My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking (10 page)

Sleeping System
Cats Meow Sleeping Bag
:
This 20 degree synthetic bag was cut down to fit me, yet it weighed
40 ounces. In Damascus I bought a 30-degree
Marmot 800 fill
down bag
, which I modified to fit my height, forming a soft insulating “nest” of feathers for my feet. It weighed only 24 ounces and stuffed to half the volume of my Cats Meow model.
Closed cell short pad
:
Trimmed to 19 inches wide and 55 inches long, it weighed 8 ounces. I kept this same pad the entire trip.

Kitchen size garbage bag: 
Used to line my sleeping bag stuff sack. 

Total weight at beginning of hike: 48 ounces
Total weight at end of hike: 32 ounces
 

Others
Trail guide, and data sheets, credit card, driver’s license
: The weight varied with the quantity. It usually was about 4 ounces, with a pen. I later reduced it to just 4 sheets of trimmed paper at any given time, which lowered the weight to about an ounce. I used the backside of guide sheets for my journal, mailing them home as often as possible. I burned my data sheets in campfires and bought envelopes at the post office as needed.
Silnylon ditty bag
was used as a wallet, and weighed 7 grams.

Silnylon pack cover
was 1.5 ounces
.
Photon lights, ultralight can opener, razor-knife and watch (minus the band)
were all threaded onto an elastic cord, and carried in my pocket. They weighed 1 ounce. I kept all these items the entire trip.
Total weight at beginning of hike: 7 ounces
Total weight at end of hike: 4 ounces

Hygiene/Medical
A
ditty bag
containing the following items (in the smallest, sample sizes available) included:

Tooth brush, toothpaste, floss
cotton balls, 2 oz. bottle rubbing alcohol
Multi-vitamins and Ibuprofen, in snack size zip lock bags
ultralight mirror, tweezers, razor
sunscreen/ Deet/ Vaseline
liquid soap.... 1 ounce
chlorine for water purification in a one ounce bottle
ultralight trowel, t-paper
T
he only things I eliminated here were the vitamins (which had become bad with the humidity), the soap and sunscreen.
Total weight at beginning of hike: 9 ounces
Total weight at end of hike:  5.5 ounces

Murphy Kit
My
needles
were taped to the tube of Vaseline to keep them safe. I used dental floss for thread. 
Free flowing super glue
, and a few
safety pins
Electrical tape
was wound around water bottles. I k
ept all these items to the end.

Wearing
For the purpose of a “skin out”, or base weight, I list these items:

Shorts,
with pockets made of 100% nylon were 5 ounces. I later f
ound a lighter pair for 4 ounces.
My
sports shirt
had a built in bra, and lasted the entire trail, weighed 3 ounces.
I started in sandals, which hurt my knees, and changed to trail
runners
that weighed 24 ounces. T
he shoes I finished with weighed 22 ounces.
I wear only one pair of
100% nylon socks
at a time. They weigh 1 ounce.
A 100% cotton
bandana
lasted the entire trail and weighed 1 ounce.
My
sunglasses
weigh 1 ounce.
Total weight at beginning of hike: 35 ounces
Total finish at end of hike:  32 ounces

    This is a valid weight. The Port Clinton outfitter weighed my pack at 14 pounds. It had four days of food, and 12 ounces of water. After Port Clinton, I lightened my cook system, and stopped carrying the soap and sunscreen. It may be noted that although I am a small person and therefore each item can be lighter, as a soloist I still required all the gear a very tall person would. This final base pack weight is about 7% of my body weight. With food for 4 days, and a quart of water, it is approximately 12% of my body weight. Given the very cold weather situations, including 4 days of food and a quart of water, the percentage would rise to nearly 16%.

   One can survive with very little. I am predisposed to this frame of mind; my mom raised six of us alone; Dad took off when I was only 4 years old. We lived on next to nothing during my entire childhood. I learned to make do with what I had, or make things out of other people’s discards.

   When Henry Thoreau was once asked to advise on how one might sell more decorative baskets (as an income), he said that he spent his time figuring out ways not to have to sell them. That’s a great ultralight attitude. If I don’t need it, I don’t have to earn it, and I don't have to carry it.

   A minimalist attitude is not really a change for me. I have never been an accumulator. If I wasn’t using it, out it went. While hiking solo,
I had
a lot of time for deep thinking
.
Part of my minimalist attitude was the sense of impending homelessness; the less I had, the less to leave behind, the less to move. Trinkets of life are beautiful, but they all require energy to maintain.

   I still work through those negative feelings, the last remaining bars to come down. I have become self-sufficient; and remind myself that assuredly I have the ability to survive. What still perplexes me is this continuing notion of perceived security in ownership, and its natural corollary: perceived insecurity when one owns no real estate.

   In the great quest for the best gear for the lowest weight, I give myself permission to have just what I want. Usually that means making it, or searching through catalogues and store aisles for something that can be modified. This way, it can be cut down to the extreme I am comfortable with.

  One of my favorite Thoreau quotes supports this extremism:

“Most men are needlessly poor all their lives because they think they must have a house as their neighbors have. Consider how slight a shelter is absolutely necessary.” 

If I knew then what I know now, I don’t know if I would play.

-From My Story, by Michael Jordan

This is your first game.
I hope you win.
I hope you win for your sake, not mine.
Because winning’s nice.
It’s a good feeling.
Like the whole world is yours.
But it passes, this feeling.
And what lasts is what you’ve learned.

And what you learn about is life.
That’s what sports is all about.
Life.
The whole thing is played out in an afternoon.
The happiness of life.
The miseries.
The joys. The heartbreaks.

There’s no telling what’ll turn up.
There’s no telling whether they’ll toss you out in the first five minutes
or whether you’ll stay for the long haul.

There’s no telling how you’ll do.
You might be a hero or you might be absolutely nothing.
Too much depends on chance.
On how the ball bounces.

I’m not talking about the game;
I’m talking about life.
But it’s life that the game is all about.
Just as I said.

Applying the Techniques

But every game is life.
And life is a game.
A serious one. Dead serious.

But that’s what you do with serious things. You do your best.
You take what comes.
You take what comes and you run with it.

Winning is fun.
Sure.
But winning is not the point.

Wanting to win is the point.
Not giving up is the point.
Never being satisfied with what you’ve done is the point.
Never letting up is the point.
Never letting anyone down is the point.

Play to win.
Sure.
But lose like a champion.
Because it’s not winning that counts.
What counts is trying. —Author Unknown

Michael then said, “I can’t accept not trying.”

   This favorite poem, found in some obscure newspaper about ten years ago, took me through many rough times, including my divorce and relocating to the southern US. When I faced loneliness on the trail and turning points in life, I remembered that this was my first game, all of it. I would not give up, nor be satisfied with the past. I was in this to win, and would die trying.
 

  
It started raining last night, but still it was time to begin my AT thru-hike. Rainmaker drove me to the trailhead at Springer Mountain via Forest Service Road 42 on March 12, 2002. This is a 15-mile gravel road, and it allowed me to skip the 7-mile, blue blaze, approach trail from Amicalola Falls State Park. He hiked with me through the mud and mist to the plaque and white blaze that marks the southern terminus of the AT, and took photos. Reality began setting in. We hiked back to the parking lot. Rainmaker took a last photo as I set off into the woods. I couldn’t look back. Already I missed him.

   Even with the constant rain and considerable condensation, I slept warm that first night out. A price is paid for a single wall, ultralight, silnylon tent. One can’t always stay dry, but they can still be warm. A camp towel was used to wipe up the moisture. With last night's deluge, I had proof that my tent did not leak.

   I started my journey hiking in Nike sandals. I personally knew other long distance hikers who hiked entire trails in sandals. But, for some reason, my left knee began to hurt. In gear testing hikes with these same sandals, they had ached on the downhill, and I thought it was a fluke, but now even the uphill portions of trail hurt. No matter how slow I went, or how much care I took, nothing except keeping my left knee absolutely straight would stop the excruciating pain. The climb up Blood Mountain was agonizing. Something must change; I could not go on like this.

  After consulting with Rainmaker, I finally accepted the fact that these sandals were not working for me. I took 13 days off to allow healing of the ligament and tendon injuries to my knee, and bought some trail runner shoes. The season was early, and there was time, but the compulsion for completion nagged me.

  Back on the trail March 27
th
, I worried how my knees would respond. I hiked slowly; fully utilizing the hiking poles, especially downhill, allowing my arms to bear some of the stress. It seemed I wasn’t getting very far. The sun began to set, a full moon rose to the right as I walked a crest. The wind turned cold and I decided to forego night hiking and camped.  It was very windy, but I slept well. That first day back, I managed to hike only ten miles.

  Rising with the sun is a habit developed last year on the PCT to cope with desert heat. I was right back at it; enjoying the sunrise, greeting and passing other hikers still packing up in camp. Rainmaker supported my hike that first month by meeting me at predetermined towns and bringing me home, where I washed clothes, made minor modifications to gear, and resupplied. Then he would drive me back to the trail the next day.

  Badger, from Virginia, earned the dubious honor of having the heaviest pack. At Neels Gap it weighed 87 pounds. In order to continue his thru-hike, he shipped 40 pounds of gear home. Reportedly he was giving stuff away on the approach trail, having begun with an incredible 100-pound pack. In most camps, I was the only ultralighter, and the homemade gear received a lot of attention. My pack was passed around for a test lift, my tent inspected, and exclamations of various sorts followed.

   I felt terrific, my knees adjusted to the terrain, and my pace began to return. The synchronized motion of using my poles and stepping in this fresh mountain air was so invigorating. As the hike progressed, I trained myself to go longer between rest breaks.

Breaks may be classified as:
Type 1= a pee break (may or may not remove pack).
Type 2= pee break, drink water, and eat a snack (may or may not remove pack).
Type 3= remove pack, sit down, remove shoes, eat, drink, and pee (about 15-20 minutes).
Type 4= all of type 3, over the course of an hour, many take this time to air dry tents, sleeping bags, and socks.
Type 5=involves sleep, and all the above.

Note that all breaks involve peeing. If you do not need to pee, you may need to drink more water.

  As I hiked alone, and neared Albert’s Mountain, the bladder began demanding a Type 1. The knees chimed in “Excuse us, we could use a 3, at the very least!”

  “Hello? Who do you think have pounded the dirt for 3 hours straight? We demand a Type 4!” The feet have made themselves heard.

“Ok, ok, everyone shut up, and when we hit that mountaintop, there’s a privy and Serious Type 4 coming! Work with me on this!!” I guess that came from the brain, which many times knows nothing at all. I stay out of it, and let them argue.

  The last tenth of a mile up to Albert's Mountain is a rough hand-over-hand rock scramble. Hiking poles must be secured by the wrist strap over one hand. On this type of climbing, they are worth nothing at all. Once on top, a beautiful panorama opens of the Smoky Mountains. A fire tower stands tall, and if one is so inclined, he or she may treat the knees to some more abuse. I took a long break at the base of the fire tower, basking in the sunshine, and ate some granola. 

  Almost every hiker I met was having some knee problems, and wearing a brace, or taking the down hills slowly. Several have bought hiking poles from one of the many outfitters along the way, and are learning how to use them. When the pain started, I wore my two knee braces a few hours each day. Eventually I hoped to discard them. Together they weighed 16 ounces.

  On top the switchbacks looking down upon the Nantahala River, the same feelings encountered on the PCT returned: overwhelming stimuli and apprehension. It is like a small town, alive this weekend with kayakers, hikers, and vacationers. On the edge of town I found a pay phone, and called home. David was not there, so I left a message, and crossed the bridge. “Brawny!” A woman sitting behind the Backpacker Magazine information table called my name. Startled, I looked to see who had called me. It was Amy, and her husband Brent, who were on a countrywide tour for Backpacker’s “Get Out More” campaign. We hugged, thrilled to see each other. Last year, we met while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. They shared their bunk house with me, and took me to dinner that night; trail magic at its finest.

  One morning I complained about my frameless pack’s weight. Something just didn’t feel right. Charlie from Kansas threatened to trade with me. I gave a good hearty laugh. I probably couldn’t lift his pack off the ground.

   Charlie and I leap-frogged along. We met again at lunchtime in front of Mollies Ridge Shelter, a stone three-sided structure.  A chain link fence reaching the roof made the forth side. Inside were two ancient wooden shelves, one above the other, with slats nailed on to make individual spaces. It was my first glimpse of a Great Smoky Mountain National Park shelter. I was reminded of the Amistad slave ship. No, don’t get me wrong. This is “Bad Bear” territory, and I definitely wanted a slot. A dirt floor inside, in front of the fence, and fireplace at one end, completed the arrangement. Outside were fire rings, logs for sitting, and a grassy area big enough for many tents. Signs pointed the path to water, and the path in the opposite direction to the toilet area.  As we hiked on, I had plenty to think about. Two and a half miles to Russell Field Shelter. Do I want a top bunk? Or a bottom? No way will I sleep next to a stone wall, whose crevices contain mouse condos. 

   We arrived about 5:30, and I claimed a middle slot on the top bunk. Poptart, and Geek were already there. After eating, our food bags were hung on the bear cables 30 feet off the ground. Everything else was brought inside the shelter. Packs were hung on the inside of the fence, the many straps hanging down, obscuring the view outside. Our water bottles were set around inside the fortress. Someone threw a candy wrapper into the fireplace, and already in broad daylight a mouse was chewing on it. A southbounder had a 6-liter Platypus bag, filled with camp water, which he hung outside on the fence, about 5 feet from the ground. Once we settled down, Smurf told us a bedtime story. Off to dream land. About 11 p.m. it started raining; a steady drenching rain. A couple hours later it lulled, and I head a big “Whoosh”, banging noises, followed by silence. “Who is tenting out there, dumping the water off his fly?” I wondered.

  Early next morning I ate breakfast while sitting on a log as the others slept. Then the southbounder came out to get water from his Platypus. "What the hell?” he exclaimed. His water bag was empty. It still hung on the fence, but a large nearly perfect hole 7 inches in diameter, had appeared. All that remained were teeth marks. “I paid $18 for this thing! A bear bit a hole in my bag!” He showed us, and rehung it. Then he left to get more water in a borrowed soda bottle.

  “That must have been his water being dumped you heard last night, Brawny,” Charlie said. A bag is a bag, and if it’s hanging on a chain link fence, it’s liable to be taken for a food bag, fair game to camp-wise bears. A drenching was all he got.

  Packing up that morning, I put the bulk of my food in the bottom of my pack, leaving just snack food on top. The food is the heavy stuff. As I put on my backpack, things were right again. I hardly felt the weight. The weight keeps the slippery silnylon hip belt from sliding up. Now it carried properly, with most of the weight resting on my hips.

  The mornings were still chilly, but favorable for good hiking. I decided to eat cold breakfasts because it was much more efficient, and I only had to wash the dishes in the evening.

  Max Patch, near the town of Hot Springs, North Carolina, is a marvel. You can see it a couple miles ahead, this grassy bald extending for what appears to be thousands of acres. One must follow the fence posts marked with white blazes as you climb, then cross and descend the mountain. Views are 360 degrees, and the Blue Mountains seen from there really are blue. This range of mountains geologists tell us, are older, and rounded because of erosion over millenniums. Western mountains contrast with their rugged peaks, supposedly proving they are much younger, and formed in an earthly upheaval more recently. Astounding earth-presumptions.

  One large, dark thundercloud loomed straight overhead as I crossed Max Patch. Not wanting to be struck by lightning, I continued on. A foreign couple was dining on top with their wine bottle, picnic basket, and tablecloth, oblivious to the threatening skies.

  As I descended, the thunder began, accompanied by a few raindrops. Roaring Fork Shelter, Where Are You? Hike like mad. Finally, there was a glimpse across the gap, a privy, but no sign of humans. I arrived before 5, happy and pleased with this clean, well-planned shelter with a skylight, and table. I read the trail register, and spread out cooking gear. The April 3rd edition of the New York Times, already two weeks old, laid on the platform. A good read. Hey didja know that Michael Jordan was out for the season with a knee injury?

  Corncob, retired and thru-hiking, arrived. Then Wanderer pulled in, sixty-seven years old and backpacking, fulfilling the dream of a lifetime. They set up their little stoves, and each cooked a one-pot meal, exclaiming, "Isn't this the life?" I chuckled, pleased with their company. Watching them set up their own sleeping areas on the shelter floor, get water from the stream, and clean up for bedtime, I thought of how bad a day job must be, that we can love this sparse freedom so much.

  The dogwood blossoms were gorgeous against the dark firs, the Blue Mountains and bright spring leaves. The trail rolls up, over and around these hills, yet always descending to the valley at just over 1,300 feet. As the humidity increased, the anticipation of air conditioning quickened steps towards town. I passed a side trail intersection to the Deer Park Mountain Shelter, and noticed a smaller trail to the left. In a tiny clearing was a ring of rocks, and two head stones. I went into the little cove, and read the inscription. A couple, names now forgotten, lay buried there. “Absent not Dead” read one. “Absent not Forgotten” read the other. Inscriptions that speak to the inner being. We reassure each other that we will not be forgotten, and will never forget. Let no one pass through our world and not be mourned upon his or her departure.

   Three miles remained to Hot Springs, a slow teasing descent while viewing the town from above. This town was much bigger than I thought. The trail follows the road through town, blazes painted on telephone poles just above the sidewalk. I had a few hours before Rainmaker arrived, enough time to check out the town, stop in the thrift store and barter awhile, have a cold soda, and visit the post office. Life is good. Freedom is fine. But love’s what it’s all about.