Articles (2020) - Page 22 of 145

Winter Backpacking on Packed-Snow Trails (Gear List)

A winter backpacking gear list for hiking on packed-snow trails in dry (low-humidity) climates.

Introduction

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.

person wearing down parka inside a snow cave — Ca. 2014 inside a makeshift winter snow cave built adjacent to a forest of shallow snow (snowpack is only about 5 ft / 1.5 m deep). Mill Creek Valley, Montana. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

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:

Shelter – Choosing a lightweight tarp and bivy sack instead of a winter tent, but enjoying the comfort and warmth of a two-pad bed and mummy sleeping bag.
Cooking – Choosing a stove that can melt snow as fast as possible, even in stormy conditions, rather than an ultralight stove that might require more care and fiddling to get the most out of it in winter conditions.

Summary of Context

Locale – SE Wyoming / N Colorado (I currently live in Laramie, WY and my “home” hiking ranges include the Snowy and Sherman Ranges in WY and RMNP and surrounding areas in CO)
Elevation – 8,000 to 12,000 ft (2440 to 3660 m)
Terrain – mostly highly-trafficked trails, packed snow and ice, some deep snow / off-trail
High temperatures – 10 to 32 F (-12 to 0 C)
Low temperatures – 0 to 20 F (-18 to -7 C)
Winds – moderate (up to 20 mph / 32 kph) in the forest; high (up to 50 mph / 80 kph or more) above the treeline

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.

Footwear & Traction System

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.

man hiking on bridge next to sign that reads "wild basin" — This article features a gear list that is tuned to dry, cold, snowy, forested environments where trails receive enough traffic to stay (for the most part) packed enough to use traction spikes instead of skis or snowshoes, like this one in Rocky Mountain National Park. Photo credit: Stephanie Jordan

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.

layout of trekking poles, waterproof socks, wool socks, gaiters, shoes, and traction spikes — Footwear and traction system. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Footwear & Traction Gear Notes:

TRAIL RUNNING SHOES / Hoka Speedgoat Mid GTX 2 (Size 9.5) / 26.0 oz (737 g) / high stack height provides good insulation from cold snow and ice, sized up one half to full size to accommodate thicker socks and sometimes, a waterproof sock
TRACTION SPIKES / Black Diamond Distance Traction Spikes (Size L) / 8.2 oz (232 g) / soft-shell toe cover prevents snow and ice buildup on laces, and shorter spikes allow for less tripping while moving fast on icy trails
CALF-HEIGHT GAITERS / Outdoor Research Verglas Gaiters (Size M) / 6.5 oz (184 g) / not as light as so-called ultralight gaiters, but packcloth ankle area is more durable for forest bushwhacking and errant spike-pokes from the other foot; I prefer the OR Helium Gaiter when I know I won’t be bushwhacking much
WARM SOCKS / Darn Tough Full Cushion Boot Socks / 3.3 oz (94 g) / provides good insulation in cold temps
WATERPROOF SOCKS / Rocky Gore-Tex Socks / 2.9 oz (82 g) / for hiking in extreme cold, and for added comfort when in camp; size up two (or more) full sizes to make them easier to take on and off, and to layer over thick insulating hiking socks
ULTRALIGHT TREKKING POLES / Black Diamond Distance Carbon Running Poles / 6.4 oz (181 g) / adjustability isn’t needed for pitching the tarp in a storm pitch, snow baskets not needed for hiking on packed trails

lower legs of a hiker wearing boots and gaiters, with traction spikes affixed to the boots; and trekking poles — A winter backpacking footwear and traction system includes five components: socks, shoes, gaiters, a traction device (e.g., spikes), and trekking poles. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

man hiking through deep snow en route to a campsite — When hiking off-trail the snow surface often transitions from packed to powder. You’ll need some type of gaiter to prevent snow ingress into the tops of your shoes. Gaiters help keep your feet dry while winter backpacking. Here, we leave the packed trail and trudge through untracked snow to a campsite. Photo credit: Stephanie Jordan

person standing on an icy trail wearing traction spikes — Taking advantage of traction spikes on a water-iced trail in Rocky Mountain National Park. During winter, ice dams can divert streamflow into trail corridors, creating a slick mess of ice that persists until the spring thaw. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Clothing System

I like to think of my clothing in four layers:

base – my next-to-skin layers
hike – the clothing I wear for most conditions on the trail during the daytime
storm – the clothing I add when temperature drops, precipitation gets heavy, or the wind increases
camp – the insulation I use in camp while inactive, or in the sleeping bag on the coldest nights

a 4-panel image showing base layer clothing, hiking clothing, storm clothing, and camp clothing — My four layering systems, L to R: base, hike, storm, camp. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

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.

Hiking Clothing

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.

a 4-panel image showing base layer clothing, hiking clothing, storm clothing, and camp clothing, with base layer clothing highlighted — BASE – base layer top (a merino hoody) and bottom (lightweight long underwear over merino boxer-briefs). Worn by themselves in the sleeping bag or the hoody by itself in exceptionally warm and sunny conditions. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

a 4-panel image showing base layer clothing, hiking clothing, storm clothing, and camp clothing, with hiking clothing highlighted — HIKE – hiking clothes, which are worn most of the time on the trail, are worn over the base layers and include an active insulation jacket, softshell pant, and fleece gloves. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Hiking Clothing Notes:

UNDERWEAR / Smartwool Merino 150 Boxer Brief / 3.1 oz (88 g) / lacks durability for long-distance days in the summer, but cozy and warm for winter hiking
BASE LAYER BOTTOMS / Patagonia Lightweight Capilene Long Underwear Bottoms / 3.5 oz (99 g) / combine with soft-shell pants for a breathable pant system for winter cold and wind
SOFTSHELL PANTS / Arc’teryx Sigma FL Pant / 12.6 oz (357 g) / blocks moderate wind while remaining breathable; sheds snow well; stretchy comfort for mobility
BASE LAYER TOP / Smartwool PhD Light Hoody / 9.2 oz (261 g) / a cozy hood makes this a comfy layer
ACTIVE LAYER SHELL / Arc’teryx Proton FL Hoody / 11.1 oz (315 g) / highly-breathable, lightly-insulated wind shirt
BEANIE HAT / ZPacks Fleece Beanie / 0.9 oz (26 g) / light beanie combines with base layer and wind shirt hoods for adjustment to changes in cold and wind – I generally prefer a full-loft double-layer fleece beanie like this in the winter because of its balance of breathability vs. wind resistance
FLEECE GLOVES / Outdoor Research Flurry Sensor / 2.5 oz (71 g) / for temperatures not requiring insulated mitts / high loft, good moisture and wind resistance, outstanding dexterity, and terrific fingertip sensor, especially with a smartphone GPS app
SUNGLASSES / Smith Photochromic & Polarized / 1.4 oz (40 g) / sophisticated tech lens provides visual acuity in rapidly changing light during unstable winter weather, weight incudes a Pilotfish retainer strap

man backpacking on a winter trail — When the weather is fair but temperatures are cold, I like to wear a softshell jacket and pants over a baselayer hoody and long johns, with a thin hat and liner gloves. Photo credit: Stephanie Jordan

Storm Clothing

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.

Storm Clothing Notes:

STORM SHELL / Arc’teryx Zeta FL Jacket (Size L for layering) / 7.6 oz (215 g) / waterproof-breathable hardshell not usually needed in sub-freezing conditions when snowfall is light but essential when wind chills approach 0 F or colder or during heavy snowfall
WATER-RESISTANT INSULATED MITTENS / RBH Designs Ultralight Vapor Mitts / 6.6 oz (187 g) / critical insurance in cold temperatures when the wind is blowing
NECK GAITER / Merino Buff / 1.7 oz (48 g) / helps seal head and neck area in very cold temps
SNOW GOGGLES / Smith Chromapop Snow Goggles / 4.9 oz (139 g) / for blizzards, light-responsive in sunny vs. overcast conditions, weight includes microfiber sleeve

man hiking in a winter storm — Donned with storm gear near the treeline in Rocky Mountain National Park – vapor barrier mittens, hardshell jacket, merino wool neck gaiter, and snow goggles. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

In-Camp Clothing

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.

a 4-panel image showing base layer clothing, hiking clothing, storm clothing, and camp clothing, with camp clothing highlighted — CAMP – clothing for maximum insulation, layered over hiking and/or storm clothing in the evenings and early mornings, and layered inside the sleeping bag on the coldest nights. Camp clothes include an insulated hoody, the merino neck gaiter, insulated pants, and insulated booties. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

In-Camp Clothing Notes

INSULATED PANTS / Western Mountaineering Flash Down Pants / 6.6 oz (187 g) / pull-on style difficult to use with shoes and spikes but lighter than side zip styles; would upgrade to a more insulated, side-zip pant in sub-zero F temperatures
INSULATED JACKET / PhD Yukon K Hoody / 12.4 oz (352 g) / pullover-style, very warm hood; would upgrade to a heavier jacket in sub-zero F temperatures
EXTRA SOCKS / Darn Tough Full Cushion Boot Socks / 3.3 oz (94 g) / dry socks for night
INSULATED BOOTIES / Goosefeet Down Socks / 2.1 oz (60 g) / warmth while in sleeping bag and during late-night calls of nature

man eating soup wearing a down parka at a bivy camp in the snow — Insulated clothing with as high of a warmth-to-weight ratio as possible is some of the most important gear you can carry in the winter. I’ve regretted purchasing a bunch of other gear, but I’ve never regretted the money I’ve spent on ultralight, high-fill down winter gear – my parka, down pants, sleeping bag, and booties. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Sleeping & Shelter

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.

tarp, bivy sack, nail stakes, extra guylines, and a stake hammer — Shelter gear for winter below the treeline – tarp, bivy sack, nail stakes, and extra guylines for tying the tarp to trees or rigging deadmen anchors from sticks. On rare occasions, I would bring a very light ice climbing or geologist’s hammer for pounding stakes into frozen ground. That’s not necessary in most forested locations, but I’ve found a hammer to be increasingly useful since moving to SE Wyoming several years ago. Here, low snowpack at moderate elevations (8,000 to 10,000 ft /2,400 to 3,000 m) and frigid winters make it nearly impossible to push stakes into the ground – and most of the rocks are frozen into the ground as well and very difficult to remove. A stake hammer can save enormous time and energy in some cases. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

layout of a winter backpacking bed - bivy sack, sleeping bag, inflatable pad, closed cell foam pad, and pillow. — For me, the bed is my line of defense against the worst storms. It’s cozy, warm, and comfortable. The key components are the bivy sack (orange), the sleeping bag, the insulated inflatable pad (yellow), the closed-cell foam pad (gray), and the pillow (black). Add earplugs and hunker down for a night of winter bliss! Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Sleeping and Shelter Notes

SNOW SHOVEL / Snowclaw Guide Shovel / 6.4 oz (181 g) / for sculpting campsite and bed
SHELTER / Hyperlite Mountain Gear 8’6″ x 8’6″ Flat Tarp / 13.6 oz (346 g) / rarely pitched, except for cooking and shelter in heavy snow or high wind (included in weight – stuff sack and guylines on all attachment points)
BIVY SACK / MSR Pro Bivy / 8.6 oz (244 g) / fast and simple shelter without having to deal with stakes and guylines in winter
STAKES / Vargo Titanium Nail Stakes / 0.5 oz (14 g) ea / used with the shelter for frozen ground; don’t opt for so-called ultralight versions of nail pegs (e.g., from Toaks or Vargo) – they aren’t strong enough for frozen ground
EXTRA GUYLINE CORD / 32 ft x MSR Ultralight Utility Cord / 1.2 oz (34 g) / extra guyline lengths for pitching the shelter in deep snow, using sticks as deadman anchors, or rigging to trees
SLEEPING BAG / Feathered Friends Lark UL 10 / 31.2 oz (885 g) / cozy and warm winter bag with water-resistant shell helps manage condensation in bivy; would upgrade to a warmer bag in sub-zero F temperatures, but when combined with in-camp insulating clothing, this is comfortable down to about -5 F (-21 C) for me while sleeping in a bivy sack on a windy night
INFLATABLE SLEEPING PAD / Nemo Tensor Insulated (Regular/Wide) / 21.4 oz (607 g) / wide pad for comfort during long winter nights (included in the weight: pad inflation bag, 2.1 oz / 59 g)
FOAM SLEEPING PAD / Gossamer Gear Thinlight Pad / 2.5 oz (71 g) / weight noted for the 1/8 in thick model; adds warmth for sleeping direct on snow; would upgrade to 1/4 in thick model for sub-zero F temps
PILLOW / Hyperlite Mountain Gear Stuff Sack Pillow (Size L) / 4.0 oz (113 g) / I use open-cell foam (included in weight) and extra clothing to adjust height as needed to keep my spine aligned

man operating a backpacking stove near his bivy sack in a snowy winter camp — A winter bivy camp, tucked up against the lee side of a 10 x 30 ft (3 x 9 m) granite boulder during a winter storm that brought sub-zero F temperatures and a severe wind chill warning. When using a bivy sack, do everything you can to stay out of the wind. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

man camping under a backpacking tarp, making coffee on a camp stove — A flat tarp that is large enough to pitch in “storm mode” (i.e., with three edges staked to the ground) is a suitable winter shelter below the treeline, especially when combined with a bivy sack. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Cooking & Food

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.

layout of cooking gear, including a zippered stow bag, fuel canister on a plywood base, radiant burner stove, heat exchanger cook pot, folding spoon, fire starter, titanium mug, cheesecloth for filtering melted snow into a water bottle, and homemade reflective bubble wrap food cozy — My cooking gear for winter backpacking, with a focus on rapid snow melting. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Cooking Notes:

STOVE / MSR Reactor Stove / 6.2 oz (176 g) / rapid and reliable snow melting and water boiling
FUEL / MSR IsoPro (3.9 oz / 110 g net weight of fuel, 7.4 oz / 210 g gross weight of full canister) / / this size provides enough fuel to melt snow for water and cooking for trips up to 2 nights; will use the 220 g net size for longer trips
STOVE BASE / MYOG wood / 1.5 oz (43 g) / 3mm hobby plywood base with shock cord attachments to secure fuel canister, used to stabilize canister on snow
LIGHTER / Light My Fire Firesteel / 0.9 oz (26 g) / easy to use with mittens to light the stove
POT / 1.0 L MSR Reactor Pot / 8.3 oz (235 g) / fast stove and small water volumes afford me the ability to use the small pot, but it’s still large enough for a solo snow-melting pot
MUG / Snowpeak H200 Double-Wall Titanium / 2.1 oz (60 g) / double-wall titanium for coffee, tea, soup
UTENSIL / MSR Folding Spoon / 0.4 oz (11 g) / I prefer plastic vs. metal for winter, this one is light and durable, doesn’t get brittle in the cold
FOOD COZY / MYOG Reflectix & packing tape / 1.6 oz (45 g) / sized to fit my home-packaged freeze-dried meals in 10 x 10 in (25 x 25 cm) mylar bags
DEBRIS FILTER / MYOG cheesecloth w/shockcord / 0.2 oz (6 g) / secure over water bottle mouth, pour melted snow from stove pot into bottle through filter

Food Notes:

BREAKFASTS / 5 oz (142 g) per day / hot cereal with dried fruit, nuts, butter, coffee
DAYTIME SNACKS / 16 oz (454 g) per day / salty nuts, potato chips, butter balls, chocolate, candy, soup, coffee
DINNERS / 7 oz (198 g) per day / soup, MYOG freeze-dried meals (various recipes containing pasta, grain, or rice with sauce, legumes, veggies, and spices), tea
FLAVOR ENHANCER / 1 oz (28 g) per day / flavored hydration tablets / because the flavor of melted snow is gross

man sitting on ground and melting snow in a camp stove — My affinity for the MSR Reactor is based on its unique feature: it’s an extraordinary machine for melting snow fast, even in high winds and cold temperatures. Photo credit: Stephanie Jordan

a stuff sack full of snow (to be used for melting to create water while cooking), a fuel canister, a canister stove, a titanium mug, a folding spoon, and a fire starting device — I usually store my stove kit in some type of stow bag, like the zippered one shown here. It’s also used to gather clean snow for melting when I’m cooking, so it’s readily available when I sit down to use the stove. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Hydration & Water Treatment

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.

layout of hydration gear - a water bottle in a homemade reflective bubble wrap cozy, another water bottle, and a small aqua mira kit. — Minimalist hydration gear for winter backpacking. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Hydration and Water Treatment Notes:

BOTTLES / 2x Hydrapak Flux Bottle (1L) / 2x 3.1 oz (88 g) / form factor conveniently stows in my pack’s side pockets and bottle is easy to use while wearing mittens
BOTTLE COZIES / 1x MYOG Reflectix and packing tape / 1.4 oz (40 g) / to keep water from freezing while hiking; I only take one cozy, and keep the 2nd bottle stuffed in my pack to prevent freezing
WATER TREATMENT / Aquamira (mini kit) / 1.1 oz (31 g) / used to purify unboiled but melted snow for drinking water, weight includes 0.3 oz each of Part A and B, mixing camp, and DCF stow bag

person pouring water from a cooking pot through cheesecloth into a water bottle — Snow melted by the stove is poured through cheesecloth secured to the bottle opening with a shock cord ring. This removes most of the debris (dirt, pine needles, etc.) that can be found in old snow. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Packing

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.

layout showing a pack with its contents — Packing the kit – sleeping, food, shelter, water bottle #2, cooking, and other gear, along with the parka, go into the main compartment. Storm gear in the top pocket. One side pocket for the insulated water bottle in the cozy, the other side pocket for the foam pad, trekking poles if I’m stowing them, and stake hammer if I take that. Hip belt pockets get nav gear (left) or Aquamira, sunscreen, and snacks (right). TP Kit, extra food, and storage for stashing layers quickly go into the rear pocket. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Packing Notes:

BACKPACK / McHale Windsauk / 3.8 lb (1.7 kg) / DCF internal frame pack rigged with rear accessory pocket, top lid, roll-top closure, top strap, water bottle pockets, and hip belt pocket
INSULATION STORAGE / Sea to Summit Ultrasil Compression Sack (size M) / 2.9 oz (82 g) / for stowing sleeping bag, extra socks, booties, and down pants
SHELTER & SLEEP STORAGE / Hyperlite Mountain Gear DCF Pod (Size 4400-L) / 1.4 oz (40 g) / for sleeping pad and inflation bag, tarp, stakes, extra guylines, and bivy sack
FOOD STORAGE / Hyperlite Mountain Gear DCF Pod (Size 4400-L) / 1.4 oz (40 g) / keeps food conveniently organized and fits perfectly in pack body
OTHER STOW BAGS / Hyperlite Mountain Gear DCF (assorted pods or stuff sacks) / 2.5 oz (71 g) / one for “other” gear (see below), and one for cooking gear (stove, fuel, mug, firestarter, spoon, and my hot lunch for that day)

man standing, wearing a backpack on a snowy hill in the forest during the winter — I add several accessory pockets to my modular pack to create what I call its “winter configuration” – top lid pocket (storm clothing), rear pocket (toilet kit, insulating jacket), side pockets (foam pad on one side, water bottle on the other), and hip belt pockets (food, headlamp, and navigation tools). My smartphone and camera batteries stay close to my body to keep the batteries warm – usually in my jacket pockets. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Navigation & Electronics

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.

layout of navigation and electronics gear for winter backpacking - a heart rate monitor and fitness watch, satellite communicator, headlamp, compass, smartphone, and power bank — Navigation and electronics gear. The training tools (watch and HRM) are obviously not essential for winter backpacking. The headlamp, satellite communicator, map (not shown) and compass, phone, and some type of power bank to recharge the phone, headlamp, and communicator on long trips are. Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Navigation and Electronics Notes:

SATELLITE COMMUNICATOR / Garmin inReach Mini / 3.5 oz (99 g) / used for messaging and tracking for my people back home
WATCH / Garmin Fenix / 3.4 oz (96 g) / used for training
HRM / Garmin Run HRM / 1.8 oz (51 g) / used for training
SMARTPHONE / iPhone / 8.0 oz (227 g) / for GPS navigation and communications with the satellite communicator, weight includes protective case
GPS APP / Gaia GPS / 0.0 oz (0 g) / GPS app for smartphone
PAPER MAP / MYOG / usually about 1.5 oz (43 g) / used with compass for blizzard nav or extreme cold, printed with a color laser printer using Rite in the Rain Duracopy Paper, which can be written on, folded, and printed on both sides
COMPASS / Suunto A-10 / 1.0 oz (28 g) / used with paper map for blizzard nav or extreme cold, weight includes lanyard
HEADLAMP / Petzl Actik Core 450 / 3.6 oz (102 g) / I bring a real headlamp in the winter, for navigating into the evening on short winter days, weight includes an extra battery
POWER BANK / various models / 3-16 oz / 5,000-20,000 mAh depending on duration of trip – used to charge phone, watch, satellite communicator, and/or headlamp batteries

man using a map and compass while backpacking in snowy conditions — I keep a paper map and compass handy for big-picture navigating, and for real-time route-finding in cold temperatures when wearing gloves or mittens interferes with smartphone use. Photo credit: Stephanie Jordan

Other Gear

FIRST AID KIT / 4 oz (113 g) / minor wound and blister care, meds
REPAIR KIT / 2 oz (57 g) / tape, glue, sewing, fabric patches, pad repair
FIRESTARTING KIT / 1.5 oz (43 g) / cotton tabs and solid fuel cubes in waterproof zip bag
PERSONALS KIT / 6 oz (170 g) / toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, contact lens case and solution, anti-fog cloth, sunscreen, lip balm, bidet kit (hand sanitizer, dry cloth – use snow and evergreens for TP, mylar bag for packing out TP)

Caveats, Limitations, and Disclaimers

The clothing, sleep, and shelter systems are tuned for dry (low humidity and dry snow) climates, like the North-Central US Rockies where I hike and camp the most. If you backpack in wetter (more rain) and or high-humidity environments during the winter, your list may look different – especially when it comes to your insulation (down vs. synthetic).
I’ve selected hiking clothing, storm clothing, and shelter systems for below-the-treeline use where somewhat sheltered campsites can be found. Above the treeline in this region, winds can be fierce, and more clothing and more robust shelter will be needed.
The footwear system is designed for trafficked trail corridors where the tread underfoot is predominantly packed snow. Less-trafficked or off-trail hiking in deep snow will require snowshoes or skis.
In milder temperatures and/or less wind, less hiking clothing and thinner handwear may be needed than what is on my list here.
Likewise, in sub-zero F temperatures, more insulation may be required in your base layers, active insulation layer, mittens, footwear, headwear, sleeping pads, and sleeping bag.

Interview with Gear Creator Michael Glavin

Rex Sanders interviews Michael Glavin, the founder and general manager of Zenbivy.

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On Heatsinks and Thermal Balance

Roger Caffin troubleshoots the heat shunt on V4 of his inverted canister stove design.

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Followed in Plain Sight

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.

A woman with trekking poles walking on a ridge. — Hiking solo.

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.

Followed

“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.

Two Worlds

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.

Late fall. A trail through the woods with a single blaze on a tree. — The empty spaces in America can be dangerous for women. Women have to live under the constant burden of extra precautions.

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.

Episode 34 | Mental Health

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.

Stream

Summary

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?

a sad-looking man rests in a tent — Photo credit: Ryan Jordan

Outline

Intro Conversation

Ryan’s still freeze-drying food. Taco soup this time!
Andrew just completed his first ultra-marathon

New Favorite Things

Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot
Inov-8 Mudclaw G260 V2
Inov-8 Terraultra G270—Andrew’s summer testing shoe
Black Diamond Distance Spike Traction Device
Black Diamond Blitz Spike Traction Device

Mental Health

Depression and Wilderness: The Benefit of Wilderness as Therapy
Depression and Wilderness, Part Two: Wilderness Might Not Be Enough
Levels of Nature and Stress Response
Cortisol and chemicals
Fixing vs. resetting. Vs. managing
Interrupting cycles
Forcing yourself to leave tasks undone
Types of stimulus
Phylogenic perspective

Backcountry Mental Health Management

Simplifying your gear needs
Depleted surge capacity
Ben Kilbourne’s essay Backpacking in a Time of Uncertainty is a must-read.
Trekking poles?
Headspace
Oak
Calm

Frontcountry Mental Health Management

How you treat and think about outdoor exercise is also important – are you jamming it in between other things?
Sunsama

What’s New at BPL

Website update
Andrew’s essay Salamander Song
Emylene VanderVelden’s Nemo Equipment Kunai 3-4 Season Backpacking Tent Review

In the Forums

A MYOG fiddle?
The conversation around Maggie Slepian’s recent Learning Curve column Learning to Suffer

Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot Review (First Looks)

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.

Introduction

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 Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot. Photo: Xero Shoes

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.

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.

Features and Specifications

weight: 14.9 oz / 422 g (each)
wide toe-box
5.5 mm chevron-patterned outsole
synthetic upper
removable 2 mm heat-reflective insole
200 g polyester insulation
water-resistant membrane
seam-sealed inner bootie
vegan-friendly materials
MSRP: $149.99

Commentary

Fit and Comfort

The wide toe-box of the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot is especially important for me in the winter so I can wear thick socks and still have room to move my toes.
Even though it is technically a high-top boot, it has the flexibility and comfort of a trail runner.
I’m a fan of the huarache inspired strap system that Xero Shoes employs. It just seems to fit my feet well.

Warmth and Waterproofness

The waterproof membrane and inner lining of the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot kept my feet dry during extended, multi-day hikes and backpacking trips in the snow.
It remained waterproof in more slushy, splashy conditions (e.g., when warming conditions on trail caused slush puddles)
The 200 g polyester insulation (which is “rated” to -25 F / -32 C) and heat-reflective insole kept my feet warm in ranges from 15 F (-9 C) to 45 F (7 C).

Traction and Lugs

I have concerns about the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot’s traction. Xero Shoes uses a 5.5 mm chevron-patterned outsole here, and it just doesn’t handle slick, icy conditions as well as I’d like.
I slipped more than once in transitional areas between snow and ice, and the shoe is particularly bad at handling icy rock.

Durability

I have roughly 100 miles (161 km) on the Xero Shoes Alpine Snow Boot. So far the synthetic uppers are holding up against sharp, crusty snow well. I don’t see any noticeable wear on the fabric or separation of the bonded elements.

Ideal Use Cases

Snowshoeing with ultralight snowshoes
Winter hiking while wearing traction devices

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.

Less than Ideal Use Cases

Hiking on slick, icy surfaces
Hiking on steep, hard-packed snow

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.

Photos

Photo credit: Andrew Marshall

Where to Buy

Shop the Alpine Snow Boot at Xero Shoes

DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)

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.
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Learning Curve: Backpacking is the Great Equalizer

Maggie Slepian considers what it means to be a perfectly average backpacker in a city (and industry) full of high-achievers.

I have always been an average athlete. In fact, I could probably be considered a below-average athlete. One of my clearest childhood memories is from sixth grade. I was standing alone at recess when I heard one of the Cool Sports Kids tell another Cool Sports Kid: “We would have won the soccer game in gym class, but the teacher made us have Maggie on our team.”

Some memories just stand out because they perfectly encapsulate the entire middle school experience, right?

Well, Cool Sports Kid, joke’s on you! 15 years later, that soccer loser would go on to complete a very average thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.

Long-distance backpacking is one of the only tiers of the athletic realm where being average means nothing, because there is no competition. As the miles accumulate into the hundreds, and then thousands, most hikers (hopefully) stop comparing themselves to the people around them. They settle in with a group that is moving around their pace, and are too enraptured by the journey to care if they’re hiking 15 miles per day compared to someone else’s 25 miles per day. If you’re a thru-hiker still consumed by those numbers, congratulations, but you’re probably not the target audience of this column.

A woman hikes on a hill above the city of Bozeman, Montana — Averagely hiking around Bozeman, Montana a few weeks ago.

I’ve spent the last eight years living in a mountain town that attracts super-athletes in every category. The person in front of you at the grocery store, delivering your pizza, or parked next to you at the trailhead: any one of them could be a truly exceptional mountain athlete. If you’re hiking a peak, someone will run past you. If you’re pushing your bike up a seemingly impassable section of trail, another mountain biker is coming up behind you, clipped into their pedals on their third lap of the morning. It’s not competitive per se, but the comparison can be impossible to ignore. It’s like that sixth-grade gym class: if I am with a group of friends running, biking, or peak bagging, I am probably last. I might be an average athlete, but with my group of friends, my partner, and my chosen hometown, I fall far below average.

This is where backpacking provides freedom and relief. Backpacking isn’t competitive. You hike at your own pace, and the primary goal is to finish what you started. I constantly compared myself to other people when I first began backpacking. I’d look ahead in the guidebook and worry about being slower on climbs, having to stop before everyone else, needing more breaks. I worried they’d hear me breathing hard, or notice that I couldn’t hold a conversation because I was too busy rationing my oxygen. This created a needless cycle of stress and anxiety, worrying about the pace of the group and whether I was going to slow people down.

But of course, none of it mattered. I was slower than some people and faster than others—we all hiked at our own paces, and no one cared. If someone was having a good day, they were faster. If they were feeling worn out, they were slower and stopped earlier. Sometimes I hiked all day with people and sometimes I preferred to be on my own. Eventually it stopped bothering me when someone would pull ahead on long climbs. I’d either see them at camp, or I wouldn’t. Slowly, that fear of inadequacy I’d experienced in every other athletic endeavor faded.

That’s how long-distance backpacking goes. Hikers of all athletic abilities are doing the same thing, just at different paces. If the backpacking trip takes eight days instead of six, the biggest consideration is taking a few extra days’ worth of food, or planning for another resupply.

A woman in sunglasses sits on a ledge above the grand canyon — Backpacking in the Grand Canyon this fall. This group had varying athletic capabilities and it! Was! Still! Fun!

The only real definition of success with backpacking is reaching the end of your route or trail, and even that isn’t set in stone. Sick of your section hike? Finish early. Run out of time and money? Turn your thru-hike into a LASH. There are no winners; thus, there are no losers. The person who took seven months to hike the Appalachian Trail still thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail, just like the person who did it in 100 days.

As an average athlete, this loose definition of success is one of my favorite aspects of backpacking. An athletic activity that requires nothing more than forward motion over an extended period of time is a great equalizer in the world of sports.

Being an average athlete in a high-achieving mountain town is no longer shameful—I actually see it as a benefit. There’s less pressure as an average athlete—I’ve learned not to expect excellence, and to appreciate the activity at face value. When I set out from a trailhead, I’m not trying to set a record, impress anyone, or even look particularly good while I’m out there. I’m just there to hike, and it makes me enjoy it more. I’m accustomed to things feeling hard for me: I get winded easily, I need a lot of sleep each night, and my knees hurt on the steep downhills. If I think I’ll need more time, I plan for it without feeling bad about myself.

A woman sits on a boulder at the shores of an alpine lake, looking across the water. — Enjoying a hard-earned rest at an alpine lake. I don’t know how long it took to get here, and it doesn’t matter.

The “average is a blessing” lesson was not an easy pill to swallow. I’ve always wanted to be naturally good at things. This fruitless desire made me competitive, prone to ignoring risks in other sports like climbing, kayaking, and mountain biking. What I lacked in athleticism I tried to make up for in heady risks. But that pressure doesn’t exist with backpacking. I just get to walk. I don’t have to walk fast, and I don’t have to walk farther than I want to.

I just have to move forward.

My average-ness was solidified for me on the middle school playground: I can’t be good at all sports, and maybe I can’t be excellent at any of them. But being average made me seek out equal playing fields, which meant dedicating more time to scrambling around in the backcountry, exploring remote alpine lakes, planning long-distance hikes, and taking off from trailheads with just my backpack, a few days’ worth of food, and a vague timeline.

The release from performance pressure is something I’ve never experienced in another sport. The idea of being average fades away with the accumulating miles. Out there, I’m just a backpacker, and I always finish what I start.

The Overlook: Frozen Tracks – Monument Restoration and the Fate of the Upper Paria

Ben Kilbourne follows tracks in the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument as its fate once again hangs in the balance.

Will Biden Restore Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument?

The Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument was designated in 1996, with its original size encompassing 1,880,461 acres. President Bill Clinton famously signed the proclamation on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, several miles and a state away from the southern border of the new monument, an act seen by many local Utahns as cowardly, a slap in the face, and more proof that only outsiders wanted this land to hold monument status. A little over 20 years later, Trump pleased these same folks by reducing the size of the monument by about half. Now many who lamented the shrinking—locals and nonlocals alike—are anticipating President Joe Biden’s restoration of the monument to its original size. On his first day, he signed an executive order for the review of the monument boundaries. With all of this in mind, I decided to walk through an area that could be affected by whatever Biden decides to do to see if there was a story inherent in the place itself, one separate from the political division that accounts for most monument discussions.

Bear, coyote, and human prints in the frozen mud.

The Upper Paria

We were headed for the Upper Paria River Canyon, an area with particularly confusing designations. Decades ago, Wilderness Study Areas (WSAs) were created on either side of the canyon and according to the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA), “The Paria River bed through the proposed wilderness was excluded from the draft recommendation to allow ORV [off-road vehicle] use.” This is because the state and county claim the riverbed is an RS2477 road. These RS2477 roads were created during the Civil War to plot out transportation in the west. Many are unneeded, go nowhere, and create land-use designation nightmares like we’re seeing here. As I was typing away on this paragraph a friend texted me an article saying the U.S. Supreme Court rejected an appeal by the state and county over whether organizations had the right to challenge RS2477s. This means SUWA and others are now officially allowed to fight them.

While it may be the case that ORV use is allowed in the WSA agreement, the 2000 GSENM travel management plan says that the road is closed. Thus, it is shown on most maps as a black line (closed) rather than a red line (open) or blue line (admin only). So, ORV use in the canyon likely doesn’t violate the WSA designation but does violate the 2000 GSENM travel management plan. That said, the 20-year-old travel management plan isn’t really in effect because of the shrinking; the public has been awaiting a new one which simply never happened. Without a new travel management plan, the situation in the Upper Paria has been in limbo. Once Biden restores the old boundaries (nearly a guarantee) it could be two years before we see a new plan. Until then, the canyon may have to fend for itself. I wanted to check it out for myself, and see if all this confusion violated my idea of an aesthetic backpacking destination or a coyote’s idea of a viable home.

Biodiversity in the Upper Paria

My friend Michelle and I rolled up to the trailhead after dark and stepped out of the car into a freezing wind. That night was in the low teens, with a good layer of frost on my bag in the morning. It took what felt like an eternity for the sun to reach us, and we didn’t start walking until late morning. My feet warmed slowly as we ambled down the dirt road. We saw a lone cholla cactus and stopped to admire it. They’re rare this far north, and rareness is always exciting

The Paria River was half frozen, half flowing, all pain-inducing. We paced back and forth along the edge of the shallow water, looking for a way to get through without getting our feet wet, but there was none, and we eventually gave up, plodding reluctantly onto the ice and punching through to ice-cold mud and water below. The brilliant red of the Vermillion Cliffs and the bright blue of the sky vibrated against each other. Either one could have been the closer block of color, either one the further. Michelle’s hair was the same color as the cliffs, a warm pink, a product of a quarter-life-crisis, she had said. I was in the midst of my own third-life-crisis but had nothing to show for it, besides maybe this reckless trip, wearing shorts in 15 F (-9 C) weather. Someone should have told me to stay home. But the warmth and brightness made the land ahead look warm and inviting, and I almost forgot the frigid night prior.

The next morning, I woke early to read in my sleeping bag. After a while, I stood up and shivered. Michelle’s tent was silent and still. She must be getting those morning hours of sleep, often some of the best. The white cliffs at the end of the canyon started to illuminate softly with the light before the dawn light, features pushing into reality. Then without warning the mountain became a castle, suddenly bright gold, like the domes of an exotic city, a place of providence at the end of a cold road. I waited in the cold for providence to reach me when I heard whirring and looked up to see a huge flock of piñon jays whooshing over me like 70 mechanical blue drones on a pre-programmed mission: go to the warmth. Soon another flock appeared over the eastern canyon wall and headed up-canyon toward the golden city where the last had gone. Then a third flock did the same thing. I looked at Michelle’s tent but there was still no movement. She missed it. So this is what happens all winter when I’m tucked warmly in bed or making coffee comfortably in my tropical kitchen.

That day we continued up-canyon observing various tracks in salty sand. There were many human tracks, Vibram sole impressions now encrusted in salt, an odd relic of capitalism in this quiet and wild place. We humans walked single-mindedly up-canyon or down-canyon while deer with unknowable destinations crisscrossed our linear paths. Cows plodded aimlessly here and there. Coyotes, too, meandered through the canyon. One giant print was probably dog’s, and another large print had the characteristic three lobes, tear-dropped shaped pads, and retracted claws of a mountain lion.

Then I saw a print that threw me off. It almost looked human for a second, with toes distinct from the pad—forward-facing, but still too splayed to be human. It slowly came into focus as a black bear print with another much smaller one right beside it. Clearly a mother and her cub walking side by side down the canyon. Eventually, they must have decided enough was enough, there was no food or not the right food, or there was something roaring loudly in the canyon that seemed prudent to avoid, and they turned and went back north towards Bryce Canyon and the Paunsaugunt Plateau.

As we walked, the bear path and the human path crossed and re-crossed. We watched two histories play out before us, intertwined in the residual present. Then they encountered another, the ORV path, or rather it encountered them; time is broken at this scale. Tire tracks ran across all aforementioned tracks and I couldn’t square all of these realities in my mind at once. This seems to be the real issue at hand. Who do we really want using this canyon? Can backpackers, elk, bear families, coyotes, deer, mountain lions, cows, and ORV’s coexist in this corridor? What kind of land use designation would allow this coexistence? Or do some of us need to be excluded so others can thrive?

Remembering the Purpose of GSENM

When Grand Staircase-Escalante was designated, the emphasis or purpose of the monument was to protect archeological, paleontological, geologic, and biological resources for posterity. I honestly can’t say if my presence, cows’ presence, or ORVs’ presence is conducive to this goal. Here I am writing an article from a backpacking perspective about a premier backpacking destination, and yet I feel uncertain about such a promotion. Of course, not all recreation has the same level of impact. The wide footprint and far-reaching decibel roar of ORVs vastly outweigh my meager presence. If we’re talking about science in GSENM—and I think we are—then we should keep things like this in mind.

All I ask is that when the monument is restored, and a new travel management plan is being made, this RS2477 road should remain closed. The Upper Paria is an excellent backpacking destination with wilderness character and abundant wildlife—even in the dead of winter—proving that this is a place with all of the qualities the monument was created to protect. Most importantly, it hosts the biodiversity necessary for climate change resilience. Let us see beyond our recreational desires and remember this.

Michelle and I stopped for lunch where Sheep Creek entered the Paria. It flowed swift and clear over sparkling orange sand, so I topped off a water bottle. Then we dropped our packs on the beach and let the sun warm our feet. They felt like a couple of blocks of frozen parmesan cheese stuck to my ankles, about to crumble under me and leave me face down in the icy water. But then I started to feel my toes. I wiggled them; I still had human feet. The Vermillion Cliffs had been replaced by sandstone that looked like mounds of strawberry and vanilla ice cream. I glanced up-canyon. I could see that soon we would be transitioning out of the ice cream layer into yet another layer of sandstone, the white cliffs that caught the first light that morning.

“This place is incredible,” I said, stating the obvious.

Michelle eyed me with a look that said, “Duh.”

A western bluebird landed in a dead juniper behind us and yelled at us or maybe just the world; it was hard to say. Then another landed, and another. I didn’t know anything about these birds or how they are connected to the larger ecosystem. But I do know that maintaining those connections—whatever they are—is one of the main purposes of the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

I just hope the (forthcoming, but as yet unconfirmed) Secretary of the Interior, Deb Haaland, keeps this original purpose in mind as she and her team work towards making a decision on the monument.

Nemo Equipment Kunai 3-4 Season Backpacking Tent Review

The Nemo Kunai 2P Tent ($499, 4 lb 5 oz / 1.96 kg) is a four-season shelter capable of withstanding moderate storms and offers ample headroom and good ventilation.

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Standards Watch: Mike Cecot-Scherer on Tent Design

Rex Sanders interviews long-time gear designer Mike Cecot-Scherer about tent design. This is part two of a three-part series.

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How Can Cheap Butane Canisters be Modified to Work With Canister Stoves?

Roger Caffin discusses how you can modify and use cheap butane canisters with canister stoves in this MYOG article.

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The Overlook: Backpacking in a Time of Uncertainty

Is backpacking suddenly…hard? Ben Kilbourne understands, and discusses how to deal with it during uncertain times.

I’m Doing Fine!

Throughout the summer, despite the ongoing pandemic, an uncertain relationship, political division in the U.S., the impending election—and the possibility that it wouldn’t go smoothly—I somehow completed several multi-day backpacking trips and even the Uinta Highline Trail. I even said out loud on multiple occasions that I was actually enjoying quarantine, that I was enjoying my work routine at home, and that I liked cooking every meal every day. But by mid-September, something shifted in me.

Overlooking the San Juan Mountains. — September in the San Juans.

I started making plans to go backpacking in the Cascades with my sister. She lives in Portland, so I figured I would park in her driveway and use her WiFi to complete some writing and podcast work on either end of the trip. That week, however, the entire Northwest burst into flames. Air quality was atrocious in much of Oregon and Washington, the sky completely orange from dawn to dusk. My mind swirled with these considerations:

How do I deal with Covid-19 while visiting my sister? Should we both get tested and quarantine beforehand?
Should we risk backpacking in fire-prone forests in the Northwest?
Should we backpack in smoky areas with poor air quality?
Is there a trip in that area that is both safe and non-smoky? How should I go about planning it?
What if clashes between protesters and militias in Portland get worse? Do I really want to be there?
Portland may have to be evacuated. Could I get caught in the traffic pouring out in every direction?

I procrastinated because I simply couldn’t compute all of this. Finally, it was too late. Procrastination made the choice for me, and although it didn’t feel right, I decided to head south alone. There were fewer fires in the Four Corners area so I could at least stop worrying about that, but I’d be alone, which would prove to be less than desirable.

These days many of us are far more alone than we have ever been before. To compensate for this aloneness, we connect to our friends, and sometimes people we don’t even know via texts, emails, calls, and social media. There’s a togetherness that screens allow, but it’s only a partial togetherness. I’m virtually never alone while being simultaneously nearly always physically alone. This strange state has left me in fear of complete aloneness, real aloneness. As someone who has backpacked alone countless nights, this fear of aloneness was new for me, and strange, and worth investigating.

When I hit the road with a Weminuche Wilderness map on the seat beside me, I wasn’t quite ready to sever my connection to humans completely. Sitting in the truck after getting gas in Durango I sent some text messages out, hoping for an engagement—however mundane. Right before dusk I pulled into a campground and parked between ponderosas and gamble oak. A Steller’s jay greeted me from the picnic table. I stepped out of the truck and wobbled on my feet; I had forgotten to eat all day. After dinner, I walked out into the dark forest and stood and just looked into the darkness and the still-glowing sky beyond the trees. I thought about how all I wanted was certainty. Just certainty. Of any kind. In any aspect of life. I looked back towards the campground. And then I slowly made my way there.

the Animas River Valley — Descending toward the Animas River and the Weminuche Wilderness.

The next day, when I walked down steep switchbacks between yellow aspens, I couldn’t get out of my head. The smoky sunlight shined through a dramatic valley with nearly 3,000 feet of relief between the mountain tops and the Animas River. These mountains were new to me and intimidating. I looked at the twisted rock across the valley which trees managed to grow sparsely on despite its near verticality and was awed, but my awe stopped short of appreciation. I stood on a footbridge that ran over the Animas with banks still slightly yellow from the 2015 Gold King Mine Disaster. I listened to the water, but it sounded far away as if I was observing it through a screen just as I’d been observing most of the world over the past few months. As much as I tried to experience everything around me, I really couldn’t. I simply kept ruminating, my mind spinning with uncertainty.

Journal Entry — A journal entry from the first day of my Weminuche trip shows how scattered my mind was.

Later in the day, climbing a trail above the treeline I suddenly stopped. “What if it snows?” I thought. “I don’t want to be up here.” I hiked back down the trail and started looking for a camp in the forest. I scoped out a spot with too many dead trees and another that was too lumpy. Nothing was quite right.

Then I started second-guessing my choice not to go over that pass. I knew that it wasn’t supposed to snow, so why did fear of snow suddenly send me back down the trail? Moreover, I normally wouldn’t care one way or the other about snow, or I would even look forward to the beauty of snow-covered tundra at 11,000 feet. I felt like I just wanted someone to tell me what to do. Then I stood in the trees wondering why it was so hard to make any decision at all. I fell into extreme despair and just stood looking at the lumpy meadow in the afternoon light. Then I began judging myself for being unable to accomplish something previously so simple.

Depleted Surge Capacity

What’s going on here? I’ve been backpacking alone for years and yet I found myself incapable of something as simple as making a choice between walking over a pass or not. Even selecting a campsite was impossible. Apparently, I’m not alone.

Throughout the summer, I had been staying afloat by using what psychologist Ann Masten, Ph.D., calls surge capacity. “Surge capacity is a collection of adaptive systems—mental and physical—that humans draw on for short-term survival in acutely stressful situations, such as natural disasters,” Masten says.

I think of it as a form of adrenaline. We tap into it when we need it—to escape a mountain lion attack or a burning building—but it becomes depleted when we wake every morning only to find that mountain lion ready for the chase again. As the pandemic and other compounding uncertainties continue, and each day we grapple with the reality that things are still not how they used to be, our surge capacity eventually runs out.

I was unaware of the concept of surge capacity at the time, so I just stood in the trees judging myself harshly for not being able to accomplish simple tasks. I was still standing in the trees not knowing what to do when two men strolled by. The first exclaimed enthusiastically,

“Howdy! It just couldn’t be a better day, could it!?”

Caught off guard, I stammered “It’s, uhh, really nice.”

The sun setting in trees! — Where I stood in the trees unable to make previously simple decisions.

They walked on into the forest and I stood in the trail and watched them go. They’d been on the Colorado Trail for many days, so their appearance told me. I wondered what they knew that I didn’t. I wished I could absorb some of their happiness and ease through osmosis, and wondered if they were so much more settled than me because they’d been out on the trail for 10 or 15 days.

In the moment, the solution to my woes seemed clear: I needed more time out there. I needed to get used to being alone on the trail again. This could be true, but according to science journalist Tara Heale, in an article published in the online publishing platform Medium, pushing ourselves to function like normal might not be the best idea for some of us right now.

It’s Ok for Backpacking to be Hard Right Now

When I found myself fully and truly alone after the two Colorado Trail hikers disappeared, I became suddenly flooded with reminders of what I had lost in the past few months. Among other things, I’d lost the ability to hang out with friends or to go to the coffee shop, movie theater, gym, or restaurant and bask in the ambiance of others’ lives. I didn’t know the loss of these things would be such a big deal, as they’re less tangible than say, the loss of a loved one. This type of loss is referred to as “ambiguous loss”. Humans are wired to cope with acute loss or acute grief, but ongoing loss and grief are different. Heale writes that “ambiguous loss elicits the same experiences of grief as a more tangible loss—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but managing it often requires a bit of creativity.”

One of the recommended ways of coping with ambiguous loss and the resulting depleted surge capacity is to expect less from ourselves. This means we should be OK with not being OK right now. I shouldn’t have beat myself up for my inability to hike over a pass, select a campsite, or enjoy the trip. It’s even alright not to go backpacking if it makes things worse. Backpacking often necessitates the use of problem-solving skills, physical strength, and mental and emotional robustness; all things that may be depleted for some of us during this strange time. And this is particularly troubling when backpacking—my primary form of stress-relief and self-care—suddenly turns on me.

It’s a pretty hard reality to accept, but accept it I must. Of course, many folks reading this will not be in the same boat as me, and for them, it’s fine to go backpacking more than usual if that’s what best relieves your stress. The bottom line is we need to do what we need to do to take care of ourselves regardless of how that might compare to the ways we cared for ourselves prior to 2020. Backpacking isn’t going anywhere, and things will not always be like this. Remember, we have the summer of 2021 to look forward to, and it’s going to be amazing.

Looking up the pass. — Eventually, I did manage to set up my tent and hike to the top of the pass. I got at least a little taste of the awe, wonder, and sense of accomplishment I hoped for.

Life in the Dog House: A Survey of the One-Person Tent, With History

Some observations on cheap one-person shelters, including on their design, proliferation, and history, and comparison between some shelters.

Introduction

A one-person tent—of whatever brand—is sized at some barely tolerable minimum that varies slightly according to its design. Whether all of this cramped stringency and suffering actually pays off for backpacking is unclear. Substituting a “two-person” tent may add merely a pound (or in many cases, less). The idea has been around at least since the Victorian Era and probably the Stone Age—always with the same tradeoffs. Marginal advantages of the solo tent include reduced bulk and weight. When beset with brush or uneven ground and in stealth camps, its small size is versatile for siting. My fascination with this equipment is not, however, primarily practical. I’ve long imagined the minimal one-person shelter as a symbol and marker of backpacking’s austere freedom.

And so it was that I recently acquired an offset-pyramid tent from 3F UL Gear—the CangQiong 1 (1.5 lbs / 740 grams). The company offers a small line of tents that rely on a single trekking pole for set-up. Based in Xiamen, China, 3F seems to rely on Google Translator for its English-language marketing. This tent-maker helpfully describes the CangQiong 1 as “designed for dry conditions.” Yet I interpret this forbidding description with sunny optimism.

tarp style tent — The 3F Ultralight Gear CangQiong 1 is an offset pyramid designed for one person and advertised at 1.6 lbs (740 g). Its maker helpfully describes this tent as “designed for dry conditions.” Camped on the banks of a slow-moving and sizable river at freezing, condensation was problematic but unthreatening. (photo: John Seward)

Knock-offs, “Originals” and History

First, however, it’s best to acknowledge the obvious: these tents are inexpensive knock-offs derived from successful American brands. The “originals” are more durable and weatherproof—and cost more. Producing copies and imitations is a long-established practice among tent-makers, with examples continually appearing. Outright piracy presents moral and legal issues, but I’ve no information nor opinion on whether this pertains to the 3F Ultralight Gear CangQiong 1.

Moreover, choosing between global market “philosophies” of any stripe is not my intent—least of all at the cash register. The concept of backpacking implies severely minimizing all its trappings. Sometimes this minimalism expands—at least in my imagination—to include matters of price. At some point, many of these questions become trivial and arbitrary.

Offering dire critiques of non-premium equipment is a long-standing pastime for certain hikers. But memoirs of the now elderly British mountaineer Chris Bonington recount sharing a ledge high on the Eiger with Don Whillans while both inside the same jumbo-sized plastic bag culled from a trash heap. The infamous Whillans chain-smoked cigarettes through the night. The bag’s quality wasn’t recounted as an issue. But in this instance the pair may have been happier in solo shelters—even if still failing to complete their route as a team.

The 3F tents are based on recent patterns, but also reminiscent of much older, classic designs —especially the Compac Tent (3.4 pounds, 1.5 kg ) and the Royce Tent (4 pounds, 1.8 kg). Horace Kephart referenced these old tents in his 1911 manual Camping and Woodcraft. The author noted that Thomas Hiram Holding of London supplied a wedge tent “of Japanese silk, that weighs under 12 ounces; and it is a practical little affair of its kind.” But for the hiker who “goes out alone for a week or two at the fall of the year, or at an altitude where the nights are always cold” Kephart advised, “take a half-pyramid tent, say of the Royce pattern, but somewhat smaller.”

illustration of old style tarp tent pitched with wooden poles — The Compac Tent set up with shears as shown in Horace Kephart’s volume called Camping and Woodcraft (1911). Kephart says of the Compac, “I have called this clever contrivance a ‘pocket-house.’ It deserves the name, being waterproof, wind-proof, bug-proof, ventilated, sheltering a space 8 x 6 x 4 feet, and yet it rolls up into a 16 x 4-inch parcel, and weighs, with its rope, only 3.4 pounds. [1.54 kg]”

As of 1969, Recreational Equipment Inc.’s catalog included a “One-[Person] Tent” of tapered wedge design, with a canopy of finely woven cotton and pictured in deep blue. It may have been part of their line of several Swedish imports. Much lighter solo wedges in coated nylon were already available through a contemporaneous Eddie Bauer catalog.

illustration of old tarp tent pitch options — The Royce Tent as illustrated in the 1911 outdoor manual Camping and Woodcraft. Author Horace Kephart recommended a smaller version of this four-pound (1.8 kg) half-pyramid for the lone traveler in cold weather.

Proliferating Designs

Today among leading one-person designs, the 28.6 oz (810 g) Durston X-Mid 1P is $200 and made of polyester, said to reduce stretching in rain. Six Moon Designs, one of at least several comparable small firms in the U.S., has produced a matter-of-fact YouTube video, showing that its Lunar Solo tent ($230) employs more durable and waterproof textiles (polyester) than competitor knock-offs, and yet is marginally lighter. The Swedish firm Hillenberg offers a well-established line of heavier singles in the range of $600 that seem suitable for alpine blizzards. But even as ingenious solo tent designs have proliferated, the whole genre is called further into question when lined up against very small, single-wall two-person domes (Black Diamond Equipment First Light, $370) available for the past 20 years.

Feeling penurious and with a genuine aesthetic revulsion toward domes, in March 2020 I acquired the 3F Ultralight Gear CangQiong 1 offset design. A longstanding but selective attraction to “reverse snob appeal” slightly clouded my judgment. The actual name of this product is rarely used in English-language marketing. It’s called instead of the “Single Person Tent Outdoor Ultralight Camping Tent 3 Season Professional Nylon Silicon Coating Rodless Tent.” Delivery from Xiamen took eight weeks.

In Michigan’s Lower Peninsula recently, I spent four October nights in the CangQiong 1, confirming its high-quality stitching and carefully designed reinforcements. It shrugged off light showers. Although smaller and more than twice the weight of Holding’s silk wedge of 1911, this tent is indeed “a practical little affair of its kind”— and yet another sign of human progress.

In March, AliExpress listed the model at $70, but payment difficulties on that site sent me to Amazon, which charged about $100. Now, seven months later, its price is up substantially, although a tent branded Flames Creed (not 3F) at a glance appears identical and is more reasonable ($89) as of this writing.

Cheap Tents Compared

I can most directly compare the CangQiong 1 with recent experience of a different one-person tent: the Wenzel Starlight. Its pleasingly classic, “mountain tent” form, and even an A-frame door bring to mind 1960s REI backpacking tents. Mine was a $28 Walmart purchase. From April to November last year, I spent a dozen nights in this relatively spacious, two-pound (896-gram) tent during walks along the western border of New England. But my Starlight has a sad secret: On a November evening in the Taconic Mountains, the “beak” or hood shielding its door ripped as I carelessly inserted an A-frame pole too tightly. This tent, now discontinued by Wenzel, remains marginally usable and repairable, but I’m uncertain of taking the trouble and expense.

pup style trekking pole tent — The Wenzel Starlight, advertised as a one-person tent, was discontinued by its manufacturer several years ago. This wedge-style shelter weighs about two pounds (907 g). Its “beak” or hood ripped during a careless job of pitching after a dozen nights. It cost $28 at Walmart. (photo John Seward)

The 740’s construction inspires incremental confidence. It’s also preferable for its spacious, well-protected vestibule and door, and 10 inches (25 cm) of extra headroom. Although the 740 may at any time meet Starlight’s fate, it’s more likely to stand up adequately. For 10 years, I gradually wore through the floor of a tent similar to the Starlight, acquired for $19 from a local version of K-Mart. Clearly (to me), cheap and lightweight tents are potentially reliable. Moreover, recent experience may now inspire slightly greater tent-handling care.

Condensation Complaint Department

In mild weather, condensation inside coated tents, including the Starlight and 740, is largely insignificant. But a couple of nights spent hard by the banks of a midwest river near-freezing saw the 3F Ultralight Gear CangQiong 1 produce copious condensation by dawn. (In similar weather at a less dank location, this same tent stayed reasonably dry). Long ago I spent a night of inexpressible misery inside the K-Mart pup tent after a predicted rainstorm unexpectedly produced eight inches of wet snow at nightfall.

For several years following this pup tent incident, I avoided down sleeping bags in all but summer weather—regardless of available tentage. I acquired various floorless tarp shelters—solo and otherwise. Liquid simply drains away into the snow or dirt. Banked snow or even autumn leaf-drop can seal the perimeter from cold drafts. Moreover, floors may be the quickest tent component to wear out. But sewn-in floors and netting are an indispensable defense against insects in season and serve as a reassuring barrier against mud and crud.

Still fearful of drowning in an icy sea of condensation, I now rely on a sleeping bag cover or bivouac sack to protect from any rare discomfort inside sketchy shelters. A cover also shields the delicate sleeping bag from dirt and abrasion, while conveniently serving in lieu of a stuff-sack for transit and as a closet storage bag. In relevant circumstances, covers with fully waterproof “floors” can also make a groundsheet redundant.

Unlike many 3F products, its Tyvek Bivy bag (7 oz / 200 g) appears to lack narrowly comparable competition. Recently advertised at $20, it performed well inside the CangQiong 1 on four autumn nights near freezing. The unit is doubtless somewhat weatherproof when new and/or not excessively laundered. It’s too narrow, however, for winter sleeping bags and lacks a reliably waterproof floor. Various do-it-yourself Tyvek bags seem feasible for the talented.

Other, much more durable and desirable light covers are available—starting at about $100.

Learning Curve: Learning to Suffer

BPL columnist Maggie Slepian unpacks suffering in endurance sports.

Every backpacker, thru-hiker, or endurance athlete knows how to suffer. It’s an intrinsic part of what we do, and it sets the people who reach their goals apart from the people who quit from the discomfort.

Maybe you remember when you first learned to suffer. It could have been on a thru-hike, elsewhere in the mountains, or in some other, disconnected part of your life. I learned to suffer during my first season as a wrangler in Yellowstone National Park. It was 2010, I had just graduated from college where I had lots of friends and soft hands. I went from my plush New England existence to working 14 hours a day at a rugged corral where my coworkers hated me. It was my first experience with both manual labor and being despised.

Leading up to this point, I’d never had to “gut it out.” Life had been easy. To everyone’s surprise (and possible dismay), I finished the season—a full four months where I wanted to quit every. Single. Day. It was the first time I’d suffered in something and saw it through to the end.

Though it seems disconnected, I carried that horrendous season with me as I moved forward in life. There wasn’t a smack-you-over-the-head bedtime story lesson, but it was more the fact that I had forged through misery and loneliness, physical and emotional pain. Something about that experience wedged into the back of my mind as I became more involved in backcountry sports.

author hiking in the mountains — I put my gym-class-rejection past behind me and learned to keep up because I was willing to be uncomfortable.

When it comes to many endurance endeavors, mental fortitude often plays a bigger role than physical capabilities, and this includes backpacking—athletic abilities are irrelevant for most long-distance hikers. Out of shape? Hike fewer miles. Out of breath? Stop and rest. It’s not a race and there is very little skill involved in walking. With this lack of hard skills is where the ability to suffer comes in. This is what sets the people who finish apart from the people who throw their packs down at a road crossing, stick out their thumb, and google nearest airport from the bed of the pickup truck that took pity on them.

I am a very average athlete. I lack coordination, endurance, speed, and anything else it took to succeed in gym class. As I got into climbing, mountain biking, and thru-hiking, I learned that while I was average in anything that makes people passable at sports, I could keep up and do well because I was willing to suffer. The mental aspect could override any physical shortcomings.

None of the literature on “mentally preparing for a thru-hike” is groundbreaking. We all know that there are mental and physical components to backpacking. But what sets the finishers apart from hikers who quit when it gets hard is the ability to compartmentalize the discomfort and endure some amount of suffering. That mentality lets average athletes do above-average things.

hiking on a ridge with trees — Long-distance backpacking is mostly mental. If you can gut out the bad days, you can finish.

I thought a lot about what sets people apart during my recent thru-hike of the Ouachita Trail. The people who are out there completing thru-hikes aren’t necessarily the ones who excelled in high school athletics. We saw a few other thru-hikers out there last month, and it seems like half of them quit before the halfway point, citing pain and discomfort. Totally fair! Long-distance backpacking can be a wildly uncomfortable experience and not something most people put themselves through. The people who do get out there are often surprised by the sheer misery some days on the trail throw at you.

I had awful foot issues on the Ouachita Trail, pretty much from the beginning. The trail was 223 miles long, and I’m not exaggerating when I say I hiked maybe 40 miles without enduring moderate to extreme foot pain. It ranged from pounding soreness to blisters that made me shriek when half of my heel skin peeled off with my socks. I spent one evening picking crusted blood and pus from my socks so I could wear them the next day.

lying down on the trail, at night, resting — Lying down on an asphalt bridge crossing during a night hiking section to alleviate some pain and get through the next four miles.

But the worst was the pain in my heels. It prevented me from sleeping and made me walk with a staggering limp. I had the nagging feeling it was the start of plantar fasciitis, but I never figured that out. Whatever it was, the pain would be absent for two or three miles each morning, then start building throughout the rest of the day until I would count my steps, backward from 500, to have something else to focus on.

I developed mental tricks for continuing to move forward. Instead of trying to ignore the pain, I would focus on it, untangle it. Left on its own, the daggers through my heels would become overwhelming, but if I could narrow it down or describe it to myself, it was less intimidating. I’d keep walking and not let myself stop until a predetermined, arbitrary spot every few hours. By the time I reached the spot, I would be gasping for air—the pain was so bad it made my chest constrict.

blistered and bandaged feet — This was the healing process for my blisters. The swelling and heel pain would continue to get worse over the next 100 miles.

For some (maybe asinine) reason, it never occurred to me to quit. Sure, I’d have stopped if I felt like I was truly injured, but the fact that my feet would (mostly) recover each night gave me confidence that I wasn’t doing irrevocable damage to my body. I figured my feet were just Going Through It, and as long as I could continue physically moving forward, I would. The suffering would eventually end, and in the grand scheme of things, I told myself it really wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t my knees or ankles, it wasn’t gastrointestinal distress, it wasn’t my back going out. I could walk through it. Plain and simple.

Since physical pain and discomfort is such an individual experience, it’s impossible to accurately scale it. Was my foot pain bad enough it would have caused someone else to quit? Maybe. But with the “gut it out” mentality of just hiking one more mile, one more afternoon, one more day, one more week, the suffering eventually ends. When it does, you’ve completed your goal. And I did complete the goal, which was to hike this trail end to end. It hurt and I’d say I was suffering, but not bad enough to make me stop.

author with jeff garmire at the ouachita trailheaad — Whatever was going on with my feet, all traces of the pain had faded within two days of finishing

When we each learned to suffer, we also learned that the suffering eventually ends. That’s what keeps us going. My wise, endurance-athlete father once told me: “It doesn’t always keep getting worse.” That’s how I keep going, and that’s how I finish what I start.

Despite my curated existence on the internet and the fact that I am a Writer in the Outdoor Industry, I am not a skilled athlete and I don’t possess supernatural endurance capabilities.

Some of you might be lucky enough to be skilled athletes or have those supernatural endurance capabilities. Most of us though? We’ve just learned to be really, really good at suffering.

Gratitude and Recovery After Outdoor Trauma

BPL author Rex Sanders meditates on gratitude and 2020 as he recovers from a traumatic brain injury during the time of COIVD and wildfires.

One sunny Saturday in the spring of 2020, I left the house to ride my mountain bike across town. That’s the last thing I remembered for the next two weeks.

According to witnesses and official documents, just a few miles away I went off the road, down a near-vertical hillside, and crashed into some trees. I was unconscious, bleeding from minor wounds, and covered in poison oak. The next 24 hours included three emergency room visits, two ambulance rides, and one 22-mile trauma helicopter flight, followed by months of doctor appointments, a cornucopia of medications, and countless sessions of physical therapy. Plus intensive care from my loving wife Judy, who’s beginning to tire of adventures that involve Type III fun. Thank goodness for effective bicycle helmets!

This story isn’t about what happened that day, since I still can’t remember, and probably never will. It’s about recovery, and gratitude that my life continues, and continues to be much better than it was for others in the mind-blowingly bad year of 2020. I hope this helps you discover more parts of your life to be grateful for, especially outdoors.

In the past, when I heard the words brain injury, I pictured many bad things about what that person was going through. What I’ve learned is that, as with most things in life, everyone’s experience is different. For that, I am very grateful, as you will see.

A Multitude of Gratitudes

One of my most confounding experiences was scrolling through phone messages weeks later and discovering that I’d been texting back and forth with Judy from the second hospital, less than 12 hours after the crash. The neurologist said that wasn’t uncommon: “The TV was on, but the recorder wasn’t running.” I’m slowly becoming grateful that I can’t relive the experience, though I would like to avoid doing that again, whatever that was.

This brings up one of the stranger things I’m grateful for: my decades-long adventure with debilitating migraines. Several years ago, that journey finally led to a neurologist who actually helped me. So, when Judy gently guided me into his office soon after the crash, I was in good hands. I’m very grateful that my mental recovery took only a few months.

I’m also grateful for smartphones, voice recorders, and sticky notes, since my short-term memory took a while to come back.

I was able to continue writing for Backpacking Light relatively quickly. I’m grateful that Ryan, Stephanie, Chase, Andrew, and all the other staff, plus paying members (like you?), keep BPL running through trying times, and continue publishing stories like this one.

The physical injuries included poison oak rashes and blisters over most of my body, accompanied by dramatic swelling in places. I’ve suffered from a few gnarly poison oak incidents over the decades, but this time was different. For the first two weeks, Judy washed me twice a day and applied various medications to what used to be called “a real space cadet.” I’m grateful that she took on that job.

My running joke for many years was that “poison oak lasts about two weeks unless you treat it, and then it lasts about 14 days.” What’s lingering several months later are tiny patches of oozing rashes and white scabs that pop up on my legs and back every few days. My friendly neighborhood neurologist provided relief, if not a cure, in the form of a prescription steroid ointment applied sparingly. Once again, I’m very grateful to him, plus whoever invented that ointment. And the locally-owned-and-operated pharmacy that faithfully refills that prescription and others in spite of coronavirus disruptions.

But the injury that refuses to go away is best described as a sprained neck. I still wake up many mornings with soreness and stiffness that often gets worse as the day goes on. Driving gets even more interesting when you can’t predict whether looking over your shoulder is going to work. That makes me strangely grateful for piloting a variety of trucks and vans over many years—relying on side mirrors and body contortions was already second nature.

My neck is slowly getting better. I’m very grateful to my physical therapist for dramatic improvements compared to the early days. And once again, to my wife, who recommended her.

Grateful to be Walking

In the Before Times, my main forms of exercise were long day hikes and backpacking trips. But between the bike crash and recovery, coronavirus restrictions and closures, and months of record-setting California wildfires triggering terrible air quality, my longest walks now are one or two hours on quiet streets and beaches very near home. I’m dreading getting back into shape for 15-to-20-mile backpacking days. Still, I’m grateful that I can walk in beautiful settings a short drive away, knowing that too many people don’t have that privilege.

After all I’ve gone through, and especially all that millions of others have been through, I’m grateful that I’m still walking, period. And I’m very grateful to all the doctors, nurses, and EMS personnel who took good care of me, and continue helping millions of other people day after day during crisis conditions.

My overall feeling, writing this on Christmas Eve 2020, is one of profound gratitude. I know that I live a privileged life in many ways, in a privileged part of a privileged country.

A neighborhood sign that changes frequently. Today’s saying is so true.

This story is not intended to provoke praise, pity, or scorn, nor to solicit suggestions for improvement. I hope this story encourages you to find opportunities for kindness and gratitude and generosity in your own life, no matter how stressful it may be.

I’m not a very spiritual person. But what I have learned is that the keys to happiness are simple, even in a crazy year like 2020.

Be kind to yourself and others.

Be grateful, and express your gratitude frequently.

Be generous—you’ll make others happier, and yourself.

I hope that you can find happiness, too. And may you follow a less traumatic outdoor adventure path than I have.

Editor’s Note: My favorite end of year/beginning of year tradition is to reflect on the past year rather than make resolutions, so I couldn’t pass up the chance to publish Rex’s reflections. What are you grateful for at the start of this new year? Drop us a line in the comments. -Andrew Marshall-

Salamander Song

Rediscovering the Great Smoky Mountains by lens and brush.

There are salamanders in the Great Smoky Mountains that breathe entirely through their skin.

I think this is a wonderful fact. It makes me deeply happy that the grinding, unstoppable force of evolution came up with both gills and lungs but still wanted a weird little side project like skin breathing. Evolution, it should be said, is only slightly less prolific than Dolly Parton, another child of the Smokies. Dolly is currently enjoying something like her 1,000th career resurgence. Would that salamanders were so durable.

Parton grew up in a little town called Pigeon Forge, in the shadow of Pigeon Mountain where, as it turns out, there’s a species of salamander that lives just on that one hillside. So, maybe there’s just something about the Smokies that encourages creative mastery, be it by singer-songwriters or science in action.

I grew up in the general vicinity of the southern Appalachians, but unlike the Pigeon Mountain salamander, I have lived in many places. Currently, I live in California, where a well-chosen curse word and a light breeze can start a fire that chars half the state. It was the smoke from these fires that canceled a long-planned trip on the Wonderland Trail, a famously beautiful loop route around the base of Mt. Rainier in Washington State.

In the days leading up to the trip, my hiking partner Nick and I had been keeping a close eye on the air pollution levels in the Pacific Northwest, hoping that the right combination of wind and rain would send the smoke billowing in a different direction. Wonderland Trail permits are awarded by lottery, and the self-supported loop-style trip was the perfect Covid-19-safe itinerary. We were loathe to cancel our plans. But conditions continued to worsen, and with three days until our prospective start, we pulled the plug.

It was heartbreaking, but in classic 2020 fashion, not surprising. With only 72 hours to find another 100-plus-mile (160+ km) loop route in a non-on-fire part of the country, we drew a more or less random circle around the Great Smoky Mountain National Park and applied for permits. The park made an ideal plan B, with something like 900 miles of trails available to choose from. I also happened to have an unavoidable family commitment back east at around the same time, so I was forced to brave the airports one way or the other.

On the Wonderland Trail, you can cache food, meaning you don’t have to carry so much at a time. We’d have no such luck in the Smokies, so we started chucking luxury items out of our packs to make room for four more days of vittles.

The Rainforest of the South

48 hours later, we were in the park. I felt my sinuses begin to rehydrate about five minutes after crossing the park boundary. I breathed deeply as we walked, relishing the smoke-free air. We had a short day heading east along Fontana Lake and made camp with plenty of daylight to spare. We fell asleep to the sound of cicadas and frogs waging a sonic war in the canopy around us. It’s the sound I most deeply associate with my childhood. Between that and the assurance that, for the first time in three months, I wasn’t in immediate danger of evacuating in advance of a wildfire, I slept better than I had in a long, long time.

A smokie creek — Cold, shaded streams are a hallmark of the Smokies. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

A few hours later, it started to rain. Water falling from the sky. Moisture in the air.

What a concept.

Salamander Daydreams

We spent our second day hiking along Lakeshore Trail, still heading east, and more or less hugging the shores of Fontana Lake. We’d woken to a gentle drizzle and made breakfast under the DCF tarp we’d tossed into my pack at the last minute. It would be the first of the roughly 6,000 times we’d eat under it in the seven days to follow.

Trail Trestle Crossing — The author crossing an old train trestle on Lakeshore Trail. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Nick Ramey)

Lakeshore Trail is part of the Benton MacKaye trail system, a medium-distance trail (300 mi / 483 km) that winds from the western side of North Carolina to Springer Mountain in North Georgia. It was going to be my hiking project for March of 2020. In fact, the weekend that Covid-19 went from “somewhat concerning” to a “national emergency” was the weekend I was going to fly east to begin hiking. A familiar story to anyone who’s had hiking plans disrupted this year. How weird to find myself on this trail, if only for a few days, six months later.

As the managing editor at Backpacking Light, I come into contact with a lot of elite hiking athletes. I am most assuredly not an elite hiking athlete, but interviewing the likes of Jeff Garmire multiple times puts unhealthy FKT-related thoughts into my type-A brain. As we squelched along on the Benton MacKaye Trail, I began to daydream about setting an FKT on it. After I returned home, I looked up the current record. I’d have to run it and average 55+ mile (88 km) days.

Nevermind.

We finally left the lake and turned northeast to climb into the mountains proper by the afternoon of day three. When I’d crawled out of my tent at 6 AM that morning, I’d been greeted by several crawdads scampering around outside my vestibule. You know you are hiking in a temperate rainforest when the freshwater crustaceans come out to play on what is ostensibly dry land.

A dry creekbed — One of the highly infrequent dry creek beds in the Smokies.This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

We ate lunch on a narrow ridgeline with no room for the tarp. Rain splashed spicy-ramen juice into my eyes. Our day contained no less than twelve rain-swollen fords. I was—unapologetically— having a blast.

The rain petered out by the afternoon, but the trees, ferns, and vines continued to splash us every time a light breeze kicked up through the poplars, beeches, and birches. We ate dinner by headlamp. I sat my mug down on the damp soil and turned away for a moment. When I picked it back up seconds later, it had sprouted a salamander as if by magic. Her eyes blazed in the reflected light from my headlamp. I gently scooched her away with damp, muddy fingers.

Red-Legged Salamander Painting — A red-legged salamander. (Painting: Andrew Marshall)

The southern Appalachians are an incredibly biodiverse ecosystem. The general scientific consensus is that the ice-age glaciers pushed a variety of species further and further south, and all those species just hung around after the glaciers retreated. It’s a particularly good spot for salamanders, as I noted earlier. There are more unique species of salamanders in the southern Appalachians than anywhere in the world, including the hellbender—an amazing specimen that can reach up to two feet (61 cm) long and weighs more than a large kitten. Only two species of Asian salamanders are larger.

Hellbenders have picked up a few colloquial names over the centuries, my favorite being the Snot Dragon. In the cold, damp, late fall air, our noses ran consistently. We took to saying “all hail the Snot Dragon” every time we sent a snot rocket flying into the surrounding mountain laurel.

Hobbit Pipes and Bourbon Songs

The next morning we slept in, had a leisurely breakfast, and luxuriated in the relative dryness of the day. It was just over twelve miles (19 km) to our next campsite, and we took advantage of the extra time to take a long lunch and air out some gear. But in the southern Appalachians, things only get so dry. We considered ourselves lucky to get our clothes, quilts, and skin from saturated to moderately damp. It was the right moment to enjoy a pipe, hobbit-like, propped up against a tree.

The author with his hobbit hypes — The author, trying to go from soaked to damp. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Nick Ramey)

We climbed up above 4,000 feet (1,219 m), watched the ecosystem start to change to spruce-forest, then descended once more to maples, oaks, birches, and our campsite.

When we arrived at our designated site, it already contained another camper. We chatted in the way that folks do in such situations, and he poured a measure of bourbon into our mugs as we ate dinner. As we sipped our shots, he put a serious dent in the amber liquid sloshing around in the bottom of his nearly empty flask. Soon enough he was waxing eloquent about his recently finalized divorce.

He was awake and singing drunkenly to himself long into the night, only just audible over the ever-present frog song. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tune sounded improbably like a sea shanty.

Mulberry Place

A 22 mile (35 km) day took us over Clingman’s Dome. It was the second time I’d been there—the first was on my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail in 2012. That’s the year Superstorm Sandy came through and dumped three feet (91 cm) of snow onto the Smokies in early October, just as I was passing through wearing Chacos and kilt, possessing no insulating body fat, and carrying a forty-degree quilt in my pack.

A dark path — On the way up to Kuwa’hi. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

Now, as it was then, the overlook was socked in with fog and mist, a complete whiteout. I took a photo comprised entirely of white fog and later sent it to my dad with the caption, “classic Smoky Mountain vista.” He appreciated it—he had roamed the Smokies with his father back in the early seventies.

The Appalachian Trail above 6,000 feet (1,829 km) on the Dome is mystical, cloud-shrouded, and holy—the home of the White Bear in Cherokee history. Stand around long enough, and you are sure to grow some moss in your beard. The mountain’s real name is Kuwa’hi, or “Mulberry Place” in Cherokee. Under the United States’ stewardship, the Frasier firs and giant hemlocks that tower above the unique ecosystem are crashing to the ground—the victims of invasive insects and blight. The great chestnuts of the lower elevations have been gone for years. Before 1906, 25% of the trees in the Appalachian mountains were American Chestnuts. All gone now, dead to an airborne bark fungus accidentally imported from Asia at the turn of the century.

Moss covering the landscape — Stand around long enough near the top of Kuwa’hi and you are likely to grow some moss. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

As for the Cherokee, they’ve mostly been gone since the late 1830s, when the Jackson administration ignored a supreme court ruling and removed the Cherokee and other Indigenous People from the area by force, bartering, bribes, and political pressure (source: Jacksonland, by Steve Inskeep).

The south has no monopoly on racism, ignorance, bigotry, broken promises, and genocide. But those things feel immediate there—renewed and refreshed every time a Confederate flag is waved or you realize a street in your hometown is named after the first grand wizard of the Klu Klux Klan.

Every now and then, someone will ask me where I grew up. My hillbilly accent has mostly been washed away by stints in Ohio, Texas, and California, and it isn’t always obvious. When I tell them where I’m from, the usual response is, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

I never know how to feel about this. I usually settle on a mix of shame and irritation, like when you complain about your parents and then your partner chips in with a complaint of her own. With Georgia in the national news more or less non-stop for the last two years, that feeling has been leaning more and more towards shame. Ultimately, we own the places that make us, whether we like it or not. I’ve spent the better part of my adult life vacillating between being happy I no longer live in the south and wondering if it’s possible to move back and use my voice and vote and privilege as a straight white man to make it—at least in some small ways—a better place.

I don’t have a resolution for this, and eight days of walking through my home mountain range didn’t provide one.

We Go Up. We Go Down. We Cross a Stream.

We recovered from our long climb over Kuwa’hi by sleeping in and doubling our breakfast rations. As we ate in the morning drizzle, salamanders watched us from atop logs, underneath flaps of moss, and beneath rocks. It reminded me of canoeing through the Okefenokee—the enormous swamp that occupies the lower corner of Georgia and the upper corner of Florida. In the Okefenokee Swamp, there are enough alligators around that you are always within the gaze of one, much as New Yorkers are generally always pretty close to a rat.

I imagine the same is true of the Smokies and salamanders. There’s just something about the collective gaze of a dozen cold-blooded creatures that makes the monkey in me want to head for the nearest tree, even if the creatures in question are rarely larger than a pencil.

The Red Salamander Painting — The red salamander. (Painting: Andrew Marshall)

We had another short day mostly free of rain—though we still passed through the occasional cloud as we climbed and descended back and forth over the ridgeline that forms the spine of the park. As a cloud is just rain that hasn’t gotten its life together yet, the end result was more or less the same.

The last few miles seemed interminable despite our short hiking time. Ahead of me, I could hear Nick mumbling to himself, “We go up. We go down. We cross a stream. We go up. We go down. We cross a stream. We go up. We go down. We cross a stream.” It’s the kind of trekking that can and has driven east coast hikers quietly insane. My quasi-zen comments about walking being the point of walking didn’t seem to help, but that’s to be expected on empty stomachs and wet feet.

Looking through the leaves to valley — A rare glimpse through leaf and cloud. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

We set up our tarp quickly and shoveled down some tepid food. Thunder echoed over the ridges and hollows, and an opaque sheet of rain quickly followed. We heard it barreling through the forest towards us—a steam train with no engine, just a rushing tide of mist condensing inevitably into rain. Water doing what it does. Being inevitable.

We dove into our shelters just as it hit. The atmosphere in my tent was only .005% dryer than the air outside. I spared a moment of pity for my down quilt as the force of the falling rain sent condensation splashing all around me. I pulled the wet sack of feathers over my head and slept deeply, even after realizing that my air mattress had sprung a catastrophic leak.

When we awoke, it was still thundering. Occasional bursts of lightning illuminated the rivulets of water carving micro-canyons through our campsite. We hunkered down under the tarp; drinking endless cups of coffee and smoking our pipes while we waited on the worst of the lightning to pass. When it finally did, we set out into the rain.

All Hail the Snot Dragon

As the day wore on, Nick’s pace slowed, especially on the downhills. At lunch, we assessed the damage. His knees were in rough shape after seven days of relentless climbing and descending. No one likes to bail on a route, but we decided to shave a few miles and one day off our hike. We changed our plan slightly to follow the AT back down to Fontana Dam the next day. The terrain was tough enough that we’d be risking a more serious injury to Nick’s knees if we continued with our planned route—one wrong step on a slippery root, and he’d be in for ACL surgery.

Blue Smoke in the Smokies — The open vistas many western hikers are accustomed to simply don’t materialize all that often in the Smokies. A traveler must turn his gaze to the sublime rather than the sweeping. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

At camp that night, I identified the hole in my sleeping pad and attempted a field repair. I sacrificed my last semi-dry piece of clothing to dry the area around the hole and patch it with the included kit. Then I slapped some Tenacious Tape on top of the repair for good measure. I went to sleep feeling fairly confident but woke up a few hours later with my butt on the cold, damp earth. My legs and head were still elevated under a cushion of air, so I’d at least managed to slow the leak. It was good enough. I went back to sleep.

In a turn of events that every serious backpacker will recognize, our last day in the Smokies had the most agreeable weather by far. The temperatures were crisp, the sky blue, the maples just starting to turn. We worked our way down, down, down the ridgeline of the AT, finally catching glimpses of Fontana Lake as the miles slid away beneath our feet and the afternoon light softened.

Splotches of sunlight on the trail — Sunlight illuminates the trail. This photograph was taken on Cherokee ancestral land. (Photo: Andrew Marshall)

Within an hour of the car, we came to a rocky outcropping that offered a glimpse of the mountains unfolding in hazy layers to the horizon.

As we admired our first and only scenic vista of the trip, Nick opened his precious final pack of pop tarts, and I unsealed my last packet of strawberry lemonade drink mix. Both items were were sodden—somehow, the Smokies had managed to saturate them through heat-sealed Mylar. We ate both things anyway, then made our way out of the mountains. In the fading light, I took a last glimpse around for salamanders, hoping my headlamp would spark in a pair of strange, alien eyes. No luck. I made a final offering anyway, pinching one nostril shut and sending a final snot rocket into the thick, fragrantly rotting pile of leaves at my feet.

All hail the Snot Dragon. May her skin be moist, may her streams be cold and clear, and may her offspring number in the millions.

The hellbender salamander, otherwise known as the Snot Dragon.

Ultralight, Ultradurable, Ultracheap: A Backpack Made From Car Airbags

Greg Perhson details the process of creating your own, lightweight (19.5 oz), MYOG backpack from vehicle airbags!

TL;DR

I made a 6400 ci / 105 L pack out of repurposed car airbags, with a frame made from a baby carrier. The packbag weighs 19.5 oz / 553 g and with the suspension system included weighs 44.75 oz / 1269 g.

Here are a few photos of the finished pack:

Background

In this thread, I wrote about my last upcycled backpack, made from an old porch umbrella with a frame made from a cut-down baby carrier. I loved using that pack; it was supremely comfortable and I could fit anything in it from winter trips to family gear.

Unfortunately, the umbrella fabric proved to not be durable – apparently having been out in the sun and weather day after day for years made it brittle. When it ripped, it did so spectacularly. On a winter trip, one of the side pockets ripped clean off.

I started to get holes all over the bag, especially at abrasion points and patched them with more and more duct and Gorilla tape. It made it through eight short trips before becoming unserviceable. But that’s OK; I had expected it to be a prototype for this project using car airbags as the pack fabric.

A duct-tape and long used backpack — The old umbrella-fabric pack, RIP.

Several years ago, I read an article about Ursacks on the Section Hiker website, and in the comments section, Ken “DripDry” Holder shared about making a bear bag out of an airbag. This was based on the idea that airbags are meant to be extremely tough and lightweight – like the Ursack’s fully woven UHMWPE – but are much cheaper (or even free) when repurposed from old vehicles.

DripDry ended up writing a full how-to article on Gossamer Gear’s blog about this a couple of years later. I became very excited by the idea of building a backpack out of this material. One of my good friend’s uncles owns an auto body shop, and he started to cut airbags out of junkers for me until he had a whole bag full.

A few years ago, I found a guy on Craigslist an hour from me selling his Kelty White Cloud made of fully woven UHMWPE (Spectra) and I went to go check it out. While I’m not equating them, the look and feel of the two fabrics were very similar, even though airbags are typically made of woven nylon.

At home, I performed non-scientific durability tests on the airbag fabric and was quite pleased with the results. I could hammer a nail through the fabric into a piece of wood and then was unable to tear the fabric by pulling it against the nail. If I make a cut, I’m unable to tear it further with my hands. I scraped it hard 42 times in the same place with a sharp rock before it finally cut through the material.

In my online research, I found several examples of airbag backpacks, but they were all upcycled fashion items, none made for backpacking or heavy use. I drew up a bunch of possible designs but ended up going with one heavily inspired by Dave Chenault’s commentary about the future of ultralight packs and Luke Schmidt’s DIY ultralight backpack article, as I had with my previous pack, knowing that the design worked extremely well for me. The cut-down baby carrier from that pack serves as the frame for this one. I’m so appreciative of both Dave and Luke’s ingenuity and generosity in sharing their designs.

Frame of the Airbag Pack — The new pack incorporates a frame from an old baby carrier.

Issues and Notes

I’m looking forward to putting miles on this pack, which will be the real determinant of the fabric’s durability. I’m optimistic about the use of airbags as an ideal backpack material that has that unobtanium trifecta of ultralight, ultradurable, and ultracheap.

However, there are several issues (and workarounds) to be aware of that I discovered along the way.

Coated vs. uncoated

Some airbags are coated with silicone and are waterproof. The ones that aren’t coated just soak up water. Less than half of the bags I received were silicone coated. I tested every airbag I had by putting each one over a glass filled with water with a rubber band around it, then inverting the glass overnight.

Different materials

Since airbags are made by a number of different companies, their composition is different. A few pieces had a really thick and slick layer of silicone on the inside, while others had a much subtler coating (which I prefer). One coated airbag out of the whole bag I received from my friend’s uncle felt like a much cheaper and thinner material and I was able to rip it with my hands. I can’t imagine how that one passes an auto safety test. The only information I have on the fabric is one piece has “420d” printed on it, which may stand for 420 denier, or it may not – there are a bunch of numbers and letters printed on the airbags.

Lot number and Fabric weight of the airbag. — The mysterious coding system printed on some airbags may reveal the fabric weight (420d) and lot number.

Color

You don’t get to choose. Primarily, the uncoated airbags are white and look cosmetically like fully woven UHMWPE. The coated ones tend to be colors – mostly pink and baby blue; sometimes yellow. My pack uses all of these colors. I tried painting a sample piece gray with many coats of watered-down acrylic paint (a technique I learned here on BPL), but then just decided that the funky colors are part of the charm. I’ve been calling this pack Big Pink, but Rainbow Sherbet might be a more accurate name. Or The Pastel Peakbagger?

Patterning on small pieces

To build this backpack, I spent hours seam-ripping the triple-stitching on circular and oval-shaped airbags, which means there are stitch holes left in weird places that need to be sealed with silicone. Then I had to do some creative patterning and use extra seams to join smaller pieces together. For example, the massive rolltop on this bag uses four pieces of fabric instead of just one.

There are companies that make airbags that have seconds-quality runs (unsuitable for car safety standards) of material yardage. However, I was unable to get these companies to sell me their seconds, especially since I was only looking to buy a few yards. Because of my limited supply, and my desire to not waste the material, I had the airbags for seven years (!) before finally committing a few months ago (once my umbrella pack died) to actually building it.

It’s far from perfect – there are wavy seams, a pucker in one place where the roll-top meets the main body, and I thought I was going to lose my mind trying to get the bottom to line up correctly, but it will be functional and comfortable and for that I’m content. The vertical seams are triple stitched and either flat-felled or bound and felled, and the bottom is triple stitched with grosgrain binding.

measuring — Measuring where the daisy chain bartacks will go using a piece of masking tape. Because of the placement of the compression straps, I couldn’t just evenly space the bartacks down the length of the chain. So I started from where the compression straps were and then divided the space between them evenly. This means some bartacks are 2.5 inches apart, some are 3 inches. The dots mark the middle of the compression straps and the lines mark the length of each bartack.

Weight

Oh yeah, the weight! This pack is roughly similar in size to my old Lowe Alpine Contour IV (6400 ci / 105 L). The packbag alone is 19.5 oz / 553 g (not including the shoulder straps, frame, and hipbelt). The total weight of the pack including the suspension elements is 44.75 oz / 1269 g. For winter use, I’ll run it with bottle parkas attached to the hipbelt and a compression panel (which add 8.3 oz / 235 g with long straps and buckles) that I made for my last pack to hold snowshoes. In the future, I’ll add modular side pockets and a top lid and configure the pack with the appropriate accessories for each trip.

Thanks for reading!

The author with his finished backpack! — Ultralight, ultradurable, and ultracheap: my airbag backpack.

Helly Hansen Odin Minimalist 2.0 Jacket Review

The Helly Hansen Odin Minimalist 2.0 jacket (180 g / 6.35 oz, $220) is a lightweight 2.5-layer rain jacket with a well-designed hood and minimal features.

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Unpacked: When Gear Owns You

A recent multi-sport adventure got BPL columnist Mark Wetherington thinking about gear and our relationship to it.

Unpacked is a new column from Backpacking Light by outdoor writer, gear tester, and librarian Mark Wetherington. It ranges from book reviews to essays on outdoor ethics and culture. There’s a richness in backpacking that’s rarely reflected in gear reviews and trip reports – this column aims to explore the deeper essence of our hobby with an insightful (and sometimes humorous) approach.

Things are in the saddle,
And ride mankind.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, from “Ode, Inscribed to William H. Channing”

After spending an entire morning packing for a climbing, hiking, camping, and hot springs soaking trip in the hinterlands of Idaho at the end of September, I had an episode of Overwhelming Gear Accumulation Distress Disorder (OGADD). Multi-sport trips are perhaps the most common trigger for this syndrome—given that you must assemble gear from a variety of disciplines that often has limited double-duty capabilities—but it can occur in shoulder-seasons as well.

When one finds themselves standing in the dedicated gear room of their home and debating between bringing the 20 F (-7 C) sleeping bag or the 30 F (-1 C) sleeping bag, the inverted canister stove or the regular canister stove, the 9 oz (255 g) down jacket or the 11.5 oz (326 g) down jacket it means that OGADD is often close at hand. Car camping is also a noteworthy catalyst of OGADD as instead of worrying about pushing the limits of your 35-liter pack, the only thing you have to consider taxing is your vehicle’s suspension system.

When sitting around camp after an evening hot springs soak and slowly recognizing that I was almost completely surrounded by gear (see above photo), my companions and I engaged in some humorous banter about just how much stuff gets involved with relatively simple camping trips. To be fair, most of the gear was removed from my Honda Element so my girlfriend and I could sleep in the back, but the situation still had the trappings of ridiculousness. The notion from a Ralph Waldo Emerson poem about things being in the saddle and riding mankind, taken completely out of context courtesy of a few post-soak IPAs, came to mind.

Indeed, sometimes it seems like the gear—or the desire to accumulate more gear—begins to own you, rather than the other way around. Backpacking is an all-consuming passion of mine and has wielded an outsized influence in regard to the jobs I’ve worked, where I’ve chosen to live, and how I spend my free time. However, I’ve noticed that a dark side of that enthusiasm for backpacking can be a passion for consuming—in particular buying the latest and supposedly greatest gear that will allegedly take your backpacking experience to a new level.

Belaying a climber — The author belaying in Pass Creek Canyon. Climbing requires a significant amount of dedicated gear, most of which is completely useless for hiking. Photo: Andrea Price.

I was lucky enough to get disabused of any notion I had of becoming a gear junkie when I worked in an outdoor retail shop a few years after I started backpacking. After unpacking, pricing, stocking, and talking about gear for hours every day, it lost its luster for me; my passion was for getting outside and I realized gear was merely a tool. I liked living in a home, for example, but I would derive little joy from working at a hardware store or discussing the finer points of washers and dryers in online forums. But for some reason backpacking and the gear that allowed me to have such amazing experiences in natural landscapes captivated me in a way that few other things in life did.

I also recognized rather quickly that, with few exceptions, once you have your basic kit dialed in that vastly more pleasure will come from channeling effort into planning trips than looking for places to save 50 grams of weight. In other words, if after you’ve assembled a functional kit you’re spending more time looking at gear specifications instead of maps, guidebooks, or other trip-planning resources then you might want to do some reflection on how you’re spending your free time.

Car camping — With four people occupying a site with one picnic table, the seemingly superfluous gear I brought along—like a table and chairs—allowed us to have one table mostly just for eating and one for food prep, which kept elbow bumping to a minimum.

Criticism aside, there are good reasons to have a healthy focus on buying quality gear that is appropriate for your hobbies. For one, it tends to make those hobbies more fun since you’re not being held back by equipment deficiencies—you have only yourself to blame for not climbing more difficult routes, not putting in more miles, or not catching wily trout at a subalpine lake. Additionally—and this is far and away my favorite part of all the gear I’ve accumulated over the years—is that it can allow you to share the experience more easily with others (i.e. by loaning them gear) or make the experience more enjoyable by getting fancy from time to time.

On the recent trip which inspired this piece, I was able to cook meals that would’ve been well-received at a backyard cookout but which hit the spot even more after a day of climbing or before a day of hiking. The sleeping system I use in the back of my car when car camping is almost as comfortable as my bed at home.

This isn’t exactly a new notion, and I give much credit to Paul Magnanti, who has covered it well on his blog over the years, but given that a season that emphasizes the buying, giving, and receiving of stuff is in full swing (I received no less than three emails about sales from gear companies while writing this piece) it seems a timely subject for Unpacked. While it’s tempting to give gear to yourself or others as a way to celebrate the holiday season, it’s worth it to take a step back and ponder other options.

An alpine lake — Minimal gear was required for a short day hike to Bear Creek Lake in the Lost River Range. An antique guidebook from 1984 that I tossed in the car at the last minute contained enough information to lead us to this secluded piece of paradise.

Far and away the best gifts you can give to yourself, or to others, is time or knowledge. Planning a trip with a friend or family member and spending that time with them is infinitely more valuable and memorable than any item on a 2020 Gear Guide. Making a conscious effort to learn a new skill—like dehydrating your own food, route planning, or gear repair—will likely improve your experiences long after whatever piece of gear you buy has lost its shine. Sharing information with a friend about a stellar campsite, off-trail waterfall, or trout-filled lake is more heartwarming than any gift card. Gear certainly helps you achieve trips that make memories, but unless you get out there and use it the only thing gear will remind you of is buying it. And what excitement or enrichment is there in that?

What I remember most about the trip to Idaho is climbing with friends, eating delicious food, a beautiful hike, crisp September air, and a roadside hot springs soak to break up the drive back home. And, of course, the good-natured chiding from my companions about the inordinate amount of stuff I brought along to pull it off.

Staff Picks 2020

Backpacking Light staff and contributors give their 2020 staff picks – their favorite backpacking and hiking gear of the year.

Introduction

Each year, our staff selects their favorite backcountry gear from the past 12 months, and we look forward to you sharing your favorite gear of the year as well in the forum comments below!

Our Staff

This year’s Staff Picks contributors are:

bpl staff picks 2020 2 — Row 1, L to R: Chase Jordan (production editor), Ryan Jordan (owner/founder), Stephanie Jordan (owner/founder), Andrew Marshall (managing editor); Row 2, L to R: Emylene VanderVelden (contributor), Rex Sanders (contributor), Stephen Seeber (contributor), Big Sky Sierra (shop dog); Row 3, L to R: Maggie Slepian (contributor), Mark Wetherington (contributor), Drew Smith (contributor), Shilletha Curtis (grant awardee); Row 4, L to R: Ben Kilbourne (contributor), Daniel Hu (contributor), Iago Vazquez (contributor), Roger Caffin (community moderator).

Shelters and Sleep Systems

Seek Outside Eolus Tent

I’ve been waiting a long time for a legitimately stormworthy, trekking pole tent that doesn’t rely on zippers as they’ve been the Achilles heel of most tents I’ve used in the desert southwest. The Seek Outside Eolus, which weighs about 3 lb with guylines and stakes, has been my primary two-person tent this year. It’s not as light as some other ultralight tents out there, but it makes up for it with its reasonable price, roomy nest, giant vestibules, overall reliability, and storm worthiness. – Ben Kilbourne

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Big Agnes Copper Spur HV UL 2 Tent

My tent is my baby and humble abode! The amount of space, good ventilation and inner pockets make this my favorite gear pick. – Shilletha Curtis

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Nemo Dagger 3P Tent

When sharing a tent with Ryan, I really appreciated the dual side doors so I could have my own entrance. Steep walls and lots of headroom help prevent claustrophobia, my least favorite thing about most backpacking tents. Easy setup, stable in wind, lots of gear organization options, room for the dog, and a bright cheery color. – Stephanie Jordan

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MSR Pro Bivy Sack

Having used an eVENT bivy sack with a DCF floor and a stiffened brim from a cottage manufacturer for several years, I spent 2020 reducing my pack size, and wanted a bivy sack that was more compact. I chose the MSR Pro Bivy because its dimensions are wide enough to accommodate my winter sleep system – a foam pad, a 3-inch-thick wide inflatable pad, and a lofty winter sleeping bag. – Ryan Jordan

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Feathered Friends Lark 10 UL Sleeping Bag

In my quest to find a cold-weather down mummy bag that was roomy enough to layer a winter down parka and pants, windproof enough to sleep under a tarp without a bivy sack, and light and compact enough to feel like a 3-season bag rather than a winter bag, I’ve returned to my trusty Feathered Friends Lark 10 UL. At 31 oz, when combined with down puffy clothes, it’s my bag of choice for all but the most frigid 4-season conditions in the Rockies. – Ryan Jordan

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Nunatak Doggy Down Bag

Keeps me warm when my master gets a wild hair to do some tent testing. Has a sleeve for my pad so I don’t fall off. This is a custom item, so be nice to Jan if you want one. Don’t worry, they’all gotta soft spot for canines. Start your email with “hey Jan, my dog has been shiverin’ and I need some help…” Works every time. – Sierra

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Packing

ULA Circuit Backpack

The ULA Circuit is awesome, lightweight and durable. I love how light the pack is and how you can remove pieces like the aluminum stay in make it lighter. It carries well and the hip pockets are solid. – Shilletha Curtis

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Rogue Panda Zoro Backpack

Rogue Panda is known for bike bags. The Zoro is the first commercially available backpacking pack created by Rogue Panda founder Nick Smolinske, and features a few innovations that really caught my eye. The floating hip-belt and innovative horizontal water bottle pockets particularly stood out. The pack is undergoing re-design, and isn’t currently available, but I highly recommend it as a load-hauling pack when it comes back on the market. – Andrew Marshall

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Mountain Smith Tour and Day Lumbar Packs

I do day hikes. I don’t like a sweaty back while hiking. Even in the winter, I don’t need much gear with me. The answer: a lumbar pack. Light weight, adequate capacity and all weight is off my shoulders and back. The Day Pack has enough room for my extra winter needs. Now, for you backpackers, if you follow all the tips found on BPL, the lumbar pack will probably keep you out in the wilderness for weeks on end! – Stephen Seeber

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Zpacks Pack Liner Dry Bag

Because most packs I’ve used are not completely waterproof, I used to pack everything in individual dry bags or one big trash compactor bag, but this year I found a better way. The Zpacks Packliner Dry Bag has kept my gear completely dry on many trips including repeated full pack submersions in the Verde River and 48 hours of solid rain in the Mazatzal Mountains this Spring. Made of 1.0oz DCF and weighing only 1.8oz, this 44L dry bag has become an indispensable piece of gear for me this year. – Ben Kilbourne

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Clothing

Feathered Friends EOS Down Vest

The vest version of the classic Feathered Friends jacket. This vest packs a lot of warmth and space-saving minimalism into seven ounces. It’s now my insulation of choice to ward off a chill at high elevations in the summer, and it works just as well as a shoulder-season layer in more temperate climates. – Andrew Marshall

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Enlightened Equipment Torrid APEX Jacket

I’ve never used a synthetic-fill jacket before, and now I’ll never go back. The Torrid APEX weighs less than 8 ounces and is as warm as any of my down backpacking jackets. Since it’s synthetic, I actually wear this as a hiking layer when it gets cold, and I don’t feel gross or clammy like I would if I hiked in down. This jacket goes on every backpacking trip with me. – Maggie Slepian

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Patagonia Nanopuff Pants

I was a bit hesitant to bring something so heavy when doing winter xc-ski touring, but these pants have been great to toss on over what I skied in when I get to camp and don’t want to get chilled before changing into dry layers. I don’t have to worry about the insulation absorbing moisture, since they’re synthetic, and the durability is a major plus. The zipper and pockets also had functionality that would’ve been lost with some of the lightweight down pants — going to the bathroom in the winter is enough of a chore already, without having to complicate things further by not having a zipper! – Mark Wetherington

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Patagonia Down Sweater Vest

Lightweight, windproof, and warm, I prefer pairing this with a fleece jacket (vs. a single puffy layer) for warmth during summer and early fall trips. – Chase Jordan

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Minus 33 Woolverino Micro 1/4 Zip Hoodie

Down provides more warmth per ounce, but merino provides more comfort. The Woolverino hoodie checks all my boxes: hoodie to warm my neck and ears, thumb loops to cover my wrists, 1/4 zip to vent heat when hiking. Most important, it turns a cold, wet, blustery evening into a spa day. Well, not quite, but it is a difference-maker. – Drew Smith

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Helly Hansen Odin Minimalist 2.0 Rain Jacket

This is a quality product by Helly Hanson that is totally windproof and waterproof. It’s a nice single outer layer that is easily packable and extremely lightweight. Quite fashionable on top of its great functionality! – Daniel Hu

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Janji Groundwork Tight

I took a risk and wore these out of the box on a 200+ mile thru-hike this year, and they were superb. They sit high so they don’t slide down while hiking (a near-constant issue for me with hiking tights), but the waistband is so wide and flat that they don’t feel restrictive or uncomfortable. They have a flatlock inseam which meant zero chafing, and after 12 days of continuous wear, they kept their shape and never sagged or stretched. They’re light, breathable, and wicking, and I’m going to get a pair in every color. – Maggie Slepian

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RBH Designs Vapor Mitt

I have poor hand circulation and suffer in the cold. I have used heated gloves for several years. Each glove, with an extra battery weighs 15.85 ounces! Almost two pounds! And they are not that warm because the liner seams and outer glove seams line up and create a miserable thermal short circuit. During high winds I must also wear a windproof shell. Each Vapor Mitt, with the highest available insulation weighs 4.5 ounces. 9 ounces for the pair. I have used them in single digits with high winds and my hands have been happy. They offer pretty good dexterity for such a warm mitten. – Stephen Seeber

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Rab Expedition Slipper

When I received my Rab Expedition Slippers in the mail, my invoice had a handwritten note at the bottom which read: “now your feet will never be cold!” How right the sales associate was! In my pursuit of a lighter sleep system, in a cold weather climate, the Rab Expedition Slipper bridged the weight and temperature gap between carrying a shoulder season rated quilt all year, and using a lighter, down summer quilt. – Emylene VanderVelden

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Outdoor Research Radar Cap

The Radar line stands above the rest of nylon caps and hats for me due to the breathability of its softshell material. I have been using the same cap for the last few years and it is still my favorite, most used piece of headwear. I do not know of any other manufacturer that offers softshell headwear. The folding brim of the cap is also extremely practical as well. – Iago Vazquez

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Dirty Girl Gaiters

After switching from boots to trail runners, emptying dirt and debris became an hourly chore. Many had praised Dirty Girls, but I was skeptical, worried about overheating my already-sweaty feet. Finally ponied up and bought a pair more than a decade ago. Now I won’t hike or backpack without them, and I can wear thinner socks without stuff digging into my feet. Too many patterns to choose from; choose your size wisely. 45 grams for the pair in my size. – Rex Sanders

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GoLite Wisp Jacket

Sadly, the Wisp is no longer in production. We will throw one of these windshirts over the top of our Taslan smocks when it gets a bit cool and windy. As they weigh no more than 90 g each, and they block the wind very well, they are usually to be found in our packs. But I am sure there are many other brands available. – Roger Caffin

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Montbell Rain Umbrero

For windless precipitation, I love to pair the Montbell Rain Umbrero with other pieces of headwear under it, most often a mesh trucker hat or cycling cap. I can easily control the ventilation/warmth and I do not need to wear my raingear hood. The thin flexible wire allows it to fold and store easily, but it also makes it unusable in anything but light winds. – Iago Vazquez

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Cooking and Hydration

Vargo Ti Bot 700

The Vargo TiBot 700 mL pot embodies the multi-use principle of lightweight backpacking. I have used it as a cooking pot, coffee mug, a small bowl, an auxiliary water bottle for long carries, a rehydration bottle when I’ve run out of fuel, a water scoop at desert seeps. It stores a canister and small stove when not being put to any of these other uses. – Drew Smith

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GSI Ultralight Java Drip

In our article, How to Make Coffee in the Backcountry: Gear and Methods, I gathered all of the coffee making methods I amassed over the years and the GSI Ultralight Java Drip stands out from the rest. I take the GSI Ultralight Java Drip on almost every trip and regret not taking it if I don’t. – Emylene VanderVelden

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MSR Titan Fork and Spoon

After breaking my trusty cut-down REI Permaware spoon on a trip several years ago, I went on a long search for the perfect titanium replacement, since I’m not a sporky guy. Most titanium spoons have an unpolished bowl that feels yucky in my mouth. Yes, I tried to polish one and failed after much swearing. Finally bought the MSR Titan Fork and Spoon set, and immediately ditched the wire keychain and fork. Plus the spoon doesn’t have any useless slots or holes to accumulate weird gunk. Eating bliss returned, should last my lifetime, and I can almost scare myself with the reflection. 17 grams. – Rex Sanders

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DIY V4 Winter Stove

My latest DIY winter stove. At ~85 g, it is lighter than many upright stoves, but it works fine in the deeps of winter. – Roger Caffin

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Good To-Go Packaged Meals

Cutting meat from your diet can be daunting for a backpacker, but Good To-Go gives you delicious, healthy food, energizing, and ethically-sourced food. The Mushroom Risotto might be my favorite. – Chase Jordan

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Footwear

Altra Lone Peak 4.5 Trail Running Shoes

Finding a shoe that remains comfortable over the course of a long trip has for many years been an unsolvable problem for me making my purchase of the Altra Lone Peak 4.5 my single most important gear discovery this year. The latest iteration of the Lone Peak has a heel cup that is narrow enough for average feet, great traction, and a durable upper along with the characteristic foot-shaped toe box and zero-drop you’re already familiar with. I’ve put hundreds of miles on these and have experienced no knee pain or plantar tendon pain, things that previously plagued me on long backpacking trips before. – Ben Kilbourne

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Hoka Speedgoat Trail Running Shoes

I added Hoka Speedgoats to my footwear arsenal a few years ago primarily as a recovery shoe to wear after long-mileage training days. Now, they’ve earned a spot in my backpacking routine when I’m hiking hardpacked trails. I also like them during the winter where the high stack height helps insulate my feet from the cold ground in my snowy home hiking areas. – Ryan Jordan

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Injinji Trail Midweight Mini-Crew Socks (Women’s)

These Injinji socks prevent me from getting blisters and the taller cuff keeps junk out of my socks. I also like Injinji Liner Crew Socks in the winter, worn under a cushioned wool sock. – Stephanie Jordan

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Accessories

BioLite HeadLamp 200

This is, in short, the most comfortable headlamp I’ve ever used. It isn’t the brightest, longest lasting, or lightest rechargeable headlamp on the market. But thoughtful engineering with an eye towards a seamless blend of hardware and software make it the most comfortable and most stable (no bounce) that I know of. Great for on-trail excursions and winter trips where you need to wear a headlamp around camp for long periods. – Andrew Marshall

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SOLO Patient Assessment Bandana

Sure, I’ve had multiple Wilderness First Aid courses. But I am not at all confident that I would correctly follow protocols when faced with an actual incident. That’s what checklists are for. This bandana provides you with a memory aid so that you can focus on executing, not trying to recall what’s next. Plus, it is a bandana. – Drew Smith

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Kala Waterman Ukulele

Recorded music blaring in the backcountry is always horrible and inappropriate. Live music, perhaps accompanied by a sip of whisky among friends, is a great way to make the wilderness feel like home. This plastic ukulele weighs only 14 oz, is nearly indestructible, and sounds surprisingly good. – Drew Smith

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Frontiersman Bear Moose Horn

A dubious option for bears, we use this for moose instead. After several hostile moose encounters (including two charges) since we moved to Wyoming, I’ve come to realize that my hiking partner may be the moose whisperer. Since air horns are more effective moose deterrents than rubber bullets or pepper spray, we may never leave home again without it. I also appreciate the locking on/off button – at 115 decibels, you don’t want this to be accidentally discharged. – Stephanie Jordan

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Klymit V Seat

The Klymit V Seat started as a joke about my bony butt needing cushioning after one too many complaints about sitting on hard wet stumps and rocks. However, the Klymit V Seat solved being uncomfortable, and it became a favorite winter backpacking item because I could use it as insulation between the toe of my quilt and the tent wall. The Klymit V Seat packs down small and compared to a chair, is a lightweight solution that has multi-purposes. – Emylene VanderVelden

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pStyle

Peeing has become so much more efficient and safe with my pStyle. I love not having to squat or pull my pants down to pee! – Shilletha Curtis

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Gossamer Gear LT5 Trekking Poles

Trekking poles are a must for me, and the LT5 are the lightest and most comfortable ones I’ve ever used. They collapse to just 60 centimeters, and have a wide range of length adjustment from the three-piece build. The shafts are a carbon construction that absorbs impact, the foam grips absorb sweat, and the straps are padded. They weigh under 10 ounces for the pair, and I feel like they “swing” lightly and easily on the trail. I will say that you have to be careful with these, as carbon poles can’t withstand hard lateral pressure. If you feel the pole get caught in a rock, stop and extract it straight up. I’ve snapped one of the shafts by trying to wrench it out from a rock at an angle. These are best for on-trail, not scree field expeditions. – Maggie Slepian

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Klymit Cush Seat

I actually use the Klymit Cush as a pillow more than a seat. I sleep both on my back and on my side when on the ground. I need more pillow height when on my side and significantly less on my back. All I need to do is fold this thing twice and I have a tall pillow, unfold it and I have lower one. The end circles work great when folded and laying on one’s side as the ear goes inside the circle and it does not get pinched. Because of its length the Klymit Cush also works great to combat calf ridge in the hammock. And of course you can use it as a seat, something most pillow manufacturers warn you against. – Iago Vazquez

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Road ID Sidekick ID for Fitbit + Garmin

After too many Type III adventures that ended in emergency rooms and hospitals, I bought one of these to slip over my ABC watchband. Shows a bunch of hopefully useful information if I’m incapacitated. Maybe it helped after my mountain-bike induced concussion this spring, but I don’t remember that day or the next two weeks. Be prepared and safe out there. Only 10 grams of worn weight, so it doesn’t count. – Rex Sanders

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Hyperlite Mountain Gear Face Mask

While the COVID-19 experience of 2020 is something we won’t want to remember too vividly in the future, the reality is we are many months away from returning to normal and many of us may not have a vaccine before we begin our spring and summer treks. This will be a part of my kit for the foreseeable future on busy trails, and it’s something we all should consider to keep our trail mates and passerby safe. – Chase Jordan

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Gossen Metrawatt MetraHit 29S Power Meter and Thermoworks ThermaQ2 4-Channel Thermocouple Meter

For the nerd on your list, nothing better to figure out what will keep you warm on the trail! – Stephen Seeber

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Airplane Mode

It has been GREAT to turn my phone off or set it on airplane, even just on day hikes where I would usually have reception. As much as I appreciate gear, I am even more grateful for uninterrupted time in beautiful places and sometimes stepping away from technology is essential to achieve that! My apologies for this questionable staff pick, but it was really important to me and I think it’s always good to have a reminder that sometimes the best gift you can give yourself is some peace and quiet (so long as you don’t avoid urgent responsibilities). – Mark Wetherington

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How About You?

What are your 3 favorite pieces of gear for 2020?

Let us know in the forum 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.

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Introduction

Summary of Context

Footwear & Traction System

Footwear & Traction Gear Notes:

Clothing System

Hiking Clothing

Hiking Clothing Notes:

Storm Clothing

Storm Clothing Notes:

In-Camp Clothing

In-Camp Clothing Notes

Sleeping & Shelter

Sleeping and Shelter Notes

Cooking & Food

Cooking Notes:

Food Notes:

Hydration & Water Treatment

Hydration and Water Treatment Notes:

Packing

Packing Notes:

Navigation & Electronics

Navigation and Electronics Notes:

Other Gear

Caveats, Limitations, and Disclaimers

Related Content

Followed

Two Worlds

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Stream

Summary

Outline

Intro Conversation

New Favorite Things

Mental Health

Backcountry Mental Health Management

Frontcountry Mental Health Management

What’s New at BPL

In the Forums

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Introduction

Features and Specifications

Commentary

Fit and Comfort

Warmth and Waterproofness

Traction and Lugs

Durability

Ideal Use Cases

Less than Ideal Use Cases

Photos

Where to Buy

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Remembering the Purpose of GSENM

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Depleted Surge Capacity

It’s Ok for Backpacking to be Hard Right Now

Further Reading

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Introduction

Knock-offs, “Originals” and History

Proliferating Designs

Cheap Tents Compared

Condensation Complaint Department

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Grateful to be Walking

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TL;DR