Stephen Seeber presents measurements of several market-leading insulations along with four performance metrics to help judge their performance.
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Backpacking Light Managing Editor Andrew Marshall’s essay Salamander Song is a love letter to the Great Smoky Mountains.
In this episode, Backpacking Light Managing Editor Andrew Marshall reads his essay Salamander Song – a love letter to the soggy, squelchy, perpetually socked-in Great Smoky Mountains.
If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to see some of Andrew’s accompanying photography and paintings, make sure and check out the written version of Salamander Song, here.
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Small and mid-sized companies are making increasingly delicious vegan and vegetarian backpacking food. This gear guide covers meals from six of those companies.
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Backpacking Light publisher Ryan Jordan subjects the Jetboil Stash to the StoveBench testing protocol to answer the pressing question: is this innovation, or lipstick on a pig?
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For some people, turning back is the hardest skill to learn.
A few months back, I wrote about learning to suffer. I spoke from experience, discussing how people who finish the hardest backcountry trips have learned to gut it out. They don’t quit—they push through the worst conditions, worn-down bodies, and debilitating mental fatigue.
There’s a point though, where that mentality becomes not just unreasonable, but unsafe as well. For certain people (hello, me), knowing when to turn around can be harder than just suffering.
My desire to finish what I start is a combination of fierce pride mixed with an overblown “I can handle it” mentality. It’s sent me racing a high tide across an inlet as the water is rising and my companions are yelling at me to turn around. It’s sent me continuing up prominent peaks as lightning forks overhead, and it’s prevented me from speaking up when I know I’m not fit to be in a certain situation.
This mentality landed me, a bare beginner skier, in the advanced skier group during a backcountry avalanche safety course last year. I’d been skinning once in my life and was barely coordinated enough to wobble down groomed blue runs at our local resort. But thanks to the sleek ski setup I’d received as a perk of working in the outdoor industry, plus athletic friends who actually knew how to ski, I’d been lumped in with the group skinning to the highest meadow for field practice.
I watched the beginner groups with rental skis strapped to their backpacks boot-packing to the lower areas. I wanted to speak up and see if I could switch groups, but I stayed quiet. My friends helped me set my bindings to walk mode, and I fell in line with the dozen or so participants who absolutely, definitely knew how to ski.
Our two instructors led us higher and higher. They scanned the meadows, looking for a good place for our group to set up. Each time they stopped (and then invariably kept going), I’d hunch over my poles, wheezing from exertion. The climb was steep and narrow, and I didn’t know how to do skin turns. My friend stuck close behind me, offering tips. Step on the skis? Something about 90-degree turns? Making them cross in the back? I don’t remember, because this was the last time I skinned, and I’ve mostly blocked this day from my memory.
By the time we arrived at our meadow to dig pits, measure slope aspect, and practice beacon locating, I was paying zero attention. My entire thought process was consumed with staring down in horror at what looked like an impossibly steep mountainside of deep powder disguising unpredictable terrain.
I grabbed one of my friends.
“I shouldn’t be up here,” I hissed. “I will never be able to ski down this.”
She was usually encouraging about my skiing progress, but now she scanned the slope from her waist-deep position in the pit we’d just finished.
“Um yeah, yikes,” she said. “Why didn’t you say anything when they put you in this group, or ask to turn around?”
I shrugged helplessly. Was it pride? Had I just blindly accepted the instructor’s false assessment of my skills based on my fit companions and really nice ski setup? Whichever it was, we’d been up on the mountain for hours by this point, and it was time to rip the skins and head down.
My fears were correct! It was really bad!
I was the last to go, peering down at the tiny dots of the other group members waiting at treeline. I went into a frantic, splayed pizza stance, skidded a few feet down, then fell over. I pushed myself up, vision spotting from stress, then tumbled sideways into the snow, my skis over my head. An instructor had waited behind me and was trying to give verbal assistance. I pushed myself up again, made it through one turn, then tumbled into the snow again, ejecting from one of my skis.
The slope seemed to grow longer and longer. It took me so long to get down the first section that the group was visibly freezing as they waited for me to finish tumbling down the hill. Murmurs of encouragement greeted me, but I stared at my cursed skis and waved the group on.
The next section through the trees was the same. I hit a tree, fell off the trail, lost a pole. I skidded sideways down through bumpy, deep snow on the final run, avoiding eye contact when I reached the base. I just wanted to be back in my truck.
Obviously, the best thing would have been to step to the side when I realized we were climbing too high for my abilities, and tell an instructor I was switching to a beginner group. But I had forced myself to stay put and gut it out.
The situation wasn’t overly dangerous, but this mentality, despite my proclaimed affinity for suffering, can be detrimental in other situations. If I was in over my head on a backcountry ski tour and something bad happened, would I have the skills to get down? To rescue my companions? The answer is a resounding no, and it’s something I have to accept to ensure I stay within my limits, even if it means turning back or declining an invitation.
Understanding my own limits has always been harder for me to accept than just gritting my teeth and getting through it.
I have a hunch that this is at least partly genetic. One of my most formative memories of hiking in New Hampshire’s White Mountains was a multi-peak traverse with my dad. I was in late high school, and my dad was in pursuit of his first completion of New Hampshire’s 48 4,000-footers.
Whatever this third peak on the traverse was, he needed it for his list. In classic New Hampshire fashion, our bluebird day at the trailhead had taken a miserable turn. We were above treeline, and frigid wind howled around the open peak. Visibility had disintegrated to almost nothing.
My breathing was shallow and panicky, and the clouds were so dense that I felt entirely alone, despite hiking with my dad and brother. My only reference point was my dad calling for myself and Aaron to follow his voice over the boulders as we climbed higher into the gale. As we passed the bad weather route that would have taken us around the summit cone, I begged my dad to turn around. But he wanted this peak, and we were within a half-mile (800 m) from the top. I didn’t feel confident splitting up, so I kept climbing.
My dad’s face is saying “Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them up here.”
Neither of us has changed much since then. I recently asked my dad about one of his winter peak-bagging hikes, and he reluctantly told me he’d wound up with frostbite from the nasty conditions.
“Why didn’t you turn around?” I asked, knowing full well I probably wouldn’t have either. He had been with another companion who needed those peaks for a tick list (sound familiar?) and didn’t want to leave his partner alone.
That same day, another New Hampshire hiking friend told me there had been a rescue on Franconia Ridge—conditions were ghastly above treeline and no one should have been out there. She also discussed at length the desire to continue hiking beyond her capabilities and comfort. Is it just me, or is this mindset not terribly uncommon?
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is turn around.
I have friends with extensive backcountry experience who are never too proud to say they’re uncomfortable with the conditions. They are able to separate their capabilities from the conditions without worrying whether or not this reflects poorly upon them. They are thinking safely and critically, not concerned they’ll seem “weak.”
Do I respect them less for calling it? Never. They’re my most trusted companions, and when I can’t make a decision about bailing, I turn to them. Even though I recognize the value of knowing when to bail when something doesn’t feel right, it’s something I am continually working on.
But hey! When it comes to skiing, I’m definitely not too proud to stay low. In that particular instance, I’d say I finally learned something.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Rex Sanders illustrates how difficult it can be to make accurate product comparisons based on manufacturer-provided data.
I’m baffled by a recent backcountry clothing trend: active insulation jackets and hoodies. The best-known examples might be the Patagonia Nano-Air Hoody and the Arc’teryx Proton LT Hoody. Call me old-school, but I don’t see the value of one combined garment over flexibly layering fleece with a wind hoody. But maybe I’m missing something, so I started investigating.
I attempted to compare weight, insulation, air permeability, and retail costs extracted from manufacturer websites. I checked out similar garments from Arc’Teryx, Montbell, Outdoor Research, Patagonia, and REI, mostly sticking to one manufacturer at a time to help level the playing field. My clothing choices might look arbitrary to fans of any company’s products, but I tried to be fair. It wasn’t easy, especially thrashing through thickets of marketing overgrowth. The results were dismal.
I went down this disappointing trail to illustrate the promise and limitations of standards and testing using a consumer-focused example.
The following table compares these Arc’teryx garments:
| Proton LT Hoody (active) | Delta LT Hoody (fleece) | Squamish Hoody (wind) | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 375 g 13.2 oz | 258 g “10.1 oz” (likely 9.1 oz) | 140 g 4.9 oz | 398 g 14.0 oz | +0.8 oz (23 g) |
| Insulation | “Coreloft Compact 80” body, “Coreloft Compact 60” hood | “Polartec Classic 100 micro velour small grid,” “152 g/m²” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “Air permeable” | “Quick drying, air permeable” | “Breathable Material” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $299 | $159 | $159 | $318 | +$19 |
The Arc’teryx website tries to make comparisons easier by assigning garments to “layering ranges.” But I clicked and searched for over an hour, looking for a fleece hoody in the same layering range (3) as the Proton LT – and came up empty-handed. Finally, I chose the Delta LT Hoody, in layering range 2. Unfortunately, the websites for the other gear makers were far worse.
Note that the published weight specification for the Delta LT Hoody seems to convert grams to ounces incorrectly. If a Canadian company utilizes the metric system internally, 258 grams should be 9.1 ounces. So in the other columns, I used that lower American weight.
(Dangerously) assuming comparable warmth and breathability, the active insulation Proton LT Hoody comes out slightly ahead on weight and price. Maybe. I hope.
The following table compares these Montbell garments:
| U.L. Thermawrap Parka | Climaplus 100 Warm Up Parka | Tachyon Parka | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 9.3 oz (265 g) | 14.1 oz (400 g) | 2.5 oz (72 g) | 16.6 oz (472 g) | +7.3 oz (207 g) |
| Insulation | “STRETCH EXCELOFT synthetic insulation, 40g/m2” | “CLIMAPLUS 100 (100% polyester)” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “the most stretchable, breathable, quick-drying synthetic insulation we’ve ever created” | “CLIMAPLUS 100 (100% polyester)” | “redesigned to significantly increase breathability” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $209 | $69 | $99 | $168 | -$41 |
For this face-off, I chose the lightest options from Montbell, a well-respected ultralight garment maker. The Thermawrap and Tachyon are on many lightweight backpacker’s gear lists.
But Montbell doesn’t label the Thermawrap U.L., or any other garment, as active insulation, though the description seems to fit: “purpose-built to reduce layer shedding stops on the trail.” Unfortunately, their website says nothing useful about fleece insulation or air permeability. Montbell’s lightest hooded fleece plus wind jacket is much heavier than their active insulation parka, at a slight cost savings.
The following table compares these Outdoor Research garments:
| Refuge Air Hooded Jacket | Trail Mix Hoodie | Ferrosi Hooded Jacket | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 16.8 oz (477 g) | 13.6 oz (386 g) | 15 oz (424 g) | 28.6 oz (810 g) | +11.8 oz (333 g) |
| Insulation | “VerticalX Air 100% polyester 75D insulation, 75 g/m2” | “100% polyester ... thermo-regulating ActiveTemp treatment” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “Breathable ... rapidly moves moisture” | “Quick Drying, Breathable” | “Breathable, Quick-Drying” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $229 | $99 | $129 | $228 | -$1 |
After multiple loops through their website, I couldn’t find a simple, lightweight wind hoody from Outdoor Research. So, I settled for their overweight
The active insulation Refuge Air comes out way ahead on weight at a nearly identical price, while making the rash assumption that breathability and warmth are similar.
The following table compares these Patagonia garments:
| Nano-Air Hoody | Capilene Thermal Weight Zip-Neck Hoody | Houdini Air Jacket | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 12.2 oz (346 g) | 7.7 oz (218 g) | 4.1 oz (116 g) | 11.8 oz (334 g) | minus 0.4 oz (12 g) |
| Insulation | 60-gram polyester | “3.8-oz (129-g) Polartec Power Grid 92% recycled polyester/8% spandex” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “exceptional breathability “ | “breathable, lofted baselayer” | “prevent that hot, sweaty feeling during high-output activities” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $299 | $119 | $169 | $288 | minus $11 |
In this first example from Patagonia, fleece plus wind layer is almost identical to active insulation. But only if we assume that breathability and warmth are similar.
The following table compares these Patagonia garments:
| Thermal Airshed | Capilene Thermal Weight Zip-Neck Hoody | Airshed Pro Pullover | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 8.3 oz (235 g) | 7.7 oz (218 g) | 4.0 oz (113 g) | 11.7 oz (331 g) | +3.4 oz (106 g ) |
| Insulation | “100% recycled polyester PlumaFill insulation is hybridized in front panels and arms” | “3.8-oz (129-g) Polartec Power Grid 92% recycled polyester/8% spandex” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “Designed for hybridized warmth and maximum breathability” | “breathable, lofted baselayer” | “fast-drying, breathable” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $259 | $119 | $129 | $248 | -$11 |
While I was writing this, Max Neale reviewed the Patagonia Thermal Airshed active insulation jacket, which he labeled “not recommended.” But Max considers the combination of Patagonia’s Capilene Thermal Hoody plus Airshed Pro Pullover to be much better. This despite the fleece plus wind layer combination coming in significantly heavier—at least for gram weenies.
The following table compares these REI Co-op garments:
| Activator Soft-Shell Jacket | Lightweight Base Layer Half-Zip Top | Flash Jacket | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 18 oz (510 g) | 7.0 oz (198 g) | 7.4 oz (209 g) | 14.4 oz (407 g) | -3.6 oz (103 g) |
| Insulation | “Soft, fleecy inner face keeps you warm” | “soft polyester blend ... to keep you warm in winter” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “breathes to keep you comfortable when you're hiking hard” | “breathes to keep you comfortable all day” | “the material is breathable” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $100 | $45 | $100 | $145 | +$45 |
Here we encounter yet another marketing mystery – the difference (if any) between a “soft shell” and “active insulation.” Neither phrase has a consistent, well-accepted marketing definition (though we’ve defined it here at Backpacking Light), and some vendors promote a wide range of garment designs under the same moniker.
REI doesn’t sell their own hooded fleece, so I compared the Activator jacket to hoodless fleece plus a wind hoody, making this a frustrating apples-to-oranges-plus-apples comparison.
And I repeatedly ran into one of my pet peeves about REI’s standard product listings —missing weights. I’ve seen that question asked and answered on their website many times over several years, but they haven’t picked up on that clue yet.
Given those complications and the same unfounded insulation and breathability assumptions as previous comparisons, REI’s hoodless fleece plus wind layer comes out ahead on weight at a slight price increase. But most people would add something like the 0.5 oz (14 g) $20 REI Polartec Fleece Beanie to keep their head warm, negating some of the weight savings advantage (unless you already carry a warm hat).
The following table compares these garments:
| Montbell U.L. Thermawrap Parka | Patagonia Capilene Thermal Weight Zip-Neck Hoody | Patagonia Houdini Jacket | Fleece plus wind layer | Difference | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Weight | 9.3 oz (265 g) | 7.7 oz (219 g) | 3.7 oz (105 g) | 11.4 oz (324 g) | + 2.1 oz (59 g) |
| Insulation | “STRETCH EXCELOFT synthetic insulation, 40g/m2” | “3.8-oz (129-g) Polartec Power Grid 92% recycled polyester/8% spandex” | n/a | Probably warmer than fleece alone | Unknown |
| Air permeability | “the most stretchable, breathable, quick-drying synthetic insulation we’ve ever created” | “superior warmth, breathability and moisture-wicking” | “weather-resistant protection for high-output endeavors” | Complicated | Unknown |
| Cost | $209 | $119 | $99 | $218 | -$9 |
Here I chose the lightest well-liked active insulation hoody, the Montbell U.L. Thermawrap Parka, to compare with the latest versions of the layers I usually carry from Patagonia. My system is significantly heavier and barely cheaper. But does it have similar breathability and insulation? Your guess is as good as mine.
Why did I mark air permeability for fleece plus wind layer as “Complicated” in these tables? Because it is. According to independent clothing tester and BPL columnist Steve Seeber, adding just a thin layer of dead air inside a garment dramatically decreases moisture vapor transfer rates. MVTR can be closely related to air permeability for garments like these. Wind hoodies definitely trap a layer of air above fleece.
But active insulation garments also have an air gap, except where the layers were sewn together at the wrist, waist, face, etc. Plus, all the active insulation hoodies in this comparison include an interior fabric lining, trapping a second layer of dead air, which is not present in a wind hoody over fleece.
A separate wind hoody that’s loose or open can easily release moist, warm, trapped air, while retaining some insulation and wind resistance. It depends on how you use it.
And to further muddy the picture, many vendors and backpackers believe that air permeability, breathability, and moisture vapor transfer are closely related. For this article, I used the phrases interchangeably and still didn’t get much helpful information.
So, air permeability is both messy and complicated.
Too bad most outdoor clothing makers don’t publish important, standards-based values like insulation and total air permeability (versus just one layer of a multilayer garment) in comparable units—or even any units. That makes objectively choosing between jackets like these almost impossible.
Instead, backpackers could use comparative reviews from reliable authors and outlets, like this one that Max Neale wrote for BPL. Except Max focused on test conditions that don’t match my settings. And many reviewers do not describe their test conditions very well, or sometimes at all.
In the before times, most of us could easily walk into retail stores and try on clothing. At least we got a sense of fit, finish, quality, and weight. And we could use our experience and informal on-the-spot tests to judge warmth and breathability.
Now we can buy a bunch of jackets over the internet, try them on at home, return the obvious rejects, and wear selected models in a variety of conditions. Which might take several years, probably well past most retailer’s return windows. This quickly becomes an expensive and time-consuming practice.
Or we might buy something based on reputation, personal experience, marketing spin, online reviews of mixed quality, and recommendations from friends, and hope it meets our needs. At least a few retailers have generous return policies.
Good standards, consistently used, with results published by gear makers, would help tremendously. Even if one of these active insulation jackets was perfect for me, how would I know without buying and trying several?
If you are the maker of a clearly superior garment, but the rest of the industry claims the same poorly-defined benefits, how do you stand out? If the only parameter consumers can objectively compare with some reliability is weight, then the industry races to the bottom, reaching for lower and lower masses at the expense of performance and longevity. At different times we’ve seen that with tents, backpacks, sleeping bags, and other products.
For this exercise, where I wanted to reliably compare the warmth and breathability of these clothing systems, some standards are better than others. A good place to start might be with this Steve Seeber interview.
In an ideal world, we would have standards-based testing by manufacturers, plus high-quality independent reviews that cover a wide range of conditions, plus independent testing of many clothing combinations.
And, as long as we’re fantasizing, real live flying sparkly unicorns.
It’s impossible to objectively compare jackets like these based on the manufacturer’s web pages. Since I have years of experience with my current fleece plus wind-hoody combination, I’m not likely to buy and try active insulation soon.
Too bad for gear sellers. Maybe, someday, they’ll see the value of standards, testing, and clear communication. Given how they’ve screwed up promising efforts like sleeping bag temperature rating standards and sleeping pad R-value standards, I’m not hopeful.
In short, standards and testing are necessary, but not sufficient, for backpackers to make well-informed purchasing decisions.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Sometimes the best skill is humbly asking for help. Here’s a story about my experience getting unstuck when driving snowy backcountry roads.
While there are plenty of winter backpacking skills to master—staking out a tent in the snow, managing body heat, and coping with extended hours of darkness and cold—one that is often overlooked is how to ask someone to pull your car out of the snow when you get stuck going to or from the trailhead.
Most people find themselves having to perform this task when their skill of not getting their car stuck in snow on the way to or from the trailhead isn’t as sharp as they’d remembered or environmental forces beyond their control overwhelm the ability of their vehicle. Fortunately, I’ve recently gained some experience with this skill and wanted to share with the Backpacking Light community what I learned. Although I’m far from an expert on this skill, or any other skills for that matter, I have some valuable observations worth sharing.
Asking someone for help when you haven’t broken a sweat (and possibly the handle of your shovel) to extricate yourself from your predicament is simply poor form. If the tire chains are still in their original packaging, there aren’t mounds of snow on both sides of the car, and you and your passenger(s) are still on speaking terms, then you’ve likely given up too soon. Floor mats must be sacrificed to the Snow Gods for attempts at gaining traction (half-size Therm-a-Rest Z-Lites also work), futile efforts at moving metric tons of snow must be undertaken, and lengthy discussions about which gear to start in and who should push and who should drive need to have happened. These steps should be repeated at least once and preferably twice before seeking assistance from outside your party.
When traveling to a place where you might encounter a snow trap, it’s a wise idea to have some notion of where to get help when you need it. Noting the location of the closest plowed driveway to the trailhead is a reasonable start. Being aware of where cell phone reception begins and ends, in case you need to call a tow truck, is also important. Satellite messenger devices, like a Garmin InReach, can also allow you to coordinate efforts to free your vehicle from a frozen white death with people in your family or social network.
Lacking cell phone reception or a satellite messenger, my girlfriend, Andrea, and I had to do things the old-fashioned way when we found ourselves stuck in February a mile from the paved and plowed road that would take us home.
We’d driven in on a gravel road that only had a handful of inches of well-packed snow and stayed at a US Forest Service rental cabin for a few days to cross-country ski and enjoy the simple life. During our blissful stay, over 16 inches (40.7 cm) of snow fell and made our exit a bit more exciting than anticipated. In our defense, the forecast called for a maximum accumulation of 7 inches (18 cm) which was well within my Honda Element’s capability to traverse—I had proper winter tires and I had chains as a backup. The USFS also told me that they usually plow the road to the cabin, even on weekends, which made me feel a bit more relaxed (sure, and Sasquatch cleans it between guests).
After a valiant effort to drive out that involved chains, shoveling, and strategic driving, we finally had to give up short of the pavement and its salvation. Luckily, there was a small cluster of houses with year-round residents at the junction of the paved and gravel roads, and 30 minutes of post-holing took us to the first house. Even more fortuitously, a truck was plowing the rear part of the nearest driveway. Putting on our friendliest and most humble faces, we approached to see what our options might be.
The driver of the truck, Russ, waved to us, parked, and then hopped out into the still-falling snow to see what we wanted. After the initial greetings and apologizing for bothering him, I got to the meat of the conversation:
“So, we were staying up at the Forest Service cabin on the East Fork this weekend. Drove up there on Friday. And, uh…we’re not driving now. Guessing you can put two and two together…”
After mentioning we might need to use a phone to call a tow truck, Russ said he’d be game to drive his truck back to our vehicle since we weren’t very far in. He would see if he could pull us out and get us in his tracks so we could drive out ourselves. We eagerly and earnestly took him up on his offer and, as far as getting stuck vehicles out of the snow, things couldn’t have gone smoother.
A short pull from his truck with my tow rope and we were able to get into his tracks which had packed the snow down just enough for the Element to get traction on. We drove the final mile out under our own power. The whole ordeal, from acknowledging we were totally stuck to being on the pavement probably took less than an hour—but we spent more than an hour on our initial attempts of driving out, getting stuck, digging out, driving some more, getting stuck, and admitting defeat.
Nevertheless, we made it out in time for a full afternoon of downhill skiing on the 24 inches (61 cm) of powder they’d received in the last 24 hours. While I’d have rather started my morning with fresh tracks on my skis than in my car on a snowed-in forest road, I suppose all is well that ends well.
After making it back to the pavement, we stopped to thank Russ sincerely for his assistance. He was in the middle of plowing out the houses in the neighborhood and we’d taken his time away from that job with our interruption. We asked for his address and dropped a thank-you note in the mail with a gift card for a local ranching supply store. It seemed the least we could do since he saved us from what could’ve been a long and expensive ordeal.
I’ve helped a handful of people out, both on trails and on the roads, during my decade of backpacking and it is always a good idea to pay it forward”. If it is safe to help, and you have the resources, then there’s really no excuse not to.
Overall, I was reasonably prepared for the situation I found myself in. I had the proper equipment (winter tires, shovels, chains, a vehicle suitable for the predicted conditions, tow rope, knowledge of plowing conditions, and a detailed forecast) but the snowstorm was more severe than what was predicted. These things happen. Ours was a success because of neighborliness and not getting stuck in too inconvenient a location. And it was a good lesson to maybe just park where the guaranteed plowing stops if snow is in the forecast and just ski into the cabin rather than driving.
After all, a 2000 lb. vehicle isn’t really part of a lightweight backpacking system and can sometimes create more problems than it solves.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Tides, blowdowns, and sunsets abound as Maggie Slepian and two friends tackle the quirky and challenging Oregon Coast Trail.
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When we trek, we are taking the paintbrush or pencil that is the foot to the page that is the earth.
Who or what makes a trail?
I’ve often wondered this when veering off the Bonneville Shoreline trail that skirts the edge of Salt Lake City to investigate less distinct deer trails. The Bonneville Shoreline trail is a human trail today, no doubt, but when Lake Bonneville lapped at the shore between 30,000 and 13,000 years ago, bison, deer, and later Shoshone, Ute, Goshute, and other Native people surely walked the edge of the water. Then when the lake receded, it left a clear line, an obvious promenade just asking to be walked. So, who or what created this trail? Did the lake itself make it? After all, today’s trail is named after the lake. The existence of this question seems to speak of its own futility, or maybe trail-making or path-making are just more complex than they appear.
The word trail is used to describe the well-worn way through the woods where brush has been cleared and lichens scraped from the rocks by boot soles or the cairn-marked route across the slickrock. Some are more imaginary than others, but we call them all trails. As a noun the word means “path or track worn in wilderness,” but it functioned as a verb long before that. Trail can be traced back to the Vulgar Latin tragulare meaning “to drag,” later the French trailler meaning to “to tow; to pick up the scent of a quarry,” and later yet “to hang down loosely and flow behind,” like a sleeve.
Walking a sidehill trail through yellow grasses and scrub oak, I wonder what the deer is dragging through the wilderness to wear this line across it? Her very essence? Some sort of spirit? Maybe trail as a noun is the impression left by the life-force (whatever that is) trailing behind the body like a gown. A sort of watermark. A reference to the ghost. A finger pointing “she went this way.” Or a voice saying “she is always here, even at this moment; everyone who ever passed is still passing.” Maybe.
In some parts of the world, trails are more commonly called paths, walkways, or footpaths. As is the case with many words, there isn’t a consensus on the origin of the word path. The Old English paþ or pæþ was a “narrow passageway or route across land, a track worn by the feet of people or animals treading it,” and it probably derived from the German pfad, but prior sources are confounding to etymologists. The closest relative to the modern path may be the Avestan (an old Iranian language) pad, which holds the same meaning as path, but no one knows for sure. In any case, definitions of trail and path both led me to the word track.
Track means “marks left behind,” and can be traced back to the Dutch trek meaning “draft” or “drawing.” Is that what we’re all doing when trekking, taking the paintbrush or pencil that is the foot to the page that is the earth? As an artist, there’s something I really love about this idea.
Consider the line that is drawn when simply trying to find the easiest way from here to there. I walk without thinking and take the most gradual slope into a wash, follow it down, and take the most gradual way out. I see a dense copse of junipers and go around them. In a canyon bottom, I zigzag between willows, always looking for the widest gap, the most permeable route. And all the while, nearly 100% of the time, there are footprints wherever I go. Coyotes, deer, elk, bobcats, cows, horses, and humans alike chose the route that expends the least amount of energy. There is always a best way to transect a landscape, and most creatures intuitively find it.
We are collectively drawing the way that connects the land and the animal. What remains is a piece of art that is a testament to that interconnectedness.
If the trail, track, or path is a shared creation, made by the land just as much as the traveler, this means the land is more than just medium, it’s also actant, so it has some degree of agency. The trail I walked today in the Uinta Mountains traced a creek from sagebrush up through gamble oak and ponderosa to lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. It was well-worn, almost smooth in places. Trail crews cut trees year after year, so even if the trail itself was somehow suddenly gone you’d still know where to go, there’d still be a corridor. Check dams, water bars, and steps were constructed here and there to increase the longevity of the trail and prevent erosion. Within a mile, the trail crossed the frozen creek at a bridge and later crossed back over another bridge.
These things, the human structures that make travel easy, were not always here. But the creek was, and the first travelers: deer, elk, or moose moving from the willow bottomlands to the high country pushed by the cold or the heat. They took the path of least resistance. They followed water, letting it build the trail with them. Or they followed forage, letting the seemingly random lay of the land guide them. Beyond the animal and the land, the seasons are also trail builders, how they nudge animals with more than just a little urgency to move if they want to stay alive.
Now lodgepole die and fall, and forage shifts in the climate-change era. The artist carefully draws the familiar line, a testament to interconnectedness, as the table is bumped, and the steady mark goes careening across the page. Afternoon storms are less frequent. The inkwell is spilled on the page, the brush is forgotten overnight and found in the morning caked with paint. The artist returns to the page with a pencil, trying to remember where to go, but it looks different now. Swaths of forest are burned and neon aspen shoots emerge from the black. Old springs trickle out into the devastation, pushing aside gray ash. The artist looks for the path of least resistance and draws again through the forest, past lost springs, sniffing out new ones. The artist can’t just stop. There’s always a trail to be made.
When I was 18 years old I built a trail in the hills outside of my hometown. It began near a creaking pump jack and climbed a hill, the switchbacks weaving between piñon and juniper. I followed no previous tracks, instead endeavoring simply to make the hill accessible to myself and other humans. At the top, one could walk or bike a rocky spine and then descend a more gradual hill back to the start. It’s now part of an official trail system, with a sign reading “Ben’s Switchbacks,” which gives people someone to blame. Mountain bikers can curse the amateur trail builder Ben (whoever that is) when they find themselves unable to clean every switchback. Too steep. Not enough of a platform for turning a 29” wheel. Oh well. I didn’t know what I was doing.
All I knew was that I wanted to make a path up the hill; I couldn’t articulate more than that at the time. But maybe I wanted to make something that would allow people to better experience the landscape without having to focus too closely on each step. Something about trails frees up your attention, where bushwhacking often steals it, and we get to know a place more easily. Maybe this is what drove me to make the trail, it’s hard to say. Maybe this is the impetus behind many human trails, I can’t be sure.
Sometimes when I visit my parents we walk Ben’s Switchbacks together. I ponder the trail’s existence, my singular desire to create it. I wonder how it may differ from the creation of other trails: the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, the Natchez Trace, the Appalachian Trail, or the little deer trails that draw lines through the snow in the foothills outside of town. I wonder if my individual agency—my desire to create—is really all that different from the collective agencies who drafted these other trails. Likely it’s not.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Ryan and Andrew chat with Survivorman Les Stroud about his new book, “Wild Outside.”
In this episode, Ryan and Andrew chat with Survivorman Les Stroud about his new book Wild Outside, children in the outdoors, their parents, the value of nature, and more.
Also in this episode: training and recovery tools, a new stove from Jetboil, and a book that digs deep into the housing crisis in towns that function as outdoor portals.
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.
Maggie takes a look at the new DCF printing technology being used by LiteAF.
I first heard about LiteAF from a friend who swung through town after finishing the CDT a few years ago. He had a striking orange and black snakeskin pack that looked like part of a Halloween costume but was actually an ultralight, Dyneema Composite Fabric (DCF) pack. It was made by LiteAF, a company I’d never heard of.
Until then, I’d only seen DCF in stock solids from companies like Zpacks and Hyperlite Mountain Gear. My own packs were muted earth tones, which made me more curious about his setup. Not curious enough to do any research though, and after he left I promptly forgot about it.
The next year, Jeff Garmire mentioned his Long Trail FKT pack was custom-made by LiteAF. He’d needed a pack that would compress tightly during the unsupported record, with all pockets accessible on the move. “That’s the snakeskin pack company!” I thought, then forgot about it again. I am nothing if not dedicated to my research.
A year later, and the company is experiencing rapidly expanding popularity in the cottage-industry backpacking world—their DCF packs have a 23-week lead time, and the orders continue to pour in.
Founder Chris Millard started the company in June of 2018. He wanted to build a pack to his own specifications: stretchy mesh back pocket, water bottle pockets accessible without removing the pack, and the type of lightweight simplicity popular on long-distance trails. Other hikers seemed to agree, and two months later, Millard was so busy with packs that he quit his job managing refrigeration projects (“it totally sucked”) to build packs out of his 160-square-foot garage.
Shortly after going full-time with LiteAF, Millard partnered with Dutchware Gear to create a vibrant, custom-printed pack. Buoyed by the community response, he started buying printed DCF from Dutchware Gear and Ripstop by the Roll.
Last spring, Millard invested in his own printer and heat press to create unlimited designs, patterns, and artist collaborations. You’ll see LiteAF packs in rainbow swirls, mirrored black-and-white graphics, or an eyeball-assaulting unicorn sparkle requested by an adult with a feverish desire for a pack “a unicorn-obsessed five-year-old would love.”
The process of printing on DCF is fascinating. It’s called dye sublimation. First, the pattern or image is printed onto paper. From there, the paper is placed under the DCF—“a Dyneema sandwich,” says Millard—then the components are placed in a heat press. The heat from the press turns the liquid ink into a vapor, and the vapor is then imprinted onto the DCF. Here’s a video on the process:
“Dye sublimation works really well on polyester,” says Millard. “The outer coating of our DCF packs is polyester, which is why the packs come out so vibrant.”
When Jeff received a LiteAF tiger-print pack for the Colorado Trail FKT in August of 2020, (disclosure: Jeff received the pack in question as part of a sponsorship program) I was envious. It was my first time seeing the latest print capabilities in person. The new pack wasn’t just a drawn pattern—I could see the actual fur of the tiger. I screeched when he opened it, which tells you a lot about the excitement in my life over the past year. I immediately wanted a pack with my insane cat’s face all over it, which also speaks to my state of mind.
A printed DCF pack is technical, ultralight backpacking gear infused with personality. You can be weird, and you can have a technical pack. For me, a pack with my cat’s face on it is a way to avoid the self-seriousness that (I think) comes with the ultralight life and helps balance out the fact that somehow all of my hiking clothes are navy blue. Printed packs are part of a growing trend towards color and uniqueness from cottage pack makers. Scrap packs are another example.
Millard has a no-error rule with everything that goes out the door. “If you have one stitch out of place on a DCF pack, that hole is there forever,” he says. “We have to toss it if something is out of place.”
Because of these standards, plus the high price of raw materials, Millard sews every DCF pack himself. He’s recently expanded to X-Pac offerings, which he leaves to his half-dozen sewers. This means the lead time on X-Pac is four weeks, compared to the 23 weeks for a DCF pack.
Design-wise, LiteAF packs follow the standard of many cottage-industry packs. They have an open main compartment, a large mesh back pocket, and a focus on accessibility. The shoulder pockets, hip-belt pockets, and water-bottle pockets are designed to be accessed without taking the pack off, and the DCF construction means the material is watertight and abrasion-resistant. Roll-top closures prevent the packs from flopping around as resupply gets lower, and the largest size offered is 46 liters. The packs are customizable—from prints, to pockets, to closures.
Aside from the glory of my cat’s face on a pack, 46 liters is a size I‘ve been looking for. I’m prone to overpacking with my 60-liter pack, and I’ve comfortably packed a 45-liter bag on extended trips before. I will note that even with LiteAF’s suspension options, any ultralight pack has a weight limit, and if you aren’t a lightweight (or ultralight) backpacker, you won’t be as comfortable carrying them.
I can’t pinpoint how exactly I came up with the Heisenberg Pack, but it probably has something to do with 2020 as a whole. Regardless of the exact reason, I was not willing to pass up the opportunity to own a pack with a collage of my screaming cat on it. I shall carry this pack with pride, and relish in the opportunity to talk about Heisenberg more than I usually do. And when the conversation naturally turns to dye sublimation, now I’ll be able to contribute.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Stephen Seeber tests the infrared reflective properties of space blankets.
In By the Numbers, Stephen Seeber turns a critical eye towards fabrics and materials by testing for claims, degradation, and more.
Not all space blankets are created equal. Even if they look identical to the eye, their infrared wavelength performance may be inadequate. I am in the process of building an instrument that requires radiant heat barriers that are reasonably robust. So, I thought I could cut up space blanket fabric and install it on the device. This provided me with an opportunity to test some space blankets and determine which one had the best infrared reflective properties.
I went to Dick’s Sporting Goods. They had two different space blankets available. They both sold for around $15. The first is made by Field and Stream and is called Survival Reflect Blanket. The package claims it conserves up to 90% of body heat. The second is made by Survival Outdoors Longer (SOL) and is called the SOL Survival Blanket. The same material is used in the slightly larger, and more usable, SOL Emergency Blanket. The package claims it reflects 90% of heat. I purchased both for my test.
There are several ways that heat is transferred from your body to the environment. When you are sitting on a cold rock, heat is transferred via conduction through your clothes that are in contact with the rock. The heat from your body can also be transferred by convection which means that heat from your body warms adjacent air, which then carries the heat away. When you are sweating, the sweat can evaporate. Evaporation is the process of changing from liquid to gas, and it requires heat energy which can be extracted from the skin.
Finally, any surfaces (skin or clothing) can transfer energy through radiant exchange with the ambient (as long as the ambient temperature is lower than your body or clothing surfaces). Radiant heat exchange moves heat from a hot surface to a cool surface by means of electromagnetic energy in the infrared (IR) spectrum. This spectrum extends from 0.7 to 1,000 microns wavelength. Heat transfer from the body occurs primarily in the near and middle portions of the infrared spectrum—0.7 to 25 microns.
Infrared energy, like visible light energy, can be reflected. The ability of an object to reflect infrared energy is described by a physical characteristic called emissivity, and it can be measured. A material with an emissivity of 0 is a perfect reflector—it emits no infrared energy as a result of its own temperature, but will reflect any infrared energy that strikes its surface. A material with an emissivity of 1 provides no heat reflection but is a perfect emitter of infrared energy resulting from its own temperature. All real materials have an emissivity of greater than 0 but less than 1. Aluminum foil can have an emissivity of 0.05. This means that it emits almost no infrared energy as a result of its surface temperature, but it reflects nearly all incident infrared energy. Electrical tape can have an emissivity of 0.96. It will reflect almost no incident infrared energy.
If a material that is reflective of infrared is placed between the source of heat (your skin, for example) and the ambient, transmission of heat to the ambient can be minimized and your rate of cooling will be reduced. If the infrared material is placed directly on the skin with the reflective surface facing the skin, reflection does not occur. Instead, conductive heat transfer from the skin will heat the material. If the outward surface of the material has a high emissivity, the heat conducted into the material from the skin will be emitted to the ambient and you will continue to lose heat. Space blankets are often reflective on both sides. This means, where the blanket is warmed through direct contact with a body or clothing surface, the reflective outer surface of the fabric will limit or prevent radiant transfer that results from conductive heat transfer into the space blanket.
The most effective radiant blanket will be highly reflective of infrared on both sides. A less effective heat blanket will be highly reflective on just one side and that side should usually face the cold ambient. An ineffective space blanket will have moderate to high emissivity and will not prevent the maximum transfer of radiant energy.
Well, how can you tell which is better when you buy one? You cannot. Space blankets can have an identical appearance in visible light but can still perform very differently in the infrared wavelengths. The only way to know is to measure the emissivity, which requires, at minimum, a thermal imager.
To test them, I mounted the space blankets on a permeation kettle with water heated to 120 F (48.9 C), while the room ambient is around 72 F (22.2 C). Visual inspection shows that both materials have the same appearance. With a thermal imager, a qualitative comparison is simple: A highly reflective object will show the ambient temperature when observed through the thermal imager. To that end, a piece of crinkled aluminum foil is placed on each space blanket. If the infrared image appears warmer than the aluminum foil, then the emissivity is too high for effective blanket performance. We see from the images that the Field and Stream blanket material is not a great reflector.
However, we see that the apparent blanket temperature of the SOL material matches the apparent temperature of the aluminum foil. Thus, the SOL blanket will be the better reflector and can be expected to provide good performance.
When we measure the emissivity in 8-12 microns, we find the emissivity of the Field and Stream blanket is 0.64, and the SOL emissivity is 0.13. Therefore, the SOL blanket is a much better reflector.
Both sides of the Field and Stream blanket have a similar finish. The SOL blanket has an orange foil appearance on one side and silver on the other. This is seen in the following image:
The measured emissivity of the orange side is similar to that of the Field and Stream Blanket. So, the orange side is a poor reflector, compared with the silver side.
I suggest, when using the SOL blanket, the silver (shiny) side should face the ambient (outside) environment. This will provide the lowest possible radiant heat transfer. The product photograph on the package shows two people huddled together wrapped in the blanket with the orange side out. One clear advantage of the orange side out is that visibility is improved if someone is searching for you. A minor benefit of using the blanket with the orange side out is the absorption of some solar gain. However, since the orange side is still somewhat reflective, it may take some very strong sunshine to feel its heating effect.
Never use a space blanket under another layer (unless you want it to function as a vapor barrier). A layer placed over the space blanket would eliminate most of the reduction in radiant heat transfer.
This gear review will cover two foot-insulation options from Rab; the Rab Expedition Slipper and the Rab Hot Socks. Both pieces of gear are lightweight options to add warmth to camp insulation, though they differ in terms of insulation level and type, materials, and intended use.
This gear review will cover two foot-insulation options from Rab; the Rab Expedition Slipper ($175, 6 oz / 170 g per pair) and the Rab Hot Socks ($65, 5 oz / 135 g per pair). Both pieces of gear are lightweight options to add warmth to camp insulation, though they differ in terms of insulation level and type, materials, and intended use.
The Rab Expedition Slipper is 800 FP down and intended for use inside the sleep system. The Rab Hot Socks are synthetic insulation and sport an abrasion-resistant footpad to allow for use as a camp shoe if desired.
The Rab Expedition Slipper and Rab Hot Socks were my 2020 sleep system companions through high alpine routes, shoulder-season treks, and winter treks alike in the Canadian Rockies.
Rab Expedition Slipper
Rab Hot Socks 2.0
Since this is a Limited Review, a detailed performance analysis based on long-term use will not be presented. Instead, performance observations and issues are noted below.
The instant I slipped the Rab Expedition Slipper on, my feet instantly felt warmer. The 800 FP down is lofty, and the drawstring closure around the ankle ensures heat retention. This is the first slipper I’ve had that provides real four-season comfort.
Compared to packing a warmer quilt or a pair of heavy wool socks, the Rab Expedition Slipper has a small weight penalty, especially considering its warmth value. The manufacturer estimate of how much the Rab Expedition Slipper weighed was generously over the measured weight.
The Rab Expedition Slipper has a soft Pertex Quantum inner and outer, which feels like silk on the skin and glides nicely inside a quilt or sleeping bag. The Expedition Slipper also features a loose elastic tensioner in the insole and at the ankle, making the slipper fit well around the foot.
The Rab Expedition Slipper is a slipper, not a hut bootie, and is not designed for wear outside of the quilt or for walking around.
The Rab Expedition Slipper has no traction as it is not designed for weight-bearing walks.
At about the size of a Nalgene once packed down, the Rab Expedition Slipper is a pretty tiny addition to a sleep system, though there are more packable options (like products from Goosefeet Gear).
Rab Hot Socks are moderately warm socks for wearing inside the tent. They provide additional warmth in moderate shoulder-season conditions but do not offer four-season warmth.
Rab Hot Socks are of moderate weight but do not pack the insulation punch of the Rab Expedition Slipper for slightly less weight.
With no drawstring or elastic fittings at the ankle or insole, Rab Hot Socks feel a bit like a sloppy reading sock. They are soft on the inside but do not have the same cloud-like feeling as the Rab Expedition Slipper.
To their credit (and weight-saving detriment), Rab Hot Socks are a durable product. Their Cordura sole means if you happen to take a cautious tread, you are less likely to rip the fabric. However, walking outside your tent in any sock is an at-your-own-risk activity. I like my gear and my feet, so I wouldn’t.
Rab Hot Socks are socks. They do have Cordura soles, but I would not say that counts as traction.
Stuffing Rab Hot Socks is a bit of a chore, especially compared to their down-filled cousin, the Rab Expedition Slipper.
The Rab Expedition Slipper is one of the only widely-available (non-cottage industry) down slippers out there. Unlike most insulated slippers available from major retailers, it has soft soles that don’t interfere with using it as a sleeping sock. It also boasts one of the best anatomical designs I’ve seen for insulated sleep slippers.
After a few miserable winter nights where I was alternating wrapping my down puffy around my feet and my torso, I decided I needed a better system. Thick wool socks just weren’t enough. After searching several different manufacturers, I found many insulated booties were synthetic, not down, and I am partial to down. Though there is a slightly better warm-when-damp ratio for synthetic, it’s not as warm, packable, sustainable, durable, or lightweight as down. In dry winter conditions, I’d rather have the pros of down than the insurance of synthetic.
When it came to ordering a down slipper, Rab offered the most selection at local retailers. Though they were a special order, they arrived in less than a week. If I had ordered from a cottage gear company, I could have waited months for a custom product to arrive in the remote area where I live.
Many down booties and slippers I looked at weren’t actual sleeping items; they were designed to sit and walk around in a hut or ski chalet. I needed a true down sock that was comfortable and packable. The Rab Expedition Slipper fit the bill perfectly. The soft silky fabric used in the Rab Expedition Slipper made these extremely comfortable to sleep in.
The Rab Expedition Slipper uses small pieces of elastic to create a more anatomical foot shape. The toe of the Rab Expedition Slipper provides plenty of room for a warm layer of down and air to form around the foot. Unlike other down socks and slippers (which can have a sloppy fit), I found the ergonomic design of the Rab Expedition Slipper comfortable and natural to wear.
Rab Hot Socks are not as warm as a down bootie but boast the reliability of synthetic and fleece for lower-stake shoulder season or summer warmth in alpine conditions.
Rab Hot Socks have a synthetic fleece construction which allows them to be useful on long-term treks with high humidity where a bit of extra insulation while sleeping is required. They are comfortable and a compromise when you can’t have (or don’t need) down but still need a bit more insulation than a basic wool sock.
Rab Hot Socks’ soles are lightweight 500D Cordura; unlike some hut booties, they do not have a firm foam sole, which saves weight and makes them more packable than a hut bootie.
The best part about ordering gear from a big retailer is the ease of product accessibility. After my feet being cold on a trek, I decided I needed better insulation for my next trek (about a week later). I ordered Rab Hot Socks and they arrived in time for my next trip.
Rab Expedition Slipper vs. GooseFeet Gear Down Socks
The most comparable item I found to the Rab Expedition Slipper was the GooseFeet Gear Down Socks. In my opinion, the Rab Expedition Slipper edged out GooseFeet Gear Down Socks because they had a better fit because of the instep and ankle’s elastic anatomical shaping. The Rab Expedition Slipper is also available from retail outlets and is easier to order in remote areas. However, if you have time and want a custom-made slipper, the Goosefeet Gear Down Socks are a great option.
These two products are entirely comparable for warmth in the same category of insulation. You can, however, order a variety of insulation and fabric options from GooseFeet Gear. Goosefeet Gear offers 850 FP down, Rab offers 800 FP down. Because higher FP down offers similar warmth at a lower weight, we’ll give the edge to GooseFeet.
Edge: GooseFeet Gear Down Socks
As with many cottage companies, I have difficulty ordering items into my remote area. If forced to choose, I almost always select a comparable product I can get at the local outdoor outfitter. Rab offers product availability from multiple retailers across North America and the world. On the other hand, this product is currently discontinued and only available at third-party retailers. So we’ll call this one a tie.
Edge: Tie
The Rab Expedition Slipper is not a customizable product; it comes in one color, one down fill level, and four sizes. GooseFeet, however, offers a rainbow of color, fabric types, and fill levels.
Edge: GooseFeet Gear Down Socks
The Rab Expedition Slipper edged out all competition when it came to fit. Its design is more complex and sewn in several pieces with elastic to ensure perfect foot fit at the ankles and instep and includes an adjustable drawstring. Though Goosefeet Gear offers the drawstring, like the Rab Hot Socks, the overall fit is sloppy compared to the anatomical fit of the Rab Expedition Slipper.
Edge: Rab Expedition Slipper
Rab Hot Socks vs. Montane Prism Bootie
Rab Hot Socks are best compared to the Montane Prism Bootie. With similar synthetic insulation and harder-wearing sole, these have the option of being a hut bootie/sleep sock cross-over if you so choose. Personally, I’d rather not use anything I sleep in for any kind of walking around, but it’s a good option for anyone inclined towards a multipurpose minimalist camp shoe.
I would say the drawstring closure and foot shape of the Montane Prism Booties make them a better foot fit but the firm sole makes them less useful for sleeping in. So it is a toss-up between the two. But I would give the edge to the Montane Prism.
Edge: Montane Prism Bootie
The Montane Prism Bootie is marginally heavier ( 6 oz / 16 6g) than the Rab Hot Socks ( 5 oz / 154g).
Edge: Rab Hot Socks
Rab Hot Socks pack down smaller than the Montane Prism Bootie.
Edge: Rab Hot Socks
Rab Hot Socks ($70) are a more expensive product than the Montane Prism Bootie ($55)
Edge: Montane Prism Bootie
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
When money and conservation collide.
As far as mountain towns go, there is perhaps no more superlative example than Jackson, Wyoming. Its proximity to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks sparks recognition and interest from persons with only the most casual interest in the outdoors. When you factor in the less-heralded destinations in the vicinity—hot springs, the Gros Ventre Wilderness, rivers for trout fishing and paddlesports—and the opportunities for world-class winter recreation, then it’s no surprise that Jackson is a magnet.
The town attracts those who want to live in an area that provides them with a shorter commute to high-quality outdoor recreation than most people have to their jobs. From twenty-something seasonal employees in the guide and service industries to retired multi-millionaires (or billionaires), the mythos and landscape around Jackson create a powerful draw.
Although I’ve yet to pass through Jackson, Wyoming or Teton County (but I have been to Jackson, Montana and its quaint hot springs lodge plenty of times), I was intrigued by the recent book Billionaire Wilderness: The Ultra-Wealthy and the Remaking of the American West by Justin Farrell. I’ve always been interested in the counties and towns that I pass through on my way to backpacking trips—from touristy spots like Gatlinburg, Tennessee and Sedona, Arizona to out-of-the-way places like Loomis, Washington, and Lemhi County, Idaho—so a book about one of the most well-known jumping-off points for outdoor recreation in the West caught my attention.
The book’s subtitle promised an analytical and thorough look at the demographics of Teton County, the impacts, influences, and opinions of its most wealthy citizens, and the role played by the natural landscape in the area’s culture.
The book more than delivered on these promises. Copious graphs, interview excerpts, and original research provided a depth that was illuminating and somewhat unexpected for a book intended for a general (i.e. non-academic) audience. The complex relationships between the wealthiest residents, the nonprofits they supported, the communities where they lived, and their outsized impact on day-to-day issues that affected the average resident (such as affordable housing) were all examined in detail.
Like most people who enjoy open spaces, I’ve generally thought of organizations focused on land preservation and limiting development to unquestionably be “the good guys.” This book made me realize that there is considerable nuance involved and often scant attention paid to the unintended consequences of such efforts—particularly that by locking up land in conservation easements in areas with limited options for building that available housing becomes much more expensive. This eventually prices out the people that live and work in the communities, which ultimately changes the character of a place.
The interviews with the ultra-wealthy of Jackson and Teton County, as well as the folks who worked for them, were fascinating and gave humanity to issues of inequality and privilege that are often rendered in the abstract. Along with the impeccable documentation of cost-of-living and availability of housing in the area and other changes over time, such interviews were one of the strongest areas of the book. Farrell’s portrayal of his subjects and their impacts on the area in which they reside is systematic and not overly sympathetic—which should be expected given that the author is a sociology professor at Yale. His thesis that “the affluent of Teton County are people burdened by stigmas, guilt, and status anxiety—and they appropriate nature and rural people to create more virtuous and deserving versions of themselves” is fully borne out by his book.
Reading this book caused me to look a bit more critically at my own community in western Montana and the similarities it has with a place like Jackson. While it is a much more affordable town and nowhere near the tourist destination that Jackson is, certain themes are now more apparent and the potential long-term impacts of changes in its demographics and industries became a bit more concerning. These issues aren’t unique to Jackson, of course, although they are certainly most apparent and pervasive there.
It will be interesting to see how the dynamics of other Western mountain towns change as their demographics began to follow a similar trend, especially given the “Zoom town” phenomenon—where persons who can work remotely are relocating from cities to mountain towns that are ostensibly more desirable places to live. A recent article in High Country News details how conflict can arise between the primary residents and the elites of a community and is filled with quotes and descriptions of challenges that are eerily familiar after having read “Billionaire Wilderness.”
While certainly not a book about backpacking, or even intended for persons interested in the outdoors, Farrell’s book will likely be of special interest to backpackers who live in—or those who are contemplating moving to—mountain towns in the west. It is also a worthwhile read for those who pass through these places and are curious about the demographics and social structures of the towns where they get gas, a last-minute fuel canister, a meal, or a hotel room on their way to and from national parks and wilderness areas in the west.
This book is intended for a general audience, at least according to the publisher, but with all the figures, graphs, and the often dry academic prose I found it to be written for the average reader in about the same way that a Z-packs Duplex shelter or a Hyperlite Mountain Gear pack is designed (and priced) for the average backpacker. The topic is fascinating and the research is impeccable, but a more informal format and conversational tone would have made this important topic more accessible to a wider audience.
A winter backpacking gear list for hiking on packed-snow trails in dry (low-humidity) climates.
There is a big difference between winter backpacking on highly-trafficked, packed snow trail corridors and winter backpacking in deep powder snow. This article offers some insight into how to pack for trips where you’re hiking predominantly on packed snow trails.
Hiking on packed snow trails is less intimidating than hiking in deep snow on snowshoes or skis, and if you’re into high-mileage trips, hiking packed snow trails allows you to cover a lot of distance. Areas where frequent human overland traffic (i.e., hiking, ski, snowshoe, fatbike, or snowmobile) keep trail corridors packed down provide opportunities that are more accessible to beginning and intermediate backpackers. US ranges that come to mind include the Whites and Adirondacks of the NE, the Rockies of SW Montana, NW and SE Wyoming, and N Colorado, and the coastal ranges of the California E Sierra, E Oregon, and N Cascades of Washington. Backpacking in deep snow, in remote wilderness far from trailheads and population centers – that’s a subject for another day.
I first published a winter backpacking gear list here in 2004, which was subsequently updated in 2014. That gear list was tailored for camping in snow shelters, and included various luxuries such as a saw, for cutting firewood and limbs to help add snow shelter structure.
In contrast, this article will focus less on camping and in-camp comfort and more on what I’m currently using when I’m trying to cover more miles. Consequently, this kit is tuned (for me) for efficiency (spending less time doing things involving gear) rather than minimizing every last ounce.
Some examples reflecting these choices include:
Download: our printable winter backpacking gear list (PDF)
Note: all weights reported in this article are the directly measured weights of my gear, not the manufacturer-reported weights.
For high-mileage winter treks, I’ll hike highly-trafficked, snow-packed (and sometimes icy) trail corridors most of the time. That’s my rationale for building a lightweight, comfortable footwear system with a spike-based traction device instead of snowshoes or skis.
However, I’ll camp a few hundred yards away from those corridors, which may require me to walk through deeper snow to find campsites. I don’t really want to haul the weight of snowshoes just for this, so will rely on waterproof shoes and high gaiters to keep my feet as dry as possible while post-holing through deep snow.
I like to think of my clothing in four layers:
Based on the conditions I’m expecting, I’d rather adjust the insulating capacity or storm-resistance of the pieces in any of these layers than adding more layers, which adds complexity to the system.
That said, I may not have the flexibility to pick and choose from various pieces of gear, so adding a layer becomes both practical and economical. For example, I own one active insulating jacket right now, and I’d be more apt to add my synthetic insulated vest to boost my hiking clothing warmth rather than add a new, more insulated active layer to my already-cluttered gear closet.
The wind blows almost continuously in the winter season where I normally hike (SE Wyoming and N Colorado), so my standard hiking clothing is tuned to that normality. On a typical winter day, the temperature is 10 to 25 deg F (-12 to -4 deg C), with winds blowing in the range of 10 to 20 mph (16 to 32 kph). And so I dress for the wind chill temperature, not the ambient temperature. For example, on a day where the ambient temperature is 15 deg F (-5 deg C) and the wind is blowing 15 mph (24 kph), the wind chill temperature will be around 6 deg F (-14 deg C) (online wind chill calculator).
If I’m expecting cooler temperatures, I’ll increase my base layer weight, the weight of my active insulation layer, or just add an additional long or short sleeve crew base layer under the merino hoody. In addition, if I’m expecting colder temperatures and wind, and plan to wear the vapor barrier mitts most of the time while hiking, I’ll replace the heavier fleece gloves with a thinner fleece liner for a two-layer mitten system that allows me to take the mitten off for a few minutes without suffering cold hands in very windy conditions.
Additional storm clothing is predicated on the idea that I need to preserve body heat leaks and blowing spindrift ingress into my clothing system. If the weather forecast is calling for colder temperatures or higher winds, I’ll add a high-loft pile balaclava.
My in-camp clothing meets one spec: maximum warmth-to-weight ratio. I would adjust the jacket, pants, and booties for more extreme (colder) conditions.
On most nights, I would find a sheltered camp deep in the forest. The mountains of SE Wyoming and N Colorado enjoy a high density of Sherman granite rock outcroppings, and it’s not often difficult to find sheltered places to sleep within their nooks and crannies. So the tarp usually stays in my pack, and the bivy is my main shelter. I’ll pitch the tarp at forested campsites during heavy snow events for some entry/exit protection for the bivy sack, or for a sheltered cooking site.
There’s a compelling argument to use a small pyramid instead of a tarp. Pyramids are easier to pitch and offer full-perimeter protection. I waffle back and forth between the two during the winter, as I really enjoy the creativity and art that comes with pitching a tarp in various configurations.
For subzero F (< -18 C) low temperatures, I add a synthetic overquilt to my mummy bag, and a thicker closed-cell foam pad.
My decision to bring an MSR Reactor instead of a lighter stove like my Caffin V4 is based on my desire to make water from snow as fast and as simple as possible, especially when wearing mittens when the temperature is very cold.
Food is packaged for efficiency. No multi-course meals, nothing requiring extended cooking times. I make my own freeze-dried food in a Harvest Right Home Freeze Dryer.
Most of my drinkable water will come from melting snow. I usually won’t boil it (to save time and fuel), so will use the Aquamira as purification insurance from pathogenic bacteria and algae that can grow in old snow.
I usually select my pack last. I choose the smallest and lightest model I own to fit the gear I need, and that can comfortably carry the weight of that gear. In the winter, I prefer a pack that is a bit oversized for my kit. It’s easier to pack while wearing mittens.
I generally find electronics, and especially phones, difficult to use in cold winter conditions (especially while wearing mittens), and try to minimize my dependence on them. That said, navigating with a smartphone phone GPS app can save a lot of time, especially in a winter blizzard.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
Rex Sanders interviews Michael Glavin, the founder and general manager of Zenbivy.
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Roger Caffin troubleshoots the heat shunt on V4 of his inverted canister stove design.
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Shilletha Curtis recounts a harrowing encouter and invites the reader to see the world through her eyes.
Jagged rocks and enormous boulders lay scattered throughout the forest, hidden under the shelter of autumn’s fallen leaves. Each step felt as if a needle was penetrating through the frail soles of my raggedy turquoise trail runners. Up in the vibrant blue sky, the sun smiled radiantly upon my friend and me as we trekked through a short section of the Pennsylvania Appalachian Trail. Our goal was to hike thirty miles in three days on the AT, from Delaware Water Gap to Wind Gap, a stretch that is beautiful but brutal as hell.
Pennsylvania was a state that scared me because of all the banter regarding how horrible the rocks are, but I needed to have the mental challenge to prepare myself for my winter AT thru-hike. Embracing the suck is exactly what I did, and I leaped for joy when a change to rockless terrain offered relief. There were numerous challenges while hiking the second day—the water source was turned off at Kirkridge shelter, rocks were in great abundance, and sweltering humidity drained us all.
Music played through one headphone in my left ear as I sang along merrily down the trail with not a care in the world. I felt ready to take on the last six miles of the day. Everything in the forest was blissful, from the sleepy rhododendron to the pincushion lichen flourishing down below—and then it all flew away in the wind. Out in the distance, I noticed a lanky white man who appeared to be in his early thirties, standing behind a tree. As we started to walk by him, my energy did a full 180. Dark energy invaded the atmosphere like a pack of vultures on a fresh kill; shivers ran down the ridges of my spine.
“A—r—e you guys ….thru-hiking” he stammered, nearly unable to stand. His knobbly knees could barely support his muscular body. He swayed back and forth like an old tree waiting to crash to the Earth. Billows of smoke dissipated in the air, but there was no scent to be found. Marijuana was not his choice of substance, but he definitely appeared to be on something.
A long navy-blue duffle bag lay in his hands, similar to a punching bag. There was no gear that indicated that he was a hiker. Great. I turned to my friend and noticed the orange Garmin device on her backpack, and I sighed. At least we had that option. I was hoping not to communicate with this man, but I knew to engage in conversation and look him in the eye, let him know that I did indeed see him. My friend gave a firm, “yes” and we kept walking.
We looked at each other and knew it was time to hike at substantial speed with a sense of urgency. We knew that was our best chance. We had no wish to confront a man who might be under the influence of drugs.
I assumed my friend was no stranger to this event; neither was I. This is the narrative of many women who hike and camp alone or in a pair. Our biggest fears are not bears, venomous rattlesnakes, or disease-carrying ticks—it is men. This excerpt from a 2017 Outside Magazine poll will be eye-popping to male readers but unsurprising to female ones. “Fifty-three percent of respondents said they’d been sexually harassed while recreating. Of those, 93 percent have been catcalled, 56 percent have been followed by someone (by foot, in a car, or on a bike), 18 percent have been flashed, and 4 percent have been attacked.”
The poll goes on to say, “when asked if you’ve ever felt afraid for your safety while recreating, 66 percent said yes. What are you most concerned about when it comes to safety? Thirty-four percent said “men” or “getting assaulted/harassed.” “Bears” came in second with only 12 percent.”
Men. Men like this one, lurking behind a tree like a mountain lion.
There were no weaknesses here. For one, I had my dog, who would have gladly defended me, and secondly, we were two very well-prepared ladies. I learned a few self-defense moves and how to attack with gear items such as a trowel and trekking poles if need be. One of my good friends taught me to always walk through the forest with my head up, always be aware of my surroundings, and greet everyone you pass for identification and intimidation purposes. No creep wants to be identified and looked in the eye. They want you to be oblivious. These types of men are like black bears. They want an easy meal, not one that is going to put up a fight. They want to claim the power.
Adrenaline does something spectacular to the body in which you become almost superhuman. I had no idea how fast I could walk over a sea of rocks up and down the mountain until I had to.
Every time I turned around, he was still lurking in the distance, staring straight at us. I stared back at him because I knew that showing fear, no matter how scared I was – well, fear wasn’t an option. After half a mile we finally lost him. We took a breath of fresh air after what seemed like an eternity. Our minds seemed to have blurred the events of what just occurred, and we could barely recall any of the terrain we had just traversed over. For a moment in the forest, we did not care about the naked trees, autumn’s vibrant leaves, or the warm drops of sweat running down our faces. We only cared about our safety.
Over the summer, I had thoroughly read about the twelve murders that had occurred on the Appalachian Trail. Googling safety on the AT became a sort of an obsession as I wanted to be prepared rather than scared.
As a Black woman in the forest, my safety is my utmost concern as racism does not end on the trail. Being a woman comes with baggage that I wish we did not have to carry. Being followed, strange men walking into camp, and inappropriate comments are beyond frightening, and my incident is not isolated. These traumatic events prevent or discourage women from hiking or camping alone due to concerns about men preying on them.
Over the summer I hiked with women from a northern New Jersey hiking group who have expressed great concern about their safety while hiking. They have called me brave for trekking alone. It burdens my heart that we live in a world where women’s biggest threats are men. We have to take precautions and be vigilant no matter where we go in fear that a predator could be lurking around a tree waiting to attack. When we tell others we are hiking alone, their responses are “Really? You’re going alone,” or “You should bring a strong man along to protect you.”
Yes. I am going alone. I do not walk in fear, though at times I am afraid. I carry weapons for my protection, and I am learning self-defense. Carrying a Garmin InReach, SPOT, or other GPS tracking device along with a knife-necklace, mace, bear spray, etc., can offer a great sense of protection not only for women on the trail but also loved ones back at home. It shouldn’t be this way, but it is.
Every step in the forest is a mindful one. Little changes and knowledge can make potentially life-threatening interactions much safer, and I encourage women hikers to learn as much about self-protection as they can. And I encourage white men to listen to my voice, share this article with other white men, and have hard conversations with peers. I want the predominately white, predominately male world of backpacking to understand that it is different for people who aren’t white or male.
It shouldn’t be this way.
But it is.
In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, Andrew and Ryan talk about mental health. As their jumping-off point, they use a recent paper called Levels of Nature and Stress Response.
In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, Andrew and Ryan talk about mental health. This is something they both struggle with, and they’ve got a lot of thoughts on how to manage it both in and out of the backcountry. As their jumping-off point, they use a recent paper called Levels of Nature and Stress Response.
Also in this episode: new favorite winter gear, updates on the new website, and some recent favorite content at BPL. Also—has Andrew finally found some trail runners that will last more than 500 miles?
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Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.
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The Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot is a flexible, insulated, waterproof, zero-drop footwear option for minimalist shoe lovers who still want warm feet in cold and snowy conditions.
The Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot ($149.99, 14.9 oz / 422 g each) is a flexible, lightweight (for a snowboot) insulated, waterproof, zero-drop footwear option for minimalist shoe lovers who still want warm feet in cold and snowy conditions.
The Alpine Snow Boot will look familiar to anyone who’s encountered Xero Shoes in the past. The huarache-inspired straps, zero-drop construction, lightly-lugged outsole, and minimalist mid-sole are all standard Xero Shoes features. But unlike the Mesa Trail (a Xero Shoes trail runner I reviewed here), the Alpine Snow Boot is insulated, waterproof, and high-topped.
This feature-set caught my eye because I just can’t do the whole trail-runner-and-waterproof-sock thing in the wintertime. My feet get too cold. On the other hand, I hate clunky, stiff winter boots just as much as any self-respecting lightweight backpacker does. So I was excited to test The Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot this season because it seemed to offer a compromise—combining warmth and protection from the elements with the dialed-in-fit, flexibility, durability, and spacious toe-box I’ve come to expect from the Xero Shoes.
The warmth, waterproofness, flexibility, fit, comfort, and (comparatively) low weight of the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot have vaulted it to the top of my list when it comes to snowshoeing and winter hiking/backpacking when I know I’ll be wearing traction spikes. My feet are prone to blisters and cold while snowshoeing, and the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot addresses both these issues.
If you think you’ll be scrambling over ice-slicked granite, look elsewhere. The short lugs and minimalist outer sole are great for comfort and a low center of gravity while wearing snowshoes and traction spikes but are a liability in other commonly encountered winter conditions.
DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)
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