Backpacking Stuff-- What do I really need?

I love my backpack. I’ve had it for twenty five years. It’s been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, around the Three Sisters and Mt. Rainier, from the Skyline to the Sea, and countless trips into the White Mountains and the Cascades. Paired with a hand-made walking stick and some light weight shoes, I am ready to go.

It took me a year to find. Internal packs were just coming onto the market and women’s packs were pretty rare—we were expected to wrestle with things that were too long for our torsos, but hugged our hips. I knew, when I went into a store and the salesman adjusted yet another pack for me, put weight into it, and I almost tipped backwards, again and again, that the pack was not right. Mine is a Madden, one of the first designed for women. It’s small, dark grey, and a simple sack. I found it in a little crowded shop in Boston, across from BU, where I was in grad school at the time. The salesman bent the back bars, put a few sandbags in, and placed it on my back. “Hello!” it said and I knew. It was perfect. The salesman showed me how to shift the weight from my back to my shoulders, depending upon terrain (and sore spots) and I left the store with my pack.

I have learned how to pack for both long and short trips and my pack is much lighter than it once was, even when we are out for five or six days. First, gear is lighter. The water filter I once lugged around weighed about three times as much as the one we have now. It was less prone to breakage, but it was heavy.  Our tents, sleeping bags, and mats are all lighter replacements for gear I bought in grad school.  I have also eliminated redundant systems. Once, I took a candle lantern (finicky, heavy) and a flashlight. This is puzzling because we rarely used either—we were proudly working on adjusting our eyes to the coming darkness and wandering around camp after dark without a light or we were in bed, asleep. Now, I have a tiny flashlight, but prefer to lie in my tent watching the darkness settle on the trees above. I don’t need three t-shirts; I just need one, plus my long underwear shirt. I certainly don’t need TWO reading books; I question the wisdom of bringing even one sometimes, although bringing a book you need to read on a trip with a lot of downtime can be an effective means of getting through it.  I do, however, need my raingear AND my towel, which acts as pillow, shade cloth,  towel, shawl,  and dinner warmer.

I have been working on food for years. I carry the food for the trip, except for the snack bag, so weight is important. There’s a delicate balance between “loose” food, like a bag of fresh green beans or a couple of apples, and the nutrient dense nuts, dried bean mixes, and kippers that will keep us going down the trail.  Food also has to be tough.  Bagels, even white flour ones, fare better than a loaf of bread, which needs to be sliced before we leave. Cucumbers are better than tomatoes. I like a bit of variety as well. After taking a pound of almonds to the Grand Canyon for a week, I did not want to see an almond for several years. I often mix up the snacks so that we have peanuts and raisins one day and apricots and almonds another. We scour the shelves of grocery stores for light weight prepared foods for dinner and I also compound our own, based on bulgur, orzo, cous cous and other quick cooking grains.  As the week goes on, my pack grows lighter, especially when I weigh out each dinner and we eat the heavy one first.

It is important to have a light, tightly packed backpack, especially on a longer trip. I have not abandoned my safety items—the first aid kit, the space blanket and water purification drops, the rain gear and wool hat—but I have seriously reconsidered all of the extras I once hauled up hills.  My trips are better because of this. The pack no longer hurts my shoulders at the beginning of a walk.  I do not have blisters; I have given up heavy boots (and camp shoes) in favor of my Keen sandals. I can walk upright and see the world that I am passing. And I can hear my backpack creaking away, right behind my head, as I head up the trail. “Hello,” it says, “It’s been too long.” And I agree.

The List

Tent/stakes --Mark

Sleeping bag, mat -- both

Flashlight-- Charlyn

Sitpads—both

Whisperlight stove, c. 1990—Charlyn

Fuel—Mark, outside pouch

Lighter, matches, repair kit—Charlyn

Bowls, mugs, sporks, pots—Charlyn

Napkin, stirring spoon, salt and pepper, oil if needed—Charlyn

Soap and sponge—Charlyn

Food—Charlyn

Snacks-- Mark

Water filter and two filled quart bottles—Mark

Rope and a couple of small bungies—Charlyn

First Aid kit, including tooth brushes, etc.—Charlyn

Space blanket—Charlyn

Tool bag from Daypack (pocket knife, sunscreen, bandana, playing cards, hand lens)—Charlyn

Map—Mark

Camera, with new batteries—Charlyn                   

Duct tape on water bottle, safety pins on backpack

Towels, facecloth—both

TP and trowel—Mark

Raingear, wool hat, long undwear, fuzzy jacket—both

Clean socks--both

Walking sticks (Mark has a rake handle, mine is from the White Mountains)—both

Notebook, Walden—Charlyn

Reading book or magazine—both

Pills—Mark

Three Fingered Jack

       

     Mark and I just came back from hiking around Three Fingered Jack, one of the Central Cascades more craggy peaks. It does not have the serenity of Mount Jefferson or the majesty of the Three Sisters, but, for a backpacking loop of simple pleasures and deep silences, it cannot be beat.  Much of the area was burned over eleven years ago, so examining the regeneration process is also quite interesting.

            We entered the wilderness Friday morning from the Marion Lake trailhead, which leads steadily but gently upwards through Doug Fir forest, along a small lake, and to several fine campsites on the lakeshore. The trail crosses the stream outlet on a rock bed while the water chuckles below, out of sight, which is pretty darn cool. After passing the lake and some excellent large streams, we climbed to Minto Pass, pausing to eat huckleberries and low bush blueberries which were lush throughout the burned over pass. I quickly understood why Native Americans set fire to the berry fields to keep them clear; I have never seen so many fat, juicy berries on a mountainside in my life!  We crossed the PCT and dropped down into Eastern Oregon, the dry side of the range, with a pretty quick shift in trees from hemlock and true fir to lodgepole pine and an occasional ponderosa. Eight miles in, we had lunch at Wasco Lake, which is where we should have stopped for the night. Three Fingered Jack loomed over us; while we ate we considered what it would be like climbing the crumbly core of the ancient volcano. Along the trail we encountered a crew of trail workers, some students doing soil studies, and several through-hikers.

            After lunch, we walked over to Jack Lake, moving in and out of the burned areas. The lakes and moist areas had protected some of the forest; the fire did not rage through and kill every tree on the mountainside. Beargrass and other wildflowers dominated the fields here. We did not turn left and head into Canyon Creek Meadows, where many day hikers were headed to check out the wild blooms, but stayed on the main trail down to the campsites. By three thirty, we were soaking our feet in the warm waters of Jack Lake. A good day—about ten miles.

            The next morning, we headed off, first to Square Lake and then to Berley. Mark was a little tired from a less-than-restful night; he had heard rustling and heavy footfalls in the dark, and was convinced a bear was eating our food. The next morning the only evidence of our nocturnal visitor was deer tracks. The trail was totally in the burn all morning, but it was still beautiful. The dead trees have weathered silvery gray and the views were amazing. Mount Jefferson protected our backs, while the Three Sisters lured us on. Before the burn, you could not see the mountains. We looked out over Eastern Oregon as we walked through snowbrush, lodgepole pines, and fireweed. This part of the trail follows the contours of the mountain, swinging around canyons more than dropping down into them and then out. A nice walk. We passed four guys heading in the opposite direction; at ten thirty, they were the first hikers we had each seen that day. By early lunch, we were at Square Lake, hot and ready for a swim before eating. Most of the lake was open because of the burn, but the campsites were still shaded by trees that had survived. There was no one around. The world was silent, except for a soft breeze. We spent two hours cooling off and enjoying the world before moving on; in retrospect, this would make an excellent stop for a second night, if we had camped at Wasco the night before.

            The afternoon over to Berley was hot. The entire south slope of Three Fingered Jack was covered in sweet smelling snowbrush, about shoulder height, which blocked the breezes but not the sun. We could see the highway below. For two miles, we trudged along until a cloud of dust kicked up by horses announced the trail junctions, and we turned onto the PCT. I do not like hot afternoon sun; it can make me ill. Mark trickled water over my head; I tied a wet facecloth around his neck. The trail was better as we turned north, away from the sun and into a few trees that provided occasional dappled shade. We both agreed that this would be a better morning walk. Berley Lakes are, for me, always elusive. The first turn in is marked by a small cairn, often knocked over and the second is always about fifteen steps further than I expect. We were thrilled to finally find this small mountain lake, totally surrounded by mature trees, in the late afternoon. We were the only campers that night. It was so quiet that we could hear the bugs buzzing on the other side of the lake. Amazingly peaceful. A hot day—about eleven miles.

            Sunday morning, we decided to poke around camp before heading out. There is a requisite amount of time that must be devoted to fiddling around camp on any backpacking trip. If it does not happen at night, it usually happens in the morning. I sorted the foodstuffs while Mark backflushed the water filter. We watched a hummingbird divebomb the pink cloth bag that was hanging on the line while another examined the reddish orange tent poles. We finished off the dried figs and peaches that had been snacks for Friday and Saturday. We knew that we were hiking through the Eight Lakes Basin for the day, looking at about seven miles total, through trees and burn, so why rush on?

            Sunday peace continued all day. We chatted with one woman horseback riding  who was astounded by the emptiness of the countryside. We ate second breakfast about two miles in at Santiam Lake, staring once again at Three Fingered Jack. Lunch was a long pause at Duffy Lake, considering the butte that frames one side of the pond.  Three guys walked along the trail heading out while we ate. Climbing out of Mowich Lake, we met the local backcountry ranger. He had been posting no campfire signs all along our route and felt that they were effective in shifting behavior, for the most part. “Some people, though, you just have to fine,” he grumbled. “They were all at Marion Lake last night. Overall, though, I have the best job in the world.”  He’d walked 14,000 miles in the wilderness in the last four years. Before we parted, he told us about a site at Blue Lake, a couple of miles further on.

            Blue Lake was incredible. The trail is more rugged. There are some steep climbs through the burn and along exposed rocks. Blue Lake perches on the ridgeline between the Eight Lakes Basin and Marion Lake basin, at about 5000 feet. From the trail, we saw Three Fingered Jack to our left, all craggy and broken with huge puffy clouds behind it and Mount Jefferson, serene and bulky to our right. Below were a series of small lakes and ponds. Huckleberry and blueberry bushes lined the trails into our night’s site. Fireweed flashed magenta at us. Pearly everlasting provided a creamy white accent. Mountain breezes ruffled the surface of the lake. Silence surrounded us. The sunset turned the puffy clouds pink and red and just after we climbed into the tent, deer walked through, heading for a drink. After that, silence.

            The last morning was a seven-mile drop down into Marion Lake. Once again, berries distracted us. Some clearings were full of beargrass, some of fireweed and pearly everlasting, others berries. Why? And why were lodgepole pines coming back were hemlocks had once grown?  How do the berry bushes survive?  How long will it take for the forest to return? When can we come back to these trails?

            By noon, we were in the world again, sitting on a creekside patio, ordering burgers (meat or salmon), fries, and coleslaw.  The food was excellent. Our feet were dusty and tired. Our hair needed washing. But the sounds of deep silence echoes in my mind as we began the long drive home, and will follow me well into fall.

Red Buttes Wilderness

Azeala Lake--two nights, no people

Wound from branches

lonesome lake

Bristlecone pines-- really old trees!

Tiger lily and spirea

The "Trail"

Phantom Meadows

Buck Peak

NPSO meeting

The Native Plant Society of Oregon had its annual meeting 35 miles outside of John Day, up in Logan Valley, last weekend. Mark is a botany geek—he wrestles with Latin names and family relationships and laughs at their jokes—and I go along for the ride and keep the plant lists. There are usually other spousal types at the meeting who are willing to chat about gardens or books on the hikes, so it’s all good. This was a pretty good meeting in a gorgeous setting, even if many of the hikes were still inaccessible because of snow and potholes and the bloom had not yet reached its peak.

There are three distinct levels of Native Planters. The first are the “Gods” of plant identification. They can name a plant, in Latin 85% of the time—although they will engage in endless discussions over minute details—it could be a Gray’s Lomatium but it doesn’t stink, so maybe It’s a fennel leafed lomatium—but do they grow here? I thought there were only in the northern Cascades…. Many of these attendees are paid to go out in the field and identify species and, sometimes, they discover a new one, which is quite cool. They present their findings in the evenings, usually with endless slides of plants. Everyone wants to travel with these folks on Saturday, when the entire camp heads out on botany tours.

Then there are the accomplished amateurs, like the elementary school teacher in Tualatin who is a member of the Penstemon Society (yes, there is such a thing) and acts as Botanist in Residence for several preserves in her town, because they cannot afford a paid position. She actually has discovered an new Penstemon in the past year and is worried that they will become extinct before they are identified in the books, so she recruited for local Penstemon spotters at the conference. They will be out for the next month searching for a tall blue plant. Citizen Scientists, Mark called them, and they do a huge amount of the data collection work, turning in plant lists, photographs, and locations to the Oregon Flora Project, an attempt to map all of the plants in the state. They can give the Latin names about 70% of the time and understand the obscure language of plant keys. I’m impressed.

However, most of the people at the annual meeting don’t remember the Latin names, but they are very good at the excited squeal when a new plant is introduced. They like to travel and camp. They like to eat and chat over a bottle of wine. They are retired folk who want to keep their minds active. They like wandering through fields, looking at plants. They also like to look at birds, but plants stay still, so that is where they focus their energy. Mark is in this category-- he is interested and recognizes family traits, but mixes Latin and common names, botanical and “good to eat” lore. He is really good at the educated “harrumph” when the head botanist points out a small distinguishing feature and learns three or four new plants on every trip. Me, I’m along for the walk. I like common names, not Latin. Hot Rock Penstemon—a lovely cream colored plant—and Tidy Tips—a small white one—are far easier to remember than whatever their official names may be.

Next year, they are meeting in the Siksiyous, an exciting region of great biological diversity—and not far from Ashland, home of the Shakespeare Festival and excellent restaurants. I think we’re going…which play shall we see before we come home?