During a trip in the Sequoia backcountry earlier this summer, I was descending from the morning’s summit when I spotted two figures prowling around our campsite below. My faint alarm turned to intrigue, however, when I realized that one of them was carrying what looked to be an inflatable kayak. Clearly, it was time to make friends.
When I arrived at camp, I laughed at the realization that I actually knew of one of the guys—it was my pal Errin, who’d huffed a six-pound Alpacka Classic several miles off-trail and up a stout 3300’ of elevation gain, almost half of that along a series of excruciatingly steep granite slabs, while testing his system for future bike-rafting adventures. I thought he was kind of a masochist for hauling all that extra weight—that is, until I started paddling the lake myself, a dopey grin spreading across my face with each stroke. It was nothing short of bliss. Maybe he was onto something.
I began to realize that I had traded the physical suffering of a heavier pack weight for the mental suffering of not having what I needed—or wanted—out there. Wasn’t this whole thing supposed to be fun?
While I haven’t abandoned solid foods or filed any toothbrushes into minty-fresh prison shivs, I have adopted a rather ultralight mindset when it comes to backpacking. I was first introduced to the concept by my buddy Justin, a gram weenie if there ever was, who, early in our friendship, explained his obsession as such: “I backpacked the JMT four years ago with a 45-pound pack and it was the turning point for replacing virtually all of my gear with ultralight gear. My legs almost filed a restraining order against me after that trip.”
To illustrate his methodology, Justin emailed me a maniacally detailed spreadsheet that included stats not just for big-ticket items like his tent and sleeping bag, but also for much smaller things like a singular packet of hydrocortisone (1.5g), a pair of earplugs (2.3g), and five individual cotton swabs (2.0g—really, I think he could have pared down here). He even weighed his contact lenses, for crying out loud.
I was both impressed and slightly freaked out by his dedication, but remained somewhat resistant to the idea of paring down myself—I wasn’t trying to break any records out there; I just wanted to have fun. However, as I began logging bigger miles in pursuit of longer trails, I started to understand the merits of going lighter. Considering it a career investment of sorts, I used a good chunk of my book advance for a hiking guide to upgrade to a sleeping quilt, an ultralight tent, and a more streamlined mess kit. I swapped my roomy low-top boots for trail runners. I snapped up a cheap dehydrator and began filling my pantry with all manner of dried and powdered foods. And then I painfully banished all of my “luxury” items to Car Camping Only status: Deodorant. Books. Playing cards. Inflatable pillow. Hawaiian sarong. Industrial-sized packets of Swedish Fish.
Delicious, but not at all ultralight.
In the span of a few months, I had come just short of kneeling at the altar of ultralight guru Ray Jardine, stopped only by the fact that I am horribly ungifted in the ways of needle and thread and could never have constructed my own trailworthy pack or tent based on his iconic designs. Still, the results (and money spent) were worth it, I thought. My backpack was lighter. Packing itself was a simpler affair. I was thinking less about gear (now that I’d chucked half of it toward the dark recesses of my closet). And of course, I felt slightly less burdened as I moved down the trail.
But there were downsides, too.
I decided to forego my stove on the Pacific Crest Trail in lieu of cold-soaking my food; it saved weight, sure, but as it turns out, eating cold macaroni and cheese can really deplete your stoke. On the Colorado Trail, I thought I was being slick by hiking in a pair of running shorts and sleeping in an extremely thin pair of wool tights; a brisk, hail-filled monsoon season suggested otherwise, and I ended up shelling out $80 for a pair of thicker leggings, since my own were tucked in a drawer several states over.
Then there was the time my water filter broke and I didn’t have any sort of backup because I was trying to cut weight on a short, but tough trip. And the time I was damp for days slogging through miles of stubborn late-season snow, because I refused to carry extra pants or socks (I did have whiskey, though). Oh, and the time I slimmed my first aid kit down so desperately that a relentless bout of backcountry runs went unchecked for days because all of my anti-diarrheal medicine was still stowed in the medicine cabinet.
I began to realize that I had traded the physical suffering of a heavier pack weight for the mental suffering of not having what I needed—or wanted—out there. Wasn’t this whole thing supposed to be fun?
Wanna bring a raft? Bring a raft. Who cares what it weighs?
As the ultralight haze slowly dissipated, I began tossing previously banished items back into my pack. I devoured John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley on the PCT and Blair Braverman’s Welcome to the Goddamn Ice Cube on the CT. I lugged cans of beer and slabs of cheese into the backcountry with a group of girlfriends who believe that the joy of breaking bread is more important than saving a few aches and pains en route. I started bringing a lightweight bocce ball set when in a group; playing has never failed to provide laughter and memories. Same goes for a set of handmade playing cards, crafted by a friend in her tent while we waited out an hours-long afternoon thunderstorm in the Rockies. And a few months back, I began carrying a set of watercolors and a notepad upon which I paint terribly mediocre, but awfully satisfying scenes that remind me of the special places I’ve been.
I learned a lot from my ultralight attempts: to live with less, to be creative with my gear, to be in the moment. And the practice certainly influenced my desire to go full Konmari on my apartment—and in a way, my life, prompting me to ponder the question: What do we really need out there, or anywhere?
But I also learned that it’s not always what you carry on trail; it’s often what you carry away from the trail that truly matters. Memories. The way you change as a person. The people you meet—and the things you share with them. Like a ferocious game of elimination bocce, played beneath peaks draped in alpenglow. Or a hunk of sharp cheddar passed between friends curled up around a campfire. Or maybe even a surprise paddle around an alpine lake.
/agree 110%
If you stand a good chance if being bored or miserable you have gone too UL in my book.
There is nothing wrong buying a cat hole shovel that weighs 1/3 as much or a tent that weighs half…. Or packing a shirt that is just as warm but made of lighter materials etc.
But when you leave behind things like a spare outfit for when you get wet or water purification tablets or Tylenol… you are taking risks. Risks that are not worth it.
A raft or bocce balls I feel is a tad overkill for your average trip… Perhaps you have slid a bit too far but it depends on the trip… If you know you plan on spending 2 days out of 5 on a lake… 6 lbs for a raft for a few peeps to take turns in is cool.
Personally I pack way more battery than I need and cache some videos from Netflix to my phone for in case I have to be in my hammock for a whole day. I also pack a 1 lb camp chair and a super thick underquilt (-40F) so that I’m comfortable around the fire and in my bed.
I’m not in any race… I’m out there to enjoy the hike… Part of it is being away from society, part is scenery, part is not being too weighed down… But part of it is also just enjoying myself and trying to stand up from sitting in the mud when I burned my knees out on my hike and I only had one pair of pants and now it’s wet and muddy… That is not something I enjoy…
Find the weight that YOU are ok with carrying… Screw everyone elses opinions on the subject. They can recommend gear that is lighter but your selections are your own business.
This is great. I found that my focus on ultralight items allows me the space and weight to bring some fun stuff, like a cot, or block of cheese with salami, a few cans of beer, or anything else I’d like to bring. Lower weight on the legs is great, but comfort and fun are essential to me. Also, since I backpack with my young daughter, it allows me to carry some of her gear, so she’s not overloaded.
You nailed it 100%. And sveral people who I have been involved with a rescue or injury agree also.
A few more days in the gym will make enjoying some hot Pad Thai well worth it.
I also knelt at Ray’s alter … and I have memories of the added stress this created.
There is nothing like being able to eat a good meal, sleep comfortably, and wake rested.
Weight matters, but so does comfort, seek a balance.
Bingo! You hit the ultralight titanium nail on the head. The experience has to be fun!!!
Physical comfort (weight) vs mental comfort (the little things that, ironically, can also increase physical comfort). I recently learned the downside of saving ounces when I ditched items during my first resupply on the JMT. I regretted removing my inflatable pillow, thinking that clothes in a dry bag would be sufficient. Wrong. In the future I’ll put more thought into balancing lightness vs long term comfort. One of the many things learned on the trail.
Shawnte. Full rock on. Nice piece.
I went through a similar path. Forsaking stoves, no coffee, for sure no fires (even in outfitter country) etc. Miserable gambit. But i like my camera and I like to fiddle with gadgets in the hills. I need a a set for trail and a set of sleep clothes. I bathe every day. I haul a lot of whiskey. My “flavor bag” weight almost a pound because I like to eat. Candy is a great trail tool and it lifts the spirit. Base weight is about 15 and that’s about right for me. I have tea and cup o noodles before almost every dinner. To get some salt in me and take the edge off. My sleeping pad is XL and insulated. I have been known to bring three fishing setups (fly spinner and Tenkara) although I mostly do Tenkara now and will probably leave the others at home. I almost never do dedicated training for a trip. It always takes me 3 or 4 days to get in shape no matter what. Takes years to find your groove and everybody is different. Go gettem!
PS Cheese is absolutely ultralight. Pound for pound one of the most calorie dense forms of trail nutrition. Nuts too. Density and calorie consumption is key. 1.5lbs of food per day for an average high country walk. Less if I’m fishing. 2 lbs per day if I’m cranking. UL is great to a point.
Andrew Skurka talks about the difference between packing light and packing stupid light, and with nothing but respect, saving grams by foregoing first aid essentials like Imodium, an extra pair of socks, weather-appropriate leggings or nearly weightless Aqua Mira drops is packing stupid light. Safety notwithstanding, I will agree that some people take their weight saving efforts to an extreme–too extreme for many, but that’s the beauty of the HYOH mentality. It’s up to each individual to figure out what works for them. For me personally, that can change depending on where I’m hiking, when and for how long. I slowly pared down my base weight from probably over 30 lbs in the beginning, down to just a hair under 10 lbs in the summer, and it has made a huge difference in my level of enjoyment during a hike. I was surprised when you said you felt “slightly less burdened” carrying a UL loadout, mainly because it was such a profound improvement for me and the other hikers I know who have also lightened up drastically.
I’m not knocking your process; you’ve found what works for you, and I also venture slightly higher than 10 lbs without any concern. But it is precisely because I got down so light–really learned the difference between needs and superfluous extra–that I’m able to carry a book or bottle of soda or wine without trouble. Tossing all the crap I used to carry and never use, and also finding lighter, more efficient alternatives to the things I DO carry, is what has given me that buffer to be able to carry a pound or two of luxury items without putting undue stress on my joints or exhausting myself on the first 10 miles.
what a great read! the balance is always between what you need and what you want right?
going ultra light is awesome but so is a good warm dry night’s sleep
This was lovely to read! Thank you, from another person with tiny playing cards (and knitting) in her backpack. The memories are worth it!
It’s often what you carry away that matters! Great read!
Thanks for sharing!