Sheltered

The Appalachian Trail has existed in one form or another since 1923, and for reasons relating to the aims and mindset of the generation that constructed it, the trail includes a network of 250 timber shelters. They aren't houses, of course, with doors and flush toilets, but they're places to get out of the rain, some have privies, and they are supposedly arranged at intervals along the trail that coincide with a day's hike. AT authorities actually prefer that hikers stay at the shelters. Questions of insects, rodents, crowds, and personal inclination all figure in at some point, but a hiker on the AT might feasibly decide to dispense with the weight of a tent and rely on the trail shelters. 

shelter on the Appalachian Trail

No such option on the Pacific Crest Trail; it was built on an altogether different set of philosophies. I understand that it rains a hell of a lot less on the Crest than it does in the Appalachians, however, especially during the narrow weather-window available to thru-hikers, so ultralight disciples, in particular, tend to chafe at the notion of hauling the "unnecessary" poundage of a shelter over the PCT. Applying their fiendish minds to the matter during the off-season has resulted in a whole slew of options for regular folk like me. 

Option number one: go without! Also known as cowboy camping. Ha ha ha ha ha. On fine nights, great. Sleeping out is always an option. 

Bottom line: don't be stupid, woman. 

cowboy camping

Option two: a tent. Tents are heavy! In addition to roofs they have floors, walls, mosquito netting, poles, stakes, rainflys, and big bags to hold all that shit together. They'll keep the rain outside, for the most part…but the same tight-as-a-drum model that keeps the falling water outside also holds a lot of water inside, in the form of condensation, brushing against your gear and your person. Not good! One option, almost the default these days, is a double-walled model, but it weighs even more than its simple-minded predecessor, because the inner "wall" is made of mosquito netting, so you have to carry a rainfly and all of the trappings in addition to the body of the tent. And I don't care how flipping simplified or lightweight the manufacturer makes the tent materials, that's a lot of shelter to be carrying around on your back. They aren't any less expensive than cottage-industry variations, either. The one-person tents I looked up at REI bottomed out at a "hyperlite" 2 lbs 2 oz lbs for $400…or 3 lbs 11 oz for $119. (That's "trail weight," too, which excludes stakes and stuff sacks.)

Don't get me wrong--20 years ago, or even less, there wasn't much of an option. I get it. But my MacBook Air bears very little resemblance to its gargantuan forebears, and tents have evolved just as surely as personal computers. I don't know why anybody would choose a conventional tent for a long-distance hike unless she just didn't know better. The trade-off, I suppose, is that tents are readily available from any outfitter, they're familiar, and they're well and truly durable against anything but avalanche and ursine assault. 

Bottom line: tents are for backyard camping, not for long-distance hiking. 

REI Passage one-person tent - 3 lbs 11 oz - $119

Option three: a tarp. Crazy Ray Jardine endorses the tarp approach, and backs up his enthusiasm with a variety of home-assembly kits for purchase--and to his credit, the tarp is a very old, time-tested piece of work. The theory is simple: sling a waterproof sheet of something between two trees, or drape it over a framework of sticks, hold out the corners with stakes or guy lines, and you're set. Any child who has ever made a blanket fort understands the principle of the thing. 

There are a thousand variations on how to pitch a tarp. The teepee, the yurt, the umbrella--all types of tarp. You could make a tarp out of animal skins, or oilcloth, or nylon. Tarps in their simplest form are lightweight and easily packed; if you're clever enough, you can make the poles and stakes out of available materials, rather than having to carry them with you. Having no walls, a tarp will not keep the mosquitoes out, but it's nothing if not well-ventilated, so no worries about condensation, and ounce per ounce it provides a great deal of covered "living space." They're inexpensive, easy to make at home, versatile, and durable. Lots of smart hikers carry tarps.

In practice, however, pitching a tarp well--e.g. in such a way as to shed rain, or against the wind, or without the use of trees--requires a little know-how and a good deal more familiarity with the usefulness of the landscape than I possess. There are vast open stretches of the PCT where I would have to get creative with sagebrush, big rocks, or sticks I'd dragged from lower elevations. It also usually requires…um…knots. As it happens, I know ONE good knot: The Grapefruit Knot. You tie an overhand knot over and over and over again until the balled-up result is about the size of a grapefruit. (It will not come untied.)

Bottom line: this is a skill set I would like to acquire, but I am too cautious and too inexperienced to brave a tarp this time around. 

ways to pitch a tarp

Option four: a bivy sack. "Bivy" is short for bivouac, one of my favorite British English words, because when used as a verb it sounds so much more interesting than camping. The etymology of the word traces to keeping watch--in other words, staying up all night. Ha ha, isn't that telling? Essentially, a bivy is a specialty garbage sack that you slide over the outside of your sleeping bag, with a little peak to go over your face. (As I write this, I'm imagining the horror going on inside Kim's head, and it is very funny.) I think it looks like a giant slipper, or maybe a crocodile. Or maybe a shroud. Lots of ultralight hikers like bivy sacks, sometimes used in tandem with tarps. Definitely not for the claustrophobic. There is no place to store your gear in a bivy, but it keeps the mosquitoes out while you're sleeping, and the vapor barrier means you sleep slightly warmer than cowboy camping. It would probably work great under the right conditions. But I can't claim that looking at pictures of bivy sacks inspired me with confidence. The tough ones are heavy GoreTex, but just like a raincoat, no matter how clever the fabric or design, when it rains--and it will rain--sooner or later you'll get wet. 

Bottom line: when I asked Matt--trail name Boomer, PCT class of 07 and 08, self-described ultralight fanatic--for help planning this trip, his very first piece of advice was, "DON'T get a bivy. I had one my first year and wound up calling it my Sack of Sadness." 

Outdoor Research bivy sack - 2 lb 7 oz - $300

Relatedly, though this isn't a real option: I was examining shelter options on an ultralight gear website and shouted across the room, "Burdick, what's a bothy?" 

I could almost see the blue-painted Scotsman unfurling himself proudly from behind Paul's eyeballs as he put on his best professorial voice. "A bothy is a hut. Usually kind of a shack. Angela and I stayed in one in the Highlands…" 

"Yes, I know. I know the traditional application of the word. I mean in relation to gear." 

"A bothy?" 

"Yes, a BOTHY. Like a bivy, but not. I can't find a picture of one that's been set up, what is it?" 

"A bothy?"

"A BOTHY." 

He squinted at me. "…but a bothy's a hut--" 

"Google it! B-O-T-H-Y, bothy." 

Turns out a modern bothy is an emergency shelter--a kind of poncho that fits into a stuff sack, and is held up by the opposing backs of the occupants. Lightweight! Two, four, six, and twelve-seat models! Can you imagine twelve people sitting in a contented circle like this, singing kum-bye-yah while the rain fell outside? Holy mother of god. We had a good laugh.

Terra Nova bothy

Option five: a hammock. To be used in tandem with a tarp. Comfy! Gets you off the cold ground! Bonus points for awesomeness! Actually, this isn't an option at all on the PCT, because you really need trees to make it work. Hammocks are for shorter trips in well-forested areas, and for pirates. I think it would be fun. I also think my grapefruit knot would be a disaster here. But you should know that camping hammocks, they exist! 

camping hammock (and tarp)

Option six: a tarp-tent. It's exactly what it sounds like. Tarp-tents represent the synthesis of the best features of tarps and tents, and guess what?--they were invented and manufactured by thru-hikers. That's another way of saying tarp-tents are a relatively recent innovation. People realized that their trekking poles could double as tent-poles, and the prototypes evolved from there. Unlike a tarp, it has a floor, mosquito netting, and zippers. Unlike a tent, it has no rainfly, and relies on the ventilation of the mesh bottom to prevent condensation. You might pay a little more for the privilege of carrying a lot less--an exchange that each hiker must decide upon for himself.

The man behind Zpacks, Joe Valesko, started building tents after finishing the AT in 2004. He makes his tarp-tents out of Cuben fiber, a sailing material which, as far as I can tell, weighs about as much as Saran Wrap, and withstands almost exactly 2600 miles' worth of continual abuse before evaporating like an invincibility charm in a video game. 

Zpacks Hexamid - about 1 lb with all the trimmings - $360

Ron Moak at Six Moon Designs makes tents, tarps, and net tents. They're very nice, at very agreeable weights and prices, but I've read enough warnings about silicon nylon to make me believe it isn't for beginners. It's tougher than Cuben fiber, but evidently the material tends to stretch, losing the tension in the pitch--which means you'd need to adjust it about an hour after the initial setup, every night. Though that's probably true of every tarp-tent.

Six Moon Designs Lunar Solo 2012 - 1 lb 7 oz - $200 (without stakes)

Henry Shires, mastermind of Tarptent, produces tarp-tents made of ripstop nylon--heavier and a more hard-wearing than Cuben fiber--with various features at various weights and price-points. He still offers the pattern for his original tarp-tent on his website, free of charge, for anybody with the wherewithal to construct her own. I like that. 

I looked long and hard at the Sublite, the lightest tent in his lineup at 20 oz. Unfortunately, the Sublite requires not one, but both trekking poles, so not if, but when I break/bend/lose one of them--or fling it over a cliff/at Paul/at Sasquatch--I'll be up shit creek where my shelter is concerned until I can get a replacement. Furthermore, the poles for the Sublite have to be able to extend to at least 140cm, meaning I'd have to start with new, longer models than the ones I've got at present. (My poles are probably wrong, since they're snowshoe poles, but I'm going to let them do what they can.)

Bottom line: I'm now the proud owner of a Tarptent Contrail. Here it is!

Tarptent Contrail - 1 lb 8.5 oz - $199 (photo by Caleb Cross)

And here is mine!

water bottle for scale

It actually weighs in at 1 lb 11 oz on my kitchen scale, possibly owing to the inclusion of stuff sack and stakes. And since this isn't something I could just pop out to the shop and buy ready-made, I think it's fair to acknowledge that with seam-sealant and shipping, the tarp-tent comes to $217. (This information is for reference use only; I'm not complaining.) Sets up with one trekking pole and some stakes. (Or rocks. Or whatever.) I might want a couple more stakes.

entrance

footbox

For one person, it's huge. I'm sure it will "shrink" as I experiment with throwing a lot of gear inside, but I could easily lose a full foot off the floor-length and not know the difference.

Please refrain from judging my shelter by the weakness of the pitch shown here. That's the fault of the operator, not the manufacturer. Henry Shires shows us how to do it right. It'll get better! One of the reasons I wanted to choose a shelter early was to get in some practice setting it up, taking it down, setting it up, over and over and over again. And packing it up, because tents, like Christmas lights, never fit back in the original container.

portable house

I can't believe I'm doing this.