5 Rules for Car Camping

car camping at the Cowell boulders, Arkansas (photo by Josh)

There is a certain kind of freedom that comes with sleeping in (or near) your adventure vehicle, be it a Sprinter van, Toyota Tacoma, or Honda Civic. Ask any American what's the best part about America and they'll likely respond, "freedom." But hardly anybody really thinks about what that actually means. 

Most people think about freedom negatively: freedom from things. But you can't do whatever you want. The way I explain it to my students is this: your right to bear arms, freedom of speech, and other civil liberties are like swinging your arms around. You are free from restraint to swing your arms around all you want. But when you start windmill throat-punching your neighbor, we have a problem. You're not free to do that. We also explore civil rights as a more positivistic understanding of freedom. These are freedoms to do or for things -- equal rights and equal protection and all that stuff. 

What's this got to do with with car camping? Well, there's rules for that too. Some are freedoms to do things that you may not be able to while participating in other forms of camping, like backpacking (rule #1). Others are restrictions (rule #2). But enough about political philosophy, let's talk about car camping.

Jamie hogging all the shade while car camping at Shelf Road, CO

1. Bring it!

When it comes to camp stuff carrying capacity, nothing beats car camping. A giant Yeti cooler? Yes. Extra pots and pans? Bring it. A giant bin of rock climbing gear? Even better. 

Before a recent car camping weekend, my wife asked me if we could bring a mixing bowl for scrambled eggs. I was dumbfounded. I've never brought a mixing bowl camping before. Befuddled, I stared at her considering if we should or not. Lovingly (but in a way that still felt like Ja Morant posterizing Malik Beasley in the first round of the Western Conference playoffs), she said, "it's not like we don't have space, right?" Of course we have space, we're car camping.

2. But leave your guitar at home.

Don't be that guy. (It's almost always a guy.) Unless somebody specifically asked you to be the Guitar Guy (and almost certainly nobody did), don't. 

gravel camp 2022 at Lost Creek, Tennessee (photo by Reid)

3. Share

This is Humanity 101 stuff. I don't want to get too in the political philosophy weeds again, but imagine camping with Ayn Rand. You'd blow your head off. "Hey Ayn, can I use this headlamp for a sec?" "Only if you adequately compensate me for its battery use you freeloading, second-handing, collectivist swine." I just gave myself nightmares. But collective property and planned mutual giving are what make camping (and equitable societies) work. Read G.A. Cohen's brilliant little book, Why Not Socialism? The whole first chapter is about camping!

Consider a recent weekend riding bikes and car camping in the Appalachian woods. Betwixt the six goofy men who attended "Gravel Camp 2022," more than 84 beers (and Twisted Ice Teas) were brought, shared, and consumed. Open-source. Fair game. My PBRs are your Rolling Rocks and so on. I think I speak for everyone when I say that a highlight of the trip was Luke joyfully sharing out of the goodness of his heart a dozen donuts DIY-made in his JetBoil camp stove. 

car camping at Lost Creek, Tennessee (photo by Leah)

4. You still have to LNT

Pooping responsibly doesn't end just because you're sleeping in a Sprinter Van. 

If you packed it in with your vehicle, pack it out with your vehicle. This includes but is not limited to: beer cans, food wrappers, and the forty-year old, hand-me-down, Coleman two-burner camp stove your dad gave you that exploded in a massive ball of flames in the back of your truck while cooking beans at the mouth of Diablo Canyon, New Mexico. 

Josh making breakfast in Diablo Canyon, NM

5. Enjoy it!

This blog wholeheartedly endorses all forms of camping. Whether bivying mid-route on a multipitch climb or casual car camping at a local state park, sleeping outside is food for the soul. Car camping is fun and relatively easy. The amenities to suffering ratio weighs heavily in favor of comfort. And as long as we don't have an affordable cross-country rail system in this country, then your car is an incredible conduit to some of America's most amazing spaces. Get out there and enjoy it. 

my feet (please don't sell) at San Isabel National Forest, Salida, CO

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Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

The Tennessee River Gorge

I love mountains. Living in Chattanooga, mountains surround me. From downtown, I am within a twenty-minute radius of no less than five mountains teeming with creeks, capped by cliffs, and sprawling with trails. They are what makes Chattanooga Outside Magazine's "Best Town Ever" twice and one of their 24 Best Mountain Towns in the U.S. for 2022. But not all mountains are created equal. That's why I have created a definitive, objective, and exhaustive ranking of Chattanooga's mountains.

About Our Mountains

 Some snobbishly inclined folks from America's "greater" mountain ranges thumb their noses at the Appalachians, especially the southern Appalachians. When I say I'm from Tennessee, these people turn into Crocodile Dundees of elevation. "That's not a mountain. That's a mountain." 

*shows you a google image search of Longs or Shasta* 

*flails on a southern V3 boulder problem or 5.8 trad line* 

Yes, our mountains are small. The Rockies would be too if they were 400 million years older and succumbed to the geologic pressure of erosion. 

In the ridge-and-valley province of the Appalachian region, mountains are long rather than tall. Lookout Mountain peaks at a mere 2,392 ft but runs 88 miles south starting from Chattanooga. Because of this, "peaks" and rises above the mountains' plateaus often receive local, colloquial names. For example, Raccoon Mountain is also Elder Mountain; I will use "Raccoon" because trash pandas are cooler than old people. This is also the case with Signal Mountain and Suck Creek Mountain. Both are part of the Cumberland Escarpment, known as Walden Ridge, that runs 74 miles through Tennessee. It all gets confusing. For my purposes, I will use Suck Creek Mountain to refer to areas west of and including Suck Creek Canyon and Signal Mountain for everything else.

A: Lookout Mountain

B: Mowbray Mountain

C: Raccoon Mountain

D: Signal Mountain

E: Suck Creek Mountain

About My Methodology

I rank the mountains according to arbitrary categories: swimming holes, mountain biking, rock climbing, etc. If you don't like my categories or think them insufficient, make your own mountain rankings. 

Points are awarded based on the quality of the category for each mountain. The point system goes as follows:

No (0 points): nope, nada, zero. This mountain does not offer anything in this category. Or it does but it's on private property which means it does not. I award this mountain no points and may God have mercy on your soul. 

Not really (1 point): Practically speaking, no. Sure, you could cool off in the pools above and below Glen Falls but you can't swim in them. 

Yes (2 points): This mountain has swimming holes or rock climbing or trail running and is worth your time but other mountains have better.  

Amazing (3 points): This mountain offers amazing recreation opportunities. Its [insert category] is unrivaled regionally and maybe even nationally (just look at the license plates in rock climbers' parking lots in winter around here). 

 

Admitting My Presuppositions

I've stood on summits from Maine to Washington, New Mexico to Canada. Little ol' Lookout is still my favorite mountain in the whole world. I've climbed hundreds of pitches (Mountain Project), logged  thousands of miles (Strava), and made a lifetime of memories (my brain) on this ancient prominence. I'll try to keep that love of place in check throughout my analysis.

Ranking Chattanooga's Mountains

Mowbray Mountain takes the swimming hole KOM with ease. From the ever-popular and ever-crowded Blue Hole to the not-so-secret-but-hard-to-get-to spots up in Big Soddy Gorge or Deep Creek: cold and clear wollerin' holes abound. Suck Creek And Signal Mountain have great roadside holes for a summer escape. Lookout gets a "Not Really" score because a truly majestic, God-tier, swimming spot exists but is inaccessible behind the private property lines of the Lula Lake Land Trust. Raccoon comes in last, though you could jump into the green, tepid waters of one of America's most polluted rivers if you wanted to. 

Rebecca about to take the plunge somewhere on Mowbray Mountain

Lookout Mountain's Guild-Hardy and Truck Trail systems are excellent after-work ramble or pieces of a bigger adventure ride. Expect everything from pea gravel to baby head-sized chonk. The area's best gravel is on top of Suck Creek Mountain in the Prentice Cooper State Forest. The main road offers 25 miles of out-and-back gravel grinding and the numerous Jeep spur trails make for rowdy and fun adventure biking. 

Alea, Brooks, and some folks I don't remember on Game Reserve Road

This is Raccoon Mountain's time to shine. The High Voltage trail was featured on Patagonia's "Best of Home" and I think the Live Wire trail gives it a run for its money. If you like technical and chunky riding with blistering, singletrack descents, then this is the trail system for you. Not to be outdone, Lookout Mountain features fast and fun mountain biking across its plateau. Many of which can be strung together via the 14-mile long Cloudland Connector Trail. 

Notice that Signal gets an alternative ranking because Walden's Ridge Park will be completed soon and offers downhill trails that people will want to travel from all over to ride. So that's cool.  

Brooks playing on the Chunky Trail of Raccoon Mountain

Again, everyone gets points here. If there are trails, then there's trail running. Raccoon comes in last because if you run here you may get mowed down by an unsuspecting mountain biker. I know because I've almost mowed down a few myself. They're MTB trails for a reason. 

Lookout Mountain's battlefield national park offers a web of trails that link up in a myriad of ways but its 10-mile Big Daddy Loop is its pride and joy. Suck Creek boasts the Pot Point and Mullins Cove loops. Both measure about 13 miles and can be done together in a figure-8 for a trail marathon(ish) that will kick you in the pants. Finally, don't sleep on Mowbray Mountain where the Cumberland Trail traverses its plateau and descends and climbs back out of its steep cliff-lined gorges. 

Rebecca descending the Bluff Trail on Lookout Mountain

Chattanooga drops the ball in this category, at least in its greater-metropolitan statistical area. Segments of the Cumberland Trail cut through Mowbray, Signal, and Suck Creek Mountains and make for nice overnighters but the real good stuff is a few hours away in the Smokies. 

Reid backpacking the Cumberland Trail on Mowbray Mountain

Everybody gets points here. Even you, Raccoon. Chattanooga is the crown jewel of southern rock climbing and maybe even climbing east of the Mississippi. My favorite single-pitch trad crag in the world is Sunset Park atop Lookout Mountain. Mowbray boasts overhanging sport climbing and world-class bouldering (LRC, yes but don't miss the horizontal roof-pulling down the road on the Cumberland Trail). Lastly, Tennessee Wall attracts trad climbers from all over the country to its orange and tan sandstone walls during the year's coldest months. Because "T-Wall" is southern facing, you can climb in a t-shirt in January. 

myself bouldering at the base of Signal Mountain

The Final Analysis: Chattanooga's Mountains Ranked

Suck Creek Mountain: 14

Lookout Mountain: 13

Mowbray Mountain: 11

Signal Mountain: 10 (though soon to be 12, probably)

Raccoon Mountain: 7

Chattanooga's best mountain is Suck Creek Mountain. You can climb the formidable cliffs of the Tennessee Wall; dunk in the numerous swimming holes along Suck Creek Road; run the Pot Point loop; backpack the Cumberland Trail; bike Game Reserve Road to Insurance Bluff; or car camp at Davis Pond. All of these reasons make it Chattanooga's best mountain -- even better than Lookout. 

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Not My Words: Upon That Mountain

Paul scrambling the ridge of the East Face North Side of Seal Rock, Colorado

Trying to explain why we enjoy the things we enjoy is actually quite difficult. Why do I enjoy riding single-speed bicycles, climbing 5.4 multi-pitch, or eating Wendy's Baconators? Uh, because I do. How does anyone enjoy listening to The Beatles? I honestly do not know. Then again, I like music that's mostly yelling. I also enjoy reading mountaineering literature. In the excerpt below, early-20th Century alpinist Eric Shipton reflects on why he climbs mountains with a romantic eloquence far more charming and convincing than, "Uh, because I do." I thoroughly enjoy reading it and I hope you do too. 

It is impossible of course to provide an entirely satisfactory explanation for any recreation. The predominant motive in any human activity varies according to the temperament of the individual. Mountaineering provides good exercise in pleasant surroundings, a sense of satisfaction in overcoming difficulties, the joy, akin to dancing, of controlled rhythmic movement, a stimulating contact with danger, a wealth of beautiful scenery and a release from the tiresome restrictions of modern life. The expert likes to practice or display his skill. Some confess to having been drawn to climbing by a physical inferiority complex engendered by their failure at school to hit a ball straight and far. 

These motives are probably sufficient in themselves, and they certainly form the basis of many other sports. But in the deep devotion to any form of active endeavor there is generally something else we seek. In the case of mountaineering it is a kind of personal identification with the hills themselves, which comes of intimate understanding and strenuous contest and which brings with it a wealth of philosophical content. Above all, in my view, the attraction lies in the memory of those rare moments of intellectual ecstasy which occur perhaps on a mountain summit, perhaps on a glacier at dawn or in a lovely moonlit bivouac, and which appear to be the result of happy coincidence in the rhythm of mind and scene. These moments are not of course peculiar to mountaineering; they may be realized in deserts, on the sea and elsewhere. Such exaltation of feeling is achieved more often, I imagine, and in more normal circumstances by the mind of the creative artist, but for ordinary folk it would seem that it is more readily found in close contact with nature. -- Eric Shipton, Upon That Mountain (1944)

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The Adventure Spectrum

My wife might tell you that running in our neighborhood is an adventure. She's not wrong. It's not uncommon to be chased by dogs; she's been bit and has the scars to prove it. There's an old abandoned textile mill riddled with bullet holes across the street and we've seen the S.W.A.T. team on our block more than once. (Google how often "no-knock warrant" and other S.W.A.T. raids enter the wrong home.) Running in our neighborhood is exciting and even occasionally hazardous. 

My friends would tell you that raising children is an adventure. It seems like it. I've been around my nieces and nephew enough to know that their first steps, that first word, or the meltdown in a grocery store aisle certainly feel adventurous. But that isn't what we think about when we think about the word "adventure." I mean, there are not a lot of National Geographic cover stories on dropping off your kid for the first day of kindergarten. And don't expect an American Alpine Club grant for running around the block. 

“Real adventure is defined best as a journey from which you may not come back alive, and certainly not as the same person.” -- Yvon Chouinard, Let My People Go Surfing: The Education of a Reluctant Businessman (2005)

I love Yvon Chouinard. I love Patagonia. I wish I could afford it. But this definition excludes a lot of adventure. For one, I try to mitigate not coming back alive as much as possible. Given the choice between hiking off the top of a climb and rappeling, I choose to hike every time. For that matter, you're more likely to die riding your bike to the grocery store in this country than you are climbing El Capitan. So living in a city with inadequate bicycle infrastructure, which is most American cities, basically means you're Alex Honnold. Except nobody actually thinks that, so this definition of adventure is insufficient. 

I started thinking critically, or thinking at all, about the word "adventure" in 2010 or 2011 when I watched 180° South. There's a line, also from Yvon Chouinard, that lodged its way into my brain and has managed to stay there for over a decade. 

"The word 'adventure' has just gotten overused. For me, adventure is when everything goes wrong. That's when the adventure starts." -- Yvon Chouinard, 180 South (2010)  

There's something admirably laconic about Mr. Chouinard. And it's true! I didn't think about leading youth backpacking trips as "adventure." Other than interpersonal relationships with the campers, it was pretty mechanistic. Water source here. High camp there. Summit before noon. Et cetera. But then there was that one week on trail when a mama bear and her two cubs woke us up in our low camp; and a kid went to the bathroom without a buddy, got lost, cliffed out, and cheese grated down a twenty-five-foot slab of Rocky Mountain granite; and we called off our summit attempt due to snow, and after we turned around, a different kid slipped and I had to glissade to his rescue. That week was an adventure.

I may not have thought about those trips as an adventure, but those kids sure did. Most of them came from the flatlands of America to sleep outside and climb to the tops of mountains for the first time in their lives. Every week was an adventure for them.

"I came to the conclusion that adventure is different for everyone. Just as climbing Everest is an adventure to a seasoned mountaineer, a baby’s first steps are adventurous for both a child and her parents. Both are new, exciting, and daring acts. Between staying at home on the couch and full-blown expeditions, there is a wide spectrum of adventure." -- Joey Homes, "Defining Adventure: Thoughts From Biking in Wales," Outdoor Women's Alliance 

Now we're getting somewhere! Adventure is a matter of perspective relative to experience. Adventure can be climbing a big, airy, exposed arete and running in a neighborhood that some of your friends don't want to visit after dark. Adventure isn't a clearly defined category but a spectrum to be explored.

"Gunsight to South Peak Direct," Seneca Rocks, WV

[Insert hard segue into exploring "adventure" from perspectives other than your own.] Malik Martin has shared summits with Conrad Anker, Manoah Ainnu, and Jimmy Chin. He's also the videographer behind Black Ice, a short film about Memphis-based rock climbers ice climbing in Montana. I stumbled across this Instagram post from Malik a few months back and saved it.

"I’ve been on a few expeditions where the journey to the summit gets extremely dangerous and not fun. I often tell my mentors that if I wanted to risk my life I’ll drive my car without a license or walk around the suburbs... Being black in the outdoors is an unnecessary experience that I want to extend to my people and my peers." -- Malik Martin, @malikethamartian, Instagram (May 20, 2021)

That'll make us rethink Chouinard's definition from Let My People Go Surfing. 

"Adventure," as we so often think of it in National Geographic or Patagonia catalogs, is unnecessary; a product of leisure afforded by relative privilege. Everybody deserves leisure. "Bread for all, and roses too," the old labor movement sang. Everybody deserves adventure, whether it's riding your bike somewhere to make coffee, backpacking with a group of inner-city teens, or climbing a really big mountain, even if it's just really big to you. And everybody deserves to stay home on the couch as well because watching t.v. rules. 

What's your (definition of) adventure? 

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The Dirty Pecan 100

[insert Brooks and Dunn lyrics here]

Earlier this month, I rode the Dirty Pecan 100: a hundred-mile adventure route through the rolling red clay hills of north Florida and south Georgia. After the event, Russ met me for dinner at our favorite pizza place and asked me why I decided to drive all the way "home" to do my first century ride.  I've waxed eloquent (hopefully) about my love for my home state elsewhere, but perhaps it bears repeating. 

"Topophilia" is what geographer Yi Fu Tuan calls, "the love of place." Place is not merely a location but all the things that give it its unique characteristics. Location is just a series of alphanumeric characters expressed as the intersection of latitude and longitude: 30°32'18.1"N 83°54'59.7"W.  BORING. 

My love for this particular place is the saw palmettos and pine savannas; the sweet tea-colored rivers and the crystal clear ones; the floodplain swamps and white sandy beaches; raw oysters and fried catfish; the saw-toothed alligators and non-hibernating black bears. These are what make northern Florida special.

I often tell people if they've never been to a family fish fry in which their uncle (wearing cut-off jorts and bare feet) offered them the fresh-caught gator he killed earlier that morning while he was weed-whacking down by the river, then they've never actually been to Florida. Things are just different here. Including the gravel. 

Florida gravel is not like Tennessee gravel. Mostly because it mostly isn't gravel. It's clay, dirt, and sand, usually above a hard, limestone bed. Sometimes the clay is so hard-packed it rides like asphalt. But it changes on a dime. One minute you're pedaling at twenty miles an hour, the next second your fishtailing through sugar sand. It's varied, fast, and fun. 

The Dirty Pecan 100 is an unsupported and mostly unmarked "adventure" route that starts at the Jefferson County Extension office near Monticello, Florida. The route follows beautiful red clay roads through farms and plantations up into Georgia. Most of the plantations are used for hunting and the forests offer canopied roads with good shade. The farm roads have been cleared for crops and provide a good time to work on your tan lines. If it's dry and hot you may be lucky enough to catch the fertilizer-filled mist from industrial farm sprinkler systems. A small-town gas station waits at mile 56 before heading back down to Florida. 

Shortly after crossing the Florida-Georgia line is a hellish seven-mile stretch of sugar sand: Gum Swamp Road. Imagine a nice long walk on the beach except it's the part of the beach that high tide never touches. Your feet sink and slip with every step and you're also pushing your bicycle through it. This goes on for seven miles. I've wanted a fat bike for a long time and I've never wanted 4" inch tires more than in the 2+ hours it took to finish that segment (I also had two mechanicals I had to deal with). 

The last fourteen miles are mostly paved country roads through lovely pecan orchards before passing through the town square of Monticello. The Dirty Pecan is my longest ride to date and my first ever race/event ride. Below are five notes, observations, and comments about it. 

final road section back to Monticello

1. Out of the hundreds of Dirty Pecan riders, I think I was the only cyclist not wearing a lycra/spandex kit, or fancy clip-in shoes. I wore cut-off shorts, a dry-fit tee from REI, a pair of Vans, and a healthy application of chamois butter. I didn't chafe at all. Lots of people made comments about my shoes -- some shocked, some stoked. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

2. On the drive down, I listened to an interview with UNC's former basketball coach, Roy Williams. The hall of fame member confessed he never looked at the scoreboard during the first half of a game. I decided to never check my Strava data until I made it to the gas station in Boston, Georgia (just over halfway). Because I feared I missed a valuable water source, I ended up taking a peek. I figured I had gone 30 miles... I had gone 47. That felt good. Thanks, Roy. Also, go Noles, Roy. 

3. I felt GREAT miles 0-56, not so great 56-66, very good 67-80, THE ABSOLUTE BOWELS OF HELL 81-90 (seven-mile sugar sand hike-a-bike and two mechanicals), and okay but done 91-104.

(a) Everyone told me at the start of the event that the 80 is the best distance because it avoids the sand on the nine-mile Gum Swamp Road. I shrugged it off because Russ and I suffered through so much sugar sand bikepacking last year. I now know it is one thing to hit sand at mile 25 and a totally different thing to hit sand at mile 82. It took me 2 hours to do this segment and I had a very childish temper tantrum about it. Whoops.  

(b) Josh loaned me his GPS device and there is absolutely no way I could have done the route without it. At mile 82 I needed to fix a flat, so I flipped my bike over and when I did, I smashed a ton of buttons that caused alarms to go off. It was a whole ordeal. Because I'm an idiot who can't figure computer things out, I was never able to use it for navigation again. I spent the next 7 or 8 miles just hoping I was going the correct way.

4. Other than navigating, I was most nervous about socializing. Most cyclists were nice but not terribly talkative. Almost everyone I saw was riding with 2-3 friends or their club or team with matching kits. I rode most of the route by myself, exchanging the occasional pleasantries with folks. I did finish the last 14 miles with two dudes from Tallahassee who let me join since my GPS doinked out. They were nice and I owe them each a beer. 

5. Special thanks to Brooks who let me come over late one night to tune my bike before I left; Payton for ultimately convincing me not to ride my singlespeed for my first century; Josh who mailed me his Garmin GPS device; my mother, who I called while having a slightly dehydrated panic attack and forced her to call my friend Josh until he called me back to fix the GPS device; and to Russ who bought me dinner at Decent Pizza afterward. 

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5 Beginner Backpacking Tips and Tricks

My first backpacking trip was a disaster. I was in eleventh grade, clad in cotton blue jeans and a flannel shirt and equipped with gear from the local sporting goods and army surplus stores. Russ and I hiked around Torreya State Park in uncharacteristic sub-freezing temperatures, even for the "mountains of Florida." I slipped and fell in a creek. Russ had diarrhea in his pants. And we both had so much fun that we fell in love with backpacking.

That year, Russ and I spent a lot of time at the local outdoor store, Trail & Ski, pestering the employees with questions and ultimately not spending any of our money. I'm sure it was annoying but they were kind enough to take us under their wings and point us in the right direction. Whenever a student asks me about starting out backpacking, I get all stoked for them. Maybe, hopefully, those folks at Trail & Ski felt a similar level of excitement when Russ and I walked into their store all those years ago. 

Doing something new can be daunting, so I asked some folks what advice they'd give to somebody trying to get into backpacking. This "panel of experts" includes thru-hikers, weekend warriors, and backpacking and wilderness therapy guides. They all started somewhere and one of them started with me that winter in Torreya State Park. 

1. On backpacking with a budget...

Many of the experts agree: keep it cheap. Madi suggests, "Thrifting your starter gear--don't buy new!" She's right. Outdoor consignment shops rule. 

A) They're cheap and have good stuff. 

B) They usually have nice knowledgeable staff who can be very helpful and not intimidating. 

My favorite is in Leadville, Colorado. And if you're in Chattanooga, visit Four Bridges Outfitters. But not every town has a cool outdoor-oriented consignment shop. Russ and I bought a tent and other stuff from the Army Surplus. I think we used it once before graduating to a tarp. Not an ultra-lite sil-nylon tarp, mind you. I mean an actual brown tarp from Home Depot. 

Russ added, "Remember the crap we had when we started? I ordered a backpack from eBay. And those clunky headlamps from army surplus!" We scrounged things from all over the place. Nowadays you can hit up Mountain Project and other online forums for all kinds of used, cheap gear. Keep it cheap! Especially when you're starting. 

2. On starting small...

According to Vance, "Not every backpacking trip has to be a weeklong instagrammable jaunt in Glacier National Park... Explore [your] local natural areas." Microadventures are amazing. Russ encourages you to start even smaller. "Backyard camping! I camped in my backyard a million times with all my gear." 

It's true. Senior year, Russ and I both dual-enrolled at the local community college instead of "high school." Every morning I'd go to Russ' house and find him asleep in his backyard in his Hennesy Hammock. These nanoadventures are great for dialing in your system and, if you're new to it, sleeping outside.

3. On thinking ahead...

When you sleep outside, you live outside. Sounds obvious enough but you might be surprised how many things you forget or never even think about when it comes to the logistics of living outside days or weeks at a time. Leah's practical advice: "First, line your pack with a large (30 gallon?) trash bag- especially if the temps will be cold at night. You’ll never have to worry about a wet sleeping bag or jammies from rain, river crossings, etc." 

When you live outside, you poop and pee outside. Sounds obvious enough but you might be surprised how important pooping and peeing properly is to wilderness spaces. Consider these resources and remember, to Leave No Trace. When it comes to wiping, Leah adds, "If you are taking toilet paper, take baby wipes instead. You and your nether regions will be living a life of luxury after long days of dirt and sweat." 

For what it's worth, my two cents in this whole thing is this: Pringles. Pringles are a great, salty snack. The Pringles can is a great, tubular, sealed container for packing out discarded baby wipes and other waste. Make a little duct tape hinge so you don't lose the lid. You can store your toilet paper tube in the bottle slot of your backpack. Do not mix your Pringles and discarded baby wipes! Sounds obvious enough, but you never know. 

4.  On ounce-counting and other ultra-light things...

Maybe you've been backpacking before. You borrowed some gear and you're in love with it. Or maybe you've also got a fat wad of cash burning a hole in your pocket. There's an entire universe of backpacking gear you can buy. Most attempt to be light. Some are designed to be "ultra-lite" (UL). I got sucked into the ultra-lite world pretty quickly as a young gun and there are plenty of ways to do it on a budget (DIY and UL share a big middle part of a Venn Diagram). But being ultra-light and a backpacking guide didn't mix well so I started dabbling in both worlds. 

Reid suggests figuring out "if you camp to hike or hike to camp." This goes a long way in determining what you pack, how you travel, and what your overall goals are. Some people enjoy going far, fast. Others enjoy getting there when they get there and relaxing while they are there. 

Reid continues, "If you’re hiking to camp, you may decide to spend precious ounces on a larger tent, a thicker sleeping pad, or things like sleep clothes, camp shoes, a camp chair, etc. If you’re camping to hike, you may prioritize UL gear, nicer trekking poles, and have all of your food in a fancy spreadsheet that ranks items based on calories per ounce of weight." 

Maybe you already know what you're into. Maybe you don't. That's fine. If you're just starting it might take some trips to figure it all out, which leads us to our next bit of advice...

Vance and I on Mt. Shavano, CO

5. On just going for it and having fun... 

 I really loved what Vance had to say so I leave them here without comment.  

"There are no rules or right ways for an experience outdoors, so make the most of what you’ve got around you. Not every backpacking trip has to be a weeklong instagrammable jaunt in Glacier National Park while wearing your Arc’teryx gear (although both of those are super rad). Explore the local natural areas right in your backyard, flaunt your janky consignment or hand-me-down gear, and revel in a bounty of homemade trail mix and Vienna sausages. As long as you’re outside, being responsible, and having fun, you’re doing it right. Do what you can, where you’re at, with what you’ve got, while you’ve got it!" 

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Have You Hydrated Enough Today?

"Excuse me, sir! do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior depicted in the Piss Christ?" Immersion, more commonly known as Piss Christ, by Andres Serrano, is a 1987 photograph of a white crucifix submerged in an aquarium of the artist's own urine. Although it won several awards, its merit was criticized by both art critics and people of faith. But the artistic and theological value of the piece, and I think it has both, is irrelevant. What I find truly problematic about Serrano's Piss Christ is that the artist's urine has the same coloration as a bowl of Spaghetti-O's. 

Based on urine color analysis, I live and move and have my being in a constant state of dehydration. I seem to fancy myself part camel with an ability to go super long periods without consuming water. But as my latest blood work revealed, I am, in fact, only human and my kidney function is what the doctor calls, "below average." I need to drink more water. 

Drinking water is excellent. It's good for us in like a gazillion different ways. Notably, when I drink enough, my urine doesn't come ripping out of my urethra as a flaming, stinking, marigold-colored mess. That, and my recent doctor's visit, is why I decided to drink more of it. And while I don't think I'm ready to post on the hydrohomies subreddit yet, I have made changes in the last couple of months that keep me peeing clear. 

SIDEBAR: upon actual research, it is possible to overhydrate before and during endurance activities. Despite the dictum of "clear and copious," the ideal color of your urine is straw-yellow. See chart above.

I try to maintain a 1:4 coffee-to-water ratio. That means for every 8 oz of coffee, I try to drink 32 oz of water. This is absolutely arbitrary and not backed by science in any way. Maybe it is, I don't know. I could Google it but I won't because it works for me. 

I started substituting apres-ride/climb/work beer for seltzer water. Post your favorite LaCroix flavors in the comments below. I like it plain and Key Lime if I'm feeling like mommy's little fancy boy. And if I'm hitting harder stuff, mango-flavored White Claw is the nectar of the gods.  

But these aren't things you couldn't learn from any self-help and wellness influencers on TikTok. That is to say that these aren't things you didn't know already. And this isn't a blog about home and work. It's a blog about [insert human-powered endurance activity here].

WARNING: It's about to get real techy up in here. TL;DR for the non-gear junkies, the triumvirate of backcountry hydration is this: (1) Katadyn Steripen, (2) Nalgene Ultralite, and (3) Arundel Looney Bin.

When it comes to hydrating in the backcountry, nothing beats the Katadyn Steripen Ultra UV Water Purifier. I bought mine with a pro deal back in 2013 and have used it on every backpacking trip. Every bikepacking adventure. Every rock climbing road trip. Cost-per-use, this baby has paid for itself multiple times. I don't know why I never considered it for shorter day hikes, bike rides, or days at the crag until now. Yet here we are, and it rules. The Steripen is light (4.9 oz) and uses ultraviolet light to purify 32 oz of water every 90 seconds. That means you'll be guzzling the good stuff while your rube friends are still pumping and squeezing and sucking through whatever archaic water purification system they still use. I have safely and successfully purified water from the clearest high country creeks to murky, stagnant ponds. Giardia free since twenty-thirteen. I try not to overcommit myself to any brand or product, but this is a hill I am willing to die on. If you go places outside that require drinking more water than what you bring with you, then you need a Steripen. 

My favorite water-carrying vessel is the Nalgene. Everyone has a Nalgene. I prefer the Ultralite (48 oz or 32 oz) not because I'm an ounce-counter, but because I like the bland non-color and the plastic is a little softer and more malleable for fitting into a bicycle bottle cage. What's that you say? "A bottle cage that fits a Nalgene?!" 

Yes, the Arundel Looney Bin and it's my new favorite piece of gear. A bottle cage big enough for a Nalgene that does not rely on Voile straps, what's not to love? The Looney Bin has enough room even for a big ol' wine bottle (though that might offset your hydration gains). The turn knob ratchet strap keeps my Nalgene secure on even the loosest, baby head-sized, rough stuff descents. The Looney Bin will be on all my bike builds from now on. 

With this holy trinity of hydration, I will never go thirsty again. Glory be to the Steripen, and to the Nalgene Ultralite, and to the Arundel Looney Bin, as it should have been in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, a world without dark yellow pee-pee. Amen.  

Have you hydrated enough today?

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