The new paradigm marches on

This graph may be one of the more useful things you’ll find for winter adventure planning.  It comes by way of Richard Nisley, a San Fran packrafter, adventurer, and fabrics scientist.  The original post, at BPL, and the ensuing discussion can be found here.  The iClo values themselves do not tell the full story, but do allow insulation types and weights to be excised in large part from debates over shell fabrics, to say nothing of more subjective factors such as individual metabolic rates, calories on board, and mental state.

It’s the time of year when staying warm becomes increasingly of concern.

I’d also like to know that the blog transfer appears to have been successful!  I find it embarrasingly distressful to have those sorts of loose ends in my life, and thus the ease with which WordPress made the transfer (and it was all the WP import function) was lovely to behold.  When I saw that Google employee Beat used WordPress instead of Blogger, I knew which was superior.  Over the next few days I intend to comb through past posts, deleting some and categorizing the rest for easy searching.  I also want to transfer the old blogrolls into an annotated bibliography of internet resources and inspiration.  But packrafting on the recent rain surged creeks and hopefully playing in the snow comes first.

I hope everyone will enjoy the new blog as it unfolds.

Fear and Trembling (in praise of the off-season)

“He had faith by virtue of the absurd, for all human calculation ceased long ago.”
-Soren Kierkegaard

Glacier National Park was called the Alps of the Americas not only to lure rich easterners away from Europe, but because the high peaks that make up the crown of the continent hold forth with a singular aesthetic.  Unlike the taller mountains of the Colorado Rockies, Sierras, or Wind Rivers, Glacier’s mountains are not only the icing on the cake of larger massifs.  They, like the Tetons, rise straight from the plains, foothills utterly absent, abrupt in a way that “go west young man” stereotypes would have midwestern children believe all mountains do.  Unlike the comparably small Tetons, which as a singular ridge constitute an isolated if craggy geologic exception, the mountains of Glacier National Park are at once unified and expansive.  There are many high peaks possessed of that singular, Matterhornian architecture which makes for such good photos.  There are also many appropriately deep and dark valleys, and said valleys are spread amongst and between the peaks such that it is possible to get well and truly situated in the depths of the range, something not possible in the Tetons, where any high vantage provides a view of either the Wyoming or Idaho plains.

All of which is to say that the mountains of Glacier are classical mountains, with all the proper metaphysical and mystical connotations.  There be dragons, indeed.

And that is in turn to say that religious inclinations are the right and proper outgrowth of time spent in Glacier, especially during the off-season, when the mountains wake from the soporific heat of summer (which is in Glacier de facto 2 months long at most) and really stretch their legs.

Triple Divide Pass, looking north into the Hudson Bay Creek drainage.  Note the bear tracks in the lower right hand corner. 

Soren Kierkegaard** was a Danish philosopher who wrote about religion and about faith.  He stands aside Plato and Nietzsche and Chuang Tzu as thinkers whose profundities are equalled by their stylist sophistication and beauty.  In Fear and Trembling he discusses the sacrifice of Abraham, and how the faith evinced therein rests on a belief in the absurd, that is, in something categorically beyond human comprehension.  Because Keirkegaard was post-Cartesian, he knew the power cogito ergo sum* held over human understanding (and thus, existence), and thus knew that placing a central tenet of religious existence beyond the reaches of human thought was at least doubly paradoxical.  As he wrote “To exist in such a way that my contrast to existence constantly expresses itself as the most beautiful and secure harmony with it- this I cannot do.  And yet, I repeatedly say, it must be wonderful to get the princess.”  This gorgeous reality has selectively reared its head in the century and half since, notably (and almost always overlooked) in the work of Edward Abbey, from which this blog takes its title and mission.

This past weekend I loaded snowshoes, two days of thin rations, and fall clothing into a newly completed pack (the umpteenth All-Pack revision) and headed through the heart of Glacier for 60 miles, on the latest of many such solo athletic and spiritual journeys.  Turning my mind off has always been a challenge; as a child I could never fall asleep without reading.  It is thus especially notable that, in 2010, I’ve weened myself off backcountry reading material, and been able to (normally) sleep just fine.  Nothing turns off the mind like the beat of walking for hours and hours in the woods, and as Kierkegaard wrote, “…faith begins precisely where thought stops…”

M graciously woke up at 630 on Saturday morning, and by 900 I was walking through the gated campground at Two Medicine, admiring abundant clouds and clean light.  It didn’t begin raining until just below the south side of Pitamakin Pass, which was amazingly snow free.  I put on my snowshoes at the summit, and full shell gear a mile down the north side.  I had pondered the necessity of bringing either, but would come to dearly rely on the presence of both.  My weather for the weekend substantially overdelivered on the forecasted 50% chance of rain, and the non-south facing passes of the second day would make the ‘shoes invaluable.

The miles between Pitamakin and the ascent to Triple Divide Pass are lost to memory and the violence it suffers at the zen hands of hiking.  The ascent of that pass is noteworthy however, as it has no switchbacks, just one 3+ mile long switch up the cirque wall.  A few of the deeper alcoves had a more easterly aspect, and these were reliably drifted full and packed with snow at a steep angle.  It was still raining, and the saturated snow made kicking steps with soft shoes easy.  I could even sink my trekking poles to the handles for self-belays, something I’d do again on similar sections going up Gunsight the next day.  In both cases steep snow (60-65 degrees, measured with an inclometer) and a 4th class runout (ie probably death in a fall) would have made harder snow a trip-stopper without an axe, alpine boots and crampons.  Those sections, perhaps 6 in all, were attention getting.

I had 31 miles to make my intended campsite on St Mary Lake, which meant I’d be night hiking.  I do that with dis-ease in Griz country, given that a startled hyperphasic bear is statistically the most dangerous to a hiker.  I saw no live bears, but lots of nearly live tracks, both black and Griz.  Some, as in the above photo, in rather unlikely places.  My off-season hiking this year has given me a ground truth understanding of what work animals do to find food.  Given the track depth, it seems Glacier bears favor night or early morning pass crossings.  So I strode along yelling “Hey ____! (bear, moose, elk, stick, mud, stump, vole, rock, etc) and singing old French camp songs.  Or what little I remember of them.

Camp was gorgeous.  On the flat rock beach of a glacial lake, it had stopped raining an hour ago, and the stars were out!  It was also gusting to 60 mph, making the fire burn fast (good for a quick dinner) and necessitating a post-dinner shelter re-pitching, complete with a lengthy quest for the heaviest drift logs and rocks I could carry.  The Trailstar is super burly once all the anchor points are guyed out, but establishing those guy points can be tricky.  The bivy sack, which I had thought about bringing days before the trip, turned out to the unlikely but best option (had I had it along).  I didn’t get the sleep until 1130, but slept well one I realized the shelter wasn’t going to blow away, just flap a lot.  The MLD guy points are burly.

I awoke at 740 and got going fast, after fetching my bear bag and crawling back into my bag to make coffee.  The trail was up in the trees 50-100 feet above the lake, so I walked the rock beach for a mile so I could fully enjoy the sunrise.

My legs and feet were creaky, and I knew the day would not be short, but M was meeting me at Lake McDonald Lodge at dark, and I had miles to make.  Fortunately, though my muscular and cardio specific conditioning is lacking right now, I’ve banked the experience to make up for it.

I needed all the help I can get.  The upper reaches of Gunsight were fogged in, breaks in the clouds and rain revealed steep, stark wall on all sides and one wet point-release avalanche that slide at the ground and ran a few hundred feet, covering a line of goat tracks.  The upper mile of trail was barely distinguishable, and making it up efficiently and away from avy terrain required all of my not inconsiderable skill at micro-route finding.  When I saw the hut at the apex of the pass and went inside to make ramen with my last esbit cube, I felt like I had very much succeeded in turning aside from human calculation, and in the process completed a Masters practical examination in wilderness travel.  The traverse around the side of Lake Ellen Wilson was tough and slow, snow conditions being as abysmal as they were, but even though the pass over to the Sperry drainage was not without its thought-provoking moments, the crux had been overcome and the trip was, sore feet and quads aside, a foregone conclusion.

I was over an hour late to meet M, but she had seen my microscopic Spot progress and delayed her arrival accordingly.  The last 1.8 miles, down hard dirt trail in the dark and drizzle with failing quads, was comical for even me to witness.  My safety call had morphed from Hey Bear to cursing the trail, errant rocks, deceptive shadows, my own knackered legs, and the extravagant number of feet in a mile.  All of which was absurd.  The nearer I felt to the world, the more intimate my notice of its details, the further I was drawn into a situation in which I was cursing exactly those things I was not only powerless to change, but would never truly desire to alter.  Whatever the state of my existence during those last miles, I was exactingly aware of it.

M was waiting, light on in the cab of the truck, in the parking lot of the lodge, the white truck seeming unusually clean against the wet asphalt into which all light vanished.  I threw my pack in the back, pulled off my rain jacket and my shoes, and let my damp socks stink in the air as I enjoyed a moist, warm, quiet ride back home.  My absurd, paradoxical existence, my coexistent separateness from and dependence upon the world at large, and my enthusiastic if occasional embrace of all that uncertainty instantly made the smallest details of my marriage, employment, and quiet daily life more beautiful and more secure than they had been 36 hours previously.

No matter how sore my feet were, and 24 hours later, still are.

*I think, therefore I am.
**All quotations/citations from the 1983 Hong and Hong translation.

Ouch, my feet hurt; and some neat skis

Recall how, last week, I responded (to Sam’s inquiry) that my intended route acrss Glacier was Dawson Pass, Nyack Creek, and the Middle Fork.  Well, things turned out differently.  What I really wanted to do was see more alpine, so my Sat-Sun route morphed into following the CDT from Two Medicine north to the St. Mary river, then over Gunsight and Lincoln Passes and down Sprague and Snyder Creeks to Lake McDonald. 

There was beauty, lots (and lots) of rain, wind, more rain (at 7000′ no less), hairball route finding, and solo night hiking in Grizzly country.  In short, I’m rather overwhelmed with the awesomeness, and my feet really hurt.

A more detailed report to come tomorrow.

On a different note, statistics have revealed that my foray into gear posts has been a success, at least insofar as readership is concerned.  The skis gear post from last week quickly became the most read piece of content in the history of this blog, and the shoe and shell posts follow closely behind.  I have mixed feelings about this, but given that I’m writing about common subjects from a rather esoteric point of view, and that the readership (aka Ya’ll) remains fairly small but very dedicated, I’m going to roll with the gear thing for awhile.

To whit: The Marquette Backcountry ski

Press molded from some derivation of plastic, with brass inserts.  No edges as we commonly understand the word.  Short (140cm).  Fat (15cm tip).  Early rise tip, and very aggressive fishscales over almost the whole bottom of the ski.  Designed and made in the Yooopee (hence the name), and 179 bucks retail.

The catch?  They weigh 9 lbs a pair. 

This might be the most innovative and well thought out commercial entries into the fast shoe* market ever.  Of course, the market for ski-snowshoe hybrids is not very big, but it should be a lot bigger, for reasons this ski makes clear.  The Marquette’s dimensions seem ideal for gallavanting through the forest, with maximum fun as the aim.  The lack of proper edges procludes them from all conditions ski touring, as I’m assuming they’d be a nightmare on ice.  They’re too heavy for distance oriented touring.  I bet they climb great on corn, and in the thick trees on a powder day are no doubt a blast.

I certainly don’t need them, nor do they fit into the quiver in an especially utilitarian way, but I’m sure thinking about a future purchase anyway.


*The subject of fast shoes will be revisited in detail soon.

Twothousandeleven

I finished the first part of the year in review video last night, so it is now time to start thinking about next year (like we haven’t all been assembling race calenders for a month already; I’m waiting on the Classic to set a date).

On Sunday night I slept restlessly, and as the alarm went off at 630, was in the middle of being chased by some very big and very hungry dinosaurs.  Seriously.

I started editing this last month, on the plane flight back from New York, and when the mood struck me finished May, June and July off yesterday.  I like some parts enough that I didn’t want to wait to let them out into the world, and now most of this footage, which has been overworked as of late, can be put to rest.

Any commentary would be welcome.

My current thoughts on shells

Monday, for moment, is gear day. Check the last few mondays for thoughts on base layers and footwear.

This article will be much shorter than either of the previous, because the subject is much simpler. You need shells to keep wind and precipitation out. Wear as little shell as you can get away with given the conditions, and pick one that fits and has useful features. That’s it.

Shells can be separated into windproof and waterproof shells. Both are misnomers, as no windshell is windproof, and no waterproof shell you’d actually want to wear moving through the wilderness is actually waterproof. A good example from either category will block most of the wind, or almost all the water in almost all conditions. I’ll address the former first.


Windshell tops

A good windproof shell jacket is probably the most versitile piece of outdoor clothing you can own.  Shown below (Danni Coffman photo) is me in my 5 year old Patagonia Houdini. 

The Houdini is a great example of what a good windshell can be.  Mine weighs 4 oz, has a hood, a full zip, and an inside pocket that closes with a velcro dot.  Nothing else.  It stuffs down to small apple size, and can thus be brought along on any adventure.  There have been but a handful of bike rides, any bike ride, in the last half decade where this thing hasn’t been on me on in my pack, frame bag, or jersey pocket.  It came to Egypt last winter, has logged many days skiing, etc, etc.  Originally I was concerned about the light fabric, but I’ve only put one hole in it this whole time.  Amazing.  (The original #3 zip did fail, but Patagonia repaired it for free, and at my request put in an all metal #5 instead.  My Houdini is unique, and in my opinion the best in the world.)

The Houdini is floppy, but also big enough to layer over a fat fleece.  A good tradeoff.

A hood is mandatory.  It can add tons of warmth for little weight and fuss.  The newest Houdini has a rear cinch cord on the hood for better fit and visibility.

A windshell like the Houdini is highly breathable.  I can chug uphill sweating like crazy and moisture will not collect and condense under it.  It dries blazingly fast.  For this reason windshells are vital in winter.  Waterproof fabrics are not appropriate in true winter conditions (ie when rain is not possible).  At single digits or below, moisture will condense inside a Gore-tex shell and freeze to the inside.  Worse than useless, they are dangerous.

The shortcoming is that the wind resistance of something like the Houdini can be overpowered by extreme wind and cold.  A Houdini copy, but with a bigger hood and thicker uncoated fabric (3-4 oz a yard or so) would be great for winter, but I don’t know of such a shell that is presently available.  I layer the Houdini with a light soft shell shirt, and throw the belay coat on when its really cold.  This works fine for skiing in the woods, but would come up short in the winter mountains.  I may have revised opinions next spring.

Windshell pants

Windshell pants have been one of my great gear discoveries this year.  Specifically, the Montane Featherlight pants.  The Pertex is a bit heavier than the Houdini fabric, they have ankle zips (easy to get on and off with shoes on), and velcro straps on the lower legs (keeps them out of your chainring, but gets undone in stream crossings).

I don’t find waterproof pants necessary.  The Featherlights keep wind off, dry super fast, and thus keep my legs warm.  For the moment, they’re all the shell pants I want.  Pictured below on the Thorofare traverse in May, which tested shell gear hard.

Waterproof shells

In short, a necessary evil.  While I haven’t tried Event, I’m skeptical that any waterproof fabric will be able to come close to keeping up with the sweat that is part and partial of serious aerobic output.  Goretex is ok, and pit zips sorta work, but if its raining and coldish and you’re trucking uphill, you will get wet.  Pick the lesser of two evils: waterproof shell on or off.  At least on the downhill you can throw the hardshell back on and not get wetter or colder.

I’ve been using an Arc’teryx Alpha SL pullover this year, and other than the fabric issue stated above its quite ideal.  The cut is roomy enough for layers but trim, the fabric is tough without being overbuilt, the hood is a work of art (cinches tight, over a helmet or a bare head or anything in between), and the front ‘roo pocket is perfectly positioned to sit above a hipbelt and provide convenient storage.  I like a waterproof anorak because it’s a bit more weathertight, has no full length zip to make it feel stiff under motion, and if I’m putting on a hardshell I plan to keep it on all the time.

Here in Montana a waterproof top is essential for any multiday trip, even if it never gets used.  I often bring both the Arc’teryx and the Houdini.  Back in Arizona, or somewhere like the Sierras with dry and predicatable weather, you can chance leaving the hardshell behind given a good forecast. 

Shells: try them out, try them on, buy some, love them, never leave home without them.

My thoughts on base layers for active adventure

I hesitated to write the footwear article I published last week, for reasons I’ve written about on several occasions, namely that I don’t want to feed the gear obsession that for many perniciously supplants actual experience.  Yet the response I got to that article, for quarters expected and not, has been positive and profuse.  So I going to do more in that idiom in the future, with an emphasis on broader overviews of important equipment issues that can be both important and complex.  I’ve been studying gear catalogues too closely since I was in third grade, and while the volume and type of my outdoor experience is not exceptional, I hope I can put forth some words in ways that folks will find illuminating.  Ergo this article. 

Base layers are, with the exception of foorwear, the most important piece of gear you’ll use outside.  Unlike footwear, the same base layers can be used year round across disciplines.  It’s a worthwhile endeavor to match your physiology and approach to outdoor adventures with your base layer choice.

Base layers exist to be a buffer between your skin and the environment.  They move sweat away from your skin (wicking) so that it can evaporate, keep the sun brush, and rough rock off you, and provide a modicum of warmth in the dry, the wet, and the states between.  An ineffective garmet will leave you damp and cold, and in the case of underwear or the interface between skin, fabric, and pack straps, allow chaffing to occur.  Good clothing and gear elsewhere can be rendered largely ineffective by a bad baselayer.

The normal debate here begins with material, namely ultrafine merino wool versus the various polyester weaves.  But first, it’s worth mentioning cotton.

Cotton is known as the death cloth in outdoor circles for its ability to retain lots of moisture and dry very slowly.  Under most conditions, this makes it totally inappropiate for any item of gear, save perhaps a bandana.  However, in serious heat, cotton can be put to good use.

And not just in Vegas.  The rather natty shirt pictured above was a Patagonia outlet purchase, and is made of a very tight, fine weave of 65% poly and 35% cotton.  It is a fantastic hot as hell base layer.  It keep the sun off (flip the collar up to protect the back of the neck, and wicks and dries just fast enough to cool without chilling.  I’ve worn it mountain biking and hiking in 90+ heat the last two summers and become a big fan.  Of course, in any conditions other than serious heat and full sun, it would become dead weight in the pack.

Most folks will wear a poly or merino base layer.  At present the stereotypes governing the two fabrics are well established and a matter of empirical and subjective consensus.  I’ll review them briefly.

Merino wool:
-Highly resistant to stink
-Softer
-Comfier/warmer when wet and damp
-Fragile
-Dries slower
-Absorbs slightly more water (the above BPL article puts it at ~20% more)

Polyesters:
-Moderately to horrendously stinky
-Lighter
-Tougher
-Dries faster, absorbs less water

I’ve yet to use or hear of a fabric that seriously breaks with any of the above.  My preferences for the last few years have been to use a wool shirt as a base layer in winter conditions, when I’ll be using a midlayer, and synthetic in three season conditions and for more active pursuits like mountain biking.

There is a bit more to the story here, and that is fabric weight.  I sweat more than most under any active circumstances, years of living in Arizona and Utah, I suppose.  I’m also a pretty warm person compared to most.  Thus I value fast wicking and drying highly.  Not only does this prejudice me towards synthetics, it leads me to only select thinner base layers, and fabric thickness plays a large role in water aborption and drying time.

Take Patagonias Capilene 2 (my favorite for the last 15 years) compared to its Wool 2.  Cap 2 fabric weighs 124 grams per square meter, while Wool 2 weighs 165 grams per square meter.  Cap 3, significantly warmer in my experience than Cap 2, is 167 grams per square meter, essentially identical to Wool 2.  One of the reasons Wool dries slower than synthetics, and why I’ve had a hard time embracing it, seems to be that the structural limitations of ultrafine merino make it difficult to make it into fabric light enough to be a truly year round base layer.  BPL has a line of merino clothing made of 115 grams per meter fabric, which seems promising.  I snagged one of the beanies they made, in a single production run, from this fabric last fall, and find it an extremely versitile hat.  Unfortunately this light merino is proportionally more fragile, enough that the product page carries a disclaimer, and that BPL is currently struggling to find a shop willing to work with the finicky fabric.

 This is Kevin Sawchuk heading up to Pentagon Pass almost exactly 365 days ago during the Parcour de Wild wilderness race.  We both wore light wool base layers (Patagonia Wool 2 for me, Ibex Woolies for him) under lighter synthetic midlayers (Patagonia for both, R1/2 hoody for me, R1 hoody for Kevin).  In the cold, wet conditions we found this system worked very well, keeping us warm even though we were damp most of the time.

In summary, pick your fabric weight carefully, and lean towards the lighter ones, especially for active uses.  Pay attention to weave as well; Cap 2 wicks and dries faster than Cap 1, even though the fabric is marginally heavier, due to the weave.  Open knits with a three dimensional structure are best.

Your base layer shirt will get worn a lot, and the lighter fabrics that get summer usage will often be the only thing on your torso.  They’ll get a lot of abuse, be it from pack straps, slot canyon walls, or mountain bike crashes.  It is in this department that merino comes up drastically short, and why I can’t see myself buying more of it.

This is me riding the then brand new Karate Monkey in Granite Basin during December of 2006.  I’m wearing a long sleeve Capilene 2 crew neck under my thrift store jersey.  I bought that crew neck in 2004.  It’s still in service today, and gets worn at least once a week.  I have two Wool 2 shirts that are 12 and 16 months old.  Both have a few small holes in them.

Beyond selecting a base layer fabric that suits your needs, getting one that fits is vital.  Fit in many respects determines function.  A good wicking layer can’t do its job if it flops away from your skin, and can’t be a comfy part of a clothing system if it forms creases and pressure points under a midlayer.  Keep the big picture in mind when making selections.

The most useful base layer is the long sleeve crew neck.  Rolled up sleeves are only mildly warmer than short sleeves, and with so many blood vessels close to the skin on the inside of the forearms, rolling down sleeves adds a surprising amount of warmth.  I’ve never found turtle neck comfortable, or zip necks especially useful, but others have different experiences.

Base layer undies are vital.   Spending 30 bucks on a pair of synthetic undies is not an exciting way to spend money, but will end up being among the best you’ll ever spend on outdoor gear.  Goodbye swamp ass.  I like boxer briefs for the balance of comfort, good wicking, and chaff prevention.

Long bottoms are useful as well.  I have a pair of Cap 2 long johns I hacked to below knee (knicker) length.  They provide complete coverage when paired with knee high socks, avoid bulky overlap under ski boot cuffs, and the additional thigh and knee coverage adds more warmth than you’d think.

Ariel, Isaac, M, me, and Phillip in the Robbers Roost during November of 2005, with a lot of old canyon anchors.  We camped out in the cold for a few weeks, did a ton of canyons, and celebrated T-day with a bitching dutch oven cook out, beer, and shooting cans with my .45.  A few days before this picture was taken Phillip and I descended an obscure fork of Upper Blue John.  M and I did an unknown, possible first descent of it a few days prior.  Phillip and I had intended to upclimb the publicized east fork into which our fork fed, but our attempt to pack toss and tent pole hook past a 25′ drop didn’t work, and we had to wade the 150 yard long, chest deep pool below.  In near freezing weather, with no sun, and no wetsuits.  I wore Cap 2 knickers and soft shell pants and was cold, but survived.  Phillip wore something similar, but the cold seemed to affect him more.  When we exited the long wade he immediately dropped his pants and shuffled back and forth giving his manhood a vigorous two-handed rewarming.  Ya gotta do what ya gotta do.  We climbed a sandy 5th class ramp to escape the slot.  Lesson: know your physiology and buy clothing accordingly.

Last but not least, a good synthetic base layer headband is handy in winter.  It will keep your ears warm, disperse forehead sweat, and let heat vent out the top of your head without soaking a hat.  I made one last winter, with a double layer of Cap 1 and a single layer of Cap 2 in the back.  When the aforementioned thin wool hat would get too wet skinning uphill, but it was too cold to wear no hat at all, this little thing was amazingly useful.

In short, baselayers are important, and a matter of personal need and preference.  While there is no substitute for trial and error, and lot of money and bother can be avoided with a little research and introspection about how and where you’ll be wearing them.  I’m hopeful that a poly/wool blend (like Patagonia’s newest generation of Wool 2) will come into being soon, and will allow the anti-stink, warmth, and coziness of merion to be enjoyed in a ~120 grams per meter fabric that dries fast and is tough enough for real world, four season use.  In the meantime, I’ll keep using the boxes full of baselayers I’ve accumulated over the years, because so many of the quality synthetics just refuse to die.

Project Yellowstone: Concluded (and begun)

In June/July of 2009 M and I did a great trip in Yellowstone. We hiked around, had breakfast at the Old Faithful Inn (the only meal to eat there, dinner is not so good), grilled at a great campground, and went for a backpack. The park was green and blue and vivid and teaming with life.

Why not use the arbitrary project, I thought, of visiting the park at least once a month for 12 in a row to structure my experience? And that is what I did.

Artificial as the idea was, it got the job done. Some of the trips, like the first one in June/July, the Thorofare trip this month, the family visit at Christmas, our backpack into the Bechler area in September, and three days over Thanksgiving, were deliberate and lengthy. They easily left me with a rich memory of that part of the park and that part of the season. The October trip, where we meant to spend three days in the park, got cut short when our timing belt snapped in Butte. But I still saw those otters on the morning we did spend in the park, one of the coolest wildlife sightings of the year. Quite a few of the visits ended up being rushed, school was not kind to this project. But if I hadn’t committed to the project the October bison trip and the February ski tour wouldn’t have happened at all, and those were two of the most memorable.

Looking over the pictures, video clips, and recollections leaves me with feeling of satisfaction and futility. Both are tied up in the same realization: Yellowstone is a big place, much bigger than most realize. The parks high altitude, combined with the geologic-scale snow funnel that is the Upper Snake River valley, shut the park down for so much of the year. Cold and snow are fundamentally hostile to humans, and I spent much of the winter consolidating skills and confidence that leave me no excuse; next winter I must do a big trip into the heart of the park in the heart of winter.

On the whole I’m excited that Yellowstone exists. It’s unique in the lower 48, for reasons that have of late become well troden. It’s size, geological singularity, and since 1995 the full compliment of indigenous charismatic megavertabretes create a unique hold on the human mind. I’m not ready to commit to another Yellowstone project just yet. But if I do a trip will have to spend at least 48 hours away from the frontcountry to count.

Thorofare video report

This was one of the coolest trips I’ve ever done. Still trying to wrap my head around all that I saw and felt. Insofar as this was meant to be an effective coda for both the Yellowstone project and for graduate school, I can say that the mission has been accomplished.

Now, as Eric so helpfully said, I have to find a job. Too bad, as I’m psyched on spring and ready to spend my time biking, backpacking, skiing mountains, and packrafting fat rivers.

All-Pack, finalized

Back in April, I put together a pack almost from scratch, which was to be an all sport and all conditions multi-day and/or technical pack. It still represents my finest design and sewing work to date. Although the larger canvas makes execution a lot easier than with frame packs or clothing.
It’s been on two backpacking trips and a bunch of day training and testing stuff since, and the other week I pulled a few seams apart to make some tweaks.
The beavertail flaps top buckle got moved lower down, and the pocket itself shortened.
The extension collar got shortened.
The lower drawcord where the orange silnylon met the ballistics was done away with.
I removed the internal pad sleeve entirely.
I moved the load lifter attachment down almost two inches.
I took in the back panel seams above the shoulder harness, thus reducing the overall circumference of the top part of the packbag and biasing the weight closer to my shoulders.
All that said, things still just weren’t quite right.
Over the summer I became a devotee of placing a rolled up foam mat inside the pack, letting it unfurl, then stuffing all contents inside it like a burrito. It provides great structure and load control, and another layer of insulation against abrasion (useful in canyoneering and bushwacking). The pad I had been using was a rather stiff, generic bit of 48″ by 21.5″ by 5/8″ foam.
Yesterday I bought a short (48″ by 20″) Ridgerest, and the pack was transformed. The Ridgerest provides the exactly right balance of structure and flexibility. It allows better use of the compression straps, and does a much better job of hugging my back.

It’s very interesting comparing the above with the pictures from the earlier post. I can’t wait to take this thing ski touring. I’m actually hatching a January (pre Camp Lynda, ideally) trip that will fulfill my long time ambition to do the Narrows in the dead of winter, with some flair added.
I’ll get dropped off on Highway 14 a bit above 9000′, ski through the lovely aspens along the east side of Black Mountain, descend down west of Aspen Lake and enter Deep Creek right above O’Neill Gulch. Then take the skis and ski boots off, put the drysuit and neo socks on, and tromp down Deep Creek. Camp somewhere, and finish up down the Narrows, carrying skis to the Temple bus stop.
You’d need touring skis, boots, poles (for both sections), drysuit etc, and likely instep crampons. Should be a hoot.
In any case, I was sufficiently pleased with my design that I went down to the basement this morning and made it all permanent by seam sealing all the major seams and bar tacks. I like the liquidy, REI brand seam sealer for this job. Lends both durability and a bit of waterproofness.
The whole pack, including the removable snack pouch on the belt, weighs 20 oz. on the nose (without the 8.5 oz Ridgerest). Not bad for a pack made of 16 oz/yard fabric, with a double bottom and 3/4″ grommets for draining. I’m quite confident in it’s overkilledness. Its already been hung as a bearbag.
Hydration port, a mandatory feature. As efficient as using bottles and constantly refilling in streams is around here, I like hoses more.
One benefit of the beavertail pocket (pulled, as Eric noted many moons ago, from the Dana Designs packs) is that it makes packing a bike workable. Pull all the straps, put the seat tube in the bottom of the pocket, lay the pocket around the frame and cinch down all the straps. Driveside out, right pedal up and next to the pack, an extra strap holding the fork to the triangle so it’s immobile. Wheels off and strapped on after. I may be putting this feature to a more exhaustive test than I care to contemplate soon.
Gets me thinking about a lighter SS frame for easier carrying.