Last weekend I humped a few hills in the Santa Monica Mountains with Duane. We did a nifty 10-mile loop to Sandstone Peak. An ocean breeze took the edge off the afternoon heat. The peak sports a spectacular glinting view of the Pacific which we enjoyed with a crowd of west-side weekenders and two dogs. Everyone was friendly. It was a moment of hiker contentment.
On the way home we got stuck in a two-hour traffic jam on the Pacific Coast Highway. We talked about gear. Duane is passionate about gear. He's a resolute student and fiercely committed to the principles of light and cheap. His pack is the model of economy. You won't find a plastic sink in there. Nothing that can be made is bought: his stove is made from soda cans, ground cover from paint tarp, cozies from windshield shade. He assures me I can do the same. He suggested I start reading the lightweight backpacking blogs.
So, I've been surfing. There's terabytes of gear gurus squabbling about everything from tents to toe socks. It's unsettling. Each site brings less joy. A guy walks 10,000 miles in tennis shoes, shorts and one pair of underwear and the contents of his pack becomes a topic for doctrinal study. A another guy relishes camping on a heap of snow in zero degrees and declares his open tarp tent is comfortable. A millennial triathlete finds enlightenment in unheated, re-hydrated food and decries hiking with a stove. Did I mention Joe Blow, the gear glutton, from the Appalachian woods who posts a YouTube every 3rd day with a new cuben fiber gizmo? (FYI, cuben fiber is the unassailable, gold-plated solution to base weight.) And then there's this parade of vendor-appointed trail ambassadors who lend credibility to this acquisitive hubbub because they've 'tested' every gizmo on the trail and ferreted out every problem down to that extra stitch in the hip belt.
Who are these people? Are they made of wool? How come they don't need clean underwear? Don't they need coffee?
All this lightweight chest beating hurts my ears. The manic hunger for new gear horrifies me. The cost is stupefying. A cuben fiber trap tent is over $500. A cuben fiber quilt (i.e. sleeping bag without a zipper) is $300. A guru-approved pair of underwear is $50. Pity the poor bastard who has to settle for rip-stop nylon and cotton briefs.
I'm not sure why the gurus are so annoying. Sure a heavy pack sucks and a light pack sucks less. It might be that I'm just cheap. I've been broke. I've felt the shame of having to borrow the rent to keep my stuff off the sidewalk. Never again. My wife reminds me that we're now secure, and that, unlike my parents, we are not about to go bankrupt and that I should stop acting proud about my financial neurosis. In my heart of hearts, I think she's incautious.
More likely, I don't believe in providential design. At school I carried a silk-screened "Question Authority" banner. I'm not stopping now. I don't want to be told what makes me comfortable. I don't want to spend my remaining days seeking gear perfection. It's fine for your 10,000 mile true-thru who carries free gear which she wears like a sandwich board. Or, your old-salt who sews his own cuben fiber, dehydrates his own peas, and sleeps soundly in the rain. My prefered plan: a day trip to REI. Kaboom. Done. I've never gone wrong at REI. But, you can't un-know. Now I'm obsessed with tents. The lightweight gurus would have me under a single walled tarp. I'm not made of wool. I want a double-walled shelter. Bug screen. Rainfly. Bathtub floor. Maybe even a ground cloth! I care nothing of their derision!
I'm worn out. The search has gotten the better of me. I think I'll purchase the Big Agnes Fly Creek UL-1. It's too expensive, but for rip-stop nylon, it's the lightest tent on the market. And, it's at REI.
I wonder what Duane will think.