Learn how to choose a base layer for backpacking, base layer material performance differences, and how base layers impact moisture transfer in the broader context of a clothing system.
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Enriching friendship through fishing and adventure in Colorado’s Middle Park.
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Physical therapist and athletic performance coach John Zombro chats with Ryan and Andrew about foot injuries, training strategies, and rehabilitation in the context of hiking and long-distance backpacking.
In this episode of the backpacking Light Podcast, we interview physical therapist and athletic performance coach John Zombro about foot health, footwear, injuries, rehabilitation, training, and more.
Also in this episode: shoes we are looking at in 2022, updates on the Backpacking Light Member Q and A series, and our favorite things we’ve published lately!
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Heat, army ants, and stupendous views await Jeff de Graffenried as he treks through South Luangwa National Park, Zambia.
When Lari Merritt, operator of Mutinondo Wilderness, asked me to join her and three friends on a 78-mile backpacking trip across the Great Rift Valley (GRV) in Zambia, how could I say no?
The timing was perfect at winter’s end with cool nights and pleasant days. The route started from the remote, 25K acre Mutinondo conservation area on the Machinga Escarpment and descended nearly 3,281 feet to the Luangwa River Valley and across South Luangwa National Park (SLNP).
Western Zambia’s Luangwa Valley is an ancient landscape formed by violent geologic events that ripped the earth apart to form a great chasm. The GRV is a series of faults and tears that extend from the Red Sea across East and Southern Africa forming some of the most dramatic landscapes and unique ecosystems on the continent.
Mutinondo is located on the edge of the GRV’s northwestern escarpment, the Muchinga Mountains. This extraordinary landscape is formed by exposed ancient granite “whalebacks” or inselbergs that continue northeast towards the Tanzanian border, spanning approximately 540 miles.
The Mulungushi River forms the northwestern boundary of the SLNP and is fed by rivers from the Muchingas. As these streams slow, they deposit massive amounts of sediment across a valley floor filled with flat-topped acacia trees, elephants, big cats, and herds of antelope.
A granite plateau, rolling hills, old river banks, and oxbow lakes bounded by Miombo and Mopane woodlands, thick grasslands, and lush riverine forests form unique, world-renowned ecosystems.
For this six-day trip, I carried my gear in a Hyperlite Mountain Gear Windrider 2400 pack. My 6 lbs of food weight included Mountain House dehydrated meals, muesli, trail mix, power bars, instant coffee, and tea bags. The total non-food weight was almost 11 lbs., including a 1 lb. utility K-bar 7 inch open blade knife that I attached to my pack for easy access and phone, camera, 20,000 mah power-bank and batteries. A pair of zip-off long pants, one long-sleeve shirt and Outdoor Research sleeves for sun and tsetse fly protection, two quick dry short-sleeve shirts, two pair of Darn Tough socks and liners, calf-high OR gaiters, and Oboz trail runners were my clothes. The gaiters kept the grass and grit out of my shoes, protected my legs, and reduced shoelace snags. Plus, they came in handy to sit on during lunch breaks and to place under my Thermarest Neoair Xlite sleeping pad to reduce the chance of puncture from nasty thorns. The total weight carried and worn was just under 21 lbs.
This was freedom – a true escape from the routine of everyday life. My senses opened to what was happening around me and my mind had time and space to notice the details – signs, sounds, and creatures – that are easily missed. Focusing on the flora, fauna, and the sights and sounds of the animals, I started to better understand what makes these complex ecosystems so special and to experience the Zambian wilderness in a natural way – to feel it and be part of it.
After obligatory beginning-of-the-adventure group photos, we set off. Following well-established trails, the rangers led us through the granite whalebacks and, within an hour, we were at the eastern Mutinondo boundary. There, we abandoned the known and stepped single file into the bush.
Navigating through the waist-high grass and shrubs, we were slowly swallowed by the Central Zambezi Miombo Forest. Along the escarpment, rock-capped overhangs provided 180-degree views of endless uninterrupted forests that provoked silent contemplation of the earth’s beauty and vastness.
Though we caught only fleeting glimpses of a klipspringer and a few roan antelope, there were abundant signs bushbuck, bushpig, warthog, and porcupines. Relentless poaching has made the animals skittish and they quickly disappear.
At around 12.5 miles in, we dropped our packs next to a series of rapids and pools on the Wateshi River, soaked our feet, had a drink of cool water, and set up our first camp.
After checking for crocodiles, we quickly bathed in the river. We admired our first sunset as we sat by the crackling fire, sipping tea and reflecting on the day’s adventures. With a full belly, I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep listening to soothing sounds of the rapids, mesmerized by the vast night sky. This is malaria territory, so I tented a mosquito net to keep from getting that nasty illness. Again.
On day two, we set off before dawn after breaking camp and making coffee. Following the Wateshi downstream, we crossed at a shallow ford. We spotted the first evidence of illegal wildlife poaching at the top of the ridge on the other side. It was a wooden bushmeat drying rack made from trees cut nearby.
Again, we covered more than 12.5 miles before setting up our second camp inside a bend of an oxbow lake of the Mupamadzi River. Since it was dusk and prime time for hunting predators, we wasted no time settling in and adjusting our attitudes with tea and a meal. The crickets and fiery-necked nightjars sang us to sleep at night.
Day three started with crossing the Mupamadzi River only a quarter-mile east from where we camped. Before crossing any river, it is imperative to check for elephants, African buffalo, and crocs, otherwise it could be your last day trekking.
In the shallow, clear water on the other side and under the cover of tall grass, we took turns bathing in our own private spa! Afterward, we made breakfast and relaxed while our freshly washed clothes dried in the sun.
Clean, refreshed, and fed, we cheerfully turned south. But after several hours of steady walking in the intense sun, the cheer factor was decreasing, so we rested along a shady bank of a small, dry stream. There, we refilled bottles with filtered water from holes we dug in the sand.
Late that afternoon, we arrived at the Department of National Parks and Wildlife’s remote Bush Baby Ranger Camp and checked in with park authorities, then set up camp at a nearby stream.
Donning my headlamp, clearing a sleeping spot, and hanging my mosquito net, I picked my way through the brush to the small, narrow stream to bathe. Returning to camp clean, I ate and fell asleep under the stars, listening to the sounds of the evening and thinking of the day’s trek.
After an hour of deep sleep, I was awakened by a small sharp bite on my foot, then another on my leg, and another on my waist. Suddenly I was being bitten all over. I turned on my headlamp and jumped up. To my horror, army ants were everywhere! All my gear and sleeping area were being raided. I was covered in ants from head to toe and could even feel them crawling in my hair. Doing the “ant dance,” I jumped out from under the mosquito net and tore off my clothes. To hell with modesty, I had to get them off fast.
Seeing me dance around half-naked and yell in a staccato of shrieks and swears, the rangers came to my rescue. Working from experience, they quickly cleaned my gear and then spread campfire coals and ash around the campsite to prevent the ants from marching through the entire camp. Apparently, when foraging, army ants don’t like ash and won’t pass through it. As quickly as they arrived, the ants turned and marched on in a different direction. The rangers later told me that if I had not gotten up, the whole troop of ants would have covered me and tried to eat me alive like they do a caterpillar or anything else living that gets in their way. It took a long time for the sensation of ants crawling over my body to go away.
During the first half of Day 4, we walked 16 miles south toward the Luwi River, following a slight rise that divides it from a tributary. The midday break found us resting in the shade of large fig trees overlooking the river and enjoying the wild fruit with our lunch. From there we decided to take off our shoes and give our battered feet a revival, walking barefoot in the riverbed for the rest of the day, walled by angled and undulating orange sandstone.
Camping that night near a three-way confluence on a narrow sugar-white sand bar, we had a front-row seat to the Southern Cross constellation and shooting stars, which diverted my thoughts from the lion, leopard, and elephant tracks that crisscrossed the river bottom around us.
Late in the dry season, it gets hot and water becomes scarce, increasing chances of encountering wildlife around water sources. In the privacy and shade of the tall grass along the rivers, we stayed alert as we walked, preferring to avoid startling a resting animal. We didn’t want to be charged at close range (or any range).
At one point on day five, we emerged onto an exposed river bank to the surprise of a family of six elephants across the river. Within seconds, the elephants trumpeted, flared their ears, and rushed away to the protection of the forest. Even though we were more than 50 yards away and on the other side of a river, they weren’t waiting around to determine our intentions. Similarly, other animals (hartebeest, buffalo, impala, puku) noticed us and disappeared quickly. Humans are dangerous.
We camped on a tree-lined high point with a good view across the braided river. A spectacular burnt-orange sunset silhouetted elephants crossing far upstream and impala casually munching away on the opposite bank. The deep roar of lions calling into the night reminded us that this is their territory and we are just visitors.
The last day was arduous. It was hot (105 °F) in the Luangwa Valley and we had a long way to go. Shade was sparse so we walked fast. Each hour we took a break to rest and get out of the intense tropical sun. The gnats and tsetse flies were swarming so bad that I had to cover my head and face with my bandana to get a break, and leaned back on my pack to “rest my eyes.”
As we passed the 1,500-year-old Big Baobab tree, a well-known park landmark, we knew we were close to our destination. Baobab trees are respected throughout Africa for their many uses, age, shape, and nutritious fruit. The Vitamin C-loaded fruit fueled us forward.
With two coolers of cold drinks waiting, our friend and long-time park guide, Jason Alphonse, was an oasis. Dropping our packs, we leaned against his Landcruiser and cooled down with a cold beverage before the last few miles. We were in the heart of the park and surrounded by abundant wildlife, including at least two prides of lions, leopards, wild dogs, hyena, elephants, buffalo, giraffe, zebra, and various antelope. We hurried thought the last few kilometers (1-2 mi.) to the Luangwa River and the SLNP main gate. A massive herd of buffalo, highlighted by zebra, impala, hippos, and elephants, bid us farewell.
This rare opportunity to walk across one of the best national parks in Africa tops my list of life highlights. Whether navigating our way through the Machinga Escarpment, pushing our way through elephant grass twice as high as a person, or digging for fresh water, I felt a sense of achievement that only comes from completing a long, hard trek.
The vast landscapes and roaring lions at sundown were fantastic, but the shared memories and friends I made during the trip way will stay with me forever.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
In this freeze-drying installment, we discuss the history of freeze-drying and experiment with using a freeze dryer to prepare our favorite take-out town meal for enjoyment in the backcountry.
People have been drying food for tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of years. The reasons are straightforward and well-known – dried food is lighter and keeps longer.
Drying food to sustain us on long journeys is an ancient tradition. When you load your pack with dried food and hit the trail, you are just the latest link in a long chain of humans: nomads who are coming into the country, going down the road feeling bad, heading for that Big Rock Candy Mountain.
The earliest food drying technology – cutting food into small pieces and laying it out in the sun – costs almost nothing. It also works pretty well if you don’t mind entertaining the local fly population.
Simple dehydrators, consisting of racks, a fan, and a heating element (and a cover to keep the flies off) are a step up. They deserve a place in every hiker’s gear depot. You can and should use these effective tools to dry a wide variety of foods. I’ve written about why to dehydrate your own food and how to dehydrate food for backpacking previously.
Heat-assisted dehydration has its limitations though. Many foods – meats, eggs, various sauces – simply don’t rehydrate well. Even for those that do, some loss of flavor and nutrition is unavoidable during the drying process.
That’s why nearly all of us have used freeze-dried meals at some point during our hiking careers. Freeze-dried foods rehydrate readily, preserve taste and nutrition, weigh little, and store well for very long periods. However, freeze-dried backpacking meals are also somewhat expensive and available only as ready-made products through retailers. The quality and variety of retail freeze-dried foods have improved dramatically in the last decade or two. But you are still stuck with the choices that others have made for you. These choices are aimed at pleasing a mass or niche market in order to make a profit, they are not choices aimed at pleasing you.
Backpacking Light owns a Harvest Right Home Freeze-Dryer unit. Ryan Jordan asked if I would be willing to use it and write a series of articles for Backpacking Light. (The fact that they were moving into a smaller space and no longer had a place for it may have had something to do with this assignment!)
In this first installment, I’ll tell you a bit about the history and general principles of freeze-drying foods. Each article will finish with a recipe and review of something I’ve freeze-dried. I am definitely up for challenges and testing new ideas. So if you’ve got an idea for something you’d like to see tested, hit me up in the comments section and I will see what I can do and report back.
Drying food is the process of reducing its water content. The fundamental difference between freeze-drying and dehydration is that during freeze-drying, water is removed by sublimating ice in a vacuum, and during dehydration, water is removed by evaporation of liquid water via heat.
This process has a surprisingly ancient history. Inca peoples, who invented the potato, also invented a low-tech method of freeze-drying. Potatoes were left out on freezing nights; ice and water would be squeezed out of them during the day. After a few cycles, they had freeze-dried potatoes (a dish called chuño) that stored very well.
Modern technology only began to improve on this process in the 1890s with the use of vacuum pumps and mechanical refrigeration. However, freeze-drying remained a fairly obscure niche technology until the 1950s and 1960s, when it began to be applied to pharmaceuticals and food preservation. Military contracts to Rich-Moor and Mountain House gave these companies a start in using freeze-drying for food preservation. Soon they began marketing freeze-dried meals to a peculiar subset of civilians who thought that carrying a heavy pack all day and sleeping on the ground at night was good fun.
Although the meals are much better now than in the 60s (trust me on this), the fundamentals of freeze-drying have not changed. The basics are:
Those are the basics. I’ll expand on them a bit more in future articles.
This first recipe isn’t really a recipe. After I had done a couple of runs in the Harvest Right freeze-dryer with good results, it occurred to me to simply order some favorite take-out food and dry it.
Chez Thuy is a nearby Vietnamese diner that has been in business here (Boulder, Colorado) for over 30 years. Although my family members aren’t really tofu-eaters, we love the sesame tofu at Chez Thuy and always get it when ordering from them. I thought it would be pretty great to eat one of my favorite take-out dishes while hiking the PCT this summer.
The dish consists of broccoli stir-fried in sesame sauce, along with fried breaded tofu and crispy noodles. I cut the larger veggie and tofu chunks into half-inch pieces to facilitate drying and rehydration and popped the dish into the freeze-dryer. It looked like this going in:
And a month later like this, about to go down:
It did not disappoint, and this was a good thing. I was not in a good mental space to be handling disappointment. Hiking the NorCal – Oregon PCT this summer was mostly awful. There were far too many days of brutal heat, long water carries, and choking smoke. Being able to chow down on a first-class meal did not make everything all better, but it put a good end to a couple of really miserable days.
The flavors were there in all their glory. I held the crispy noodles back while rehydrating so that they retained their crunch. The biggest and most pleasant surprise was that the tofu was actually improved by the freeze-drying process – it was much less slimy, and the breading even retained its texture fairly well. This experiment was a total success, a 10 out of 10, and I will freeze-dry this again.
The possibilities here are nearly unlimited. Every long-distance hiker who gags down a pot of instant mashed potatoes begins to dream of town food. Freeze-drying take-out food lets you eat like a town stop glutton while you are still on the trail. That’s what I call winning.
In the next installment, I’ll go into more detail regarding the principles and practice of freeze-drying, and share the results of other culinary experiments. Talk to you then.
Here’s a link to the Harvest Right Freeze Dryer model used in this series.
Browse our curated recommendations in the Backpacking Light Gear Shop – a product research & discovery tool where you can find Member gear reviews, Gear Swap (used gear) listings, and more info about specific products recommended by our staff and members.
Gear Shop » Food Preparation and Packaging
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Moisture-wicking fabrics (base layers and underwear) are designed to move sweat away from the skin. In this study, we test if Polartec and other base layer fabrics meet manufacturer claims.
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Backpacking Light contributor Ben Kilbourne reads his meditation on the transition from wilderness to trail to parking lot.
Would you like to read the written version of this podcast? Check it out here.
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
A lesson in chemistry provides the solution for how to treat extremely muddy water sources in the backcountry.
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Having an intentional, consistent, and efficient approach to packing your gear for a backpacking trip saves time and energy while hiking and in camp.
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Andrew, Ryan, and the Backpacking Light team chat about their favorite gear they used in 2021.
We’re gonna wrap up the year with a survey of gear we loved using in 2021. We polled the Backpacking Light staff and contributors and asked them to talk about the gear they couldn’t live without in 2021 – and why. Make sure and check out the related Staff Picks 2021 article for more. Enjoy, and we’ll see you next year!
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Hyperlite Mountain Gear Pods are clamshell design, waterproof stuff sacks designed to fit perfectly inside backpacks.
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The transitions from the simple discomfort of the trail to the chaotic comfort of life at home happen by degrees. What can I learn from the trail that will allow me to experience home life in a new way?
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Rex Sanders runs through an extensive protocol for testing portable battery chargers and electronic devices.
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Considerations for managing backcountry electronics including portable battery packs, batteries in cold temperatures, headlamps, cameras, satellite communicators, fitness watches, smartphones, and more.
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The Hammock Gear Premium Burrow Quilt is a customizable backpacking down quilt with a functional pad attachment system and high-end materials.
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A conversation with Livio Melo, founder of Allmansright, an up-and-coming gear maker based in the Bronx, New York.
This is the first installment of the Backpacking Light Podcast’s new series of cottage industry interviews – where Andrew and Ryan chat with some of the small business owners who make up the ultralight cottage industry world.
In this episode, the guys interview Livio Melo, the founder of allmansright.
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Mark Wetherington confronts the novelty of bailing on a trip after things don’t go as planned in Idaho’s Lost River Range.
With 1.3 million acres of wilderness conveniently located a few miles from my house, I don’t have to look far when I want to hike to subalpine lakes, meadows, peaks, or amble beside a mountain stream through coniferous forest.
I’m able to plan many trips on short notice since there’s a bare minimum of logistics involved, and as someone who is not averse to visiting the same places, I never feel like I’ve seen all there is to see in my local mountain range.
But during the shoulder-season months when backpacking in much of the Northern Rockies tends to be an exercise in frustration, I often travel a bit further afield to reach more accommodating environments for multi-night trips. And sometimes, like almost all backpackers, I want to experience hiking through a landscape with different geology, flora, and fauna than I’m accustomed to.
The Lost River Range in Idaho had piqued my interest over the years. It wasn’t until this past summer that I was able to carve out the time to drive 200-plus miles south for a backpacking trip there. I’d read, and re-read, a compelling description of a 40-mile traverse of the range in Backpacking Idaho by Doug Lorain and had done some day hiking and rock climbing in the area the previous September. A trip to Craters of the Moon National Monument in April took me directly past the Lost River Range. Its snow-covered peaks stretched skyward past 12,000 feet and a coniferous forest striped the middle elevations before fading into the high desert of the valley floor. After seeing the Lost Rivers then, I became determined to do a proper backpacking trip there over the summer.
Since the most practical way of doing the trip would involve a shuttle, I got in touch with my friend Jim, who’d previously expressed interest in exploring the area. We’d done several trips together, from long day hikes to a four-day trip along the Selway River, and fortunately, our schedules aligned and we were able to tentatively commit to a week in late June for this trip. I can imagine some incredulity that we would set aside an entire week for a mere 40-mile trip, a distance which many lightweight backpackers would easily tackle in a weekend, so I’d like to take this opportunity to provide some clarification before I get too deep into this narrative.
A full day would be consumed just by driving down and setting up the shuttle, with distance and the range’s notoriously bad roads working against us, and we would camp at the trailhead the night before our trip. We also wanted to give ourselves plenty of time for side trips and to enjoy our time in such an impressive landscape. And, perhaps most importantly, we didn’t want to overestimate the progress we would make as there were significant portions of our route which lacked any trail whatsoever, and other sections where the trails we would be hiking on were unmaintained. After my firsthand experience with the trip, I can wholeheartedly attest that this paragraph from the trip description in Backpacking Idaho was not an exaggeration; if anything it was a slight understatement:
Though gloriously scenic, significant parts of this trail are so sketchy that much of the walking is effectively cross-country. In addition, junctions are almost never signed and many trails shown on the U.S. Forest Service maps either do not exist or are literally miles from where they are indicated . . . this trip is recommended only for experienced hikers who don’t mind doing some bushwhacking to follow a poorly signed and rarely traveled route.
Rather than finding that a discouraging caveat, both myself and Jim thought it seemed like the perfect trip to kick off the summer backpacking season. And having done several backpacking trips with Doug, the author of the guidebook, and working with him as a co-author on a guidebook for backpacking in Washington, I felt confident that our metrics for difficulty were similarly calibrated.
The Lost River Range is remote, at least as far as Lower 48 mountain ranges go, and is the definition of high, dry, and lonesome. Its presence on AllTrails, social media, and other hiking apps and online outlets is sparse to the point of being amusing – if not a bit concerning should you find yourself in a backcountry predicament. There isn’t a NatGeo Trails Illustrated map for this range or guidebooks detailing its nooks and crannies. For such incredible scenery, not to mention such alluring peaks (including Mt. Borah, the Idaho high point), it sees a fraction of the attention of other ranges in Idaho, like the Sawtooths. As someone who places a premium on solitude and scenery, the Lost River Range seemed like a perfect destination.
Our expectations of solitude were met after driving down a horrible excuse for a dirt road off of Highway 93 a few dozen miles north of the tiny town of Mackay, Idaho. We left my car surrounded by sagebrush and not much else. From there we headed south to the starting point, where we saw exactly one other car at the wide spot in the road that was the trailhead. We drove on a little further and car camped at a dispersed site.
From our campsite, we were able to identify one of the landmarks we were supposed to be looking for – a “reddish rock outcrop” that would let us know we were on the right course into the core of the range. Glad to have some of the initial route-finding out of the way, we set up our luxurious car camping gear and enjoyed an elaborate dinner before heading to bed.
After a delicious and leisurely breakfast the next morning, we drove back to the trailhead, shouldered our packs, and headed down the trail. To our surprise, the trail was clearly marked by a sign, contrary to the guidebook description (which was written nearly a decade earlier). I’d called the USFS in an attempt to get more current information about trail conditions and what they provided me could most politely and generously be described as being close to useless.
Disarmed by this apparently auspicious start to our journey, we trekked along at a good pace. We reveled in the crisp mountain air as we sauntered along at roughly 8,000 feet, gazing up at peaks topping out more than half a mile above us. Soon, however, we found ourselves pausing in a meadow to gaze up at the peaks in an attempt to orient ourselves.
Less than two miles into our hike, we’d missed a split in the trail and allowed ourselves to understandably, but erroneously, follow a blaze along an older trail that overlapped with a game trail and led us about a half-mile off course. Thanks to Jim’s astute navigational skills – and his ability to convince me that my interpretation of where we needed to go was incorrect – we soon found ourselves back on track and headed in the right direction. As we debated which way to ascend to the saddle, I was able to regain some of my confidence by identifying the correct landmark to aim for after Jim suggested a slight deviation from the main route. Although we were only about 5% into our route, we’d already made two minor navigational blunders on one of the more straightforward sections of the trail.
Slightly humbled, we had a refreshing break in the saddle with terrific views of the Lemhi Mountains to the east and the Lost River Range around us. We reviewed the guidebook description, looked over our maps, and then headed downhill and wound our way toward a crossing of Big Creek, where we would filter water and then head to our first night’s camp.
Everything went smooth on the short hike to Big Creek, but when we arrived we realized we would not be filtering water since there was none available.
Despite it being early in the season, and the stream being referenced as a reliable water source, it was completely dry. On the bright side, we still had some water in our bottles and it was only another mile and a half or so to where we planned to camp. On the more dim side, that mile climbed a total of 1000 feet and was nearly entirely off-trail. Being both our preferred plan and the only reasonable option, we started the steep climb to the lake. On the way, we were able to see the pass we would ascend the next day as we continued our route. While beautiful in the austere way that defines much of the Lost River Range, it looked a bit more ominous than either of us would’ve liked.
After reaching the striking cerulean waters of a small unnamed lake at the head of Big Creek, we were finally able to relax. We had water, we were only about 500 vertical feet from the basin we were planning to camp in, and we were surrounded by some absolutely sublime scenery. Like pretty much any other information about the Lost Rivers – from roads, to trails, to campgrounds – there wasn’t a whole lot of conclusive reports about the fishing prospects in the few mountain lakes scattered throughout the higher parts of the range. Since it seemed like at least two of the lakes we’d pass would contain fish, I thought it would be worth it to bring my Tenkara fishing gear since it only added a few ounces to my pack. I’d found records online of the lake being stocked in the distant past, but I was unable to get anything to rise to the various flies I tossed onto the water before we headed to the basin above the lake to set up camp.
A steady drizzle developed as we ascended and we took shelter under a stately whitebark pine for the half-hour it lingered. Once the skies cleared up, we strolled through the meadow and scouted out our campsites. There was an abundance of flat ground and there was really no bad place to camp, just sites with different perspectives on the same outstanding landscape, so we each picked the choicest spots we could find and pitched our tents quickly in case the rain returned.
When we regrouped for dinner, each of us feeling surprisingly worn down after having only hiked no more than 7 miles, Jim opened the conversation with an amusing observation.
“When I was sitting at home back in February with a glass of wine and reading the description that described this hike as ‘challenging’, I remember thinking ‘Doug doesn’t know who I am,'” Jim said. He then acknowledged that Doug’s description was indeed eerily accurate. I also admitted that I was a bit surprised by the difficulty of the route, both in regard to navigation and the terrain itself. It wasn’t a route that allowed for one to easily drift into a state of flow or go on auto-pilot. After we’d finished dinner the rain picked back up and we headed to our separate shelters for some much-needed rest; I was almost as tired physically and mentally at that point as I had been on any previous backpacking trip.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, with just a slight breeze pulsing through the basin that made the warmth of a cup of coffee a more distinct pleasure than usual. Sipping it in such a spectacular location and trying to contemplate how various fossils embedded in the rocks had ended up at almost 10,000 feet above sea level made it a particularly memorable morning. As we began to stride out of the basin and backtrack to the main part of the route, Jim broke the news that he would not be continuing on for the remaining 34 miles. Physically, he just felt outmatched for the terrain that we had come through and that lay ahead. We had several trailless passes to navigate at nearly 10,000 feet, which had seemed intimidating but doable previously, and now just sounded like a recipe for overdosing on Type 2 Fun.
Jim was happy to hand over the shared gear (water filter, SPOT, bourbon) since he’d head back to the trailhead and his truck and I could keep hiking to my car. This was a trip I was enthralled with completing, the best scenery was yet to come, and the shuttle logistics were taken care of, but for some reason, I just wasn’t excited about hiking solo for the next four days. This was rather out of character for me, as I am comfortable hiking solo and love the time spent in solitude in beautiful places. And in a trip in Arizona’s Superstition Wilderness where a partner bailed unexpectedly and I was solo in an unfamiliar landscape, I was happy to continue alone and it turned out to be one of my most memorable trips. But I was still a bit shaken up by the difficulty of the route and especially the navigational challenges. And to be quite honest, the range itself just felt more hostile than I’d expected. The sense of remoteness was palpable and the lack of predictable water nagged at me as I contemplated pushing onward. Reluctantly, but yielding to my inner sense of responsibility and intuition, I joined Jim as we headed back to the trailhead.
We split a consolatory, rather than a celebratory, beer and then made our way back to my car, where we split up and headed our separate ways. We made plans to meet up at an alpine lake in the Bitterroots in a few days to try and re-establish ourselves as successful backpackers. I had four hours of driving to mull over what bailing on the trip meant and took the opportunity to break the travel up with an hourlong soak in a roadside hot spring next to the Salmon River. This was the only trip I could recall actually ending prematurely and not just making some alterations to the route. I’d never hiked off a trail with more than a days worth of leftover food – on this trip, I hiked out with four days worth of food in my pack.
That food sat heavily in my pack as I hiked out and my thoughts sat heavily with me as I reflected upon whether I’d made the right call. Although I backpack solo out of necessity most often, I also truly cherish the time I spend by myself on backpacking trips. But for some reason, things just didn’t feel right this time around. I’m familiar with the notion that “the mountains will always be there”, but mostly to justify postponing trips rather than ending them early as a means of risk management. And continuing solo in the Lost River Range certainly could’ve been risky. Getting turned around up there, or injured, or both, would’ve turned into an epic of, well, epic proportions. I have no doubt that I made the right decision to hike out with Jim, but I also have no doubt that I’ll return to the Lost River Range for more backpacking. And I’ll be better prepared this time around.
Although I exercised what I think most would view as sound judgment by not continuing solo, just a few days later – on a trip in the Bitterroots where I met back up with Jim – I would exercise rather questionable judgment by hiking to a difficult-to-reach lake from my basecamp. It seemed like whatever hesitation I had about hiking cross-country in an unfamiliar mountain range, I tossed it out the window when I returned to more familiar terrain.
But that’s a story for another time.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Some things actually suck. We can still learn from them.
The first core question I want to ask in this essay is: what constitutes a backpacking trip failure? I can think of several examples but I have reservations about identifying most of them as outright failures, prompting the second core question of this essay: are backpacking trip failures really failures?
I also feel reservations about painting everything with too zen a brush; some things actually do suck. We can learn from these things, but to deny their terribleness would probably be a mistake. I will look at these potential backpacking trip failures and then discuss whether or not they are failures and what has at times allowed me to view them not only as not failures, but actually as successes.
Most of my backpacking injuries have been minor: scrapes and bruises or a strained IT band that I just tried to ignore. My poor planning has caused trip-ending injuries to others, though. And for this, Michelle, I am eternally sorry.
I thought it might be a good idea to hike along the upper Paria River in December because the weather looked decent (60 F° days and 10° degree nights). I didn’t, however, foresee the challenges posed by the freezing and thawing river. I assumed the river would be so low that we could step over it, or frozen enough that we could walk across it, but neither of these things turned out to be true. The river was very frozen indeed, but every morning as the sun hit a section of it, that section began to thaw and release a minor flash flood of 7-11 Slurpee consistency. This meant that while some shadowed sections were completely frozen and other sections were low enough to step over, other sections were raging ice-flows, and we had to walk through them.
I didn’t know that this particular desert river worked this way, and backpacking through it was both not the best way to find out, and also probably the only way to find out.
We crossed the river countless times. The feeling that our feet were hunks of cold rubber glued to our ankles never abated all day long. The second day was even worse. We crossed sections of the river that had frozen in thin sheets that reminded me of croissant crust. Our feet punched through these layered crusts descending several feet with each step into the cold, wet mud below. After about 10 miles of this torture, Michelle said her feet were beginning to hurt. We exited the river corridor, road-walked through piñon and juniper woodlands, and then failed to find the route into the next canyon. Admitting defeat, we bailed to the main road and hitchhiked to a state park so we could arrange a ride back to our car at the trailhead.
On the one hand, not finding this route into the next canyon was a failure because we needed to find it to close the loop, but on the other hand, it ensured that we would not be walking anymore, something Michelle’s feet were very happy about. This brings us to the next type of trip failure: Poorly planned trip results in long-term injury.
Michelle developed peroneal tendonitis from carrying a heavy load over many miles on frozen feet. It took nearly two months for her feet to heal. I injured my feet too. When we returned home, I took a few days off of running, opting instead for yoga. When I folded towards the ground, placed my palms on the floor, stepped to the back of the mat, and then pressed into downward-facing dog I felt electricity zing from my heel to my calf. I had pulled my Achilles. The prolonged cold strained and weakened it, leaving it vulnerable to a dramatic movement such as down-dog. This injury put me out of commission for a month. I know this series of events sounds like a run of failures, but the truth is more nuanced.
I could view the Paria river trip as a failure because we both got injured. I could also view it as a failure because we did not complete the loop that we set out to do. But if I classify the trip as a total failure I would be missing several important things. First, we observed the winter desert in a unique and intimate way which I recounted in my essay Frozen Tracks. Of course, it is true that we could have investigated this canyon in a safer way in April or October.
More relevant to this essay, I believe this harrowing ice-slog along the Paria River was actually a complete success because we adapted correctly to the circumstances at hand. As Michelle later reminded me, “Sticking with the original plan despite many issues for the sake of completing the mission would have been absolutely stupid.” I have to agree. Things could have been much worse for both our feet had we attempted to find a roundabout way to walk all the way back to the car (something we fleetingly considered). In this light, I consider this trip to be a total success. Odd how that works.
Some people might consider harder-than-expected trips to be failures, and I understand that. But these trips sometimes fall into the success category for me. They almost have to because such a large percentage of my trips end up being harder than expected.
In March of 2020, my friend Jesse and I trudged through the Mazatzal Mountains of Central Arizona for several days in flash flood conditions. Our rain gear failed almost instantly; I often had to keep moving just to keep from becoming hypothermic. When we finally reached the trailhead our ride was not waiting for us because the road had flooded. Additionally, my truck was stranded out in the desert because unpassable rivers had risen all around it. This trip was characteristic of Type II fun, with moments of Type III sprinkled in. I wouldn’t choose any of these things again if I could, but at the same time, I’m glad I had the experience and enjoy telling the story. If, on the other hand, experiencing the uncomfortable and unexpected and then carrying the resulting story wasn’t my cup of tea, I might have viewed this trip as a failure.
For most people, the windows of time in which a backpacking trip can take place are small and precious, resulting in the sometimes desperate hope that everything will go according to plan. Often we are disappointed.
We pick the wrong crew, for example; they are too ambitious or not skilled enough. Maybe our worldviews don’t align. Several times I have invited too many people on a trip which slows the overall pace of the trip because no one’s morning schedules match up.
There are also landscape expectations. In this era of unprecedented climatic change, landscapes are changing swiftly and dramatically, squashing backpacking expectations at every turn. Familiar springs dry up, green forests burn, and birds we listen for are eerily absent.
There are countless other examples of unmet backpacking expectations, some of which I hope to read in the comments below. On the one hand, I want to plan for every possible scenario in order to keep a trip out of the failure category, and on the other, I should know that I can’t plan for everything, and that knowledge could allow me to view unmet backpacking expectations as just the way things are.
Gear can affect trips in a few ways, some of which result in outright trip failures, while other outcomes are more nuanced. A gear failure such as a popped pad or torn tent fly could end a trip. An uncomfortable backpack could make every step uncomfortable. The brain of the gearhead could remain fixated on the minutia of gear-tweaking instead of on the sandstone minarets, buttes, and domes silhouetted against the lilac dawn sky.
Let’s start with complete gear failure. One of my most dangerous gear failures was my raingear failure in the Mazatzal Mountains. My 2.5-layer rainpants failed almost instantly and my 3-layer, highly breathable jacket failed within a couple of hours of heavy rain. Jesse’s 2.5-layer pants and jacket failed just as quickly. This put us in an extremely dangerous situation; we had nearly 25 miles to hike in nonstop rain and temperatures ranging between about 40 and 55 °F. The situation did not deteriorate, however, because we stayed moving in the rain and had dry sleeping clothes and sleeping bags to crawl into when we stopped. We hiked to the trailhead shivering and blue-lipped and (possibly misguidedly) swore off waterproof-breathable fabrics from then on out. Maybe this Type II fun trip wasn’t a failure, but it came close because of sub-par gear, user error, or outstanding conditions, it’s hard to say which.
For about three years I used a very uncomfortable backpack. It didn’t totally ruin any trips, but it stole my attention. When I should have been focused on the land around me I was thinking about how my neck hurt, how I couldn’t turn my head to the side. The pain left me one step removed from the experience of being in the wilderness, and then the problem-solving that ensued thereafter left me yet another step removed. Choosing gear that performs well for me is one way to simply enjoy a trip, remaining attentive to the landscape through which I walk.
Fixating on the minutia of gear-tweaking is a potentially neverending process. I, for one, have created and solved gear-related problems simply to feel a sense of control when the rest of my life is crumbling around me. After doing this enough, it starts to enter addiction territory, and becomes a sort of crutch. And at that point, the habit is hard to kick, so when I’m backpacking and all is well in my home life, I’m still wondering if there’s something better out there or if I could shave 4 ounces from my shelter by cutting things off of it. Fixating on gear in this way may not turn a trip into a failure for some folks, but for me it does. If I cannot remain present while walking through the mountains, I’m doing something wrong.
A few weeks back, I half-heartedly tried to go on a trip. I did not pack. Instead, I took the pile of backpacking gear that I had deposited on my living room floor after my previous trip and shoved it all into the back of my truck again without even sorting through it to see if everything was there. I bought food but I did not pack it. Instead, I just loaded a bunch of paper bags into the truck in hopes of piecing meals together at the trailhead. I finally started planning the route at about 1 AM the night before leaving. These things were signs that I did not really feel like going on a trip, and I probably shouldn’t have tried.
I drove the six hours to the trailhead anyway, and then just sat there staring at the pink sandstone. My life at home had been fundamentally defined by doing things, and I suddenly realized I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to problem-solve or route-find. I didn’t want to have any goals. So I read for a while, went for a pretty goal-less eight-mile run, and drove home. It was a waste of gas, for sure, and arguably a waste of time too. I attempted to embark on a trip I didn’t want to do, and this has the appearance of being a failure to me. But is it?
Backpacking is partly defined by expecting the unexpected and being prepared enough to adapt to changing scenarios. In most cases, adapting with humility will result in successes even if trips are cut short, routes are altered, or discomfort is tolerated for days on end. To revisit Michelle’s commentary on our painful Paria trip: “Sticking with the original plan despite many issues for the sake of completing the mission would have been absolutely stupid,” she said. In my opinion (and Michelle’s too), adapting correctly to the circumstances at hand will keep most backpacking trips out of the failure category, and firmly planted in the success category.
Got a backpacking failure (success)? Share it with us in the comments!
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
How bad does high-loft synthetic insulation (Climashield Apex and Primaloft Gold) degrade when subjected to repeated compression cycles? What’s the impact on backpacking gear and apparel?
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Ursacks are lighter alternatives to bear canisters for food storage but require the right knots and tying locations to protect your food.
Lighter than canisters and less prone to user error or landscape limitations than relying on a traditional food bag hang, Ursacks have become a popular way to keep food safe among lightweight backpackers. Although certainly not the only option for food storage in the backcountry, their relative ease of use and effectiveness against bears, rodents, and other wildlife make them one of the more appealing ones. Effective Ursack use, however, isn’t common knowledge among most backpackers, especially those who don’t read instructions. The purpose of this article is to help the reader learn how to use an Ursack properly.
Ursacks are approved as bear-resistant containers in many national parks. This allows backpackers to meet park requirements without having to use heavy and bulky bear canisters. In areas where there are minimal food storage regulations, but the landscape makes the traditional food bag hang a challenging proposition (deserts, areas above treeline, and subalpine areas with thick conifers that make finding a stout and extended limb difficult) an Ursack is often one of the best options.
I had hoped that with a more abundant layer of blubber around my midsection as I approached the beginning of middle age, maybe any bears that saw me waddling down the trail would feel required to secure their food, rather than the other way around. Unfortunately, a wildlife biologist friend of mine assured me that this was delusional so I found myself sticking to more traditional methods of protecting my food from bears.
This article is focused on how to use an Ursack, but the why is of paramount importance. Properly storing food keeps wildlife safe, keeps other humans who camp in the same site after you’re gone safe, and can keep you from having to hike out on an empty stomach after your food gets acquired and eaten by wildlife. And wildlife aren’t picky – you won’t find that they simply high-graded your trail mix and picked out the M&Ms, or only went for the Banana Nut Bread Clif Bars. They will eat, or attempt to eat, as much as they can. Hard-sided canisters, Ursacks, or food storage lockers provided by land managers are the most effective options for protecting your food in the backcountry. Ursacks are lighter than bear canisters, which makes them a compelling option for backpackers. Making sure your food is stored securely isn’t exactly the most glamorous part of backpacking, but it is of utmost importance as the use of public lands increases.
As with many things in the lightweight backpacking realm, acquiring the appropriate gear is just one piece of the puzzle. Learning how to effectively use the gear – or skill acquisition if you want to use a spiffy-sounding name – is just as important. The snazziest Dyneema Composite Fabrics tarp won’t do you much good if you have poor site selection skills and end up pitching it on a windy spot that pools water right before a thunderstorm rolls through. Likewise, tying an Ursack to a scrawny tree using a jumble of random knots won’t allow it to function properly and protect your food if a hungry bear stumbles upon it.
Unlike climbing or mountaineering, where your life literally depends on tying a proper knot, you almost certainly won’t die if you mess up tying a knot on your Ursack. However, improperly tying a knot greatly increases the chances of a bear (or smaller critter) being able to access and eat your food. At this point, the animal may progress down the dark path of habituating its behavior with a predisposition to easily-accessible food provided by humans. That has unfortunate consequences for a bear especially, including but not limited to relocation or euthanization. And it increases the risk of harm to campers exposed to that bear before management measures are taken. There are consequences to yourself and others if improperly using an Ursack, so take the time to practice the basic knots and make sure you can properly use it before heading out to the backcountry. Or just use a canister if you find an Ursack to be too technically burdensome.
While the instructions on how to use an Ursack from the manufacturer are sufficient, a bit more depth and detail on how to properly use this piece of gear is warranted.
Once your food has been stored inside the Ursack, you need to close the bag to prevent bears or other animals from getting inside, make sure to not be sloppy here as providing the space for a claw-hold can compromise the effectiveness of the bag.
To close and secure the bag, use a simple double overhand knot.
But first, make sure the strands of the rope in the drawstring cross and form an X. This video does a great job of showing the steps to do this. Practicing the knots at home a few times before going out for the first time with your Ursack is a good use of time. Don’t be lazy and rely on the facetious aphorism of “Don’t know the knot? Just tie a lot!” and think that a random rat’s nest of loops will somehow be easier than learning the correct way to close your Ursack and secure it to a tree.
After you’ve closed the Ursack as tight as possible using the proper knots, you should secure it to something substantial to prevent it from getting dragged away by a hungry animal. The best option is a sturdy tree limb or trunk. Don’t underestimate what “sturdy” means, as bears have chewed through limbs to get food. Here are some guidelines:
If no trees are available to attach your Ursack to, like in a desert or alpine tundra environment, you can bury the Ursack under rocks to discourage animals from investigating it. In alpine environments where bears are present, tying the Ursack into the crevice formed by two immovable pieces of talus lying against each other may be a viable option. Just be aware that a grizzly bear can easily move a rock that weighs a few hundred pounds, even if you can’t.
One trick Ryan Jordan has used when hiking in a large group above the treeline and no talus is available is to tie everyone’s Ursacks together (they often carry a dozen or more on long trips) in a big Circle of Ursacks. This is not ideal. Food odors are concentrated into a single area, and loose Ursacks that aren’t tightly secured to an immovable object may be more prone to failure since animals can gain better access to the drawcord opening. However, it may be one option for expeditions to save time. In addition, large groups concentrate human smells that are not attractive to bears, so there may be some benefit to keeping your Circle of Ursacks inside your camping area in some situations where regulations allow it.
Caveat: this technique (the Circle of Ursacks) won’t be endorsed by Ursack or most land management agencies. We don’t endorse it where regulations prohibit it.
In addition, if you find yourself frequently in areas where the ideal Ursack tie-up isn’t available, or areas frequented by habituated bears, you may want to protect your food with an odor barrier. Storing your food in OPSaks or zip-closure 5-mil mylar bags (we recommend the Shield Pro brand) will reduce the chances of a bear or other animals smelling your food to begin with.
1. Don’t just prop an Ursack up in a tree. Secure it to trees using the methods described above. Black bears, raccoons, and other animals can climb trees and can easily access your food.
2. Don’t tie it to a tree with slack drawcord. This exposes the opening to animals and increases the chance for an Ursack failure.
3. Don’t tie an Ursack to a thin-diameter tree (less than four inches in diameter). Bears can chew through, or push over and break, thin trees.
4. Don’t tie your Ursack to a tree near a trail corridor, keep your camp discreet from other users – consider LNT Principle Number 7: Be Considerate to Other Visitors. In addition, don’t tie your Ursack along trails, game trails, rivers, or other obvious big game corridors.
5. Don’t just “hide” your Ursack. Just because it’s hidden from view doesn’t mean animals like bears can’t follow the scent of food emanating from your Ursack and find it.
6. Don’t tie your Ursack to a deadfall. A bear can easily move it, chew through it, and steal your food bag.
7. Don’t tie your Ursack to a standing dead tree. Dead trees are weak and can easily be toppled by a bear.
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DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
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