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Note: This giveaway ended 7/12/16. For summer, we're giving away a new ZPacks 4-in-1 MultiPack filled with a $50 Gift Certificate to REI and a choice of shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store! If you're not familiar with this versatile storage solution from ZPacks check out our Multi-Pack Review from back in Issue 17 for all the details - I personally use one as a ~3 ounce solution to keep my camera easily accessible (in chest pack mode) on every hike. Just make sure you're subscribed to TrailGroove and then like this blog post to let us know you'd like to be included in the drawing. Full details below. Above: Our review setup in pack lid mode strapped to a ULA Circuit backpack. The ZPacks Multi-Pack can also be used as a chest pack, waist pack, or satchel. How to Enter 1) Like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post. Simply login with your TrailGroove account and like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post to let us know you'd like to be entered to win. New to TrailGroove? Click here to sign up for a new account - make sure to select the subscribe option on the sign up screen as well - it will help with step 2. The button you then need to click to like this post will look like the one below, albeit a bit smaller: 2) Subscribe to TrailGroove. Odds are you might already be subscribed, but you can subscribe below or verify by typing in your email if needed. (Hint: Receive an email from us about this giveaway? If so, you're subscribed!) Note that you won't be subscribed twice, so it doesn't hurt to check - make sure you're subscribed with the same email you used here for your TrailGroove account: Subscribe Here 3) Premium TrailGroove Member? You've been automatically entered into this giveaway - like this blog post for an additional entry and chance to win! Or sign up for a premium membership anytime before 7/12 to take advantage of this benefit. 4) Optional: This isn't required and doesn't even earn additional entries, but since you're here feel free to give us a like on Facebook and a follow on Twitter below - we'd appreciate it! (And it helps us keep you up to date with any future giveaways and TrailGroove news from time to time) 5) As always, if you're new to TrailGroove or perhaps just haven't dropped by in a while, feel free to stop by the forum to jump in the discussion or just to say hello. We'll randomly draw from all entries on Tuesday 7/12 at 7 p.m. Mountain Time and will contact the winner here via a private message - Good luck!

Note: This giveaway ended 5/16/16. This month enter to win a $100 REI e-Gift Card plus your choice of a shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store! Just make sure you're subscribed to TrailGroove and then like this blog post to let us know you'd like to be included in the drawing. Full details below. How to Enter 1) Like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post. Simply login with your TrailGroove account and like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post to let us know you'd like to be entered to win. New to TrailGroove? Click here to sign up for a new account - make sure to select the subscribe option on the sign up screen as well - it will help with step 2. The button you then need to click to like this post will look like the one below, albeit a bit smaller: 2) Subscribe to TrailGroove. Odds are you might already be subscribed, but you can subscribe below or verify by typing in your email if needed. (Hint: Receive an email from us about this giveaway? If so, you're subscribed!) Note that you won't be subscribed twice, so it doesn't hurt to check - make sure you're subscribed with the same email you used here for your TrailGroove account: Subscribe Here 3) Premium TrailGroove Member? You've been automatically entered into this giveaway - like this blog post for an additional entry and chance to win! Or sign up for a premium membership anytime before 5/16 to take advantage of this benefit. 4) Optional: This isn't required and doesn't even earn additional entries, but since you're here feel free to give us a like on Facebook and a follow on Twitter below - we'd appreciate it! (And it helps us keep you up to date with any future giveaways and TrailGroove news from time to time) 5) As always, if you're new to TrailGroove or perhaps just haven't dropped by in a while, feel free to stop by the forum to jump in the discussion or just to say hello. We'll randomly draw from all entries on Monday 5/16 at 7 p.m. Mountain Time and will contact the winner here via a private message - Good luck!

Note: This Giveaway Ended 3/15/17. For our winter giveaway (and just in time!), we're giving away a new Helinox Chair Zero and the choice of any shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store! This new camp comfort seating solution from Helinox is a comfortable chair that's both packable and light enough for those backpacking and hiking excursions where some extra comfort might be on your list of priorities - for more info on the Chair Zero, take a look here at REI and read our recent review. Just make sure you're subscribed to TrailGroove and then like this blog post to let us know you'd like to be included in the drawing. That's it! Be sure to check out a Premium Membership for more chances to win. Full details below. Our review Chair Zero How to Enter 1) Like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post. Simply login with your TrailGroove account and like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post to let us know you'd like to be entered to win. New to TrailGroove? Click here to sign up for a new account - make sure to select the subscribe option on the sign up screen as well - it will help with step 2. The button you then need to click to like this post will look like the one below, albeit a bit smaller: 2) Subscribe to TrailGroove. Odds are you might already be subscribed, but you can subscribe below or verify by typing in your email if needed. (Hint: Receive an email from us about this giveaway? If so, you're subscribed!) Note that you won't be subscribed twice, so it doesn't hurt to check - make sure you're subscribed with the same email you used here for your TrailGroove account: Subscribe Here 3) Premium TrailGroove Member? You've been automatically entered into this giveaway - like this blog post for an additional entry and chance to win! You can sign up for a Premium Membership anytime before 3/15 to take advantage of this benefit. 4) Optional: This isn't required and doesn't even earn additional entries, but since you're here feel free to give us a like and follow below - it's always nice to stay in touch! (And it helps us keep you up to date with any future giveaways and TrailGroove news from time to time) .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } } 5) As always, if you're new to TrailGroove or perhaps just haven't dropped by in a while, feel free to stop by the forum to jump in the discussion or just to say hello. We'll randomly draw from all entries on Wednesday 3/15 at 7 p.m. Mountain Time and will contact the winner here via a private message - Good luck!

Note: This giveaway ended 6/2/17 For spring, we're giving away a $100 REI e-Gift Card plus your choice of a shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store! Just make sure you're subscribed to TrailGroove and then like this blog post to let us know you'd like to be included in the drawing. Full details below. How to Enter 1) Like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post. Simply login with your TrailGroove account and like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post to let us know you'd like to be entered to win. New to TrailGroove? Click here to sign up for a new account - make sure to select the subscribe option on the sign up screen as well - it will help with step 2. 2) Subscribe to TrailGroove. Odds are you might already be subscribed, but you can subscribe below or verify by typing in your email if needed. (Hint: Receive an email from us about this giveaway? If so, you're subscribed!) Note that you won't be subscribed twice, so it doesn't hurt to check - make sure you're subscribed with the same email you used here for your TrailGroove account: Subscribe Here 3) Premium TrailGroove Member? You've been automatically entered into this giveaway - like this blog post for an additional entry and chance to win! Or sign up for a premium membership anytime before 6/2 to take advantage of this benefit. 4) Optional: This isn't required and doesn't even earn additional entries, but since you're here feel free to follow us below on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram - we'd appreciate it! (And it helps us keep you up to date with any future giveaways and TrailGroove news from time to time) .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } } 5) As always, if you're new to TrailGroove or perhaps just haven't dropped by in a while, feel free to stop by the forum to jump in the discussion or just to say hello! We'll randomly draw from all entries on Friday 6/2 at Noon Mountain Time and will contact the winner here via a private message - Good luck!

Note: This giveaway ended 7/28/17. For summer, we're giving away a $100 Backcountry.com Gift Certificate plus your choice of a shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store! Just make sure you're subscribed to TrailGroove and then like this blog post to let us know you'd like to be included in the drawing. Full details below. How to Enter 1) Like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post. Simply login with your TrailGroove account and like this blog entry in the lower right hand corner of this post to let us know you'd like to be entered to win. New to TrailGroove? Click here to sign up for a new account - make sure to select the subscribe option on the sign up screen as well - it will help with step 2. The button you then need to click to like this post will look like the one below, albeit a bit smaller: 2) Subscribe to TrailGroove. Odds are you might already be subscribed, but you can subscribe below or verify by typing in your email if needed. (Hint: Receive an email from us about this giveaway? If so, you're subscribed!) Note that you won't be subscribed twice, so it doesn't hurt to check - make sure you're subscribed with the same email you used here for your TrailGroove account: Subscribe 3) Premium TrailGroove Member? You've been automatically entered into this giveaway - like this blog post for an additional entry and chance to win! Or sign up for a premium membership anytime before 7/28 to take advantage of this benefit. 4) Optional: This isn't required and doesn't even earn additional entries, but since you're here feel free to follow us below on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram - we'd appreciate it! (And it helps us keep you up to date with any future giveaways and TrailGroove news from time to time) .ig-b- { display: inline-block; } .ig-b- img { visibility: hidden; } .ig-b-:hover { background-position: 0 -60px; } .ig-b-:active { background-position: 0 -120px; } .ig-b-v-24 { width: 137px; height: 24px; background: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24.png) no-repeat 0 0; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min--moz-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (-o-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2 / 1), only screen and (min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and (min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and (min-resolution: 2dppx) { .ig-b-v-24 { background-image: url(//badges.instagram.com/static/images/ig-badge-view-sprite-24@2x.png); background-size: 160px 178px; } } 5) As always, if you're new to TrailGroove or perhaps just haven't dropped by in a while, feel free to stop by the forum to jump in the discussion or just to say hello! We'll randomly draw from all entries on Friday 7/28 at Noon Mountain Time and we'll contact the winner here via a private message - Good luck!

Gossamer Gear has been refining their ultralight oriented backpacks since 1998, including multiple iterations of the Gorilla – their medium volume framed pack. The Gorilla was redesigned in early 2015 using gray Robic fabric instead of the white Dyneema Grid fabric as seen on older packs. The shoulder straps are now unisex, more contoured, thicker, and slightly narrower than the previous version. The hip belt was also redesigned to have more padding with a mesh inner face to wick sweat. Trekking pole holders were also added along with heavier stitching for prolonged pack life. As a result, the listed weight increased slightly to 26 ounces for the size medium pack. The Gossamer Gear Gorilla at the northern terminus of the CDT. Design The Gossamer Gear Gorilla is a typical ultralight style backpack with one large main pocket, but it uses an integrated lid to close the pack. It features two large side pockets that each easily fit a 1 liter Gatorade or Nalgene bottle. There is a small zippered pocket on the non-removable lid which can fit maps or other small items, a single large mesh pocket on the front of the pack, and a pair of mesh pockets to hold the included sit pad or other compatible foam pad on the back on the pack. The pad is the only back padding of the pack to save weight. The pack also features an ice axe loop, side compression straps, and trekking pole holders. The bottom of the pack and side pockets are made of a heavier duty version of the Robic fabric to resist abrasion. The pack hip belt (available in 5 sizes) is purchased separately and has one large zippered pocket on either side, sized for 3 cliff bars or a large point and shoot camera. It is attached to the pack with a large swatch of Velcro and sandwiched between the pack and the included sit pad (or your own sleeping pad). Note that the extra-small hip belt does not include pockets. The Gorilla is available in 3 torso sizes and a pack + hip belt goes for $275. The Gorilla has been a companion on all types of hikes through all types of environments and weather. The Test I purchased my size large Gorilla nearing the end of Rachel and I’s through-hike of the Arizona Trail to replace a larger volume frameless pack that was giving me shoulder pain. I used the pack for the remaining 100 miles of the Arizona Trail (AZT), 75 miles of backpacking in Zion and Buckskin Gulch, over 2,200 miles of the Continental Divide Trail (CDT), and about 500 miles on the Grand Enchantment Trail (GET). Round it all up slightly and I have about 3,000 miles in 7 states over 7 months on this pack. I typically carried a base weight of about 12 to 14 pounds with some variation along the way. My longest food carry was 7 days and the most water I carried was about 5 liters. I used this pack both on trail and off-trail to bushwhack on the Grand Enchantment and for many cross country alternates on the CDT. Most recently, the Gorilla has served as my winter day pack for snowshoeing in Colorado. To call this a long term review would be an understatement. As a bonus, Rachel purchased a Gossamer Gear Mariposa at the end of our AZT hike and used it for the CDT and GET. She decided to downsize to the Gorilla after we got home, so I have some comparison photos of an almost brand new but size small Gorilla. Side detail of the Gossamer Gear Gorilla. Initial Impressions Prior to this pack, I was used to large volume frameless packs that had lots of excess room taken up by only partially compressing my sleeping bag and down jacket. This strategy worked well when the food carries were 5 days or less with ample on-trail water, but my shoulders were not happy with the long dry stretches on the AZT. My daily mileages were also lower than normal due to an injured partner leading to longer food and heavier water carries. The two problems led me to move to a more supportive but still lightweight framed backpack, and Gossamer Gear was the only ultralight backpack manufacturer at the time that had anything in stock. I had heard good things from my friend Section Hiker on his review of the Mariposa and “pulled the trigger” last May but opted to go for the smaller volume Gorilla. When I unboxed the pack sitting at a picnic table in front of the south rim general store, I was a little shocked by the small size in comparison to my voluminous frameless pack. How was I going to make this work exactly? I quickly realized that smarter packing was the answer and that I had all the volume I needed. My sleeping bag would have to be more compressed and instead of simply piling food in my 20 liter food bag I now had to carefully pack it, fitting smaller items in the spaces between the larger to reduce volume. Fully packed with 5 days of food and three liters of water, the Gorilla felt dense but carried much better than my old pack. The center of gravity of the pack was much closer to my body than my old pack and the shoulder straps were much more comfortable with very thick padding. The pack’s frame did an okay job of transferring weight to my hips, I would estimate about 50-75% of the 30 or so pounds the pack weight versus the 25-50% of my frameless pack. I also found that the size large fit my 21 to 22 inch size torso perfectly without much of a gap between the shoulder strap and my back. I would not recommend buying this pack if your torso measures significantly larger. I also immediately noticed several minor things I didn’t care for on the pack. Gossamer Gear sized the straps that cinch the lid and compression straps on the side of the pack excessively long and included clips on the ends of the shoulder straps. The shoulder strap clips are supposed to be clipped together to create a second lower sternum strap but the shoulder straps were the only straps not sized extra long! I tried to remove them to trim a little useless weight but was only able to get one off without pliers. In the end I decided not to cut the straps since I could foresee using the extra length for strapping snowshoes or ski’s to the pack in the distant future, which I do now. Further, the size large torso length is several inches longer than the 20-inch Gossamer Gear Nightlight sleeping pad I know and love. That meant the pad rides up the pack as you hike and exposes the lower 2 inches of the hip belt. It’s not a big issue and can be mitigated somewhat by stuffing your extra socks or liner gloves into the top of the upper pad pocket. Rachel did not have this problem with the size small pack using the same sleeping pad as her pack is shorter. Hopefully in future versions of the Gorilla, Gossamer Gear will attach the mesh pad holder separately from the top of the pack and lower so solve this issue. Backpanel view showing removable sit pad. In Use I really like the traditional layout of ultralight packs which consist of one large pocket and several exterior pockets and the Gorilla follows suit perfectly. A typical day for me involved stuffing my sleeping bag into the bottom of the pack sans stuff sack but inside a waterproof trash compactor bag, piling my sleeping clothes on top, closing the compactor bag, and adding our Fly Creek UL2 tent and gas canister on top. Next in was the 1/8” foam sleeping pad I double over and put under my legs. My food bag sat on top of everything and was accessible by opening the main compartment of the pack and held in place by stuffing my down jacket around the edges. My maps, first aid kit and repair kit, and electronics would slide in between the food bag and front of the pack. My wind jacket, rain skirt, stove, and pot lived in the front mesh pocket and umbrella in one of the side pockets held in place with the side compression straps. While hiking I could easily reach either water bottle, eat snacks from one hip belt pocket or use my camera from the other hip belt pocket. If I needed the next map, it was easily accessible in the top of the pack. Lunch breaks just meant opening the pack and accessing my food bag. Being able to continue moving without stopping for food and water is the key to putting in those big miles. The pack is not waterproof but in my experience everything waterproof eventually wears holes so you end up using some kind of pack liner anyway. The Robic fabric also doesn’t seem to soak up as much water as silnylon so a pack cover wasn’t needed. At camp, I would remove the food bag and immediately be able to access our tent, stove, down jacket, and food. The sleeping pads, sleep clothes, and quilt would come out last inside the tent. This system negates any need for a sleeping bag or other compartments in the pack, simplifying the design and shedding the weight of additional zippers, seams and fabric. After 3,000 miles, the Gorilla has impressed with its durability. 3,000 Miles Later It goes without saying that if I didn’t replace the pack for 3,000 miles that I must really like it. To me, it’s a good compromise between weight, durability and load carrying capacity. I also find the size and shape of the pack to be perfect for what I carry for 3-season backpacking and exceptionally good for off-trail travel. The narrow shape doesn’t snag on brush and the small size means my balance isn’t thrown off as badly on talus or scree as a larger pack would. However, this is a review and I want to delve into the nitty-gritty. That said, I did have some minor issues. The pack shoulder straps start extremely fluffy but quickly compress. On my size large the solid material that actually carries the load is only about half the width of the shoulder strap and squishes down the foam within one to two hundred hours of use. This puts more weight on a narrower section of the shoulder straps so I did experience some discomfort, but only with more than 25 pounds in the pack and only after hiking for close to 2 hours without taking the pack off. Part of the problem is because the hip belt lacks shape and doesn’t do a the best job transferring weight to my bony man-hips; it’s basically a rectangle with rounded corners and a wide strap across the center. In my experience hip belts with two strap attachment points further back from the edge of the belt contour to your hips better and transfer the load more efficiently – like the ULA hipbelts. In fact, my girlfriend/hiking partner Rachel converted a ULA hipbelt to work with her Gossamer Gear Mariposa by removing the Velcro and replacing it with the opposite type to match the Mariposa Velcro – apparently an easy thing to do for something with some sewing abilities. She says it made a huge difference and recommends buying the Gossamer Gear pack and a separate ULA hipbelt (if you can sew) since Gossamer Gear sells the packs without hip belts. I did not do the same because it was a minor enough problem that I could just ignore it. Like I said – it’s a compromise. You can’t expect a 26 ounce pack to carry weight like a traditional 50+ ounce pack. Other minor issues include the fact that the trekking pole holders don’t work when you set the pack on the ground. The pole tips easily push up out of the holders and the poles fall out. I think you’re better off securing them upside down in a side pocket with the side compression straps. Also when using an ice axe, the handle is secured with the top lid of the pack strap – presumably to save weight over using a dedicated Velcro loop. However, if you want to open the pack you now have to let the ice axe fall to the ground and re-secure it when you close the pack. Both are minor inconveniences but could be redesigned with just a minor increase in weight. Also a note about the weight – my pack with hipbelt and aluminum stay but no foam back pad weighs 28.5 ounces while the listed weight for the pack and hipbelt in size large is 24.8 ounces. Where the Gorilla really shines for an ultralight pack is durability. Rachel and I saw many lightweight packs fail completely on the CDT but both of our packs held up exceptionally well. Rachel’s pack had virtually no wear on it by the end of our trip, mine has multiple small holes in the front mesh, significant wear on the lower pad mesh pocket, and one tear on the water bottle pocket where it got snagged on a door latch in town. I did tear some cosmetic stitching from the right shoulder strap and reinforced it with dental floss but that was over 1,000 miles before we finished hiking with no further damage. The remainder of the stitching is in great shape. Most impressively, the hip belt zippers lasted the entire trip which to me is almost inexplicable for a zipper. Considering the amount of talus our packs were dragged across and the number of barbed wire fences we crawled under, this is a very small amount of wear for a 26 ounce pack. I think with some minor repairs to the mesh pad pocket I could easily get another multi-thousand mile hike out of this pack. Even better, it has replaced my old winter day pack as the lid easily fits snowshoes since I left the straps long as previously described. The Gorilla has proven to offer a good balance for a thru-hiking and backpacking pack for up to 7 day stretches. Conclusion Overall and in the lightweight backpack market, the Gossamer Gear Gorilla strikes a great balance between comfort, weight, durability and price and is best suited for lightweight, low volume loads for trips up to 7 days long. The pack does exceptionally well with off trail travel and is very user friendly. An average user could easily expect this pack to last a decade or more. There are some minor inconveniences that I hope Gossamer Gear will address with the next generation but in day to day use these issues amount to very little. In summary, and while there’s room for improvement my experience the Gossamer Gorilla was very good and it’s a great choice for those looking for a suitable long-distance pack that can handle the miles. The Gorilla backpack retails for $275 (with a hipbelt) and can be found at Gossamer Gear. The Author Mike "Hiker Box Special" Henrick and Rachel "Heartbreaker" Brown spent 8 months of 2015 backpacking over 3,600 miles across the American West on the Arizona, Continental Divide and Grand Enchantment Trails after meeting just two months prior. Mike thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2013 and has been bike touring, backpacking and traveling since 2008. Look for more stories from Mike and Rachel's hikes in future issues of TrailGroove Magazine and on the TrailGroove Blog.

Note: This giveaway ended 10/30/15. For fall, we're giving away a brand new Helinox Ground Chair, (Reviewed here in Issue 23) a ~22 ounce chair that's great for those more relaxed backpacking trips, day hikes, or even while car camping or just about anything else you can think of. We'll also throw in a TrailGroove hat or shirt of the winner's choosing! How to Enter: Leave a comment below on this blog entry describing the single backpacking/hiking luxury item you'd never leave behind on a backpacking/hiking trip, and why that's the case. Your comment counts as one entry. Once entered, head over to the forum for an additional entry per post between 10/24 and the giveaway drawing. (Maximum 10 entries total) Entries end Friday 10/30 at 5 p.m. Mountain Time. We'll randomly draw one winner from available entries and we'll contact the winner via a private message. The winner will receive a brand new Helinox Ground Chair, and we'll throw in any shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store. Premium Members automatically receive an entry into the drawing, and can earn up to 20 total entries! The Fine Print: For entries to count, the posts should be applicable to backpacking, hiking, the outdoors, etc., and at least somewhat constructive. For instance, we won't be able to count intentionally repeated posts, one word posts (Unless it's a really good one word post), or posts that don't meet our basic forum guidelines agreed to when you register. Essentially, we'll be able to count all normal discussion. Thanks for visiting, and good luck!

In the summer of 2009 I was sitting in a hotel room in Hirosaki, a small city in the far north of Japan’s main island of Honshu, eagerly anticipating my upcoming hike. It was to be the second big hike I’d ever gone on in Japan, and I was determined that unlike my first journey into this country’s wilderness, this one would be perfect. Unfortunately for me, though, neither of the two friends I was traveling with seemed particularly enthusiastic about hitting the trails, and we had yet to make the final decision as to whether or not we’d even be going out to the mountain. The reason we had yet to decide was because, as I had recently discovered, I’m not always the best at planning a trip. This is also where my two as-yet-unconvinced hiking partners come in, because this hike was in fact only one small part of a larger trip I was on with my friends Dan and Brian. Dan was visiting Japan for a few weeks on vacation, and Brian and I were showing him around. Since I lived in the north of Japan and Brian lived in Tokyo, we’d agreed to split the planning of this trip between us into northern and southern portions. For the southern leg of our trip, Brian had created a detailed spreadsheet of activities, including concerts, restaurants, shops, attractions, events to see, plans about reservations and tickets, and even scheduled down time. Along with that, he demonstrated a willingness to be flexible with regards to Dan’s interests and abilities. I, on the other hand, had little more than a bulleted checklist scribbled on a piece of paper. Despite that, though, and in the face of numerous other difficulties involving transportation during one of Japan’s biggest and most travel-intensive holidays, we had arrived here in Hirosaki, near the base of Mt. Iwaki, and it seemed like the perfect place to go hiking if you needed to keep a flexible schedule. There’s a toll road that goes most of the way up the mountain, with buses that run along it every so often, and also a cable car from the parking lot at the end of the road that takes customers to within half an hour of reaching the peak. In other words, if the object of the trip was to quickly get to the summit, enjoy the view, and get back to town, that could easily be accomplished. On the other hand, for someone more interested in an authentic hiking experience, there is also an old path starting at a Japanese shrine where you can trek up the mountain from its base. According to the internet, the estimated time from the start of this trail to the summit was about four hours. Armed with these facts, I made my case for climbing the mountain to my two friends who were, it seemed to me, leaning towards just getting out of this place already. I argued that we could spend the full four hours climbing up from the base, then take the cable car down the other side and catch a bus back into Hirosaki. This would both save us some time and give us the chance to see all that the mountain had to offer. I would have liked to take the trail both ways myself, seasoned hiker with one whole mountain’s worth of experience that I was, but I knew my friends probably wouldn’t go for it. Somehow I managed to convince them that this would be a good idea, and then it was merely a matter of coordinating how we would get to and from the mountain, which was about an hour outside the city. I found out when the last cable car ride would be, and we based the time we would need to arrive by off of that. Remembering the rain and mud from my last hike, I was also quite sure to check the weather repeatedly, but the forecast was for a nice, sunny day. It looked like everything was good to go. Looks, however, can be deceiving, and by the time this hike was over I’d be wondering whether I should ever be allowed to plan anything ever again. To begin with, we were not well prepared. Nobody had hiking gear of any kind except for Brian, who’d thought to bring along a backpack that we used to store a few bottles of water. Also, there was the issue of finding the trail that we hadn’t considered. Since there’s a perfectly accessible parking lot and cable car on the other side of the mountain, not many people walk the path from the shrine anymore, leaving it a thin, overgrown thing that was a real challenge to locate at times, especially at the beginning. At the shrine Hiking Mount Iwaki Fortunately, we could ask for directions at the shrine, and as we started on our way we discovered an old signpost that told us how far we had to go in both distance and time. Once again the time estimate was about four hours, and we wasted no time beginning our ascent. Or at least, we soon began fighting our way through the woods. The first part of the trail was so thick with vegetation that it was difficult to go forward. Also, a lot of the greenery had grown up over the top of the path, making it nearly impossible to stand up straight. So we all hunched forward, stumbling along a thin path through the woods with what we all hoped was the trail turning to mud at our feet. At first I wasn’t sure why there was any mud involved at all, since the forecast had been so promising, but we soon found that the path involved crossing over a small stream before starting up the mountain in earnest. We also discovered another error in planning on my part, because though I had checked the weather, I hadn’t paid attention to the temperature. Yes, it was the middle of summer, and I knew it would be fairly hot, but Aomori is located pretty far up north and the weather had been mild for the past few days. How bad could it be? As it turns out, it could be very bad indeed. It got so bad, in fact, that within half an hour of starting up the trail I was already drenched in sweat. I felt miserably hot, my clothes had been reduced to a soggy, clinging mess, and I was stumbling along through the mud unable to even stand up straight. Besides all that, I had only the most vague assurance that the path we were following was actually the correct way up the mountain. All I could count on was that the plants were so thick everywhere else that this seemed like the only viable option. When we got to an area where things finally cleared up a bit and everyone could stretch out and rehydrate, thanks to Brian and his carrying that water, we were nearly on the point of turning around and putting an end to this once and for all. Two things stopped us. First was the thought of having to walk all the way back through the area we’d just gotten out of. Second was the signpost that we discovered collapsed nearby. Like the first post, this one included an estimate of how much further we would have to go in order to reach the summit, and despite our having only been on the trail for half an hour, it clearly said we were now only three hours from the top. This was extremely encouraging, since it meant we were moving about twice as fast as the estimates had indicated that we would. Still feeling pretty miserable, but emboldened and not wanting to retread the terrible section of trail we’d just staggered through, we continued on our way. Every now and then we’d pass another fallen signpost, and joke about the strength of our long foreign legs. After all, we were practically flying up the mountain, and the path itself seemed to reflect our newfound sense of confidence. Vegetation became sparse and less intrusive. Once or twice, we could actually look back out over the trail we’d covered and get a sense of how far we’d come. This was turning into quite a pleasant hike. After we’d been on the trail for about two hours, though, we began to get tired. A nonstop uphill climb does take its toll after a while, and some parts of the trail were very steep. Still, we reasoned that by now we must be closing in on the summit, and since we’d caught sight of a couple of hikers coming down the trail in the opposite direction, we decided to wait and ask if we were anywhere close to the summit. One of the two hikers looked at us like we were crazy and said we were a good two hours or so from the top, while the other jokingly answered that yes, we could just go straight for another five minutes and take a left. Confused by this advice, we decided to simply continue on, hoping for the best but aware that we may in fact still have a long way to go. What we were close to, it turned out, was the mountain hut, which in this case was just a small, unmanned rest house. There we looked over the maps and signposts on display and, much to our chagrin, found that we had only traveled a little more than half the distance to the summit. So much for those long foreigner legs of ours. Apparently we were in for a four-hour climb after all. This was of course dispiriting, but I didn’t let myself feel too down about it. If it hadn’t been for that earlier mistake, we might never have made it this far. And now that we were this far, things only seemed to be improving. The increase in elevation had tempered the heat, the trail was now clearly marked and well-traveled, and we’d reached a natural water source where we could rest and replenish our supplies before moving on. It was as if the higher up the mountain we got, the better everything else was getting too. This even seemed to include the scenery. Up until now, we’d mostly been looking at small shrubs and tree roots while watching out for overhead branches and focusing on the trail. Now we’d reached the point where the trees had mostly stopped growing, so when we looked around we could see lots of deep green grasses, rich mineral hues in the rock faces, and an expanse of forested areas and farms below. There were also long, thin clearings with houses and shops clustered around the barely-visible lines of roads beneath us, faint signs of modern life in an otherwise green landscape. Before long, clouds began blowing past us on the mountain as well, many of them below us now, obscuring the path we’d been climbing and covering our surroundings with a bright sheen. It made it feel as if we were walking along at the top of a world untouched, still wet and fresh and new. Then, as we got to within half an hour of the summit, just before our path merged with the one leading up from the cable car, there was a brief flattening of the mountainside, revealing a peaceful pool of water surrounded by green grass and wreathed in mist. There was a kind of serenity to the place, emphasized by the feel of the now-cool mountain air on my skin, the fresh alpine scent, and the pervading sense of natural isolation. It was a stirring sight, one that would almost have made all the trouble we’d had at the beginning of the climb worth it in and of itself. Towards the top, the landscape suddenly seemed to transform. To the Summit All three of us took our time admiring this sudden transformation of the landscape, until finally we had to move on. Then the path led us to a change just as abrupt as when that pool had come into view as soon as we’d gotten over the next rise. We’d reached the final section of the hike, where the path grew crowded with people who’d taken the easy option and the entire area grew rocky. Despite the sudden presence of these crowds, though, by the time we reached the summit, it felt magical. There was something almost visceral to the feeling that I was now standing on a giant piece of rock thrust up above the clouds, surrounded by both friends and strangers alike. After four hours of almost constant climbing I was thoroughly exhausted, but also immensely satisfied. The scenery had been amazing, and the act of actually climbing the whole way made me feel both accomplished and like I’d had a much deeper experience with the mountain. The hike itself had almost perfectly mirrored my feelings about it, starting out difficult and conflicted, and constantly improving as we went along until finally culminating in triumph. Still, I was glad that we planned on taking the bus back into town. My friends seemed to have had a similar reaction to my own. There had been a number of moments when we had seriously questioned hiking the mountain at all, not to mention tackling it the way we had, but everyone was happy we’d decided to do this in the end. So, feeling both tired and proud, we all climbed into one of the last cable cars and descended to the parking lot nearby where we planned to catch a bus. And that’s when we discovered that the last bus had, in fact, left hours ago. This is not the kind of problem one expects to encounter at the end of a hike, nor is it an entirely welcome one to deal with when you’re exhausted. Since we’d gotten off the lift so late, we were now pretty much the only people left on the mountain. The sun would be setting soon, and even if we did manage to get a ride down to the edge of the toll road, we were still at least 45 minutes outside Hirosaki, where our hotel was. To top it all off, after all our efforts to cool down when we were at the base of the mountain, here at the summit it was quite chilly. Once again, I’d failed to plan appropriately, and we were all essentially stranded. Fortunately, I had made sure to get the number of the local taxi company the previous day, and I had a working cell phone signal, so I was able to call and have them send a car. It was to be the most expensive cab ride of my life. But even with everything that went wrong, still more had ended up going right. Somehow, we’d all managed to have a great time out on this crazy hike, and that made me feel like maybe it would be worth planning more trips like it in the future. Need to Know Information Mt Iwaki (岩木山) stands as the highest peak in Aomori prefecture with an elevation of 1,625 meters (5,331 feet). It is also sometimes referred to as “Tsugaru Fuji” because of its conical shape and its location in the Tsugaru region of Aomori. An inactive volcano, its last eruption was on March 23, 1863. No permits are required to hike it, and the toll road leading to a chair lift on one side of the mountain makes it a relatively accessible climb if you’re in the area. (in Japanese) The website can be browsed for the timetable of the bus that runs to the Mt. Iwaki Shrine and Dake Onsen. It also includes the relevant times for the Skyline Shuttle bus in blue. The table on the left with pink headers includes times going to the mountain while the table on the right with blue headers has the times heading back to Hirosaki station. Times listed in red do not run on weekends or holidays. Best Time to Go Mt. Iwaki is most safely ascended between early June and late October. During the winter there is an avalanche risk near the summit, and there can be quite a lot of snow on the mountain until after the rainy season. My recommendation would be to climb it in late June or early July as that will also be your best chance at seeing a unique variety of primrose (known as the Michinoku- or Iwaki-Kozakura) near the 9th station (located at the top of the chairlift). Getting There For the shuttle to the chairlift, catch a bus going to Karekidai (枯木平) from stop number 6 outside Hirosaki station. Get off at Dake Onsen (岳温泉) and transfer to the Skyline Shuttle Bus (スカイラインシャトルバス) heading for the 8th station (八合目). The chairlift will then take you to the 9th station where you can easily hike to the summit. Note that the Skyline Shuttle Bus is not in operation from mid-November to mid-May. For the full hike, take the same bus from Hirosaki station but get off at the stop for the Mt. Iwaki Shrine (Iwakisanjinjamae [岩木山神社前]) instead. Maps See the official website for further details and maps. Books While there aren’t any books specifically about Mt. Iwaki, it is one of the 100 famous mountains of Japan, which were originally chosen by the author Kyuya Fukada in his book of the same name, a translation of which is now finally available in English here on Amazon.

It is one thing to conceptually understand that you have the gear to bivy at 7,500 feet in the Northern Rockies with a forecast of six degrees below zero. It is another thing entirely to find yourself in circumstances where you end up having to do exactly that. And it was in such circumstances that I found myself on the last night of the year. Perhaps I shouldn’t have turned down that invitation to a New Year’s Eve party after all. At the trailhead The Trip Begins I left home that morning later than I would’ve liked and drove for more than five minutes but less than five hours to the trailhead. Montana, Idaho, Washington, Wyoming...all within striking distance given the equation of time and space using motorized transportation. Discretion is the better part of many things in life, including keeping special places special by not indiscriminately broadcasting their details on the Internet. Hoisting my pack and stepping into snowshoes shortly after noon, I began what would be one of the most challenging hikes I’ve ever had the joy of undertaking. From where I parked to the lookout tower where I planned to spend the night was a bit over five miles. The last two miles gained over 2,000 feet of elevation in the final ascent to the ridge. Intimidating, but certainly not impossible. I had gone less than a hundred feet up the road (the first three miles were on a snow-covered road, the remainder on an indistinct trail) before I recognized the enormity of the effort that would be required. I was sinking in at least half a foot with each step and the weight of the snowshoes on each foot conspired with gravity to make each step forward feel like it used twice the effort, and twice the muscle groups, as it should have. Given the conditions, I made surprisingly good time on the first section, arriving at the “summer” trailhead in just under two hours. Blue skies and temperatures in the mid-teens made it a crisp, beautiful day. The sun glowed warmly without the faintest atmospheric obstruction and was high enough to allow me plenty of time to cover the remaining ground at a reasonable pace. I sipped some water, ate a quick snack, enjoyed some coffee from my thermos, and began the crux of my trip up to the lookout tower. Two thousand feet of climbing in just over two miles, in snowshoes, with a winter-weight pack, is not a task to underestimate. Add in the fact that the guidebook noted some minor routefinding issues and it goes without saying that the last section of this hike required mental effort commensurate with the physical. In good shape and experienced with backcountry navigation, I deliberately and confidently began the uphill grind. And it was a grind in every sense of the word. I found myself having to stop much more often than anticipated simply to catch my breath. I also found myself having to stop much more often than I would have liked to make sure my sense of direction was functioning correctly. Attempting to follow the trail would have been a futile effort, although our paths did overlap from time to time. Two feet of snow made it indistinguishable for most of its length, even to a keen eye, but I did pick up on it for several sections of switchbacks as I climbed toward the ridge and the shelter of the lookout. Sidehilling for a mile or so in snowshoes with a pack is physically demanding. On the bright side, it turned out to be a great warm up for bootkicking steps into ridiculously steep sections of mountainside to continue forward and upward progress. In a cruel twist of fate, just as the terrain reached its zenith of difficulty, I began to notice the unmistakable signs of fatigue and a hint of minor frostnip in my toes. It was taking me longer to get up when I fell; and I fell more times than I can count on two hands. I couldn’t catch my breath. Snack, water, and coffee breaks helped, but were a double-edged sword. The brief respite from activity amplified the chilling, damp discomfort in my toes. I’d figured my normal high-top, waterproof hiking boots would be sufficient for this trip. Wrong. Proper snow boots are now at the top of my fortunately short list of gear to buy. It was late in the afternoon, during one of the bittersweet breaks, that I found myself confronted with the possibility that I might not make it to the lookout. This was concerning, but not panic inducing. Nothing I could do but continue on until I reached the lookout or an alternate reality for the evening was imposed on me. So onward I pushed. An alternate reality was imposed on me about a half-hour before sunset when I reached the ridgecrest, exhausted, knowing that regardless of how close I was to the lookout that continuing vaguely toward it, with my right thigh cramping, my toes numbing, and judgment declining, would be foolhardy and unsafe. Part of good judgment is knowing how to avoid situations where you will be tempted to make a bad decision. Setting up a bivy seemed to be a more prudent choice than pushing toward the lookout in steep terrain, fatigued, in the dark. So that is how on New Year’s Eve I found myself stamping out a spot in the snow to throw down my bivy sack, insert my sleeping pad and sleeping bag, and spend the night under the stars. I’d picked as nice a spot to bivy as possible – reasonably flat, sheltered by a few trees, and oriented for maximum exposure to the warming rays of the morning sun. All things considered, I was rather comfortable after changing into dry baselayers, a midweight wool layer, a down jacket, and sliding into my sleeping bag. By the time I’d gotten myself situated and was ready to fire up my stove and make dinner the first stars were shining overhead. It was when I attempted to pressurize the stove (MSR Whisperlite) that I experienced an “Oh, crap...” type of moment that can make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. This was due to the fact that the plunger on the pump system was seemingly stuck and nearly impossible to operate. I figured maybe it was frozen, so I wrapped it in a bandana and put it against my body, ate a large chocolate bar, and waited for it to warm up. Fifteen minutes later and still no luck. This was going to take some troubleshooting. I’d spilled some curry paste on the plunger last winter during a cross-country ski tour, but had replaced everything affected by that culinary catastrophe, including the rubber pump cup. But this problem showed eerily similar symptoms, and lo and behold, it was a faulty pump cup. Tired as I’ve ever been, in single digit temperatures, I replaced and lubricated the pump cup by headlamp and hoped for the best. The sight of the flame priming the fully pressurized stove was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen. That flame meant warm food, warm drinks, and plenty of water from melted snow. It’s absence would’ve meant gorging on Clif bars and trail mix, rationing my remaining half-liter of water and mixing it with a handful or two of snow at a time to melt inside my sleeping bag, then hiking out the next morning. But the flame was there, the stove repaired, and I enjoyed perhaps the best tasting pasta and tuna, with fresh spinach, mushrooms and grated cheese mixed in, that I’ve ever had. After devouring my dinner, I filled my thermos with hot chocolate, filled two Nalgene bottles with warm water from melted snow and dropped them into my sleeping bag, organized my gear as best as I could, and then took two sips of single-barrel bourbon before laying down and gazing at the stars until I feel asleep. Happy New Year’s. I slept soundly and warmly through the calm night, but woke up a few times just long enough to notice that the constellations had shifted and that time wasn’t standing still. I awoke around sunrise and laid in my bag patiently waiting for the warming promise of the sun to be fulfilled. Taking it slow, it wasn’t until 10:30 a.m. that I found myself packed up and heading toward to the lookout. In an amusing twist of fate, I’d camped less than a quarter-mile from the lookout. From the time I left my bivy site to the time I was opening the door on the lookout was no more than half an hour. I don’t think I’d ever been so glad to see a manmade structure in all my years of backpacking. And what a setting the structure was in! Endless mountain views, with several mountains above 9,000 feet pushing skyward, and one peak over 10,000 feet being the focal point of one of the grandest skylines I’ve seen. The lookout tower is an indescribably special place. No locks, no fees, no reservations. Officially abandoned by any government agency, it is for use at your own risk and for your own pleasure. Some great stories are recorded for posterity in the logbooks and the worn floorboards and weathered shutters tell a story of their own. Unsung heroes keep up with the constant maintenance informally but effectively. I entered the lookout and set about reversing the task I’d completed less than an hour before, pulling gear out of my pack and arranging it in some semblance of order. While nothing was exceedingly damp, I took advantage of the clotheslines stretched across the ceiling and aired out all the gear and clothes I wasn’t using or wearing. As I made my way around the lookout’s catwalk and opened the shutters, I took time to appreciate the stunning vantage from each cardinal direction. Sun filled the lookout as I organized my gear and my thoughts, spending much more time with the latter than the former. The day unfolded at a perfect and purposeless pace, with my only accomplishments of note being much needed stretching, reading all the log book entries (including one dated September 11, 2001; the author completely unaware of the tragic events unfolding in the world at large) and arranging the notebooks in chronological order. I arranged the entries in subject order in my head; you can take the man out of the library but you can’t always take the library out of the man. Although there was a cast iron stove and plenty of firewood, I decided to forego that luxury and simply wore enough layers to be comfortable. Although it was in the low 20s outside, the sunlit sanctuary of the lookout was noticeably warmer, or at least it felt that way. I paged through a year-old magazine, reading an enthralling article about ancient manuscripts saved from looters in Timbuktu, and ate a delicious mid-afternoon snack of white cheddar cheese, gouda cheese, and jerky, washed down with a few sips of bourbon. It was New Year’s Day and, in my defense, my ability to celebrate on New Year’s Eve was a bit hindered by location and circumstance. Here’s to hard-earned and delayed gratification, the best kind in my humble opinion. Wanting to make the most of the amazing view from the catwalk, I brewed up some tea just prior to sunset so I’d have a warm beverage to sip as I soaked up the sunset with every sense available to me. Tasting the air, seeing the colors meld together and simultaneously lighten and deepen, truly hearing the silence and the creaks of the catwalk which occasionally interrupted it, feeling the chill breeze across my face. That was the easy part. Trying to fully contextualize myself and better appreciate such a vast landscape proved impossible. Gazing out at mountains near and far and mulling over the passing of another year, one of millions seen by the mountains and one of less than a hundred I’ll likely see, themes of timelessness and endlessness were hard to avoid. The phrase “forever ain’t as long as it is wide” came to mind and never really left for the rest of the evening. I ducked inside to enjoy dinner, then put on all my insulating layers and took my closed-cell foam sleeping pad out onto the catwalk for a four-hour shift of stargazing. Artificially and unnecessarily aided by a choice selection of music and bourbon, I laid outside from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m., moving from one section of the catwalk to another and laying on my back gazing up at the stars with an attentiveness bordering on entrancement. After seeing a dozen shooting stars and the Milky Way establish itself with awe-inspiring intensity above the silhouetted mountains, I called it a night. Zipping myself into my bag in the shelter of the lookout was a much more reassuring way to transition to a night of sleep than crawling into the bag inside a bivy sack. My first night of rest in the new year was blissful. However, determined to use the perspective of the lookout to its full potential, through sheer force of will I removed myself from the comfort of down feathers and synthetic fabrics, placed my feet on the frigid floorboards, arose and dressed, and exposed myself to the elements to witness the beauty of sunrise. The second day of the new year dawned crisp, clear and full of promise – my spirits rising with the sun and my soul swelling. The power of place and rejuvenation resulting from a pure focus on the beauty of the workings of the planet cannot be understated. Dawn and dusk from the lookout added incredible colors to the already stellar view. The Trail Out As the sun rose in its inevitable arc above the mountains and it rays illuminated the landscape, I packed up my gear and attended to closing up the lookout. Shutters were lowered and latched. The floor swept, the tables wiped down. Leaving the lookout was an emotional challenge on the same level with the physical challenge of arriving. It’s always incredible to me the sense of comfort and sanctuary that can be gained from spending less than 24 hours in such beautiful and special places. I followed my tracks on the descent, but also opted to shortcut them in a few places. Owing gratitude in no particular order to gravity, a substantially lighter pack from consumption of food and fuel, and the lack of routefinding, my descent took half the time as my ascent had two days prior. For the second day in a row, the sun shined with a pleasant ferocity that allowed every aspect of the environment – the snow, the ponderosa pine bark, the spruce needles – to shine with a radiant and contagious joy. I made it back to the trailhead early in the afternoon, stretched, changed, and put the wheels in motion to return home. This brief trip gave me much to ponder on the way home. I’d ended up with more “adventure” than I’d planned on, but not more than I was prepared for. Not necessarily a bad thing in backpacking or when applied to most aspects of human experience. The passing of one year to the next and of life and time in general weighed heavily on me as I traveled along the highway at 55 miles per hour, which was about 55 times faster than my pace had been when I was passing through the forest on my way to the lookout. The thoughts on existence and emotion that I’d found myself immersed in at the lookout continued to run through my mind on the drive home. While the drive had an end in sight, the sentiments seemed to be infinite in nature. As usual, I found myself comforted by poignant lyrics which fit the time and place perfectly, and which seem a perfect way to end this particular trip report: There’s a stretch of road in Wyoming across a timeless interstate You can drive a hundred miles and not see a Wyoming license plate Just some truckers and some hard-luck bands on tour In stormy weather Nobody actually lives there, they’re all just passing through... We’re only passing through We’re all just passing through We’re passing through indeed, through life and landscapes, with people and places changing at varying paces. Sometimes predictable, sometimes not. I can only hope that I pass through more places as special as this lookout and remember to truly value the people in my life who are passing through it with me and to whom I return from my journeys to the backcountry. First light illuminating the high peaks Need to Know Information For liability, specific information about this lookout is not included. Many books, listed below, provide information about lookout towers and information about visiting and/or renting them if available. You can also search recreation.gov for "lookout" and see which lookouts are available for rent. For more on backpacking to fire lookouts, see this Issue 44 article. Maps & Books Numerous books provide information about lookout towers; this list is a great place to start. Plenty of books are available such as Fire Season: Field Notes from a Wilderness Lookout as well as Hiking Washington's Fire Lookouts. The Forest Fire Lookout Association has a wealth of information on their website. The Author Mark Wetherington is an avid backpacker and occasional writer. Since 2008 he has attempted, with varying degrees of success, to spend 10% of each year on backpacking trips. Born in Tennessee and raised in Kentucky, he now lives on the edge of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness in Montana.

In typical backpacker fashion, I did my solemn duty of taking off the Thursday before a federal holiday falling on a Friday to schedule a two-night trip followed by a day of rest. A stroke of good fortune allowed me to book Christmas Eve and Christmas night at a small, rustic Forest Service rental cabin in the mountains of the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest. Given the frigid forecast, it was well worth the nominal fee to know that after skiing around all day I’d have four walls, a roof, and a wood stove to wind down in and not have to put in the full effort required of winter backpacking in the northern Rockies. Skiing to Hogan Cabin Parked at noon on Christmas Eve, I skied away from Chief Joseph Pass under overcast but nonthreatening skies. It was in the mid-teens, but I shed my hardshell jacket within a mile of the trailhead. I’d forgotten how much effort cross-country skiing with a pack took and was grateful that it was only six miles to the cabin, on a slightly downhill grade. My gratitude mixed with distraction and enchantment at the snow-covered landscape and my blissful inattention led to me missing the painfully obvious turn to the cabin. By the time I reached the cabin, around 3:30 p.m., I’d skied closer to nine miles than the six I'd planned on. I rarely comment on footwear, but I was glad to be out of ski boots and in down booties as I worked at getting a fire started in the wood stove. As a consistently non-traditional individual (please forgive or embrace the contradiction), I spent Christmas Eve in a quintessential Christmas scene, sitting beside a crackling fire watching snow fall from the window of a snow-covered cabin in a stand of evergreens on the edge of a meadow, while doing absolutely nothing related to Christmas. I stretched to try and loosen up my muscles, with a slight degree of success. I unpacked and arranged my gear in what seemed like a logical manner. I listened to a bit of music (Palace Brothers) and read from a travel-worn book of poetry by David Berman and from “Outer Dark” by Cormac McCarthy. Each of these three were perhaps equally incongruent with the time and place, but somehow it worked. After a filling meal of mushroom ravioli and pesto, and a glass of pinot grigio, I took a brief stroll outside to admire the scenery. It was too cloudy for moonlight skiing, but perfect conditions to stand outside in the single-digit temperatures and ponder the vastness of the planet with as much or as little effort as desired. I tucked myself into bed at an embarrassingly early hour and hoped that Santa might bring some fresh muscles to me overnight. I awoke on Christmas morning to a chilly cabin, slightly stiff legs, and an inch or so of powdery snow. No complaints. I made a quick breakfast, packed up my gear for the day, and headed out the door into crisp temperatures and a cloudy but clearing sky. About halfway through my 8-mile loop I encountered the trail groomer (the forest roads in the area are machine-groomed for skiing by the Bitterroot Cross-Country Ski Club) and stepped off the road to let him pass. We exchanged brief pleasantries and I received some unpleasant news. A close friend of the groomer’s had been solo backcountry skiing two days earlier and was missing; presumed dead. I offered my condolences and we spoke with detached but intense mortality about the dangers of beautiful places before wishing each other well and parting ways. Needless to say, that exchange didn’t exactly lighten my mood. It was a somber and introspective event as I skied back toward the cabin. Successfully resisting melancholy, I reflected considerably on the themes of loss, of love, of change, and rattled through my mental catalog of personal experiences in each category. The miles slid by on the freshly groomed road as people, places, and decisions streamed across my internal projector and bubbled into my consciousness. Some of these I examined with more purpose than others; some it was almost like watching someone else’s life, especially when speculating on the what-might’ve-beens. But as always, truth and reality were most certainly stranger than fiction or speculation. This should perhaps be a mere footnote, but I’ve always found strange solace when ruminating on loss or love, or loss of love, in the poetic profundity of a specific line in one of the songs penned by David Berman: I asked a painter why the roads are colored black He said, “Steve, it’s because people leave and no highway brings them back." Not exactly Zen Buddhism, but I’ve always found more than enough to ponder upon. And ponder I did – about certainty, finality, mortality. All good in moderation, I suppose. I arrived back at the cabin in mid-afternoon and immediately started a fire to warm the cabin. While waiting for the stove to heat up, I warmed myself by hauling a few loads of wood from the barn on a sled and splitting some for the next guests. More tired, both physically and mentally, than I had anticipated, I enjoyed some tea and read a few chapters before indulging in a brief nap. It was nearing dusk when I awoke and I stoked the fire, ate a large snack, and got excited about the clearing skies and the prospect of skiing under a full moon. It took a couple of hours, and I had to kill some time by reading, writing a letter to a friend, and taking a cautious sip or two of bourbon, but the clouds thinned out and I was able to enjoy the sublime pleasure of moonlight skiing. Gliding across an expansive meadow illuminated in a monochromatic and surreal light is something I would highly recommend. Not having to rely on the beam of a headlamp to enjoy a landscape after sunset is such a freeing and novel experience. The quiet, the beauty, the vastness – all were amplified by the moonlight and I skied aimlessly outside for the better part of an hour before returning to the cabin. I’d worked up an appetite and consumed my meal of Thai peanut noodles with chili-lime jerky and fresh-squeezed lime juice in record time. A satisfying meal any time or place, but particularly enjoyable on a cold night after skiing. I stretched some more after dinner and did what bit of pre-packing I could to ensure an early start and limit the chance I would forget something (I was successful on both counts). More reading and I was ready for bed; with a full stomach and tired body I fell asleep quickly. The Trip Out I woke a half-hour before sunrise and began packing up by lantern light. Two cups of coffee, a light breakfast, and a few simple housekeeping chores later and I was heading out the door. I stepped into my skies under an impossibly blue sky in temperatures a few degrees shy of zero and began the six-mile trip back to the trailhead. The trip out was pleasant and I was alone on the trail for the most part, although a caravan of snowmobiles briefly interrupted my reverie. In keeping with my eclectic entertainment choices on this trip, I listened to the criminally under-appreciated Beach Boys album “Friends”. Featuring excellent harmonies, but much deeper lyrics than their more radio-friendly material, this seemingly absurd choice was actually a great soundtrack. Certain lines just fit right in with the glorious sunshine and positive energy of aerobic activity in an idyllic setting: Your life is beautiful A seed becomes a tree A mountain into a sky This life is meant to be, oh Now is the time, life begins I reached the lively trailhead just before noon and it brought a smile to my face to see so many others out enjoying a beautiful day in the mountains. Not wishing to delay the inevitable, I packed up and changed into fresh clothes and then headed out. Rather than head straight home, I made the 40-mile detour to Jackson Hot Springs for a soak and a late lunch. It was a beautiful trip, which is a compliment I rarely pay to journeys taken on pavement, through the lonesome Big Hole Valley to Jackson. I think I saw as many mountain ranges as I did other cars. Pioneers, Beaverheads, Anaconda-Pintlers. Dodge, Ford, Honda. Soaking in a hot spring is a treat that needs no justification, but it always feels even better after a hiking or skiing trip. Watching steam float from the outdoor pool into the blue sky to mix in with the few clouds overhead was a great way to wind down what might be my last backpacking trip of the year. Forty-two nights backpacking in 2015, each one incredible in its own right. By the time I left the hot spring I was already planning well into 2016, thinking about which new places to explore and which favorites to visit again. All I knew for certain was that there wouldn’t be enough holidays or vacations for half the adventures I had planned. Need to Know Information Visitors are requested to sign in at the trailhead. Hogan Cabin can be booked via recreation.gov by searching "Hogan Cabin" and completing the reservation process. For additional information, call the Wisdom Ranger District of the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest at (406) 689-3243. Getting There The trailhead for Chief Joseph Pass and its system of cross-country ski trails is located on Montana Highway 43 a mile or so east of the junction with US Highway 93, near the Montana-Idaho border. Missoula, Montana is the nearest major town (about 100 miles away), although most goods and services can be procured in Darby, Montana or Salmon, Idaho. Best Time to Go The best time to go is somewhat dependent on snow, but anytime from December to early March should be good conditions on groomed trails. Maps & Books Maps can be obtained from the US Forest Service ranger stations in the area, as well as a nifty brochure map published by the Bitterroot Cross-Country Ski Club that should be available at the trailhead registration booth. This area is also exceedingly well-signed, with maps posted on trees at each major junction. The Delorme Atlas and Gazetteer and / or the Benchmark Montana Atlas can help with getting to and from the trailhead, and can be a help when it comes to exploring other Montana hiking (or skiing) opportunities. For additional ideas on hikes in the state, see Hiking Montana. The Author Mark Wetherington is an avid backpacker and occasional writer. Since 2008 he has attempted, with varying degrees of success, to spend 10% of each year on backpacking trips. Born in Tennessee and raised in Kentucky, he now lives on the edge of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness in Montana.

With so many places to explore in Montana, it might seem a bit strange to visit the same place for a second time – much less a third time. But one lake in particular has drawn me back to it three times over the last few years. My first visit to this lake was coincidentally my first summer in Montana. My eagerness for mountain scenery led me to visiting it so early (late May) that even though it had been a mild winter, the lake was still frozen over and although the scenery was magical I wasn’t able to fish it. That trip also resulted in a memory that made an impression on me and that I’ve succeeded in avoiding repeating – camping on top of slowly melting snow in a thunderstorm. It was four years before I would visit the lake again, this time in mid-June. I hoped the extra two weeks of warm temperatures would allow me to arrive right as the lake completed its thaw and might provide excellent fishing. No such luck – the lake was approximately 90% covered in ice, only a swimming pool sized area near the outlet stream was open water. I descended to a nearby and much larger lake that, a thousand feet lower, was totally free of ice and even warm enough for a brisk swim. Or perhaps it could better be described as “barely warm enough to not make hypothermia a certainty”. A few fish were rising on that lake, but none were interested in the flies I tossed out. It should be mentioned that this lake is not an easily reached or often visited body of water. The trail that leads up to it has long been abandoned and its description in a guidebook was equal parts discouraging and intriguing. Sweetening the description of a seldom visited, unnamed lake was the comment that “a cutthroat fishery thrives in these deep, cold waters.” I hoped to finally get to see for myself what swam beneath the lake’s beautiful waters that reflected sheer granite cliffs stretching toward the crest of the Bitterroot Mountains. According to the guidebook, I’d already succeeded in perhaps the toughest part of reaching the lake which is simply knowing where to begin the 1000 foot climb from the trail that passes along the shore of the lower lake. While that description – of the toughest part being where to know where to turn off onto the faint trail to the lake – may have been true a decade or two ago, since the trail has all but disappeared I would counter that the steep ascent from thick brush and downed trees is the most difficult part. After my most recent experience with hiking to the lake, I’m not entirely sure I will do it again. Conveniently, it will compel me to visit new areas. On the downside, it makes me wary of returning to an absolutely beautiful lake that has (spoiler alert) decent fishing and two stellar side-trip options, only one of which I’ve done in its entirety. Return to the Bitterroots On a beautiful mid-July day, I hiked the 8.5 miles to the large lake where I then began the real effort of my day – hiking another 1000 feet (I’d already gained 2000 feet to reach the first lake) off-trail to the unnamed lake where I would spend the night. Despite having done it twice before, the final push up to the lake really made a miserable impression on me this time. The steepness, the unstable footing, and the downed trees all seemed worse this time around. After finally making it to the lake, it was like seeing it for the first time as it wasn’t covered in ice. The beauty of this place had blown me away on the previous trips, but finally seeing it in its summer scene was incredible. Snowdrifts still abounded in the shady spots and some went all the way down to the shore of the lake. A lovely and tall waterfall provided a charming soundtrack as it cascaded down the granite slopes and entered the lake. I’ve been to over a hundred mountain lakes ranging from Glacier National Park, the Olympics, the Cascades, and the Northern Rockies and this is one is definitely among my favorites. After admiring the scenery and scanning the water for rising trout (none that I could see), I hastily set up camp and then headed over to a large granite ramp that went to the water’s edge and which would make an ideal place to cast from. A dozen casts later – perfect casts, in my eyes – I began to worry that maybe the trout, like the trail, had become a shadow of their former selves or disappeared completely from the lake. Between deep freezes and other environmental factors, it is not out of the question for lakes to go “dead” from time to time. Fortunately, a few casts later a beautiful cutthroat trout took my fly and ran with it. After releasing that fish, I began to see a few of the tell-tale circles dot the water and I realized that there were plenty other fish to catch. I caught another half-dozen trout before stopping to eat dinner and caught a few more after that. My luck didn’t hold out the next morning and I left the lake on a beautiful cross-country trip to a basin filled with beautiful (but fishless) tarns on my way back to the trailhead. Despite it not being a record-breaking outing for my personal fishing stats, I’d succeed in something I’d set out to do several years prior and that was a satisfying feeling. Apparently, the third time was a charm! Information No permits are required for backpacking in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. The USFS Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness map set (north and south half) is sufficient for most navigation, but using CalTopo or similar software to print more detailed maps is recommended if you plan on doing much cross-country hiking. Cairn Cartographics also offers north half and south half maps for the Selway-Bitterroot. Most subalpine lakes in the Bitterroot Mountains aren't ice-free until late June. Elevation and aspect impact this to a large degree, but by early July in most years you can rest assured that pretty much all lakes will be ice-free. And once they're ice-free, the trout are usually pretty hungry and eager for dry flies! By mid-October most lakes are starting to freeze again. It's a cruelly short window, but worth planning to make the most of it. Hiking the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness by Scott Steinberg (Falcon Press) is a useful resource for planning trips. For more information, see TrailGroove Issue 41 for our guide on exploring the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.

The Red Desert of Wyoming holds a unique appeal no matter your approach – it’s a country just as suitable for backpacking as it is for exploring and camping beside your vehicle off a rough and long forgotten dirt road. Either way, you’re likely to be in the middle of the nowhere. Adding to its allure, to begin the year the desert can only be comfortably explored for a short time each spring after the roads have sufficiently dried from melting snow to make passage by vehicle (just to get there) possible, and before this treeless and shadeless expanse becomes too hot for comfortable hiking. And especially for family hiking as would be the case on this trip. And even hot weather aside, admittedly as summer arrives in full swing the high country opens up to distract a hiker up and into the mountains to enjoy those alpine meadows and valleys with pleasant summer mountain weather. Colors, shadows, and light in the red desert. Into the Red Desert of Wyoming Recently a quick backpacking trip was made into a particularly scenic corner of the Red Desert to explore one of the numerous Wilderness Study Areas that can be found in central Wyoming. One of my favorite things about backpacking is the pure adaptability of one’s existence, with your home on your back and as long as you have water and food, you don’t really need to be anywhere other than where you currently stand. Thus, as we left the highway and the dirt road progressively became rougher, and began to become only muddier as we turned onto a more obscure high clearance road passable only with the assistance of 4 wheel drive and patient driving, it gradually became apparent that plans would need to be changed. Not wanting to only get stuck farther in on the slick road, maps were consulted and an alternate entry into the Wilderness Study Area located. In this park anywhere, trail-less, camp wherever you can pitch your tent country, we pulled off the side of the road and shouldering packs laden with water picked our way through the sagebrush and hiked south. Although it wasn’t even officially summer at the time, the early afternoon sun was unrelenting and as a family trip, we’d need to make the most of our miles. Descending to the bottom of a rim we followed the contours and canyons that made up its base, with a multitude of unique formations serving as ample entertainment for all of us. Eventually, a suitable alcove was located to serve as a campsite, and the rest of the day was spent photographing, exploring from camp, and observing the numerous wildflowers and local residents of the area…from prairie dogs to prairie falcons. At sunset thunderstorms threatened and made for an amazing display, while gusty winds covered everything we had in fine sand. That night coyotes howled not much farther than a stone’s throw from our tent. The rain held off – meaning we’d actually be able to drive out the next day. Red Desert sunset An Easy Next Day With storms again threatening the next day however, a lazy hike out – stopping to take photos nearly every few feet – became the plan as temperatures climbed and clouds grew taller in the distance. Ascending the rim we passed a herd of cows, then elk, then a lone antelope and eventually reached our lone vehicle. It hadn’t yet rained though, and the road seemed just a bit drier than yesterday, so we drove on to explore the area around what had been originally planned to serve as a starting point only to find that the road had been closed by the BLM and we were lucky we’d stopped where we had the previous day. But the further exploration was beneficial as much for the additionally scenery as for the knowledge gained when further exploration of the area is due. Turning around and after an hour of bumpy driving, we reached pavement just as the first drops of rain coated the windshield and with the satisfaction of this quick trip into the desert…along with plenty of ideas for the next. A storm approaches in Wyoming's Red Desert. Need to Know Information Exploring this area can be a bit difficult as the BLM web pages covering the Wilderness Study Areas in this region have recently gone offline, but information can be found with a little sleuthing and by using web archive services. Take plenty of water, gas, and provisions and check your spare. Watch the weather and forecast before the trip and the weather during, roads are often impassable when wet even with 4 wheel drive. Best Time to Go Spring after the roads have dried enough for easy passage (timing varies), and early fall – check hunting seasons. Getting There The Red Desert is located in south-central Wyoming. Numerous, somewhat maintained dirt country roads act as convenient ways to access more remote areas of interest from main highways. High clearance and 4 wheel drive are not required to get there, but are nice features to have, can help access more remote areas, and might help get you out! Maps Printing USGS topo maps at home for hiking and combining with a detailed atlas like the Delorme Atlas and / or the Benchmark Map offerings to get you around while driving is a good strategy.

They say fire warms the soul, better yet when that fire is in a potbelly stove set inside a historic cabin atop the spine of the continent burning wood you didn’t have to chop! Rachel and I decided to celebrate my 31st birthday and our recent move to Colorado by booking an overnight stay at one of the over 30 backcountry huts for rent in Colorado through the 10th Mountain Hut Association and the above scenario is exactly what we found. Based on some advice from fellow TrailGroove writer @PaulMags, we decided on Section House – a historic railroad cabin built in 1887, restored in the 1990’s and situated at the top of the Continental Divide at Boreas Pass just outside Breckenridge, CO. The trip promised mellow skiing and excellent views along with the ample snow Colorado has received this winter. A $30 per night fee gave us a roof over our head, a warm bed, gas and wood stoves and a propane cook top – not a bad way to spend a gusty winter night at 11,500 feet! Through the forest on the way to Section House. The Trip Begins We started our trip on the Bakers Tank trail from the Boreas Pass trailhead – the start of the winter closure of Boreas Pass Road. The trail was well graded for Nordic skis, wide and well used. Barely out of the parking lot we both noticed a total lack of grip to our skis when we started to slide backwards instead of glide forwards. Rachel and I use waxable metal edged Nordic touring ski’s which provide better glide than their waxless counterparts but require selection of the correct sticky kick wax for the snow conditions to provide grip on the snow. When the skis don’t grip, you switch to a warmer wax. The only problem was the giant balls of snow that formed under the warmer kick wax! Warm, wet, fresh snow is extremely unstable and will easily melt and refreeze to form large clumps under your ski, waxless or not. We quickly gave up on wax and switched to kicker skins – short segments of patterned nylon that do the gripping. The skins worked for a while but as the day warmed and we skied through slush on the trail even those iced up and we resorted to strapping the skis to our backpacks and bare-booting our way down the trail. Our boots made only shallow imprints on the well packed trail so we didn’t feel so bad. On the Bakers Tank Trail we passed several intersecting trails not shown on the hut association map, then ran into some other skiers planning on staying at Ken’s Cabin – a private cabin next to Section House. They gave us some rub on glide wax for our skins which made skiing possible again. Next time my rub on glide wax is getting packed with my skins! We had a quick lunch with our new friends and skied our way up the former railroad grade covered in several feet of snow. The snow depth was fantastic and we frequently stopped to take in the views of the snow-covered Tenmile Range across the valley below. With a little imagination the recent snowfall turned the distant mountains into sinister marshmallows, fluffy and white but still steep and avalanche prone. Just out of view was the sprawling Breckenridge ski area, both out of our budgets and out of our minds as we swished our way up to the Continental Divide. The ski up Boreas Pass Road was pleasant and we were even getting good kick and glide with the skins on the slight uphill. Soon the hut was in view and we opened the lock using the code in our reservation email. Several Forest Service placards dot the area and explain some of the history of the narrow gauge railroad used to ferry miners, equipment, and ore between the Front Range and Leadville. The town of Boreas used to exist at the top of the pass to house railroad workers but was abandoned in 1937 along with the railway which was plagued with avalanches and rock falls during its service life. The Army Core of Engineers reconstructed the old rail grade for automobile traffic shortly after World War 2. The house we stayed in decayed until 1992 when it was restored by a joint effort through the U.S. Forest Service, Park County, Texas A&M University, the Colorado Department of Transportation, and Harris Construction. Summit Huts Association now has a permit to rent out the hut to ski, snowboard, and fat biker enthusiasts during the winter. Ken’s Cabin next door to Section House was also restored and sleeps 3 for a more private setting but at a higher nightly rate. Inside the hut we found an ample kitchen and common space stocked with tables, couches, a three burner propane cook top, two woodstoves, and all the cleaning supplies we would need. The night before our trip I prepared and froze some potato chicken stew and baked some brownies for dessert. Rachel brought pastries from work for breakfast along with ample hot chocolate. While the food cooked on the stovetop, we got a roaring fire going in the woodstove and I successfully practiced not losing any fingers while making kindling with the provided hatchet. Two enormous pots of water from melting snow made cleanup a cinch and we worked fruitlessly on a 500 piece puzzle until bed. Upstairs the beds were all reasonably comfortable and came with sheets and pillows that we used alongside our 3 season sleeping bags. There are even some double beds for couples! There is a gas heater but I couldn’t figure out how to regulate the heat so ended up turning it off after the room reached sweltering temperatures. Despite howling winds, we slept warm in 3 season bags and were able to dry our boots by the wood stove. A Quick Exit The next morning was an easy downhill ski out although the grade wasn’t quite enough to glide the whole way down as we had imagined. We decided to stick to the road all the way back to the trailhead instead of taking the Bakers Tank Trail for a change of scenery. The views were even better on the way out but we hit several sections of road that lacked enough snow to ski on. Still, we made it back in under 2 hours and enough time for Rachel to get her first Colorado downhill resort skiing in at Loveland ski area. Mild grades make for relatively easy skiing. Need to Know Information There are many, many huts for rent in Colorado to the point where it’s hard to tell what hut is suitable for your abilities at what time of year. Section House and most of the more accessible huts can be booked at www.huts.org with additional information at http://summithuts.org/. Prospective hut users should be aware of which huts require winter routes with avalanche danger, which is listed with the hut information and found in any guidebook. Hut skiing is very popular in Colorado but since we were able to go midweek, our hut was available on short notice but booked on weekends for the next month. You should definitely book well in advance for weekend trips or other more popular huts. Best Time to Go Generally December through April or later depending on the year will have the best snow conditions; also some huts are only open certain months of the year. For Section House, check the weather in Breckenridge and keep an eye on the snow totals at the ski area. Warmer temperatures during the day can lead to icy trails so you may have to time your skiing when the trails are softer. Getting There From I-70 take Exit 203 for Route 9 South towards Breckenridge. Stay on I-9 around the outside of the Breckenridge and take a left onto Boreas Pass Road. The road is closed at the trailhead with ample parking. Maps & Books Free maps are located here. The map for Section House didn’t include several trail intersections so it would be wise to bring a larger overview map of the area such as Trails Illustrated 109. I recommend picking up Colorado Hut to Hut: Skiing, Hiking and Biking to Colorado's Backcountry Cabins by Brian Litz which covers most of the huts. Recommended Gear For the ski up Boreas Pass Road any Nordic ski will work great. The grades are very mellow and metal edges wouldn’t be critical even for moderate ice. One of the benefits to a hut is being able to dry your boots overnight so there are no worries about removable liners. You won’t need a shelter, stove or cooking equipment which leaves room for good food and beer! Slippers for the hut and a warm jacket to wear until the wood stove kicks in (1 to 2 hours after lighting) are critical. Any 3 season sleeping bag will work since the hut is heated. Don’t forget the hot chocolate!

The last two winters I’ve spent living in the American southwest, and before I left I planned to take a long bike ride. I wasn’t quite sure where I wanted to go, but I was leaning towards somewhere way out in the desert. I changed my mind many times in the months before the trip, but eventually decided to leave sunny California, and drive further inland, to Utah. I had driven this highway once before, a scenic route through the southern part of Utah. Highway 12, “The All American Road.” I knew there was a route. I could bike out to this highway, turn right in the town of Boulder onto “Burr Trail Road” and bike it to the end. Then head north on the dirt Notom Road from there, turn left onto the pavement to pass through Capitol Reef National Park, and finally, reconnect to Highway 12 in the town of Torrey making a giant loop ride. It might’ve seemed ambitious; I wasn’t totally sure how far it was. I was going foolishly ahead with no map and only a basic knowledge of the simple country highways. The Burr Trail takes you through some of the most scenic country in Utah. An Uphill Start The day finally came when I drove the careening road, leaving a high plateau and descending through an orange and cream colored slick-rock badland. I parked at the trailhead for the Escalante River, near the Calf Creek Falls Recreation Area. My bike wheels bit the road in this red, dry country, and I began to climb steeply away from the sparkling green cottonwood choked river where I parked. I put all my effort forth to climb the mountain, twenty grueling miles of uphill. I was thoroughly enjoying the climb, still being fresh in the crisp, spring morning. Huge monoliths of rock towered around me, the desert landscape was much more intimidating by bike than by car. My backpack was heavy, carrying my supplies and enough water to dry camp that night, hopefully being able to finish the loop ride the following day. I knew one thing, it was 75 miles of no services, no water. Hopefully I could do all that today, I thought, even though I had gotten a late start. For some reason, I tend to grossly over-estimate what I am capable of, and today was a day like that. The highway, as I climbed, dropped away on both sides of me to rugged canyons dissecting the earth in all directions. After passing through beautiful Boulder, Utah I turned left on the Burr Trail to find a thrilling roller coaster ride. The legendary route winded rough and rarely traveled across the white slick-rock. I knew next I’d I entered the final frontier desert. Soon I was flying downhill fast through a brilliant red canyon with walls of pockmarked and intensely carved stone. This amazing and enormous canyon, known as Long Canyon, became a claustrophobic cathedral all around me. This descent was taking the plunge, I knew now I was biking into the remote, desert backcountry. Mile after mile I biked the Burr Trail, growing bumpier the deeper in I went. I snaked around countless corners through the red canyon maze. Needless to say I had become ridiculously haggard and fatigued. The sun was low now and cast the towering spires in a malicious light, and anxiety was growing inside me from this place so epic, far away, and unknown. The anxiety was growing stronger around each corner as I realized what a poor plan I had made for this trip. I came finally at long last to the end of the canyon around sunset and stopped where the road viciously switchbacked down. The view showed that the landscape was unequivocally vast. The effort it took to get to this spot had me traumatized and in great pain as I looked out to the Henry Mountains, still so distant. In fact the distance, exposed to me all at once from this overlook towards the Circle Cliffs, terrified and humbled me. I had come forty intense miles and still had thirty-five to go to arrive at town, then who knows how far the next day to make the loop! No, I said, this is crazy, I’m not doing it. I knew if I biked down this next mountain, it would be unappealing to return, so I simply chose to camp on the BLM-managed land close by. A scenic view along the Burr Trail. The End of the Trail In the morning I retreated, abort the mission! Biking back through the colorful undulating desert filled me with such joy, that I decided to go ahead and bike Boulder Mountain, the road rising to nearly 10,000 feet. By the time I was halfway up I realized I had bit off more than I could chew...again. I was so exhausted that I made it to within a mere hundred feet of the summit before collapsing and giving up. From there it was thirty miles of flying downhill to get back to the truck and I was so wrecked by the time I arrived back I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t complete my loop, but I had more fun letting my plans be flexible. What a wonderful memory it was and a trip of a lifetime. The moral is, don’t let anyone tell you not to do something simply because you won’t be able to do it. Get out there, give it a shot, (always be ready to reevaluate your decision) and see what happens. Biking the Burr Trail was a test of both man and machine. Need to Know Information No permits are required to ride the Burr Trail or to camp on BLM land, and there is a campground you can stay at for 7$ per night called Deer Creek. If you choose to do the entire loop ride, then camping within the Capitol Reef National Park requires a free permit picked up at the ranger’s station. Bring enough water to expect a 75 mile dry stretch on the Burr Trail and Notom Road, so as much as possible but not less than 9 liters. Getting There The Burr Trail passes through central Utah, the heart of the state. If coming from Colorado or from Salt Lake City, find your way to interstate 70. Green River, Utah will be the nearest town to the road junction of highway 24. Take 24 and follow it to Hanksville where you turn right to stay on 24, and eventually it will pass through Capitol Reef National Park. Keep going straight and you’ll pick up highway 12 in the town of Torrey, head south and when you get to the town of Boulder, the Burr Trail is on your left. If coming from the south take interstate 15 to Cedar City where you turn right on Highway 14. Take a left on Highway 89 and soon you will see the junction with 12 on your right. Best Time to Go Fall is the best time to experience Utah, dry with comfortable days and chilly nights. Spring is second best but could be rainy. Winter can be possible if the road if free of snow, but not ideal, and summer is not advisable because it becomes very hot. Books & Maps Beyond Capitol Reef: South-central Utah: A Guide to the Area Surrounding Capitol Reef National Park is an excellent guide book to the area. The Geology of Capitol Reef National Park is a fascinating book telling how the Waterpocket Fold formation shaped the beautiful structures within Capitol Reef. The National Geographic Capitol Reef National Park map should contain all the information you will need for this route. The Author Michael Swanbeck is an adventure seeker and aspiring author. He learned culinary arts in school, and has been using his trade to work seasonal jobs in America’s fantastic national parks. In Glacier National Park, Montana, he found that his true passion was hiking. During the off-season from restaurant work, he is free to explore the world, and focuses on seeing the beauty of our diverse natural environment. He spends his time in the wilderness when possible, having hiked southbound on the Pacific Crest Trail for 100 days in 2014. He finds his inspiration in nature, and draws his writing from that inspiration.

After a season of hiking, sleeping and sweating in your down jacket or sleeping bag things can get a little stinky. You might even notice a slight loss of loft as body oils compromise the fluffiness of the down feathers. Or, as in my case, the jacket is just grubby. Fortunately washing your jacket or sleeping bag is a lot easier than you may fear. In this article I’ll go step by step through washing one of my down jackets but the same process can be used for nearly all down sleeping bags. The only difference is more soap (typically a capful) and using a clean bathtub instead of a sink. Total washing time for me is about half an hour long for a jacket with two to three hours of drying time. A down sleeping bag may take double that time depending on the amount of down fill and your dryer. You Will Need Down specific soap / down specific detergent (Nikwax Down Wash or Granger's solution have worked equally well for me) A clean sink and a stuff sack for your jacket/bag (or appropriately sized zip lock) A front loading dryer with a low heat or air fluff setting Note that Nikwax recently came out with Down Wash Direct – a new detergent for both hydrophobic treated and non-treated down, so if you have a mix of treated and untreated products that detergent might be best. Whatever the case, make sure you're not using whatever laundry detergent you happen to have on hand – a down specific cleaner is required. Cover Your Bases Before you get ahead of yourself, check the manufacturer’s recommendations for how to wash the garment. They might be on a tag on the jacket or on the website. Generally the website will have more specific information than the tag so it’s always worth a check. Most instructions will require the use of down specific soap to avoid removing the natural oils from your down, a front loading washer and dryer, and recommend avoiding any type of fabric softener. I’m washing a Feathered Friends Daybreak jacket with untreated down, similar to most down jackets in the 7-9 ounce total weight range. Their instructions for washing all their products are located here. Check the Jacket or Sleeping Bag Before we start, check the jacket for any holes and repair them with circular or oval pieces of repair tape so there are no corners to snag. Also look for spot stains that can be cleaned by lightly scrubbing with a mild detergent and a damp sponge. After that’s done, close all the zippers to prevent tearing in your dryer and turn the jacket or sleeping bag inside out to prevent wear to the outside fabric. Lastly, stuff the jacket into the stuff sack or the jacket pocket if it was designed to stuff into its own pocket. A Ziploc bag might work in a pinch as well. Get Ready Now that the jacket is ready, thoroughly clean your sink and fill it about half way with warm water, no need for your jacket to smell like your toothpaste. Make sure you get any soap residue off the sink as well. Add a capful of down soap to your warm sink water, two if it’s an especially large sink. I find you don’t need much down soap washing things by hand and too much soap takes a lot of rinsing to get rid of. You can successfully machine wash a down jacket (not a sleeping bag) in a normal washing machine and always on the most gentle cycle, but a front loading washing machine will be best if you choose to go this route and would be the only washing machine option for a sleeping bag. This is all a bit at your own risk (check the tags or the manufacturer's washing directions). When it comes to your ultralight type gear however, a hand wash is a sure bet and is our suggested method here for jackets and sleeping bags. A small sink works just fine for jackets, with a bathtub working better for washing down sleeping bags. Start Your Washing Immerse the stuffed jacket into the sink water and slowly pull the jacket out, exposing it to the water. Uncompressing the down in the water helps it wet out faster. Swish the jacket around in the wash water while squeezing it to move the water through the down. Notice the color change! Gently agitate by hand and ensure the soapy water solution fully soaks in. Drain and Rinse Now we want to get that soapy water out of the jacket, so drain the dirty water and let the faucet run over the jacket. Carefully squeeze different parts of the jacket to work the clean water through until you get very few bubbles each squeeze. Some bubbles are normal since you’re pushing air around as well as water, but it should be a noticeable decrease. 5 to 10 minutes of rinsing is a good estimate to remove all the soap. Then turn the faucet off and carefully squeeze as much water as you can out of the jacket. This will speed the drying time. Repeatedly rinse until no more soap runs out of the garment or sleeping bag. Off to the Dryer Next, take your jacket to the front loading dryer to start the drying process. Pick it up in one big clump and try not to let anything hang off as you carry it – the jacket is much heavier when wet and may overstress a seam or the fabric. This is more critical with sleeping bags but the same care should be taken for a jacket. You’ll often hear people recommending new, clean tennis balls to help break up the down clumps but I don’t think they really help. I have had to break apart down clumps by hand on a stubborn sleeping bag that was taking all day to dry and I don’t see how tennis balls would have helped in that case. Make sure to set the dryer to “air fluff” or the non-heated mode. It will take longer this way but you won’t risk melting any of the fabrics. The low heat setting will often work but you want to check that the temperature isn’t high enough to damage the fabric. Either way, be sure to check the jacket after a few minutes just to make sure it isn’t tangled and then every 45 minutes thereafter. In 2 hours or so you should have a nice clean jacket!

Unique among the seasons, winter wields the power to make many hiking destinations inaccessible. Roads are gated due to snow, mountain passes become snowbound and hazardous, and specific four-season gear is required in many regions for those venturing out in the winter months. Human-powered recreation is mostly left to snowshoers, skiers, snowboarders, and winter is also a good time to focus on cleaning gear, summer trip planning, fitness routines, racking up vacation time, and other hobbies. Getting away to a warmer locale for a few days or a week also doesn’t hurt if you’re able to accommodate the expense of time and money. In winter, places inherently seem to become more remote. The Wilderness of Winter Winter also has the singular ability to bring a feeling of wilderness and raw nature to places that feel mundane, even boring, in other seasons. Many of the bumpy and potholed forest roads flanked by endless lodgepole pines that are merely tolerated on drives to the trailhead in the summer become the proverbial “winter wonderland” with the addition of a few feet of snow. Putting on the cross-country skis and heading up one of these roads for a few miles to a scenic overlook that merited only a glance out the window before driving further a few months before becomes an expedition to a breathtaking picnic spot. A cabin that you could drive to in June is transformed into a rustic outpost where you can sit in quintessential tranquility and watch snow fall while a woodstove heats the tiny structure. Favorite trails suddenly take on an Arctic charm that highlights the rock and water features, especially when the water turns to ice. Animal tracks left in the snow can be examined with a clarity rarely provided in typical dirt patches on the trail. The play of light and reflections of the sun off the snow make for near-mystical conditions. If you have the gear and experience to safely and comfortably do overnight trips in the winter months, the stargazing is incredible. The skies are can be exceedingly clear and the stars come out much earlier compared to the summer months. As long as you have the gear to stay comfortable in periods of inactivity in cold conditions, you can fit in some amazing stargazing between dinner and a reasonable bedtime. If you’re staying in a cabin or other structure, such as a lookout, you can head back inside to warm up, make some tea or hot chocolate, and head back out with your beverage in an insulated water bottle if you've brought one along. The sky will be darker, the stars shining brighter, and you’ll be warmer. This back-and-forth can go on as long as your eyes stay open and the rewards always seem to be worth pushing through the sleepiness. If you’re lucky enough to live in a region with natural hot springs, visiting these in the winter can be a luxury almost impossible to describe. Sitting in jacuzzi-warm water, rich with minerals, and watching a frigid river run beneath snow-draped trees is a surefire way to put a smile on your face. The juxtaposition between the harsh and benevolent characteristics of nature are visibly, and physically, apparent. Hot springs that would be crowded in the shoulder-season months due to their proximity roads and parking areas become much less visited. An easy stroll in the summer suddenly becomes a 1/4 mile epic in winter, requiring snowshoes and proper clothing to be comfortable in frigid temperatures until you’re able to immerse yourself in the water. As expected, however, the reward feels much richer and well-deserved. For hikers who live in a region absent of the geothermal phenomenons that are required for hot springs but with sustained subfreezing temperatures, winter often presents the opportunity to see frozen waterfalls. Visiting a gushing waterfall in May and then returning in January to see it frozen from top to bottom provides a sublime comparison. In regions with dense ridgetop deciduous forests, such as many Eastern forests, the views in winter are much grander than in summer. Trails that have the “green tunnel” effect suddenly become much more open and the shadows and shapes created by the bare tree limbs become a spectacle in and of themselves. Certain “life list” destinations are at their most hospitable and enjoyable in the winter months. Big Bend National Park, Everglades National Park and Dry Tortugas National Park come to mind in this regards. Backpacking on Cumberland Island National Seashore in December is a particular treat – the crowds are low, the weather is mild, and the citrus trees are ripe. There’s something beautiful about getting to a campsite, setting down the pack, and picking an orange or grapefruit to enjoy with your oatmeal the next morning. Final Thoughts While the coming of spring is an occasion for celebration, especially for those of us who reside in the northerly latitudes, winter has its merits. It offers a chance for skills to be honed, inimitable adventures to be had – such as moonlit cross-country skiing, familiar places to be experienced in a different atmosphere. If you weren’t able to appreciate the opportunities for solitude this past season, you’ll have a summer full of hiking to look forward to and plenty of time to plan for when the snow flies again. For a detailed article on the "how to" of experiencing the outdoors in winter with many tips along the way, check out this Issue 26 article courtesy of @PaulMags.

The trail before me had become a treacherous, muddy mess. My backpack felt like a sodden weight pulling me down, and my shoes squished and oozed water with every step. I was looking down at what would have been a sharp descent, now transformed into a muddy slide. As I debated between simply sitting down on the trail and letting gravity carry me along or staggering forward and attempting to remain upright, I thought again about how I had let this happen. The answer involved a series of bad decisions and bravado that all began with a hat. It had been the parting gift of a friend of mine when I left my home in Connecticut to teach English in Japan, and was of a rugged, outdoorsy quality, tan in color, with a mid-size brim. Its involvement in my current predicament began with a humble interaction at Japan’s Narita airport. At the time, I was absorbed in the process of following a series of guides to the hotel bus when another soon-to-be-teacher spoke up from behind me. I didn’t quite catch what he said, though, because I was in that unique state of exhaustion only a sleepless 14-hour plane trip can bring on. I asked him to repeat himself, and he obliged. “I said I like your hat.” “Thanks,” I replied, “I got it from a friend.” “Oh?” he said, “Are you into hiking, then?” “Yes,” I answered, though I hadn’t been anywhere near a hiking trail in the last eight years. I suppose I was trying to live up to my hat’s outdoorsy image. I then followed up this half-truth with an ambiguous statement. “I used to go on hikes all the time with my family.” “That’s great!” was his trusting response. “You must be excited to get out and do some hiking now that you’re here. There are mountains all over the place.” “Yeah,” I said, caught up in the spirit of the conversation, “I’m going to look up some good local trails after I get settled in.” Then the bus showed up, silencing us both, and everything dissolved once more into a whirlwind of activity. But that conversation stuck with me. I really had enjoyed hiking when I was younger, and Japan seemed like the perfect place to get back into it. There was an abundance of trails, it would give me something fun to do with my free time, and actually going on some hikes would help me feel less like a liar. The idea took hold. When I introduced myself to schoolchildren in the city of Hachinohe, where I taught, the three hobbies I always brought up were reading, listening to music, and hiking. When I and my fellow teachers were at welcome parties, I would ask my new coworkers if they knew any good hiking trails, or had any interest in the activity. Their answers to the first question tended to be vague, and I never did find someone who answered affirmatively to the latter. Still, I got the idea there were lots of places nearby where I could go out and practice my newly christened hobby. And yet it was months before I ever acted on this idea. I had arrived in early August, when even the highest peaks in Japan are fairly accessible, but I just couldn’t seem to get myself out the door. Before I knew it, it was winter, and I was telling myself that by the time spring rolled around I’d be ready to hit the trails for sure. I spent my time researching various mountains and finally made my choice: Mt. Kumotori. This was to be my inaugural hike in Japan, and it sounded perfect. The website I’d been using to get the bulk of my information had given the course a difficulty of 2 out of 5, which was just what I was looking for. The mountain was near Tokyo, making it easily accessible, and its elevation wasn’t too high, meaning I could climb it early in the season without worrying about snow. It was even one of the “100 Famous Mountains” of Japan. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded impressive. Satisfied with my decision, I moved on to choosing my equipment. This trip was to be a two-day excursion, though since I was planning on spending the night in a rest hut, I wouldn’t need to bring a sleeping bag or tent. I would only take the bare minimum: a change of clothes, some water, a few energy bars, a backpack just big enough to hold everything, and what I was now calling my “hiking hat”. Given the benefit of hindsight, I made at least three major mistakes here. First, I didn’t bring any rain gear. Second, I didn’t bother investing in a good pair of hiking boots. And finally, my choice of backpack was a raggedy old leftover from college. At the time, though, it never occurred to me to worry about such things, not even the possibility of rain. It was only as I hopped on the bullet train down to Tokyo that I even bothered to check the weather. Apparently, it had rained there every day for the past six days, would be cloudy on my first day, and might rain on the second. But, I figured I’d be off the mountain before things got bad on day two, and counted myself lucky. I couldn’t wait to get out there and experience the wonders of Japan’s mountainous landscape. Hiking Mount Kumotori First, though, I had to find the trail, which did not start at Mt. Kumotori. It began at Mitsumine shrine, and I had a number of other peaks to traverse before I could start on Mt. Kumotori itself. As my print-out from the hiking website eloquently explained, “you’ll be on the ridge all day.” Of course, I didn’t really know what exactly that would entail. I imagined I’d be on a high plateau most of the time, maybe with some small hills to walk over. Sure, the distance may be great, and each peak might be hard if begun from ground level, but it shouldn’t be that bad staying on the ridge, right? After all, the difficulty was only a 2 out of 5. The problem with that rating was that for someone on his first hike in Japan, it would prove to be a colossal understatement. I got my first sense of this almost immediately, when the trail began to slope up away from the shrine. And then it kept going up. Then it went up some more. I soon found myself winded, and could barely believe that the long series of switchbacks I was working my way over could ever be considered easy. Still, I was able to encourage myself by looking back at how far I’d come, and telling myself that once I was up on the ridge things would get easier. There was also the mud to contend with. Six days of rain meant that the trail was soaked, and the steep inclines were all slick and dangerous. On more than one occasion I had to use my hands to pull myself up different sections of the path, and already I was wishing for some hiking boots. When I finally reached the first peak, Mt. Kirimogamine, I felt totally spent. My legs were stiff and sore despite the short time I’d been moving, my precious hat had seemingly welded itself to my head thanks to prodigious amounts of sweat, and I was gasping for each breath. Haunted by the need to keep up a good pace, though, I only allowed myself a five-minute break, so while I was feeling better when I set out again, by no means was I in good shape. Still, I wasn’t worried. After all, now I was unquestionably on the ridgeline, and that was supposed to mean easy climbing. My optimism, however, would prove to be short-lived. After what felt like a much too brief descent, the path again angled upwards. This second climb was steeper than the first, though thankfully not as muddy. It was also during this ascent that I finally realized walking along the ridgeline would not be an easy task. It was instead a constant struggle of up and down. My being on it for the entire first day meant I was doomed to go through these cycles of intensely tiring climbs over and over again before even getting to the one mountain I had set out to climb. Was this really just a 2 out of 5? A 2 out of 5?! That difficulty rating became my curse as I went along, and my anger helped give me the energy to keep climbing. I went up and over the rocky slope, and then up and over a few more before finally reaching another landmark listed in my directions. It was the Mt. Shiraiwa hut, which the website placed approximately 90 minutes from where I intended to spend the night. Sitting inside was an old man who looked for all the world like he lived out here, and he was happy to brew me a cup of coffee and chat while I recovered from my exertions. He remarked that I didn’t look ready for the rain, and, right on cue, I could hear the sound of the first sporadic drops beginning to fall outside. I briefly considered just staying here for the night, but ultimately chose to press on given how close I was to my destination. Even if the website’s difficulty scale was a far cry from my own, at least its time estimates could be trusted. Thankfully, the rain proved to be intermittent and the path itself grew considerably easier. I felt like I’d hit my stride, and for a long time I traveled over mostly level ground. At some point this began to worry me, because I knew by now it would mean a bigger climb later. As it turned out, though, things wouldn’t actually get challenging again for quite some time. The difficulty, when it did arrive, was also of my own choosing. As I began to finally make some progress on Mt. Kumotori itself, I came to a fork in the path. Each branch was marked with a sign and both led to my destination. The problem was the name of each path. One was relatively straight and steep, and it was marked “Man’s Path,” while the other was more roundabout, with a more gentle climb. It was of course marked “Woman’s Path.” Faced with the decision of which way to go, I let my pride get the better of me. I started up the “Man’s Path.” I should have known better. All day I had been bemoaning how difficult this hike was, wishing for an easier way. I had been tired since first climbing up from Mitsumine shrine hours ago. And just because one path had been arbitrarily associated with men and another with women, I was hardly obligated to take the one that matched my sex. Even knowing that, though, I could not ignore the challenge of the “Man’s Path.” I railed against my decision to make things harder on myself every step of the way, but I stuck with it until, panting and exhausted, I reached the rest hut. I had never spent the night out in a hut before, leaving me no idea what to expect. The hiking website had described it as “luxurious,” though what that boiled down to was paying $50 for the privilege of sleeping in a futon on the floor next to ten other people. At least there was a roof over our heads, a good source of water, and the possibility of rest. I munched on my energy bars for dinner and went to bed early in the hopes that I could rise with the sun the next morning. Only, there was no sun the next morning, just shrouds of mist and clouds. Nevertheless, I set out early, and found the hut had been well placed just before the climb grew truly difficult. It was no easy task to wake up first thing in the morning and start climbing a mountain, especially when I was still tired and sore from the previous day, but I wanted to get as far as possible before what now seemed like an inevitable rainfall. It helped that I had some company on this initial ascent. An older Japanese couple had left the rest hut at about the same time as me, and we started climbing together. They asked where I had started from and seemed impressed when I told them Mitsumine shrine. I found that encouraging, and they then went on to point out how foreigners were now climbing mountains all over Japan. They wished more Japanese people would get out on the trails, but explained that nobody who isn’t retired has the time. After climbing together for a while, though, I ended up needing less breaks than them, and they encouraged me to go on. The last thing they told me was that there should be a great view out to the Japanese Alps from the summit, though the weather today might block the view. So, after one last push, I reached the top of Mt. Kumotori, and sure enough, the cloud cover was so thick that nothing was visible. This had been my experience pretty much all along, with clouds obscuring any but the most immediate beauty, and I was thoroughly sick of the uniform grayness. The Next Challenge It felt strange to reach the top of the mountain that had been my big goal so early on the second day. Together with the useless view it felt doubly anticlimactic, but I still took a minute to let myself feel accomplished. I had successfully completed my first hike in Japan, and now all I had to do was get down. Or at least, that’s how I looked at it, but getting down soon proved to be just as much trouble as going up. To begin with, I wasn’t sure which way to go. My directions claimed I would find an emergency rest hut, and that there were two ways down from there. One involved a long walk on a forest road while the other was presumably a more direct route down Mt. Nanatsuishi. I tried to take the longer and hopefully easier route, but in truth I’m still not sure which path I ended up on. I did find the emergency hut, but either through a trick of the fog or a misunderstanding I only saw one way to go. Whichever way it was, I soon learned that my efforts were far from over. The rain began falling in earnest while I was still on an easy downhill section. At first I hoped for a repeat of yesterday: a few intermittent showers with no real harm done. I could not have been more wrong. The rain was constant. The rain was hard. And the rain was miserable. I made my way along the trail, becoming first damp, then wet, then soaked. The path turned into mud beneath my feet, and then began to grow unstable. It felt discomforting to work my way along a ridge and feel it slipping away beneath my weight. It was also disturbing to discover that I wasn’t done with the ridgeline just yet. I had several more peaks left to traverse, and though this was an easier task than on the previous day, the rain had a way of making everything harder. Perhaps my worst moment came as the trail turned into a single narrow ledge. I wasn't even sure what was holding it up, because it seemed to jut out from the edge of the slope as though pinched from the side of the mountain. The rain had weakened this precarious passage so much that it was beginning to collapse. I started to run as I made my way along it, and when I felt it giving way beneath my feet, I finally jumped over to another section of the trail. When I looked back, I doubted whether anyone would be able to follow in my footsteps. This brief moment of terror had me on edge, and it was with a constant sense of dread that I continued on my way. Eventually, my direction shifted so I was mostly headed downhill. By this point, though, the path had essentially turned into a muddy chute. Since the bottom of the trail was so well trodden, over time it had formed into a half-pipe, with large embankments rising up on either side. Down in the center of this “pipe”, the trail consisted of a mix of water and mud that resembled nothing so much as a sluiceway. It was slippery and treacherous. Once or twice fell straight into the muck, but always managed to right myself and continue on. At one point I ran into a fellow hiker heading in the other direction. I warned him that the trail up ahead was bad. Considering my state at the time, dripping wet and covered in mud, I thought my warning would be fairly convincing, but he merely thanked me and headed on just the same. All this time it was still raining, though by now it hardly mattered. I certainly couldn’t get any wetter, and even that change of clothes in my bag was probably sopping wet by now. Finally, I reached the last muddy slope. At this point, I decided I might as well just sit down and slide myself to the bottom. Exhausted, and covered in mud, it would be another hour of squishing along on foot before I reached the train station and the official end of my hike. I was overjoyed when I arrived, and by now the sun was out and the sky a clear blue. It felt like the perfect day for a hike. Laughing to myself, I lifted a hand to my hat, which was rumpled and wet but still served to shield my face from the sun, and got on the train back to Tokyo. Need to Know Information With an elevation of 2,017 meters (6,6017 feet), Mt. Kumotori, or Kumotoriyama (雲取山), is the tallest mountain in the Tokyo area. It stands as the boundary point between Tokyo, Saitama, and Yamanashi Prefectures on Japan’s main island of Honshu, and is a part of the Chichibu-Tama-Kai National Park. No permits are required for this hike, though it is generally recommended that you be bear aware, since black bears do inhabit the park. Best Time to Go While the Kumotori Mountain Hut is open year-round, and the consensus on a good hiking time seems to run from mid-April to late-December, my recommendation would be to go in the early fall, September, or October. Note that early-May and mid-August are peak travel times for Japanese hikers due to holidays, and the huts are likely to be very crowded during those time frames. Getting There From Ikebukuro station (池袋駅) in Tokyo, ride the Seibu Railway line (西武鉄道) to Seibu-Chichibu station (西武秩父駅). From there, take a bus to Mitsumine Shrine (三峰神社). The trail starts from the parking lot, branching off to the right as you climb the stairs. To get back to Tokyo after the hike, simply take a train from Okutama station directly back into the city. Maps The Chichibu-Tama-Kai National Park map offers one option for a map of the area. Books Climbing a few of Japan's 100 Famous Mountains - Volume 5: Mt. Kumotori, by Daniel H. Wieczorek and Kazuya Numazawa.

There are certain trails which, when hiked in certain seasons, can be so blissfully pleasant as to seem almost otherworldly. Each step is a pleasure. Every view is breathtaking. The scents of the forest are almost intoxicating. Chirping birds, chattering squirrels and rushing creeks create a soundtrack that is almost orchestral. Spending unhurried time in nature seems to be one of the most refreshing things humans can do for themselves and one of the few activities which consistently pays out rewards greater than the time and effort entered. With an eye towards those indescribable and abstract rewards, I headed to a favorite trail in the Bitterroot Mountains for a quick overnight trip. Dramatic scenery in the Bitterroots Spring Backpacking in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana Multiple waterfalls, a distant natural arch, innumerable eye-catching rock formations, dramatic cliffs, and a charming campsite beside a cascade conveniently located at the edge of the snowline made the first five miles a fantastic early season hike that left little to be desired. Since I knew hiking any further than the campsite would involve treacherous and unpleasant postholing (which I’d had enough of on a prior trip to the Welcome Creek Wilderness), I walked with a complete absence of haste and fished at two appealing pools without success. These breaks served as a nice refresher in tying and untying knots and generally reassuring myself that I could still manage to get a fly onto the water more often than in the branches of riparian trees and shrubs (although that ratio could stand some improvement). Before packing up after my second attempt at fishing, I paused to appreciate the sound and movement around me. The creek roared through the rugged canyon bottom and reverberated off the cliffs that jutted out of the north slope; birdsong filled the air; the forest seemed to hum with the energy of spring. The sun was warm on my face, yet a chilly wind blew down the canyon from the higher elevations where it was for all intents and purposes still winter. I strolled across talus slopes, relishing the complete exposure to the sun, and through dense coniferous forest that diffused the light into a soothing illuminative force that emanated from nowhere in particular. I crossed several small seasonal channels that emanated an urgent verdancy, as if they knew they would dry up once the snow melted and the relentless summer sun beat down. Some sections of the trail were still covered with firm snow that made for easy hiking, but for the most part I was walking on dirt. This allowed me to make good time and even with the breaks for fishing I found myself at the first large waterfall on Blodgett Creek. I’d camped near this waterfall, which blasts through a narrow chasm, twice before but had decided to push up to a second waterfall that cascaded rather than plunged and camp there instead. I arrived at my destination just as the afternoon began its long downhill stretch to dusk and busied myself with the mundane yet joyful chores of setting up camp and establishing a home for the night. Given the nonthreatening forecast – negligible chance of precipitation, highs in the low 60s, lows in the upper 20s – I opted to bring a tarp and bivy sack shelter system with me on this trip. I usually relegate this system to my bikepacking trips, but figured I’d take it along and enjoy a lighter load. As I struggled to achieve appropriate tension in the ridgeline of the tarp and realized I would need a jackhammer to get stakes in the rocky ground, any satisfaction in weight savings had shifted to frustration. Finally, 15 minutes longer and a dozen more curse words than it would have taken me to set my solo tent up, I had managed to cobble together a reasonable excuse for a shelter using rocks to anchor out the guy lines. Needless to say, I was reminded of exactly why I had exited the tarp phase I briefly entered a few years back when experimenting with ultralight backpacking. When a piece of gear takes twice as long to erect and seems to require a background in trigonometry and structural engineering, offers two-thirds the protection, with its primary redeeming factor being that it weighs half as much (but causes three times the headaches), I struggle to think of it as a superior piece of equipment. After my battle with the tarp was complete, I gathered water for the night – a task in which my chances of immediate success were fairly high. Filling up my bottles and water bladder beside the cascade was exhilarating. Spray from the rushing stream misted up and shifting winds occasionally blew it across my face. The cascade produced a cacophony that was an audible equivalent of the myriad and enchanting drops, rapids and sluices that were so visually enchanting. Such unanticipated moments of immersion and bliss were perfect reminders of backpacking’s inimitable appeal. An abundance of dead and downed wood, a readymade fire ring, and the slight chill in the air made not having a fire seem almost sacrilegious, so I set about gathering and sorting various limbs and branches. In only a few minutes the necessary piles of kindling and wood of increasingly larger diameters was assembled and, after a brief snack, felt like I could dedicate much of the rest of the evening to leisurely exploring around camp, reading, and casually soaking up the atmosphere. These activities, with a significant amount of time devoted to photographing the landscape, occupied me until my stomach compelled me to light the stove and make a simple but filling dinner. With a full stomach and a light heart, I struck a match and lit the fire just as the sun began to fall behind the mountains at the head of the canyon. Once the fire was stable, I brewed up some tea to enjoy while I read “Leaves of Grass” by Walt Whitman. I felt a bit guilty taking the vintage (1900) edition of this book of poetry with me, but poems such as “By the Bivouac’s Fitful Flame” made me feel like the book was more at home out in the woods than on a bookshelf and that it was perhaps the most perfect companion for this particular trip. Flames, poetry, and the pleasant feeling of bare feet warmed by coals under a starry sky led me to delay retiring to my sleeping bag until it became more work to keep my eyes open than to give in and prepare camp for the night and walk over to the tarp. I slept adequately but intermittently, grateful for the background noise of the cascade which quickly lulled me back to sleep when I found myself awake. Opting to enjoy coffee from my sleeping bag, I took my time and let the sun warm the canyon before doing a quick exploratory hike downstream to check for additional cascades. I didn’t have to go far before running into an impressive section of the creek where water slid down sheer rock after leaving the turbulent path created by a jumble of boulders and then continued its downward path in another section of rocks of all shapes and sizes. Returning to camp but reluctant to finish packing and leave, I postponed my departure by making a cup of tea to sip while contemplating my surroundings. I knew the longer I stayed the harder it would be to leave, so I forced myself to push through the bittersweet inevitability of leaving such a beautiful place and headed down the trail. The Hike Out After a quick downhill mile, I paused by a pool in the stream created by a logjam and carefully scouted for trout. Sure enough, there were several swimming in the depths of the pool but they were incredibly skittish and none headed for the surface to feast on the few insects that buzzed through the air and occasionally landed on the water. I tried my luck anyways and set up my Tenkara fly rod and line, which is a process so simple and easy that it makes me think I must be forgetting something. Despite my best efforts, the fish were decidedly uninterested in what I was offering and several passersby had kindly commented that it was indeed rather early in the season to be fishing, but wished me luck. As I contemplated admitting defeat and easing down the trail, the unmistakable sound and telltale circle of a fish snatching a fly off the surface at the upstream end of the pool caught my attention. With renewed determination and enthusiasm, I slowly moved toward where the action was and scouted the waters for a few minutes before tossing my fly towards a trout I spotted at the head of the pool. The first few casts didn’t catch its eye, but one landed at the perfect spot on the current and the trout slowly rose as the fly drifted through the pool. Suddenly, that most beautiful burst of water – a trout snatching a dry fly – appeared and the fish was on the line. A quick landing and release and I continued upstream, where I quickly snagged my fly on a log jam, nearly fell in the frigid water trying to get the fly loose, then broke the tippet. I decided to end on the high note of the catch and not the low note of the snapped line and headed down the trail. I tried to be a discerning angler, but it wasn’t long before I paused to fish another pool. Several trout were rising and I landed one quickly before entering into a long stretch of no action. So it goes. I suppose fishing is like hiking in certain ways – it’s not always about the destination (the catch), the journey (waving around a fishing pole in a beautiful place) is sometimes the most important aspect. With the high country still snowbound, and likely to remain so until mid-summer, trips like this one provide a great opportunity to stretch the legs and enjoy the shorter journeys and smaller fish, to admire the mountain scenery from the valley floor a bit longer, and to simply enjoy being alive and outside. Information You can find our full guide on hiking and backpacking in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness here in Issue 41. Like most mountainous destinations in the northern Rockies, the Bitterroots don't typically open up for snow-free hiking until June or later, with this window typically lasting until September. National Geographic offers their Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness map, and the Delorme Montana Atlas can be useful for getting to and from trailheads, as well as for planning trips to other Montana hiking and backpacking destinations. For a guidebook, refer to Hiking the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.

The expression “timing is everything”, occasionally derided as a common-sense platitude, is compelling when applied to backpacking. Hiking along a knife-edge ridge at sunset, watching sunrise from a campsite above timberline, encountering wildlife unexpectedly, getting the tent pitched at the last possible minute before a storm – meticulously planned or completely serendipitous, such moments are part of the thrill of backpacking. The physical act of backpacking, simply walking with a burden of gear and food attached to one’s body, is objectively not an “extreme” endeavor, but many of the scenes witnessed by us are nothing short of phenomenal. Seasons, by definition particular times of year, are one of the most common qualifiers used to describe backpacking trips. Fall in New England, summer in the Rockies, springtime in the Southwest. These combinations of time and place are all that it takes to conjure up images of quintessential scenery to most hikers. Backpacking at the height of each season can feel like a journey through the absolute essence of a natural cycle. Rebirth, vibrancy, fading away, and dormancy. After slowly becoming familiar with the terrain and timing of the Northern Rockies, I’ve began to embrace the magic and ephemera of landforms during the in-between seasons. Without a doubt, the early summer ice-out of high country lakes is one of the most surreal and rewarding of the fleeting transition and dramatic changes from one distinct season to another. Recently unfrozen water lapping against the shore as well as sheets of ice covering the lake is a mesmerizing sight to behold. Varying with elevation, latitude, severity of winter, and the unique aspects and exposures of individual lakes, ice-out in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana begins earnestly in the second half of May and continues through June. Visiting at least one high mountain lake when its ice is just beginning to melt is on my annual and continually growing backpacking “to do” list. Watching ice recede further from the shore while wearing short-sleeves and whiling away an afternoon drinking tea and reading is a sublime pleasure. While it might seem to be about as entertaining as watching paint dry, I’ve found that the setting is an excellent one in which to more easily ponder the concept of geological deep time and experience an exaggerate microcosm of glacial pacing. Hearing the gushing of snowmelt swollen inlet streams, looking at craggy ridgelines ringed with snow and still pockmarked with ice formations, admiring the perfect level surface of a partially ice-covered lake; all with temperature swings of 50 degrees likely within a 24-hour period. When extrapolated from the local to the global, the present to the past and to the future, postcard scenes become as profound as encyclopedia entries. Into the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana The first of three lakes I visited on a recent overnight trip to enjoy prime ice-out conditions was an unnamed tarn that I reached after an hour of motivated hiking. Completely melted and with patchy snow around its shores, its waters reflected the blue sky above and the talus slope on its southern shore with mirrorlike precision. Pressing on towards the highest lake and the one I intended to camp at, I swatted mosquitoes, admired wildflowers, and tried to keep my feet dry when crossing the numerous melt-water streams. Reaching Kidney Lake, I was treated to a stunning lakeside panorama of a lake that I’d been to three times before but which seemed to be a totally different place. The remaining ice and snow both muted and amplified features of the lake. The background noise of a waterfall on the inlet stream provided a soundtrack that would slowly fade away in the coming weeks as the snow that fed it melted away. I had hoped for successful ice-out fishing, but neither the trout below the lake’s surface or the two I spotted in a pool in the outlet stream were interested in the flies I tossed onto the water. Although several feet of snow persisted around the shore of the lake, I was able to find a spot with dry ground for my tent and an adjacent snow-free area to cook. The “dining room” of this trip featured a breathtaking view of the crags and a peak above the lake, with a small channel of open water at my feet before it turned into a sheet of ice stretching across the lake to the base of the slopes that stretched upward to the aforementioned attractions. A delicious meal of pasta, tuna, spinach and mushrooms warmed me up as the sun set and a chilly night that would stall any continued melting descended upon the lake. During consumption of coffee the next morning, I was treated to watching the rays of the rising sun wash across the white and ice-blue canvas of the lake. Not wishing to leave anything left unseen, I made a detour to the far side of the lake to enjoy a closer view of the waterfall before making the short trek to Camas Lake. The third lake of my trip, Camas Lake had already completed the “defrost” cycle that Kidney Lake was in the midst of. Only 500 feet lower in the cirque and barely a half-mile away, the contrast was astounding. Almost totally ice free, aside from a few small floes, Camas Lake provided a true taste of summer in the Northern Rockies. A few fish snatched bugs from the surface of the water, but avoided the various flies I tossed their way. However, moving around the lake the action was much better and several gorgeous cutthroats were hooked, landed and released. Early spring blooms in the Bitterroot Mountains Back to the Trailhead As the fishing waned later in the afternoon and a thunderstorm brewed to the west, it seemed like a good time to begin the pleasant downhill jaunt to the trailhead. Two crossings of rushing streams served as reminders during the warm but mostly shaded hike that summer, with its more moderated stream flows, ice-free lakes, and snow-free mountain passes, was still a few weeks away. I couldn’t help but smile knowing that while I’d have a few months to enjoy the summer hiking conditions favored with good reason by backpackers, I’d also perfectly hit the narrow window of opportunity for experiencing enchanting and crowdless pre-season scenery. Information The best time to visit the Bitterroot Mountains (winter hiking and backpacking conditions aside) can be found roughly from mid-June to September. A high clearance AWD / 4WD vehicle can be useful for accessing trailheads. For National Forest areas, and for getting to and from other hiking and backpacking destinations in the state the Montana Delorme Atlas and Gazetteer can be very useful. For the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness Area, see the Cairn Cartographics North Half and South Half maps, and for a guidebook on wilderness hikes see Hiking the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.

Recent books and movies have inspired countless hikers and potential hikers to dream about thru-hiking one of the “big three” of America’s long trails: The Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, or the Continental Divide Trail. However, most people that attempt the feat drop off the trail before completion. A six-month commitment to a hike can become just too difficult. Countless others don’t even try; it’s just too much time away from family and the lives they’ve built. Completing all three trails, the “Triple Crown of Hiking,” is beyond even contemplating. Other options exist though. There are long trails that, while still providing life changing experiences, can be completed in weeks rather than months. In fact, there’s even a “Triple Crown” that can not only be contemplated, it can be accomplished. That’s right, there’s a junior version of hiking’s “Triple Crown.” Mine began as a bucket list hike. As a guy in his 50’s with titanium in one foot, I didn’t even entertain the thought of the AT, PCT, or CDT. I was looking for a significant adventure though and settled on trying the Colorado Trail. The 486 mile CT shares nearly half of its distance with the Continental Divide Trail and travels through some of the most beautiful scenery of the Rockies. It was a tremendous, month-long experience; everything I had hoped for. After that trail, I was hooked on thru-hiking, just not the kind that requires six months at a time. In the last year I also completed both the iconic John Muir Trail, and the trail many consider to be the inspiration for the AT, the Long Trail. For those with weeks, not months, available to hike; I recommend them highly. But which trail is the best? It all depends on what you are looking for. The Long Trail The Long Trail is 273 miles of classic eastern mountains. Much of the time is spent meandering through oaks and maples. Because the trail runs the very spine of Vermont’s Green Mountains, there are a surprising number of big views. Besides the bare peaks of Camel's Hump and Mt. Mansfield, several other mountains crossed are ski resorts in the winter. The cleared ski slopes reveal more scenery than typically found on other eastern mountains. Quite often the views also include a beautiful small town nestled down in a valley. One such spot is Stratton Mountain. It was there that Benton McKaye conceived of the idea of the Appalachian Trail. The southern 100 miles or so of the trail are perfect if you are looking for an AT type experience. In fact, for that stretch the trail is shared with the AT. There are numerous shelters, plenty of company and nearby resupply. Once north of the split, the trail is significantly more challenging. The crowds disappear and the hiking gets much more rugged. There were many spots where I found myself climbing ladders or metal rungs drilled into rock walls. There were other spots where I wished there were ladders. More than once I looked at the trail in front of me and exclaimed, “You have got to be kidding me!” Oh, and the famous “Vermud” is a real thing. If you’re looking for a new level of challenge, the Long Trail is for you. The Colorado Trail The Colorado Trail is quintessential big mountain hiking. Rather than follow one chain of mountains, the CT crosses eight named mountain ranges, each with its own look. The hike varies between open coniferous forests, aspen groves, high mesas, and rugged alpine passes with views of mountaintops that seem to extend forever. In some drier areas, there are even cacti. While the trail averages 10,000 feet in elevation, the object of the trail is not to climb the peaks, but travel around them. Peak bagging is possible through side trips, but not on the CT itself. Initial construction was completed in 1987, making it by far the newest trail. Beyond self-issued permits at some of the wilderness areas, no paperwork is required to hike the CT. Winding from just south of Denver, Colorado to Durango in the southwest portion of the state, the CT is mostly single track without significant mileage on Forest Service roads. There is one (6 mile) section of road walking. Besides multiple mountain ranges the trail winds through six wilderness areas and some of the most beautiful scenery in the Rocky Mountains. The CT shares approximately 235 Miles with the Continental Divide Trail. The trail itself is very well constructed and appears to be well maintained. A tent is a necessity as support structures such as shelters are noticeably absent. In my mind a hammock is not really an option due to the trail spending extended stretches above tree line. Altitude is a significant consideration on the trail. With the average elevation over 10,000 feet, snow can remain well into the summer months. Thunderstorms at that height are a real danger. Hikers on the CT need to be self-sufficient. In the more remote sections there are few other hikers and convenient resupplies can be far apart. I typically hiked 70-100+ miles between town stops. Wildlife is prevalent on the trail and I saw quite a bit, from hummingbirds, chipmunks, and pika up to big mammals including deer, moose, bighorn sheep, and elk. Marmots were very numerous at higher elevations. There are also black bear near the trail, though I did not see any. The John Muir Trail The JMT should be on every hiker’s bucket list. It is 210 miles of spectacular. The JMT shares 170 miles with the Pacific Crest Trail and by most accounts is the most scenic section of the PCT. Running from Yosemite National Park to Kings Canyon National Park, the trail travels through the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the top of Mt. Whitney, the highest peak in the continental United States. Known for their beauty, the Sierra were called “The Range of Light” by John Muir. Beyond jaw dropping views of places like Half Dome, Cathedral Peak, Evolution Valley, and the high passes, the JMT is about water. There are beautiful alpine lakes and countless clear streams. Even hiking during the 2015 drought, enough melting snow was left to fill the spectacular rapids and waterfalls that travel down the mountains’ steep slopes. Much of the trail appeared very dry, but water was never an issue. There is only one mountaintop view, but it’s a doozy. At 14,505 feet, the summit of Mt. Whitney is the official endpoint of the JMT. On a clear day, the view goes on seemingly forever. Potential wildlife sightings on and near the trail were second to none as well. A good portion of the hike is within National Parks after all. All the wildlife normally thought of in a mountain wilderness lives near the JMT. Deer were thick through the lower elevations and seemingly oblivious to hikers. What really stood out during my hike was the close encounters with predators. I happened upon coyote and even a bobcat while on the trip. The multiple sightings of bear left no doubt as to why food canisters are required. Resupplies get tougher as you travel from north to south. The last relatively convenient resupply option is at Muir Trail Ranch, 110 miles into your 220-mile hike. (Yes, I know the trail is 210 miles, but you still have to get off Mt. Whitney.) Cramming enough food into your bear canister to take you the rest of the way can be a challenge, to say the least. Like the CT, the JMT has high elevations and big climbs, but both are well constructed with switchbacks when needed. Again, like the CT, you’ll need to rely on your own shelter. Perhaps the biggest challenge with the JMT is getting a permit. If you want to start at Happy Isles in Yosemite, plan on faxing in an application 24 weeks before your planned start date. By the end of the day, you will find out if you secured a permit. You probably did not. Per the National Park Service website, over 97% of all applications are denied. Prepare to repeat the process the next day with a new starting date and start location options. One hiker I met on the trail had been denied 22 times before she received a permit to start at Happy Isles Trailhead. Now I fully understand the National Park Service’s position. They have a duty to protect the wilderness from overuse and want to provide a true wilderness experience for those that do receive a permit. I certainly did not want to hike the JMT like I was in a conga line or a parade. Based on my experience, allowing 45 people daily to travel over the JMT’s first pass seemed like a reasonable number. While I saw others at times, it was not constant and I was always able to find a good spot to camp. None of that makes getting the permit any easier, however. You’ll need to plan ahead, yet be very flexible. In my case, after being turned down a few times, I changed my plan. I was able to secure a permit starting from Tuolumne Meadows, 20 miles down the trail. However, I also arrived at the park a couple days early and day hiked the section I would have otherwise missed. Yes 20 miles is a long day hike, but using park bus service and walking it backwards, it was doable. Was it perfect? No, but it was the only option to walk the entire trail within my timeframe. So, if the logistics of a 2,000 mile hike are impossible for you in the near future, don’t fret. There are viable options to still be a thru-hiker. Pick whichever one of the shorter options of America’s three foremost cross-country trails that sounds best to you. Perhaps you’ll get the bug and eventually hike the Triple Crown; just the junior version. Need to Know Information No permits are required to hike the Long Trail though some camp areas and shelters have a $5/night fee. More information is available at the Green Mountain Club. Other than free, self-issued permits at some wilderness areas, no permits are required to hike the Colorado Trail. More information is available at the Colorado Trail Foundation. A permit is required to hike the John Muir Trail. The cost is $5 for the permit, plus $5 for each person in the group. In addition, a bear canister is required on much of the trail. For those starting from the northern (Yosemite National Park) terminus, information on permits and the trail is available on the Yosemite National Park page. Best Time to Go The hiking season for both the CT and JMT is generally July through September. Early season hikers enjoy more wildflowers, stream flows and mosquitoes. At the highest elevations, snow can last well into the summer, and return again early in the fall. Parts of the Long Trail do not open until Memorial Day Weekend. The “mud season” returns by late October. September would be my choice as the trails tend to be at their driest, bugs mostly gone and the AT thru-hiker wave has passed. Early-mid October brings the added draw of tremendous fall color. Getting There The Colorado Trail Eastern/Northern terminus is located at 11300 Waterton Road, Littleton, CO 80125. From Denver, take I-25 South to C-470 West to CO Hwy 121 South. After 4.5 miles turn left onto Waterton Rd. Most hikers attempt to start the John Muir Trail at the Happy Isles Trailhead located at the eastern end of Yosemite Valley inside Yosemite National Park. There are numerous options for both driving and public transportation to and throughout the park. The southern terminus of the Long Trail is located on the Appalachian Trail at the Vermont/Massachusetts border. The trail can be accessed via the AT by hiking north from the crossing of Mass Rt 2 between Williamstown and North Adams, MA. Another option is the hike the Pine Cobble Trail from Pine Cobble Rd in Williamstown to the AT just south of the Vermont state line. Maps There are highly useful FarOut phone apps for all three trails. The Green Mountain Club produces a map of the LT. The Colorado Trail Foundation produces a map and a databook for the CT and many Trails Illustrated Maps cover the route. For the JMT I used the John Muir Trail Pocket Atlas by Blackwoods Press. The JMT Map Set from Tom Harrison Maps is another option. Books The Colorado Trail Guidebook by the Colorado Trail Foundation. Long Trail Guide by the Green Mountain Club. John Muir Trail: The Essential Guide to Hiking America’s Most Famous Trail by Elizabeth Wenk. Backpacking’s Triple Crown: The Junior Version by the author Jim Rahtz.

Long before I’d ever shouldered a backpack for a hike into a wilderness area, I found myself intrigued by Arizona’s Superstition Mountains. As the purported location of the Lost Dutchman’s Gold Mine, I was first exposed to the Superstitions in books about lost treasures and historical mysteries I checked out from my middle-school library. An episode of “In Search of . . .” with Leonard Nimoy that featured the legend and aired as a re-run on the History Channel further deepened my fascination. Hidden gold and lost maps, murders and disappearances, towering rock formations and an unforgiving desert landscape – all made for captivating TV to a city kid in Kentucky. Tales of lost treasure closer to home, like Swift’s lost silver mine and buried Civil War payrolls were more geographically relevant, but the Lost Dutchman’s Mine and the Superstitions had made an impression. After becoming an avid backpacker, my interest in the Superstition Mountains was rekindled. The Superstition Wilderness is one of the original wilderness areas designated in the Wilderness Act of 1964, is an excellent springtime backpacking destination, and – as far as stunning desert landscapes go – is easily accessible. Despite a few half-hearted attempts to plan a trip over the years, I didn’t get a chance to hike there until recently. Having a close friend and fellow backpacker who lived nearby and was eager to fit in a backpacking trip before the imminent and awesome responsibility of fatherhood was bestowed up him later in the year provided all the motivation I needed. The unlikely yet unique possibility that I might solve a centuries-old mystery while digging a cathole may or may not have factored into my enthusiasm as well. Into the Superstition Wilderness The plane touched down on the warm runway of the Phoenix airport at 10:17 a.m. and I filled up five liters of water from a water fountain while waiting for my checked bag to arrive. Backpacking efficiency at its best. John picked me up and, despite having not seen each other since a trip in 2015 in Montana’s Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness, we picked up right where we left off. After an anticipation-building eastbound drive, with the mountains rising ever higher from the Arizona desert and the buildings thinning out the further we traveled, we found ourselves on the trail by noon. Desert landscapes are surreal enough, but to have gone from boarding a plane six hours earlier in gray and snowy Missoula, Montana to being able to reach out and touch a Saguaro cactus (not that you’d want to) took the experience to another level. The mix of muted browns and dull greens made the objectively inhospitable landscape seem almost cozy as we traipsed along the trail toward a campsite located a short jaunt from a reliable water source. Temperatures in the 70s, blue sky, and a light breeze made for comfortable hiking. In the shade of a particularly large Saguaro, I paused to investigate what I thought might be a dire circumstance – a puncture in one of my two-liter bladders. As it turned out, it was merely an inordinate amount of perspiration on my lower back. More amusing and, fortunately, much less concerning. And a good reminder of the importance of consuming water in such an arid environment. We made good time to our campsite, climbing up to a mesa and then descending up to a pass and then down into a canyon, with some stellar views of iconic Weaver’s Needle along the way. Although there were several other backpackers out and about, we made it to the large camping area first and snagged what I believed to be a premium campsite. Secluded and with nice views of the canyon’s slopes, and plenty of elbow room before bumping into prickly, thorny, or otherwise unfriendly forms of vegetation, it was an ideal spot to set up our tents. We relaxed for a bit before making the mile or so roundtrip to get water from the reliable spring further up the canyon, which offered suitable campsites that were predictably crowded. While it doesn’t take much to puzzle me, I was genuinely befuddled by the guys we met who earnestly intended to hammock camp in the area. Indeed, John and I had exchanged sarcastic text messages about hammock camping in the desert in the days prior to the trip, amongst other important topics such as sources of water and brands of whiskey. After stocking up on water and comic relief, we began our return to camp. Although our packs were heavy with water on the way back, the gentle downhill walk back to the campsite as the sun set and the light in the canyon changed were enchanting enough to make me forget I even had on a pack. Back at camp, we stretched out in the twilight and started fixing our dinners. Or at least I started fixing mine while John struggled to open his bear canister, which he regretfully opted to bring to protect his food against rodents. I simply chose to bring my trusty stuff sack to hang from whatever I could find and then hope for the best. Bears are of no real concern in the Superstition Mountains and John paid an unexpected and mildly amusing price for his overkill decision in regard to food storage. John lacked the ideal tool – a nickel – to open the bear canister and had little success improvising with other tools. A man versus bear canister battle unfolded before me as I devoured my pasta and tuna. I could contribute nothing except sympathy and stifled laughter. Frustration increased and, after about fifteen minutes, I am certain that if I had a spare nickel John would have gladly paid twenty dollars for it. As I moved on to dessert, the bear canister was finally opened in a triumphant display of determination and creative use of sharp objects. John was then able to consume a hard-won but ultimately underwhelming freeze-dried meal. After an hour or two of trading stories and sips of a whiskey while stars began to slowly punctuate the desert sky, we retired to our respective tents for a peaceful night’s slumber. Although John had intended to hike the approximately 10-mile day hike loop from camp with me the following morning, a late-breaking and unexpected family emergency forced him to curtail his trip and hike out early. Since he would still be able to pick me up from the trailhead the next day, we parted ways that morning and I finished the rest of the planned trip solo. I would be remiss if I didn’t note my surprisingly deep disappointment at the fact that I would be companion-less for the rest of the hike. I’ve done over a hundred nights solo in my decade of backpacking and am incredibly fond of solo backpacking, but I cherish to the very center of my soul the trips I share with close friends. Missing out on the opportunity for another day of wilderness bonding with John emotionally altered my trip, but I understood the gravity of his family situation, adjusted my expectations, and proceeded onward and forward with the rest of my stroll through the Superstitions. To say that the hiking was blissful would be an understatement. Overcast skies saturated the colors and added depth to the landscape that allowed it to shine in a different way than it had the previous day. The lack of a sun beaming down made the hiking remarkably pleasant and the scenery unfolded with a grandeur and intensity that was jaw dropping. Cacti, distant cliffs, pools of water in the creekbeds, rock formations, all occurred with a perfect mix of frequency and variety. The Superstitions are certainly not an uncrowded area and I had the good fortune to share some of the hike with three other hikers. They were kind enough to invite me on a short scramble up to an overlook for lunch, which had a great view of Weaver’s Needle. We continued on the loop together, but different pacing eventually led to us drifting apart and I returned to my walking reverie through the desert. I re-filled on water at the same spring as the previous day and returned to camp to settle into my usual solo routine of stretching, reading, writing short letters to friends on the backside of maps or a scrap paper to drop in the mail, and replenishing lost calories and fluids. The Last Night A light rain fell consistently throughout the evening and overnight, but never to the point of inconvenience. Given how rare rain is in the desert, I looked upon it as a rare treat and appreciated every drop. The beauty of a rain drop on the needle of a cactus is absolutely divine. The cool morning temperatures and light rain which defined my hike out the next morning made for a mystical landscape, as fog rolled across distant mesas and swirled around rugged formations and mountains both near and far. I made it back to the trailhead a half-hour or so before the pick-up time that John and I had agreed upon, which allowed me to stretch, make some tea, and generally lounge around the trailhead and enjoy the desert ambience. Upon reuniting with John for the concluding chapter of our trip, which was an overnight stay at the delightfully funky El Dorado Hot Springs to ease our exaggeratedly aching bones, we picked up right where we left off. And that is perhaps as best a note to end on as any – when it comes to friends, backpacking, hiking, and life in general – there is a simple pleasure in picking up where you left off, regardless of distance or time passed, that leaves one with nothing more to desire. The Superstition Wilderness offers backpackers and hikers an at times, surreal experience through desert terrain. Need to Know Information The Superstitions are an ideal destination for the majority of most seasons other than summer. Water and heat are the primary limiters for trips here and should be given the utmost respect and consideration when planning your trip. The trailheads can be popular and crowded on weekends “in season” and camps directly adjacent to water sources can suffer from overuse. If you can commit to dry camping and plan your water sources appropriately, you greatly increase your chances for solitude. Several popular trailheads, such as Peralta and First Water, are located only an hour’s drive from Phoenix. Call the Tonto National Forest, Mesa Ranger District, for the most up-to-date information. Books Hiking Arizona’s Superstition and Mazatzal Country by Bruce Grubbs Superstition Wilderness Trails West: Hikes, Horse Rides, and History by Jack Carlson and Elizabeth Stewart Superstition Wilderness Trails East: Hikes, Horse Rides, and History by Jack Carlson and Elizabeth Stewart Maps National Geographic's Trails Illustrated Map #851, as well as the Beartooth Publishing Superstition Wilderness map both offer maps covering the general area.

While the potential exists to makes one's backcountry cooking setup nearly as complex as the average home kitchen, albeit hopefully a bit more miniaturized and lighter, in most cases the average lightweight backpacker only needs to boil water for freeze-dried dinners, freezer bag style cooking, to heat and hydrate a basic meal within the pot, or to heat water for things like coffee and tea. For these backpackers – like myself – the Evernew Ultralight Titanium Series pots have been a fairly popular option on the trail and have been my go-to choice for many trips over more than the past decade. The Evernew ultralight titanium pots have offered me many years of backcountry service. Evernew Ultralight 900 and 1300ml Titanium Pots These 2 pots are from the Evernew's "All Purpose" lineup, which also includes a 600ml version (ECA251) not tested here. With a listed weight of just 4.6 ounces and 4.1 ounces for the 1300ml (model ECA253 – measured weight: 4.9 ounces) and the smaller 900ml (model ECA252 – measured weight: 3.85 ounces) options at my disposal, respectively, these Evernew pots are really quite tough despite being so light. I've downright abused the 1.3 liter, including dry baking (not suggested), cooking in campfires, melting lots of snow for a group, and it’s even suffered a few impacts in the outside pocket of my pack from dropping it off ledges while traversing class 3 terrain. These pots are more short and squat than tall and thin, and as such catch more heat, heating faster and saving a bit of fuel and are more stable on top of a stove. On the downside, the shape doesn't really lend itself to an effective or satisfying combo for an all in one pot / mug solution (such as something like the Snow Peak 700), although it would work if you're not too particular. The lids fit securely, and don’t seem to require constant re-bending of the pot every time you unpack it in an attempt to get things to line up like some other solutions I’ve used. At times I’ve used a large rubber band with a loop to loop to connection on the lid handle – this allows one to then wrap the rubber band all the way around the pot and lid for even more security in the pack (for example when trying to store too many things inside), but these days I don’t bother and store the pot in the outside mesh pocket of my ULA Circuit also helps to keep everything in place. The Evernew Ultralight Series is a great choice for a variety of average lightweight backpacking conditions and applications – although the pizza in the upper left was baked in the 1.3 liter proving it possible, the thin walls may not be best for more in-depth and advanced cooking techniques. The handles (which fold for packing) along with the handle on the lid both feature heat insulating silicone material so you can take care of cooking without having to find that bandanna to use as a pot holder. A small pour spout is integrated to minimize spills and to ease water transfer, and measurement graduations can be found on the sides. Evernew also offers the non-stick versions of these as well, but in my experience it's not needed, adds a little weight, and the coating requires care both in your choice of utensils and in your cooking technique to keep from scratching it. 3 sizes are offered – a .6 liter, a .9 liter, and the largest 1.3 liter version. The .9 liter has been a perfect size for me for either solo cooking in the pot or for two when heating water and rehydrating freeze-dried or freezer bag style meals is all that's required. I will step up to the larger 1.3 liter version when cooking in the pot for two, baking experiments, or when melting snow for water in the winter. I've used these with alcohol stoves and mostly in that case with a Trail Designs Sidewinder Ti-Tri, but most recently I’m usually using them with a canister stove and usually the Soto WindMaster. With this stove, I’m also able to fit a small MSR 110 gram fuel canister in either size, and I’m able to fit a larger 220 gram Snow Peak fuel canister in the 1.3 liter upside down while still being able to close the lid. If you like to store your fuel canister inside your pot, turning the canister upside down may help to make things fit. Conclusion While the thin, scorch-possible walls of the Evernew pots might not be the best choice for the gourmet backcountry chefs among us or for your next morning huevos rancheros experiment on the trail, if you mostly need to heat and boil water, melt snow, or cook the occasional basic pasta meal or beans and rice in the pot like me (low heat and keep stirring!) the Evernew Ultralight Series of pots are hard to beat. Throw in a long handled spoon (the Toaks is my current choice) and optionally some type of mug for coffee (my pick: the Snow Peak 450 – single wall) and you're set. Although the Evernew Ultralight pots are a bit on the pricey side, they're also light, effective, and durable – always a great combination for the outdoors. The Evernew Ultralight pots can at times be hard to track down, but you can usually find them in all 3 sizes for around $50-$70 depending on size here at Amazon.com.

Hiking from one beautiful place to another on pleasant and well-maintained trails is a great way to spend five days. Doing so with a good friend and cooperative weather makes a great experience even better. Throw in a few synchronous strokes of good fortune and you end up with an incredibly rewarding and memorable adventure. Neither John nor I had been on a four-night trip since March 2011 when he, myself, and my girlfriend at the time did a trek through the Chiricahua Mountains in southeastern Arizona. John was working nearby in Sierra Vista, Arizona with the US Forest Service at the time (we had met while working with the USFS in Kentucky) and invited us out for a spring break trip. That trip was my first time backpacking out West and was simply incredible; I promised myself it wouldn’t be my last. Fast forward almost five years and a lot has changed in our lives, both personally and professionally. I moved from Kentucky to Montana and John lives in Florida and is recently married. This summer found him in Alaska working a seasonal job with the Forest Service and his itinerary on the way home to Florida included a stop in Hamilton with time set aside for a five-day backpacking trip. Over the summer, I contemplated various destinations for our trip. Glacier National Park, the Bob Marshall Wilderness, and the Gros Ventre Wilderness all received ample consideration. I pored over maps and diligently read and re-read guidebook descriptions and information I found online. I asked seasoned hikers for their suggestions. Eventually, I settled on a 40-mile loop in the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness of western Montana for our trip. It ranked high in the scenery department and low in the crowds department, it didn’t require any permits or fees, and the trailhead was an enjoyable two-hour drive away. It offered nice options for camping at various lakes and meadows and included a section of hiking above treeline that virtually guaranteed majestic mountain views. The fact that a guidebook described it as “perhaps the single best alternative for folks wanting to see the best the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness has to offer without going to the trouble of setting up a long shuttle for the Continental Divide hike” also gave me considerable peace of mind in the decision. After the enjoyable but tedious pre-trip legwork of packing, meal selection, and checking in with the three different ranger districts through which we would pass in regard to trail conditions, we finally made the uneventful drive to the trailhead. Half of the drive was on dirt roads and included a brief stop at Skalkaho Falls. We found ourselves parked by mid-afternoon at a large trailhead which we shared with a truck towing a horse trailer. Into the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness Once the requisite stretching and map reading were completed we began the 5-mile hike to Johnson Lake where we would spend the night. This was the shortest day of our trip, but it certainly didn’t lack in scenic rewards. Two nice waterfalls broke up the comforting monotony of the coniferous forest through which we hiked. We made good time to Johnson Lake and arrived in good spirits despite the drizzly weather. Once our tents were set up near and bear bag hung we headed for a lakeside dining spot and enjoyed pasta and tuna with fresh spinach and mushrooms. It would’ve been nicer if the tuna was fresh, but hey, this is backpacking. We called it an early night and found ourselves in our tents by 9 p.m. as a light rain tapped out its inimitable rhythm on our sil-nylon roofs. The morning shifted from darkness to overcast glow and eventually daylight with an unhurried pace. We found ourselves packed up and climbing the trail to Rainbow Pass at a respectable time and at a respectable pace. Mid-morning found us at Rainbow Pass (9,250 feet) and we took a short break to enjoy the views and review the plan for the rest of the day. It seemed to make more sense to push on to Rainbow Lake, a mere downhill mile away, for an extended break rather than stretch out our time at Rainbow Pass. The lake was a perfect place for a break but it didn’t hold any great appeal for camping. We enjoyed some coffee and conversation, each made more pleasant by the presence of the other, before starting the descent down the drainage to the junction with the trail to Warren Lake. As expected, we made great time on the descent and lagged slightly on the uphill section. We reached Warren Lake with plenty of daylight left to allow us to search around for a good campsite and enjoy some leisure time before dinner and sunset. The daylight we had left was a light worth talking about — what a warm and sublime illumination it was as it shone upon the mountains, the water, the rocks, and the trees. Quintessential autumn light at a quintessential mountain lake. Warren Lake is an exceptionally scenic lake (there’s a reason it’s on the cover of the only guidebook to the area) and seeing it under such prime conditions was a visual pleasure that’s hard to explain or exaggerate. As twilight neared, it became apparent that the day’s sunset would be much more entertaining than its sunrise. Faint pinks and purples became more vivid and the blue shifted to a rich darkness that perfectly contrasted the other colors in the sky. This beautiful and fluid mosaic of clouds and sky reached a fever pitch of intensity, almost humming with depth and energy, reflecting off the lake, before becoming a dark, moody and mostly cloudy ceiling above our little corner of the Rockies. Stuffed from an oversized dinner of burritos and still awe-struck from the sunset, we digested and decompressed beside a small campfire. Although not a frequent part of my backpacking repertoire, the fact that the wood was conveniently stacked beside the fire ring and a desire to remain reasonably well-practiced in this art of woodcraft compelled me to go through the motions and put match to tinder. While not as mesmerizing as the sunset, the campfire proved — as always — to be a relaxing way to wind down the evening. A sunny and nearly cloud-free sky greeted us in the morning and we packed up at an efficient pace, despite a reluctance to leave. This day would be our longest hike of the trip (approximately 12 miles) and featured a significant descent, followed by a long climb to Cutaway Pass, a few miles of above treeline hiking, then a seemingly endless descent to Black Bear Meadows, where we would pitch camp. The section of trail descending from Warren Lake was a delightful way to start a gorgeous and unseasonably warm October day. Some sections of trail were indescribably lovely under the conditions in which we hiked them. We navigated tight switchbacks carpeted with golden larch needles before reaching straight, gently graded, narrow sections of trail which passed beneath towering lodgepole pines. The climb up to Cutaway Pass was less visually charming, at least until we were high enough to catch glimpses of the mountains and get our first taste of the middle portion of the day’s journey. It wasn’t early and it wasn’t late when we reached Cutaway Pass and took a break to snack, soak up the view, and rest for the next section of hiking. While I don’t have a breadth of experience when it comes to high-country hiking, I feel comfortable stating that the next section of trail (from Cutaway Pass to an unnamed pass) was indeed a fine example of northern Rocky Mountain alpine scenery. We enjoyed unobstructed views of various mountains ranges near and far, glimpses into glacial cirques (some with lakes and some without) and the thrill of being on a treeless ridgecrest. Perhaps the grandest vista was the one we took in right before we began our descent — a sweeping panorama which included an unnamed lake, Warren Peak, and most enticingly, a view down into the meadow where we would be camping that evening. To say the descent took forever would verge on being an understatement. The majority of our afternoon seemed to be spent on endless switchbacks, some long and some short, but it sure beat sitting in traffic or doing laundry. We didn’t have too much time to spare time once we finally reached Black Bear Meadows, which was just as idyllic up close as it looked from 9,700 feet. Black Bear Meadows was an easy place to camp in as virtually the entire acreage was flat and every spot to pitch a tent had a backdrop worthy of a magazine cover. We pitched our tents in what we thought was a fine spot, but it was subsequently upstaged upon our early evening “discovery” of the Bonus Meadow. Separated by a small creek shaded by trees, this adjacent meadow offered spectacular views and included a feature designed for comfort — a large perfectly shaped and slanted rock slab that could accommodate two humans in supreme comfort and provide them with a breathtaking view of Warren Peak and adjacent mountain slopes. Needless to say, we had dinner at this too-good-to-be-true spot after some Frisbee throwing in an attempt to stay loose and stretch our muscles before settling down. The stargazing from this spot was as incredible as the sunset had been the previous evening. The silhouette of the mountains with the stars above made for a truly remarkable view. A shooting star streaked across the sky a mere split-second after I commented to John that we would be seeing some shooting-star action once the skies darkened enough. Coincidence or synchronicity? I’ll opt for the latter. With stars above and perfect seats we stayed up considerably later than on the other nights of the trip. We sipped just enough bourbon to enjoy a warm fuzzy feeling of accomplishment and camaraderie without having to pay a penalty the next morning. We awoke not long after sunrise to a beautiful morning and warm temperatures. As was the routine, we enjoyed a quick but not rushed breakfast while packing up our gear. We had a relatively easy day of hiking ahead of us, especially when compared with the previous day’s effort, and started up the trail with a spring in our steps. We reached Warren Pass in 90 minutes, a modest accomplishment for two non-competitive hikers such as ourselves. On the way to the pass, we strolled through several spectacular meadows as well as a stunning tarn tucked into the woods. Descending from Warren Pass, we passed Upper Carpp Lake before following the trail as it wound between Carpp Lake and Lower Carpp Lake. A few tents were scattered along the lakeshore and we encountered the first other hiker we had seen on the trip. We had decided the night before that our campsite for the final night of our trip would be at Tamarack Lake, requiring a three-mile roundtrip hike from the main trail we had been following to this absolute gem of a high mountain lake. Although we made good time to the lake, I found myself more tired from the effort than I expected and set my tent up at the first spot that looked decent. It wasn’t a bad spot by any means, but while walking around the lake later in the day I stumbled upon a much more appealing spot, which I will definitely put to use in the future. Tamarack Lake was an enchanting mix of blues that varied with depth and light conditions and possessed an almost psychedelic shimmer under the mid-afternoon sun. Mountainsides and Warren Peak towered above the far shore, and just to top things off, a small and rugged island sat in the middle of the lake. Piles of eroded rock and gravel on the mountain slope resembled the bottom halves of hourglasses, making the whole scene seem just a bit more existential than might be expected. This observation brought to mind a verse from the song “Trains Across the Seas” by poet and musician David Berman: Half-hours on Earth, what are they worth? I don’t know. In twenty-seven years, I’ve drunk fifty-thousand beers And they just wash against me, like the sea into a pier. I don’t know either, but I do know for certain that all too few of my half-hours on Earth have been spent in places as beautiful as Tamarack Lake. Our dining spot for the evening provided a great view of the lake and was well-protected from the wind, which had picked up over the course of the day. We headed into our tents not long after darkness settled and endured a night of sustained and at times strong winds (some gusts likely exceeding 35 m.p.h.) that also brought with it a few inches of snow. Fortunately, ear plugs allowed me to sleep relatively uninterrupted; lacking such equipment John’s night was a bit less restful. The morning was slightly overcast, with wind and snowfall sticking around well into the morning. I awoke before John and headed over to his tent after retrieving our food bags and provided a friendly morning wake-up call, letting him know that I would have coffee ready by the time he go out of his tent. A few minutes later, sipping coffee on the lee side of lakeside tree trunks and watching the warm mist from the cups twist in the wind and mix imperceptibly with the snowfall, it was hard not to smile even given the rough conditions. It was like we had awoke in a completely different season; we got a “two-for-one” deal on conditions at the lake — fall and winter separated by only a few hours. Perfectly equipped to handle this change in weather, we packed up and hit the trail without incident and with less than nine miles left on our journey. The weather can change suddenly and dramatically in the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness. The Hike Out The first few miles of our hike out were so intensely beautiful that it is hard to describe them. The cliche about “hiking in a snowglobe” seems appropriate enough. The carpet of snow on the ground and the snow falling from above, combined with the intrinsic enchantment of a dense coniferous forest made even more spectacular by the dusting of snow that clung to its trees, was illuminated by a sky full of faded pastels — creams, yellows, pinks, hints of blues. As the day went on it shifted from a backlit overcast to partly cloudy, with healthy amounts of blue sky making frequent appearances. We both agreed that if we could’ve chosen snow or no snow for the hike out, we definitely would’ve chosen snow. As we hiked we eventually fell below the snowline and knew we were entering the twilight of our journey when we heard the upper of the two waterfalls we had passed on our way in five days before. We arrived back at the trailhead around 1 p.m., tired but exhilarated and rejuvenated by the experience. As can be inferred from my lengthy description our trip, this 43-mile loop with over 9,000 feet of elevation gain (including the spur to Tamarack Lake) and a maximum elevation of 9,700 feet is an epic hike, although it takes a bit of time to reveal its most superb characteristics. It’s certainly not an “instant gratification” type of trek, with the best scenery reserved for the second half of the trip. While the trails were in great shape during our hike and junctions were clearly marked, the terrain traversed and the distances separating the most desirable campsites make this hike, at least the way we did it, one which edges into the “difficult” category. Experienced backpackers in decent shape should have no trouble with it, but it could pose a challenge for the out-of-shape or underprepared. Need to Know Information Visitors are required to self-register at the trailhead. There are no fees or permits required. For yet another trip to the Pintlers, see this article in Issue 5 of TrailGroove Magazine. Getting There The nearest towns of any consequence are Butte and Missoula. The easiest way to get to the trailhead is to get to the junction of Montana Hwy. 1 and Hwy. 38 from wherever you're coming, then head west on Highway 38 to the signed junction with Moose Lake Road (FR-5106) and continue for about 15 miles on a surprisingly good gravel road to Middle Fork Trailhead. Junctions are obvious and/or well signed. The parking lot has outhouse facilities and plenty of room for horse trailers. Great spot to throw some pre-hike Frisbee, too! If you're headed over from the Bitterroot Valley, simply take Hwy. 38 from the junction with Hwy. 93 to the Moose Lake Road turn-off. This road is suitable for all vehicles, provided due caution is exercised on the narrow and gravel sections. Best Time to Go This loop has a relatively short window of prime time hiking, from the middle of August to the middle of October, with mid-September being perhaps the most ideal time. Maps & Books Maps can be obtained from the US Forest Service ranger stations in the area or you can download/purchase topo maps for the area. This link is helpful in choosing which topo maps you will need. Cairn Cartographics also offers their Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness map. The only hiking guidebook for the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness is Hiking the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness by Mort Arkava. This book was published in 2000 and is currently out-of-print. It is an excellent guidebook, but is difficult to find and a bit out of date. Several public libraries in Montana have copies and you could coordinate your trip to stop by one and browse the descriptions and photocopy needed information. Your local library might also be able to obtain a copy through interlibrary loan. Libraries are awesome. The Author Mark Wetherington is an avid backpacker and occasional writer. Since 2008 he has attempted, with varying degrees of success, to spend 10% of each year on backpacking trips. Born in Tennessee and raised in Kentucky, he now lives on the edge of the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness in Montana.

After an introduction to lightweight backpacking chairs a few years ago, my philosophy on this admittedly somewhat superfluous (but many times well worth the weight) camp comfort item has generally remained unchanged; on longer trips where I’m moving daily and pack weight is of more concern the chair stays behind and any rock or log will do. For the amount of time that you’re actually in camp – and not inside your tent – carrying the weight is simply not worth it. But mental and physical comfort levels on when the extra comfort is worth the weight of course, will vary. But on shorter less ambitious trips, winter trips with extra time in camp and long nights, or those trips where I’ll be setting up camp for more than just one night in the same place, I’ve found various chairs like the Monarch Chair from Alite Designs (review) and more recently the Helinox Ground Chair (review) to add a substantial amount of comfort to the backcountry camping experience. But even on these trips, the weight of these chairs is still cause for pause when getting your pack ready the night before. The Helinox Chair Zero is a recent release from Helinox that focuses on reducing that weight concern further, along with increasing comfort and packability when you do decide to take a chair backpacking. The Chair Zero packs to a reasonable size, and assembles quickly. The Chair Zero Design & Field Impressions Like the Helinox Ground Chair, the Chair Zero has 4 legs for stability, but unlike the appropriately named Ground Chair the Chair Zero is designed for a higher, more upright sitting position (closer to a real chair) and through the use of a lighter weight, Dyneema gridstop fabric has managed to achieve a lighter weight all at the same time. Helinox specs the chair at 490 grams (17.3 ounces) without the stuff sack although many merchants list the chair as lighter. This weight range very much makes this a backpackable chair (and suitable for other outdoor activities in between backpacking trips for that matter, as well). On my scale I measured 17.2 ounces for the chair (4.4 for the fabric and 12.8 for the poles) and add another .7 ounces if you want to bring along the stuff sack (the stuff sack features one handed cord lock operation and even glow in the dark hardware). No backpacking chair is super light weight (not taking a chair is the only option here), but the Chair Zero is quite light as far as backpacking chairs are concerned. To save a little weight, I don't take the stuff sack. The shock-corded DAC aluminum pole frame of the chair assembles quickly, with the fabric seat attaching via pockets in 4 places (color coded - silver sides up, making the fabric of the chair easy to orient) with a slight amount of effort, while all breaking down into a compact unit to easily fit in a backpack. Wrapped up the chair easily fits in a random available spot towards the top of my ULA Circuit in the main compartment, although it's small enough for something like a side pocket. The chair will support up to 265 pounds – quite impressive for something collapsible and weighing in around just a pound, and the chair overall gives the impression of quality construction and feels solid in use. I did find that there are pros and cons to the upright design of the chair and the support system that’s used compared to the Ground Chair that I’ve been using for the past couple years. With the higher sitting height (the seat is 11 inches off the ground), the new Chair Zero is much, much easier to get in and out of, so if the hiking miles have been taking a toll on your knees it would be an excellent choice, and even either way it takes less of a “technique” to use with the bonus sitting height. I do find the sitting position a bit less comfortable however – once you are there – it’s more of an upright place to sit compared to more of a lounger like the Ground Chair. Additionally the small surface area on the feet of the Zero, combined with the fact that most of the weight seems to be balanced on the rear legs, makes this chair more prone to sink in soft ground. Rocky and firm ground and / or lighter weight users might be ideal, but an available accessory, the Helinox Ground Sheet for the Zero can be used with a weight penalty. It should be noted that the lighter fabric seat of the Zero could, if you somehow ended up with both chairs, be used with the Ground Chair's support structure to save 3.3 ounces off the normal 21.75 ounce weight of the Helinox Ground Chair. The seat height is relatively high, which makes it easier to get in and out of the Chair Zero. Conclusion With the pros and cons that are involved, it all obviously comes down to personal preference and without a doubt, where the Chair Zero excels most is in the all-important weight and packability departments – perhaps the most important part considering we are talking about taking a chair with us while hiking and backpacking, after all. In the end, the Zero turns out to be a very pack-friendly chair that will only add about a pound to your hikes, or to those backpacking trips where you think the extra ~pound is worth a comfortable place to sit at the end of the day. The Helinox Chair Zero retails for $150, but you can often find a deal here at REI, at Backcountry.com, and over on Amazon.com. The chair is also offered in highback and large versions – you can view all Helinox chairs here at REI.com.

Earth Day was a perfect day, in regards to both weather and spirit, to embark on my first backpacking trip of the year. The destination, the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, seemed particularly fitting as well as a bit daunting. Covering over 2.3 million acres, this area is one of the wildest places in the Lower 48. With the high country still covered in snow, I would limit my hiking on this trip to a mere five miles on the Lower Salmon River Trail and a short way up the Horse Creek Trail to a quaint campsite. While the Salmon River (also known as the River of No Return) is exceedingly popular with boaters, the hiking in this area remains somewhat underrated. The trails receive little coverage in guidebooks or magazines and online searches returned few trip reports from hikers or backpackers. However, the area came highly recommended by several local hikers and the promise of pleasant trail, a rushing river, and steep hillsides blanketed by arrow-leaf balsamroot was all the motivation I needed. The Trip Heading south from Montana’s Bitterroot Valley, I crested Lost Trail Pass and descended into Idaho and the Salmon River watershed on a warm and sunny Friday. Decreasing my speed and rolling down the windows, I turned off the main highway onto a road that would wind approximately 45 miles along the North Fork Salmon River, with only the first 15 miles on pavement, to a dead-end trailhead at Corn Creek. The drive was absolutely breathtaking. Geology, hydrology, archaeology – intriguing examples of each were visible from the car window as I followed the river downstream. Stunning rock formations, churning whitewater, vivid pictographs, mining remnants and historic homesteads, all beckoned me to pull over rather than roll on by. I heeded to the innate exploratory urge in a few instances, but for the most part kept myself focused on the drive. With the windows down and the Salmon River providing all the music I needed, I rolled through the landscape in a state of wheel-induced bliss that usually only comes to me on bicycle rides. I could count on both hands the number of vehicles I’d crossed paths with in the last hour and the road seemed to stretch on forever in its ideal width which took no more and no less space than needed to provide marginally safe passage for traffic. A few miles from the trailhead, my ears were treated to the disheartening sound of an all-terrain tire going from 35 psi to 0 psi in a split second. This pneumatic phenomenon necessitated the installation of the spare tire and I can’t think of a more scenic location to perform such a simple mechanical task. Without considerable delay, I found myself back on the road and arriving at the trailhead in the earliest part of the afternoon. A few checks and double-checks of items in my pack and pockets were completed and then I shouldered the modest load and headed down the trail. Only a few hundred feet from the trailhead, a sign noted the wilderness boundary. Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. Iconic. Expansive. Enchanting. It was a bit surreal for me to be crossing over into this massive piece of preserved public land, as I’d been hearing about the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness since I’d started backpacking. Rugged, wild and beautiful – it was a place I’d hoped to maybe get in one good trip during my lifetime when I figured I’d be living in the Southeast for the rest of my life. But the world moves along, opportunities present themselves, and I now find myself living less than three hours away from trailheads in this wilderness. This would be my first trip here, but hopefully not my last. I followed the well-graded path paralleling the Salmon River and stopped often to admire the fantastic displays of arrowleaf balsamroot on hillside near and far. The yellows of the flower on distant hillsides blended together and formed a beautiful cohesion of color that was striking. While gorgeous individually, these patches of arrowleaf balsamroot proved to be a spectacle much greater than the sum of their parts when beheld in such pleasing afternoon light. I maintained a steady pace and managed to avoid stumbling as my gaze shifted between the trail, the rushing river, and the colorful hillsides. I made it to a charming little campsite in good time, covering around six flat miles in 90 minutes or so. For a stop-and-smell-the-wildflowers (and take a few dozen pictures) type of hiker like me this was actually pretty efficient. I don’t expect a trail running company to sponsor me any time soon, but I felt pretty good about getting to camp so quickly. Rain was in the forecast, and the cloud cover was increasing, so I set up my tent as well as a small fly to use for cooking/relaxing if needed. The other tasks of filtering water, hanging a bear bag, and organizing gear were completed without any obstacles. Before I knew it I found myself stretched out on a sleeping pad leaned against a boulder reading Edgar Allan Poe short stories. After reading “The Cask of Amontillado”, eating some snacks, drinking a liter of water, and taking a brief nap, I decided to stretch my legs and venture further up Horse Creek. I checked the map and decided on wandering up the trail towards West Horse Point with absolutely no intention of arriving there. I just wanted to gain enough elevation to look around Horse Creek Canyon and get a feel of the lay of the land. I hiked up through incredible patches of arrowleaf balsamroot, with a few other wildflowers mixed in, for maybe a mile and half, gaining maybe 400 feet of elevation and the perspective I was seeking, before heading back to camp. I started cooking dinner an hour before sundown, ate, and went to bed perhaps an hour after sundown. Pasta and tuna, more reading, and a few sips of bourbon made for an enjoyable evening. The dull roar of Horse Creek, churning with snowmelt, provided a perfect soundtrack for slumber. The sound of light rain on the tent awoke me shortly before dawn, but I fell back asleep to that delightful sound (at least it’s delightful when you know you don’t necessarily have to pack up camp in it) for another hour. By 6:30 a.m. the rain had stopped and I exited the tent to retrieve the food bag and make a cup or two of coffee. It was a crisp morning – not cold enough for a down jacket, but cold enough to make one really appreciate the warmth of coffee. I took my time packing up, partly to let the fly dry as much as possible from the brief pre-dawn deluge, but mostly just to enjoy a Saturday morning within earshot of the stream. I’ve grown to appreciate out-and-back hikes and the return trip that morning was definitely one to appreciate. Clouds swirled above the tops of the hillsides and the grayness of the day served to saturate the greens and yellows of the vegetation. Walking upstream provided a different perspective on the river and, other than a few landmarks, it almost seemed as I was hiking a fresh piece of trail. I arrived back at the trailhead before noon and reluctantly and cautiously began the drive back home. This trip was an all-too-brief sample of an almost incomprehensibly huge place. On my next trip to the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, I’ll be bringing two spare tires and a whole lot more time. This out and back trip offered quaint, riverside walking through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. Need to Know Information No permits are required for hiking or backpacking, although rules regarding group size and duration of stay do apply. For specific information, please visit the Salmon-Challis National Forest website. Best Time to Go Late March to mid-May is the best time of year to hike in this area, according to many local hikers. April is probably most ideal with its wildflower displays and mild temperatures. Getting There From North Fork, Idaho (US-93) follow the Salmon River Road for approximately 45 miles (first 15 or so paved, remaining miles on well-maintained gravel road) to the Corn Creek Campground and Boat Launch. Maps & Books The Forest Service Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness (North half) map covers the area and the Trails of the Frank Church/River of No Return Wilderness guidebook, by Margaret Fuller, offers further insights on trails and hiking opportunities.

It’s almost as if the Pacific Ocean is a magnet, pulling me west each time I venture out to explore. While I take full advantage of the natural wonders offered by my home region in the central U.S., if I am traveling very far to hike, it is usually somewhere west of Oklahoma. As a result, I have hiked very little in the eastern United States, though I’ve managed to walk short sections of the Appalachian Trail on trips to Vermont and Maryland. Not much to brag about. Recently, I was in Virginia on business with my husband, Bill, and found myself with a free day, presenting an opportunity to experience a slice of the hiking in the East. We were stationed only a 30-minute drive from the southern boundary of Shenandoah National Park (SNP), so it was a natural choice. The 200,000-acre park is located in the Blue Ridge Mountains in western Virginia, stretching 105 miles from north to south. One main road, Skyline Drive, runs the distance of the long, narrow park and most hiking trailheads are accessed right off that main road. With more than 500 miles of hiking trails at SNP, there’s plenty to choose from. But how to choose? Since I was coming from the south and wanted to maximize my time hiking rather than driving, I picked a trail in the Loft Mountain area, about 20 miles north of the park entrance. And who doesn’t like waterfalls? SNP is full of waterfalls and I selected a couple of trails that appeared to have nice cascades, connecting them in a loop with a section of the Appalachian Trail, which runs all the way through Shenandoah. My total walking distance would be about eight miles, a nice length for a leisurely day hike. Hiking in Shenandoah Arriving in Shenandoah early in the morning on a cloudy October day, I pulled into a nearly empty Jones Run Trailhead, pleased to be getting ahead of the weekend crowds. There was only one other vehicle there and I let its owner get on the trail ahead of me. I was alone, since Bill was working, and I preferred some solitude on the trail. The leaf-strewn path lined with ferns took me down, down, down into the hollow toward Jones Run Falls, a 42-foot cascade. I knew what the long descent meant – what goes down must come up. But for the moment I enjoyed the easy walking. Raindrops began to pepper the forest canopy and I thought how silly I was to have forgotten a rain jacket. In spite of what the calendar said about the season, there was little color change in the oaks and hickories, and what little existed was muted by the overcast skies. The temperature was pleasant, though, and the rain had stopped. I was enjoying myself thoroughly, nearly scampering along on the rocky trail. “I got my picture of a bear,” said a hiker, approaching from the opposite direction. The gray-ponytailed man in a ball cap stopped to explain he had just seen a bear on the trail and was able to capture a photo of it. He said he’d had to wait a while before proceeding, watching the bear cross the creek and eventually clamber up the hillside. I thanked him and continued, a little more watchful in case I too might get such a photo op. Soon I came to Jones Run Falls, but it was only a trickle, as the area had been experiencing drought. The 42-foot cascade was a 42-foot dribble, but I imagined it would have been quite spectacular with water. Continuing, I crossed the creek and began to ascend, now on the path toward Doyles River Falls. There are two falls along the Doyles River Trail, the upper and lower. Like Jones Run, there was only a trickle of water flowing across them. As I approached the lower falls, my solitude ended. Crowds of hikers, young and old, human and canine, were coming down the hillside as I climbed up, up, and up. If they were looking for spectacular waterfalls, however, they were out of luck. Soon I came to a spring surrounded by a wall of mossy stones. A sign there pointed to Doyles River Cabin. Curious, I followed the spur trail to find a woman and two young girls sitting on the front porch of a rustic house. “I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said. “I saw the sign and wondered what was up here.” “No worries,” said the woman. “You’re not the first hiker we’ve seen today.” “I accidentally locked us out,” said one of the girls. “My daddy’s gone to get the ranger so we can get back in.” Probably more information than the mother would have liked her daughter to share with a total stranger, but then I also probably looked (and am) pretty harmless. I wished them luck and turned back, continuing my climb. It was a relief when I reached the top after the long ascent, and there I found the trail marker for the Appalachian Trail (AT), indicating a 3.4-mile walk back to Jones Run, my starting point. The AT was narrower than the trail I’d just been on, appearing less trafficked at this point. Right away, I saw bear spoor on the trail, and only seconds later another such deposit, renewing my alertness. I started walking more quickly and making a bit of noise, becoming nervous about a bear encounter. The End of the Trail Soon I began to meet other hikers on the trail and relaxed a bit. Then, lo and behold, I came across the first hiker I’d met, the guy who took the bear picture. I told him I hadn’t seen the bear and he asked about my camera, a lightweight mirrorless I was carrying around my neck. He was carrying his big DSLR with its huge lens in a waist pack. Good for pictures, heavy for hiking. Bidding him adieu, I soon reached my car, well satisfied with the hike but hungry. I drove a little farther into the park to the Loft Mountain Wayside and grabbed a late lunch, then began my return trip. As I drove south, the sun broke through the clouds, lighting up the red leaves of the maples along the roadside, so much so that I was compelled to stop at a turn-out and admire the view. The wind freshened, and as I left, autumn leaves skittered across the road and onto my windshield. Fall, it seemed, had just decided to arrive. Need to Know Information Shenandoah National Park lies along the Blue Ridge Mountains in north-central Virginia. Almost 40% of the land is designated as wilderness and protected as part of the National Wilderness Preservation System. The highest peak is Hawksbill Mountain at 4,051 feet. Best Time to Go As with most of the southeastern deciduous forest, spring and fall are generally the best times to go, avoiding humid summers and often snowy winters in the mountains. Getting There Shenandoah National Park is located about 70 miles west of Washington, D.C. The park has four entrance stations along its 105-mile length. The Jones Run Falls trailhead is located at mile 84.1 in the south district of the park. Maps and Books A map for the Jones Run Falls/Doyles River Falls loop is located here. Note, however, I connected the two trails with the Appalachian Trail rather than with Browns Gap Road. National Geographic also offers their Trails Illustrated Shenandoah National Park Map. Several guidebooks are available on Amazon, including a Falcon Guide to Hiking Shenandoah National Park.

We had been warned that the Three Fingers Lookout wasn’t for the faint of heart. But that didn’t take away from the shock of first seeing it. The hut was just a speck in the distance, perched precariously on a jagged spire of rock rising up above a crevasse-riddled glacier and a low sea of clouds. From our vantage, it seemed impossible that the wooden hut could balance there for another night, let alone that there would be a passable trail to reach it. My partner, Emily, and I had gotten hooked on the idea of visiting this 89-year-old lookout, in Washington’s Boulder River Wilderness, after a friend made the journey. She described needing to keep the windows closed for fear of falling out of bed and over a 2,000-foot cliff, and then showed us a photo of the panorama of the North Cascades. We were sold on the trip. Reaching the lookout doesn’t require technical climbing, but it wasn’t going to be straightforward, either. To start, the road to the trailhead was washed out, leaving a 10-mile mountain bike ride just to reach the trail. Neither me nor Emily are mountain bikers, so we borrowed bikes from friends – hers too large, mine too small. What better way to learn how to mountain bike than on frames that don’t fit, loaded down with overnight packs, in a classic Northwest drizzle? The road was just uphill enough that my legs and back started burning after just a few minutes of pedaling. With a loaded pack, though, I couldn’t stop for fear of never being able to get the bike moving again. I was pretty excited when we arrived at a brushy opening into the forest, much sooner after leaving the car than I had expected. Our trip to Three Fingers Lookout began by bike. The Journey Begins If it seemed too good to be true; that’s because it was. After a few miles on the trail, we were still in the forest. I was beginning to feel suspicious – the route was supposed to be 7.5 miles to the lookout, yet we were still a long way even from the basin that it sits above. My GPS clearly showed a trail snaking its way from our position to the lookout, but we had hardly made a dent in the route after hiking for more than an hour. My questions were answered when we ran into another pair of hikers, who told us that in fact there are two different trailheads that lead to Three Fingers. The one we had been planning to start at was located several miles further up the road. The one we found started 15 miles from the lookout. After that revelation, the next few hours were a fast-packing blur. It was early afternoon and we had more than 10 miles and 4,000 feet of elevation to cover on foot – more than we had originally planned for, even after the time we had already spent hiking. The blur came to an abrupt halt three hours later when we reached the Tin Can Gap and got our first view of the Three Fingers Lookout. After how far we had come, it still seemed impossibly far away. Plus, we knew that this would be where the straightforward trail ended and the rock and snow scrambling began. Almost immediately, we transitioned into a steep snow-filled gully, cresting the ridge before reconnecting with the faint trail. From there, the scrambling involved was thankfully more mellow than I expected. Earlier in the season, the crux of the route involves stepping out onto the icy headwall of the Queest-Alb glacier. But we found that the snow had pulled away from the rock, leaving a small space that could be easily navigated without crampons. We reached the base of the lookout about an hour before sunset. Entering the hut requires climbing a series of three wooden ladders held into the rock with pitons, rope, and metal wire. At the top of the third ladder, I stepped out onto a slab that, at its edge, falls into the abyss of the glacier 500 feet below. A worn rope led up to the lookout’s front door. Even after Emily and I got inside the hut, it was hard to feel comfortable about where we were standing. The lookout extends past the rock platform on which it was built on two sides, and there’s only a small spit of rock outside the back door before the mountain tumbles several thousand feet into the valley below. But the exposure also allows for a view that is, simply put, unbeatable. The fog had begun to clear as we approached the lookout, and just before sunset it cleared away entirely. Out of the front door of the lookout, we watched the sun set over the Olympic Mountains and San Juan Islands as the lights of Seattle and the I-5 corridor grew in intensity. The North Cascades remained cloudy that evening, but we were treated to the sight of the sun rising over the shoulder of Glacier Peak out of the back door early the next morning. It’s still hard for me to wrap my head around how the Three Fingers Lookout has existed in this spot for nearly 90 years without being blown off the mountaintop. But for those willing to believe that the hut can survive another day, let alone another 90 years, the commanding views make it well worth the effort required to spend the night. Need to Know Information There are no permits required to spend the night at the lookout. However, it is first-come first-serve and the hut does fill up on weekends in August and September. For more on backpacking to lookouts see this TrailGroove article. Best Time to Go The upper sections of the trail typically melt out in July, and the passage across the top of the Queest-Alb glacier opens in August. If you go earlier in the season, be prepared with ice axes, crampons, and potentially a rope to cross the glacial headwall. The lookout can also be accessed on skis throughout the winter. Getting There Follow the Mountain Loop Highway to Forest Road 41, and continue until the road closure at mile 8. You can hike or bike the gravel road from there. The Mountain Meadow Trailhead (15 miles to the lookout) is 2.1 miles up the road. The Three Fingers Trailhead (7.5 miles to the lookout) is 10 miles up the road. Maps and Books The Green Trails Map for the Mountain Loop Highway covers most of the Boulder River Wilderness, including the Three Fingers Lookout. National Geographic also offers a Trails Illustrated Map that details nearby North Cascades National Park, offering more exploration opportunities in the area.

It's an early December afternoon in Yosemite National Park, and I'm watching a bobcat padding down the trail in front of me. In his mouth is a lifeless gray squirrel, so large that he drops it several times. He turns and surveys me with the lazy arrogance of a house cat who's proud of his kill. I'm unsure if I should be following this wild creature down the trail. I think of how animals are protective of their food. Still, the large cat and I are headed the same way, so I continue at a distance. Eventually he turns off the trail, and I draw closer and look up the embankment where he stands. The bobcat and I both freeze as a large, shaggy brown bear appears from around a rocky outcrop behind him. The moment slows, the sight too surreal. Then the bear spooks and disappears as suddenly as he appeared. I look around in search of other witnesses, but there are none. As a woman, so many different people in my life told me that I shouldn't be in this wild place alone. My mother. My friends. Various family members, and various strangers. From the man that rented me the car to the lady that shuttled me from the airport. These encounters filled me with wonder. Wonder and gratitude at the kindness and compassion of strangers, but also wonder and frustration at the fear that blooms around a woman walking alone into the woods. Eventually I just stopped discussing my trip with strangers. Exploring More of Yosemite National Park Back in Yosemite Valley the morning after the bear, I walk along Sentinel Meadow. Three coyotes lope through the mist that rises from the snowy grass. Beyond the winter-worn trees ahead, the granite walls of the North Rim loom over the valley, broken by the ribbon of Yosemite Falls. Today I will ascend to the top of these falls, the tallest in North America. The trail to Upper Yosemite Falls is one of the oldest and most iconic in the park, but on this chilled morning it appears abandoned. The bottom half of the trail is crisp but clear, the views expanding around every rocky switchback. Half way up the cold settles in, covering the granite in slick hard-packed snow. My progress slows as my feet slip continuously, too unwilling and fingers too cold to dig my microspikes out of my pack. By the time the trail levels out at the top, I've entered a pristine winterscape. I follow the footprints left by the intrepid before me, wishing to keep the snow out of my shoes and the trail under my feet. The sound of falling water grows, and the hill crest ahead reveals nothing beyond but fog. I've made it to the falls, but I must travel down two snowy switchbacks to the cliff's edge to see it. The first switchback bellies right up to the top of the falls, the pooled water disappearing ominously over a 2,425-foot cliff. As the trail turns, I'm faced with a snow-slickened rock ledge, hardly wide enough for one. Beside it, a single metal rail of unknown age and integrity protrudes from the cliff wall. Here I wait as a couple passes single file, the three of us clinging to the rail like a lifeline. It is my turn, and I descend carefully like a cat on a window ledge. I step down to the empty viewpoint and the expansive sight of Yosemite Valley from the top of the falls. Exhilaration washing over me like a wave, I can hardly believe I have this moment entirely to myself. I savor the experience for as long as I can, but standing still eventually lets the cold creep in. I wrestle my traction onto each shoe with stiff, clumsy fingers, then shove my gloves back on. Continuing to Yosemite Point is literally walking through clouds. Up this high, with the ground cloaked in snow and the mists swirling around me, the entire world is winter white. The silence is both peaceful and eerie, broken only by snow falling from branches and the occasional ice break down Yosemite Falls behind. I cross Yosemite Creek on a wooden bridge, snow covered and adorned with shimmering icicles. The trail is now a suggestion, a slight flattening out of the drifts. I know for certain I'm alone out here; the only tracks those of deer and birds. I think back to earlier this morning in the valley below, snapping photos of El Capitan and the Three Brothers near the Merced River. I came across bear prints so fresh, I checked over my shoulder for the animal that left them. Picturing the harsh gashes left by its claws, I shudder and hope not to see those here, or worse, cougar prints. The many warnings bestowed upon me creep back in, and my complete solitude suddenly feels heavy. But I've come this far and worked this hard, all these miles of climbing, feet slipping, thighs and lungs burning. These doubts are not even mine; I've only borrowed them from others. I dismiss them and forge ahead. Finally, the trees fall away, and then the world falls away as I approach the ancient metal railing of Yosemite Point. There are many more famous, more photographed, more sought-after views in this great valley. But this is my view, my precipice that no other dared adventure to in this untouched snow. Down below is the park in miniature, the silver road looping through, and out beyond are the looming walls and frosted peaks of the south rim. These are memories I know I'll carry forever, standing here grinning and heart pounding, just a woman alone in the woods. Need to Know Information No permit is required for day hikers, though all visitors to Yosemite National Park are charged an entrance fee. Wilderness permits for Yosemite Wilderness are required for overnight stays. Best Time to Go Views of the waterfall are most impressive during the spring and early summer, when the falls are at their peak from winter runoff. The trail to Upper Yosemite Falls is open year-round. Traction and hiking poles are recommended during the winter months, however, when parts of the trail are covered in snow and ice. While most of the trail is not exposed, falling rocks and ice are a potential hazard. Climbing down to the lookout at the top of the falls is exposed and requires extreme caution when the path is frozen. Getting There From the park entrance, follow Highway 140 for 6.5 miles until the road splits. Keep right and follow Southside Drive, turn left onto Sentinel Drive, and left again onto Northside Drive, following signs for Yosemite Lodge. Park anywhere around Yosemite Village or Yosemite Lodge. The trailhead is located behind the lodge at the Camp 4 area. The hike to Upper Yosemite Falls is 7.2 miles roundtrip. To continue to Yosemite Point, follow signs east towards North Dome. This adds another 1.6 miles to your hike. Those looking for an even greater challenge can head west from the upper falls to Eagle Peak, the highest point on the north rim, adding another 5.8 miles roundtrip. Maps and Books The National Park Service’s Yosemite Valley Hiking Map details the hike to the upper falls as well as Yosemite Point and Eagle Peak. National Geographic also offers their Trails Illustrated Topographic Map of Yosemite. For further reading, Hiking Yosemite National Park: A Guide to 61 of the Park’s Greatest Hiking Adventures offers a thorough guide to this hike and many others in the Yosemite Valley, while providing information about safety precautions, logistics, and other trip planning information.

Chris, Randy and I sat at a local brewery, a map of Olympic National Park spread across the table. We had climbed in the Olympics for decades, but now we were attempting something different – a thru hike from one side of the park to another. You might have thought planning to cross using established routes would be simple, but it was proving anything but. “Even the freaking rain forest is on fire.” Chris traced a route with his finger. The Pacific Northwest was suffering through one of its hottest summers on record, and our choices were dwindling. Park rangers had nixed the north-south high route, telling us the Elwha Snow Finger – the path leading from the mountains to the central river valley – had disappeared with climate change. Descent would require a rope and rack of climbing gear. As Chris noted, the western exits were threatened by the Paradise Fire, burning for months in the upper canopy of the Queets Rainforest. After a month of planning we decided to come in from the east, up the Dosewallips River Trail, over 5800-foot Hayden Pass, and then out to the north, along the Elwha River. Even this route reflected the consequences of a changing climate and aging park infrastructure. We’d be out for six days and travel 60 miles, but 11 miles of that total would be on what were once access roads. A 310-foot section of the Dosewallips River Road had washed out in a flood in 2002, and cost, competing views of wilderness, and the likelihood the river would continue running higher essentially meant the road – the traditional eastern approach to the park – would never be rebuilt. We would end our trip the same way. On exiting the trail system at Whiskey Bend, we needed to trudge six miles along a road that was frequently blocked by flooding and was crumbling away one chunk of asphalt at a time. Our Hike Across Olympic National Park The trip began, then, with our staggering along the Dosewallips Road. The temperature topped 90 degrees. The steep rise to the abandoned ranger station angled us into the sun’s glare, bleaching the road bed white and burning the outline of my pack along my shoulder blades. Drenched with sweat, we dropped our packs at the base of a towering cedar. I sucked in a breath and looked at what remained of the ranger station and campground. The place felt haunted. The river’s white noise might have blended with voices, as families came to picnic beside the sparkling water. Now plywood covered the windows and doors of the park service buildings. Modesty at the toilet was provided by a shower curtain hung where the door had once been. Waist-high grass swayed, overgrowing the picnic tables, and the informational signs – “Dosewallips Trailhead/Mountain Wilderness” – and a host of others had been blown over, the plastic facings shattered and their bases smothered in weeds. On the trail at last, we fell into a familiar line: Chris leading, Randy next, and me anchoring. Our goal was camp on Deception Creek, 8 miles and 1500 vertical feet away. Our time on the sun-drenched road had wasted us. Even sheltered under the cedars and firs, I couldn’t catch a full breath in the heat. We dropped onto the mossy carpet beside the trail at ever-shortening intervals. At each stop we’d gulp water and then guiltily check our bottles, evaluating whether what remained in them would last till camp. Finally, mercifully, a bear wire appeared, tracing a line from a fir’s branches to the ground. The camp was just below the trail, a big dusty circle with the creek trickling quietly along one side and the river giving a full-throated roar on the other. I dragged myself down the path and walked out beside the river. The Dosewallips cascaded by in blue-white arcs smooth as Chihuly glass. We had 13 miles behind us and 47 left to go. “These long hikes, you get faster each day,” I said over dinner. Randy, ever the cynic, caught Chris’ eye and bobbed his head my way. “Does he ever stop lying?” “Well, the weather is supposed to break soon,” I replied, trying to fight the leaden mood exhaustion brought on. But the next morning supported Randy’s negative world view. The trail climbed the valley, popping out of forest and into meadows of head-high grass and Russian thistles, the plants holding heat like a sauna and disguising chuckholes deep as tiger traps. I remembered the first book I’d ever read about the Olympics – a 1970 edition of the Olympic Mountain Trail Guide by Robert L. Wood – and thought how this day contrasted with his telling. Mt. Fromme, described as “crowned with snow cornices”, now shimmered at the valley’s head, a series of naked cliffs that seemed to float, detached from the earth. Near tree line, Dose Meadows opened before us, acres of grass and lupine burning with light. At Woods’ writing, the meadow had teemed with wildlife, marmots, deer, and bears among throngs of backpackers, but we hadn’t glimpsed an animal, human or otherwise, in a day and a half, the three of us alone on the once-popular trail. A boot path led around a low dirt hill to another gorgeous site on the Dosewallips, the river here placid and shallow. Once the tent was up, Chris and I hastily repacked for our side trip up Lost Peak. We might be thru-hiking, but peaks rose all around us, and the climbing bug couldn’t be easily shaken. “You sure you’re not coming?” I asked. Randy stood beside me with a book under one arm. “Swear to god, man, just two miles up. No farther than that.” But Randy snapped his book open, and the two of us headed up the Lost Pass Trail, so primitive and steep we had to kick our boot edges in to hold the slope. We reminisced along the way. One goal of this trip was to slow life down and refocus. “I feel like the last twelve years went by like a dream, Doug,” Chris said. “Like I lost them. Where’d they go?” Once, we climbed three weekends a month, but we all settled down and had kids, and while their young lives flew by, our trips to the mountains had become rare and manic in turn. Harsh alpine country surrounded us at Lost Pass. We headed toward a rounded dome to the east, kicking over talus and through krumholz. The mountain was parched. Heather snapped as we pushed through, and every broadleaf alpine plant was burned a brittle red. Lost Peak was a rubble pile about 100 feet higher than the dome, and we scrambled the boulders to the top. We looked back the way we’d come. The river’s canyon wound away, slopes darkening with firs until everything vanished in the haze. Randy was still reading when we returned, reclining against a log in the meadows and bathed in sunset light. The scene was blissful, and, next morning, the universe picked that same joyous tune. High clouds rolled in and the heat wave broke. For day three we’d maintain our basecamp, go light to Hayden Pass, and then follow a climber’s trail to Sentinel Peak. The river breathed its last beneath a final bridge, just a sheen of water trickling down rock steps. We hiked through tundra and followed the looping switchbacks to the pass, just a sharp notch in the ridge. A strong trail south wound up Sentinel, crossing talus basins and squeezing through clumps of alpine firs. Views opened on the rock slabs just below the summit – far off, the smoke plume from the Paradise fire and, nearer, clouds building behind Mount Anderson, a tortuous ridge-run away, its twin summits separated by a glacier and a rock pillar thrust skyward like a knife blade. We settled back in camp early. I’d planned on an afternoon nap, but we shoveled down snacks and chattered away, and I couldn’t keep my eyes closed, afraid I’d miss the next story though I’d heard each one a dozen times. That evening, a buck stepped from the shadows across the river, the first animal we’d seen in four days out. Heedless of us, he lowered his head to drink, his neck and shoulder muscles rippling. He picked his way soundlessly through the brush, glowing in front of that dark forest like Zeus come to earth in animal form. The next morning we hiked to the pass again and took the Hayes River Trail down, coasting nine miles to the banks of the Elwha. The views of Mount Anderson’s intimidating glaciers disappeared. We navigated a trail washout, and shortly after that entered a gentler world. Hikers appeared in clusters. The forest rose and moss painted earth and blow downs a delicate green, every image softened as though viewed through a gauze-covered lens. On the porch of the Hayes River Patrol Cabin we took a break before strolling to yet another perfect river camp. Compared to the Dosewallips, the Elwha was mellow, its water clear and the gravel-lined bottom symmetrical as though a pool boy had taken a rake to it. Our final two days of hiking had a dreamlike quality to them after the battering we’d taken at the outset. On day four, the valley broadened as we passed the Elkhorn Guard Station, deciduous trees draped with moss in a scene out of the Mississippi bayou. After one last camp, on the Lillian River above the Elwha, we passed increasing numbers of hikers and reminders of the human history in this valley: the weathered cabin grandiosely named “The Elk Lick Lodge” and the equally-dilapidated Cougar Mike’s Cabin a couple of miles further up the trail. Olympic National Park offers stunning forest hiking interspersed with scenic meadows and mountain views. The End of the Trail Half an hour past Cougar Mike’s came trail’s end at Whiskey Bend. We swung around the road damage and hiked the pavement the final six miles to one last barrier, the gate closing the road to traffic. There we encountered a scene of intentional destruction, all in service of this beautiful country we’d just traversed. I dropped my pack and followed my friends onto an overlook platform. Across the river, a matching platform was filling with tourists exiting a bus, but on our side we stood alone. A century ago, the Glines Canyon Spillway had been erected to dam the Elwha at a cleft between rock walls. Now the dam was gone, removed in 2014 to restore the river and allow a vanished ecosystem to be reborn. In all honesty, it didn’t look like much – the spillway was just two weathered cement walls caked with moss, old metal channels hanging loose above the rushing water. Back in the direction we’d come, manmade Lake Mills had drained. The ground it once covered looked like a construction site, braided channels flowing through a mudflat and patches of scrub. But the point of it, I told myself, was what this scene symbolized. With the park’s roads crumbling, the high country parched and the forest on fire, at least this attempt was being made to return one river valley to its pristine state in a way everyone could enjoy, whether or not they chose to hike the whole darned park to get there. Along the trail in Olympic National Park Need to Know Information As the park service says, “Wilderness Camping permits are required for all overnight stays in Olympic National Park wilderness (backcountry) year-round.” All of the areas on this trip were considered “non-quota”, which makes getting a permit easier, but the process is still fairly complicated and appears to be changing from an in-person or phone in to an online system. Best recommendations are to check out the wilderness sections of the park website, call the park at (360) 565-3130, or stop into a wilderness information center at Hoodsport or Port Angeles. One possible complication is that the Hayden Pass Trail was damaged (fire again) in 2016, and as of 2019 the NPS doesn’t recommend it. If it is not reopened, you might consider taking the primitive Lost Pass Trail north and exiting at Hurricane Ridge. Best Time to Go Obviously, the weather has been warming, but from the end of July through September, weather in the Pacific Northwest remains as close to perfect as you can imagine. While it’s always a necessity to pack rain gear, days are long and nights are temperate. Getting There The Dosewallips River Road leads west off Highway 101, just north of the tiny town of Brinnon, Washington. If you’re coming from the Seattle area, the coolest way to make the trip is via the Edmonds/Kingston ferry (reserve your spot through the Washington State Ferry system), and then take Highway 104 till it ends at Highway 101, at which point you head south toward Brinnon. Maps and Books Olympic Mountain Trail Guide by Robert L. Wood is the book I still use for general park info since the author knew every trail well. The book has been out for decades and was recently updated in 2020. If the idea of bagging a few peaks along the way appeals to you, be aware that the Climber’s Guide to the Olympic Mountains is known to have some interesting route descriptions for obscure peaks. The guide lists both Lost Peak and Mount Fromme as Class 1, trail all the way to the top, excursions. Lost was a thrash that became a light scramble at the summit; Fromme appears to be a Class 2 that begins with a steep unpleasant stomp through krumholz. Most of the other allegedly 1.1 climbs in the Dose Meadows area are probably of a similarly mixed character. The book does give an overview of all of the approach trail systems, so it has its uses. There’s also a newer Falcon Guide, Hiking Olympic National Park by Erik Molvar. For navigation, the waterproof and tearproof National Geographic Trails Illustrated Olympic National Park Map is suggested.

Wolves, Red Dogs, Grizzlies, & Outlaws A tiny “red dog” – a fuzzy, reddish bison calf – was all but glued to its mother’s side as she fought off a half dozen wolves near Yellowstone’s Slough Creek. The mother had strayed from the herd, and wolves were attacking from all sides in an attempt to separate her from her baby. The stiff-legged little calf wheeled and turned with its mother as best it could, but the outcome seemed inevitable. The standoff was visible to the naked eye, about two hundred yards off Route 212 on the park’s northern perimeter – an area sometimes called “North America’s Serengeti.” Two or three wolf-watchers had set up spotting telescopes at the turn-off to Slough Creek, and they invited my husband, John, and me to take a look. The scene was even more dramatic through a telescope. The calf would surely be killed and consumed, and probably soon by the look of things. It turned out that the story’s outcome was anything but simple. And, in the end, the fate of the young bison was just one piece of a web of complex wildlife relationships that we encountered that day. John and I are seasonal volunteers in Yellowstone, and we had decided to spend an October morning hiking a roughly five mile loop starting and ending at Slough Creek Campground. The small campground is located two miles down an unpaved road from Route 212, 25.8 miles east of Mammoth Hot Springs. The wolves that surrounded the bison mother and baby belonged to the Junction Buttes, a pack that formed in the past few years and now claims this area as part of its territory. Wolves follow their prey; in Yellowstone, this most often means elk, but there can also be other targets such as bison calves, or even adult bison for certain packs. Young wolves practice the skills they will need to successfully hunt. I recently watched four Junction Butte pups on a hill above Slough Creek, playing with elk antlers by tossing them in the air, tugging, and fighting over them. It was play all right, but it served as important skill-building and social bonding for these up-and-coming apex predators. In addition to wolves and bison, the Slough Creek area is known for grizzly bears. Hikers in Yellowstone should check in advance for any recent warnings about grizzly activity or trail closures. It’s important to never hike alone, make a lot of noise, and have bear spray readily available and know how to use it. The Hike Arriving at the Slough Creek Campground, John and I walked to the second creek-side campsite, and began the loop hike by sloshing across the creek – which varies seasonally from ankle to shin deep. Picking up easy-to-spot Buffalo Fork Trail on the far side of the crossing, we passed through a classic alpine meadow, then ascended several hundred feet on the rocky, narrow path. We were both hyper-alert due to the possibility of grizzlies, particularly because it was autumn and Yellowstone’s bears are ravenously hungry as they pack on weight for hibernation. Biologists believe that the park’s grizzlies have learned to follow wolves and attempt, often successfully, to feed at their kills. A bear at a carcass is frequently not the animal that made the kill, but rather an opportunistic scavenger. On the day that I watched the four Junction Butte pups at play, I was told that I had just missed a large grizzly that appeared about a hundred yards from the wolf pack. Perhaps the bear was following the pack, or was at least keeping track of its location. As John and I hiked, we spotted bison, and here and there, mature, solo males that spend much of the year away from the herd. A nineteenth century writer called these cantankerous bulls “outlaws,” and gave some safety advice that’s still accurate today. Bison have difficulty seeing straight ahead, so stand to the side to make sure that the animal sees you. Keep your distance (the park requires a minimum of 25 yards), and be prepared to make detours. And remember, a raised, rigid tail signals that its owner is agitated. At 1.7 miles from the campground, an open view to the right (east) encompasses an expanse of grassy hillside descending to a very large meadow marked by a distinctive rock “island” and Slough Creek’s meandering channels. On the far side of the meadow is a patrol cabin and the clearly visible Slough Creek Trail, which is an old wagon road. Braided routes lead down to the meadow and trail, but ankle to knee-deep or higher creek crossings are required depending on the season. Be sure to stay on an established boot or game trail to avoid doing damage to the habitat. While descending the hillside and crossing the meadow, we gave several outlaw bison a wide berth and also kept our distance from a fresh-looking bone pile. Wildlife experts stress the importance of staying far away from any carcass or fresh bone pile to avoid having a dangerous encounter with a grizzly or disrupting the activities of wolves and other creatures. It was easy to see why ungulates congregate in these lush grasslands, why their predators follow them here, and why other animal species thrive in this environment. I spotted a beaver lodge close to Slough Creek Trail, and began to understand that beavers must have played a major part in producing the wildlife-rich setting. On the bank of what appeared to be a beaver-created pool, a family of otters had left evidence of their approval of the setting. They had worn a deep, slippery slide in the mud; it was a good eight feet long and dropped straight into the pool of standing water. Reaching Slough Creek Trail, a left (north) turn leads away from Slough Creek Campground, past the patrol cabin toward Silver Tip Ranch, a private lodge just north of the national park boundary. The lodge is permitted to transport supplies and visitors on the trail using horses and wagons. To complete our loop and return to the campground, we turned right (south), and hiked through rocky, forested terrain to reach the trailhead and large wooden sign where you would normally begin a walk on the Slough Creek Trail. The distance from the patrol cabin to this trailhead is 1.8 miles. From the Slough Creek Trailhead, John and I walked the remaining half mile to the campground and our vehicle. As we drove back to Route 212, the drama of the little red dog and its mother was on my mind, and we stopped at the highway turnoff to see if we could learn what happened. One of the morning’s “wolfers” was there, and she filled us in. The news was startling. When last seen, the bison calf was still alive. After John and I left that morning, the wolves continued their coordinated –and seemingly unstoppable – attack for a time. Then, for unknown reasons, they backed off and vanished from the scene. Maybe these wolves were young pack members practicing the hunt, learning how to “test” vulnerable prey and other skills. Or it could be that they tired of the standoff and the threat of injury by the mother. Perhaps these intelligent predators determined that the youngster could most likely be killed later. During Yellowstone’s harsh winter months, wolves grow hungrier, and many of their prey gradually weaken and are less able to fight off predators. This calf was the youngest I’d ever seen at this time of year, born dangerously close to the arrival of harsh weather. Most calves arrive at the end of April or during May, a time that offers the best chance for their survival and for the survival of the herd itself. I assume that the red dog’s late birth was a simple accident of nature. I asked a naturalist friend what chance it had of surviving the winter – “Hardly any,” he answered. On the other hand, the little guy had already defied the odds and made it through the day. Yellowstone National Park offers scenic views and ample fishing opportunities for those so inclined. Need to Know Information There are no peaks to bag or brag-worthy river fords on this route. But what could be better than a beautiful, reasonably short Yellowstone loop hike with the possibility of spotting a variety of wildlife? No crowds. No hard-to-get-to trailhead. And, with enough caution, this would make a great family adventure with kids who are experienced hikers. Bring bear spray, separate shoes for water crossings if you don’t want to hike in wet boots, and a good map and compass. Basic route finding skills are helpful. You can also hike the loop in reverse from the direction that I describe, but this could make route-finding in the loop’s middle section more difficult. Instead of the loop hike, you have the option of an easy in-and-out walk of any distance (with no water crossings) by starting at the Slough Creek Trailhead described above. Check the Yellowstone National Park website for complete information concerning roads, campgrounds, wildlife, and park alerts. Best Time to Go & Getting There Slough Creek Campground is located two miles down an unpaved road from Route 212, 25.8 miles east of Mammoth Hot Springs.The two mile-road from the Route 212 turnoff to the loop trail is open from late spring until early November. During this roughly five-month period, the loop can be completed unless the water level is high. Fall is probably the best choice because the stream crossings offer lower water levels, but again, be extra alert for grizzlies. If you’re interested in camping, Slough Creek Campground is open for camping from mid-June until early October on a first come-first served basis. The campground was threatened but not destroyed by fire in 2016. Maps and Books Yellowstone National Park, Trails Illustrated Map. The Hiking in Yellowstone and Best Easy Day Hikes in Yellowstone Falcon Guides are also available.

Whitecaps swirled in the ochre mixture of water and clay in the flooded wash at our feet. I never knew water so muddy could have whitecaps and now our route lay on the opposite bank of the torrent as it raged over unseen boulders and cut into the edge of its banks. Standing there at the two-track crossing in the middle of nowhere New Mexico, I wondered how many “do not enter when flooded” signs we passed on paved roads in the Southwest. It was late October and the third day in a row of intense thunderstorms that had slapped us around the open desert a hundred or so miles into the Grand Enchantment Trail (GET). The Grand Enchantment Trail The GET, a fantastic route from Albuquerque to Phoenix by Brett “Blisterfree” Tucker, connects islands of rarely visited high mountain wilderness with either the most scenic, shortest or most interesting path sometimes zig-zagging cross country around checkerboards of private property or simply to shorten the route. Often the route takes you off trail up and down normally dry washes, dry riverbeds of gravel and exposed bedrock wiped clean during the summer monsoon season. The washes are the quickest off-trail method of travel in much of the arroyo riddled and spiny Southwest, providing a practical highway in comparison to other options. Today those dry washes were churning out mud as fast as the arroyos could drain. My girlfriend Rachel and I were wrapping up an 8 month backpacking trip including a thru-hike of the Arizona Trail the previous spring, traversing the width of Zion National Park and completing over 2,200 discontinuous miles of the Continental Divide Trail in what I called an “open ended section hike”. We came to the GET to try something new, and a little tired of the CDT’s relentless pursuit of the imaginary line separating the Atlantic and Pacific watersheds. I paced nervously up the banks, looking for an alternative crossing in vain; we were already at the widest and therefore likely shallowest point. I had already attempted to ford, my shoes were instantly filled with gravel pushed past my tiny gaiters. The heavy mixture frothed over my knees before I could get more than a quarter of the way across, so I turned back figuring it wasn’t safe. Rachel and I decided to sit and wait by the cow troughs nearby, watching for water to recede. A rock pile we placed at the water’s edge an hour ago showed several inches of downward progress but a new storm cell was approaching. “We better just go for it, we can’t wait all day and it’ll probably get worse with that storm coming” I told Rachel. We stepped out into the water together, face to face and hands gripped on each other’s arms for balance and hip belts unclipped. I crossed upstream of her, hoping my legs could break some of the waters force for her five foot nil ninety pound frame and that neither of us would lose our invisible footing. Even after 800 miles of the Arizona trail the previous spring and over 2,200 miles of the Continental Divide Trail that summer this was the first water crossing I felt scared of. We had plenty of experience with fording rivers, but usually we could see what we were stepping on and how deep the water got. Our biggest ford to date was the Green River just north of the Wind River Range to reconnect back to the CDT from a little used alternate that was almost up to my waist, practically Rachel’s belly button but uneventful aside from a curious otter. We took tiny steps sideways into the torrent, careful to offset our leg movements to avoid losing balance. Crab walking sideways lets the strongest muscles in your legs fight the current instead of using the weakest by walking straight across, and we needed every ounce of strength as the water continued to deepen. Unable to see the churning bottom, we felt with our feet to find good footing before committing our weight to the next step. It would be easy for me to claim that I simply held Rachel from falling and crossed without issue, but in reality we kept each other from going under as I steadied myself against her as often as she did against me. The water peaked on my thighs and about level with Rachel’s waist, but our gear stayed dry and we made it to the opposite bank. Our maps called for us to leave the two-track in another few miles and continue down into another wash and follow it for two more miles. Instead of walking into a flood, we followed a faint two-track Brett had called out on the map but decided not to use since it disappeared too often. When we finally lost the track for the last time, we set a bearing on our compasses and headed cross country to the old windmill at our next water source. The rest of the section into Magdelena went relatively smoothly. In a normal year the typical GET hiker heads cross country again down several canyons and on to a normally shallow but wide ford of the Rio Grande. Instead, we took the alternate to road walk an additional eight miles around to a bridge and back up to the main route. Crossing the Rio by bridge we could see it was at bank full, when the flow comes close to the top of the rivers banks. Checking the nearby stream gauge data later on I learned its flow had increased from about 30 cubic feet per second the previous week to nearly 1,000 when we crossed the bridge. The skies that day and the next churned out more rainbows after each storm than we could have imagined. We noticed boot prints for the first time on the trail when Brett’s route took us up San Lorenzo Arroyo – a narrowing canyon with some low pour-offs to scramble up. After the arroyo, the landscape was covered in scattered bunch grasses with the odd cholla (pronounced choy-ya) cactus for miles around. The storms broke over isolated mountain ranges in the distance as we walked past the remains of old ranch houses and ancient “aermotor” windmills. Our final day into Magdelana we found the source of the prints, three German hikers out doing a section of this obscure route. One had a slight limp from a recurring ankle injury that popped up on the trip. “Your pack is so small! Where do you fit your supplies?” asked one of Germans, sporting big packs and big boots. “I just eat a lot right before I leave town and hope I don’t get hungry later.” Apparently lightweight backpacking has yet to take Europe by storm. The five of us enjoyed our time in Magdelena, at the sole restaurant open in late October but had to part ways because of the injured ankle. A woman in town offered to drive them to Doc Campbell’s post, two hundred miles further along the trail so they could do some day hikes in flatter terrain there instead of carrying their full packs over the mountains. Such generosity seemed incredible to the Germans and I felt a little pride in America, having been both the recipient and giver of so much kindness in this country. Rachel and I pushed on, eager to see what Brett had in mind for us on the rest of the Grand Enchantment Trail. Hiking the Grand Enchantment Trail offers a thru-hiker expansive views and a unique experience. Need to Know Information The Grand Enchantment trail is an informal and unmarked route created by Brett "Blisterfree" Tucker, more information can be found here. Map PDFs are available for purchase through the website. Getting There The Grand Enchantment Trail crosses US 60 through Magdelena, New Mexico. From town, follow the route north towards the town of Mountainair, New Mexico. There are no trailheads on this portion of the GET but long term parking might be available at the Magdelena Ranger Station at 203 First St; Magdalena, NM 87825. Best Time to Go April through June or September through October tend to have the least heat and avoid summer monsoon season. Significant snow in this part of the GET is unlikely. The Author "Mike "Hiker Box Special" Henrick and Rachel "Heartbreaker" Brown spent 8 months of 2015 backpacking over 3,600 miles across the American West on the Arizona, Continental Divide and Grand Enchantment Trails after meeting just two months prior. Mike thru-hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2013 and has been bike touring, backpacking and traveling since 2008. You can check out The Storm, a story about their hike on the Continental Divide Trail here in Issue 29. Look for more stories from Mike and Rachel's hikes in future issues and on the TrailGroove Blog.

“Looks like you’re going in circles” is a way to tell someone that they're wasting their time. Talking in circles generally isn’t a compliment either. However, walking in a circle can be a good thing for backpackers, provided they’re walking around something interesting. Think about it. Logistics become pretty easy. No ride back to the start is required. In the case of the Tahoe Rim Trail (TRT), walking in a circle is a great experience. From high above, this spot on the Tahoe Rim Trail offered a great view of the lake and surrounding mountains. About the Tahoe Rim Trail As you may have guessed from the trail’s name, the TRT involves walking around Lake Tahoe. The largest alpine lake in North America, Tahoe is 22 miles long and 12 miles wide, sitting on the border of California and Nevada and nestled against the Sierra Nevada. The trail itself is approximately 170 miles, so there is more to it than just keeping the lake to your right. In fact, much of the route is in National Forest with other parks and wilderness areas thrown in for good measure. Quite often, the lake itself is out of sight. The TRT is a great choice for the first-time distance hiker; or anyone that wants a beautiful hike with a minimum of logistical issues to deal with. If you’ve left your car at the start, it should be handy when you finish. As far as resupply, stops in South Lake Tahoe and Tahoe City are well spaced and convenient to the trail. If you’re flying to the trail, shuttles are established to either town from the Reno airport. Summer and early fall feature consistently dry weather. A permit is required for the Desolation Wilderness, but there are no quotas for thru-hikers. Plus, it can be had with a phone call and $5 or $10, depending upon your hiking speed. You’ll also need a California Campfire Permit. That one is free for passing an internet quiz. The TRT winding its way in between boulders and through the forest My Hike on the Tahoe Rim For my spin around the lake I flew into Reno early last September and caught a shuttle to Tahoe City, which was to be my starting point. After checking into a local hotel, my first stop was Alpenglow outdoor store, right down the street. There I got a fuel canister, friendly service, and a big load of concern. The guy at the counter said he heard the trail was dry for 50 miles past Watson Lake (my first night stop). Crap! Fifty miles is a helluva long way to carry water. That much weight in my pack would be a backbreaker for me (as I mentioned, long sections of the TRT are nowhere near Lake Tahoe. It’s not like I would be able to dip a cup in the lake whenever I got thirsty). I made a phone call to the Tahoe Rim Trail Association and the helpful folks there confirmed that their website was correct; the trail was dry, but not that dry. Despite the ongoing drought there would be water where I was planning on it with the longest dry stretch around 13 miles. Whew. It was definitely time to head to the Tahoe Mountain Brewing Company to settle my nerves. In the morning it was a short walk through town to the trail. It immediately started climbing from the 6,225 foot elevation of the lake, but nothing terribly steep. Soon I was already getting occasional views of Lake Tahoe as the trail bounced between 7,000 and 8,000 feet for the first 20+ miles. This, and all sections of the trail, was well marked and fairly easy to follow. For planning water and camp stops I carried the Blackwoods Press Pocket Atlas of the trail and also downloaded FarOut's TRT Guide onto my phone. Though not an exact match, they were close in terms of mileage. Once the Mt. Rose Wilderness Area was reached, the next 7 miles was a climb through open terrain to reach the summit of Relay Peak. At 10,330 feet, the peak is the highest point on the trail with some great nearby views of the lake. Another area highlight across the north shore was Galena Falls, a 60 foot cascade that was still flowing well in spite of the drought. The spot is popular with day hikers and was busy as I passed through. Traveling down the east side of Lake Tahoe was scenic and relatively easy with no major climbs or drops, but water was definitely a concern. Side hikes to water hydrants added to the mileage. I had access to water each day, but there were dry camps. After 80 miles and five days of hiking I reached South Lake Tahoe. The town can be accessed by walking a couple miles down a steep road or catching a $2 bus located at a stop a short side hike off the TRT. Take the bus. South Tahoe is a great town to resupply with hotels at any price point, Sports LTD for fuel and other equipment, a grocery and plenty of restaurants. And, they are all within easy walking distance of the transit center. There’s even casinos across the street in Stateline, Nevada if you’re so inclined. I stayed at the Lake Tahoe Resort Hotel. It was a tad pricey for a hiker stop, but very nice. In addition, it was next door to the transit center, had a laundry on site, held a resupply box for me and had a $2 happy hour. Hard to beat. With rain scheduled for the next day I took a zero. It rained for 15 minutes and was cloudy much of the day. It would have been a great day to hike, but my legs weren’t complaining about the day off. It turned out that my zero day had the only significant cloud cover of the entire trip. Bring sunscreen. After catching the first bus of the morning it was back to the trail. Although I was at the southern end of the lake, I continued walking south. This is where the TRT picked up some mileage by continuing past the lake for another 25 miles or so. Through the area, the views were not the lake but mountains, impressively still holding snow in mid-September. From there on out, lakes and snowmelt streams were abundant enough that running dry was no longer a concern. At mile 109, the trail turned back north, and also joined with the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The two trails shared the tread for the next 50 miles. I met a few southbound PCT hikers on that stretch; all noticeably faster and younger than myself. Mile 121 provides another opportunity to resupply and get ice cream at Echo Lake, if you arrive before Labor Day. All I could do was stare through the window before shuffling on into the Desolation Wilderness. Here was the section that required the permit and it was worth the price of admission. The mountains and valleys had been scoured by glaciers that emptied the area of topsoil. The most dramatic spot was Aloha Lake surrounded by stark granite shorelines and snowy surrounding mountains. The great views continued as I headed north. Several beautiful lakes beckoned me to slow down, but I kept moving. There was more great scenery ahead. I did take a long break at Dicks Pass where I dined with marmots. At 9,400 feet, there were remarkable views in every direction. Shortly after Desolation Wilderness, there’s Granite Chief Wilderness with tremendous views of its own including Twin Peaks. It was near there that I made my last camp. It was a cool, clear night followed by a sunny day; the same weather I had on every day of the trip. The main difference was the start of fall color as I began the final drop into Tahoe City, where I had begun hiking eleven days and 170 miles before. At that point I was only a half mile from my hotel which was holding a change of clothes for me from my earlier stay. In the morning, a shuttle arrived right in front to carry me back to the Reno Airport. Logistically, this was one of the easiest hikes ever; just go in a circle. However, with a trail and scenery that rivaled any I’ve seen, it was no waste of time. A dramatic view along the Tahoe Rim Trail Need to Know Information A great source of information to start planning is the trail’s support organization website. Two permits are required to hike the entire trail. A California Campfire Permit can be had for free by passing a short test. This is required even to use a camp stove (campfires themselves are prohibited through most of the Tahoe Basin). A Desolation Wilderness Permit can be obtained at recreation.gov. However, there are quotas in place during the busy season. Thru-hikers can avoid any limit by calling the Forest Service directly at (530) 543-2694 no more than two weeks before the date they plan to enter the area. My permit for two nights cost $10. Best Time to Go Generally the trail is snow free from Mid-July to Mid-September. However, in large snowpack years, it would be a good idea to contact the Tahoe Rim Trail Association closer to your planned hike to get an idea of how the “melt” is progressing. Water and mosquitoes both become more scarce as the season progresses. Getting There From Reno, NV to Tahoe City take I-80 West to CA-89 South. From Reno to South Lake Tahoe take US-395 South to US-50 West. Both cities are served by regularly scheduled shuttles from the Reno airport. More information on shuttles is available here and here. Books Tahoe Rim Trail by Tim Hauseman is a complete guide and endorsed by the TRT Association. Maps Maps are available to download here. On the trail I carried the Tahoe Rim Trail Pocket Atlas by Blackwoods Press, and a National Geographic map is also available. In addition, I downloaded FarOut's TRT Guide onto my iPhone.

“What are some of the more scenic trails in the area?” my friend Joan asked a local man at a hiking store in Sedona, Arizona. “All of them. They’re all scenic. Everywhere you look is scenic,” he said with a well-practiced manner, unable to hide his weariness with such questions. Even the trail map on display at the store was marked in bold black ink with exclamatory statements: “It’s scenic!!” “The views are amazing!” To say the least, it became apparent that we weren’t the first out-of-towners to ask the locals such seemingly innocent questions about hikes in the area. But after a few days in Sedona, I became more sympathetic to his sentiment, if not his attitude. Everywhere you look, it is scenic. Not just scenic, but grand. Magnificent is not too strong a word. Line up all the synonyms for “breathtaking” that you can because they all apply. Red rock spires ring the city, sandstone formations call to mind distant castles and alien landscapes, and it’s all made more dramatic when viewed in the golden light of sunrise and sunset. Limpid, turquoise waters flow south through Sedona’s mystical Oak Creek Canyon to the Verde River. And, amid all this scenery, there are hiking trails everywhere. Literally, everywhere. In four days, Joan and I could only sample a few. But they were good and, yes, they were scenic. All of them are within the Red Rock-Secret Mountain Wilderness and three (Bear Mountain, Devil’s Bridge, and West Fork) are rated among the top 15 Sedona hikes by the Great Sedona Hikes guidebook. Bear Mountain This strenuous, out-and-back hike involved 2,100 feet of ascent over about 2.5 miles and the views were well worth it. The literature contains several differing estimates of the elevation gain, but my GPS measured 2,100 feet, consistent with the Great Sedona Hikes guidebook. The descent was actually more difficult than the ascent, with many steep, sketchy spots along the trail. We experienced some light rain, and tiny hail at the 6,444-foot summit. This would definitely not be a trail for a rainy day! Total round trip mileage was almost 5 miles, which we did in about 4 1/2 hours. Palatki Ruins A visit to these Sinagua ruins was good for a rest day after Bear Mountain. It is an easy walk to cliff dwellings and rock art, totaling about 1.2 miles. Make a reservation for a guided tour at (928) 282-3854. Take your time and soak up the interesting lore (and speculation) from the knowledgeable docents. Devil’s Bridge Ending at the largest natural stone arch in the Sedona area, this trail attracts a lot of tourists — most of whom don’t seem to have a clue what they’ve gotten themselves into. It’s an easy trail with some steep climbing at the end, 4.4 miles round trip from the Mescal Trail parking area. You may have to wait your turn to get out on the bridge for a photo, and don’t miss the short and less traveled trail to see the bridge from below. Long Canyon In Long Canyon, we attempted to find a cliff dwelling I’d read about, located about 0.4 mile off trail and behind the “Ice Cream Cone” formation. After some slickrock scrambling and brambly bushwhacking, we gave up. I know it’s there but couldn’t find the right access point. It was otherwise an easy and enjoyable out-and-back hike, a little less than 5 miles round trip. West Fork, Oak Creek Canyon It’s no wonder this mellow trail is one of the most popular hikes in the area. Its beauty combines red rock canyons, clear cool waters, and tall pine forest. Wear shoes you can wade in so you can enjoy the 13 creek crossings with abandon. You’ll see widely varying estimates of the distance to the trail’s end (where the canyon narrows and the footpath disappears into the creek), but my GPS said it was 4 miles. With side trips off trail to explore the creek, our round trip distance was about 8.4 miles. But don’t worry about the distance, take your time and enjoy this magical spot. Our Time in Sedona In four days, my friend and I barely scratched the surface of Sedona’s abundant hiking, but it was enough to get acquainted with the geography of the area and whet our appetites for more. And when we return, we’ll certainly know which trails are scenic, because we have it on good authority that it’s every single one. Information A recommended guidebook can be found in Great Sedona Hikes, Revised 4th Edition, by William Bohan and David Butler, and more Information can be found at the Bear Mountain, Palatki Ruins, Devil's Bridge, Long Canyon, and Oak Creek Forest Service pages.

Early every year avid backpackers and hikers turn to planning for their next big hiking trip – and frequently, long distance thru-hikes on classic trails will be focused on by many hikers planning trips for the year ahead. And rightfully so. Those trails like the Colorado Trail, John Muir Trail, and Long Trail (see Thru-Hiking: the Junior Version) will certainly get plenty of attention, but there are lesser known hikes, such as the Sheltowee Trace, worth considering for those looking for a longer trail to hike end to end, section hike, or explore on day trips. And for those that aren't located near one of the big name longer trails, it's one trail that might just be closer to home as well. About the Trail The Sheltowee Trace National Recreation Trail, known as Kentucky’s Long Trail, begins north of Morehead in the northern part of the state at the northern boundary of Daniel Boone National Forest in Rowan County. From there it meanders south and west 333 miles all the way into Tennessee in Scott County. Most of the mileage is within Daniel Boone National Forest with additional distance in multiple state parks to the southern boundary of Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area; the southern terminus. Most of the route is dedicated hiking trail. However, as a newer route, there are some portions on Forest Service roads and a few significant road walks. The Sheltowee Trace Association (STA) manages the trail and is continuing to work to put additional miles on dirt. Geologically, the path travels through the Cumberland Plateau and the Cumberland Escarpment. This formation is known for impressive sandstone cliffs, numerous waterfalls and even stone arches. Historically, the area is interesting as well. In 1775 Daniel Boone and a large group of axmen began cutting the “Wilderness Road” through the Cumberland Plateau, opening the area to European settlement. In fact, the trail is named after Boone. Legend has it that Boone was captured by the Shawnee and eventually adopted into the tribe by Chief Blackfish. He was given the name “Big Turtle,” or Sheltowee. The trail also runs through the site of the Battle of Camp Wildcat, one of the first Union victories of the Civil War. Starting in the north it soon becomes clear that despite not being in a mountain range, there are still significant elevation changes to deal with. While steep at times, the climbs and drops are rarely more than 400-500 feet. After some ridge walking there’s a road walk to cross I-64 and some miles on Forest Service road. These will not be the last stretches of road walking. It is quickly apparent that the trail is generally well blazed with either white diamonds with a turtle symbol or painted turtle symbols. However, the map set came in handy on more than one occasion. At 24 miles, the blazes take you right through the town of Morehead, a very handy resupply location. Despite the occasional road walk, the Sheltowee Trace provides a parade of highlights that, for me, get more impressive along the way. Cave Run Lake has some great overlooks with camp options nearby. Less than ten miles further is Furnace Arch, the first of many natural sandstone arches along the route. By mile 65 the trail hits Clifty Wilderness and heads into Red River Gorge. Designated a national natural landmark and national archaeological district, the area offers impressive views, cliffs, and additional arches. There are also creek crossings to deal with in the gorge. Most are shallow, but a couple will be well above the top of a hiking boot. All major stream crossings throughout the trail are bridged, but there are numerous smaller creeks that aren’t. With the many stream crossings, running out of water is rarely a concern. Immediately down the trail is Natural Bridge State Resort Park with its namesake sandstone arch that’s 78 feet long and 65 feet high. The nearby lodge has a restaurant as well as rooms. It’s a great place to take a break without needing to leave the trail. Another state park on the route is Cumberland Falls State Park. The Sheltowee Trace takes you right past this “Niagara of the South” and the 70 foot drop of the Cumberland River is impressive. Interestingly, the constant mist generated by the falls, combined with a full moon, provides one of the few locations on earth where you can consistently see a lunar rainbow, or moonbow if you time things right. The Crown Jewel of the Sheltowee Trace Trail For my money though, the crown jewel of the Sheltowee Trace is Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area (BSF). The trail first reaches BSF nearly 100 miles from the terminus and the falls, arches, and overlooks within the park are second to none. As with all national parks, there is plenty of opportunity for wildlife sightings. Bear bag your food! Despite being close to the finish, now is not the time to hurry. There’s too much to enjoy, and the trail gets too steep at some points to hurry even if you want to. Elevations range between 900 and 1500+ feet; more than once making that change in less than a mile. In a couple spots there are cables or ropes to help you through the extreme topography. The extra effort earns you more rewards though. Just as an example, the last 20 miles of trail take you along the Clear Fork and Big South Fork Rivers, past imposing overlooks, near seven waterfalls, four arches, and through Boulder House, a huge jumble of, you guessed it, boulders along Honey Creek. For those looking for a shorter adventure than a thru-hike of the Sheltowee Trace, there are nearly 200 miles of hiking trails within BSF’s 125,000 acres. Several link up with the Sheltowee Trace and can be used to create loop hikes of varying lengths. Several of the more popular overnight hikes are listed on the National Park Service’s website. Options utilizing the Grand Gap Loop or the park’s own John Muir Trail would be my initial recommendations. Need to Know Information A good starting point to research the Sheltowee Trace National Recreation Trail is at the Sheltowee Trace Association website. It contains general information about the trail along with specifics on availability of shuttles and resupply as well as contact information for trail angels. In general, resupplying is not difficult with options 60 miles or less apart. In addition, the STA has an active volunteer base and several will go so far as to accept a mailed resupply box and bring it to you on your hike. Trail users will include mountain bikes (Laurel Lake is one popular area) and horses on some sections of the trail. The majority of the trail does not permit motorized travel. Camping is allowed throughout Daniel Boone National Forest and BSF and the trail offers many opportunities for day hikes. A permit is required to camp in BSF but is only $5 per group of 6 or less. The permit is available at the Bandy Creek Visitor Center. A permit is also required to camp in Red River Gorge. Contact the Forest Service, Cumberland Ranger District at (606) 663-8100 for that one. The occasional road walks and hiking through private property/state parks does mean some planning is needed for picking camp locations. Best Time to Go September or October work best from my point of view. The weather tends to be dryer and more temperate. The fall color can be outstanding as well. However, the trail can (typically) be hiked year-round. As you would think, winter means you have the trail to yourself. Spring rains means both waterfalls and wildflowers are in top form though the trail can be muddy. I’d avoid summer unless you enjoy sweating and ticks. Getting There Northern terminus, take I-64 approximately 50 miles east of Lexington, KY to exit #137. Turn north on Rt 32 then right on Rt 377 to the trailhead. Southern terminus, from Oneida, TN, US 27 south to right on Old US 27, left on Mountain View Rd, right on W. Robbins and left on Honey Creek Loop. Maps and Books Paper map sets detailing the trail route can be found here and an interactive version of the map is available here. For more on hiking in Kentucky and this area in general, see this Falcon Guide and Day Hiking Daniel Boone National Forest, plus the Trails of the Big South Fork book.

The early-season opportunity to bike portions of Going to the Sun in Glacier National Park without any automobile traffic seems too good to be true. Miles of paved road passing alongside streams rushing with snowmelt, climbing into the high country, weaving through lush forests – all behind a gate and open only to bicycles and foot traffic. I’ve done enough recreational road biking and bike commuting to develop a sincere appreciation of a smooth surface, hard tires, and minimal traffic through beautiful landscapes but rarely plan trips around bicycling. Instead, like most backpackers, I plan my trips around trails. So it was a bit counter-intuitive to spend an extra day after a work trip that took me within an hour of Glacier National Park with the goal of spending an afternoon bicycling on pavement instead of putting my feet on a trail. As someone who typically hikes and backpacks in wilderness areas or the more remote areas of national forest, the hustle and bustle of national parks is always a bit amusing to me. Arriving early in the afternoon on an overcast Saturday, I was able to get one of the last sites at Sprague Creek Campground (which filled up later in the evening) and awkwardly set up camp inside my vehicle before prepping for the ride up Going to the Sun Road. The forecast called for rain overnight and into the next day, with temperatures in the upper 30s in the morning. Needless to say, sleeping in the back of a Honda Element was a much more luxurious option than packing up a wet tent in a cold rain the next morning. Lake McDonald, Glacier National Park Starting the Adventure Rolling out of the campground on my trusty touring bike was a blissful feeling. No more driving for the rest of the evening, just turning pedals and trying to keep my eyes on the road as mountains, waterfalls, and expansive valleys competed for my attention. The first few miles from the campground to Avalanche Creek were open to vehicles, but traffic was fairly light considering it was a weekend. Once past the gate at Avalanche Creek, the real fun began. There were plenty of other cyclists, but no other cars. None. No looking over the shoulder, no low-level anxiety about inattentive drivers, no exhaust fumes. Just open road and other cyclists. Given my late start, many of the cyclists I saw were on the downhill stretch of their ride while I labored up the mellow grade towards Logan Pass. The temperature was in the mid-50s, which was perfect for biking steadily uphill. The flip side was that coming downhill would be rather chilly, so my saddlebags bulged with two pairs of gloves, a synthetic puffy jacket, and rain gear. Rather than hindering the view, the overcast sky and low hanging clouds made for dramatic lighting and a backdrop for the peaks that enhanced instead of obscured the mountains. The steeper sections of the climb to Logan Pass, especially those after The Loop, gave me plenty of time to concentrate on the surrounding panorama as I doggedly progressed toward the snow line. The road is open to cyclists as far as they would like to go and the natural place to turn around is where plowing has ended and several feet of snow remain. I took a few victory pictures at the snowline, which was around 17 miles from the campground and over 2,000 feet higher. The descent was simply thrilling. Watching mountain scenery sped by as I flew downhill at a safe but respectable clip without having to worry about inconveniencing motorists was sublime and, sadly, came to and end all too quickly. Miles that had taken me over two hours to gain were lost in a quarter of the time and I soon found myself pedaling easily along the flatter sections towards Lake McDonald and the campground. Although my car camping skills were a bit rusty, I had made an effort in regard to food and drink. Soon after pulling back into camp, I was snacking on cheese and crackers, sipping wine, and waiting for water to boil for a heaping serving of ravioli and pesto. Views of Lake McDonald made my al fresco dining experience five-star. Once dinner was over, the increasingly dreary weather and my tired muscles compelled me to get in my sleeping bag fairly early. The next morning I awoke to enjoy the fruits of my decisions, both good and bad. Sleeping in the vehicle was a good decision, as a cold rain poured over the campground while I made coffee from the comfort of my sleeping bag. Not stretching in any meaningful sense after returning to camp was not a good decision, especially combined with a four-hour drive home. But perhaps the best decision was to have broken out of my hiking-only focus on outdoor recreation that been all-consuming in recent months. The ride the previous day was one of the most soul-swelling and rejuvenating things I could recall doing recently. That recognition inspired another decision that morning – a goal to make an early-season ride on Going to the Sun Road an annual event. Need to Know Information The park’s webpage on bicycling, which also contains links to the Road Status page, is the best place to get started on planning your bicycling trip. Best Time to Go Mid-May to June offer pleasant weather and most of the road should be open to bikes by then, although this depends on the year and plowing progress made by road crews. Weekends are best because the road crews are not working, but can be a bit more crowded. Getting There Bicyclists can start in West Glacier and travel east, or at St. Mary and travel west. Beginning in mid-May a free shuttle with room for bikes runs from Apgar near West Glacier to Avalanche Creek (where the vehicle closure is typically in place). Maps The basic park brochure map is sufficient for this adventure. Alternatively Trails Illustrated 215 is better suited for additional exploration in the park. This map is also available in combination with the Best Easy Day Hikes in Glacier National Park Falcon Guide. You can find that bundle here at Amazon.

Spacious silence and cool, dry air. The sun is always warm in California, even in the dead of winter. Winter time is the off season here in Death Valley National Park, but I can’t imagine why. Boasting the hottest recorded temperature on Earth, it seems funny that most of the park’s visitors come in the summer. If you want to feel some serious, otherworldly heat, then pay us a visit in July! However, if you come to explore at any other time of the year, California’s mild and pleasant weather can be almost guaranteed. Spring is especially nice in Death Valley, when the warm nights return, and the wildflowers occasionally bloom for miles. If you stop by in winter however, you will probably find ample solitude on the trails in the area. At higher elevations in winter, there will be snow and ice towards the top of the mountains, but usually not very much. Cold, crisp air awaits as you hike higher, complete silence, and most likely, isolation. The charcoal kilns The Panamint Range Starting from the charcoal kilns area, deep in the Panamint Mountains you will know when you’ve arrived, because these strange, stone, beehive-like structures will suddenly appear in the pinyon pine forest. They will certainly bring a moment of fascination. Most people don’t realize Death Valley has forests at the higher elevations. As the road winds higher into the mountain range, trees will suddenly appear. Any further up from here it becomes 4 wheel drive only. That road will lead to the trailhead for Telescope Peak, another great day hiking option. The charcoal kilns are a very cool landmark to check out. In the 1800s they would burn the pinyon pine forest here to make coal, and send it for fuel to the nearby mining boom-towns. I used to live in Death Valley and I fell in love with the park. The Panamint Mountains were my great backyard. When I would get some time to myself I’d wander up into them and enjoy their majestic silence. The hike here took place in January, and the conditions were icy, but without too much snow. The hike didn’t require any special gear, or any special permits. Just drive up into this lonely land and see what’s out there. The Wildrose Trail will generally have less snow on it than the Telescope Trail, so can be a good option in winter. I felt refreshed at the beginning of the hike as I left the charcoal kilns, taking my camera along and meandering around a few scenic corners, before heading straight up! This was the most challenging part of the day as I climbed through the forest, but was the perfect warm-up in the sharp, high desert air. The charcoal kilns are already at 6,800 feet of elevation. Coming from the bottom of Death Valley, I left the warm weather behind having driven literally from sea level, and would climb to over 9,000 feet high on this 4.2 mile, one way hike. It wasn’t too far before cresting the ridge, and I looked down to the first sweeping view of Badwater Basin in the valley. This, I could tell, is where the great scenery would begin. The rest of the hike was much easier than the first part of the ascent. Now I got to stroll along the ridgeline, taking in the view of Telescope Peak behind me. Telescope is Death Valley’s tallest mountain, and has an incredible ridgewalk as well. Trails in this area are great options for day hiking the Panamints. After the mellow ridgewalk, I encountered one final push to get to the summit. This is where the snow and ice began, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I was actually wearing sandals as well! I wouldn’t completely recommend this, because my toes were getting cold, but I generally love sandals for desert hiking. Just don’t hit a cactus! Finally, the summit awaits. A few scattered trees provided shelter for a break at the top At the Summit I sat there and froze for a very long time, writing in my journal and wandering around that place which feels on top of the world. I took shelter in a pinyon pine tree to each some snacks, surveying the colorful, mirage-like desert all around. No matter the elevation, the sun always feels warm around here. Another great thing about Death Valley is you can hike in the bright moonlight, so I didn’t feel too rushed to get down knowing the moon would be showing up tonight. Still, I of course still bring a flashlight or headlamp and the 10 essentials. Upon arriving back home in Death Valley later that evening, the warm air was a welcome greeting. Winter here can bring crisp hiking temperatures and generous views. Need to Know Information There is a free campground at the beginning of Emigrant Canyon Road, and at the junction of Wildrose/ Emigrant Canyon Road. They are reserved on a first come basis, and are often crowded or full most times of the year (except winter). Free camping can be found on the BLM land at the bottom of Wildrose Road in Panamint Valley, on many dirt side roads, and roadside camping/sleeping is acceptable there as well. Backcountry permits, day hiking or camping, are voluntary in Death Valley, and can be filled out at the two visitors centers – one in Lone Pine, CA, and one in Furnace Creek, CA. Check with a ranger about snow condition before attempting a hike, and be prepared with all your own water. It’s up to you how much water to carry because it is heavy, but 2-4 liters should be sufficient for a colder, shorter day hike. Of course if you bring more, you can always drink more! Books & Maps Hiking Death Valley: A Guide to its Natural Wonders and Mining Past by Michel Digonnet. This book is more than just a hiking guide, the author knows Death Valley very well and explains its rich and colorful history along with the descriptions of the hike. He will also tell you the many unique plants and animals found in the region, as well as more obscure hikes off the beaten path. This guide includes hidden gold mines to explore and descriptions of how to find them. This guidebook is one to constantly return to whenever planning a hike in Death Valley. Hiking Western Death Valley National Park: Panamint, Saline and Eureka Valleys by Michel Digonnet. This book provides a closer look at the trails on the west side (the best side) of the park. Death Valley and the Amargosa: A Land of Illusion by Richard E. Lingenfelter. A fascinating read for anyone interested in Death Valley, or who is familiar with the park, this book will convey all of its history. There are many stories, some grim and some funny. From the lost Mormon wagon train that accidentally discovered Death Valley and gave it the name... to the many prospectors and con-men who called the place home. It’s a long and highly informative read, and an excellent series of stories about this haunting land. Death Valley National Park Trails Illustrated map, National Geographic. This is the only map I have ever needed when exploring Death Valley. It has clear topography lines and the beautiful coloring of the map makes it fun to look at and easy to read. It has info on the side about trail suggestions and concerns about hiking in the park. Getting There If traveling from the east, take CA hwy 190, the main road through the park. After passing Stovepipe Wells village, drive 10 miles further and you will find Emigrant Canyon Road on your left. Take that turn, and drive for about 25 miles straight to the Wildrose trailhead at the charcoal kilns. The road will turn to dirt 5 miles before the kilns. These same directions can be used if traveling from the West on CA hwy 190. After you pass Panamint Springs village your turnoff is 22 miles away on the right. If traveling from Los Angeles area however, you will be coming into the park from the south. In this case you can take the back route in... After leaving the town of Trona and cresting the Slate Range Pass, you will drop into Panamint Valley. Take the right turn for Wildrose Road, 15 miles after Slate Range Pass. This will connect you to Emigrant Canyon Road, take a right turn there, and drive just 8 miles to the charcoal kilns. When exploring the region, it is fun to take both roads, Emigrant Canyon and Wildrose Road, to make a driving loop out of it. Best Time to Go Hiking the Panamint Mountains can be done any time of the year. My favorite time is December, because the air is very clear that time of the year, but the temperatures can be quite cold. The only time the hike should be avoided is immediately after a high altitude snowstorm or during one. This information should be found out at the visitor center, or at least by gazing up at the snow level on the peaks. Springtime snow is very possible in Death Valley. The best time to do the hike is on a rare cloudy day…In the summer, this hike is an excellent escape from the hot weather, and temperatures will still be mildly warm at the summit. In the spring, vast meadows of wildflowers sometimes bloom in the Panamint Mountains.

There’s something puzzling but incredibly satisfying about arriving at an empty trailhead on a sunny Saturday morning during Labor Day weekend. While some national parks are setting records for visitation and crowded campgrounds and packed trails are the norm, I had an entire canyon in the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness of Montana to myself for 24 hours. Ten miles of well-maintained trail passed through lovely coniferous forest and beside a delightful waterfall to reach four subalpine lakes. This was definitely not a dull landscape or a journey which lacked a worthy destination. But for whatever reason, it was not a trail chosen by other backpackers despite its easy access and prominence in guidebooks. Scenic pool and waterfall in Boulder Canyon Into the Wilderness of Montana's Boulder Canyon From the perplexingly lonely Boulder Creek Trailhead, it was an easy four mile jaunt to Boulder Creek Falls. I tried and failed to work up the nerve to take a dip in the tantalizing but frigid emerald pool at its base. Instead I merely took off my boots, soaked my feet, read a bit of from a book of William Faulkner short stories, rehydrated, and replaced spent calories. The smoke which had hung in the valley for the past few days had dissipated significantly and I indulged in the sublime pleasure of bathing in the sun and watching clouds drift overhead while my feet rested in the refreshing waters of a mountain stream. Forcing myself not to linger, I topped off my water bottles and continued up the canyon. After Boulder Creek Falls, the trail never ceased to accommodate me with its moderate grade and its kindly offering of ripe thimbleberries along several sections. As the trail progressed up the canyon it occasionally exited the shady spruce-fir forest and passed through several clearings, each offering a different perspective on the landscape and showcasing the transition of summer into fall. The verdancy of summer was evident in certain deep green pockets of vegetation, some clinging to distant mountainsides and some flourishing trailside. Aspen and some shrubs were assuming muted colors or hinting at the brilliant yellows and reds that would be their last hurrah before fading into winter. It was in one of these clearings that I had the incredible luck to see a wolf who was also exploring the trail. When I noticed something moving as I neared the clearing, I paused at the edge of the forest and watched as the animal climbed off the small trailside rock and onto the vegetation shrouded trail. She (given her size, it was likely a female and probably a pup born earlier in the year) came within 20 feet of me before recognizing my presence, pausing for a second, then bounding away. While the picture I took more closely resembles Bigfoot’s thumbprint than White Fang, this was certainly a case where a picture is worth a thousand words. Exhilarated by the close encounter of the canine kind, I continued on the trail – pausing a few times for quick sips of water and to check the map – and didn’t pause again until reaching a small tarn about two miles away from my intended final destination. The shrubs above the lake were turning a warm orange and surrounding stubborn pockets of greenery. Along with the crisp air obtained after almost 3,000 feet of climbing over the previous 9 miles, this setting proclaimed the impending arrival of autumn more strongly than the flora and atmosphere lower in the canyon. Leaving the tarn, I passed the largest of the lakes on this trip, Boulder Lake, and was greeted – or perhaps warned – by a marmot before beginning a positively brutal ascent to the final two lakes in the Boulder Canyon cirque. Boulder Lake was absolutely stunning and the essence of Rocky Mountain high country scenery. While its expansive and deep waters ringed by forest and hemmed in by granite cliffs and peaks speckled with snow made for an enticing place to spend the night, it seemed a bit overwhelming for a solo backpacker. Akin to sleeping by yourself in a five-bedroom house, perhaps. So I politely passed by the multiple campsites and followed a faint trail for just under a mile, gaining 700 more feet of elevation, before arriving at Lake Crystal, the penultimate lake on my itinerary. Somehow managing to simultaneously admire its scenery and maintain forward momentum, I continued to the last lake where I intended to set up camp. A few hundred feet later I reached the waters of Lake Turbid and set down my backpack. I’d made better time than I’d anticipated, so I took a leisurely stroll up a knoll on the distant side of the lake as a cool-down hike before unpacking and setting up camp. From the knoll I had an excellent vantage point of Lake Turbid and could see Lake Crystal shimmering through the trees, as well as Dollar Lake further below. The serrated skyline of Boulder Canyon’s north rim dominated much of the view and scattered peaks and highpoints near and far offered an almost infinite choice of places to settle my gaze. After the tent was pitched, water purified, and bear bag line hung I stretched out and let my body rest while I occupied my mind. Picking up where I had left on my lunch break, the short story The Bear by William Faulkner transported me from the mountains of Montana to the backwoods of Mississippi. Once I reached a good stopping point, I set the book down and took advantage of the friendly terrain to circumnavigate the lake. While I don’t always walk around the shore of every lake I camp at, it’s a habit I’ve been trying to establish when the size of the lake and the light of day permit it. I read a bit more upon my return to camp and found myself so entranced in the narrative that I was surprised to realize how suddenly twilight and hunger crept up on me. Stars began to dot the sky their distant luminescence just as I was finishing my hastily prepared dinner. I enjoyed some stargazing and a warm cup of tea before heading to bed around 10 p.m., my breath barely visible in the light of the headlamp as I zipped myself into the sleeping bag. Beautiful sunset seen in the wilderness of Boulder Canyon, Montana The Hike Out Morning was cloudy and rich with the crisp air of fall. The water in my bottle was frigid when I groggily took a sip in the morning and the tent poles were cold as dismantled them and wrapped them up in the rainfly. Leaving Lake Turbid at 9 a.m, the clouds continued their mission of keeping the sun hidden and the winds were picking up. Despite the somewhat ominous weather, I decided to take a detour around the talus slop of Lake Crystal to get a different perspective on the landscape on my return. The view from this detour, combined with the saturated lighting of the cloudy morning, made it seem like it was a new lake altogether. Once the detour was complete and I was back on its eastern shore, I followed the same route out as I had in. My exit was delayed only by diligent thimbleberry picking and conversation with some horseback riders. As is my habit, I started thinking about my next trip before finishing the one I was currently enjoying. Not exactly the best way to find presence and walking meditation, but it’s something I’m slowly but surely working to improve on. Hiking back toward the trailhead, I casually scanned the high slopes of the southern rim of Boulder Creek Canyon, looking for a way up to Lake of the Rocks, which is noted as being “almost inaccessible waters [that] surely must rank among the Bitterroots’ least visited” according the guidebook Hiking the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness. I imagine that if and when I make it up to that alpine highlight, holiday weekend or not, solitude will be the rule rather than the exception. Need to Know Getting There Heading south from the small town of Darby, MT on US-93, turn right (west) onto MT-473 (West Fork Road). Take this road for approximately 12 miles and turn right (a sign marks the turn) onto the good gravel road leading to Sam Billings Memorial Campground in about a mile. The road dead-ends at the trailhead parking lot just beyond the campground. Best Time to Go In most years this hike is ideal from mid-June to mid-October. There are no major creek crossings, so doing this hike early in the year is possible even if Boulder Creek itself is roaring with snow melt. Fall is a nice time of year, with aspens and larch showing off their colors. As winter comes in, severe weather becomes an issue. Maps The Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness (South Half) and North Half maps by Cairn Cartographics cover the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness of Montana. National Geographic also offers their Trails Illustrated Map #874. Books Hiking the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness by Scott Steinberg.

Sometimes even a quick day hike can provide inspiration for another quick trip or a subsequent backpacking excursion, and such was the case during a past trip and on a family day hike in the Bridger Wilderness of the southern Wind River Mountains. The plan: a simple morning in and a brief offtrail excursion to a river shown on the map, a brief afternoon of fishing, and a return to the trailhead before evening drew on too long. Logistically simple, the hike went as planned and was a typical summer stroll along and off the trail – until we reached the river. Summer sights were abundant, but the river itself was nowhere to be found. Slightly bewildered and evaluating the map, we did now stand in a slight depression, entirely dry and it didn’t look like water had ever flowed through it. And we weren’t looking for an intermittent, seasonal creek either – this was a legitimate and named river. Doubting my map skills momentarily, I even turned my phone on and double checked with Gaia GPS – and sure enough, the app showed us standing in the river. Hiking on a bit farther through the lodgepole pine forest, we entered a scenic dry meadow where it seemed good campsites – perhaps for another time – were nearly everywhere you looked. The more I hike, and perhaps the more bad campsites I stay the night in, the more I’ve come to appreciate the good ones. You know the spot: an actual flat place to sleep where you’re not sliding around your tent throughout the night, one that is protected but still with a view, and one that's close enough to a water source – at least according to the map. But this was just a day hike. At such a site in the meadow we had lunch, but with the day getting late the decision was made to abandon the river search and perhaps, return at a later time. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this in the Wind River Range. While the USGS maps are for the most part quite accurate, it seems that when it comes to waterways assumptions have occasionally been made; water always flows downhill, but not always where you think it might at first glance. In any event, finding one of these inaccuracies, whether on USGS topos or usually equally reflected on other options like the Beartooth or Earthwalk maps has always been a great excuse to explore further and to see what the land truly reveals, and adds a bit of mystery to any follow up hike. Stormy skies and sights in the Wind River Range. The Return Trip A year later and in need of a quick and easy family style overnight with easy logistics, we headed back to the site. Some research at home and looking at satellite views had revealed the real location of the river – nearly a mile away from where the USGS topos had suggested. After a drive to the southern end of the range ending with a rough final drive to the trailhead, we hit the trail and made our way towards the meadow we’d eaten lunch at the year before, and after sheltering from a brief and quick moving rain shower we eventually made it just as our younger trail companion’s legs began to fade. Although late in the year…so much that aspens were turning yellow…lupine still bloomed and the last glimpse of summer wildflowers was quite the welcome surprise. After deciding on a reasonable spot to setup the tent, we ambled off in the real direction of the river, to actually find it this time, evaluate fishing opportunities, and load up and filter some water. The meadow was higher, so after descending a game trail we found, and crashing through the brush, we entered a lush soggy meadow and eventually found ourselves on the river bank of the slowly flowing, lazy river that meandered through meadows. Filled only with small brook trout, fishing was decided against, but water was filtered and returning to complete camp setup for the night, dinner was had – a fire considered but decided against on this mild evening. Much time was spent relaxing, taking photos, and watching the moon rise, then set, and stargazing as the show emerged overhead in force while elk bugled in the distance. Eventually we all piled into our trusty Tarptent Hogback for the night. Evening in the Bridger Wilderness The Hike Out The next morning after a night well above freezing the elk were again bugling at sunrise, more water was filtered, camp dismantled, and packs shouldered as we made our way back to the trail and eventually the trailhead again. Although a short and easy trip, it was a trip that easily fell together and was easily accomplished and all at a great spot – sometimes just what you need – and with one last glimpse of summer to boot. And best of all, now we know even more than the map at first reveals. Information No permits are needed for hiking in this area of the Wind River Range, but proper food storage is required. Mosquitoes and snow can persist well into summer. More information can be found in Hiking Wyoming's Wind River Range, and the Beartooth Publishing Wind River Range South map, the Trails Illustrated Wind River Maps, and the Earthwalk Press Wind River South maps all cover this area.

In his beautiful and evocative memoir The Carry Home: Lessons from the American Wilderness, acclaimed travel writer Gary Ferguson breathes emotional and humane life into the Mountain West. After 25 years of marriage and as many seasons sharing a USFS ski patrol hut, Ferguson’s wife Jane passes away suddenly in a tragic canoeing accident in northern Ontario, dividing Ferguson from not only his partner and best friend, but from his identity in relation to her. In recognition of her last wishes, he sets out to scatter her ashes in her five favorite backcountry locations, and in doing so begins to hunt for what meaning he can reconstruct of his own life in her absence. The Carry Home: Lessons from the American Wilderness Reading The Carry Home As Ferguson takes the reader through the deep wilds of the American West, he constructs his world through prose as granular and pulsing as his environs: “West of Caineville the land melts into the bare bones of existence: rusted waves of sandstone peeling away with every passing storm; deep blue sky, hot and thirsty and bright.” But what breathes life into his writing is not the descriptions of the earth around him, but rather the emotional connections he generates to it with his readers. Each of the locations at which he scatters Jane’s ashes bears personal meaning, and he imbues that meaning into his descriptions from the opening passage: “The end came for Jane, and so for us, at the edge of a spring, when the leaves of the north country were washed in that impossible shade of lemonade green. A color she said always reminded her of a certain crayon in the old Crayola 64 boxes she had as a kid – one labeled simply “yellow green” – a clumsy name with no hint of the promise it held” From the first page, he reaches out and takes the reader’s hand, guides us through the Mountain West as he knows it. His travels to lay Jane to rest take him through the heart of the northern American Rockies, from the Sawtooth Range of Idaho to the northern reaches of Yellowstone and the Beartooths, south down to the canyons of Utah, but the greater story that he tells brings the reader to Colorado, Oregon, and the Northwest Territories of Canada. His trips start brief as he recovers from his own injuries, making short forays into the Sawtooths and into Utah alone to say his private goodbyes and close the intimate chapters on the story of their life together. But by the time he’s ready to make the final scatterings, he’s joined by friends, family, and anyone who has their own closures to make with Jane, and leaves straight from his front door in the foothills of the Beartooths and hikes a hundred miles south and west for her final ceremony in the northeast corner of Yellowstone. And like a guide, he shows us what’s worth seeing, tells us about his connection to it, but encourages us to make a connection for ourselves. He lays the emotional agar and steps away to let us seed it with our own experience. He occasionally gets in over his head in this regard, jumping back and forth, often several times per (already short) chapter, between multiple recollections of a place. But while understanding the location’s importance in his and Jane’s life is crucial to our appreciation of his voyage in the present, his frequent and sporadic trips into the locations’ natural and explorative history often interrupts the pacing and adds further complexity to an already complex story. But of course, a search for identity is necessarily complex, and that is ultimately what brings Ferguson out in the wake of Jane’s death. Not to find the right place to lay her to rest, not even to honor her memory at the places she loved the most. He spent 30 years of his life at her side, as rangers and as partners, and thus his identification with nature is pinned to his identification with her. His journeys lay Jane to rest, sure, but ultimately his driving force is to work out who and what he is without her, and how he relates to these timeless wilds. Jane is now part of the wilds just as she is part of him, but as the wilds go on, so too must he. You can find The Carry Home: Lessons from the American Wilderness here on Amazon.com.

Spring has sprung and in Colorado that means drying trails and couloirs packed with stable, hard snow. In go the ski boots and from the closet come trail shoes and mountaineering boots. Sadly, my last pair of shoes died a grizzly death at the hands (feet?) of my extra-wide pinky knuckle because I was too lazy to lace them correctly. Below are my tips on funny looking lacing for funny looking feet. My 2016 Lone Peak 2.5's – ready for the trash bin thanks to a 2" long hole. Fresh Lone Peak 3.0's – they look so helpless! Since it was about time to get down to it I figured I'd share what works for me and add in some resources at the end since everyone's feet are different. I generally have two problems with shoes – my wide right forefoot and slippery heels. I have learned to address these issues by lacing my footwear to reduce tension in the front of the shoe and lock down tension at the base of the ankle. First I'll show what I do on my Altra Lone Peak trail shoes, then move to mountaineering boots since boot lacing tends to be different than glorified sneakers. Keep in mind, lacing techniques only go so far and still require a lot of in-store fitting with various brands. Lacing Tips and Techniques The first technique is straightforward – simply skip some laces where the shoe is too narrow. The tension will still pull down on the front of your shoes but allow some extra width. If this doesn't add enough width, you can try leaving the lace looser there by tying a surgeon's knot (begin by looping your laces together as if you were starting to tie your shoes, but wrap around an extra turn) at the top to allow you to tighten only the upper laces. Skipping loops can add width where you need it. Next I want to address my heel slip by tying a heel lock. The idea is to bring tension from the base of the ankle down through the heel to prevent the foot from moving up and down in the shoe. Regular lacing only brings tension into the sides. I start by lacing the shoe up to the top hole: Next I make a loop: Then pass the opposite lace through the loop: Tension the laces and you should notice more downward pressure on the top of your foot instead of the usual sideways squeeze. I also have the same problems on my mountaineering boots (Scarpa Charmoz), which use a different lacing system and come up higher on my ankle. The first step is easy enough – simply find where your foot is too wide for the boot and skip the nearest laces: The heel lock is a little trickier since these eyelets are open at the back. We can get a similar effect by skipping the laces closest to where your ankle starts: Then loop the opposite laces through and tightening up: Completed heel lock Final Thoughts That's what I do, but you likely have much different issues so here are some resources that might work better for your funny feet and hopefully something here works for you: a great video covering the heel lock and several additional techniques, endless combinations available on Ians Shoelace Site, and lastly a more British approach to locking down the heel. If not – post in the comments!

Some of the best things in life are the simplest. For backpackers, there is a pleasure in sipping hot coffee, tea or cocoa from a sleeping bag that borders on the divine. And behind such a simple pleasure is a simple piece of a gear: a kettle, pot or some other means of warming water. I upgraded from a lidless, stainless steel pot leftover from my brief time in Boy Scouts to the MSR Titan Kettle fairly early in my backpacking days and it has proven to be one of the best gear-related investments I made. As a college student it was a bit indulgent to spend $50 at the time (although I was further aided by a 20% off coupon at a local gear shop) on a lighter version of an item I already had, but the purchase is one I never regretted. The MSR Titan Kettle works well with upright canister stoves. The MSR Titan Kettle Looking back, it was also perhaps the catalyst for many other gear investments (strategically timed during post-season sales) as I realized what a difference lightweight, quality gear makes in a hobby like backpacking. Although the MSR Titan Tea Kettle now retails over $60 (apparently I should have invested in titanium when I was in college) it still weighs just over 4 ounces, has a .85 liter capacity, and is a piece of gear I’d recommend to any backpacker looking to build up their cooking kit. After almost ten years of using this kettle, it has developed a nice coat of character (about as close to patina as titanium can get) but has lost absolutely nothing in regards to function. The handles on the pot still swivel perfectly and the handle for the lid works just as it did when new. The thoughtful design features, such as the slot for the coated lid handle to remain upright so it can be easily removed to check on the contents and the tight-fitting lid and perfectly engineered spout, make this a piece of gear that is hard to imagine improving and the size (0.85 liters) is just right for one person. I’ve cooked hundreds of meals in this kettle, from pasta to curry to rice dishes, and although I’ve had to pay careful attention when trying certain backcountry culinary innovations I have never had any issues with food sticking or burning (aside from issues resulting as a result of my own negligence). Adding a bit of extra water helps reduce any issues of burning or sticking, as does being conscious of how hot the stove is burning. I’ve used this kettle primarily with a canister stove (Jetboil MightyMo, an MSR Pocket Rocket, or similar) but also with a liquid fuel stove during winter trips. When using a canister stove, a small fuel canister can easily be stored inside which saves spaces in your pack. Its squat design seems to allow for a fair degree of stability on any stove, especially when compared to taller pots that I’ve seen my backcountry companions use. In my years of experience I’ve only managed to knock it over twice and both times were completely my fault. While my recommendation for this product is unequivocally enthusiastic, there are a few common sense items worth pointing out that for the most part will apply to all similar pots. One is that the handles for the pot do tend to get very hot when cooking, especially if wind is whipping the flame around. I keep a small piece of a bandana around to use to protect my fingers when picking up the handles (I just fold it a few times and use it as a barrier) and this also double as a napkin. A second comment is that there is minimal insulation provided to the contents by the titanium. Water boils quickly and food can be prepared rapidly (such as pasta, which tends to beat the “suggested cooking time” by a few minutes), but in cooler temperatures the meal in the kettle loses its warmth without much delay – especially noticeable if the temperature is below freezing. Generally this hasn’t been a problem for me, as I inhale my food as soon as it’s at a marginally safe temperature – wise to do so, but if you’re the type that likes to eat a few bites, then stare at the clouds for a minute, then eat a few bites, then read a page or two of a book, you might be wishing you had a microwave with you to warm up the last half of the meal in colder weather. Keeping the lid on and wrapping the kettle and remaining food up in a scarf or piece of clothing can help retain the warmth but I’ve rarely had to use this tactic. Lastly, there is no nonstick coating on this kettle, which is nice because it means you don’t have to worry about your fork scraping a coating off, but it does mean that if you burn some food in the bottom it will take some soaking, scraping, and scrubbing (best done at home) to remove it. Final Thoughts I tend to be fairly loyal to my backpacking gear and this is one item that has my unabashed devotion. The functionality, the durability, the purpose – any item that helps get food in my stomach automatically earns my affection – there are really no major flaws or drawbacks that I’ve noticed in almost a decade of use. This is one piece of gear that I feel like I’ve bonded with more than others, given the food and beverage related memories I’ve created with it. If I ever do end up replacing it, most likely with another MSR Titan Kettle, this one will be going up on the mantle to remind of the meals I’ve enjoyed in Montana’s mountains, Appalachian forests, and Atlantic beaches over the years. The MSR Titan Kettle retails for about $60. Find it here at REI, at Backcountry.com, and on Amazon.com.

As a backpacker, I’ve found few things more enjoyable than hiking over a nameless and trail-less mountain pass to beautiful subalpine lakes with trout swimming in their frigid waters. In the mountain ranges of Montana, this isn’t too difficult a feat to accomplish, at least logistically. However, the physical challenge of gaining nearly a thousand vertical feet in well under a mile of horizontal travel is nothing to scoff at, regardless of your conditioning. With millions of acres of public land and hundreds of subalpine lakes, Montana is a veritable playground for those who like their trails lonesome and their lakes trout-filled. Although there are plenty of mountain ranges to choose from when planning hikes, I’ve found the eastern Pioneer Mountains well worth returning to for multiple visits. The Pioneer Mountains offer a quaint wilderness experience and mountain scenery. The Allure and Beauty of the Pioneer Mountains On a recent mid-September trip, for example, I passed eight lakes – seven of which had fish in them (six of which I actually caught fish in) – and crossed two mountain passes with wonderful views. One of the passes had a faint trail over it, the other was cross-country travel through fairly open subalpine forest. Surprisingly, even given the low population and massive landscape of Montana, I only encountered one other group during my three-day trip. For five of the lakes I stopped at, and one of the ones I camped at, I was the only person there. In an era of increasing permits and quota restrictions, and decreasing opportunities for solitude on public lands, to be able to have such a trip during a prime weather weekend was fairly lucky, but by and large such luck is not unusual in the Pioneers, at least in my experience. Lacking the “name brand” recognition of Glacier or Yellowstone National Parks (two of Montana’s biggest destinations for outdoor recreation), the Pioneer Mountains aren’t on the agendas of most tourists visiting the state. Their somewhat out of the way location in the southwestern part of the state, away from the few cities that are the centers of population, the Pioneers are mostly left to those who are relatively local or to avid backpackers and hikers in the state who can look at a map and recognize the wealth of opportunities for unbeatable hiking and backpacking experiences that lay within them. Although lacking in official wilderness designation, many of the trails in the eastern Pioneers are non-motorized and non-mechanized, allowing only foot travel and equestrian use. The western Pioneers, which are more subtle and lower in elevation, have more motorized and mechanized use but still have great options for hiking and backpacking. The primary trails in the Pioneers are in remarkably good shape and often have gentle grades and great tread, with some exceptions for the steepest sections up to certain lakes. With many high mountain lakes (most lakes are at elevations between 8,500-8,950 feet) clustered fairly closely together, the eastern Pioneers are especially attractive for backpackers looking to spend some of their time fishing. Many lakes were stocked in the past, with some still seeing regular stocking, and cutthroats and rainbows (or hybrids) are the most common fish to catch. Catching trout 12-14 inches is not uncommon in many lakes, with some holding fish even larger. In my experience, trout in mountain lakes can frustratingly vary from striking virtually any fly thrown on the water to being exceedingly picky and fickle. This can even vary from lake to lake on the same day, and given how close some lakes are to each other this can mean that you can go from striking out to hitting a grand slam just by packing up and hiking a mile. Although there are some nice campsites along creeks and tucked in the forest along the edges of meadows, for the most part the best campsites are at the lakes. Many offer excellent tree cover to shelter you from wind but still experience the subalpine scenery and majestic views of talus slopes stretching upwards to sheer cliffs and lofty mountain peaks. Several passes easily reached from the lakes provide breathtaking views, but routes up to peaks are relatively indistinct and can require significant scrambling or traversing on unstable talus. Hiking up to these passes, even if you don’t intend on crossing them, is well-worth the effort as a side excursion from a campsite at one of the lakes. While the Pioneers lack any outstanding loop trips, no backpacker would be disappointed with an out and back trip to any of the lakes. The mileage seems to go quicker on the trail than it looks on paper, which is an unusual but welcome idiosyncrasy. Having a shuttle can make for particularly enjoyable trips, especially given that distances between trailheads along the Wise River Scenic Byway isn’t particularly long. A bike shuttle is even a reasonable option for certain trips, provided that the time and energy required are factored into the planning. Need to Know Information No permits are required for hiking or backpacking, although rules regarding group size and duration of stay do apply. For specific information, please visit the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest website. Best Time to Go Late June to mid-October is the best time of year to hike in this area. Early in that span includes the possibility of snow on the mountains passes and lingering around high mountain lakes (some of which may not be totally unfrozen), later in this span means the potential for chilly nights and early season snowfall. Mosquitoes can be unpleasantly abundant for a few weeks in July and August, although this is often when the wildflowers are at their peak. August and September offer generally pleasant weather and great fishing at the mountain lakes. Getting There The Pioneer Mountains are most often accessed from Interstate 15 near Dillon, MT, with the western side of the eastern Pioneers and the eastern side of the west Pioneers accessed via the Wise River Scenic Byway between the tiny towns of Wise River, MT and Polaris, MT. Access to trailheads on the western side of the west Pioneers is from Montana Hwy. 278 and Montana Hwy. 43 near Wisdom, MT and Jackson, MT. Maps and Books The Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest (Central) map provides a non-topographical overview of the area and is a good resource for planning general routes. Maps for specific areas should be printed out via Caltopo or a similar resource. Exploring Montana’s Pioneer Mountains by Leroy Friel is one book that covers the area. Hiking Montana (a Falcon Guide) also covers a few hikes in the Pioneer Mountains, as does 100 Classic Hikes: Montana by Douglas Lorain.

The Ozarks of northwest Arkansas and southern Missouri are full of magical places, and thanks to the rest of the world’s inattention to this glorious natural area, solitude can often be easily found. Eye-catching geology abounds as a consequence of erosion of the high plateau that created the peaks and hollows characteristic of the area. Clear rivers and streams lace through limestone bluffs, interesting rock formations, over natural bridges and over waterfalls, making the Ozarks an outdoor paradise for nature lovers. Whether it's a short hike or a more strenuous adventure you're after, the Ozarks luckily have many trails to offer for those looking to hike and explore the area. There are so many spots with stunning scenery in and around the Ozark Plateau that the best thing to do is base your adventure in one locale and explore for a few days. We recently visited the area near Jasper, a very small town on the Buffalo National River. There, we stayed at the Cliff House, a hotel and restaurant overlooking the “Arkansas Grand Canyon,” a wide canyon carved by the Buffalo, and took in three short, easy (all with relatively minimal elevation gain due to their short length), and very scenic day hikes. Alum Cove Natural bridges are surprisingly common in the Ozarks and one of the largest is at Alum Cove Natural Bridge Geological Area in the Ozark Natural Forest. The arch is 130 feet long and 20 feet wide, all that remains of what was once a quartz sandstone cave. Parking is near a sizable picnic area with tables and a restroom, a convenient stop before hiking down the switchbacks into the hollow. It’s only about 4 tenths of a mile to the arch but the entire 1.1-mile nature trail is worth the time to hike it. While it’s interesting walking atop the arch, the view from below is much more intriguing. The trail continues down the hill from the base of the arch and follows a bluffline with a shallow cave, then loops back up to the trailhead. Directions From Jasper, take State Highway 7 south for 15 miles. Turn west on State Highway 16 and go 1 mile. Turn northwest on Newton County Road 28 and go 3 miles. Kings River Falls The highlight of this easy, level two-mile round trip day hike is a waterfall flanked by broad stone slabs perfect for picnicking and sunbathing. Kings River Falls is a popular swimming hole in the summer, but visit in cooler weather and you may have it all to yourself. Most of the trail passes along the Kings River, a clear mountain stream on your right, and on your left a hay field defined by an old rock wall. A grist mill once stood at the big falls — look closely for marks carved into the stone. Directions From the community of Boston on State Highway 16 (between Fallsville and St. Paul), go north on County Road 3175 for 2.1 miles; bear right as the road forks onto County Road 3415. Stay on this road for 2.3 miles until you come to a "T" intersection with County Road 3500. Turn left, and go across the creek and park at the natural area sign. Glory Hole Falls Trail I’d wanted to see this place in the Ozark National Forest for years and it was definitely the highlight of the trip. The 1.9-mile round trip trail is a more moderate hike that follows an old roadbed that drops down the hill to a place where Dismal Creek falls through a large opening through the roof of a bluff. The trail winds its way from the trailhead to the top of the bluffline where you can see the opening from the top. On the right there is a way to continue to the bottom. It is steep and slick in places as you enter a moist glade area. Once there, you can walk beneath the overhang and immerse yourself in the beauty of the waterfall, especially dramatic after a rain. Use caution, a hiker was critically injured here in 2015 when he fell 25 to 30 feet off a ledge to the rocks below. Directions From Edwards Junction (the intersection of State Highways 16 and 21) travel west on 16/21 for 2.3 miles, going 0.7 miles past the Cassville Baptist Church. There is a parking area with room for several vehicles on the south side of the road, opposite a house up on a hill. Park along the highway and hike along the 4WD road, turning right at the bulletin board. Additional Resources Two books with more information on hiking in the Ozarks can be found in Arkansas Hiking Trails and Arkansas Waterfalls, both by Tim Ernst. The Ozark National Scenic Riverways, managed by the National Park Service, offers hiking opportunities in the Missouri Ozarks and access to the Current and Jacks Fork River. About 30 minutes from Scenic Riverways, Rocky Creek Conservation Area offers additional trails and short hikes. For longer backpacking adventures, you can find more information about the Ozark Trail in Missouri at the Ozark Trail Association website, and one could tackle the Ozark Highlands Trail – see this Issue 29 article for more on the OHT.

It's always hard to enjoy a backpacking trip when you don't sleep well, and sleeplessly shivering throughout the night is one way to guarantee a rough next day. Here's a list of 10 tips, ideas, and considerations that should help the next time your backcountry trip coincides with those colder nights. On this frigid morning, my coffee froze in my cup before I could finish it. Luckily with the right gear I slept warm the night before. A Nalgene Bottle Trapping your heat utilizing your sleeping bag and insulating yourself from cold ground using a warm enough sleeping pad is highly efficient, but sometimes nothing beats the comfort of a heat source other than your own, like a hot water bottle. Though heavier than disposable water bottles, the venerable multi-use Nalgene weighs just 3.8 ounces in the HDPE Ultralight version and withstands temperatures up to 248°F with your standard Tritan version withstanding 212°F, while hitting the scales a couple ounces heavier. Either way, you’re all clear when it comes to heating up some water before hitting the sack. An Ultralight HDPE Nalgene will stay hot for several hours with your standard Tritan retaining heat even longer – insulate either with something like a spare wool sock or an item of clothing that can take the heat, then tuck inside your sleeping bag (make sure the lid is securely closed!). Just remember to bring enough stove fuel or you might be in for a cold breakfast the next morning. Disposable hand warmers can work too, but for me…Nothing beats the versatility of a Nalgene – I can reheat the water for coffee in the morning and of course it works pretty well for carrying water on the trail, as well. By taking extra stove fuel and filling with hot water, a Nalgene Bottle can provide a nice boost of warmth for most of the night. Down Booties For cold feet, down booties beat socks and are a great set-and-forget item to just throw inside your sleeping bag before a trip. Available in various levels of complexity, I’ve found the sock-like variety (no sole) to be the best choice – you’ll just still have to rely on your shoes to walk around camp at night. But they do one thing and do it well – keep your feet warm. At less than 3 ounces a pair, Goosefeet Gear socks are hard to beat, (overboots optional) but if you’d like some type of integrated sole check out Western Mountaineering’s Flash Booties as well as options from Feathered Friends. Eat Up and Stay Hydrated On a past Utah bikepacking trip, little water was to be found – In fact not until 70 miles into the trip. As such, I’d packed a ridiculous amount of water, enough to last until the end of day 2. But that doesn’t help much when you lose 3 liters to a leaky connection the first night. Camp for night 2 was near water, but I still found myself crawling into the tent without adequately rehydrating and without the appetite to take in enough calories. Temps dropped to the 20’s, and I shivered throughout the night in a sleep system that normally keeps me warm into the teens. So stay hydrated and eat well, but avoid drinking alcohol – the effect of alcohol is only psychological when in fact it hurts your chances at staying warm throughout the night. It's probably a good idea to hold back on the caffeine as well, and it could even keep you from falling asleep in the first place. A hot meal, warm drink, and a slow to digest snack before turning in for the night will all go a long way here. Campsite Selection It’s all about the elevation. Cold air sinks, but it also gets colder by about 3.5 degrees for every 1000 feet you gain, and often windier as you ascend in elevation as well. So camp lower, but not next to the river. By simply camping on a small rise you can easily raise your nightly low temperature by a few degrees. Select a safe location with natural wind blocks like trees or terrain. Just don’t climb so high that you’re exposed to significant wind or find yourself rising into a different temperature zone entirely. Additionally, we all know how hard it is to get out of your sleeping bag when you have warmed up but it’s still freezing cold the next morning. Selecting a campsite that will receive direct morning sunlight can make a huge difference – so all else being equal going for the west side of that meadow surrounded by tall trees, or an east-facing slope can help. Look to the trees as well – a forested camp can help to cut the wind and is often also warmer. This can especially help with a single wall shelter by reducing condensation compared to a grassy meadow. This was a relatively mild evening, but 50mph wind gusts could have made for a chilly night without the proper preparation. Wear it! If you have it, wear it! Too many times cold sleepers leave their layers in their pack. So wear everything you have…a jacket will make a huge and instant difference, but don’t forget extra socks, dry rain gear, gloves, extra....anything. A sleeping bag with just a little room to layer in this manner will help. Wearing what you have will help maintain your body temperature before you even get in your sleeping bag, and it's so much easier to stay warm than to get warm. Stay Dry Hiking in rain or snow all day, sweating in your rain gear, a sleeping pad soaking up some of that rain that fell into your tent during setup, and even worse a wet sleeping bag can combine to make for a miserable or dangerous night. The first step starts with taking every extra precaution to make sure your sleeping gear, insulation, and any spare clothing you have stays dry at all costs. Water-resistant pack designs and pack covers / liners help, but don’t stop there – pack your clothes, sleeping bag, and unless it’s closed cell foam and too bulky, throw your sleeping pad all in a lightweight dry sack as well for multiple layers of protection. Once in camp, (see Campsite Selection as well as Eat Up and Stay Hydrated) setup a dry shelter and change into dry clothing immediately before the body heat you’ve been generating from hiking wears off. An August trip. In the mountains, a sudden snow storm and cold front can happen nearly any month of the year. Loft and Down Distribution If you’re using a down bag with continuous baffles, it can be easy to forget they’re there. Designed to control the down yet allowing you to shift it as needed…it can also let the down end up in the wrong place – beneath you. Start at a zipper with the bag unzipped and shake to work the down to the top of the bag – heat rises. Down sleeping bags are only as good as their loft. Make sure to arrange your down so it's not all underneath you before you hit the sack. A Vacuum Bottle If you think taking a Nalgene is a luxury, bringing a vacuum insulated bottle along is definitely taking it a step or two further…along with the associated weight. So while this tip may be best suited for car camping or lower mileage jaunts where weight is not the primary concern, it’s hard to argue with the heat-from-within effect that a piping hot beverage can provide. Unfortunately, it won’t be too warm on the outside, but the contents will stay hot throughout the night if you need it. I use an insulated 20 ounce Klean Kanteen bottle, although due to weight mostly for winter day hikes and morning trips to the trailhead. But if you're willing to carry the weight, a vacuum bottle is hard to beat. On winter backpacking trips, a vacuum insulated bottle can make for a good investment. Exercise When all else fails, warm up by generating more body heat – with exercise. Although not a preferred activity at 3 a.m. for most of us, 60 seconds of situps in your bag can help to generate enough heat to at least get you a little sleep – until the next round. Don’t forget this tip before getting in your bag either – jumping jacks work well. A Warmer Sleep System In the end, while these tips and strategies can all help on that unexpected exhausting long day or on a colder than anticipated night, the best and most efficient way to stay warm is to take the right sleeping pad and insulation (bag, quilt, etc.) in the first place. If you find yourself consistently cold at night and having to resort to extra measures, adding a little more weight in this department is your best bet. And if it helps you sleep better at night, not to mention the safety factor, your time on the trail will be much more enjoyable. A sleeping bag liner (view options at REI) is one way to add warmth to your sleep system, but this method is generally heavier and more bulky to pack than just having a warmer sleeping bag to begin with. These days, there are many high quality, lightweight insulated sleeping pads on the market. Evaluate the r-value of your current sleeping pad, and either upgrade to a warmer model or for a cheap solution, simply bring a layer of closed cell foam, like a Z Lite Sol pad or similar (even a torso length addition will add needed insulation) to combine with your existing pad for as little as a few bucks and a few ounces. A 20 degree bag isn’t a 20 degree for everyone – if you’re consistently cold, it’s ok to admit it! A warmer bag will be well worth the weight and investment. Take a look at our full sleeping bag and sleeping pad guides at the aforementioned links for more info on choosing the best solution to keep you warm at night and don't be afraid to upgrade to a sleeping bag with a lower temperature rating. Other than downright warm weather, if temperatures will just be chilly at night, the basic approaches presented here should go a long way towards helping you sleep warm. However in cold temperatures adding in a few of the extra tips mentioned can make all the difference. I find that as temperatures at night drop below freezing, it's time to start taking your sleep system more seriously. In freezing temperatures and in very cold conditions or when winter camping, you may want all the help you can get. Hopefully, these ideas will add up to keep you warmer at night on your next backcountry trip when the temperatures drop. What are your favorite ways to stay warm at night?

Over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that a one-sized fits all approach to gear simply doesn’t work for me – whether it is a mountain bike or a sleeping bag. Finally in 2015, after many years of utilizing a men’s sleeping bag (which dominate the higher end sleeping bag market) I decided to learn from my mistakes, branch out from the mold, and purchase a down sleeping bag designed specifically for women from Seattle-based manufacturer Feathered Friends, who currently offer 9 different women’s-specific models in their complete sleeping bag lineup. The Petrel from Feathered Friends has significant loft and is rated to 10 degrees F. The Feathered Friends Petrel I opted for the 10 degree rated Petrel. As a cold sleeper who mostly overnights in the nearly always chilly higher elevations of the Rocky Mountains, I hoped this would allow for a better night’s sleep than the 20 degree down bag I’d previously utilized. The Petrel 10 Degree Sleeping Bag is the warmest 3-season women’s sleeping bag that Feathered Friends offers, and as you might expect from the name of the company, it is a down bag made from 20-21 ounces of 950+ down fill. It features a cut with more room in the hips and less in the shoulders to fit the average woman better than your average men’s or unisex bag. Feathered Friends however, does state that their women’s cut has been well received by men as well. For their women’s models, the company also adds a higher proportion of down fill to the bag and with more targeting the footbox. The bag comes in two different versions – the Petrel 10 YF features a heavier denier outer/lining fabrics, while the Petrel UL reviewed here features 10 and 15 denier fabrics to save 2-3 ounces. In all cases, the shell fabric is breathable but water resistant. All versions of the Petrel are offered in multiple colors and small (fits up to 5’3”) and medium (up to 5’9”) sizes. The medium size UL here is listed with an average weight of 33 ounces – weighing an actual 33.5 ounces on the scale. Inside view of the Feathered Friends Petrel UL sleeping bag Field Impressions The first thing I noticed about the Petrel is just how lofty this bag is – we are talking about a 10 degree bag after all – which goes a long way towards warmth at night, but it can make packing a bit of a challenge. However, with a little work I’m still able to get this into an Exped Schnozzel (Feathered Friends does include a standard stuff sack and storage bag), and a 13 liter Sea to Summit UltraSil Dry Sack is also a great size that makes compression a bit easier to fit into my ULA Circuit while still keeping things dry. At night is where the loft pays off though. For my maximum comfort, I’d rate the bag warm into the 20s, but again, I sleep quite cold and have been known to stock up on the hot Nalgene bottles on chilly nights. Experiences with the rating will vary. However, to get it to the 10 degree mark I would indeed be adding in additional insulation, including thermals, hat/mittens, and a down jacket. If you’re a warmer sleeper and/or backpacking in warmer locales, the Feathered Friends Egret 20 (see a review of the Egret Nano 20 here in Issue 31) is also worth a look. The two way zipper rarely snags (when a little care is used) and the snap at the top of the bag is an especially nice feature – no Velcro or fasteners to touch your nose and wake you up at night. The hood fits nicely, but seems a bit smaller than previous bags that I’ve owned. The bag’s draft tube and collar both work to seal in heat. While the overall fit is indeed a benefit, there are no more cold spots in the hips and too much cold space in the chest. However and oddly, the medium is rated to fit up to 5’9” and at 5’8” the bag does seem just a bit short lengthwise and I do have to remember to get my feet all the way to the bottom of the bag to have an ideal amount of room in the hood. As such I would really say it’s a 5’8” bag, and unfortunately this is the longest women’s bag that is offered by Feathered Friends. While with a tent over my head the odd spill and condensation are the main water issues to worry about, the shell fabric DWR and water repellency does a good job at keeping your insulation dry and warm till morning. Overall the Feathered Friends Petrel offers a nice blend of warmth, reasonable weight, and sturdy construction. Final Thoughts While there are a few nitpicks regarding the bag – and the price tag is something to think about – as a cold sleeper I’ve greatly enjoyed backpacking with the Petrel and find that the women’s specific cut helps increase sleeping comfort and eliminates the cold spots that I’ve previously experienced with other men’s or unisex bags. The bag is on the bulky side which should be considered if you’re low on pack space, but taking the time to get the bag into an appropriate stuff sack and a little work – or taking the right pack – can mitigate the issue. Also, if you’re 5’9” or taller, this bag may not be the right fit for you. In the end though I’ve been very happy with the bag and staying warm at night goes a long way towards being ready to start the next day! The Petrel Nano retails or $540 in the YF version and $640 for the UL seen here. Find both here at FeatheredFriends.com.

Note: This giveaway ended 8/8/15. With summer backpacking and hiking in full swing, time for a new giveaway! This one will be over pretty fast, so get in while you can. How to Enter Leave a comment below on this blog entry describing your favorite backpacking/hiking destination so far this year, and why. Your comment counts as one entry. Once entered, earn another entry for every post you make on the forum between 8/4 and the giveaway drawing. (Maximum 10 entries total) Entries end Saturday 8/8 at Noon Mountain Time. We'll randomly draw one winner from available entries on and we'll contact the winner via a private message. The winner will receive a $75 gift code to use at CampSaver.com, and we'll throw in any shirt or hat from the TrailGroove Store. If you have a premium membership, we'll automatically enter you in the drawing, and you can earn up to 20 total entries! The Fine Print: For entries to count, the posts should be applicable to backpacking, hiking, the outdoors, etc., and at least somewhat constructive. For instance, we won't be able to count intentionally repeated posts, one word posts (Unless it's a really good one word post), or posts that don't meet our basic forum guidelines agreed to when you register. Essentially, we'll be able to count all normal discussion. Thanks for visiting, and good luck!

Hiking and running in the various models of the Lone Peak trail running shoe from Altra for the past few years and across several different versions I’ve become well acquainted with the nuances of each model, and after a short but rugged trip to the Ferris Mountains of Wyoming early this past summer I did find one thing on the 2.5 model I’d like more of: support. On that trip while consistently side-hilling with a pack my foot slid around side to side more than I’d like, and even resulted in a blister or two on my usually blister-less feet. For more info on the 2.5, which was a great shoe overall, check out my full review here. The new Lone Peak 3.0 offered some promise here with similar comfort (said by Altra to be the same last as the 2.5), an equally (moderately) cushioned zero-drop platform with a 25mm stack height, and with a more reinforced and contiguous upper design and redesigned outsole. Considering the shoe is said to utilize the same last as the 2.5 that I know worked well enough, but with promised improvements, I recently gave the new 3.0 a go on a multi-day backpacking trip in the Wind River Range on and off trail, through dry weather as well as in rain and snow, and have been using them on runs and hikes before and since. Comfort has always been a strong point with the Lone Peaks and the new 3.0 does not disappoint – I had no issues staying in the same size as the 2.5 and previous models and the feel is equally comfortable to me, while offering more security for the foot at the same time. As such, I’ve found that any hotspots that may have previously begun to develop on rough terrain with the 2.5 model are now indeed greatly reduced, but not eliminated and my Leukotape did need be used – just a bit – on the outside of my big toes before our 70-ish miles were up on that recent excursion in the Winds. Utilizing the entire lacing system closer to the ankle, which are not laced by default helps greatly to secure the foot as well in my case. With less mesh, and heavier mesh where it is utilized the new 3.0 does run warmer than previous models, not a necessarily unwelcome trait considering current shoulder season weather and a lesser amount of dirt and dust seems to work its way into the shoe as well. However, next summer this could without a doubt be a drawback on those warmer days. As a nice bonus, I haven’t noticed significantly longer dry times when they do get wet. Traction has been adequate to good across all types of terrain from easy flat trails to off-trail slopes and throughout dry and wet to snowy conditions. Rock protection and cushioning underfoot is excellent and even with a multi-day pack on rough terrain, while the upper offers decent protection from sticks and stones although more protection could be offered specifically for the big toe. Durability wise, so far so good. For gaiter users the Altra Gaiter Trap remains and a dedicated gaiter ring has been added for use with the Altra Trail Gaiter or your solution of choice. The “trail rudder” that’s been gradually reduced in size with successive Lone Peak models is now gone. With the 3.0 you’ll also gain some options for varying trail conditions with a waterproof Polartec Neoshell version offered both in a low height and in a mid-height boot version as well. My main issue with the new Lone Peak 3.0 are the insoles, which oddly shift out of place on easy hikes, and completely slide out of place laterally or uncomfortably bunch up towards the toes on downhills when the terrain becomes more sloped and especially when the shoes get wet. This is not an issue I’ve experienced with any other shoe – upon contacting Altra they suggested securing the insoles in place with glue – not my first choice. In the meantime, I’ve started using my old 2.5 insoles in the new 3.0, which seem to greatly reduce the problem. The old insoles have seen better days though, and while I rely on my shoe for cushioning and not my insoles, perhaps Sil-Net or something similar is in my future – aftermarket insoles might offer a solution here, also. An odd situation that's not uncommon to be noted in online reviews for the 3.0 – some solution is needed as the shoes / insoles are not ideal for sloping terrain by default and especially not so when they’re wet. Overall the shoe is a great update whether running, hiking, or backpacking, and seems to offer a most noticeable improvement on sloping terrain in regards to the upper, but not in regards to the surprising insole issue, although experiences may vary. The Lone Peak 3.0 retails for $120. I picked mine up here at Amazon, and you can take a look here at REI and Backcountry.com as well.

Prior to becoming what could politely be described as a fanatical backpacker, I might have questioned the wisdom of spending as much on a sleeping bag as I would on a new full-sized mattress. But when your main hobby involves hiking around with everything on your back that you need to be safe and comfortable for days a time, your perspective on such purchases tends to shift. This shift in perspective directly influenced my decision to purchase a Marmot Plasma 30 degree down sleeping bag in spring of 2012. The bag had a retail price of just over $400 dollars at the time which was slightly more than the monthly rent at my third floor, walk-up studio apartment in a Southeastern college town. I suppose I could look back on my purchase as an investment, since the price of down has skyrocketed and the bag now retails at almost $600. It was a bit hard to justify the purchase to myself, but between my obsessive devotion to backpacking and a modest but well-timed tax return, I made it happen. And five years later, I have no doubt that I made the right decision. The first thing that struck me about the Plasma, and that still amazes me, is the lightness and quality of construction. At just 1 lb. and 7 ounces, it was a full pound lighter than my Marmot Pinnacle 15 degree bag and a more versatile piece of equipment for backpacking in the Southeast. The details, from the stitching to the Insotect Flow vertical baffles to the built-in pillow, were well-engineered and left nothing to be desired in terms of function or aesthetics. The quality of the down, which in the 2012 model was 900 fill (more recent models have featured 875 fill down with Down Defender water-resistant treatment), is nothing short of remarkable and allows for the impressive packability, minimal weight, and required warmth of a premium three-season sleeping bag. I’ve spent approximately 100 nights in the Plasma and have been comfortable everywhere from creekside campsites in the southern Appalachians to mountain meadows in the Rockies. I most often pair the Plasma with a NeoAir 3/4 length pad in milder temperatures and opt for a NeoAir All-Season in colder temperatures. This combination has allowed me to be comfortable in the upper 20s to the mid 40s. Adding down booties and a down jacket has allowed me to use the bag as part of a sleep system into the low 20s, but analyzing the effectiveness of that type of mixing-and-matching is perhaps a bit beyond the scope of this congenial and non-scientific review. Although marketed as a 30-degree bag, the European Norm lower limit rating (the temperature at which the average man will sleep comfortably) is 33.6 degrees. However, with wool socks and a lightweight wool baselayer I've put dozens of nights in this bag at temperatures at or just below freezing (typically on a NeoAir All-Season pad, with a 4.9 R value) and haven't ever been uncomfortable. The compressibility and durability of this bag are, in my opinion, two of its most stand-out features. When packed in a compression sack, like the Sea to Summit eVent dry bag, it takes up about as much space as a two-liter bottle and weighs less than half as much. After five years of packing it, unpacking it, and laying it down in shelters ranging from tents to tarps to bivys to Appalachian Trail shelters to abandoned US Forest Service lookouts, this bag shows hardly any signs or age or significant depreciation in loft. It still looks as inviting illuminated by headlamp when unzipping the tent after a long day now as it did when I put my first night in it. While I’ve tried to “baby” this bag as much as possible, always making sure I wear baselayers in it to prevent transfer of body oils and dirt to the inner fabric, it has had some rough nights. Windblown snow or rain creeping under the tarp, slipping off the sleeping pad during a deep sleep and waking up off the ground cloth and in the dirt, and the surprise of seeing it blown into a fallen spruce tree from where I had carefully hung it to air out. The fabric shed windblown rain and snow as good as most entry-level rain jackets I’ve seen, and pretty much renders tent condensation a non-issue which hasn’t always been the case with my sleeping bags. The Pertex Quantum shell fabric has yet to show a tear or worn spot and the black outer shell helps a lot with drying it out in the morning when the inevitable dampness in humid conditions manifests itself. For those accustomed to mummy bags, this bag has a regular-to-slimmer fit. It certainly isn’t as restrictive as some bags I’ve been in, but it also isn’t designed for practicing yoga poses in either. I tend to toss and turn a bit when sleeping and this bag has never seemed to hinder my nocturnal adjustments. For average users, this bag is cut in such a way that thermal efficiency is maximized without requiring a shoehorn to enter or exit the bag. The regular size fits users up to 6 feet tall and the long size fits persons up to 6’6” tall. The shoulder circumference of the regular is 60”, hip circumference is 58”, and the footbox circumference is 43”. As noted above, I’ve found these dimensions to be more than adequate for the average user. Zippers on sleeping bags tend to be best when you don’t notice them, as otherwise great bags can be ruined by dysfunctional zippers, and this “excellence by lack of distinction” is the case with the Marmot Plasma 30. It zips up and down quickly, rarely snags, and is of a slender and lightweight design that fits in with the overall vibe of the bag itself. A full-length draft tube follows the zipper and prevents any wind or chills from sneaking through. The two way zipper allows for venting, which allows for great thermal management and the ability to remain comfortable in a variety of temperatures. I tend to start most nights off with it slightly vented at the bottom, and then increase or decrease the opening as my comfort dictated. The zipper pull is actually pretty nifty looking and easy to grasp, which I suppose should be expected given the cost of the bag. While the zipper is a notable feature precisely because it doesn’t make itself noteworthy, the outstanding design of the hood and draft collar requires specific and unequivocal praise. The ability to dial in just how much closure you would like is unbeatable. When needed, the draft collar and hood can be cinched down to allow for maximum heat retention; thanks to the brilliant design virtually no comfort is lost when this is done and claustrophobia can be kept to a minimum. There are few pieces of gear that I can recommend as strongly as the Marmot Plasma 30 degree sleeping bag. It truly is an item where you get what you pay for (and unfortunately, as down prices trend upwards, it seems like paying more is to be expected) and what you get is a truly exceptional sleeping bag that will outlast most of the items in your backpacking kit. The Marmot Plasma 30 sleeping bag retails for $600, but you can often find it on sale Here at Backcountry (35% off at the time of the writing!), over at REI (also on sale), and at Amazon.com. For something a little warmer, check out the Plasma 15.