Here’s another great idea that I gleaned from scanning the BackpackingLight Forums: using the plastic container from an old bike tube patch kit as a soap bar container.
Whole soap bars tend to be far too large and heavy for any but the longest of travels. Cutting up a bar of soap to make it smaller is easier enough, but prior to this I had never come across a correctly sized container to package it in.
This container is perfect. It measures in at 3.25” x 1.75” x 0.9”, weighs 2.5 oz when full, and holds about 1/3rd of a bar of Dr. Bronner’s Bar Soap. I wrap a rubber band around it for added security.
I took a break during today’s bike ride to dump out all the gear I had on me and snap a few photos. For the most part, this is representative of what I have on me every single day. There were a couple items in my pack that aren’t normally in there, but I noted those on the Flickr photo page.
I do not understand why so many outdoor-gear manufacturers insist on making gear in bright, unnatural colors. To me, it is a form of visual pollution. To be enjoying oneself in the wild and suddenly come upon a hiker in a bright red shirt, or a noisy yellow tent, is a rude shock. It seems to me an attempt to visually isolate humans from the non-human environment – something that we are exceedingly fond of, based on some flawed Abrahamic notion of everything non-human having been created for the entertainment of humans.
Earth-tones should be the order of the day. Here is a photo of my camp, taken from only a couple hundred feet away. It is exposed, out in the open. No attempt was made to camouflage it. Can you spot it? (Large version)
With such a simple setup – a brown tarp and a green pack – I can blend with the environment, not disturbing the other occupants of the area, human or otherwise.
You and I are part of that world – the world – and should not seek to create barriers or erect boundaries between us and it. Do not noisily advertise your presence, disturbing those who may be around you. Embrace the world, sink into it and wrap it around you. It’s not such a bad place.
It’s a very simple device. The top screws into a camera’s standard tripod socket and the bottom slides onto the tapered end of a trekking pole. You can then set the camera’s self timer, hold out the pole, and take a self portrait. Or pretend that you’re Les Stroud and shoot a little video. Overall, an ingenious little device.
My initial worry about the StickPic was that it would fall off the tip of the pole, taking my camera for a tumble down the side of a mountain. So far, that has not been a problem. You can jam the StickPic on the tip of the poles pretty tightly, and also loop your camera’s wrist strap around the pole above the basket for added security.
I usually carry a Joby Gorillapod with me and keep the attachment doohickey for that screwed into my camera’s tripod socket. Switching that out for the StickPic takes only a few seconds.
The Gorillapod is overall a more versatile device, but fails to address the problem that StickPic primarily concerns itself with: when you are alone, in an alpine environment, with no conveniently situated tree branches to wrap the Gorillapod around or perfectly sized boulders to set it on top of.
In terms of size and weight, the StickPic wins out. It weight 0.3 oz, compared to the Gorillapod’s 1.5 oz.
So far this summer, I’ve been carrying both. They each address different needs and only weigh a combine total of 1.8 oz. Not much weight for the extra versatility added to your photography arsenal.
I first heard of the hike to Marmot Pass through a report at the Washington Trails Association, which claimed that it was possible to see Seattle’s Fourth of July fireworks from the pass. I had been back from a week in the Wenaha-Tucannon Wilderness of the Umatilla National Forest for only a few days, but having had a shower, a shave, and done some laundry, I was ready to head back out again. I planned to go there on Saturday, when the rest of the country would be eating hot dogs and preparing to blow stuff up in celebration of the violent overthrow of a government (being too fat, no doubt, for a more fitting remembrance, such as staring a local militia movement.)
Assuming that the traffic would be poor and the ferry to the peninsula jammed because of the holiday, I awoke early and hit the road as the sun came up. As it turned out, there was almost no traffic and I only had a 5 or 10 minute wait for the ferry.
The ferry ride from Edmonds to Kingston on the Puyallup is a short, 25 minute cruise. I entertained myself by taking pictures from the bow as the mountains appeared.
From Kingston, it was another short journey to Quilcene, where I left the highway for the forest.
The hike to the pass is short and fairly leisurely, being only 5 miles and gaining 3,600 feet. It is an easy day hike and, it being a holiday, I was worried about the area being too crowded for my taste. Things were looking up on the way in, as the only people I saw were day hikers walking out.
The trail follows the Quilcene River for the first few miles, wandering through a dense forest of Doug Fir, Cedar, and Hemlock. Halfway in, the trail passes through a cleared area that must be Shelter Rock Camp. It is empty, which is a good sign, but not surprising. I cannot think why anyone would want to camp so close to the trailhead.
Beyond Shelter Rock, the trail begins to climb. The forest clears for a spell, exposing the first views of the peaks of the Olympics. I pass a couple of day hikers going in, picking their way along slowly despite not having any weight on their backs. After them, I come upon a group of 4 backpackers plodding along the trail. Judging by the size of their packs, they must have a month’s worth of provisions. As I pass them, the trail turns a corner. I am greeted by the second and last established camp on the trail, Camp Mystery. My heart sinks. It is the most depressing sight I could think of: a veritable village here in the wilderness.
Over a dozen tents and more people crammed together, crowding both sides of the trail. I look to the trees and a cringe of embarrassment for these people runs through me. Everywhere, branches are laden with stuff sacks. Bear bags, they must be, but not one is hung more than six feet from the ground. Most are closer to 5 feet, hung near the trunks, where strong branches meet the tree. I cannot spot one that is further than a few feet from a tent. Either this is some weird cult, seeking to sacrifice themselves to the bears of the wilderness, or these people have no business being out in such an area. Either way, I was clearly dealing with mad men. I want to get as far upwind and upstream from these people as I can. I continue the climb to the pass, only another mile away.
My bewilderment grows. I toy with the thought of going back down to the camp and screaming at the campers below; perhaps letting lose a well aimed rock or two. Anything to knock them out of their bout of insanity. What is it that inspires such emotion?
The trees thinned. Meadows of grass and wild flowers replaced them. The Quilcene, which even a half mile back at the camp was a torrent, disperses into numerous little streams, here and there disappearing into the ground. Behind me, to the east, the view betrays the distant peaks of the Cascades, still topped with snow. I could not, can not, and never will understand how anyone could stand to spend the night in such a crowded cluster of tents, closed in among the trees, with the river running noisily beside them, when not half a mile from them lies an Eden such as this.
I continue the last leg of the climb to the pass, reasoning that if the forest, the mountains, the Earth itself can not talk any sense into the lunatics, I stand no chance of it myself.
Reaching the pass, which sits at 6,000 feet, I find myself in a panorama. The view of the far off Cascades in the east is magnified. Looking West, I find myself level with the peaks of the Olympics. North and south: a trail along ridges, mountains without end.
Northeast of me sits Buckhorn Mountain, whose summit is at 6,988 feet. A trail runs up from the western side. This is what E&Es and XTLs are made for, but the thought only briefly crosses my mind. It is only 3:30 PM and the trail up does not look too steep. I decide to climb to the top with my full pack on.
Halfway up, I turn and look east again. Where before I had only seen a few small peaks of the Cascades, far off in the distance, Mt. Rainier now stands, dominating the landscape with its huge body and sky-scraping summit.
A short distance further and the trail levels out. I find myself walking along the spine of the mountain, covered here with rocks and there with more meadows of flowers and grass. There is one tent with two people right off the trail. I congratulate them on their choice of bedroom. I go further, to the top of the summit, glad to have left the insanity a thousand feet below me. From up here, I can see the Hood Canal, the Puget Sound, San Juan Islands, Seattle, Everett, Rainier and Glacier Peak. I am in a world of mountains. Miles and miles I can see in everywhere direction, yet, wherever I look, the horizon is dominated by rocky peaks. Yes, I think to myself, this will be my home for the night.
Sitting here, I am reminded of other journeys. This place and this view brings into strict contrast, particularly, California. Down there they have seen fit to trade all good clean air for smog and pollution. Looking west from the peaks of the Sierra Nevada it is not possible to see even into the foothills, much less the neighboring coast range. It is a lamentable development, to have had to sacrifice Oregon as a buffer state between us and them, but I hope it will give us the time needed to protect and preserve our own realm.
Back here, on top of the mountain, I feel dehydration setting in – a tingling in my fingers. The day has been hot, the climb long. It is cooler up here, but also that much closer to the Sun. I had drunk the last of my 2 liters of water near Camp Mystery. I need something to drink now and more still if I plan to spend the night up here. But there is no water on the back of the mountain. So, I begin the climb down again. In an hour, I reach the meadows just above Camp Mystery and find a spot where a low but fast moving spring gurgles out of the Earth. There is probably no need to filter it, but I do. I sit for a while, slowly sipping a liter of water. Then I top off my bladder and bottle, giving me about 3 liters for the night. Tossing on the (now much heavier) pack, I turn around, and climb back up to the pass, then back up the mountain, reaching the summit again in another hour and a half.
Now, at the top, I survey the area for a spot to pitch my tarp. I spot a small saddle back along the spine of the mountain, just below the main summit and out of sight from the other camp. The ground looks rocky, but that’s why I brought a sleeping pad.
I clear away a few of the larger rocks and pitched the tarp there, opening facing east, as I always do, to catch the first warming rays of dawn.
That done, I wander around a bit, exploring the area.
I am particularly interested to find an outcropping of boulders with many loose rocks. Originally, I had intended to spend the night at or just below the pass, which is situated at just about the tree line. As such, I had brought my bear bag hanging system to store food. Up here it is alpine. There are no trees available. In this outcrop of rocks, I can at least bury my bag. Of course, any rock that I can move, a bear can move with much more ease, but it is the best that I can do. All my food is individually packaged in ziploc bags, all of which are in an odor proof Opsak, which is itself in a stuff sack. It seems pretty scent-proof. As long as I cook and eat all my food in another spot away from camp, I see no reason why any bear would venture up this high to disturb me – particularly not with the buffet awaiting him down at Camp Mystery. As well, I am on National Forest land, not National Park. One of the benefits of National Forests is that dogs are allowed. The other camp further back along the spine of the mountain has a dog with them. Coming up the mountain from that direction is the most likely route for anyone, bear or human. The dog would be an excellent sentry, warning me of any intruders.
I cook my dinner and stash my food. It was about 9:00 PM now and I was just thinking that this place would be worthy of an annual pilgrimage, whether fireworks were visible or not, when I caught sight of some motion to my left. I turn, looking towards the steep southern slope of the mountain and saw something white. I am stunned for a moment. I am used to the browns of deer, elk, and cougars and the black of bears (no Grizzly out here), but white? Recovering, I realize what it is. A Mountain Goat. For myself, the very spirit of the mountains. But so rare to see. I rush back to my tarp, bend down, with my back to where he had appeared, and grab the camera out of my pack. Turning around, I half expect him to have vanished. But he had not. He was only a few feet from my tarp, and approaching.
Out of myth, out of time, the great god Pan walks towards me. In shock of his lack of fear, I can only stand, pointing my lens towards him. For a moment or for an eternity, I am set loose from the fetters of the profanity below. The human world is shattered by his presence. He looks at me, and I find myself at once in another place. Older, wider, and deeper. There is no other sound here, above all things, and he is close enough for me to hear his breath.
He leads on, and I follow. I try not to make much noise, but he, casting an eye at me over his shoulder now and again, is aware of my presence. We walk in the light of the setting sun for a time. At the top of a small rise beyond my camp, I stop, and allow him to continue alone. The sun has set now, leaving the western sky a blood red. But rising in the east is a full moon. It will not be dark tonight.
Reaching my tarp once again, I can see the lights of the cities far away – isolated attempts to drive back the night and the cycles of the world. It is near 10:00 PM now. The fireworks begin. Tiny explosion of red and white along the coast in an endless stream from Everett to Seattle. Soundless flashes of light. I wonder what a war would look like from up here.
It is night now. I crawl under the tarp, into my sleeping bag. Lying on my stomach, looking out from under my shelter, I can still see all the explosions. They are not as impressive as the rest of this world. I quickly lose interest and turn onto my back to go to sleep.
Perhaps half an hour later, I hear movement out to the south. Pan walks by, three or four feet in front of my bed. His gait is quicker now, eager to return to his own bed after completing his business.
In the morning, I am awakened by the sun. Clouds are in the sky. There is a wind blowing across the mountain.
I go to where I buried my food and, finding it unmolested, return with it to camp. Having nothing particular to do this day, I walk around the mountain some. I do some sitting, then return to my tarp to continue sitting out of the wind.
For a while, I lay, listening to the bees dance with the few flowers outside. Eventually, it is time for breakfast. I finish eating at 11:30 AM and decide to break camp. At noon I am packed and head back down the mountain, through the pass, and into the valley. Back at the trailhead at a bit past 3:00 PM.
(A new version of this tutorial has appeared on ITS Tactical, detailing my updated construction method. The following is outdated, but left for posterity.)
Tyvek is a synthetic material made by DuPont, most regularly used at construction sites for wrapping house frames. It is a rather strong material and fairly waterproof. It is so ubiqitous in industrial usage as to be freely available to the intrepid individual. Partly because of this, Tyvek is popular among many lightweight travelers for use as a cheap, lightweight, and effective groundcloth for a tarp shelter.
The United States Postal Service’s Priority Mail envelopes are also made out of the material. A few months ago I saw a picture of one of these envelopes in use as a stuff sack. I thought it was a great idea and decided to make my own. I’ve since made two of them. It’s a very simple process.
You need only a few items for the project: a USPS Priority Mail envelope, a needle and thread (from the repair kit in your trusty possibles pouch, no doubt), a bit of cord, a cordlock, and a sharp object. You could make the needed cuts with a knife, but scissors are a bit easier. I use the pair on my Leatherman Juice S2, which has replaced the Charge ALX as my daily carry.
The envelope can be new or used. Any post office will have new envelopes available in the lobby, free for the taking. Still, I would feel a little guilty about taking a brand new envelope just for this purpose. There’s plenty enough used envelopes floating around, and it seems a waste to steal a brand new one. I lucked out in that recently someone sent me a package in a box, but, within the box, used the pictured envelope to organize the goods. So the envelope is used, but brand new.
This project also warrants a disclaimer: Priority Mail envelopes, whether new or used, are property of the United States Postal Service. They are intended solely for the use of the postal system and, contrary to logic, just because somebody paid to mail you a package in one doesn’t make it yours (or theirs). So repurposing the envelope in this way is probably a federal offense. Law abiding citizens should immediately navigate away from this page and return to their cells. The rest of us can move on.
The first step in the process is to cut a little square in one corner of the open end of the envelope. No need to measure. Just eyeball whatever looks good. The height of the square will determine the size of the channel which we will sew and then pass the cord through (this one happened to be about 1.5mm).
If you are using a brand new envelope, you’ll want to cut the top bit with the sticky stuff off, so that both sides of the envelope are the same height. On a used envelope, you might have to do some trimming to achieve the same thing, depending on how you opened the envelope.
After the square is cut, fold down the rim of the envelope all the way around, using the height of the square to determine how much is folded. If you want, you can cut a slit in the other corner of the envelope to help fold it down. I did this on the first stuff sack. For this one, I chose not to. There’s a slight bit of bunching in that corner as a result, but it’s fine.
Now that you have the top flap folded down all along the top of the envelope, sew it shut. This creates a channel which we may then thread a bit of cord through, using it to cinch the sack shut.
I start my stitching on the inside of the envelope, poke the needle through, and pull all the thread through except for a tag of about 3”. Then I poke the needle back through in another hole, pull all the thread through back to the inside, and use the tag end of the thread to tie a square knot, thus securing my first stitch.
With the sewing done, now would be a good time for the camera battery to die. Curse a little, perhaps shed a tear, then decide that your audience is intelligent enough to struggle through the next steps without pictures.
For this stuff sack, I used ALSE survival vest cord, also known as accessory cord or Type I paracord. This stuff has a breaking strength of 100 lbs, is 1/16 of an inch in diameter, and tips the scale at 1oz per 50 feet. Pick it up at Supply Captain. You could use any cord you happen to have, including the standard (Type III) 550 paracord, but I don’t think the cord on this little stuff sack needs to have a breaking strength of 550lbs and Type III paracord is much, much heaver than Type I. We’re trying to go lightweight here.
Threading the cord through the channel can require a little perseverance. I usually tie a knot in one end, stick it in, and then use the knot to push the cord along with my fingers from the outside. If need be, you can shove a skinny stick or something in there to help it along.
When the cord comes out the other side, all that’s left is to cut it to length, slide the cordlock over both ends, tie some sort of knot so that the cordlock can’t be inadvertently slide off the cord, and you’re done!
The resulting stuff sack is durable, lightweight, and free (or close to it, depending on what materials you have in your craft box). Though you’re obviously not going to get a water-tight seal by cinching the sack closed, the Tyvek material itself is waterproof and will suffice to keep your gear organized and dry in any pack. If water crossings and momentary submersion is a concern, use a trash bag as a liner in your pack and you will be very well off for almost no cost in weight or money.
Lighter, stronger, more waterproof, and better constructed stuff sacks can of course be purchased, but for an exponentially higher price. I have nice stuff sacks for my sleeping bag and spare clothes, so, for the time being, this Tyvek stuff sack is used for my food.
Last weekend I decided to finally invest in a digital postal scale for the accurate weighing of gear. Prior to that, all I’ve had is a small kitchen scale that I use for weighing herbs. It was inaccurate (and not digital, so reading its inaccurate measure was always a trick that invariably introduced further inaccuracies) and weighed only up to 16 oz.
The scale I’ve replaced it with is an Ultraship #35 shipping scale. In addition to having a digital display, it’s also able to weigh in ounces, grams, pounds, and kilograms. It’s accurate to 0.1 oz, which is good enough to me. The #35 in the product name signifies that it can weigh up to 35 lbs (they also have #55 and #75 models). The display bit can actually separate from the scale bit, which is a nifty feature when weighing over-sized items. The scale only cost $25 (including shipping). I bought it on eBay from OldWillKnottScales.
I received the scale this morning. I’ve started a database of weights of individual pieces of gear using Google Docs, which I’ve published for anyone to view. I’ll add to the document as I weigh more gear.
A lazy day of doing not much of anything sometimes makes me feel guilty. It requires that some evening activity take place – something which gives one the satisfactory feeling of accomplishing something of use during the block of waking hours. Today I chose to spend the evening in the woods. I thought I might practice some knife skills, or just sit and read a book. Arriving at my spot I was unpleasantly greeted by a thick swarm of mosquitoes, greatly annoying me and foiling my plans for peace. I decided to start a small fire with a bit more green wood than usual. The smoke from a fire usually drives mosquitoes away and the green wood would put out more smoke than dead wood. When I was out collecting wood, I noticed a large patch of Stinging Nettles in the gully below where I was. The two thoughts of Nettles and fire brought to my mind an episode of Wild Food where Ray Mears picked a few fresh Nettles and wilted them over the fire to neutralize their sting and improve the flavor. I eat a lot of Nettle raw, crushing the leaves to break the needles and get rid of the sting, but I thought I might try this new method.
After the fire was going (and the mosquitoes buzzing off elsewhere), I put a small measure of dead wood on a corner of the fire to get a bit more flame than the smokey green wood was providing. This accomplished, I went back to the gully to collect a few stalks of nettle and return them to the fire. It took only about 15 seconds of holding one plant over the flame for it to become limp and drooping. I tested it a bit with my fingers to see if the sting had been neutralized. It had. Tearing off a bit and munching it around a bit in my mouth, I was greeted by quite a surprise: these wilted Nettles were, without doubt, the best Nettles I had ever tasted, perhaps even being the best wild weed I had ever enjoyed! I ate about a dozen tall plants, until I was quite satisfied with my evening snack. Occasionally I would leave a stalk hovering over the flame a bit longer than needed, but that would impart to the leaves a slightly toasted flavor, which I also found to be agreeable.
I’ll certainly be enjoying wilted Nettles again. It’s a bit more trouble than just eating them raw, but, even on the move, it takes very little time to start a small fire and prepare a few picked plants in this way. The improved flavor greatly pays back the small investment in time.
