Questions I get about backpacking

When I reached a point where lots of people knew about my thru-hike next year, I started getting a lot of questions about it.  I loved that, because it gave me free reign to talk about something I had largely kept to myself for nearly a year.  But the thing about conversations like that is that you often learn just as much from the questions as the other person does your answers.  For instance, it's easy for me to spot other backpackers, because they generally only have two questions: Northbound or Southbound?  and How much does your pack weigh?  After that, they may get into more details, like which stove you chose, or how you're going to treat water, but they always open with one of those two.

I'll start with those.

Northbound or Southbound?
Northbound (see also: NOBO or GAME).  Most thru-hikers go north for a reason: it saves the difficult White Mountains for the end of the hike.  By that time, you've been training for months, and are trail-hardened for anything.  My mom's uncle hiked it southbound, and even he recommended I go north.  Plus, a big part of why I want to hike the AT is to take Mom's ashes with me.  When I was in college, my brother, my dad, and I spread some of her ashes on Springer Mountain, in Georgia, and I feel like heading north from there gives the trip better continuity.

How much does your pack weigh?
With the gear I have now, ten days of food (I don't plan to ever carry ten days of food again if I can help it), and all my cold-weather gear, my pack weighs about 35 pounds.  That's what I remember from my Shenandoah hike in October.  I received a lighter water filter and bottles for Christmas, and if I get a chance to play with my new alcohol stove and get comfortable with it, I can shave some weight there, too.  However, 35 pounds doesn't take my passenger into account, so I'd like to cut more weight, if I can.  Unfortunately, I think I've reached a point where shedding more weight will get really expensive, and probably require changing my tent and the pack itself.  I think the more likely option is better food purchases.  I took a lot of food to SNP that I never ate, even accounting for the extra food I knew I wouldn't need.

I also get lots of questions from people who either aren't backpackers, or don't have much experience with this kind of backpacking.  These are some of my favorites.

Are you taking a knife?
Yup.  I have a tiny Leatherman (another good place to shave weight would be replacing this with a tiny Swiss Army knife that just has a blade, scissors, and tweezers.  I used to have one, but it's disappeared since I was in Scouts).
That's it??  What if you have to cut off your arm or something??
I don't think you understand where I'll be hiking.  I'm really not concerned about that possibility.

How many changes of clothes are you taking?
I'm not.  Extra clothes are what people use to fill up their dressers, and I'm not taking a dresser.  I want that space--and that weight--available for food.  I will take layers of clothing, so I can adjust my insulation according to weather, and a rain shell for when it gets wet, windy, or very cold.
Ok, but what about underwear?
Under where?  Most of the time I'll wear running shorts, which have a liner.  When it gets cold, I have a pair of merino wool leggings which are surprisingly cozy for something you can see through.

Aren't you worried about bears?
I'm only worried that they'll run away so fast that I won't be able to get a good picture.  Bears are generally timid and don't want to mess with people.  On the other hand, people doing stupid or foolish things in the woods have led bears to believe that people have the best food, and many people don't know how to store it in the backcountry.  When bears get accustomed to finding food in camp areas, they return to those areas for more food.  I may have to deal with a bear that has been trained by past hikers to steal my food.  Luckily, most shelters along the AT have some provision for hanging food out of ursine reach.  I'll probably take some cord so I can hang my own bear bag, should I be forced to camp in a place that has no such amenity.
Well, what about wolves?  or snakes?  or ticks?
In the past 60 years, there has not been a single documented case of a wolf attacking a human in North America.  Snakes are like bears; they're not going to bother me if I leave them alone, and besides taking pictures when I get the chance, I leave snakes alone (occasionally, when I can identify a species as non-venomous, I may move it out of the trail for its own safety).  Besides, the areas of the trail where snakes are most prevalent will probably be behind me by the time it's warm enough for them to be out gallivanting.  Ticks and pathogens are my only real concerns.  When Turtle and I hiked the overlooks in Virginia, we would stop at the end of every patch of high grass or other greenery that overhung the trail and checked our legs for passengers.  He led the way through most of that, so he found far more than I did, but that practice will continue this year.  If I find any ticks on me, I intend to do it while they're still looking for a picnic spot, not after they've made camp.  Dad provided me with a new filter for Christmas, and I'm confident that it will effectively treat my water.  Oddly enough, one of the bigger risks to hiker health is other hikers; many think that living in the woods means abandoning all hygiene practices, and those are the people sharing your shelters.  Online forums are full of reports of sick hikers sharing illnesses at shelters.  I plan to stick to my tent for a long time, and only accepting sealed food from others.

What if you wake up one morning and just decide that you're sick of it, and don't want to hike anymore?
I think that's unlikely.  But let's say it happens.  How often do you wake up in the morning and decide that you're sick of it, and don't want to go to work that day?  Starting March 10, my job is hiking to Maine.  If there's a day I don't feel like hiking, I'll probably hike anyway, because it's my job.

Are you taking anything for protection?
Someone asked me this question in front of The Girl, who immediately acted shocked and asked of them just WHAT kind of trip did they think this was, ANYWAY??  After we finished laughing, they clarified, "seriously? a gun, a knife, what?"  No.  Definitely no.  The most powerful firearm I own bears the NERF logo.  I've fired .22 rifles, and have no other firearm training at all.  Furthermore, guns are illegal on many parts of the trail, heavy over the entire trail, and entirely unnecessary.  People seem to think I'm trekking through a warzone.  It's Appalachia, for pete's sake.  I'll be safer there than I am in D.C.

The most interesting question I've heard was actually asked of The Girl by a friend of hers.
Aren't you afraid he's going to spend too much time in his own head?
I thought that was impressively insightful for someone I don't know, but if she had known me, she also would have known the right answer, delivered by The Girl: "He already does that."  Unemployment has given me two solid years to muck about deep inside my brain.  I won't meet any demons on this trip I haven't already taken to lunch.  At least, not the internal kind.

Have any more questions?  I'm not an expert on backpacking (yet), but I am the world's leading expert on my plans.  Ask soon--I leave in less than a month.

last-round draft picks

Just a quickie today; Dad came to visit recently, and I have lots of pictures from that week, but I haven't had a chance to put them together in a post yet, because the day after he left, I went to Cleveland for a double bachelor party, and got back Sunday night.  Tuesday night through Wednesday evening we had a pair of visitors playing Legos and coloring on our floor (I fit in well with those activities), and Friday afternoon we left to visit The Girl's nephew for adventures which I can only surmise at this writing (I hear a zoo may be involved).

What happened during that free day in the middle?  Sadly, Labor Day sales happened at camping retailers, and they were clamoring to get what remains of my money.

I think my gear is pretty well settled at this point, but there are a few remaining details.  I'd like to upgrade my camera and bed.  With the guidance of a fantastically talented photographer friend in Oregon, I found (ok, he found it, but I really like it) a camera which is not only "adventure rated" (water- shock- and freeze-proof), but has a generous aperture and sensor, allowing for better performance in low light.  It also has special features for really really close photography, which I enjoy.  It's a bit bigger and heavier than what I have now, but considering it will probably survive the trail in better shape than me, I consider it a reasonable trade-off.  Plus, should I decide to get fancy at some point in the future, it can support additional lenses.  Today, on a whim, I checked at our closest Best Buy and found one on display, then spent several giddy minutes playing with features, reading every menu and sub-menu, and closely examining every aspect of it that came to mind.

A little after I returned, my order of two new camp pads arrived.  The plan was to try them both inside and return the one I didn't like as much.  I'm going have to spend a couple nights on them, because so far there is no clear favorite between the NeoAir Xlite and the ProLite (both in the smallest size available, both made in USA by Therm-A-Rest).

I rolled, unrolled, and stretched out on both pads, then spent the better part of my afternoon researching down backpacking quilts.  The last one I checked was made by a company suggested by someone I met in college (I don't think either of us realized at the time that we were both backpackers), and quickly emerged as a favorite in the field.  I sent an email to the company with a couple questions, and hopefully I can place an order soon.

I'm very excited about all of this.  I'm a little concerned about what I'll obsess over for the next few months if I get everything figured out by the end of September.

no plan, no problem, Part Two

Once I got going, I realized I had more post than anybody would want to read in one sitting, so I split it in two.  Here's the rest of my loosely-ordered "plan."

Food
Yes, I could get lots of those pre-packed freeze-dried backpacker meals and have them every night, and similar offerings for breakfast, but I simply can't afford to eat like that.  On my trips this year, I've tended to have a bigger dinner (often with a snack before and something sweet after) and spent the rest of the day snacking compulsively.  For the Maryland trip, I even made a very detailed food plan that gave me over 4,000 calories a day (normal--even a little low--for a long-term backpacker) and dutifully stuck to it, but for the recent trip to McAfee Knob, I used the rough framework still in my mind from the MD trip and guessed at what I needed--and never felt like I wasn't getting enough.  I made some trail mix with lots of nuts, dried fruit, and chocolate and peanut butter chips, and packed M&Ms, Newtons, Pop-Tarts (high calorie and so trashy they have to pack them with vitamins to be allowed to market them to kids), a little beef jerky (I appreciate this as a treat and a break from all the sugar), Triscuits (I like salty, crunchy foods. These are fairly durable, and I usually had them as a snack before dinner.  When I finish eating the whole crackers, I can dump the broken crumbs into my dinner and pretend it's a high-falutin' topping), and granola bars.  For dinner, I sometimes use the freeze-dried meals, but next year I plan to use them as treat meals maybe once a week.  Usually I cook something like Knorr rice or pasta sides and eat the entire package as a main course.  On the overlook hike, I tried adding a packet of salmon to the teriyaki noodles, and it was great.  That's a two-dollar meal, compared to about seven dollars for a freeze-dried option.  I'm sure the nutritional content is different, but I can also get things like freeze-dried vegetables when available and add them to dinner.  And of course, every time I get into a town, I plan to take the opportunity to stuff myself silly and eat produce.

Much like the underlying principle behind the Clothing mentioned last week, I have a general purpose in a most of my food choices, and I've been sticking to next year's plan on my training hikes to get used to the idea.  If something needs to be cooked, I have to be able to cook it in my single small pot in under ten minutes.  Everything I take on training hikes has to be something I can get pretty much anywhere; then the calorie math I practice in my head on all those little trips will already be programmed by the time I start the big trip.  And I constantly experiment with my cooking so that I'll be able to improvise on the trail as easily as I can in my own kitchen.

Shelter
I love my tent.  I'll get a lot of use out of it, but I most of the governing bodies along the AT don't want you camping anywhere except at the designated shelter/tent sites.  I'm ok with that--those are usually places where I can get more water, and they often have privies and some provision for keeping my food safe.  The shelters also add to the sense of community along the trail; hikers will leave notes for each other in the log books, and there's always good conversation to be had with the other occupants.  However, I hope to be in my tent for the coldest nights, because it will be much warmer there.

Resupply
There are about a dozen towns directly on the Trail--not enough to keep me fully stocked for the entire hike.  there are many more near the trail, and thru-hikers will often travel together into town, hiking or hitching rides in groups for safety.  Sometimes, Trail Magic comes in the form of supportive locals who park near the trail and offer hikers rides into town.  I'll probably end up trying all options at one time or another, and I want to, to get the full trail experience.  However, news of my plans has gotten my family and at least a couple friends very excited.  One aunt in particular is thrilled at the prospect of using her long weekends to drive out with her daughter and grandkids to visit me on the trail and help me get groceries and stove fuel.  I feel bad that she would drive that much next summer, but they like doing little adventures together, and who am I to argue if they want to use those trips to my advantage?  The Girl's mom wants to visit at Harpers Ferry, and a long-time friend of our family has pointed out two or three times that since his retirement, he has nothing but time for driving long distances (though the recent arrival of his first grandkid might change his plans).  I also hope that my brother and my dad will join me at least a couple times, for obvious reasons.  With all the options available to me, I'm not worried about resupply--I'm only worried about getting the efforts coordinated.  For instance, I'm going to need new shoes along the way, and I know that a very particular pair of trail runners is very good for me.  I want to make sure I can get those shoes when I need them.

Navigation
Go north.

That may be over-simplified, but it's the truth.  The AT is famous, popular, and well-marked.  It is almost impossible to get lost along it.  While skilled with a map and compass, I don't plan to take either, but I have spent a lot of time with a trail guide, and plan to buy a different one for the hike itself.  I also nailed a map of the entire trail to the wall beside our front door; granted, it won't do me any good next year, but I spend a lot of time staring at it, and it often reminds me of things I still need to research.  When I actually start hiking, I really only need to know a few things:

1. how far to water
2. how far to the next shelter
3. how far to the next potential resupply point
4. (to a much smaller degree) how far to the Katahdin summit.

In the grand scheme of things, where I actually am at any given time isn't important--what matters is making it to the next thing that I need (food, water, shelter--it's the Maslowe approach to navigation).

First Aid/ Repairs

I recently read a book that made an excellent suggestion: never carry anything in your first aid kit that you don't know how to use.  My knowledge of first aid is pretty good, in my opinion, though I have thankfully had almost no need to ever practice it in real life.  I hope to keep it that way.  On the Maryland trip, I revised my kit to a much simpler version of itself, removing the one or two things I wasn't immediately familiar with, and took out most of the redundant items.  My theory was that I didn't have to expect to repair Humpty Dumpty, or patch an entire human back to fully functioning form, but fix things enough to get the unhappy victim to the next place where a more trained professional could assist them.  I also included a couple small things like safety pins and a bit of tape; another tip I picked up long ago was that in backpacking, "repair" to either your gear or yourself could often be accomplished with the same materials.  At least in the short term.

Summary

When a buddy and I had originally (rashly) considered making the trek this year, we declared the motto of the hike to be "no planning, no training, no problem."  That hasn't changed much, now that I think about it.  I'm certainly getting all the training I can manage, and lately I've rededicated myself to running, since any improvement there should translate well to backpacking, but what I've laid out here isn't really a plan--but it is a pretty thorough strategy.  I may not know exactly when I'll arrive anywhere, or know just what will be in my pack when I get there, but I have a solid framework I can use to guide all of my decisions along the way, and in my mind, it's better to be prepared to adapt to conditions as they present themselves than to have a concrete plan and expect it to weather the storm intact.

no plan, no problem, Part One

When they first learn of my intentions for next year, a lot of people who have done some hiking ask if I've done any planning.

I'm never sure how to respond, but on my snarkier days, I consider telling them that the plan is to hike north.  (I once saw "go fast, turn left" painted across the dashboard of a race car)  I don't know whether they expect a set of dates and corresponding locations delineating my exact northbound schedule, resupply points, zero days, and victory dinner, or just when I plan to start and about how long I think it will take.  The closest thing I can offer is the second option: I'm going to start in March, unless the weather looks extremely favorable, then maybe I'll head out a little earlier, and if I average fifteen miles a day with five zeros, it will take me five months to finish.

But that's just math.

I suspect that they just want to test whether I'm one of those idiots who wakes up one morning thinking "I'ma gonna go hike the Appaloosa Trail!!" and stops briefly at the largest outfitter they can find to buy a backpack and fill it to bursting with everything in the store labeled "for backpacking."  I assure you, such is not the case.

My plan is very detailed structurally, but barely defined temporally.  Here's the gist of it.

Time
I honestly have no idea how long it will take me to hike the trail.  I have a rough estimate above, but I also know that, left to my own devices, fifteen is at the low end of how far I'd like to hike on any given day.  I'm going to try to start a little conservatively to let myself acclimate, but at the start it will be cold, and hiking is probably my best option for staying plenty warm, so I make no promises.  I do know (from multiple sources) that the longer I'm out there hiking, the more I'll end up hiking every day, because I'll get better at it.  After all, the entire pursuit is one long practice session at becoming a better hiker.  On my last trip, I met a southbound (SOBO) thru-hiker who said he was averaging 37 miles a day, and he looked the part.  I think I might get a day or two in that range, but I don't think I'll average that kind of distance.  Still, I'm happy to hike as long as I'm able each day.  As much as I hope to enjoy the journey, I want to make sure I finish before Baxter closes for the season, and there are other things in my life besides hiking across continents.

Clothing
A couple weeks ago, I ordered my wool tights.  That was the last piece of clothing I needed, assuming the exchange of the too-small shirt goes as planned.  I'd like to get a visor, too, but I don't really consider that clothing.  In warm weather, I'll have a sleeveless Merino base layer and a pair of lined running shorts (with pockets!!).  For colder weather, I'll have the tights as a base layer, and I think I'll allow myself the weight of a lightweight hooded shirt I got last year and have taken on my colder backpacking trips since buying it.  I love that shirt.  I only hope that it survives the trip, so I don't have to buy a new one.  If it gets cold in camp at night (or REALLY cold on the trail), I have a stowable puffy jacket from REI, a pair of running gloves (these also work well with my poles), and a wool beanie.  I have a rain shell and pants for wet weather, harsh winds, or as an extra layer of insulation should things get really bad.  My boots have been set aside in favor of trail runners (newly equipped with sturdy insoles), which are lighter, better ventilated, dry faster, and drain reasonably.  They will get replaced at least three times along the trail by my support crew.

There's a constant rationale behind all of my clothing choices: it either needs to be waterproof, or it needs to suffer minimal performance reduction when wet, and dry quickly when the opportunity arises.  Come to think of it, that can apply to most of the stuff in my kit.  I know everything will get soaked at some point; it's ridiculous to believe otherwise.  I just assume that it will rain all day, every day while I'm in the Smokies, and that next summer's Sandy will drive terrible weather into the mountains on at least one long, crappy occasion.  I know the weather will be brutal--I just need stuff that can survive those conditions well, and perform well enough that I can survive the conditions, too.

Gear
Half the reason I've been planning and executing training hikes is to get myself ready; the other half is an extended audition for all of my equipment.  After the Maryland trip, I returned my Jetboil.  If all you want to do is boil water for backpacking dinners, it is incomparable.  However, that is not my intention (see Food, next week).  That was also the trip when I discovered that I am deeply in love with my Gregory Savant 58 pack and my Big Agnes Fly Creek UL1.  On the most recent trip, I tried out the shorts I got from REI, the amazing carbon poles The Girl bought me for my birthday, my sleeping bag liner (used both nights by itself as a warm weather sleeping bag), and the MSR Micro Rocket stove.  Tens all around.  I took my raingear on that trip, too, but it didn't rain until the last three or four miles, and I just let it soak me.  However, I did learn that the jacket, stuffed into its own pocket, is an entirely serviceable pillow.  Incidentally, while it was not the first time I used my cookset, it was the first time I had used it on a backpacking stove, and I was very happy with it, too.

There's still a little gear I need to get sorted.  I'd like a camera with a larger lens and sensor (better quality pictures, better low-light performance), and preferably waterproof (so it will survive the trip).  A friend and photographic genius in Oregon gave me some suggestions, and I think he found a winner, but I haven't gotten it yet.  I'd also like to replace my sleeping bag and pad (current total weight: over four pounds) to try to get my bed weight under two pounds.  Ideally, the weight of the bag liner would be included in that total, but I won't be picky.  I might hand off the heavier layer to my support crew for a while in August.  Right now I think I'd like to get a shorter length pad (my hips and shoulders are what really need the support) and a backpacking quilt (like a sleeping bag, but without the bottom).  I have a candidate for the first, but I'm still investigating the second.  I hope to have both in hand in time to try at least one test run of the combination before the Big Hike, ideally in cold conditions.

More of my "plan" will be here next week.  Same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel.

The Sickness

Apologies for the late post.  After scheduling this one to go live, I spent a weekend actually backpacking, including the drive to and from, and realized that the post I had intended was not the post that I had written.  What follows is my second attempt at expressing this consuming compulsive disorder.

On the fourth of July, someone asked me about my hike, and I didn't even bother hiding how excited I was that someone--anyone--wanted to talk about it.  "It's all I think about," I told him.  "Whatever I'm doing, my brain twists it to somehow be applicable to backpacking.  When I go to bed at night, I think about going to bed on the trail, and advantages of the tent over shelters, or shelters over tents.  I think about the bedding I have, and the bedding I'd like to get to replace it, and how much each of them weighs, and how much the new stuff will cost, and then I wonder about whether the pad will be comfortable, and how long it should be, and whether the quilt will be warm enough, and then I remember the leggings I need and still haven't selected."  And it goes on and on.

When I'm on long drives (usually between where we live now and where one or both of us used to live, but sometimes just up and down the east coast for sundry reasons), I'm always on the lookout for where our route crosses the Trail.  If we don't cross the trail, I try to see the ridge the trail follows.  If it's too far away, or if we've already passed out of sight, or aren't in sight of it yet, I see it in my mind.  I may be piloting my beloved Tardis, but in my head I'm hiking somewhere, surrounded by green, enduring whatever weather is actually outside the car.  I think about how I'd handle the current weather if I were backpacking.  I think about the gear I've bought--or still need to buy--to cope with the conditions.  I continually hope it will be sufficient to keep me healthy enough to keep hiking.

As I make dinner in our apartment, I think about dinners on the trail.  Is there any way to increase the caloric density of my pack?  Will butter survive August in food tubes?  I usually make my own trail mix so I can get exactly the blend I want, but without access to a well-stocked bulk section in a grocery, I'll have to buy a lot more than I really need to get me to the next resupply opportunity, which means carrying more weight than necessary.  I've been careful to train myself on foods I'm pretty sure will be available everywhere along the route, rather than limiting myself to very particular menu items, but there may come a time when my only resupply option is a gas station.  Can I get enough out of such a food paucity to get to the next store?  Will I be able to get the stove fuel I need (I did check before buying my stove to see whether the fuel was readily available along the trail, but there's no way to be sure until I'm out there)?  I've had enough practice at this mental acrobatic act to consider all of these things while monitoring the food I'm cooking in the real world, and that alone impresses me to no end, knowing as I do how much of my brain is consumed with these questions.

Every time I pull on a pair of shoes--any shoes--I remind myself that I need to order a few extra pairs of Brooks Adrenaline trail runners and distribute them to the people who have eagerly volunteered to act as my support team.  I also need to investigate sturdier insoles, get a pair, and train my feet to be happy with them.  I'm trying to get in the habit of stretching each night (especially when actually backpacking) to keep my body healthy and limber enough to avoid the surprise muscle pains that crop up when I'm not as diligent in my fitness routines.  I've given serious thought to sleeping without pillows to get my body used to that as well, but this past weekend I learned that my new rain shell, when packed into its own stuff pocket, doubles as a handy camping pillow.

By now you've gotten your own taste of what it's like to live in my brain as I transform from someone who has a general love of doing things outdoors to a person with a singular, obsessive focus in every single aspect of my life.  Perhaps I should apologize; I struggle to not mention backpacking to anyone, because if I talked about it as much as I think about it, everyone I know (and several complete strangers) would be sick of hearing about it months before I hit the trail.  But if they bring it up... well, that's different.  Then they're asking for it.

Eventually, I reached a point where I was no longer surprised at my own ability to link anything I'm doing to backpacking.  Now I'm curious about whether it will ever stop.  Is this an obsession based on one trip, or am I cultivating a new pastime?  Will I forever be doomed to look at a suitcase, coat, or book and first think "way too heavy"?  Will I always be more comfortable slogging through mud in the woods with thirty pounds on my back than I am sipping cocktails with well-dressed bon vivants and discussing the current political situation and fashionable attire?

Man, I hope so.

Horticulture

Strictly speaking, this was not an adventure, but I had a good time yesterday, and wanted to tell somebody, even if it's just the vast, faceless interwebs.  Hence the unscheduled post (come back Mondays for regular updates!)

Dad had the day off, and we finally got to work on some of the things I was home to help him do.  We spent a few hours in the yard mulching piles of sticks, and I ran the weedwhacker around some lawnmower obstacles that had been bugging me for the past couple of weeks, but then we got to the fun part.

Last week, Dad and I got a tour of Meadow View Growers (they own the bus we saw on GOBA) on the day that they happened to have fruit trees on sale for half price.  Dad bought eight trees, gave one of the peach trees to my brother (who alerted us to the deal), and the rest have been sitting in pots in his backyard since, getting hose water every night.  Yesterday we finally got a chance to put them in the ground.  Dad now has two Jonagold apple trees, two apricots, two nectarines, and a larger, more mature peach tree in his yard.  I was pretty happy with it when we finished planting them, but this morning Dad looked out his window and realized that as they mature, their arrangement will block the view of the house from the road, and that made him happier.  I spent the morning picking raspberries in the yard, and I stopped to admire our work again.  When I was a kid, we used to call our house Orchard Hill, because the property had several apple trees when Mom and Dad bought it, although almost all of them are gone now.  When we bought the trees, I told Dad that Orchard Hill was coming back.  We both know that there's still a chance some of the trees won't survive, but for now, we get to enjoy the tiny, budding orchard, and it looks good.  It makes me happy to see it.  And Sunday, I'll have more obstacles to mow around.

Tips for scales

I'm off backpacking this weekend, and it's the trial run for my new pack, a Gregory Savant.  The staff at REI was very helpful in my pack selection, which was more difficult because, as the clerk told me, "your body has a weird shape."

I'm still not really sure what that means, but it boils down to this pack being the only one in the store that worked for me, so I bought it.

I've also applied some things I learned from my last trip, conversations with other backpackers, and a book I grabbed off the clearance table at Barnes & Noble.  Key points:

• Use shoes, not boots.  This weekend I'm using a pair of Brooks Adrenaline trail runners.  I started using them for running when I lived in Oregon, and immediately realized they were magic shoes.  They actually made me look forward to running.  the pair I'm in now has been retired from running use and is just my everyday pair, because nobody in our area sells trail runners (no trails), and I couldn't get a new pair in time.  Trail runners offer better ventilation, and they dry faster than boots.
• Don't take changes of clothes.  The only reason to have extra clothes is to fill your dresser, and nobody backpacks with a dresser.  That space (and weight) can be better occupied by food.
• Take only what you will use.   Admittedly, I still have a little trouble with this one, because I'm not sure yet what I will use.  I have a couple "back-up" snacks in my bag, but I don't have an extra day's worth of food, like I did last time.  On the other hand, last time I don't think I took enough food, so I'm still carrying more food weight on this trip, but I think it will work out better for me, because I have a very clear plan of how all of it will be used.  There's some other gear I know I don't need for this trip (our shelters will have bear poles for food, so I don't need a bear bag and line), but I'm taking it anyway because I want to practice.

What's still troubling is that there are other things I know I will carry next year that will add weight.  I need to figure out ways to drop weight from my pack to accommodate those items (camera charger, rain gear, passenger).  I woke Friday just after five, and couldn't get back to sleep because my head was filled with questions about where I could drop weight from my kit.  I got out of bed and started looking at backpacking quilts online while trying to calculate for the thousandth time the weight of an alcohol stove system compared to my Jetboil.

My base weight for this trip is 18 pounds, according to our possibly-accurate bathroom scale.  If I can get that down to 12, I'd be pretty happy, but my pack is 3 pounds, 9 ounces, and my tent is about 2.5.  That only leaves me about six pounds for cooking, staying warm at night, dryish during the day, and everything else I won't eat or drink.

Plan for the worst

I had told The Girl that I wanted to go on a short backpacking trip this weekend.  I told her a couple weeks ago.  As the date neared, and the forecasts were made (highs in the mid forties, lows at or below freezing), she began asking with increased frequency whether I still planned to go, and laughing harder each time I said Yes.

I felt better when I looked at the forecast for Suches, GA.  If I had left when I intended this year, I'd be a little north of there by now.  It's a worse forecast than where I plan to hike.  I can't decide whether my favorite part is "much cooler than yesterday," or "70% chance of precipitation."  Snow is ok.  Cold rain can ruin you.

Forecast for Suches, GA on March 21, 2013, around 8 AM.  20 miles north of Springer Mountain on the AT.

I checked the weather in Suches because I wanted to get an idea of how bad it might be, and it turned out to be even worse than here.  That's good news for a lot of reasons.  First and foremost: it's worse than here, where I plan to hike.  Second, I'm only out for a couple days this weekend.  I can test my gear, see how it performs, and never be too far away from my car if I need to bail.  Not that I expect to bail--I also need to test myself.  Next summer, I won't have the option of fleeing bad weather.  I'm going to live in whatever happens for four or five months straight, and will only see my car when it comes to bring me cookies.  I need to make sure that I can handle a few days straight of being really unhappy and cold, because it could just as easily become a couple weeks.  I'm actually happy that it's going to be so cold this weekend.

I'm also happy it's not supposed to rain where I am.  I don't mind being tested, but we only need to test so much at a time.  This should hold me for the weekend.

The Next Big Adventure

When my brother and I were much younger, our mom did something daring: she took two kids on a backpacking trip.  At the time, Dad had a job that didn't allow many days off, so she took us for 61 miles of the Appalachian Trail (Rainbow Gap to Fontana Dam) with her sister and their aunt and uncle (also siblings).  Come to think of it, I never realized before, but that trip was three generations of sibling pairs.  Wild.

My brother was so young, and his pack so small, that he really only carried his own sleeping bag and a little of his clothing--Mom carried the rest of his clothes, because we couldn't fit anything else in his pack.  I carried my stuff and helped Mom with our share of the food and kit, as much as I could.

I think it rained for two solid days at some point.  At another time, we were following blue blazes (the AT is marked with white blazes; side trips and detours are marked in blue) to get to either Cheoah or Silar Bald--I can't remember which it was--and the adults were convinced we were lost while I was certain that we were still on the blue blaze route and just needed to keep going to return to the trail.  We later discovered I had been right.

We got blisters.  At the end of the week, the adhesive on the moleskin I had applied to my feet had bonded to my flesh, and the moleskin itself had started to dissolve, so I couldn't seem to scrub my feet clean.  Meanwhile, the constant rain had permeated our boots and dyed our feet the color--and pattern--of our socks.  I didn't really have frostbite; I just had blue toes.  And a little athlete's foot from never getting them dry.

I was the only one who had avoided stepping on the thirty thousand snails all over the trail.  The others said it was like walking on eggs.  The crunch, and the squish.

On a separate trip, during the school year when my brother and I couldn't join, a late spring storm surprised the other two pairs of siblings.  Snow fell deep, and it was a big enough news story that we followed it closely from home, five or six states away.  The four of them crowded into one tent for warmth, and pulled double layers of wool socks onto their hands, because it was springtime and none of them had brought gloves.

It sounds awful, I know, but the weird thing is, I had to think really hard to remember some of those details.  My biggest memory from my AT experience was wanting to do it again.

Wanting to do it all.

Before Mom was even diagnosed, she joked that she wanted us to carry her ashes in a cast-iron Dutch oven to scatter on the AT, from Georgia to Maine.  After the cancer finally killed her, Dad took his boys to Georgia and we scattered a little of Mom's ashes on Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the AT, where most thru-hikers begin the journey.

I've always wanted to finish the trip.  I wanted to hike the entire AT anyway, because it's something we talked about since that very first backpacking excursion over twenty years ago.  Later, I was given a new reason.  It supplements, rather than supplants, the original drive.  I was a very late baby.  Mom carried me for almost ten months.  I'll only have to carry her for about five.

I've wanted to do this, with her ashes, for many years.  For various reasons, I've never been able to coordinate it.  Lately, though, my schedule has opened up.  Unemployment offers ample opportunity to drop off the grid for several months.  I started thinking about it more seriously, and maybe two months ago, I formed the seed of the plan while I was out for a run.

The plan was to spend this year planning, training, and coordinating.  I'd do some shorter hikes to figure out what kind of mileage I could cover, sort out my gear, and maybe visit a few sections of the trail.  Then, next year, I'd take the long walk.  That was the plan.

I told a friend about it, and even my idea to write a book about the journey.  He asked me about my angle for the book, and I told him about Mom's ashes.  "Let's do it," he said.  "Let's do it now."

He has a manic, infectious enthusiasm about every project he tackles, and as much as I tried to dissuade him from launching directly into such a monumental trial, I found myself agreeing with him.  We're in great shape; we know we can hike for miles on end, and after a couple weeks on the trail, we'll be in even better shape. We both have long history with camping and hiking, and between us we already have all of the gear we need.  Most importantly, we know we can put up with each other for that long, even under trying circumstances.

We later discovered that he didn't have the opportunity he thought he had to wander in the woods all summer.  Faced with hiking it solo after years without backpacking, I was still willing to do it, but I found myself so focused on cramming all the preparation I could into the scant three weeks I had before the planned departure date that I often woke in the middle of the night thinking of backpacking food, and couldn't fall asleep for over an hour after, my mind still churning with details like tent choice, the logistics of resupply, and how far I thought I could reasonably hike every day for five months straight.

Ultimately, I decided to stick with my original plan.  There are a lot of other things happening this spring, summer, and fall that I'd have to work around, and as appealing as it was to just drop everything and hike 2,200 miles, casually declaring it "no big deal" when I finished, I know better.  It's a very big deal, and I want to know that I have everything ready before I head north.

I've talked to Dad and my brother, and the only reservation either of them had was that my brother wanted to go, too, but can't get the time off.  They both plan to meet up with me from time to time.  The Girl has offered to coordinate some gear and food drops.  I haven't told many people yet, but I've been met only with support.  That alone is encouraging.  The fact that nobody has had any doubt that I can do it, and everyone wants to help.

The Point

It's been long enough.  I should probably explain myself, eventually.

Most people don't know this is my fourth active blog project.  However, it is the only public blog project tied to my real name.  I wanted a place where I could post under my own name for two reasons, and I finally decided I could put them both under the same umbrella.

First, I love writing.  I often get ideas for books or short stories, and lately I've had more opportunity to flesh them out from inspiration to text.  I'd like to be able to share them, but until I find someone who wants to publish what I write, the responsibility for releasing these into the wild falls to me.  Admittedly, I don't share everything here--I still hold on to a small, wriggling hope that I can some day become a real writer, with a benevolent publisher, three-book contract, and fervent following, so I hold some of my best in reserve.  After all, who buys cows when there's free milk all over the internet, amiright?  Thus, I use this space to share some of my stories, and a few pastiches, but I like to think of them as bait.

Second, I love getting outside and doing fun things.  I like sharing those experiences (you may call it bragging.  I probably wouldn't argue) and encouraging other people to get outside, too.  There are some big adventures I'd like to have: through-hiking the AT and PCT, visiting Australia, hiking in Alaska, and touring Europe to name a few, but my meager budget has limits.  I found that disheartening and disappointing until I was walking through Bend one day and realized how much fun I was having looking at things within ten minutes of my apartment.  I discovered hidden treasures in my own city, and I realized I had done it before, many times.  An adventure doesn't have to be big to be worthy, or exciting, or fun.  When I was a kid, our family would often go on "Mystery Trips."  We'd pile into the car and my brother and I would have no idea where we were going until we got there.  We'd try to figure it out ahead of time, believing we were cagey and clever when we asked how we should dress or what we should bring, trying to glean information that could gain us insight into the day's destination.  We almost never figured it out until we started seeing signs or familiar territory.  I have many fond memories of those trips to museums, zoos, and parks, and I look forward to tormenting my own kids in similar fashion.  The small adventures are no less adventurous for their scope, and you can have them every weekend if you like.

In my perfect world, National Geographic would call me one bright morning and tell me that they'd like to consolidate a few jobs.  They need a gear tester for Adventure, a travel writer, and a decent photographer.  They would hand me a pack full of interesting gear, a camera, a plane ticket to some exciting new place, and a sturdy laptop or notebook.  I'd go off into the world for a couple weeks, using and abusing a new backpacking stove, sleeping bag, and travel clothing, write up my opinions on the equipment and colorful descriptions of the places I went, waterfalls I jumped, and people I met along the way.  When I returned, I could exchange my pack and a flash drive full of photos and text for a paycheck and a new set of gear.

It doesn't have to be Nat Geo; any similar gig would be fine.  You get the idea.

Since this is not a perfect world, despite what Leibniz may tell you, I'm still waiting for that job offer and book deal.  Until then, I have a place where I can post some stories, share my little adventures, and maybe an occasional bittersweet love letter.  Every adventure is worthy.  Each day can show you some small glimpse of beauty.  Find it.  Even the effort will improve your world, or at least your view of it.

a plan revealed

My performance at the climbing gym over the holidays was an embarrassment.  My only defense is that I hadn't climbed since the trip in May.  Perhaps all the running I've done since then has led my body to the erroneous conclusion that it is ok to reabsorb that upper-body muscle tissue and refocus efforts on ridiculous calves.

Luckily, the climb itself wasn't the real point of the afternoon.  It was more about getting to see a couple friends I hadn't seen since the same trip in May, when they put me up for the night after returning to Cleveland, and then carted me to the airport the next morning.  After we collectively decided that a better use of the remainder of our evening would be the immediate consumption of wings and beer, we left the gym for the nearest Winking Lizard.

I've tried and failed to remember how we got on the topic, but somehow we came to my desire to through-hike the Appalachian Trail.  My REI dividend this year should be enough to get a nice one-man backpacking tent, and I had joked about how I might have to use it to reduce the cost of my next transcontinental migration.  Maybe that's how we got to the AT.  The Girl knows that I want to hike it, and knows my secret reason.  I got the sense from our friends' "oh, yeah!" response that they also knew my reason, but the topic never strayed that far.

I know I can handle the hiking; I regularly get up in the morning and hike ten or twelve miles before lunch.  Granted, I never have to cook over a pocket rocket stove, roll up a tent, or carry a forty to fifty pound pack on those treks, but it can be done.  I have the gear (besides a stove and water filter--I have Mom's stuff, but I may upgrade to something smaller, lighter, made for a single person, and designed with this decade's technology), including a small, compact sleeping bag and pad, and a cookset I got months ago and am still itching to use.  Mom got me a framepack for Christmas when I was in high school, and it has only been used for Boy Scout trips, moving, and one or two weekend backpacking trips since.  I'm a bit ashamed of that.  I asked for and received a cookbook called "Lipsmackin' Backpackin'" from The Girl for Christmas to expand my trailside culinary range.  To put it simply, the details of day-to-day backpacking do not concern me, though I plan to do extensive training and testing before making my way to Springer Mountain.

Nor did such details enter our conversation at the Wink.  People who have recommended I try out for American Ninja Warrior wouldn't question whether I can hoof it 15-20 miles a day through muddy, rainy, mosquito-swarmed mountains.  They wanted to know if there would be pictures.  That's when I started outlining the portion of the plan I'd never told anyone else, but which consumes much of my thinking about the trip.

I have a small, compact digital camera which I love.  It has shortcomings, and doesn't do a couple things as well as I would like, but it was a very thoughtful gift from my Dad after my last camera died on me during one of his visits West.  I have two memory cards, one of which I've never used because I've never filled the first on a single trip.  If I hike the AT, I'd take that camera, and both memory cards.  I would take a spare battery, and either conserve it very well until the next mail drop delivers another, or find some super-lightweight and possibly solar method of charging it.  I would also take a journal, and fill in as much as I could during my trip.  Each time I receive a mail drop with fresh supplies, I'd send out a smaller package with journal entries and a memory card full of photos.  This was the part I revealed at the Wink: that I'd like someone to be kind enough to post those entries and pictures where they could be shared.  I didn't tell anyone that night, but I had already started this blog for just such a task.  I also didn't tell them that, battery willing, I might shoot some video along the way as well.

I recently received a Spot satellite messenger from another friend; this was my answer to whether I'd take a cell phone with me.  It will allow me to send my location and an "I'm ok" message to my support team and other concerned parties.  It's also more durable and water-resistant than a cell.  A quick peek at my current location would let my support team know how soon they need to ship my next resupply package, and whether anything more urgent may be necessary (there is also a non-emergency "I need help" function).

Someday I'll post a more thorough explanation of why I started this blog, but for now rest with this: I want to share my adventures.  I am Fond of getting Lost.  And I was thrilled to discover that my friends were eager to transcribe a future AT trip, though they warned me that they may add some editorial comments of their own.  Of course, now that they know about my plan, I suppose I'm locked in to doing it.