by looking, of course.
One cue is the series of tests specified by the International Standards Organization (ISO), a body that provides criteria for virtually everything—except perhaps virtue itself. For instance ISO 811 is a test for the waterproofness of fabric under actual use conditions—flexing, folding, and so forth. For this test, 40 pounds per square inch (psi) is a good score for a waterproof/breathable laminate. Another aspect of ISO testing is that the organization audits participating labs and makers, and awards an International Quality Registration: W. L. Gore’s number is ISO-9002. Simply, this certifies that the material actually does what the maker claims.*12
There are now four Gore-Tex outerwear laminates: two-layer, three-layer, three-layer LTD, and the four-layer Z-liner. Besides the original PTFE laminates, W. L. Gore has also come up with a range of outdoor products: a patented waterproof bootie, glove liners, Dryloft shell fabric for down and other insulating materials, Activent two-layer laminates for strenuous activity, Windstopper fabric and fleece, and a water-based durable water repellent called Revivex.
As far as competing “Texes,” some have been around long enough to earn their spurs. Lowe Alpine’s Triplepoint series of laminates is very good indeed. Linda’s Lowe mountain parka of Triplepoint Ceramic has bumped the Gore-Tex parka from her starting lineup. A Lowe Alpine anorak and pants of Lightflite (predecessor of two-layer Triplepoint) have edged out my trusty-but-venerable Gore-Tex parka and bibs: the Lightflite garments neither leak nor steam up inside. There are still skirmishes along the border, but on the whole it seems that waterproof/breathable fabrics are well on the way to being a semi-invisible aspect of outdoor clothing—like zippers, which were once a revolution in themselves.
COLIN: Design features can be as important as the fabric.
Seams are the Achilles’ heel of most rainwear. So the fewer seams, the better, and those that are essential should if possible (which it often isn’t) avoid such vulnerable, rain-pelted places as shoulders and upper back.
Zippers also leak. Check and if necessary hand-seal all attendant seams. Full-length parka zippers should have storm flaps. Some makers maintain that they’re more likely to work if the flaps are secured by Velcro tape rather than snaps. But an interesting alternative that has passed all tests to date appears in my current—but now old—Gore-Tex parka: the zipper folds around to form a flap and is protected from heavy rain when a line of snaps, with the male components 2 inches from the zipper, is closed. Seems to work.
The short neck zip on anoraks (this page) is sometimes backed by a V-shaped piece of fabric that allows some neck ventilation but looks like a great drip catcher and I’m told is.
A two-way zip on a jacket may occasionally make ventilation easier, but I doubt that it’s worth the drawbacks.
For the pros and cons of pit zips, see this page.
CHIP: The Zipping News is a polyurethane-laminated model that’s claimed to be watertight. Called the WaterTight zipper, it’s used by Arc’Teryx for the pockets and pit zips on their parkas and shell pants. They left off the storm flaps altogether, so negative feedback should come in rather short order—if any. At the top of its track, the watertight slider “parks” under a molded “Zipper Garage.” But the main front zipper is still a double-flapped heavy-duty type—so the watertight zips might not stand up to the heaviest use. I tried on some prototypes of the Arc’Teryx Gore-Tex jackets (Alpha, Beta, Kappa, and Theta) and was struck by the sterling quality. The cut of their hoods is unique and they fit better over a hat (or a helmet) than anything I’ve tried. Their stitching and flat-lock seams are brilliant, and the joints in their seam tapes are a series of mini-masterpieces. One finicky friend dug deep for an Arc’Teryx Beta LT Jacket (17.5 oz., $365) and says that it’s the best thing he’s ever worn.
COLIN: Hoods. To me, a hoodless rain garment is an idiocy. Yet some people prefer big hats and high collars. Certainly, hoods can pose problems. Because it seems impossible to make them seamless, they always have leak potential. They also tend to make ventilation difficult. So in light, warm rain without wind it may indeed be better to leave the hood down and wear a hat. But in wind-driven rain a hood is to my mind the only decent protection. As wind protector and warmth provider for the most vital part of your body (this page), nothing compares with it. It should, of course, be big enough for you to wear at least one and maybe two balaclavas underneath. And it must be designed to pull flush around your face and so keep rain from driving in and dripping down your neck. A good system is an internal storm flap, pulled tight by the drawstring: the best allow you to pull the collar in tight under your chin, so that rain doesn’t drip down your neck, or alternatively to leave it standing tall, up to your nose, as protection against wind. A small, flexible peak also helps shed rain. The more protection you get, though, the less vision you’re likely to have. On balance, give me the protection. A wide field of view, though certainly pleasing, is not vital in backpacking, the way it is in cycling.
Sleeves in rainwear must be full-cut (raglan type) for free arm movement and longer than in other garments, so that they won’t slide up when you extend your arms. The extra length also means that most of the time you can keep your hands protected inside them. Although you must be able to close off the wrists in cold or driving rain you must also be able to ventilate, and the best answer seems to be a simple Velcro-secured strap.
Hems, drawstrings, and storm skirts. Rainwear should always be cut fairly long, because even the best-designed models will pull up a little if you raise your arms. And whether you like it or not, a certain amount of rain will get in under the hem. A drawstring there helps, especially in keeping you warm (when that’s what you want). More common, perhaps, is a drawstring at the waist, to allow more freedom of movement. A viable variation that reduces seam and wear difficulties at that crucial circumference is a storm skirt—a ring of fabric, usually nylon, elastic-hemmed, and closable with snaps. When you’re not wearing a pack—the belt of which does the job, anyway—it insulates your upper body and keeps snow out yet lets the garment stand clear.
Pockets on rainwear are rarely waterproof. And they add not only weight and cost but also more seams and potential leaks. Yet although you often can’t get your hands into them when you’re wearing a pack, they’re undeniably useful at times—and people seem to demand them. Pockets with Velcro-secured flaps are probably best. Long jackets with waist-level drawstrings or storm skirts may have low side-entry pockets without seams sewn through to the outside: such water as may possibly breach even a baffled opening will mingle more or less harmlessly (provided you don’t expect to keep the contents dry) with that inevitable quotient coming up from the hem.
Kinds of rainwear
Remember in choosing any rain garment that it must be big enough to fit with something to spare over the thickest clothing you ever expect to wear with it. Restrictive rainwear is not only uncomfortable: it’s likely to increase condensation.
The most obvious torso housing is some kind of jacket. It permits free movement yet protects you fully. And because fabric is kept to a minimum it’s likely to be light. Old-style, coated-fabric jackets were a snare: you tended to soak in sweat. But Gore-Tex et al. have changed that.
There are two kinds of jacket: parkas and anoraks. Parka is an Aleutian word originally meaning “a fur jacket or heavy, long woolen shirt, often lined with pile or fleece, with attached hood.” Anorak is the Greenland Eskimo name for a similar hooded garment, though it may be made of leather or cloth. But time has worked on language. Today a parka is a hooded jacket of almost any material with a full-length opening, usually zippered, down the front. An anorak is a similar garment without a front opening other than a short neck zipper. This zipper makes it possible to put an anorak on and take it off and also provides some ventilation. But although the garment’s simple barrel structure makes it highly efficient as protection against both wind and rain, ventilation can be a problem. And if you’ve ever stood on a mountain ridge in a howling gale and tried to battle your way up into an anorak, especially one a shade small for you, or if you’ve taken a soaking-wet one off in order to shed a layer of clothing and then tried to reinject yourself without irrigating everything, you’ll understand why parkas are more popular.
The parka’s full-length front zipper, no matter how well protected against rain, is always a potential leak line—though the new laminated zippers (this page) may change that. But a zipper certainly makes ventilation adjustment much easier. And putting on and taking off, even in rain, are relatively painless. On balance, I vote for parkas every time.
And now, with the difference between anoraks and parkas understood, we can consider both garments together, simply as jackets.
The question of whether jackets should have underarm zippers (pit zips) provides a minor backpacking battleground. “If the stuff breathes, why?” says one camp. “The wretched things always leak, too.” The opposition replies: “Under certain conditions you need to vent, and the armpits are the place to do it.” I agree with those who say that the “small loss of sleeve integrity” that occurs in heavy rain (I can vouch for such leakage) is worth the gain in temperature flexibility. Note that flaps, or the new laminated zippers, may help reduce the leakage. And also that, with the three-layer system, polypro underwear and pile jacket mean that rain invading down a sleeve matters very little: it’s quickly wicked out and expelled. But in deciding pro or con pit zips you must strike your own balance. Make sure, though, that if you vote “yes” the pit zips extend only a short way down your torso: you’ll be much happier sacrificing your arms to the rain than your ribs.
Current backpacking rainjackets, like other garments, tend to be overbuilt. But you can get lighter jackets, designed for backpackers—more sparingly constructed, often with lighter laminated fabrics. Remember, though, that lighter fabrics mean some loss in warmth and appreciable loss in abrasion resistance.
CHIP: Back to the closet. (Rummage, rummage.) For years I packed a full-featured Moonstone parka of three-layer Gore-Tex with a wicking liner (and matching bibs for Wyoming winters). Built for slithering up couloirs and ratcheting against rocks, it’s overbuilt for most backpacking ventures and by current standards grievously heavy: 2 whole pounds. Since then, the vast improvement in wicking layers has made it feasible to use shells that are both light and unlined. My first (circa 1983) was a Patagonia H2No ripstop anorak (8 oz.) that I seam-sealed and have redoused in many generations of DWR (durable water repellent) treatments (see this page). Over a wicking layer or two, it still keeps me dry enough for comfort at one-fourth the weight of that bombproof parka. In true downpours, though, it “wets out.” But Dame Progress hath proffered fresher fruits: a few years ago I got a Lowe Alpine Lightflite Anorak (10.5 oz., $99). Billed by Lowe “for the high activity mountain user who is prepared to sacrifice total waterproofness for increased breathability and lighter weight,” the fabric is a nylon ripstop with a DWR-treated finish and a virtually waterproof coating—in gusty mountain thunderstorms and heavy snowfalls I have yet to get soaked from the outside. And, equally vital—despite being a sweat horse, I don’t get steamed up inside. Of course, by the time I wear the Lightflite out (and assuming the survival of Western Capitalism) there’ll be far, far better things. I can wait.
Still newer and gleamier are ultralight laminates. I tested a prototype Moonstone vest (6 oz.) and shell pants (8 oz.) of Gore Activent, designed for heat-producing hyperactives. Stacking the deck, I lugged a huge pack over glacial moraines during a chinook that turned the snowpack into Cream of Wheat—mile after mile, postholing on skis, expecting the worst. With no steam-up. So I retried the pants over bare skin and still couldn’t achieve an annoying level of condensation. Which, being in a contrary mood that day, I was sort of hoping for.
Another sheathing for the troublesome primate is the “microurethane” 1.76-oz. ripstop nylon laminate in the GoLite Newt rainjacket (10 oz., $170). It, too, performs at a disgustingly high level. (Though on the prototype I tested, the internal seam tape had wrinkles and messy joints.) Still ultra-lighter is the GoLite Bark shell jacket, a slithery layer of Silmond 2.4-oz. polyester microfiber (8 oz., $95). Though it doesn’t please me aesthetically (the golf-jacket issue), the Bark now teams up with the Wyoming Wear fleece pullover as my most-worn torso housing. In passing showers, water beads up on the outside and rolls off. In a continuous downpour the sky-facing parts wet out but don’t really leak except under direct pressure—when I hold a sleeve under a rivulet springing off a boulder I can feel droplets pressing through. But for the most part raindrops bounce off. To work, microfiber should be kept clean and be treated after washing with a durable water repellent (see Nikwax, etc., this page). Perhaps stretching my luck, I’ve been using these gossamer swaddles for winter ski trips. And have not, so far, died. Nor even suffered much. (As the 2-pound parka gathers dust.)*13
For predictable drenchings and mud-wallows—rain-forest crawls in southeast Alaska—I still pack an old North Face urethane-coated rainjacket with a hood (16 oz.). It doesn’t leak and though it has breathing holes (grommets, actually) under a flap, it gets steamy inside as I push through the bush. Another coated standby is the Sierra Designs Microlight hooded jacket (10 oz., $38)—if you know you’ll be squeezing through sandstone slots and crashing through prickly oak, why shred a $400 Gore-Tex parka? For muddy, scratchy, thorn-studded occasions a lower-price coated nylon jacket might still be best. But the prices on waterproof/breathable laminates have dipped so sharply that they now compete: Red Ledge has a synthetic waterproof/breathable seam-taped Thunderlight Parka for $50 (I sent one to my brother Chris in Seattle for a winter workout—no leakee, says he).
COLIN: Ponchos—once popular, now rare—offer certain advantages, especially on trips with low rain risk.
A poncho is a waterproof sheet, 4 feet by 7 feet or a little bigger, with a head hole and hood in the middle. In good backpacking ponchos the hole is placed somewhat off-center and the longer rear section covers your pack. At least, that’s the theory; but if a wind is blowing don’t expect too much overlap from theory into practice. Most hoods can be tightened flush around your face with a drawstring, but the rest of the sheet hangs down like a shroud and in a high wind attains a will of its own—though snap fasteners on the edges allow you to make rudimentary sleeves that may help keep the shroud from flapping too wildly. Some heavier models have a drawstring at the waist that not only cuts down the flappage but also holds in warmth—too efficiently on occasion. A length of nylon cord around your waist will do the job almost as well, though its rubbing may damage the waterproofing.
Ponchos are simple and therefore relatively light and inexpensive. They are also, except for the hood, seamless. And they are the only garments you can wear over your pack. This means you always achieve good ventilation (often, far too much) and so avoid the worst condensation problems. They’re therefore still made of coated fabrics. (Note that, worn under or without a pack, ponchos can very definitely cause condensation.)
Ponchos are clearly not ultra-efficient rain-defeating devices, but they’re versatile. Those snap fasteners along the edges help, and so do the grommets sometimes put in at each corner. (I always had at least one other grommet—and probably three or four—inserted along each long side; the short sides rarely have a wide enough hem to take even a small grommet.) With these simple fittings, a poncho can be much more than a waterproof garment. It can be a windbreaker—especially useful when a thin down jacket is the only warm garment you have with you. As we’ve seen (this page), the grommets allow you to turn it into a wild assortment of roofs and sidewalls and cocoons that will ward off snow, rain, wind, or sun. With two ponchos snapped together by their fasteners you can build a big ridge-backed shelter. Under certain conditions, you may be forced to use your poncho as a groundsheet, but in such cases don’t expect it to remain waterproof for long. On packless side trips or on short walks from home or car, a bundled poncho secured around your waist with nylon cord makes a useful belt bag for lunch and oddments, especially convenient if there’s a rain threat. Cunningly molded to the landscape, it can form a washbasin (this page). Finally, it will help waterproof your pack contents during a river crossing (this page) or make a floating bundle of your clothes and other necessaries if you’re crossing without a pack (that is, will act in lieu of a white plastic sheet, this page).
Weights run from over 2 lbs. for a rubberized surplus-type poncho down to as little as 10 oz. for a nylon or plastic one. A tough, coated-nylon poncho may cost as much as $45, though a less fancy and less durable one may run only $20; plastic horrors—eminently tearable, appallingly rich in litter potential—sell, unfortunately, for as little as $3.
Cagoules are full-cut, knee-length, sleeved capes with hoods. (The word is French and originally meant “a monk’s cloak” or “penitent’s cowl.”) Cagoules are made primarily for mountaineers, who often have to make emergency bivouacs: you can if necessary draw your knees up inside the long “skirt” and seal yourself off by pulling tight on a drawstring that runs around the hem. If you carry a companion footsack-and-carrying-bag of the same urethane-coated nylon fabric you’re in even better shape. Wiggy’s makes a classic nylon Oxford cagoule with a drawcorded hood, waist, and just-above-the-knee-length skirt in four sizes, $140. Campmor sells a 15-oz. “backpacker’s” model for $40.
As day garments, cagoules are good at keeping rain out, heat and sweat in.
CHIP: For protecting your legs, rainpants have edged out ponchos, cagoules, batwing chaps, and similar artifacts. Logic says that rainpants should be long enough to lap over your boot tops, but if you use gaiters (I do), you might prefer a shorter, close-fitting cuff with elastic and/or a zipper. For many years coated nylon was most popular and is still a reasonable choice: Sierra Designs Microlight pants (7.5 oz., $30) are a good example, with deep sidepockets, a zip rear pocket, a drawstring waist, and shock-corded cuffs with cleverly hidden cord locks to cinch them down.
My problem with coated nylon pants (besides the incessant sweesh-sweesh-sweesh) was that my thighs are absolute heat pumps. To hike any distance in coated rainpants was to die, with sweat funneling down both legs and into my boot tops. So for years, I seldom put on any coated shell pants unless for some reason—rowing a raft—I had to sit unsheltered in the rain or snow.
Another rampant rainpant gremlin was that coated nylon doesn’t stretch, so in order to accommodate knee flex and butt thrust, the pants had to be loose. This, in turn, not only led to flapping and sweeshing but also to condensation. But with the ongoing rush of laminates, as well as recent price dips, waterproof/breathable pants are taking over the field. A rather basic pair of Red Ledge Thunderlight TH-4 pants (7.5 oz.) with a drawstring waist and snap cuffs now costs only $35. They aren’t a match in terms of features for top-notch brands, but the seams are taped, the fabric hasn’t leaked (so far), and it seems to breathe as advertised.
For the last few years, both summer and winter, I’ve worn Lowe Alpine Lightflite Side-Zip Pants (10 oz., $85) that match my anorak (this page). The fabric is a nylon ripstop with a DWR finish and a pretty-well-waterproof coating. They’re black, and they sun-dry fast. They have full side zippers, for quick-changeability and access to the pockets in my shorts. They self-stuff into a mesh pouch and fit in the top pocket of my pack. And not least, they’ve kept me dry in abrupt and dramatic weather. They do lack abrasion patches, but as long as I don’t do any lengthy butt glissades they should last a while.
The lightest shell pant I’ve tried is the GoLite Trunk (6.5 oz., $85), made of a microfiber nylon ripstop that’s wind- and bugproof, water-repellent, and breathes nicely. An elasticized drawstring waist and sidepockets civilize the waist, with elastic cuffs and scuff patches below. A light desert tan, they’ve recently bumped the knee-holed cotton pants out of my pack for a warm-season weight savings of 11.5 oz. But since the boots or sandals must come off to slip them on, for weathery trips I prefer full zips—so does Colin.
This is a good time to poke and ponder a few more things that, as a backpacker, you don’t really need. Shell pants aimed at mountaineers have stout Cordura patches on the backside, knees, and inside the ankle, to resist climbing-harness abrasion, sharp rocks, crampon points, and ski edges. Pants aimed at lift or heli skiers often have high-rise waists and built-in gaiters for ski boots. Both sorts tend to be heavier and hotter and costlier than you need for walking. Likewise—
Overalls, or bibs, are useful for expeditionizing in high altitudes and latitudes. But they are cumbersome, hot, and not very adaptable for walking in general—unless you plan to walk across Greenland. A one-piece sleeveless farmer john or salopette of light fleece can make life easier in the cold—and shitting harder, although some one-piece fuzzies have ventral zips, flaps, or other sanitary bomb-run arrangements. (Those fascinated should read Mark Twight’s Extreme Alpinism.)
In that line but of more use to backpackers, the newest trend is to waterproof/breathables that stretch. These showed up first in tops (early jackets had seam tape that unfortunately didn’t stretch as well as the fabric), and are just now bottoming their way into the market as pants. After being shocked speechless by the waterproofness of the stretchy SealSkinz knit sock (this page), I no longer consider such things impossible. If the bugs can be worked out, the discussion of shell pants might, in the next edition, be short. Or missing.
Rain chaps that I found long ago in the sporting-goods section of a grocery store were a decent half measure (5 oz., $12). Tapered tubes of coated nylon with webbing tie-ons, they’re good for whacking through wet or stickery brush. They were also well ventilated, by virtue of open tops, but my shorts offered nothing to tie them to. My partner brandished a rock-drill and suggested placing expansion bolts in my hipbones. But I fashioned some webbing into a backcountry garter belt.
COLIN: Chaps are definitely worth considering if your rainshell is long enough to protect your thighs and you fear prolonged rain or expect to slog for hours through sodden scrub.
You may, especially if you wear shorts, like to replace or augment rain chaps with a device that has been called
Colin’s kilt—aka Everyman’s Wonderful Waterproof Trash-Bag Skirt (1 or 2 oz., around $.25). To make it you take a plastic trash bag—around 30-gallon, preferably black, and as thick as you can find—and with a knife convert it to the subspecies profundissimus (i.e., bottomless). Then you step into the tube and tuck it inside your shorts top or secure it around your waist with nylon cord or what pleases you. If your rainshell is even halfway adequate the kilt will extend its protection to the bottom of your shorts. If it’s not raining but you’re walking through wet brush or long grass you probably won’t need the shell, and the kilt is a gem: that’s what I originally devised it for. You hold the kilt in place with the pack’s hipbelt and raise or lower your hemline according to your warmth requirements, length of shorts, heaviness of rain, windiness of wind, and surliness of underbrush. The kilt can be invaluable when used with chaps if windblown rain threatens to breach an incipient gap between chaps and shell or poncho. For a specific occasion on which I used the kilt, see this page.
If you carry trash bags for other uses you can, of course, create a kilt instanter and anywhere. But evolution may sweep us beyond trash bags. If some enterprising body wants to design a stronger and less tearable kilt of coated nylon or something…well, I’ve not yet patented my brainchild.
Umbrellas. You may occasionally see pictures of—or even meet—backpackers carrying umbrellas. An umbrella’s huge advantage is to banish all the overheating problems. And it can, if there’s not too much wind, protect your pack as well as you. But because it’s almost useless, going on a menace, in high winds or middling brush or branches you more or less have to carry some more traditional rainwear as well, and that rather wipes the shine off.*14