Photo by Roman, courtesy Luc.

The boat was truthfully advertised as being leaky, though it came fairly serviceable.  I wanted better, though efforts to seal microleaks from the outside with aquaseal proved unsuccessful.  It got stored away at the end of the last summer and placed mostly out of mind until last month, when in the course of buying replacement wrist gaskets for my drysuit I stumbled upon this stuff, which sounded perfect.

The old boat now holds air flawlessly, thought the process of using the sealant was not the simplest thing I’ve ever done.

Read the instructions well, and put the stuff in outside on a warm day.  The fumes are vile, making Clifton boat adhesive seam friendly by comparison.  The Sherpa-like has two mouth valves, one on each side, with a simple flap at the bottom which when the boat is moderately pressurized turn them into functional one way valves.  I made a funnel from a cut-down shampoo bottle to get the stuff inside.  In true Dave-overkill fashion, I used the entire mixture on the tiny little boat, which was excessive.  Half would have been adequate, though it needed a lot to get the job done.  I spent the better part of an hour out in the yard shaking and massaging the goop around once I got it inside the tubes, and once I found one particular spot where the actual liquid was leaking though the seam hung it on the clothesline such that the puddle within was positioned right over the problem area.  4-5 hours after application the goop had almost entirely dried enough to adhere all over the tubes, and I hung it mostly deflated from a nail in a basement rafter overnight.

Going down the next morning, I discovered why the directions had you inflate the boat fully at this point (or a bit earlier).  The not-yet-cured adhesive was incredibly sticky, and the tubes had ferociously stuck together in a few places.  Trying to get them apart by hand made it worse.  Inflating by mouth was not yet practical, as the fumes were still emphatically in the brain-cell killing range.  I managed to screw the Alpacka inflation bag into the valves and, with a lot of concerted effort, blast the tubes back apart and put the boat in a position to cure in peace.  There were a few moments that morning when I was sure I had fucked it for good.  It still took 3-4 warm days sitting out back all day in the sunshine before almost all the tackiness was gone enough that I felt comfortable rolling up the boat.

The saga wasn’t quite over, as despite my efforts a bit of sealant had gotten on the valves, gummed them up, and ultimately caused them to tear a bit such that they wouldn’t hold air, which made proper inflation impossible.  Fortunately Roman included extras, and a simple valve replacement with aquaseal had the boat at full strength.

It works great now, though it also gives me plenty of reasons to think of how good Alpackas are by comparison.  I like the close fit and especially the huge 12″ tubes keeping me dry and bobbing over waves and such.  My 210 cm paddle really isn’t wide enough to do well in the Sherpa.  In any case, I imagine there are some leaky old Alpackas which might get a new lease on life with this raft sealant.  Application of the whole mixture added 8-9 oz to the weight of the boat.

On another note, while floating the full Camas Creek from Roger Lake to the inside road last weekend, I noted a very gradual leak.  Fortunately it turned out to be what I thought it was; the UV-cure aquaseal I had put on the elbow valve back in early April had grown brittle.  Something about whatever solvent is in that stuff to make it cure fast renders it a good short term, but poor long term solution to repair problems.  A coat of normal aquaseal sorted this out easily.  I’ll still carry a tiny tube of the UV-cure for field repairs, but will reinforce it once back at the ranch.

Happy boating.

Photo by Dial, of a place we’ll be this July!

Joe addressed this issue about as much as it needs to be last fall, but the all-season utility of the wide-mouth 16 oz nalgene is such that it bears repeating.  There are indeed lighter alternatives.  Above, at left and right we have 2.6 oz and 3.1, while a 500ml platypus is a mere 0.8.  Rigid nalgenes are easier to use, work better for more things, and last longer.  The longevity of flexible, plastic bottles (esp. nalgene canteens) has not impressed me.

I cut off the lid retainer because the weight makes an empty bottle tip over when you’re spooning grounds in for turkish cowboy coffee.  The cord loops are for water fishing in winter: pass them over the handle of your pole, they’ll catch on the powder basket and let you retrieve water out of creeks without getting close to the edge of fragile shelf ice.  I have two because when it’s really cold, stashing two in my jacket pockets seems to be the best way to keep water both handy and thawed.  The lexan one is preferred, weight aside, for beverages because it doesn’t retain flavors.  In the sleeping bag they make great hot water bottles and sock dryers (wring the socks out, put them over the bottles).  And when they do freeze shut you can wail the lid against a rock or ski binding to break them loose.

Just one of the little things which serves so many functions and thus makes life more fun.

Over half my life ago I was a teenager learning to trad climb, and my friend Adam and I were down in the Red River Gorge looking for easy leads to build our skills. We both had several years of gym fitness under our belts, just enough to be pretty dangerous. At some point on that trip I found myself up in the belly of Chimney’s Direct, the second and essentially totally unprotected pitch of an easy climb first done decades before. I was stemmed out in a solid position, looking up at an awkward transition into a short squeeze chimney, and down at a bare loop of rope leading to Adam, on a big ledge ~50 feet below. It occurred to me, rapidly, that the only thing standing between me and a big splat was the skills and fitness I’d built over the previous years, and most of all the mental wherewithal to apply them, right then.

It was a Hamlet moment which I’ve carried with me every living moment since.

I’m not sure if other people learn to recruit their full resources in a single epiphany, as I did, or gradually. What I am quite certain of is that this kind of education, this certitude, this understanding of how vital for personal safety the application of skill and will, is an essential part of any adventurers repertoire. Climbing is a good teacher because of how stark and obvious the lesson is, but an identical process occurs on a bike dodging a sudden, limb threatening rock, and in the water coming around a corner to encounter an unexpected and deadly sweeper. Cultivating the raw skills to deal with these hazards is not a quick process, but it also isn’t especially complex. Applying those skills without hesitation or ambiguity is more mysterious, and more than any single thing what will keep the adventurer alive.

I’m grateful I learned this lesson so thoroughly and well early on, and so I ask; what and when was your Hamlet moment?

Few words.

Camas Falls.

Climber-neck. Mphoto.

A few days ago M and I did something we haven’t done for too many years; went cragging outside.  That it’s been seven years since that happened with any sort of regularity is something I never thought I’d write.  I started climbing, in the gym on my Ohio hometown, when I was 12.  Its prominence in my maturation cannot be overstated, for reasons which rose hesitantly out of the grave as I made a shambles of a 5.7 on my first lead since I can’t recall when.

The muscle memory of climbing has been seemingly permanently ingrained in me by thousands of hours of practice.  It’s remarkable the extent to which many of the more exacting subtleties had returned by the afternoon’s second route.  I was even surprised by how much of my present fitness, which is excellent by my standards but hardly climbing specific, translated over.  Compared to the Dave of a decade ago pounds of muscle mass have migrated from arms and back to my legs.  The most disturbing evidence of this is the increasingly frequent trouble I’ve had in the last two years opening jars, which was never, ever an issue back in my climbing heyday.

Most significant of all was the lack of all but the wispy traces of the mental game I used to pride myself on.  I could keep up with a number of partners because I could out think them when it came to route reading and maximizing my resources, and runout face routes used to be my speciality.  But I thrutched and quivered on the first lead, chalking every other move, foot tapping, missing holds and feeling incompetent.  It took the airy (ha!) 5.8 crux 40 feet up on our next route, gripped on flat quartize edges looking for footholds, bolt at my ankle, to remember subconsciously to breath, drop my heels, and not try to squeeze juice out of the handholds.  I got bouted on a much harder route at the end of the day, but did all the moves and was left with the feeling that all hope was not lost, and that we might be able to pull back to an acceptable level.

We went climbing because we want to summit a few mountains this summer, and while dusting off the technical skills is a good idea for the alpine, putting our climbing heads back on is imperative.  The things I’ve been doing since climbing dropped off (canyoneering, then mountain biking, ultras, and wilderness trekking) all ask similar questions.  They all ask you to parse fear of injury from fear of failure.  The former is an essential guide for avoiding objective hazards and situations beyond your mental and physical capacities.  The latter is an excuse for not looking your potential in the eye.  I’ve yet to experience anything which comes anywhere near climbing in how direct this question is asked.  Some people are a lot more afraid of heights than others, but everyone is and this combination of primal terror and the static minutes to enjoy it gives climbing its power.  You can’t hit the pause button so easily with gravity sports like mountain biking, skiing and boating.  This contemplative aspect is probably why climbing literature so far outstrips most other outdoor genres, and is above all why I’m excited to be back up there.

Disclaimer 1: I don’t actually know that much about mountain bikes. By which I mostly mean I’ve ridden very few of them. Personal preference and finance has kept me from serial bike whoredom, and since 2005 when I really started thinking seriously about riding bikes I’ve really had four: a used 26″ Gunnar Rockhound, a Karate Monkey, a 3″ Lenz Leviathan, and the version 1 Mukluk. I’m not equipped to speak comparatively on this subject, so I won’t. I’ve only ever used one set and type of tires on the Mukluk!

Disclaimer 2: This is not a review of fatbikes as such. For that, see this.  Fat bikes need no defense, only more defenders.

The executive summary is that I really like the Mukluk.  It has the wheelbase and HTA of my old Lenz (with a 100mm suspension fork), and a BB height close to the Karate Monkey.  It handles like a mix of the two: stable, predictable, planted.  I’ve taken to it since day one, not just because the components were mostly familiar, but because the dominant traits were ones I liked and had ridden thousands of miles with on my previous bikes.  There have been occasions when I though a slacker HTA, or at least more trail, would be good.  Those were all moments with especially crappy snow or very loose sand.  There have been moments riding dirt when I wanted something more snappy, but those have been few and far between.  Overall it’s a great compromise, handling-wise.

There’s lots of tire clearance, a good 3/4″ or more in every direction with my Marge/BFL combo.

The factory prep was very good, with no hiccups during the build.  I’ve had no issues durability wise thus far, and the sparkly blue paint seems quite resistant to scratches and framebag rub.

I am very fond of the generous standover.  I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, or would perhaps be so only in snow.  I like it everywhere, enough that I want a Karate Monkey with a 1.5 degree slacker HTA and more standover.  But all bikes shouldn’t be exactly the same.

I do want a bigger front rotor, arresting all that inertia on dirt is not easy.

In short, I may not be the most discerning of users, but I think the Mukluk is a pretty awesome fatbike.  And the awesomeness of fatbikes is axiomatic.

Everything in Montana is far away from everything else, a fact no helped by my lazy road-finding which had us driving 15 mph on a rough dirt road late into the evening, when the other way was very well graded gravel. Alas. Thankfully not a sign of things to come.

The (Rocky Mountain) Front at Gibson Reservoir is a mind-bending assemblage of limestone reefs, ridges running starkly north to south for miles, strata tilted 45 degrees into the sky by mountain building. The dam is wedged across a narrow break in one reef, a weakness exploited by the Sun River in a more innocent era, no doubt. The result is not unlike Lake Powell in vibe, if not scale: that the unique, incongruous lake is beautiful is made all the more dangerous by the violence hidden under the surface. In this case, 7 of the greatest river miles in the Bob must have been drowned when the gates closed in 1929.

Sun River country still grows some mighty fine elk trails.

Our first day was mixed overcast, with a bit of wind and frequent attempts on the part of the heavens to snow. None were especially successful, and we enjoyed the chill but pleasant conditions and, once we got 8+ miles back, prodigious herds of wildlife. Every one of the 100+ elk we saw ran for it at first wind of us, a major contrast to national park elk, who are quite unintentionally disneyfied by constant human exposure and no hunting pressure.

The day wore on, with the clouds high enough to unveil that massive valley we were walking up, but only hint at the big mountains on all sides. Eventually it got cold, our feet got tired, and we were ready to make camp when there was still an absurd amount of daylight remaining. Hiking up from big meadow into burnt forest, we continued higher and found a mossy, chill microclimate with live trees and no risk of wind toppled trees. We made soup, dinner, got chased around the fire by shifting smoke, and enjoyed alternate moments of conversation and silence which are the specific province of minutes finely chewed far away from roads.

Sally was not impressed that the tent I brought didn’t have a floor.  We didn’t get water or snow inside, but that didn’t seem like enough to convert her.

We slept well and long, and woke to evidence of things not seen in the night. Walking up into the rocky uplands, hearing pikas squeaking off in the talus, I expected orcs to attack from the old trees at any moment. Fending them off would have been the only good to which our axes could have been put; the snow levels were astoundingly high for this time of year.

The climbing sun burned away the clouds, and the high point of our trip coincided nicely with blue sky, fat clouds, and far views.

Sally, the interpreter and naturalist, is also more of a patient hiker than I am. I was scolded on several occasions for passing by flowers, usually because I was looking off ahead at the time.

The following is, I’m told, a Prairie somethingerother.

And then it was time to go home, in stages. First, retracing our steps in the opposite direction.  Next, driving back to the highway the easy way.  The inevitable was delayed by burgers and beer in Augusta, but soon enough it was dark and we were back home.  It’s not supposed to be easy, this switching of worlds.  It wouldn’t be so rewarding if it were.

It also looks really silly, but that is the nature of anything which can serve as a fanny pack.

The GrabBag weighs 4 oz with a fair bit of the very long main webbing strap cut off.  It’s an oddly potato-shaped pocket designed to be attached to the right shoulder strap (above) and clipped to the left.  The main zip is a #5, there’s a mesh organizer pocket within the main pocket, and a stretch pocket on the outside.  The backing is lightly padded and covered with 3D mesh.

The positioning of the bag on the pack harness is ideal. It’s easy to open with one hand, out of the way of arms and hands while on the move, and less prone to interfere while bushwacking than stuff in side pockets. As a hip pack, it works innocuously well.

Notice the right-hand shoulder strap attachments above. Also note the buckle tucked almost out of sight behind the mesh and padding. This mates with the 3/4″ long strap when in butt-pack mode.

The long strap. Not only is it adjustable, so that there isn’t a huge length of webbing dangling down when wearing it attached to the pack harness, but the excess strappage tucks neatly behind the padded panel.  Paying $25 may seem daft for something so small and simple, but is well worth it when you think of the thoughtful detailing and exacting construction.

The stock pack comes with a nifty buckle for the left shoulder strap which mates both of the above in one piece of plastic. I lost it almost immediately. Osprey sent this replacement post-haste. Serious points for prompt and free replacement, a few points subtracted for the cheesy stitching. While I didn’t lose mine while it was attached to the strap, the tendency of this little buckle to jump ship while not under tension is something worth watching. On a long trip it might be worth rigging something like the above without the slots, and putting it semi-permanently on the shoulder strap.

Not only will the GrabBag be great as a fanny pack for evening strolls, fly fishing, and so forth while on trips, it works easily with every pack in the quiver. It might lift the burden for the MYOGer to produce her own side and hipbelt pockets, which are often a time and materials consuming nuisance to both design and sew. It will make the pack feel a bit warmer in hot weather, and having to undo three buckles to take off the pack is a bit much, but overall it does a modest but important job so well that I’m immoderately enthused, and plan on using it constantly.  I’ll keep this space updated accordingly.

A new article of mine, concerning techniques for on-trail route finding, is up at BPL. A subscription is required, but this one is my personal favorite of all the work I’ve done for them as of now, published or yet-to-be published.

Ideas planted in my head after Alaska last summer coalesced over the next few months of backpacking in Glacier, Yellowstone, and the Bob.  Alaska had shown me what a landscape looked like when human trail builders had never been there, which in turn enabled me to begin to estimate how the presence of human trails in the major wilderness areas of the lower 48 affected animal traffic.  I in turn realized that while the rules governing human and animal trail travel were in some ways different, they were in many ways the same.  Hence this article; written with the assumption that the vast majority of the time, the human traveler will be following established paths of one sort or another.

Not everyone has my nearly clinical impulse to well spend any waking moment, but those that do might find this useful.

Main Flathead at 35,000 cfs; Mphoto.

When actively practicing for a particular goal, I keep a comprehensive mental list of objectives. Not just physical training, but mental and technical as well.  For the Wilderness Classic this July everyone will be at least crossing, and possibly floating parts of, both the Copper and Chitina Rivers.  These are huge glacial rivers in equally massive valleys, and are sure to feature complex currents, big flows (100,000+ cfs) and emphatic upstream winds.  Last year taught me that this is a problematic combination in a packraft.  While the boats footprint in the water is shallow, it is also large for its size as well as sticky in the water.  Ferrying a packraft in a low volume creek is one thing, doing so in a bulky river flowing 10+ mph is more difficult, as the boat doesn’t pick up or maintain speed very well.  Upstream winds, and the remarkable extent to which a packraft works as a sail, complicates this further.  The optimal ferry angle can place the boat broadside to the wind, which if strong enough will disrupt paddling, push the boat in an undesired direction, and even require body english to ensure stability.  Even if this sort of paddling will make up 1% of the Classic course, I prefer to prepare for it as best I am able.

So I took the opportunity yesterday afternoon, on an otherwise designated rest day, to paddle 15 miles of the Flathead.  It had gone down feet from the near-flood level seen on Friday, and the absence of whole trees frequently moving downstream was comforting.  I wore my drysuit for the sake of caution, but the level ended up being pretty mellow except for the wind, which I got plenty of practice fighting.  When dealing with a strong headwind having a paddle that goes to a 60 degree feather is highly recommended.  All told I spent a few hours getting in some technical practice and light exercise, including a 3 mile walk home where I quickly realized that the new, beefed up pad in my race pack provided too much structure.  So add gear sussing and the aesthetic pleasure of seeing the river in another of its moods to an afternoon well spent.

I’m becoming increasing enamored with floating big, calm rivers, at least when they’re fast enough to not highlight the packrafts slow hull speed.  I’m equally at a loss for how to describe the spaced out yet focused state of mind such floating usually brings about.  Dirt and Dogs did a good job talking about it.  I find myself exactly focused on the water surface within a twenty foot radius, but unable to recall many details even minutes later.  I pay close attention to the course of the flow, avoiding sweepers and cultivating correct bow angle through eddy lines, and at the same time focus on looking up at everything at once and nothing in particular.  When I took out this afternoon, searching for a flood slicked patch of grassy bank gentle enough to climb up, the end of momentum represented by foot on land seemed jarring, causing the sensations that filled my head with emptiness to rattle harshly.  Enhancing it all was the act of rolling all my gear into a pack and walking back into town on bike paths and sidewalks.  Having the tools for such enjoyment be so readily hidden highlights the rarefied state of river head.

I’ve never been one for lists.  I thought briefly about trying to hike all, or at least the rest of, the trails in Glacier this year, but thought better of it within a few hours.  It’s a neat guiding tool, but I prefer to not labor under the burden of those sorts of obligations.  Running every mile of the forks of the Flathead, on the other hand, is a more compelling project, in no small part because I’ve already done most of them.  On the North Fork all I have left in the 1/2 mile between the Camas Bridge and Big Creek, plus all the Canadian Flathead.  On the Middle Fork I have the stretch above Schaeffer, the stretch between Essex and Coal Creek, and Lincoln Creek to McDonald Creek.  On the South Fork I have Meadow Creek gorge, the final six miles to the reservoir, and from the dam to the confluence.  On the main I have everything but the Middle-North confluence to Kokanee Bend, and the final 15 miles of oxbows to Flathead Lake.  I’m not counting Hungry Horse Lake, and might need to disqualify the southernmost stretch to Flathead, or at least borrow a canoe.  Even at flood I doubt the flow is enough for a packraft.  So that’s one project for this year, to be addressed soon when high water makes the slow stretches more expedient.

A poster on BPL was asking about career choices which would allow for more frequent backpacking.  The answer is of course not so much in what career but in where you do it, and in the compromises you’re willing to live with long term.  M’s sister, the for-now New Yorker, only highlighted the many reasons we live where we do.