Chris Townsend
Page 3
Of course, solo walking has its dangers, and it’s up to you to calculate what risks you’re prepared to take. When crossing steep boulder fields or fording streams, I’m always aware that if I slip there’s no one to go for help. The solo walker must weigh every action carefully and assess every risk. In the foothills of the Canadian Rockies I once spent eight days struggling cross-country through rugged terrain. I was constantly aware that even a minor accident could have serious consequences, especially since I was also way off the trail. Such situations demand greater care than trail travel, where a twisted ankle may mean no more than a painful limp out to the road and potential rescuers may not be too far away.
The wilderness is far safer than civilization. Having a car accident on your way to the wilderness is more likely than getting injured while you’re there.
Leaving Word
You always should leave word with somebody about where you are going and when you’ll be back, especially if you’re going out alone. The route details you leave may be precise or vague—but you must leave some indication of your plans with a responsible person. If you’re leaving a car anywhere, you should tell someone when you’ll be back for it. This isn’t a problem in places where you must register a trail permit, but elsewhere a parked car could cause concern or even lead to an unnecessary rescue attempt if it’s there for many days. Unfortunately, leaving a note on your car is an invitation to thieves.
Whenever you’ve said you’ll let someone know you’re safe, you must do so. Rescue teams have spent too many hours searching for hikers who were back home or relaxing in a café because someone expecting word didn’t receive it.
SLACKPACKING AND FASTPACKING
Different hiking styles produce different outlooks—philosophies, even, if that’s not too grand a word for a simple pleasure. Some hikers stride along the trail, aiming for the maximum mileage per hour, day, or week. Others dash up and down the peaks, bagging as many summits as possible. The more contemplative meander through forests and meadows, studying flowers, watching clouds, or simply staring into the distance when the spirit moves them.
The term slackpacker was first coined to describe Appalachian Trail (AT) hikers who, while intent on walking the entire 2,150 miles, nevertheless planned on doing it as casually as possible. Now it’s often used to mean hiking without a heavy pack, which is accomplished by having gear and supplies transported to road crossings along the route. In this book I use the original meaning.
One of the walkers the description was first applied to holds the record for the slowest continuous Appalachian Trail walk: o.d. coyote (his “trail” name—an AT tradition—which has become his real name) took 263 days for his hike, an average of 8 miles a day.
In the September–October 1994 issue of Appalachian Trailway News, the journal of the Appalachian Trail Conference, o.d. coyote described slackpacking as an “attempt to backpack in a manner that is never trying, difficult, or tense, but in a slowly free-flowing way that drifts with whatever currents of interest, attraction, or stimulation are blowing at that moment” and wrote that slackpacking means escaping from “our culture’s slavish devotion to efficiency” and banishing “the gnawing rat of goal-orientation” by relearning how to play.
The opposite of slackpacking is fastpacking, or powerhiking, which maximizes daily mileage by walking for long hours with only a few short stops. It can mean speed hiking, too, where you hike as fast as possible, but speed isn’t the main aim—distance is. Fastpackers usually travel ultralight so they don’t need to rest often. They can cover more miles and therefore see more in a weekend or hike long trails in half the normal time. Ultimately fastpacking merges into trail running, so I was interested but not surprised to hear from one fastpacker that he’d run sections of the Appalachian Trail while through-hiking. Fastpacking and trail running may sound like tough, painful work, but for devotees there are many rewards. Hearken to the words of long-distance runner John Annerino, who has run the length of the Grand Canyon on both the north and south sides of the Colorado River: “And so I run, run like the wind, the wind pushing me across a rainbow of joy that now extends from one end of the Grand Canyon to the other. The running is a fantasy come alive; there is no effort, nor is there the faintest hint of pain. It is pure flight” (Running Wild). And British long-distance wilderness runner Mike Cudahy, who has run the 270-mile Pennine Way in England in under three days, offers this explanation for the “indescribable joy” that can occur on a long, hard run: “Perhaps the artificiality of a conventional and sophisticated society is stripped away and the simple, ingenuous nature of a creature of the earth is laid bare.”
Fastpacking and slackpacking are extremes. Most backpackers do neither, but everyone tends toward one or the other. Is one better? No. Different approaches are right for different people. There’s nothing wrong with walking the Appalachian Trail at 8 miles a day or running the length of the Grand Canyon in a week—as long as it satisfies and rejuvenates you and you respect nature and the land you are moving through. There’s no need for hikers to criticize each other for being too fast or too slow, for bagging peaks or collecting miles, for going alone or in large groups, for sticking to trails or not sticking to trails—for being, in fact, different from the critic.
I’ve tried most forms of wilderness walking and running, including attempting 100 miles in forty-eight hours and more than one two-day mountain marathon race. I’ve also wandered mountains slowly, averaging maybe 10 miles a day. Overall, I prefer the latter approach, but I wouldn’t call it superior. At times during long runs I’ve felt flashes of what Annerino describes, but these moments have never made up for my exhaustion and aching limbs. I gain the greatest fulfillment on backpacking trips lasting weeks at a time. How far I walk on such trips doesn’t seem to matter. It’s living in the wilds twenty-four hours a day, day after day, that’s important to me. I still enjoy walking fast and am quite happy doing 25 to 30 miles a day in easy terrain with a light load, but I don’t like having to do so. I like to know I can stop whenever I want, for as long as I want.
There are practical reasons for being able to cover long distances at times, though. Being able to travel fast if necessary can be important for safety. Having that ability in reserve means you are always hiking within your capabilities, so if a storm arises or you find your planned campsite a morass, you’ll have the extra energy and strength to keep going. And if the weather or unforeseen hazards—difficult river crossings, blocked trails—slow you down, being able to hike fast for a day or two can mean finishing the trip when you intended without arriving exhausted and footsore.
To experience all that walking has to offer, it’s worth trying different approaches. If you generally amble along, stopping frequently, try pushing yourself occasionally to see what it feels like. If you always zoom over the hills, eating up the miles, then slow down once in a while, take long rest stops, look around.
PLANNING
In its simplest form, planning means packing your gear and setting off with no prescribed route or goal in mind. This is what I sometimes do in areas I know well, especially when the weather might affect any route plans I did make. I’ve even done it in areas I’ve never visited before so that I could go wherever seemed interesting. Once, owing to an eleventh-hour assignment to attend and write about a mountain race, I found myself in the Colorado Rockies with ten days to spare and no plans. Having no route, no clear destination, worried me at first. Where would I go, and why? But there was freedom in not knowing. I didn’t have to walk a certain distance each day. There were no deadlines, no food drops, no campsites to book in advance. I could wander at will. Or not wander. The Colorado Rockies are ideal for such an apparently aimless venture, because their small pockets of wilderness are easy to escape when you need to resupply or want a day or two in town.
Contemplating the wild.
Usually, though, a little more planning is required. Guidebooks, maps, Web sites, DVDs, CD-ROMs, and magazine articles can all provide i
nformation on where to go. A Web search with Google is a good place to start. Once you’ve selected an area, you can obtain up-to-date information from the land managers—the National Park Service, the Forest Service, the Bureau of Land Management, or state forest or park services.
Squaw Lake, John Muir Wilderness, High Sierra.
There is no such thing as too much information. The problem is sorting out what is useful from what is irrelevant. Information on water sources may be unnecessary in wet coastal mountains, but it’s critical in the desert. The Internet can quickly overwhelm you with masses of information. Start to sift through it though, and you’ll find that much is not of value for your hike. Consider whom the site is aimed at; often it’s not hikers. Many Web sites are updated regularly, some daily. Up-to-date local knowledge is still important, however. Nothing beats talking to someone who hiked over that ridge last week or drank from that spring yesterday. In really remote areas like the Yukon, local knowledge is invaluable. On my walk through that area, I changed my route several times based on information from locals.
For the initial route planning I use small-scale (1:250,000) maps covering large areas before purchasing the appropriate topographic maps and working out a more detailed line. DeLorme’s Atlas and Gazetteer volumes—one for each state of the United States—and similar volumes are excellent for an overview of an area. Mapping software can be used too, though I find it easier to plan routes on a large paper map than on a screen, probably because I’ve had years of practice. When planning I’m always aware, however, that cross-country routes may be impassable or that a far more obvious way may show itself, so I don’t stick rigidly to my prehike plans. It’s easy to draw bold lines across a paper map, carried away by the excitement of anticipation, without considering the reality of trying to walk the route.
One of the big problems with planning a hike of more than a few days is resupplying. For popular trails like the Appalachian and the John Muir, there are regularly updated lists of facilities like post offices and grocery stores. There are even companies that will ship food parcels to you. Hikers may be rare or even unheard of in other places, however, so it’s always best to write and ask about amenities.
Permits
Most areas don’t require permits, but many national parks and some wilderness areas with easy access do. The number of permits issued may be severely restricted in the most popular places, making it essential to apply long before your trip. If you want to backpack popular trails in national parks like Grand Canyon or Yosemite, you need to apply for a permit many months in advance and must be flexible about your route. Whatever you think about limiting numbers by permit (I would rather see access made more difficult by long walk-ins in place of entry roads and backcountry parking lots), it means that even in popular areas, you won’t meet too many people. There remain vast areas of less-frequented wilderness where permits aren’t needed, and even the trails most crowded in summer are usually quiet out of season, making permits much easier to obtain. On a two-week ski-backpacking trip through the High Sierra in May, my group encountered only two other parties, both on the same day. Where good campsites are rare, such as the Grand Canyon, you can camp only in certain spots and must have a permit for each site in the most visited areas, though wild camping is allowed elsewhere in the park. It’s best to check whether permits are needed before making firm plans for an area.
Advice to tread softly, Grand Canyon, Arizona.
Backcountry advice, Inyo National Forest, California.
Long-Distance Trails
Many backpackers dream of hiking a long-distance trail in one continuous journey. The big three National Scenic Trails, known as the Triple Crown, are the 2,100-mile Appalachian Trail, the 2,600-mile Pacific Crest Trail, and the 3,100-mile Continental Divide Trail (CDT). Hiking such mammoth distances is a major undertaking. A few people have set off on one of these with no more than a hazy idea of the route or what to expect yet have completed the whole trail. But far more give up within the first few days or weeks—and this includes those who do some planning. The numbers succeeding have increased since the previous edition of this book, however. Then, just 15 to 20 percent of PCT through-hikers completed the trail. Now, of the three hundred or so who set off each year, some 60 percent finish (information from the Pacific Crest Trail Association). Figures for the much more popular Appalachian Trail aren’t so good. Of the two thousand or so through-hikers each year, less than 20 percent reach the end (information from the Appalachian Trail Conference).
The U.S. offers many backpacking opportunities.
There are various reasons for failure. Heavy packs, sore feet, exhaustion, overly ambitious mileage goals, unexpected weather, terrain, and trail conditions are the most common. Detailed planning is advisable for a long-distance hike, especially one that will take several months. A surprising number of hikers set off each spring for Mount Katahdin, Maine (the northernmost point of the AT), having done no more than a few weekend hikes, if that. This in itself ensures a high failure rate. A gradual progression—an apprenticeship, in fact—should precede a multimonth trip. Before attempting one of the big three, try hiking a shorter but still challenging trail, such as the 211-mile John Muir Trail in California, the 471-mile Colorado Trail, or the 265-mile Long Trail in Vermont. My first solo distance hike, a seventeen-day, 270-mile trip along Britain’s Pennine Way, followed several years of two- to five-day trips. Two years later, I made a 1,250-mile Britain end-to-end hike. Then, after another three years of shorter trips, I set out on the Pacific Crest Trail. I still made lots of mistakes, but I had enough knowledge and determination to finish the walk. If it had been my first distance hike, I doubt I would have managed more than a few hundred miles.
Preparation for a long trek doesn’t mean just dealing with logistics—knowing where to send food supplies, where stores and post offices are, how far you can realistically walk per day—it also means accepting that at times you will be wet, cold, or hungry and the trail will be hard to follow. Adventures are unpredictable by definition. Every long walk I’ve done included moments when I felt like quitting, but I’ve always continued, knowing the moment would pass. If the time ever comes when the moment doesn’t pass, I’ll stop. If backpacking isn’t enjoyable, it’s pointless. Completing the trail doesn’t matter—it’s what happens along the way that’s significant.
For me, the ultimate backpacking experience is to spend weeks or months in wilderness areas without long-distance trails, or sometimes without any trails at all. Walking a route of my own is more exciting and satisfying than following a route someone else has planned.
Planning such a walk can be difficult, however. Compiling information takes time, and there are always gaps. The easiest approach is to link shorter trails, as I did for the southern half of my walk the length of the Canadian Rockies. Even there, though, I had to travel cross-country on one trailless section.
First, of course, you have to decide where you want to start and finish. This inspiration can come from the nature of the land, from the writings of others, and occasionally from photographs. My first long-distance walk from Land’s End to John o’Groat’s was inspired by John Hillaby’s Journey Through Britain. Soon after that walk I read Hamish’s Mountain Walk, by Hamish Brown, about the first continuous round of the Munros, Scottish mountains over 3,000 feet high. Brown’s walk inspired a couple of 500-mile walks in the Scottish Highlands, but the idea of a really long walk there was put aside in favor of other ventures. A PCT walk was inspired by a slide show of the Yosemite backcountry and by Colin Fletcher’s The Thousand-Mile Summer. On the PCT, I learned of the CDT, so it was that trail I hiked next. On a ski-backpacking trip in the Canadian Rockies I came upon Ben Gadd’s Handbook of the Canadian Rockies and read that no one had hiked the length of the range. Another dream was born. A later Yukon trip was, in a sense, a continuation of this walk into an area I’d read about in the writings of Jack London and Robert Service.
I always thought that one day I wou
ld hike all the Munros in one go. The spur that turned a vague thought into a concrete plan came from another book, Andrew Dempster’s fascinating The Munro Phenomenon, a sentence of which flew off the page: “It is interesting and almost strange that no one has yet attempted all the Munros and Tops in a single expedition.” I knew instantly that I wanted to try this—a round of all 517 of Scotland’s 3,000-foot summits. A year later I set off. (For the story of this walk, see my book The Munros and Tops.)
The thought of being the first to do something lends excitement and adventure to an expedition. Yes, the heart of any backpacking trip is spending weeks at a time living in wild country, and it is the great pleasure and satisfaction of doing this that sends me back again and again. But a goal gives a walk focus—a shape, a beginning, and an end.
The initial buzz of excitement eventually gives way to a sober assessment of what is involved. This is the point at which ventures come closest to being abandoned. The planning often seems more daunting than the walk itself, but once begun, it’s usually enjoyable.