The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack (MSRP: $29.95, 1 oz / 30g) is an 18 L summiting daypack that can be compressed to the size of an egg and tucked into a multiday pack for peak-bagging on longer trips.
Introduction
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack (MSRP: $29.95, 1 oz / 30 g) is an 18 L (1100 cubic inches) summiting daypack that can be compressed to the size of an egg and tucked into a multiday pack for peak-bagging on longer trips.
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack. Photo: Sea to Summit
Highlights
18 L capacity
MSRP: $29.95
weight: 1 oz / 30 g
compresses to roughly egg size
10 lb (5 kg) recommended load capacity
15 denier siliconized nylon fabric
asymmetrical zipper to reduce pack size
bar-tacks at stress points for added strength
Testing Context
An ultralight summiting pack is a piece of kit that has appealed to me for a while. I’m not usually a big peak bagger on multi-day trips, but the occasion has come up when one would be useful.
I knew I’d be spending a day camped as part of my Corona Ridge adventure, and I wanted to explore the upper reaches of Corona Canyon. The smallest and lightest pocket pack (in one of my preferred brands) is the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Day Pack. I was instinctively drawn to this pack’s little lime-sized package. It’s light, compact, and I could picture tossing it into my kit on any trip where I might need a summiting pack. I made the purchase and took it out into the field on a summer excursion deep into a canyon off the North Saskatchewan River’s southern banks. This review is based on my experiences on that trip (and a few others throughout 2020)
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
Storage Capacity
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack impressed me with how truly tiny it packed and how much space there was in the pack once unfurled.
I stuff my wishlist of summit supplies into the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Daypack and it’s pretty crowded but it all fits.
I could easily fit two down insulating layers (a vest and a sleeved hoodie), a rain/wind shell, a hard-sided Nalgene 1 L bottle, a pair of gloves, a toque (Candian for beanie hat), a Buff, a sun hat, small bottle of sunscreen, my mirrorless camera, and room for snacks.
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Daypack stuffed with my supplies and compared to the original lime.
I will note here I wear kid’s size large or women’s extra small so my clothes aren’t as voluminous as those found in many packs.
Usability
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack is a one-compartment pack with a relatively small opening. The more I stuff into the Nano, the less likely it is that I can find anything. I will also note the zipper is light-duty – similar to what you would find on a windbreaker – so stuff with caution my friends.
Sea to Summit made the most of the opening by making it a diagonal slash opening across the top of the pack.
Fit and Comfort
Putting on my well-stuffed Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack Nano is comfortable enough, but not something I want to wear for longer than about an hour or two continuously (which is also about as long as most mid-trip peak bags take.) As with any frameless pack, care in packing is crucial.
I’ve also loaned it to other hiking partners while I was off taking photos or doing other things and the rather formless pack fits men about 6 ft (2 m) tall about like it fits me – not perfectly, but functionally.
Photos
My foray to the Corona Creek headwaters was an ideal testing ground for the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Daypack.The compressed Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Day Pack as compared to a chicken egg and a lime.Testing the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack.Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack is easy to throw in a pack when it compresses this small.My partner Michael borrowed the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack for an afternoon of adventuring. The fit is functional.
The Takeaway
The Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Day Pack is handy to have around, but I do find it uncomfortable after an hour or two. This isn’t unexpected for what is essentially a formless sack of nylon.
I modify the shoulder straps by adding an elastic clip cord (the pad-strap from my Enlightened Equipment Revelation quilt). I also will note that the fabric is light duty and I did manage to puncture a small hole in the ripstop fabric. The hole was easily patched with some Tenacious Tape on the inside and outside of the pack fabric.
I took the Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Day Pack on my Corona Creek adventure and (a few others throughout 2020) and ten-out-of-ten would bring it again. I’ve started throwing it in my pack if any kind of potential off-piste adventure is expected.
Learn More: Sea to Summit Ultra-Sil Nano Travel Day Pack
Product mentions in this article are made by the author with no compensation in return. In addition, Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Andrew interviews backpacker turned bikepacker Matt Mason in a Bikepacking 101 conversation.
Stream
Summary
In today’s podcast, we are joined by Matt Mason. Matt is a multi-hyphenate adventurer and backpacker turned bikepacker. Our chat functions as kind of a Bikepacking 101 class, so if you’ve been thinking of taking up the sport but don’t know where to start, this is a great entry point. We also talk about Matt’s efforts at public land advocacy in the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument.
Outline
the superiority of long beards
from backpacking to bikepacking
the similarities between the two sports
bike riding is just fun!
how to avoid feeling overwhelmed as you start bikepacking
Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
It takes a close call for Maggie Slepian to dial in her risk assessment skills.
I’ve written before about being an average athlete, suffering for the sake of the sport, and learning to turn around. As I saw each of these articles publish, I realized how connected they were. Because I have always felt like an average athlete, I felt like I should be suffering more. With this suffering comes the realization that at some point you have to turn around.
The fourth part of this connected web is risk assessment. Risk assessment is closely tied with learning to turn around, and for most people, is often the deciding factor in doing so.
As you likely guessed, this is easier said than done for many people, myself included. When you feel like you need to be constantly pushing yourself to prove your worth, you ignore red flags in reaching your objective.
Ideally, risk assessment should be the idea that prefaces a discussion about abandoning the endeavor. For me, these crucial steps have historically been bowled over in the desire to prove my worth.
I’m slow on the ascent, fast on the descent.
I’d been hiking and backpacking for years and was consistently the slowest person up the hill, the clumsiest person stumbling through boulder fields, and the person dragging by the end of the day, looking for camp. By the time I started getting more into mountain sports like climbing, mountain biking, and kayaking, I was sick of being the slowest person in the group. Starting new sports was a chance to leapfrog over what I viewed as subpar athletic skills by upping my mental game.
Maybe I was the last person in the group still struggling up the mountain bike climb, but I’d be at the front of the line for the descent, knowing I was faster and willing to take more risks than the rest of the group. I took huge falls, including losing massive swaths of skin on both elbows and knees in one agonizing day of wrecks, but I was determined to push those fears out of my head in pursuit of being above average at something. Climbing was similar – I’d push myself past the point of intimidation, forcing my head into the game and faking confidence even when it wasn’t there.
The result of a nasty day of falls mountain biking.
Headspace is an important factor in success with extended or stressful endurance endeavors. Physical ability, while important, is not the only deciding factor in whether or not you reach your goal. Headspace is where I excelled. If I got into a stressful situation, I would imagine a dial in my head. I would picture myself turning down the dial, and I’d feel myself relax. Whatever was stressing me out didn’t go away, but my ability to push it aside enabled me to keep moving forward. While this can be a hugely beneficial mental skill to deploy in high-stress circumstances, it meant I was able to ignore elements of a situation that might have been warning signs telling me to turn around.
In the spring of 2019, I went kayaking with a friend I was trying to impress. We were going morel hunting on an island only accessible by boat, and while he warned me the rapids were faster than anything I’d boated before, and there were hazardous sections of deadfall, I brushed his warnings aside. I felt a twinge of anxiety as we unloaded the boats, but I turned my stress dial down and pushed off the riverbank.
Ten minutes from our put-in, I fumbled my boat and wound up heading down the wrong channel. Unable to maneuver my boat in faster water than I was accustomed to, I collided with a tree, flipping underwater instantly. In my panic, I forgot everything I knew about rolling and wet exits. I couldn’t even pull the skirt. I managed to roll enough to get a water-logged gulp of air, but was unable to get out of the boat or roll all the way up. By the time my partner beached his boat and swam the rapid to reach me, I was unconscious.
Near the put-in from the kayaking trip where I almost drowned because of poor risk assessment.
It took this brush with drowning to make me take a step back and reevaluate my risk assessment.
Granted, there are personality traits that go along with a lowered risk perception other than just trying to impress people. Many people who exhibit reduced risk perception also have lower trait anxiety, which means it takes a more intense situation for them to feel things strongly. In other words, someone like me might be considered a type of thrill seeker.
My risk-assessment learning curve was less of a curve and more of a flat line followed by a vertical spike. I was aware that I ignored red flags in my objectives, and had always been pretty determined to plow forward regardless of warning signs. But being trapped upside down, careening underwater through the current was the reality check I needed.
Some people have finely tuned risk-assessment radars from the time they set foot on their first backpacking outing. Then there are people who grow with their experiences and take some calculated risks while acknowledging other scenarios aren’t worth the trouble. Still, others need to be caught in a bad backcountry situation to rattle loose the stubbornness and desire to prove themselves, as well as overriding natural lowered risk perceptions.
Backpacking was the first backcountry sport I started. Still, slow on the ascent.
This concept is less about being a beginner and more about understanding our own individual learning curves. I wasn’t a beginner backcountry athlete when I finally stopped to reassess my relationship with risk. By the time I understood the dangers of my lowered risk perception, changing my decision-making was a fast process. Sometimes our learning processes aren’t linear, and they don’t match up with people around us.
I am still working to understand my own connections between lowered inhibition and smart decision making, and I still don’t like to let fear get in the way of continuing up a peak, navigating a scramble, or finishing a climb. But now, I give more agency to the voice in my head that reminds me the twinge of anxiety is there for a reason, and it’s ok to stop and listen to it.
Have you had a close call because of poor risk assessment? Tell us about it in the comments.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Dan Durston is a gear designer, wilderness guide, and biologist. In this interview with Rex Sanders, he talks about the process and philosophy of shelter design.
Greek philosophy says you can’t step in the same river twice, but what about backpacking the same trail?
Tent or tarp? Quilt or sleeping bag? Down puffy or synthetic puffy?
These questions of equipment tend to vex backpackers and often lead to lengthy discussions. After the fourth or fifth time reading these discussions (or, against my better judgment, actually participating in them) I’ve found that they’re almost painfully boring. I’ve found that the question of which experienceto have – hiking a new trail or returning to an old favorite – is a much more interesting quandary to reflect upon. Thinking about how to use the limited time we have to spend in undeveloped landscapes is much more fulfilling than simply pondering another product to buy.
One of my favorite lakes which I’ve visited at least twice per year for the last five years.
I’m an incorrigible Returner. Although I did venture to a handful of new places in 2020, I found myself returning to no less than a dozen trails I’d previously backpacked on. In one particularly odd instance, I hiked up to a subalpine basin filled with golden larch for an overnight trip with my friend Doug. I then returned the next day with my girlfriend, Andrea, to share the majestic experience with her on a separate overnight trip. I felt a bit self-conscious that the squirrels might notice me and say to each other, “This guy, again?”
Some of my repetition is borne of convenience. For one subalpine lake that I visited twice last year, once in August and once in October, the total time spent in transit – both hiking and driving – was just over two hours one-way from my house. With scenery and solitude (both times I had the lake to myself) that easy to obtain, and with my schedule sometimes more crunched than I’d like it to be, it makes perfect sense to go for the low-hanging, but exceedingly delicious, fruit rather than drive further and hike longer just to see a new place – then frustratingly have less time to spend there.
I did two separate overnight trips, with two separate people, in a four-day span to this autumn wonderland in the Bitterroot Mountains.
For another lake which I visited for the third time in five years, I was aiming to settle some unfinished business. My previous visits had all been when the lake was still too iced-up to provide good fishing. So I timed my third visit when I knew it would be melted out and I’d finally get a fair shake at matching wits with the “thriving cutthroat fishery” that the guidebook mentioned was present in its waters. I succeeded and caught some nice fish. Since snow wasn’t an issue, I was able to loop back cross-country and pass through a basin filled with lovely tarns and magnificent mountain views.
Other places draw me back because I find the familiarity to be deeply, almost primally, comforting. I recognize rocks, pools of water, and tiny pocket meadows and feel an affinity with them in a way that just isn’t possible when passing by them for the first time. Certain vistas, like the one from an abandoned fire lookout where I’ve spent over 20 nights the last few years, seem to allow me to gaze not just at the landscape but back at life itself as I contemplate the subtle – or drastic – seasonal changes before me and compare them with years past.
An abandoned lookout has provided a mountaintop hermitage for contemplation over the years and is one of my most-visited overnight destination in the mountains near my home.Another view from my abandoned fire lookout retreat.
When going on a trip with other backpackers whose levels of expertise and ability differ from mine, I find that traipsing along on trails that I’m already familiar with offers a sense of comfort for all of us. I know the alternate campsites that we can stop at if we don’t reach the intended destination. I know which artificial flies usually guarantee strikes from hungry trout in mid-September. I know which shortcuts to take if we need to bail out on a trip early. It takes a bit of the stress of the unknown out of the trip which, if you’re just out there to relax in a beautiful place with friends who you don’t see nearly enough, is a lovely way to spend time. And it is almost always more enjoyable than frequently poring over a map and looking confusedly at junctions and worrying about making the miles to the next campsite.
One of my favorite backpacking trips passes by this lake. I’ve done this trip three times in two years. It is a route I’ve perfected for taking novice backpackers on a memorable and uncrowded trip in Montana’s Pioneer Mountains.
As self-righteous as I might be about the benefits of revisiting old hikes and haunts, I must admit that I find myself inspired by those who constantly seek out new trails and spots on the map. My friend Doug is one of them. As an avid backpacker and the author of numerous guidebooks to hiking in the Pacific Northwest, Doug has hiked tens of thousands of miles – but he rarely hikes in the same place twice. His reasoning is simple – life’s short and he’d rather see new places than spend his time going back to places he’s already seen.
That’s a hard position to argue with, and while I agree in theory, I rarely seem to let it be my guiding principle when deciding where to go. I’ve never regretted going somewhere new instead of returning to an old favorite – but I’ve also never regretted the reverse of that either.
Humans tend to crave novelty and relish in the sense of experiencing the unknown or finally seeing in person the places we’ve read about online or seen in guidebooks. We are also undeniably creatures of habit. I’ve been lucky enough to have a life where I’ve been able to make backpacking a habit, not just a hobby I can only indulge in once or twice a year due to logistical, domestic, or financial barriers, and I suppose this habit is part of what leads me to return to the same places again and again.
However, there’s also a virtue in breaking, or at least bending, habits and expanding one’s horizons. There’s a wisdom in moderation, including when it applies to repetition. I’m planning to make a concerted effort to visit some new destinations in 2021, although I’ve also already got a handful of repeat trips on the calendar.
I’ve found the notion from Heraclitus that “you cannot step in the same river twice” rings true. Despite it being the same place, the experience is always different. Updated for the modern backpacker, it might be rephrased as “you can’t camp at the same lake twice.”
Related Content
Mark mentions his love of fishing. Check out his recently published tenkara Gear List.
Got a favorite repeat trip or backcountry experience? Share it with us in the comments below.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
The 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/yd2 DCFH (2.15 oz/yd2 Dyneema Composite Fabric inner layer laminated to a 150 denier polyester face 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/yd2 DCFH (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!
Thecustomizable 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
Product mentions in this article are made by the author with no compensation in return. In addition, Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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
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.
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:
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.
Product mentions in this article are made by the author with no compensation in return. In addition, Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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.
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.
David Whyte’s Essentials is a perfect backpacking read.
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
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.
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.
Getting back to the car is always a strange experience.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
The 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.
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.
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.
A tenkara-caught cutthroat trout. A minimal amount of gear, a lot of patience and a little bit of practice can yield great results.
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 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.
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.
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.
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. 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).
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”).
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 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.
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.
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.
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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.
Dan Durston, inside an X-Mid tent. Credit: Dan Durston
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?
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.
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.
Check out our review of Dan’s pack. It’s an interesting read that illustrates how gear design can change during the prototyping phase.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage.
Some (but not all) of the links in this review may be affiliate links. If you click on one of these links and visit one of our affiliate partners (usually a retailer site), and subsequently place an order with that retailer, we receive a commission on your entire order, which varies between 3% and 15% of the purchase price. Affiliate commissions represent less than 15% of Backpacking Light's gross revenue. More than 70% of our revenue comes from Membership Fees. So if you'd really like to support our work, don't buy gear you don't need - support our consumer advocacy work and become a Member instead.
Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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 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
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.
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.
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.”
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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.
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.
Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
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.
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.
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.
Arch Rock above the trailhead.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.”
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.
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.
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.
The eclipse begins.Totality.
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 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.
Shell of a desert millipede.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The Cabeza Prieta emerges from early morning shadows.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 passageThe 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Because everyone needs a used 45-year-old Chouinard RURP, just in case.
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.
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
The author modeling state-of-the-art thermal wear in 1980. (Photo credit: Gordon Masor)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
What have you learned over the years? Read this forum post, and then share what you’ve learned in the discussion below!
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
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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).
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.
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