CAMPER'S COMPANION EXHIBIT |
Biking Tips: On Road and Off Trail
Dealing with Fears and Phobias
Walkie-Talkies and Cell Phones in the Wilderness
Is there any relief in sight? Yes, as a matter of fact, if you plan the car ride the way you would the rest of your trip. For one thing, if you pack that old Ford Fairlane right, you'll save a lot of grief. The cooler with lunch and snacks belongs right there within hand's reach--especially little hands. Stowed in the trunk, it's useless. So are the water bottles, several of which you have frozen the night before. At hand they're terrific in that Olds steam bath. They'll melt slowly, giving you hours of cool, thirst-slaking drink, while heading down Interstate 5. The maps need to be in the navigator's general vicinity, not on the kitchen table or in the duffel lashed to the canoe on the roof.
A little foresight goes all the way to the ranger station. Got cash for tolls and the last roadside hash house in northern Minnesota? Credit cards for the tow truck? Games and books for the kids? A big litter bag? It all seems obvious, but we've found over the years that a car checklist gets us off with most of the Absolutely Indispensable Items on board. (See Chapter 5.) It's amazing how comforting it is to know that the car jack is in the trunk and actually works, that the dog has a water bowl which can be filled at gas stations and rest areas, that stick-on window shades will protect the sunward passenger(s) from drowning in a sea of sweat before the last K-mart passes from sight, and that a small pillow, strategic seating and sensible packing may let someone actually get a bit of sleep.
Okay, that's the inside of the car, where cabin fever and expectations of the wide open spaces vie for attention over the long haul. What about the other places? Up on the car rack is the gear that can't fit in the trunk and that you don't need until you arrive at the final carpark. Once off the main highway, it's going to get coated with an archaeological layer of dust if it's not covered with a tarp. Once it starts to rain. . . . Obvious, isn't it? But one piece of advice. Secure the tarp carefully before heading out of the driveway. Loose ends or edges soon begin to flap maddeningly on the freeway, sounding like an awning shop in a hurricane.
In the trunk will be the other stowables, including most of the food for your camping trip. All of the liquids--cooking oil, soy sauce, syrup and hot sauce--will stand upright in their containers, packed securely against leakage. Otherwise they'll come up empty by the time you pack the backpacks at the trailhead. And since it'll get colder as you gain altitude and night falls, warm clothing should be easily available.
A car packed properly is a lean, mean pleasure machine. Enjoy it. But don't make the trip into an endurance contest. Rarely are wilderness trips tied to deadlines. If you need to make 14 pit stops rather than the planned three, because someone wants out of the car, make 'em. And let the dog out each time. Instead of eating lunch in the broiling sun on some highway turnout, check out the local park in the little town just off the road. (A good travel guide should have that kind of information. Take one along.) A 10-minute detour may rescue nerves and flagging humor. Lunch under an old New England elm at midday in early August will soothe a savage breast, or at least let the driver snooze in the shade. Properly rested and fed, the car crew will waltz through those final dusty miles up the old logging road to the trailhead or put-in point along the river.
We usually arrive at the trailhead after dark. We crawl into our sleeping bags, and the next thing we know, the sun is coming up. Time to hit the trail. Half awake, we squint mournfully at the little Datsun station wagon that brought the four of us here. The seats are piled with coats and parkas, the back is full of food boxes, and strapped to the roof rack is a monstrous heap of packs, ponchos and stuffsacks. How will we ever fit all that gear into our packs? And how much can we possibly pack into the backcountry on our backs?
Everything seems so disorganized the first morning that it's a miracle when we square things away. But somehow it all fits into the packs, and somehow we contrive to pack it into the mountains. We just keep telling ourselves that the packs are always heaviest and the hike always hardest this first morning. And each day, as we hike farther away from civilization, the load gets lighter, our bodies get stronger and the packing gets easier.
How should you pack a backpack? First decide what you'll need during the day. What does the weather look like? Will you need easy access to rain ponchos and plastic garbage bags to cover the packs? Or will you want to change into shorts at midday? A change of clothes, along with sunglasses, suntan lotion, maps, candy bars, and other small essentials need to be within easy reach. Lunch and munch food should also be easily accessible. Plan to take pictures at every scenic point? If so, keep your camera in a handy pouch.
After the small, reachable pockets have been filled, the main compartments can be packed. It may sound obvious, but keep in mind that whatever goes into the pack first will come out last. Also, heavy items should go next to your back and as high in the pack (between shoulders and waist) as you can get them. (The latest packs have compression straps which allow the load to be pressed toward that ideal carrying point on the back.) The pots and pans, stove and fuel go in first. Heavy food packages, such as flour, rice and beans, go next. That two-pound block of cheddar cheese (less some for lunch) falls in the "heavy" category too, as does the collected works of Charles Dickens.
Once those are packed, separate the rest by function. We usually make one compartment the "drug store/emergency room." Another is the "hardware/fix-it shop." You might designate a "candy store" as well. Save the lightest items--ponchos and Ensolite pads--to strap onto the top of the packs.
Organizing by function lends itself to packing as a group. One person may have the cheese, another the utensils and spices, and a third might end up with two sleeping bags and an inflatable raft. One person could be responsible for all liquid containers: cooking oil, maple syrup, vinegar, etc. Make sure this pack always stays upright. No one carries more than he or she feels capable of. And if a shoulder or neck begins to ache after two miles, we reorganize, trading a heavy sleeping bag for a lighter Ensolite pad.
There's room to strap things on the top and bottom of most packs. A stuffed sleeping bag, rolled-up poncho, tent or stuffsack full of clothes are easy to trade if one person's pack is too much for weak knees or a bad back. But be careful. A rule of thumb is that anything hanging below your waist "feels" about 50 percent heavier than it would up next to the middle of your back. Anything strapped to the top of the pack feels about 75 percent heavier than it really is. And whatever hangs behind you in the middle of the pack gains a good 100 percent because it is so far behind, swinging as you walk.
When strapping on pads, tents and stuffsacks, it's important to double-knot everything. Each stuffsack gets tied into a double-bow. Each strap gets wrapped back around itself, then knotted. Never leave anything that might work loose as you hike. This is especially important if you're the last person in line. We've had a few instances where things fell out of stuffsacks or off packs, but usually the person immediately behind noticed. If you're last, the wool sweater you drop will probably stay lost. And when you're shivering at night, you'll become a lifelong convert to the double knot.
A couple of other tips from the school of hard knocks. Don't keep your maps or permits in your pants pockets. They'll invariably get wet from sweat, fog or rain. Once that happens, and the colors and lines start to run together, they become difficult to use at all. In fact, most books recommend keeping maps in a plastic bag inside the pack so they won't get wet in a sudden downpour (or if they're below a cracked bottle of vinegar, a leaky tube of suntan oil or a broken egg).
Take care packing your fishing rod, too. On Rick's first backpacking trip, the rod stuck out a good 18 inches above his pack. While he managed to avoid low overhanging branches for the first two days, he accidentally knocked his pack over during a rest stop on the third day, and the top 18 inches of his rod snapped off. The rest of the trip he fished with a "splinted" fishing pole.
Most "backpacking" rods come apart in small sections or collapse ("telescope") to a small size. They can simply be placed in the main compartment of your pack. But many spinning and fly-fishing rods don't break down small enough to be protected inside the pack. They need to be secured to the outside of your pack, enclosed in a hard case or tube.
If the weather's been wet, try to keep the waterlogged rainflies and ponchos separate from the tents and sleeping bags when heading out the next day. The tents and sleeping bags may be damp in the morning, but they won't be nearly as wet as the rainflies. Pack them separately, even if it means breaking up a logical pair, such as tent and rainfly or sleeping bag and ground-cloth. You need not pack everything in the same manner each day, or even from morning to afternoon. Also, remember that your backpack is a natural drying platform. Wet socks? Dripping poncho? Hang them securely from the pack as you hike, rotate them occasionally to get the sun on all sides, and by the end of the day, they'll not only be dry, but fresh and aired, too.
Finally, your belt or belt loops can act as an extension of your pack, though don't forget to secure things on your belt--knives, gorp pouches and compass--with the same care you take with things hanging off your pack.
Adjusting the Pack to You
Three things connect you to the pack: two shoulder straps and a hip strap. All three should be padded. Unpadded straps tend to cut into clothes or skin. It's best to have someone help you with the initial adjustment. Then, when the straps are right, you might want to put in a safety pin or tie a knot to prevent them slipping as you walk.
Adjust the hip belt first, with someone holding the pack against your back. The belt should rest on your hip bones tightly enough to hold the pack there. Then, tighten the shoulder straps so the pack is held upright but doesn't pull on your shoulders. The pack should actually ride on your hips, which support most of the weight. The shoulder straps are meant to take very little weight. They mainly keep the pack in position, straight up and centered over your hips. As you hike, the pack should not cut into your back. Sometimes a misplaced belt buckle or stove piece will protrude and become a pain. Sometimes shoulder straps cut into shoulder bones. They can usually be shifted sideways to get a better fit and temporary relief. Also, the spots on each hip where the pack makes contact might get a little sore.
If you choose an internal frame pack, be sure all the straps are loose while fastening on the hip belt. Then tighten the shoulder straps to get a snug fit. Most of the weight should be on your hips. Finally, tighten the two "load lifter" straps just enough to keep the pack from falling away from your back.
Occasionally you'll want to shift weight to rest your hips. Simply loosen or release your hip belt. The pack will drop about an inch, your shoulder straps will tighten and the weight will now be on your shoulders. Experiment as you walk--more weight on the hips or shoulders--until you find the right distribution. After a day or so, pack, back and hips all seem to mesh comfortably into an incredible walking machine.
Load panniers bottom to top, heavy to light. Whether you have two or four panniers, they need to be symmetrically balanced. To get this right, weigh each pannier load and make fine adjustments. No sense falling into the canyon because your port side panniers are hauling you off the track.
The front-to-rear load should be balanced as well. One way to do this is to set the bike on two bathroom scales, one under each tire. Lean the bike against the wall, load the panniers, then climb on. Have a friend read the two scales, then make weight adjustments between rear and front till the readings on the two scales are close.
Some mountain bikers prefer to use a tight-fitting, internal-frame backpack rather than panniers. That results in a higher center of gravity, but you'll be less likely to snag, rip or tear the pack on rocks or logs.
Like bicycles and dogs, canoes yearn for low, even weight displacement. If you lean the old Philco radio against one gunwale, lean the laundry hamper against the other. Steady as she goes. Pack the dry sacks or duffels as you would panniers--vertically, heavy to light. Set them, balanced like panniers, at midships, offset by passenger weight. The aim is to trim the canoe so that neither bow nor stern are too high out of the water. Weight displacement figures, telling you how much the canoe will safely carry, vary according to size and design of the craft, and you should know them.
As with backpacks, stow stuff you'll need while paddling in easy-to-reach places, and keep the map and compass (and your powder) dry. Tie fishing rods and other non-floatables securely to the canoe, and spare paddles lightly to same. You may need them in a hurry.
The week before your trip, you run around like the proverbial headless chicken, lists in hand, trying to arrange every detail while working an eight-hour day. You're up half the last night trying to finish packing. You leave early the next morning, drive hours to the trailhead and immediately begin to hike. You're at 7,000 feet, walking uphill, with the pack at its maximum weight. Your body is not accustomed to so much strain. All day you feel dizzy, nauseous, and achy. That night your brain feels like it's trying to come out of your ears. You're camped at a beautiful lake at the top of the world, and all you want to do is crawl head first into your sleeping bag until the pain goes away.
Luckily this isn't inevitable. It needn't happen to you. With a little forethought and a few precautions, you can avoid Early Trip Discomfort (ETD). Here's how:
- Even if you have only a week for your trip, plan a whole day to drive to and sleep at the trailhead. That first night in the thin air will help acclimate your body to the first hard day on the trail.
- Eat breakfast. Anything which gives you some protein, fat and carbohydrate is adequate. Cheese and crackers, a granola bar, or peanut butter and jelly make a fine beginning. Most of your initial hiking will usually be over by early afternoon, so breakfast is the main source of energy for the day's challenges.
- You might want to use salt and aspirin. (This applies only to people not adversely affected by either of these substances. Salt can cause nausea; aspirin can upset the stomach.) The salt can be in food, such as salami, jerky or crackers. Some people take it in pill form or direct from the container. We also often take one or two aspirin first thing on the morning of a long hike.
- Start early. This is hard for the leisurely breakfast junkies, but that's invariably the most pleasant time to hike. The cool air is refreshing and you don't lose a lot of water through sweating. The sun isn't blinding, the rocks aren't hot, and by the time the afternoon thundershowers begin, you've arrived at your destination and set up camp.
- Wear sunglasses and a hat or visor. You've heard of snow blindness, caused by the intense glare of the sun off a white
snowfield. The same problems can be caused by reflections of sunlight from gray granite boulder fields. The mountain air is thin and the mountain sun is bright. While hiking, it's best to keep your eyes and face covered, especially for the first few days. - Drink plenty of water. Stop on the trail when you get thirsty. Drink a few cups before steep uphill climbs. We carry a minimum of a quart of water for every two people, but it's not a bad idea to start with even more. You can always pour it out if you're sure that the streams you expect to cross are running full, and you have the time to filter or purify the water. Several times we planned to fill the canteens at a stream which was running on the map but dry as a bone on the trail. That meant several miles of dry throats. In the spring, there's water everywhere. In the fall, however, be careful. Extra water is heavy, but it's much more uncomfortable to hike when you're thirsty.
- Don't be afraid to stop and rest, or vary your pace, which often accomplishes the same thing. The destination is rarely over that next rise. A steady pace will get you there with fewer problems and less pain than the sprint-and-collapse method. Cyclists know all about problems of pace and can teach hikers a thing or two. They shift gears, we shift legs. Remember the tortoise and the hare.
- A walking stick enhances balance and takes weight off the feet and knees. An old cross-country ski pole will do, though spendthrifts will want the "telescoping" variety for uphill and downhill shifting. Some hikers are now using a set of trekking poles, one in each hand.
- Keep the carbohydrates coming. Stop for energy food about mid-morning, or carry a pouch of gorp to munch as you hike. We like semi-sweet baking chocolate, raisin cookies and ginger snaps. Sweets give you that instant pick-up you can use along the trail. If you know your limits and don't push too far beyond them, and if you're not afraid to stop and relax, you'll do just fine. Two days into the trip, you'll be hiking farther, breathing easier, resting as often as you like without fear that you won't get "there," and carbo-loading like a champ.
Many trails are constructed so that horses can cross streams. The trail crosses a stream at a level, wide area with a rocky bottom. A horse doesn't care about stepping stones. A horse also doesn't care if the water is one or five feet deep. Unfortunately, it's not as easy for a human to wade across in three feet of freezing, rushing water. A stream is always a wise place to take a break. Make it a point to ponder before you ford. Make it another point to scout the stream up and down for the best crossing.
One spring, Rick and a friend were among the first backpackers on the trail after a wet winter. About halfway to their destination, they came to a stream running high, fast and cold. Sam, a first-time backpacker, took one look and decided that wading was not part of the original contract. So they renegotiated. Rick would wade across with both packs, one at a time. Sam would head a few yards upstream to a stretch of water which was deeper, but strewn with enough high boulders to let him step across. Sam balanced gingerly on the first boulder. He hopped to the next, then the third. Two more to go. The second-to-last boulder was unsteady. So was Sam. With arms flailing and eyes wide, he plunged into the foaming torrent. Luckily, he only got a few bruises and soaked his clothing. Had he decided to boulder-hop with his pack on--including his sleeping bag and all his extra clothes--it would have been a lot worse.
Late in the summer, when there's not much water flowing, you can hop from boulder to boulder without much trouble or danger of getting everything wet. But early in the spring, it's better to wade. You'll have to get wet. It's that simple.
Well, hopefully it's that simple. A pair of sneakers or tennies, which you've brought along to use in camp, come in handy here. The water is usually so glacial and the bottom of the stream so rocky that going barefoot is painful and dangerous. Just remove your socks, sling your boots around your neck, don the Converses and head in. If you didn't bring any sneakers, wear your boots, sans socks. Once across, drain your boots and put on a pair of dry socks, which will soak up most of the moisture as you hike on. At your next rest break, change into a second pair of dry socks, and by the time you get to camp, your boots will be dry.
During the spring, the level of a stream rises noticeably during the day as the sun melts snowfields high above, and it falls again each night as snow refreezes after sundown. The best time to cross a stream is early in the morning; the worst time is late in the afternoon.
Be especially careful of stream depth: do not confuse clear water with shallow water. Mountain streams are often so crystal clear that what looks like a two-foot bottom might actually be six feet deep. It's a good idea to cross once without a pack to be sure you won't encounter any dangerous flows or depths. It's much easier to bail out and turn back with nothing weighing you down. Caution is the key.
It helps to carry a big stick or wading staff when crossing. You can distribute weight more evenly on three points than on two. As long as you walk slowly and carefully, with the staff downstream, and don't mind numb feet and legs, you'll get across safely.
What about using a rope? It's possible, of course, and sometimes necessary. But our own rule of thumb is this: If a crossing is so dangerous that it requires using a rope, don't do it unless it's more dangerous to stay where you are. In an emergency, a two-person party with about 150 feet of five-millimeter climbing rope can ford a stream, as follows.
Step one. The rope is tied to a tree, wrapped once around the forder, then held by the anchor person who stands downstream of the forder and pays out rope from the coil. The anchor person is not tied to the rope. The forder always faces upstream while crossing. If she/he falls, the anchor person hauls her/him in. Once across, the forder waits while the anchor person unties the rope from the tree. The length of free rope is then hauled over and tied to a tree on the far side.
Step two. The rope extends from the tree to the original anchor person, who wraps it once around the waist and then tosses the remaining coil to the first forder. The first forder walks downstream of the second forder and pulls in slack as the second forder, also facing upstream, makes her/his way across.
It may take two trips to get a single backpack load across a stream, because the stuffsacks which hang from the pack can't be left in place if the water is deeper than about two feet. When you're wading with a pack on, it's advisable to unbuckle the hip strap. That way, if you fall, you can release the pack easily and not get swept under or downstream by it. Once you've safely negotiated the stream and carried all the gear over, dry off, take another rest, repack, put the return crossing out of mind, and head up the trail.
If a log happens to be across the stream just where you want it, don't let such luck go to your head. Take your time. Log walking above a rushing stream can feel like walking a tightrope. And like tightrope walkers, you may want to use along stick or staff as a balance rod. Ideally it should be longer than you are tall, but it doesn't have to be. Hold it even with your waist as you cross the log. Also, beforehand, come to terms with everybody's sense of balance in your party. The surest-footed member should take the packs over. The unsurest should sit, straddle the log and inch across. And if you're traveling with dogs, one of you may have to wade across with them on a leash. We've never been able to persuade our pooches to walk the log.
Summing up, when wading across a stream: 1) Wear sneakers or boots but not socks; 2) Check depth; 3) Use a big branch as a wading staff; 4) Face upstream when crossing; and 5) Unbuckle your hip belt.
We once made a list of "Things to Do When it Rains," and hiking was at the top. That's because huddling in a tent or under a poncho can get awfully boring, and keeping everything in a campsite dry without cramming it all into the tent with you is a practically unattainable goal. If you can keep dry, hiking in the rain is fun, pretty, and actually easier than hiking in very hot conditions.
There are many "systems" for keeping yourself and your pack dry in the rain. We prefer to wear short ponchos designed to cover a person without a pack on. These can be used around camp without dragging in the mud, and while fishing in the rain. The special ponchos designed to cover you and your pack are so long they can be unwieldy. If the weather is warm, a short poncho and a pair of hiking shorts are ideal for a walk in the rain. So are plastic bags as foot protection for very young children who don't wear boots. They go over the socks and into tennies, cheap protection against soaked socks and feet.
Special backpack covers are sold at outdoor stores, but garbage bags are a lot cheaper and just as light. Punch two holes and feed the shoulder straps through before hoisting the pack onto your back. The garbage bags flap a little in the wind, but they keep the packs very dry. Buy the thickest ones you can find and carry one or two extras.
Sometimes there may be no getting away from a prolonged spell of foul weather. However, many summer rains are of the "afternoon thundershowers" variety. They come on fast, last a short time, then move off. Often, the mornings are gorgeous, and at 2 p.m. there's not a cloud in the sky. But by 4 p.m. you find yourself huddled in a forest as the thunder crashes around you and huge hailstones bounce off your head.
From the comfort of a cottage, a thundershower can be spectacular; at 8,000 feet, near the timberline, however, it can be terrifying and dangerous. You need to keep dry and stay safe--if possible among the smaller trees. Easy access to the plastic garbage bag and a poncho will let you stay dry and cover ground at the same time. Or, if you prefer to sit it out, protect your pack while you watch the thunder and lightning roll across the mountain tops. The poncho will keep most of you dry, and while you end up with wet boots, socks and maybe pant legs, it's rarely enough to worry about.
However, when it rains, beware of hypothermia! It needn't be cold out--even wind and rain at 60 degrees F can make you dangerously chilled. The symptoms are uncontrolled shivering, followed by the inability to think clearly. Don't wait to reach your destination to deal with this. Get out of the wind and your wet clothes. Start a fire or crawl into a protected sleeping bag. Drink something hot. Huddle close to others who are dry. Rest and get warm.
If you're going to an area where it rains hard or for days at a time, this may require serious preparation. Foul weather gear (like that used on sailboats), special backpack covers, boot covers, Gore-Tex wool parkas (which ingeniously keep the rain out while letting your sweat escape)--all or some may be necessary. Check out the weather conditions before you leave home. Most camping trips, however, are predicated on sunny weather, and wet ponchos or socks can usually be dried out in the warm morning sunshine.
From the hillside above, a lush Sierra meadow looks like a golfing green. But trying to hike across it in the first few weeks after snow melt is like trying to run through tapioca. Each step is an effort. Your boots get stuck in the mud. We've known people to lose their boots entirely in the slimy goo, pulling up their feet to find nothing but a sock on. If there's an alternative trail which skirts the springtime meadow, take it. It will save time, physical effort and mental exhaustion. It will also save the ecologically fragile meadowland.
Snow is normally considered a problem for winter backpackers, but it can stay on the ground long into the spring and summer. The trouble is, snow can be hard or soft, icy or slushy, sticky or slippery. It can be a pleasant stroll or a dangerous slide, and you need to be careful on it.
Mornings, snow is usually icy and slick. A very slight gradient can throw your feet out from under you. Even worse, it might start you sliding down an icy slope into a freezing river or lake. As the day progresses, the snow begins to melt. By late afternoon, it may have turned into sticky slush. Like mud, this kind of snow is a disheartening inconvenience. It slows you down but isn't likely to hurt you. Beware, however, of "snow bridges" which may collapse during hot afternoons. A snow bridge is a layer of snow--perhaps a foot or more in depth--over a large hole caused by flowing water (from melted snow) underneath. Step on the bridge in the morning, and it will hold you. Do so in the afternoon and you'll fall through. A likely spot for snow bridges is next to large rocks, which absorb heat and melt snow from below at the same time the sun melts it from above. The result is a sort of ice cavern whose sides are prone to collapse when weight is put on them.
Our advice is to try to avoid hiking over more than short stretches of snow. If you must, hike early. When you get to the snow line, don't plan to go much farther. If you know in advance that there will be a lot of unmelted snow on the trail, bring a pair of crampons to strap onto your boots. These are spikes which allow you to walk on icy or slippery snow without much danger of falling. They won't help in very soft, powdery snow, for which you need snowshoes or cross-country skis, but they will get you safely through most springtime snow conditions with a minimum of bruises and sore muscles.
The other thing to consider before you tromp off above the snow line is that firewood up there is probably buried beneath a foot or two of wet slush. That makes cooking and warming a great deal more time-consuming and complicated. If you have to be up there, bring a good camping stove and fuel that works efficiently in cold weather. (See Chapter 3 for tips.)
Biking Tips: On Road and Off Trail
Cyclists need rest breaks, carbohydrates, liquids and common sense, just as hikers do. Biking with a heavy load, even on flat, well-paved stretches, is a lot more strenuous than the day-biking you may be used to. Take a break. It can be short and sweet (if you let the chocolate melt in your mouth, not in your pannier). It's also restorative. Toes, hands and butt go numb if you're too long in the saddle. Stop and walk some circulation back into these useful body parts. In fact, walk the bike up steep grades when the going gets too hard. Nobody's timing you. You can't come in last.
Like hikers, bikers need to have warm clothes and foul weather gear close at hand. The speed of a bike increases the wind-chill factor impressively. A 15-mile-per-hour wind blowing in the face of a bicyclist traveling at 25 miles per hour downhill is the equivalent of a 40-mile-per-hour wind chill. Lesson? Dress warm in these conditions. And remember, as wind causes a bike to yaw with a heavy load, rain makes brakes less efficient. Steering feels sluggish, and sudden stops on steep grades can be dangerous. Hard weather makes a bike hard to control. It also cuts down visibility--yours and passing motorists'. Take it easy. Stay warm, dry, keep a helmet on and, where appropriate--such as on mountain trails or dusty roads--use safety glasses to protect against dirt, twigs and bugs.
Unlike most hikers and bikers, canoeists can arrange to go in one direction only. Downstream, for example, or (with a streak of masochism) upstream, or across a lake or inlet. With a car pickup at the end of the route, the work load can be regulated more easily, or at least predicted with more certainty.
Predictability goes only so far, however, and you need to take basic precautions whether headed down the Grand Canal or across the local duck pond.
- Boarding and exiting the canoe are the choicest times for tipovers. Learn the proper techniques before entering the mill race.
- Prepare for rough water even if you don't expect to encounter any. When the wind comes up on a lake, things can get dicey. You can get swamped. Pull into shore, paddle in the lee of the land, take time out on an island. Turn into swells rather than taking them broadside.
- Learn (from a Red Cross course, a guide or an experienced partner) how to "read" a river. The current usually flows faster in midstream and does tricks (which only physicists understand) at sharp bends. Stick to the inside rather than the outside of a big bend for safer, easier handling. Ledges, rocks, "holes" and falls all create flow problems which can be solved by proper handling techniques. We are not talking about The African Queen or riding Niagara in a barrel, but foreknowledge is a useful "hiking" tool on the river. Even then, be prepared to get lost on occasion. The current is not always the surest guide to the main channel. Rain-water may obliterate a familiar river bank; drought may turn a navigable passage into marshland. When you dead-end up the Blackstone River, take a nosh break, scratch your head, mull over the situation, sigh, backtrack, and be comforted by the fact that your second cousin Rudy and a lot of other experienced deckhands have been here before you.
- Use your ears as eyes. You can often hear a waterfall long before you can see it. At that point, be prepared to pull in and portage around the fall. Unless you'r Humphrey Bogart or Katherine Hepburn.
- Island hop at high tide. You don't want to return to shore when the tide's out for the simple reason that you'll have to schlep the canoe over hundreds of feet of mudflats.
- A rain poncho worn in high wind becomes a sail. Beware!
- As backpackers need to learn how to cross a stream, canoeists need to know how to walk a canoe through passages too rough or swift for paddling. You may have to use end lines attached to bow and stern to "track" a canoe upstream (or "line" it downstream) around obstacles. This can be done from shore, if not too impassable, or in wading water along the shore.
- Portaging engages the same techniques and attitudes as backpacking: slow and easy, lots of rest breaks, have a bite to
eat. A portaging yoke allows one person to portage a canoe, but beware of neck injuries if you don't know how to use one. Two persons can easily carry a 70-pound canoe over the portage. You may have to go back for the packs if the load is too heavy, but call it a day-hike and enjoy. Local up-to-date printed guides may indicate portage trails, while older trails may still be marked by blazes. If you're unsure of where you are, take five and reconnoiter. Land bridges between bodies of water are usually accessible and short. Get a fix on the easiest route first and then heft the canoe and packs.
Dealing with Fears and Phobias
As we noted earlier, you take all of yourself into the mountains when you go backpacking. It's impossible to leave the bad parts behind. This means that your whole party has to deal with anyone's particular hang-ups, and you should know what they are before you go. But you should not let them stop you from going. Hal, for example, is scared of heights. Really scared. He learned it to his surprise about 20 years ago when he was halfway up a Mayan temple pyramid in the Yucatan. Convinced that he was about to pitch backwards into space, he clung for dear life to the safety chain, inched to the top, sat down in a cold sweat, fantasized helicopter rescues and other humiliations, and eventually invented one of mountaineering's newest and most useful (if less graceful) techniques: "rappaporting."
Rappaporting is a play on the word "rapelling" and has nothing in common with it. To rappaport is to get from Point A to Point B very carefully very carefully. That's it. Any way you can do it, do it. It usually involves a good bit of frantic caution, inelegant clambering, and the use of the "sidle," as you inch your bottom and those jellied appendages called legs over the loose shale toward the haven of a firm root or branch or a six-million-year-old boulder. You can tell you're rappaporting when other members of the party, no more experienced than you, move confidently, even nimbly, on two sure feet over the same terrifying terrain.
In short, it's perfectly possible to live with a fear of heights in the mountains and enjoy the trip thoroughly. It's okay to laugh with the person who makes fun of his or her own phobia. It's not okay to laugh at them. A foreknowledge of the problem, a helping hand, plus a whole lot of support and common sense gets one, and therefore everyone, through.
The same is true in camp. One of our friends has an abiding fear of spiders. It means taking extra care that tent flaps and mosquito nettings are always tightly secured. And it means doing a careful spider search for that friend whenever the request is made. A little extra effort and support makes enjoying the outdoors both possible and fun for someone whose fears might otherwise preclude it.
Support for somebody's fears doesn't mean going gooey with concern or "manly" with false bravado. The person who is scared of heights more often than not doesn't need your hand, just a little more time. And the person who's scared of the dark or of mountain thunder doesn't need to be surrounded by firm shoulders to rest on. Unaffected presence is usually enough. In any case, let people know before you set out what may bother you; let other people know also that it's all right to have their own bothers.
In late spring, mosquitos can literally drive a hiker crazy. It's not so bad when you're camped, as you can escape into your tent and close it up. But when you're hiking through a meadow with a cloud of mosquitos buzzing around your ears and eyes, and sometimes up your nose or into your mouth, you will devoutly wish to be anywhere else on earth. Repellents, such as Cutter's or one of the war-surplus "jungle juices," will stop the little critters from biting, but it's the humming and buzzing that makes you want to throw yourself off the nearest cliff. Rest stops are pure purgatory, and it's not unusual for you to hike twice as fast and far as planned on total insane energy.
Two suggestions besides the repellent: mosquitos like grass, forest, water and deep shade. So when you stop to rest, pick a spot as high, barren, rocky and windy as you can find. Second, if you hear rumors in advance of a particularly bad mosquito plague in the area you're headed for, you can get lightweight mosquito-net hats which drop a circular netting from a round hat to your shoulders. This will keep the mind-wrenching buzzing away from your ears, eyes and nose. A long-sleeved shirt and some repellent on your clothes will allow you to hike through even the worst mosquito-infested marshes.
Mosquitos aren't the only varmints out there. Deer ticks carry Lyme disease and something called HGE (human granulocytic ehrlichiosis). These aren't your familiar swollen blood-suckers but rather nearly invisible nymphs about the size of the dot over this "i." They get into the bloodstream and go quietly to work. Lyme disease may take months or even years before serious symptoms (aches, pains, fatigue, fevers) appear. HGE comes on like a monster flu. Both are serious. What to do? Cover up.
In Chapter 2, we showed you how to obtain up-to-date Forest and Park Service and topographical maps. The first kind, which show distance and direction but not elevation, are fairly easy to read. Trails are marked by broken lines, roads by unbroken lines, unimproved dirt roads by double hash marks, marshes by grass clusters, that sort of thing. The symbols are standardized and you can learn them fast. Best of all, the symbols lie on a flat-plane surface (hence the technical name of the maps: planimetric) and are easy to locate and follow. Topographical maps, which show distance, direction and elevation, require some explanation.
A topographical ("topo") map does for the backcountry traveler what a street map does for the urban visitor. It helps in the planning of your trip: what's the safest and most convenient route between the trailhead and final destination, how far you want to hike each day, how high you want to climb, which day trips are possible and which aren't worth the effort, what kind of scenery you're likely to encounter--shale and rocks, long vistas, lakes and streams, high mountain meadows or granite passes. They're a little harder to read than the handy street plan of the South Bronx, but you won't, repeat won't, want to be without one in the wilderness. The new interactive, down-loadable topo maps provide a lot more features, including elevation profiles which allow you to plan trips even more carefully. Check 'em out.
How to Read a Topo Map
The most noticeable things on a topographical map are the thin brown lines running in circles and arcs and squiggles all over the place. These are contour lines, lines corresponding to a specific elevation above sea level. Here's how they work. Imagine a small island in the ocean. At low tide, we might draw a line around the island where the water meets the shore. At high tide, we might draw another line around the island. Perhaps high tide is 10 feet above low tide. So we now have two contour lines, one drawn at low tide, one 10 feet higher drawn at high tide. Imagine next a super high tide, 10 feet above normal high tide. We draw another contour line around the island. And then a fourth, fifth and sixth line each where the water meets the shore if the water level keeps rising at 10-foot intervals.
If the lines were large and distinct enough, we could draw the island as it looks from an airplane. Six lines, each representing the shape of the island at a specific height above sea level, would be visible from the air. Now, suppose one side of the island is a sheer 50-foot cliff. All the contour lines will converge on this side when viewed from above, because they are nearly on top of each other. The opposite side of the island might be a wide sandy beach. Our first contour line rings the beach at low tide. Much of the beach is underwater at high tide. So our high tide line (10 feet above sea level) appears far from the first line, nearly at the edge of the jungle. And our line 20 feet above sea level does not touch the beach at all; it's a line through jungle and rocky cliffs.
The lines are widely spaced on the beach area of the island and close together where there are cliffs. This is our first clue to reading topo maps. Two or more lines very close together mean a very steep grade or cliff. Two or more lines wide apart mean a gentle slope or relatively flat area. Thus, for example, a trail that crosses contour lines is a steep trail and one that runs parallel to the lines is level.
Our illustration below demonstrates this. There are places where the lines form Us, Vs and figure-eights. Whenever the contour lines form Us or Vs, they indicate either a ridge or a gulley/streambed. A ridge is indicated on the map by a set of U- or V-shaped lines pointing toward lower elevations. A streambed or gulley is marked by a set of U- or V-shaped lines pointing toward higher elevations. On the illustration, our ridge ends in a cliff overlooking the sea, and our streambed/gulley begins high up, at the 60-foot line, and descends to the sea in a series of inverted Vs. Imagine the view from the air. When the 60-foot line describes an inverted V--facing into the island center--it is traveling along the walls of a streambed. So are the other, lower lines. When the lines describe a V pointing out to sea, they are running along the slopes of a ridge. The figure-eights, observed from above, describe two mountain peaks separated by a fairly gentle slope in one direction (east-west on our illustration) and by fairly steep gulleys in the other direction (north-south). This gives the contours a kind of pinched waist effect which translates into a figure-eight. (If you want some practice reading contour lines, see Bjorn Kjellstrom's Be Expert with Map and Compass. He even provides a couple of quizzes.)
The following four simple rules explain the contour lines on a topo map:
- Lines close together mean steep gradients.
- Lines farther apart mean gentle gradients.
- V-shaped sets of lines pointing to higher elevations mean gulleys or streambeds.
- V-shaped sets of lines pointing to lower elevations mean ridges.
Scales and Distances
A topographical map has two scales shown at the bottom margin of the map. One indicates distance as the crow flies, the other elevation between contour lines. The distance scale is called "SCALE," and is represented by a ratio number, such as 1:24,000, meaning one inch on the map represents 24,000 inches (or 2,000 feet) in real linear space. Under that notation are usually three calibrated line figures which represent distance in miles, feet and kilometers. The elevation scale is called "Contour Interval" and tells you the vertical distance between the contour lines, such as "Contour Interval 40 Feet." To make all these squiggles easier to follow, most topographical maps give real elevation readings along darker-brown contour lines every 100 or 500 hundred feet. Thus, for example, 7,500 will be marked along a dark brown line. There will then be several light brown contour lines and then another dark brown line with an 8,000 on it. You can figure out how hard or easy it'll be to climb up or down those 500 feet by reading the contour lines in between. Close together means tough going; far apart, it's a piece of cake. In either case, it'll certainly take you longer than walking 500 horizontal feet along a dry meadow. By interpreting distance and elevation readings, you can plan how long and how far you can go in a day.
Topo maps come in different scales. If you see a map with a scale of 1:250,000, (meaning one inch on the map represents 250,000 inches or 20,833 feet in real linear space), a large distance can be crammed onto it--a whole national park, for example. That's great for a panoramic view of where you are in relation to the rest of the world, but it won't have the kind of detail you want for backpacking. Thus it is called a "small-scale map"--it contains a large amount of space but a small amount of detail. Always try to get the map with the most enlarged detail. Even if you have to carry two or three high-detail, large-scale maps to cover the distance you want to go, it'll be worth it. They foretell all the nooks and crannies, spurs and outcroppings, feeder streams and marshes you'll encounter, something to be thankful for.
How to Interpret Map Dates, Colors, and Symbols
Many maps, as we've noted, are outdated. Topo maps, mostly made in the 1950s from aerial photographs, then verified by survey teams, are great on permanent features such as mountains, but often not so great on impermanent roads and trails. Check along the lower border for the date of the map, and if necessary, try to locate a more up-to-date Forest or Park Service map to use in conjunction with it.
The picture from which a topo map is made was supposedly taken in a year of average rainfall during the dry season--late autumn in most parts of the country. The map should show all lakes and rivers at their driest stage. Still, there's no guarantee they'll be the same size or shape when you arrive. Much depends on the season and the latest annual rainfall. When you hike in the spring, that small creek marked on the map by a dotted blue line may be a raging torrent, too tough to cross. That same creek in the fall may be bone dry just when you were planning to stop for some fresh water. On the other hand, large lakes, rivers, meadows and most physical contours on the map will be just as they're supposed to be. Occasionally a flood or avalanche will have rearranged the topography, but on the whole you can rely on the topo map for contour accuracy.
Maps also show structures visible from the air when the area was photographed. Some are houses, cabins, ranger huts or run-down old barns. Some may have rotted away completely. Take care not to depend on the topo map to find shelter from a storm. Those structures--even bridges--may no longer exist.
Finally, map colors are important. Gray represents treeless, rocky areas. White signifies snow or glacier. Green means forest. Mottled green or green-white shows meadowland. These colors help you hike by describing the terrain. Thus, when you plan to leave a marked, manicured trail, it's important to consider not only contour and streams but also the kind of terrain you're heading into. A nearly flat manzanita forest is impassable. But the next hillside, while steeper, may be a pine forest crisscrossed with deer trails. Rocky areas are the easiest to cross but may take some climbing to get to. They're found mainly above the treeline at higher altitudes. Some terrain must be analyzed on the spot, but a great deal can be learned from the topo map's colors and symbols.
Bicyclists' Maps and Routes
Most people who tour on bicycles use automobile road maps and bike tour guides which include maps, elevation changes, distances and campgrounds. Here are a few hints if you are planning a bike tour without a guidebook.
- Try to stay on the smallest rather than the newest or widest roadways. Local county roads are quieter, safer and more interesting than state highways (interstates don't permit bicycle traffic). Color- or letter-coded maps distinguish road size, paving and jurisdiction.
- If there are no elevation markings on your map, look for mountain peaks and rivers. Once you determine which way a river's flowing, you can usually figure out how the road will run, uphill or down.
- Topo maps allow you to plan routes and adventures much more accurately than road maps. Large-scale, 1:250,000 topo maps of National Park or Forest Service lands are great supplements to up-to-date road maps.
- It is as important for a mountain biker to learn to use a compass and topo map as it is for a hiker or backpacker.Covering ground is one thing, knowing where you are is another. Get lost once and you'll become a convert to orienteering, the art of reading maps and a compass.
Canoeing with Map and Sea Chart
Canoeists use topo maps, too. The larger the scale (1:24,000 is a larger ratio than 1:240,000) the better, for what's at stake is the ability to pinpoint bends in the river, inlets, shoals, eddies, falls, flats, swamps and marshes. The curse of the backpacker is shared by the canoeist: a topo map seems never to be new enough, even if printed yesterday. Nevertheless a river- or lake-borne camper without a topo map is a camper in trouble. Streams can degenerate over the years into swamps. Small lakes can dry up. In tandem with a good, current local canoe guide, a topo map and the ability to read it will get you in and out of the wilderness in high fashion rather than high agitation.
What the topo map is to land, the sea chart is to water. In fact, a sea chart is nothing but a topo map turned on its head. It reads the elevations and declensions under water. Coastal and island canoeing, large-lake canoeing require some ability to read sea charts and usually tide charts, too. The big problem here is fog. It's the great disorienter, and without a compass and sea chart, you may be in the pea soup longer than is healthy. Get your bearings before the fog rolls in. Fix your destination on the compass and chart. Stay calm, take frequent readings, and trust the needle, not your nose.
A trail is constructed to certain specifications. It must be a certain width and level across its span. It must have drainage ditches or gutters to channel runoff rain water. Tree branches have to be cleared to a certain height above the trail to allow horseback riders to pass unimpeded. Also, a trail is allowed only a limited angle of inclination. If the grade is too steep, the trail must switch back and forth (hence "switchbacks") so it doesn't exceed the angle at which a horse can comfortably walk up or down. Of course, not all trails comply at all points with all rules. But the vast majority of park trails were built with these standards in mind.
Trails are also maintained regularly. Trees are cleared, brush is trimmed, paths are rerouted on a regular basis in areas of flood damage or avalanche. Trail crews are hired or volunteer to bring the original trail back up to specifications and are paid by the mile. The work is checked by rangers who simply hike the trail behind them, and most parks keep records of trail maintenance. Occasionally a park will abandon a specific trail because it is used so rarely, or to give that particular sector of the backcountry an opportunity to regenerate. Sections of an unmaintained trail will disappear almost completely in three to five years. If you're planning to take what looks like an "out of the way" trail, it might be a good idea to check that it's being maintained before you begin. Any trail shown on the topo map but not on the more up-to-date Forest Service map should be regarded with suspicion. It may not be there any more.
Don't Cut Corners: They'll Wash Away!
It's difficult to construct switchback trails which won't wash out in the rain. To do this, the trail needs to have drains and runoffs in fixed places. When hikers decide it'll be faster to avoid the switchbacks by going straight up or down the slope, their footsteps tend to dig new drains across the switchbacks. When the rain begins to follow those new, irregular paths downward, the trail quickly erodes. The message, therefore, is clear and simple. When hiking switchbacks, don't cut corners. It'll be easier on your knees and feet to avoid a steep descent with a heavy pack and, more important, it saves the trail for those who come later.
Losing a Trail
Shortcuts
Shortcuts are highly unpredictable. The terrain can be tricky or thick with vegetation. There's also the danger of getting lost. Shortcuts often take longer than the route you're "cutting short."
On one of our first mountain trips we decided to take a shortcut. It looked easy on the map: half a mile saved and all downhill. When we started out, we immediately ran into almost impenetrable brush--six-foot-high manzanita--solid and prickly. We couldn't see where our feet were landing. We got poked in the eyes. At points it was so steep we had to hang by the nearest branch, then slip and slide our way down. When the grade leveled off, we found ourselves over our heads in bush grass. The going was muddy, hot, slow, frustrating and just plain dumb. We reached our destination more exhausted and tattered than if we had stuck to the trail. Luckily, we weren't hurt or lost.
Lost and Found
Even if you avoid shortcuts and have the right maps and a compass, it's still not hard to lose a trail. Trail markers may have been destroyed, junctions and turn-offs may be indistinct, or the trail may simply peter out at points. Finely- crafted drainage ditches or dry streambeds might look more like the trail than the trail itself. Deer paths in the woods may seem to be the main one until they cross others that look exactly alike, at which point you begin to wonder where your partners went.
On a recent four-person trip, we found ourselves lagging while our two companions wanted to hike faster. It was decided that they'd wait for us at the signpost to "Silver Lake" or at a trail junction. They bounded off without any maps, while we plodded slowly. About an hour later, we realized that there'd been neither a sign nor a trail junction, and that we were well beyond Silver Lake. Doubling back, we found the signpost, broken off and obscured by brush, next to the junction, which was in an area too rocky and sandy to be seen. Meanwhile, we had no idea if our companions had found the lake or not. So Hal sat at the junction with the packs while Rick hiked a mile to the lake, found no one there, and returned. Then Rick sat with the packs while Hal hiked down the main trail until he found our friends drying off after a trailside swim in a tiny lake they assumed was Silver Lake. Soon we were back together, but not without relearning a couple of lessons. First, never assume trails or crossroads are well-marked or marked at all. And second, never split up in unfamiliar territory.
There are several other things to keep in mind, too. The most important is that as long as you have drinking water, food and the shelter you carry on your back, you can make camp almost anywhere. If you can't find the trail, simply hunker down, take time to mull things over and meanwhile, enjoy your surroundings. Also, never let that pack out of your sight as you wander around in the woods looking for Route 66. And, for that matter, instead of plunging blindly ahead into the unknown, try to backtrack; that'll usually return you to square one and get you safely on your way again.
Often even a well-maintained trail can disappear as it crosses granite faces or other rocky terrain. There are no trees with blaze marks or ribbon markers to keep you on course, no boot prints in the dust. No dust! Only rock. You've stopped without a clue. Go back to where the trail is last visible. Check on your map how far you'll be walking over the rock face. Maybe it doesn't make any difference exactly where you walk if you can key in on your destination, and if the terrain is equally safe in the approximate vicinity of the trail. Above all, look for cairns (sometimes called "trail ducks"): three rocks set one on top of the other by some thoughtful hiker who knows the route. They are usually at regular intervals along the rock face or through an open, trackless meadow. Anyone who has ever lost a trail will be grateful to those anonymous friends who took the time to stop and build a cairn.
Other hikers will not only sometimes mark the trail, but will also have advice that keeps you on course. Ask lots of questions of those coming from the opposite direction. Where are they coming from? How far is the nearest lake, campsite or watering spot? Where's the best fishing? Does the trail become hard to follow or is it well-marked all the way to your destination? Then offer information. Sit down, pull out maps and go over routes. Tell them which way to go. Remind them that a trail marker a mile back was hit by lightning and is no longer visible. They'll be as grateful to you as you are to them.
If, after all your efforts, you can't find a decent, well-marked trail, turn back. You may be on an unmaintained track. An alternative may have been constructed since your map was made. If you go on, assume that things may get worse and that for all practical purposes you will be doing a "cross-country"--that is, an off-trail hike.
Slow and careful are the keys to cross-country or off-trail hiking. Cross-country hiking never works out exactly as planned, and you need plenty of time to stop, figure and rest—off-trail "bushwhacking" tires you out faster than on-trail hiking. Give yourself as much time to hike cross-country as you can. To do this, stay on the trail as long as possible before leaving it for the off-trail leg of your trip. Never start out late in the day if you have to be somewhere by nightfall. You might need a whole day to negotiate the rock fall or steep ravine that stands between you and fabled Lake Mooselookmeeguntuk. Reaching your destination is always very slow; the return trip over now-familiar terrain will be much faster.
We usually average a quarter mile per hour off the trail in the high Sierra or Rockies, half a mile or more in the Alaskan tundra or the high desert of Nevada. We never plan to cover more than one or two miles in a day. To start as early as possible, we camp near the point where we leave the trail. We always lay out our route in advance using the topo map, which is not difficult for such short daily distances. Just look for a route between two points that involves the least change in elevation. Try to avoid places where contour lines run close together. Even if only two lines seem to converge, that's a sheer 40-foot cliff—too steep to climb without experience, confidence and the proper gear. Keep the contour lines as far apart as possible when you plan a cross-country trek.
You must be careful with every step when off the trail. You can't let your mind wander to the scenery or to the snows of yesteryear. Eyes must stay on the ground just ahead, checking every footfall. There's lots of balancing to do, especially when hiking through brush. It saps strength, tears stuffsacks, snags fishing rods and anything else not properly battened down on your pack. If you have to go through brush, make sure all ties are double-knotted, and all zippers are fully zipped. Fishing and tent poles must not stick up above your pack or they will be broken by low-hanging branches. You might fall. If you do, fragile objects inside your pack—camera lenses, eggs—may break unless they are properly cushioned. Liquids not tightly contained and encased in plastic will run all over everything.
Keep your hands free to clear brush or grasp at branches to pull yourself along. Mark your route if possible with bits of colored cloth or rope tied to branches so you don't get turned around or lost. And stay together! It's too easy to get separated and lost in thick growth.
Hiking over boulder fields is more common in the high mountains than crashing through brush. It helps to wear hiking boots (rather than tennis or jogging shoes)—the soles are not torn up by walking and balancing on the corners of large boulders, and the ankles aren't twisted by the precarious angles. Again, keep your hands free; use them to hold on when you can. Try to test each rock or boulder with light foot pressure before putting all your weight on it. If the rock is wobbly, be careful. It can send you and your 40-pound pack tumbling down a field of granite boulders.
It's generally easier to hike uphill than downhill when you're making your way off the trail. You can plan an uphill route from below, with a good view of the entire hillside. Going down, you're likely to come to a steep gradient you couldn't see from above. Suddenly you're staring down at what seems like a sheer cliff.
Never assume a straight line is the safest or easiest way from here to there. Use the topo map wisely. Once you figure out the best route, try to stick to it closely so long as it proves safe and feels right. The important thing is not to walk yourself into a place you can't return from.
If the going gets too tough, you can stop, turn or go back. There's no requirement to get anywhere by any time. Never feel pressured to continue even your own pre-planned route. Stay flexible, stay cool and don't be afraid to change plans and routes. There are other lakes to fish, other streams to camp along, other routes to the same place. There's no need to do something you're afraid of off-trail. Knowing that is the difference between a novice and an old-timer.
Getting Your Bearings Off-Trail
How do you prevent getting lost off the trail? Plan well, stay highly alert and observant, and keep track of both what's ahead and what's behind you.
First, pre-plot your route carefully. Know, for example, that it will take you over a ridge, along the flank of a 10,000-foot peak, down a granite field, then up a stream and through a meadow toward the lake. Keep these features in the forefront of your mind. Before you leave the trail, take a hard look around for all distinctive landmarks: a strange rock outcropping, a tall barren tree once struck by lightning and thus black against the green forest, a distant mountain peak. Note what lies in the direction you're headed. Think how the appearance of these landmarks will change as you hike cross-country. And look for features you know are on your route.
You may or may not plan to return by the same route. Nevertheless, you may need to get back to the trail at this same spot, especially if your route proves impassable and you must turn around. Thus, you might want to mark your trail. Cairns, colored ribbons strung on branches and retrieved if you return, green vegetation hung on a barren branch—all give you a sense of confidence that is more than worth the additional time you spend doing it. Also, if you do intend to come back the way you went in, a marked course will save you one final embarrassment—walking right past the maintained trail. It's surprisingly easy to miss an "obvious" trail, and frustrating, doubling back till you do find it. If you mark everything from the start, you can avoid that problem on a day when you may have to hike out, drive home and get to work.
More precise than sighted landmarks or marked routes is a combined use of the topo map and a compass. They can help you decide where you are and where your destination is relative to you. There are whole books on the use of compass and maps ; what we give you here is a quick digest of the main points.
Whether you have a compass or not, practice with the topo map on the trail, before you really need it. When you reach open places, try to locate where you are on the map by observation alone. Do this by orienting the map to two or more observable landmarks, then draw imaginary (or real) lines from them back toward "yourself." Where the lines intersect is approximately where you are.
Now do the same thing with your compass. First orient the map. That means getting it aligned with the real world out there. Set the map on a flat rock, placing the edge of your compass on the magnetic north (MN) declination line marked on the bottom margin of the map, and twist map and compass together until the north-pointing needle is lined up with the 360 or 0 degrees mark on the compass. Now your map is properly aligned and you're ready to go to work. Take sightings on two or more identifiable landmarks, the farther away (though still represented on your map) the better.
Here's how you take a sighting. Hold the compass in your hand. Point the Direction-of-Travel arrow toward the landmark. (The assumption here is that you have an "orienteering" compass.) Now twist the compass housing till the north-pointing needle is lined up with the orienting arrow at the bottom of the housing. That's all. Just read the number of degrees which come up on the edge of the housing facing the landmark.
If you don't have an orienteering compass, face the landmark, holding the compass in front of you. Slowly rotate the compass until its north-pointing needle lines up with the N on the housing. Don't rotate yourself! Now read the number of degrees facing the landmark.
Say the reading is 330 degrees. Once you have a first reading, take a second or third on other landmarks, the farther from each other the better. In the illustration below, the second reading is 32 degrees. Now go back to your oriented map, set one edge of the compass on the first landmark and then rotate the compass, still keeping the edge in contact with the landmark, until the north-pointing needle again lines up with the orienting arrow, giving you a 330-degrees reading on the map. Draw a line along the compass edge back toward yourself. Repeat for the second landmark and maybe a third. Where the lines intersect is where you are. You can now determine from the map how much farther it is and how rough the terrain will be between your present location and your destination.
A final word of caution. Your sightings, readings and orientings may be correct but there is still a chance you'll end up with approximate, rather than pinpoint, locations. You may trudge on for an hour, reach the top of a rise and expect to see the promised lake. Instead, you see another rise, like the bear that went over the mountain. You take more readings and bearings and come up with the same results. You have moved, but those distant peaks on which you sighted are so far and so high that to them you haven't moved at all. Keep the faith, check your progress vis-a-vis closer landmarks, and take it slow and easy. The lake is there, over one or two more rises, and if your footing is sure and the sun is up, you'll arrive in time to unpack, set up camp, drop a line and cook a fine trout supper.
The Global Positioning System
You're hopelessly lost. The trail you thought you were following has turned into a prickly thicket unfit for Br'er Rabbit. Not to worry. You reach into your pack and draw out a small Walkman-sized electronic gizmo. You push a few buttons. Within moments, the screen lights up and tells you exactly where you are, how far you've come, how far you have to go, and in which direction. It will direct you to the nearest lake, the closest ranger station, or back to camp.
Since December 1993, a multi-billion-dollar system of geographical location satellites has been available for use by anglers, aviators, and anyone else who doesn't want to get lost. Called the Global Positioning System (GPS), these satellites beam down signals year-round, day and night, rain or shine. If you can catch those beams, you can find your position within around 300 feet horizontally and about 500 feet in altitude. All you need is a clear shot at the sky and a GPS receiver. Once as expensive as $1,500 and as heavy as three to four pounds, today they cost less than $200 and weigh less than nine ounces, including a couple of AA batteries which keep them running for five to ten hours. They're also completely waterproof. In years to come, they're sure to get even smaller, cheaper, and more sophisticated. Before you purchase one from a camping store, check marine supply catalogs for the lowest prices.
A GPS unit works anywhere you have a straight shot at a broad chunk of sky. Trees don't seem to cause signal problems, but mountains, cliffs and tall buildings may block or reflect signals, causing "shadows" and errors. The lightweight units are sometimes slow and may take as long as 10 minutes to check the sky for satellites and calculate your position when first turned on. But when checked again, they remember which satellites were up there and find the signals faster.
How sophisticated are these things? Today, lightweight GPS units display your position on a small topo map along with your exact longitude and latitude. The GPS easily plugs into your home computer to load in the road and topo maps for the specific trip you're taking. While you're still in your car, the GPS will help you find that dirt road only the locals know. And once on the trail, it will keep tabs on your rate of speed and figure your estimated time of arrival at camp each night. It will consider both altitude and distance in plotting the best route off-trail to Long Lost Lake for a day of fishing; then guide you back to camp that evening with a maximum error of about 100 yards. Unlike compass reading errors, which have a tendency to compound as you walk onward in a slightly skewed direction, GPS readings will never err by more than a hundred yards. As much fun as we have fiddling with our map and compass, they may soon become obsolete. In another decade, all anyone may need in the wilderness will be a GPS and a few extra batteries.
Walkie-Talkies and Cell Phones in the Wilderness
If you need to keep track of Junior on a scramble up a peak or you can't wait to find out how many lunkers old Bubba pulled in across the lake, you might consider buying a couple of FRS (Family Radio Service) walkie-talkies. About the size of a cell phone (6 oz.), they work on AA batteries. A fresh set of batteries will typically give you about two hours of talking time or nearly 20 hours of "standby" time, during which another unit can "beep" you if someone out there wants to communicate.
FRS radios typically have a range of one to two miles if the parties are in sight of each other. The range shrinks to about half a mile in the forest (about the same as a loud plastic whistle). If your party is driving to the campsite in more than one vehicle, you can use these walkie-talkies to communicate on the road as well. And if you're halfway up the face of El Capitan and need to talk to your partner on the ground, "hands-free" models are also available.
As these are short-range radios, a number of units can communicate on the same channel. To prevent other FRS units from eavesdropping, newer models allow you to "scramble" the signal so that only other units with the proper decoding setting can listen and talk to your party. FRS radios are typically waterproof and tough and stand up well to constant outdoor use. At around $50 a unit, they're also affordable.
In contrast, GMRS (General Mobile Radio Service) radios tend to be larger, heavier, and more expensive, though also more powerful than FRS radios. The models typically sold to campers operate at two watts of power, giving them twice the range of a half-watt FRS unit. (For all you puzzled physicists, four times the power gets you only twice the distance.) To use a GMRS radio, though, you also need to get an FCC license. This costs $75 for the first five years, somewhat less than that for subsequent renewals.
Finally, much as we hate to admit it, the ubiquitous cell phone is making inroads into the wilderness. Having conquered cars, restaurants, movies, and museums, they're going to be in campers' hands in ten minutes. The call of the wild is going to be replaced by the phone call in the wild. And as this new generation of cell phones communicates with low-orbit satellites, their weight can be less than a pound, making them a portable accessory on canoe or pack trips. Perhaps someday signs will need to be posted making wilderness areas "cell-phone-free" zones.
Information Resources
Personal Radio Steering Group, Inc.
P.O. Box 2851 Ann Arbor, MI 48106
(734) 662-4533.
website: www.provide.net/~prsg/
GMRS Web E-zine
website: www.dougweb.com/gmrs.html
To reach the FCC: (888) 225-5322
website: www.fcc.gov/