Articles (2020)

Editor’s Note: Metamorphosis #1 and #2 were first published in the BackpackingLight Print Magazine, Issues 7 and 9, respectively. All four installments are now also available online.

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Introduction

Who says that monocles are unsexy and out of style? Strip back the chain, the metal rod, your dignity, and any wire framing, and your antique monocle (or even your old pair of glasses) becomes an ultra-cool, super-efficient, lightweight backpacker’s vision tool. At least, that’s how it happened for me.

Before I chronicle the birth of the monocle, let me recap the metamorphosis that has taken place:

Fall of 2006, frustrated with the expense of typical backpacking gear, I set out to find a new, more efficient way of engaging in my favorite pastime. Inadvertently, I stumbled across Backpacking Light and was immediately drawn toward the ‘light.’

Spring and summer of 2007, I dropped from a total backpack weight exceeding sixty pounds to a respectable base weight of nineteen. Respectable, that is, until you consider that my goal had been to achieve ‘ultralight’ status, which meant a sub-ten-pound base weight. As 2008 unfolded, I knew I’d have to drop those last nine pounds, and that they could be the hardest. To meet that end, I made a few critical purchases:

• For its utilitarian nature, I chose the GoLite Shangri-La 3, a shelter which provides several configurations ranging from single wall floorless shelter to bombproof tent. In its lightest configuration (sans floor and using trekking poles instead of the ones provided), the Shangri-La 3 is barely over two pounds. Still a lot of weight, but large enough for three people.
• For those solo excursions, I purchased an 8-ounce Spinntex tarp for combination with my Bozeman Mountain Works VAPR bivy sack (6 ounces) for a shelter setup that is under one pound. (Note that dry nights could be dealt with by use of the bivy alone!)
• To supplement my sleeping equipment, I purchased the Big Agnes Horse Thief, a 1 pound, 11 ounce top bag which is, I confidently submit, the most comfortable sleeping bag I’ve ever been in. The way I see it, everything from warm weather down to the freezing point will mean the Bozeman Mountain Works Pro 90 Quilt. Freezing and down to single digits will find me in the Big Agnes Horse Thief. Sub-zero weather (and limited mileage) will have me zipped up in my 6 pound, 8 ounce Nebo sleeping bag. Hey, I’m all about lightweight, but I’ve gotten very used to having fingers and toes!
• For cooking, I chose the Tri-Ti Caldera Cone constructed specifically for my BPL Titanium 550 pot. My scale shows the whole mess (complete with a plastic Clamato bottle as a carrier) at under 5 ounces. Now there’s a beautiful thing to see…

Armed with these new toys and an urgency to break the ten pound barrier, I took the last three steps toward ultralight.

Step One – The Lake Plateau of the Absarokee Beartooth Wilderness

The Lake Plateau trip had been in our sights since 2004, when an initial attempt had gone awry. After a nine-mile ascent to Columbine Lake at the southern edge of our intended loop, pouring rain turned to copious amounts of snow, causing us to rethink the wisdom of heading still higher over unknown passes.

On the morning of day two, we decided to stand fast and watch the skies for signs of an opening. On that cold September day, Gibbs and I gave life to the new Olympic sport of ‘Fire Standing’ as we watched the swirling grey sky. Hour after hour and log after log, we stood in wait. In a true Olympic test of endurance, we shifted weight, turned in continual rotation to evenly warm our trunks, and made brief forays for dry fuel. Being a dedicated athlete, I tried in vain to dry my socks on a branch near the heatless blaze, only to see them smolder. We stomped our feet and slapped our hands, deeply breathing the intoxicating aroma of wood smoke. We peered in anticipation toward the new winter sky, but the day passed slowly and with no resolution. By the close of the third day, Gibbs and I sat shivering in a booth at MacKenzie River Pizza Company in Bozeman, defeated and disgusted. We’d been thoroughly skunked.

We vowed to redress the defeat, and the bottle of Black Velvet that Gibbs had stashed in a nearby cairn was declaration enough that we’d be back. So, in the first week of September 2008, my buddy and I again rendezvoused in the Boulder Creek drainage south of Big Timber, Montana. This time it was our intention to complete the loop from north to south, reaching Columbine Lake at the end of our trip, rather than at the beginning.

Since the Anaconda Pintler Transect the year before, my base weight had changed little. I’d trimmed some fat to be sure, but the addition of the Shangri-La 3 was my burden alone. However, I can take some credit for Gibbs’ base weight dropping by fifteen pounds or more since I carried water purification tablets, the Shangri-La shelter, and the Tri-ti stove. Left behind was his Sierra Designs tent, his Pur water purifier, and his MSR stove and gas canisters.

With a twenty-pound base weight and a total weight of less than thirty, I anticipated no problem ascending the 1,500 feet from the trailhead of Upside Down Creek to the rim of the plateau. As we made our final preparations in the rain on the morning of our outset, both harboring white visions of our 2004 trip, a Forest Service truck rolled alongside my car.

“You guys fishing?” He barely cracked the window of his truck to inquire.

“Backpacking.” We both responded in concert, wondering why our attire did not make this fact obvious. The ranger suspiciously eyed us for a moment or two.

“Sure doesn’t look like you’re prepared for backpackin’.” He chortled while nodding toward my pack. “It’s gonna be cold.”

I couldn’t think of anything smart to say, and probably would have thought the better of it anyway. No sense in seeding animosity when this same guy could be coordinating removal of our corpses from the high country in only a matter of days.

“I’m counting on it,” I replied.

The ranger was right, but only up to a point. Our first day’s hike began in the rain, but gave way to slowly falling flakes once we’d gained some elevation. Sometime during the night, the front had passed and left a black, open sky into which every bit of warmth seemed to lift from the earth. The next morning dawned solid and frosted, but with the promise of blue sky from one horizon to the other. At a slow meander, Gibbs and I set out across the Plateau. The relative lack of burden on both our shoulders allowed us to easily clear eleven miles, a daily tally we’d not achieved since 1998.

Three days and twenty calm miles later, Gibbs and I approached Columbine Lake from the high country that had so eluded us four years earlier. As we descended into the familiar surroundings, the sky was again swallowed by clouds. Soon the entire cirque donned the appearance that it had had four years before.

With cold and anxious hands, Gibbs removed several keystone rocks from the cairn that he’d chosen in 2004. To the sounds of laughter and shouting, a pale and unappealing bottle of Black Velvet was paraded in victory for nearly half an hour before the snow began to fall. I broke no weight threshold, but four years to the month, at the exact location of our skunking, Gibbs and I again spent the afternoon ‘Fire Standing’ – but this time, like champions.

Step Two: Utah Canyonlands with Dr. H

By mid-October, I’d still not reached my goal. With the desert washes in full autumn color and a weekend to spare, my friend Dr. H. and I tossed a few random items in the back of my truck and rolled out of Grand Junction and toward canyon country. Dr. H., a native of Vermont and being largely obsessed with the climbing of rock faces, hadn’t experienced much in the way of backpacking. I assured him that backpacking was a likewise enjoyable way to spend time out doors, even if the probability of meeting healthy ‘hippy chicks’ who live in VW busses was somewhat lower.

“Yeah, man, that’ll be cool.” He agreed to give it a shot. “I think I might even like backpacking if it’s done ultralight like you’re talking about.” Here’s a guy that’ll jump straight to the last page.

Dr. H. and I made a few calculation errors. First, we departed the Grand Junction area far too late in the morning to make it to our destination. Second, we had unwittingly chosen the Needles area, not knowing that this is, in fact, part of the Canyonlands National Park. Lastly, (and this was my error), I hadn’t made the concerted effort at changing anything from my previous trip. I trimmed the number of Esbit tables that I carried and seriously cut back on clothing. In the end, I couldn’t decide if the purpose of the trip was to see the Needles area, to expose Dr. H. to backpacking, or to cross some weight threshold that Ryan Jordan would be proud of! The sad result is that all counts seemed to fail.

I learned that the Needles IS a part of Canyonlands National Park and DOES require a backcountry permit for entrance. I learned that there is a perpetual and total ban on fire in backcountry areas, and that a visitor may only camp in approved locations. Most importantly, I learned that on that day, no locations were available.

Four or five miles down a red dirt road into BLM land, Dr. H and I pulled off into the sagebrush and parked the truck. We had no map, the beer was getting warm, and the sun was within two hours of setting behind the elusive Needles area far to our west. My pack was the same miserable twenty pounds that it had been during a bonafide packing trip only a month before, but this was to be just an overnighter!

In the end, it didn’t matter. Twenty minutes into our hike, Dr. H. finished the beer he’d been drinking, crushed the can, and asked if he could stash it in the outside mesh pocket of my pack. All illusions of ultralight were already long gone, so I shook off the excess moisture and did the unthinkable: I added an empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon to my base weight.

Several desert washes from where we’d parked the truck, Dr. H. and I made camp. Just to complete the bumbling and inefficiencies, we risked catastrophe and camped on the sandy bottom of a desert wash. To be completely honest, it was the best outdoor sleep I’d had in years. The next morning we scouted our way down the wash and picked a random route back to the truck, making a full circle. Once again, I’d broken no weight threshold, but the company was great, the pinyon campfire unparalleled, and the desert scenery spectacular. To make it ultralight, however, I realized I’d have to go it alone.

Step Three: Birth of the Monocle

I don’t want to become an intolerable snob, but I have to toot my own horn just a bit here – I made it.

In early November, two weeks after the first snows had kissed the 10,000-foot crown of Colorado’s Grand Mesa, I set out on my own to break the ten-pound barrier. I knew the trip would be just one night, so I confidently gathered only what I thought might be necessary.

My food on this outing consisted of one freeze dried meal, five granola bars, two packages of oatmeal, two pouches of instant coffee, and a small bag of nuts. I carried with me two full liters of water, the Tri-Ti cooking system and related titanium mug, and a cheap plastic spoon.

My clothing consisted of shoes, pants, shirt, socks, skivvies, a baseball cap, a long sleeve wool shirt, one handkerchief, and an LED light on a lanyard, all of which I wore from the outset, since it was quite cool at 10,000 feet, and I knew my route would not be vigorous. I also brought and used at night: a balaclava, wool gloves, and thermal underwear.

My sleeping arrangement consisted of the Spinntex tarp, the Bozeman Mountain Works VAPR bivy and Pro 90 quilt, and a Therm-a-Rest. I carried two REI trekking poles and one Nikon digital camera. And, OK, I’ll admit that the weight of the camera is NOT worked into the equation, but I only brought the thing to prove that I’ve done it. Cut me some slack here!

My random items included four Esbit tablets, a small pocket knife, a small strip of water purification tablets, a short length of rope, a small bundle of toilet paper, one box of matches, a tube of lip balm, one USGS topo map, and my first aid kit, which contained some aspirin, antibacterial cream, a few bandages, the head of a toothbrush and an eye dropper each of saline solution and Dr. Bronner’s soap. (Yes, I’ve gotten over the humiliation of brushing my teeth with Dr. B’s.) Also in my bag of tricks was one meerschaum pipe and perhaps four bowls’ worth of tobacco. If I can’t pretend to be Bilbo Baggins, really, what use is an adventure?

In a frenzy of weight slashing before departing my parked truck, I wrapped a leaf of paper around a pencil rather than burden myself with the entire notepad. I then turned to my assembled pile. My gaze fell upon those glasses… those old, nearly worthless glasses. How could I suffer with their bulk and weight only to use them in that short transition period between contact removal and ultimate sleep? Was it really that necessary to have glasses to peer through when inspecting something that goes bump in the night?

In only a moment my pocketknife was employed to loosen the screws on that old pair of glasses, and in less than a minute, they had been transformed to a single convex lens. The monocle was born.

The quest I took that November day followed no path. Instead, I charted my own route across the Grand Mesa until I had reached the southern rim, where I positioned my tarp so to give myself a view across the North Fork Valley. I watched the sun set pink upon the West Elk mountains to the southeast and the San Juan’s far on the horizon. I watched the towns of Delta and Hotchkiss begin to glow as night swept over them. After dinner and a long warm fire, I stole away to my tarp and fell asleep listening to the wind take flight from the Mesa top.

An hour before sunrise, the navy blue sky gave way to promise of sunrise beyond the crisp outline of the Rocky Mountains. The first rays of sunlight found me reclining calmly in my shelter with a hot cup of coffee. I suppose that I tasted a certain measure of melancholy with my coffee, realizing that there was no one to share such a beautiful morning with. In fact, I realize that I’d delayed breaking the ten-pound barrier because something so much more important had always been at hand: friendship and the sharing of events rather than rigid goals.

Nonetheless, I had met my goal, and the morning was mine to celebrate. As I packed my things that morning, I marveled at how simple breaking the ten-pound barrier really had been.

I’d hiked mile after mile with no fixed destination.

I’d satisfied my hunger with simple sustenance.

I’d slept calmly with almost nothing to shelter me.

I’d rejoiced in a beautiful morning for no other reason than to see it.

It is amazing how removing so much from one’s hands puts so much at one’s fingertips.

Editor’s Note: Metamorphosis #1 and #2 were first published in the BackpackingLight Print Magazine, Issues 7 and 9, respectively. All four installments are now also available online.

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Montana Highway 1, just west of the town of Anaconda, maintains an excruciatingly slow speed limit. For nearly ten miles, as it creeps toward the Georgetown reservoir and the shoulder of the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness, the highway is posted, on average, twenty-five miles per hour lower than most drivers would consider fair. Making this snail-like progress even more aggravating is the close proximity of so much good stuff: high mountain lakes, thickly forested canyons, and wind-blown ridgelines… if you could just get there already!

That was essentially my state of mind last September as I ascended the last twenty-mile stretch to meet my buddy Ryan Gibbs by the shores of Storm Lake. I drove eleven and half hours from western Colorado, and the prospect of being freed from the vehicle, feeling the chill of alpine air, and toasting our upcoming trek held considerably more allure than keeping my speed below forty miles per hour.

Gibbs and I have been regular visitors to the Storm Lake area during the last decade or so. At the eastern edge of the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness, it’s a bit far from the area where we did most our backpacking as boys, but provides quick access to the most dramatic portion of that mountain range. It’s also within a few miles of where Gibbs took a severe fall in 1995, resulting in compound fractures to both his tibia and fibula. He narrowly escaped with his life.

Thanks to the Deer Lodge County Search and Rescue, a military chopper from Malmstrom Air Force Base, and a good dose of grit on his part, he still owns a left leg. That leg carries an impressive mark from that day, but I suppose the incident really marked us both. Storm Lake will always represent a time and place where two reckless young guys discovered their mortality and thereby became young men. We raise our drinks in tribute to it pretty regularly, whether or not we’re anywhere near the Pintlers.

This year, our annual packing trip was in the Pintlers, and this familiar place was about to serve as a testing ground for my fledgling new lightweight system. Two years ago, Gibbs and I decided that September of 2007 would be the year we’d complete a transect of the Anaconda-Pintler (AP) Wilderness along the Continental Divide Trail from west to east. We’d be walking the edge, so to speak. It was only one year before, however, that I’d heard of Backpacking Light for the first time.

As I navigated the last jumbled potholes and drove into view of the lake, I saw Gibbs seated casually, legs hanging from the passenger side of a dusty Subaru. His head turned slowly to witness my arrival, eyes shielded by sunglasses, cheek clearly full of sunflower seeds. Expressionless, he hoisted a can a beer as if to say, “Nice you could make it.”

The fact is, I wouldn’t miss it, especially this year. At the onset of my affiliation with Backpacking Light, my base weight stood at a whopping sixty pounds. After several months worth of hand-wringing and basic re-education in the art of backpacking, I’d dropped my base weight to nineteen pounds. On the day I rolled up to Storm Lake, my pack sat on the seat next to me, looking trim and sporting a base weight of seventeen and a half pounds.

Should I have dropped more? Oh yeah. Do I feel guilty? Well, old habits die hard. The AP transect had grown to mythic proportions in my mind over the last two years, and I really didn’t want to find myself twenty-five miles back, wet, freezing, and hungry. So, seventeen and a half pounds seemed reasonable for a week-long trip.

To that base weight, I added:

• 7 lbs, 6 oz of food
• 2 lbs or so of water (fluctuating daily…)
• 2 lbs or so of rum (decreasing daily…)

I felt as though my pack was still pretty streamlined at a total weight of twenty-nine pounds, give or take. I’d foregone the weighing of the clothes I intended to wear while hiking and the trekking poles that I planned to carry. After all, my total weight, food and drink included, was down to less than half of my previous base weight. I was feeling pretty smug until Gibbs caught sight of my pack and put a match to all the insecurities I’d kindled about penetrating the wild with so little.

“Hey! You got a new pack!” He flung open the passenger side door and lifted my GoLite into the cool evening air. His eyes widened. “No WAAAAAY.” He tested its weight with one arm.

“Yup.” I replied, waiting for the deluge.

“No waaaay, dude.”

“Yep, things have changed.”

“No way. You’re gonna die.”

Gibbs proceeded to quiz me on the functionality of my new gear. When I proudly displayed my Bozeman Mountain Works Pro 90 Quilt, he hung upon it a term which would endure throughout the transect: Kleenex, as in, “Sleep good in your Kleenex, man.”

When I displayed my Esbit wing stove, his comments amounted to “I’m bringing my MSR anyway.”

When I proudly held my bottle of Klearwater between my forefinger and thumb, his comments were slightly more encouraging: “Good.” He tossed his water pump back into the trunk of his Subaru. “I’m leaving this behind.”

His reticence was not without impact, however. His words, combined with his more studied knowledge of the immediate forecast, caused me at least a moderation of panic. In a last stab at prudence, I shoved a tattered, hooded jacket into the lid pocket of my pack. This, along with the my portion of the communal goods – ground cloth and poles for the tent, two small canisters of gas (for the stove he refused to abandon), and fishing gear over which I hemmed and hawed – spiked my total weight to around thirty-five pounds.

I know you guys aren’t impressed. However, thirty-five-ish pounds as a total weight was about to make a universe of difference.

After a short morning drive to the western edge of the wilderness near Sula, Montana, we set off toward Surprise Lake, nestled beneath the Continental Divide ridge. Only minutes into our ascent, it became clear that my low-weight advantage would change the outlook for our trip. I maintained my breath while both hiking and chattering on about this and that. The tingling sensation of heat and sweat were conspicuously absent. Instead, my body warmed to a comfortable level, and I walked as if taking a purposeful stroll down a country road. As I pulled further and further ahead of my packing partner, the difference between lightweight and the status quo began to shine. I could go anywhere. My enthusiasm grew proportionally with each new vista.

We reached our goal on the first day, but arrived far later than anticipated. Maps unfurled on the soft alpine ground near the shores of the lake, we began taking calculated measurements and setting benchmark goals for subsequent days. It became evident that Gibbs and I had somewhat misjudged the time required to hike from one end of the wilderness to the other.

We’d estimated that five nights and six days of hiking would allow us ample time for lounging, fishing, and exploration. It may have, had we both been carrying thity-five-pound packs. His, however, was still closer to the sixty-pound end of the spectrum, and making his progress all the slower was the unfortunate configuration of the bones in his legs ever since his fall.

Limited range of movement in his left foot and a set of knee-caps that don’t line up leave Gibbs in considerable discomfort after only five or six miles. His pain worsens while going downhill, a prime reason he was the first to adopt the use of trekking poles a few years back. This year; however, Gibbs must have been distracted by the birth of his third son. In short, he wasn’t paying attention to his packing before departure and forgot his trekking poles. It wasn’t long before I hung a name on him that stuck: Limp.

When we arrived at Surprise Lake that first night on the trail, we did so under ominous tendrils of yellow smoke that curled upward from the Rat Creek Fire only a dozen miles to our southwest. We nervously debated the prudence of making camp within range of a wildfire, but agreed to trust a press release that indicated the fire to be more or less under control. Ultimately, it was of little concern, and the smoke didn’t last. By dawn of the second day, western Montana experienced its “fire-season ending event.” Turning northeastward, Gibbs and I struck off along the Continental Divide Trail under a veil of icy rain and low-slung clouds.

Icy rain and low-slung clouds pretty much sums up the scenery we enjoyed for the next five days. It was occasionally punctuated by slow falling flakes, which kept me looking toward the sky for any clue as to just how severe it could get. By day three, Gibbs and I were far enough into the wilderness to make any change of direction a wash: twenty-five miles from either of the vehicles, one to the northeast, the other southwest. Twenty miles, at least, to any paved road large enough to hope for a ride. Essentially, retreat or abandonment was never really an option. Instead, we crossed our fingers and kept our eyes to the sky.

Our primary concerns were the passes. The CDT only really follows the physical Divide in the southwestern region of the wilderness. To the northeast, the physical Divide becomes a razor’s edge, tracing the rim of one alpine cirque after another. In this half, the trail drops and rises in and out of each cirque, essentially hop-scotching from one ocean drainage to another. The passes, steep and exposed, can be unsettling with even a brisk wind. Any heavy snowfall above 7,000 feet would have made attempting them unwise, at the very least.

The weather tested my lightweight gear, though. Each night, I pulled a face mask over my head, tucked my thermals into my socks and gloves, slipped a silk liner into my Pro 90 Quilt and bedded down in less than one pound, two ounces of sleeping gear. Each morning, my soft sided water bottle was slushy with ice, but I was well-rested and warm.

Gibbs’s take on my sleep set-up was, as expected, somewhat harsh. In bedding down on our second night when the temperature first dropped below freezing, he set off on his usual tangent about my “Kleenex.”

“Listen,” I protested, “all a guy needs is to supplement with this!” I extracted my face mask and proudly pulled it into position. “This thing is great,” I explained, “I think I might even start using it at home. Limits noise, keeps you warm, cradles your entire head…”

“Makes you look like the Gimp from Pulp Fiction,” he finished my sentence. “I’m scared to be in here with you, dude. Next time you’ll be bringing a little red ball.”

His tone softened over the next four days. On the third day, I donated my trekking poles rather than watch him do even more damage to his bum leg. On the fourth day, I heard Gibbs begin to mutter about the weight of various items within his pack. “Shouldn’t have brought that… this thing weighs a ton… if I were carrying a Kleenex…what does Backpacking Light say about…?” The writing was on the wall. By the time Gibbs and I were preparing our fifth meal, we’d brainstormed the development of whole new lightweight cooking system that we figured would do for two packers: The F.I.D.D.C.E.S. (pronounced “fid-cuss”) would integrate a windscreen, two cups, one lid, and a apparatus large enough to heat four cups of water. What else could it be called other than the Fully Integrated Dual Dude Cooking and Eating System?

Before the trip was through, I heard Gibbs say that, indeed, he needed to go light. The evidence was, quite literally, painfully clear. It was better to be Gimp than Limp.

The trip ended up being much more of a forced march than we’d expected. It took Gibbs and I the full six days of hiking to clear the fifty-five or so miles from the western to the eastern edge of the wilderness. Three of our nights were in the snow, and two were in the rain. The passes were fine, visibility and footing adequate in most cases. On our last day, of course, the storm blew out, and we were graced with brilliant sunshine and blue skies as we crossed Goat Flats and began our drop toward Storm Lake, where a cooler of beer and elk steaks waited.. In hindsight, there were plenty of items I could have excluded from my pack. With the transect now behind me, I imagine my potential miles per day without the following:

• One volume of Edward Abbey’s short stories: approximately one pound. I never even cracked it open.

• One Crazy Creek camp chair: one pound, six ounces. It snowed and rained on four of the five evenings we spent in the backcountry. Lounging around the fire was done on foot, thereby facilitating the rotation of the body to evenly warm all sides… The chair served as an additional layer beneath my sleeping pad at night, but would have been better left at home.

• One Princeton headlamp: three ounces. It got so soaked on the third night that, to this date, it hasn’t functioned correctly. Besides, I had my LED light, which weighed a matter of grams. Granted, it wasn’t easy holding the LED between my teeth while trying to aim the light by pursing my lips. I managed to drool on the little unit a fair amount, but with its lanyard I was able to wear it around my neck while I slept, keeping it handy.

• That very same fishing pole/reel/tackle that I’d debated so much at the trailhead: two pounds, six ounces. It never touched the water.

In the same vein, I discovered that some of my lightweight backpacking alterations were so helpful that I plan to adhere to them religiously:

• I really enjoyed the face mask, despite being slandered for using it. I’ve already replaced it with a more appropriate balaclava that should serve the same purpose and not startle my tent mate.
• Zip-off pants/shorts are the way to go. This item provides beautiful double duty use. During a long uphill grind in the snow when getting too warm, just unzip and tuck the legs down beneath your gaiters.
• Gaiters: I’ll never go packing in the shoulder seasons without them. Having them prevented me from needing any rain pants, and they kept my shoes dry when slogging through six inches of wet snow.
• Klearwater or similar substitute. I’ll never pump water again…

Lastly, there was one thing that I’ll avoid like the plague: I’ll never again use Dr. Bronner’s instead of toothpaste. Each night, as I wrapped myself up in my facemask and quilt, I suffered the humiliation of having just washed my own mouth out with soap.

Gibbs and I have already discussed the changes that we’ll incorporate into next year’s trip. We plan to split the sleeping arrangement, not because he is intimidated by my face mask, but rather, because he’s intending on moving on to a lightweight, single-person tent, while I’m more inclined to experiment with a bivy and tarp. In either case, we’re both looking forward to more, or rather, less.

My own intentions are keep the weight going down. Since moving back to the Rocky Mountains last May, I’ve managed to sleep outdoors at least once every month. Here in western Colorado, I’ve got high mountains and deserts to play with. Metaphorically, though, I think I’m ready to stop walking the edge, and ready to drop down into some single digit base weights.

I bet the desert around Moab is beautiful in the winter, especially when carrying an ultralight pack…

Editor’s Note: Metamorphosis #1 and #2 were first published in the BackpackingLight Print Magazine, Issues 7 and 9, respectively. All four installments are now also available online.

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I feel like a wobbly-kneed fawn. I’ve got all the confidence of a gawky tourist, clutching at his phrasebook in a foreign country. I’m like a pimple-faced teenager at a school dance, craning in anxiety at the ladies across the room…

But, my base weight has dropped to nineteen pounds.

Compared to the expertise written into surrounding pages, a nineteen-pound base weight must look like an embarrassingly tight pair of pants. With another ten pounds in food and water, my thirty-pound pack still needs heavy trimming. With this base weight, however, I have just barely squeezed into the unremarkable “light” category. Unremarkable, that is, until you consider the base weight I’ve dropped from: sixty pounds.

Following my confessions in Issue 7 of Backpacking Light Magazine, I dedicated myself to the goal of becoming a super-ultralight (SUL) backpacker. The first step of weighing my existing gear revealed a startling excess of booty: extra batteries, large bottle of sunscreen, rubber poncho, homemade PVC fishing rod carrier… the list was substantial. As I sat in my kitchen scribbling down weights, I realized that no one item could easily be removed to reduce my base weight. Granted, my 6.5-pound Nebo sleeping bag was topping the list, but my backpack wasn’t far behind at 5.2 pounds! I had a flashlight that weighed one pound and a “light” jacket that weighed two! All in all, the mountain of goods that I spread out on my kitchen table set a shockingly high benchmark.

Will it Hurt?

My first step away from that benchmark was to order a handful of items from BPL: a bottle of KlearWater water purifier, a titanium Esbit wing stove, and some fuel tablets. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked when the tiny box arrived several days later. My first thought before tearing it open was, “They must not have sent the whole order.” I was wrong. They had sent the whole order, and there was room in the box to spare. As I held my new Esbit wing stove between thumb and index finger, one thought kept rattling through my head: “I’m going to starve.”

My vigor for the implementation of new backpacking methods seemed to be tested at every juncture. Not only was I alarmed that the Esbit stove was the size of a paper clip, but several very important camping traditions seemed to be under attack. “Feet Relief,” (the name my backpacking partner Gibbs and I have given to our camp sandals), appear contradictory to the lightweight ethos. A Crazy Creek chair has held my exhausted frame after many a long day in the alpine, but again, does not seem to compliment ultra austerity. My adoption of trekking poles has been somewhat more acceptable, but is an act for which I must swallow my pride. When Gibbs first started using them a year or two ago, I chided him for his dependence on “Pixie Stix.” When shopping for the right pair, I shook my head in disbelief that Leki poles come equipped with walking instructions.

Separating me from my old pack has been another difficult passage. I suspect it will while away its last years doing odd chores, like it did recently, swallowing all my clothes in a hurried move across the country and belching them forth again in my new home, but it will not likely see the high country again. It has been replaced by a used GoLite Infinity internal frame pack, whose weight can be coaxed below the two-pound barrier when stripped of its frame stiffener and pocket lid. As excited as I am about the GoLite, I feel like I’m dating again after a long marriage. On our first several dates, the GoLite and I giggled nervously, trying to get used to one another. I stammered and tried not to look like a fool.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

As winter melted into spring, I assigned myself a few dry runs to get used to the new methods and mindsets. During a visit to southern Arizona, I climbed into the Santa Rita Mountains, where my inability to block the wind from my Esbit stove forced me to consume some rather crunchy chili beef with mac. My grumbling intestines reminded me to buy a foil windscreen before serious trips. In mid-May, I tried my hand at pitching my old tent fly, sans poles, sans tent. I was hoping that it would serve in place of an expensive tarp. In a small, tick-infested swath of public land in southern Minnesota, I grumbled discontentedly as it sagged toward my perspiration streaked face. After thirty minutes of slapping at mosquitoes, I abandoned the effort. I still hadn’t been able to replace my sleeping bag, which would not have physically fit into my new GoLite anyway, and my efforts to fashion a shelter from existing items had failed miserably. It began to seem as though all my best intentions were doomed.

However, not everything was a disaster: on an afternoon hike just outside of Rochester, Minnesota, I took my chances at purifying my drinking water with a few drops of the KlearWater solution. I can say with conviction that it worked. Had it been anything less than effective, the agricultural slurry I pulled out of Silver Creek that day may very well have killed me. Lastly, I replaced my flashlight with an LED light the size of quarter, jettisoned my hard-sided Nalgene bottles for collapsible, and dedicated myself to the hunt for a new shelter and sleep system.

Concerning sleep systems, let me be clear: if my legs do not maintain their distance from one another during slumber, I will sweat to death. I am a warm and claustrophobic sleeper, so tapered mummy bags are out. That being said, I had determined that a top-bag system would be ideal. That decision led me to Big Agnes. In the interest of total disclosure, I have to admit that many of the sleep systems I’d seen on BPL made me wonder if you people weren’t completely out of your minds. A sleep quilt? Really? I sleep warm, yes, but isn’t it desirable to wake up in a bag? At any rate, the Big Agnes bags seemed to combine a fairly roomy design with a decent weight. After hours of comparisons, reading reviews and analyzing my pocketbook, I had it narrowed down to two: the Horse Thief or the Nugget. Maybe the Yampa… jeesh, don’t get me started. Does it indicate a problem that I spent more time weighing the merits of sleeping bags than I did on the purchase of my first home? Nevertheless, my first action represented what is always the safest decision: I purchased a Big Agnes Roxy Ann for my wife and continued dithering about my own bag.

Joining the Nutters

As the summer began, I had essentially made no gains since spring. I was confused, disheveled, and clutching at a mismatch of ultra-light and ultra-heavy backpacking gear. I was too reluctant and broke to make a firm decision regarding my next step, but my intrigue with lightweight precluded me from continuing on with the old gear. It wasn’t until a car camping trip at 10,000 feet in Colorado that I awoke with an epiphany: I was under my sleeping bag. I had shimmied completely out of the bag, undoing the zipper along the way, and was sleeping soundly directly underneath it. The shock was not waking up in that position-it happens nearly every time. No, the shock was in the realization that I had inadvertently been turning my sleeping bag into a quilt, laying directly upon my pad, and had been doing it for years! I’ve said it myself: “if my legs do not maintain their distance from one another during slumber, I will sweat to death. I am a warm and claustrophobic sleeper.” Problem solved.

In a matter of days, I was enduring some gentle derision myself as I proclaimed proudly that I had purchased a fourteen-ounce Bozeman Mountain Works Pro 90 Quilt. “A quilt?” My wife’s words came as more of a mockery than a question, “Doesn’t sound very comfortable to me.”

With several minor failures behind me, I determined to throw myself into the roiling sea and either sink or swim. Striking out across Colorado’s Grand Mesa, I tried to mentally prepare myself for a miserable night. It was to be the maiden voyage of my quilt, and to be tried out live without a safety net. I had brought minimal food, my new selection of lightweight gear, and a blue tarp for cover. That’s right: the old fiber-reinforced blue tarp, fresh from Ace Hardware (also seen protecting roofs in the Gulf Coast). It was a considerable weight savings over my old tent and represented a definite departure from the old way. No more tip-toeing around-I was jumping in with both feet. Speaking of feet, I took a radical departure from my traditional steel-toed boots and donned a pair of ultra-light Crocs. I figured my Pixie Stix could make up for any lost stability.

I won’t pretend it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in the high country. Considering the hurried configuration of my blue tarp into a triangular tunnel to serve both as tarp and ground cloth, I think I slept quite well. In fact, being my first night under a bona fide quilt and struggling to keep my body’s warmth from escaping at each roll, I’d say it was a fine rest. My feet protruded a bit from the bottom end of my haphazard tarp arrangement, and my head lay mostly exposed to the night air, but this allowed me a dazzling view of a meteor shower dancing behind the silhouetted spruce trees. The temperature dropped into the mid-forties, but once I was able to locate my stocking cap, my body’s engine kept me at a comfortable idle. I was, in fact, surprised to see daylight paint the eastern sky so soon.

Wait, That’s It?

When I finally tossed the quilt aside and pulled myself out of my blue refuge, my first thought was, “Ok, I’ve done it.” I knew I’d be in a hurry to make a prior arrangement in town, so I began to gather my things, which was precisely when the full allure of lightweight backpacking hit home with a fury: I was packed in under five minutes. I slung my pack over my shoulder easily, without the furious grunting and heaving to which I had so long been accustomed. With my pack as light as it was, I happily avoided the trail and began to pick my way across the Mesa, slowly, deliberately, enjoying every step. I stopped at regular intervals, absent of the concern that getting going again might be an effort. I stooped to pick up interesting rocks, snap pictures, and ponder the topography. I was reluctant to turn back toward home.

As I mentioned at the beginning, I’ve still got a long way to go. I’m not sure how to reconcile the apparent needs I have- Crazy Creek, Leatherman tool, pack cover, extra clothing, tripod for the camera, rain pants – with ultralight alternatives. Old habits die hard. However, I was so jazzed up after my successful trip that I found myself at work the following Monday, scribbling lists of the changes I’d make to my next jaunt. Unfortunately, too many of the items were things I felt I needed to add to my pack, rather than remove. Still, there are obvious ways to improve as well. I’m more than willing to leave behind a whole array of items that I once thought indispensable: stove, water pump, sunscreen, glasses case. There are also a few items I simply failed to minimize fully last time: car keys, wallet, toothbrush handle… but will these changes be effective when put to a more challenging test? Will my base weight continue to drop? Considering how much I cut for the last test, is it even possible to get into the ultralight category?

I’ve got some very critical pounds between here and there, but I am not afraid.

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Read More of Nathan’s Transformation

• Metamorphosis #1: Confessions of a Heavyweight Backpacker
• Metamorphosis #2: A Change in Attitude
• Metamorphosis #3: Walking the Edge
• Metamorphosis #4: Monocle

Editor’s Note: Metamorphosis #1 and #2 were first published in the BackpackingLight Print Magazine, Issues 7 and 9, respectively. All four installments are now also available online.

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Just days ago, I was poised to drop a few hundred dollars on eBay. I needed only to submit my bid and beam it up to the cyber auction. The Kelty Typhoon II tent (10 lb, 11 oz) promised to be all of the “bombproof” four-season shelter that reviewers across the ‘net claimed it would be. The behemoth was outfitted with two massive vestibules, two doors, multiple gear stashes – and a matching footprint! It was reported to be capable of withstanding more than twenty inches of snow and driving winds. A slumbering camper might even get a bit too toasty inside the Typhoon II.

Wouldn’t the backcountry be marvelous?!

But I paused too long.

Minutes passed, and the auction ended. Like many times before, I was left wondering why I cannot commit to the purchase of new gear.

Confession

Year after year, I fail to acquire the backcountry equipment that whispers sweet promises of improved performance. I continue to crawl into the alpine with an eleven-year-old backpack that pinches and slumps. I still use a six-(plus)-pound sleeping bag that has the packed dimensions of a mid-sized foot stool. I have carried the same old water purifier for hundreds of bone-jarring miles, despite its ability to produce repulsive water from its iodine-stained machinery and jaundiced tubing. I supplement my near-worthless headlamp with a full sized, double D battery flashlight… which I seldom use. I drag a two-pound tarp, a collapsible camp chair, Army surplus rain pants, an oversized rain parka, and an unusual assortment of emergency accoutrement.

Ahh, my pack and I. We weigh a ton, so to speak.

At the trailhead, I saddle up: I don’t carry my pack. It rides me.

My steel-toed boots thunder along the trail, resonating tremors deep into the ground of high country tundra. My shirt clings heavily with perspiration, the soles of my feet cry out for air, and my shoulders ache for reprieve.

My name is Nathan Boddy, and I have a backpacking problem.

I Don’t Age: I Mature

In a frantic last minute reshuffling of gear at a trailhead in the Beartooth Mountains last fall, I cringed while shoving my tripod and fishing gear back into the trunk of the car. There wasn’t an inch to spare – either inside or outside of my pack – to accommodate these luxuries. Despite these unfortunate sacrifices, my pack pounded down upon me like a slow jackhammer as I staggered off toward the trail. By mid-afternoon, my longtime backpacking partner Ryan Gibbs and I were eight miles up, beaten and weary.

Grumbling, we agreed on a campsite that only five years ago we would have eschewed for its proximity to the trailhead. Granted, it was only the first day on the trail, and we were just warming up, right? After all, we had sapped ourselves of needed energy with a short scramble up a talus slope earlier in the day. In spite of vain attempts at justifying our near-the-car campsite, we had to face reality: Ryan and I aren’t twenty-year-olds anymore.

The siren song of age was singing taps. It’s a song we’d heard about, but not actually heard – until now.

After September’s trip, I determined with finality that I will commit to incorporating a lightweight ethos into my hiking style.

2007 will not find me with the same awkward gear. My days in the high country are too precious to encumber my own performance. With this in mind, I find myself jumping enthusiastically into the research and planning required to replace key components of my gear: backpack, sleeping bag, tent, purifier, stove!

Now What?

Following my nearly fatal purchase of the Typhoon II, however, I followed a breadcrumbed path of articles and reviews that led me into a bright new world that I had never known existed. This new world has challenged my long held notions about backpacking and – like many of you – has literally kept me awake at night! Could it be possible that my hesitation to purchase the mammoth Kelty shelter was simply an instinctual response for self-preservation? Could it be that toeing the line with equipment upgrades is not the only option?

Could it be that I could go… light?

I’ve seen the handwriting on the wall for some time.

I have, in fact, left items behind to reduce bulk and weight, but the fun stuff has always been getting axed first. When my thirteen-year-old gas stove finally met its demise in 2005, I began to use a old blackened tin pot to boil creek water on our campfire, rather than purchase another cooker. But I won’t tell you what the pot weighs.

I’ve wasted hours grappling with my sleeping bag in order to extract it from my pack in a Cesarean-like maneuver that leaves even onlookers exhausted. While I’m sure an upgrade in equipment may help in some of these matters, I fear that toting my heavy pack for many more years may only put me on the one-way path of a trail barge to nowhere, skidding to a stop on a muddy beach with a broken rudder.

Now I see this bright new world of lightweight backpacking.

With this discovery, my suppressed urge for simplicity has been acknowledged! The tight seal of reliance on outdoor equipment and “commercialized backpacking” has been broken, and I am now peeling back the facade to see what lies underneath. With my inclination for minimalism, how can I possibly continue my current trajectory, while knowing that some people are walking tall and strong into the wilderness with packs loaded with gear that weigh less than my pack – empty!? How can I continue to call myself an “avid” backpacker while others are exploring the alpine with loads weighing less than ten pounds?

How can I not begin to obsess over these questions?

This will take time. I have only just begun to see into your world – but I can see far enough to crave more. While my instinct nudges me toward simplicity, my training screams frantic warnings. Can I trust a tarp in place of a tent? Is it really possible to use solid fuel tablets in place of a tank of white gas? Can I really survive with a stove that weighs thirteen grams? Bivy sacks and titanium spoons… is this not complete lunacy?

After all, I have two decades of backpacking a la humpback behind me and reconditioning this ethos will not be easy.

Conclusion

So, give me one year.

With loyalty to experimentation and adventure, one year should be sufficient to give lightweight backpacking a thorough trial. More than just a trial, however: I’ll put it and myself, to the test. In September of 2007, Gibbs and I will attempt a transect of the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness along the Continental Divide. It’s easy to speculate that, with our bodies aging, time being increasingly hard to come by, and our historical attachment to heavy gear, that this may not only be one of the longer, but also one of the last long hikes we undertake.

However, with lightweight gear and the discipline to use it comfortably, I may see the Pintler transect evolve into an entirely different creature: the beginning of a whole new way to enjoy the backcountry. Alternatively, I suppose it could mean day after day of derision and scorn as Gibbs lambastes me for being an ill-prepared idiot above the treeline.

I have one year to lay the groundwork. One year to undergo the metamorphosis from heavy to light. One year to drop my base weight to… twenty… fifteen… ten pounds?

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Read More of Nathan’s Transformation

• Metamorphosis #1: Confessions of a Heavyweight Backpacker
• Metamorphosis #2: A Change in Attitude
• Metamorphosis #3: Walking the Edge
• Metamorphosis #4: Monocle