A Limp in the Woods (Day 45 Bonus Entry: Gear Gab)

It’s surprising the number of long-distance hikers who discuss gear and little else (typically the weather and the state of the trail). There’s no talk of philosophy; of civilization; of human history; of politics; of ecology; of theology; of the human body; of animals; of birds; of sex. But then it’s somewhat understandable, given the human fascination with stuff. We love stuff, especially good stuff.

Truth in advertising: I’m not immune. I admit to nerding out on some stuff.

Years back a backpacker buddy blurbed on his blog, “…purchasing a great piece of gear hurts just once, but buying cheap gear hurts for as long as you use it.” There was a truth morsel in this, but it wasn’t the whole truth. I’d export a short retort to my cohort. Discourse ensued.

I wrote he’d incorrectly assumed and implied that “a great piece of gear” need be expensive. That cheap gear cannot be great. He knew it wasn’t necessary to unload tills of bills for gear to do its job. I was living, hiking proof.

Let me clarify that his wording was not terribly appropriate. What he meant for great was basically effective/functional/optimal. In place of cheap he meant inexpensive or less costly. Cheap can signify a mosaic of meanings; less costly does not. Sure, inexpensive may be relative to income level, but a $500 tent is not inexpensive compared to a $50 tarp.

After jerking back-and-forth, I suggested we go camp together, which he agreed to, like any sane brain would. When we finally connected months later, for just a few days and nights since he was forced to return to work, he began to see his wayward thinking. My gear was notably lighter than his, and it was hundreds--if not thousands--of dollars less costly. During that outing we were slammed by a snowstorm of unprecedented severity and my cheap gear withstood the disturbance more effectively than his expensive stuff. His cursing kept me up all night.

Meanwhile, I was about to set forth on an another multi-month adventure. He returned to his job--a job he hated, a job in which he killed much time shopping for new (expensive) gear online, to reward himself for surviving the workday. This made him think. Cost is measured multiple ways.

The trick, he’d learn, is to know what works, and whether he could modify his thinking. Was he adaptable enough, skilled enough, willing enough to try things differently? Could he thrive with less? With spending less? Did it matter what he spent on stuff? Could he learn to ignore the marketing hype? Did new toys bring lasting joy? Was there greater joy in spending more?

He knew what he wanted to do most in life--to spend more time hiking and camping (and who here doesn’t?)--so he started selling some of his extra gear. “It’s difficult to wear two backpacks at once.”

He said two things I mentioned hit hard..

1: That everything that matters I carry within me, and…

B: The only thing I care about owning is my time. 

(I tend to ramble and forgot saying either.) 

And so after purveying the overflow, he ditched his job for less costly part-time work. The new job still had him “selling stuff nobody needs,” but allowed him more life. Spiking my envy, he’s now an AT/PCT/CDT thru-hiker, and he drives a $500 car--when he drives at all; his bike and boots are his main transport, as they bring him greater joy.

Now that we go hiking and camping together more frequently, we sometimes discuss how to save even more money on equipment, so that we can do more of what we love. But most of what we talk about is the weather and the state of whatever trail we’re on.

Boy, did he have some words for this trail.