Andrew and Ryan talk about skills and strategies for painting, writing, composing, and photography while backpacking.
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Summary
In this SKILLS SHORT EPISODE, Ryan and Andrew talk about strategies and techniques for creative pursuits in the backcountry: painting, writing, composing, photography, journaling, and more!
It’s fun to apply ultralight philosophy to creative pursuits. These are a few of the sketches Andrew Marshall has created while in the outdoors.
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.
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. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
In his new column, Simple Gear Tests, Backpacking Light author Rex Sanders provides suggestions for at-home gear tests you can do with minimal time and expense. First up – a plan for verifying the capacity of your USB-rechargeable devices.
Now when I’m reading on an NPS or USFS website and see “gate closed until…” I don’t see a barrier – I see an opportunity for solitude.
As someone who prioritizes solitude when choosing backcountry destinations, I often find myself skipping over public lands where the spectacular and the popular overlap.
Despite my aversion to crowds, I do recognize that the most-visited front- and backcountry destinations are popular for a reason. That reason is almost always their sheer beauty, or their rareness, or a combination of both of those characteristics. I’ve backpacked in Yellowstone and Glacier and been absolutely awe-struck, with memories of beautiful scenery and sublime campsites much more vivid than the memories of permit office personnel and other hikers. So I don’t totally forego the A-list adventure destinations, I just rarely seek them out.
And it’s not just national parks or life-list wilderness areas that can be too crowded for my tastes. Short hikes to superlative regional natural features or roadside hot springs can be just as packed as Going-to-the-Sun Road, relatively speaking.
The tried-and-true recommendations of going during shoulder season, or during a weekday, or a shoulder-season weekday with some precipitation in the forecast have worked for me in the past, but they aren’t always a guarantee. So, in the spring of 2020 – when travel restrictions prevented me from traveling outside of Montana, I spent some time thinking outside the box to plan uncrowded trips in normally crowded places.
Photos don’t do the majesty of the old-growth cedars justice. Having the trail all to ourselves made the experience even more special.
An old-growth cedar grove in northwestern Montana had been on my list to visit for a few years. In the summer season, the short nature trail through the grove attracts ample visitation and in winter it would require a four-hour drive, then cross-country skiing in on the closed road for several miles.
All this made an early-season visit seem like the best option. The paved road to the trailhead is gated until May 1, which meant there was an ideal springtime window where cars wouldn’t have access but those willing to bike could arrive there with minimal effort and have a crowd-free experience. While some places – like Yellowstone and Glacier, most notably – have an active and well-known early-season biking window, this spot seemed to have flown well under the radar despite its paved road and beautiful scenery.
A touring bike would’ve been preferable, but using the gear you have can still get the job done.
My girlfriend and I loaded up our bikes and backpacking gear, along with more than a few luxury items to make the most of the easy access, and headed north by northwest on a warm Saturday morning in April. After shouldering our packs and pedaling our bikes around the gate, we enjoyed a solitary stretch of pavement to the empty trailhead. After stashing our gear at a dispersed site, we took a leisurely stroll through the cedars. Snowbanks still dotted the shadiest areas, but trilliums and other spring wildflowers were putting on a show. The huge trees were, of course, the biggest highlights (literally), and walking among them in silent contemplation was the perfect way to wind down the evening before returning to make the feast we had packed in.
We arrived right as the early evening light made the old-growth forest even more enchanting.
Enthused by that experience, I eagerly awaited the opportunity for the next test of my planning prowess. Rather than a gate serving as a barrier to keep out the crowds, I was relying on lingering snowdrifts to provide me with solitude. I planned to drive my car as far up a winding dirt road as possible until I hit snow and then ride the rest of the way over a pass on my bike, and from there on to (hopefully) crowd-free hot springs. I’d ride where I could, and push it through the snow where I couldn’t.
Trucks were able to make it through this first drift, but a steeper and deeper one around the next bend forced them to turn back. Pushing my bike through was easy enough.
Hoping I’d timed it right, I pulled into a parking spot at a switchback just as a few lifted trucks and all-terrain-vehicles (ATVs) were coming down from the pass. The drivers let me know that it was too early to get through in a truck or ATV (the snowbanks are steeply pitched in spots, and rolling off the road would be catastrophic in most places) but that if I was determined enough to get in on my bike, I shouldn’t have any problem. Hot springs are a powerful motivator for me, so I knew determination wouldn’t be a problem.
I’ve visited this hot springs a half-dozen time, but this was the first time I’d had it to myself for more than a half-hour or so. An unexpected bonus for May 2020 was that the outhouse in the parking area had toilet paper.Solitary bliss in perfectly hot water.
Things went just as smoothly as I’d planned – although pushing a bike uphill in the snow isn’t something that I exactly savored – and within an hour I was soaking in hot water and drinking a cold beer. Even better was knowing that I had total privacy and that unless someone else had the same plan (extremely unlikely) I’d enjoy the solitary soak for as long as I’d like. My only regret was not packing the gear to stay the night. The thought of biking uphill after soaking for an hour or two was not a relaxing one. The actuality of the experience wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated, but it would’ve been much nicer to have more time to spend in the area after paying the price of admission.
After such auspicious experiences with these trips, I’ve decided to try to make one or both of them annual events when I’m not able to go further afield for early season travels. And I’ve found a useful lens to look through when planning future trips. Now when I’m reading on a National Park Service or the United States Forest Service website and see “gate closed until…” I don’t see a barrier – I see an opportunity for solitude.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Andrew and Ryan chat with Jaden Bales from the Wyoming Wildlife Federation about western wildfires.
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Summary
In this episode, Andrew chats with Jadon Bales (Communications Director, Wyoming Wildlife Federation) about the new reality of wildfire behavior in the west. Ryan gives some actionable advice on planning for worst-case wildfire scenarios and highlights some new discussions going on at Backpacking Light. Also in this episode – Platypus’ new water filter could be a game changer.
A wildland firefighter works to contain a blaze in the Sierra Nevada. Photo: Robbie Culp
Outline
Ryan is prepping for a fly-fishing trip in Wyoming’s Bighorn range.
Ryan introduces the guest, Jaden Bales, and gives a little background info on western wildfires
Jaden thanks all the firefighters currently working to contain the fires burning right now and shares his background and some info on the Wyoming Wildlife Federation
the failures of traditional American fire management in the west
is there evidence that tree thinning works?
living in fire-prone areas
raising awareness about fire restrictions
the different levels of fire restrictions
last year’s fire season vs. this year’s fire season
Note: In this section of the podcast, Jaden and Andrew discuss several fires that were ongoing on the date they recorded the episode: late July, 2021. Other notable fires cropped up as the 2021 fire season continued.
inciweb is an excellent resource for tracking fires
some common-sense tips for safety while backpacking in fire season
to report a fire call 911 or the National Fire Information Center, or region-specific fire-reporting lines (pay attention as you enter the backcountry)
good planning and communication (satellite messenger) is better than trying to run from a surprise fire in the backcountry
use rangers and other forest service staff as a resource for on-the-ground information
toss an N-95 mask into the bottom of your pack in case you run into poor air quality
Jaden’s takeaways: being aware of the increasing danger of wildfires and adding your input as a taxpayer
go to meetings and use websites to add public comments
interview wrap up
Ryan’s four tools for backpacking in wildfire season: trip planning flexibility, finding more remote locations to hike, decision making in the presence of wildfire smoke, and wildfire escape contingency
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.
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. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Why do so many of us still feel compelled to have fires?
When I was a kid I loved playing with fire.
I enjoyed starting the fire when my family would go camping, and I was constantly tending it. I wanted to know what would burn, so I would experiment. Green spruce bows popped and spat but eventually burst into flames and then flamed out quickly. Pretty exciting. Pine and fir bows: same deal. Dry juniper bows spat and sparked loudly, flaming up and dying back just as quickly. Cowpie? Eventually burns, good to know. Because I was raised by parents who generally care about the world around us, I didn’t experiment much with tin foil, cans, Mountain House bags, or glass bottles when camping.
A small tamarisk fire built for warmth on a February packrafting trip.
But at home – when my parents weren’t looking – I experimented. What happens when ants burn? What about a ripe apricot? These were questions I felt utterly compelled to find answers to. And so I did my best. Ants shrivel up and extinguish with a subtle pop which you can hear if you listen closely. Apricots require explosives.
The tension between experimentation for experimentation’s sake and an outright desire for destruction is difficult to untangle. And then why did this infatuation just evaporate at some point? But also why, when I do find myself staring into a fire as an adult, am I totally captivated, awed?
Professor of Anthropology Daniel Fessler has researched this topic and offers some clarity here. In his paper, A Burning Desire: Steps Toward an Evolutionary Psychology of Fire Learning, he says that just as humans and primates are born with an inherent fear of snakes, we are also born with an inherent fascination with fire. Kids in traditional cultures are expected to be interested in fire with their curiosity peaking around age six and a half. Fessler says that besides fire’s use for survival (warmth and light) it was also evolutionarily advantageous to have an interest in fire because it expanded our diet, what we were able to hunt.
Controlling fire also aided in developing tools, combating predators, and managing wild plant resources. And because humans inhabited all sorts of different environments, there was no universal mastery of fire. Fire making had to be learned in each new environment. Everywhere we went we had to find out what burns, what makes fire, and how to keep it going.
He goes on to say that children in traditional cultures don’t really play with fire, rather their interest is more practical, utilitarian. They bake pretend food, or even cook little bits of real food, for example. He thinks this is probably due to the mundanity of fire in these cultures. Fire in western cultures, on the other hand, is anything but mundane. We use it for celebrations. We set off fireworks on the Fourth of July, we burn giant effigies at gatherings like Burning Man, and we barbecue fancy meats to celebrate someone’s graduation or birthday.
And, of course, we light campfires when we go backpacking. Sometimes I wonder if this too is a ceremony of some sort, a celebration that we have escaped the office, that we have found the forest and the big sky full of stars. We did it!
It stands out to me that my interest in fire peaked not in middle childhood but in my early teenage years. Fessler says it is common in western societies today for interest in fire to peak around age 12. But then I’m left wondering if that’s really even true. I know plenty of adults who can’t go backpacking without having a fire each night. They poke at it incessantly, completely transfixed. I wonder if our interest in fire never goes away. I wonder if, when we don’t live in a traditional culture, fire experimentation becomes fire play and simply extends into adulthood, where we are still just trying to find out what burns, what doesn’t. I wonder if there is ultimately no purpose to this fire play and if we should have stopped when we were kids.
The flammability of cans and other garbage was tested in this fire ring in the High Uintas.
So I want to ask the backpacking community why many of us still feel compelled to have fires. Considering the severe drought conditions across much of the western United States and all the wildfires raging west of the hundredth meridian, maybe we should take a deeper look at this desire.
I know there are fire bans in many places now, but even before that, we should have known better. The Pack Creek Fire near Moab, Utah was started by an unattended campfire. Maybe if whoever left that fire burning had paid a little more attention when playing with fire as a teenager they’d know that the ground was dry, the crispy ponderosas just waiting for a spark. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part. Maybe our fireplay is now displaced. Instead of learning about the interactions between fire and the world around us, we have gotten sucked into the fire itself, what it consumes, how fun it can be. Maybe the ceremony of lighting it and the distraction of its mystery have superseded the practical implications of our mastery of the tool.
A group of friends and I recently walked the South and North Coast trails on the Olympic Peninsula and found ourselves camping in the rainforest on our last night. I looked up at the giant firs and cedars and listened to the eerie-sounding birdcalls echo through the forest. I examined sword ferns and felt occasionally the salty spray of the sea reach us where we stood amongst the trees. But when my friend started a campfire, all that faded away.
He piled so much driftwood on it that I had to back up. Then I somehow found myself with the job of spark stomper. Then when it got dark I got sucked in and just stared at it. The common phrase for this act – Cowboy TV – is telling, for what is TV but a distraction from the world around us? I thought about how addicted many of us are to our screens these days and pondered if Cowboy iPhone could be a more appropriate name for the distraction that fires provide. It’s striking that the act of fire staring is unique to western societies and that it is virtually nonexistent in traditional societies.
Of course, I will make a fire in winter if it is very cold and when nights are long. In other seasons I will start a fire if someone has fallen in a creek, or if everyone’s clothes are soaked from a storm and we need to try and reset things a bit. And I will stare at both fires and iPhones plenty more in my life, but when I do, I will try to think a little more deeply about what I’m doing. I will try to be thinking about how adult interest in fire might not be all that different from other evolutionary holdovers such as the fight or flight instinct transmuting into anxiety when we’re stuck in rush hour traffic. And if I feel a desire to start a fire and know it is not actually needed for survival, I should try and remember that I may actually be engaging in an adult form of fire play that should have faded away a long time ago.
And the arid land will probably thank me for my fireless camp.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
The Inov-8 Terraultra G 270 (9.5 oz / 270 g, MSRP $160) is a moderately-cushioned, zero drop, wide toebox trail running shoe with better-than-average durability and fantastic fit.
An off-trail trek through a Zambian wildlife preserve.
In the twilight before sunrise we came upon two African wild dogs harassing a hyena. In their playful way, they were trying to take back an impala kill that the hyena had scavenged for its own breakfast. Named Tripod, this thief had three good legs, the lower part of a front fourth was lost to a poacher’s snare. For Tripod, this handicap proved no hindrance as he wrestled the prize from the dogs.
We encountered African wild dogs on the first day of our journey.
My hiking partner and I took this sighting as a positive omen for the days to come.
It was August, the tail end of the Zambian winter, and about 46 °F as the sun appeared. Throwing our packs (fully packed, my Hyperlight Mountain Gear Southwest 2400 weighed less than nine pounds) in the back of a Toyota Land Cruiser, we bounced our way down a dirt track toward the Nalusanga Gate of one of Africa’s largest wildernesses, Kafue National Park. Waiting there to join us were Lipoko and Yuram, Wildlife Police Officers (WPOs or scouts) from the Zambian Department of National Parks and Wildlife. Lipoko, a hulk of a man we called Chipembeli (or Rhinoceros in the local language) was a 12-year veteran and expert tracker from a nearby village. Yuram was a new WPO recruit. He came from the capital city Lusaka and was learning from Lipoko. With these guides at the ready, we unloaded our gear, filled our water bottles, and took our first steps into the trackless Kafue.
My gear spread.
I’m not a thrill seeker. I don’t free-climb thousands of feet on an open rock face or wingsuit off a perfectly good mountain! While I enjoy a good time as much as anyone, I’m no adrenalin junkie. Yet, there I was setting off to bushwhack 100 miles across one of Africa’s classic parks, full of predators – animal and human. We were about to disappear into a landscape as large as some countries.
Along with my Zambian companion Phil Jeffery, co-owner of a safari camp and Musekese Conservation (MC), we began pushing our way through the harsh terrain, working northwest across Kafue’s northern tier. It was us, the bush – and of course the animals. Elephants, lions and snakes lay ahead – along with armed criminals aiming to slay whatever choice animals they could find. How many activities need not one, but two armed guards?
Some of the members of our trip.
Yes, we did this for the adventure, but our real motivation was to promote MC’s wildlife conservation efforts, as it didn’t take long before adventure caught up with us.
At about 4,457, Mutumbwe is the highest point in the park. Steep-sided, narrow, and rock-faced, the ridge sits almost 1000 feet higher than the surrounding plain. After six hours of hiking through the rising heat, we arrived at Mutumbwe’s base. Not knowing how to tackle this giant, we ascended what seemed to be a gentle slope. Before long, we were clambering over boulders, sharp rocks and soot-covered bush. Dropping our packs, we resorted to a hand-over-hand struggle up the jagged rocks, determined to reach the crest before darkness descended.
The Mutumbwe ridge was the high point of our journey.
Squeezing through tight gaps and clinging to roots and boulders, we managed to reach a prominent cliff. This would be our highest point for the day as the steep slope ahead made reaching the pinnacle before dark too risky. We enjoyed a 360-degree view over what seemed like a never-ending landscape of trees.
After spending our first night under the endless stars, we got up early the next morning, finished our coffee, loaded our packs, and headed out before the heat crept in. It wasn’t long before we saw signs of bush pig, warthog, aardvark, elephant, and various antelope. Following a lone bull elephant’s trail, we pushed our way through head-high grass that transitioned to Miombo woodlands, a thornless, deciduous forest landscape that covers much of Zambia. The light Miombo canopy tends to be open and sparsely shaded with tall grasses and low shrubs.
Poachers snares and traps are deadly, silent, and indiscriminate. We saw a maimed zebra and the skeletal remains of a sable antelope, with a snare around its horns. In one area, not only did we find the carcass of a recently executed elephant, we encountered skeletons of two other pachyderms that the scouts estimated were killed in the last couple of years. Three elephants slain in one area drove home the sobering reality for wildlife in this park.
Evidence of poachers.
We saw signs of illegal activity throughout the trip. There were trees downed for honey harvesting, unoccupied poachers’ camps, bicycle tracks, and a broad, well-used foot-trail that originated beyond the park’s eastern boundary. According to Lipoko, people from more than 50 miles away walk or cycle along this poachers highway to unlawfully enter the park, hunt, and remove game. The Zambian government estimates that as many as 6,000 poachers operate around Kafue.
While passing through the anti-poaching base, an excited ranger led us to a massive python that had recently devoured a small animal, possibly a bushbuck. The snake, situated in thick bush close to the river, was resting safely by a downed tree digesting its food. Approaching quietly, we crept up on the python. It appeared to be at least 13 feet long and 10 inches wide. The engorged section was two to three times its normal size.
This python was busy digesting a large meal.
Leaving the full python, we headed north, entering the Special Conservation Zone, a scenic area of Kafue with extensive grasslands filled with puku and impala. Along oxbow lakes there were signs of elephant, buffalo, lion, and leopard. The animals could sense of our presence as far away as 500 yards and retreated swiftly, darting and leaping through the tall grasses and small shrubs, disappearing into the bush.
Continuing north along the Kafue and Lafupa rivers we came to the traditional community fishing weirs. These structures are a part of the original park agreement that allows communities to continue traditional fishing using a defined number of weirs. They are not much more than hand-made dams that span the river, constructed from small trees and grass thatch. Fish are caught by routing the water through a narrow hole in the dam’s center and then into hand-made baskets woven from riverine reeds.
The Kafue river from above.
To reach our destination, we needed to cross the Lafupa without a bridge or boat to help. That left one option. Carefully, one person at a time, the team climbed onto a rickety weir, keeping a wary eye on a nearby raft of hippos, and on the black water below in case a crocodile waited for its next meal.
Testing the strength of hand and footholds, each of us inched across the frail structure until safely reaching the opposite shore. Awaiting us was Kafue’s jewel, the Busanga Plain.
Crossing the river on a weir.
After a march along riverine forests filled with resting hippos, the Busanga Plain spilled out in front of us. Before dark, we found a camping spot near an old river channel next to a large termite mound. This comfortable location was near water and out of the surrounding tall grass. As we did each night, exhausted from the day’s hike, we laid out our sleeping bags and relaxed by the campfire, our defense against encroaching animals, and took in the southern hemisphere stars and constellations. Nearby a leopard coughed, elephants grumbled, and hippos splashed and called in their low staccato laugh.
Early the next morning, we woke to hyena whooping not 30 yards from our camp.
Late in the afternoon on the eighth day, we arrived at our destination in the Busanga Plains. Sore and weighing a few pounds less, we dropped our packs and enjoyed a cold drink to celebrate our accomplishment. We eyed each other in a mutual understanding of our shared achievement in crossing this African wilderness.
Lion tracks.
In today’s hyper-connected world it’s easy to imagine that we intimately know a place or feel that we’ve already been there just by following a friend’s photos on social media. However, after walking through the heart of nature, I was reminded that to truly experience life, you have live it. Disconnect, put your boots on and get acquainted with a place in person.
These awakening moments happen when you are soaked with sweat, feel the bite of the tsetse fly, and enjoy the refreshing coolness of the river on your feet after a long, hot day of hiking. The feeling comes too in your sleeping bag when the reassuring silence is broken by the distant roar of a lion.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
What are you trying to accomplish when you backpack?
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Summary
In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, author Ben Kilbourne uses the writing of Aldo Leopold to examine his motivations when exploring the backcountry. It’s a thought-provoking essay that may just have you reconsidering why you are out there.
Ben Kilbourne uses the writing of Aldo Leopold to examine his motivations when exploring the backcountry.
Would you like to read the written version of this podcast? Check it out here.
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.
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. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
This study compares the performance of four jackets made with fabrics that span a wide range of air permeability rates and moisture vapor transmission rates (MVTR). The study shows that significantly greater moisture removal can be achieved as a function of jacket MVTR than jacket air permeability.
Is backpacking your hobby or your habit? Examining the subtle difference can provide profound insights into how to spend your time.
With the abundance of attention on Fastest Known Times, Calendar Year Triple Crowns, and hiking on trails with catchy acronyms, it seems like there’s a mold that many new backpackers feel compelled to try and fit into. There’s an undeniable undercurrent that drags most backpackers into pursuing thru-hikes, the lightest and most expensive gear, and life list destinations rather than prioritizing doing the actual activity (backpacking) as much as possible. And if they’re not doing those things, there’s often a disconcerting feeling of not being a real backpacker.
A decade of trips are accounted for in these small notebooks. I look forward to looking back on the most recent entry in a few years.
When I first started backpacking in earnest in 2007 as a college sophomore in central Kentucky – with gear cobbled together from my brief time in Boy Scouts and an oh-so-svelte Kelty external frame pack that weighed around 40 lbs – the Appalachian Trail came up frequently in conversations. People asked if I had plans to hike it or if I was training for it and my initial responses were somewhere along the lines of “I just started backpacking and am just trying to figure things out, but sure – seems like a cool thing to do!” I read up on the AT and was simultaneously intrigued and intimidated. If nothing else, I knew I was absolutely hooked on backpacking.
At the end of 2007, I made the only New Year’s resolutions I’ve ever kept – I made it a goal to spend 10% of the next year on backpacking trips. That would add up to 37 nights. For some reason, I didn’t think about counting the day I hiked out as part of the total, so I ended up with nights as the metric to use. It wasn’t an overly ambitious goal for a full-time college student with a part-time job, but it was a high enough bar to have to plan and prioritize around various academic, work, and social obligations.
Although I only got to 28 nights that first year (2008), the next two years I hit 37 exactly. I diligently logged my nights in Rite-in-the-Rain notebooks which I still take one out on every trip – ultralight purity be damned. I hiked in southern sun and humidity, cold winter rains and snow, and spectacularly beautiful spring and fall days. Flipping back through journal entries from over a decade ago and reading the few lines I scribbled in my tent at each campsite, I can still see the scenery vividly and remember the joy of spending a night in the woods.
I find it more rewarding to crash through rhododendron and walk through creeks to find hidden gems like this than to drive a few hours to the Appalachian Trail to crank out miles like a “normal” backpacker should, at least according to most outdoor media.
As my skills grew, so did my affinity for the Cumberland Plateau region where I spent most of my time backpacking. Filled with tucked-away arches, waterfalls, overlooks, and thousands of miles of sandstone cliffs, this landscape was a veritable playground for a curious backpacker like myself. I quickly learned that cranking out the miles was less interesting than exploring off-trail nooks and crannies for hidden waterfalls, historical relics, or the rare petroglyph. Part of this probably had to do with my heavy gear being a burden, part of it probably had to do with a relative lack of longer trail infrastructure (which has fortunately changed for the better, with the Sheltowee Trace offering a great longer thru-hike for those so inclined), and part of it certainly had to do with my own inclination towards the obscure and esoteric.
Wading through creeks in the southeast rather than limiting myself to a trail allowed me to stumble upon unnamed waterfalls, idyllic swimming holes, and even the remnants of Prohibition-era moonshine stills.
Within a year or two of frequent backpacking, when people asked about my interest or ambition for the Appalachian Trail my answers became more nuanced. I’d mention that I was having so much fun exploring the Cumberland Plateau as thoroughly as possible that I hadn’t really given much thought to heading somewhere else to hike. If the conversations drifted more philosophical, I might pontificate about how I was finding traveling near and deep as rewarding as I imagined traveling far and wide might be. The linear aspect of a long trail had limited appeal to me for some reason – I found it more interesting to spend my limited time off exploring an area of a dozen square miles; hiking up as many streams as possible and exploring along the cliffs as opposed to hopping on a defined path and just walking for 100 miles straight.
Abandoned miner’s cabins and unnamed lakes interest me just as much as hiking bucket list trips in Glacier or Yellowstone.
When I moved to Montana in 2014, I brought a similar attitude of exploration with me. Although there are more trails than I could hike in a lifetime and putting together a 30-50 mile weekend hike is ridiculously easy, and I now have the gear and fitness to make that an enjoyable experience rather than a tribulation, I still find myself drawn frequently off the trails to visit unnamed lakes, alpine basins, or explore old miner’s cabins rather than hike 20-mile days.
In 2019, a decade after the first year of trying to spend 10% of each year on backpacking trips, I hit the milestone I’d been hoping for. After ten years of ten of the project, I’d spent slightly over one cumulative year on backpacking trips. I’d backpacked in 11 states during that time and seen sunrises, sunsets, landscapes, wildlife, and weather events that have created profound memories. Looking back, it wasn’t even where I spent the time that mattered so much to me – it was just the fact that I was spending the time outdoors at all.
Cross-country travel to unnamed lakes is one of my favorite ways to spend the time I tithe to backpacking.
Many people, myself included, feel a spiritual and soulful connection with something when spending time outdoors. I’ll leave to better writers and theologians to describe exactly what that something might be, but I recognized early on that nature provided me with a gift and peace that warranted prioritizing. Instead of tithing with money, I tithed with my time. And I’m undoubtedly much richer for having done so.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
In a year of back-and-forth hiking plans and a busy career in backpacking media, Maggie works on understanding what backpacking means to her.
We all know what 2020 did to us as a long-distance backpacking community. To write anything else about it would just be reiterating that I had a Big Sad and felt like I was losing part of my identity when I canceled my Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) hike. As I decided not to wade into the dumpster fire of 2021 PCT permits, I ended up feeling disconnected from my world of backpacking.
Backpacking has long played a multi-faceted role in my life. I initially fell in love with it before I learned how to do anything else outdoors. Backpacking came before climbing, mountain biking, kayaking, and hunting. It was my first experience in the backcountry, made even more special as a connection point for my father and myself.
My dad was my original backpacking partner, and backpacking is a place we really connect
I turned backpacking into a career in outdoor media, writing about my experience on the Appalachian Trail and using that momentum to springboard into an editorial job in the outdoor industry.
Backpacking has also been a way for me to get back in shape after long periods of low physical activity. Commit to a 200-mile thru-hike, and in 10 to14 days, you’re back in shape. It’s the best get-fit-quick scheme out there.
With all this, backpacking’s role in my life has taken on what amounts to identity-building pressure. I had vague plans to do one thru-hike in each season in 2021, which I figured would get me back in the game. Then job opportunities, travel, and pet care snowballed into plan after plan falling by the wayside, until we were halfway into the year, and the subject matter of my writing was something I hadn’t really done for the past seven months.
I used this trip to test gear, write a trail profile, and take lots of photos for articles
I lost my full-time editorial job this past year, which meant fully relying on writing. It’s one thing to be editing other people’s backpacking writing, and another to be responsible for all the content creation. With a dozen clients and at least five articles, essays, and posts per week, I was churning out writing at an unsustainable level. I’d gotten wedged into a narrow niche of backpacking content, and though I tried to broaden the subject, my experience and portfolio were centered around backpacking.
I never resented the idea of backpacking, but my workload meant I didn’t have much time to go out and actually do it. And let’s be real: if you’re focusing entirely on something for work, it does, in some ways, become less appealing.
Sometimes a backpacking trip is a way to connect with your partner
I stopped thinking about my backpacking trips as escapes, and more about what gear I’d be testing on each trip, if I had assignments I could fit into the slot, what essays I could write from the experience.
Then, in late spring, things in life got hard. Life is full of cycles, and sometimes those cycles are less like an even-keeled rotation and more like the spin cycle on a particularly aggressive washing machine.
My one thru-hike in each season wasn’t happening, but one of my summer trail ideas had been the Colorado Trail. With my life upheavals, even that notion had been flung so far onto the back burner it wasn’t even on the stove. I had a one-way ticket purchased to the east coast, no idea what I was doing after, and a general feeling of aimlessness. I figured I’d return to Montana, arrange a major house repair, and finally try to perform life-saving surgery on my weed-infested lawn. You know, whatever fun things await tired adults.
Counting mile markers on the last long-distance trail I hiked, in November 2020.
On one particularly rough afternoon, I was sitting alone in my house with my cat. I clicked out of a dismal Twitter-hole and impulsively looked up flights from Boston to Denver. They were really expensive. I closed the window, ate an entire bag of mini marshmallows, and stared at a blank document that was supposed to be an article until my computer went into sleep mode.
What I was feeling was professional burnout combined with challenging life changes. But nothing was going to change by sitting on my couch feeling sad, so I opened the flight window again, cringed at the prices, and booked a ticket to Denver.
Impulsively committing to the Colorado Trail was partially from an understood need for change, partially from instinct. When I’ve felt this aimless in the past, backpacking has helped me through it. It provides a chance to clear my head in beautiful places and a singular goal.
This was a solo trip along the CDT in Colorado
When I booked the flight, I wasn’t thinking about what I’d write about the trail, how it would fit into my career, or the fact that I’d be forced to get back in shape. All of those things are valid, but at that moment, I just knew I wanted to be on a trail.
While I love backpacking for its purity, it has also been a job, a fitness boost, and a way to stay relevant within a community. Sometimes all at once.
That’s why this final snap decision to hike the Colorado Trail was so meaningful. All of those other elements faded into the background. I’d been feeling like I’d forgotten the reason I started backpacking, and the core of why I continue to get drawn in. That’s the truth of what backpacking means to me.
I have a friend who’s finally back on trail after nearly two years off. She grappled with her relationship with long-distance backpacking, and has decided after she finishes this PCT section to complete her 2019 thru-hike, she’s done with “life-altering long hikes.”
Despite uncertainties about her relationship with thru-hiking, she texted me the other day from the trail. “All of those thoughts faded once I got back on the trail. It feels comfortable…maybe too comfortable.”
Hiking the Colorado Trail feels like the right decision. I trust the gut feeling that led me to buy the flight to Denver regardless of my other responsibilities and the logistical hassle of figuring out this hike with barely two weeks to plan. Sometimes you just have to go with it.
I haven’t set foot on a long-distance trail since last fall, and I am woefully out of shape, despite having no excuse besides general malaise. The Colorado Trail will be a kick in the pants, but the fact that in one of my more challenging moments I instinctively committed to it speaks volumes.
I might have a more career-dependent relationship with backpacking than other people out there, but understanding that I return to the trail time and time again for a reset, clarity, and the connection tells me all I need to know.
Backpacking can be a lot of things. When you’ve done something for so long and it has such an intrinsic place in your life, it’s impossible for it to fit neatly into one category. The Colorado Trail will be a much-needed break from my routine – 486 miles of head-clearing thru-hiking. It will also contribute to plenty of future articles, and I’m definitely using it to get in shape quickly. None of these elements diminish the experience, and while I still am understanding my relationship to backpacking, I have a solid month of the activity to figure it out.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
The YAR.gear Mountain Drifter 38L (~18 oz / 510 g, MSRP $200) is a light and modular fastpacking pack that can accommodate heavier loads for short distances if need be.
Rex Sanders reflects on what he learned after eight months of digging into backpacking standards.
Introduction
This is my last Standards Watch column. I have looked at sleeping pad insulation, sleeping bag temperature ratings, and active insulation breathability and insulation. I also interviewed independent gear tester Steve Seeber, plus equipment designers Mike Cecot-Scherer, Michael Glavin, and Dan Durston. You’ll find a complete list of columns at the end of this story.
Sunset over the Pacific Ocean. Pro tip: stop hiking before you reach the surf.
Along the way, I found critical faults with many industry standards, problems with testing backpacking gear using those standards, and issues with product marketing around standards and testing. I had planned to cover much more, but I grew frustrated and disillusioned. A few standards may be great – but I haven’t found them yet.
Even the best-planned backpacking trips can go haywire. Rather than plowing ahead, it’s a good idea to review what happened, learn from the experience, and change plans.
Broken Expectations
I spent most of my career purchasing and using products that adhered to important standards. Buyers could more-or-less easily check for standards compliance, and stop doing business with companies that didn’t conform.
When I started writing these columns, I assumed the backpacking industry worked roughly the same way. Over and over, I was surprised that the standards, testing, and marketing were flawed in important ways, and it was almost impossible for consumers to compensate. I tried to reflect those messes in the columns, and I discovered other issues that never made it into stories.
Here are the problems that surprised me the most.
Sleeping Bag Temperature Ratings
The advertised temperature for most sleeping bags and quilts is the Lower Limit based on ISO 23537, often called the EN rating. But that standard is based on a healthy male in his mid-20s, laying on his back, not moving, wearing warm clothes from head to toe, cocooned in a fully-closed mummy bag, with his face buried in the hood, on an R-4.8 sleeping pad, inside a windless shelter, at 59 °F (15 C) and 50 percent relative humidity. If you, your gear, and your campsite don’t fit that description, you might not sleep warm enough at the advertised temperature.
And multiple tests on the same bag can turn out significantly different at a widely-used U.S. test center. As a result, several bag or quilt makers downplay or ignore the standard.
For example, one well-known sleeping bag maker uses decades of experience to rate their bags. Their published temperatures are about 5 F (2.8 C) higher than their well-hidden Lower Limit ratings. A quilt maker gave up after spending thousands of dollars on testing. They measure loft and convert to degrees instead.
Sleeping Pad R-values
The standard sleeping bag temperature test uses an R-4.8 sleeping pad. Yet many gear makers, retailers, and reviewers tell us that R-4.8 is a winter pad, and R-3 or R-4 is fine for three-season (spring-summer-fall) use. Even though the climate in coastal Hawaii is very different from central Alaska!
And good luck figuring out how much colder you might sleep on an R-3 sleeping pad. Some standards units are very hard to use in real life.
Tent Flammability
Laws in several U.S. states require all tents to meet the CPAI-84 flammability standard. Yet the cotton canvas tent industry developed those tests, reportedly designed in part to put nylon and polyester at a disadvantage. As a result, most American shelter makers used fabrics coated with toxic flame retardants. Tents made in Australia, Britain, the EU, and Japan don’t use those chemicals.
The good news is this year’s CPAI-84 updates allow U.S. retailers to sell backpacking tents made without flame retardants. We should see more American-made shelters with less toxic fabrics, and maybe our stores will carry interesting tents from the rest of the world.
Tent Weights
The ASTM F 1934 Minimum Tent Weight standard did not include stakes for good reasons. But if you don’t know why, it seems like a rip-off. Plus a large retailer rebranded it Trail Weight – yet most backpackers carry more, including stakes and a stuff sack.
Pack Volumes
Yes, there is a standard for measuring backpack volumes, ASTM F2153, last revised back in 2007. Yet one company’s 50-liter (3,000 cubic inch) pack might hold much more than another’s. In part because the standard doesn’t include open-topped pockets, like the rear mesh pocket or so-called cup holders on each side of many lightweight backpacks.
But the standard also requires very expensive 20 mm (0.79 inch) spheres for testing. 60 liters (3,600 cubic inches) of those small balls cost more than $1,000! So some small backpack makers measure volume using non-standard methods including rulers, ping pong balls, and soft foam.
Breathability
Moisture Vapor Transfer Rate should tell you how fast water vapor moves through fabric, typically in grams per square meter per 24 hours, often shortened to gsm or g/m2. Testers can measure fabric MVTR using six different standards, to help you figure out how much sweat you might evaporate through clothing while hiking.
All the standards have problems, and you can’t compare the results across different standards and testers. Many fabric makers choose the standard that gives them the highest number, but won’t say which one they used. And no clothing maker publishes the total MVTR of a garment constructed with multiple layers of fabric and insulation, even though each layer and the dead air between lower the number.
Waterproofness
Hydraulic head measures waterproofness, usually expressed as the millimeter height of a vertical tube of water pressing on the fabric. There are at least five standards for testing and computing HH. Gear makers rarely state which test they used.
But the standards are flawed anyway. Plus none of them tell you how the fabric will perform after a few years of use – or even a few weeks.
Wind Resistance
Air permeability tests, often expressed in CFM (cubic feet per minute) or LPM (liters per minute), are a big mess too, with four different well-recognized standards. Technically what gets measured is CFM per square foot, or LPM per square meter, of air moving through one layer of fabric. Lower values block the wind better, and higher values help you cool off without opening or removing the garment.
But the standards aren’t rigorous enough to reliably compare test results between standards, or even different testers using the same standard.
Headlamp and Flashlight Performance
The ANSI FL 1 standard for measuring headlamp and flashlight performance is more than a dozen years old. And in 2019, a portable lighting industry trade group took over maintenance of that document from another association. Yet too many manufacturers exaggerate those numbers, retailers pass the values along knowing they are wrong, and none of them seem to care.
Potty Trowels
Even a straightforward standard like 7075-T6 for the aluminum used in a few potty trowels is incomplete. Which might not seem that important. But using a trowel made with low-quality metal, while you are urgently digging a deep enough hole in rocky ground, could lead to an unpleasant mess.
Industry-written standards
Committees of people who work in the industry write most of the formal standards applied to backpacking gear. Seems like a good idea – they should have the expertise. But in addition to all the jokes about products designed by committee, the members often focus on making their company’s products look better and their competitor’s look worse. In other words, they produce standards written to help companies sell, not to help consumers buy. This results in compromises that often misinform and mislead the consumer.
Standards Usefulness and Enforcement
Standards and tests can be quite useful – if they produce results that are sufficiently accurate and reliable. As we’ve seen, that is rarely the case. Many backpacking industry standards are a half-step above useless.
For better or worse, U.S. laws do not require testing backpacking gear to most industry standards, or clearly communicating test results to consumers. But REI suppliers must furnish standards-based sleeping bag temperature ratings and sleeping pad R-values. Yet the company continues selling some gear without those numbers. And many makers don’t sell through REI, so the requirement doesn’t affect them.
Expensive Testing
Smaller gear makers, and independent gear testers who aren’t rich, cannot afford to test in-house using most standards. Not only are the documents expensive, the testing setups can cost over $100,000. Some get creative, like Steve Seeber. But they still need lots of expertise, plenty of time for construction and testing, and too much money.
Designers and Designs
Many backpacking gear designers either don’t know about or don’t pay that much attention to most formal standards and testing. In their experience, the materials they use and their designs are good enough, or they can use simple, practical tests to choose better. And some of them have learned the same hard lessons I have – important standards are almost useless.
Good design always makes a series of tradeoffs that might not work for you in a particular setting. Take an extreme example: the perfect Pacific Crest Trail peak-season thru-hiker shelter wouldn’t last long on a Denali winter expedition. But hauling a 10-pound gale-proof snow tent on the PCT in summer doesn’t make sense either.
And a few patches of high-quality repair tape can quickly fix many problems for much less weight or cost than making gear from heavier or more expensive fabrics.
Specification Wars and Diets
A few equipment makers and gear geeks focus on achieving the best number for a few measurements. But once you get beyond good enough for many values, you don’t gain much from pursuing more, more, more.
Yet the market gets into spec wars at the cost of other useful features. We’ve seen a few makers of backpacks, tents, and sleeping bags pursue lower weights while compromising longevity, usability, performance, cost – and even the truth.
And too many mass retailers show you little more than weight, price, and a few glamor shots before you click the buy button. Sometimes you can’t even get weight without asking. Even gear makers seem to be following spec diets for their product pages. Why publish all that confusing information when consumers are buying anyway?
Product Ratings and Reviews
Unfortunately, the star ratings and short reviews below the buy button are no substitute for standards and tests. Major online retailers are waging losing battles with companies that pay others to post positive and negative comments.
Even unbiased reviews are often from inexperienced buyers who barely used a product under ideal conditions and give it five stars. A few independent websites claim to help you judge the quality of retailer ratings and reviews, since sorting the wheat from the chaff is almost impossible. Hard to know who to trust.
Conclusion
Sunrise from the summit of Mount Whitney, California, with John Muir Trail hikers in silhouette. Credit: Andrew Cox, U.S. Forest Service.
Today’s substandard standards, temperamental testing, and misleading marketing are not the answer. Too bad a publication like Consumer Reportsdoesn’t cover backpacking gear, combining rigorous independent testing with well-designed surveys completed by thousands of members. Until then, maybe we can test products ourselves. Watch this space!
Don’t get me wrong – I learned a lot by studying standards and interviewing gear designers and testers. I hope you did, too, and that knowledge helped you become a better consumer of backpacking gear.
But when it comes to standards, testing, and marketing, we are largely on our own. Thank goodness for online communities like Backpacking Light plus a handful of careful and reliable reviewers.
Mike Cecot-Scherer Talks Potty Trowels and More, June 2021
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
The Nemo Dagger 3P (4 pounds 5 ounces / 2 kg, MSRP $529.95) is a three-person, free-standing tent with roomy vestibules, light-diffusing overhead pockets, a stuff-sack system designed to help split the load amongst hiking partners, and pre-bent, color-coded poles (2019 update) for easy setup.
Introduction
The Nemo Dagger 3P (4 pounds 5 ounces / 2 kg, MSRP $529.95) is a three-person, free-standing tent with roomy vestibules, light-diffusing overhead pockets, a stuff-sack system designed to help split the load amongst hiking partners, and pre-bent, color-coded poles (2019 update) for easy setup.
About This Review
This Limited Review draws on my experience with the Nemo Dagger 3P between December of 2020 and February of 2021 in the Central Cascades of Washington State. For this reason, I cannot directly speak to the breathability of this shelter when humidity increases and temperatures rise. Read about the differences between Performance and Limited reviews here.
The NEMO Dagger 3P in Washington State.
Due to the restrictive circumstances surrounding COVID-19 during my testing period and the recommended social distancing guidelines, I decided to only include my partner and our dog as users, thus this review is unable to speak to the practicality of actually fitting three adults into the tent.
Features and Specifications
freestanding, double-wall design
two large doors with ample storage volume within each vestibule
color-coded, pre-bent aluminum DAC Featherlite poles
mesh side panels and canopy
raised waterproof bathtub floor
light-diffusing fabric panels designed to accommodate a headlamp
dual-stage stuff sack
pockets at each corner offer ample storage for personal items.
strut vents at the top of each zipper flap
NEMO Lifetime Warranty
includes stakes, guy-out cord, repair kit, footprint sold separately
capacity: 3
seasons: 3
frame: 1 Hubbed Aluminum DAC Featherlite NSL 9.6 + 9 mm pole
minimum weight: 3 pounds 12 ounces (17 kg)
packed weight: 4 pounds five ounces (1.95 kg)
packed size: 19.5 x 6.5 inches diameter (50 x 17 cm diameter)
peak height: 42 inches (106 cm)
floor Area: 43.9 square feet (4.1 sq m)
floor dimensions: 90 x 70 inches (229 x 178 cm)
vestibule Area: 11.4 square feet (1.1 sq m) per vestibule, two vestibules total
fly material: 15d Sil/PeU Nylon Ripstop (1200 mm)
canopy material: 15d Nylon Ripstop and no-see-um mesh
I tested the Nemo Dagger 3P in Mount Ranier National Park in the late winter of 2020. Winds during my testing period peaked at 10 mph. I experienced precipitation of 1 to 2 inches (3 to 5 cm) on each of my testing nights, with the final night receiving 3 to 4 inches (8 to 10 cm ) of rain/snow mix. Overnight lows ranged from 20 °F to 39 °F (−7 °C to 4 °C)
Performance Analysis
I judged the performance of the Nemo Dagger 3P based on the following factors:
Setup: how easy and intuitive is setup, both solo and with a partner?
Doors: are doors sized correctly and does the lightweight fabric of the doors/tent body seem to compromise the integrity of construction?
Livability: what’s the comfort factor for two average-sized adults and one medium-sized dog? This metric includes storage both inside the shelter (pockets) and outside the shelter (vestibules).
Ventilation: given the cold temperatures and three sets of lungs nestled inside, is ventilation an issue?
Weatherization: how does the tent fare in wet and/or frosty conditions?
Packability: whether carried as one unit or split between hiking partners, how does the packed size and weight stand up to scrutiny?
Floor Durability: does the bathtub floor stand up to the expected rocks, roots, etc. at camp?
Setup
The freestanding, symmetrical design truly makes setup easy because it eliminates the guesswork in identifying and orienting the head or foot of the tent body, poles, and rainfly.
The pre-bent poles are easy to assemble; my one gripe is if you find yourself performing a solo setup while your hiking partner is wrangling the dog, fixing dinner, or busy with other camp chores, the single-pole design can make it a little awkward to control as it takes up quite a bit of space after assembled and laid out.
Setup with the familiar pole-and-hub design is easy, though lots of material makes it cumbersome in windy conditions.
Creating the tent structure begins with snapping the hubbed ends of the poles into the socket pockets of what are known as Jake’s Feet, a Nemo-exclusive design for anchoring the poles and also attaching the rainfly. It should be noted that it takes some force to snap the poles into the sockets of Jake’s Feet, which I hadn’t read in any reviews during my research phase. Jake’s Feet are replaceable and also shelf staples at NEMO retailers like REI. This leads me to believe they will likely fail with overuse, too much force, or extended exposure to the elements.
However, the price point of $5 per Jake Foot is easy to swallow over mailing in your Nemo for repair. I might just recommend adding an extra Jake Foot or two to your packing list before heading into the backcountry, especially for extended trips.
NEMO’s proprietary Jake’s Feet system gives me pause, especially because they sell replacements off the shelf at REI.
The corners of the tent body are color-coded to match the corners of the rainfly so you can be confident in your setup of the Dagger. Just be mindful that the rainfly is right-side-out by ensuring the NEMO or Dagger logo reads left to right before attaching the hooks of the rainfly to Jake’s Feet. The hooking of the rainfly into the Jake’s Feet may also prove to be a point of failure over time, leading me to strengthen my recommendation to carry a few extra Jake’s Feet, just in case. Four points of staking for the rainfly vestibule means you can control which doors you wish to have open and rolled up at any time.
The reflective cords and bright fabric are a nice design feature that will also help you navigate your way around the tent if you find yourself doing a setup or making adjustments after sundown.
Doors
One thing I worry about with backpacking tents is the durability of the lightweight fabric used in construction, specifically with the doors. I’ve caught one too many doors in zippers, but the Nemo Dagger 3P gave me no issue whatsoever. In my opinion, both the freestanding design and the fabric used in the construction of the Dagger (15 denier Nylon Ripstop) helps a lot as it keeps the tent body stretched just enough to prevent any sag or flex, which could increase the likelihood of getting a door caught in the zipper.
I tested the NEMO Dagger 3P with my partner and our medium-sized dog.
The doors don’t mirror one another (ie. they open in opposite directions) so users are inclined to sleep head to toe. They also aren’t symmetrical or D-shaped like most other brands, which I found made it harder to open using only one hand.
The design of the Nemo DAGGER 3P is more than large enough to accommodate two people and a dog, but three people might find it tight quarters.
Several reviews complained of the door size, but with me at 5 feet 6 inches (168 cm) and my partner at 5 feet 10 inches (178 cm), we didn’t find it to be much of a con. However, we could definitely see how someone 6 feet (183 cm) or taller might complain. That said, I feel like NEMO really maximized the size of the door based on the design and area given.
Livability
My partner and I found the Nemo Dagger 3P to be just spacious enough for us (again, me at 5 feet 6 inches / 168 cm and my partner at 5 feet 10 inches / 178 cm) and our medium-sized (40 pounds / 18 kg) dog plus our respective winter gear.
With only two pads the NEMO Dagger 3P is palatial.
He and I slept on Therm-a-rest air pads (NeoAir Xlite and XTherm, both 20 inches / 51 cm wide) while a Therm-a-rest Zlite Sol foam pad was positioned between us for our dog to sleep on. The tent walls weren’t tight or stressed at all with our sleep system setup, however, the foam pad can easily slip under the air pads, thus lessening any potential stress on the tent walls and making it appear more spacious.
Spacious interior pockets!
For this reason, I decided to try to mimic what a three-person sleep system setup might look/feel like by replacing the Zlite Sol with a Freestyle Lightweight Backpacking air mat from UST Gear (25 inches / 64 cm wide). Doing this experiment led me to believe the complaints I dug up in my research regarding the NEMO Dagger 3P being a tight fit with a three-person sleep system.
Door size and shape was a little awkward for me, but not a deal breaker.
Storage is very generous with the NEMO Dagger 3P. Our packs laid flat in the vestibule without touching either the tent body or the rainfly. The interior also has two good-sized pockets on each side, plus some stash space in the overhead pockets made out of light-diffusing fabrics.
Ventilation
Instead of deployable vents in the side or roof, the NEMO Dagger 3P has a vent at the top of each vestibule door, which I personally like because I can adjust it as needed from inside. But as John with SwitchbackTravel.com points out, “by deploying the vent, you trim away the upper few inches of the door, making it a little more difficult to get in and out.” So that previous complaint about the doors being on the smaller side is now compounded.
The NEMO Dagger 3P performed well in moderately humid conditions.
As for the performance of the vents themselves, I had zero complaints. While weather conditions forced me to have the rainfly on during each of my field overnights, I didn’t find the expected morning condensation to be excessive.
My time with the Dagger was limited to winter, but I look forward to testing out the ventilation more when summer months arrive with the increase in humidity and temperatures. I’m already theorizing that the double-wall design and amount of mesh used in the construction of the Dagger aids tremendously in the breathability of the tent body.
Weatherization
Washington did not fail me in presenting optimal wet and frosty conditions to field test the NEMO Dagger 3P. As mentioned before, each of my overnights required the rainfly and I’m happy to report the quality of the waterproofing held up and we didn’t experience any leaks. However, the walls not covered by the rainfly were wet to the touch when the skies opened up for extended periods of time. This didn’t present much of an issue for two people and a dog, but it will likely be a complaint when capacity reaches three people and you can’t avoid touching the wet walls.
The small doors are even more visible from this angle.I experienced heavy precipitation during my testing of the NEMO Dagger 3P. It performed admirably.
Size/Weight
With a packed size of 6.5 x 19 inches ( 17 x 48 cm), the NEMO Dagger 3P isn’t too bulky to fit whole in a backpacking pack, but Nemo came up with the Divvy Sack to allow users to split the poles and stakes from the tent body and rainfly to help distribute the load on extended trips into the backcountry. Once the hardware is removed, the Divvy Sack compresses to about two-thirds its original size and is cinched by a secondary drawstring. The convenience of splitting the load is so appreciated when pack weight becomes an issue on longer trips, but as I said, even if you decide to carry it whole, the packed size isn’t awkwardly large and overwhelming.
The entire shelter in one stuff sack.The shelter divided out for easier two-person carrying.
Floor Durability
NEMO sells footprints separately but takes pride in the tough 30 denier fabric used on the floor of the NEMO Dagger 3P. I decided to put it to the test by choosing not to use any footprint or groundsheet and what I found is it really does hold together quite well. After four overnights and an extended pitch in my backyard, the floor has zero snags or rips.
Commentary
For me, the NEMO Dagger 3P is a great tent for myself, my partner, and our dog. It will likely still be a great tent when our family grows by four more legs and a tail, but I think it’ll end there because of the complaints of a snug fit with a three-person sleep system setup.
NEMO’s Jake’s Feet were a durability concern for me.
I wonder how well the Jake’s Feet will hold up over time with continued use and also exposure to the elements. I’m going to add a few extra Jake’s Feet in my repair kit for extended trips.
An increase in floor space and headspace might sway me into feeling less claustrophobic and more comfortable using the Dagger 3P for three people instead of just two people and a dog or two.
Three people will fit…barely.
If this were a Performance Review, I predict the NEMO Dagger 3P would get a Recommended rating. Three-person backpacking tents are snug because they’re backpacking tents, not extra-spacious car camping tents, and the Dagger gets it right by allocating generous amounts of vestibule storage to accommodate three people’s worth of backpacking gear. The Divvy Sack is a great design by NEMO for multiple users needing better weight management on extended trips. I look forward to field testing the Dagger during warmer summer months to experience nights of stargazing through the black no-see-um mesh on the roof of the tent body. Perhaps by then I can swap my dog out for another person to truly test out the three-person capacity.
Product mentions in this article are made by the author with no compensation in return. In addition, Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Ben Kilbourne uses the writing of Aldo Leopold to examine his interaction with nature.
We knew the gate would be closed and that we would have to walk the road for at least a mile to reach the trailhead, but that was part of the appeal. Rachel and I chose this area, the Payson Lakes area, an hour-and-a-half south of Salt Lake City because within weeks it would be swarming with people. We also chose it because, as Rachel reminded me, it is her backyard, and she feels a commitment to learning as much as she can about the plants and animals with which she shares it. And what better time to observe a place than transition season?
If you have naturalist inclinations, you too will be slip-sliding though snow and mud in transition season.
The gate kept all but walkers and cyclists out. Once open, cars, RVs, and off-road vehicles would stream through, spreading across the mountain like ants over a Swedish fish dropped on a trail.
Though only April, the day was hot. I walked in my typical uniform, shorts and a long-sleeve shirt, while Rachel wore a long linen dress, because, why not? Payson Creek was particularly talkative, rambling on about the sun that freed it once again and the stones underneath. I took a mental note, “April, 30th 2021, too hot for the end of April.”
Around a mile in, we found the Grotto Trailhead on the left and took it through burned aspens and firs to its end. Here the creek plunged into a red, conglomerate, broken cistern and roared inside it, filling the air with tiny specks of water. Removing our packs and squatting in the river stones at the edge of the pool within the grotto, we watched a streak of sunlight break into prisms on the edge of the waterfall.
We walked beneath many charred fir trees.
Leaving the creek, we climbed a steep hill through the burn and this year’s new growth. We paused to catch our breath and to touch mallow and elderberry, larger and more exuberant than we would have anticipated after only two years of growth since the fire. Hope in every leaf, every stalk we pressed between our fingers. When we reached the road it was still fairly steep, so when two mountain bikes rocketed past us, we were, for a split second, alarmed by their superhuman strength. Then we noticed the oversized bottom brackets common to E-bikes and their uphill speed made sense. We watched them turn into a dirt parking area, speed toward our next trail, and then fly effortlessly into the woods.
We stepped off the road and into the trees, tromping through soggy meadows and then up a small hill overlooking more soggy meadows. The wind must have been in our favor because the sleeping wapiti (elk) below us showed no sign of catching our scent or hearing our voices. We observed them for several minutes before walking toward them again, within fifty feet finally rousing them from their siesta. Looking back occasionally, they trotted swiftly across the meadow and into the still-bare aspens at the edge of the hill and descended out of sight. I logged this landscape abstractly somewhere in my mind as wapiti country.
The pillows of snow on the edges of the flooded meadow were retreating quickly. Something about the speed of the water moving down the trail seemed too fast, and I noted this, too. The early-season heat had everything in a rush, an unnecessary hurry. “Slow down,” I thought.
This was transition season, and we came here just to see it. We took note of the quickly melting snow, the day’s warmth, the presence of wapiti. We logged in our minds the bright green, alien corals of emergent false hellebore that dotted the meadow. We took mental snapshots of avalanche lilies and other yellow flowers we couldn’t yet name. When we reached more snow, so much that we were post-holing and there was hardly any bare ground on which to walk, I took a look at the map and noted the elevation, about 8,000 feet. At an ephemeral (probably seasonal) pond, frog sounds echoed through the firs and aspens, mixing with the sound of rushing water, and I again looked at my map and noted the elevation, about 8,200 feet, cross-referencing it with the date again, April 30th, 2021.
Aldo Leopold provides a framework to examine how I interact with nature while backpacking.
I was taking these notes because this is how I prefer to backpack. I feel that through building this knowledge I can become a better citizen of the places where I recreate, and this process of becoming a better citizen of place can become the recreation itself. I have talked about this before, particularly in the essay I wrote last year, “Backpackers Should be Amateur Naturalists,” and again in my recent piece on Bear’s Ears, but I wanted to address it again, this time through a Leopold lens because he insists that I could be doing more.
The final essay in Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac is called “Conservation Esthetic.” In it, he lays out five distinct grades of recreation with a hierarchy that isn’t as simple as saying that canoeing is better than four-wheeling. The levels of recreation are as follows (1 being the lowest form of recreation, and 5 being the highest):
trophy hunting
seeking solitude
seeking fresh air and change of scene
nature study
sense of husbandry
Trophy hunting is described as, “the physical objects that the outdoorsman may seek, find, capture, and carry away. In this category are wild crops such as game and fish, and the symbols or tokens of achievement such as heads, hides, photographs, and specimens.” Leopold, writing this in the early part of the 20th century, is mostly worried about the mass use of resources. The next two grades are pretty self-explanatory. These describe the recreationist who walks into the woods to escape from it all. And the fourth, nature study, is exactly what I was talking about when I said that backpackers should be amateur naturalists.
Bird prints and mammal prints I won’t attempt to identify.
Every single one of my backpacking experiences falls within the first four grades. I take tons of photos, which is a form of trophy hunting. Sometimes I try to move as fast as possible to close a loop within a short amount of time, to prove that my body and mind are up to the task. This too, I’d place in the trophy hunting category, as I document my accomplishment. I seek solitude, fresh air, and to get as far away from my computer as possible for as long as I realistically can. And finally, all of my jotting of observations in notebooks falls into Leopold’s fourth category of recreation, that of nature study.
He reminds us that all of these forms of recreation are simply attempts to reenact long-gone ways of life. “The duck-hunter in his blind and the operatic singer on the stage, despite the disparity of their accouterments, are doing the same thing. Each is reviving, in play, a drama formerly inherent in daily life. Both are, in the last analysis, esthetic exercises,” Leopold writes.
Sheepishly, I have to admit that my favorite pastime, backpacking, is an esthetic exercise, too. I walk out into the land and sleep amongst the stones, wind, snowmelt, and animals to get some inkling of the feeling of nomadism maybe. I probably take notes because, if I was really subsisting off of the place, my observations would be crucial to a reciprocal relationship with the land, a mutual survival. I’m putting on a play, one that opens a channel to thousands of years of human experience, and there is value to this, no doubt, but it is still a play.
“April 30th, 2021, and the bears are awake,” I noted.
The fifth grade of recreation, a sense of husbandry, seems to land outside of this reenactment, as it asks of us a material engagement in the environment. Leopold says that a sense of husbandry, “is unknown to the outdoorsman who works for conservation with his vote rather than with his hands. It is realized only when some art of management is applied to land by some person of perception.” He’s saying that rarely does an outdoorsperson get to experience and find enjoyment in a sense of husbandry, for its enjoyment is reserved for those who own and work their land, and for folks such as land managers and forestry technicians.
Leopold is arguing that the first four grades with their inherent dissociation from the land, and the relative nonexistence of the fifth among recreationists, pose a huge threat to the lands on which we recreate. The lower recreation grades,
“consume their resource base; the higher grades, at least to a degree, create their own satisfactions with little or no attrition of land or life. It is the expansion of transport without a corresponding growth of perception that threatens us with qualitative bankruptcy of the recreational process. Recreational development is a job not of building roads into lovely country, but of building receptivity into the still unlovely human mind.”
I close the small paperback and place it carelessly on the edge of the table where it falls to the floor, flopping open precisely where I had been holding the pages creased for hours, that final page of the book. Overwhelmed, I decide to leave it on the floor. I wonder if it is even possible to engage in this grade of recreation within the brackets of my recreation of choice, backpacking. Leopold doesn’t seem to know the answer either, as he doesn’t offer a clear way forward in that final paragraph.
Rachel took a break in the middle of all the mud to just look at everything.
The lake we slept beside was a noisy oasis of snowmelt. Frogs croaked and a single bird chirped all night long. “April 30th, 2021, 8,200 ft, frogs all night, and a very annoying bird,” I noted ambiently in my half-sleep throughout the night.
After a quiet morning glissading down snowbanks and mud, we crossed a road, descended to a creek, and then went west on a packed, dry trail. Right away we heard dirtbikes and stepped off the trail anticipating their speedy arrival. The teenage riders roared past, and we wondered how they squeezed their bikes through the gate at the bottom of the road. Soon we could hear more engines, and when we had a good view of the road below, it was lined with cars, trucks, RVs, and off-road vehicles. We suddenly didn’t know where we were, thinking we had gotten off-track somewhere and were descending a different trail well below the gate. I stopped and checked the map. We were on the right trail, which meant only one thing: they must have opened the gate that morning.
We walked out of the burned aspens and emergent gamble oak and chokecherries at the Grotto Trailhead. Empty and quiet just a day before, it was now swarming with humans and trucks. I again took a mental note, “May 1st, gate opens.” Yesterday’s silence and solitude had been replaced by the sounds of voices and engines. “To him who seeks something more, recreation has become a self-destructive process of seeking but never quite finding, a major frustration of mechanized society,” Leopold writes. If these folks were after anything beyond the taking of photos, then the very thing they came to experience was probably being displaced by their arrival.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a truck, and I rattle loudly down dirt roads too and enjoy doing so. But having spent time driving, walking, sitting, and listening, I know that these are very different activities. Leopold’s fifth grade of recreation, a sense of husbandry, probably isn’t possible for the people on E-bikes, moving swiftly through the forest. It probably isn’t possible for the occupants of the side-by-side that just roared by us. It probably isn’t possible for me when I’m in fastpacking mode, nearly running through the desert just to see if I can. And it might not even be possible for a pair of naturalists walking around Payson Lakes during transition season if their engagement with the land stops when the pen is capped and the notebook is closed.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
In this Skills Short, Ryan Jordan gives a rundown of some common stove windscreens, talks about their pros and cons, and gives some advice on choosing and using the right one for your needs.
Stream
Summary
In this Skills Short, Ryan Jordan gives a rundown of some common stove windscreens, talks about their pros and cons, and gives some advice on choosing and using the right one for your needs.
Ryan Jordan demonstrates a common windscreen hack – and then shows how you can improve considerably on this system.
Outline
the effect of wind on canister stove effectiveness
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.
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. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
“Is this the year I finally get into bikepacking?” That’s the question I asked myself as the flaming you-know-what storm of 2020 lurched to a close and the equally as terrible first quarter of 2021 began. As it turns out, this was the year I got into bikepacking, and it’s improved my year considerably. My long-suffering feet and knees are enjoying the change of pace, as is my brain, though my rear end is not at all amused.
Bikepacking is, somehow, even more filthy than backpacking.
As a bonus, bikepacking has given me a new lens through which to examine my ultralight backpacking philosophy. I’m not sure I learned anything new, per se, but my reflections have led me to correct some drift and recommit to the ideas that keep the contents of my pack light and functional and enjoyable.
Bringing Less Stuff is Easier than Bringing Lighter Stuff (Generally)
I ended up with about 30 liters of space on my bikepacking rig. My smallest regular-use, multi-day backpacking pack is 40 liters. When I first began backpacking with a 40-liter pack I was pretty good about keeping things small and simple but my gear has grown to fit my space like a goldfish. So bikepacking provided me a chance to reexamine my regular gear choices and do a much-needed volumetric downsize.
I also ran into two more volume-related issues.
The first is this: I learned pretty quickly that I don’t like strapping items to the outside of my bikepacking rig like I might while backpacking if I overshoot my pack’s internal or external pocket volume. It’s a quick-fix with backpacking that doesn’t necessarily apply to bikepacking (especially if you are doing the kind of bikepacking that involves singletrack), and it’s made me recommit to working within the confines of the pack I choose for any given trip.
Setting out on a five-day bikepacking trip. I hadn’t yet learned that strapping my cook kit to the top of my seat bag was a bad idea for bouncy single-track.
The second issue is that with bikepacking you aren’t working with a single large cylindrical pack with three or four pockets. Instead, you have, at minimum, three entirely separate packs (probably more) all with different shapes and weight capacities. This necessitates a major packing re-think, and it also means things are harder to find when you need them fast (at least for me.) Having fewer things to find in the first place is a major win here.
I’ll Take Functionality and Reasonable Cost Over Expensive Incremental Weight Savings (Almost Always)
Something that weighs 10 ounces (283 g), works the way it is supposed to, and doesn’t break under stress is better than something that weighs 5 ounces (142 g), is hard to use, fragile, and prone to failure. If the 10-ounce thing is cheaper – and it almost always is – even better.
The Big Agnes shelter pictured here is light, expensive, has poor livability, and is somewhat fragile. The Salsa Deadwood pictured here was inexpensive, somewhat heavy (compared to more expensive options), and is virtually indestructible.
I consider the above paragraph a core component of my ultralight backpacking philosophy, but it’s easy to lose sight of in the midst of some of the more negative sides of ultralight culture and the continuing trend of gear manufacturers to win a weight race at the expense of usability.
I realized pretty quickly that I’d be more than happy to buy a bike that was four or five years old, weighed 30 pounds (14 kg), and was constructed of durable steel over a brand new, 20 pound (9 kg) relatively fragile carbon ride, mostly because there was simply no way I could afford the latter while the former was within my price range. I couldn’t be happier with the bike I got – it does exactly what I need it to do and it didn’t cost me the equivalent of a well-cared-for but aging Subaru Outback.
My rig. A steel-framed Salsa Deadwood modified for single-speed. I’d later change my packing system so my cook kit (bungied to the top of my seat bag) would be inside my frame bag.
Sometimes I have to suffer through occasional well-meaning but annoying conversations along the lines of “you wouldn’t be pushing your bike up this hill right now if it had a carbon frame/the latest geometry/the newest cog-set/etc.” But I find this a small price to pay for the, well, small price I had to pay for a durable and functional piece of gear.
I’ll Take Functionality Over Maximum Comfort (Sometimes)
My recent bikepacking trip in the Sierra Nevada was about 40% singletrack and involved multiple several-thousand-foot climbs. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t spend the bulk of my trip seconding guessing my decision to use a rigid front suspension and swap out the rear derailer/11-speed cog set for a single-speed setup. I suffered on this trip in ways that I wouldn’t have suffered if I’d had front shocks and a derailleur. But – and this is crucial – I didn’t suffer past the point of enjoyment. And by the time the trip ended I was utterly sold on the single-speed life.
The peace of mind I got from knowing I wouldn’t end my trip early by accidentally bending my derailleur (say, by leaning it up against a tree, or brushing against it with a feather, or exposing it to a gentle gust of wind) added considerably to my fun and made the occasional suffer-fests worthwhile.
Big tires and rigid suspension means I don’t have to spend hundreds of dollars getting my bike serviced regularly. And field repairs on tires are much easier than field repairs on suspension systems.
Apply this lesson to backpacking and the first thing that sticks out to me is my sleep system.
On my two most recent 5+ day backpacking trips, I’ve experienced un-field-reparable pressure loss with my oh-so-comfortable and expensive inflatable air mattress. Did I offend the air mattress gods in some way? One of those trips was a thousand miles away from the nearest cactus.
Sleeping on the right air mattress > sleeping on closed-cell foam (CCF), but sleeping on closed-cell foam > sleeping on the ground. I can’t believe these words are going to leave my mouth, but I’m considering switching back to a CCF system simply because it gives me one less thing to worry about. My ongoing struggles with mental health mean I worry a lot anyway, so removing even one major anxiety point is a significant win. It does mean that I need to be pretty exhausted to get a good night’s sleep, so I guess that’s where that single-speed cog comes in.
Your author at the end of a recent bikepacking trip, feeling happy he’s headed for a night of sleep on a real mattress.
In Closing
You can, of course, just enjoy a new pastime without relating it back to backpacking in some way. In fact, I’d recommend it. But if you’ve found yourself in a backpacking rut and need a way to course-correct that’s a little more philosophical and a little less spreadsheety, consider bikepacking or some other tangental long-distance pastime. Fastpacking? Maybe it’s for you. Packrafting? Seems awfully wet but go for it. Alpacapacking? Adorable and fun to say. Extreme off-road unicycling? Your mileage may vary, but I bet you’d learn a thing or two.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
From first-come, first-served to limited lotteries and everywhere in between, permits are increasingly becoming a fact of life for backcountry adventures
Backpack, sleeping bag and pad, shelter – check. Assorted other essentials and accessories – check. Food for the duration of the trip – check. Transportation to and from the trailhead – check. In addition to these simple but not inexpensive items, a permit is becoming another essential – and sometimes frustratingly difficult to obtain – necessity depending on where you’re headed.
Permits are almost always required in national park units. Some can be easy to get on a first-come, first-serve basis and others must be booked months in advance.
And in wilderness areas managed by the US Forest Services that have had permits for decades, like the Enchantments area of the Alpine Lakes Wilderness, the increased demand for permits has left backpackers with a less than 2% chance of being able to camp in the most desirable locations. However, in some wilderness areas permits are more or less nominal and have been in place for years, like the Pasayten Wilderness in Washington and the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness in Montana, where an unlimited amount are supplied at the trailhead for users to fill out on their own, and no quotas on visitor numbers are placed or reservations required. These permits are in place more as a means of tracking use and gathering statistical data than of limiting where people can camp.
As permits and crowded backcountry campsites become as common as Bluetooth speakers on once-quiet trails, backpackers rightfully wonder what might be done to slow the spread of this often necessary – but almost always inconvenient – way to manage use. One of the most popular ideas has been to be more mindful about the impact that geotagging and site-specific social media posts can have. The Washington Trails Association suggested this in 2015 and The Leave No Trace Center for Outdoor Ethics endorsed this practice in 2018. Since then, this idea has caught on among many in the outdoors community who would prefer to not risk contributing to the overuse of areas with limited recreational carrying capacity.
Located far away from population centers and lacking much social media fame, there are currently no permits required for backpacking anywhere in the 1.3 million acre Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness in Idaho and Montana.
Amusingly enough, many of the places people want to protect through obscurity really aren’t that obscure at all – they’ve been featured in guidebooks or magazine articles over the years, not to mention being clearly marked on USGS topographical maps for over a century (and, it must not be overlooked, were visited and stewarded by indigenous inhabitants for millennia before they were forcibly removed from their ancestral homelands). The information is out there for those who want to make a modicum of effort to research all the wonderful places to go on their public lands.
In addition, there are plenty of excellent free resources and articles on how to successfully use that information and how to plan a backpacking trip in general. The benefit to doing that research, at least historically, was being exposed to information about minimal-impact camping, environmental issues facing those public lands, and contact information for the advocacy groups and land management agencies that work to protect them.
An absolutely stunning subalpine basin in one of Montana’s wilderness areas – no permit required, yet.
This notion of community self-regulation as an attempt to reduce the need for official regulation via permits has resulted in significant handwringing in the Extremely Online Outdoors Ecosystem about whether such a practice is gatekeeping. Most notably, Leave No Trace reversed their stance on geotagging, without any explanation or evidence to support this change, in 2020. While it is certainly important to be concerned about inadvertently creating additional barriers to outdoor recreation, particularly if such barriers demonstrably and disproportionately impact groups of people who are already underrepresented and don’t feel welcome on their public lands, nearly the entirety of the discourse about alleged gatekeeping lacks much intellectual or ethical rigor and fails to use an evidence-based approach to understanding and mitigating the complex issues created by increased use of public lands.
The ideas put forth – keep geotagging and hyping up areas on social media despite the inability of their infrastructure to handle increased visitation – almost inevitability result in land managers implementing permits when areas become overcrowded and negatively impacted, creating a classic case of unintended and adverse consequences brought about by good intentions.
Requiring permits as a way to manage increased visitation creates an additional and actual barrier to accessing the outdoors, not just a digital one. And this actual barrier typically costs money to overcome (i.e. permit fees) and is ultimately enforced by People With Guns (i.e. park rangers or other agency law enforcement personnel.) This makes someone being a bit vague about the location in their Instagram photo or in the trip report they posted on Reddit, or Backpacking Light for that matter, seem quaint or even downright silly by comparison. Especially when there is an abundance of information available, for free, to allow even the newest backpacker to successfully plan a trip once they have the inspiration to get outdoors.
And such inspiration is inescapable in even the most banal mainstream media these days, where even a credit card commercial might evoke alpine imagery, much less in the social media subgroups specifically focused on outdoor recreation. There is more information, and free ease of access to such information, than ever before to allow hikers and backpackers to disperse themselves, but social media has indisputably had a concentrating effect.
Without permits to limit entry, Aravaipa Canyon – one of the few perennial streams in the Sonoran Desert – – would almost certainly be crowded to the point of absurdity.
When viewed through the lens of another outdoor activity – rock climbing – a hyper-specific approach to information sharing is not just unhelpful, it’s poor form and denies people the opportunity to figure things out for themselves and the sense of achievement that comes from doing so. Part of the beauty of rock climbing is figuring out each route on your own – of solving the physical and mental puzzle nature created. When climbing a route and pausing to figure out the next move, it can be maddening to have some overly helpful bystander who previously climbed the route shout up “Just match your left foot with your left hand, and then throw with your right hand to the flake that’s left of the pocket up there, it’s a huge undercling and you can stand up and clip from there, then match both hands until you get your feet up and then put your left hand onto the jug above the bolt, then you’re done with the crux and it’s easy climbing to the top . . .”
By the time they’re done spraying you down with unrequested information, much of the mystery of the route is gone and, for most people, the magic and joy of the experience is greatly diminished. That’s why the ethic in climbing is to wait until someone asks for help before offering advice, rather than just assuming that others are incapable of accomplishing what they set out to do without receiving your unsolicited instructions.
Encouraging a similar ethic for backpacking in wilderness areas, which are explicitly managed for solitude as well as other values listed in the Wilderness Act, seems to be appropriate. As amazing as a good backpacking trip can be when done step-by-step from a guidebook description or with information from social media, it pales in comparison to pulling off a trip that you planned largely on your own. Stumbling across an unexpected waterfall on a cross-country jaunt taken on a whim from a basecamp, spotting a pictograph in a remote canyon during a spur-of-the-moment side trip, or finding a route from one lake basin to another that looked impassable on a map are joys that can rarely be planned – they manifest themselves through curiosity, sweat, and determination.
The Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness requires permits, but these can be self-issued at the trailhead and are intended to help track usage.
Given the current trend towards permits, and the sobering fact that once they’re instituted by a land management agency they have almost never been removed, I think one of the best skills new hikers can develop in regard to backpacking is learning how to spread out and discover the beautiful and uncrowded places you can go without needing a permit. Check out guidebooks from the library (free!), browse CalTopo online (also free!), flip through magazines like Backpacker, TrailGroove, or Backpacking Light or browse their websites, strike up a conversation at the trailhead with another backpacker and see what ideas for trips you can glean, and call ranger stations for ideas. Look at trip reports online or on social media for inspiration, but not with an entitled mentality that just because someone posts a picture of a delightful campsite that is on public land that they are obligated to send you a GPX track or provide any additional information. Learn to be OK with participating in a community where people might be happy to help get you in the ballpark – naming the national park or national forest – but not willing to assign you a seat by telling you the exact lake or meadow they camped at.
And then, once you have honed that skill and have found places off-the-beaten-path to form indelible memories of sunsets and forests and peaks and streams, consider exercising some discretion in how far and wide you broadcast detailed information about such places. Being more general in regard to a location, or even not posting at all, since Outdoors Social Media can be a bit toxic once you take a step back and reflect on it, certainly isn’t a panacea to the problems impacting our lands.
Volunteering your time doing trail work, advocating for increased funding for public lands, or donating to organizations that advocate for more wilderness or other important causes (like reducing equipment and financial barriers to outdoor recreation for groups historically disenfranchised from enjoying their public lands) are much better ways to make a difference than merely adjusting your habits on social media.
But if thinking critically before you post on social media can prevent or delay even just a few places from being impacted by overuse and having permits implemented, it seems worth it to allow those who visit them – now and in the future – to have a high-quality experience that they don’t have to book months in advance on recreation.gov and help enrich government contractors. There’s enough public land for all of us to have the indescribable and soul-lifting feeling that comes from experiencing true solitude in stunning natural landscapes. We can’t all have solitude in the same place at the same time, but protecting the solitude of the places we cherish – so that others can find and experience it as well – is a responsibility we can each choose to practice.
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