The equipment that Greg Harrell and I carried on our
two-nighter to Raven Fork in the Smoky Mountains was pretty sparse, but not sparse
enough to weigh less than 35 pounds. As the years have gone by, I’ve shifted my
backpacking philosophy from “How much can I stuff in my backpack?” to “How few
things can I get by with?” (I think that would make a good philosophy of life,
but for now let’s just stick to backpacking.) This has resulted in a change in priorities
from cooking and clothing to sleeping. I’m willing to commit a few extra pounds
in my pack to a comfortable tent, a good sleeping pad, and a small pillow but
am less inclined to carry the poundage of clothes that I used to carry. On this
trip my wardrobe consisted of the clothes I was wearing, plus one extra T
shirt, one extra pair of socks, and a light rain jacket. No warm clothes
because it was the middle of July, and if the evening got chilly (we were
camped above 5,000 feet), I’d dance around while I ate and then crawl in my
sleeping bag.
According to one expert (my wife), by the end of
these trips I smell like a wet goat and have occasionally just thrown some of
my clothes in the garbage. Not a glorious end for hiking clothes, but sometimes
the only realistic option. So on these trips it’s important to wear clothes
that have no sentimental value, such as the NASCAR T shirt you were wearing
when you proposed to your wife or the Vol T shirt with the mustard stains from
the 1999 Fiesta Bowl. On the other hand, after you complete a trip like this
with lots of sweat and dirt and fond memories, your clothes may gain some sentimental value.
The closest I’ve ever come to having a special
backpacking T shirt was when I ran out of toilet paper near Mt. LeConte and had
to tear strips off the bottom of my T shirt for two days. I wore the surviving 50%
of that T shirt whenever I’d backpack as a memorial to that trip. Of course,
any guy who saves a memento like that had better have several keepsakes and
cards from his wife or girlfriend (one or the other, not both) publicly displayed
in prominent spots around home. Otherwise, trying to explain your choice of priorities
is a lost cause. “Yes, Dear, I did throw away your anniversary card – which, by
the way, really warmed the cockles of my heart – but I kept that ratty,
backpacking T shirt, and here’s why….” Yeah, definitely a lost cause.
On this trip I carried a roomy one-person tent that
weighs more than it should, but it’s a pleasure to sleep in at the end of the
day. I have an inflatable sleeping pad that is entirely too bulky, but makes a
world of difference in blotting out those inevitable rocks and roots that are nonexistent
until you lie down for the night. I also brought a small pillow. A few years
ago a pillow would have been an extravagance worthy of ridicule and shame, such
as: “Don’t forget your night light, little fella.” Or, “Hey, where’s the
remote?” Yes, what were once luxuries are now essentials.
Of course, if you’re going to carry a pillow, pad,
and tent then something significant has to go. What were once essentials are
now expendable. My ultimate solution has been to stop cooking, thus eliminating
pots and pans, stove, and fuel. That’s probably 2 or 3 pounds of stuff, which
may not sound like much, but keep in mind that this is a sport in which guys
have been known to cut the tags off clothes and tea bags to save weight. Instead
of rice, macaroni, and stew, I now rely on granola bars, crackers, and beef
jerky, which can get a bit monotonous after a day or two, so I include an
occasional can of tuna or bag of chips to spice up the menu. If eating were
important to me, I don’t know what I’d do on these trips. Fortunately, eating
on a backpacking trip is just something I do to stay alive and keep moving, so
I don’t need cooked veggies, smores, hot chocolate, and a hot breakfast. And of
course, with no cooking, there’s no clean-up, which is important to a guy who
scores above average on the laziness scale. [To be continued.]
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