The first core question I want to ask in this essay is: what constitutes a backpacking trip failure? I can think of several examples but I have reservations about identifying most of them as outright failures, prompting the second core question of this essay: are backpacking trip failures really failures?
I also feel reservations about painting everything with too zen a brush; some things actually do suck. We can learn from these things, but to deny their terribleness would probably be a mistake. I will look at these potential backpacking trip failures and then discuss whether or not they are failures and what has at times allowed me to view them not only as not failures, but actually as successes.
- Injury Cuts Trip Short
- Poorly Planned Trip Results in Long Term Injury
- Unmet Expectations
- Gear-Related Failure
- Failure from Not Planning Well Enough
- Adapting Correctly to Any Circumstances
Injury Cuts Trip Short
Most of my backpacking injuries have been minor: scrapes and bruises or a strained IT band that I just tried to ignore. My poor planning has caused trip-ending injuries to others, though. And for this, Michelle, I am eternally sorry.
I thought it might be a good idea to hike along the upper Paria River in December because the weather looked decent (60 F° days and 10° degree nights). I didn’t, however, foresee the challenges posed by the freezing and thawing river. I assumed the river would be so low that we could step over it, or frozen enough that we could walk across it, but neither of these things turned out to be true. The river was very frozen indeed, but every morning as the sun hit a section of it, that section began to thaw and release a minor flash flood of 7-11 Slurpee consistency. This meant that while some shadowed sections were completely frozen and other sections were low enough to step over, other sections were raging ice-flows, and we had to walk through them.
I didn’t know that this particular desert river worked this way, and backpacking through it was both not the best way to find out, and also probably the only way to find out.
We crossed the river countless times. The feeling that our feet were hunks of cold rubber glued to our ankles never abated all day long. The second day was even worse. We crossed sections of the river that had frozen in thin sheets that reminded me of croissant crust. Our feet punched through these layered crusts descending several feet with each step into the cold, wet mud below. After about 10 miles of this torture, Michelle said her feet were beginning to hurt. We exited the river corridor, road-walked through piñon and juniper woodlands, and then failed to find the route into the next canyon. Admitting defeat, we bailed to the main road and hitchhiked to a state park so we could arrange a ride back to our car at the trailhead.
On the one hand, not finding this route into the next canyon was a failure because we needed to find it to close the loop, but on the other hand, it ensured that we would not be walking anymore, something Michelle’s feet were very happy about. This brings us to the next type of trip failure: Poorly planned trip results in long-term injury.
Poorly Planned Trip Results in Long-term Injury
Michelle developed peroneal tendonitis from carrying a heavy load over many miles on frozen feet. It took nearly two months for her feet to heal. I injured my feet too. When we returned home, I took a few days off of running, opting instead for yoga. When I folded towards the ground, placed my palms on the floor, stepped to the back of the mat, and then pressed into downward-facing dog I felt electricity zing from my heel to my calf. I had pulled my Achilles. The prolonged cold strained and weakened it, leaving it vulnerable to a dramatic movement such as down-dog. This injury put me out of commission for a month. I know this series of events sounds like a run of failures, but the truth is more nuanced.
So… Was This Trip a Success?
I could view the Paria river trip as a failure because we both got injured. I could also view it as a failure because we did not complete the loop that we set out to do. But if I classify the trip as a total failure I would be missing several important things. First, we observed the winter desert in a unique and intimate way which I recounted in my essay Frozen Tracks. Of course, it is true that we could have investigated this canyon in a safer way in April or October.
More relevant to this essay, I believe this harrowing ice-slog along the Paria River was actually a complete success because we adapted correctly to the circumstances at hand. As Michelle later reminded me, “Sticking with the original plan despite many issues for the sake of completing the mission would have been absolutely stupid.” I have to agree. Things could have been much worse for both our feet had we attempted to find a roundabout way to walk all the way back to the car (something we fleetingly considered). In this light, I consider this trip to be a total success. Odd how that works.
Unmet Expectations
A Trip Was Much Harder than Expected (Type II or III Fun)
Some people might consider harder-than-expected trips to be failures, and I understand that. But these trips sometimes fall into the success category for me. They almost have to because such a large percentage of my trips end up being harder than expected.
In March of 2020, my friend Jesse and I trudged through the Mazatzal Mountains of Central Arizona for several days in flash flood conditions. Our rain gear failed almost instantly; I often had to keep moving just to keep from becoming hypothermic. When we finally reached the trailhead our ride was not waiting for us because the road had flooded. Additionally, my truck was stranded out in the desert because unpassable rivers had risen all around it. This trip was characteristic of Type II fun, with moments of Type III sprinkled in. I wouldn’t choose any of these things again if I could, but at the same time, I’m glad I had the experience and enjoy telling the story. If, on the other hand, experiencing the uncomfortable and unexpected and then carrying the resulting story wasn’t my cup of tea, I might have viewed this trip as a failure.
Other Unmet Expectations
For most people, the windows of time in which a backpacking trip can take place are small and precious, resulting in the sometimes desperate hope that everything will go according to plan. Often we are disappointed.
We pick the wrong crew, for example; they are too ambitious or not skilled enough. Maybe our worldviews don’t align. Several times I have invited too many people on a trip which slows the overall pace of the trip because no one’s morning schedules match up.
There are also landscape expectations. In this era of unprecedented climatic change, landscapes are changing swiftly and dramatically, squashing backpacking expectations at every turn. Familiar springs dry up, green forests burn, and birds we listen for are eerily absent.
There are countless other examples of unmet backpacking expectations, some of which I hope to read in the comments below. On the one hand, I want to plan for every possible scenario in order to keep a trip out of the failure category, and on the other, I should know that I can’t plan for everything, and that knowledge could allow me to view unmet backpacking expectations as just the way things are.
Gear-related Failures
Gear can affect trips in a few ways, some of which result in outright trip failures, while other outcomes are more nuanced. A gear failure such as a popped pad or torn tent fly could end a trip. An uncomfortable backpack could make every step uncomfortable. The brain of the gearhead could remain fixated on the minutia of gear-tweaking instead of on the sandstone minarets, buttes, and domes silhouetted against the lilac dawn sky.
Gear Failure or User Error
Let’s start with complete gear failure. One of my most dangerous gear failures was my raingear failure in the Mazatzal Mountains. My 2.5-layer rainpants failed almost instantly and my 3-layer, highly breathable jacket failed within a couple of hours of heavy rain. Jesse’s 2.5-layer pants and jacket failed just as quickly. This put us in an extremely dangerous situation; we had nearly 25 miles to hike in nonstop rain and temperatures ranging between about 40 and 55 °F. The situation did not deteriorate, however, because we stayed moving in the rain and had dry sleeping clothes and sleeping bags to crawl into when we stopped. We hiked to the trailhead shivering and blue-lipped and (possibly misguidedly) swore off waterproof-breathable fabrics from then on out. Maybe this Type II fun trip wasn’t a failure, but it came close because of sub-par gear, user error, or outstanding conditions, it’s hard to say which.
Poorly Performing Gear
For about three years I used a very uncomfortable backpack. It didn’t totally ruin any trips, but it stole my attention. When I should have been focused on the land around me I was thinking about how my neck hurt, how I couldn’t turn my head to the side. The pain left me one step removed from the experience of being in the wilderness, and then the problem-solving that ensued thereafter left me yet another step removed. Choosing gear that performs well for me is one way to simply enjoy a trip, remaining attentive to the landscape through which I walk.
Fixation on Gear
Fixating on the minutia of gear-tweaking is a potentially neverending process. I, for one, have created and solved gear-related problems simply to feel a sense of control when the rest of my life is crumbling around me. After doing this enough, it starts to enter addiction territory, and becomes a sort of crutch. And at that point, the habit is hard to kick, so when I’m backpacking and all is well in my home life, I’m still wondering if there’s something better out there or if I could shave 4 ounces from my shelter by cutting things off of it. Fixating on gear in this way may not turn a trip into a failure for some folks, but for me it does. If I cannot remain present while walking through the mountains, I’m doing something wrong.
Failure From Not Planning Well Enough
A few weeks back, I half-heartedly tried to go on a trip. I did not pack. Instead, I took the pile of backpacking gear that I had deposited on my living room floor after my previous trip and shoved it all into the back of my truck again without even sorting through it to see if everything was there. I bought food but I did not pack it. Instead, I just loaded a bunch of paper bags into the truck in hopes of piecing meals together at the trailhead. I finally started planning the route at about 1 AM the night before leaving. These things were signs that I did not really feel like going on a trip, and I probably shouldn’t have tried.
I drove the six hours to the trailhead anyway, and then just sat there staring at the pink sandstone. My life at home had been fundamentally defined by doing things, and I suddenly realized I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to problem-solve or route-find. I didn’t want to have any goals. So I read for a while, went for a pretty goal-less eight-mile run, and drove home. It was a waste of gas, for sure, and arguably a waste of time too. I attempted to embark on a trip I didn’t want to do, and this has the appearance of being a failure to me. But is it?
Adapting Correctly to Any Circumstances
Backpacking is partly defined by expecting the unexpected and being prepared enough to adapt to changing scenarios. In most cases, adapting with humility will result in successes even if trips are cut short, routes are altered, or discomfort is tolerated for days on end. To revisit Michelle’s commentary on our painful Paria trip: “Sticking with the original plan despite many issues for the sake of completing the mission would have been absolutely stupid,” she said. In my opinion (and Michelle’s too), adapting correctly to the circumstances at hand will keep most backpacking trips out of the failure category, and firmly planted in the success category.
Got a backpacking failure (success)? Share it with us in the comments!
Related Content
- More by Ben Kilbourne
- Knowing when to turn around and go home is a difficult skill for a backpacker to learn
- Explore all of Backpacking Light’s Culture articles
- One of Ben’s trip failures revolved around cold and uncomfortable feet. Check out our Minimalist Footwear Trailhead for a curated list of Backpacking Light content that can help you mitigate those kinds of issues
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Discussion
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Really enjoyed this piece, Ben. I’d been thinking about this lately, too, and it’s interesting to look back on trips in a success/failure way. I think the trips where I didn’t catch any fish at a lake, but could see huge trout cruising below the surface stick out the most as failures in my mind : )
I’ve thought about this a bit and I think generally I view my trips as having different degrees of success or excellence. Sometimes weather inhibits things, but the good attitudes of my companions and the shared experience means it is a trip I remember fondly. I think the trips I find most successful are those where I have some time for exploration and whet my appetite for coming back to the area again and linking up different areas to create an even longer trip.
Great essay, Ben. Reminds me of a video by Jeremiah Hikes in which he repeatedly says “oh well” when things don’t go just right. He adapts but doesn’t stress – a great attitude.
Six years ago I was in a local climbing club, and we decided to drive up and summit Mt Olympus in WA as our annual “big objective”. This mountain is notorious for turning around climbers with very inclement weather. The hike in along the Hoh River was one of the most spectacular hikes I have ever done, even though it was a pretty long day packing cold-weather and mountaineering gear.
On summit day, after we crossed the spectacular Blue Glacier, the clouds began to set in and by the time we were high on the mountain, visibility was less than 100 yards. One member of my rope team had severe knee issues, so we left him sitting in our tracks and told him we’d catch him on the way down. Only a few hundred yards later, we discovered that the snow bridge we had to cross for our intended route had collapsed. We smartly made the decision to turn around given that setback, the limited visibility, and cold rain that was falling.
The hike back out to the trailhead was miserable. It rained non-stop for 48 hours on us. Everyone was soaked through and through, because with that much rain it finds a way into your hood or other openings and your “wicking” base layers wick it all the way to your mountaineering boots that now serve as ice buckets for your feet :-).
Even before this article, I have thought many times about what I learned from this trip though, which could be seen as a failure.
Bryan, years ago I spent a week and a half doing trail work on one section of the Hoh trail about 12 or 14 miles in. Despite it being wilderness the Park gave us a helicopter to fly in tools. We drew straws to see who would ride in the copter; I lost. All but the winner hiked into the night to the rendevous, on a rock outcrop on top of a cliff face over a section of the Hoh. The next day it was socked in and we thought the chopper would call it off. No. We saw it approach flying under the clouds through that very narrow river canyon. We raced to the spot where the copter was hovering to unload the tools that were hanging below on a net. But the mist made for an electric shock each time we touched the net. We kept trying to release the hook and finally succeeded. The guy who won the short straw was looking down at us from the chopper in a really frightened way. He was hovering over a cliff that plunged about 600 feet. After the pilot let him off in a safe landing spot below he hiked in and said the whole trip was terrifying. I’d ridden in a car with the pilot the day before. He was a Viet Nam vet. He was a hell of a pilot with nerves of steel to say the least. He told me some pretty crazy stories.
actually I wasn’t happy hanging out under that hovering chopper with the winds blowing, trying to unhook the damn tools.
Anyway, it rained the whole time we were there except for the hike out. I was too soaked to get up to see Olympus; all of us were. I still regret that. So I actually do count that as a trip failure. Indeed, it’s a beautiful trail.
Jscott, yep, I didn’t get a ride either. I hiked the “Hoh” river! (Groan!)
Good stuff! I’ve had trips ruined by knee pain, chafing, and ennui, but I look back now and regard them as learning opportunities. I say “opportunity” because I didn’t always learn the first time!
And I too love building my mental map of places and then finding a route that connects them. Very satisfying.
Most of my hiking has been in a relatively compact area of Alaska, the Chugach mountains in a triangle between Anchorage, Eagle River, and Girdwood, and I’ve gone out there and suffered through post-holing for miles, inordinate mosquito pressure, soaking rain and underbrush, pleasantly-dangerous river crossings, inadequate gear for the conditions, inadequate (irresponsible!) preparation, and trying to get as remote as I could within that little triangle and finding myself bushwhacking through devil’s club, but for me I don’t look back on the conditions of my various forays as being what sucked the most: it was my physical pain (knees and chafing) or internal baggage.
Sometimes when I bring people along they feel the suffering more than I do, but they usually look back on it fondly. Haven’t gotten anyone into more trouble than blisters and wet/cold/tired/hungry yet, though. =)
Not getting home. Followed by not getting home safely.
Everything else is at worst a learning experience somewhere on the I-II-III scale.
So…if I’m on a plane that gets hijacked and I’m held captive for ransom for three years, but eventually get home…that’s a learning experience?
Nothing wrong with saying that a backpacking trip was a failure, even if one also learns something from it.
Sloop John B has it right: “this is the worst trip/ I’ve ever been on”.
Yes. Type III.
Two failures:
1.) not going
2.) not returning (unless you don’t intend to return, then, success
I “failed” my first Everglades Challenge, but I wouldn’t dream of retracting the effort. I learned more by failing than if I had lucked out and completed it “successfully”.
I learned that route planning (and alternate route knowledge) played a larger role than training. I also learned the difference between a “dry bag” and an “immersion bag”. I also came out with an awareness that waiting for better conditions is often a faster option than pressing on. I also learned that I can spend an entire night crossing a twelve mile wide harbor in seven foot whitecaps and live to tell about it. More importantly, I learned a lot about me.
“Failures” like that help shape a person.
I consider a miserable trip to be a failure in planning, most often. I don’t like miserable hikes and avoid them if possible. Most often you can see them coming, in terms of weather and other considerations. I re routed one trip at the last minute when on arriving at the trailhead and talking to people who’d just come through my route that it was entirely under snow. I didn’t want that. I don’t go out looking for exhaustion, endless suncups, pain, or unprepared. I’ve been ‘shaped’ to avoid horrible and dangerous situations if possible. Again, I don’t need near death experiences to learn not to get into them. Touching a hot stove over and over doesn’t form character. Learning not to touch the stove after one time, and then using that experience to avoid similar situations in the future is a real instance of character being formed. NOT having trip failures shows character.
In short, I think people tend to romanticize their trip failures after the fact. And that keeps them from not repeating failures going forward.
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