Articles (2020) - Page 20 of 144

Red Paw Packs 28 L Flatiron Backpack Review

The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L (13 to 19 oz / 368 g to 538 g, MSRP from $220) is a customizable low-volume overnight / daypack with a unique zippered main compartment.

Introduction

The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L (13 – 19 ounces / 368 – 538 g, MSRP from $220) is a customizable cottage-industry low-volume overnight pack that doubles nicely as a daypack or peak-bagger.

Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L

The Flatiron Pack 28 L is available in a variety of X-Pac and DCFH (Dyneema Composite Fabric Hybrid) colors and weights. It features a unique front entry zipper, Spandura outer pockets, vest-style straps or J-straps depending on customer preference, a range of optional hipbelts, and other customizable features.

About this Review

This Limited Review is based on my experience with a Flatiron Pack 28 L over the course of more than 20 days of winter/spring hiking, snowshoeing, skiing, and backpacking around the Tahoe basin of eastern California/western Nevada.

Testing the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L.

Features and Specifications

As I mentioned above, The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L is highly customizable. This Features and Specifications list reflects the testing pack that Red Paw Packs sent me.

weight: 16.5 oz (454 g)
claimed main compartment capacity: 28 L
claimed pocket capacity: 7 L
body fabric: 5.0 oz/yd²DCFH (2.15 oz/yd² Dyneema Composite Fabric inner layer laminated to a 150 denier polyester face fabric)
pocket fabric: Spandura (Cordura nylon/Spandex knit blend)
shoulder strap style: vest-style with pockets
shoulder strap material: 6.5 oz/yd² woven Melange with Dyneema Composite Fabric
shoulder strap padding: 3/8 in (1 cm) closed cell foam with 1/8 in (.3 cm) 3D spacer foam
shoulder strap width (at shoulders): 3 in (7 cm)
roll-top entry with ladderloc G-hook webbing buckle
YKK Aquaguard #5 zipper on primary pack compartment

Description of Field Experience

As you’d expect with a pack of this size, my primary use case with the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L was as a day pack for all-day (longer than six hours) hikes, snowshoe trips, and cross-country skiing excursions. But I also took the Flatiron Pack 28 L on half a dozen single-night backpacking trips in the late winter/spring. These trips occurred in the Tahoe basin in eastern California/western Nevada.

Scrambling while testing the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L.

Altitude was ~8000 ft (2438 m), with daytime temperatures ranging from 65 °F to 15 °F (18 °C to −9 °C). Precipitation was mostly negligible, with the exception of a few light snow flurries. I pushed well past the recommended weight capacity of the Flatiron Pack 28 L (~20 to 25 lb / 9 kg to 11 kg) on a few of my overnights, especially when I brought my winter hammock-camping setup.

I was able to move quickly while wearing the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L.

Performance Analysis

Comfort

I’m a fan of thick, running-vest style straps. I find them comfortable and handy (see Ease of Use, below), and the vest-style straps on the Flatiron Pack 28 L are no exception. They are a full 3 in (7 cm) wide at the shoulders and padded with 0.5 in (1 cm) of foam (when you combine the closed-cell foam and spacer foam used in the construction). The result is a set of shoulder straps that remain comfortable up to and beyond the Flatiron Pack 28 L’s ~20 lb (9 kg) recommended load capacity.

I’m a fan of wide, vest-style shoulder straps because they are comfortable and provide lots of space for pockets.

This pack has no frame sheet, stays, or back cushioning of any kind, so proper packing is essential for it to remain comfortable. Red Paw Packs offers a range of hip belt options if backpackers want to extend the weight capacity a little, but without padding or stays, I’d be hesitant to go much heavier than 25 lb (11 kg) on multi-day trips even with the added support of a hip belt. But those thick, wide shoulder straps help distribute weight if you need to load the Flatiron Pack 28 L down.

Storage Capacity

Twenty-eight liters isn’t much, which is why the Red Paw Pack Flatiron 28 L Pack’s best use is as a one-or-two-night overnight pack, supported or semi-supported fastpacking pack, and daypack. The interior volume is configured in a long-and-skinny layout, with a roll-top closure that can extend roughly 9 in (23 cm) above the shoulders if necessary. For context, I got four Hyperlight Mountain Gear Pods (two small and two large in 2400 and 3400 sizes) into the main compartment with a little room to spare for sundries on top.

The lower pockets shown here are designed for 750 mL water bottles, but I mostly use them for gloves, water treatment tools, and other items I want close at hand.

The shoulder-strap pockets are voluminous and stretchy. There are four total, with the upper two measuring 5 x 3.5 in (13 x 9 cm) and the bottom two measuring 7 x 4 in (18 x 10 cm). The top pockets can accommodate my gigantic iPhone 12 Pro Max (it pokes out a little at the top), a point-and-shoot camera (I have a Sony RX100 and it fits a little snuggly), or a GPS unit. The bottom pockets are designed as water bottle pockets and are probably most at home cradling a 750 ml bottle as opposed to a 1 L bottle. I favor 1 L bottles, so I mostly used the bottom two pockets for snacks, gloves, neck gaiters, and other bulky-ish objects I wanted close at hand.

The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L unrolled to maximum capacity.

The Flatiron Pack 28 L has a 14 in (36 cm) zipper that accesses the central compartment and runs vertically along the center of the pack. I’ll talk more about this zipper in the Commentary section, but for now, what’s important about it is that it splits the rear external storage compartment into two separate pockets. These pockets are 9 in (23 cm) along the bottom seam. They are diagonally cut at the top – 14 in (36 cm) high at the peak of the diagonal and 8 in (20 cm) at the lower end.

Diagonally cut rear pockets, separated by a zipper.

While splitting the large back pocket into two sections may be annoying for some (i.e., hikers who like to store their shelters back there) I actually enjoyed the system. I found that it helped with my organization.

There’s also a stash pocket sewn into the bottom panel of the pack, with the opening facing the lower back when wearing the pack. These types of pockets are commonly used for trash while on the go, but I tend not to use them.

Ease of Use

The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L uses a roll-top closure system. There are two snaps across the top hem of the pack to assist in getting a clean roll, a little touch I quite liked, especially when I had the pack fairly full. A ladderloc G-hook webbing buckle attached to a generous length of nylon webbing assists in getting things cinched down nice and tight.

I find this kind of hardware – a ladderloc G-hook – a little fiddly.

I feel that ladderloc G-hook webbing buckles can be a little fiddly, especially in the cold or while wearing gloves, so I don’t love that hardware choice (it’s a clean look though). But any gripes I have about quick-and-easy access are mitigated by the central zipper that accesses the main compartment. I’ll talk more about that in the Commentary.

I mentioned in the Storage Capacity section that the lower pockets are designed to hold 750 ml water bottles, and that I didn’t use them for that purpose because I favor 1 L bottles. This preference caused a problem for me when testing the Flatiron Pack 28 L, because I had nowhere to store my water that I could easily reach (there are no side pockets on this pack). In my experience, gear designers implement diagonally cut rear pockets to make reaching water bottles (theoretically) possible without removing the pack. I can rarely actually perform this maneuver, and couldn’t make it work with the Flatiron Pack 28 L on a regular basis either.

A final addition that would add to the usability of this pack would be daisy chains or webbing loops directly above the upper shoulder-strap pockets (or somewhere on the shoulder straps). I like to clip gloves or other small items to my shoulder straps, especially when I’m moving quickly and wearing a pack this small and light.

The Spandura used in the pockets is both stretchy and durable.

The double-chest strap system tends to slide around while I’m walking, a drawback I’m not the first to notice. In fact, Red Paw Packs has changed its design slightly (it gave a greater curve to the fabric to which the sliding buckles are attached, creating more friction) since sending me this pack, and claim it is no longer an issue. In my research, I haven’t found anyone to contradict that claim.

Durability

Red Paw Packs utilizes three materials that are new to me – Spandura (a Cordura nylon/Spandex blend), 5.0 oz/yd²DCFH (a Dyneema Composite Fabric laminated to a 150 denier polyester face fabric), and 6.5 oz Woven Melange with Dyneema (a woven textile that is 55% polyester and 45% Dyneema Composite Fabric.)

The pack fabric is a 2.15 oz/yd2 Dyneema Composite Fabric inner layer laminated to a 150 denier polyester face fabric.

I didn’t use the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L long enough, or subject it to enough abrasion, to accurately judge its long-term durability. But the materials boast impressive specs and have a hand-feel that speaks of toughness. The pack shrugged off the light bushwhacking and scrambling that I subjected it to during my twenty days of use. Spandura certainly seems likely to stand up to abrasion and errant sticks more than the lighter stretchy mesh fabrics that I’ve seen on other light packs I’ve used.

A little bushwhacking was no problem with the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L.

I didn’t take particular care with it when tossing this pack down on either ice or the sharp rocks on my home trails, and I didn’t worry as I pushed through dense pine forests or clumps of manzanita. At the end of my testing period, I had a few small dirt stains on the Spandura pockets, and that’s about it.

Scrambling while testing the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L.

Weather Resistance

The DCFH fabric used in the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L is waterproof with taped seams. The zipper is water-resistant as well. That was certainly enough for the Flatiron Pack 28 L to deny access to the light snow I encountered during testing. Would it hold out days and days of a torrential downpour? I wouldn’t bet my quilt on it, but when combined with my DCF stuff sacks, I’d trust the Flatiron Pack 28 L to keep my gear dry in moderate showers.

Finish Quality

The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L is finished with apparent care. Red Paw Packs is “just one guy in a shop,” as founder Matt Evans pointed out to me when I interviewed him for this review. That doesn’t automatically equate to high finish quality, but in this case, it seems to have. There are no loose or popped seams, and everything is cut and assembled with precision.

The finish quality and material choice on The Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L are superb.

Commentary

What makes this pack unique? This is the question I always ask myself when reviewing new packs – especially cottage industry packs. In the case of the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L, it boils down to this:

primary-compartment access via zipper

So What’s With That Zipper?

In an earlier section of this article, I talked about how I fiddled with the ladderloc G-hook hardware on the Flatiron’s central cinch-down strap. Well, the truth is I stopped using this entry-point altogether in favor of the long vertical zipper on the rear of the pack. This method of entry into the main compartment became my go-to for reaching gear quickly. I even used this method to pack the Flatiron 28 L in the mornings sometimes (this only works if the pack isn’t filled to capacity).

It’s a beefy zipper, and will probably hold up as long as users don’t overstuff the pack.

Red Paw Packs founder Matt Evans is aware that many gear designers consider zippers to be a common failure point on outdoor gear. He’s confident that the large YKK Aquaguard #5 is beefy enough to last the lifetime of the pack. My guess is this will be true provided users don’t form a habit of overstuffing this pack from the front and then trying to get the zipper closed, or using the pack in extremely sandy or dirty environments.

In any case, the zipper, and the easy access it provides, is a feature I don’t see on cottage packs very much, if at all. I’ve found the design useful given my tendency to use the Flatiron Pack 28 L as a grab-and-go pack for fast-and-light overnights and long day trips. On top of all that, I think it looks pretty cool!

Compared To

I chose to compare the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L to the Atom Packs Atom 30 L.

Base Price

The customizable Atom 30L’s base price is $261 vs. The Flatiron Pack 28 L’s base price of $220.

Edge: Flatiron Pack 28 L

Level of Customization

Both packs have a similar level of customization, with a range of materials and features available. These materials and features differ slightly because of design choice differences, but all told both companies offer a highly customizable pack.

Edge: Tie

Volume

This may not be a fair comparison, because Atom Packs also offers a 25 L version of the Atom. If I had compared the Atom 25 L to the Flatiron Pack 28 L, the latter would take the victory. But I didn’t, so here the Atom 30 L edges out the Flatiron, which only comes in 28 L.

Edge: Atom 30 L

Gear Access

The Flatiron 28 L’s primary-compartment zippered access is a unique feature that isn’t shared by the Atom 30 L. Both packs have wide shoulder straps that support a double-set of voluminous shoulder-strap pockets. But the Atom 30 L has side pockets and a daisy chain system hidden under the strap pockets. So I’ll call it a tie.

Edge: Tie

Strengths and Limitations

Strengths

central primary-compartment zipper for quick gear access
comfortable vest-style shoulder straps
durable, premium materials

Limitations

nowhere to store 1 L water bottles with easy access
chest straps slide around (presumably fixed in current production models)
no daisy chains on the shoulder straps for even more versatile storage/attachment options

Where to Buy

buy the Red Paw Packs Flatiron Pack 28 L from Red Paw Packs

Black Diamond Blitz Spikes Review

The Black Diamond Blitz Traction Spikes (MSRP $39.95, 1.5 to 1.8 oz / 42 to 50 g) are ultralight, stainless-steel, forefoot-only traction devices for shoes and boots intended for incidental use on hard-packed snow terrain.

Introduction

Black Diamond Blitz Spikes. Photo: Black Diamond.

Highlights

multiple sizes (S, M, L, and XL) covering the range of US shoe sizes from Women’s 4 to Men’s 14.5
forefoot spikes only (6)
8 mm spike length
secured by a nylon webbing toe loop and elastomer band around the back of the heel

Testing Context

Our favorite time of year to hike is during the winter, and I have thousands of miles of hiking under my belt wearing spike-style traction devices of one sort or another. I come from a mountaineering background, so I’m pretty in tune with the performance of any type of traction device that helps me quickly and safely cross snow and ice. Through the years, I’ve accumulated an embarrassingly large amount of crampons and traction spikes suitable for ice climbing, trail running, and everything in between. And I discuss traction devices and their appropriate use as matched to the terrain in our recent webinar Lightweight Footwear and Traction Systems for Snow Travel.

I tested the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes on a number of trips in the mountains of Southeast Wyoming and Northern Colorado during the winter and spring months. I spent most of my time on packed snow trails, transitioning to mixed terrain (snow/water ice/dirt) as spring rolled around. As of this review, I have about 50 miles of experience with them while carrying an overnight backpack (20 to 40 lb / 9 to 18 kg) over terrain with slope angles of up to about 25 degrees.

I paired the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes with the following footwear:

Most often, I would wear the Blitz on one foot and another traction device on the other, so I could make direct comparisons. The comparison devices were usually the Black Diamond Distance Spikes, the Kahtoola Microspikes, or the Hillsound Trail Crampons.

This is a first look at new gear that recently entered our review pipeline, and hasn't yet been subjected to rigorous field use. Learn more about the types of product reviews we publish.

First Impressions

Small Size

The most notable feature of the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes is their diminutive size. They are so small and light that I wouldn’t give a second thought about tossing them in my pack for the just-in-case scenario of having to inch my way over a snowy, moderately steep mountain pass during early season summer travel.

The Black Diamond Blitz Spikes are the first traction device I’ve used that I literally stuffed into my pants and jacket pockets, or my front accessory pack. They are so small that you have multiple storage options when not in use.

Short Spikes

The individual spikes on the Blitz are 8 mm long. They seem tiny compared to the 12 mm long spikes on Kahtoola Microspikes. Shorter spikes have two important impacts that are noticeable in the field:

When wearing them on bare ground (e.g., dirt) and moving fast, my forefoot caught on the terrain underneath far less often than when I was wearing Kahtoola Microspikes. This is a big advantage, especially for trail running or at the end of the day when my legs are tired and my coordination is compromised.
When climbing (and descending) steep, snowy (or muddy) terrain, the short spikes of the Blitz don’t have as much purchase (grip) as the Kahtoola Microspikes. If you have to rely on a totally secure grip on steep terrain where a fall is an issue, you may need a more aggressive traction device than the Blitz.

Ease of Use

Two straps – a nylon toe strap (webbing) and an elastomer heel strap – make these the easiest set of traction spikes to put on and take off my shoes that I’ve ever used. A nice-sized grab loop in the back makes the process intuitive and easy.

Footwear Applicability

The Blitz performs best (and perhaps, most sensibly) when mated to ultralight footwear. I had no issues when I used them with my Hoka Speedgoat trail running shoes and Speedgoat GTX mid-height boots. When I paired them with my stiffer approach shoes (the Scarpa Zen Pro II), the fit was secure and the spikes remained stable on the shoe even on steep terrain. However, when I paired them with a stiffer mountain boot (Scarpa Marmolada), the boot seemed to overpower the Blitz Spikes, causing them to shift position on the sole of the boot while sidehilling on steep terrain.

Photos

Paired with an approach shoe, the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes are ideal for short crossings of glaciers or snowfields prior to rocky scrambling on higher peaks.

On my Inov-8 G270’s, the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes’ front strap digs a little into the top of the shoe, because the shoe top is quite soft. It didn’t cause any notable discomfort, but be aware of this when you are matching traction spikes like this to minimalist footwear.

On a high-stack shoe like the Hoka Speedgoat, or if you’re attaching them to boots, you may need to size up, so the rear elastic band doesn’t get caught underfoot and wear unnecessarily while walking.

The Black Diamond Blitz Spikes only have six spikes under the forefoot, which limits their use to low-angle snow if you need to walk a sidehill traverse.

The Takeaway

Tiny size, truly ultralight, and speed (ease) of taking them off and putting them on are the hallmark features of the Black Diamond Blitz Spikes. I imagine they will remain in my ultralight backpacking kit for mountain travel until the snow melts out of the high passes, and I plan to use them for most of my trips this year in the Colorado Rockies and High Sierra.

Where to Buy

Purchase Link: Black Diamond Blitz Traction Spikes

Take This Poem on Your Next Trip

The words you carry with you are just as important as your gear.

“The road seen, then not seen,” begins the poem “Santiago” by David Whyte.

The road seen, then not seen, I think, walking down Woodenshoe Canyon in Bear’s Ears National Monument in late November. The red trail below my feet leads into piñon and juniper and turns and disappears within them. The path seen, then not seen. It dips into a willowy wash and is nearly gone, only seen where snake grass is occasionally matted down by past feet. The road seen, then not seen.

a man backpacks through the Utah desert — Walking in Bear’s Ears National Monument during a time of transition.

If you would have asked me when I was 20, I would have told you I expected to be married with kids at 35. It’s just what people do; it was inevitable. But it wasn’t a road I actually saw; it was imagined. All I did see was a narrow rocky path leading to hobbies like backpacking and various dead-end jobs and disappearing behind them. Only the next ten feet or so were guaranteed; it’s usually impossible to know what’s beyond that. Now I’m 35 and I am neither married nor do I have kids. I’m also newly single, walking through a canyon I’ve never before seen, on a trajectory I never before expected, with a future completely unknown. The trail seen running through ponderosas, then not seen winding behind sandstone cliffs hundreds of feet tall.

I usually pack a book (or two) in my backpack, and in 2020 I took the book Essentials by poet David Whyte on almost every trip. It’s small and light (3.8 oz / 108 g) and has striking things to say about a host of experiences all humans share. I’ve pulled it out during lunch breaks on salmony slickrock overlooking willow-bottomed canyons, and I’ve read a few poems tucked in my sleeping bag at the end of a long day. While the whole thing is incredible, as a backpacker, the poem “Santiago” landed hardest. He wrote the poem for his niece when she walked the Camino de Santiago, the famous 500-mile (805 km) pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain, where remains of the saints are supposed to be buried. I’m sharing it here because people embarking on long adventures may relate.

The poem continues:

and the way forward
always in the end, the way that you came, the way
that you followed, that carried you into your future,
that brought you to this place

a man stares out a window — Being drawn forward and out.

Despite knowing nothing of what is ahead, there always is something that draws you on. In the context of a thru-hike or other long adventure, it is at first that belief that there’s something out there that is better than right here inside your apartment, looking out at the gray street where the cars and pedestrians seem like automatons moving along it. The mundanity of cooking in the same kitchen, working at the same desk, and eating at the same table is surely less interesting than whatever you will find along the trail. So you plan, pack, and leave. And when you are finally walking that trail between Mexico and Canada, you may feel

the sense of having walked
from far inside yourself out into the revelation,
to have risked yourself for something that seemed
to stand both inside you and far beyond you,
that called you back in the end to the only road
you could follow…
…so that one day
you realized that what you wanted had already
happened, and long ago and in the dwelling place
in which you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and then drew you on
and that, you were more marvelous in your
simple wish to find a way than the gilded roofs
of any destination you could reach

Years ago, when I took a job as a wilderness ranger in the High Uintas, I did it in part to feel some sense of accomplishment. And I did it to see what would happen if I was out there for four weeks, eight weeks, twelve weeks. I was certain that the place would provide the revelation I needed to turn my life around back home. I waited countless nights for a revelation of some kind beside Betsy Lake, a football field-sized, oblong, dark teal lake hidden deep in lodgepole forest. Clouds shot out from behind West Grandaddy Mountain, a castle of crumbling gray and pink sandstone, and careened over me, mirrored in the glassy water. It would pour in the evenings sometimes and I would walk in my dripping raincoat from my camp in the trees out to the shore to find the surface turned to static.

Day after day and night after night I walked, listened, and waited. Sometimes I didn’t even enjoy my time in the mountains, and I found myself wanting to be horizontal on a couch watching a movie. I put in big miles, I spent entire tours almost entirely alone, and I watched the sky change. But it was none of these things nor osprey dive nor lightning strike which was the ultimate revelation. When the season wrapped up and fog lay across the water, whortleberry leaves had turned from green to red, meadow grasses had turned yellow with specks of orange and red, and I stepped inside the government rig and drove back to town, I felt different. “I did this,” I thought. I found strength and felt accomplishment finally in my desire to search for those very things.

That was the revelation. It wasn’t external at all. It was indeed the promise I carried with me, the desire for revelation, the desire to find something. It was indeed that I was more marvelous in my “simple wish to find a way,” than anything I found out there.

a view of mountains at sunrise from within a tent — Peering out of a tent in Utah.

In a brief commentary on “Santiago”, David Whyte reminds us of the poem “To go to Rome,” which reads, “Great the journey, little the gain, if you do not carry Him with you you will not find Him there”. God here, of course, is a metaphor for that “simple wish to find a way,” that desire, the ambition to try. Whatever prompted you to plan, pack, and leave in the first place was always within you.

as if, all along, you had thought the end point
might be a city with golden domes, and cheering
crowds, and turning the corner at what you thought
was the end of the road, you found just a simple
reflection, and a clear revelation beneath the face
looking back and beneath it another invitation,
all in one glimpse: like a person or place
you had sought forever, like a broad field of freedom
that beckoned you beyond; like another life,
and the road still stretching on.

How many of us have gotten to the end of a trip to find only the car waiting for us? No cheering crowds, no finish lines, no plaques engraved with our names. Many times I have walked up to the car, leaned my trekking poles against the side to begin fishing around for my keys, when I see myself right there, reflected in the dusty window. I may have forgotten my name at some point on the journey; I may have spent entire days unworried, my troubles buried under miles and wide vistas, but in the end, I am still me. Everything I started with – the good and the bad – stayed with me the whole way, returned with me to the car, and will be traveling with me to my home where I began.

And how many people have gotten to the terminus of a thru-hike a day earlier than expected, approaching the monument alone in the quiet rain, looking at it, and then walking into the trees to spend one more night alone before your ride arrives the next day? No fanfare, just the end of the trail, “and the road still stretching on.” If, after months on the PCT or the AT, you found that what you searched for out there was inside you all along, did you have to do it? Did you have to go out there and hike hundreds or thousands of miles to gain this understanding? I don’t have an answer for that.

You’ll probably have to hike to find out.

David Whyte’s “Santiago” is a clear-headed contemplation of the entirety of a thru-hike, from a hiker’s intention to the first step on the trail to the anticipation of revelation or external validation, to finally realizing what the whole thing was about. Anyone planning a hike of any length (but especially the longer ones) should consider reading this poem beforehand or better yet, taking it with you. “The road seen, then not seen,” it begins.

a man looks at his own reflection in a car window — Getting back to the car is always a strange experience.

Gryphon Gear Aries 20 Quilt Review

The Gryphon Gear Aries 20 Quilt (25.7 oz / 729 g, MSRP from $327) is a three-season quilt with a differential cut, draft collar, an edge tensioning system, and 17.5 oz (496 g) of down fill.

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By the Numbers: Rethinking Fleece

Stephen Seeber subjects ten fleece samples to rigorous thermal testing.

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Gear List: Tenkara Fly Fishing in the Northern Rockies

Mark Wetherington’s tenkara gear list serves as a great entry point to backcountry fly fishing for newcomers.

Introduction

Figuring out the best backcountry fishing system can be an intimidating process with an inordinate amount of choices and pieces of gear to sift through. The purpose of this article is to offer the reader one way to simplify it with a minimalist, tenkara fishing kit.

Although I am certainly not an expert angler, I am reasonably well-versed in the intersection of lightweight backpacking in the Northern Rockies and catching trout in mountain lakes. I’ve fished several dozen lakes and over a dozen small streams and rivers in the Northern Rockies and the Pacific Northwest and almost always found success – sometimes just barely and sometimes spectacularly – using a tenkara fishing system. Tenkara is a traditional method of flyfishing as practiced in Japan that is noticeable for its simplicity.

a beautiful alpine lake — Tenkara fishing turns a lake like this from something nice to look at into an endless source of entertainment – and possibly dinner!

As adapted for backpacking, this method uses only a collapsible (telescoping) rod, short line, tippet, and a fly (we’ll explain these terms further down in the article). There’s no reel and no multi-section rod and eyelets to thread line through, just the basics needed to catch fish. This minimalist approach not only allows me to keep my fishing kit to well under 8 oz (227 g), but it allows me to have a fly on the water in less than a minute after removing the rod from my pack. There have been several times where I’ve landed a fish before my companions even got their traditional fly rods set up for the first cast.

The simplicity also lends itself well to sharing the experience with others and getting people to try fishing for the first time. In just a few minutes, I’ve shown people who’ve never fly fished how to make simple casts and achieve a passable presentation of the fly, then watched them catch small but eager trout within a few casts.

On a philosophical level, the lack of gear to manage and master allows for a much more focused – and for me, a more fulfilling – experience.

Summary of Context

Although I purchased my first tenkara rod in 2011 for use on streams and rivers in eastern Kentucky, it wasn’t until after I moved to Montana in 2014 that I became an avid backcountry angler.

My tenkara experience is primarily with backcountry lakes in Montana that contain trout – cutthroat (both Yellowstone and Westslope), rainbow, and brook. Some of these populations are self-sustaining and others are stocked. I’ve also fished small streams and rivers in the region. I’ve used tenkara on streams and rivers in Wyoming and Washington, as well as at several lakes in Washington. Despite my use being limited to the Northern Rockies and Pacific Northwest, this article is applicable to any backpacker who finds themselves hiking in areas with mountain lakes that have trout – California, Oregon, Utah, Idaho, Colorado, Nevada, and New Mexico all come quickly to mind.

As noted in the introduction, my intent is not to provide a comprehensive overview of tenkara as a supplement or substitution for traditional fly rod systems. Rather, I am simply providing information and observations about my experiences using it as my sole fishing system for backcountry lakes. It is my opinion that for most backpackers this system is preferable – or should at least receive ample consideration – due to its affordability, minimal weight, and ease of operation.

My experience is limited to the products produced by Tenkara USA, which was the first company to make lightweight, telescoping tenkara-style rods available in the United States. However, the observations and experiences should be more or less transferable to other tenkara-style products by other manufacturers.

Gear

Rod

a small fish on shore next to a tenkara rod — A Yellowstone Cutthroat caught via tenkara. Even small and medium-size fish are a thrill to hook and land with Tenkara rods.

I’ve used the Tenkara USA Iwana and the Tenkara USA Hane rods, both of which are incredibly light at 2.7 oz (77 g) and 3.5 oz (100 g) respectively. The Iwana is currently sold in a 12-foot long version, but my earlier generation rod is closer to 11 feet. The Iwana is sold as an all-around rod (not too long, not too short, not too stiff, not too flimsy) and is my favorite to use. The cork handle feels nicer in my hand than the handle of the Hane, although both are comfortable to hold for long periods of time. A minor drawback of the Iwana is that it doesn’t collapse as small as the Hane – 20.5 in (52 cm) versus 15 in (38 cm). However, it is 0.8 ounces (23 grams) lighter.

product photo iwana rod by tenkara usa — The Iwana model. Photo: Tenkara USA.

Although I find the Iwana to be a bit more fun and responsive, I would most likely recommend that backpackers who are new to tenkara go with the Hane. Its packability and length make it a bit more user-friendly to start with. Both rods are priced similarly, with the Iwana at $170 and the Hane at $160.

product stock photo of the hane tenkara rod — The Hane model. Photo: Tenkara USA.

Editor’s Note: The Tenkara USA Hane originated as a collaboration between Ryan Jordan (Backpacking Light’s founder) and Daniel Galhardo (Tenkara USA’s founder) in 2010, and was sold exclusively to Backpacking Light Members. Ryan wanted a rod that was shorter, stiffer, more compact, and more durable than other tenkara rods – in other words, a rod designed for the backpacker. The Hane was recently brought back to market by Tenkara USA and it remains one of our favorite all-time models of tenkara rods from any brand.

In well over two hundred fishing days between these two rods, and having landed several hundred fish, I’ve yet to notice any significant wear or durability issues. The telescoping extension of the rod is intuitive, but the thinnest segments are fragile. There are plenty of stories of people breaking a tip while telescoping a rod.

I watched a clumsy friend do this within a few days of having his first rod, so it’s advisable to read the instructions carefully and watch a few videos on the extensions/collapsing process to make sure you don’t damage your rod. On the bright side, Tenkara USA is noted for exceptional customer service and a lifetime warranty on defects in its products. Issues caused by user error can almost always be replaced economically by purchasing individual rod sections.

tenkara rod showing telescoping sections — The tip section of the Tenkara Hane is the most fragile part of the rod. At only 0.8 mm in diameter and made of brittle carbon, it is much more likely to be damaged while setting up or taking down the rod than to break while casting or playing a fish. Photo: Ryan Jordan.

Each rod comes with a protective case to use when transporting the rod. At first, I used the case when backpacking out of an abundance of caution. Now I just pack the rod inside my pack or in a side pocket and secure it snugly against the pack with compression straps. I’ve had no issues with damage to the rod on roughly two dozen trips using this approach.

Rod Notes

Iwana Rod / 12 ft (360 cm) open / 20.5 in (52 cm) closed / 2.7 oz (77 g). My first and favorite Tenkara rod. Great for mountain lakes and open streams flowing through meadows and most rivers.
Hane Rod / 10 ft 10 in open (330 cm) / 15 in (38 cm) closed / 3.5 oz (100 g). An ideal rod for backpacking and the most compact rod offered by Tenkara USA. Suitable for fishing the same waters as the Iwana, but I find the action of the rod to be slightly less thrilling when catching fish due to the shorter length and slightly stiffer feel.

Line and Tippet

There are two types of lines most commonly used with tenkara rods – a traditional (tapered) line and a level (untapered) line. I’ve used both and prefer the traditional line, mostly because it is the easiest to attach to the rod and connect a piece of tippet to (the tippet is a very fine piece of line that connects the primary line to the fly). Tapered lines are also easier to cast.

Lines are available in 10 ft 6 in (3.2 m) or 13 ft (4 m) lengths. I usually bring one of each with me. If the fish are rising further out from shore I use the 13 ft (4 m) length. If they’re close in or the terrain makes it easier to have less line in the air, I’ll opt for the 10 ft 6 in (3.2 m) line. When line, rod, and tippet combine, I have about 20 – 25 ft (6.1 – 7.7 m) of effective casting range.

a typical tenkara rod-line-tippet setup showing a 10-13 foot rod, 10-14 foot tenkara line, 12-18 inches of 3X tippet, and 2-5 feet of 5X tippet, then the fly — A typical tenkara rod-line-tippet setup. Illustration: Ryan Jordan

While a traditional fly rod system would provide me with more distance, I’ve rarely found that being able to cast 50 ft (15 m) makes or breaks my day of fishing. I can usually just walk around the lake to a place where the fish are feeding closer to shore or wait until they move in as the time of day changes.

Line and Tippet Notes

Tapered Tenkara Lines / 10 ft 6 in (3.2 m) or 13 ft (4 m) / weight is less than 0.04 oz (1 g) for a 10 – 13 ft (3 – 4 m) monofilament nylon line / are my preferred lines. I’ve found them to be the easiest to cast, easiest to attach to the rod, easiest to attach tippet to, and the easiest to store. When minimalism and convenience dovetail so perfectly, it’s hard to switch to anything else. I use both the 10 ft 6 in (3.2 m) and 13 feet (4 m) lengths and always have one of each with me on my trips so I can alternate them when conditions dictate and to have as a backup.
5X or 6X tippet / one spool containing 30 m of tippet typically weighs less than 0.3 oz (10 g) / I use these strengths of tippet because I’m generally not fishing waters with fish requiring heavier tippet. Thin tippet is also easier for fish to see – especially in mountain lakes with high clarity. I typically have between 4 – 6 ft (1.2 – 1.8 m) of tippet on my line. On the calm and clear waters of lakes it is nice to have as much distance between the line and the fly as possible.
Tenkara The Keeper / 1.4 oz (40 g) / This line storage device allows you to store two lines and has a small compartment for a handful of flies. In my experience, having one of these is almost mandatory for your enjoyment (and sanity, as dealing with tangled tippet and lines is maddening).

assortment of spools of sample tenkara lines and tippet material — A sampling of typical tenkara lines and tippet material: (A) a braided, tapered monofilament tenkara line; (B) and (C) different diameters of non-tapered monofilament level lines; (D) 3X (0.008″ dia.) non-tapered monofilament typically used as a short transition section between the end of the tenkara line and the rest of the tippet; (E) 5X (0.006″ dia.) non-tapered monofilament typically used for the tippet section between the 3X transition section and fly; (F) 6X (0.005″ dia.) non-tapered monofilament used instead of 5X when fishing very small flies or spooky fish. Photo: Ryan Jordan

Flies

Tenkara USA sells its own traditional Japanese tenkara flies. Tenkara purists espouse using as few flies as possible. Indeed, Tenkara USA only offers four different varieties of flies for sale.

I mix the neuroticism of traditional “match the hatch” fly fishing (with its abundance of flies for every occasion) with the minimalist focus of tenkara and usually have 5-6 patterns with me when fishing (totaling around 25 flies). Royal Wulffs, Caddises, Adams, Blue Winged Olives, and Ants are always in my fly box. With a few variations among these, mostly just in color and size, I’m nearly always able to have a successful day of fishing if the trout are feeding on the surface (i.e. hitting “dry flies”).

A fly box laid out against a map. — My typical fly box for tenkara. My fly box is more involved than a traditional tenkara system, but less involved than traditional western fly fishing.

I’ve yet to experiment with using nymphs to fish below the surface of the lake, but I know of some who have made this work with a tenkara system.

Flies Notes

Royal Wulffs / size 12-16 / This is generally the fly I toss out first to see how eager the trout are to rise and how discerning they are. I’ve tossed these out on lakes where I haven’t seen a rise in 15 minutes of observation and had a strike within a handful of casts. I’ve also cast it out on lakes with fish feeding on the surface in a frenzy, but not had a bite on this fly.
Blue Winged Olives (BWO) / size 12-16 / If the fish aren’t striking on a Royal Wulff, I’ll usually try a BWO or something similar to see if I can entice them to strike.
Ants / size 12-14 / I’ve found that sometimes the difference between getting a strike and coming up empty depends on variations in the color on the ant – red and purple can sometimes appear to make a difference. At a lake with arctic grayling in Montana’s Sapphire Mountains, the fish seemed to be choosing ants with purple on them above all other flies.
Caddis variations / size 12-16 / Similar to ants, color seems to make a decent bit of difference here so having a few with different colors is a good idea. I’ve noticed that yellow and oranges tend to be popular with trout in mountain lakes in September.
Adams variants / size 12-16 / I use a few different colors of Adams variants similar to Royal Wulffs – generally as a way to see how picky actively feeding fish are or how likely inactive fish are to rise and strike whatever hits the surface.

Net

A net makes it easier to land fish and allows them to be handled and released more gently. The lightest ones are made of carbon fiber and clear rubber, but in proportion to the rest of the fishing system they have significant weight. I most often leave the net at home, especially if fishing is a secondary part of my trip.

a trout in the bottom of a net — A net is helpful at landing trout and allows them to be handled more gently.

I typically bring a net when returning to lakes where I have caught large trout and can use the help with landing them. If you don’t plan to use a net, please read up on the best ways to practice catch-and-release to minimize impact to the fish. If you’re planning to eat the fish you catch, then having a net would be useful in preventing dinner from getting away.

Net Notes

The Brodin net I use has been discontinued. It is a carbon fiber frame with rubber net and weighs 9.4 oz (2.66 g), so I only bring it when I think I’ll be catching larger fish. As one would expect, the exact opposite result usually occurs — when I bring the net to lakes I’ve landed large fish in before, I usually don’t catch any or only catch smaller fish. When I don’t bring the net, the chances of having my rod doubled-over and an 18-inch trout on the line increase significantly. The Brodin El Zorro Cutthroat is the model that most closely resembles the net I use.

Accessories

I use a Tenkara USA Strap Pack and their line holders to keep things organized. Tenkara USA sells a specialized nipper tool that is certainly useful, but in true ultralight fashion I just use the fingernail clippers I keep in my first aid kit to clip the tag end of my knots down.

a small fishing pack laid out against a map — The Strap Pack is handy for stowing the minimum essentials.

A small fly box is useful as well. Models as minimal or elaborate as you desire are available. I typically take around 25 flies total that are a mix of the four to five patterns that have proven most successful over the years, and hope for the best.

Tenkara Strap Pack / 1.5 ounces (43 g) / This small Dyneema/Nylon bag is perfect for storing the handful of items – tippet, line, flies, and clippers – that I want to have access to when I’m fishing. It has a waterproof zipper and waterproof fabric, so I don’t have to worry about drenching the gear inside when wading.

Technique, Performance, and Experience

Casting a tenkara rod is remarkably intuitive. Tenkara USA rods come with basic instructions, and their website has a lot of great instructional resources as well. Take some time to learn to cast correctly.

Knots are as important a part of the technique as the casting, in my experience. There’s almost nothing worse than having a fish get away because your knots were poorly tied.

Fortunately, tenkara knots are also minimal – I only use two. One to connect the tippet to the line and another to connect the fly to the tippet. These are covered in the instruction booklet that comes with a Tenkara USA rod and are also covered online in various videos and tutorials.

Landing a trout with a tenkara set up can be oddly confusing and intimidating for those used to fishing with a reel. Having to pull the line in by hand feels a bit more intimate than using a mechanical advantage (a reel) to bridge the gap. I play the fish as little as possible before beginning to pull the line in. There are helpful tutorials on the best way to land fish on the Tenkara USA website.

Conclusion

Tenkara fly fishing allows me to catch almost as many fish with 50% less equipment compared to western-style fly fishing. And some days, I outperform the western fly rod systems used by my companions.

But regardless of how many fish I catch, the fact is that I am catching them quicker and spending more time fishing and less time fiddling with gear. My gear also weighs a fraction of that of a traditional fly rod system and is much more portable, allowing me to fish lake chains without having to disassemble my system or worry about snagging my rod as I change locations.

a woman tenkara fishing from shore — Tenkara is easy to share with others, as the lack of gear makes it more approachable.

If you already have lots of experience as an angler, a tenkara system will be a useful tool in your toolbox. However, you’ll likely be more prone to recognizing its limitations (which despite my near-fanatical endorsement of tenkara, do exist). If you’re new to fishing backcountry lakes and small wilderness streams and rivers, a tenkara system is an ideal way to start.

It’s relatively inexpensive, typically hassle-free, adds minimal weight, and can provide hours of enjoyment trying to catch trout at the lakes you pass by or camp at during backcountry outings. The learning curve is fairly gentle and in many cases, trout at mountain lakes can be much easier to catch than those in rivers or streams.

Summary: Gear List

Tenkara USA Iwana or Hane Rod – 2.7 oz (76.5 g) or 3.5 oz (100 g) respectively.
Tenkara The Keeper with two lengths of braided line with pre-attached tippet and flies – 1.6 oz (45 g).
One Spool of 5X or 6X tippet – 0.2 oz (6 g).
About 20 flies in plastic fly box – 0.8 oz (23 g).
Fingernail clippers – 0.7 oz (20 g).
Tenkara Strap Pack – 1.5 oz (43 g).
Fishing license in small plastic bag – 0.1 oz (3 g); the digital license can also be used on a smartphone in some states for no added weight.

tenkara gear laid out against a map — My typical tenkara kit for a long weekend of fishing in mountain lakes and streams.

Episode 38 | Tenkara Fishing

In this Skills Short episode, Ryan and Andrew talk about the essential skills and gear needed to take up the sport of tenkara-style fly fishing.

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Summary

In this Skills Short episode, Ryan and Andrew talk about the essential skills and gear needed to take up the sport of tenkara-style fly fishing.

Outline

Andrew’s problem with fishing
The difference between tenkara and western-style fly fishing (it’s one of simplicity)
What you need and where you can get it
Tenkara USA
Tenkara Rod Company
How do you get fish to the shore?
Skills and connection with task
Flies, lines, and how they differ in tenkara
Strike indicators – what are they, and do you need them?
Split shot – what is it, and do you need it?
Connecting it all together with some accessories
To net or not to net?
Skills for beginners
Skills to take you to the next level
Tenkara by Daniel Galhardro
Simple Fly Fishing: Techniques for Tenkara and Rod & Reel by Yvon Chouinard, Mauro Mazzo, and Craig Mathews

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Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Learning Curve: What I Learned From Taking a Beginner into the Backcountry

I thought I knew how to take first-time backpackers out, but I’d never actually taken a bare beginner into the backcountry.

Backpacking has a lot of wonderful attributes, including that it’s one of the least technical outdoor activities you can do while still being deeply immersed in the mountains. Backpacking is more involved than a day hike, but it’s not as complex as mountaineering or climbing. If you can walk, know where you’re going, and carry the bare minimum to spend the night outdoors, you’re going to be ok.

I might have more backpacking miles than my friends, but they are all capable and experienced outdoorspeople. The most I’ve ever had to do was help them set up a borrowed tent or explain the benefits of carrying a lightweight bottle instead of a Nalgene. But I’d never taken someone out who had never slept in a tent or spent the night outdoors.

a woman walking along a beautiful train in the mountains — Taking beginners out isn’t my forte… it’s something I’m trying to get better at. Photo credit: Maggie Slepian

We’ll call this bare beginner Jewel. She spent most of her time bouncing between LA and Las Vegas, but last summer, she spent a week with me in Montana as part of a work project. Jewel was in great physical shape, loved being outside, and was an advanced yoga instructor. She kicked my butt on a few day hikes and was excited to go on her first backpacking overnight with me during the trip.

I chose my show-off hike: an overnight to a picture-perfect alpine lake in a mountain range a few hours from town. The hike to the lake was only about seven miles, but the trail was varied and picturesque. It climbed steeply through the woods, crossed several deep creeks, traversed open meadows before switchbacking up a pass to views of the lake below. It’s one of my all-time favorite overnights in Montana, and the one I always take guests on.

I invited two friends along with Jewel and me. I knew she was fit, but I was also aware that she’d never spent the night outdoors or carried a loaded pack. Additionally, I knew my own limitations. I am simply not the best at being a guide – I love taking people out, but I also understand that I can be oblivious to skills and tips that probably should be explained.

Before she showed up, I had sent Jewel a detailed list of the backpacking gear she should buy. She showed up to my house with the exact items – the inflatable sleeping pad, off-the-shelf 55-liter pack, 20-degree mummy bag, 300-lumen headlamp, and a lightweight set of carbon trekking poles. Despite trying to convince her to wear trail running shoes, she insisted on beefy hiking boots straight from the box. Once I saw the boots, I also made sure she packed a few pieces of Moleskin.

a woman stands on top of a mountain — Part of my show-off hike for people visiting Montana. Photo credit: Maggie Slepian

We packed our bags while waiting for Hailey and Claire to show up. I explained the concept of leaving some items behind for an overnight. We didn’t need a full pack of face wipes, hard cases for different items, a full sunscreen, or the aerosol bug spray. I left her with the “nope” pile and went to go meet Hailey and Claire downstairs.

When Jewel came down, her bag was several pounds heavier than when I’d left it upstairs.

“What’s in this?” I asked, digging through the bulging pockets. She’d put back most of the items I’d taken out. I told myself it was fine. She was in very good shape and the hike wasn’t too strenuous.

For me, the learning part of this outing meant truly understanding what it meant to be a real beginner. Not just a first-time backpacker, but someone who had never had a real backcountry experience. Jewel was enthusiastic and in shape, but she came from a realm far from the outdoor recreation world.

At the trailhead, I threw my pack on and started walking away from the truck, expecting Hailey, Claire, and Jewel to fall in line. Hailey tapped me with a trekking pole. Jewel was still at the truck, struggling with her pack. I dashed back and helped her adjust the straps and buckles, marveling at how complicated the adjustment system is on a fully-featured backpack. From the different connections, to cinching, to fit, to packing method… a lot goes into something as simple as throwing a pack over your shoulders. I’d taken this skill for granted for years, mindlessly adjusting tension, slinging it over my shoulder to grab something from the outside pocket. The buckles, straps, and keepers made sense to me, but with Jewel, I was seeing it in a new way.

We moved at a great pace up the trail and through the meadows. At the base of the pass, we stopped to marvel at a family of mountain goats picking their way over the scree above us. We stopped for photos at the top, then descended the switchbacks to the lake. Hailey and I picked our way across a steep, slippery patch of snow still clinging to the north-facing side of the basin. It obscured the trail, and we kick-stepped carefully, aware that one stumble or slide would send us tumbling down the steep, loose face. Claire was more tentative and took a good amount of coaxing across. Jewel, for whatever reason, found it hysterical and ran across the slick snow, despite me shrieking about a high-consequence fall. She giggled when she reached us, and I had to remind myself to calm down. Risk and consequence mean something different to everyone, and I tried to convince myself she’d been sure of her footing.

At camp, I helped Jewel with her new tent and we took photos by the lake. When it was time for dinner, I realized another thing: I never cook in the backcountry, so while I’d told her to buy a stove and fuel, I had forgotten to tell her to bring a lighter. A lighter was simply part of most people’s backcountry items, and I’d totally spaced it. Luckily Claire had a spare, so we could ignite Jewel’s stove and figure out dinner. Hailey showed her how the new valve worked on her sleeping pad, and we were good for the night.

Everyone was in great spirits, and the basin was as stunning as ever. The weather was perfect as well – high 60’s F (16 C) during the day, which then meant low 30’s F (-1 C) at night. This was something else I hadn’t mentioned to Jewel – we were at a higher elevation, and the temperatures could get colder than expected once the sun went down. Part of her pack list was a set of base layers and the requisite puffy, but I hadn’t mentioned that you needed to sleep in those items if it got cold.

Jewel was really smart. She had her MBA from a prestigious business program, and picked up on things quickly. But for someone to pick up on something quickly, you need to impart the relevant wisdom. That’s where I fell short. Jewel slept in shorts and a t-shirt at home, so that’s what she wanted to sleep in outdoors. It didn’t occur to her to put on more layers. After a great night’s sleep for me, Claire, and Hailey, Jewel said she’d loved being outside, but admitted she’d been too frozen to get any sleep.

two women look out over a beautiful mountain view — Stopping for some photo ops after a hefty climb. Photo credit: Maggie Slepian

“Why didn’t you put your jacket on?” I asked, helping break down the tent.

“What do you mean?” Jewel asked, “I never sleep in a jacket.” I felt like an idiot. She was still in a great mood, despite not having slept because she was a veritable popsicle. If I’d just mentioned that she could wear a jacket to sleep in, that wouldn’t have happened.

She also had thumb-sized, oozing blisters on her heels from the hiking boots, but the application of Moleskin quickly solved the issue. I gave her careful instructions about digging a cat hole, where to use the bathroom away from water sources, and to pack out all trash, no matter how gross. She was attentive and respectful of my ramblings, and after a quick lesson on stuffing a sleeping bag into an impossibly small stuff sack, we were on our way.

Jewel was sore from carrying her heavy pack, but she never complained. Hailey gave her pointers for using the trekking poles to descend the pass, and once again, the weather was incredible. On the drive back, my three companions gushed about the hike, the goats, the lake, and the campsite. I was quite pleased. My go-to overnight had once again proven to be a stunner, and climbing a dramatic pass to camp at an alpine lake is as memorable a Montana adventure as it gets.

two women looking at a map — Even if you know where you are, it never hurts to be oriented. Photo credit: Maggie Slepian

It was my first time taking a bare beginner out, and I can confidently say I learned more than I anticipated. There was a vast difference between someone who had never spent time in the backcountry and beginner backpackers who had experience in other forms of outdoor recreation. From understanding how to put a pack on, to the idea of layering for sleep, there was a lot I hadn’t considered. I was grateful to Hailey and Claire for reminding me to check on Jewel, and grateful to Jewel for her unfailing good attitude.

And the last thing? The day after we got back, I yelled upstairs to Jewel to ask her if she wanted me to take her sleeping bag out of the stuff sack. Her packed bag was still sitting in my living room.

“Sure,” she called downstairs, “but beware. There’s a giant turd in a ZipLock bag in there too…I packed everything out.”

Enlightened Equipment Torrid Apex Pullover Review

The Enlightened Equipment Torrid Apex Pullover (7.7 oz / 219 g, MSRP $175.00) is a synthetic-fill, high loft insulating garment.

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Standards Watch: Dan Durston Chats About Standards and Testing

Rex Sanders interviews gear designer Dan Durston.

Introduction

Dan Durston should be well-known to most Backpacking Light readers. Besides contributing articles and many forum posts, he worked with Drop.com (formerly MassDrop) to create the lightweight X-Mid 1P and X-Mid 2P tents, based on his original designs. Dan’s day job is as a fisheries biologist studying how the sediments suspended in rivers and streams impact the creatures living there. He lives, works, and designs gear in the small town of Golden, British Columbia.

We chatted for nearly two hours in January 2021, on many topics. This article focuses on standards and testing. A future article will cover tent design and the business of making and selling tents. I edited the interview for length and clarity.

A Great Place to Live, Work, and Play

Rex: I don’t know the small towns in B.C. Tell me more.

Dan: I’m in the best one. [From the east] go over the Rockies, there’s a valley, which is where I live. It’s a 10-kilometer-wide or 5-mile-wide valley, and then another 100 miles (160 km) of mountains. I moved here because the Rockies are world-class, and the Canadian Rockies are my favorite.

In any direction there is backpacking and skiing, and all the biggest national parks are around here. It’s great when you live somewhere awesome, and you have a lifetime of adventure right in your backyard. I spent a bunch of years on the coast, so I’m less wet now than I used to be.

People online don’t appreciate how areas can be different. They think everywhere is like where they are, and if you get condensation, you’re doing it wrong. And then people in the Pacific Northwest are like, how are you guys surviving in your little tiny single walls?

two variations on the same tent design — Left: X-Mid 1P tent; right: X-Mid 2P tent. Credit: Dan Durston

Standards and Design

Rex: What were some of the standards that drove your tent designs?

Dan: The waterproofness standard is important. It also really showed its limitations.

My two requirements for a good standard are that it represents how things are in the field, and it’s understandable. Waterproofness is very understandable – it’s a water column test.

But in terms of relating to the field, degradation is such a huge issue for almost all fabrics. We had PU (polyurethane) coatings 5, 10, 20 years ago that degraded pretty fast. People buy a 3,000-millimeter hydraulic head (HH) tent and then two years later it’s not waterproof. Then they say I need a 5,000. And then the 5,000 lets them down, they go for 10,000. It’s a durability or longevity problem, not an initial HH problem.

I like DCF (Dyneema Composite Fabric), but companies are hyping it up, like 8,000 mm HH, which is true. But it forms pinholes and micro-cracks. I wouldn’t trust it over a 2,000 mm woven [fabric] two years down the road.

For the X-Mid we wear-tested the fabric with Richard Nisley. He did all his tests, and HH over time. We were fortunate to find a fabric right away that held up really well. As a percent reduction, it was about as good as he’s ever tested.

Rex: The rainfly, with raindrops bouncing off taut fabric, has a very different waterproofness requirement from the floor, where you might be kneeling on wet ground for a long time. Can you discuss some of the differences with hydraulic head?

Dan: Certainly, there are differences. I take a new fabric and I can kneel on it, and see if it leaks. I can get that initial performance empirically, and then my main focus is how does this hold up over time?

That’s what I worry about the most, is how is this material in 5 years? And I don’t have a magic bullet answer to that. But that is why I’m such a fan of PEU (polyether urethane) over PU (polyurethane) because it’s going to hold up better. Silicone is great, too, but you can’t seam tape it, and those floors are just annoyingly slippery.

It’s hard to know what aging is because it’s so multi-faceted, but I’m basically doing anything I can to be less vulnerable to it with the coatings and the fabrics. And it seems like I’m starting with a good buffer. I think that we’re on a good trajectory.

We’ve never had someone say “my X-Mid leaks.” I’m surprised because we have over 10,000 out there now.

A Realistic “Aged HH” Standard Won’t Be Easy

Dan: [Saying we have 2,500 mm HH] leaves us at a competitive disadvantage because other companies say 3,500 and customers think they are more waterproof. But I do what we do because it represents how it really is in the field. I would benefit from an aged waterproofness standard. Then I could say “aged HH” is this.

That is the single biggest thing that’s missing, because that is a real issue with tents. How is the waterproofness 5 or 10 years down the road? And there is not much effort to address that.

Rex: I had so many of the early PU coated nylon tents basically rot on me. It wasn’t because I was putting them away wet. It was almost impossible to dry them out completely.

Dan: People think their tent is dry, but there is moisture inside, and that’s compounded by nylon because not only is the PU coating doing that, but the fiber is doing that too.

Richard’s test is a tumbling test, which would have basically no UV (ultraviolet) exposure. So even there, you’re missing something.

Standards Versus Simple Tests

Rex: Have you been involved in any standards committees?

Dan: No. Maybe the perspective I can provide is from the opposite end, where I’m pretty new to this. It’s hard because you have to pay money for the standard, and there’s a few. And you don’t know which one you want. Then you buy the standard, and it’s this really specific test where I’ve got to buy this crazy machine, or I can’t even do it.

What I end up doing is a lot of relative testing, where I’m not using a standard. Maybe I want to see how well two tensioners hold the cord. I’ll just put them on a bucket, fill it with water, and [figure out] this one is better.

I would prefer it if I was meeting a standard, where I could be publishing the results. But actually getting to that level is so much more involved in terms of equipment and precision. A lot of it, I don’t see that much value in, other than marketing.

a floorplan layout of a two person shelter — Floorplan of the X-Mid 2P tent with dimensions in inches. Credit: Dan Durston

Fit My Tent

Rex: There is this new website called Fit My Tent. What role that is playing in your marketing?

Dan: I have talked to the guy that’s doing it quite a bit, and that has illuminated how hard it is to simplify things. For example, the X-Mid has a diagonal ridgeline. You can measure it [straight across the tent] and it doesn’t look like that much, or along the diagonal where it’s a lot.

Tent fitting is really complicated to distill down. He’s using a 12-inch (30 cm) and 36-inch (91 cm) off the ground [length measurement]. I’m fine with the 12. I think that does a good job [at] getting at usable length. The 36 is a bit trickier because a lot of tents are right about that height.

Editor’s note: Measuring a set up tent at 12 in (30 cm) above the ground better reflects a sleeper’s needs than simple floor dimensions because that includes room for their head, feet, pad, and sleeping bag. And since most people’s sitting height is about half their standing height, measuring a tent 36 in (91 cm) off the ground can help with estimating headroom.

I personally think a 24-inch (61 cm) measure adds a lot, because 36 is so sensitive. But for just how much space is in my tent, I feel like 24 gets at that the best.

Rex: About shoulder height while sitting.

Dan: I’m also not confident it’s going to catch on even though it’s worthwhile. It’s hard to distill down to these metrics. They’re simplifications, but you also lose a fair bit in that simplification.

I see a widespread problem of accurate measuring. Everybody wants their tents to look good, so you’re going to measure it in a way that is charitable to the product, even if users might not get full space out of the product.

With the X-Mid 2P we made it 52 inches (132 cm) wide, and we marketed it at 50 inches (127 cm) because that’s what I think it is in the real world with some wrinkles. But then everybody else makes theirs 50 and it’s really 48 (122 cm). And then it’s 2% lighter and cheaper to produce.

I don’t know what the solution is.

Measuring Standard Tent Volumes

Dan: I personally like volume better. I know that tents have unusable volume, but it’s not actually that many cubic inches (cubic cm). Think about a single-pole [pyramid tent]. Those low areas around the outside, you trim all that off, maybe it’s 10% of the volume.

It’s simple, [customers] can see that this tent has 30% more volume than that tent, and it’s going to feel larger.

If people measure different ways, then it’s not going to work, like somebody’s doing fly volume and someone else is doing inner volume. If I pitch the fly tight, it is going to have more volume than if all the walls are sagging in. And similarly, a lot of floors are technically 50 inches (127 cm) wide, but only if they’re perfectly tight and wrinkle-free. If you grab an average 50-inch tent it’s probably about 48 (122 cm).

I agree there is a problem. I’m just not sure there is a solution yet that’s elegant enough to really catch on.

A Tear Strength Arms Race

Dan: With abrasion and with tear strength, I do my own testing. I have competitor’s fabrics and I know what a good fabric is.

Rex: At some point, you know that whatever you are doing is good enough, and whether it’s the highest tear strength doesn’t matter. And that gets lost in online discussions.

Dan: I totally agree, and I think that’s one of the problems. If tear strength was something that everybody published, it would just become this arms race. You don’t necessarily get any benefit in the field.

Weight Standards Not That Important

Dan: On weight standards, I don’t see those as important as some of the other ones. Customers right now can figure it out pretty much. Somebody counts stakes, somebody doesn’t, but it’s not as consequential as “I don’t fit in that tent” or “that tent leaks.”

Even when you say “trail weight,” people don’t know what that means. I just give an itemized list: fly, inner, you need four stakes, we give you eight, and they weigh this much. Obviously, we have to have a headline number, and we do the weight of the actual tent body without stakes. It’s a bit unrealistic, but it’s what so many other companies do. And fully disclosed in the specs for anyone that cares.

“I Hope You Don’t Use Fire Retardants”

Dan: The other contentious one is fire retardants. I get way more customers worried about the carcinogenic aspect of them. I’ve never had somebody say, “I really hope you have a fire retardant on this.” Whereas I get an email once a month saying, “I hope you don’t.” It seems like they are pretty unhealthy, so we don’t use them. We save a little weight by keeping it off.

Rex: And you’re keeping poisons out of the environment.

Dan: I’ve been trying to do more of that. It’s hard because I don’t have full control over a lot of stuff.

Just Three Product Testers

Rex: Besides yourself, do you use other product testers and how does that fit into your design process?

Dan: I have a friend, and my wife hikes a lot and she uses [my products]. To date, everything I’ve done has been a fast and streamlined process. But we don’t have a bunch of extra samples to send out to a crew of people who are going to use it for a couple of months.

Generally, when I get a prototype, it’s only two or three weeks until I’m ready for the next one. I’ll obsess over it and dwell on those thoughts for a bit and then, give me the next one.

With the pack, Drop did have a big field-testing program. They sent it out to 20 people. And they sent some tents out, too. That was their call. I didn’t think it was that helpful because [the testers] weren’t really the target audience, not lightweight backpackers. I think it’s only helpful to the extent that your testers are really knowledgeable.

Rex: At least for the market that you’re targeting.

Dan: I totally see the value. We probably would have caught that compatibility issue with the trekking poles if it wasn’t just three [testers]. If we had 40 people, somebody would have that style of tip. That’s part of the process of moving from this small nimble operation to a more mature operation.

But I’m also so picky that I have a hard time with other people’s opinions. It’s rare that somebody would have put more thought into an aspect than I have, like where the door toggles are, or should I move this up and down an inch (2.5 cm).

Conclusion

Rather than getting lost in a blizzard of expensive and confusing standards documents, followed by costly tests of dubious real-world value, Dan mostly chose quick and simple comparative tests to hone his designs. After selling more than 10,000 well-reviewed tents, that approach seems to have paid off.

In a later interview, we’ll chat about tent design, the business of making and selling tents, customer support, backpack design, and Dan’s future gear plans.

More Information

Dan posts detailed information about his tents and backpack at https://durstongear.com, along with extensive notes on tent design philosophy and materials. Highly recommended.
You can find Dan’s blog here, along with his guide to Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Park, a provincial park in southwestern British Columbia, Canada.

The Overlook: Giving Back to Bear’s Ears

Ben Kilbourne reflects on his first journey in the Bear’s Ears National Monument, and wonders how to give back to such special places.

Stories Begin to Appear

I picked up my friend Clayton from his apartment near the University of Utah and we headed south from Salt Lake City on I-15 with snowflakes swirling around us. The pale sky made me cold as I imagined backpacking in the Bear’s Ears area in January. I reached for the heat and slid the dial a bit more to the right. Warm air blasted my face. Was I prepared for this?

a ruin nestled below an overhanging cliff — A small ruin somewhere in Cedar Mesa.

It would be my first adventure in the Bear’s Ears area. Prior to this trip (which occurred in my early 20s) I had been more interested in the simple aesthetic beauty of desert canyons. Water pouring over orange sand, and fragments of the cobalt sky reflected in it. But after a while, I started to think more deeply about places. The beauty remained, but it began to penetrate time in both directions: centuries into the past, and centuries into the future. And if a particular place — say, Coyote Natural Bridge in Coyote Gulch, for example — was here 800 years ago, who walked under it? What did it mean to them? As these questions developed, the existence of the stories of the land began to appear. But not the stories themselves, just the fact that they exist. I could start to see them, like unlabeled books on a shelf I couldn’t quite reach. First I would have to start walking and asking questions, then maybe, just maybe, a few of those layers would start to reveal themselves.

First stop: Comb Ridge.

By the time we were bumping down Butler Wash hours later, I could suddenly smell beer. One of the beers behind the seat had sprung a leak from all the jostling back and forth.

Just before the golden hour, we found a pullout in a cow-trampled sagebrush flat. There was an old, rusted-out trough being used as a fire ring. We decided we’d use it too. But first, we would walk up the nearest arroyo we could find towards Comb Ridge. I had heard that there were ruins in every single one of these little canyons, so choosing at random would be a good test. Before we even entered the short canyon we spotted a granary high up on the cliff. We both wondered aloud how they reached the spot, much less built a structure there.

“Don’t you think you could prop a log up there and then use that ledge to pull yourself up?” Clayton speculated.

“Maybe,” I said. “But then think about hauling those bricks up there.”

“True.” Said Clayton.

We kept looking for a minute but the puzzle did not come together, so we decided to let the structure remain a mystery and turned and walked up the canyon. Within a few hundred feet we found another structure, this one at ground-level, against a south-facing cliff. It was in sad shape. The roof had long since caved in and the walls were working their way to the earth. Old, dried fragments of cowshit peppered the dirt floor, and coarse, black hairs clung to the edges of walls where cows rubbed against them scratching gnat-bites and fly-bites. No wonder this old house was falling apart — its new tenants were the wrong size.

The clouds above us turned from gray to orange against the turquoise January sky and we began to amble back towards the car. That night was around zero degrees Fahrenheit (−18 °C) and my sleeping pad deflated: Russian thistle, I assumed. I cursed the cows (misdirected curses, I know) silently as I got dressed in the dark. I dug an old synthetic sleeping bag out of the car, walked back to the tent, and placed it over the deflated pad. I removed my shoes and reentered my bag shivering. I waited for cold spots. None. It worked.

The next morning we hiked to the top of Comb Ridge so we could get a better idea of where we were. There was the big, juniper-covered mound of Cedar Mesa to the west and the slightly taller Dark Canyon Plateau to the northwest, where the namesake buttes of Bear’s Ears sit. In the south, beyond the long spine of the ridge was the San Juan River. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. We didn’t linger long though — we were on a mission.

The Fight For and Against Bear’s Ears

We sat at the top of Comb Ridge in January of 2011, so about five years before the area would come to be known as Bear’s Ears National Monument. Most of what we were gazing out on — and much we couldn’t see from that vantage — would be included in the designation. I didn’t know it, but around that time moves were already being made to increase protection in the area. Just a year later, in 2012, the nonprofit Utah Diné Bikéyah (UDB) was formed.

Utah Diné Bikéyah began to create a comprehensive ethnographic map of the area, plotting the layered histories of several cultures as a starting point from which to begin thinking about how to implement a new conservation strategy. By 2013 they had come up with a proposal for the Diné Bikéyah National Conservation Area, which was about 1.9 million acres (7,690 km²) in size. In response to these efforts, Utah Congressman Rob Bishop along with Representative Jason Chaffetz drafted the Public Lands Initiative (PLI). What appeared at first (as promoted by PLI representatives) like a conservation compromise actually documented policy proposals that would increase extractive activities¹, reduce decision-making representation of tribes², and ensure that future presidents would be unable to designate a National Monument in the seven counties participating in the PLI and where future monument designation would be most likely.³

a map of the Bear's Ears National monument — Bear’s Ears National Monument map created by Stephanie Smith, Grand Canyon Trust.

In response to what has been called a bad-faith PLI, the Bear’s Ears Inter-tribal Coalition was formed in 2015. The group is made up of five tribes: Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, Ute Mountain Ute, and Uintah Ouray Ute, each of whom has deep connections to the Bear’s Ears area. They encouraged President Obama to designate those 1.9 million acres identified by UDB. His administration considered both UDB’s 1.9 million acres and the smaller proposal laid out in the PLI’s map, eventually settling on 1.35 million acres for Bear’s Ears National Monument, which was somewhat of a compromise. Of course, not long after this, President Trump reduced the area by over 80%. Now a third administration is looking at the monument. President Biden signed an executive order on his first day in office, promising to have a look at the boundaries. Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland, the first Native American in a President’s Cabinet, visited the area the second week in April 2021.

The Ruin

All the while, I have backpacked periodically in the area, seeking out well-known ruins, stumbling across surprises. Back in 2011, when Clayton and I were given rough directions to a site of particular interest, my coworker had drawn his finger in a circle around an area of the map, a vague, mile-wide radius. He said he didn’t want to give us precise directions because that would ruin the thrill of the hunt. A mile radius looked small on the map but would be a different story in reality.

The snow was six inches deep as we plodded into the canyon in the light of day. Though it was barely above freezing we were soon in t-shirts. At the bottom of the canyon, the snow was even deeper, almost a foot in places. We walked into the vague radius that housed the site and looked at the terraced canyon walls for some sign of residence. If I had to live there, where would I choose to live? Clayton continued up the canyon while I scrambled upwards to what had the appearance of being a good lookout. There I found a small ruin with three doors, a second small ruin, and the whole high shelf strewn with potsherds.

It wasn’t the site we were after, but something about it completely bowled me over. I picked up small, grey corrugated pieces with the fingerprints of their makers still pressed into them. The clouds above the canyon, flat and gray just a second prior, became orange catching the last light of day, and suddenly expanded like leavening bread towards the earth. The sudden closeness of the sky, the descending cold, the inevitable night, and my aloneness at the site sent me hurtling through time. Or rather everything that ever was and would be seemed to be happening all at once. I had been to Mesa Verde, the Pantheon, and Se Grada Familia, and those places had filled me with awe, but not like this.

I replaced the tiny pieces of broken wares and looked at the sky. Fading fast. I’d better get going. I scrambled down, being careful not to slip on the snow-covered slickrock. Clayton and I reconvened at the bottom. He told me he had stopped looking for the site altogether, instead following a deer track just to see where it went. The snow was deep and the night began to get colder. The sky went from winter-blue to purple and the leavened, orange clouds deflated and retreated back into the firmament far from earth. We never found the site but it didn’t matter.

artifacts in the Utah desert — Metate and other artifacts in Cedar Mesa.

How Does a Backpacker Give Back?

I, of course, didn’t take any potsherds, arrowheads, or corncobs. The only thing I took away was the experience of being there: awe, wonder, and feeling like I was seeing into deep time. But, according to archaeologist and conservation advocate R.E. Burrillo in his book Behind the Bears Ears: Exploring the Cultural and Natural Histories of a Sacred Landscape, I may still have been engaging in what could be considered a form of pillaging. Let me explain.

Burrillo tells the story of getting his truck stuck in a creek in the Bear’s Ears area around Christmas many years ago. He is saved by a climber who winches his truck out of the ice. The climber asks Burillo why he likes archaeology. “What I said at the time is that I love hiking and backpacking to archaeological sites, investigating and taking photos of them,” Burrillo says. “Becoming an archaeologist meant turning my favorite hobby into a job, as Confucius supposedly advised.” The climber thought about this and then asked him what he gives back.

Burrillo had no good answer at the time. The climber said, “I know a lot of people who don’t give a shit, they don’t think much deeper than buying new gear and putting up routes, but I know these places wouldn’t look very much like this if we didn’t do something to look after them.”

Many years later, Burrillo finally found out how to give back. He became one of the primary voices calling for the designation of Bear’s Ears National Monument. He wrote op-eds, researched, and worked on advocacy projects. And, of course, wrote a whole book about the area he loves so much.

His story urges me to ask what I have done to give back. So far I have given back close to nothing. The concept of reciprocity wasn’t in my vocabulary in 2011, and now, ten years later, I still don’t know exactly how to give back to a place that has provided me with experiences like the one described here. But this theme keeps finding me, prompting me to consider it more seriously. Recently, I had the privilege of interviewing writer and adventurer Craig Childs for a podcast episode, and he touched on the same concept. “I’ll be dead and gone before I ever really figure out what needs to be fed back into this place and the people of this place,” he says. “But at least I can get close, at least I can do my best.” In his case, each book he writes is an endeavor to give back to the desert he loves. He takes what he has observed while walking through remote canyons and over orange slickrock and transforms the observations into words that have the intention of drawing the reader into the experience so that they too can develop affection for these places. Through affection we can begin to learn what a place needs, how we can help, what role we can play.

It’s a small gift, but I hope that even this article — my meager effort to become more aware of the reciprocity asked of backpackers like myself — is an attempt to give back to the places that have given me so much.

some ruins in shade beneath an overhanging cliff — Ruins in Grand Gulch.

Endnotes

PLI SEC. 1102. ACTIONS TO EXPEDITE ENERGY-RELATED PROJECTS. “(a) In General. — The State of Utah —(1) may establish a program covering the permitting processes, regulatory requirements, and any other provisions by which the State would exercise the rights of the State to develop and permit all forms of energy resources on available Federal land administered by the Price, Vernal, Moab, and Monticello Field Offices of the Bureau of Land Management…” The main takeaway from this section seems to be the fact that they were trying to move energy development decision-making from the Federal Government to the State.SEC. 1103. PERMITTING AND REGULATORY PROGRAMS basically makes permitting easier.
PLI SEC. 110. BEARS EARS ADVISORY COMMITTEE. This section of the PLI states that tribes would have had a consultative rather than managerial role with regards to Bear’s Ears. Committee members would have been chosen by the Secretary of Interior. This would have allowed then-Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke to choose people who wouldn’t be noise-makers. In addition, these committee members would have had to live in Utah which leaves the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe (located just across the border in Colorado, but still with a strong vested interest in Bear’s Ears), out of the decision-making process.
The Antiquities Act provision is in section 3 of H.R.5781 which was a companion bill to the PLI. It reads: “A national monument designation, or a boundary adjustment that increases the size of an existing national monument, under section 320301 of title 54, United States Code, within or on any portion of Federal land in the counties of Summit, Uintah, Duchesne, Carbon, Grand, Emery, and San Juan, in the State of Utah, shall be made only pursuant to an Act of Congress.”

Episode 37 | Endurance Training for Backpackers

Ryan and Andrew chat with Dirk Friel, co-founder of TrainingPeaks, about how to get the most out of your endurance training.

Stream

Summary

In this episode, Ryan chats with Dirk Friel, co-founder of TrainingPeaks, about endurance training for backpackers and how to get the most out of limited training time. Also in this episode: hiking in a post-Covid world, wilderness permits, bear-canister compatible packs, synthetic insulation, and more.

a luxuriously bearded man rests after running up a snowy hill — Co-host Andrew Marshall participating in some loaded winter endurance training. Credit: Rachael Shaw Marshall

Outline

Catching Up

Ryan is thinking about what backpacking in a post-Covid-19 world will look like.
Interesting data from AllTrails and the American Hiking Society
Permitting in Great Smoky Mountains National Park vs. Mount Rainier National Park
Geotagging vs. sharing beta
Gear organization and leaving on quick trips

Gear and New Favorite Things

Ryan’s been testing the Enlightened Equipment Torrid Pullover
Check out our podcast on synthetic insulation.
Andrew has his eyes on the Nunatak Bears Ears 50
Ryan’s been comparing compressibility of synthetic, down, and fleece garments

Dirk Friel Interview

TrainingPeaks is a subscription-based software that helps you analyze your fitness data and plan your training
Why should backpackers care about endurance training?
Altitude and how to train for it
Performance output metrics
The three endurance training metrics
Which fuels your body burns at what point in your effort
What happens when your heart rate and pace decouple
High-intensity interval training and how it impacts endurance
Training for a New Alpinism: A Manual for the Climber as Athlete
Training for the Uphill Athlete
Dirk’s recommendations for targeted training
Progression and modulation
Heat training and adaptation and its effects on endurance
Strategic macro-nutrient intake
Examining different endurance scenarios: periodic week-long efforts, thru-hiking, FKT attempts
A-efforts vs. B-efforts vs. C-efforts
TrainingPeaks and how it can help
The power of data collection
CORE Body Temperature Monitoring
Dirk’s thoughts on WHOOP
The advantages of getting expert level instruction
What’s new for TrainingPeaks

Interview Follow-up Conversation

Training the gut
Listening to your body
a body-scan meditation practice can help you get in tune with your body
hot weather adaptation

What’s New at BPL?

Website update!

In the Forums

The conversation around Rex Sanders’ piece “You Know You’ve Been Backpacking a Long Time When…“

Blood Moon on the Border

An off-trail borderlands odyssey during a lunar eclipse in the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.

Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument sits uneasily on the borderlands of southwest Arizona. It is very much a frontier; being a conjunction of nations, cultures, and ecotones. It is home to plants and animals found nowhere else in the US and is rightly designated a UNESCO biosphere reserve. It also hosts some of the darkest skies in the country. I hoped it would be a perfect setting to observe a recent Super Blue Blood lunar eclipse.

tall, narrow cactus in the foreground, mountains in the background — A fine stand of Organ Pipe cactus in the Ajo Range.

Backcountry trips in Organ Pipe require a permit, available in-person at the Kris Eggle Visitor Center. My plan to hike a five-day fifty-mile (80 km) loop through the Monument caused a bit of consternation there. As the rangers puzzled over my proposal to hike multiple backcountry zones, I looked over the permit log. No one had obtained a permit for weeks, and the few permits that were issued were for overnight out-and-backs. Eventually, the rangers concluded that multi-zone multi-day trips are not actually prohibited. They gave me a permit to leave my car at a trailhead and wished me well.

As they should. The Organ Pipe backcountry is not truly under the control of the US Government. It was closed from 2003-2014 after the murder of Ranger Eggle by drug-smuggling fugitives. Although now deemed safe enough for backpackers, the Monument still sees significant traffic from smugglers and migrants.

My planned route would take me north through the Ajo Mountains, then west across the alluvial plain of the Ajo Valley, through and behind and then back over the Bates Mountains on the west side of the Monument. I would return east across the southern Ajo Valley and over the Diablo Range. There are no designated or maintained trails in this region. There is no water.

a map showing a route through the mountainous desert — My approximate route through the northern reaches of Organ Pipe Cactus NM.

Into the Desert

With only a few hours of daylight remaining after caching water and securing my permit, I parked my car, saddled up, and crossed the low pass separating Arch Rock Canyon from Alamo Canyon. I made camp at dusk a few hundred yards beyond the car campground at its mouth, only slightly bloodied by the hurried bushwhack. I did discover a bandana missing, presumably the work of a larcenous jacaranda.

desert rock formations — Arch Rock above the trailhead.

a sunset over the desert — Saguaro sunset from Alamo Wash.

An exquisite sunset ended the day with a promise of desert beauty to come. I rejoiced to find myself back in my native country and settled in to sleep on its accommodating sands.

Around midnight I awoke to the sounds of cars pulling up nearby. Voices conferred in relaxed Spanish and then faded into the distance. A couple of hours later the voices returned and the cars departed.

Faced with a long rocky route and a shortage of January daylight, I was up and out of camp well before dawn. A mile up the canyon I discovered the likely work of the night visitors—gallon jugs of water and a bucket of food. They were stashed for migrants who dared travel a route too wild and rugged for La Migra to follow. Tucked under a large boulder, the jugs were inscribed with slogans like “vaya con la virgén” and “chinga la migra.”

a pile of one-gallon water jugs — Water cached for migrants in a remote canyon

The route up the canyon, more scramble than hike, was well-marked by the passing of the migrants. Socks, sneakers, clothes, and above all, foil tuna packets lined the canyon bottom and showed the way north. Although not marked on any map, I was clearly following a trail. El Sendero Atún I called it.

looking up at a washout and mountains in the distance — A steep and rocky climb.

It was a hard route. The top miles are a continual rock scramble, much worse on the way down than on the way up. I did enough butt scootching to wear holes in my pants. My poor plastic ukulele took a beating too.

I moved slowly and carefully. I was out of shape. There was no phone service. No one knew exactly where I was, or when to expect me. Anyone else traveling this canyon would have little interest in contacting the authorities to arrange a rescue. If I fell or pulled a rock down on myself I’d be in big trouble.

a high vantage point looking down towards the valley floor — Looking out at Tohono O’odham country and my route down to the desert floor

After the scramble down the north side of the divide, I finally reached the desert floor, its alluvial slope a garden of saguaro, prickly pear, and cholla. Oddly, there were no organ pipes on this side of the mountain. I crossed the highway and struck out across the desert pavement, heading for the setting sun. There was an open spot on the gravelly plain and I made it my cowboy camp and lunar observation post.

Though cloudy at sunset, the skies cleared at midnight, and I was rewarded by open views of a baleful moon over the Bates Range to the west. On cue, a pair of coyotes began howling as totality began. I sat entranced by the spectacle, quilt wrapped around my shoulders, watching the moon shade from bone to bark to blood as it slid behind the Earth’s shadow.

a shot of the moon in the first stages of an eclipse — The eclipse begins.

I was not alone.

In a mesquite-lined wash a quarter-mile to the south a light flashed: five seconds on, five seconds off. The signal continued until met by an answering light further down the wash. The lights approached each other, converged, then disappeared. Who were they? And where were they, and where were they headed?

I turned off my camera lest its lights and beeps give me away. In all likelihood, the nightwalkers would be more frightened of me than I of them. But I couldn’t know this. I kept my eyes on the blood moon, but my ears were alert for the sound of approaching visitors.

The moon slowly brightened and then dropped behind the mountains. No one passed near. I lay back and slept.

dawn light illuminates a mountain range far in the distance — Dawn light on the Bates Range from camp.

Contenders for Land

Arising at dawn, I strode west through the widely spaced creosotes, my progress rapid and untroubled. Navigation was simple: head toward the gap in the mountains to the west-northwest. I crossed the tracks of the coyote songsters and then another migrant trail, this one marked by black plastic jugs. Most of them were cut up and shaped into funnels and scoops. Helicopters passed low overhead, several converging at the southern end of the Bates Range. One circled above me for a minute, then left, perhaps deciding that anyone walking west in the open in broad daylight was not suspicious. Although this area is a designated wilderness, there were numerous jeep tracks made by the Border Patrol. (Editor’s note: CBP officers are allowed to use vehicles for pursuit, but they are legally prohibited from using vehicles for surveillance here.)

But the desert held its share of delights and wonders. The shells of desert millipedes in the sand evoked a day at the beach.

I paused to examine an eight-foot shrub with the largest, wickedest thorns I have ever seen. It was Emory’s Crucifixion-Thorn (Castela emoryi), found only in the lower Sonoran and Mojave deserts.

sharp, spiny desert plants — Emory’s Crucifixion Thorn. Yes, those needles are sharp.

A movement to my right betrayed the presence of a deer steadily trotting away from me. Looking closer I saw that its head was oddly shaped, resembling neither a muley nor a whitetail. I realized it was no deer—deer usually bound away from threats rather than trot—but a Sonoran pronghorn, one of maybe a dozen in the monument, of a few hundred in the world.

Growler Canyon, my path through the Bates Range, was a sandy wash churned up by the contenders for this land—smugglers, Border Patrollers, and rogue ATVers. Although the grade was nearly level, my pace was slowed by the soft deep gravel. I passed a well-established but deserted migrant campsite and collected my water cache at Bates Ranch. I hesitated, then decided to leave a couple of liters for the next passers-by, whomever they should be.

a pile of rusted tin cans — Trash (or historic treasure?) at Bates Ranch.

The abandoned ranch is strewn with ancient rusting settler trash. The cans, bottles, and broken implements were left here by people—themselves migrants—who lived a hard life and did what they felt necessary to survive. Keeping the landscape tidy was not high on their list of priorities. Those cans are now old enough to be considered historic artifacts rather than litter, worthy of an admiring informational kiosk constructed for the edification of jeep tourists. Its readers might be forgiven for believing that the history of this land begins with the advent of Anglo settlers. There is no mention of the original inhabitants, the Tohono O’odham.

a range of mountains rises over organ pipe cactus — Kino Peak, a tower in the desert.

Kino Peak, the apex of the Bates Range, towered above. It looked down on the ranch with the austere timeless indifference of desert peaks. Its walls were naked of vegetation, the volcanic plug a skeletal remnant of creation. It will remain while we humans come and then go.

I skirted the west side of the range, diving in and out of small canyons, walking against the alluvial grain. As I turned up the bajada that would carry me to the crest of the range, the signs of migrants—that is, their litter—became abundant once again. Not wishing to encounter more nightwalkers, I camped in a discreet side valley under the shelter of Kino Peak. I was comforted by its mass and warmth as it radiated back the setting sun. I quietly sipped my whiskey while my ukulele remained unplayed.

a view of mountains half in light and half in shadow — Kino Peak from my hidden camp

An uneventful night brought a warming dawn, the temperature climbing as I made my way up the steep slopes of the range. Views of an even-harsher land, the Cabeza Prieta, unfolded to the west. An intense blast of sunlight—and more trash—at the saddle left me disinclined to linger. I opted to follow a rocky ridgeline rather than a brushy gully down to the desert floor. There I joined a broad canyon thick with saguaros and followed it to the southern end of the range. Weaving among volcanic outcrops, I struck east across the Ajo Valley.

a vantage point from high in the mountains, looking down valley — The Cabeza Prieta emerges from early morning shadows.

trash on a desert path — Modern migrant trash at a saddle in the Bates Range.

Desert washes—steep-sided, deep, and filled with thorny mesquites, jacarandas, and palos verdes—provided both the only obstacles to navigation and the only refuge from the sun. In true hiker fashion, I cursed the thorns but took advantage of the shade. Out on the open plain again, my windswept camp afforded fine views of the last rays of sun lighting up the Diablo Range to the east.

a desert landscape with cactus and mountains far in the distance — A desert passage

sunset lights a range of mountains on the horizon — The Diablos at sunset.

An Odyssey Concludes

The next morning I enjoyed a rosy-fingered dawn over the Diablos (I was reading Emily Wilson’s terrific translation of The Odyssey), and then picked my way through a low saddle in the range and down to my car. I felt gratified but unsettled. The hike was all that a lover of desert landscapes could want—stately cacti, sun-blasted peaks, secret canyons.

a desert landscape with cactus and rock formations — Through a saddle in the Diablos.

But those canyons were not such a secret. Although a site of recreation for me, they were the locus of suffering and struggle for others. I blithely strolled where fellow humans, unprepared or betrayed, had breathed their last. The remains of more than 20 migrants were found in the Monument in 2018.

How do I deal with that? How should I deal with it?

I resent having to ask the question.

These lands are set aside for the enjoyment of all. They are my lands. I was born and raised nearby. I have every right to walk here unhindered.

I can’t fault those seeking a better life for themselves and their families. But I resent having to worry if moving lights at night are a threat. I resent having to find campsites hidden from illicit pathways. And I really resent the skeins of trash that defile this land—my land. It feels like a palpable mark of disrespect, a big “F*** you” from uninvited guests.

I have the luxury of feeling that way because I don’t have to worry about feeding my family or fleeing from violence. I am safe, well-fed, and comfortable. None of the migrants who drop empty water bottles in the desert came here for fun. They were trying to survive, and survival is the most fundamental and undeniable right of all. We cannot lock families in cages, or persecute those who would rescue them, for exercising this right.

You might think that none of this has anything to do with backpacking, and may perhaps wish that I would just stick to telling inspiring hiking stories framed by beautiful pictures.

I would like nothing better. But abuse of people is inextricably entwined with abuse of the land. If we do not object to people being caged we can hardly object to walls that cut off wildlife corridors and separate tribes, or construction that destroys vital springs, or the incursion of motorized vehicles into the wilderness.

a red moon descends over a silhouette of desert plants — Blood moon descending on the desert.

Humans and the natural world are not separable. We can treat both with respect, or we can objectify, exploit, and destroy both. The desert is not a cactus Disneyland, carefully walled off from the reality that surrounds it.

We can’t just walk; we have to talk.

Editor’s Note: If you’d like to share your borderland backpacking experience with us, we’d love to hear it. Send your perspective to submissions@backpackinglight.com for possible inclusion in a future blog post.

You Know You’ve Been Backpacking a Long Time When…

Rex Sanders takes a walk down memory lane (er, trail).

“Those who ignore the past are condemned to repeat it.” – common misquote of George Santayana, The Life of Reason.

“OK Boomer.” – Phrase often uttered in frustration by people under the age of 65.

Both sayings are true – sometimes. So I’ll try to keep this short.

You Know You’ve Been Backpacking a Long Time When…

General

You’ve seen lightweight backpacking revolutions come and go, and come back again.
Leave No Trace meant carrying out your trash instead of burying it or burning it in a campfire. Except, LNT wasn’t invented yet.
In the 1970s, you tried winter backpacking because trails and camps were too crowded in the summer. You barely survived.
You bought each revised edition of The Complete Walker by Colin Fletcher—from a local brick-and-mortar bookstore, as it was published.

a cover of a tattered book — The cover of Colin Fletcher’s “The New Complete Walker.”

And you bought most of the gear he wrote about, including that crappy little flashlight he praised.
You remember being slightly sad when the authorities started requiring permits to hike Mount Whitney.
You’ve been an REI member for well over half the co-op’s existence.

Gear

You looked forward to the next REI mail-order catalog because the nearest store was a ten-hour drive away.
You remember when REI catalogs listed weight and other important specifications of everything they sold.
You signed up for the Stephenson’s Warmlite mail-order catalog because they had unusual equipment and interesting photos.

You wondered why Chouinard Equipment disappeared because you loved their catalogs and still have some of their gear.
Pieces of vintage equipment you still use now command premium prices on eBay.
Your tents and packs were mostly aluminum and polyurethane-coated nylon, which was a big improvement over wood, steel, and canvas. Except, the polyurethane rotted, stank, and peeled off after a few years.
Only rarely-seen European hikers used trekking poles, and you always stopped to ask why.
Commonly available lightweight tents, sleeping bags, backpacks, and boots weighed at least 4 pounds (1.8 kg).
You remember when rolls of film were packaged in sturdy, threaded aluminum canisters that you reused for backpacking supply storage. And you hoarded them when Kodak switched to plastic with snap-tops.

an old camera — Film nostalgia. I still own this totally manual Rollei 35 S camera more than 40 years after purchase but haven’t used it in decades.

You carried one of the lightest and smallest film cameras on the market, with a button battery for the light meter which lasted years. The camera used manual film advance, rewind, focus, ASA (now known as ISO), shutter speed, and f-stop settings.
Your entire electronics kit consisted of that camera, plus Fletcher’s favorite flashlight with a spare incandescent bulb, which ate carbon-zinc AA batteries for dinner nearly every night.
Out of necessity, you practiced changing flashlight batteries and bulbs with your eyes closed.
You were amazed when high-capacity alkaline batteries became available, happy when small, rugged, waterproof flashlights hit the market, and thrilled when LEDs replaced fragile, short-lived, battery-eating incandescent bulbs.

Clothing

You believed that cotton mesh T-shirts and long johns could keep you both warm and cool in a wide range of conditions. Until you wore them in the wilderness. At least the cool part was correct.
And you believed that 60/40 cloth hooded jackets could keep you dry in the rain—until the first storm hit.

a man standing in death valley with a brown coat — The author wearing a 60/40 jacket, standing in Death Valley circa 1975, where the garment’s water resistance worked best. At least it had lots of pockets.

You experienced just how bad first-generation Gore-Tex jackets and pants were. And you still believe they haven’t gotten a whole lot better.
You bought a first-generation polyester pile jacket in the 1970s that promised to be warm when wet.

a red jacket — Second-generation Patagonia pile jacket purchased circa 1980, and still worn occasionally.

But you wondered if the pile was ready for prime time after discovering it chilled you with the slightest breeze, then quickly fell apart. You wouldn’t try windshirts until the early 1990s—and then you fell in love with a cheap, ugly pink one. Until another, named for a magician, stole your heart.

Backpacks

Your first backpack was a cotton canvas rucksack hanging on an external steel frame with unpadded shoulder straps and no hipbelt.

an old backpack leaning against a tree — Trailwise frame backpack leaning against a tree, surrounded by other gear, circa 1975.

You and your hiking buddies were in awe of the first Kelty external frame pack you saw because it had padded shoulder straps and a hipbelt.
You finally broke down and bought one of those new-fangled internal frame backpacks—and never went back.

Tents

Your first shelter was a single-walled pup tent made with thick canvas, wooden poles, and steel stakes. On a rainy night, if you bumped the wall, water came pouring in through the fabric.
You thought that the plastic tube tent was a miraculous invention—light, simple, waterproof, and easy to set up. Until you actually slept in one.

an old geodesic dome tent on a snow field — North Face VE-24 tent on the Pacific Crest Trail in Southern California, April 1980. The VE-24 was one of the earliest geodesic dome tents designed for backpackers.

You remember when the most common backpacking tents were A-frames—which looked just like pup tents built from nylon and aluminum.
You thought a lightweight tent was anything under 5 pounds (2.3 kg) but worried if it would be strong enough in a storm.
You remember what a revolution the first geodesic dome tents were—complicated and heavy.
Henry Shires showed you how to set up an early TarpTent you had just purchased, on the front lawn of his old home in Redwood City.

Sleep Systems

Your first sleeping bag had a built-in, thick, vinyl groundsheet under synthetic insulation covered in flannel, and weighed almost as much as your base pack weight today.

a person sleeping in an old army surplus sleeping bag in the back of a truck. — Army surplus sleeping bag, circa 1977.

Your second sleeping bag was Army surplus, filled with duck feathers held in place by cotton fabric and a chest-mounted brass zipper. But it was much warmer and lighter than your first bag.
Your third one was a state-of-the-art goose-down mummy bag, in which you nearly froze to death during an unexpected snowstorm while cowboy camping.
So you bought a much heavier synthetic bag. Which you used for a few years until you learned to sleep smarter.

a woman leans against pack in a forest — A weary friend leans on a heavy backpack topped with a roll of good old Ensolite, circa 1975.

You replaced your popular beige Ensolite closed-cell foam sleeping pad every couple of years because Southern California smog kept rotting it.
You were amazed but skeptical when the first Therm-a-Rest self-inflating mattresses came out.
You waited about 30 years to buy one on sale, just to make sure it wasn’t a passing fad. It was okay, but you replaced it a couple of years later.

Footwear

Your first hiking boots were high-topped cotton-and-rubber basketball shoes.
You promptly melted the soles by standing too close to a campfire on a cold rainy night. While wearing a cotton T-shirt, jeans, and socks.
Your Vietnam War surplus jungle boots were a big improvement. But they also gave you numerous blisters.

a man wearing a lot of gear stands on top of a mountain — The author posing in unneeded gear on top of San Gorgonio Mountain, circa 1975. (Photo credit: Paul Hacker)

Then you totally bought into the popular idea that heavy leather waffle-stomper boots were best, and would get more comfortable after a brutal and lengthy break-in period. Except they never did.
And you laboriously rubbed in a half-pound of Sno-Seal in a fruitless attempt to keep them dry.
Nike Lava Dome hiking shoes seemed like a miracle in 1981 when you took your first pair straight out of the box at the trailhead, then hiked 12 miles (19 km) of rugged trails—without blisters.
After Nike discontinued them, you tracked down remnant pairs for years, because trail running shoes hadn’t been invented yet.

Food and Water

You carried canned food. And fried Spam in a mess kit over a campfire. And made breakfast toast by impaling a slice of mangled Wonder Bread on a stick propped over the flames. Because that’s all you knew when you started.

a stove and pot — Popular Svea stove inside an aluminum cook set, circa 1975. No shelters were harmed, but we came close.

You thought freeze-dried backpacking meals were a miraculous invention. Until you ate a few and nearly gagged each time.
You carried powdered lemonade to mask the flavor of iodine used to purify water. It worked, sort of.
But you rarely purified water, and never got sick drinking from backcountry sources.

Pacific Crest Trail

You didn’t see any other thru-hikers in the spring of 1980 while walking hundreds of miles from Campo to Weldon.
You ran into exactly one trail angel, but they weren’t called that yet.
And you spent the night throwing up in their bathroom, probably from PCT anxiety.
When you first heard rumors of Eric Ryback hiking 40-mile (64 km) days on his 1970 thru-hike, you thought they were preposterous.
Even 20-mile (32 km) days seemed out of reach while carrying a 55-pound (25 kg) pack.
Since the PCT wasn’t finished, you road-walked more than 100 continuous miles (160 km) across the Mojave Desert—among many other highway strolls.

a worn map of california on yellow paper — PCT maps in a book published by the U.S. Forest Service in 1973.

You carried over a pound (454 g) of USGS topo maps, Forest Service maps, AAA road maps, and sliced-up Wilderness Press guidebooks, plus a good compass, because there was no GPS and no Guthook.
But you still played “Where’s the PCT?” for days at a time. Often you gave up and muttered: “When in doubt, head north.”
You made short, expensive, collect, long-distance calls from ubiquitous payphones in the front country, and even at trailheads, to keep in touch with your family and girlfriend in the same state. Because there were no mobile phones or satellite communicators.
You thought minimizing mail drops was a good idea, but suffered while hauling two weeks of food between post offices.

a roll of film and a film canister — A roll of print film with its widely-reused plastic film canister, much newer than 1980, purchased after Kodachrome vanished.

Resupply boxes included rolls of Kodachrome film, plus pre-stamped mailers to get the slides developed and sent home.
You rationed how many pictures you took each day, and carefully composed each shot. Because film and developing were expensive, and you couldn’t see the slides until you got back.

Conclusion

I’ve learned a lot in more than 50 years of backpacking, and I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything. But I wish I had better gear and a shorter learning curve. Get out as often as you can—even with imperfect gear and trails.

Remember: you don’t stop backpacking because you get too old—you get old because you stop backpacking.

Nemo Chipper Review

The Nemo Chipper (MSRP: $19.95, 5.6 oz / 160 g) is a closed-cell foam sit pad made from scraps created in the production of the Nemo Switchback and other closed-cell foam sleeping pads.

Introduction

The Nemo Chipper (MSRP: $19.95, 5.6 oz / 160 g) is a closed-cell foam (CCF) sit pad made from scraps created in the production of the Nemo Switchback and other closed-cell foam sleeping pads.

The Nemo Chipper Sit Pad (photo: Nemo Equipment).

The idea of upcycling materials (especially petroleum-based materials) in the production of a new outdoor product caught my attention. A prevailing message for consuming in an environmentally friendly way is to keep things out of landfills by reusing or repurposing them. In that light, if you are in the market for a sit pad (I myself am a recent convert) then an environmentally-conscious action would be to scrounge around until you find an old closed-cell foam sleeping pad and cut it down to size. Not only does this reduce the amount of busted-up CCF sleeping pads in landfills, but it also avoids the use of new packaging materials.

But if you’ve been a long-time inflatable pad user or are new to backpacking, you may not have access to an old CCF pad. In that case, and assuming Nemo’s marketing materials can be believed, it’s worth looking at the Nemo Chipper over something like the Therm-a-Rest Z Seat.

This is a first look at new gear that recently entered our review pipeline, and hasn't yet been subjected to rigorous field use. Learn more about the types of product reviews we publish.

Highlights

MSRP $19.95.
Weight: 5.6 oz (160 g) (some minor variation in claimed vs. measured weight due to the different densities of foam used in this product).
Unfolded dimensions: 13 x 17 x 1 in (32 x 42 x 2 cm).
Folded dimensions: 12.5 x 4.0 x 2.5 in (32 x 10.5 x 5.7 cm).
R-value: 2
Uses the Nemo Switchback’s nesting pattern.

First Impressions

In the first year of producing the Nemo Chipper, the company projects that they will utilize 8.8 tons of scrap foam that would have otherwise headed towards an incinerator or landfill as a result of making the Nemo Switchback. As I said in the introduction, I can get behind that, even if the most environmentally friendly way to source a sit pad is by using a second-hand sleeping pad that’s been cut to your needs.

The Nemo Chipper strapped atop the Red Paw Packs Flatiron 28L.

The blend of foam Nemo uses in the pad is slightly more firm than that used in the Switchback. That makes it an ideal sit pad because rocks and roots are less likely to poke your booty through the foam. But my favorite thing is the sizing – in its halfway folded state, the Nemo Chipper slips precisely into my size small Hyperlight Mountain Gear Stuff Sack Pillow.

My Nemo Chipper slides perfectly into the pillow system I’ve built around the Hyperlight Mountain Gear Stuff Sack Pillow (size small).

There’s no telling if this sizing is intentional or not, but I certainly appreciated it when I realized a mass-produced sit pad could slot exactly into my pillow system. (I use the sit pad to create a little rigidity beneath whatever puffy or clothing layer I’m using as the bulk of my padding, a technique I stole from Ryan Jordan.)

Sitting on the Nemo Chipper in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

As a final little bonus, each Nemo Switchback is unique because of the random distribution of foam types throughout the pad.

The Nemo Chipper, like pretty much all sit pads, can slide easily into the side pockets of virtually any backpack.

The Nemo Switchback is about four bucks more expensive and 3.6 oz (102 g) heavier than the ubiquitous Therm-a-Rest Z-Seat, but it is slightly thicker and (I think) denser, though in the interest of full disclosure I’ll admit that it’s been a while since I sat on a Z-Seat.

The Nemo Chipper strapped atop my pack in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

The Takeaway

I used the Nemo Switchback for the bulk of the 2020 backpacking season and appreciated its density when used as a seat and its dimensions when used as a part of my pillow system. If you absolutely have to buy a new sit pad, the upcycled nature of this product stands out from competitors – if you don’t have a problem with the (slight) expense and the 3.6 oz (102 g) weight penalty.

The Nemo Chipper strapped atop my back in Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

Where to Buy

Find the Nemo Chipper here.

By the Numbers: Thermal Performance Measurements of Synthetic Insulations

Stephen Seeber presents measurements of several market-leading insulations along with four performance metrics to help judge their performance.

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Episode 036 | Andrew Marshall Reads “Salamander Song”

Backpacking Light Managing Editor Andrew Marshall’s essay Salamander Song is a love letter to the Great Smoky Mountains.

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Summary

In this episode, Backpacking Light Managing Editor Andrew Marshall reads his essay Salamander Song – a love letter to the soggy, squelchy, perpetually socked-in Great Smoky Mountains.

a watercolor painting of a salamander. — One of Andrew Marshall’s Salamander paintings inspired by his 8-day hike in Great Smoky Mountain National Park. Photo credit: Andrew Marshall

If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to see some of Andrew’s accompanying photography and paintings, make sure and check out the written version of Salamander Song, here.

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My Year of Lentils: A Survey of Packaged Vegetarian and Vegan Backpacking Meals (Gear Guide)

Small and mid-sized companies are making increasingly delicious vegan and vegetarian backpacking food. This gear guide covers meals from six of those companies.

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Lipstick on a Pig? Wind & Cold Temperature Testing of the Jetboil Stash (StoveBench)

Backpacking Light publisher Ryan Jordan subjects the Jetboil Stash to the StoveBench testing protocol to answer the pressing question: is this innovation, or lipstick on a pig?

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Learning Curve: Learning to Turn Around

For some people, turning back is the hardest skill to learn.

A few months back, I wrote about learning to suffer. I spoke from experience, discussing how people who finish the hardest backcountry trips have learned to gut it out. They don’t quit—they push through the worst conditions, worn-down bodies, and debilitating mental fatigue.

There’s a point though, where that mentality becomes not just unreasonable, but unsafe as well. For certain people (hello, me), knowing when to turn around can be harder than just suffering.

My desire to finish what I start is a combination of fierce pride mixed with an overblown “I can handle it” mentality. It’s sent me racing a high tide across an inlet as the water is rising and my companions are yelling at me to turn around. It’s sent me continuing up prominent peaks as lightning forks overhead, and it’s prevented me from speaking up when I know I’m not fit to be in a certain situation.

This mentality landed me, a bare beginner skier, in the advanced skier group during a backcountry avalanche safety course last year. I’d been skinning once in my life and was barely coordinated enough to wobble down groomed blue runs at our local resort. But thanks to the sleek ski setup I’d received as a perk of working in the outdoor industry, plus athletic friends who actually knew how to ski, I’d been lumped in with the group skinning to the highest meadow for field practice.

a woman digs a hole in the snow on a steep mountainside — I took this picture of my friend during the avalanche course, but trust me when I tell you, I learned nothing and haven’t been backcountry skiing ever since.

I watched the beginner groups with rental skis strapped to their backpacks boot-packing to the lower areas. I wanted to speak up and see if I could switch groups, but I stayed quiet. My friends helped me set my bindings to walk mode, and I fell in line with the dozen or so participants who absolutely, definitely knew how to ski.

Our two instructors led us higher and higher. They scanned the meadows, looking for a good place for our group to set up. Each time they stopped (and then invariably kept going), I’d hunch over my poles, wheezing from exertion. The climb was steep and narrow, and I didn’t know how to do skin turns. My friend stuck close behind me, offering tips. Step on the skis? Something about 90-degree turns? Making them cross in the back? I don’t remember, because this was the last time I skinned, and I’ve mostly blocked this day from my memory.

By the time we arrived at our meadow to dig pits, measure slope aspect, and practice beacon locating, I was paying zero attention. My entire thought process was consumed with staring down in horror at what looked like an impossibly steep mountainside of deep powder disguising unpredictable terrain.

I grabbed one of my friends.

“I shouldn’t be up here,” I hissed. “I will never be able to ski down this.”

She was usually encouraging about my skiing progress, but now she scanned the slope from her waist-deep position in the pit we’d just finished.

“Um yeah, yikes,” she said. “Why didn’t you say anything when they put you in this group, or ask to turn around?”

I shrugged helplessly. Was it pride? Had I just blindly accepted the instructor’s false assessment of my skills based on my fit companions and really nice ski setup? Whichever it was, we’d been up on the mountain for hours by this point, and it was time to rip the skins and head down.

My fears were correct! It was really bad!

a woman eats a sandwich while sitting in snow on the side of a mountain — Lunch break before I fell down the whole mountain essentially on my face.

Falling Down the Mountain

I was the last to go, peering down at the tiny dots of the other group members waiting at treeline. I went into a frantic, splayed pizza stance, skidded a few feet down, then fell over. I pushed myself up, vision spotting from stress, then tumbled sideways into the snow, my skis over my head. An instructor had waited behind me and was trying to give verbal assistance. I pushed myself up again, made it through one turn, then tumbled into the snow again, ejecting from one of my skis.

The slope seemed to grow longer and longer. It took me so long to get down the first section that the group was visibly freezing as they waited for me to finish tumbling down the hill. Murmurs of encouragement greeted me, but I stared at my cursed skis and waved the group on.

The next section through the trees was the same. I hit a tree, fell off the trail, lost a pole. I skidded sideways down through bumpy, deep snow on the final run, avoiding eye contact when I reached the base. I just wanted to be back in my truck.

Obviously, the best thing would have been to step to the side when I realized we were climbing too high for my abilities, and tell an instructor I was switching to a beginner group. But I had forced myself to stay put and gut it out.

The situation wasn’t overly dangerous, but this mentality, despite my proclaimed affinity for suffering, can be detrimental in other situations. If I was in over my head on a backcountry ski tour and something bad happened, would I have the skills to get down? To rescue my companions? The answer is a resounding no, and it’s something I have to accept to ensure I stay within my limits, even if it means turning back or declining an invitation.

I Come by it Honestly

Understanding my own limits has always been harder for me to accept than just gritting my teeth and getting through it.

I have a hunch that this is at least partly genetic. One of my most formative memories of hiking in New Hampshire’s White Mountains was a multi-peak traverse with my dad. I was in late high school, and my dad was in pursuit of his first completion of New Hampshire’s 48 4,000-footers.

a father and daughter stand side by side on top of a mountain — Is this genetic? Maybe!

Whatever this third peak on the traverse was, he needed it for his list. In classic New Hampshire fashion, our bluebird day at the trailhead had taken a miserable turn. We were above treeline, and frigid wind howled around the open peak. Visibility had disintegrated to almost nothing.

My breathing was shallow and panicky, and the clouds were so dense that I felt entirely alone, despite hiking with my dad and brother. My only reference point was my dad calling for myself and Aaron to follow his voice over the boulders as we climbed higher into the gale. As we passed the bad weather route that would have taken us around the summit cone, I begged my dad to turn around. But he wanted this peak, and we were within a half-mile (800 m) from the top. I didn’t feel confident splitting up, so I kept climbing.

My dad’s face is saying “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them up here.”

Neither of us has changed much since then. I recently asked my dad about one of his winter peak-bagging hikes, and he reluctantly told me he’d wound up with frostbite from the nasty conditions.

“Why didn’t you turn around?” I asked, knowing full well I probably wouldn’t have either. He had been with another companion who needed those peaks for a tick list (sound familiar?) and didn’t want to leave his partner alone.

That same day, another New Hampshire hiking friend told me there had been a rescue on Franconia Ridge—conditions were ghastly above treeline and no one should have been out there. She also discussed at length the desire to continue hiking beyond her capabilities and comfort. Is it just me, or is this mindset not terribly uncommon?

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is turn around.

I have friends with extensive backcountry experience who are never too proud to say they’re uncomfortable with the conditions. They are able to separate their capabilities from the conditions without worrying whether or not this reflects poorly upon them. They are thinking safely and critically, not concerned they’ll seem “weak.”

Do I respect them less for calling it? Never. They’re my most trusted companions, and when I can’t make a decision about bailing, I turn to them. Even though I recognize the value of knowing when to bail when something doesn’t feel right, it’s something I am continually working on.

But hey! When it comes to skiing, I’m definitely not too proud to stay low. In that particular instance, I’d say I finally learned something.

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Introduction

About this Review

Features and Specifications

Description of Field Experience

Performance Analysis

Comfort

Storage Capacity

Ease of Use

Durability

Weather Resistance

Finish Quality

Commentary

So What’s With That Zipper?

Compared To

Base Price

Level of Customization

Volume

Gear Access

Strengths and Limitations

Strengths

Limitations

Where to Buy

Related Content

Introduction

Highlights

Testing Context

First Impressions

Small Size

Short Spikes

Ease of Use

Footwear Applicability

Photos

The Takeaway

Where to Buy

Related Content

Further Reading

Related Content

Introduction

Summary of Context

Gear

Rod

Rod Notes

Line and Tippet

Line and Tippet Notes

Flies

Flies Notes

Net

Net Notes

Accessories

Technique, Performance, and Experience

Conclusion

Summary: Gear List

Related Content

Stream

Summary

Outline

Related Content

Introduction

A Great Place to Live, Work, and Play

Standards and Design

A Realistic “Aged HH” Standard Won’t Be Easy

Standards Versus Simple Tests

Fit My Tent

Measuring Standard Tent Volumes

A Tear Strength Arms Race

Weight Standards Not That Important

“I Hope You Don’t Use Fire Retardants”

Just Three Product Testers

Conclusion

More Information

Related Content

Stories Begin to Appear

The Fight For and Against Bear’s Ears

The Ruin

How Does a Backpacker Give Back?

Further Reading

Endnotes

Related Content

Stream

Summary