Articles (2020)

I’d always wondered how to get my backpack lighter. I am on the short side of average height in the U.S., being five feet, four inches tall, and in my early adult life, I weighed 125-130 pounds. The general rule at the time was that your pack should be no more than one-third of your body weight.Yet I had to carry a tent, pad and sleeping bag all sized for an average man; my pack usually hovered around fifty pounds, and when I was the leader responsible for a group of teenagers, with the larger first aid kit, emergency paperwork, educational readings, and all else added to my load, I would sometimes be carrying fully HALF of my body weight! I’m strong, but ten miles is a looooong way carrying that much weight.

Over the years, I pared down my pile of luxuries whose individual impact was negligible but whose cumulative burden outweighed (literally) their benefit. I didn’t really need and rarely ever used the cheese grater, the candle lantern, the star chart, or the solar shower, so they stayed home. I paid more attention to the amount of food I came home with, and the number of warm layers never touched. I made sure I carried more of each than I ever had used, but reduced my emergency buffer to a more reasonable volume. I bought the women’s bag, pad, and packs when they were finally available. I dealt with my fear of running out of reading and limited myself to one thin paperback. I made a compact and lightweight watercolor kit. At the same time, past the age of forty, I gained a few pounds, so that by the numbers I was "allowed" to carry more, but by the body it felt even more important to lighten up.

In 2005 I was backpacking on the PCT at the base of Mt. Adams. Several lightly-loaded through-hikers, and some people just hiking long days, passed me, all carrying the same pack (which shall remain nameless and unendorsed), light and slim and half the size of mine, and it made my gearaholic nerve endings jangle in recognition and desire.

Fate stepped in and pushed me down some steps in November 2006, breaking my fibula at the ankle. After eighteen months of trying all sorts of things and hoping the X-rays would look better, it became clear that I would need a surgical repair. In December 2007, I got a bone graft and a metal plate. When I went in for my January check-up, I asked my surgeon if I could backpack the following summer – it had been so hard not being able to join the trips while I was healing! He said, "If you can get your pack down to thirty pounds, you can backpack." My lightweight journey was launched in earnest.

In February, fate more gently nudged me in the right direction. Still on crutches, at a training out of town, I noticed a colleague’s BPL bumper sticker and was introduced to Backpacking Light. So began months of web searches, reading forums, reading library books, reading blogs, making lists, etc. I tallied up the gear I had and its weight, and I made a wish list of gear to replace it, calculating the cost per weight saved to determine where I would get the greatest benefit with the least expenditure. I did not want to use lightening my load as an excuse for amassing more stuff and spending money I didn’t have. I kept my eye on eBay and other on-line retailer’s winter sales. I went to REI garage sales. I went to shops selling used and discounted gear. Selling and trading in some of my old gear, I ended up spending about $300 on some clothing, a shelter, pack, lighter trekking poles, a cook system, and a sleeping quilt.

I re-thought a lot of my assumptions and habits. The basic premise, that to the extent possible everything carried should have multiple uses, made so much sense to me that it was easy to put into practice. I once had hypothermia, so my anxiety when I am cold worsens my physical discomfort, but I was willing to try sleeping with a lighter quilt wearing all my warm clothing instead of carrying three pounds of bag that only got pulled out at night. Alcohol stoves excited my inner tinkerer, and freezer bag cooking was a no-brainer extension of my old habit of dehydrating my own soups, noodle dishes, and stews. My cooking outfit came down to well under a pound, fuel and all. Instead of a book, I had my iPod loaded with podcasts. I was excited when I saw the weight tally of my base gear plummet: a twenty-four-ounce backpack! A twenty-four-ounce shelter with floor and mosquito netting! Meanwhile, I worked with my physical therapist to make a training schedule to get ready for the trip. After nearly two years on the couch and a ‘new’ ankle, I wanted to do it right and hike happily and safely.

When I had my gear, a day’s water and all my food loaded for my trip in Canada, my pack weighed 31 pounds. I was thrilled! With excitement and curious anticipation, I started back, after so long waiting, to the place I love the best: on a trail surrounded by wilderness. My ankle was sore at the end of the day, but there was no lack of icy water in which to soak (or dunk, rather) my lower leg for thirty seconds. I was comfortable and happy on the trail. More of my time and attention was devoted to enjoying and painting my surroundings. I was enjoying the journey more and laid down at night more relaxed than exhausted, with fewer kinks to work out of my spine.

I might have chosen a different path to my new lightweight backpacking style, but I am glad I got here. I look forward to more trips, maybe even with longer mileage days, in my lightweight future.

I’m not kidding. Mother Nature would not allow me to even begin a backpacking trip no matter how hard I tried until I "saw the light." Over the space of fourteen years Nature opened up her floodgates every time I tried to go backpacking. Miraculously, the first trip where I paid attention to the weight of my pack contents was gorgeous. Of course, she couldn’t resist a reminder that I needed to stay on course by spitting some rain, snow, and sleet (in May) as I climbed out of the Grand Canyon on that first enlightened trip.

I grew up dreaming of outdoor adventures. My family car camped once or twice, but I longed to cut the ties with civilization and get deep into the backcountry. I finally got my first chance as a newly commissioned officer in the Navy. I was stationed on Adak, one of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. The mountains in the center of the island are surrounded by undulating, tundra covered plains and beg for exploration. After a few months on the island, I decided to take my first ever backpacking trip. I cobbled together gear from the rental shop and through catalog orders. I paid no attention to the weight or volume of the gear. Consequently, I had trouble getting it all into – or lashed onto – a pack left over from a summer of traveling around Europe.

Adak is known as the "Birthplace of the Winds." I was used to near constant 20 knot winds, 40 knot winds were common, and even higher not unusual. I had expected my backpacking trip to be windy, so when I heard the Coast Guard’s warnings of rain and gale force winds on the radio the morning I was to go, I wasn’t dissuaded. There was so much gear lashed to the outside of my pack I had to take it off to get out my door. I splashed through puddles and threw my pack into the back of my old red "island" pickup truck. I had wanted to backpack all my life, and I was determined to do it now, during the few days I had off. I drove out to my starting point through sheeting rain, jumped out, and struggled into my pack, instantly soaked from the freezing downpour. I could only see about a yard in front of me. I finally got Mother Nature’s message that this was not a good idea when I found I was so buffeted by the winds I couldn’t walk a straight line. I reluctantly gave up on my backpacking dream for the time being and trundled back to my room in the bachelor officer’s quarters.

I got another chance to go backpacking four years later. I was now in the Navy’s graduate school in Monterey, California and a friend, Gail, invited me to go along on a backpacking trip to Yosemite during a school break. I was thrilled. Another friend Dave, offered to help me shop for gear. After a three-hour drive to the nearest REI, I grabbed a cart, and Dave and I swept through the store. I threw in whatever he felt I’d need, including a Jansport external frame pack, a Therm-a-Rest sleeping pad, and a huge green synthetic sleeping bag with no concern whatsoever for weight. Once my cart was piled high, I pulled out my credit card and paid a small fortune for my weighty gear.

Soon after, Gail and I and a couple of others set off from Monterey for Yosemite. We planned to hike to Tuolumne Meadows after spending our first night in a drive up camp ground. Gail had supplied me with a top of the line L.L. Bean Gore-Tex tent for the trip. It had started raining during the drive, so there was no shared camaraderie around the camp fire that night. We all just crawled into our tents as quickly as we could set them up. I spent a long uncomfortable night in the chill as condensation dripped down on me from the tent walls. My sleeping bag was soaked by morning and the forecast was for four more days of rain.

We decided to abandon Yosemite and find dry weather. Once again, Mother Nature thwarted my attempt to backpack heavy. We drove toward the coast and out of the rain to Point Reyes. The camping area there is a mile from the parking lot so I did get my first chance to hike with the huge load I had assembled. The backpack felt like a car tied to my back, and I was glad I didn’t have to haul it any further. But I loved the experience: the views at the camp site were gorgeous and no other campers intruded upon us until a day and a half later. I became even more determined to get into the backcountry, despite the discomfort of hiking with a heavy pack. Mother Nature’s rather strong hints had not sunk in yet – it still hadn’t occurred to me to pack lighter.

I rarely took time off for vacation while I was in the Navy, but I made an exception ten years later at my final posting before retirement. I was stationed on Treasure Island, a man-made island that sits beneath the Bay Bridge connecting San Francisco to Oakland. I’d been within a few hours drive of some of the most beautiful forests in the U.S. for a year and a half but hadn’t yet found time for anything other than a few day hikes. That coupled with the fact I knew I’d soon be moving east to the desert city of Phoenix, Arizona, and I jumped at an invitation to join two acquaintances on an unusual backpacking trip.

Our trip would be guided by a licensed counselor who was also schooled in Native American rituals. I needed clarity on my imminent transition from a career in the Navy to civilian life. The idea of immersing myself in nature with someone trained to help me sort out any insights was appealing.

We three novice backpackers met with our guide and settled on a five-day trip into the Yolla Bolly Wilderness north of San Francisco. We would drive to the trailhead, backpack six miles to a nice spot by a stream and waterfall, and set up a base camp. Still clinging to my dream of backpacking one day, I had kept all the expensive gear from my aborted Yosemite trip and carted it from duty station to duty station over the last ten years. It was still in great shape, so I was set except for a tent. I rented a Clip Flashlight from a local store, and I was outfitted.

It should be obvious by now that I am a pack rat. I hold onto things because I feel they will keep me safe during any eventuality. This same psychology applied to what I put in a backpack. I wanted to have the gear that would make me ready for any and all challenges. It is probably easy to imagine it might take both a licensed counselor and an act of God to break me of my insecurities.

The sky was overcast as I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to rendezvous with the rest of my group. It began to sprinkle as we drove north. After a few hours of driving, it was raining steadily. By the time we entered the forest an hour later, the dirt road was muddy and slippery, but we pressed on to the trail head.

We decided to camp near our cars the first night, since by now the rain was heavy. We’d re-evaluate in the morning. Once again I had paid no attention whatsoever to my pack weight and Mother Nature showed her displeasure with my slow learning curve. Rain pounded our tents all night and didn’t let up when the sun rose. Our guide was concerned that the steep, rocky trails to our intended camp site might wash out and that the site itself might be flooded. We agreed to remain camped at the cars.

It rained hard for the next two days. We kept ourselves busy with rain drenched walks, journaling, naps, and meetings in the back of our guide’s pickup to interpret our dreams. On the morning of the fourth day, the other two women approached me and said they had had it with camping. I agreed. We went to the guide to discuss cutting our trip short. He listened closely with his counselor’s attitude. When we were done, he had a suggestion: would we consider staying and observing 24 hours of silence and solitude instead? Oddly, that sounded like a good idea to us and we agreed. The rain was still coming down hard and steady.

We spent the next 24 hours alone and in silence. Not talking kept me from complaining about the continued rain. It made me become more observant of my surroundings and at the same time drew me inward to contemplate the deeper issues of my life. I took a long walk in the down pour. For the first time, the rain became a magnifier of the beauty around me rather than an irritant. Standing on a knoll in the center of a clearing I looked up to see a buck eyeing me from one hundred yards. After four days, I felt a part of the forest, and I sensed a connection with the buck I would have been blind to a day before.

The fifth and last day dawned clear, crisp and sunny. We broke our silence in a medicine circle by passing a talking stick. I shared that I felt a new feeling of oneness with all creation. We closed our circle with a ritual of gratitude and headed home, happy with our adventure.

Our spiritual ceremony that last morning in the Yolla Bolly Wilderness must have appeased the Big Mother. Or maybe she realized this last trip had finally broken through my civilized preconception of what it meant to be "prepared for anything," and I was now ready to listen to a subtler message about what it meant to truly be prepared. For what ever reason, she steered me to the guidance of a consummate lightweight backpacker.

A year later as a new resident of Arizona, I wanted to experience more of my state – and finally backpack after fifteen years of disaster. I signed up for a four-day Grand Canyon Field Institute trip to Horseshoe Mesa in the Grand Canyon. The instructor sent an eleven page document covering what gear to bring. He said we’d be carrying 24 pounds of water down a steep trail and emphasized repeatedly that we needed to make everything else light. I heeded his advice closely, once again outfitting myself from scratch (except for my old Jansport external frame pack), but this time paying close attention to weight. I bought a tarp and a Pocket Rocket canister stove and replaced the Therm-a-Rest with a 3/8 inch closed cell foam pad. My total starting pack weight with food but minus the three gallons of water was 26 pounds. Mother Nature must have approved because the weather was gorgeous – clear and sunny and mild. She couldn’t resist driving home a reminder of what was important in the backcountry though, and the skies spit freezing rain, snow, and sleet as we ended our trip by climbing back out of the canyon.

It has been ten years since that first "real" backpacking trip. I’ve become a passionate lightweight backpacker. I still like to be prepared, but now I reach my comfort zone more through acquired skills and experience than by carrying all sorts of heavy gear I "might" need. The longing I felt for nearly forty years to get into the backcountry has not diminished. I feel it anew if I haven’t been out in more than a couple of months. I am renewed on each trip and those experiences are tremendously more enjoyable because Mother Nature insisted I carry a light pack.

Poets are known for their ability to transcend the common, the average, the mundane and enter into the world of magic. There, they unearth linguistic jewels from the depths of their experience and haul them back up to the rest of us through the labor of writing. Rumi, the thirteenth century Persian poet who entered that world of magic often and well, once brought us back the following nugget in response to the question, “Where, where can I be safe?” Rumi answered,

This is not a day for asking questions.

Not a day on any calendar.

This day is conscious of itself.

Of course, Rumi, who lived 300 years before the advent of the Gregorian calendar and never traveled faster than on horseback, probably experienced time in a very different way than we do today. Yet the implications of his observation – today is not a day on any calendar – gives us reason to pause and reflect on what it means to encounter time and place without the artificial grid of numbered days superimposed over our raw experience. Isn’t this altered and otherworldly encounter with nature what we time-starved moderns seek, at least in part, when we head for the trail?

Of course, just try using Rumi’s line on your boss next time you’re late for work and see what happens. Simply because one would rather be frolicking amidst tall grass and communing with nature on her terms doesn’t mean that August 22, 2008 didn’t officially come into being at 12:00 a.m. A critical mass of people believing something to be true can indeed make it so – especially in the case of a concrete organizational concept like a calendar.

So, as a fellow believer in calendars and a consenting party to their use (and misuse), I have to admit that Friday, August 22 had been weighing on my mind for the better part of the preceding eight months. This was the day that Backpacking Light’s very first Wilderness Trekking I course (WT1) was scheduled to begin. As part of the team of instructors that was helping to create, organize, and teach the course, I couldn’t help but feel a crescendo of excitement as the day approached. By the time the August 21 page of my Far Side daily calendar was lying face down in a recycling bin, there was a miniature orchestra playing ferociously in my stomach, and I had begun to suspect that the tiny conductor might have a drinking problem.

Yet there they were – students from all over the U.S. and even one from Germany, seeking to shed some pack weight and perhaps hoping to dive across that mysterious border to the place where calendars don’t exist. The five-day course was set to begin, and my stomach’s conductor was going to have to pull himself together.

Definitely a Day for Asking Questions

Although Rumi was probably right about calendars, his claim that today is not a day for asking questions sets off red flags and sirens in my brain. Questions form the very basis for exploring our world, which is but one reason we should hold them in the highest regard. In Rumi’s defense, though, Yoda once told Luke during his Jedi training to “clear your mind of questions,” which in retrospect was probably exactly what Luke needed to hear. Maybe it’s just that questions have their own time and place.

If that’s true, then August 22, 2008 at 1:00 p.m. was definitely the time, and the northern Rockies near Bozeman, Montana was definitely the place for asking questions. Rightfully so, since ultralight backpacking is a decidedly scientific, and thus inquisitive, activity. As ultralight backpackers, we observe, we question, we hypothesize, we take measurements, we note, we experiment, we notice we were wrong, we discuss, we try again, we get it right, we celebrate, we later, rinse, repeat. As much as anything, WT1 was about imparting upon students a healthy regard for the scientific method.

Because we wanted to harness the knowledge and experience contained within the entire group, then elevate each member’s overall understanding, the classroom portion of WT1 was based largely on discussion and activity. Of course, much of the discussion in the course naturally gravitated to gear talk, but instructors were careful to initiate conversations centered on other important matters such as UL philosophy, safety, menu planning, cooking, and a wide variety of other ultralight skills. In all, there seemed to be a healthy balance between listening and speaking, between standing and sitting, between having fun and getting down to business.

Yet despite their warm and welcoming demeanor, when it came to pack weight, instructors could be downright ruthless. During one particularly productive gear-weighing session, instructor Mike Clelland encouraged a student named Mark from southern California to eliminate all redundant items from his packing list. Like an experienced magician dazzling his audience, Mike made extra gadgets, changes of clothes, alcohol gel, and even silverware disappear before our eyes. When it was all said and done, three pounds were gone from Mark’s back and everyone was looking at Mike like he had just pulled a rabbit from a hat, except that the hat was a stuff sack and the rabbit was gear that eventually hopped its way into Mark’s suitcase. Who wants to carry a three-pound rabbit into the backcountry anyway? (See below: Numbers Game.)

As the first day of class drew to a close, everyone was wiped out from the day and ready to turn in. Everyone, that is, except for Mike, who somehow always managed to remain ever vigilant and highly caffeinated.

A Day Conscious of Itself

As students woke to a delicious breakfast on August 23, there was still much preparation and classroom ‘work’ to be done. Although the sun was coming up in a cloudless sky in its usual way and from its usual direction, we could sense that there was something special about this day. This, of course, was the day that everyone had been waiting for, the day where we would leave the classroom behind and put all of what we had learned to the test in one of the most beautiful and rugged proving grounds in the lower forty-eight – the northern Rocky Mountains. After learning all about UL stoves and discussing the finer points of hiking efficiently, we concluded classroom activities around noon and enjoyed a wonderful lunch before gleefully grabbing our packs and making for the trailhead.

Prior to leaving for the trek, students were asked to turn in their watches and cell phones in order to help create a simpler and more authentic wilderness experience. Aside from a weight-saving measure, this was primarily a symbolic act meant to signify the official ‘unplugging’ of ourselves. As might be expected, many students experienced a small degree of separation anxiety when letting go of these items, and one student even half-joked, “my whole life’s in this thing,” as he handed over his phone. Yet by the time we had been on trail for several hours, and this same student had felt the joy of a sub-eighteen pound pack on a perfect day in the Rockies, it’s safe to say that he had gained a different perspective as to the meaning of life – at least as far as it related to its location in his cell phone. The unsung heroes of this lesson were instructors Mike Clelland and Ryan Connelly, who took turns burying a satellite phone deep in their packs, bearing the weight silently and without complaint so that others might walk less encumbered.

At times the hiking was steep and intense. For starters, virtually the entire trek took place above 8,000 feet, which proved a hefty challenge for students more familiar with life closer to sea level. There were also a considerable number of ups and downs along the way, as we would follow the uneven ridge by day and drop down into drainages and canyons most nights. Wishing to maximize weight savings, instructors encouraged ‘tanking up’ at water sources, which was a foreign concept for many students and one that certainly pushed several past their current comfort zone. Nevertheless, stretching water supplies and reconciling expected drinking sources with the map became a big topic of conversation for the group, and many took to the challenge of trying to run out of water just before reaching the next source. Towards the end of our time in the field, one student, Joe from North Carolina, remarked, “I’ll probably never carry as much water with me as I used to, so long as I can reasonably expect to find more along the way.”

Perhaps the greatest advantage of hiking with a light pack is an increased tendency towards meaningful conversation – a pleasure WT1 participants took full advantage of during their stay. Heavy packs are conversation killers for several reasons. Not only can they cause you to be out of breath, tired, and altogether uncomfortable, but they also force you to look down at your feet most of the time and miss out on all the interesting scenery and conversation starters. It wasn’t long before our ultralight group had moved well beyond the normal water-cooler chit chat that’s always comfortable (and usually meaningless) and found ourselves immersed in deeper discussions about life, philosophy, spirituality, hopes, and dreams. Occasionally, there were long-winded discussions, during which participants looked each other in the eye, smiled often, and continued talking despite prolonged uphill sections of trail – a feat only attempted by those carrying a light load.

For many of us, August 23 was the last day of the course. This is not because we canceled the next three days, but rather because backcountry days on trail without watches and phones have a tendency to blend into one other in a delightfully serene way. As August 23 wound down and presumably became August 24, our orientation to the world changed in subtly profound ways. Without watches, we measured time by the sun, often determining when to wake, walk, eat, rest, and learn based only on its position in the sky. We measured distance by the location of water sources, and even though, when discussing the map, our sentences contained words like “hours” and “miles,” these words took on less and less relevance as we slid even deeper into the wilderness experience. By the end of the course, it was hard to remember what the actual day of the week was, let alone the date. Our calendars had indeed melted away, and somewhere Salvador Dali was smiling.

These three remaining days were nothing if not wonderful. Perhaps the most important lesson came from the integration of the science and the magic of ultralight hiking – these two opposing yet somehow complimentary modes of inquiry. As such, the greatest lesson of the course was an implied one: just because we love our scales, love weighing our gear, and love keeping track of how much we carry doesn’t mean that we carry our scales and spreadsheets with us into the backcountry. That would defeat the purpose. In the end, the same could be said for calendars.

I guess you could say I needed something. I wasn’t sure what that was, but I knew I was struggling without it. Over the previous seven years I had lost my childhood home to fire, lost my mother and brother to heart attacks, and lost my father to leukemia. I had been transferred twice for my job in less than two years. My wife and kids were exhausted with the transfers. The new job was turning out to be something different than what I had expected, and it was not working out. Simply put, things were bad.

While I was reading everything I could to make changes with my work, I came across an interesting exercise: "Write down the things you want to achieve in your life; don’t let perceived possibility influence what is written." I did, and one of them struck me. Until that moment, I had forgotten my childhood dream, but there it was: "Hike the Appalachian Trail." I was soon turning forty and, with a wife and two kids, the thought of ever completing the Appalachian Trail seemed like an absurdity.

When I was a child, my family often went camping, and I had taught myself to backpack as a teen. I had even completed a few overnighters as an adult, but nothing in many years. My gear was sitting in the attic showing years of non-use. It was good gear, but traditional, and weighed 27 pounds.

It wasn’t my intentional to do anything about the AT idea. For some reason, though, things ended up happening. I researched online and found blogs, which I read intently. I started to make a list of what people were carrying and discovered that some were using techniques to lighten the load. I created a list of what a lighter weight hiker would carry. Thru-hikers were carrying 3-pound packs, 2-pound sleeping bags, and lightweight tents. I was thinking I could drop 10 pounds from my old setup without any sacrifice. For what though? What would I do with a new set of gear? My job was getting worse and life seemed like it was closing in on me.

I found myself in a local REI, browsing. Then I saw it, a Gregory G-Pack. One of the packs ‘those’ guys were using. It was light – under 3 pounds with all the features. I met Ross, a cool REI-guy who told me about his thru-hike of the AT. There I was, actually talking to one of ‘those’ guys. He explained that the G-Pack was solid and would do me well. I could tell my wife was wondering what on earth was I doing buying a backpack and, truthfully, I didn’t know myself. I just knew I needed it. So there I was, no trip planned and a bunch of old dusty gear that was too heavy. But I had a new, lightweight pack! It felt good.

To take my mind off work, I began intently researching gear. I needed a tent and sleeping bag. I bought a Marmot Hydrogen bag and MSR Hubba tent. Both were much lighter than the items they replaced. Every few days a package would arrive with something new for my kit. Before I knew it, I had everything I needed for a trip, and it all weighed less than 15 pounds!

With work continuing to deteriorate, I had to get away to consider my future. I settled on some trails in the Shenandoah National Park that were familiar as a teenager, but that I’d not been on in over twenty years. I was going in solo with a much older body, looking to hike three days, covering over 30 miles, with all new gear. I remember stepping from my truck and walking to the Ranger at the gate to get my permit. It was late September, and the morning air felt cold. I was nervous. In my synthetic T-shirt and hiking pants, I began to shake.

I hit the trails and, within the first mile of climbing up, I was winded. Then I ran out of water. A bit scared, I covered a frantic distance, reaching a small stream by night fall. On the whole, the trip was amazing. I spent time swimming in the Moorman River, hiked until dark and nearly fell off a waterfall (lesson learned), and had a strange huge animal visit my camp after I cooked dinner (a bear?). I was excited and terrified during the trip, but in the end I felt the most alive I had in years.

I purchased a copy of Lightweight Backpacking & Camping, and I began to look at gear differently after reading it. I wanted less weight, but my gear still included a framed pack and tent. I questioned each item and researched options. It was time for a second trip, to a place I had always wanted to visit: the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Much planning went into creating a 45-mile loop for four days in November, again alone.

My gear was similar to my first trip, though 2 pounds lighter. I dropped the Hubba footprint and replaced items like my cookware with a titanium pot and my fleece shirt with a Mont-Bell UL down inner (which my family dubbed my "paper coat"). My gear was now just over 12 pounds.  My attitude was slightly lighter as well, as there was the prospect of a new position at work.

I headed out, hopeful, the Sunday before Thanksgiving on a snow-covered trail north of Clingman’s Dome, but wondered if I had enough gear. My trip took me through mountains, streams, and valleys. The night temperatures were in the thirties, and I slept warmly. My gear worked flawlessly, and I was gaining confidence.

I considered going from lightweight (less than 20 pounds) to ultralightweight (less than 10 pounds). I had already trimmed everything I could trim, so something else had to change. I studied Lightweight Backpacking and Camping like it was the Bible. I became a member of BackpackingLight.com and scoured the forums.

The only option was forgo the tent for a tarp and bivy, but I admit I was afraid of sleeping out in the open alone in the woods. If I was to go ultralight, I had face it, so I purchased an Integral Designs 5 x 8 foot silnylon tarp and Mont-Bell Dry-Tech bivy. I stuffed my gear into my first frameless pack, a Granite Gear Virga. It all weighed 8.5 pounds, well under my goal of 10 pounds!

It was now January, and the temperatures were low. I had a job interview in Richmond, Virginia which took me again close to the Shenandoah Mountains, so I planned a trip to follow. I would go back to White Oak Canyon, where I first started backpacking as a teen. But this time I would start the loop further away down the AT and add a side trip to the summit of Old Rag Mountain, something I was never able to do on any of my previous three trips to the area as a youngster because of the distance and load. I covered 35 miles over the 3-day trip. The temps dropped down into the low twenties. I slept under a tarp, my fears were gone, and I was now officially an ultralightweight backpacker.

I got the job and things were really turning around! Because I was busy learning the new role, my next trip was not until the following Memorial Day, and I was determined to get into the super ultra light weight category (< 5 pounds) by that time. I changed to a poncho tarp, wind shirt, and sub-one-pound quilt. My pack was the GoLite Ion at a scant 9 ounces. I went to the smallest Ti mug I could find and changed to a Gram Weenie stove. The final tally was 4.95 pounds; I was just under the SUL cutoff!

I hit the Pisgah National Forest. The weather turned rather cold for late May in NC. One night, temperatures dipped into the upper thirties. My Mont-Bell thermal sheet and UL down jacket held off the cold, but I wished I had not left my fleece cap behind. Regardless, I had traveled my first twenty-plus mile day and was astonished to cover 50 miles in two-and-a-half days.

The new job was great, and a business trip took me to Eugene, Oregon. This was too close to Three Sisters Wilderness Area to pass up. Gear modifications were called for, as snow and cold temps were strong possibilities in late September. I also decided try one more thing: a zipper-less quilt. I went with a GoLite Ultra 20 quilt and put it in a Jam2 pack. Wanting lighter rain gear, I also bought a GoLite Virga jacket and Reed pants. My gear list for the trip was 6.5 pounds.

I covered 77 remarkable miles, completing the loop around the Three Sisters in three-and-a-half days. Day three was a true record-breaker for me at 27 miles. Life was now good!

I don’t think a journey into enlightenment can be complete until you pass it on. In sharing my many stories with anyone who would listen, I finally found someone interested in going with me on an ultralight trip. Scott was the father of one of my children’s friends. He was the determined type of individual that might just be up to a challenging trip. We considered our options and wanted to hike to the top of Mount Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Rockies.

Having worked my way through so many pieces of gear, I now had nearly two full lightweight sets. I put together a spreadsheet of what I could supply, mapped out the trip, purchased consumables, and off we went. My pack weighed approximately 6.5 pounds, and Scott’s was 7.5 pounds.

The trip was a huge success. We hiked 15 miles and gained over 5000 feet in elevation the first day, despite not hitting the trail until 11:00 a.m. The daily temperatures dropped to below freezing as we prepared to camp. We set up our poncho tarps, heated our freeze-dried dinners, and warmed ourselves by a small fire before going to bed shortly after 8:00 p.m. to fend off the cold. Scott was in my Marmot Hydrogen (30 F bag) and me in my GoLite Ultra 20 Quilt. My new gear included a MLD Ultralight Bivy and an Integral Designs Silponcho.

The night was windy, and we woke to a cold 20 F morning, but we were fine. We hiked out and on our way stopped to talk to some people going up. They asked where we camped and questioned how that was possible since our packs were so small. My companion excitedly handed his pack over so they could feel the light weight. He began explaining how it worked and how he too was an ultralightweight backpacker. We completed the 27-mile trip in 28 hours.

What started as an absolute low in my life has turned out to be a high. I don’t know if I will ever thru-hike the AT, but I don’t think it matters, now that my lightweight journey has reached a pinnacle. As my kids put it, "Dad has learned to survive in the woods with his paper coat."

I do want to thank my wife and kids for their support during this much needed journey and thank the online community at BackpackingLight.com for the wealth of knowledge to make it possible.

It was a cool, cloudy spring morning on Snowbird Mountain heading to Max Patch. As I stopped for lunch, it began to rain. It didn’t stop until sometime in the middle of the night. Hours later, as I poured the water out of my Gore-Tex boots at a shelter, a thru-hiker asked me how they were working out for me. I looked at his trail runners and had to admit, I didn’t much like my boots at that moment. Those boots must have weighed five pounds apiece for the rest of the trip. Two days later in Hot Springs, while I was inspecting the blisters that the wet boots had left me with, I knew something had to change.

I started out backpacking in winter. We didn’t care about how much weight we were carrying or how it felt; we had to take all the comforts of home: Gore-Tex boots, thick inflatable pads, and even relatively light aluminum folding camp chairs (with backs) that we got at Kmart. Man, those chairs were great for sitting around the fire or taking a break in the snow on the side of the trail. We knew that thru-hikers did all kinds of crazy stuff like drilling holes in their toothbrushes, but we were only out for three nights, and besides, we were tough and could handle all the weight. The more comforts you could stand to drag along, the cooler you were. Still, I can remember carrying a forty-eight pound pack six miles uphill on the first day out and wondering if we would ever get there.

On winter trips, being wet was not a problem because the cold air kept everything dry. But as we started going on more trips, I quickly learned that during warmer months in the Appalachians, it rains every day. And once everything is wet, it never dries. And when it’s not raining, the humidity makes you sweat so much you get soaked anyway. And the extra dry clothes and socks just become heavy wet clothes in your pack. I clearly needed different techniques for hiking in those conditions.

Ron, one of my hiking buddies, had discovered BackpackingLight.com and told the rest of us about it. One of the first articles I read was Water Weight Gain and Drying Characteristics of Lightweight Hiking Shoes after Submersion. It was just what I needed. I replaced the heavy boots with Montrail Hardrocks and went on a short overnighter. I was pleased to find that the bottoms of my feet didn’t hurt (more than normal) from the protruding rocks and roots that are common in our area. Also I felt like the flexibility of the shoe allowed me to get a better grip on the rocks and react to uneven terrain better.

Over the course of the next year, my buddies and I learned the techniques of lightweight backpacking, replaced key pieces of equipment in our kit, and scrutinized the clothes on our backs and everything that went in our pack. I probably saved five pounds by just removing unnecessary items. My attitude changed from “Could I possibly use this?” to “Do I absolutely have to have this?” The surprising thing was that I really didn’t miss anything that I didn’t have.

Each step along the way, we would go on another trip and challenge our limits further. Each time the trips got easier and more enjoyable. On one of these we rolled into camp for the last night at 2:00 pm after a fifteen-mile day. We knew then that it would be nothing to go the additional seven miles into town.

Finally, the transition was complete: Ron and I were ready to see how fast and how far we could really go with our lightened loads. We set out for a week on the Appalachian Trail from Springer, with no definite plans for how far to go or where to stop each night. The idea was to go as far as we felt like going each day. I started with a base weight of 13.7 pounds and a total weight of 24.2 pounds including food, fuel, and water. Ron had a similar pack weight.

The first sixteen miles went easily. That night we stayed with a couple of college boys who came in with two huge packs, bursting at the seams with all kinds of stuff tied on the outside. Even though they were young and in good shape, we never saw them again after leaving the next morning. It’s kind of thrilling for an old guy to blow by so many younger people and just give them the ‘nice ascent’ nod while doing it.

The next day we got to the Walasi-Yi Center in the early afternoon and, while enjoying a Coke, decided to move on to the next shelter, 23 miles total for the day, including the lovely 1.2-mile side trail to the Whitley Gap shelter. After 19 more miles the third day, we stopped at the Cheese Factory campsite. During that day we took a break with a granddad and two girls that were probably eight and ten years old. He had them packed right, in small external frame packs, and these girls were having the best time. They didn’t complain about a thing. It just made you feel good.

I was pretty chipper eating lunch at Bly Gap, the GA/NC line, on the fourth day, knowing that many thru-hikers pass this spot on day six or seven. In all, we did 106 miles in six and a half days, ending up at Winding Stair Gap. The entire trip was validation that we could do this, and we could do it in comfort and style (there’s something very stylish about having a small pack with all your gear inside). I never could have made this trip with a traditional pack.

We continue to refine our gearlists as lightweight backpackers do. This year we went 115 miles through Damascus and the Grayson Highlands. I have whittled my base weight down below 12 pounds, even though I still carry such luxuries as a water pump, Crocs, and an iPod.

For a fifty-something occasional backpacker, going light doesn’t seem like it would be that important. I mean, I’m not going on a 500-mile traverse of the arctic tundra. But actually, the less you are able to go, the more you need to get out of it when you DO go. See more, do more, and enjoy it more. I really love the hiking part – “moving on” along the trail and covering a lot of terrain. With a lighter load, I am able to keep gliding along all day and the trips are more enjoyable. After all, that’s what it’s all about.

Major equipment changes

Full gear list. Summer 2008, one week with resupply

Coffee. Tea.

Hot, caffeinated beverages keep some of us sane when in the backcountry. Some might argue that such beverages can even keep you alive. Here, a few Backpacking Light staffers share their favorite methods for staying warm, hydrated, and caffeinated while out and about. Whether you prefer tea (filtered or not), coffee extract, or cowboy coffee, there’s a little something for everyone… except the one editor who shall remain unnamed. He just takes two NoDoz and hits the trail.

Which could be why I might never backpack with him. – Addie

I guess I first realized my pack weight had to change when I was in intensive care recovering from a bad fishing trip. I’m not sure how much you know about fishing terms, but I was a depth fisherman. A lot of guys seek the perfect location, others think the perfect temperature is what counts. I believed the best way to catch fish was to have the hook hovering at just the right depth in the water. To that end, I usually carried a variety of floats and lead weights to bring the hook to that perfect hover location.

Sure, the other fishermen mocked me. Measuring success as they did by "total catch weight," "most fish caught and released," or "shortest interval between catches," they had degraded a beautiful and subtle art form to a mere game of numbers, a classically hierarchical system of male bragging rights.

I knew I could make my technique more effective if I could make it more precise. On previous trips, I’d been limited to the commercially available weights. But this time I was going to bring along my own small lead-casting foundry, with accurate scales, variable molds, and many cans of butane to fuel its smelter. I could make my own weights on the spot and get my hook to within 0.03125 inches of the optimal depth (Floats, which are pressurized at sea level, expand slightly and float higher as the air pressure drops with altitude, and weights, farther from the center of the earth, weigh less, due to the inverse square nature of the law of gravity). And, so equipped, off I set.

It was clear that something was wrong when I got to my favorite fishing lake and could no longer feel my legs. Things turned out all right, though. Another fisherman spotted me collapsed facedown beneath my pack among the boulders at the lake’s edge; the heavy-lifting Sikorsky helicopter ferried me safely back down the mountain; the small hospital staff worked their magic. When I came to, the doctor reassured me that, though he personally had never seen so many discs so ruthlessly collapsed, he was pretty sure that hanging me upside down by my heels would have me fixed in no time. Two weeks later, I was walking again.

My first, failed efforts to lighten my pack went, of course, in completely the wrong direction. Foolishly, I brought more, not fewer, things, specifically helium-filled balloons and valved rigid backpack frames also filled with helium. The improvements in pack weight were short-lived, quickly erased by the escape of the notoriously leaky gas. Even when everything worked, any gains were nullified by the weight of the necessary helium resupply cylinders. The next stint in intensive care gave me plenty of time to think.

For starters, I gave up fishing. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice, as I’d never caught anything anyway. I began to scour the internet obsessively. I spent hours, then days, mastering the intricacies of translating from grams to ounces and back again, from 95/5 to 850 fill down, from centigrade to Fahrenheit. I drew up spreadsheets cataloging the claimed advantages of almost everything. For example: sleeping bags sewn into empty shape in Tunisia from fabrics first designed by a failed British company and later improved and woven by a Japanese textile giant, following patterns from a Danish designer living in the border region between France and Spain, which were then returned to the Pyrenees to be stuffed with exquisite down by goose farmers’ daughters seeking a better life. Weighed against these were bags made by American firms more generous with their down but with less of a flair for extravagant product names. I compared the properties of goose down from China, where the geese were raised listening to Brahms, with down from small French farms, whose geese grew up to bedtime stories about Babar, or about the little goose who learned that "foie gras" really meant "goose millionaire."

My family, heavily burdened by my hospital bills, were initially very supportive of my new enthusiasm. Gradually, though, as I continued to weigh in their presence the advantages and disadvantages of lightweight but noisy fabric, or supple but slippery yardage, or non-stretching but hopelessly fragile tent goods, their attitude shifted to polite acceptance, then to ill-concealed boredom, and finally, to outright hostility, often accompanied by hurled cans of pale fruits in syrup. Except for my uncle, who was always the odd man out, a grasshopper in a molehill full of ants.

One day he took me out to an obscure alley, in a derelict part of town, where he kept a garage. "Go on, take that tarp off. Check this baby out."

Under the tarp was a complex array of shafts and small motors, brackets and pistons and levers and conveyors, whose purpose was hopelessly unclear to me. How was this going to help me lighten my pack?

"Here." He handed me a sheet of paper with a wonderfully fine weave. "Stick that in the hopper, press that button, and put your hand out."

I did as he said.

"Now get ready for perfection." His ferrety eyes gleamed.

The machine shuddered to life, wheezing and clanking. It swallowed the sheet of paper, agitated itself for several minutes, then went strangely silent. Minutes passed. Sharp chemical smells wafted warmly upward. Was this some kind of elaborate practical joke? More time passed, lights flashing mutely. Finally, six brand new 100 dollar bills slid noiselessly into my hand, still warm from their time in the drying oven. He was right. They were perfect.

"Don’t get greedy. You can stay on top of this game. Forever."

And sure, it wasn’t necessary to get greedy. For less money than a would-be bicycle racer might spend on a new set of wheels, or a car aficionado on a new cam-shaft, I could completely overhaul a major part of my quiver. I’m down now to a pack weight of about four pounds and heading lower. In my warehouse, where I store the things I no longer need, I have the entire recent product history of the world backpacking industry.

I don’t get out backpacking much anymore, though. I just don’t have the time. With the Americas Cup coming up, I’ve taken to lurking around the racing docks, buying drinks for the deck hands in the local yacht bars, hiring on as extra labor, anything to get a look at the new sail fabrics. Some killer stuff is coming. I don’t understand the technology yet and really am not at liberty to divulge what I do know, but major advances are coming – my pack weight is going to drop three, maybe even four, hundredths of an ounce as soon as the new fabrics show up as gear.