Articles (2020)

Field Notes: Careening into Winter

Join Ryan Jordan and a demon virus on a trip that brings early-season winter to Rocky Mountain National Park.

The first snows of fall make me happy. I live at 7,500 feet above sea level, and my town is rimmed by mountains that are prettier when they’re snowy. While I appreciate their majestic rock faces, I like them more with a bit of white on them. Even more, I like experiencing early-season snow while hiking and camping in them.

Our office window is a portal to the 12,000-foot peaks of the Continental Divide in Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s distracting enough that I had to move my desk away from the window. Out of sight, out of mind.

So when the weather forecast started to go south, I started packing.

With a forecast of a few inches of snow, this trip would be my transition out of summer gear and into fall gear.

Gear Notes

Some of the changes I made to my hiking clothes:

I also hiked in snowy, windy, cold weather, so my hands were tucked away inside Outdoor Research Flurry Sensor Gloves and Outdoor Research Revel Shell Mitts.

In camp, I added Rocky Goretex socks to keep my feet warm after I stopped hiking, a Senchi Alpha 60 Pant layer for a touch of extra insulation, and transitioned to a more insulative parka (my PhD Yukon K Hoody).

I still carried a 20-degree down quilt for sleep, but since I was to sleep on snow, I opted for the NEMO Tensor Extreme Sleeping Pad and added a double-walled tent (Tarptent Notch Li with Solid Inner) for a few extra degrees of indoor temperature.

Other than that, I stuck with the majority of the rest of my summer kit, and it served me well enough. Next time, though (note to self): booties and puffy pants.

Trail Notes

When I left the 8,500-foot trailhead at around noon, it was 45 °F and cloudy. Four hours later at my destination (an alpine lake at 11,000 feet), it was 29 °F and snowing. The trail was dirt up to about 10,000 feet, then patchy snow. As I passed little streamlets here and there with tiny icicles dangling from their rocks, I chuckled a little bit, thinking, “C’mon, it’s not that bad yet.” I’d rethink that sentiment the next morning.

By the time I reached 10,500 feet, snow was sticking to the trail, and the mountains were silhouetted in the clouds.

Squirrels were frantically dropping pine cones and building their seed caches as if on a sunset deadline. A chipmunk scurried over my feet, cheeks full, while I was hiking. It tripped over my shoelace and careened off my shin in a slightly different direction than intended.

By early afternoon, the wind started to blow. Five miles an hour, then ten, then fifteen. I layered. First, the fleece hoody. Then, gloves. Then, rain jacket and pants. Then, rain mitts. Then, sunglasses (?) to avoid the stinging of snow in my eyes, in spite of the fact that the skies were darkening.

Camp Notes

My camp was located above the lake and somewhat protected in the trees. However, by late afternoon the temperature had dropped to 21 °F and the wind had picked up, gusting through camp at 20 mph. Wearing all of my clothing, I was starting to shiver, so I retired into my tent.

Tarptent Notch Li with solid inner.

I crawled under my quilt, brewed coffee, and listened to a podcast. I then napped, awakened here and there by the freight train sound of the wind on the 13,000-foot peaks surrounding my camp. A nearby tree was starting to sing and squeak, its lower trunk weakened by the presence of a 1-inch crack splitting its lower trunk. Fortunately, it was leaning away from me.

After darkness enveloped my camp, I mustered up the courage to exit my tent to cook dinner, not in the mood to spend any more time in the confines of the little tent than I had to. It was snowing harder now, so I set up my chair, hunkered under a light tarp that I’d pitched nearby, and boiled water. I meditated for the 18 minutes or so it took to rehydrate my meal under my parka, trying to will away the occasional shiver. After eating and cleanup, I checked my outside sensor: 17 °F. I retreated back to the tent with a full belly and the fatigue of the day’s elevation gain. Sleep came easy.

I use environmental sensors to collect data (temperature, humidity, dew point, barometric pressure, and vapor pressure differential) at various locations in camp and in my shelters. On this trip, I placed one sensor outside, and three more at various locations throughout the double-walled tent (see one on the upper right near the trekking pole in this photo) to observe the variability in conditions and how the data correlates to observed condensation. I added a little LED lantern (upper left) for a little cheer during the long night.

Two hours later, I woke up, coughing spectacularly and shivering, and a sense of dread came over me. Chase had the flu this week, and I thought I’d escaped it. But it was just incubating with me during my hike in and didn’t go rogue until the demon virus knew I was trapped in this mylar-and-UHMWPE winter coffin, far from the warmth of my bed back home.

It was a long night. Sleep came in spurts, 20 minutes here, 30 minutes there. Other than the 25-minute break for dinner and two late-night pee breaks, I would spend 16 hours in the tent.

Morning Notes

I woke up for good at around 8 AM. I could see blue sky through the paper-thin walls of my tent, but the wind remained belligerent.

Morning brought fresh snow, blue skies, and frigid temperatures.

I checked my sensors: 14 °F outside, 17 °F inside my tent. Too many hours spent in a prone position while battling the onset of the flu left my back sore. I had to get out of bed at some point, now seemed like a good time.

I was already fully dressed, so all I had to do was stuff my sort-of-warm feet into my sort-of-cold boots. After relieving myself, expelling the phlegm from my congested sinuses, and making a cup of hot coffee, the wind died. I took my coffee and quilt and walked the few hundred yards to the lakeshore. I found a dry rock, wrapped myself in my blankie, and let the sun and hot drink do its good work for the next half hour.

After the wind died down, the morning sun made me feel human again. My camp was in the trees below the large mountain on the right.

After eating a hot breakfast hash, I felt a little better, so I continued my work. Some gear testing, analyzing sensor data from the night before, a little writing, and some filming for a new module being presented during our current live online course cohort.

Finally, a little after noon, I packed up, messaged Stephanie with my pickup time and location, and started walking.

I would make it back just in time, virus in tow, and spend the next three days in bed.

Post-Trip Notes

It no longer surprises me how much colder the same temperature feels in October vs. July. A few things are going on here. The temperatures are sustained at colder levels for longer periods of time when days are shorter. The sun is lower, so there’s less radiative heat gain. Winds are stronger and more sustained. I have to remind myself time and again – don’t just pack for the coldest expected temperature – pack for the season. Reminder: booties and puffy pants (slaps head).

The Tarptent Notch Li with its solid inner tent is a fine fringe-season shelter. Its steep sidewalls shed snow well, and its small roof panels don’t really hold much snow before it sloughs off. However, DCF is a “cold” tent fabric (due to radiative heat loss), and the Notch solid inner tent is only partially solid – the upper sidewalls have large mesh windows in it. It’s not a warm combination, at least, not warm like a double wall tent with a polyester or nylon fly and full solid inner tent, which can offer interior temperatures that are 8 to 12 °F warmer than outside. In addition, while the solid inner kept the wind blowing under the fly out of my sleeping area, it did not prevent the ingress of fine spindrift throughout the night, and I found myself covered in a light dusting of snow and frost in the morning.

Cooking on an upright canister stove in breezy conditions (gusts of 5 to 12 mph atop the cut stump that was my cooking table) was fine. My water volumes were small (200 to 500 ml), and I kept my canister in my parka when not in use to keep it warm. I was using an MSR Pocket Rocket Deluxe (with no additional windscreen) and a Vargo Titanium BOT 700.

Not a winter stove, but good enough for winter conditions so long as the water volumes stay low and I keep the canister warm between boils.

I knew something was happening in my body before I started to show symptoms. The trail in was a steady, uphill drive (2,500 feet of elevation gain over about 6.5 miles). However, after two hours, something happened to my heart rate. The same grades on the first half of the hike that drove my heart rate into the 130s were driving my heart rate into the 150s during the second half of the hike. I saw this as a red flag, but ignored it, just thinking that the trail was getting steeper (it wasn’t). I didn’t really see the decay in my aerobic performance until I analyzed the data after my trip. In retrospect, I wished I had performed a heart rate variability (HRV) test the morning that I’d left. Almost without exception, I can predict the onset of sickness with an HRV test.

Starting the trek down, virus in tow.

Related Content:

 

Home Range: A Place that Keeps the Wild in Your Life

Drew Smith reflects on hiking in the places close to home as he explores a nearby mountain drainage during all seasons.

Most trip reports (mine included) focus on noteworthy locations — places that are some combination of remote, challenging, or distinctive. And although hiking may be harder in such places, writing about them is easier.

a view of the mountains from a high point of view
Photo: Drew Smith

But life, very much including the hiking life, is not always lived on the peaks. There is plenty of satisfaction to be found in just being in wild places, even if those places don’t have the biggest mountains, the tallest trees, or the showiest wildflowers.

If a place has pretty good forests, flowers, fish and fields, and it is close by, then you are lucky indeed. You have a retreat and a refuge, a place to go when you need to go someplace. You don’t need to make an expedition of it. Just grab your pack, chuck in some food and go.

I have the good fortune to live near such a place. It is a drainage that stretches from the Continental Divide down to the Great Plains. There are plenty of these along the Front Range of Colorado — but only one that does not have a road traversing its length.

I tend to visit in the fall, winter and spring. Summer is too hot in its lower elevations and wilderness permits are required in the upper basins – and they are usually snapped up weeks in advance.

Author’s Note: BPL’ers, especially those in Colorado, already know this drainage. I’m omitting place names to keep them out of search engines, not to tease backpacking humans.

a dirt road surrounded by trees and mountains
Photo: Drew Smith

Fall

a rabbit sitting in the middle of a forest
Photo: Drew Smith

Summer was leaving. Low clouds and high winds were sweeping away what drowse and lassitude still hung in the air. Time to get out before winter’s sharp discipline imposed itself.

Despite the forecast, permits for the high country were still in short supply. I could camp in a valley site near the creek for a day. After that I’d have to move up the basin. The ranger at the permit station gave me a wildly optimistic weather forecast along with a biffy bag and the LNT lecture.


The day hikers thinned out quickly after the first miles and first cascades. The aspens, still leafed out, began fluttering as the wind rose. The creek had long ago finished its business of carrying away snowmelt. It ran low but was still clear and confident, moving at a stately pace, in no hurry to now carry away the last of summer.

a small waterfall in the middle of a forest
Photo: Drew Smith

I set up camp, then returned to the creek to enjoy a sun-warmed ledge. These were the last moments of summer, and I did what summers are best for: nothing. I did nothing, I thought nothing. I was perhaps no more sentient than the rocks that warmed and cradled me, the river that sang and danced before me. There was no desire to be anywhere other than where I was, to do anything other than what I was doing. Which was nothing.

Clouds and a cold creeping wind chased away that particular idyll. I migrated back up to camp. The map showed a pair of lakes maybe half a mile and a few hundred feet above, well away from any trail. The lakes would be scenic and interesting, and perhaps they would hold fish.

a mountain lake surrounded by trees and rocks
Photo: Drew Smith

I grabbed my Tenkara rod, snaked my way uphill through the forest, detoured around some outcroppings then dropped down to the lakes. They did not look full of fish. The lakes were satisfied to straddle the boundary between lake and pond, not caring how humans might classify them.

I sat, I waited, and I observed. Nothing happened. Nothing was good. Nothing was all I desired from this lake. The sun dropped and I returned to camp.

A break in the rain the next morning gave me a chance to pack up dry. The rain came and went on the hike upbasin, flung by a wind that was trying to whip up a sense of urgency. I resisted, or rather, ignored its prodding, stopping often to look around me, to go beyond looking, to actually see this place in its entirety.

When I arrived the lake was frothing. However the designated campsite was beneath a low outcropping and well-supplied with trees. I set up my tent, then strung my tarp in a strategic spot where I could monitor the cloud level on the divide while sipping hot drinks.

The rain slackened then stopped. The wind relaxed a bit. I had never visited the headwaters lake above. Now would be a good time. Ever hopeful, I packed my rod along with snacks and water.

a lake surrounded by mountains under a cloudy sky
Photo: Drew Smith

The lake basin was elemental: rock, water and wind. The divide ringed the water, dipping near to its surface. I stood in the open as long as I could, then retreated to the leeward side of a boulder and ate lunch facing downvalley. It was a blue sky day out on the plains. Small dense snowflakes whipped past my face. I could see summer, feel winter. Fall was here.

a view of a mountain range with a cloudy sky
Photo: Drew Smith

Winter

The mountain forecast was sunny but windy. Not ideal, but waiting for a calm weekend might mean waiting all winter. Best to pack an extra layer and just go.

Dan had built his pulk the previous weekend and was eager to take it out. He doesn’t ski, so we strapped on our snowshoes and began shuffling up the well-packed trail.

a man standing in the snow next to a sled
Photo: Dan Schneider

The familiar sights passed by, familiar but changed. Sharp-angled outcrops were now sinuous mounds and bowls. The boisterous summer stream was subdued, its cascades encased in ice, its pools and runs tucked under a fleece blanket. Open forest had become a ciborium of snow-laden branches drooping over the trail, muffling all sound.

a stream running through a snow covered forest
Photo: Drew Smith

Silence does not equal death though. Although the raucous calls of jays were gone, they were replaced by the cheerful recitations of chickadees. The snow itself recorded the continuing business of life, tracks of snowshoe hares, foxes, bobcats and the occasional squirrel criss-crossing the trail.

We arrived in camp around noon, set up our tents, and began digging out a kitchen as the wind rose.

We lounged around camp in our kitchen burrow, mostly out of the wind, mostly in the sun. Dinner was served as the sun went down, then a few shots of whisky as we prepared hot water bottles. We retired to our tents directly after, unwilling to face the wind on a February night.

a man sitting in the middle of a deep snow pit
Photo: Dan Schneider

Morning was sunny and windy. We had spent enough time in our tents. Side trails form a loop on the west side of the canyon. The forest opened occasionally to views of the dominant peak. Snow had long buried the cascades and falls draining upper basin lakes. It didn’t matter. We were out, we were moving.

a view of a snowy mountain with trees in the foreground
Photo: Dan Schneider

We had brought one more dinner and breakfast, and could stay another night. That would mean spending 12 of the next 16 hours hiding from the wind in our tents. Best to pack up and go.

Spring

Spring is the saddest season in these parts. The weather is more about winter refusing to leave than summer coming on.

It’s good then to have a low-altitude destination close by, a place where you can put a pack on your back and walk without strapping anything onto your feet.

a dog walking down a snow covered road
Photo: Drew Smith

The trail leads down the gulch, past the spring where an old sheepherder’s cabin slowly decays. The hoofed locusts are gone now but their big horned betters remain, and we startle a small flock at a narrow spot.

Reaching the meadow we turn east toward a favorable site. We are cut off by a steep-sided gully, one that was not here before the flood of 2013. The dog is getting older, she has to be helped down, then boosted up the far side. She does not balk or complain, would never be the one to hold us back.

a herd of elk standing on top of a dry grass field
Photo: Drew Smith

The morning sun is replaced by snow squalls. But it’s not too cold, not too windy, to lounge around a small fire wrapped in scents of pine smoke and wet snow.

A herd of elk filters into the meadow, upwind, unaware of our presence. The dog is on full alert. She quivers, a quiet whimper escapes, but makes no move to chase. The elk finally notice us but stay where they are, looking for something, anything to eat. They are in no condition to run. Without ever seeming to move, they melt back into the forest.

a black dog walking down a snow covered trail
Photo: Drew Smith

The gully had consumed the use trail we followed down to the river. Everything there is still askew. Or maybe right where it is supposed to be. The old arrangement of boulders was no doubt the result of a previous 200-year flood. The new arrangement will in time seem natural and right.

But the hole where I could count on catching a brown trout is gone. It has not been replaced by a new hole with a new trout. We contemplate this, the dog and I, each in our own way, decide it is not so bad, and return through the dusk and the snow to our camp.

Related

Hyperlite Mountain Gear Unbound 2P vs. ZPacks Duplex Zip

The Unbound 2P and Duplex Zip beg for a direct comparison. Both of them are six-panel, symmetrical designs with zip-access, side-entry storm doors, and both are generally pitched with a total of 8 tent stakes. They have similar footprints, similar weights, and offer similar levels of weather protection.

Introduction

The ubiquitous ZPacks Duplex, perhaps the most popular ultralight trekking pole tent for modern-day thru-hiking, has more competition today than in years past. With new Dyneema Composite Fabrics shelters from Hyperlite Mountain Gear, Tarptent, Durston Gear, Gossamer Gear, and others, thru-hikers and other backpackers who care about their shelter weight have many more options to choose from today.

The following table compares several Dyneema Composite Fabrics shelters. All of them are two-person, side-entry, dual-vestibule tents that are pitched with two trekking poles.

ModelWeightMSRP
Hyperlite Mountain Gear Unbound 2P24 oz$699
ZPacks Duplex19 oz$699
ZPacks Duplex Zip20 oz$699
Gossamer Gear the Two DCF21 oz$589
Durston Gear X-Mid Pro 2P20 oz$679
Tarptent Dipole 2 Li27 oz$799
Bonfus Duos 2P21 oz$739

* The Gosssamer Gear The Two DCF pricing was current as of fall 2022. However, that model is currently unavailable.

Two recently-introduced trekking pole tents include the Hyperlite Mountain Gear Unbound 2P and the ZPacks Duplex Zip. We have previously reviewed both of these shelters (Unbound 2P Review | Duplex Zip Review).

a couple of tents sitting in the middle of a forest
The Hyperlite Mountain Gear Unbound 2P and ZPacks Duplex Zip were tested side-by-side in a variety of (mostly very wet) weather conditions.

The Unbound 2P and Duplex Zip beg for a direct comparison. Both of them are six-panel, symmetrical designs with zip-access, side-entry storm doors, and both are generally pitched with a total of 8 tent stakes. They have similar footprints, similar weights, and offer similar levels of weather protection.

We pose a variety of questions about these two shelters and go into detail about a head-to-head comparison of them in the following video.

Watch the Video

Youtube video

Outline (clickable timecodes are available in the video description at YouTube):

0:00 – Coffee
0:25 – Why is the Unbound heavier than the Duplex/Duplex Zip?
1:02 – Which tent is more stormworthy?
2:02 – Any differences in condensation resistance?
2:45 – Which tent would you choose (Duplex vs. Unbound vs. Gossamer Gear Two)?
3:25 – Will the Unbound dethrone your Dipole Li as your DCF tent of choice?
3:55 – Interior door battle: rainbow zipper or D-zipper?
4:23 – Which tent has better guylines?
5:13 – What tent stakes do you recommend with these tents?
6:18 – Which tent has better interior organization/pockets?
6:38 – What about adding peak guylines for stormy weather?
7:08 – Fold and roll vs. stuff (storage)
7:20 – Best vestibule door zippers/guylines?
7:39 – What’s the better tent for 2 people?
7:50 – Privacy, connectedness to nature (canopy fabric differences)

Where to Buy

Episode 89 | Fall Layering Systems

In episode 89 of the Backpacking Light Podcast, we are going to talk about fall layering systems.

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Summary

In today’s episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, we are going to talk about fall layering systems.
a black and white photo of a man wearing glasses

In this Episode:

What’s New at Backpacking Light?

Gear Recommendations for Fall Layering Systems

Early Fall (September/October – warmer temperatures):

Late Fall (October/November/December – colder temperatures):

Submit a Tip, Trick, or Question

Share your tips, tricks, and questions on the podcast – submit it via email to podcast@backpackinglight.com.

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Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

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Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Seven Lakes Basin and the High Divide Loop

Daniel Hu backpacks the High Divide Loop, one of the most beautiful hikes in Washington State and Olympic National Park.

The High Divide Loop (also known as the 7 Lakes Basin) is, in my mind, the most beautiful hike in all of Washington state. Nestled deep in Olympic National Park, this trail comes with spectacular views and is teeming with wildlife. If you’re looking at a map of the United States, touch your finger to the most northwestern point in Washington state, and you’ll be fairly close to identifying its location. The trailhead is 3.5 hours from my front door, meaning an early rise out of bed before dawn in order to get boots on the ground at a reasonable hour.

I’ve done this trip twice, and each time have marveled at the beauty of the Olympic mountain range. The “Enchantments” moniker has already been bestowed upon another region in the Washington Cascades, but in my mind it would be more fitting for the High Divide Loop! (Side note: explorers who have traversed the Enchantments may contend that it is a more beautiful experience, but having also twice hiked both trails, I stand by my words – nothing comes close to the High Divide Loop for me!)

The trail isn’t a simple walk in the woods, either: this loop is 19 miles long and comes with 4000 feet of elevation gain! I’ve most frequently heard of hikers treating themselves to a more leisurely two-night trip, but my experiences there have been just for one night. In hindsight, perhaps a more compelling reason to take two nights would be simply to prolong the experience in this magnificent area!

Beginning the Hike

The loop can be done either clockwise or counter-clockwise and since the elevation peaks at approximately the halfway point, neither direction is necessarily easier or more difficult than the other. I have only hiked it counter-clockwise, and the biggest determining factor was where our campsite was located along the trail.

The trail is well-maintained and I’d venture to say it’s nearly impossible to lose track of it. As with many hikes, the first several miles of trail are quite wide due to day-hiker traffic, but as you begin to penetrate deeper into the backcountry and gain elevation, the noise and bustle of your fellow humans will fade and give way to the gentle quiet of nature. It’s possible, if not likely that you could complete your entire hike without encountering another hiker until you reach the campsites, which makes the hike peaceful and calm, almost giving you a sense of ownership of the experience.

a stream running through a lush green forest
A view from one of the footbridges at the beginning of the trail.

The initial portion of the trail was gentle and relatively easy, but it was all uphill thereafter! Large fir trees towered overhead to provide shade as we crossed over wooden bridges beneath which streams flowed 20 or 30 feet below. Moss coated many features of the old-growth forest, and with tender ferns underfoot, we were reminded that on the other side of the High Divide flows the Hoh River into the Hoh Rainforest. The trees gave way after a few miles so that clouds could float in the open sky above Deer Lake, the first of many lakes we’d encounter. It was tempting to stop and take a long break near the water, but with miles of trail left, we continued on quickly to the High Divide trail.

a large body of water surrounded by a forest

Clear skies over Deer Lake.

a group of tall trees in a forest
Moss growing on trees along the High Divide trail.

The High Divide and Bogachiel Peak

Stepping onto the High Divide trail took us further up towards Bogachiel Peak, the highest point in this loop at nearly 5500 feet of elevation. We followed the curve of the mountains, trudging ever upwards and onwards. Climbing upwards over our heads, the sun began to exert its heat more fiercely, and we found ourselves sipping water more frequently. As we continued to hike, we were treated to spectacular views of the valleys (Bogachiel River flows to the south and the 7 Lakes Basin is on the north side of the trail) and mountains. Wildflowers sprinkling dots of color across the mountainside danced gently with any breeze. Despite the heat, we still found patches of snow glistening in the sun at higher elevations, even in early August. Our campsite for the night was at Lunch Lake, so after approximately 7 miles we turned into the Basin, just shy of the short trail leading to the top of Bogachiel Peak.

a path in the middle of a lush green forest
Bogachiel Peak in the distance. The trail has a bifurcation before the switchbacks, turning left takes you into the Seven Lakes Basin and continuing ahead leads up to Bogachiel Peak.

Pausing at the top of the Basin to enjoy the view, we then descended approximately half a mile towards Lunch Lake. As we drew nearer to our destination, we had reason to pause again after spying a bear ambling towards campsites at the nearby Round Lake. I did a quick double-check for my canister of bear spray as we surveyed the terrain, and then we continued on, keeping a wary eye towards the bear. By the time we reached our campsite at Lunch Lake (maybe 0.1-0.2 miles away), the bear had disappeared.

Camping at Lunch Lake

Lunch Lake was clear and refreshing, and we swam, fished, and enjoyed some trail beers, relaxing for a few hours before heading into our tents. The skies were clear, and the moon was in a phase that was favorable for astrophotography, so I set an alarm for the wee hours of the morning, and trudged back down to the lake to take a few pictures of the stars. The Basin is nestled deep in the Olympic Mountains, and gazing upwards at the expanse above, I saw the Milky Way hanging in the sky. An ethereal sight, resplendent in a veil of stars, and a reminder of the vastness of the universe.

the night sky with stars and the milky
The Milky Way over the 7 Lakes Basin.

No bears troubled our sleep or our food, but in the morning I awoke to a rustling outside of the tent, and stepping outside, found a fearless deer nibbling around our tents. It was clearly used to seeing humans and was unafraid of my approach, but soon pranced off, evidently preferring solitude over my company.

a view of the mountains and trees from a distance
Mount Olympus, seen from the High Divide trail.

Heart Lake and Exiting the Wilderness

Instead of backtracking west to the bifurcation that allowed us into the Basin on the previous day, we took a 1 mile trail that took an eastward route that rejoined the High Divide trail about half a mile beyond Bogachiel Peak. Hiking along the ridge, we could peer down into the Hoh Valley, or turn our gaze upwards to the snow-capped Olympic mountains, with a wonderful view of Mt. Olympus. After enjoying these views, the trail continued to lose elevation for the remainder of our journey. Leaving the ridge, we headed northeast and encountered Heart Lake, where we stopped to refill our water supply. Crossing the creek, we descended back down into the forest, trading expansive vistas back for the trees and ferns. The last several miles are shaded from the heat of the sun, and while gentle, offer fewer views, and as we drew nearer to the trailhead, we again began to see a telltale sign of civilization: day hikers in flip flops!

a stream running through a lush green forest
Bridge Creek, emerging from Heart Lake.

A welcome treat at the end of the hike can be found after driving a few miles away from the trailhead, as the Sol Duc Hot Springs Resort is located nearby. We parked and paid for a 90-minute time slot reservation at the mineral hot springs, and felt the aches melt away from our bodies as we relaxed in the water.

Related Content

Episode 88 | 2023 Ultralight Gear Update

Episode 88 of the Backpacking Light podcast features nine pieces of gear from Ryan’s kit that he liked, didn’t like, and is sitting on the fence about.

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Summary

Episode 88 of the Backpacking Light podcast features nine pieces of gear from Ryan’s kit that he liked, didn’t like, and is sitting on the fence about.
episode-88-2023-ultralight-gear-update-1

In this Episode:

How to Subscribe

Apple Podcasts | Spotify | RSS

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Backpacking Light Podcast Index

Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

Feedback / Tips / Questions

podcast@backpackinglight.com

More Backpacking Light

Sign up for the Newsletter. Become a Backpacking Light Member.

Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Episode 87 | Publisher’s Gear Guide

Episode 87 of the Backpacking Light podcast features highlights from our new Publisher’s Gear Guide – the gear that I actually own and use on my backcountry adventures.

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Summary

Episode 87 of the Backpacking Light podcast features highlights from our new Publisher’s Gear Guide – the gear that I actually own and use on my backcountry adventures.

a tent with a sleeping bag inside of it

In this Episode:

How to Subscribe

Apple Podcasts | Spotify | RSS

More Episodes

Backpacking Light Podcast Index

Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

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Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Backcountry Skiing to a Fire Lookout

BPL author Mark Wetherington skis into a remote fire lookout tower in Montana’s backcountry on a chilly winter night.

Introduction

Moving to western Montana in November meant that unless I wanted to wait until spring to explore the jaw-droppingly beautiful landscape, I’d have to get equipped for oversnow travel. Since I’d moved to Montana specifically for its proximity to outdoor recreation, within a few weeks of arriving I’d acquired a pair of cross-country skis and a pair of snowshoes. In what I viewed as an omen from the winter gods, the security deposit from my previous apartment was almost the exact amount of a package deal from the local outdoor store for cross-country skis, poles, boots, and bindings. After a few day trips on skis to get the hang of this new (at least to me) mode of human-powered travel, I skied three miles into a US Forest Service rental cabin for my first overnight trip in Montana on winter solstice. Almost ten years later, that same cabin is often booked solid six months in advance, but I was able to book it for a weekend less than two weeks out.

a house sitting on top of a rocky cliff
A view of the lookout in late spring which shows off its majestic location.

I spent the rest of that winter alternating between snowshoes and cross-country skis for my backpacking trips, staying in a Black Diamond Firstlight tent and slowly building up the winter camping skills that the temperate climate of the Southeast hadn’t allowed me to hone. The next winter, I made a grueling New Year’s Eve trip to a fire lookout (which I’ll refer to as “Magic Rock Lookout” to provide some semblance of anonymity) that involved snowshoeing approximately 5 miles and gaining over 3,500 feet of elevation. Since that inaugural visit, I’ve stayed overnight at that lookout over two dozen times and made at least as many day trips. I’ve helped with volunteer restoration efforts, packed out a broken Coleman stove, cut out trees across the trail, and split at least five times more firewood for the woodstove than I’ve burned. Friends jokingly call me “The Mayor of Magic Rock Lookout” and it’s likely not hyperbole to posit that other than the fire lookouts who were assigned there when it was staffed as an active lookout for fire suppression, I’ve probably spent more nights there than anyone else (the logbook for the lookout also supports this theory).

a rainbow appears over a house on a cloudy day
An early summer view of double rainbows from the lookout.

I’ve stayed at the lookout at least one night in every month of the year except December, which I hope to rectify later this year. Despite my initial attempt being aimed for New Year’s Eve, I only spent the second night of that trip – January 1st – in the lookout; the first night I spent in a bivy sack a quarter-mile from the lookout as I’d become exhausted and benighted and didn’t want to press on somewhat blindly toward the lookout (I was solely using a paper map at the time, GPS likely would’ve ensured I arrived at the lookout but also would’ve denied me a character-building experience). Unsurprisingly, the months I’ve stayed there most are when it’s easiest to access – roughly from when the snow melts until it piles back up again – and June is currently in the lead. After a particularly exhausting snowshoe visit, I swore off any future trips using snowshoes. I decided it was time for me to gain a new set of skills to access the lookout in winter: backcountry skiing.

The timing was great, as I’d  lucked out earlier that winter and won a pair of skis at a raffle and was able to trade them in for store credit and ended up with a great pair of all-mountain skis that had Alpine Touring (i.e. backcountry skiing) bindings on them. A perfect set-up for what I was envisioning, which was more about getting myself into the backcountry as quickly as possible as I had no real interest in downhill skiing at ski resorts.

The Journey to Backcountry Skiing

Growing up in Kentucky with parents from south Georgia hadn’t exactly given me a lot of exposure and opportunities for skiing. I went a few times as a kid to a ski hill in Indiana, but skiing manmade, icy snow on runs with a maximum vertical drop of 300 feet didn’t exactly give me an incurable case of Ski Fever. I progressed at cross-country skiing quicker than I expected and appreciated the relatively low-cost of the activity as well as the fact that it could be done solo without seeming like one was taking unnecessary risks. Being able to easily access US Forest Service Rental Cabins was also a huge benefit, especially since as the years went on my winter backpacking trips largely became limited to those that involved cabins or hot springs.

Downhill skiing, perhaps the most critical skill outside of avalanche safety to have for safety while backcountry skiing, went a bit less smoothly for me and initially made me think I just wasn’t cut out for anything other than kicking-and-gliding through mild terrain on Nordic skis. The local ski hill had an excellent and economical beginner package, so I thought even though I was 30 and for all intents and purposes downhill skiing for my first time, and that given my general fitness and several seasons of cross-country skiing on my legs, I’d be able to gain the basic competencies and comfort level needed without having to invest too much time and energy. I couldn’t have been more wrong. At the end of the six days of skiing I did that season (first three days with hour-long lessons, then three days solo) I was only able to feel moderately comfortable going down groomed intermediate runs. I was able to enjoy myself, but overall found it to be about an even mix of humbling and discouraging. Backcountry skiing up to Magic Rock Lookout anytime soon felt about as realistic as skiing down Corbet’s Couloir in Jackson Hole.

a wooden staircase leading to a building with a mountain in the background
My last snowshoe trip to the lookout – after a handful of times using this most exhausting mode of oversnow travel, I swore them off for future trips and committed to attempting a backcountry skiing trip.

I stuck to cross-country skiing the next few winters, enjoying many fulfilling multi-day ski tours, but fate once again intervened and a girlfriend convinced me to give downhill skiing another chance. She’d grown up skiing near Seattle and, oddly enough, had been a ski instructor in Jackson Hole for a winter. To describe her as an expert skier would be an understatement. Since I had a handle on the basics of skiing and she had a lot of patience, I was able to slowly progress over the next few seasons. With the ski hill only an hour away and season passes being as affordable as one could hope for in a state experiencing pervasive rural gentrification, I was able to get in a lot of ski days over the winters and eventually got comfortable enough to ski all the black diamond runs and most of the double black diamonds. Which, based on the estimation of her and other folks I skied with, meant that it was time to dip my toe into backcountry skiing if I still felt the urge.

And the urge was most definitely still present. Since I’d sworn off snowshoe ascents, it had been over three years since I’d visited in winter. The idea of visiting it in all its winter charm and then enjoying the descent on skis seemed too good to be true. The only minor issue was that no one else had a schedule that lined up with mine and doing my first backcountry ski trip solo seemed borderline reckless.

Working in my favor was the fact that none of the route to the lookout was in avalanche terrain and by heading up in mid-April the snowpack was more stable, effectively reducing the avalanche risk to zero. Also in my favor was the fact that I would be in familiar terrain, the days were long, and my fitness was as good as it had ever been. After getting three separate opinions from three different ski partners, one of whom had been to the lookout on skis recently, the consensus was that it didn’t seem too foolhardy given the context. With what was tantamount to a resounding endorsement, the anticipation for a weekend outing to a familiar lookout using a novel method of travel began to build.

a pair of skis sitting in the snow next to a tree
After a few miles of patchy snow that never allowed me to get into either a walking or skiing rhythm, I hit continuous snow at the trailhead and was able to ski through the forest the rest of the way to the lookout.

Ski Cabineering

Heeding a friend’s advice, I put the skins on my skis before packing up the car and heading to the trailhead. I made it less than a mile up the access road before I had to park at an impassable snow drift. For the next few miles, I’d alternate between skiing and walking in my ski boots when the snow became patchy or nonexistent. Things were starting to melt out down low, but as soon as I reached the trailhead the snow became consistent and I was able to duck into the forest and began as direct of an ascent as possible.

I was absolutely enamored by the sensation of skinning uphill through a beautiful coniferous forest. The sense of freedom and adventure was exhilarating. It just felt right to finally be using the backcountry bindings on my skis, adjusting the heel lifters when the terrain became steep enough to need them, and gliding up through the forest. It was exponentially more enjoyable than the slog of snowshoeing to the lookout. If going up was this much fun, then going down tomorrow was going to be euphoric, I thought as I smiled to myself. I took two leisurely breaks on the way up to air out my feet, rehydrate, and refuel. I maintained a steady but not hurried pace when moving and only hit a few slow spots where thin cover and/or micro-navigational issues had to be addressed and slowed me down. I arrived at the lookout in the early afternoon, roughly three hours after leaving the car.

a snow covered forest with a mountain in the background
Looking back at my skin track was supremely satisfying, as was knowing that gravity would be on my side when I headed down the next morning.

Reaching the lookout always brings me a sense of achievement and joy, but it was particularly thrilling to have reached it on skis. I was smiling from ear to ear as I set about the familiar tasks of opening up the shutters, sorting out my minimal gear onto the bed and table, and enjoying the expansive view from such an unlikely and inhospitable location. Without the lookout, the rocky promontory wouldn’t invite one to linger much longer than a lunch break, especially in winter. But with a simple building, no longer even used for its intended purpose, this spot became a hermitage of sorts. It is outfitted with a simple wood stove, a worn out mattress that is probably older than I am, random cookware, and two pairs of binoculars as well as an assortment of tools to help make minor repairs.

a view of a snowy mountain from a porch
I was hoping this storm would bring in a few inches of fresh powder, but all it left was a dusting on top of wind-scoured snow.

As I settled into the lookout and began to melt snow for the evening’s cooking and hydration needs, a squall blew in. I was hoping for a few inches of fresh snow to ski down on, but the storm blew out as quickly as it came in. Views to mountains afar returned, with a few clouds swirling around to provide some dramatic ambience. I contemplated starting up the wood stove, but given the relatively scarce supply of wood and the mild temperatures I chose instead to just drink lots of hot tea and put on all my layers. I stretched out my muscles as much as I could and looked off the lookout’s catwalk to the slope I would be descending in the morning, visualizing my turns. The evening went by at a perfect pace and the sunset was pleasant, but the cloud cover prevented me from stargazing and I went to bed shortly after dark.

a lifeguard tower on top of a mountain at sunset
Sunrises at the lookout never fail to disappoint, but this one was particularly memorable.

Waking up at almost 8,000 feet in a room with a 360-degree view is always delightful, but the sunrise when I awoke was majestic beyond words. With a cup of coffee in hand, I walked around the catwalk to appreciate it al fresco before returning to my sleeping bag for some warmth and relaxation. I was in no hurry to leave, both for the obvious reason of wanting to prolong my time in such a magical spot and to let the snow warm up to make for a more enjoyable descent. The conditions weren’t quite right for corn snow to form, but I was hoping for things to soften up a bit before I headed down.

After a few hours, my eagerness for skiing got the better of me and I packed up my gear, closed the eight shutters, meticulously tidied the lookout and swept it out, and then finally got into my skis and pointed them downhill. The descent had moments of bliss, but it was clear within my first few turns that the snow was much too hard to make for enjoyable skiing. Lots of sidescraping was involved as I lost the elevation I’d gained the previous day. I skied cautiously – between the less-than-ideal conditions and the weight on my back, it seemed like it would be easy to take a fall.The descent was slow, as I told a friend after the trip to illustrate my timidity on the downhill:  “I was just skiing for the car, not skiing for the gnar.”

Although my trip lasted barely 24 hours, the deep satisfaction and sense of accomplishment had me buzzing for days. I couldn’t wait to go back and planned a return trip for the next weekend with those who had expressed interest but couldn’t make the initial short-notice trip. I’d ski up solo for a night, then ski back down to the road to “guide” two friends back up for another night. Sharing the trip with others, including one who’d visited the lookout on foot but not yet on skis, made an already enchanting experience even better.

a person riding skis down a snow covered slope
The only thing better than backcountry skiing to a lookout is backcountry skiing to a lookout with friends.

Cozied up by a fire with friends and sipping wine while watching the sun dip below the ridge just west of the lookout was sublime beyond words. A clear sky even allowed us to glimpse some shooting stars before we went to bed. We took our time before leaving in the morning and the conditions had softened up the snow to where it allowed for enjoyable turns and carving through the trees on steep but not scary slopes. Although this will probably be my shortest season of backcountry skiing – it was all of a week long – I know without a doubt that it will be one of my most memorable.

Related Content:

Episode 86 | Ultralight Shelter Fabrics

In this episode of the Backpacking Light podcast we’re going to talk about ultralight fabrics used in backpacking shelters.

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Summary

In this episode of the Backpacking Light podcast we’re going to talk about ultralight fabrics used in backpacking shelters.
podcast-86-ultralight-shelter-fabrics-show-notes

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Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

Feedback / Tips / Questions

podcast@backpackinglight.com

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Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Backcountry Permits: Navigating Logistics and Disappointment in the Modern Technological Age

Different land management agencies have different difficulties obtaining a permit to plan and enjoy a backpacking trip.

As a backpacker living in western Montana, needing a permit to go backpacking is the exception rather than the rule. Outside of Glacier and Yellowstone National Parks, you can arrive at pretty much any trailhead you want and hike into the backcountry for a trip of any length and destination of your choosing. Campsites in the national forests are almost exclusively first-come, first-served (aside from rental lookouts and cabins) and there’s no zone quotas or other restrictions limiting travel. In the mountain range where I do most of my backpacking, the luxury of being flexible in my destination if solitude is my priority is much appreciated. If I pull up to a trailhead and there’s a dozen cars and a Boy Scout troop van, I can easily just drive a half-hour to the next canyon and leave the crowds behind. But more often than not, even on holiday weekends, I can count most of the cars on one hand at all but the most popular trailheads. And, perhaps most importantly, based on what I see as a visitor – these areas don’t yet need permits to preserve opportunities for solitude and avoid adverse impacts to the landscape from concentrated visitation.

Without being bound to any permit itinerary, I was able to stay at this lake for two nights instead of just the one I’d originally planned on. Since it was midweek, I had the added bonus of having this lake to myself both nights.

Needless to say, this makes the browsing of maps and guidebooks and planning trips a productive pastime, since I won’t mind my trips derailed by the inability to secure a permit. Trips are derailed or don’t happen due to natural causes – fire closures, excessive smoke from wildfires, weather issues, or lack of time. And to be quite honest, I’ve become frustrated enough by the competitiveness and complexity of backpacking permits for national parks that I’ve stopped trying in recent years to even attempt snagging a permit for most “life list” trips and national parks. I’ve been lucky enough to have a friend who is more diligent and patient with applying for permits and have been lucky enough to tag along with him on trips to Glacier National Park in recent years.

Other than a trip in North Cascades National Park that was marred by five straight days of thick wildfire smoke, which irritated my throat and limited visibility to only a mile or so, I’ve never been disappointed by a backpacking trip. Even ones that have been rainier than I would’ve liked, or which ended prematurely for various reasons, or where the trails were in frustratingly poor condition they’ve have always had some elements of exploration and enjoyment which cause me to remember them fondly. Oddly, I have found myself increasingly disappointed by trips that don’t happen as a result of not getting a permit to even start them in the first place.

In 2022, the only place I can recall backpacking where I needed a permit was Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho where I visited for a lunar eclipse. Although the landscape is otherworldly, the limited options for backpacking, the harsh landscape and climate, and the burden of having to pack in all the water you need means that the demand for backpacking isn’t anywhere close to outpacing the supply. It is rare for there to be two groups backpacking at the same time in the entire 43,243 acre Craters of the Moon National Wilderness Area. The permit was a simple matter of stopping by the ranger station, receiving a brief orientation, providing an estimated itinerary and route, and then heading out to the trailhead. Prior to that, my most recent experiences with permits for backpacking were for Yellowstone National Park, Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness, and Capitol Reef National Park – in order of most to least competitive.

In 2019 and 2020 when I applied for backpacking permits for Yellowstone National Park, the permit reservation system was structured in a way in which permit applications were randomly processed in early spring before going to being processed in the order in which they were received. Under that system, which involved using a fax machine at the local library to submit the permit application, I was able to specify a wide range of dates, campsites I was willing to accept, and even the option of reversing the itinerary I had proposed. This option to indicate flexibility is likely what allowed me to be successful two years in a row at getting a permit for a four-night backpacking trip that included two nights at a campsite near a phenomenal hot springs.

Once the backcountry permitting system was moved to recreation.gov for 2022, along with the permits for most other federally-managed recreation units, the format changed. Users – which seems like a weird way to characterize potential backpackers yearning for amazing natural experiences – simply entered into a lottery and then received a time and date slot to log in and pick from the sites that were still available. Those who received a time and date slot earlier in the window were much more likely to get the trip they wanted than those who drew a later slot. I’ve never received one of the slots in the first half of the window after two years of trying. By the time I’ve been able to access the reservations, all the nights for that campsite for the entire season have been completely booked.

a person standing in a river next to a waterfall
Almost to the most idyllic of the hot springs pools that line the stream below a waterfall in Yellowstone National Park. After the backcountry permit system became administered under recreation.gov, obtaining a permit became more challenging.

While I’m fortunate enough to be able to backpack with a degree of spontaneity that is rare in other parts of the country, and have been on many trips to incredible places in nearby wilderness areas, I do enjoy the level of planning and anticipation that comes with planning trips to national parks. The trip to Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness in 2019 did have a few nail-biting moments when trying to secure the permits for the three continuous days needed (the maximum allowed by the Bureau of Land Management), but overall it felt attainable. When browsing recently for both nostalgia and comparison’s sake, things appeared to be booked within a few hours whereas in previous years there was still availability days after the booking window opened.

a tent pitched up in the middle of a canyon
Backpacking in Capitol Reef National Park was an amazing experience and the permit process makes it easy to have a flexible itinerary.

While I’m more than content to primarily limit my backpacking trips to within a half-day’s drive of my home, I do have an urge to explore other landscapes. For those that are national parks, it seems like concentrating my efforts on those with less rigorous permitting processes – like Capitol Reef National Park – seems to be the best approach for someone like me who takes it personally when they can’t backpack on public lands due to onerous permitting requirements. I realize this selfishness and entitlement in my perspective, and I don’t relish feeling this way, especially since I can easily backpack in the Northern Rockies with little planning and only a few miles of driving. Where I feel the most sympathy is for those who don’t live close to public lands and have to plan their trips with an efficiency and economy that leads them to becoming reliant on obtaining a permit with a set date, set itinerary, and near-guarantee of incredible scenery (smoke and weather being the major variables). While the solution to visit a national forest or other that doesn’t require a permit is certainly an option for anyone who wishes to backpack, there’s less information on how to put together a comparatively outstanding trip for these places compared to a national park. The national park trips ostensibly provide much more of a “sure thing” if you can manage to snag a permit.

Perhaps the silver lining to this cloud created by permits is that backpackers will become more informed about, and involved with, the stewardship of national forests. By becoming aware of the amazing outdoor recreation opportunities on these public lands, and the challenges that face them (particularly deferred maintenance for trails), there might be more volunteerism among trail work organizations and discussion of how to utilize these resources without loving them to death and ultimately having them fall under the purview of permits as well.

Episode 85 | Backcountry Lightning Risk Management

In this episode of the Backpacking Light podcast we’re going to talk about lightning storm risk management in the backcountry.

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Summary

In this episode of the Backpacking Light podcast we’re going to talk about lightning storm risk management in the backcountry.
episode-85-backcoutnry-lightning-risk-management-1

What’s new at Backpackinglight?

Lightning

  • Introduction – Anecdotes from Long’s Peak, Rocky Mountain National Park and the Wind River Range
  • What is lightning?
  • The seasonality of lightning – June, July, and August in the Mountain West; wider windows in the Midwest and Southeast.
  • Mechanisms of injury – ground current, side flashes, contact, upward leaders, and direct strikes
  • Pathophysiology – electrical shock, secondary heat production, and explosive force
  • First aid for lightning strikes – Scene Safety & Basic Life Support, if multiple victims triage, then assess, monitor, and evacuate.
  • Risk Mitigation – avoid travel through passes, peaks, and ridges when storms are nearby; in many situations this is before noon.
  • Other risk management tools – flash bang rating system, the 30/30 rule, terrain and environmental features
  • Regardless of where you are, executing the crouch position on a foam pad is the best thing you can do in a lightning storm.
  • When you can sense the corona of a lightning bolt, then you are at extreme risk of being injured by a lightning strike.
  • Backcountry Lightning Risk Management (PDF)

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Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

Feedback / Tips / Questions

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Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

Episode 84 | Satellite Messaging (ZOLEO)

In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, we interview Morris Shawn, President of Roadpost and Zoleo, about satellite messaging and the evolution of the Zoleo Satellite Communicator.

Episode Sponsor

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This Episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast is sponsored by ZOLEO. Backpacking Light podcast listeners get free activation – after receiving your ZOLEO device, activate it online using the coupon code BACKPACKINGLIGHT at Zoleo.com to waive the activation fee, which will save you $20 USD ($25 CAD).

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Summary

In this episode of the Backpacking Light Podcast, we interview Morris Shawn, President of Roadpost and Zoleo, about satellite messaging and the evolution of the Zoleo Satellite Communicator.
a man holding a cell phone next to another cell phone

In this Episode:

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Credits

Executive Producer - Backpacking Light; Show Director and Host - Ryan Jordan; Producer - Chase Jordan; Theme music: Look for Me in the Mountains written by Chris Cunningham and Ryan Jordan, performed by Chris Cunningham (acoustic guitar, lead and harmony vocals, harmonica), Chad Langford (upright bass), and Tom Murphy (mandolin), produced by Basecamp Studios in Bozeman, Montana.

Feedback / Tips / Questions

podcast@backpackinglight.com

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Sign up for the Newsletter. Become a Backpacking Light Member.

Disclosure

Sponsorship Policy: Backpacking Light does not accept compensation or donated/discounted products in exchange for product mentions or placements in editorial coverage, including any podcast episode content not excplicitly identified as sponsored content. Some (but not all) of the links in these show notes may be affiliate links. Learn more about affiliate commissions, influencer marketing, and our consumer advocacy work by reading our article Stop wasting money on gear.

How much does backpacking really cost?

Daniel Hu discusses the question: How much should I spend on my backpacking kit, and how can I do so responsibly?

One of the great things about backpacking is that going out into the backcountry costs essentially nothing – I often remark that as far as activities cost, backpacking is free! On the other hand, backpacking gear can cost a person quite a bit of money.

I recall years ago that a friend expressed an interest in backpacking, and asked how much he might want to budget for gear. “Buy once, cry once,” was in the back of my mind when I told him he might spend anywhere from $300 to $1000, depending on the quality of the gear he purchased and how frequently he wanted to repair or replace items. I think for the ultralight folks, the initial and ongoing costs may be even higher than the average adventurer, since UL gear tends to require a premium and isn’t always as durable.

I consider myself to be a student of finance, and I’ve often wondered about the theoretical opportunity cost to a person’s net worth that backpacking gear presents.

Disclaimer: this article is not meant to present financial advice (because I am not a financial expert) – but I hope that it will spark some conversations and present an interesting perspective that may not always be considered. I am sure others will find ways to examine this topic differently and many different perspectives will emerge!

Here’s an easy example in my mind: let’s say a person spends $3000 on gear during year 1, and another $500 each year on replacing and repairing gear, as well as consumable gear (food, fuel, gas, permits and passes, etc). At the 10 year mark, you’d have spent a total of $8000.

But if that money had instead been invested in an index fund tracking the S&P 500 (which many consider to average 10% growth each year), the end result would be a balance of approximately $16,500, meaning the opportunity cost for a person’s net worth would be sacrificing around $8500 of interest. That might not seem like much, right? Surely it’s worth it.

a screenshot of a balance sheet with a bar graph
The Hypothetical Hiker’s investments over 10 years (Calculator and Chart from calculator.net).

But let’s take an extreme example of a young person who starts early and continues this trend for 30 years. They would have invested a total of $18,000 over 30 years. This would have generated over $115,000 of interest if it had been invested, which I think would merit consideration from just about anyone.

How-much-does-backpacking-cost-2
The Hypothetical Hiker’s investments over 30 years.

So what’s the point? Does this mean we shouldn’t be buying gear? Give up backpacking so we can maximize our precious 401(k) accounts? I think, perhaps, it’s the opposite! Our years on earth are short, and money cannot be taken with us into eternity. There’s a balance to be made.

I remember years ago a flight across the continent and a conversation with a young couple next to me, who had just quit their jobs and planned to backpack across the world until the money ran out. “We’ve been saving for the past few years, and we really just want to explore while we’re still young,” the husband told me. “But,” I asked, “what does this do to your retirement plans?” He responded, “Well, to be honest, we’re probably pushing our retirement plans out by at least 5-10 years by quitting our jobs to go backpacking. But we want to live life to the fullest, and to us it’s a worthy sacrifice.”

a man standing on top of a mountain with a backpack
The author hiking at Maple Pass in WA, living his life to the fullest.

I thought about that conversation the next Monday while I sat at my desk at work.

I still think about it to this day.

Perhaps a better question might be, What is the value of happiness? And in my mind, the answer is simply that there is no “dollar amount” that can be put on the value of happiness. Being outdoors makes me happy, and so I’ve learned to care less about the napkin math of what a few extra dollars in my retirement account might look like, and more about the joy that I find in experiencing nature with my wife and my friends.

how-much-does-backpacking-cost-4
The author’s now-ancient Therm-a-Rest – purchased many years ago at a used-gear shop in Seattle, WA. Still going strong!

One final comment – I love the generosity of the backpacking community, and the ability to share gear with friends. Another way to pursue frugality in backpacking is to check for used gear, which can sometimes be easy to find (example: BPL’s Gear Swap page).

Related Content:

The Fact of Fatigue: On Trail Running, Jeff Garmire, and the High Price of Endurance

Isaac Simons humorously describes the effects of overtraining for trail running adventures including discussions with Jeff Garmire.

Introduction

Following a winter season spent exhausting what hiking was on offer, I had taken up the wildly masochistic yet universally accepted pastime known as trail running. By this I do not mean casual jogging or the odd sprint from the angered black bear, but a methodically scheduled practice of daily miles in which prescribed distances and heart rates were adhered to with the inflexible zeal of most religions. Certainly there is a parallel between religion and daily running in that the service must be regular. There are also, of course, clear differences—rarely must one lubricate their nipples before attending church on Sunday.

The Experience of Overtraining

After three months of daily practice, I had attained what I considered a respectable weekly mileage. I’d rise each Saturday at some ungodly hour to tackle a half-marathon in the nearby mountains and then return home dusty and battered, gulping for breath, in some state of cardiac distress or other, just in time to join my family for brunch and promptly pass out in my omelet. Weekdays I’d run another three or so mornings to total a marathon per week. I mention the specific mileage not to brag—as compared to even the off-season training schedules of most mountain athletes, a 26-mile week is far from impressive. It is roughly equivalent to playing air guitar to a Jimi Hendrix solo; an endearing act of admiration, but far from the real thing. Ultrarunner Anton Krupicka famously tackled upwards of 200 miles a week while training for his races. Novelist Haruki Murakami casually mentions in his memoirs that he ran 50 miles weekly. (This is a novelist, mind you, a vocation which calls for all of the athleticism of a concrete speed bump.) Even my good friend, whose life now tucks neatly into the confines of the prosaic suburbanite—replete with two kids, a dog, modest real estate holdings, and a predictably unfulfilled desire to trim down—tells me he used to log 100-mile weeks when running track in college. In light of such seemingly commonplace achievements, I had no illusions about being a gifted runner. Still, what I lacked in talent I made up for in recklessness. Sleep became a triviality unworthy of my attention. Recovery is an extravagance on par with the Roman orgy.  I adhered to a rigid discipline of running, running, running, in which it was unclear whether the purpose was to train or traumatize.

a view of a hill with power lines on top of it
My bi-weekly trail in the Santa Monica Mountains.

As my mileage increased I found myself indulging in an abundance of accessories, purpose-built for the novice runner’s unaccountable fixations. Among them, a neat little device which I wore to sleep each night so that I could awake to a host of charts and graphs detailing with appalling accuracy precisely how overworked I had become. Not to say this slowed me down any. And why should it? My trail running had until then been uncomplicated by injury. Talk of overtraining syndrome was purely hypothetical. The uninviting prospect of months spent sidelined, tending to a mishandled body while woefully depleted, did not loom quite as large as perhaps it should have, considering I was heir to a proud lineage of heart disease and varied cancers, with not a single athletic accomplishment to speak of.

So in the face of deepening soreness, increasing lethargy, and a generalized grousing discomfort, I persisted with my training. If Haruki Murakami could occupy an office chair for however many hours it took to crank out thirteen doorstopper novels, all while running fifty miles weekly, surely I could manage my little essays while keeping up a training regimen. It was a creditable if misguided attempt at “gutting it out,” an approach that most often succeeds only in ruining one’s guts.

In short order the inevitable occurred, as it must always: the crash and burn, the unyielding fact of fatigue, the resting heart rate which imitated a flamenco dancer’s castanets. Accompanying this, a sudden incapacity for any meaningful exertion. And so an abrupt end to my training. I found myself sleeping at first nine hours a night, then ten, and finally augmenting this with a two-hour nap each afternoon. For all intents and purposes I was a man in hibernation. My training schedule had dwindled to that of an overstuffed sectional sofa. Morning runs which once felt boundless now consisted of a miserable lurch from car to trailhead, a sort of scoliotic shuffle, followed by a complete and irreversible collapse within a mile.

This left me in a dreary state of mind indeed, if not a bloody one. I needed guidance. I needed sympathy. I needed a bilateral-leg-heart-and-lung transplant.

Talking with Jeff Garmire

Into this pit of wallowing immobility stepped Jeff “Legend” Garmire, a man who, as his moniker implies, has carried off some truly legendary feats. These include not only the Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Pacific Northwest Trail, but all three all bundled together into one continuous and downright incomprehensible loop of 6,875 miles. Not to mention the equally commendable achievement of completing a footrace in plastic clogs and another dressed in a bathrobe while pushing a child’s stroller. Add to this the race in which he finished third while running in two left shoes (he attributed this to honest oversight) and you begin to sense the strange breed of irreverence which first drew me to Garmire. That’s not to say he should be mistaken for a novelty or farce; Garmire’s sporting achievements rank him as among our premiere endurance athletes.

a man standing on top of a mountain with a backpack
Garmire on the John Muir Trail, with customary tiger-tee.

I called Garmire for guidance amid my third week of lingering fatigue and was pleased to hear that he’d encountered the same on numerous occasions. As it turns out, the myth of Icarus deceives us—the danger lies not in how close we fly to the sun, but how quickly.

“Overtraining’s not a myth,” he told me. “When you’re walking that fine line, trying to balance the exact amount of recovery with the amount of training needed, there’s a mental, physical, and emotional crash that occurs.”

And he should know. I spoke to Garmire only a week before he was to run the Cocodona 250, a two-hundred and fifty mile footrace through the heart of Arizona.

“It feels like every little injury hits you at once. Everything stiffens up and that’s the end of it, you’re beat up in every way.”

Most of his overtraining injuries were on account of running, rather than hiking. It seems that trail running’s chief hazard is the speed at which damage accrues. Whereas with hiking fatigue approaches steadily, from a distance, as a silhouetted figure on the horizon, when trail running it leaps from nearby cover to ambush you completely.

Garmire regales me with stories of being unable to get out of bed following a race, of lying still for a half hour while weighing the agony of movement with the humiliation of wetting his mattress. In all, he drives home in his offhanded and amicable way the trifling nature of my suffering. (By way of illustration: during a record-setting jaunt of the 800-mile Arizona Trail, Garmire purchased superglue from a convenience store in order to mend a sizable laceration he’d sustained along the bottom of his heel.)

“I don’t do great,” says Garmire, speaking of his time injured and overtrained. “I crawl around and play a lot of online chess and eat too much. You feel like there’s a void because the outdoors has become a staple of your daily life. There’s nothing logical about it: when you’re injured you feel like you’ll never be healthy again, and when you’re healthy you think you’ll never be injured.”

It occurs to me that while we love the tale of the man possessed, or the woman who commits herself entirely to her passions, we overlook the staggering cost of such a singular life-purpose. When you live cleanly and plainly for one thing, with unfailing commitment, you are on a shaky precipice indeed.

I left Garmire to the final preparations for his upcoming race and set myself to the strange work of recovery. At his lowest, Garmire described hobbling to a local park at night to watch the stars, that this had to serve in place of his usual hiking and running. Imagining his anguish—surely many orders of magnitude deeper than mine—I returned to the trail, humbled, this time content to simply walk it. I took in the scent of pine resin, the low mantle of clover, the runners who frolicked past me in their smooth staccato cadence, and I found it wasn’t fitness I had lost so much as hope.

a field full of yellow flowers with green leaves
Stopping to smell the proverbial flowers.

The following week, Garmire completed the Cocodona 250 successfully, rallying from a lackluster opening rife with nausea and overheating to finish in sixth place amid a field of 137 entrants. I reached out to him five days following the race to inquire as to his recovery. I received only four words in return.

Oh man, he wrote, it’s tough.

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Jeff Garmire can be found at https://freeoutside.com.