Guthook Hikes!

Living Vicariously, Living Large

2012-02-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

When I went away for a semester at the National Outdoor Leadership School in 2005, my good friend Meg remarked that she would be living vicariously through my stories while she continued through college. I always thought this was kind of funny, since she had (and still has) a perfectly adventurous life herself– soon after I returned, she traveled to Spain, crewed a schooner on the coast of Maine, and went off to the South Pole for a few Antarctic summers. I often wondered, why would you need to watch my adventures when you have so many of your own?

The fact that you're reading this blog probably means you already have your own answer to that question. I have no doubt that all of the people who read this blog have their own amazing adventures– they may not involve six-month hiking trips, or living in a cabin in the wilderness for months on end, but they're no less daunting on a daily basis. I've been doing the "normal life" (sort of) for about a year and a half now, and I can say that it is incredibly more difficult than being a hiker bum. Most of the time, the "normal life" is a lot more uncertain and scary. I manage to get away pretty often through other people's stories, though. The links to other blogs on the sidebar to the right are just a small sampling of the stuff I use to help me daydream.

Ever since finishing the Pacific Crest Trail seventeen months ago (three lifetimes, in Guthook years), I've needed a lot of the vicarious living to keep my imagination limber. There have been plenty of fun adventures on the weekends and between jobs, but I can only be so many places at once. So I read about what others have done, because it helps remind me of all the things that I haven't done, the plethora of experiences that are still possible in this world. Not just hiking and gear, but school, being a naturalist, living in a foreign land, and on and on. There's a lot going on out there.

As for my adventures, my "normal life" has once again turned a corner– not unexpectedly. This week I'm back to being unemployed, but there are plenty of things left on my to-do list. I'm actually kind of grateful for the lull in activity here, since I'm running up against a self-imposed deadline, and I'm going to be working my tail off for the rest of this month on something big.

For the next few weeks I'm going to be mighty scarce while I put the finishing touches on my top secret project, head out into the White Mountains for an 8-day expedition, and then return to society. When I get back, in the first few days of March, I'll hopefully be ready to reveal this project and also to post some trip reports from the end of this month. Stay tuned, and don't worry if you don't hear from me much in the next few weeks. Hopefully next month's posts will be worth the wait. In the meantime, here are some of my favorite daydream-inspiring reads from the past few months:

Spicebush Log
Backpacking North
Patagonian Dreams

White Mountains Weekend Getaway Part 2

2012-02-06T06:30:00.000-05:00

Yvonne once again prevailed over my laziness– After Nancy Pond, I was so tired and aching that I didn't think we could possibly make our bid on Mount Carrigain. It would be twice the distance, at nearly 15 miles, and almost two-thousand feet more elevation gain. But Yvonne wouldn't let me consider a shorter hike. We had to hit Carrigain. And it's not like I didn't want to hike that mountain.

The view on the way up the mountain for most of the day.

Ever since my hike on the New England Trail, Carrigain has been one of my favorite mountains in the Whites. No, it wasn't because I had a killer view from there. The NET was the only time I'd climbed Carrigain, and the lack of a view that day was a huge disappointment. But I still loved the mountain because it is plainly visible from almost any peak in the White Mountains. Carrigain stands almost alone, towering above the surrounding mountains at 4700 feet, and is one of the easiest mountains to pick out in any view of the region, thanks to its secondary peak (Vose Spur) and the long shoulder on its southeast slope (Signal Ridge).

Just as we start to clear the trees, now we can see the sky.

Yvonne and I started off early in the morning on Monday, carrying our snowshoes and trudging on Microspikes the whole way. To add to the ten mile round trip on the Signal Ridge Trail, we had two miles each way of the Sawyer River Road, which is a snowmobile trail in winter. We made quick work of the road, and then the flat beginning of the trail. The sky was clear, temperature moderate, and the trail was broken out and solid for easy walking.

Suddenly, Carrigain Notch (and Crawford Notch in the background) popped out of the clouds.

Once the Signal Ridge Trail begins to climb, it climbs hard. In a 1.7 mile stretch, the trail gains about 2200 feet, before mellowing out again for a short distance. As we climbed slow and steady, the sky above and around us drifted in and out of clouds. I resigned myself to seeing only the inside of a cloud again, just like in 2009, but we kept moving up the trail– a couple dozen steps and then pausing to catch our breath, then a couple dozen more steps, and on.

Looking up to the summit from Signal Ridge.

Just as the trail began to emerge from the dense spruce forest on Signal Ridge, the wispy clouds parted in a big way, and we suddenly had the most incredible views. From the ridge, the slopes of the mountain seem to drop off into nothingness on both sides, so we could look straight down into Carrigain Notch. The clouds continued to dissipate until we had a clear view of Carrigain's summit, as well as nearly every other mountain in the region. I felt like a kid in a candy store– the view was better than I had imagined, and we weren't even at the top yet.

The last mile or so climbed even more steeply to the summit, and then there was the short observation tower to improve the already stellar views. We stood on the tower for a few minutes, until the blasting wind forced us to take cover. Unlike summer, the victory break would have to come somewhere away from the exposed summit. Signal Ridge, with perfectly open views and enough wind shelter, served our needs just fine. After a quick break for candy bars and snacks, the trip down sped by in a blur.

Yvonne showing off with Mount Washington in the background.

We returned to Glen Oaks Inn by 6 PM, had another large dinner in North Conway, and were asleep by 9. We didn't bother making big plans for Tuesday, since we figured we'd have an easy day and then the return trip to Keene. When we awoke to find light snow falling pleasantly from the sky, we decided that maybe we should have a relaxing day instead of hiking into a cloud. We'd had two phenomenal hikes in what finally felt like winter weather, we'd had plenty of good food and relaxation, and we could rest easy knowing that we'd had a very full weekend.

Heading back home, across Signal Ridge and toward North Conway again.

The bed and breakfast probably isn't the kind of thing we can do more than once a winter, but we're already pondering the idea of renting hotel rooms with several friends in order to avoid having to drive three hours before and after a hike. Having a place to stay near a big hike makes a huge difference in terms of being able to relax and get nice, early starts. The gears in my head are cranking pretty steadily now. Until then, though, a few good hikes last week satisfied me pretty thoroughly. It's good to know that, even though the temperatures in Keene are still too high and there's no snow here, it just takes a quick jaunt to the north to find the good stuff.

See a gallery of all the photos from the weekend here.

And just for fun, from 2009, the view of Carrigain from North Tripyramid. Carrigain stands alone in pretty much every view, and Signal Ridge on the side makes it pretty easy to identify.

White Mountains Weekend Getaway Part 1

2012-02-03T06:30:00.000-05:00

Last week, while Keene and the rest of southern New Hampshire continued to feel like late autumn, Yvonne and I went north to find snow for a few days. My Christmas present to Yvonne was a two-night stay at a bed and breakfast in the White Mountains, which is something we can only afford thanks to deals from Groupon or LivingSocial. Lucky us, we planned way ahead and managed to get two glorious days of hiking.

Ice melt running down boulders had formed into nifty little ice fins, about two inches deep.

We had a moderately late start on Sunday, figuring we'd do a short and easy hike in the afternoon, and we were rewarded with what I thought was a pretty good omen. Just outside of Hillsborough on Route 9, a pair of moose walked onto the road, gawked at us for a second, then took off into the woods. I know there are plenty of moose throughout New Hampshire, but this is the furthest south I've seen them. That put me in a good mood, even with a three hour drive ahead of us.

Looking out from the Nancy Pond Trail towards Stairs Mountain and Mount Resolution.

After a few breaks, bagels in North Conway, and missing the trail head once, we finally hit the trail at the crack of noon. I'd been to the Nancy Pond Trail once before, six years ago, and I remembered the trail head parking being plowed, but not this time. I felt a little nervous about leaving my car on the side of the highway for the hike, especially with only one pair of old snowshoe tracks heading into the woods, but I was feeling too stubborn to pick anything else out. Yvonne and I booted up and started on the trail.

Now we're on Nancy Pond. Mountain ponds are best when you can walk on them.

It only took a few seconds to realize that the winter up in the Whites had been pretty weak as well. The snow was more an icy crust than anything resembling flakes and powder, so we switched to Microspikes in no time. And we climbed.

Since it had been so long since my last climb to Nancy Pond, I'd forgotten that, despite not climbing any mountain peaks, the trail gets wicked steep toward the end. That makes sense when you look at the map and notice that Nancy Pond and Norcross Pond are both over three-thousand feet in elevation. So much for the easy and short hike. Happily, though, once the steep climbing began we got above the elevation where the freezing rain and thawing cycles that had turned the ground cover to crusty ice. Now we had nice, fluffy snow. We switched back to snowshoes and continued on.

And now we're on Norcross Pond.

By the time we reached Nancy Pond, our surroundings were a perfect winter wonderland. We walked out onto the pond for views of Mounts Nancy and Anderson. We walked across the pond into blasting wind that soon obscured the one or two pairs of tracks we'd been following. We wandered into the woods on the far side to find where the trail continued to Norcross Pond, and found the trail totally untouched. Whoever had hiked up to Nancy Pond had stopped there, rather than continuing on the extra distance to Norcross.

Looking into the Pemi from Norcross Pond. Bondcliff looks very snowy on the left.

Just a half mile or so of breaking trail was enough to remind me how out of shape I was. Sitting on my duff for the entire winter certainly hadn't helped my muscles, so by the time we arrived at Norcross I was ready to head down. The view from this pond, however, rivals any mountaintop in the Whites. From the outlet, where Norcross Brook falls out of the pond, is a panoramic view of the Pemigewassett Wilderness, with the Bond Mountains framing the backdrop. There might have been more of a view, too, but thick clouds and snow were headed our way. We stopped for snacks and pictures, then headed back to the car, much later than intended but worth the extra time.

Showing off my GooseFeet jacket in front of Mount Anderson.

The trip down went twice as fast as the trip up. In summer conditions, walking downhill is a bit easier than up, but in winter, with the extra work of walking on less-than-solid ground, uphill becomes incredibly difficult compared to going down. Regardless, we got back to the car just before dark. I was completely exhausted, but we had only a twenty minute drive to the Glen Oaks Inn. It wasn't the polished and pristine kind of place you'd get at a motel, but it was warm, quiet, comfortable, and homey. I have a soft spot for little places like this. We took a quick trip into town for a massive dinner (my hiker appetite came back instantly after the hike), and I was out cold by 9 PM. I could get used to this.

Part two of this report will be up in a few days. For the second day of the trip, we would double our mileage and try Mount Carrigain, one of my favorite mountains in the Whites despite only being on it once, and that time without a view.

Annual Failure Hike

2012-02-01T06:30:00.000-05:00

Hikes don't always go as planned, especially when you up the ante by trying something unusual. Moss and I set out last Tuesday to try something big, an off-trail hike in the White Mountains to a mountain with possibly outstanding views. We had plenty of things going against us– rusty navigation skills, a late start, poor snow conditions, too much time this winter spent on my duff. Still, we figured we had a decent shot at success.

Too much open water for this time of season!

On our way north to Crawford Notch, the heavy rains from the night before made for bad driving conditions and even worse scenery. True, the mountains peeking out from the mists made for some interesting sights, but the patchy snow covering on Cannon Mountain's ski trails and the totally bare ground from Franconia Notch to Twin Mountain didn't raise my spirits any. By the time we arrived at the Highland Center it was warm and damp outside. Trail conditions would clearly be pretty weak.

Sure enough, even on a trail that was densely packed by hundreds of snowshoe-clad feet over the past few months, the snow was soft and wet, rotting from underneath. We tried snowshoes and Microspikes, but neither was a great help– the snow seemed like the kind of nasty slush you get in late April, not January. The going was slow and exhausting. I guessed right away that we wouldn't make it to our destination.

There were some highlights to the day, of course. Right as Moss was getting to the most embarrassing part of the story she'd been telling most of the way up Mount Tom, one of her friends who also works for the Appalachian Mountain Club strode up behind us. "I couldn't help but overhearing your story," he said, almost as bashful as Moss. Whoops. But for the rest of the walk to the Mount Tom Spur we had fine company and good conversation about the life with the AMC (all three of us had been caretakers or crew members at some point in the recent past).

Moss's friend broke off to summit Mount Tom while Moss and I headed down the A-Z Trail, then eventually turned off into the woods to wander toward Whitewall Mountain. We were in as few layers as possible by this point, but still sweating more than I ever do in winter, with the temperature somewhere in the forties and the snow barely consolidated. I broke trail, making for slow going, but it was nice to feel like we were in the true wilderness.

More open water. It looks frozen enough, but I plunged in plenty.

My form of off-trail navigating in winter is a very rough and inaccurate method, but it works well enough for my purposes on most occasions. I chose Whitewall from the north for two reasons– first, the topo lines from the north are incredibly flat, so we wouldn't have to go steeply uphill along with breaking trail. Second, between Whitewall's peak and the peak just east of it is a small pond– I figured if we walked mostly with the contours in a southerly direction we would be funneled right to the pond.

The rough estimation of navigating worked well enough except for one problem. We turned off the A-Z Trail a little too early and ended up plowing through dense spruce forest before making it very far into the woods. After about an hour and a half of this, I finally turned on my GPS to see if it would be worth continuing or if we should turn back to get to the car before dark. As it turned out, we were due north of the unnamed peak east of Whitewall, rather than due north of Whitewall as we had planned. Oops again. We continued on for another half hour to see just how far we could go, but decided to turn back still about three quarters of a mile from our goal.

Dreary and drab, but Crawford Notch is still pretty cool looking.

The return trip was mighty quick, comparatively, and we managed to relax at the Highland Center for a few minutes before heading back south. Maybe next time there will be better snow, better conditions, and I'll be a little more patient with the trail. Regardless, though, I really don't mind not getting to where I'm planning on going. I had an adventure in the wilderness with good company. What more can you ask for?

Marmot DriClime Ether Wind Shirt

2012-01-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

As I mentioned in my Winter Layering System post a few weeks ago, my clothing system for winter hikes is based on a simple base layer and a light outer layer with little or no insulation while on the move. I've had the perfect outer layer for my legs for the past few years (a pair of Patagonia soft-shell pants), but I've had trouble finding the perfect layer for my upper body. Until now.

Kermit in the winter forest of Vermont.

I picked up a Marmot DriClime Ether wind shirt on sale a few weeks ago, and it's exactly what I needed for my upper body outer layer. I've had a perfectly good Montane Featherlight Smock wind shirt for the past several years, which weighs half what the Ether does, but the Ether is better suited for my uses in winter.

What I was looking for in the wind shirt was very light insulation, and the Ether is exactly that. The DriClime fabric is a nylon shell with a thin fabric lining, so it's somewhat less insulation than my normal base layer, but it stops the wind quite well and acts as just an extra shirt over my base. The hood is unlined, but is just enough to supplement my hat and balaclava while hiking. Since I overheat easily while hiking in winter, the amount of extra warmth from this jacket is just enough. The whole jacket weighs 8.4 ounces in size small, which is exactly on spec (Marmot reports 8.8 ounces for size medium). Kudos to you, Marmot, for being right on with weights!

Armpit vents and hidden hand-warming pockets.

There are four zippers in the jacket– a full front zip, a chest pocket (which doubles as a stuff-bag for the whole jacket), and two hand-warmer pockets with self-sealing zippers. I didn't use the hand-warmer pockets much, but they're so well hidden when zipped up that you don't really notice them at all. (I thought this was pretty neat until Yvonne told me wedding dresses have the same kind of hidden zipper, so it's not really a new thing.) Each zipper, when opened, can act as pretty good ventilation, along with the mesh armpit panels that vent quite nicely as well.

A handy stuff sack. I don't use this feature, really, but it's neat anyway.

On the ten-mile hike from Glastenbury back to the trail head, where the temperature never rose above 2 degrees, the jacket performed perfectly as far as venting and insulating. I kept it zipped up right to the chin, with all the pockets closed, and my body stayed at an even temperature while hiking. At breaks I took out my down jacket immediately upon stopping for real insulation, so I never chilled too much and I never overheated. The few times I sweated through the DriClime jacket (after breaking trail in somewhat warmer weather), I either opened the zippers to vent some more or took off the jacket entirely for a while. The sweat dried out in minutes.

Fits like a shirt, and looks snazzy, too.

And finally, the jacket is wonderfully form-fitting, as athletic wear almost always should be. Size small fits me like a glove, with no room for flapping in the wind, and the hood fits snugly around my head, even with a balaclava and hat on underneath.

The Ether is a limited garment, but I can see it being very handy in all seasons. Since it weighs just as much as my Montbell UL Thermawrap jacket, I wouldn't carry both in three-season backpacking, but for really warm weather I would probably bring the Ether for cooler weather in the evenings. In colder conditions, it acts only as a supplement. The only other major drawback to this jacket that I've seen is that it isn't durable enough for me to be totally careless with it. As I've said before, though, I tend to be careful with my outdoor equipment, so this isn't something that bothers me.

You might have already been able to tell that I'm a big fan of very simple and functional outdoor equipment, and the Ether fits that description quite well. There are no extra frills, no fancy bells and whistles. It's a wind jacket with a few pockets and a hood. It's exactly what I wanted for winter hiking. Nothing more, nothing less.

Guthook's GooseFeet Parka

2012-01-26T07:00:00.001-05:00

Buying expensive pieces of hiking gear and clothing is oneof my many weaknesses, but since I try to be thorough in my research for what Iwant, I tend to spend a lot less than many other gear junkies. This year is alittle different because I decided to get two big things to outfit myself forwinter in New England. The sleeping bag conundrum was solvedpretty easily with a nice, new Eastern Mountain Sports Mountain Light Zero. Next up, the down jacket.

Behold, Guthook’s GooseFeet Down Parka! I’mgoing to name this particular parka after myself, because it was made by handspecifically for me. How cool is that? In fact, it’s the first piece ofclothing I’ve ever had tailor-made for me. I wish I could do this moreoften.

GooseFeet is a one-man cottage manufacturer of down garments, owned by Ben Smith. Ben reached out to meafter my post about down jackets and told me he could basically make the jacketof my dreams– ultralight, super warm. It weighs 12.4ounces with 7.1 of those ounces being 900-fill down. In my ultralight downjackets post, I found that the commercially produced jacket with the highestratio of down to total weight had a 0.44:1 ratio and weighed 16 ounces. This GooseFeet jacket has0.57:1 ratio—it weighs less than any of the other heavily insulatedjackets I looked at, and has more down.

Puff ball.

As for features, I wanted minimal, so that’s what Igot. The hood has a thin drawstring to cinch it around my face, the zipper islight and simple, there’s a pair of hand-warmer pockets, a fixed-elastichem, and fixed elastic cuffs. The outer shell is 20 Denier nylon (oops, I originally posted 15D, but it's 20), and theinside is 7 Denier nylon.

Fixed elastic hem rather than a drawcord. I added a little zipper pull as well.

The fanciest thing Ben put into the design (and this isactually quite fancy) is internal baffles in the sleeves and body of thejacket. Rather than sewn-through baffles, which create pinched spots throughoutthe insulation, baffles keep the insulation wide and puffy everywhere (this wasBen’s first attempt at baffled jackets, so the seams where the armsconnect to the body and where the front of the jacket connects to the back aresewn-through, but I’m still majorly impressed). The result? The jacket isincredibly warm for its weight.

The sleeves are mighty puffy, with elastic cuffs.

The jacket did cost a pretty penny, more than most of theothers I planned to check, but for a custom, hand-made,ultralight product with the finest materials and attention to detail, it isworth every dollar. The major downside for the jacket is that, between the price and light materials, I'm already very paranoid about damaging it. I'm generally very good about keeping my equipment from harm, but I'd be more terrified of hurting this than most things.

Very tiny drawcord for the hood, and note the different, lighter material inside.

Ben is pretty great to do business with. We emailed back andforth dozens of times, and talked on the phone to work out thedetails of the jacket and so that Ben could explain the baffles and fabric tome. Ben probably spent more time talking with me to makesure this jacket was exactly what I would want than it actually took to constructthe jacket.

GooseFeet’s only advertised products as of now arebooties and pillows, but I’ve seen Ben’s handiwork in down pants,balaclavas, jackets, and mittens. If you’re interested in anything with down insulation,check his website, and this wonderful interview. And be impressed.

Eastern Mountain Sports Mountain Light 0 Sleeping Bag

2012-01-23T07:00:00.000-05:00

After all that hemming and hawing about which winter sleeping bag to get, I finally decided on the Eastern Mountain Sports Mountain Light 0. Price was a major deciding factor, as it must be for someone who doesn't really have much money to throw around– I had enough to get either a perfect sleeping bag and a pretty good down jacket, or a perfect down jacket and a pretty good sleeping bag. The Mountain Light 0 turned out to be just that. It's a pretty good sleeping bag. The price is great, and the intent behind the design is great. The execution of the design is a little lacking, and some of the finer details are frustratingly off, but for $400 (and often on sale for much less), it's not a bad choice for someone who wants to do one or two winter trips a year with a very light sleeping bag.

There it is in a nutshell. A simple, no-frills, sleeping bag.

First, let's talk about the design of this bag. It's meant to be a very light zero degree bag, using 15 denier Pertex fabric for the shell (an exceptionally light nylon), 800-fill goose down (high grade down), and a relatively minimal design. The "new Insotect Flowgate technology", which only Marmot and EMS use so far, supposedly makes more efficient use of the down, but there's practically no info on this "new technology" anywhere on the web. The best I can figure is that it is just a different baffling system, and keeps the down in place rather than letting it shift around.

The Mountain Light, gutted. Antidraft tubes and draft collar are very thickly filled.

Before taking the bag out on the trail with my Backpackinglight Get-Together the other weekend, I made some initial impressions. First, the bag is advertised as weighing in at two pounds and twelve ounces, which isn't too shabby (see my previous sleeping bags post). I weighed it at 1.25 ounces over spec, which isn't too bad, either, although when the weight of an item is off from the manufacturer's specifications it makes me wonder how controlled the manufacturing process is– are there really 26.4 ounces of down in the bag as stated? And how well distributed is the down? Where does that extra weight come from?

That's a puffy head!

The other initial impression I had was just how silly the stuff sack was. For a sleeping bag that uses featherweight 15D fabric to cut weight, why would the compression sack use thick, stiff, waterproof nylon and weigh in at 3.8 ounces? A standard Sea-To-Summit compression sack is about 25% lighter and equally waterproof, just from using a lighter material (and it includes a fourth compression strap, two of which have releasing buckles to avoid tangling them up). Heck, my old LL Bean synthetic sleeping bag from 2004 had a lighter compression sack than this. Such a heavy compression sack is an unnecessary feature for such a lightweight sleeping bag.

How did it do in the field, though? By augmenting the bag with down jacket and down pants, as well as my base layers, I brought it down to -18 degrees and managed to sleep the whole night. It wasn't exceptionally comfortable that night, but far from the coldest I've been. The previous night, at 10 degrees, I skipped the extra pants and jacket and had a perfectly toasty night. I'd say the zero degree rating is reasonably accurate– It's a good alternative to the Western Mountaineering Antelope, which is rated to 5 degrees (although WM bags are famous for being much warmer than stated), weighs five ounces less, and costs about $90 more.

The bag's strongest points are its footbox and hood. Both are loaded with so much down that they puff right up and insulate very nicely. The hood is shaped just right to cradle your head when you pull the drawcord around your face. I guess insulating the feet and head more than elsewhere makes sense, but it would be nice if the same attention was paid to the rest of the body in this bag.

Left to its own devices, the sides loft up a lot better than the middle. The head and neck are perfectly poofy.

Room for improvement? As I said above, it seems that from the neck to the knees the bag is unevenly filled. As you can see in the picture, the sides of the bag and the head and foot areas loft much better than the middle of the bag. Whether by design or chance, this doesn't seem like a good thing. Sure, some parts of your body may need more insulation than others, but uninsulated space is uninsulated space– I don't want my belly to be any less insulated than any other part of my body. Once you start pushing the lower temperature limits, you don't want cold air getting in anywhere.

The zipper system isn't the best part of this bag.

The other big issue with the bag is the zipper. EMS claims a "Full-length two-way zipper with antidraft tube and anti-snag piping." Yes to all of that, except the last part. The antidraft tube is kind of nice– on each side of the zipper is a thick tube of down, and when you zip up they purse together like a pair of lips to prevent drafts from the zipper. Not bad. If only that anti-snag piping worked at all. The zipper snags on the draft tubes incredibly easily. The piping seems to be a huge failure.

Finally, and this is a bit nitpicky, the drawcord for the hood works nicely except that it pokes out from the hood of the bag, rather than in. A perfectly designed hood would have the drawcord inside the bag, where the person inside the bag can reach it easily without poking a hand outside of the face opening. Why would you have the hood drawcord on the outside rather than the inside?

It seems like I have several gripes about this sleeping bag, but in the end the performance speaks for itself. I slept in this bag with reasonable comfort at eighteen degrees below its rating (with extra layering, of course), and all this for 20% less MSRP than other zero degree bags out there. So I can't complain too much. I plan to use this sleeping bag for several more years, regardless of its flaws. They don't outweigh the benefits.

Disclosure: I have a part-time seasonal job at Eastern Mountain Sports, which allowed me to purchase this sleeping bag with an employee discount. Eastern Mountain Sports in no way solicited this review, and my opinions of the quality of the sleeping bag are unaffected by the price I paid for it.

North Kinsman 1/16/12

2012-01-20T06:00:00.000-05:00

Up to Lonesome Lake!

Despite being completely exhausted and sore from the weekend backpacking trip in Vermont, I got up early on Monday to hit the trails in the White Mountains with Yvonne and a few of our friends. I was scheduled to work for the rest of the week and wouldn't have any other time to hike with Yvonne until a few weeks later, so now seemed like the right time, regardless of my body's protests.

We got to the trail head at Lafayette Place Campground in Franconia Notch State Park with our friend Annie by 10:30, only a little behind schedule, and knew immediately that it would be a glorious day. The sky was crystal clear, the temperature already much higher than it had been the day before in Vermont, and the trail was beaten down to a solid highway. We'd brought our snowshoes, not sure what to expect in terms of trail conditions, but I hadn't thought about the difference in traffic between the Green Mountains and the White Mountains– There had been no sign of people on Glastenbury, but every trail in the Notch Monday was solidly packed by hundreds of snowshoe-clad feet. We suited up with Microspikes and got a fast start to warm up.

Don't forget sunscreen. I did, and my lips got all sunburned (again).

North and South Kinsman over Lonesome Lake. The Hut is nestled in the woods just on the other side.

There was good company along the trail, with several good-natured hikers up from various parts of New England to enjoy the mountains, but Yvonne set a brisk pace and we sped ahead to Lonesome Lake Hut. I hadn't been to this area since 2007 on my Appalachian Trail through-hike, so it was nice to revisit old memories there. The day I'd passed the Kinsmans and Lonesome Lake on that hike had had typically nasty weather, so I'd never realized there were spectacular views of Franconia Ridge from both. This day was a perfect remedy for my previous lack of a view.

Franconia Ridge towering over Lonesome Lake and Cannon Mountain.

We met with my friend, Moss, at the hut, where she'd camped the night before. After a quick break there, we continued on up the Appalachian Trail to North Kinsman, crossing paths with about a dozen hikers along the way. Compared with the day before, the temperatures in the teens seemed perfectly balmy. Even better, the weather kept the sky clear of haze for some of the longest and crispest views I've seen in a long time. Vermont's Mount Mansfield stood out on the western horizon, and the Percy Peaks and Sugarloaf Mountain on the Cohos Trail were distinctively white to the north. Of course, Franconia Ridge to the east dominated the view, looking positively arctic.

I told Yvonne to pose, but only Chad the Hut Caretaker knew what I meant. We are that cool!

After the previous few days in Vermont, having a packed trail and a quick out-and-back trip seemed almost easy, but my ankles were suffering from a bit of tendonitis (that's what I get for doing big trips with no warm-up after several weeks of inactivity), and my exhaustion from the weekend began to catch up with me on the way down. Once we got back to the hut, I nearly fell asleep at the table. We had a sleepy walk back down to the car, and a long drive back to Keene. All in all, though, I couldn't have asked for a better day to round out the weekend. The fatigue from several days of hiking is a wonderful feeling, especially after a long time without.

Backpackinglight Winter Get-Together 2012

2012-01-17T14:52:00.000-05:00

Over the past few weeks I've been getting more and more stir crazy as the snow refused to fall and my schedule kept me indoors and inactive for weeks on end. All that changed this past weekend when I had a flurry of hiking to belatedly start out the new year. The first step was a sequel to the Backpackinglight.com New England Get-Together from October– this time a smaller group gathered at Glastenbury Mountain in Southern Vermont (where I'd also hiked in October) for a winter wonderland weekend.

Barely enough snow at the beginning to wear snowshoes, but plenty of wind.

As the weekend drew near, our group watched the forecasts like hawks, wondering just what would happen over the weekend. No significant snow had fallen yet this winter, the temperature was predicted to fall like a rock, and few of us had taken training hikes to get in shape. It was bound to be an interesting weekend, regardless. As I drove to the trail head with Clint, precipitation changed from rain at lower elevations to light snow in the mountains, all mixed with a bitter cold wind. I started to wonder if this really was the best idea.

My trusty tarp, good in all seasons!

Just as Clint and I were about to put our snowshoes on at the trail head, the second car showed up and the party began. Bryce, Seth, and Dan showed up right on time from Connecticut and began to excitedly get the show on the road. We all hit the trail a few minutes later, decked out with snowshoes, heavy winter packs (heavy by BPL standards– around 30 pounds for the weekend), and nervous anticipation.

We slowly made our way to the Melville-Nauheim Shelter, stumbling along the way because of the painfully light snow cover on the ground. It was just enough to hide the rocks and roots, but not enough to let us walk over them without care. Wind blasted us from the side and new snow flurried around, but the conditions were still relatively mild. We arrived at camp just before dark and set up in the snow as fast as we could, then started our stoves for a long night of hot drinks and good cheer. We expected several more people to show up late at night, but we were all in our sleeping bags by 8 PM, hoping the others could follow our tracks before they were obscured by the heavy wind throughout the night. The temperature bottomed out at 10 degrees, and we felt pretty good about our ability to withstand the winter conditions.

Dan climbing in the late afternoon light up to Glastenbury Mountain.

We found the others about half a mile past us in the morning, having missed the turn-off for the shelter in the night, but only one of them and his dog joined us for the rest of the hike. Now there were six of us and a dog, with eight miles to go for the day. As we climbed further into the mountains the snow got deeper and fluffier, slowing our progress as we broke trail. There was no sign of humanity out here– we were in true wilderness.

The last few miles to Glastenbury were a death march. Everyone was exhausted from the long day of plowing through deep drifts, especially without much in the way of exercise through the winter so far. The last miles dragged on seemingly forever, so when we finally spotted the shelter there was a tremendous cheer. We shoveled snow out of the sleeping area and set up camp with a crystal-clear view toward Bennington, fifteen miles away. But the challenges weren't over yet.

Glastenbury Mountain's fire tower with a fine layer of rime ice.

The forecast for the evening was for bitter cold, which had us more nervous than anything on the trip. We'd arrived at the shelter exhausted, but couldn't let our guard down yet. We boiled gallons of water, ate huge dinners, bundled up, set an alarm for sunrise, and bedded down for the night wondering what the morning would be like. The only sounds throughout the night, aside from the oddly synchronized snorchestra, were the popping of the shelter beams as the temperature dropped like a rock.

Mount Snow and Haystack early in the morning.

I awoke at 6 AM, and my thermometer showed an almost unbelievable -18 degrees. As soon as I unzipped my sleeping bag and touched my sneakers I wondered if the thermometer was reading a bit high. Everything was so cold that touching anything with bare fingers felt like touching a lit stove– it was so cold that you could get frostbite just as fast as you could get a burn from grabbing a hot coal.

No windows in this fire tower. We were completely exposed to the wind.

We jumped out of our sleeping bags and ran around camp to warm up, then up to the fire tower for a cloudy sunrise. After cooking breakfast and seeing the sky turn blue, we ran back to the fire tower for a few more views, and then we hurried back the ten miles to the cars. The going was much easier on Sunday, since the trail was packed out from the previous two days of hiking, but we still had something of a death march the whole way. We doubled our hiking pace, not just because the going was easier but because we also had to move quickly to stay warm– the highest temperature we recorded that day was 2 degrees. Water bottles froze, noses got frost nip, eyes stung from the icy wind.

My eyelash icicles lasted all day, with no heat to melt them.

After arriving at our cars, we took a quick trip into Bennington for pizza before heading home. We were all pretty catatonic at the restaurant, exhausted and happy. We'd just survived a grueling winter backpacking trip that was a first for most of the group. I'd been on winter backpacking trips before, but none so impromptu and informal as this, and none so ambitious for such a short time span. Saying that we did a 20 mile trip over two nights doesn't sound all that impressive for summer conditions, but put snowshoes and frigid temperatures in there, and it becomes an epic journey.

Winter Layering System

2012-01-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

Since this winter has been extremely un-wintery, I’vespent much more time thinking of winter hiking than actually doing any ofit so far this season. That’s not so unusual for me, since the real goodwinter hiking season is usually only three or four months long, so I have to doa lot of at-home testing before trying out new things on the trail. Onetechnique I think I’ve pretty well perfected over the past few years,happily, is my winter clothing system.

25 degrees, but the sun helped.

Before I go into detail, you should know that I generallyrun pretty hot everywhere except my nose, toes, and fingers. I’ve testedmyself in snowy, sub-freezing hikes for years, and I’ve found this typeof clothing system suits me best. If you plan on getting into winter hiking I’dsuggest bringing some extra insulation layers in your pack and stopping toadjust layers frequently. After a while, you’ll know what works best foryou. I won’t discuss footwear here, since feet are much tougher to getcomfortable in winter, although I have a few thoughts on keeping your feet warmin winter as well.

Here’s what my clothing system looks like on almostall of my winter hikes, from the shins up: lightweight long underwear bottomsand soft shell pants on my lower half. My upper body has a midweight, synthetic,long-sleeve baselayer, with a wind shirt over that. My hands have lightweightglove liners and a pair of mittens over them (which I take off and put back onfrequently through the hike). My head has a wool hat and either a balaclava orneck warmer to cover my face (and sometimes a beard). In my pack, I keep athick down jacket for quick access. And that’s pretty much it. Sound liketoo little? Maybe for some people, but I’ve taken this system to the topof Mount Mansfield at 9 degrees with 40 mph winds and been verycomfortable.

Nine degrees and blasting wind. Notice the snow stuck to the windstopper fleece. That's why I go with outer layers that have smooth surfaces now. The softshell pants didn't hold any ice, but the fuzzy fleece held plenty.

My philosophy for this winter clothing system is simple—startcool, block wind, keep snow from sticking to you, and never sweat. Heat willtransfer away from your skin in several ways, but the most dangerous are directcontact with cold air and objects (conduction), movement of colder air over awarm body (convection), and getting moisture on your skin(evaporation/conduction). Your body will generate a lot of heat just throughthe work necessary to hike with a heavier pack and through snow, which requiresmore exertion than hiking on dry ground in summer. The trick is to not lose toomuch of that heat to the environment around you.

Another wicked cold one. This is our summit break, so out came the big puffy jacket.

I take care of the simple conduction heat loss by keeping asmuch of my skin covered as possible, hence the long sleeves and coverings of myhead and hands. Convection is almost as simple, just adding the layers thatblock wind (in this case, the soft shell pants and wind shirt). Evaporation isthe hardest problem to combat, since your body will produce sweat to cool youdown as you exert yourself. That’s why I start hiking with as littleinsulation as possible, so that my body heats up slowly rather than swelteringquickly with heavy insulation. I’ll usually get a sweaty backbecause of my backpack, but if I can keep the rest of my body dry, all is well.As soon as I stop moving for a break, the puffy down jacket comes out of thepack and keeps me from cooling off too quickly.

Rather than a wind shirt, I had contemplated getting a softshell jacket to match my pants, but I couldn’t find one that was lightenough, nor well-fitted enough to suit my tastes. For my wind blocking layer to be effective, Ilike it to be snug. If you need more insulation than a wind shirt, though, asoft shell could work pretty well because they often have light fleece linings,wind blocking capability, and smooth outer layers. Smooth outer layers areimportant to me because they shed snow better than fuzzy fleece (see the picture from Mount Mansfield, above).

The most important thing to remember for staying comfortableon a winter hike is that your body will generate a lot of heat while hiking,but it can lose that heat even faster. Slowing both rates is key to staying comfortablywarm.

Get Your Mail Drops

2012-01-09T08:45:00.000-05:00

Mail drops: an important part of any through-hike

All this talk in the last few years of the Postal Service getting chopped often makes me think of my experiences with it. And now it's time for me to rant a little. In college, I sent and received well over a hundred packages of CDs via tape-trading lists for concert recordings (Grateful Dead and Phish made this practice famous), before everything went digital (yes, kids, there was a time when people sent CDs by mail instead of going straight to bittorrent). The postal workers I dealt with were always wonderfully friendly, the service was dirt cheap, and not a single package ever went missing.

The Internet finally made that hobby obsolete, but I continued to utilize the Post Office because I transitioned quickly to through-hiking. Dozens more packages sent for cheap, held at post offices for a hiker bum like myself, often forwarded for free when I didn't need them at the moment, and always delivered without hassle. I almost never send mail drops via the other mail carrier companies, mostly because it's just more expensive and harder to find a place from which to ship. I've only used them for four mail drops on backpacking trips since the Appalachian Trail, and of those four packages, three were never delivered. I am unimpressed.

Now that I've been in the normal world for a pretty large chunk of time, I'm seeing some of the things that annoy people about the postal service– junk mail and being outdated. I've used mail quite a bit less in the last few years than ever, but I still don't mind waiting in line at the Post Office because every postal worker in every town I've lived in has been wonderfully helpful and pleasant to deal with.

I've tried to move away from using mail drops in every long-distance hike I've done, but I can never seem to fully stop myself from walking into the Post Office. Those flat-rate boxes are just too good to pass up, and sometimes you need to mail things to yourself that you can't find in stores along the trail. As talk of closing down the rural branches and cutting delivery schedules keeps going on, I can't think of how I'd deal with through-hiking without that service. Just like every other obstacle, I'd find a way around it. In the meantime, I do love stuffing as much non-perishable food into a flat-rate box as possible, then opening a bundle of joy somewhere along the trail. It never gets old.

Winter 2012 Blog Preview

2012-01-06T05:00:00.000-05:00

Winter refuses to come this year, which sucks for those of us with a pile of winter hiking and backpacking gear. All through December there was bare ground and warm temperatures– I was starting to get really down because of all the plans I have this year that involve lots of snow. I haven't been hiking in over a month now, lending to the intense cabin fever. But then I started tallying up all of my plans and realizing that even if the snow comes late and I have a very slow start, I should still have a pretty good winter. So let's start off with a pretty picture of winter, and then get excited about some plans.

Unknown Pond and The Horn. This is what I want things to look like!

I'm hoping to do a lot more winter hiking this year than last, but I can't just rely on own motivation to get out there at a moment's notice, so I've got some trips planned. First will be a Backpackinglight.com Northeast Meetup redux, next weekend in Vermont. This will be very different from my usual winter backpacking in that it is very informal. More formal will be my third year in a row of joining my good friend Nancy in guiding a winter backpacking trip for my high school.

For something completely different, Yvonne and I just made reservations for a few nights' stay at a bed and breakfast in the White Mountains, and I'm trying to convince Yvonne that we should try for a second one of these sorts of things up in Jackman, Maine, since my taste of the area last summer made me want to spend a lot more time up there. Two trips like this may not make great financial sense for two people who have barely any income, but we can make it work. And I do love the idea of staying in a nice little lodge and heading out for day hikes in a gorgeous area.

Hopefully there will be at least two big day hikes for the winter as well. Moss and I have been itching to try our hands at bushwhacking in the Pemigewassett Wilderness, since I am a little rusty and she needs to get some practice before hiking the Pacific Crest Trail next summer (you are definitely doing that, right Moss?). I'm also itching to go on another big day hike with a great group I met online, which last year did a huge day over the Twins.

Finally, what season would be complete without some new hiking gear? So far I've got two things that I plan to review, including a Marmot Ether Driclime wind shirt, and the Eastern Mountain Sports Mountain Light 0 sleeping bag. In general, I'm going to try to post my winter hiking gear list, along with a more comprehensive review of how I dress for snowy and cold hiking. I hope that kind of weather starts to show up soon...

Where Do You Fit In?

2012-01-04T06:30:00.000-05:00

A week before Christmas I took a call at work from an Appalachian Trail through-hiker nearing the end of her southbound hike. She had bought a backpack at our store in the beginning of her hike, and was looking for a replacement, since the bag was falling apart after fifteen-hundred miles of use. Clearly she had anticipated this call, as she'd kept the receipt for the pack through several months of hiking. It seems a fairly common thing for companies to accommodate through-hikers in need of gear replacement, so it wasn't such a strange thing to get this call (except that finishing the AT in December is a little unusual). But the call made me wonder about the communities I consider myself a part of.

My people on the AT. A small group, but a good one.

The quickest we could get a replacement pack to this hiker was about a week, by which point she'd be almost finished with her hike, anyway. The hiker was hoping I could send the replacement pack to her somewhere on the trail, and she could put the old one in the shipping box and send it back with the receipt. I won't go into the nuances of this, but I've seen through-hikers ask for this quite often, and usually what happens is customers get charged for the second item, then get refunded when the original gets back to the company. They don't always want to do this, and that was the case this time around. Instead of sympathizing with the hiker, or being torn between two worlds, I felt myself siding quite stubbornly with the business end, which struck me as a little strange.

Normally I identify with the hiking community more than anything else, even though on all of my Appalachian Trail hikes (the through-hike and two large section hikes) I found myself avoiding most of the hiker community. I only feel attached to a small part of the hiking community, just like I feel attached to a small portion of society in general. I've never really thought of it this way, but my people are really a tiny minority within a tiny minority. The people I get along with the best are obsessive ultralight long-distance backpacker gear-nuts. We're a rare breed.

That's not a steadfast rule for me, but I can say with certainty that I don't usually feel like I fit in well with most of the through-hiking community, nor with most of the ultralight community. Maybe this is an attitude common to backpackers– a kind of social maladjustment or feeling separate from society. Or maybe I'm just feeling that way now because I'm finding myself in another community that I never really identified with: people living normal lives, working in offices, focusing on homes and families and benefits and politics. They're all perfectly good things to focus on, but not my cup of tea.

The phone call the other week made me really miss solo backpacking. I can't wait to hike the Long Trail, which will hopefully happen this summer. We'll see. If I do that, it's likely I'll hike alone. That seems fitting, since the first time I became really comfortable with being alone in the wilderness was in Vermont, so many years ago (actually just three years ago, but it seems distant).

The Future: Part 1

2011-12-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

A scene from my NOLS course in 2005

The other week I sent in my application to participate in a NOLS Instructor Course. If I'm accepted, I'll have the option of attending the month-long course in early summer. If I do well on that course, and then if I can get a spot teaching on a course immediately afterward, I may spend a good portion of this summer backpacking in the Rockies. How great would that be?

At the same time that I'm trying to work towards the NOLS gig, I'm also trying to do the best work I can at my current job. Even though it's technically only for the Christmas season, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and hoping that I make a good impression and can hang onto the job in some capacity, even if it's only part-time. It's a good job so far, and I like the company (in both senses of the word– the people and the business). Still, that's a lot of ifs in the near future.

As I've mentioned before, 2011 is the first year since I finished college that I haven't hiked a long-distance trail. Long-distance hiking is as much a part of my identity as anything, but I got over that hole in my soul pretty quickly. Other things filled it, and I'm happy with those things. The hole is still there, though, like a round hole filled with a square peg. And it makes me question everything that I do that leads me further from the trail.

Vying for space in my mind with NOLS and my current job is another proposition. My friend from the Pacific Crest Trail, Uncle Tom, is getting a group together to make an attempt at the Continental Divide Trail in 2013. I can't tell you how much I want to be a part of that group, but that idea would also put a damper on either of the two paths I mentioned above. These are the three ideas that are competing inside my head for the most attention. Sometimes it feels like a circus in there.

With the year drawing to a close, I'm a little distracted by a few more things as well (as if there's not enough to hold my attention). I'm working on a top-secret project that I should be set to reveal in February or March (sorry, no hints for now); I'm still trying to find a balance between my home life and my ambitions as a hiker; I'm falling behind in some of my goals and deadlines for the winter; and I'm trying to resist my yearly urge to grow a winter coat and hide under my bed for the next three months. I never knew I could have so many options in my near future. It's much more difficult than having one big event on the horizon, even though it seems like it should be more desirable.

Continental Divide Trail, NOLS, a home, a job, a life– the future is so full of possibilities. It's a scary place. I don't know what to expect, and I'm not sure what would be best. This will be my last post of 2011. I'm hoping that by next year I'll feel like the ground beneath me is a little more stable. I like that I have so many paths I could take– it's just that none of them have white blazes clearly marking the way.

Great Balls of Awesome: Guest Post by Moss

2011-12-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

Since it's been a hectic and busy time for me in the last few months, I'm really enjoying putting some guest posts up here. My good pal Moss over at Moss And Ink wrote this one. Go check her stuff out, and be sure to check in from time to time. She may be off on some grand adventures soon.

After spending countless hours in the woods working, hiking and just plain living I discovered something important about myself; I care about food deeply... and I can spend hours upon hours just thinking about it. Having devoted so much brain power to this subject matter, the conclusion I have come to is that food is always worth it. If you're going to devote hours of your life to slogging up a mountain, you should be feeding yourself the best possible foods to make it happen.

Moss's Balls of Awesome

I was an average to fairly healthy eater before my thru-hike and I'm not going lie, I was seriously excited to have an excuse to guzzle sodas and chips and candy constantly on my hike. But by the time I was a third of the way finished, my fantasies had switched from soda to fruit and salad and smoothies. Of course, I still indulged in every junk food known to man: Velveeta sandwiches? Check. Candy bars for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Check. Beef jerky and Lucky Charms cereal as a nutritionally balanced meal? Check. By the time I hit the great state of Maine, my body was hurting. The foods that were easiest to pack and eat were nutritionally devoid and it was clearly affecting my physical performance. Ever since then I've made a real effort to eat more balanced meal; foods without processed sugar and meals that incorporate fruits, vegetables, and grains as much as possible.

I'm going to share what I have decided is truly the perfect trail snack. Think Larabar, only better. It's super healthy and very quick and easy to make. It's also pretty versatile and can be customized according to what you like. Some of these ingredients may not be ones you have lying around the house... however, they are all ingredients that you can adapt into your other meals and feel good about yourself for doing it, because nutritionally, these foods are the cream of the crop. You can find them at your local health food store, Whole Foods market, or even online. I'll spare you the lectures on nutritional value but will list other ways you can use each lesser known ingredient so it won't sit on your shelf unused except for this recipe. Don't forget that this recipe is extremely flexible and you can (and should) experiment with the ingredient list - so if you want to omit the chia and flax seeds, go for it. A word of warning, though: making this will be much easier if you possess a food processor.

Great Balls of Awesome

(To be honest, I vary the amount/size I make each time, so I can't give you a set number that the recipe makes!)

-6 dates (I strongly suggest using whole Mehdjool dates... this is the one item that I wouldn't skimp on) soak the dates overnight in a bowl of water, or zap them for about 2-3 minutes (until soft) in a bowl of water in the microwave right before making the recipe - either way don't forget to remove the pits first!

-1 cup shelled walnuts (toasted or not - your call)

-1 cup shelled almonds

-Anywhere from 1/8 to 1/4 cup golden flax seeds (great on sauteed vegetables, sprinkled on salads, in oatmeal, muffins, granola, and with yogurt, fruit & honey)

-1/8 cup chia seeds (best in oatmeal, granola, and in yogurt with fruit and honey)

-1/2 cup wheat germ (awesome in baked goods, also smoothies, oatmeal, and the yogurt/fruit/combo)

-1 tablespoon coconut oil (has a higher heating point so is great for sauteing vegetables in curry recipes, also can be used like butter on toast, or substituted in lots of baking recipes... I also like to put a little in smoothies sometimes)

-1 teaspoon cinnamon (or more to taste)

-1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar (this probably could be optional but I always throw it in there - it's an old wives health remedy that I have a soft spot for, and you can't even taste it in there!)

-1 teaspoon salt

1. Pulse the almonds in the food processor until finely chopped
2. Add walnuts, cinnamon, and salt and process until incorporated and finely chopped.
3. Add the rest of your dry ingredients (chia seeds, wheat germ, etc.) and pulse until incorporated.
4. Remove dates from water, add dates, coconut oil, vinegar, and and pulse - it should very quickly form a ball, don't pulse for too long - just until it forms a ball/is blended.
5. Make sure it's well blended, then form small balls by hand and refrigerate. If you prefer to do bars, form the mix into one large ball, then chill for an hour or two before rolling out with a rolling pin on a baking sheet.

Keep refrigerated/covered until use (I generally use parchment paper and tupperware). I like to just take a few in a ziplock for dayhikes and not worry too much about squishing/stickiness. If you are concerned, parchment paper and tupperware is the way to go.

Options: these are AMAZING dipped in dark chocolate and sprinkled with coarse sea salt (I can't eat them any other way at the moment). You can also roll them in sesame seeds, or add finely chopped dried fruit of your choice to step 3 or small chunks of chocolate or cacao nibs. Other nuts that work well in lieu of almonds or walnuts: pecans, Brazil nuts, cashews, macadamias and sunflower seeds. You also could experiment with spices too... I think a gingerbread version would be delicious!

Dreaming of Some Hikes

2011-12-15T23:20:00.002-05:00

It's that holiday season where things get real busy, so I'm going to be scarce for the next few weeks. I've got big plans for the coming year, though. Here are some pictures to whet your appetite. Each one of these has some special significance regarding what I'll be up to in the next year or so. I won't spill the beans too much right now. Just enjoy the pictures, and I'll reveal all the relevant details soon.

Wind River Mountains, Wyoming

Cajon Pass, Pacific Crest Trail, California

Monadnock, New Hampshire

Stratton Pond, Green Mountains, Vermont

Unknown Pond, White Mountains, New Hampshire

I'll be doing something related to each of these places over the course of 2012. Are you curious? I hope so. But you'll have to wait and see.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah. Get yourself some good new toys to play with next year.

5 Reasons To Love Winter Hiking

2011-12-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

Guest Post By: Grant Ritter

The snowyseason can be a source of endless inspiration and beauty for those who chose toventure onto the trail. However winter’s colder temperatures, decreased daylightand higher risk are enough to persuade most hikers to hang up their boots untilthe spring thaw. Below are my five favorite things about winter hiking. If youavoid the snow maybe these will persuade you to get on the trail. If you are aveteran winter mountaineer then these should get you stoked to get out thereand play in the snow.

Reason 1: Stay above the fray

before snow

after snow

During thewarm months trails can be muddy, root filled and strewn with ankle twistinducing rocks. A healthy snowpack cancover these obstacles with several feet of soft and luxurious snow. This letshikers stay above the muddy and tangled mess that lies below. Igreatly prefer the crunch of snow beneath my boots over the suction cup soundsof stepping in mud.

Reason 2: Snow adds the epic

this is cool

this is cooler

Mountains arebeautiful in all seasons, but I think they are just a little more stunning in thewinter. A ridge that looks impressive in the summer can look like a differentworld when the snow falls. I will letthe pictures prove my point here. The image above shows us heading towardMount Madison in early fall while the image on the right shows us in the samespot in mid winter. Which one is more breathtaking to you?

Reason 3: Have a close relationshipwith the summit

Even the mostremote summits can be crowded during the warm months. During the winter youmight have the summit all to yourself. The image above shows me claimingmy first 4,000 footer on Mount Washington in early summer. As you can see thesummit is crowded with dozens of other hikers. The image on the right was takenin the winter at the exact same spot. On that day there were no other hikers insight on one of the most famous mountains in the northeast. I can only speakfor myself but I have always felt the most satisfied and at peace when standingalone on a summit in the winter.

Reason 4: The challenge

Hiking in thewinter is more challenging than any other season. The temperatures are muchlower, ice is everywhere and the margin of error is much slimmer. Frostbite,hypothermia and avalanches are very real possibilities in the winter. Dealingwith these risks requires a lot of gear and knowledge. In my opinion this alladds up to create a challenge with rewards that can’t be matched in any otherseason.

Reason 5: No bugs

no bugs here

Black flies,mosquitoes, ticks and other insects can be extremely distracting and evendangerous. Frigid winter temperatures keep these creatures at bay so you canleave the insect repellant at home. If you ask me this is enough of a reason totake up winter hiking!

Hiking in thewinter is more challenging and dangerous than any other season so it makessense that many hikers consider it the off-season. However, if you have theright gear and knowledge then a winter hike can be one of life’s most enjoyableexperiences. Hopefully these five reasons helped convince you to embrace thewinter. What are your favorite things about winter hiking?

Grant is a born and raised New Englander who always seeks new challenges and prefers cold days with lots of snow. On any given weekend you might find him hiking in the White Mountains, whitewater kayaking, skiing or trail running. He has completed the Hartford Marathon, several Seven Sisters Trail Races, the Green Mountain Relay and the Westfield River Race. However his favorite accomplishment has been climbing all of NH’s 48 4,000 footers. He seeks to inspire others through his blog at www.newenglandoutside.com

Ultralight shopping-- Down Jackets

2011-12-07T07:54:00.000-05:00

At the same time that I'm looking at winter sleeping bags, I've been keeping my eye out for insulated down jackets to fill out my winter insulation system. A good down jacket is key to the cold weather of Northeast winters because it doubles as primary insulation while in camp or at breaks, and as added insulation inside a thick sleeping bag. Currently, I only have a very heavyweight down jacket that is plenty warm but not light at all, and a lightweight down jacket that is pleasantly light but not warm enough for what I'd like. Neither of them have hoods, which I would like for added warmth.

What a bunch of nerds we are with our puffy jackets, all the same brand.

For the past few months I've been keeping an interested eye on my options for very warm, very lightweight down jackets with hoods. And while I still haven't come to a definite conclusion on winter sleeping bags, I'm even further behind on the down jackets because of the massive variability I've found. It seems each company has between four and ten models of down jackets to choose from, and the pertinent information on them is even harder to find than it is with sleeping bags.

Sleeping bags have temperature ratings to give you a general idea of their usefulness (even if the ratings are never exactly accurate) but jackets only have wild descriptions like "super warm and extremely light!" that mean exactly nothing. What to do?

I'm starting out by eliminating most of the competition– for now I'll only choose jackets with hoods, at least 800-fill power down, and the possibility of being on sale or discount. After that, I sorted out the jackets by total weight and fill weight, like I did with the sleeping bags. The idea is that by looking at the total amount of down, I can get a general impression of how warm the jacket is compared to the others, and by comparing the total weight I can see how well it will pack.

Here's what I've come up with so far: (numbers in parentheses are manufacturer claimed fill weight / total weight / down percent-- see below)

Montbell UL Down Parka (2.5 / 9.5 / 26%)
Western Mountaineering Hooded Flash (3 / 9 / 33%)
Montbell Alpine Light Parka (4.3 / 15 / 29%)
Marmot Ama Dablam (4.4 / 19 / 23%)
Rab Microlite Alpine (5 / 14 / 36%)
Golite Bitterroot (5.3 / 13 / 41%)
Golite Roan Plateau (5.8 / 19 / 31%)
Western Mountaineering Meltdown (6.5 / 17 / 38%)
Rab Neutrino Endurance (8 / 22 / 36%)
Rab Infinity (7 / 16 / 44%)

And that's only scratching the surface of the pile of jackets I've found in my search. As you can see, the amount of down ranges widely, as does the total weight. The only steady rule I see so far is that as the amount of down increases, the price skyrockets, so basically you'll pay for extra warmth.

Not counting the prices, here are a few things I've noticed.

First, I can loosely group the jackets into three categories, based on the amount of down fill. There are the thinnest jackets (UL Down Parka and Hooded Flash) that are wonderfully light but seem to be meant more for cool weather and layering. There are the medium thickness jackets (Alpine Light Parka through Golite Bitterroot in the list above) that seem to be all-purpose jackets for colder weather. And there are the beefiest jackets (Roan Plateau through Infinity Endurance) that are packed with down and seem like they would be just fine if you planned to visit Santa's workshop. For deep winter use, I would probably want the really thick jackets, but if I wanted to combine layers and go with jackets that are more versatile, I'd probably want to take from the middle group.

The second trend I saw was the variability within each group of the ratio of fill weight to total weight. Why look at that ratio? The part of the jacket that does the insulating is the down. The shell material is just there to hold the down in place (and to look cool, of course). Forget about how water repellent it is, or how windproof. Used correctly, you're not going to rely on the jacket's shell material for repelling water. That's what a rain jacket is for. So the ratio of down to shell material is important because you want as much down in the jacket as you can get while keeping the carried weight to a minimum.

With that in mind, take a look at the percentages listed with the jackets up above. Most of the jackets fall around one third of the total weight being down, but there are three big standouts– the Bitterroot (41%), the Meltdown (38%), and the Infinity (44%). Go figure, those are the three most expensive, but like I said: you pay for the large amount of down and high-tech materials.

I'm certainly not set on which one I'm going to try for, although if I see any of those three with the highest percentage of down weight on sale for cheap, I would probably jump at that. Chances are I won't go the route of putting two jackets together, since neither of my current down jackets is ideal for layering as I'd like, and buying two new light down jackets is probably going to be more expensive than one puffier one.

As for other features on the jacket, fit is the most important. After that, the extra drawcords, fancy zippers, water repellent fabrics, and more pockets just mean more weight. All I want is a warm, light, and effective jacket.

Some of my Hiking Buddies

2011-12-05T07:44:00.000-05:00

While I'm working working working and busy busy busy for the next several weeks, updates here may be a little more rushed than usual, or a little more sparse (although I do often seem to find time where I least expect to). Just in case you don't hear from me for a while, I've got some more recommended reading for you. Two of my good friends from the hiking world have blogs that make me quite happy.

Moss and Ink

Moss rocking the backpacking hammock in style.

Moss (that's her trail name) found me on the Backpackinglight.com forums several years ago when I was looking for hiking partners. After our first wild weekend trip to the Pemigewassett Wilderness of the White Mountains, we hiked together occasionally over the years. Soon after I met her, she took life by the horns, quitting two steady jobs and giving up a comfortable life in order to live the adventure.

In the past few years, Moss has volunteered in villages in Haiti, hiked the Appalachian Trail, worked at a campsite in the White Mountains, and is now a caretaker in a wilderness lodge in central New Hampshire. I never thought I'd be the one living vicariously through others, but when I hear Moss's stories and try to piece together what she's doing next, I get a little jealous. Her new blog is full of the little joys in the nomadic life, and tidbits of her art.

Uncle Tom's Blog

Uncle Tom in one of my favorite places, the Camden Hills.

In 2009, as I was beginning to research the Pacific Crest Trail, I got a message from one of the many PCT forums I'd subscribed to. "You're from Belfast? I'm from Northport!" Not only were we both planning to hike the PCT in 2010, but we were from adjacent towns in Maine, with a combined population of around 8000 people (about 500 people attempt the PCT every year, which is about one for every 600,000 people in America– for Waldo County, Maine, we had one for every 4000 people). And, oddly, we had both hiked the Appalachian Trail in 2007, but had never met before. Heck of a coincidence.

I hiked with Uncle Tom at various places along the PCT, and hope I can join him in a few years for the Continental Divide Trail. In the meantime, he never seems to slow down– he did the Long Trail this summer, he finds some great hikes in mid-coast Maine, and he keeps great company in general. You never know what will come next from him, but it's always something interesting.

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I've got a few posts coming for the rest of this week, but not much is going on except me being wicked busy. More on this soon...

Ultralight Shopping-- Winter Sleeping Bags

2011-12-01T09:08:00.000-05:00

On Monday I told you I'm obsessive about making big purchases. In case you didn't believe me, here's a little peek into my brain as I've been trying to make a decision for buying a sleeping bag for winter use. Last year I managed to get a Western Mountaineering Lynx GWS for a winter sleeping bag, but it turned out to be too much– as in, too warm, too heavy, and too bulky for what I needed. The Lynx is rated to -10 F, but I was able to easily take it down to -30 by wearing down pants and jacket to augment the temperature rating. With that in mind, it didn't seem useful to carry the extra weight and bulk of a too-warm sleeping bag when I could carry a lighter one. So it's time to do some research!

Airing out my WM Lynx last winter after a chilly night in the White Mountians

Which Sleeping Bags to Compare:
I started with the sleeping bag I already have, the Lynx GWS, and looked for other sleeping bags that have a similar size, weight, temperature rating, and quality. The list I came up with, unless otherwise noted, includes standard-sized, zero degree, 800-850 fill power down sleeping bags. I've chosen bags that I can get with an employee discount at the outfitter where I work, so my options will be a little skewed, although these are the same bags I would have chosen if only based on quality.

Western Mountaineering Lynx GWS
-Weight (Total / Fill): 56 oz / 32 oz
-Notes: My current bag, rated to -10 but much warmer in my experience.

Western Mountaineering Antelope MF
-Weight (Total / Fill): 39 oz / 26 oz
-Notes: Rated for +5 degrees, but anecdotal evidence suggests it can go much lower.

Western Mountaineering Kodiak MF
-Weight (Total / Fill): 44 oz / 30 oz
-Notes: Sized wide for big folks, but the extra width may help with layering extra clothes inside the bag.

Marmot Lithium
-Weight (Total / Fill): 44 oz / 28 oz
-Notes: Nothing out of the ordinary here, just a good all around bag from what I hear.

Marmot Couloir
-Weight (Total / Fill): 55 oz / 31 oz
-Notes: EN rating for Couloir is slightly warmer than Lithium, though Marmot claims both are 0 degree bags.

Eastern Mountain Sports Mountain Light 0
-Weight (Total / Fill): 44 oz / 26.4 oz
-Notes: The most inexpensive of the bunch by far.

Golite Adrenaline 4-Season
-Weight (Total / Fill): 50 oz / 31 oz
-Uses a chest-zipper instead of side-zip, which actually seems kind of nice to me.

How I Compare the Bags:
As you can see, I'm comparing two basic specs for these bags: total weight and fill weight. Why those, you may ask? Temperature ratings vary greatly across different manufacturers, so assuming all these bags will be comparably warm will likely be wrong. EN Ratings are a standardized rating, but not many major manufacturers list these ratings, so that's no help for now. What I can use is the weight of the down in each bag as a reasonably accurate assessment of how much insulation value each bag has.

I gathered data for girth measurements of the sleeping bags at first, but found that those measurements couldn't really be trusted between manufacturers. Some measured the inside girth, others the outside girth. But it didn't matter so much, because I found that most of the bags, aside from the Kodiak, were within an inch or two as far as sizes, so I disregarded the measurements.

What about variable circumference laser-welded ergonomic Thermo-Amazingness (tm) and other features?
Let's face it– a sleeping bag is not much more than an insulated tube. The heat comes from your body, and the bag's job is to hold that heat in. Fancy baffles, ergonomic hoods, no-snag zippers, and those other bells and whistles may be handy, but they won't generate the heat for you. When it comes right down to it, the only innovations that make a huge difference are lighter shell fabrics, and simplified construction. Everything else is just frosting on the cake. In this case, the cake is the most important bit. (This isn't to say the other features aren't nice, but for me they're not a high priority in the decision-making process).

Since the fill power and size of most of these bags are similar, I'm assuming that by looking at the amount of the fill I can get some idea of how dense the insulation in each bag is. This isn't an exact science, but if you look at the two Marmot bags here, the Couloir has a slightly larger girth, with almost 11% more down fill. No wonder the EN rating shows the Couloir to be warmer. However, for that bit of extra warmth in the form of 3 ounces of down and some more shell fabric, we get 11 ounces more of total weight. Is it worth the trade? Maybe, maybe not.

Weeding Out Bags for Testing
-The Couloir looks all too similar to the Lynx (one ounce less in both full weight and fill weight), which I've already decided is overkill, so the Couloir is out.
-The Adrenaline is six ounces heavier than the Kodiak for only one ounce more of down insulation. I can make up that extra insulation with jackets and pants inside the Kodiak, so the Adrenaline is out.
-The Lithium and the Kodiak have the same total weights, but the Kodiak has two more ounces of down. This is a tough call, since it means the shell fabric of the Lithium is heavier, but the Kodiak's extra girth would be inefficient. I'll cut the Kodiak out for now for this reason, but I may revisit it later.

So that leaves three out of the initial six bags to compare: the EMS Mountain Light 0, the Western Mountaineering Antelope, and the Marmot Lithium. All three are snug-fitting with similar fill. The Antelope and Lithium are well-tested and get great reviews. The Mountain Light is new and intriguing. The Antelope and Lithium are relatively simple in construction, while the Mountain Light has high-falutin' vertical baffles. Marmot and EMS use this "new technology" in some of their new sleeping bags, but that sounds to me like adding more blades to a razor and calling it a "stunning new breakthrough!"

Decision?
This is as far as I can really take the theoretical testing for sleeping bags at this point. My plan from here is to see if I can rent a Mountain Light bag from EMS for a trip or two to decide if it's good enough. If so, I'd gladly take it since it's inexpensive, light, and should last a lifetime. If it's not warm enough, I can probably assume the Lithium is the way to go– a little more down, similar weight, and anecdotal evidence suggests it's good to well below zero.

As for prices weighing in on the decision, I haven't discussed them here only because most of the prices are quite similar. They are definitely weighing in on my decisions, though. I'm just choosing to do that part of the decision making process behind the scenes for now, though.

Non-Winter Sleeping Bags:
You see how my research goes for winter sleeping bags now, but how about three-season sleeping bags? This is a more involved question for me, because I now use a quilt instead of a sleeping bag, but if I were looking for a three-season down mummy bag, my decision making would go pretty much the same way:
–Choose high-quality manufacturers who use high-quality fabrics and insulation.
–Compare the amount of insulation and the total weight of the fill, not just each manufacturer's claims about temperature rating and weight.
–Don't worry about gimmicks or bells and whistles. Remember: it's an insulated tube. The only extra feature that I'd pay a lot of attention to is whether the baffles are continuous or blocked, which tells you if the down can shift around to better insulate one area or another.
–Take your time in choosing a new bag. If you choose right, it can last you a lifetime. My The North Face Beeline has over 5000 miles of use, including the entire Appalachian Trail and Pacific Crest Trail (so approximately 250 nights of use), and it is still running strong.

Next week, I'll take a look at down jackets for winter use, and I'll be just as neurotic about it.

Slushing up Chocorua, 11/25/11

2011-11-30T04:30:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday, after a hectic week of driving back and forth to Boston twice, spending Thanksgiving with the family, working on the day before and after, and being generally sleep-deprived, I awoke early yet again to make the nearly three-hour drive to the Conway area with Yvonne and our friend Annie to hike one of the not-hidden gems of the White Mountains. We met a few more of Yvonne's friends at the parking lot for the Piper Trail (which in the winter is a plowed yard next to the National Forest trailhead, which is closed– the residents charge $3 to park in the winter, which is the same as the usual fee for trailhead parking in the Whites), and started up Mount Chocorua.

At only 3500 feet in elevation, Chocorua is an amazingly little mountain. The summit is bare and rocky, with glorious views all around, and the hike up is fun for all ability levels. This being the end of autumn, the conditions were not ideal. Temperatures were well above freezing, so the snow that had fallen a few days ago was now ankle-deep slush for almost the entire 4.5 miles up. That made for slippery and wet hiking. Otherwise, it was a fine day. I'll let the pictures do the talking.

A parking lot with a view. It's always nice to see exactly where you're going from the start of the hike.

At best, the trail was a mix of rock and solid snow. A little slippery here, but less wet than the slush.

Above treeline, the rock slabs offered great views but with more slipping and sliding.

From our first viewpoint we could see where the Carter Ledge trail comes up. I think I'll take that one next.

The prize is in sight!

Looking out toward Passaconaway, Whiteface, the Tripyramids, Osceola, and more. A really gorgeous section of the Whites.

Once on the summit ridge, the route becomes a free-for-all, making for a really entertaining walk.

Annie and Yvonne seem to think this ledge I led them up wasn't the safest route.

There's so much open space on the summit, it's a great place for a picnic (cold, though).

It's about time to head down.

Heading back down before the early sunset.

To top it all off, we stopped by the Eastern Mountain Sports in North Conway to check out some things, and I was ambushed by a hiking buddy from the PCT whom I had not seen in a year and a half. I didn't even know she lived near Conway, so when she tackled me from behind in the store, I probably made a few parents clamp their hands over their kids' ears before I realized who it was. Good times.

The Ultralight Shopping List

2011-11-28T05:30:00.000-05:00

Since my post on being the ultralight cheapskate seemed to be such a big hit, I thought I'd elaborate on that a little. I try to be very conscious of my unnecessary expenditures, in other words any money I spend on backpacking equipment. I have a bit of a downfall in this area, though– I also prefer to have top quality equipment and I'm a bit of a gear junkie. I always want more backpacking stuff because I'm always tweaking my gear list to have the ideal for all conditions. You could call it an addiction, since it often overrides my sense of reason (which is suspect to begin with), but it's an integral part of what makes me who I am. Backpacking is my life, so obsessing over the equipment keeps me connected to it while I'm not on the trail or planning a hike. And it's healthier than heroin or Mountain Dew.

Solution: Get the best gear and make it last! (at the end of the PCT here, with my trusty Mountain Laurel Designs Exodus Pack, Montane Featherlite Smock, Gossamer Gear Lightrek 4 Poles, and "The Ox").

Some folks go for bargain buying and using dirt-cheap gear. I like to go this route when it doesn't affect the quality and weight of my equipment. One way or another I try to avoid paying full-price for anything, and having a part-time job at an outfitter certainly helps in that regard. But what's the point of spending any amount of money on a piece of equipment that you're just going to want to upgrade the next year? The best route is to get exactly what you want once, then not want to buy something better later on.

With that in mind, I'll be putting up a few posts this holiday season about my long and convoluted thought process for buying new backpacking gear. I'm a habitual researcher when it comes to what gear item I should get, spending way too much time reviewing specs and user comments online before making a big purchase ("big" being anything more than $30). With an even smaller gear budget than usual this year, I'll be doing a lot more research before deciding what to buy, if anything. And since it's the Christmas shopping season, hopefully the research I'm doing will help out some other folks in their decisions to buy some new hiking toys.

This tarp has kept me dry through the entire AT, NET, and dozens of weekend trips over the past 6 years. It's not perfect, but it's hard to beat the reliability and price.

You might ask me, "don't you already have enough equipment?" For the most part, yes. Especially when it comes to three-season backpacking. But I'm looking to do more winter backpacking in the future, and I definitely don't have a good set of gear for winter backpacking. Also, being the addict that I am, I'm always lusting over fancier and better equipment that I can get for long-term upgrades. There aren't really any impulse buys in my life– I make sure to think through my purchases beforehand, and place them into three general categories, loosely arranged by necessity:

1. Upgrading existing gear: This category is the one that is hard to justify spending money in because I already have suitable equipment, and these expenditures are just replacing my "good enough" gear with something even better. Ideally, I'd wait until something breaks, and then replace it with something better. The bonus of waiting to upgrade, as with computers, is that the longer you wait, the better the new purchase.

2. Extending my range of backpacking possibilities: This is an ongoing process for me. I'm already pretty well outfitted for three-season backpacking in the Northeast, as I've said. However, my three-season Northeast gear doesn't necessarily work for winter in the Northeast. There are also a few pieces of gear that don't translate well to Western backpacking. I try to make purchases to fill the gaps in my possible backpacking areas from time to time, but the urgency mostly depends on how soon I'll be heading to a new place. This winter, I hope to do a lot more backpacking in Vermont and New Hapmshire, which means I've got my eyes set on some new winter gear.

3. Replacing and fixing gear: This is the most important expenditure in general, but I hate to make it. Inevitably, some gear is going to break beyond repair. I try not to let this happen to most things, but sneakers, trekking pole tips, and foam sleeping pads wear out eventually with normal use. I try to limit my disposable gear to just those things, so I don't make any regular expenditures to replace worn out gear. With plenty of backpacking, though, you have to replace stuff eventually.

It's never a quick process for me to buy new gear– there's endless research on the internet, sometimes buying and returning (I don't like to do that, but it can be very useful), sometimes buying and field testing extensively before deciding an item isn't right (in which case I'll usually sell it). Sometimes the stars will align so that an item presents itself as the perfect item, and it becomes the perfect purchase.

In the next few weeks, I'll try to put up posts about my process for buying sleeping bags, insulating jackets, backpacks, and general items. We'll see where it goes from there.

Five Stupid Things I've Done While Hiking

2011-11-24T05:30:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving! Pretty soon I'll be working full tilt at the local outfitter, doing the Christmas Season stuff, so I may be scarce in the next few weeks. I'm not sure how busy I'll be. For now, though, here's something fun for you. This post was partly inspired by Grant at New England Outside-- Grant's prompt was "what you've learned from hiking," but this is mostly about how I've learned my limits while hiking.

Adventuring around in the wilderness is all about learning. I learn new things every time I go backpacking, whether it's about my surroundings, myself or my equipment. There's always something that can pop up and surprise me, and that's one of the reasons I enjoy backpacking. You never know exactly how a trip is going to go.

Sometimes you learn more effectively from some experiences than others. As the saying goes, you learn best from exercising poor judgement and living to tell the tale. Here are a few things I've done on my big hikes in the past, each of which taught taught me lessons through bad judgement.

1. Walked Seven Hundred Miles with an Infected Blister

Yes, that handicapped parking is for me.

If that sounds painful, you're right! Somewhere in southwest Virginia on the Appalachian Trail, I got a blister on the bottom of my foot, which is the worst place for a hiker to get a blister. Right on the ball, between the first and second toes. I tried to take care of it, but throughout Virginia all the way to New Hampshire, I was on a roll, hiking between 24 and 29 miles each day, with no days off for two months. At some point, after the blister had turned a mix of black and red, and had been open and oozing for days, I convinced myself that it would eventually go away on its own. And the crippling pain, as well. Oh, I can't even describe how much it hurt to take those first few steps after every break, although the pain dulled after a dozen or so steps on the trail. It was bad news.

In Duncannon, PA, I finally took half a day off to see a doctor and get some antibiotics. The doctor took one look at my foot and said, "Oh wow!" Which is something you usually don't want a doctor to say. Within three or four days on the antibiotics, though, the blister was gone as if it had never been there. The high metabolism of a hiker paired with some strong drugs can do wonders!

2. Underestimated New England's Autumn Chill

The worst kind of snow-- wet and melting.

On the New England Trail, I was prepared for temperatures down to the mid-thirties. Since it was October and I was heading south, I figured I would walk just ahead of the colder temperatures. I was wrong. A freak cold spell hit (well, only some of it was unusual), and I had temperatures down into the low twenties on several nights, as well as a lot more snow than anticipated.

Each day, I would get into camp, pitch my tarp and hang my bear bag as fast as possible, and then sit in my sleeping bag with all my clothes and insulation on, cooking dinner and drinking as much hot cocoa as possible before going to sleep at 7:30 or 8 PM. It was too cold to dilly-dally in camp, so I had to either keep constantly moving or be in my bag. There was no leeway for in between.

3. Charged a Bear

Yeah, that's him. After I laid the smack down.

In the Sierra on the Pacific Crest Trail, while my group sat down for dinner one night we were approached by the largest bear I've ever seen in the wild (not counting on TV). He was clearly not afraid of us, and looked like he was waiting for us to invite him to the party. My companions tried banging pots together and shouting, but he just circled us at about fifteen feet. Way too close for comfort. So I charged at him, yelling and waving my arms in the air like a crazy person. Which is exactly what I was, I guess.

Mister Bear ran away, as I'd assumed he would. But I didn't think about what would have happened if he hadn't until one of my hiking buddies brought up the subject. I probably would have stopped and not ran right into him, and maybe I would have made a mess in my pants once I realized what I was doing. I'll probably be a bit more cautious next time.

4. Tried to make a Backcountry Milkshake

Because who wouldn't want a milkshake out here?

Many years ago, I was on a semester course at NOLS in the canyons of Utah. On one of our base-camp days in the wilderness, I decided I wanted to use our extensive backcountry kitchen to make a milkshake. Easy enough, I thought. Brown sugar, powdered milk, water, a Nalgene, shake until thoroughly mixed. Maybe some extra powdered milk to get that richness you want in a shake. Maybe a lot of extra powdered milk...

What goes in must come out, and that nasty concoction came out like a rocket. I won't go into the details, but you can use your imagination. If you ever need to clean out your colon in the wilderness, just eat a bag of powdered milk and get ready.

5. Listened to Music While Hiking in Rattlesnake Country

After a while on the Pacific Crest Trail, through-hikers tend to zone out for the long stretches of trail up north. Listening to an iPod helps pass the time. I don't like to listen to music on the trail because it diminishes my awareness of what's going on around me. For instance, as I was walking out of Chester, CA, earbuds stuck into my ears and blasting some good old Jefferson Airplane, I noticed something I should have noticed several steps earlier. I was walking within two feet of a reared-up and viciously rattling snake. And I just kept walking, barely aware until I was well past it. I don't know why it didn't go ahead and bite me, but I'm sure glad it didn't. Lesson learned-- no more headphones on the trail.

Do any of you have good stories of stupid things you've done while hiking that will make you change your ways? Or things your, uh, your "friends" did (it definitely wasn't you)? No names need to be named...

Unfinished Business on the Long Trail

2011-11-21T08:16:00.000-05:00

You may have noticed that in the past few months I've been doing a lot less hiking and a lot more reflecting about life. Moving in with my girlfriend, committing to over a year of residence in one place, and trying to make a living in unfamiliar territory has certainly made me a little nervous about the future. With my past experience being almost entirely nomadic and seasonal, the idea of settling down is pretty foreign to me.

This stream crossing was rough enough without the newly collapsed bank, probably from Hurricane Irene.

So with the holiday shopping season promising to overwhelm my work schedule for the next few months, and the impending winter promising to make the cost of living rise to push my limits, I needed to get out for a day in the woods. I wasn't looking for great views– just some alone time to collect my thoughts and to knock off a few of those Long Trail Side Trails that I'd hoped to complete this year. For the past few months I've mostly been doing day hikes with Yvonne, but I needed some solitude on Friday. Sometimes a lone walk in the woods is the best thing for the brain.

Starting to look like autumn for real– all the leaves are down, and there's snow on the ground.

I started out reasonably early at the remote trailhead for the Broad Brook Trail, just over the Vermont border from Williamstown. It seems like an odd trailhead, since it's right across the street from someone's house, and the first few tenths of a mile of the trail go behind rural houses in dense hardwood forest, but soon enough I was walking along the gushing Broad Brook, hurrying to stay warm. The forecast had called for cool temperatures– indeed, it didn't rise above freezing until I was ten miles into my hike.


As if the rock hops weren't enough, those rocks were slick with ice.

The Broad Brook trail turned out to be much more interesting than I'd expected. Several crossings of the brook were difficult, to say the least. I had to walk up and down the banks to find a decent rock-hop, then make leaps of faith over ice-coated boulders. I dunked my feet at one point when a rotten log collapsed beneath me, but I later found that my feet would have been wet most of the day anyway– starting about halfway up the trail there was a thick dusting of snow that stuck to my shoes and melted through.

I haven't seen this place since 2007, when the sign was older and a little more ragged.

Once I arrived at the Long Trail near Seth Warner Shelter, I realized I didn't want to try any of those stream crossings again, so instead I took the Long Trail / Appalachian Trail south to the Pine Cobble Trail, and then a three-mile road walk back to my car. This turned out to be a very worthwhile detour, since the LT/AT is in a much better state of maintenance, and much easier than the Broad Brook trail. And I was able to knock off one more side trail from my list (leaving only four short trails in my side-to-side list). The scenery didn't hurt– the trail passed by several large glacial erratics, near a few open hollows, and across long abandoned logging routes in the forest. There weren't any views (except a few from Pine Cobble), but it was a wonderfully peaceful walk. And even with all the leaves down, the forest had an austere sort of beauty. Most of Northern New England has dense, overgrown forest, but down here it was open and orderly. It seemed I could have just walked in any direction without difficulty.

Somebody spent a lot of time at the top of the Pine Cobble Trail on this rock garden.

By the end of the day I was happily exhausted. Fourteen miles of walking, and the sun had finally come out around mile ten. Though I'd started with the intention of collecting my thoughts, I found that my mind stayed happily blank, just soaking in the scenery and the joy of being alone in the forest. What little pondering I'd done revolved around future plans, which is normal for me, but unlike usual I felt overly optimistic.

How's that for an interesting find in the forest? A bowl of ice made from a trio of trees.

I'm living a very hand-to-mouth existence right now. My Christmas-season retail job will likely end in mid-January, leaving me with no idea what I'll do for the rest of the time until summer, when my plans are just as vague and uncertain as ever. And yet I felt like everything was right with the world. I may not have a steady job, or a plan for the future, but I've got great expanses of New England forest to roam. If I had to choose one of those three things, you know which one I'd go with every time.

What Do You Do?

2011-11-17T05:00:00.000-05:00

One afternoon on the Appalachian Trail in 2007 I overheard an unusual conversation. I had been on the trail for almost a month, but it was the first time I'd heard the dreaded question, "What do you do?" The person asking the question couldn't get an answer that satisfied her. "I hike," her interviewee responded, stubbornly, over and over whenever the question was asked.

What is your answer to that question? What do you do?

This is what I do.

My experience in 2007 was that people on the trail tended to avoid this question. Even five years later, I avoid it, because I don't identify myself in the way that the question assumes I do.

So let's get right down to it. "What do you do" or "what are you" refer to your income. They assume that you identify yourself by how you make money. For some people, that's okay. If your work makes you happy and proud, then that's worth celebrating by saying that your work is your identity. If your work is just something to pay the bills until you find a job that you love, or if you're unemployed, what then? Are you nothing more than your job?

In the past year, if I'd answered the question the way people want me to answer it, it would have gone like this: "I do data entry for a mapping company," or "I'm a camp counselor, and yes, I'm ten years older than most of the other counselors," or "I pack boxes for shipping from a warehouse," or "I don't have a job." Thrilling! But I never wanted to identify myself in those ways. None of those things are my identity. Leading backpacking trips for summer camps was close, but for me to really want to identify myself by my job, I need to work for a top-notch organization with a mission that I fully support, and I have to be doing something for that organization that makes me happy.

Until that day, I'd much rather answer "what do you do" with the things that I do that make me happy. I'm an ultralight backpacker. I'm a writer. I'm a baker. I've been paid to do a few of those things on very rare occasions (although that was usually a secondary or tertiary responsibility of the job), but they define me as a person more than any regular source of income I've ever had. Even if I ever get that dream job, and I get paid to hike, write, and bake, it'll just be a nice coincidence that my identity and my job happen to line up.

So again, I ask, what is your answer to the question:
What do you do?

Maplets iPhone App

2011-11-15T05:00:00.000-05:00

For someone who used to be a huge computer nerd, these days I feel like an old fart when it comes to technology. Social networks and smart phones seem like voodoo magic to me. Popular programs and websites like Facebook and Google Earth are totally new to me in the past year or two. Things like Twitter make some sense to me, but I can't quite understand why they're so popular. But I try to keep up with what all the kids are up to these days.

A few weeks ago, on the Backpackinglight Northeast Regional Meet Up, I overcame my fear of spending money on the iPhone App Store and downloaded the Massachusetts State Parks Maplets app. In the past ten months that I've had this phone, I've only spent money on two apps before this one. I'm a pretty stingy person, and I don't like to buy things without knowing exactly what I'm getting, so dropping the whopping $1 for this app made me nervous. The verdict? Even if I never use it again, it was well worth the money I spent on it.

Screen shot from the app while I was in the trailside campsite. The GPS location was spot on.

In a way, this app is everything you want an iPhone app to be. It's simple, effective, useful, and elegant. Come to think of it, it also represents much of the Ultralight ethic in those four traits. What you get for your 99 cents is access to maps of every state park in Massachusetts (there are other versions of this app for California, National Parks, and others), but with a twist. While you could get any of these maps for free from various state park websites, or from park visitor centers– the extra bonus here is that the free map now integrates quite nicely with the iPhone's GPS.

The three of us driving into Mount Washington State Park on that Friday night got in late at night, so the directions we'd taken down were a little difficult to follow. Being deep in the Berkshires, we also had no data signals for our phones, so my Google Maps weren't loading to give us directions. I'd already downloaded the state park map, though, so I switched, and we were able to use that map with the little blue dot of our GPS location to direct us to the park entrance. Later, while hiking on Mount Alander, I was able to use the GPS function and watch the compass direction pointing out from the blue dot to see where I was going on the trails, which were otherwise spottily marked.

This seems self explanatory, right? When you tap on the pins, they show which park they represent.

Plenty of people will pooh-pooh the use of smartphones in the backcountry, but let's face it: they're just another tool you can use in the right situations. For occasionally checking my location on the trails, and having easy access to several maps of an area, a simple app like this is a perfect example of simplicity and functionality.

Disclaimer: I paid real money for this product, and the review is unsolicited by the developers of the app.

Granite Gear Airsack Packaging

2011-11-10T05:30:00.000-05:00

This little thing!

There are few mainstream backpacking gear companies that earn my full respect for truly pushing the envelope as far as lightweight backpacking. While most mainstream companies are starting to flood REI and EMS with lightweight packs, those packs still resemble traditional framed packs. They have lids, zippers, pockets, and extra straps galore. Meanwhile, Granite Gear has been quietly putting simplified ultralight backpacks, cuben fiber, and catenary-cut silnylon tarps into major stores for years. They don't take the full plunge into the fringe like cottage manufacturers, but their equipment is fairly common, which means they are helping the message of ultralight backpacking get out there in a big way.

I could go on about the company in general, but there's one thing I want to highlight today that I think every manufacturer should learn from.

Granite Gear's stuff sacks (like the Air Bag Sil Stuff Sack, the Uberlight Drysack, or the Event Sil Compression Sacks to name a few) are packaged in small, mesh zipper bags, rather than plastic throwaways or boxes. The last time I bought a stuff sack, a Granite Gear Air Bag, I was so excited by the little zipper bag that I almost forgot about the stuff sack itself. Unlike most packaging, the only waste was a small flap of plastic with the product info, which I didn't even need to cut off (but I did anyway).

Now it's a handy camera case for my shoulder straps!

The zipper pouch has small loops at either end so that it can be attached to your pack's shoulder straps or hip belt. The front is all mesh, so you can put wet things in them to dry (in theory). I've been using mine as a toiletries bag for the past few years. It's not fancy, but it is elegant and simple. In fact, I've used the zipper pouch more than the stuff sack itself.

Of course, you probably won't go out and buy a new stuff sack just so you can get one of these pouches, but how wonderful that something that has traditionally been trash is now something useful. As much as I love Sea To Summit's stuff sacks, each one comes in a stiff, plastic tube. The tube is recyclable, yes, but usable is better than recyclable. It's kind of like how I used to turn styrofoam box inserts into forts for my action figures when I was a kid, except even better!

So hats off to you, Granite Gear. Now if only my local outfitter would start carrying their bags.

Adventures in Daylight Savings: Osceola 11/6/11

2011-11-08T06:30:00.000-05:00

"So what time do we set your alarm for?"
"When do we want to wake up?"
"Six, but tomorrow's daylight savings."
"Do we want six today time or six tomorrow time?"
"Tomorrow time, but does your clock automatically update with tomorrow's time?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"Okay, so we set the alarm for six."
"Wait, why do we want to wake up at six? Tomorrow's six is like today's five, isn't it?"
"No, it'll be like seven, because you fall back."
"But you fall back to five..."

This went on a lot longer than it should have, and I don't think it accomplished much, because it was repeated at five o'clock the next morning, which was like six o'clock the previous morning, and... Damn it, I don't know what frigging time it is! I hate Daylight Savings!

But once Yvonne and I were on the road, everything was fine. Our destination, Mount Osceola. I'd been there once before, on the New England Trail, but I'd only had a few seconds of a view before being enclosed in a cloud.

It's starting to get a little icy on this trail.

On Sunday, I wasn't too excited about going up to the White Mountains for a hike, since late fall tends to be hit and miss as far as hiking conditions. I'm used to it being too snowy and wet for normal three-season footwear, and there's not enough snow for snowshoes. When we arrived at the trailhead, though, I could tell this was going to be a spectacular day. Crystal clear skies, brisk air, and clear ground– good hiking conditions for sure.

When you're not moving, inch-thick ice coatings on rock slabs look mighty fine.

The Mount Osceola Trail is a classic in the White Mountains, but not at all typical of the region's hiking trails. Sure, it has lots of rocks and granite slabs, but the trail mostly goes along even grades with almost no steep climbing. With the ground frozen and the boulders easy for gripping with any footwear, Yvonne and I made quick work of the bottom half of the trail. No wonder it's such a popular trail for day-hikers. But a little over halfway to the top, the challenges began.

The trail looked a lot like this for about a mile, but it was a balmy 45 degrees.

The trail may not have been very challenging on a dry summer day, but with so much slab rock and so many water seeps, there came a point where the entire trail was a sheer, slick sheet of ice. Yvonne had brought her Microspikes, but mine are still in storage at my parents' house in Maine. I'll get them out around Thanksgiving, but in the meantime I had to walk slower, step very carefully, and test my balance constantly. It was great on the way up, but going down was a bit harrowing and treacherous.

Mount Osceola's famous cliff, looking out at the Tripyramids and Chocorua.

Up top, I saw the other reason why Osceola is such a popular mountain. For such an easy hike (not counting the ice), you get one of the finest views in all the White Mountains. From this huge, open cliff, where a fire lookout tower once stood, you get a panorama from Carrigain and the Presidential Range to the northeast, to Waterville Valley and Sandwich Dome to the south. The valley where the Kancamagus Highway runs is just below, and ahead are perfect views of the entire Sandwich Range, from the Dome and the Tripyramids to Chocorua. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and we beat the crowds to the summit, so it was quiet and clear.

East Osceola in the foreground, with Carrigain and then the Presidentials further out.

Yvonne hadn't hit East Osceola yet for her 4000 Footers, and I would have been game to make the trek over if I'd had my Microspikes, but I wasn't excited to try what could have been a lot more slipping and sliding to the relatively viewless East Peak. Another day, then. We descended the way we'd come, slower because the ice was just as slick and a little more difficult to navigate than on the ascent.

A hidden viewpoint to the north adds views of Franconia Ridge and the Pemigewassett Wilderness

We were down to the car by 1 or 2 (again, I hate Daylight Savings)– a relatively early end to the day. If we'd planned ahead better, I would have liked to do the Welch-Dickey Loop as well, but I was feeling very content with what we'd just done. For the part of the hiking season that is usually hit or miss, this was a very good hit.

The Ultralight Cheapo Lifestyle

2011-11-04T06:00:00.000-04:00

For several years I've been trying to live the gospel of ultralight backpacking, carrying as little as possible and getting big mileage in a literal sense as well as the figurative. Since so much of my post-college life has involved being willingly unemployed (i.e., being a through-hiker), I've been living in a world that most people think is insane. For the time being, though, I'm living in their world– the world of rent payments, car repairs, heating oil, nine-to-five, and paychecks that are never as big as I want them to be.

A typical home when I was seasonally employed. It worked pretty well when I had no responsibilities.

In those years since college, I've worked mostly seasonal jobs that pay little, but put me in places where I can live in and enjoy the outdoors. What little money I made would often go toward backpacking gear and saving up for the next big adventure. Now it seems I'm more "normal," with my gear budget gone to my apartment and car, and my savings not growing anymore. I'll blame some of it on the economy, but a lot of it just comes from making the switch from full-time to part-time hiking.

A month ago I made a decision that I would spend no money on new backpacking equipment or hiking clothing unless that money came from selling my old gear. I'll stick to that resolution until next October, unless I have a really good reason to break it. (How's that for vague?)

My weekend-warrior hiker-mobile with my bat-signals so far. A little rusty and scratched and old, but it gets me to the trail.

Most people would consider buying any high-tech backpacking gear to be a luxury, but the way I see it, every person has to entertain themselves somehow. I don't own a television, I drive a car with over 200,000 miles on it, my clothes are worn out and old, and I eat out so infrequently that I can remember every restaurant meal I've had in the past four months. Instead of spending money on those kinds of things, I usually spend money on backpacking. And in the past year, my average spending on backpacking equipment has been less than $50 per month. That's about as much as a cable bill, right?

Since I love arbitrary goals (like getting my pack base weight below 8 pounds, hiking every side trail to the Long Trail, or hiking the hundred highest peaks in New England), adding the "no new spending" goal is right up my alley. But I've got some more ideas, too.

When I put together gear lists for future hikes, I'll try to point out how much mileage each piece of equipment has. Standouts that I can think of off the top of my head are my Mountain Laurel Designs Exodus (over 3500 miles), my Gossamer Gear Lightrek 4 poles (over 3000 miles), my Montane Featherlite wind shirt (over 4000 miles), and my North Face Beeline sleeping bag (4700 miles). Lots of people make gear lists that show off how inexpensive their equipment is, but I'm more interested in how well the equipment holds up for the long haul, and how much I want to bring it on the next hike rather than getting something new.

I'm also trying to think of every piece of hiking gear and clothing that I don't use often, and figuring I need to sell any of it that I don't use every year. I'm one of those crazy people who thinks other people generally own too much stuff, and I don't want to own too much stuff. Part of that comes from me not having much storage space, but let's face it– if you own something just because you think "maybe I'll use this someday," you probably don't need it. I've had good luck with getting rid of my old, unused things on ebay, and I imagine that if someone is going to spend money to buy a used thing from me, they probably want it more than me.

So it's time for me to boost my budget for new gear by getting rid of the old. Here we go!

Winter on the Appalachian Trail

2011-11-02T05:00:00.000-04:00

The early snow this past weekend reminded me of something that I think is very entertaining. I'll see if you think so, too.

One of the reasons that hiking on the Appalachian Trail or Long Trail in winter is so difficult is that snow will often obscure blazes and entire corridors of trail. I discovered this in a big way when I worked at Little Lyford in the 100 Mile Wilderness of Maine. Nobody, and I mean nobody, hikes on the AT in that area in the winter. I bushwhacked to the trail at Gulf Hagas Mountain a few times that winter, and found the AT in this kind of condition.

Note, the blaze is only two feet above the snow there. Normally it's five or so.

But that's only part of it. Here's the summit sign of Gulf Hagas Mountain that winter, February 2008.

Now look at it from September 2008, when I went back to hike the 100 Mile Wilderness.

The snow was about where my shoulders are. Five feet?

One of those days in the winter, I made a longer bushwack to West Peak (on an attempt to reach White Cap mountain), and spent hours trying to find the trail while lost in the spruce. I found the peak, eventually, like this:

And from the summer, here's what it looked like:

My goodness, that's a lot of snow! And I can't wait to break out the snowshoes for this winter. Bring it on!

Snowy Stratton, 10/29/11

2011-10-31T05:00:00.000-04:00

With the forecast calling for up to a foot of snow in the lower elevations Saturday night, Yvonne and I decided to bump our hiking plans from Sunday to Saturday morning, and what a good decision that was. Our destination was a 12-mile loop over Stratton Mountain and past Stratton Pond in southern Vermont. The area is something of a spiritual home for me, since I led a trail crew there through the summer of 2008, the year after my Appalachian Trail through-hike, and I grew so attached to the section of trail from the pond to the mountain. Oddly, though I'd returned to the pond four or five times in the past several years, I've never hiked from the pond to the mountain to see my old handiwork, or to see the fine views from the mountain.

This brings back memories of Sandwich Dome on the New England Trail two years ago.

Yvonne and I arrived at the Long Trail crossing at Kelly Stand Road by 8:30, at which point I realized I'd forgotten my down puffy jacket. Normally, at the end of October, this wouldn't be so much of a problem. But two days earlier, southern Vermont and New Hampshire had been hit with an early winter. A few inches of snow and frigid temperatures came about a month earlier than usual. Of course, all of my winter hiking equipment is in storage at my parents' house in Maine, so I was geared for cool fall hiking, not sub-freezing winter stuff. The only thing to do was hike fast and hard to stay warm.

One of Vermont's highest peaks, Stratton Mountain has more character than most.

The odd weather was on display as soon as we hit the trail. Snow coated everything, but the ground was still muddy and only barely frozen. Beech leaves littered the top surface of the snow. Keeping feet dry was impossible, since the temperature hovered right around freezing, making snow stick to my sneakers before it melted. Aside from the crazy weather, though, the hiking was glorious.

If not for the early date, I would have thought it was full-on winter. Mount Snow to the south had completely white ski trails, and the trail around us was coated thickly with snow. Add a grey overcast, and you'd never guess it it was still October.

Monadnock, close to where we'd come from that morning.

Up top, I was only able to run up the fire tower, snap three photos, and run down before being nearly frozen. I wish I could have stayed up there a little longer, but having no real insulation was not the best decision. At least I wasn't the only one caught a little off guard, though. We ran into a couple from New York who had come up for the weekend to do the loop as an overnight, and they hadn't expected quite so much snow. They seemed in good spirits, at least.

Slippery stream crossings are even more fun when you might fall into freezing water.

At the bottom of the mountain, I finally saw my old handiwork. In case you're wondering, on the Long Trail heading north from Stratton Mountain, you cross the IP Road about a mile before Stratton Pond, then about half a mile later cross a bridged stream. Between the road and the stream is where my trail crew placed several stretches of massive stepping stones and bog bridges to fix a hellish, swampy stretch of trail. There were some stepping stones already in place there, but our stones are a thing of beauty. If only we'd had a few more weeks to fix up one last section of trail. Whatever. Seeing those stones set in the ground for the first time in over three years made me so happy. I got all giddy, knowing that something I'd done is, quite literally, set in stone for future generations.

Yvonne testing a few of my rocks. Those things are solid!

We stopped for a quick snack at Stratton Pond and the shelter there, one of my favorites on the Long Trail, and then it was a slog back to the Kelly Stand road. Snow just started to fall as we got back to the car, but we made it home just in time. The blizzard was in full swing by the time got home to Keene, and the roads were just nasty. We watched four cars spin off the road just outside of town, casualties of this bizarre early-season snow. Sunday would be a day for being cozy and warm inside, while watching the snow melt outside– one of the great joys in life. And the forecast was actually wrong. We didn't get a foot of snow. We got 14 inches!

See a few more photos of the hike here.

Peakbagging, Through-Hiking, and Hiking Goals

2011-10-27T06:30:00.000-04:00

In the summer of 2009, when I was working for the Green Mountain Club in Vermont, I was helping out as a summit caretaker on Camel's Hump on a beautiful, bluebird day with views down to my house in Waterbury Center, the jagged peaks of the Adirondacks over Lake Champlain, the distant rolling White Mountains of New Hampshire, and green, green forest all around. That wasn't the spectacular part of the day, though. What really got me was when a couple of older men reached the summit, smiling profusely and overjoyed with life, pulled out a pair of mini wine bottles and lexan wine glasses from their pack, and made a toast. "You did it," one of them said, and the other smiled so widely that I thought his head might split.

Classic peakbagging in New Hampshire's Presidential Range.

I'd heard people get all excited about having climbed the mountain from time to time, but these two guys looked like they were in good shape, and like the hike to the top couldn't have been a major accomplishment for them. Camel's Hump certainly isn't one of the harder hikes in Vermont. What I didn't realize at first, but found out quickly as they celebrated, was that one of the men had just finished his New England 4000 Footers list, which he'd been working on for over a decade. Even more astonishing to me was that he lived only a half-hour drive from the trailhead to Camel's Hump, which meant he had somehow resisted the temptation to hike this most popular mountain until he had climbed every other high peak in New England, including some real pain in the butt peaks and others that are a heck of a long drive from Northern Vermont.

Climbing Vermont's highest peak on New Year's Day, 2009.

For me, the idea of peakbagging is just an extra bit of fun in the otherwise demented and delightful hobby of hiking. It's like a scavenger hunt, checking off all the peaks as you hike them and getting even more excited when you happen to bag two or three in one trip. For some people, peakbagging is an obsession, like the Gridders, who try to hike each of the 4000 Footers in each month of the year, or the Red-Liners, who try to hike every inch of hiking trail in the White Mountains. For me, though, I'm more drawn in by through-hiking-- it started with the Appalachian Trail, and became an addiction in the years after. But after seeing that man finish his 4000 Footers on Camel's Hump, I decided I should start my peakbagging journey.

From my first serious peakbagging trip to the Bonds in the middle of the White Mountains.

I looked back at which peaks I'd hit when I hiked the Appalachian Trail, and then which I'd hit while working in Vermont. And I started planning trips to get to the other 4000 Footers that I'd missed. I got the bug just like I'd got the bug for through-hiking. Before I got much of the way through the 4000 Footers, though, I added another 33 peaks to my list by deciding to do the New England Hundred Highest as well. A few years later, as I write this now, I've made a pretty good dent in the list. For the 4000 Footers, I've got one more in Vermont, four in New Hampshire, and three in Maine to go. The hundred highest are another story, and I doubt I'll finish either list in the next year or two, but it makes for a fun goal to help me plan trips. Peakbagging hasn't reached quite the same level of obsession for me as through-hiking, but maybe it will eventually.

One of Maine's most spectacular 4000 Footers, Avery Peak of Bigelow Mountain.

Whether it's peakbagging or through-hiking, though, I consider each to be extra motivation to get out and hike in new places. I certainly don't need any more motivation than the joy I find from hiking in the mountains, but the goals propel me to do more and go further than I might otherwise. Every time I plan a long-distance backpacking trip, the goal of getting from one place to another– with a very long distance in between– propels me to hike harder and see more than I might on a casual weekend backpacking trip. Part of the enjoyment comes from the sense of accomplishment at the end of the journey– the guy on Camel's Hump had dedicated so much of his time and effort over several years, and the sense of accomplishment was palpable to those around him.

My list of through-hiking and peakbagging goals gets longer faster than I can possibly check things off of it, but that's kind of the point. As I said about my idea for the North Woods Wilderness Loop, some of the goals sit on the back burner for a long time, but sometimes they come to the front and must be finished. Right now, I've got one peakbagging list I need to complete (yes, NEED!) and no fewer than seven long-distance backpacking goals that would take me at least four years even if I had no other obligations in life and an unlimited budget. There is so much to keep me dreaming.

What are your hiking goals, no matter how big or small or how many? As far as I'm concerned, you can dream as big as your heart desires.

Caldera Cone UL Compact Alcohol Stove

2011-10-25T07:01:00.000-04:00

There is one thing that ties together most overnight hikes for me better than anything else, and that is a nice, hot cup of cocoa before bedtime. Except in the hottest of weather, I'll boil up a big mug of hot water for cocoa after dinner, then sit in my shelter to write in my journal, look at the next day's hiking plan, and relax. That's my ritual for backpacking evenings.

The full Caldera Cone UL Compact system: fuel bottle, cone, stakes, pot, and stove. Oops, where's my lighter?

And to tie this ritual together for the past two years (on close to two hundred nights of camping), has been my Mountain Laurel Designs 850 Titanium pot, and my Caldera Cone UL Compact stove system. It's hard for me to think of ever switching back from the Caldera Cone to any other stove system now, since the ULC has everything I need and want in a backpacking cookware setup.

First, the whole system is incredibly light. The pot, with lid and handles, weighs 3.4 ounces, and the combination of the cone and stove is 1.4 ounces. Even with the two tent stakes (0.3 oz) that support the pot in conjunction with the cone, a miniature bic lighter (0.4 oz), and a bottle with enough fuel for a few days in the woods (approx 3 oz total), and my titanium spoon (0.4 oz) the whole system barely breaks half a pound.

Ready for cocoa or oatmeal in less than ten minutes with only half a fluid ounce of fuel.

Since the cone serves as a wind screen, pot stand, and heat funnel, it's super efficient as far as weight and fuel use. My water boiling needs are always between 1.5 and 2 cups of water at a time, which takes around 0.5 to 0.75 fluid ounces of denatured alcohol. It's been a while since I've used my fluid measuring cup to measure the fuel– these days I just use the cap of the fuel bottle, and estimate three capfuls for the right amount of fuel. The 8 fluid ounce bottle in the picture above was last filled in April, and I just emptied it a few days ago. I haven't used it as much this season as last year on the Pacific Crest Trail, but I'm still very happy with the fuel consumption.

The main reason I first purchased the ULC Cone was the "C" in ULC. Compact. Unlike other Caldera Cones, this one fits inside the pot, along with the stove, a lighter, and a little bit of room to spare. I keep a small square of aluminum foil in there as well, to protect the surface the stove sits on (shelter floors or dead pine needles can char in the right conditions). All told, the cook system takes up less space in my pack than an insulated travel mug, and stows easily.

All packed up and stowed away in a pot not much bigger than a soda can.

The stove system is a bit pricey, at $70 for the cone/stove, and $50 for the pot (you can use other types of pots, but this seems like a standard price), but I've used mine hundreds of times over the past two years and it's still going strong. As I've often said, simple designs last a lifetime, and the Caldera Cone ULC is about as simple and effective as it gets. Aside from stupid mistakes (I stepped on my stove a few weeks ago, but had a spare from my previous caldera cone– and the stove itself is replaceable for only $15), the system should last pretty much indefinitely.

Some final, nit-picky notes. Boil time. People make a big deal out of how long it takes to boil water on a backpacking stove. I don't. It boils two cups of water in around five minutes or less. Why don't I measure the time exactly? I'm backpacking. I'm not in a hurry. If I get cold while waiting, I can do jumping jacks. And speaking of cold, I've used the Caldera Cone down to 25 degrees Fahrenheit, and it works fine. Colder temperatures need more fuel and more time to boil, but I imagine it would work fine into late autumn.

If you're planning on backpacking a lot next summer (Appalachian Trail or Pacific Crest, anybody?), this would be a very good investment.

Backpackinglight.com North East Meet Up

2011-10-24T06:00:00.000-04:00

This weekend I joined a group of New Englanders from the Backpackinglight.com forums for the first of hopefully many group hikes. We'd been lamenting the fact that west-coast BPLers seem to have a tighter community than what we've been able to arrange in the northeast, so with some expert planning by a few of the forum members we were able to get ten strangers together in the mountains of Western Massachusetts together for a weekend of what I can only describe as intense gear-nerdiness.

Tranquil forest in Mount Washington State Forest, MA.

I'm a bit of a hermit, myself (hence the backpacking, the blog, and the lack of interaction with real humans in my immediate vicinity), so this trip was a welcome change of pace. I'd been feeling less like a part of the BPL community since my PCT through-hike a year ago, as I've had less time to go through forums and participate in the really great discussions there. This would be quite different from joining discussions on the latest trends in lightweight backpacking, but it seemed like a good idea none the less.

I joined the last of the Boston contingent late in the evening on Friday, meeting them in Northampton to leave my car and ride the rest of the way with a group. We were the latest arrivals at Mount Washington State Forest near South Egremont, MA, getting to the trailhead at 10:30 PM, and hiking by headlamp to the camping area. Luckily, I had just charged my Petzl Core battery, since hiking in an unfamiliar place after dark is always better with a bright light. We arrived at the campsite at 11, just after most of the group had gone to sleep. A few who were still awake excitedly welcomed us to the site, but we wasted little time in setting up shelters and passing out ourselves.

The morning is when the real fun began.

Ultralight Home Show part 4: Gossamer Gear The One

There were ten of us at the remote campsite, and you could tell it was a gathering of ultralight backpackers. So much cuben fiber, sil-nylon, and spinnaker fabric stood around the campsite that we couldn't help but start the day with an "Ultralight Home Show." We toured the site and had each person show off their backpacking shelter, sleeping set-up, and cool gear.

After looking through ten shelters (five pyramid tarps, four flat tarps, and a hammock), we talked gear, gear, gear, and more gear, before realizing we should go for a hike rather than just stand around and act like nerds all day. It was a short hike to Alander Mountain, but with the New England foliage still bright in its decline, the lack of sunshine couldn't dampen anyone's spirits.

The Massachusetts/Connecticut Border in fine form, late in autumn.

We spent most of the day hiking around on Alander Mountain, with some fine views of the Catskills and the valleys below, and on the South Taconic Trail, a particularly gorgeous walk in the woods with some of the most beautiful streams running through the wide open forest. It was beginning to feel like autumn proper, though, with a light overcast all day and chilly temperatures. After several stressful days last week, dealing with work and the life of a part-time hiker, a day of trading stories with other hikers and enjoying the relaxing forests of southern New England wiped away all my worries.

If I must have a fire, it's got to be a good one.

The day finished with some more show and tell about lightweight gear, and then, to make sure nobody thought we were too serious, a giant campfire and an unspecified amount of wine.

I can't get over how clear and peaceful these frigid streams were.

To sum up the weekend, it wasn't so much about hiking as about meeting other lightweight backpacking crazies. We're a relatively rare bunch– backpackers aren't a big population, and lightweight backpackers are a fringe of that small group, so we don't often meet. And since a lot of the equipment that we get excited about is either home-made or sold only online, it was sort of a shopping experience, too. I got to see and test several tarp shelters, backpacks, and new ideas that I'd never seen before. The downside to this is that now I have even more items on my wishlist than before. This could get expensive.

Ultralight Feet: Choosing Sneakers for Backpacking

2011-10-20T04:30:00.000-04:00

I got a question the other day about footwear for backpacking, which reminded me that I haven't gone on my rant about sneaker reviews yet. A few weeks ago I mentioned that I will probably never wear boots again, since I've backpacked over six thousand miles in all seasons with sneakers, but I didn't say much about which sneakers I wear. Why not?

There are hundreds of reviews online for hundreds of models of trail running sneakers. I've used almost a dozen models of trail runners since hiking the Appalachian Trail, so I should have some opinions to throw into the ring. But the problem with writing reviews for sneakers is that the most important aspect of footwear is the fit, and since everyone has wildly different feet, the fit for one shoe will be completely different for you than it is for me. Therefore I can't recommend any single model of trail runner.

But there are some factors that I find crucial in choosing new sneakers for backpacking. I tend to go with whatever brand I can get on the cheap, because sneakers wear out pretty regularly by 500 miles, and you just can't fix them. These days, New Balance is my usual choice because I have access to factory outlets, where I can sometimes find a good pair of sneakers for $25 to $50. But my problem with New Balance is that they change models almost as often as I change socks, so I have to find a completely new model of sneaker every time I shop for them. It would be nice to have the same model stick around for a long time, just in case I find the perfect one.

Here's a list of what I look for in sneakers for backpacking.

1: Light weight!
Of course, one of the main reasons to switch to sneakers is that they are lighter than boots. It just feels better to not lift up three-pound bricks attached to your feet for every step.

2: Breathability
I want the upper fabric of my sneaker to be entirely mesh. No leather, no waterproof-breathable fabric (it's never breathable enough), and no solid synthetic layer. Just mesh. I want sweat to evaporate quickly, and water to drain through the fabric in both directions. Wet feet aren't that bad once you get used to them, and I find sweaty, hot feet to be much more uncomfortable. Feet that can breathe are happy feet.

3: Soles
Sneakers aren't any less grippy on rock and trail than boots, which seems to be a common concern when switching to them. What's more important to me is the cushion and stiffness of the sole. A stiffer sole usually blocks against poking rocks, and good cushion makes your feet less achy at the end of the day. Stiff and cushioned soles aren't a necessity, though. They can be nice depending on the terrain, though.

4: Durability
It's impossible to measure this in the store, but if I get a pair of sneakers and they fall apart in less than a hundred miles, I won't buy another pair. One good indicator in the store is that the more frills and decoration you see on the shoe, the more points for failure. Simple construction tends to be more durable, as far as I'm concerned.

That's all! Vague enough for you? That's because, really, the only way to judge what footwear will work best for you is to go to the store and try on as many pairs of sneakers as you can until you get sick of it (or find your Cinderella Slipper).

Just for the record, even though I won't recommend any specific sneaker for hiking, I've had good experiences with Vasque, Montrail, New Balance, and Keen in the past. Other hikers I know are crazy about Mizuno, Brooks, Merrell, Garmont, and Aasics. There are just too many varieties to recommend. Go find your favorite, and enjoy.

Glastenbury Mountain on Columbus Day

2011-10-18T05:00:00.000-04:00

I barely had any time at home after the ALDHA Gathering before setting out the next morning with Yvonne to meet Nancy near Bennington for an overnight hiking trip on the Long Trail/Appalachian Trail to Glastenbury Mountain. The drive through Brattleboro and across Route 9 brought us by recently repaired damage from Hurricane Irene, as well as an array of varied foliage. The rains of the previous weeks seemed to have dulled some colors, but brightened others. Since much of the hiking in the next day would be through dense hardwood forest, I was happy to see at least some color in the leaves.

Nancy and Yvonne, spacey and grumpy.

It's been over four years since I climbed up to Glastenbury Mountain on the Long Trail, which is kind of an amazing number for me. I remembered the trail so well that it couldn't have been that long, but indeed it had. And apparently I didn't remember the trail too well, since the hike was much more relaxing, much less steep than I'd remembered. And that was just fine. Nancy, Yvonne, and I cruised up the trail, barely breaking a sweat in the crisp, autumn air.

No views here, but plenty to see.

As if the easier hiking and gorgeous day weren't enough to remind me how much I love Vermont, while I sat for a quick snack, a handful of Green Mountain Club trail crewmembers came upon us after doing some work at the Melville-Nauheim Shelter. As I saw them walk down the trail, I realized that I knew five of the six of them from my days as the Group Outreach coordinator at the Club. One had even hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2010, although I hadn't seen her much on the trail. Regardless, the feeling of an unexpected meeting with old friends is hard to beat. We chatted for a while, then parted ways to continue the hike. I was so happy to have seen these folks– a few of whom I hadn't seen in several years.

Glastenbury Mountain fire tower lit up just before sunrise.

The hike into the Glastenbury Wilderness continued to be easy, passing several overnight hikers coming out of the woods from their Columbus Day weekend. Luckily for us, our work schedules are all irregular, so rather than sharing the normal long weekend with hundreds of other hikers, we had a relatively quiet walk in the woods.

Stratton Mountain and the Somerset Reservoir at sunrise.

Goddard Shelter is one of my favorites on the Long Trail, even though I've never stayed there. It's so close to the summit of Glastenbury Mountain that it would be foolish not to hike back and forth to the fire tower on the peak for sunset and sunrise, which is exactly what we did. We had the shelter to ourselves, and our one neighbor was a silent hiker camped deep in the forest near the fire tower, so it was a perfect evening. We watched the sun set in the distance, casting shadows on the large handful of summits that I recognized and could name: Greylock, Equinox, Stratton, Bromley, Snow, Harmon Hill. We also looked down on the next day's route, the West Ridge, entirely visible from the fire tower. The mountains all around, while so much easier to hike than those in the northern half of the state, looked much more imposing than I'd remembered them. Stratton and Bromley, especially, looked like behemoths amidst the dense forests.

Green tunnel? Sounds good to me.

With the days growing shorter, it was a much simpler task to watch the sunset and then wake up for sunrise. 7:45 PM bedtime, 6:00 AM wake up. No problem! The views were gorgeous for sunrise, again, and then we launched into the second part of our trip. I'd never seen the West Ridge trail, but I expected a boring, uneventful walk back to the car. The map shows no features on the 8-mile trail from Goddard Shelter to Bald Mountain. Technically, this was mostly true. There were no major views, no major peaks, no terribly interesting landmarks, but the trail was very relaxing and pretty. It continued through a lush hardwood forest, with bright colors and easy grades the whole way. The autumn colors and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot could have made the dullest section of trail into a paradise, and that's what we had all the way to Bald Mountain (which isn't bald at all, and hasn't been for quite some time).

Hobblebush never looked so good.

Ending our trip for the weekend was a two-mile roadwalk, but when taken with the other eighteen miles of loop trail it was quite alright. After all, there are very few places in Vermont where you can make any kind of backpacking loop, so a little bit of road is a worthwhile sacrifice. We were back to our cars by early afternoon, exhausted and ready for our long weekend to be over. It's been a good long while since I've hiked in southern vermont, but this experience is reminding me just how much I can't wait to get back. Next up, Stratton Mountain (although I'm not sure exactly when).

Guthook's Gear Guide: Headlamps

2011-10-14T06:42:00.000-04:00

It seems strange to write a "gear guide" to headlamps because I only own two, but between those two headlamps I have everything I need for now. I can imagine another reason I would buy another headlamp in the future, but for now, Petzl earns my great respect for their line of headlamps.

Look at that tiny little e+Lite. It's so nice and small!

Petzl E+Lite:
29 grams (1 oz) with 2 CR2032 batteries.
7 grams (0.25 oz) for two CR2032 batteries.

I love that Petzl advertises the e+Lite as an emergency headlamp, because I usually use it as my primary light while backpacking. Since I try to avoid night hiking, my only use for a headlamp is for reading and journaling at night, or doing simple chores around camp. The e+Lite puts out plenty of light for these tasks, and for only one ounce in my pack. One ounce! Considering how infrequently I use the light in three-season backpacking, this is the perfect weight for a piece of equipment.

If I find myself hiking at night for some reason, it gets the job done as well, although it's not very good for a night hiking headlamp. As with many headlamps, it is brightest with fresh batteries, so I usually keep two sets of spare batteries with me on long trips. If it looks like I'll be out long after dark, I may switch to fresh batteries before it gets dark so that I'll have the best light until I reach camp for the night.

The only problem for me with the e+Lite, and the reason why I may not use it much anymore, is the batteries. CR2032's are not the easiest batteries to come by, and they're not cheap. Usually, in stores, I find them for about $1 apiece. Granted, I don't use the headlamp all that often, so I don't buy many of those batteries, but it's still a pain.

Tikka XP2 and Core battery disassembled.

Petzl Tikka XP 2 Core Headlamp:

XP2 without batteries: 54 grams (1.9 oz).
Core: 30 grams (1 oz).
3 Sanyo Eneloop AAAs: 36 grams (1.3 oz).
3 standard AAAs: 34 grams (1.2 oz).
3 Energizer Ultimate Lithium AAAs: 23 grams (0.8 oz).

I started using the XP2 on the Pacific Crest Trail because I expected to hike at night a lot. The Core battery came later, and I've found both were fine investments. The XP2 is more of a traditional LED headlamp, which takes either 3 AAA batteries or one Core battery pack, and it lights up the night like a portable sun. Though I rarely hiked at night on the Pacific Crest Trail, the XP2 was worth its weight in gold for those few occasions. The super-bright LED is doubly effective because of the easily toggled diffuser plate, which switches between a long-distance, concentrated beam of light, and a wide beam for general viewing.

Tikka XP2 with normal batteries.

The Core battery is a very nice addition to the headlamp. It recharges via a USB cord, eliminating the need for normal batteries and saving a few more from going in the trash. This could be especially useful for through-hikes, since one USB wall charger could be used for charging both my phone and my headlamp, saving me from carrying extra chargers or dealing with a bounce box full of chargers. The Core is probably even more useful now that I'm a weekend-warrior, since I don't have to worry about batteries degrading over time as they sit on my shelf at home. I can just check the charge indicator on the battery, and know that I have enough for the weekend.

Tikka XP2, fattened with the Core.

Compared to other batteries for the the XP2, the Core has its ups and downs. You can see by the pictures that the Core adds a fair amount of bulk to the headlamp. I was surprised when I weighed all the battery combinations, though, since I figured the Core would weigh significantly more than standard batteries, and that my NiMH Sanyo Eneloops would also be very heavy. Not so. The Core holds its own quite well for weight compared to standard batteries. The Energizer Lithium batteries are significantly lighter, brighter, and longer-lasting, but they are on the pricey side and can't be recharged.

The weight, then, is the main disadvantage to the Tikka XP2. "What's he complaining about?" you may ask. With the Core, the weight is still just under 3 ounces, and with lithium batteries it gets down to 2.7 ounces. That's nothing, right? For most people, yes, but for me, not so much. I won't feel the difference in one ounce in my backpack, but I like to do whatever I can to avoid creeping ounces. Adding an ounce here and an ounce there eventually turns into a half pound, a pound, or more of extra weight in the pack. But that's a story for another day.

I'll stick with the XP2 Core for now, mainly due to the fact that I won't have to buy piles of batteries, but I can tell you one thing I'd buy in a heartbeat if it becomes available anytime soon.

Petzl, are you listening?

e+Lite Core: 1.5 ounces, including the lithium battery pack, rechargeable by USB. I'll be waiting for it.

Note: You may have noticed that I'm testing out a few different types of ads on the blog. If you have any thoughts on this, feel free to email me. They don't have any effect on the content of my posts, though. The products reviewed in this post were purchased with my own money and used extensively over the past year and more. The review was not solicited by any company or third party.

Back on top of Vermont, 10/6-7/11

2011-10-13T06:00:00.000-04:00

Before the ALDHA Gathering, my best friends from my 2007 Appalachian Trail hike came up from the south to visit. Kentucky Blue is planning on hiking the Long Trail next summer, and Cough Drop just finished his doctoral dissertation, so I planned a trip to Mansfield to give them a taste of Vermont's highest peak and some of the most exciting hiking on the Long Trail.

The steep trail up Mansfield also has plenty of good rock work.

We got a late start on Thursday afternoon, after full tourist mode stopping at the Cabot Annex, Burlington, the new Outdoor Gear Exchange (one of my favorite gear stores, and physical home of GearX.com), and Smuggler's Notch. I was a little disappointed to see the foliage already dulling to shades of yellow-brown, but the cold air and clear skies seemed to accentuate the colors and keep the views crystalline once above treeline. We didn't arrive at Taft Lodge until a little later than I'd planned, and the distance to Butler was a bit longer as well. Oops. We pushed on to the summit of Mansfield as the shadows grew long.

This is where the fun began.

Kentucky Blue braves the wind on Mansfield's Chin for fine sunset views.

From the Chin to the Forehead of Mount Mansfield is a nearly two-mile ridge line, almost entirely above tree line, and constantly blasted by a stiff wind from the Adirondacks and Lake Champlain. That wind happened to be below freezing, and the sun was about to dip below the prominent peak of Whiteface as we walked the ridge. The ridge always seems shorter on hot, sunny, summer days, but today it seemed to go on a little longer than usual. By the time we reached the top of the toll road, the sun had set and the day's last light dwindled. We donned our headlamps and decided to take the Forehead Bypass trail in order to stay out of the wind and off the tricky descent of the Forehead.

Happy campers at Butler Lodge.

As often happens with bad-weather bypass routes on New England mountains, our detour turned out to be nearly as treacherous as the route we wanted to avoid. Though we missed being buffeted by wind, the Forehead Bypass turned out to be a slippery rock slab for much of its length, which we descended with only the light from our headlamps. This was one day I was very glad to have brought my Petzl Tikka XP2, the more powerful of my two headlamps. Of course, for every good decision I make I have to make a bad one– I had left my gloves at home, resulting in freezing fingertips throughout the evening.

Cough Drop navigates the Needle's Eye below Mansfield's Forehead.

We arrived at Butler Lodge just after 8 PM, and none too soon. Butler is one of my favorite shelters on the Long Trail– it's so cozy, and so like a home. Walking in that door with a view of Burlington and Lake Champlain just gives you a sense of security like walking into your childhood home. It helped that Flying Squirrel, the caretaker, had just arrived as well after helping the Long Trail Patrol do some work on the Butler Lodge Trail. It was just the four of us, old friends reminiscing about our days on the Appalachian Trail and beyond. Hot dinner, hot cocoa, and whoopie pies completed the evening. We slept soundly with the wind held at bay by Butler's fully enclosed walls.

Atop the Forehead, with early morning sun and valley fog below.

The weather was milder in the morning. Instead of the crack-of-dawn departure we'd planned, we sat around and enjoyed the view for a while, snapped some group pictures, and made more plans for some day in the future. Then we went up the Forehead on the Long Trail, realizing once again why the Bypass had been a good choice the night before. Ladders, hand-over-hand climbing, and passing through the Needle's Eye would have been even hairier in the wind and dark, but in the morning with clear skies they were nothing but fun. We descended via the Haselton Trail to Stowe Ski Resort, then a short road walk brought us back to the car.

Starting down the Haselton Trail with views of Smuggler's Notch's cliffs ahead.

I may not get to northern Vermont too often, but it still feels like home when I visit. The next stop after Mansfield on this day, though, was way back down south for the ALDHA Gathering. The weekend was off to a good start, for sure.

ALDHA Gathering 2011: A Community Gathering

2011-10-11T04:30:00.000-04:00

Kentucky Blue, Cough Drop and I drove along the winding road to North Adams, Massachusetts, on Friday afternoon, fighting to keep our eyes on the road despite the clear skies and shining forests. The foliage this year was duller than in years past, an unfortunate development that was much lamented by the organizers of this year's Appalachian Long Distance Hikers Association Gathering, but it was a gorgeous weekend none the less. I was excited just to be in the company of such good friends, regardless of what the Gathering might be like. This would be my first, so I had no idea what to expect.

The Gathering campsite in a hayfield with a beautiful view of Mount Greylock

The opening festivities of the Gathering initially made me feel a little like an outsider. The announcements went into great detail about people who everyone else seemed to know by name. The Appalachian Trail has some amount of celebrity culture which I choose to avoid, so I was intentionally in the dark. I was happy enough to watch old friends reconnect as I had done with Cough Drop and Kentucky Blue in the last few days, though. (I'll put up a trip report of our previous days' hike soon.)

The real fun started when the announcements were over. "Let's see who's hiked the most in here!" the announcer shouted. "If you've hiked or backpacked five thousand miles, stand up!" Kentucky Blue and I stood, along with dozens of others in the small auditorium. "Now ten thousand!" We sat, along with most of those already standing. Fifteen thousand and twenty thousand dropped all but two. Only Billy Goat and a jolly-looking lady in the back remained standing. In one-thousand mile increments, the announcer raised the ante, looking completely amazed. "Twenty-seven thousand?" Billy Goat and the woman both nodded, smiling widely. At thirty-four thousand miles, the woman finally sat, laughing. Billy Goat claimed the title at 40,000 miles. The announcer gave a shout-out to Wanda (I can't remember her last name) as being one of the most powerful hikers out there. I was more impressed at her accomplishment than Billy Goat's, only because nobody seemed to have heard of her, while Billy Goat is something of a hiker celebrity.


Trail organizations like the International AT showed off their accomplishments.

The announcer then went on to have each Appalachian Trail through-hiker class stand, and I was amazed to see representatives from every single year from 2011 back to 1977. The earliest year represented was 1968, a spry and strong grey-hair. A wave of applause drowned out the announcer as he congratulated the man for his accomplishment. Will I still be a part of this community in forty years? I wondered. I know so few of the people here, and my circle of hiker friends is pretty small as it is. This crowd seems like a tight family, and I'm like a new friend coming in for the holidays, missing all the in-jokes and wondering who everyone is talking about.

Kentucky Blue addresses a classroom about lightweight hiking

Saturday morning was when the real meat of the Gathering began. My presentation on the New England Trail was on the earliest schedule block, competing with others on the Canadian Rockies, Kilimanjaro, Nepal, and the Israeli National Trail. I resigned myself to presenting only to my close friends. Kentucky Blue and Cough Drop were with me for sure. I was overjoyed to see Uncle Tom and Anne from the Pacific Crest Trail, and Mad Mike from the Appalachian Trail, all good friends I see very seldom. There were a few other familiar faces, but I was blown away to see the room completely packed! I got so nervous I almost went over my allotted 75-minute period, but the crowd seemed to enjoy the show. What a relief!

With my first presentation out of the way, I was able to check out several others for the rest of the weekend. I watched talks on the Spanish Sierra, the International Appalachian Trail in Maine and Canada, and the Canadian Rockies, all places I would love to see someday. The presenters had been to so many places, seen so much. As I realized how many of my trail friends were in fact here, and how much I have in common with the crowd, I started to realize how this community is formed. It's not so much about the people at the Gathering as it is about the many places in the world we can explore.

Paul LaBounty talked about his trek through the Spanish Sierras. It's good to see so many people who are obviously hikers.

I couldn't talk about the Gathering without mentioning the one real celebrity of the weekend. Saturday night's presentation by Andrew Skurka, probably the most accomplished explorer of our generation, was a fine show. Last year he used a combination of skis, packraft, and feet to traverse a nearly 5000-mile loop in Alaska and the Yukon. I can't say much about it except that if you have a chance to see him talk, go for it. He's a pretty cool guy.

The Gathering ended on a bittersweet note, my friends having left early Sunday and the crowd dwindling. It's always hard to leave a beautiful and exciting place like this, but I can only say I can't wait to go to another Gathering. I guess that's why everyone had been so happy to see each other in the beginning, and I guess that means I really am a part of this crazy community of hikers.

See You in North Adams!

2011-10-07T06:00:00.000-04:00

I'm heading to North Adams for the Appalachian Long Distance Hikers Association's Gathering! See you there!

If you do happen to show up, my presentations will be:

New England Trail: Saturday morning at 9, Murdock Hall 322
Pacific Crest Trail: Sunday afternoon at 3, Bowman 101

My good buddy from the Appalachian Trail, Kentucky Blue, will be presenting on lightweight backpacking techniques on Saturday afternoon at 3 in Bowman 102, so be sure to check that out as well.

More updates after the Gathering.

Ultralight Feet: Trail Running Sneakers and Dirty Girl Gaiters

2011-10-06T07:30:00.000-04:00

Well-worn sneakers and gaiters. Rad!

One of the first things I changed in my transition from heavyweight to lightweight backpacking was my footwear. After the Appalachian Trail, I never wore boots again for three-season hiking, and thanks to my Forty Below overboots, I doubt I'll ever wear boots for winter hiking, either. Even at their lightest and most breathable, boots are heavy, clunky, hot, and they take forever to dry out after full immersions. Give me a lightweight, non-waterproof, mostly mesh trail-runner, and my feet will be good to go.

There is one slight add-on to the sneaker that I've gotten used to in the past few years, though. I almost always wear my Dirty Girl Gaiters.

Toward the end of my Appalachian Trail hike, I noticed a lot of the beginning southbounders walking down the well-defined trail in the middle of the summer wearing shorts, heavy boots, and knee-high gaiters. These were the sorts of gaiters I wear in the middle of the winter to keep snow from jamming into the tops of my boots. I couldn't imagine what purpose they served in the summer, aside from being insanely hot and looking like goofy leg-warmers. As far as I was concerned, gaiters were for snow, and nothing else. This was before I started wearing ankle gaiters, and before I learned that some people like knee-high gaiters for leg protection in brambly and overgrown bushwhacking (the Appalachian Trail is not this, so I still say they were foolishly overkill).

I've also seen ankle gaiters made of high tech waterproof-breathable fabrics like Gore-Tex and eVent, but what's the point of a waterproof gaiter on a non-waterproof sneaker? Your feet will get wet just the same, and even breathable fabrics like eVent are less breathable than no gaiters.

Hiking is all about looking real cool, and these gaiters do the trick!

A few summers later, I discovered the wonders of ankle gaiters with trail runners, but not the overkill waterproof gaiters, and not the super overkill knee-highs. I found the insanity of Dirty Girl Gaiters. One look at their early-1990's style web site, and you'll know you want to have them, even if you don't really know what they are.

What are they, you ask? Dirty Girl Gaiters are basically a very thin Spandex cone/tube with a bit of velcro on the back and a small hook on the front. You slide them on over your foot before putting on your sneakers, then, after your sneakers are tied up, you clip the hook to the front laces of your sneakers, and attach the velcro to an adhesive velcro tab on the back of your sneakers. The stretch of the Spandex keeps the gaiter up over your socks, while the hook and velcro keep the bottom of the gaiter down over the opening of your sneaker. Most gaiters use a cord or strap under the arch of your foot to keep the gaiter down, but this is a much simpler method, and it works just as well.

The only purpose of the Dirty Girl is to keep little debris out of your shoes. It won't protect your ankles from big thorny bushes and stabbing sticks, but you shouldn't rely on heavy gear to do that for you, anyway. For approximately 0.5 ounces per pair, all they do is keep dirt and other nuisances out of your sneaker. You know, things like small pebbles and twigs that work their way into your feet and make you stop to dump them out from time to time. Or just the dirt and crushed leaves that build up in the bottom of your shoes. All of these things are uncomfortable, and they wear out your socks as you grind them in with each step.

Taking a break, flip the gaiters up and untie the shoes.

I started wearing Dirty Girl Gaiters two summers ago, and put them to their first big test on the New England Trail. Then I put them to an even bigger test on the Pacific Crest Trail. I've owned a total of three pairs, and I don't even notice when I'm wearing them now– they don't heat up your feet, they don't get in the way, and they weigh practically nothing. I only notice that they're there when I take off my shoes. And I notice when they're not there, because all that dirt and grit that gets into my sneakers becomes even more of a nuisance. But I've also noticed that my socks are less nasty after a few days of hiking, and that I never need to take off my sneakers to dump out a tiny pebble that feels like a thorn in my foot.

For $19 and 0.6 ounces per pair (my first pair was $15, but inflation happens everywhere. It's still cheap), you get a very simple and effective piece of hiking gear. They make your feet more comfortable. They prolong the life of your socks by keeping dirt from getting ground into the bottoms of your feet. They are nearly unnoticeable and have no disadvantages to speak of. And they last a good long while. I'm still using my first pair, which are near the end of their lifetime, but they've lasted through three pairs of sneakers. I tore up two pairs on the PCT, where the gravel, sand, and manzanita shredded many pieces of my hiking equipment, but for the price and usefulness, I love the gaiters.

Deep in the Woods

2011-10-04T07:00:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading We Took To The Woods, a book I'd been wanting to read for some time before finally picking up a copy at my library. With a title like this, and my general interest in only backpacking, you'd expect it to be a through-hike narrative or something of the sort, but those types of stories don't often grab me. This is an account of life deep in the Maine woods in the 1930s and 1940s, a time when Maine was still mostly a frontier land, barely settled and so remote that even the wildernesses of today look metropolitan by comparison.

There's something comforting and home-like about the way the book is written– early 20th century colloquial, rambling, drifting off onto lovely stories that have little to do with each chapter's theme. It reminds me of some of the things I love about my home (yes, I now live in New Hampshire, but Maine is still home). It reminds me of how wild the state suddenly becomes as soon as you drift inland and north past the tourist traps and resort towns. Everything feels so familiar.

Maybe it's because Louise and Ralph, the writer and her husband, remind me so much of Rose and Chuck, the managers of AMC's Little Lyford Pond Camp, where I worked for four unforgettable months after my Appalachian Trail through-hike. Or, more accurately, the setting of Louise's story reminds me of Little Lyford. While at Little Lyford, we were cut off from automobile access by miles of snowy forest, the only access coming from a long drive on semi-plowed logging roads, then another long haul on snowmobiles. For Louise and Ralph it was a trip across one of western Maine's lakes, even deeper in the wilderness, to a long dirt road to the tiny village of Upton.

Little Lyford Ponds below White Cap Mountain. See Katahdin in the horizon?

There were only half a dozen of us in full-time residence at Little Lyford that winter, though well over a hundred visitors came through– that is, after all, the AMC lodging business. Occasionally we would receive visits from one or two of the crew at the other camps in the area, though not often since they were a twenty-mile round trip snowmobile ride away, and had plenty of work to do at their own camps. With such a small community, I had a ton of time for being alone and reflecting on where my life was going at the time. Even with sixty to eighty hours of work a week, at the end of the day I was still deep in the thickest wilderness the east coast has to offer.

There are a few things about the place that I love and miss dearly. One of them was being able to snowshoe across the Ponds with a view of the snow-covered Mount Baker, then up the West Branch of the Pleasant River a short way, then into the woods to bushwhack up Gulf Hagas Mountain toward the Appalachian Trail in the 100 Mile Wilderness. I could be certain that I'd never find another human track once I started out on those bushwhacks, even though I often crossed or walked along old, abandoned logging roads.

One day, while wandering far from camp, I walked two miles up a straight logging road on the side of Gulf Hagas Mountain, turned around, and saw my footprints stretching far off into the distance. The Barren-Chairback range stood beyond my path, Gulf Hagas and Long Pond invisible in the forest between. I've never felt more isolated or in love with the great forest around me. I look at the photo of that view almost every day that I'm at my computer (hooray, desktop backgrounds). The single track of footprints growing tiny in the distance reminds me of everything I love about life, and especially hiking and being alone in the wilderness. At the time, it reminded me of just how alone I was right there, and how hard it is to actually get that secluded.

Just before finishing We Took To The Woods, I got curious about the author and her family. The internet is a magical thing when it comes to satisfying curiosities like this. It wasn't surprising to hear that she had died at the ripe old age of 88 while I was still running around my yard in rural Maine with wooden swords and reading comic books instead of books like hers. I was dismayed to learn that her husband, an amusing and inventive character, died only a few years after the book was published. There's something sad about knowing that a character will soon meet his end, when the book he's in makes him seem so immediate and alive. But I was also happy to find this snippet, an uplifting essay by Louise from later on in her life.

My ideal is not to live secluded in the deep woods like I did at Little Lyford, or like Louise did at Pond-in-the-River, but there's something wonderful about escaping to that sort of life for a little while from time to time. Having experienced several levels of isolation in the wilderness, I've come to appreciate everything from the small social circles of hikers in remote campsites to the full remoteness of the deep winter in northern Maine. And even though I prefer the former most of the time, I always look back to the latter with more fondness.

Did Someone Say "Maine Woods National Park?"

2011-10-01T19:31:00.001-04:00

As if there aren't enough contentious issues going around these days, here's another one that people get all riled up about-- The proposed National Park in northern Maine. I found this on the Trailspace blog yesterday, and it laid out the issue pretty well, as far as I'm concerned.

Watch the full episode. See more Maine Watch with Jennifer Rooks.

Like so many things in the news these days, the National Park issue is pretty much guaranteed to piss off just about anyone you talk to about it. All the hotheadedness gets on my nerves. I've heard people get all kinds of angry about this issue, to the point where they start sounding like those death-panel-crazies at the Healthcare debates a few years ago. Let's take a look at this.

A lot of the arguments against the idea of a National Park boil down to locals saying "Northern Maine is far off the beaten track, and part of its allure is that it's so remote and unvisited compared to the rest of the state, and especially other states." Another big part of the argument, which is repeated frequently in the MaineWatch segment, is "we don't trust the national government!" I won't even get into the latter argument, as there's way too much there to rant about, and I'd like to keep this non-political. The former argument is the one that merits more debate, I think.

In many ways, I agree that one of the most amazing things about Maine is how wild it is. You can go up to Baxter Park, adjacent to the proposed National Park, and for most of the trip there you'll feel like you're in another world. Settlement is so sparse, and the wilderness just crushes in on you. We need more places like that in the modern world. The White Mountains of New Hampshire are wild, but even in the National Forest Wilderness areas there you won't feel as far away from the bustle of modern life as you do even at a developed campground in the North Woods. I would hate to see throngs of photo-happy tourists fill every open space in the area and make it seem like just another roadside attraction. Or seeing all that comes along with major tourist traffic– the "family fun" parks, the legions of cheap motels, the gimmicky gift shops. If tourist traffic grows, so do all the ugly parts of a tourist economy.

But if keeping that part of Maine secluded from the rest of the world comes at the cost of greater than 20% unemployment, is it really worth it? The logging industry just isn't going to come back and save the region's economy, like many seem to hope it will. And even if it would, the area is still a national treasure, so why not set aside a part of it for more conservation and more tourism?

I'll cut this here to keep it from devolving into a rant, because that's the only place it'll likely go. The way things look now, it doesn't seem like the National Park idea will even succeed, but I say what's the harm in dreaming it up? There are upsides and downsides to the idea, as with any idea, but there are also upsides and downsides to doing nothing. I'd certainly like to see more of a eco-tourism economy in Maine, although I know it would come with things that I dislike. I used to be somewhat for and somewhat against the whole idea, but as I see it now, I think it would be a fine idea. Go for it.

I'd love to hear others' comments, but keep it civil, please. And relevant.

The North Woods Wilderness Loop

2011-09-29T06:30:00.000-04:00

Since I recently discovered a love for paddling in the north woods of Maine, I also started dreaming up a new adventure. This is something I like to do in my free time. Sometimes the dreams come true. Sometimes they stay dreams, but they still sound pretty cool. Here's what's been on my mind since this summer. I hope some of you find it interesting. Maybe you'll beat me to it...

I give you: The North Woods Wilderness Loop– a backpacking and paddling trip in Six Acts.

Part 1: The White Mountains and Cohos Trail (75 miles, approximately)
Starting at Pinkham Notch in the White Mountains, the first act of the Loop would be to climb up over Mount Washington and some of the Presidentials, drop down to Route 2, then climb to the Pilot and Pliny Ranges (maybe with a little bushwhack from Pond of Safety). Once at the Kilkenny Ridge Trail, you're on the Cohos Trail, which will take you north, north, and further north to the town of Pittsburg. Once in Pittsburg, you'll want to stay a day at the east end of Lake Francis or someplace like that before the next, more harrowing part of the Loop.

Mount Magalloway over First Connecticut Lake, one of the jewels of the Cohos Trail

Part 2: The Border Range Bushwhack (60 miles, approximately)
After a break near Lake Francis, start the totally insane part of the Loop. Using a combination of logging roads, snowmobile trails, old walking paths, and good old-fashioned bushwhacking, traverse northeast toward Chain Of Ponds, Maine. Cross over Mount Magalloway, the dominant peak in the Connecticut Lakes region of New Hampshire, then over West Kennebago Mountain, which overlooks the Rangeley Lakes region of Maine. From West Kennebago, continue on to hit most of the Rangeley Six Pack, six peaks from the New England Hundred Highest list. My route only hits five of those six (Cupsuptic Snow, White Cap, Kennebago Divide, Boundary, and Chain of Ponds Snow) before dropping down to the south end of Chain of Ponds.

Attean Pond and the north country from atop Sally Mountain

Part 3a: Chain of Ponds to Jackman, Bushwhacking (40 miles, approximately)
If you had a good time bushwhacking and are ready for some more, hitchhike into Stratton for rest and resupply at a fine little AT Hiker Town. Once you're ready to continue, get back on the "trail" for some more bushwhacking in the lower mountains of the Border Range. Go over Kibby Mountain, Number 5 Mountain, and Attean Mountain before getting to the Maine Bureau of Public Lands' Holeb unit, containing the gorgeous Attean Pond and Sally Mountain. Eventually, walk into the town of Jackman and hopefully finish with all the crazy bushwhacking.

A fine sunset on Attean Pond, near Jackman.

Part 3b: Chain of Ponds to Jackman, Paddling (75 miles, approximately)
If the bushwhacking from the Cohos Trail to Chain of Ponds was too insane, get ready for some cushier travel. Find a way of getting a kayak or solo canoe at Chain of Ponds (I'd see if there's an outfitter around there that would rent one for a few weeks, or maybe get my own and stash it somewhere in Stratton with arrangements to truck it up to Chain of Ponds). Paddle down the Dead River to Stratton and stop in for that R and R in a hiker town before setting off on the Northern Forest Canoe Trail to Flagstaff Lake. Continue on the Dead River and Spencer Stream to Spencer Lake and as far as you can go before portaging. There's a long portage to the Moose River, but once on the Moose, it's easy sailing into Attean Pond, then Wood Pond, and into Jackman.

Part 4: Jackman to Baxter, Paddling (110 miles, approximately)
Time for some serious and glorious paddling! Head out on the Moose River from Jackman and make your way through Long Pond, the Brassua Lakes, and into Maine's largest lake, Moosehead. Once on Moosehead Lake, head north, maybe stopping for some hiking on Mount Kineo, but keep moving north with a portage to Seboomook Lake. After Seboomook, take the North Branch of the Penobscot River to Chesuncook Lake (with a small detour into Lobster Lake), then into Ripogenus Lake, and... Well, at Ripogenus Gorge I hear the crazy rapids start. I'm a flatwater guy, myself. I haven't thought of what to do from there, but it's only a few more miles from Ripogenus Dam to Abol Bridge, which is the next stop, just outside of Baxter State Park.

Maine's high point, Katahdin, from the North Branch of the Penobscot River at Abol Bridge. Classic.

Part 5: Baxter Park Extravaganza! (some amount of miles. Who knows?)
Now it's time to put away that canoe or kayak and get to some of the most beautiful mountains in the east! At Abol Bridge, you're on the Appalachian Trail at the edge of Baxter, so get on into Baxter and hit whatever you possibly can. I would want to do a big loop around the park if possible, hitting the last few 4000 Footers and NE 100 Highest peaks that I haven't climbed yet (North and South Brother, Coe, Fort, and Katahdin's Hamlin Peak), as well as seeing some of the parts of the park I've been told are pretty amazing (Wassataquoik Lake, The Traveler, and Chimney Pond) before going back over Katahdin and winding up at Abol Bridge again.

Flagstaff Lake and the mountains of Northern Maine from one of the finest peaks, Mount Bigelow.

Part 6: Appalachian Trail to Pinkham Notch, the Victory Lap (300 miles, approximately)
At this point, you've already done the really adventurous stuff, but your car is all the way back in Pinkham Notch. How are you going to get it? Well, the crown jewel of the Appalachian Trail will lead you right back to Pinkham! What are you waiting for? Go through the best three-hundred miles of the Appalachian Trail, through the 100 Mile Wilderness, over the mighty Kennebec, over the Bigelows and Crockers, over Saddleback, Bald Pate, Old Speck, and into the Mahoosuc Notch.

I'm making myself all excited by just thinking of this. Every single leg of this trip would bring you through the most beautiful and remote terrain in the East. It would be an insane adventure. And I hope I can find some way to make this dream a reality at some point. Maybe not soon, but... soon. Who's with me?

Guthook Talks!

2011-09-27T07:22:00.000-04:00

The Pacific Crest Trail!

Hey people I know and don't know! Mark your calendars. October 8 and 9 (Columbus Day Weekend) is the Appalachian Long Distance Hikers Association (ALDHA) Gathering. This year it's in North Adams, MA, and this will be my first year attending... and I'll be giving two presentations over the course of the weekend. One on the New England Trail, and one on the Pacific Crest Trail. It seems kind of weird to me, since both of those hikes now feel like ancient history to me. It's been a long two years since I started the NET.

The New England Trail!

There's more than just me (some guy who hiked in Alaska will be there-- okay, Andrew Skurka, probably the only long-distance hiking celebrity I can think of), but I would really love to see some folks at my New England Trail presentation. The PCT presentation I think will draw some folks just because of the big name, but I really want to get people excited about the New England Trail. Kim Nilsen of the Cohos Trail Association talked to me this summer about starting to drum up support for an official route from Canada to Connecticut like Fed-Ex and I did in 2009. That was my goal all along, to get people interested in making that trail a reality.

So remember! Columbus Day weekend, North Adams, Massachusetts. There will be loads of fun things going on. Come join me!

A Different Life

2011-09-25T06:00:00.000-04:00

The end of the Appalachian Trail

2007: Appalachian Trail
2008: Maine Appalachian Trail
2009: New England Trail
2010: Pacific Crest Trail (and southern AT)
2011: __________

For the past five years I've structured my life so that I can consider myself a full-time backpacker. One long-distance hike per year has kept me in practice as a hiker, along with keeping me out of the normal workforce. I've been comfortable enough with my lifestyle, although each season seems to wear me out a little more than the last. The 2009-2010 season seemed like a nail in the coffin at the time. Maybe I had a little bit too much on my plate that year.

The New England Trail through-hike happened in October, and then I went off to start my pre-PCT hiking in March. From September 26, 2009, through September 25, 2010, I was on the trail for seven months, hiking a total of 3500 miles. The few months between the NET and PCT were filled with preparations for the Pacific Crest, writing about the New England Trail, and traveling to see friends and family. I worked a part-time job to save up a bit more money for the PCT, but otherwise it was basically an entire year of being a backpacking vagabond.

It's been a year since I walked into Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail– a year filled with dead ends and false starts. Two jobs that I thought would turn into longer careers both bombed (pretty hard). Two ideas I had for non-standard employment ran into long-term setbacks. The one long-distance backpacking trip I planned for the spring (the Long Trail) was derailed by flooding rains, so I rescheduled it for the fall, when it was derailed by even worse flooding.

One year ago, today.

What now?

Along with trying to keep the long-distance backpacking part of my life going, I've also been trying to find a home. Having a permanent residence and being a full-time traveler seem like mutually exclusive ideas. I haven't found a way to have it both ways yet. I hope I will eventually.

This will be the first year since 2006 that I haven't hiked a long-distance trail. Instead I've settled into a pretty comfortable living situation in southern New Hampshire with my girlfriend. I have yet to find a job that will stick, as my inner backpacker keeps holding me back from dedicating myself to a career. On a related note, I'll probably be adding some ads to the blog soon, in an attempt to scrape in a tiny bit of cash from time to time. I try to live a pretty cheap life, but gas and food costs add up on all those drives to the Green and White Mountains.

The lack of a big adventure this year scares me on some level, as if I've lost some of what defines me as a hiker and as a person. But maybe I just need to redefine the adventures I'll have in 2012. I've got some ideas, and I'm excited to be living somewhat closer to the mountains than I usually do. I guess I can call myself a weekend warrior now, and maybe the adventures will be even crazier now. Only time will tell.

Another Kind of Hiking

2011-09-22T07:00:00.000-04:00

Getting back to the trail!

On my way home the other day, I passed a hitchhiker on the outskirts of town, and I don't know why I didn't pick him up. I pick up most hitchhikers I see, and when I miss one I always feel so guilty. I've been there myself plenty of times. But for several reasons I've been in a weird mental state for the past few months. My failure to hike the Long Trail this year, moving into a stable living situation, a semi-stable job– I'd like to say I was distracted, but maybe I was just feeling a bit too out of sorts to help out a fellow human.

As a long-distance backpacker, I've thumbed rides more often than I can remember. Usually it's to get from the trail to town or vice versa. Sometimes it's to get back to the car after a trip that leaves me at a different trailhead. I've also picked up more hitchhikers than I can remember, and not always hikers on long-distance trails. I like to keep my ride-karma strong, since I never know when I'll be sitting at a trailhead for hours, waiting for a car to stop. But one of the best reasons I can think of for hitching a ride or picking someone up is that you stand a good chance of making someone's day a lot better, either just by an act of kindness or by giving them a good story for later.

My most memorable hitchhiking journey was during a break from my Pacific Crest Trail hike, when I went to the High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy, CA, then had to return to where I'd left off the trail in Mammoth Lakes. It was a 250-mile hitchhike that took all day and five rides, each of which was an adventure in itself. One of the rides was from a man recently released from prison, and we talked about the rampant sprawl in the area– he said after two years in jail, he didn't even recognize his hometown from all the new road building and development. Another ride came from a guy recovering from a fall off a ski lift where he worked, which had mangled his spine. They were interesting folks, and it gave me a look at a different part of the region rather than just the hikers and hiker towns that the PCT passed by.

The only discouragement I got from the whole experience was in Carson City, as I stood for over an hour with my thumb out on a busy road, when a lady driving the other direction slowed down and rolled her window down to tell me that hitchhiking was illegal in the town. Maybe she thought she was being helpful, but less than half an hour later I had a ride, and no thanks to her. It reminded me of another ride I got while on the Appalachian Trail, when I wanted to go a mile down the road to a burger stand, but instead ended up being ferried all over the county for three hours while my ride brought me to every place he could think of that might be better than the burger stand. That guy gave me one of my most memorable experiences from the Appalachian Trail, and it had nothing to do with hiking.

Why did the discouragement remind me of an unexpectedly long adventure? Because that one discouraging remark altered my mood for the rest of the day. It was a useless remark, and kind of insulting. Her effort didn't accomplish anything but to scold me. And what did she expect me to do instead? There was no public transportation, and I still had a hundred miles to go. Why else would I be sticking my thumb out other than to get out of the town in the first place? It was so much the opposite of that ride on the AT, when someone had gone so far out of his way to help me out, and in so doing he also had himself a great time. When you have what other people need, you have a lot of power to make them happy or not.

It seems to me that we live in a society where people are so afraid of each other that putting yourself in a confined space with a total stranger scares the crap out of people. I don't know what people see when they pass a person on the side of the road with his thumb out, but I just see someone who needs a ride. I've been there. Maybe you have, too. So I stop and give a ride. Sometimes I'll go miles out of my way to get the person to where they're going so they won't have to wait who knows how long for another ride.

A friend of mine was on his way home from work one day when he saw a pair of hikers with their thumbs out in Crawford Notch. He picked them up, but when he realized they were on their way to Portland, and the sun was already setting, he drove them the whole way. It was two and a half hours out of his way, but he didn't want the two guys to get stuck on the side of the road at night trying to find a ride. I'll bet he made a permanent impression on the two hikers, and I know the experience was great for him. As far as I'm concerned, this is one of the few little things a person can do to add a little goodness to the world– just to help a stranger who is in need.

I know that if I'd picked up that hitchhiker the other day, my day would have gone from average and unexciting to much happier, even adventurous, just from the feeling of helping someone out. How often do you see this kind of random generosity among strangers? And how often have you hitchhiked and had a memorable experience because of it? I'm willing to bet most of you who have hitchhiked many times can remember some good stories from the experience.

Snow in the Whites, 9/16-17

2011-09-20T06:00:00.000-04:00

The forecast for the weekend was cold and clear, perfect fall weather, so I had to get out. My friend, Moss, works as a campsite caretaker for the Appalachian Mountain Club, and she had told me to come visit her at Thirteen Falls on the few days she would be there. What better reason to get into the White Mountains than to visit a friend on a gorgeous weekend?

I tried to get an early start from Keene on Friday morning, but some leftover medical business and paperwork kept me in my house until just after 9 AM. The drive up to the White Mountains seemed so long. That's something I'm going to have to get used to, given that the two hours to Lincoln is pretty much the shortest drive I'll have for hikes up there while I live down in Keene. On the upside, the extra time in the car gave the clouds hugging the mountaintops time to clear a little. The forecast hadn't mentioned any clouds, but it rained off and on for a while as I passed through Plymouth and Lincoln. I wondered if I was about to get punked by the notorious White Mountains Weather.

This was the worst of the trail damage heading to Hancock. Not pretty, but not total destruction.

Part one of the weekend was to bag a few of my last New Hampshire 4000 Footers, so I drove a little way into the Kanc, parked at a lot that I remembered well from one of my best days on the New England Trail, then started into the Hancock Notch trail like I'd been shot from a cannon. An ominous sign at the trailhead mentioned that the area had "not been assessed for storm damage," but aside from a few small ruts in the trail where Irene's massive downpours had scoured the trail you could barely tell there had been major damage to the area.

More shocking than the clouds and slight trail damage, though, was the cold. It couldn't have been more than 45 degrees out, and with the dampness in the air from rains earlier in the day it felt positively wintery. The air bit into my exposed skin. Rather than stop and put on extra layers, though, I just stepped up my pace. Hiking alone and fast felt so good.

Is that... a little bit of white on South Hancock? Also, can you see the old logging road scars?

I realized that it's been months since I've hiked solo, with only myself to keep track of and only myself to call the shots. I'd almost forgotten the feeling of freedom I get from walking in the mountains without any other human presence. Cruising along, almost running, the tensions and worries I'd built up from the past few weeks of living in a new home and starting a new job just bled away into nothing.

Yep, definitely a little snow on the Hancocks.

I raced along, vaguely recalling the trail from when Gary and I had walked by here on the New England Trail almost exactly two years ago. He had since come back to bag the Hancocks, which we had aborted due to his stomach issues that day. Now, back to see what I'd missed, I sweated my way up to North Hancock, where the clouds cleared just in time for me to get a fine view of Osceola and Loon. The view of South Hancock showed me that the cold weather was not just me being soft from a hot summer– the treed summit was white with rime. A biting wind chilled me some more and brought some fine snowflakes with it. I rushed along to keep my blood flowing.

Looking up the East Branch of the Pemi, this must be Bondcliff. What a gorgeous evening.

By the time I returned to the parking lot I was already in better spirits than I'd been in weeks. I jumped into my car and sped off to Lincoln Woods to start the next part of my hike. I loaded my Exodus and got on the interminable Lincoln Woods trail. The last time I'd been on this trail had been at the end of a day after bagging Owl's Head Mountain. I'd been tired, sore, and in no mood for several miles of pancake-flat trail, and by the end of the day my feet were ready to fall off. Not so, this time. I was still fresh, despite the nine mile sprint on the Hancocks, so the old railroad bed turned into another speed-walk for me, punctuated by fine views up the Pemigewasset East Branch opened by the banks being washed out in the floods earlier this month. A few points on the old road were heavily damaged by washouts, but for the most part I just cruised along, hoping to make Thirteen Falls before dark.

Lincoln Woods Trail. I can tell it's an old railroad bed because they didn't even bother removing the ties.

The nearly nine miles from Lincoln Woods to Thirteen Falls are flat as a board, so I managed a good three mile-per-hour clip with only a few short breaks for water and snacks. Moss had just arrived and set up her caretaker camp, and the campsite's only other inhabitants for the night had set up their tent nearby. I set up my MEC Silicone Scout tarp in no time, which made me proud because it had been over a year since I'd touched the tarp. For the rest of the evening, which became increasingly chilly, Moss and I relaxed in the campsite's cooking area, trading stories of the summer and plans for the future, sipping hot cocoa and catching up on what we'd missed in the past several months. We'd hiked together just before she started her caretaker gig, but we'd barely heard from each other since, so I was glad to have little other company for the night.

Moss can't get out of her hammock. Almost makes me wish I had one.

By the time I went to bed in my tarp shelter, it was already cold enough to make my nose run steadily. But I was excited to test out my cold-weather sleep arrangement, which hadn't had a good field test in far too long. Under my tarp was my Stateless Society Quilt, a custom made (for someone else, but of similar size to me) quilt that seemed like it would take temperatures in the low 40s quite easily. Inside the quilt, I wore my Montbell Alpine Light jacket and Down Inner Pants. The down jacket and pants inside the sleeping bag/quilt are something I discovered on the PCT last year, and I can't recommend them enough. On very cold nights, the extra layers become crucial for lightweight backpacking comfort. You can get out of your bag/quilt in the frigid morning and still be perfectly warm in your down suit. It's wonderful.

The next morning, with the temperature bottoming out at 34 degrees, I woke up mostly well-rested. My old Thermarest Ridgerest probably should have been replaced by now, and its insulating qualities were the weak link of the night. I had been warm and snug for the entire evening, except I could feel the cold ground through my sleeping pad. I guess I've been using the same pad since about halfway through the Pacific Crest Trail, so that one pad has close to two-thousand miles of use, which is apparently too much.

Garfield, Franconia Ridge, and Moosilauke from South Twin. Camel's Hump and Mansfield are far in the distance.

Moss and I took our time getting ready to hike in the morning. I had already decided to cut my weekend down to one night instead of two in the wilderness, since I figured I should take Sunday to do grown-up things like grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking, and such. With that in mind, I convinced Moss to hike up to South Twin with me, and after that I would head out. I packed my Gossamer Gear RikSak for the dayhike, and left my "heavy" pack in Moss's shelter.

The trip up to Galehead from Thirteen Falls is surprisingly easy for a climb in the White Mountains, but I knew the next part of the climb would be a bruiser. We rested in the sun on the Hut porch for a short while, then began the climb up to the summit. Aside from a slip and fall (due to complete carelessness on my part, and resulting in a lot more blood than it should have), the climb was perfect. I love the strain of my leg muscles as I step up the jumbled stairway of large granite blocks. Because of that feeling I finished the Appalachian Trail as a stronger hiker than when I hiked the PCT, even though on the latter I hiked further and faster on average. Rather than the endurance test on the PCT, the New England mountains are a serious strength test.

Moss likes snow on Washington.

Atop South Twin we were greeted by cool air, warm sunshine, and some of the clearest views I can remember in the Whites. Sure, they were probably no clearer than my day on Franconia Ridge earlier in the summer, but it just goes to show how the photos never do the scene true justice. We saw everything from Camel's Hump and Mansfield in Vermont to Sugarloaf on the Cohos Trail and, of course, the snow-tinged Presidential Range blocking the view to the east. Washington had reported an inch of snow earlier in the morning, and it was obviously the beginning of winter up there. We sat around on the summit, enjoying the company of some fellow hikers and soaking in the views, before I finally pushed Moss to get moving. I had a long hike ahead of me, then a long drive, and I didn't want to get home too late.

Looking over North Twin to the Nash Stream Forest and the Cohos Trail.

We took our time getting back down to the Falls, but I had to hurry along after I got my pack back together. I left Thirteen Falls at 4:30, and expected night to fall in exactly three hours. I had about nine miles to go. Could it be done?

The Falls at Thirteen Falls. They must've been roaring a couple weeks ago.

I stopped only once to chug some water, but otherwise I flew down the trail, a man on a mission. During that water break, I explored an unmarked side-trail across from the Osseo Trail and found a tremendous view up the river. When I heard a pile of pebbles and dirt fall to the river below me, though, I realized I was standing on a completely undercut and eroded cliff about twenty or thirty feet high. All that was keeping me from plummeting to the rocks below was a few feet of unstable dirt and roots just waiting to cave into the river below. I scooted back to the trail and kept going toward the car.

Somewhere on the lower slopes of West Bond from the Franconia Brook Trail.

The rest is history. I got to my car just before 7, and by the time I drove into Lincoln to grab a sandwich and some caffeine for the ride home, it was dark. The long drive back home provided little excitement aside from fatigue nearly getting the best of me. I realized only after I parked my car that I had satisfied my goal of an epic weekend despite cutting down the number of nights in the woods. In 36 hours I'd bagged two peaks, hiked over thirty miles, and tested out the lower limits of my sleep system. It was a good weekend.

Evening falls on Mount Hitchcock just over Lincoln Woods. A fine end to the trip.

On Top of Vermont, 9/13/11

2011-09-16T07:16:00.000-04:00

The ledges of Mansfield providing dramatic backdrop for the ski resort's top shack.

While I'd been inexplicably ill for a little over a week, many great days of hiking had passed me by. Since my girlfriend, Yvonne, and I both have abnormal schedules, we were able to take off for northern Vermont on Tuesday to make up for one of those days I'd missed while incapacitated.

Walking along the ridge to Mansfield's Chin.

Mount Mansfield, the highest mountain in Vermont, used to be like a close friend to me. When I lived in Vermont, a twenty-minute drive would get me to the base of the mountain, and a few hours of hiking could get me to the top and back, so I spent a lot of time getting to know Mansfield and enjoying the fine views, the alpine rock scrambles, the steep climbs. After leaving the state, I lost touch with my old pal Mansfield, along with several others in the state (Hunger, Camel's Hump, Stowe Pinnacle). I was able to reconnect with Mansfield this spring, when I did some overly strenuous and sweaty hiking to tag all the Long Trail side trails (not entirely successfully), but it didn't feel like the mountain I used to know. It was just painful, that time.

One of my favorite views on Mansfield, looking up at the Chin from just below on the Long Trail.

Yvonne and I got a much later start than we'd hoped, and only got to the base of the Haselton Trail just before noon. We hadn't set an alarm, figuring we usually wake up pretty early, but recovering from my week of sickness seems to have messed up my sleep schedule a bit. Anyway, I wasn't too worried about getting a late start. It would be a short and sweet hike. The Haselton Trail, while exceptionally steep, was the trail I had climbed the most on Mansfield, so I still remembered it well. It's a rugged climb through the forest between two ski trails, then an even steeper walk on one of the harder ski trails, but then it gets easy and relaxing for the ridgewalk along the summit.

We sweated through the initial climb, the cool morning air having long since given way to a humid and warm day, but once up top the air was crisp and windy again. The sweat we'd poured out earlier dried almost instantly. As planned, the walk along the ridge was a pleasant, relaxing stroll, without even any crowds to get in the way. There were a few other hikers out, but not so many. Since all the popular trail heads to Camel's Hump are closed because of washed out roads, I'd figured more people would be hiking along the other nearby alpine summit, but maybe a Tuesday before foliage season wasn't the time for crowds of any sort.

Yvonne starts down the rock scramble of the Subway Trail.

It was a fine day as far as views, too. The humidity cut the visibility down quite a bit, so we couldn't see to Lake Champlain or the Adirondacks or the White Mountains, but there's still plenty to see. The sky was clear and blue for the most part. The long ridges stretching off from the mountain were just barely starting to show the changing colors of the leaves. Walking through the krummholz, the rich scent of fir trees filled my head. Yeah, it was a lovely day.

After a short lunch at the summit, we headed back the way we came, except for a detour along the Subway and Canyon North trails, which add a little excitement to the standard ridge walk along Mansfield. These trails don't get nearly enough use, I think, but that's probably good. On the most crowded days on Mansfield, you can get away from the ridge and pretend you're far away from the rest of the world.

There may be a cliff nearby, but it's not as scary as the picture makes it seem.

We were back to the car only four hours after we'd started, which meant we spent more time in the car than hiking that day, but it was well worth the effort. Even though the Haselton Trail is a rugged beast, it felt like a relaxing and fun day, getting back to something that I used to know so well. And it was good to see Vermont again, after being turned away from the state by Hurricane Irene. I'll be back soon, Mansfield!

iPhone GPS vs Garmin eTrex

2011-09-14T04:00:00.000-04:00

Since I've been playing around with my Garmin eTrex Vista HCx for almost a year now, I realized I've never tested out the GPS capabilities of my iPhone that I got only a few months after the eTrex. I always assumed that the iPhone wasn't as accurate as the dedicated high-sensitivity GPS receiver. So what do you think? Is the iPhone's GPS receiver less accurate than a handheld GPS?

When I hiked up Ascutney a few weeks ago, I turned the iPhone GPS tracker on near the top of the mountain to test it against the eTrex that I was already carrying in my pack. Here's the result:

View iPhone GPS test in a larger map

Not bad, I think. The red line is the eTrex, and the blue is the iPhone, running Gaia GPS Lite. As far as accuracy, they seem pretty similar. The only major difference seems to be how often each was collecting a data point. I had manually set the eTrex to collect a point every 30 seconds (the recommended setting takes a point every 100 or 200 feet of travel, but I prefer the timed collection), and I think the iPhone must have been collecting points based on distance. The iPhone seems a tiny bit more jittery with its data points, but if you're not zoomed in super close it seems accurate enough.

So why carry the eTrex? On day hikes I might stick with the iPhone only, but I've used the eTrex for three 8-hour days in a row on one pair of rechargeable NiMH batteries (I haven't tested the non-rechargeable lithiums yet). The iPhone ate through most of its battery power in four hours or so. For longer trips, if I want to have a track of where I've been, the eTrex has a much better battery life as well as batteries that can be replaced in the field. That's the major advantage for simply tracking my progress.

That's all for now. I thought some people might like to see the comparison.

Railriders mesh, Further Down The Line

2011-09-12T04:00:00.000-04:00

A few months ago I mentioned that I would be testing out a pair of Railriders Bone Flats pants for backpacking this summer. For any of you who are interested, the test results are in!

RailRiders Bone Flats pants in 80+ degrees and saturating humidity in Southern Vermont.

I wore the Bone Flats pants for much of my Long Trail Side-to-Side trip in the spring, but switched to shorts once the weather hit record highs in Vermont. Then, during my trip-leading experience this summer I wore the Bone Flats pants every day during a 6-day canoe trip, along with my Railriders Adventure Shirt. The Adventure Shirt had already had extensive testing on the Pacific Crest Trail as a desert-hiking shirt, and I'd been mostly successful with that.

As hiking clothes, the Adventure Shirt and Bone Flats Pants were pretty great. Normally, I can't stand any kind of summer heat, so shorts and short-sleeved shirts are all I can handle. Since both the pants and shirt have long strips of RailRiders' eco-mesh along the sides for venting, they are considerably less hot than most pants and long-sleeves. The light fabric also helps to keep them from overheating quickly. The Bone Flats material actually feels very soft against the skin, so that was a nice added touch. The Adventure Shirt was soft enough to the touch, but not as much as the Bone Flats.

Both the Adventure Shirt and Bone Flats Pants reached the upper limit of their comfort during my hiking, though. In Southern California, the Adventure Shirt became especially sweaty between my back and my pack, since the fabric doesn't soak up sweat as well as softer, wicking shirts. If I had worn the shirt in the humid New England air, I would have been a mess. On the other hand, the Bone Flats Pants were fine for hiking in Vermont up to almost 80 degrees and soaking humidity. After three or four days of the really high heat and humidity I had to switch out to shorts or I would have sweated myself to death, but for a few days at a time they were fantastic.

Where the RailRiders outfit really shined, however, was in the canoe. No surprise there, since RailRiders started as yacht-racing clothes. But it was pretty surprising just how much better they seemed to work in the boat. My clothing for the canoe trips was simply a wide-brimmed hat, the Adventure Shirt, the Bone Flats Pants, and a pair of Chacos. I didn't change at all for the full five days, not even into swimming trunks for swimming. I found that the pants and shirt were reasonably cool in the heat of the day, but whenever they got just a little too hot I could jump into the water, fully clothed. Once out of the water, the light fabric would dry in no time– less than twenty minutes. While drying, they would keep me nice and cool, even in direct sunlight. To top it all off, I looked like a total badass jumping into the water in my long-sleeved shirt and pants. Or maybe like a total dork. I don't care!

Dork! RailRiders Adventure Shirt and Backpackinglight Thorofare Pants (discontinued, but no matter).

A final note about the Bone Flats Pants. I was worried when I first purchased them that the mesh on the inside of the legs would fray and tear with prolonged use. After only a few day hikes in them there were a few snags that showed up on the mesh, but so far there hasn't been any more damage to them. I'm pretty pleased.

To sum it all up, the RailRiders mesh is fantastic for high sun-exposure activities like paddling and desert-hiking. For lower exposure activities it's better than long clothes without the mesh, but it can still get too hot in high heat, especially with Eastern humidity. As far as trekking pants go, I'll probably never use anything else. For shirts, Railriders will come with me any time I'm in a desert.

Presidential Northern Loop, 8/21/11

2011-09-08T07:00:00.000-04:00

With my car loaded down as far as it could go, stuffed with all my belongings as I left my home to take up residence in the Granite State, Julie and I prepared for the craziest day hike of them all– the Presidential Traverse. Since Julie would be leaving New England only a few days later, and this would be our last day together after a long summer of spending pretty much every day with each other at the summer camp, she wanted to end her time in the northeast in style. We hadn't done any hikes quite as rugged as the Presidential Traverse this summer, so I was a little wary of this idea. When the forecast turned into "severe afternoon thunderstorms," I started to get really nervous.

Boott Spur, Tuckerman Ravine, and Huntington Ravine from a little outcropping near the bottom.

Rather than go with our original plan, which got bumped repeatedly when friends and other plans kept moving it around, we ended up driving only one car to Pinkham Notch just before sunrise on a cool Sunday morning. The day before had been brutally hot and humid, so much so that views from mountaintops had been cut down to only a few miles, so the chilly morning was just fine with me. Julie and I got ready quickly, carrying only a small amount of gear for the 18-ish mile day, and started out almost running up the Boott Spur Trail. With my Gossamer Gear RikSak and Julie's REI Flash 18, our total pack weights with food and water came out to less than 16 pounds. It was pure luxury.

Above treeline, and the sky almost looks like it's going to clear.

The Boott Spur Trail quickly became a stair-master climb, getting our hearts pounding and our lungs working harder than they had all summer. It was a wonderful feeling. And within less than half an hour we had clear views of the behemoth Mount Washington above us. The Wildcats and Carter-Moriah Range were silhouetted behind us as well, and the clouds that I had expected to be covering everything were still high in the sky. There was even a little blue poking out from the cracks in the cloud cover, giving Washington a cheery glow amid all the greyness.

Because there are plenty of rocks, there might as well be huge cairns.

It occurred to me as we climbed up to tree line that I'd only once climbed Mount Washington, and that was in a thick cloud while hiking the Appalachian Trail. Today, if we were lucky, I would have a view from the top. More importantly, I knew the area a lot better now than I did back in my less knowledgeable days of college and through-hiking. As we came up above the trees, I could identify many of the mountains around me, starting with the Wildcats and Carter-Moriah Range. For the first time, I was able to put names to faces with Tuckerman and Huntington Ravines. Boott Spur stood out like a knob above us. Once we arrived on top of the Spur, I recognized Franconia Ridge in the distance, Carrigain and Chocorua to the south, and many more. There's something wonderful about knowing your surroundings. It almost makes me feel at home, especially since, at this point, I was without a real home of my own.

Yes. We are that cool.

A brisk wind cooled us off on our way up the ridge, but the clouds came and went. There was almost as much blue sky as grey, and I began to feel optimistic about our chances for finishing the day's intended hike. Of course, if the weather turned we could head down any number of trails back to Pinkham Notch, but I wanted to at least hit Jefferson and Adams, which I had skipped on my through-hike in 2007, and Julie wanted to get every peak possible because this was it for her. We moved quickly along, finally starting to see other hikers once we got to the Crawford Path, where dozens of hikers were on their way to the top from Lakes of the Clouds. Still, despite the people we saw, it never seemed crowded up there.

Surveying the peaks ahead– Jefferson, Adams, and Madison.

Then there was the top. It's a very strange experience to walk through the forest, the boulder fields, the high alpine terrain, only to arrive at a road teeming with... non-hikers. That will be my nice way of putting it. I know the auto road isn't a bad thing, but it's just a strange feeling, to hike all that and then wind up at what amounts to a tourist rest-stop. Julie and I got our obligatory summit-picture, then sat at the edge of the summit for some views of what we would soon be hiking. I noticed several Appalachian Trail hikers up there, as well (Pink Floyd, Rain Dancer, Jackrabbit, and Handstand, I think were their trail names), so I offered to take pictures and tried to get some stories out of them. They ended up leap-frogging with us for the rest of the day, which made me feel good on a few levels. First off, it was nice to have the company of fellow crazies, but it was also nice that Julie and I were able to keep pace with them without any problems, even after they'd hiked 1800 miles to get there.

A little vegetation between Jefferson and Adams to break up the rock hopping.

The rest of the day was glorious. After Washington, we descended to Mount Clay, and had perfect climbs over Jefferson, Adams and Madison. The weather stayed mostly cloudy with a cooling wind until we left the summit of Madison. I barely even broke a sweat. The conditions were as perfect as I could have hoped for. Aside from a medium haze in the distance, the views were vast. I was able to make out the Percy Peaks and Sugarloaf far to the north, comprising much of the Cohos Trail trip Julie and I had led only a few weeks earlier.

After Madison, we saw the summit of Mount Washington beginning to cloud over, but we were already on our way down the Osgood Trail. We'd be back to the cars soon, we thought. But I'd forgotten just how the AT from Madison to Pinkham Notch drags on. Almost as soon as we found ourselves below tree line, a light rain started to fall. Good timing, we thought. We had no idea.

Mount Madison is a mighty pointy peak.

Half an hour later, the War of the Worlds began. Rain began to pour down vertical, diagonal, horizontal, every which way. Lightning flashed almost constantly. The thunder was so loud and so explosive that it seemed to shake the ground beneath me. I felt pretty bad for those folks we'd seen heading up to Madison Hut late in the day. We'd seen three or four people trying to beat the weather. I hope they made it.

Julie and I slogged through the newly muddy trail, slowing down steadily as our energy petered out. The rain and thunder cleared eventually, but it was still wet and dark. The last miles seemed to stretch on forever, but we eventually wound up at the Notch around 7 PM, wet, tired, and starving. But the day was a success! I'd checked off two more peaks from my New Hampshire 4000-footers list, we'd had a gorgeous day of hiking, and neither of us had been hit by lightning. Sounds like a winner to me.

Picking our way down the rockpile that is Mount Madison.

The next morning I would be on my way to Keene to take up residence in my new home. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, the lightning and exposed conditions on the Presidential Range barely registered with my sense of danger compared to the terrifying experience of moving to a new town and setting up a new life. Yeah. That's the real scary part.

Gossamer Gear RikSak daypack/stuffsack

2011-09-06T07:00:00.001-04:00

The RikSak loaded with enough stuff for a long dayhike.

This summer, just before I began my seasonal employment at a summer camp, Grant Sible of Gossamer Gear gave me one of GG's new RikSak packs in return for helping out at Sectionhiker's lightweight backpacking talk in Boston. I thought it was a nice gesture, although I really had no use for a stuff sack with backpack straps.

Oh, was I wrong.

For the rest of the summer I used the RikSak almost every day. It doesn't have much capacity, and it has no frills, but isn't that what I've been saying is the best feature of a backpacking pack? Why should it be any different for a day pack? REI had been making something like this for years now, and it's almost literally just a stuff sack with backpack straps. REI's has attachment points and a heavier fabric, but Gossamer Gear's is sleek silnylon with 4-inch wide pack straps, at one fifth the weight of the REI version.

The RikSak was perfect for carrying around a water bottle and a few minor things around camp while running errands, but I still didn't think it was necessary. When I headed out on the camp trip to Attean Pond for some paddling, though, I realized just how great this little pack is. In the middle of the canoe trip, we parked on the north end of Attean Pond to climb a short two-mile trail to Sally Mountain, carrying only daypacks. The RikSak held lunch, water, and a bulky first aid kit just fine. Later, on several climbs of Mount Monadnock, it did the same. I started to see just how nice this design is. Instead of my big, heavy daypack that I usually carry, the RikSak is pretty much everything you need for a quick hike up and down a summit.

Atop Mount Clay on the Presidential Range of New Hampshire. The RikSak was perfect for a Presidential Traverse.

Even on longer day hikes, I've decided that the RikSak is pretty much all I need. For the Presidential Northern Loop at the end of the summer, I took only the RikSak for an 18+ mile, all-day haul over Mounts Washington, Jefferson, Adams and Madison. The bag comfortably held my wind shirt, two water bottles, all day snacks and lunch, phone, wallet, car keys, map, and headlamp. I probably should have had my first aid kit with me as well, but there was room to spare (and my kit is pretty tiny, as well). If I hadn't been hiking by constant water sources (the AMC White Mountain Huts), I could have fit plenty of water treatment in the form of Aqua Mira or Micropur tablets. No problem.

Packing the RikSak is not elegant. It's a stuff sack. When I first put on the pack with a few water bottles, they tend to poke me in the back since they don't sit perfectly upright. Within a few minutes of walking, though, the bottles settle and the pack is perfectly comfortable. I'm sure the 4-inch wide pack straps help. I don't think they need to be so wide, since I would never carry more than 10 pounds in the pack (the fabric could take it, but what's the point?).

The only minor gripe I have is that the EZC2 cord that cinches the opening of the bag is just a hair wide for the cord lock. It works, but the cord lock will eventually fray the line, I think. It's not a huge issue, and if it were I could easily switch to a larger cord lock for only a fraction of an ounce more in weight.

Bottom line: I'm glad I have one of these. I won't take it with me in my overnight pack, but it's great for day hikes. If I had a much heavier overnight pack, I might take this along for side trips to peaks, or if I were through-hiking it would be a great slackpacking pack or town pack.

Acadia National Park, the Precipice: 8/18/11

2011-09-02T06:00:00.001-04:00

Mount Desert Island below the cliffs of Champlain Mountain

The day after Tumbledown, Julie and I headed to the premier climbing spot in Maine– Acadia National Park. We were still pretty tired from the long drive after the tough hike on Tumbledown, so we left Belfast a little later than planned. An early-morning fog that had rolled in off the coast had yet to dissipate by the time we left, so the drive took us through patches of mist intermingled with blazing heat from the nearly cloudless day.

We arrived in Bar Harbor just after noon, but still too early to meet my childhood friend, Jeremy, who is a climbing guide in the area. We stopped by Alpenglow Gear, where he works, to set our plan. Julie and I would hike up the Precipice, then down the backside of Champlain Mountain and Huguenot Head to meet Jeremy at the parking area on the other side of the mountain. Easy enough. Julie and I took off for the Precipice Trail head.

Cliffs make for good views.

The signs at the bottom of the Precipice label it as a "non-technical climbing route," NOT a hiking trail. I guess that's why it's so fun. The only other time I've hiked, er, I mean climbed this trail was in the winter of 2010 with Jeremy. The Precipice is definitely not recommended for winter, but we had ourselves a great time. This time would be the first that I'd tried the Precipice in dry conditions, and it would turn out to be just as fun.

The climb starts out steeply, and almost immediately traverses a boulder field below the cliffs. Then, still steeply, the trail climbs almost vertically up the mountain face, using no small amount of rebar ladders and handholds. It's amazing to think of what the trail builders must have gone through to find the initial route up the mountain, but they did a fantastic job of it. Julie and I scaled the route quickly despite the heat, stopping frequently for the constant views. The fog that had been so slow to lift in the morning still sat at the edge of Mount Desert Island, so thick it looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. It only added to the scenery, though. And I'd thought the winter climb had had the best possible views.

Doing this in the winter was a little scary. Not so much in the summer.

We arrived at the top to find well over a dozen people already there. We had passed more than a dozen others on the way up, but even with my end-of-summer antisocial streak I was amazed at how pleasant every single person on the mountain was. Usually you find at least one jackass in such a large crowd, but I couldn't find anyone or anything to complain about. It was almost disappointing.

Ladders, railings, and big ledges.

We were already an hour late for meeting Jeremy when we got to the top, so we didn't stay long. The trip down Huguenot Head is just as pretty as the trip up, but we moved a little slower. Steep downhills are murder on the knees.

Jeremy had anticipated our being late, so he arrived at the parking area only minutes after we finished our hike/climb. From there, even though Julie and I were both pretty zonked from so much traveling, hiking, and packing, we all headed back to the Precipice to do some technical climbing on the South Wall. I forgot to take my camera with me for the technical climbing, unfortunately, but the views were just as fine as the "non-technical climbing" part of the day.

Atop Champlain Mountain, done with the hike for now.

And that was it. The next day I would be on my way out of Maine with my car loaded to the gills. Of course it's not the last time I'll be there. Not by a long shot. But it felt like some kind of end. There's something about the mountains and coast of Maine that Vermont and New Hampshire just don't have. Really, no other place in the US can compare. Some combination of the remoteness and the way the people love the land. New Hampshire's mountains may be bigger, and Vermont's culture may be a little more organized, but Maine's got Mainers and the North Woods, and those can't be beat. I'm going to miss living here.

Just for fun, I love to compare photos from different seasons. Check out the winter photos of the Precipice and compare them to this summer's pictures. Pretty crazy!

Tumbledown Mountain, 8/17/11

2011-08-31T06:15:00.003-04:00

With summer camp done, I went back to my home in Maine to start packing my life into boxes and into my car in order to make the move to southern New Hampshire. It's an exciting thing to move to a new home, but let's face it. I'm a Mainer through and through. I have a hard time imagining any other place to be home, no matter how long I may end up living there. Vermont came close a few years ago, but it still didn't have that particular Maine Charm.

That's a mighty big rock. Too bad I couldn't get all of it in the photo, but I'd say at least 30 feet high.

In the middle of packing and worrying about all the things that come with uprooting, I had a few small day-hikes planned to relieve the sadness of leaving home. Julie, my co-leader at the summer camp and now a close friend, joined my family in Belfast to see some more of Maine. She's from the west coast and had never been to the east before this summer. During the summer camp trips we made our way up to Jackman, but the northern lakes region was only a tour of one of the three major outdoor recreation environments of Maine. She still had to check out the inland mountains region and the coastal region.

For the inland mountains, we headed up to Farmington and Weld to climb a mountain I had only climbed once, ten years ago and on a cloudy autumn day with no views. With a little help from Maine Trail Finder, we met up at the trailhead and began our hike in the early afternoon. I was a little apprehensive because of the overflowing parking lot at the bottom of the mountain, but once we started up the Loop Trail we saw only a few small groups of hikers, which we quickly overtook (that's right– my mom, 60 years old, is such a badass that she passed a bunch of much younger hikers like they were standing still).

Tumbledown's south cliff. The trail comes out at the notch on the right.

The Loop Trail starts out through lush, mossy forest, passing a tremendous boulder the size of a large house, before starting a devilishly steep climb to the Great Ledges. These partially open rock faces gave us a view of what we would soon be climbing– the south side of Tumbledown is a sheer seven-hundred foot cliff, which we would climb nearly vertically to a notch just below the west peak of the mountain.

Inside Fat Man's Misery, after shimmying up the hole in the rocks.

The climb to Tumbledown's ridge was as steep and arduous as the warnings had made it out to be. We stepped high, walking up a cross between a rock-slide and a small stream, finally finding ourselves at a notch in the rocks above. Three rebar staples had been driven into the stone as the trail sent us through a small hole in the cliff. This must have been the tight squeeze that the trailbuilders had labeled "Fat Man's Misery." That is now my favorite name for a trail feature just about anywhere. The Misery took a few minutes to get through, since we had to remove our packs, shimmy through the hole in the rock, and hand packs through. If you've ever been to Mahoosuc Notch, you'll recognize this kind of trail feature. Imagine the small hole you need to pass through in the Notch, but instead of going through horizontally, the Fat Man's Misery is vertical.

Looking across Tumbledown's ridge to Mount Blue and Webb Lake.

Just above the squeeze, we topped out on the Tumbledown cliffs, complete with views to the south of Webb Lake and the mountains around the Weld region. Only a few wisps of clouds in the distance. The only limit to our views were the other mountains nearby. We headed west to the end of the Tumbledown Ridge Trail and had lunch on the rocky peak. The mountain seemed completely deserted– we hadn't seen anyone since the Great Ledges, and no one showed up at the peak despite our 45 minute break.

The long ridge on the right is Saddleback Mountain. It doesn't look a thousand feet higher, but it sure is.

The west peak of Tumbledown had the best views of the ridge; they were downright jaw-dropping. Directly to our east, Little Jackson Mountain loomed above us, blocking the eastward view, but to the south was a vast landscape of southern Maine, the mountains giving way to rolling hills. To the west and north, the Appalachian Trail laid out like a panorama. I named peaks in order from the west to the east, starting with Mount Washington dominating the far horizon. Most of the Mahoosucs were unidentifiable to me, but Sunday River ski resort was easily visible with its ski trails. Blocking most of it was Sunday River Whitecap, with Old Speck and Baldpate right nearby. Old Blue and the Bemis Range continued the high mountains of western Maine, and Saddleback, Saddleback Junior, and the Horn sat high to the north. I was completely amazed, and in the minutes that I stood looking around, I already missed living in this grand state.

Traversing the Tumbledown Ridge. Far in the distance are the Mahoosucs and the White Mountains.

We left the west peak and headed across the ridge, a rocky traverse with open views mostly to the south and east. With only a short walk, we arrived at Tumbledown Pond, probably the main reason for Tumbledown's popularity. At about 2600 feet, the pond sits just below Little Jackson Mountain, and at the edge of Tumbledown's ridge. There were several people picnicking, fishing, and swimming around the pond when we arrived. Undoubtedly this is where all the people from those cars had been, since they hadn't been anywhere else on the mountain. We stopped on the rocks near the pond for a brief snack and a dip in the icy waters.

Little Jackson Mountain above Tumbledown Pond.

The trip down the Brook Trail was much less steep than the Loop Trail, and in almost no time we were back to the cars. It was a nice, long drive back to the coast, but well worth the effort. In the next few years I'll be closer to the Green and White Mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire, and it will be a long drive for me to get to even the closest mountains in Maine, so I couldn't help but feel that this hike would be my last big one in Maine for quite a while. Maybe I'm just being a little overdramatic about moving out, but I sure as hell am going to miss these mountains.

I guess it's time to head back home.