Articles (2020) - Page 23 of 145

Standards Watch: Tent Designer Mike Cecot-Scherer Talks Standards

Rex Sanders interviews long-time gear designer Mike Cecot-Scherer about a range of common gear standards.

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Episode 33 | Digital Route Planning

Andrew and Ryan discuss some digital tools useful for planning your route effectively. Also: An interview with FATMAP founder Misha Gopaul.

Stream

Summary

In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, Andrew and Ryan talk about digital route planning. There are a huge variety of digital tools out there, and all of them have different strengths and weaknesses, so the guys spend a lot of time breaking things down by software type, best uses, and pros and cons.

After that, Andrew interviews Misha Gopaul, the founder of FATMAP. They talk about the technology needed to create 3D mapping software, how FATMAP is trying to make ripples in the digital route-planning world, and the responsibilities that come with being a company operating in the outdoor space.

A 3D map of the Lake Tahoe region. — A screenshot from FATMAP’s user-friendly desktop application.

Finally, Ryan gives an update on the just-released Backpacking Light Trek Planning Masterclass and chats briefly about the upcoming Staff Picks article.

Outline

Intro Conversation
- Ryan’s Guac recipe!
- Andrew is going to winter hammock camp this year
  - Enlightened Equipment Revolt V2
  - Enlightened Equipment Uprising
- A brief overview of Ryan’s digital tool strategy
Some of the most common digital route planning tools
- Garmin Explore (bundled with Garmin products)
- CalTopo
- Gaia GPS
- Google Earth
- FATMAP
- Guthook
Planning a route from square one
- Ryan starts with Gaia GPS
- The three phases of route planning
What sets digital route planning tools apart from map and compass
- The process doesn’t differ between paper and digital
- It’s a matter of convenience
Segments vs. one large route
Downsides to using digital tools
- Too much info?
Slope angle shading + satellite imagery layers
Information inaccuracy
- Mileage estimates
When should you put digital tools away?
- Connection to landscape
- Speed and efficiency
- When you need to develop your skills (they always fail at some point)
Garmin Fenix watch uses
FATMAP Interview
- Misha Gopaul
- FATMAP’s story and Misha’s background
- Shifting outdoor market
- What does FATMAP do better than anybody else?
- FATMAP and community building
- Misha’s favorite feature in FATMAP
- Geolocating photos – a new feature coming
- Building a business: “It’s always further than it looks. It’s always taller than it looks. And it’s always harder than it looks. – Reinhold Messner
- More mountain metaphors
- Solutions to hard problems
- What’s at the heart of FATMAP?
- What’s the responsibility of outdoor companies in issues of conservation?
  - FATMAP donates 1% of revenue from Explore memberships to Protect Our Winters and 1% For the Planet
- Distributing people rather than consolidating people
- Final thoughts on community building
Trek Planning Masterclass
- A methodical framework for complex trips
  - Route plan
  - Equipment
  - Supplies
  - Strategy
  - Forecasting environmental conditions
  - Assessing terrain
  - Creating a supply list based on knowledge of the route
  - Inclement conditions and emergencies
Staff Picks article
- Gear that sticks around!

Resources

Interested in a FATMAP membership? They are giving all listeners a one-month free trial to FATMAP Explore. Click here to redeem.
Take our Trek Planning Masterclass. Improving your planning will lead to more fun in the backcountry!

The Overlook: Understanding Livestock Grazing in Wilderness Areas

BPL columnist Ben Kilbourne uses a close encounter to examine the practice of livestock grazing on public land.

The Overlook is Backpacking Light’s new monthly column where hiker, writer, and thinker Ben Kilbourne will explore backpacking from many different vantages. He will try to climb up to a high place with a view, an overlook, where the myriad issues intertwined with backpacking can be seen. This column will challenge the reader to embrace complexity and engage in thoughtful dialogue with other readers. Join us at The Overlook!

On a Saturday afternoon, we hit the smoky road with the sun setting red outside of Evanston, Wyoming. We passed windmills beside I-80 in the twilight and let the GPS guide us to the China Meadows trailhead on the Northern Slope of the Uintas. The next day, we would be heading into the Red Castle area of the High Uintas Wilderness.

We camped in the pines while the yellow moon rose out of them and crossed the sky while we slept. Cows grunted, mooed, and bawled in the dark just before dawn. After crawling sleepily out of the back of the truck, we made tea and grits, packed our packs, and then rolled slowly down the road to find the China Meadows parking lot completely filled. Without exaggeration, there were probably about 60 cars, indicating that well over 100 people would be on the trail we were about to walk.

Grazed through wilderness — Hallie and Easy walking through Wilderness rangeland in the Uintas.

Our first encounter on the trail, however, was not human but bovine. We had been hearing them all morning, hoping they’d be out in a meadow somewhere, trampling delicate riparian vegetation, rather than on the trail where we’d have to deal with them. They turned out to be in both places. Within a half-mile (800 m), we saw the first giant black cow standing like a disgruntled and erratic bus. The mechanisms and the pilot behind those giant white eyes were unpredictable, and the tension between that unpredictability and the very certain weight of the thing was terrifying. The leashed dog was asked to heel and did so promptly, and then we stood there watching the beast.

“How much do you think they weigh?” Hallie asked.

“I don’t know. A thousand pounds?” I guessed.

“Holy crap.”

We stood and waited and watched the enormous cow watch us. Her also enormous baby ambled out of the aspens, ducked his head under her side, and found breakfast. Since they appeared uninterested in letting us pass, we decided to walk around — way around. We tromped into a soggy meadow through waist-high grasses and between bunches of willows. Thankfully, the cow seemed disinterested, and we were able to pass easily.

But for the next mile (1.6 km), we dodged giant, black cows. Some stood in the trail; others peered at us through the lodgepole from every direction. We nervously and quickly moved through, hanging tightly onto the dog’s leash. When the trail led to a gate, we opened it, stepped through, and closed it from the other side.

“I wonder if this means no more cows,” I inquired.

“I hope so,” said Hallie.

The cows we encountered were in designated Wilderness, which felt strange considering the use of words like “untrammeled” in the Wilderness Act. But it was never going to get passed without a livestock provision. Wayne Aspinall, a Democrat from Colorado, stalled the vote from 1960 to 1963, refusing to vote until a livestock provision was added. Today, there is livestock in about 330 designated wildernesses throughout the lower 48, encompassing a total area of about 10 million acres. The Wilderness Act of 1964 stipulates that any permits active before the Act are allowed to continue almost indefinitely. Due to this livestock inclusion, exceptions are often made for ORVs, fences, the poisoning of prairie dogs — things otherwise not allowed in Wilderness.

Livestock in Wilderness areas and public lands in the west is a complex and divisive issue. As a hiker, my first reaction to encountering them on the trail always has to do with personal safety — I don’t want to be trampled. Then I see the damage they’re doing — cowpies in springs and wet meadows, riparian vegetation devastated. I start to ask, “what are they doing here?” Then I think about the people who own the cows — whose cultural identities are inextricably tied to them. It feels uncomfortable to be frustrated with someone’s means of making a living. Does a backpacker have the right to tell them their cows are destructive?

The majority of public lands grazing in the 11 western states of Arizona, California, Colorado, Idaho, Montana, New Mexico, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, Washington, and Wyoming takes place on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and United States Forest Service (USFS) land. Because these lands are not irrigated, they are referred to as rangelands — in contrast with pasturelands, which are irrigated. There are about 21,000 livestock operators on BLM and USFS lands in the west. Compared to the 800,000 operators in the U.S., these only make up 2.7% of all livestock operators in the country.

Cows in the desert — Cows grazing in the San Rafael Desert in Southern Utah.

And there’s a reason there are so few livestock operators on these western rangelands despite the sheer abundance of acreage — the forage is generally poor. It’s so poor, in fact, that western livestock operators can’t make a living without government subsidies. Fees for livestock operators on public rangelands in the west are kept artificially low. If they had to pay market value for their product, there would instantly be no livestock industry at all on these rangelands!

According to a report by the Center for Biological Diversity, “the federal lands grazing program generated $125 million less than what the federal government spent on the program in 2014.”

Part of this figure includes nearly $24,000 that taxpayers dole out to each one of these operators every year. While I don’t see any problem helping out those who are struggling, I do feel some hesitancy about helping out a struggling industry that is so ecologically destructive. In addition to direct costs, there are millions of dollars in indirect costs associated with remediating damage caused by livestock and the removal of predators.

I thought of this as we stepped over puddles filled with cowpies. The ecological costs — predator extermination, vegetation removal, and trampled riparian areas — didn’t seem worth the minimal contributions made to the GDPs of these 11 western states. Shouldn’t we just have cows in landscapes less harsh, where they can graze happily?

Cowpies under a tree — Cows must huddle in the shade of this tree throughout the summer.

After a couple of beautiful days exploring lakes and waterfalls and watching unreal rainbows materialize across the red quartz-sandstone of Red Castle, the trip concluded with an exit through the same cow-choked stretch of trail. But this time, it was even worse. The first mama we encountered turned and faced us and started towards us. Chaotically, we scurried backward a good thirty feet (9 m) and reevaluated. She stood staring at us. “She looks pissed,” one of us said. When she finally went back to grazing, we detoured around her only to find ourselves face to face with another protective mother, this time a 1,500-pound (750 kg) beast.

“What do hikers do about cows?” Hallie asked. “We can’t just be expected to walk past these clearly upset and protective mothers. Can we?”

I suddenly realized I had no concrete answer to this question.

“As soon as we’re back in service, I’m going to look up how many people are killed by cows each year,” she continued.

Agreeing to play it safe, we began bushwhacking through young aspens, common juniper, and willow to get as far away as possible from those wary mothers.

When we hit I-80, Hallie Googled, “How many people are killed by cows in the U.S. each year?” The answer was somewhat surprising to me — about twenty, mostly killed by kicking and trampling, and most by protective mothers. This figure was much higher than the threats we think about more often, like bears and mountain lions. I suddenly felt like we’d been careless and vowed then and there to be more vigilant when in livestock situations.

Of course, the physical danger posed to backpackers like myself is just a tiny side effect of a much larger issue. And I recognize that my viewpoint is only one of many vantages from which to look at it. Again, I thought of the 21,000 livestock operators whose identities are linked to this way of life. That’s 21,000 people who I’m asking to change in order to maintain ecological intactness on public lands in the west. It’s a big ask, no doubt. I can hear their response, too — “What do you want me to do instead?” Undeniably, no one deserves to have the rug ripped out from under them like that. But the government subsidies are already so huge that it makes a lot of sense to just use that same money for establishing new ways of life for these people.

This will help them get on their feet and establish occupations they can be proud of. Maybe this is easier said than done, but I can see this way forward and feel hopeful while still wondering if backpackers, conservationists, politicians, and western livestock operators are capable of having this conversation together right now. Hopefully, we will be able to have it soon.

A Gear Confession

Chances are, you’ve got something in your pack that could be lighter, but it works for you. Maggie Slepian shares her heaviest items.

Confession time. As a longtime writer in the outdoor industry, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to lower my base weight to a ridiculously low number. If I wanted to, I could be a walking advertisement, the kind of person you see on the trail and know that Everything in Her Pack is DCF Including Her Pack. But I’m not, and I’ve had more than one trip with other ultralight backpackers where I felt clunky, goofy, and like I had to explain myself.

We get to camp, and they unfurl their translucent DCF tarps, slap their closed-cell foam pads on the ground, and shake out a feather-light quilt from their hip-belt-free 30L pack.

I drop my 55L pack (with an extra shoulder pocket!) with a thud and start extricating my two-person from the depths of the pack. I nearly pass out from the infinity breaths it takes to inflate my sleeping pad, and then shake out a 10-degree mummy bag so lofty I have to wrestle it into the tent. To the amusement of my ultralight companions, I whip out a camping pillow and inflate it to *just the right amount.* My campsite is now set up.

None of my gear is ridiculously heavy, but it’s also not trendy, and very little of it is lightest in its class. I’ve tried quilts (I sleep too cold), trekking pole tents (I find them a pain to set up), and closed-cell foam pads (ask me how that went). I’ve always gone back to the items that aren’t the newest, lightest, or coolest, but for me, they’re the most comfortable and functional, and I’m willing to carry a heavier pack to have a better experience each night. Here’s the gear I always carry and what the cooler options would be.

Big Three

Shelter

What I Use: Big Agnes Tiger Wall UL 2

What’s Cooler: One-person DCF tarp or trekking-pole-supported shelter single-wall shelter

A backpacking confession. In this photo, Maggie Slepian considers her favorite 2P, double-wall, freestanding shelter. — Solo backpacking trip carrying my all-time favorite two-person shelter.

Yes, I am one person, and yes, I carry a two-person freestanding tent. (or semi-freestanding, depending on how you describe this shelter). I love how easy it is to set up, how taut the pitch is with very little effort, how spacious the interior and dual vestibules are, and how well double-wall shelters handle condensation. I also use this with my partner, but I don’t think twice about carrying it on solo trips as well. This shelter weighs 2.5 pounds, which isn’t excessive in the grand scheme of things considering how well it accomplishes what I need it to.

Sleeping Bag

What I Use: Feathered Friends Petrel UL 10

What’s Cooler: Ultralight 30-degree quilt

I’ve tried the quilt life, and it didn’t work for me. I know there has been plenty written about how quilts are just as warm as mummy bags, but this isn’t the case for me. Having full coverage plus a hood isn’t comparable to the drafts I’ve experienced with a quilt. This sleeping bag is quite bulky, but I’ve never been cold in it, and the draft collar and treated down offers incredible protection.

Pack

What I Use: Hyperlite Mountain Gear 3400 Southwest

What’s Cooler: 30L pack with no hip belt or frame

This pack is made with DCF, and it’s also pretty pricey, but it has the capacity I need for carrying extra food, plus my gear to be comfortable at camp. I can fit my gear into a 45L if I’m going out for a few days, but an extended backpacking trip or thru-hike means I need at least 50 or 55 liters of capacity.

Extras:

Sleeping Pad

What I Use: Therm-a-Rest NeoAir XLite

What’s Cooler: Z-fold closed-cell foam pad or cut-down torso-length back pad

The lightest of ultralight hikers use the back pad from their ultralight pack. I like to be able to sleep on my side and not care if there’s a rock or a root underneath my tent. This sleeping pad takes a lot of effort to blow up, and I may or may not have destroyed two of them this year on a cactus and a pair of tweezers (don’t ask), but I will forever remain loyal to the two inches of padding and 4.2 R-value.

A backpacking confession: Maggie walking through the woods with her foam pad — I am carrying a foam pad from Wal-mart here, but believe me when I say it was extenuating circumstances

A backpacking confession: An alpine lake with Maggie's tired hiking feet in the shot. — You better believe I’m not putting my trail runners on until the next day

What I Use: Wal-Mart Flip-Flops for camp shoes

What’s Cooler: not having camp shoes

These cost $4.99 and weigh 4 ounces. I’m never leaving them behind. The option to not slide into my crusty, stinky, probably wet shoes for a midnight bathroom break is way too appealing. I know the judgment that hikers get from Crocs or flip-flops dangling from the outside of a pack, but I shall choose to ignore it.

What I Use: Sea to Summit Aeros Ultralight Pillow

What’s Cooler: rolled up fleece in a stuff sack

I know shockingly few hikers who use one of these ultralight pillows. Everyone else seems fine with balling up a greasy down jacket or shoving extra clothes into a stuff sack. That’s too lumpy for me. This weighs 2 oz (57 g) and inflates with four breaths. For me, it’s a no brainer.

What I Use: Tracksmith Harrier Long Sleeve and Isobaa Merino Tights for Camp Clothes

What’s Cooler: Not having camp clothes

I carry camp clothes, tucked away in the bottom of my pack. I might not use them for the first few nights on a backpacking trip, but once my hiking clothes get wet or rancid, you better believe I’m giddily donning my clean(ish), dry base layers to sleep in as soon as I get to camp.

Comfort, Safety, Enjoyment

Chances are, there’s something in your pack that isn’t the lightest (or even most effective) piece of gear possible, but it hits your budget and meets your needs. Maybe it’s just a sentimental item or something you can’t bring yourself to leave behind? Drop us a line in the comments and let us know!

Learning Curve: A Shoulder Season Reminder

BPL columnist Maggie Slepian reminds new and old hands alike to prepare for shoulder-season backpacking accordingly.

Learning Curve is a monthly column by outdoor journalist Maggie Slepian which will examine human-powered outdoor adventure through the lens of beginners. How do beginners learn our sports? What pitfalls do they face? How does mentality shift through time? And how should experts treat beginners? The Learning Curve will cover all this, and more. Got suggestions? Drop Maggie a line in the comments.

It was 60 degrees (15.5 C) and sunny when I left my house at 2 PM on a lovely autumn day. By the time I reached the trailhead 90 minutes later, it was down to 50 degrees (10 C), but still sunny. The forecast for town was partly cloudy, but the temperatures through the next day looked promising, and I didn’t dig any deeper. Did I check the radar to see the mountain forecast? Nope. If I had, it would have shown me the weather wasn’t going to stay as glorious as the pristine early-autumn day would lead me to believe.

Anyone heading into the mountains during the shoulder season in the Northern Rockies should be prepared for a drastic change in conditions, whether or not the forecast shows it. Am I a prime example of intelligent preparation? Obviously not, but it doesn’t mean I can’t dole out advice and provide cautionary tales from my own shortcomings.

A sunny day at a mountain lake — Hiking — 60 degrees (15.5 C) and sunny.

I had made the spur-of-the-moment plan (with myself) during a morning coffee-shop shift. My partner was out of town, as was apparently every other person I know. I could either drag myself on another depressing day hike and wander around my house alone, or I could haul ass to my house, pack my bag, and make it to the trailhead within two hours of clocking out at the cafe. A friend had mentioned an alpine lake I’d never been to—and there’s nothing more enticing to me than an alpine lake I’ve never been to.

So I rushed home, moved the pile of backpacking gear from my floor back into my pack, and decided this would be a great chance to test out my new shelter—making this the second time in my life when I would attempt to set up a trekking-pole tent. At the last minute, I threw a beanie into my bag, briefly considered gloves before deciding the two ounces (57 g) seemed too big of a sacrifice—and left my warmer sleeping bag in the closet because it was too bulky. I charged my headlamp in the truck, and before I lost service, I downloaded a Gaia map for the area—just in case.

Self timer photo at a creek crossing — Probably the most successful self-timer photo of my life.

Instead of checking the forecast and then changing my plans, packing different gear, or—I don’t know—taking a tent that I knew how to set up—I did none of the above. I happily trotted alone into the Crazy Mountains with a lightweight three-season backpacking system and a new shelter that not only had I never set up—but I also never watched even a 60-second instructional video on how to pitch. Smart!

I did throw down a few waypoints on the map as I hiked since that strategy had come in handy on other solo outings on new trails.

The lake was gorgeous, and the weather was perfect when I arrived. Within an hour though, the temperature had plummeted, and I had put on every layer I’d packed, including the beanie. As the temperature continued a stressful downward spiral, I started to pitch the trekking-pole shelter as fast as I could, which was fast at all. My hands were freezing at that point (no gloves, remember?). While the shelter was straightforward to pitch for someone experienced with trekking-pole shelters, it seemed to me like it required an advanced engineering degree. I was used to a single-hub, freestanding tent that went together in two minutes and just needed a few stakes.

High subalpine mountains — Getting into the basin—the weather was cooler but still comfortable.

Speaking of stakes, I hadn’t counted mine. For a solid pitch, the shelter required ten stakes. I had only six. I managed to get the tent mostly upright, and pulled the guylines out as far as I could before dropping massive rocks on top of them, making the walls somewhat taut as the wind picked up and blew icy air across the lake. While I was very confused by my trekking-pole shelter, I have significant backpacking experience with my normal setup. I knew the broad walls of the shelter were going to be buffeted by whatever the hell was blowing in with the dark clouds gathering over the edge of the basin.

As it got dark, the wind picked up, even more, slapping the walls of the shelter into my face. The tent collapsed twice, and I crawled out of my not-warm-enough sleeping bag, shivering, and restaked it while cursing my lack of preparation.

The wind howled throughout the night, and the echoing tap—tap tap—taptaptaptaptap meant something was falling from the sky. Rain? Sleet? Had it gotten cold enough to snow? I stared at the billowing shelter walls and watched my crooked trekking-pole supports wobble in the howling wind and thought, “I don’t care what it’s doing out there, as long as this tent stays up and I don’t have to go out there and fix it.”

I must have fallen asleep despite the wind and precipitation, because the next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to dim morning light and something dense on top of my head. I sputtered and sat up, blinking at the sagging walls. The tent had somehow stayed upright despite the weather and my awful pitch, but was completely bowed in at the sides from piles of snow. That’s what was on my head. The tent had sagged enough that the headwall—and pile of snow on the outside—had fallen directly onto my face. I checked my watch—It was 7 AM—enough light for me to make moves back to the trailhead.

I wore all of my layers as I stuffed the tent and my sleep system into my bag, hanging the pack on a branch to keep it off the snow that now covered the ground. The wind and snow had stopped, but everything was blanketed in white. I had no idea where the trail was, but I shouldered my pack and took off in the direction of the drainage. I had slept with my phone inside my sleeping bag, so it didn’t freeze and kill the battery. I pulled up the map with my marked waypoints and angled the direction of travel towards the closest one. I was off the trail for about half a mile, then found a faint dip in the snow cover that meant packed dirt. I hurried down, dropping elevation quickly, but remained in snow, sliding across icy rocks for over an hour.

By the time I made it to the last section of the trail, the sun was out, and the snow at the lower elevation was melting quickly. I stopped to snap photos of the gorgeous light peeking out from behind snow-capped peaks, and made it back to my truck in just a few hours.

A thinly frozen lake — It was 10 degrees (-12 C) on the hike out, but the view was too pretty—I had to take this shot.

Overall, it was a poor choice to head into the mountains—even to 9,000 feet (2,743 m)—without verifying the conditions. The weather is going to look very different in a mountainous basin than it does in the surrounding valleys, and it was my fault for dismissing that fact. However, I have done enough backpacking in shoulder seasons (and winter) to avoid feeling panicky. A down jacket and a 20-degree (-6.6 C) sleeping bag are the two things I always pack—and when used together I feel comfortable down to 10 degrees (-12 C). I might not have known how to set up my shelter perfectly, but I knew enough to get it to a point where it would stay standing and provide protection. And while I was unfamiliar with that lake, I understand the topography of that area enough to easily find my way out. There was nothing technical about the trail, and following my waypoints on the way out proved simple.

No matter how experienced you are, it’s always better to be completely prepared. While I can figure things out on the fly, despite not having the best gear for the scenario, I need to remember to take a few extra minutes before each trip to completely set myself up for success.

That’s why I’m always learning. Next time I’ll definitely check the weather.

Escape from COVID-19 at Corona Ridge

Longtime Backpacking Light author Emylene VanderVeldon takes on a suspiciously-named untraversed route, one of the most difficult she’s ever attempted.

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By the Numbers: Patagonia Worn Wear Micro Puff vs. New Micro Puff

In his new column for Backpacking Light, Stephen Seeber runs thermal testing on used and new Patagonia Micro Puff jackets.

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Winter Backpacking When There’s No Snow?

My shelter, sleep, clothing, water, and cook system for when temps drop but full-on winter snow and wind hasn’t yet arrived.

It’s really dry in Wyoming this year. There’s no snow on the ground at 8,000 feet.

But it’s cold.

Overnight lows have been in the single digits F and daytime highs aren’t high enough for water to be readily available.

That posed a unique challenge – ice abounds, but not much water. So staying hydrated is an issue. Watch this video to see my solution:

Here’s what else I like to do when the temps are frigid but the snow is missing.

1. I still like to camp in a tarp.

There’s something about tarp camping when it’s cold that’s really satisfying. Winter winds don’t arrive in Wyoming until late winter/early spring, so late fall/early winter is still a great time to tarp camp.

My favorite tarp has always been, and will continue to be, a 9-foot-square DCF tarp.

Here’s a trip report video where I used a tarp like this during the Wyoming winter:

Currently, I prefer the Hyperlite Mountain Gear Square Tarp. It’s well-made, has plenty of tie-outs for flexible pitch options, and best of all, it’s lasted several years for me. Mine is a 2012 model (1st generation), and it’s still going strong eight years later.

hmg tarp — The Hyperlite Mountain Gear Square Tarp pitched in a flying-diamond formation – 3 corners staked to the ground, one corner tied high to a tree. Lots of headroom, with wind protection on three sides.

2. I spend my weight on sleeping bag and insulating clothing warmth.

Short days, long nights. I spend a lot of my time in my sleeping bag during the winter.

I like to experiment with quilts in the winter, but I prefer the coziness of a mummy sleeping bag that offers enough girth for layering a puffy down jacket and pants, and to side sleep.

My favorite premium mummy bag, which I’ve used for several years now, is the Feathered Friends Lark UL 10. When I pair it with my PhDesigns Yukon Pullover and Western Mountaineering Flash Pants, I’m very comfortable down to 10 below F.

feathered friends lark sleeping bag — I have a love affair with my winter sleep system. The Feathered Friends Lark sleeping bag, Nemo Tensor Insulated Regular Wide pad, Gossamer Gear 1/8″ Thinlight CCF pad, and the Gossamer Gear Polyrcro ground cloth.

3. Don’t ignore your mattress.

My luxe pad is the Nemo Tensor Insulated Sleeping Pad.

It’s not ultralight per se. But in terms of comfort (for me), the regular length, wide width, is better than sleeping on my bed at home.

When temps drop, I add the Gossamer Gear Thinlight CCF pad – 1/8″ is plenty on dry ground, but go with 1/4″ thick for sleeping on snow in subzero conditions.

4. Keep your hands warm.

I don’t opt for ultralight handwear in the winter.

Your hands are too valuable. You need to operate stoves, deal with first aid supplies, manage navigation tools.

Keep. Your. Hands. Warm.

Ultralight: fleece mitts + waterproof-breathable mitten shells.

Light and warmer: high-loft insulating mitts like these.

Warmest and safest: vapor-barrier mitts.

5. Cold feet no more.

Let’s keep this really simple, and really effective:

Oversize your winter shoes by one full size to accommodate thicker socks and waterproof socks. Thick-midsole shoes add more insulation.
Go with a mid-height waterproof-breathable shoe. They’re warmer.
Layer a thick wool sock under a Gore-tex sock inside your shoe.
Change socks when you get to camp.
Wear a calf-height gaiter.

6. You can still squeeze a lot of performance out of a canister stove.

No snow on the ground but you can be creative and still acquire liquid water (see video above).

That means you can eek out a little more performance from your lightweight 3-season stove.

I use the MSR Pocket Rocket Deluxe because it’s the best performer in cold and wind among upright (lightweight) canister stoves.

Your strategies?

When temperatures drop but snow hasn’t fallen, what are your tips for staying warm, dry, safe, and comfortable in the backcountry?

How to Get Water Out of a Frozen Stream Where the Ice is Several Inches Thick

We invited this challenge from our community on the forums and Instagram. Here’s our solution – thanks for your feedback and suggestions!

We invited this challenge from our community on the forums and Instagram. Here’s our solution – thanks for your feedback and suggestions!

REI Co-op Flash Air 2 Tent Review

The REI Co-op Flash Air 2 Tent is a two-person hybrid single/double-wall shelter with dual entrances and vestibules. It is non-freestanding and can be pitched with two trekking poles to save weight or by using the included pole set.

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Unpacked: “Free Outside” by Jeff Garmire Book Review

BPL columnist Mark Wetherington reviews the book “Free Outside” by fellow BPL member and author – and Colorado Trail FKT holder – Jeff Garmire.

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.

Free Outside by Jeff Garmire

Jeff Garmire is undoubtedly one of the most impressive long-distance hikers to have ever laced up a pair of trail runners. In addition to setting Fastest Known Time records (FKTs) on the Arizona Trail, Long Trail, Pinhoti Trail, and — most recently — the unsupported FKT of the Colorado Trail, he completed a Calendar Year Triple Crown in 2016. Hiking the Appalachian, Pacific Crest, and Continental Divide Trails in one year is a remarkable physical and mental accomplishment, and “Free Outside” is Garmire’s account of the experience.

Free Outside Cover — Free Outside is available for order from Jeff Garmire’s website.

Themes and Style

After a brief overview of Garmire’s resignation from his job in Denver and pre-trip preparations, we join him at the start of the journey at the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. As the miles fly by, the narrative continues in a simple, linear form. The emotional and physical challenges are noted but never discussed in great detail. This keeps the book moving along at an entertaining pace, but also leaves one wanting more details on the profundity of certain experiences or the depths of strength and stamina required.

The book takes account of several recurring themes, such as kindness, generosity, and the beauty of nature, but none are examined in a way that allows the reader to really have meaningful insight into how powerful they must have felt. That said, writing about the human condition and the transcendental impact of immersion in nature is no easy task, and keeping the book focused on the play-by-play and day-to-day is beneficial in the way that it focuses the attention as much as possible on what it is actually like to hike 8,000 miles (12,875 km) in a single year.

The Pros and Cons of Simplicity

From winter storms and bone-chilling temperatures to unnerving wildlife encounters and brushes with dehydration, there aren’t many dull moments in this book. Even the descriptions of fairly routine sections of the trail leave one awe-struck when considering their place in the context of the overall achievement and the demanding daily mileages, typically between thirty and forty miles (48 to 64 km).

Logistics, resupplies and notes about people encountered also feature prominently in the text. The small world of thru-hiking is noted when Garmire runs into those from trails he’s hiked previously or that have another connection to him. After Garmire, food is probably the most prominent character in the book. There were certain times where it seemed like the book was about eating as much as it was about hiking, which makes sense when considering that fueling such an epic undertaking is not something one is able to do on an empty stomach. Although, in many instances, as part of a strategic and often successful approach to minimize weight, Garmire does run almost or completely out of food before reaching his next resupply.

Since the reader already knows the outcome — there’s no mystery or plot to develop — the simplicity of the writing style becomes more of a hindrance than an asset. The book is divided into short to medium-length chapters, but there is no paragraph spacing to further break up the chapters into sections.

The lack of photos is also a downside to the book. There are basic maps of the trails, a cover photo, and a thumbnail photo on the back cover but no other illustrations or photographs. On page 224, Garmire mentions taking a photo that he considers to be one of his best, and it would have been great to see that photo and others in the book to break up the text.

Like many self-published books, “Free Outside” appears to have spent minimal time in the hands of an editor. On the book’s back cover, Great Smoky Mountains National Park is referred to as “Smokey Mountain National Park,” which was an unforced factual error that an editor would’ve easily caught. The William O. Douglas Wilderness is misnamed as the David O. Douglas Wilderness during the description of the PCT hike, and other typos are not uncommon. These and other minor errors don’t ruin the narrative by any means, but they do detract from the readability in places. It was also a bit odd that after being provided with minimal background or personal details, the reader finds out on page 171 (out of 257 pages) that the Calendar Year Triple Crown attempt is an effort to raise money for suicide prevention. No substantial discussion of this topic or the money raised occurs later in the book. It just fades into the background of the story, which, given its importance, was a bit odd.

Garmire’s successful completion of a Calendar Year Triple Crown is an amazing story and “Free Outside” tells that story, but from a literary standpoint, it doesn’t tell it particularly well. This book is worth reading if you have an intense interest in the endurance-adventure genre. Still, for casual readers who backpack, it likely won’t be as entertaining as “Thirst” by Heather “Anish” Anderson or other recent books in the long-trails canon.

Outdoor Research Stargazer AscentShell Bivy Review

The Outdoor Research Stargazer AscentShell Bivy (18.9 oz / 536 g, $259) is one of the few waterproof-breathable bivy sacks on the market that weigh just over a pound and also includes mosquito netting and a headroom-extending pole.

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Learning Curve: Breaking Loose

I fell into a rut, like many of us when an activity is familiar and comfortable. It took connecting with a more experienced backpacker to show me I had the knowledge and skills to push myself into new territory.

I’ve spent the past decade gaining backcountry skills, gear knowledge, and putting mileage on my trail runners. I have long been comfortable taking friends out for overnights, and confident within my own distinct parameters of backcountry exploration.

But I fell into a rut, like many of us when an activity is familiar and comfortable. After a while, it stopped occurring to me to step outside the bounds of what I’d already explored. I think this is common for a lot of people with a primary activity. For backpackers, it might be a different trail each week, but maybe that trail never exceeds a certain length or spending two nights outside instead of one feels like a big step.

Maybe it’s always an out-and-back, or the term “route-finding” in the trail description is intimidating enough that you click out of the trail page and find a familiar trail. It’s not anxiety, fear, or a deliberate dismissal of trying something new. It’s a comfortable pattern we can all fall into where good enough is the standard, and the unknown of anything beyond that standard somehow becomes an unbreachable wall.

Every summer, I hiked the same trails over and over. Day hikes became repetitive. I had a five-mile (5 km) hike, a five-mile hike with a lot of elevation gain, a trail I could run if I felt like it, and a ten-miler (16 km) that involved a peak and made me feel accomplished. My overnight trips were similar. I had my favorite alpine lakes and one particular overnight that involved climbing a pass and dropping into a picturesque lake that became my show-off trip to impress visitors.

But it was always the same rotation. I forgave myself for this so-called rut because at least I’m still getting out there, but there is a certain stasis and the lack of accomplishment that comes with making the same trips for literal years in a state with more wilderness, national forest, alpine lakes, and peaks that I could hope to explore in a lifetime.

When I met my boyfriend Jeff (known in the hiking community as “Legend”), he had almost ten times the trail mileage as myself, a dozen trail records under his belt, and was the second person to have ever hiked the 7,000-mile (11,265 km) Great Western Loop. He had hiked the Calendar Year Triple Crown, and thousands of miles of trail that saw little foot traffic and were more choose-your-own-adventure than established routes. Jeff had no self-imposed limits, no patterns he’d felt stuck in. With this as my in-person example, I started toeing the line of my preconceived boundaries.

The things that unnerved me—bears, route-finding, cowboy camping, losing the trail—were nonissues for Jeff. It didn’t occur to him to be worried if the trail vanished and turned into a navigational challenge. If we lost the trail under snow, he could gauge from the landscape where our route likely turned next. “It’s going to take the path of least resistance,” he told me, scanning the looming walls of a snow-covered pass on one early-season outing. He stepped behind me and let me take the lead. “Your turn to figure it out.”

Pintler Pass in the Snow — The final push up Pintler Pass was through deep snow in clothes that seemed increasingly ridiculous with each step.

If we lost the trail entirely, his instincts from 25,000 trail miles (40,200 km) were so finetuned that he could accurately guess what drainage we had to drop into, where the lower switchbacks would likely cross, and the best way we could reconnect.

On one trip, we linked together two popular trails that looked like they had some semblance of an established path between them. My map showed each trail being fairly straightforward, but the ten miles (16 km) of connector trails wound up being quite ambiguous. Heading up one steep climb, we mistakenly followed a game trail across to the wrong ridgeline. When I realized we were not on our planned route anymore, I felt my chest tighten and my anxiety spike. I tried to bring it up casually, that maybe we should climb back up to the top and figure out where we went wrong. He seemed unconcerned, scanning the forested hills and layered peaks of the Gallatin Range. He casually agreed that we were indeed wrong, but we definitely didn’t have to backtrack.

Trying to figure out where they are — Most definitely, 100%, absolutely on the wrong ridgeline.

It’s not that I was being shrugged off, or my anxieties were ignored. He had simply lost the trail enough times and reconnected with it to confidently know how our trip would end up. Either we found the trail and finished our loop at the car, or we knew we were pointed in (mostly) the right direction, and we’d drop down to Highway 191 and orient ourselves from there. Both scenarios wound up with us back at the car, not lost for weeks in the woods or dismembered by a grizzly bear.

We studied the map together, and he pointed out what ridgeline we were supposed to be on, and to reconnect with the trail, we should have just turned south and started dropping in elevation. Once again, he put me in the front and told me to take my best guess.

“What if I’m wrong?” I asked, feeling at once helpless and like I was overreacting. He shrugged again. “Then we’ll figure it out later.” This wasn’t an act, either. Enough backcountry experience had proven to him which situations would resolve easily and which ones were a legitimate cause for concern, with the worst outcome being a road walk.

And we were wrong. The worst happened, and it was a one-mile (1.6 km) road walk. We dropped down one drainage from where we wanted to be, and had a scenic stroll along Highway 191 back to the trailhead. It was proof to me that it was possible to lose the trail enough that we wound up in the wrong drainage, and the world didn’t end. In this case, it was simple. We wanted to be lower down, so we dropped down. Obviously, the general idea is to stay on the trail, but if you don’t, that is okay too. This past season of backpacking has shown me that combining common sense and practicing stepping outside of boundaries go hand in hand, and there’s less to fear from the unknown than I thought.

The author off trail in a subalpine meadow. — Probably close to losing the trail. And then finding it again.

With new experience and confidence, I’ve now begun to push my boundaries a little. I’ve lost the trail and either found it by pausing and using my brain, or continued on my path and reconnected with it based on the topography of the area.

I am not promoting going out and getting yourself lost in the woods. That’s a good recipe for the SOS button on your GPS unit and an overly involved backcountry rescue. Don’t be like that. Be smart and stay within your moderate limitations, but don’t let those perceived limitations govern everything you do. Try a new trail. Make a loop between two lakes instead of an out-and-back to that one you always hike to. Spend two nights in the woods instead of one. Set out prepared with a map, a trail description, and a navigational tool (that you know how to use), but it’s okay if you’ve never been in this mountain range or you explore the national forest from a different trailhead.

Once you have enough experience in your back pocket, or you’re lucky enough to have an experienced partner who wants to help impart upon you backcountry common sense, the world seems to open up in incredible ways.

The Overlook: Othering in the Outdoors

BPL columnist Ben Kilbourne was on a trail run when he suddenly found himself in a mask-related confrontation. What happened next got him thinking.

An Encounter

After a long workday, I closed the computer, switched from jeans to running clothes, drove up Big Cottonwood Canyon just outside of Salt Lake City, and parked on the side of the road behind a long string of cars. On a Friday afternoon, hordes of people had the same idea as me: get some exercise in the woods. It’s a common pastime for Salt Lakers of all kinds, an activity with no apparent common denominator. The Wasatch Range is a place where different people are brought together through a shared love of the outdoors.

Huge family groups speaking a variety of languages were headed up the trail that forked to the left to Lake Blanche and Sundial Peak. Dads and moms with towering overnight backpacks toted along kids with small packs, toys, water bottles, or nothing at all. While I felt happy to be sharing with them the experience of getting outside at the end of the week, I didn’t want to compete for the trail, so I went right on the Broad’s Fork Trail. The sharp daytime call of the northern flicker issued through the woods as I joined my neighbors in the comradery of leaving the workweek behind. We all needed it and deserved it.

Hiking these days, I carry a mask with me but it often stays on my wrist. Knowing that the coronavirus passes as tiny particles through the air and that the danger is greatest when people are in close proximity, I only pull it over my mouth and nose and secure the straps behind my ears if I find myself on a narrow trail where an oncoming hiker and I will be forced to pass each other within only a foot or so. This closeness is oftentimes inevitable, so I come prepared.

Only ten minutes on the trail and I found myself headed towards a hiker on a trail bounded on either side by thick, impenetrable brush. It was one of those times where we’d have to essentially brush shoulders. I took the mask off my wrist and put it on. I casually said, “Hi” to the man and stepped past him and was about to continue on up the trail when he stopped and said loudly, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I stopped and turned. “What’s that?” I asked.

“F*** you, you f***ing piece of s***!” he roared.

I paused and looked at him. He looked like other hikers I would typically pass on the trail—unnoteworthy. He wore hiking boots, cargo shorts, and carried a daypack. Nothing about him distinguished him from anyone else with whom I shared the trail that day, save for the face below the brim of his baseball cap, which was strained, red, and utterly livid.

“You’re angry,” I said, and I pulled the mask down around my chin and removed my sunglasses so I could see him better. At that moment, I only felt capable of stating the obvious.

“F*** you, you f***ing liberal, hippie!” He shrieked at me.

I stood staring. I knew I was experiencing something special, something unique to 2020 America. My senses became heightened. I didn’t want to miss anything.

The man continued to shout at me about how he could never have the coronavirus because he was in such good shape for a 55-year-old. How I shouldn’t be scared of him because he just climbed a mountain; all the obvious rebuttals flashed through my brain, but I stayed silent. I knew that if I said the mask was to protect him more than me he wouldn’t hear me. If I said I wasn’t harming him by wearing a mask he wouldn’t hear me. If I said that while I didn’t really even know how much I was protecting either of us, but that I chose the better-safe-than-sorry option, and that it was no skin off my back to do so, he wouldn’t hear me.

I felt like I was trapped with a troll on a Facebook or Twitter post. But this social media interaction was somehow playing out below a canopy of spruce and fir instead of inside a screen. It felt sacrilegious. Having ample experience with Facebook, I knew he expected me to sling judgments right back at him and how it would go if I did so. I would be confirming his judgments. The threat my existence apparently posed to him would be validated. “I knew it!” he would exclaim, gleefully vindicated in his rage. Instead, I listened as he continued to yell at me.

Then things escalated without any provocation at all; I was still just staring and listening when he took a few steps towards me, balled his hands into fists, and shrieked, “If I hit you, maybe you’ll get the virus!” I reached for my phone, wishing at that moment I had been filming the whole thing. He stopped within five feet of me and took a few steps back.

The author after the encounter, maskless. — The author right after the encounter.

“You seem to know a lot about me. What else can you tell me about myself?” I asked.

“You’re a f***ing Mormon!” he barked with certainty.

That response was totally unexpected. I had given him no information about myself at all, and he created a complete narrative regardless. He turned and started down the trail, and the repeated accusations that I was “a f***ing Mormon, f***ing liberal, or f***ing hippie” echoed through the forest even after he was out of sight.

Othering

When he was gone, I looked down at my feet, scanning my body, trying to see what he saw. I was wearing navy blue running shoes, turquoise shorts, a blue, quarter-zip running jersey, and a black running vest. I wore a short beard, my long hair was tied up in a bun, and I had on a tattered, salt-stained, short-brimmed hat. The entire narrative he built was founded on this image. I guess this is what a liberal, hippie, Mormon looks like, I thought. I had no idea.

What I did know was that what he saw in me was otherness. The person he saw standing before him embodied ideas that ran counter to his ideas about the reality of the world. The act of wearing a mask is objectively nonthreatening, but it signified something that was threatening to him. It represented an otherness that prevented us from being united by the mountains and the joy of exercising in the woods on a Friday afternoon.

Sundial Peak, where many backpackers go to enjoy the mountains at the end of the workweek.

The act of othering places division where there really is none. It’s an arbitrary and fundamentally dishonest attempt to divide the common destinies of humanity. I might go so far as to say it’s a form of gaslighting when he tells me I am different from him. I just don’t buy it. I can’t buy it. In fact, it’s my duty as a member of humanity, a citizen of the Earth, not to buy it. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

Somehow, we managed to forget this despite being surrounded by the great outdoors, the Earth which is home to all of us. The trees towering over us and the flicker’s call which echoed between them so clearly displayed that inescapable network of mutuality, our shared belonging to nature, but we didn’t notice.

Moving slowly up the trail, I wondered what we should do to remember our shared belonging during this strange time. I know the United States appears more divided than ever, but if you take a moment to look, we really are united by our shared dreams and desires. The man and I, and those parents at the trailhead, all want the freedom to drive from our homes, throw a pack on our backs, and head out into the woods. Surely, we want our children and their children to have this experience as well. In retrospect, all I wish is that I could have shared this sentiment with him before we parted ways.

A few minutes later, I crested a false summit, and could see the great metamorphic mass of Dromedary Peak through the trees. The sky above it was perfectly blue and cloudless. Two men—one with a mask and one without—were headed my way, so I stepped off the trail to let them go by. As we passed each other, we exchanged cordial, brief salutations, and went our own ways in the same forest.

Standards Watch: Steve Seeber Interview

In this installment of Standards Watch, Rex interviews testing and standards development expert Steve Seeber.

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Episode 32 | Jeff Garmire on the Colorado Trail FKT

In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, Andrew and Ryan interview some of the folks who came together to make friend’o-the-podcast Jeff Garmire’s recent FKT of the Colorado Trail a success: Maggie Slepian, Dylan Harris, Nik Tizekker, and, of course, the Fastest Known Tiger himself.

Stream

Summary

In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, Andrew and Ryan interview some of the folks who came together to make friend’o-the-podcast Jeff Garmire’s recent FKT of the Colorado Trail a success. First, Ryan talks with the Fastest Known Tiger himself to get an insight into the physical and mental stresses Jeff underwent while achieving the record.

Jeff Garmire on his FKT attempt of the Colorado Trail. Photo: Elisabeth Tizekker

In the second interview, Andrew chats with filmmakers Nik Tizekker and Dylan Harris about the logistics (and adventure) of shooting a film about Jeff’s FKT.

Finally, Ryan takes the mic again for a brief chat with BPL Columnist (and Jeff’s partner) Maggie Slepian about the highs and lows of watching a loved one complete such a challenge.

Outline

Jeff Garmire Interview
- General check-in
- Starting pace and strategy
- Tackling the San Juans at the start vs. the end
- Struggling with altitude
- Weather
- The climb up Elk Creek
- Dealing with touch sections of the trail
- Finding a tempo
- Sleep deprivation and hallucinations
- Going FKT style means he had to sacrifice on some things like electrolytes
- Food
- Ate his last bit of food 24 hours before he finished
- Footwear
  - Hoka Speedgoat 4 Trail Running Shoes
    - Did have to break his shoes in just slightly
    - Survived the 500 miles!
- One giant blister and several smaller blisters
  - Probably didn’t swap out socks as much as he should
- Gear
  - What didn’t he use?
  - What would he have left behind?
  - FKT – Skills, Training, Grit, Luck
- Film crew – no interaction, setting personal boundaries
  - Two different adventures
- Unique opportunities
  - Pushing the boundaries of unsupported travel
- Can this FKT be beaten and if so how?
  - If luck breaks a little towards the challenger
  - More scouting
Film Crew Interview
- Introduction to Nik and Dylan
- The genesis of the project and how it developed over time (fast)
- How did they get ready to shoot so quickly?
- The challenges of shooting in the backcountry
- What makes this film different?
- The ethics of this type of filmmaking
- How to make a documentary film without communicating with the subject
- Gear
  - Black Magic 6k
  - Sony A7 iii
  - DJI Osmo Pocket
  - Drones
- Dylan’s goal is to make Jeff cinematic!
- Lenses
  - Sigma 18-35 ART
  - 24-70 2.8
- Interview schedule, interview philosophy, and other logistics
- The intimacy of filmmaking
- What went wrong?
- Planning around Jeff’s changing pace
- An adventure for the crew as well as for Jeff
- A self-funded project
- The realities of shooting in the backcountry vs. a more cinematic, structured feel
- Post-production plans
Maggie Slepian Interview
- How she helped prep
- The struggles of watching a loved one struggle on an FKT
- Outside contact vs. having no contact
- When did she know it would actually happen?

Adapting to Changing Wildfires: Part Three

In part three of his series on modern wildfires, Rex Sanders uses video and animation to help you visualize just how crazy this wildfire season has been.

Editor’s Note: This is part three of a three-part series. Make sure you read part one and part two of this series first!

This past summer and fall, wildfires in the Western U.S. seemed to set new records daily. News reports featured endless streams of scary images, incomprehensible statistics, and mysterious maps. But all of this told only part of the story.

NASA satellites with special infrared sensors capture images of fires every day. By animating those images, we can get a different look at how fast and how far wildfires grew in 2020. We’ll look at outbreaks in Northern California, Oregon, Colorado, and Wyoming. And we’ll zoom in on particularly aggressive blazes, like the Creek Fire near the John Muir Trail, which resulted in heroic night-time helicopter evacuations. In one night, the East Troublesome Fire leaped across the Continental Divide in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain National Park, torching an area 31 miles long and 17 miles wide (50 km x 27 km).

By helping backpackers visualize the rapid growth and monstrous size of these blazes, we can be better prepared for the changing risks in our new wildfire era. For more about adjusting to this altered environment, see the recently published stories “Adapting to Changing Wildfires: Part One” and “Part Two.”

Be safe out there. And thank the firefighters and EMS staff that worked hard to defend your friends, communities, and favorite outdoor destinations.

Adapting to Changing Wildfires: Part Two

In part two of his essay series on modern wildfires, Rex Sanders explores how backpackers must adapt to the new normal.

Editor’s Note: This is the second essay in a three-part series. Check out part one here and part three (video) here.

Introduction

Wildfires in western North America have changed for the worse and will continue changing. Fire tornadoes ripped living trees out of the ground, set them alight, and dropped them miles away. Blazes consumed 400 mi² (1,000 km²) in one day. Researchers compared the worst wildfires to the firebombing of Dresden in World War II or Hiroshima’s destruction by an atomic bomb.

Colorado fire red annotated — False-color satellite image of Colorado and Wyoming on October 22, 2020, showing bright red active fires and dull red burn scars. The East Troublesome Fire exploded the previous night, burning more than 230 mi² (600 km²) in 24 hours and crossing the Continental Divide. Just northeast, the Cameron Peak Fire was the largest recorded in Colorado history as of that date. The scar from Wyoming’s Mullen Fire is visible about 40 miles (64 km) north. Image roughly 125 miles (200 km) across. Credit: NASA, public domain.

Existing fire forecasting software has proven useless, while scientists struggle to develop new models. Some researchers predict that, on average, next year will be worse than the year before – indefinitely. As Daniel Duane wrote in WIRED, “It is as if we’ve crossed some threshold of climate and fire fuel into an era of uncontrollable conflagrations.”

While reasonably cautious backpackers are unlikely to perish in wildfires, we must learn to live with altered fire behavior, landscapes, and rules. This essay is an exploration of what some of those changes might look like.

Closures

USFS Closes All — Screenshot of the announcement temporarily closing all National Forests in California. Credit: U.S. Forest Service, public domain.

During active wildfires or even high-fire-danger weather, land managers will close parks and forests for many good reasons. Don’t try to sneak in, thinking you know better. You are probably interfering with firefighting just driving to the trailhead, and you could put others at grave risk if you need rescue.

For several weeks in 2020, every National Forest and BLM area, most National Parks, and many state and local parks in California closed to backpackers and all other recreational users.

Even after authorities declare a fire contained – with fire lines surrounding the blaze – trees and brush could continue burning until the first heavy rains or snowfalls. Wildfires sometimes jump artificial boundaries. Remnant fires can produce a lot of smoke; many trails are trashed; falling rocks, limbs, and trees could trap or injure you; and long-smoldering ash pits that look like solid ground could severely injure you.

Some parks and forests might stay closed for months or years after the immediate dangers subside. Land managers must fix problems like blocked or collapsed roads and trails, damaged or destroyed buildings, and broken or polluted water sources.

Short-term Landscape Changes

Species Adaptation (Or Not)

Wildfires do not create uniform destruction. Within a blaze’s boundary, we often see a mosaic of unburned, lightly burned, heavily burned, and nothing-but-ashes areas. This variety is fortunate because plants and animals in the less-affected parts can repopulate the heavily-damaged zones, sometimes quickly. And we often witness an explosion of rarely seen species that thrive in post-wildfire conditions, including open spaces, abundant sunlight, and mineralized soil.

But it doesn’t always work that way. Rare and endangered species populations can plummet or vanish. Wildlife may disappear temporarily or permanently. Trees and brush will be damaged or killed. Formerly postcard-worthy vistas often look like moonscapes.

Water Problems

Fires can expose rivers, lakes, and watersheds to more sun, dramatically reducing water levels in the short run. Many blazes leave behind blackened ponds and streams filled with ash, burned debris, or landslides. Developed water sources might suffer from destroyed spring boxes, burnt piping, damaged tanks, and melted spigots.

Toxic or cancer-causing chemicals from fires and smoke can make water in wildfire areas and downstream unusable, even for washing. One rural system found benzene levels 40,000 times higher than EPA standards after a fire. You could experience serious challenges finding drinkable water, even from previously-reliable sources.

Trail Damage

Trails can suffer severe damage during wildfires, caused by erosion from firefighting work, collapsed retaining walls, rockslides and landslides, fallen trees, and even stealthy 2,000 F (1,000 C) ash pits. Trail signs may be down and pointing the wrong way or reduced to slag and ashes.

With trail maintenance funds often redirected to wildfire suppression, don’t expect government employees or contractors to repair problems quickly. Typically, issues will persist until teams of volunteers fix them. The PCTA is still repairing trails and signs damaged by wildfires in 2018.

Long-term Landscape Changes

For years after a wildfire, you might hike through blackened scrub and forests, over burnt deadfall, with trails difficult to follow or gone, while skirting newly-sprouted noxious species like poodle-dog bush and thistles. Expect on and off closures of trails, trailheads, forests, and parks.

In some burned areas, you’ll encounter restoration activities: dead tree removal, trail repairs, campground rebuilding, tree planting, and controlled burns. And you might see drones in the sky, dropping seeds, herbicides, pesticides, and fertilizers, or just surveying the area. Workers may move some trails, outhouses, campgrounds, and ranger stations, leading to map errors. Land managers may choose to close or abandon certain features forever.

It’s Just Not the Same Here Anymore

And sometimes nature takes other paths. Post-fire erosion can quickly strip hillsides, leading to poor plant growth. Fires can burn so hot it sterilizes the soil and kills seeds and roots, delaying repopulation by decades. So-called “invasive species” may live up to their name, filling ecological niches before native plants and animals have a chance – and forever changing the biological landscape. Plus, the local climate might have changed so much that certain trees can’t grow there anymore. These new landscapes also might be much more fire-prone than the old ones, adapted to warmer and drier conditions.

For many years burnt-over areas could have streams and lakes filled with ash and debris, undrinkable water, and experience more massive and more frequent landslides. Since fewer trees and bushes will suck water from the ground and cast shade on snowpacks, rivers and streams can carry earlier and much higher spring runoff, making for more challenging crossings. Higher lakes and reservoirs could temporarily drown trails and campsites. And research shows that some burned areas get significantly hotter, while others cool a few degrees.

Finally, resupply towns and resorts often sustain severe wildfire damage. Some could close forever. Many will suffer from polluted tap water and frequent power outages for years, making bottle refills and battery charging even harder.

Land Management Changes

This year, federal, state, and local land managers issued many emergency orders, including total closures and stove bans. And some of them might get more enthusiastic about using more prescribed or cultural fires or letting burn fires that don’t directly threaten civilization. But others will rely on old practices like logging disguised as thinning or forest management.

Here are some of the potential impacts on backpackers.

Stoves and Shovels

Expect significant, possibly permanent changes in stove and campfire policies for many western U.S. parks and forests. Authorities could prohibit everything but off-the-shelf stoves with a valve, as they have from time-to-time in the past. Stoves burning gasoline, kerosene, alcohol, wood, and hexamine might be banned due to their perceived fire-starting potential. For a short time, National Forests and BLM lands in California prohibited all “ignition devices,” including stoves, lighters, and fire steels – meaning no-cook meals only. Dreaming next to a campfire in the western backcountry seems doomed.

Yet banning stoves and campfires increases other risks. You’ll have nothing but body heat and possibly wet insulation to prevent hypothermia. You won’t be able to start rescue signal fires. And no more purifying water by boiling it.

Don’t be surprised if some land managers require backpackers to carry a shovel. They’ve forced whitewater rafters to carry those tools for decades, to put out “escaped campfires.” While camped next to a river on rocks and sand. During campfire bans.

Feller Bunchers and Herbicides

Many parks and forests might ramp up so-called mechanical thinning operations using powered equipment ranging from chainsaws to feller bunchers. You’ll definitely wake up when noisy machines in the same canyon roar to life. I love the smell of engine exhaust in the morning – that’s why I went backpacking!

And the U.S. Forest Service often applies herbicides like glyphosate (aka Roundup) and dicamba after wildfires to knock down unwanted plants and allow commercially-valuable trees to grow.

Cultural Fires and More Park Closures

If we’re lucky, government agencies will allow more areas to burn using prescribed fires or cultural fires overseen by Indigenous peoples, who learned to manage fire-adapted landscapes over many millennia. Before European colonization, Native Americans in California often burned over 18,000 mi² (47,000 km² ) every year. The Karuk Tribe in Northern California is just starting to work with the U.S. Forest Service to expand these culturally and environmentally vital fires.

Since 1970, Yosemite National Park has used prescribed burning and allowed selected backcountry fires to blaze without interference for weeks or months. Land managers might follow the example of Florida, which for the last 100 years has practiced widespread controlled burns. A fire big enough to make headlines in California is barely noticed in the Sunshine State. And ranchers in Kansas set fire to more than 3,000 mi² (8,000 km²) annually to improve grazing. Yet it took Sequoia National Park more than a decade to gain approval and the right conditions for a 1.6 mi² (4 km²) prescribed fire.

We might see an expansion of forest and park closures during all or part of a fire season. I wouldn’t be surprised if some areas close to recreation for many years due to high fire risk and lobbying from surrounding suburbs.

Emotional Impacts

Imagine hiking for days through blackened forests, with occasional unburned patches, or passing the remains of animals that perished in the fire. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to feel whatever you feel.

And don’t be surprised if fear comes up. Fear that the fire could return, or fear that your favorite area that hasn’t burned yet could go through something like this. Those are all normal reactions.

Your favorite stream crossing or your favorite view may be unrecognizable. That post-trip ice cream bar that you always enjoyed at the mom and pop resort? Gone. The rustic buildings replaced by piles of ash and broken foundations. Beautiful forests, shrublands, and grasslands may change dramatically as new trees, bushes, and herbs move in.

But life on earth is always changing. We can learn to appreciate a new landscape with the right knowledge and attitude. Often by the time a burned-over area re-opens, the first signs of life are appearing. Healthy green sprouts carpet the hillsides. Birds return quickly to take advantage of new shoots and open skies and fill the air with song. You can rejoice in the renewal of life.

Be prepared for a wide range of emotions as you backpack through an area that’s been through a devastating wildfire.

Advocacy

Smokey the Bear Poster — Smokey Bear says, “Only YOU Can Encourage GOOD Forest Fires.” Image: USDA, public domain. Illustration by Rex Sanders.

Experiencing vast tracts of devastation and altered landscapes might motivate you to advocate for healthy wildlands and reduce future destruction. Fires are a critical part of the ecosystem and native culture in the Western U.S. and many parts of the world.

Maybe you can do something to prevent enormous landscape-changing wildfires. Let land managers know that you support prescribed fires, cultural blazes, and letting backcountry wildfires burn. If you live near wildlands proposed for these fires, don’t automatically oppose them. This year’s mild wildfire could prevent next year’s catastrophic blaze – which won’t even pause at your property line. And support non-profit groups that advocate for better forest management, far beyond raking and logging.

Adapting to Changes

How can backpackers adapt to a future with more and bigger wildfires, over an extended season, plus forests and parks with new rules?

Skills and Tools

It might be time to learn a new skill – backpacking without cooking. Except that going stoveless might mean eating differently and (gasp) carrying more weight.

In areas with bad water quality, consider using activated charcoal filters to remove more known and unknown nasty compounds. Simple membrane filters, chemicals, boiling, and UV won’t work. One California lake hasn’t returned to pre-burn pollution levels after more than 13 years.

Switching Times and Locations

Rethink trip timing, perhaps backpacking less during lengthening wildfire seasons and periodic closures, and more in the formerly colder and wetter months. In much of Southern California and other parts of the world where wildfires are nearly a year-round problem, that might mean going elsewhere.

Many people want to reduce their exposure to herbicides and pesticides. If you discover that land managers are using those chemicals to promote wildland “health” in an area – maybe you should consider a different hike.

And some trails will stay off-limits until they get rebuilt. Consider volunteering on trail crews to help pay back and pay forward enjoyment of the backcountry.

Supporting Each Other

Take a friend along for your first hike through a recently-burned area that you love. Share your feelings to help both of you deal. You can support each other as you work through intense emotions – and maybe deepen your friendship.

Be careful in helping someone else experiencing strong emotions. Reserve your judgments. Be supportive. Don’t tell them how they should feel or how they should react. Helping another person with their emotions can help you process your own. And you’ll both end up more content.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed before, during, and after trips through scorched wild areas. Stay in the here and now. One foot in front of the other, one sip of water after another, one deep breath leading to the next. Enjoy each moment of nature’s renewal.

Setting Good Examples

There are few documented cases of backpackers starting wildfires. But that’s not the public perception. We should lead by example, going beyond the legal requirements, and doing much more to avoid setting blazes. I’m not recommending that everyone switch to uncooked food forever – that’s not even wise for trips in frigid weather. But the safer you can make your meal preparation, the better.

Respecting closures and new rules while practicing Leave No Trace, especially when people are watching or when you post to social media, can encourage other trekkers to make this new way of life part of everyday practice.

As backpackers, we have special responsibilities to leave natural settings “unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.” That includes changing where, when, and how we pursue our passion, further minimizing our chances of starting wildfires, and modeling responsible behavior. These changes could include switching from the absolute lightest equipment to safer-for-the-wildlands gear. Think of it as owing the Earth some ounces (grams).

Conclusion

August fire annotated — False-color satellite image showing reddish burn scars from California’s August Complex Fire, the largest in recorded state history at the time. Taken October 22, 2020, image about 125 miles (200 km) across. Credit: NASA, public domain.

As I researched and wrote this story, new backcountry blazes started, and too many existing ones kept growing. Alarming scientific studies and shocking tales appeared daily. It honestly seems like we’ve entered a new wildfire era.

Backpackers must adapt to larger, faster, more frequent, and more catastrophic wildfires and their aftermaths. Some of these changes will be easy – others will be tough. And we should set good examples for other backcountry visitors as we trek into this brave new world.

Life is full of risks. Take reasonable precautions and learn to enjoy a changed and changing landscape when backpacking after a fire.

More Information

Creek Fire forces hikers into ‘Mordor’ smoke and across Sierra, including a boy and dog, Fresno Bee

https://www.fresnobee.com/news/california/fires/article245629010.html

Six astounding stories from backcountry visitors trapped by wildfire, including one first time backpacker forced into an off-trail, cross-Sierra death march – by headlamp. Many good decisions, some less good. Highly recommended.

2020 Western United States wildfire season, Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2020_Western_United_States_wildfire_season

An irregularly updated overview of this catastrophic, but historically wimpy fire season.

The West’s infernos are melting our sense of how fire works, WIRED

https://www.wired.com/story/west-coast-california-wildfire-infernos/

A chilling account of how wildfire behavior has dramatically changed for the worse, the scientists trying to understand why, and how we might adapt. Highly recommended.

Unsafe to drink: Wildfires threaten rural towns with tainted water, CalMatters

https://calmatters.org/environment/2020/10/california-wildfires-unsafe-drinking-water/

Reports on seriously polluted rural water systems after California’s wildfires this year.

The loss that’s killing the West’s wildlife, The Atlantic

https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2020/09/wests-wildfires-are-killing-off-its-wildlife/616549/

How wildfire patterns changed from patchy destruction to widespread devastation, threatening endangered species, and entire landscapes.

California blooms again after last year’s fires—but it’s not all good, CalMatters

https://calmatters.org/environment/2019/02/californias-charred-hills-bloom-again-not-all-good/

Recent Malibu wildfires triggered changes in plant species that can be good, bad, or both. An example of what’s happening in many landscapes.

4 Million acres have burned in California. Why that’s the wrong number to focus on, National Public Radio (NPR)

https://www.npr.org/2020/10/07/921209244/four-million-acres-have-burned-in-california-why-thats-the-wrong-number-to-focus

A good argument for reinforcing and protecting human communities in the wildland-urban interface while letting the backcountry burn.

Concerns grow about herbicide use in wildfires’ wake, E&E News

https://www.eenews.net/stories/1063715827

The U.S. Forest Service often applies glyphosate and dicamba to manage forest recovery.

What the west can learn from Florida about forest fires, Outside

https://www.outsideonline.com/2320206/prescribed-wildfire-solution-florida

Megafires don’t even make the news in Florida, where they’ve learned to live with and manage fire-prone landscapes over the last 100 years.

‘Silver lining’ in wake of Point Reyes wildfire, San Francisco Chronicle

https://www.sfchronicle.com/california-wildfires/article/Silver-lining-in-wake-of-Point-Reyes-15635791.php

This year’s Woodward Fire in Point Reyes National Seashore is already showing promise of a net benefit to the landscape.

Burn area safety, Pacific Crest Trail Association

https://www.pcta.org/discover-the-trail/backcountry-basics/fire/burn-area-safety/

A good explanation of the risks that backpackers should manage when traveling through charred areas.

Adapting to Changing Wildfires: Part One

In the first part of his series on modern wildfires, Rex Sanders runs through the most common dangers associated with wildfires – and what you can do about them.

Editor’s Note: This is the first essay in a three-part series. Check out part two here. and part three (video) here.

Introduction

What is the future of backpacking in an era of frequent massive wildfires? This year’s giant blazes in the Western U.S. closed many thousands of square miles (tens of thousands of square kilometers) in forests and parks for weeks and months. While the backcountry burned, land managers couldn’t take any chances that trekkers might start new fires or need rescue. This year, helicopters plucked dozens of backpackers from the Sierra Nevada when rapidly spreading blazes broke out. And in Colorado, choppers rescued two dogs and 23 hikers when a relatively small fire blocked a trailhead.

Most experts expect wildfires to get larger and more frequent, which will significantly impact backpackers in ways that you might not have considered. Learning to work around massive wildfires will become yet another non-traditional backpacking skill in the western U.S. and other countries. This essay gives you some background on wildfires in the U.S., describes the potential health and safety risks, and suggests how to stay safer and healthier. The next essay in this series (to be published on Friday, October 3oth) will cover landscape changes, potential new rules for enjoying the backcountry, and adapting to a flame-filled future.

It’s important to keep things in perspective when we’re talking about the health and safety of millions of people affected by wildfires and smoke. The recreational longings of backpackers are low priority compared to the lives and health of people and landscapes.

Background

U.S. firefighters call wildfires “massive” or “megafires” when they reach more than 100,000 acres (156 mi², 404 km2). In 2020 alone, California suffered from ten massive wildfires, including its first modern “gigafire” over 1 million acres (1,560 mi², 4,040 km2) – the August Complex.

And the Creek Fire in the central Sierra Nevada virtually exploded one night, torching another 100 mi² (260 km2) and triggering heroic military helicopter evacuations of trapped campers and backpackers. A few of this year’s fires burned for weeks in the so-called “asbestos forests” on California’s foggy, damp north coast. For months, tens of millions of Golden State residents suffered from unhealthy levels of wildfire smoke.

Megafires also broke out in Colorado, Wyoming, and Oregon. The Cameron Peak Fire has grown to the largest in Colorado’s modern history, eclipsing a record set by a different wildfire just seven weeks earlier. In the past year, Australia burned an astronomical area, more than five times the U.S. total in 2020. And record-breaking swaths of Russian Siberia burned this year after smashing records less than 12 months earlier.

Recent Wildfire Sizes

Country	Year	Square miles	Square km	Similar size
Australia	2019-2020	72,000	186,000	North Dakota
Russia	2020	54,000	140,000	Nepal
Russia	2019	50,000	131,000	Greece
Canada	2014	17,600	45,600	Slovakia
Canada	2013	16,200	42,100	Denmark
U.S.	2015	15,800	41,000	NH + MA
U.S.	2020	13,000	33,700	NH + CT
Brazil	2020	7,800	20,000	El Salvador
Portugal	2017	2,000	5,000	6% of country

Totals as of October 17, 2020. Sources: news reports, Wikipedia, Canada National Forestry Database, and U.S. National Interagency Fire Center.

Wildfires don’t just ravage iconic forests. I grew up watching Southern California’s chaparral-covered hillsides burn with regularity. In college, I learned that some of those bushes and trees depend on frequent fires for reproduction. Many of the same mountains and canyons burned again this year. Fires also raced through sagebrush in eastern Washington state, wiping out one of three small populations of a very endangered pygmy rabbit.

In too many cases this year, firefighters ran out of resources and defended carefully chosen towns and homes while letting large areas burn. The U.S. could expand wildland firefighting capabilities by a factor of 10 and still not have enough for years like this.

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet

This year we’re experiencing fire activity that some forecasts claimed might happen 30 years in the future – yet we could see a rerun every couple of years. But in the U.S., we haven’t even reached the fire totals of the early 20th century.

U.S. Wildfire Area Per Year — From 1926 to 1945, U.S. wildfires burned, on average, five times more area than 2000 to 2019. And the earlier years didn’t include Alaska. Source: National Interagency Fire Center, graphic by Rex Sanders.

Scientific studies project longer fire seasons, more fires, and bigger fires worldwide. Our new wildfire era has many causes and many potential solutions. But for this article, I’ll focus on backpacking safety and health risks and what you might do to reduce them.

Immediate Dangers

Flames — Nighttime flames and smoke on a ridge in the Santa Cruz mountains of California. Credit: Wikimedia CC BY-SA 4.0.

If you are backpacking far from civilization when a wildfire breaks out nearby, you don’t have many options. Even finding out that a large blaze is headed your way might be impossible. Consider these suggestions to reduce your risk.

Before your trip, check on wildfire and weather forecasts. Even if red flag warnings aren’t posted, any predictions of hot, dry, windy conditions dramatically increase fire likelihood. Look over your planned path and work out possible escape routes. If you have cell coverage or a satellite communicator, check on conditions daily, with the assistance of trusted home contacts if needed. Consider modifying your trip to make fleeing easier. Or change the dates or location of your trip.

If evacuation looks likely, pack quickly and leave immediately. Don’t delay hoping the fire might change direction at the last minute – that’s probably too late. Take the shortest route to safety, even if that means you exit hundreds of miles from your car – you’ll figure it out. Let emergency contacts at home know of your changed plans as soon as possible.

Finally, despite your best efforts, a wildfire might trap you. Pushing the SOS button on your PLB or satellite communicator is totally appropriate – but don’t expect a quick, miraculous rescue. You must fend for yourself until help arrives or you escape under your own power.

A backpacking shelter won’t protect you from choking smoke, falling trees, and raging flames. If threatened by fire, head for an open area with as little vegetation as possible, ideally next to a lake or river where you could submerge. This year’s fires yielded several stories of trapped people surviving in the water, with their nose and lips barely exposed to falling embers and thick smoke. Find a stable spot where the river won’t sweep you downstream if you lose grip on the rocks or vegetation.

Short-term Smoke Impacts

Scientists have found more than 100 chemical compounds in wildfire smoke and suspect many more. Its composition changes depending on fire intensity, time of day, and fuels like trees, brush, or buildings. Modern structures and furniture contain various potentially toxic and carcinogenic burnable materials, including plastics, furniture, cleaners, and pesticides.

And smoke can still be hazardous hundreds or thousands of miles (kilometers) downwind. You might be backpacking several states away from a blaze and still suffer.

Wildfire smoke can cause a lot of problems quickly. Visibility might drop so low that navigation or even trail walking becomes almost impossible. Plus, your eyes are likely to burn, itch, and make tears.

You will probably cough a lot – that’s normal and good for you. Smoke could also trigger asthma or other lung conditions. Even a short exposure to wildfire smoke can temporarily increase your risk of stroke and heart attack. Studies show that emergency room visits jump 10% or more after smoky air arrives. And if you are close enough to flames or smoldering stumps, carbon monoxide poisoning can make you woozy or kill you.

Wildfire smoke can be a severe problem for people with asthma, bronchitis, COPD, diabetes, and chronic heart disease. Children, pregnant adults, and elders are especially sensitive.

The U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) says:

“Wildfire smoke is a mix of gases and fine particles from burning vegetation, building materials, and other materials. Wildfire smoke can make anyone sick. Even a healthy person can get sick if there is enough smoke in the air. Breathing in smoke can have immediate health effects, including:

Coughing
Trouble breathing normally
Stinging eyes
A scratchy throat
Runny nose
Irritated sinuses
Wheezing and shortness of breath
Chest pain
Headaches”

Long-term Smoke Impacts

hospital bed — Experts just don’t know much about the long-term health effects of breathing wildfire smoke, particularly after weeks or months of constant exposure. Post-fire studies show that lung capacity can be well below normal for at least two years, and death rates jump in large populations.

When you inhale microscopic smoke particles, your lungs absorb some of them. Then your body attacks them like viruses or bacteria. Except that these foreign specks don’t break down as quickly, so your immune system stays highly inflamed longer – which affects everything else in your body.

Researchers suspect links to lower birth weights, damage to organs including the lungs, heart, liver, kidneys, and brain; and more susceptibility to diseases like COVID-19. In one study, summer exposure to wildfire smoke caused flu cases to jump three to five times higher the next winter. A news story described wildfire smoke as “like tobacco, without the nicotine.”

Is it Safe?

This summer, many of us constantly refreshed web sites like PurpleAir.com and fire.airnow.gov, watching as PM2.5 values moved up and down with smoke levels. These pages even displayed color-coded dots indicating health risks based on short-term studies. As we just learned, the long-term effects are mostly unknown.

Researchers can’t definitively answer the question, “Is it safe to go backpacking when it’s smoky?”

They do know this: more smoke is worse, prolonged exposure is worse, and vigorous exercise makes everything worse. One scientist’s rule of thumb: stay inside if you smell smoke or the sky is orange.

Changes for Health and Safety

Here are some suggestions on how backpackers can stay safer and healthier in this new era of wildfires. Also, the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) posted excellent advice on burn area safety for all hikers.

Escape route planning should become part of your pre-trip process. Spending a few minutes at home considering your options will be much better than scrutinizing maps in a semi-panicked state under orange, smoke-filled skies, with flames cresting over the ridge.

If wildfire smoke is thick, but flames don’t threaten, your best option might be to stay put until the haze clears. If you have asthma or other lung problems, use your inhaler and medications as directed. Move to cleaner backcountry air when and where you can.

We’ve become all too familiar with face masks in 2020. You might want to take a lightweight, vented N95 mask to filter wildfire smoke – simple coronavirus masks won’t help much.

If you are already deep in the backcountry when the smoke blows in, you could reduce your activities and stay put until it blows out again. That might not be practical, depending on your location and supplies. Do your best to reduce smoke exposure.

Hats, glasses, and sunglasses might keep ashes out of your eyes – a little. Stay well-hydrated to assist coughing when the smoke is thick. Wear a wet bandana or neck gaiter over your mouth and nose – it might help.

You could rethink trip timing, backpacking less during wildfire season, and more in the formerly colder and wetter months. In much of Southern California and similar regions where wildfires are a year-round problem, that might mean going elsewhere.

If you are in a sensitive health group – pregnant, older, or with pre-existing health conditions – reconsider plans to trek in the backcountry when fire and smoke risks are high.

Conclusion

More frequent massive wildfires producing choking smoke seem to be the new normal. These blazes present increasing health and safety concerns for backpackers. But you can take steps to reduce your risks.

Were you trapped by a wildfire while backpacking? Have you suffered from too much forest fire smoke in the backcountry? What did you do to stay safe and healthy? Share your experiences below so we can all learn.

More Information

2020 Western United States wildfire season, Wikipedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2020_Western_United_States_wildfire_season

An irregularly updated overview of this historically wimpy fire season.

Can New Research Help Reduce the Impact of Wildfires? Governing

https://www.governing.com/now/Can-New-Research-Help-Reduce-the-Impact-of-Wildfires.html

Much of what we are told about wildfires and forest management is wrong, according to peer-reviewed scientific research. Highly recommended.

Wildfire Smoke, CDC

https://www.cdc.gov/disasters/wildfires/smoke.html

How breathing in wildfire smoke affects the body, National Geographic

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/science/2020/09/how-breathing-wildfire-smoke-affects-the-body/

How bad is all that wildfire smoke to our long-term health? ‘Frankly, we don’t really know’, Los Angeles Times

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2020-09-19/california-fire-smoke-health-risks

Three clear explanations of what little we know about the effects of wildfire smoke on the human body, plus tips on protecting yourself.

Unsafe to drink: Wildfires threaten rural towns with tainted water, CalMatters

https://calmatters.org/environment/2020/10/california-wildfires-unsafe-drinking-water/

Reports on seriously contaminated rural water systems after California wildfires.

Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 Shoe Review

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoe provides above-average foot protection and traction performance when hiking or running on rocky, uneven ground, but suffers from abysmal durability.

Introduction

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoe (11.3 oz / 320 g per shoe, $170) is specifically built for trail running and includes several features making it ideal for lightweight backpacking across different landscapes.

With a sleeker and more refined design than most other trail running shoes, the Norvan VT 2 is an aesthetically appealing shoe that is thoughtfully built around the human foot. It provides above-average protection and performance when hiking or running on rocky, uneven ground and doesn’t sacrifice comfort or breathability in doing so. Unfortunately, the shoe suffers from what can most charitably be described as abysmal durability.

Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoe. Photo: Arc’teryx.

About this Review

This will be a Limited Review of the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2. I put 211 miles (340 km) on these shoes between April and July of 2020 before their condition deteriorated to a point where they were no longer suitable for backpacking, trail running, or hiking. Approximately half of those miles were put on the shoes during backpacking trips, with the other half being split more or less equally between trail running and hiking.

The backpacking trips were overnight trips with a pack weight between 17 and 31 lbs (8 to 14 kg), depending on how luxurious my hiking partner and I were eating. The high weight was achieved when salad, macaroni and cheese, filet mignon, and wine were on the dinner menu.

Trail runs during the testing period were between 3 and 8 miles (5 and 13 km), and I did not carry a pack during those runs. Hikes during the testing period ranged from 2 to 11 miles (3 to 18 km), and I often carried a daypack under 10 lbs (4.5 kg) on these hikes.

My testing occurred in western Montana and nearby parts of Idaho at altitudes between 2,500 feet and 8,500 feet (762 to 2590 m).

Trail and off-trail conditions ranged between faint footpaths in dusty sagebrush country with loose soil, cruiser trail with solid tread, rocky and rooty trails, sections of packed spring snow, mud, talus slopes, granite slab, thick forest, and wide running paths in a city park.

A friendly section of trail encountered during the testing. Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, Salmon-Challis National Forest, Idaho.

An average section of trail encountered during testing. Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, Bitterroot National Forest, Montana.

Cross-country terrain traversed during testing. Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, Bitterroot National Forest, Montana.

Features and Specifications

Weight (per shoe, men’s size 9): 11.3 oz (320 g)
MSRP: $170
Fit: The fit is on the snug side but not so much as to warrant sizing up as adjusting the lacing allows for a reasonable fit to be dialed in. That said, this is not an ideal shoe for persons with wide feet or whose feet swell more than average when hiking.
Narrow toe-box
Mesh upper
Welded lower
Toe cap
TPU rock plate
8 mm heel drop
8 mm stack height
4 mm Vibram Megagrip lugs
4 mm sole insert
Forward eyelet placing
Tongue pocket for stashing laces

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes taking a break on a backpacking trip in the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, Idaho.

Performance Analysis

As a Limited Review, and therefore not typically covering long-term use, this article focuses on my experience with the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes during a shorter testing period. However, since these shoes experienced a review-ending failure after about 200 miles (322 km), it seems unlikely that they would’ve made it through a full Performance Review.

The Arc’Teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes provided remarkable grip and stability on slab granite, rivaling the performance of climbing approach shoes.

Criteria	Observations and Issues
Fit	As someone who owns numerous Arc’teryx products which fit me perfectly, and who has quintessentially normal feet, I was a bit surprised at the effort required to get the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes to fit comfortably. The stiff sole and fairly rigid body provide great stability and protection but make it a bit laborious to dial in a comfortable fit. After a bit of trial and error, and after ending up with a few small blisters after a short trail run, I was able to figure out a system that worked for me. And once it did, I was incredibly happy with the fit of these shoes while hiking. The toe box, as is the shoe in general, is on the narrower side. This results in a snug and secure fit. Despite being snug, I never found these shoes to get uncomfortable on long downhill stretches or during long days of hiking. The only area where I found the fit to deviate from snug and narrow was in the heel. The heel was more roomy than I’m used to, and it took some additional fiddling with the lacing process to adequately secure the shoe in this area and not cause blisters. It’s worth noting that I was unable to easily slip these shoes on and off the way I can with most other trail runners. I had to untie and retie these shoes every time I took them off. This isn’t a big deal when day hiking or trail running, but for backpacking I found it to be mildly inconvenient - especially when getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or after taking breaks with the shoes off. So if you’re someone that enjoys being able to easily slip in and out of your shoes when backpacking, this might be a considerable downside.
Traction & Stability	The stability and traction of this shoe approaches perfection. Once I figured out the lacing tightness and eyelet pattern that worked best for me, these shoes felt like they had been built around my feet. I can’t recall more than a handful of times where I stumbled or had a misstep while testing these shoes. While I’m not a clumsy hiker or runner by any means, I usually have some all-thumbs moment when walking for a long time where I’m less than precise in my steps. This seemed to occur much less frequently with these shoes. On a variety of terrain, from low-angle granite slabs, to undulating trails wrinkled by roots, to steep, loose soil; I felt totally confident in the stability of these shoes to not roll or shift as I ran or hiked. The traction provided by the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes is excellent. The deep lugs made muddy or slushy snowy sections less cartoonish as I was able to firmly plant my feet, and with the aid of trekking poles, easily cross them without looking like I’d stepped on a banana peel. As advertised, the deep lugs and aggressive pattern were extremely effective at providing traction in challenging conditions. The traction of these shoes also stood out when traversing on rock. Many cross-country routes in the area where I tested these shoes (western Montana) feature sections of talus, boulder fields, or granite slab. The Norvan VT 2 was the best shoe I’ve ever used in each of these conditions. I’ve never felt as comfortable walking up granite, other than when wearing technical rock climbing shoes, than I have when wearing these shoes. They stick to the rock in a way comparable to approach shoes for rock climbing, but are vastly more comfortable in a less demanding terrain.
Durability	It sounds harsh, but the durability is almost non-existent in these shoes. After only 100 miles of hiking, trail running, and backpacking I noticed the first hints of wear on the mesh where it met the welded lower portion of the shoe near the toe box. I figured maybe I’d just snagged it on some particularly sharp talus or branches when I was travelling off trail but that it shouldn’t deteriorate too quickly. I was wrong. The shoes barely lasted another 100 miles before the mesh on the outside of the shoe on the instep of both shoes completely separated. This exposed the thin inner liner of the shoe and impacted the fit, as the shoe was no longer holding its shape in a crucial area. The mesh on the outstep of the shoes was also significantly worn by this time. Frustratingly, the entirety of the rest of the shoes remained functional. The soles in particular looked as if they had barely been worn. The welded lower was holding up admirably and the toe caps showed only slight wear. Minimal to negligible wear was present in other places. Overall, the shoes had a lot of life left in them but due to the failure of the mesh they were virtually unwearable for any active pursuits. Curious about whether or not I had just put these shoes through uniquely tortuous conditions that resulted in their premature demise, I looked online for reviews to see if others had similar experiences. As it turned out, several others had nearly identical failures after similar lengths of use. One reviewer on the Arc’teryx website noted that “the mesh dissolves when it even looks at rocks,” while another commented that, “After three trail runs the mesh had already pulled apart from rubber toe box over the 1st metatarsal. Maybe it's my feet, but both shoes are the same. It's a shame cause the rest of the shoe is in perfect shape.” At least three other reviewers expressed similar concerns about the durability.
Breathability & Drying Time	The mesh upper provided adequate but not excellent breathability. The microfiber heel collar, while comfortable, likely limits the breathability for the rear-third of the shoe. Drying time was average once the shoe was drained of any water, but the welded lower portion prevented the quick draining that occurs after a brief step in water. While this wasn’t a major issue, it did lead to delayed drying time while hiking. Once the shoes were off and wiped out with a bandana they dried reasonably quickly.
Long-term Comfort	These shoes were very comfortable on trail runs, day hikes, and shorter mileage days when backpacking with a lightweight pack. On shorter backpacking trips, I was in no hurry to loosen up the laces on the shoes or switch to camp shoes once I had reached my destination. After about 12 miles (19 km) of hiking with a backpack, the comfort began to fade and I was glad to be out of the shoes at the end of the day. This can likely be contributed to their rigidity, which provides great stability and excellent protection on rocky terrain, but results in diminishing comfort over time. Overall, the comfort was reasonable when compared to any trail runner but was especially impressive when considering the stability and traction.

Commentary

What went wrong with the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes?

Based on my experience and other reviews, it’s pretty clear that there is a major failure of design, materials, or both, that results in the mesh separating or prematurely wearing out where it meets the welded lower near the metatarsal area.

After reading several reviews and reflecting upon some of the conditions I put the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes in, I’m surprised mine lasted as long as they did. Some people noted considerable issues in less than 100 miles. None of the reviews seem to be from persons who used the shoes above and beyond their intended purpose.

When Arc’teryx markets this as “trail running footwear providing grip, performance and durability on varied terrain,” one could reasonably expect it to last more than 100 miles. The failure I experienced when testing these wasn’t as if I took a Honda Civic up a rutted 4WD forest road and was complaining about its performance. It was more akin to taking a Honda Civic on a flat gravel road with a few small potholes and having the axle break.

The end of the line for the VT 2s.

Based on my previous experience with Arc’teryx products, I was astounded to see a product fail so spectacularly after such moderate use.

To Arc’teryx’s credit, they did provide me with a replacement (in the form of a credit for the purchase price of the shoe to be used on their website) for the defective shoe when I initiated a warranty claim. However, based on my experience and that of others, I have no confidence in using this shoe again for trail running or backpacking in the landscape where I most often travel.

While the VT 2s do have their redeeming points, which I’ll discuss below, the current issues with durability make it impossible to recommend this shoe to anyone. I hope Arc’teryx can keep the parts of this shoe that work and redesign a mesh upper that is more compatible with the demands of trail running and backpacking. Unfortunately, that means they’ll pretty much have to scrap the current stock of these shoes or be prepared to warranty nearly every pair.

Hopefully, we won’t be reading about a mass burial of the shoes being uncovered in a decade or two, similar to the purported mass burial of the ET video game for Atari that failed catastrophically upon its release.

What went right with the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes?

Despite my disappointment in the overall performance of the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes, they did get several important things right. Comfort and grip being foremost among them. For the type of hiking I do most often in the summer – decently maintained trails combined with cross-country jaunts to peaks, lakes, and passes – these shoes would have been perfect if not for the lack of durability.

I rarely hike more than 12 to 15 miles per day (19 to 24 km), which was the upper limit of the comfort range for this shoe when backpacking. For hikers who regularly do longer days, this shoe would likely not be as comfortable, but most people doing longer days typically stick to trails and so wouldn’t benefit as much from the excellent traction provided by the VT 2s.

Traction

Speaking of traction, the grip on rock was unparalleled by other trail runners I’ve used and was a major strength of these shoes during the testing period. When these wore out, and I switched back to Altra Lone Peak 4s, I immediately and desperately missed the grip of the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2s when scrambling around on boulders to access the best lakeside spots to cast my fly rod.

The Little Things

Arc’teryx got many little details right with these shoes. The pull straps on the heels are large enough to easily pull them on and to thread them through pack straps and secure them when taking them off to cross a stream (assuming you don’t just wade through with them, which is somewhat less than ideal given that the welded lower retains a bit of water).

For quick stomps across small creeks, they’re fine, but for longer fords, I preferred to take them off and wear my camp shoes. The tongue pocket for storing the laces is brilliant and totally functional. Even on long runs or in thick brush, the laces stayed tucked away.

Toe Cap and Rock Plate

The toe cap actually lived up to the marketing hype. It looks barely used despite having taken heavy abuse when climbing up Class 4 scramble routes and hiking across talus slopes. It dulled many toe stubbings and could last for many more miles before wearing thin. The rock plate was also high-functioning.

I never had to worry about stepping on talus with these shoes. They felt like impenetrable forcefields around my feet in terrain that otherwise would have required me to delicately choose each step to prevent myself from ending up with stone bruises.

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoes in the early days of testing. They provided superb traction when hiking uphill through the consolidated spring snow.

Compared To…

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 is a difficult shoe to compare with other trail runners. Perennial favorites like the Altra Lone Peak series or Brooks Cascadia series lack the rugged sole and attempts at durability that put the VT 2s in a class of their own and are of a substantially different design.

The VT 2’s construction and layout make its closest competitors other shoes in the Arc’teryx Norvan Series. However, neither the Arc’teryx Norvan LD or the Arc’teryx Norvan SL have comparable grip or reinforcement around the lower area, which, in theory, makes the VT 2 more appropriate for rugged treks.

The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoe vs. The Arc’teryx Norvan SL shoe

Criteria	Comments	Edge
MSRP	The Arc’teryx Norvan SL is twenty dollars cheaper than the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2.	Arc’teryx Norvan SL
Weight	The Arc’teryx Norvan SL is significantly lighter (4.8 oz / 136 g) per shoe than the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2.	Arc’teryx Norvan SL
Durability	This is an area where the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 should win handily because of its welded lower and durable toe-cap. But the mesh uppers failed after 100 miles, prompting me to award it a tie with the lighter Arc’teryx Norvan SL.	Tie
Breathability/Drainage	Full mesh construction gives the Arc’teryx Norvan SL the edge here.	Arc’teryx Norvan SL
Grip/Traction	Aggressive 4mm lugs provide superb traction on the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2. It’s the shoe’s best feature.	Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2
Comfort	The Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 provides protection on scrambles and talus, but is somewhat stiff compared to traditional trail runners, and requires some thought and experimentation to dial in the fit.	Tie

Strengths and Limitations

Strengths

Exceptional traction and grip on technical terrain
Small details superbly realized
Toe cap and rock plate are sturdy and hard-wearing

Limitations

Mesh uppers wore out after 100 miles
Likely too stiff to be comfortable for long days on trail
Wide feet beware

Where to Buy

Buy the Arc’teryx Norvan VT 2 shoe

DISCLOSURE (Updated April 9, 2024)

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