Made for Walking

Cheryl Strayed hiked a long section of the PCT in 1995. The boots she wore then probably looked something like the stock image on the cover of her book. Very...sturdy. And from the descriptions therein, it's clear that she had a horrific time with her feet. By which I don't mean to say that her feet hurt, or that she got blisters, though both of those things are true--but she was losing toenails. Wait, let me be perfectly accurate: she was tearing out her own toenails because it made her feet HURT LESS. The very idea makes me queasy.

I enjoyed reading this book, but a few pieces of the paradigm have changed significantly since '95, like footwear. I've already said to Dad, please, don't run away with the idea that ripping out toenails is par for the course on a long-distance hike; that it's normal. It isn't.

Boots are designed to protect your feet, yes?--from rain, snow, rocks, burrs and things that go bump in the night--and as consumers we buy right into the notion that our feet need to be protected from our exciting lives. Sometimes they do! If you're exploring pressure-ridges in Antarctica at forty below, for instance, you want some boots. My standard-issue extreme-cold-weather bunny boots had no treads on the bottom and consisted of less than 50% foot. Wearing them, I couldn't walk very well--I'd just sort of bounce along and hope I wouldn't encounter any stairs--but my feet were never cold, not ever--and as far as the US Antarctic Program was concerned, that was the most important feature. All such protective boots serve a very specific purpose, and that purpose is not travel.

But if you're planning to spend five whole months walking, you had better lend a little more thought to the question of what you're trying to protect your feet from. Is it snakes? No. Spilled coffee? Nope. Subzero temperatures? Nooo... Is it the person attached, battering them unrelentingly against the ground for MILE after everlasting MILE? You're getting warmer!

Emma "Grandma" Gatewood thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail in 1955, solo, at age 67, wearing Keds sneakers. She's a famous lady in the realm of ultralight hikers nowadays; at the time she was more of an eccentric novelty (maybe because she was also pitching a tarp made out of a shower curtain). Ray Jardine still had a difficult row to hoe in the early 90s, trying to convince people of the superiority of lightweight footwear. It sounds like the point has carried by a few thousand demonstrations, however, because it's lesson number one these days for somebody like myself, just starting to learn about the PCT. A thru-hike isn't an extended camping trip so much as a very long walk. The best shoes for a very long walk are walking shoes. Boots ain't made for walking.

one popular model

Most hikers these days choose a well-treaded trail runner, or sneakers. Just go to the store and try on as many pairs of shoes as you can stand before you want to start throwing them at the unhelpful sales associates. The shoes don't have to be fancy, or expensive--because you're going to destroy them, and all of their successors. They ought to be comfortable, light-colored, lightweight, breathable, and a little too big. After marching a few days in the blazing-hot desert, feet swell and rub against the inside of a fitted shoe. And they sweat--a lot. The result of this combination of moisture and abrasion is blisters, so you choose your shoes with an eye to heading off the problem from the beginning. Let them breathe, and don't worry about "waterproof." It's summertime! GoreTex or heavy leather boots can't keep your feet dry when the moisture is coming from the inside; nor will they prove very effective while fording a knee-deep stream. They'll just never dry out afterwards.

With decent footwear and a little attention to rinsing out [non-cotton] socks, most people will suffer a couple of blisters, no more, in the first two or three weeks of hiking, and that's it. THAT'S IT. Your feet adapt and toughen, and it's no longer an issue. I am not making this up.

Without the high boot tops to keep debris at bay, some people choose to wear gaiters over their shoes. In a high snow year, a little more traction may be desirable through the Sierras, and microspikes adequately serve that purpose. The shoe stays the same, though.

The principal drawback to sneakers or trail runners is their lack of durability, so yes, you have to replace them at regular intervals--how often depends on the shoe. You'll know when they're done, because you'll feel it in your shins, knees, hips, and back. (Talk to a devoted runner, they can tell you all about it.) But the great thing about sneakers is you can buy a new pair in virtually any settlement in this country, or online for delivery to the next trail town. 

Jargon

One of the problems with stories about Antarctica was that they required too much exposition. I often felt that I got bogged down with explanations and lost the thread of the story. This is one reason that I'm making a conscious effort to expound (in dull and largely unnecessary detail) what-all I'm up to before I set foot at Campo. Later I'll be able to say something like "that goddam bear kicked my canister in the river and I wound up eating dandelion greens for two days before I got to Lone Pine," without anybody having to ask, "what canister?"

In recent conversations I catch myself freely using words and phrases I've picked up from my handbook and the internet that may not have any meaning unless you, too, are planning a hike from Mexico to Canada. Below is a list of terms culled from the Hiker's Glossary that should help, I hope. 

base weight

The weight of a loaded backpack, not including food, water and stove fuel. The base weight also does not include items that are only carried during short sections of the trail, such as ice axe or bear canister.

bonk

Running out of energy due to eating too few calories. Also known as "hitting the wall."

bounce

Sending unneeded gear ahead by mail. Many thru-hikers will use a bounce box or bucket (a real bucket), which contains items that may be useful at various points along the trail but aren't needed all the time, such as extra medication or toiletries, battery chargers, laptops, warm clothing layers, etc.

cache

Water left beside the trail by trail angels for use by thru-hikers. Most of the caches on the Pacific Crest Trail are in the southern California deserts where reliable water sources are far apart. Caches are not to be considered reliable water sources. Thru-hikers are advised to carry enough water to get to the next reliable water source, and to take water from the caches only if they find themselves running low. Cached water is not intended for bathing or cooking.

cowboy camp

Sleeping under the stars without a tent. Often done to save the time and effort of setting up a tent when the weather is expected to be good through the night.

dry camp

Camping in an area that has no nearby water source. Stealth camps are usually dry camps. A common technique on the trail is to eat dinner at a water source, continue hiking into the evening, then set up camp wherever one finds oneself at the end of the day, even if it means camping on the trail itself. 

flip-flop

Turning around and hiking a skipped section in the opposite direction, to return to the place where you left the trail. A flip flop is often an attempt to postpone difficult trail sections until conditions improve, such as high snow in the Sierras.

glissade

Sliding down a snow covered slope. Glissading is faster and more fun than hiking down a snow-covered slope, but is not without its risks.

gram weenie

Derogatory term referring to someone who is obsessive about reducing their base weight as much as possible. 

hiker box

Boxes at some resupply points that hikers use to exchange unneeded or unwanted food or gear. Closely related to SKUA.

hiker funk

After a few hundred miles on the trail it becomes difficult to wash the sweat and dirt out of your clothes. The resulting smell is called hiker funk. The reason the person giving you a ride into town has the windows down is not because the air conditioning isn't working.

hiker hunger

That empty feeling in your stomach that results from eating 4000 calories per day, but burning 6000 calories per day.

hiker midnight

9:00 PM. The time by which thru-hikers are usually asleep.

hiker trash

A general description of a thru- or section-hiker, or of hikers collectively. It probably comes from the fact that thru-hikers often are confused for homeless people during town stops. It also comes from the fact that the usual ways of determining status in real life have little, if any, meaning on the trail. 

nearo

Nearly a zero. A day in which one hikes only a few miles, usually because the rest of the day is spent in town.

NOBO

northbound.

the pack

The bulk of thru-hikers who are hiking within a few hundred miles of each other. As interest in the trail grows every year, the size of the pack increases, causing problems for trail angels, businesses and resources in southern California. By the time the pack has reached northern California, it is more spread out and has less impact on local resources. Also known as the herd.

post hole

Inadvertently breaking through the surface of the snow so that your leg resembles a fence post stuck in a post hole. Postholing is the one reason that everybody's daily milage drops abruptly in the Sierras. 

Ray Day

June 15th. In an average snow year in the Sierra Nevada mountains, Ray Day is the best date to leave Kennedy Meadows on a northbound thru-hike. Named for Ray Jardine. 

repeat offender

Someone who thru-hikes or attempts to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail more than once.

ride bride

A female hiker who accompanies a male hiker when he attempts to hitch a ride. It is thought that people are more likely to pick up a male hitchhiker if a female is with him, and that a female hitchhiker is safer if a male is with her.

section-hiker

Someone who hikes a significant section of a long-distance trail, thereby covering the entire length of the trail over a succession of hikes.

skin-out weight

Base weight plus the weight of clothing and gear worn. Only gram weenies really care about their skin-out weight.

skip

Leaving the trail and reentering at another location, thereby bypassing a section of trail. Skipping is done for several reasons: forest fires, heavy snow pack, fatigue, lack of motivation, a need to make up for lost time or to meet up with friends who are hiking ahead of you. Often people who skip a section of trail, but complete the rest of it, still consider themselves thru-hikers, especially if the reason for skipping was to bypass a trail closure due to forest fires. 

slack pack

Hiking with minimal gear, usually little more than food and water, while someone else transports the bulk of your gear ahead by car.

SOBO

Southbound.

stealth camp

Camping away from common camping spots such as lakes, stream crossings or meadows. Promoted as a way to avoid bear encounters.

sun cups

Uneven surface of snow resembling a giant egg carton. As the snow melts in the spring, pockets of water form on the surface of the snow. This water warms up in the sun and causes the snow under it to melt faster than the surrounding snow. Difficult to walk on. 

thru-hiker

Someone who hikes the entire length of a long-distance trail, traditionally from end to end. 

trail angel

A non-hiker who helps a hiker in some way, providing rides to town, free meals, or coolers of cold drinks on the trail; stocking water caches; offering their home for the night. Some trail angels, like the Saufleys in Agua Dulce, are such permanent fixtures of the PCT that they've become minor celebrities. My mom would make a great trail angel. 

trail magic

Unexpected generosity from a non-hiker (see: trail angel), or a pleasant surprise along the trail.

trail name

A nickname used by a hiker. A trail name can be chosen by the hiker prior to the hike, but is considered more official if it is given to the hiker during the hike. A trail name often derives from an unusual, humorous or significant characteristic or event associated with the hiker. 

triple crowner

Someone who has hiked the entire Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), Appalachian Trail (AT), and Continental Divide Trail (CDT). 

Vitamin I

ibuprofen.

vortex

Anything off trail that draws hikers into it, and hikers find difficult to leave. Usually a town stop, restaurant or trail angel's home.

yogi

A means of obtaining help or supplies from a non-hiker without directly asking. 

yo-yo

Hiking the entire length of the trail, then turning around and hiking the entire trail in the opposite direction in one season.

zero day

A day in which you do no hiking, in other words, zero miles. Often taken in town in order to do laundry, eat, shower, eat, resupply, repair or replace gear, eat, and rest your weary body. And eat.

Curiously, apart from the recurring "PCT," trail-language employs remarkably few acronyms. The only one of any importance:

HYOH
Hike Your Own Hike. An encouragement between hikers to hike according to your own dreams, goals, expectations, or preferences, and not have your hike determined by other hikers' expectations. Guidebooks, websites, and other resources provide invaluable advice, but this is your hike. Hike it your way.

Nor Any Drop to Drink

One of my prevailing obsessions these days is the snow level in the Sierras. There's a handy set of figures here, detailing the maximum, minimum, previous, current, and average snowfall on three sections of the trail. I look at them nearly every day. As you can see, last year's green doodle barely manages to clear the bottom of the graph, and the pink line indicating the snowfall for this year lingers somewhat below average. Anything could change, of course, but that's where we are now. This is good news in terms of how soon we can enter the Sierras, and by extension how soon we can begin hiking; and it's good news for short women who are maybe not excited by the prospect of fording raging rivers of snowmelt. But last year's record dry spell deteriorated into a brutal fire season, and I don't think anybody wants to witness a repeat performance. Less snow means less water for drinking, too, for the second year in a row, in a desert setting where natural water sources already run the gamut of "variable quality."

Some thru-hikers prefer not to treat their water, and that is their choice. I used to haul wild water from the spring outside of Fox in Alaska and it was great. But giardia poses a greater threat to long-distance hikers on the PCT than bears do. (Cryptosporidium and salmonella appear on the list, too, but giardia gets top billing.) Giardia is transmitted through fecal matter of infected animals (including humans), principally through water. My folks know it as beaver fever. Once you've got it, there's no way to just muscle through--you have to get off the trail and find medical help. Seriously. The parasite won't kill you, but if you insist on forcing the matter in the middle of the wilderness, dehydration will kick your ass. Not to mention hunger, and feeling utterly wretched while attempting to walk 20 miles every day. I have invested too much money and precious optimism in this trip to risk it on something as easily prevented as a water-borne illness. Thou shalt treat thy water.

While Si and I were in New Zealand we boiled questionable water for three to eight minutes as dictated by the signs next to the taps, and I have no idea whether or not it was effective, but we both lived to tell the tale. Obviously boiling isn't feasible on the PCT. There must be ten thousand water filters and chemical treatment systems to choose amongst, and it's much less fun than picking out a shelter. If so inclined, you can exercise your right to buy all sorts of loathsome equipment for large sums of money: great heavy pumps with intricate moving parts that break or clog, drops and tablets that magically transform your water into potable, unpalatable iodine juice.

I'm kidding, you don't really have to do that. As our water becomes less reliable, our treatment methods grow more efficient. These drops are tasteless! This filter leaves your water tasting better than before! Speaking of first-world solutions, they have pen-sized ultraviolet lights for killing germs, gadzooks. I suppose the question isn't as much to do with which treatment system is most effective (used correctly, I reckon they're all about the same) but which one you'll employ most effectively, which one you can integrate into your hiking style.

Well hell if I know. I'll only be able to figure it out with practice, and it's likely that in consequence my water-treatment method will change over the course of the trip. Which is to say, after I've had a chance to see what everybody else is packing. Nothing looks very promising at the outset. Pumps break, gravity filters are slow, steripens eat batteries. A few tablets are good for emergency backup, but not as a first line of defense. In my research, the two methods that I find most appealing are Aquamira and the Sawyer In-Line filter.

Aquamira is a set of drops that comes in two tubes, like epoxy. Put in one, let it mix, put in the other, wait 15 minutes, and then it's safe to drink. Active ingredient is chlorine dioxide. It's a little slow--you need a timer--but it's easy. Nothing to break. It's small, too, so of course it's much favored by backpackers. On the downside, buying all those tiny bottles (30 gallons of water per set) has the potential to add up in the long run (as opposed to getting a filter that lasts the whole trip), and you can't just pick them up at the gas station with your stove fuel, so you'd wind up ordering a bundle and mailing them to yourself along the trail. (Logistics, ugh.) Some people give up and just carry a tiny dropper of bleach. Well why not, the Red Cross does it. To each her own.

The idea of adding something to the water seems inherently flawed to me, when what you're trying to do is get something out of your water. (Nobody talks about fertilizer runoff or mineral taints, incidentally. Just parasites.) My other dilemma is the mechanics of using chemical treatments efficiently. Say you scoop some water from a stream using a water bottle--the outside of the bottle, including the seams on the mouthpiece, are covered in "dirty" water that doesn't get treated when you introduce the drops to the vessel, so strictly speaking, it isn't safe to drink from the bottle. So, what then? You pour the treated water into a second vessel, designated "clean," and keep one exclusively for doing the scooping? I don't know.

This incidentally raises the question of vessels. I love my stickered-up "indestructable" Nalgene bottles, but they're unnecessarily heavy for this adventure. The most lightweight water bottles are these pretty Platypus bladders, and their Evernew cousins. Not only are they light, but they're collapsible. Paul has one, and it's nice, surprisingly sturdy. The things to watch out for are punctures and, well, pricetags. In some areas you might need to carry seven liters of water, which is quite a few Platy bottles, and all of a sudden you're paying how much for what now? Gatorade bottles, by contrast, are light, sturdy, wide-mouthed, readily available, easily disposable, and cheap. You get one for free every time you buy 32 oz of Gatorade. They don't need to be collapsible, because you can just throw out the surplus containers in town when you don't need them (or when they fail), then pick up another couple liters of Gatorade when you approach a stretch of dry trail, because that's something you can totally buy at the gas station. I think Gatorade is pretty gross, frankly, but I can't argue with the logic, so I scrounged a couple empty bottles out of the recycle bin at work, to get me started. Maybe I will develop a taste for it later.

Then you have hydration bladders, the kind with hoses and bite-valves. Hands-free hydration. From a lifetime of day-hikes, I know that I will not pause to dig out my water bottle until I'm intolerably thirsty. I just won't. I stop for nothing. Drinking water from a bottle won't "force" me to take breaks, I just wind up not drinking water until I see stars. It's lunacy, really. It only takes a few seconds to unbuckle your pack and take a few sips. But there it is, some madwomen will just keep walking. For this reason I have a Camelbak, and it's pretty much the best thing ever. I didn't take it to Antarctica, for obvious and reasonable reasons. I resisted steadily the idea of taking it on the PCT, because I convinced myself it wasn't really necessary. It's a little heavier than the newer models, the hose is a pain in the ass to clean, and the soft sides, again, are subject to puncture wounds. But I have to admit it works for me, in the same essential fashion as, I don't know, wearing shoes works. A few ounces in my pack one way or the other won't make nearly as much difference as a constant supply of water to my body. If it fails for any reason, I'll just have to cope and replace it.

Point conceded, the Sawyer in-line filter suddenly looks really appealing. You splice a two-ounce piece of machinery into the hydration tube and continue to drink normally. (Please fit your own hydration tube before assisting others.) The suction draws water through the filter, so no pumping required. It needs a back-flushing in town now and then to purge the filter, and you don't want to leave it sitting out on cold nights or the filtering mechanism might freeze and perish, but it's light, easy, doesn't "run out," there's no waiting for a chemical reaction, and because the mouth piece is removed from the reservoir you can immerse the whole bladder in the river if you want, no problem. And if I buy it from REI it falls under their 100% Satisfaction Guarantee, so if I do encounter a problem somewhere along the trail I can just call the company and get it resolved, ahem ahem. With a couple of scrounged Gatorade jugs as auxiliary vessels, that system might work for me.

I feel like I'm developing a greater appreciation for the consumption of small beer among the peasantry. Water treatment is a beast.

Ice Brain

I just finished reading Apsley Cherry-Garrard's The Worst Journey in the World. Cherry, at 24, was the youngest member of Robert Falcon Scott's second expedition to Antarctica. He was one of three men who sledged around Ross Island during the brutal black heart of winter to collect Emperor penguin eggs from Cape Crozier. For Science. It beggars words. After recovering for a handful of weeks in the hut at Cape Evans, Cherry then accompanied the Polar expedition as far as the top of Beardmore Glacier, where he and several others turned back in order to depot provisions for the return. Scott's crew reached the Pole in January to discover that Admunsen had beaten them to it.

"Much of that risk and racking toil had been undertaken that men might learn what the world is like at the spot where the sun does not decline in the heavens, where a man loses his orbit and turns like a joint on a spit, and where his face, however he turns, is always to the North. The moment Scott saw that Norwegian tent he knew that he had nothing to tell that was not already known.

"We did not suffer from too little brains or daring: we may have suffered from too much. We were primarily a great scientific expedition, with the Pole as our bait for public support, though it was not more important than any other acre of the plateau."

All five Englishmen died on the way back, the last three pinned down by a blizzard eleven miles from a supply depot; Cherry was part of the team that found them the following spring. He eventually went home to endure lifelong PTSD and depression. I won't presume to say who was better off, he or his friends, but I want to offer my [very belated] respects to Cherry, because to my delight and surprise he wrote a really wonderful book. I knew about the existence of his account, of course, because no semi-literate soul can go to Antarctica and not encounter a few quotes from it. I looked it up at the library recently when I found myself wanting something Antarctic, but I was expecting a dry, historical, possibly rather preachy piece lauding sacrifice in the name of god and country, and it is nothing of the sort. It's marvelous. Full of marvels. Full of little anecdotes and precise descriptions that make me gaze into the middle distance and wonder if I...? Cherry has a real voice. He devotes a good deal of time to extolling the virtues of his lost comrades, demeaning his own part in the quest, but he did the hardest thing imaginable, in my opinion: he bore witness.

(I find now that Sara Wheeler, whose Terra Incognita I enjoyed so much, also wrote a biography called Cherry, which I'll have to look into.)

early Antarctic sleeping bag

It so happens that my new sleeping bag showed up in the mail just as I was reading the chapter about The Winter Journey. The three men had already been sledging in total darkness and unimaginable cold for three weeks. They'd acquired five penguin eggs by stumbling around treacherous pressure ridges in a mid-day twilight, then smashed two crossing a rock slide. Upon getting back to shelter, all hell broke loose, the tent and the roof of their shelter blew away in a blizzard, and they huddled in their sleeping bags in the lee of their broken stone hut, with their precious penguin eggs, hoping for the grace of god.

"Many hours ago Bill had told us that if the roof went he considered that our best chance would be to roll over in our sleeping-bags until we were lying on the openings, and get frozen and drifted in.

We turned our bags over as far as possible, so that the bottom of the bag was uppermost and the flaps were more or less beneath us. And we lay and thought, and sometimes we sang.

Face to face with real death one does not think of the things that torment the bad people of the tracts, and fill the good people with bliss. I might have speculated on my chances of going to Heaven; but candidly I did not care. I had no wish to review the evils of my past. But the past did seem to have been a bit wasted. The road to Hell may be paved with good intentions: the road to Heaven is paved with lost opportunities.

I wanted those years over again. What fun I would have with them: what glorious fun! It was a pity.

And I wanted peaches in syrup - badly. We had them at the hut...and we have been without sugar for a month. Yes - especially the syrup. 

Thus impiously I set out to die."

They lived, astonishingly, to recover their tent and break for Cape Evans. There stands a fine (if dramatic) demonstration of the importance of a good sleeping bag. At the end of a normally tiring day, it's a haven of warmth and restful oblivion. In the last extremity--the one you hope you will never encounter--it can save your life.

(The modern Antarctican equivalent of a sleeping bag, of course, is Big Red, the bright crimson duck-down expedition parka issued to each and every individual before departing New Zealand. That coat turned into a bit of a beast at times, possessing the sheer recalcitrance of any bulky inanimate object, but I admit I was never cold while wearing Big Red. I think we all developed a grumbling affection for it. And my comparison isn't an idle one. Sometimes I'd open the door to my dorm and find my roommate sitting on her bed, watching a bad 80s dance film on station TV, all snuggled into her Big Red zipped up to the eyeballs.

"You cold, Kristina?"

She'd grin. "'S cozy! Like wearing a sleeping bag.")

big red

All the PCT handbook and forum advice underscores the fact that there are many ways to cut costs on a thru-hike, but your sleeping bag should not be one of them. Cough up! A sleeping bag both lightweight and toasty warm doesn't come cheap. If you aren't warm enough, you won't sleep well, and when you're walking a marathon every day, the daily opportunity to rest and recharge takes on special importance. (And I need my sleep, full stop. I hear a chorus of heads nodding. The bears have nothing on me in this respect.) Plus, if you find yourself in hypothermic conditions, or a storm surprises you in the Sierra, you must be able to count on your sleeping bag to keep the furnace running.

big blue

They maintained good records, those early Antarcticans, so I can tell you that the explorers' sleeping bags were constructed of reindeer skins from Norway, and weighed 12 lbs apiece; most carried eiderdown bag-liners, too, which were 4 lbs each. My new goose-down sleeping bag, the Western Mountaineering Ultralite, weighs a mere 28 oz, extraordinarily light--made by the elves, you know!--and very warm, rated to 20F. I love it already. Extracting it from the stuff sack is like unloading a clown car, it puffs past all credibility, and with a compression strap it'll deflate to the size of a soccer ball. Most likely the single most expensive item on my shopping list (more than a KitchenAid, sigh), but as I say, this wasn't the place to cut corners, and I suspect that it will see many adventures.

"And I tell you, if you have the desire for knowledge and the power to give it physical expression, go out and explore. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, 'What is the use?' For we are a nation of shopkeepers... And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin's egg."

This Way to Bear Country

This way to Bear Country!
You'll know when you're there!
As soon as you enter,
You'll feel like a bear!

problem bear

The PCT traverses two "bear countries": central-northern California (the Sierra), and northern Washington (the Cascades). We're talking about black bears, for the most part, though in theory you might still see a grizzly. Bears are unpredictable, not to be trifled with, and I kept my eyes and ears open while hiking in Alaska. But to be honest, driving on a six-lane highway frightens me more than a bear encounter. Even in a bold mood, the bear's after my food--he's not going to eat me.

A bear's opportunistic fixation with food isn't really any different than that of any other wild creature (from mice to thru-hikers)--the bear just happens to be big enough to impose on a human for a meal, and smart enough to remember how. No stealth required, just walks around like he owns the place. That's bad news--for the bear.  Any bear so habituated to human presence that he will raid dumpsters, or mosey into camp and casually walk off with a picnic basket of ClifBars while you're washing your socks is euphemistically labeled a "problem bear." Read between the lines. A fed bear is a dead bear. There's a veritable laundry-list of bear-avoidance tactics that probably really do work to keep both bears and people safe if practiced mindfully. Regrettably, that's a very big if, so in the last decade the park service has been obliged to make some new laws.

bear box

Hanging a bag in a tree is no longer permitted as a food-protection technique in Yosemite. That doesn't mean you can't hang your food for your own sake if you want to and know how, but it means that the park service doesn't think that's good enough anymore, because so few people do it correctly, and because bears learn. (They wouldn't think so if the bears hadn't amply proven the point.) Since the early 2000s (?), hikers in the High Sierra are required by federal regulations to store all food and other odiferous, bear-attracting articles (sunscreen, garbage) by one of two methods: camp in an established site with a food locker ("bear box"), or carry an approved bear-resistant portable container ("bear canister") in your pack.

Bear boxes come in handy when they're available, but often, well, they aren't. Doesn't seem like something you can rely on.

bear canister

Right now the answer is bear canisters.* A bear canister is a "hard-sided plastic or carbon fiber cylinder with a removable lid that is designed to protect its contents (namely, food and other scented items) from bears. The canister’s shape, hardness, and lid seal mechanism (which require opposable fingers to open/close) make it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for bears to access the canister’s contents." [Andrew Skurka]

Canisters receive approval through a highly scientific testing process. Somebody fills the vessel in question with a bunch of tasty treats, then they throw it to Fisher, a 580-lb black bear now living in the Folsom City Zoo Sanctuary because he was a "problem bear." If Fisher manages to decorate his enclosure with a rainbow of peanut M&Ms, the designer heads back to his drawing board; if not, the new article is conditionally issued to a three-month round of beta-testers, who obligingly head out into the woods of bear-country for real-world experience. They report back, and a proclamation is issued.

*Evolution never stills. One bear in the Adirondacks of upstate New York has figured out how to open several models of BearVault, and other bears in the vicinity are catching on. For now, the National Park Service has addressed the matter by revoking BearVault's approval for use in that area.

Bear canisters make most hikers want to cry. I do not relish the thought of it myself. Any material strong enough to keep a bear at bay is bound to be heavy, for starters. The canisters bottom out at just under two pounds, and usually weigh more. That makes a bear can heavier than any other single item in my theoretical pack--including the pack. Picking up a bear canister may coincide with picking up a lot of other heavy stuff, like an ice axe, extra warm clothes, and enough food for a long trek, which doesn't help matters. It's a big load. Shlepping water through the desert is a going to be a chore, too, but leaving Kennedy Meadows should be the absolute heaviest your pack ever gets.

Ursack

All of the approved canisters have hard sides and bear-proof lids--with a "catch," in both senses of the phrase. A screwtop is simple until it's frozen solid; quarter-turn fasteners are the easiest thing in the world until you just don't have a fucking coin. (The Ursack, a soft-sided bag made of kevlar, is probably as effective as anything else at keeping bears out, but isn't yet on the approved list. It also doesn't prevent your food from getting crunched.) Skurka wishes aloud that bear canisters had a flat side, but as I understand it, the container must be both round enough and big enough around that a grizzly can't get a jaw-lock on it--think of a dog trying to bite a fully-inflated basketball. That seems to shake out to at least eight inches in diameter. Ultralight hikers, having gone to a great deal of trouble to reduce pack size and weight, might suddenly discover that the canister just doesn't fit. Because of the rounded shape, too, a bear might decide to send your can rolling into a river or over a cliff...so be careful where you put it down for the night. Because of the hard sides, they have a reputation for being spectacularly uncomfortable, jabbing right up against your spine. And just to rub salt in the wound, they're kind of expensive--$75 to $275 for a [necessarily] very well-built, but very limited-use piece of equipment. Three to four weeks. It isn't required through the Cascades.

The funny part of this, to me, is that's the best we can do for a bear. A oversized, child-proof bottle.

As far as I can tell, none of the available bear canisters actually hold enough food to get you from Kennedy Meadows to your next resupply point. You do the best you can. It's not recommended, but most thru-hikers sleep with their bear canisters under their feet, too, for the same primal reasons that dragons sleep on their hoards. Food sitting 200 yards distant proclaims, "FREE," while the message you're trying to convey is, "This is MINE."

Thru-hikers on the PCT seem to encounter bears rarely, possibly because they [the hikers] tend to travel in groups through the Sierras. (See an exception here.) I expect, too, that most hikers already abide by wilderness practices that will minimize the likelihood of a confrontation, like cooking at a water source and then moving on before camping. Sounds like a bear canister is mostly just a pain in the ass. However, everything I have read suggests that hikers have an extraordinarily precious relationship with the people and the environment along this wilderness corridor. As custodians of the backcountry that they evidently enjoy so much they'd want to spend five months walking through it, I think it BEHOOVES THEM to get a goddam bear canister, by whatever means, no different than a fire permit. You probably don't need it, and if you do need it, it probably won't do you any good, but it's a way of saying, "Yes, this trail and all it stands for are important to me."

BearVault 500

Choosing a canister is a matter of personal preference, like anything else, but designs don't vary enough to be as entertaining as shelters. BearVault's BV500, 41oz, costs $80 from REI, but the company has a special deal for PCT thru-hikers, $65 including shipping to Kennedy Meadows. It appears to be the most popular canister, if you can call anything popular when everybody resents its presence. It's a little larger than its rival, and you can see what's in it without having to rummage. The Bearikade Weekender, 31oz,  costs $250, but comes with rental rates for thru-hikers, too; the cost of renting versus buying a heavier model probably comes out just about even, depending on how fast you travel.

You ditch the canister at Sonora Pass, or Tahoe at the latest. Unless I can sell it afterwards, it stands to become the fanciest cat-food container in Christendom.

In case anybody was wondering, bear spray isn't permitted in Yosemite, and bear bells don't work. But did you know you can get a bear bell at Walmart? It's true!

Make Your Own Damn Stove

Once upon a time, I made Trouble Affogato from a recipe in the Tartine Bread cookbook. The author of the book, Chad Robertson, based the flavors of the affogato on the "house" breakfast at Trouble Coffee (one of his favorite San Francisco beachside cafés): thick-cut, generously buttered cinnamon toast, strong black coffee, and a whole, young coconut, served with a straw and a spoon. Naturally, when Mom and I were in San Francisco last April, we had to go find Trouble Coffee. And reading the Lonely Planet guidebook for directions, for the first time I encountered the full name of Trouble's signature dish:

Build Your Own Damn House.

I have no idea what that has to do with coffee, toast, or coconuts, but I was ensorcelled. "Build your damn house!" turned into the mantra of the year. Or possibly of my life. Their website reads like a scrap off a Dr Bronner's bottle. "Do you have a useful skill in a tangible situation?" God, I hope so. It is one of my personal missions: to have useful skills. Convenience is for the stupid, the lazy, and the infirm. If I can make something myself, I will. It's fun--fun in the way that occupies my brain and my hands at the same time. Change your own damn tires. Bake your own damn bread. Find your own damn Christmas tree. Build your own damn house.

So it was with sore pride that I ordered a tarp-tent, because I just can't pretend that I know enough to make one myself. Sewing isn't the problem--I'm a decent seamstress--but I don't know anything about tarps, or ripstop nylon, and my better judgment says that I will be a warmer, drier, happier hiker with someone else's handiwork holding the roof over my head. I stand in a fair way to order my sleeping bag and backpack for the same reasons. Do you know how to stuff something with goose feathers? Well neither do I. And I am SAD about this. I wanted to make my gear from scratch, really own this project from the ground up.

Lucky for me, there are enough penny-pinching gram-weenies on the Internet to support my fixation and direct this energy toward other, lesser, but worthy projects. Andrew Skurka is one such nut, and he generously shows the whole world how to make a lightweight, portable alcohol stove out of a catfood can. Yeah! Build your own damn stove!

punch two tidy rows of holes in a clean catfood can. done.

Skurka sums up the pros and cons of his approach very neatly:

advantages
-weighs just .3 oz (about 10 grams)!
-costs about $.50 for the cat food can with tax, and $3-$5 for the hole punch.
-will never clog, no moving or delicate parts that can break. Even if it is accidentally squashed, there is a chance that it can be re-shaped and used again.
-serves as a pot stand, which means one less thing to carry.
-burns denatured alcohol, a cheap and widely available fuel that can be purchased at hardware stores (in the paint department), gas stations (HEET gas-line antifreeze), and hiking hostels. You can also use Everclear, or grain alcohol, though this is more expensive. Fuel can be stored in plastic drink bottles.
-uses about .6 oz of alcohol to boil about 1.5 cups of water, depending on the pot, the starting temperature of the water, and the efficiency of the windscreen. The water will boil within 5-7 minutes.

disadvantages
-because the stove is only 2.5 inches in diameter, larger pots may not be stable enough.
-because this stove is a side-burner, smaller pots (e.g. 600 ml mugs) may not receive enough of the flame. In this case, it’d probably be more efficient to make a top-burner model instead.
-does not have a simmer feature, i.e. there is no control over the flame output. This will not be a problem if the extent of your backcountry cooking skills is boiling (the only thing necessary if you are content with pasta, couscous, dehydrated and freeze-dried foods, potato flakes, soups, etc).
-no OFF switch. The stove will burn until there is no more fuel to burn, unless it is smothered with a pot/mug, dirt, or water. It is extremely difficult, though possible, to blow the stove out.
-not as fast as a white gas or canister model. If eating dinner 2-3 minutes earlier is important enough to you that you are willing to carry at least an extra half-pound, by all means… 

The one thing he fails to mention about the Fancy Feast stove--because he is plainly not a cat-owner if he had to go out and buy a can of food specifically to this purpose--is that it feels like a kind of talisman. This stove was within reach all along and I had no idea. I've opened literally hundreds of those cans and dispensed the contents to my cat-friends while waiting for water to boil for coffee. It's the morning ritual. I hate canned catfood, I think it is wasteful and disgusting, and I wish my idiot cats would deign to eat food-grade roast chicken and turkey giblets like reasonable creatures. But the trashy canned food always makes them so happy, without fail. By the time I get to Tahoe and am heating up water for the ten-thousandth goddam packet of Idahoan instant potatoes, that will be something worth remembering.

"grease pot" from Kmart; homemade Fancy Feast stove; aluminum foil windscreen; fuel from hardware store

A lot of hikers have the Evernew titanium 0.9L cooking pot, and that's nice, I suppose. (SCORN.) But I've actually never bought a new pot, not ever, and I'm afraid that if I shell out $60 on a piece of cookware I won't be content to back away slowly when a bear invades my camp to steal my rehydrated potatoes, I will indignantly yell, "Hey!" and fight him for the fancy titanium pot.

Wandering through some Make-Your-Own-Gear literature one day, I discovered several voices lauding the cheapness, lightness, and versatility of Ye Olde Grease Pot. The grease saver costs $10 at Kmart, and the funny part of this story is that Mom and Dad already owned one. Aluminum isn't as durable as titanium, of course, so you probably want to avoid stepping on your cookpot just as you avoid stepping on your stove, but even if I manage to destroy it utterly--or lose it to a bear--I'd have to replace six grease pots before I could justify the titanium model. And I dunno, it kind of suits the Fancy Feast stove, don't you think? They're a pair.

pour a little fuel in the can, light it, and allow it to warm up 15-20 seconds

center your cooking pot over the stove and wrap the windscreen around it

when the water boils, add your food, and put the lid back on

hot dogtopus' garden (in the shade)

I don't remember the last time I ate Top Ramen. It's pretty gross, even after I'd gussied it up (those are good local hot dogtopi, not Oscar Meyer). Plainly, what one can cook on the trail directly impacts what one eats, but that isn't a discussion I'm prepared to have yet. We'll talk about food later. Right now we're talking about stoves. Do you want a catfood can? I have lots! Make your own damn stove! 

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.