Backpacking Archives — Page 6 of 6

03/30/2017

A Motionless Purgatory

This was one of those rare days where I was powering uphill away from Keith. Normally, I’m the one in the back, slowly working my way up the hill as I watch Keith’s butt stride away from me. My method has always been: move slow, rest infrequently. My body is slow to warm up, and quick to cool down, meaning that a 15 minute rest doesn’t equal recovery, it means I now have to spend another mile getting my body warmed up again. Beyond the inner workings of my cardiovascular system, this hiking method works for me. I get bored really easily and I detest sitting still.

But, today was one of those rare days, and so I waited patiently for Keith, slowed my pace and stuck with my buddy as he has done countless times for me. Actually, what really happened is that I took the lead, put on the soundtrack to Hamilton and proceeded to have my own Broadway show as I danced and sang my way up the trail. Nothing slows you down quite so much as attempting to belt out show-tunes at 7,000ft. I think it’s fair to say that I’m an absolute joy to hike with.

Our original plan for the weekend was to practice snow safety skills with my brand new ice axe. But as we climbed it became apparent that as much snow as we had this winter, it was going to be hard to find a slope to practice on. With poor snow conditions and a tired boyfriend we opted to set up camp and spend the day relaxing in the mountains. It was certainly a novel concept, and I’m open to trying anything once.

With the tent pitched, pads inflated, and sleeping bags unfurled we were all set. Well, Keith was all set to nap, and I was all set to LOSE MY GODDAMN MIND! WHAT THE HELL DO PEOPLE DO FOR HOURS! WHAT EVEN IS RELAXING? LIKE, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? While Keith dozed, I was in my own personal purgatory.

To most people the idea of sitting in a beautiful campsite overlooking an expansive valley would sound ideal. These are the same people who plan beach vacations, who use phrases like “time to unwind,” enjoy such “activities” as sunbathing, and that nebulous and insidious word “relaxing.” I don’t trust these people. I am not these people. I do not relax. I move. I walk. I interact with my world via passing through it. I appreciate nature and our wild spaces almost exclusively by traveling and being challenged by it.

How I passed the afternoon I can hardly recall. The pot that I had left in my food bag probably helped.

Luckily for me, Mama Nature is nothing if not a provider, willing to look after even her most fidgety children. That evening she put on the most spectacular sunset just for us.

Perched on a large rock just outside of camp Keith and I watched as the sun began to dip behind the hills and the high cirrus clouds were lit afire with the fading rays. The green pine tree-clad hills dipped to a royal purple, a distant lake glowed a shocking pink, and Catalina Island rose up from the golden waters of the Pacific Ocean like an ancient beast. As the scene dipped to black the lights in the valley below began to twinkle into life, a few at a time, and then all at once. In the dark we were the only two people on that mountain, holding court above the thousands of people below, evident only because of the lights of their homes, and cars, and parking lots.

As my butt fell asleep on that cold rock I thought about all those people down in the valleys and basins of Southern California. Did they even know we were up here? Do they look up to these mountains and feel the same pull that I do?

To me, these mountains are my home, my safe place. My heart lives in the mountains. And they have ways of teaching me things that I could not have learned myself. Without even noticing it I had sat on that rock, motionless, as I watched the sun set. I had found a way (or been forced), to relax for once and enjoy the moment, the company, and the view. I guess today was just one of those rare days.

03/22/201703/22/2017

Backpacking – A Checklist

Backpacking is the best. It just is. You get to walk into nature with everything you need for your own survival on your back. You get to see more nature, fewer people, and most people will think you’re a crazy bad-ass for even attempting it. However, a lot of people hit a barrier when they attempt to make the transition from day hiker to backpacker, and that stumbling block all comes down to one thing: too much fucking gear.

I subscribe to a style of backpacking I’ve dubbed “comfort ultralight.” And while this may seem like a contradiction in terms, I think it’s a style of backpacking that everybody should adopt. And I’m not just saying that because it’s my personal preference. Ok, maybe I am saying that a little bit, but I have other reasons too! Promise.

I used to not be the biggest fan of backpacking, I hated lugging all that shit around, being weighed down, and seeing less stuff in more time. At a certain point backpacking just becomes slow-hiking-with-camping-thrown-in-because-you-packed-too-much-crap-and-now-you-can’t-walk-fast, and that sucks. However, if you can cut down on your setup, you’ll move more comfortably, see more and enjoy those sights more without the strain of a 50lb pack on, and once you’re home you’ll have way less garbage to unpack and wash. There are so few downsides to this style of travel it’s incredible to me that people pack any other way.

The largest outcry that random old white dudes on the internet named Trent, or Chad, or Brent or Wally have expressed with this kind of travel is safety. How can a poor little girl travel safely in the wilderness without five extra pairs of wool socks!?!?!? They exclaim. Well, Chad, I do it by ensuring that everything I do bring on the trail has a specific function in keeping me alive. I also make sure to tell people where it is I’m going, and unlike angry Facebook Brent, I have a strong predilection for bailing in sketchy situations. Besides, when stuff goes sideways, having two extra pairs of underwear isn’t going to be the X-Factor in keeping you alive.

Ultralight comfort could be summed up with the following: every piece of gear should serve at least one necessary function, be light, be durable, and have no redundancies.

So what does that actually mean? Probably not a lot, unless you already have a gear list in mind. So I’ve created a list for a typical three-season set up that is light, safe, and comfortable.

Comfort Backpacking

Hey guys a little housekeeping here! First off, did you know that you can subscribe to this blog? Yep, just scroll down to the bottom of the page and enter your e-mail and you’ll be automatically notified when I post (ahhh the future). Second, if you have any questions about this list post a comment on this post and I’ll make an effort to respond!

03/16/201703/16/2017

Do it Yourself – Build Your Own F–king Fire!

From the saddle above Romero Canyon near Santa Barbara. SB is a great area for beginner bacpackers.

Last weekend I built a fire. And it burned, nicely. And I put it out. And it was great. And I was very proud of myself. Very proud. Stupid proud.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because, if I’m camping with my boyfriend, 90% of the time I’ll let him light and tend the fire. And until recently, I used to let him pick the routes we hiked, I’d follow his path when we needed to route-find, even after learning that he’s not very gifted when it comes to a sense of direction (sorry babe, but we both know it’s true). Even in all the situations where I knew I could lead, I would simply let him do it. This fire was one of the first I’d built and tended myself in years. Years people!

But, why?

The answer is simple: because there was nobody else to do it for me.

Looking south along the coast on Romero Road.

I grew up in a household with a strong and fiercely intelligent mother, she was the breadwinner in our family, and she worked to show my sister and me that we were no less competent, intelligent, or valuable than our male peers. My father was also instrumental in this process, teaching us how to fix things around the house, as well as how to cook for ourselves. However, as I grew up and made my way through the world I quickly learned that my parents feminist views were not universally shared. Going through highschool and college I gravitated towards male-dominated careers, and it was here where societies little standards began to creep into my head.

My male peers often assumed I was less physically able, weaker. That they were inherently more talented than I was. I even had a male subordinate tell me that I needed to “show him more respect,” and that by expecting that he do his job without complaining, I was somehow shattering his worldview in which he was the center of attention. Society has told men all their lives that they had the right to be leaders, the privilege to speak for the group.

Meanwhile society told me, my sister, and every female friend I’ve ever had that we should be seen, not heard. Women are meant to be consumed in our society, we’re meant to be pretty, quiet, passive little creatures. And slowly without realizing it, I began to accept these views as truths. I began to let my boyfriend light the fires, even though I was no less capable or knowledgeable.

And this my friends, is where I get to the point. I think women need to take every opportunity they can to be placed in a position to lead. Whether that be through solo adventures, or with groups of women. This is the real power of solo female travel, and female-only spaces and events. They’re not meant to be exclusionary to men, they’re intended to show women how much power and competence they have. When you’re by yourself, or surrounded by other women, there are no societal pressures to cede your power to a man, you have to learn to suck it up and become the leader you already are, use the skills you already have, build the fucking fire you already know how to build!

Heading into Blue Canyon and the true backcountry.

So Wait, How Do I Actually Build A Fire?
Building a fire is really not as hard as people make it out to be, but it does take some practice to get right. Here are the six steps I follow every time:

Fires are cool kids. Just remember to put them out fully.

1) Prep.
Look around your campsite and gather the following: kindling, in the form of dry leaves, small dry twigs, and or dry pine needles. Why do I feel the need to keep saying ‘dry’? Because it’s going to make this whole process a heck of alot easier and faster. You’ll also need second stage burners. These are sticks that are about a thumb thick, and 7-18 inches long. Last you’ll need your big logs, think larger than your forearm, smaller than your thigh. Gather lots of the above… and by lots I mean double what you think you’ll need.

2) Build your base.
I know everybody wants that picturesque tee-pee fire like you’re used to seeing on TV, but it’s not a very effective way to start. The easiest way is to build a lean-to fire. Take one of your big logs that will fit in your fire pit and lay it flat on the bottom of the pit. Next pile your kindling next to the middle of the log in the bottom of the pit along with some small sticks propped up against the log. This gives your kindling air-flow, and positions a big log to start burning right away.

3) Light your kindling.
Have your matches/lighter and your kindling as well as small sticks and second stage burners all on hand. Light a small section of your kindling on fire and blow to spread the flames.

4) Move fast.
Once your kindling is lit, you want to start throwing on lots of kindling quickly, followed by the second stage burners, and one big log. One of the biggest bits of misinformation I hear thrown around is that you’ll smother your fire. You won’t. Your fire is more likely to go out because it didn’t have enough to burn. Throw a bunch of your little sticks and kindling in there, and once those are lit throw on a few of the mid-size sticks. The kindling will burn bright and hot, but not for very long, so you need to take advantage of the burning kindling to ignite your larger logs.

5) Time for the Big Guns.
Once your mid-sized sticks are fully burning, throw in one or two of the big logs, using the base log in the bottom of the pit to prop them up, to allow air to circulate, and give the fire someplace to go. (Remember: Fire burns up, not down).

6) Tend.
A fire isn’t a one and done. You’ll need to be placing new logs on the fire, moving the existing ones around, and tending to it. The good news is, as an over-stimulated millenial, this will give you something to play with since your phone won’t have service to refresh your Twitter feed.

01/06/2017

Trip Report – In the Valley of Giants – Peru Part 2

We rolled into and out of Cusco without ever seeing the sun. Only once our little cab had begun its winding descent into the valley outside of the city did my sleep deprived brain begin to churn into motion. This is what Peru is supposed to look like I thought to myself. Green valleys exploded in front of us, puffy clouds grey with impending rain scattered across the horizon, mountains in the distance. I’ve lived near mountains my entire life, but my mountains looked nothing like what I saw here. These were not mountains, but massive, sleeping giants that reached into the sky above us. We were nothing compared to these mountains. These mountains were strangers to me, and yet I loved them instantly.

After the cab we climbed into the back of a truck and set off up a dirt road, after the truck we began to walk. We would walk for the next four days.

Our legs carried us up and up through a lush green valley, above us stood these massive white faces that looked down on us. To the Peruvians Mother Earth is known as Pachamama. I wondered if Pachamama was looking down at her little gringo children. I wondered if she thought of us at all.

We climbed. 11,000 feet, 12,000 feet, 13,000 feet. Tomorrow we would go even higher. Tomorrow we would cross over Salkantay Pass which stood at 15,200 feet, more than 5,000 feet below the peak which bore it’s same name.

As we went to sleep that night, buried under fleece blankets to block out the cold, I wondered what it would be like at 15,200 feet. I couldn’t imagine it. I could only wait for morning to come. I guess I’ll find out I thought as I feel asleep.

And then it was morning. Or, at least, it was time to get up. We dressed in the dark, ate our breakfasts, and listened sleepily as our guide gave us the instructions for the day. I really hope I’m understanding him correctly I thought, knowing that I was the only one here who spoke even remedial Spanish.

Later we would come to find out that I actually hadn’t understood our guide fully. But in the grand scheme of things it didn’t really matter. My misinterpretation would cost us a few hours without our bags, about $100 american dollars, and a fair bit of sanity as I attempted to explain a rather complicated situation in Spanish. But then again, what is travel if not a series of memory-creating fuck ups?

Anyway. By 9am we had summited Salkantay pass, and although it was cold and crowded, and blindingly bright, I thought I should never want to leave this place. I feel like I’m being obtuse when I say that I literally cannot describe its beauty. But there you have it, that’s what pictures are for.

Besides, we still had to make it to Machu Picchu.

12/19/2016

Trip Report – The Sun is on Fire – Peru Part 1

My alarm is blaring, it’s freezing in our hostel, and it’s far too early. My brain feels blurred around the edges, and things come slowly into focus as I shiver into the clothes that I laid out the day before. Thank you past self, I sleepily think. Outside our bus is waiting and we board with a dozen other half-asleep gringos and rumble out of the city. I know I’ll likely never see Arequipa again, this mountain city in Peru, and yet that fact doesn’t keep me from falling asleep as soon as the bus hits the road. That’s something they don’t tell you about international travel: that not every experience you have will be a mind-blowing, spiritually-awakening, self-realizing journey of discovery and love. Sometimes it’s just a pre-dawn bus ride.

Eight hours before I was in Lima which, and I’m being really honest here, is a really hard city to love. I’m sure people do love it there. Mothers love their especially awful children too. But I don’t. The city seems half way between Spanish colonialism, and a botched construction job. In all but the nicest parts of the city cinder-block buildings dominate, cops adorn more street corners than not, and traffic blares, rumbles, and honks its way through the streets. Lanes aren’t a thing here, but then again neither are stop signs, pedestrian crosswalks, or logical right-of-way. Dully I realize that life in Los Angeles has made the hectic sprawl of Lima seem rather tame. That’s nice.

And yet, the city does have some charm, though I cannot explain it’s origin. Perhaps it comes from the fact that nobody is interested in catering to my needs. English speakers are few and far between, and locals seem only marginally interested in spoiling this confused blanca and her endearingly white boyfriend. It’s refreshing. It’s also annoying at times.

I wake on the bus and we’re on the side of the road. We stumble out and watch the condors slide overhead. It’s incredible to see these birds. The same birds I remember learning about in third grade, and the likelihood they’d be extinct soon, probably within my life time soon. But here they are! It’s amazing.

Then we’re back on the bus, then we’re off the bus, and then just like that we’re below the rim of the Colca Canyon and it’s quiet. Really quiet. The canyon drops thousands of feet below us to a rushing river that looks like no more than a stream from where we are. We hike down down down, and then because we are foolish and because rest is for those with vacation time, we hike up up up and across the other side of the canyon. And I’ll spare you the details, but after all the hiking up we do, we turn right around and hike back down into the canyon, all the way to the bottom to the little town of Llahuar.

Our lodge there is everything I could have wished it to be. There are warm cocktails, and dinner, and little Peruvian women who giggle at my flawed spanish, and yet are so gracious and helpful. There are even hot springs and after dinner we soak in the water. Allowing our muscles to unwind as we watch the super moon rise.

Tomorrow we’ll hike out of the canyon. The sun will bake down on our heads in, what I’m coming to learn, only an equatorial sun can do. On our hike up we’ll realize that we don’t have enough water, and at least I don’t have enough food, and there is no shade. But it’s ok, because all there is to do is hike. When we get back to Cabanaconde on the rim of the canyon we’ll guzzle water and eat a lunch which, is by all objective standards completely average, but in the moment is perfect.

09/01/201609/28/2016

Trip Report – Getting in the way of Important Things

The roof of hidden lake lookout needed replacing. Badly. Cedar shingles, once a cheerful blonde, had turned grey and cracked after nearly 30 years of abusive Washington weather. Our hosts, Robert and Ethan scrambled across the lookout’s roof, installing the new shingles. Ones that would hopefully last as long as their predecessors (read: 20 years longer than they were intended to). To say the two men moved with ease would belie the precarious nature of the situation. Only Ethan had a harness, and while I could not ascertain how safe his rigging system was, it certainly had to provide greater safety than Robert’s, which, consisted of a knotted piece of rope wrapped repeatedly around his leg. It was this rope that would, at least in theory, prevent Robert from plummeting the 500 feet off the side of the mountain should he slip from the roof.

Hidden Lake Lookout in all her splendor. Sporting a lovely new roof.

Just six hours earlier I’d been waking to a 4am alarm and loading my gear into Rob’s battered Subaru Outback, grateful, if for nothing else, that the lingering smell of gasoline had faded since the last time I was in this car. As we drove through the predawn light, the urban glimmer of Seattle faded into the background, and our conversation turned to the dreaded permitting system. The goal was to beat the rush to the ranger station and secure one of the elusive Hidden Lake Lookout permits. As we pulled into the parking lot, we knew we had failed. The parking lot was filled with bleary-eyed people, more than a few of whom had spent the night in their cars. Rob returned to the car with our number, 13. My lucky number. We had to get a permit now, we just had to.

And we did.

Although it came with the warning that the lookout would likely be closed for repairs. Well then. That was just a chance we’d have to take.

Forever ascending. Remember to look back.

Ultimately, no chances had to be taken. No blustery bivies set up on an exposed ridge. Just a few hours of honest work helping to restore the old lookout would secure our lodging for the night.

The first glimpse of our lookout. If you look closely you can almost see the building… but then again, maybe that’s a lie.

After the work had been done our group of four, now turned to six, sat atop the rocky summit and watched one of the most incredible sunsets I’ve ever seen. The conversation turned to the niceties that had been foregone earlier. Where are you from. What do you do. I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about my answers, especially surrounded by our new companions. Los Angeles, and advertising, seemed impractical and vain next to Ethan, the Boulder-based photographer, and Robert the possibly-nomadic lookout care-taker.

Ian the Newbie Photographer. His enthusiasm was so infectious.

The thoughts of employment and value had been circling my head for the previous month as I started a job hunt. What value is there is selling luxury cars, pimping mobile video games, and pushing content onto disinterested consumers? How does advertising, media, PR, marketing, any of it; how does any of it better our world? At 28 I’d already started to look around and wonder what my contribution to this little blue rock would be. How would I structure my life differently were I not saddled with more student debt than my annual salary? Or was my debt simply an excuse I used to keep myself in a city I felt no love for, and a job I had increasingly become disinterested in.

Robert said having a job just gets in the way of the important things in life. I was surprised he didn’t finish his sentence with the hippy-cliché, a drawn out, maaaan. But man, maybe he was right. If not for the desire for a bigger house, why do I need more money? I certainly don’t have much interest in a new car, a bigger (or any) TV. So then, what the fuck am I doing?

Rober of the Lookout, accidentally causing 20-somethings to have existential crises’ since… fuck knows when.

The answer is, I’m not sure. This isn’t a blog post about where I suddenly discover the meaning of life from a mountain top guru. That’s the stuff of Hollywood movies, and frankly it’s crap, the notion that life’s choices can be distilled into an instant. Instead, our trip through the North Cascades left me with open eyes and a deep, aching desire to return to Washington to explore further. And Robert left me with more questions than I started with, and an urgent desire to find a place in the world that would better align with my lifestyle, values, passions, whatever you want to call it. No, no answers were found. But that’s just the way life is…. maaaaan.

Our view from the top of the world – Hidden Lake Lookout

08/25/201608/25/2016

Trip Report – Everything is Scary, Until You Realize It’s Not.

I woke up in the back seat of my car, just as the sun started to creep over the granite faces that marked the entrance to Sequoia National Park. Now, this probably sounds like opening to a story where I confess that I’ve become homeless and destitute. But I promise that’s not the case. Instead I was casually sleeping on the side of the road so that I could get to the ranger station early in order to secure my backcountry permit. I had been looking forward to this trip all week: 30 miles and nearly 10,000 feet of gain, up and over innumerable passes in Sequoia’s Mineral King backcountry. Just me and my backpack. For this trip I wouldn’t even have a tent. Actually, you know what, that does sound a little bit like homelessness. Sorry mom.

9am found me on the trail, steadily climbing up into the mountains. Away from the friendly rangers, away from my happy little car, away, in a sense, from safety. I knew this trip was going to be hard. I had planned this trip specifically so it would be hard. I wanted a real challenge, and to strip away everything I thought I could do without. I knew the only way I’d make my goal (finishing the entire loop and making it back to my car before dark on Sunday) would be to go as light, fast, and lucky as possible. I was really, really excited.

I get a lot of praise and incredulity from my mountain exploits. Just as often as people tell me I’m amazing or badass, they also tell me I’m crazy. And then, without prompting, people love to tell me they could never do what I do. That they’d be too scared of bears/snakes/the dark/getting lost/whatever, to hike alone in the wilderness. Do you want to know a fun fact? That’s true. And no amount of being told how safe the wilderness can be, or what steps to take to protect yourself will convince those people otherwise.

Now, I can hear what you’re saying what kind of crap is she getting at? and that’s not very inspirational! And yeah, you’re correct. But you know what is also correct? That you can’t logic yourself out of fear. In my experience, the only way you get over the shit you tell yourself you can’t do is to do it. Sorry buttercup.

It was 5pm when I sat on a blackened log in the middle of a recent burn area. The scorched earth matched my mood as I dutifully stuffed calories in my face. Just hours before I had been frolicking through a Disney-esque mountain landscape irrationally happy and fueled with gluten free oreos. Now, I was having a low moment. This is supposed to be hard I told myself, that’s the point. Strangely that helped me feel better. Good, I thought if it’s hard, and it sucks, then I’m doing it right. Heaving my bag onto my shoulders I slogged down the trail. I walked, and I walked and I walked. Up and over mountains, past lakes.

And I kept doing it all the way into camp. Oh my god, I have never been happier to see a camp. And eat food, and sit down and know I don’t have to move for several hours. Funny how the little things can seem so luxurious.

Look at this Disney shit! How is this even real life?

Hammock camping had proved to be a complete disaster as every little breeze made me think that a bear was swatting at me like a meat-piñata. But morning had finally come, and despite my sleep deprivation I was ready to get on the trail. A breakfast of too-sweet coffee and s’mores ensued, and soon I was summiting the first pass of the day. I felt incredible, let out a primal yell of joy incredible. Do a dance on top of the mountain incredible! I practically ran down the backside of Black Rock Pass, thinking to myself it’s all downhill from here. And then it started to rain.

And this is the best part of backpacking. Which I know sounds like crap, but bear with me. The part of the day where you realize you’ve miscalculated mileage. The part of the day where you realize the final pass you have to climb is 2,400 feet up, not 500 feet up. The part of the day when it starts to rain and then hail on you but you don’t have a rain jacket because you thought you’d be back at the car by now. Those parts are freaking awesome.

I cannot even right now! Just look at this, it’s so f–king majestic!

Why? Because when you’re on the trail, the only way out is through. And when things go to crap, you have no choice but to get your shit together and hike your soggy butt over the mountain. Because, literally, there is no alternative. Well, I guess you could curl up under a tree and live like a squirrel for the rest of your life, but I know personally I would miss things like electricity and warm showers, so you should probably just keep hiking

And look, eventually I did make it out. I didn’t have to fashion a laptop out of twigs and pinecones in order to write this blog post. Eventually I got back to my car, and it was still daylight too. And as a result I’m pretty sure I’m a stronger person for it. And I know for a fact that I’m a heck of a lot more appreciative of the little things. Like sitting on soft stuff that isn’t rocks, and not smelling terrible. Seriously though, deodorant is pretty incredible.

So maybe give yourself some credit, and try something you think you can’t do. Because what is the worst that could happen, you get eaten by a bear? Ok, yeah that probably is the worst case scenario. But when you wake up in the mountains and you realize you haven’t been eaten by a bear, and you didn’t die, or wake up to find a gaggle of hillbillies have made you their bride, you’ll probably be pretty proud of yourself, and realize that maybe nature isn’t such a big, scary place.

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