(1) A liquid white gas stove that has been in production for over 25 years. It has an external fuel tank (fuel bottle) connected to the burner by a tube. The basic Whisperlite burns only white gas but the "International" version burns multiple types of fuel. It has three foldable metal legs forming both the base of the stove and the pot stand. Before use the fuel bottle has to be pressurized by pumping air into it, and the burner needs to be pre-headed by burning a small amount of fuel before the stove is lit. A properly functioning stove will have a blue flame and sound something like a jet (aircraft).
(2) Most amusing liquid fuel stove ever made. Camped across a small lake, we arose one fine, still morning in early fall to admire the sunrise and begin preparing breakfast. Suddenly from across the lake came the sound of a jet plane warming up for takeoff. It was another group firing up their "Whisperlite" stove, as it's called. Love them marketing folks. Our ears still ring a little most days.
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Me? Recently noticed that my pants are on fire again.
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(1) One of the primary reasons to go backpacking is that it feels really good when you stop, and one of those times is around the middle of the day, when you can both stop and also eat. This activity is called "lunch", and since you will be outdoors when you do it, you are thereby officially out to lunch.
(2) A merging of the terms "lunge" and "lurch". What you do when you are standing somewhere and eating a big messy sandwich full of tasty, wet and sloppy goodness and the filling just sort of foops out of your hand and heads for the ground. Even if you are successful at catching it you will still be at least a little upset, and your hands will be messy, though you will still be fed. If you do catch it.
(3) A meal at midday, especially when not the main meal of the day. Any small meal, especially at a social gathering.
(4) A mid-day repast, dating from 1829. This is a shortened form of "luncheon", originally from the 1650s, referring to a noonish-to-afternoon meal eaten by those whose main meal is eaten about then.
(5) "Out to lunch" is slang. Its meaning of insane, stupid, or clueless was first recorded 1955. Applies to backpackers as well.
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Me? Fighting the cat for the last scraps.
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A textile made of loosely woven fibers created by interlocking rows of yarns. This special structure gives the fabric extra bulk and stretch, which makes it especially useful for base layers, socks, and fleece fabrics.
This stuff was originally was called nonits (no nits), nognats (no gnats), or knats (know gnats, which is what you had to do if you forgot your knittenwear and were reduced to simply outsmarting the bugs, which isn't always so easy).
Now the label has been trimmed down to just knits, after a standard bit of linguistic decay that happens everywhere because of humanity's determined efforts to stamp out the most entertaining aspects of verbal corruption and depravity.
In olden times before window screens or bug netting, knit fabric was the first line of breathable defense against the buzzing hordes of suckers, pokers, stingers and biters that make backpacking into the top-notch sport it has become.
Knits in those days (the olden ones) were made of any stray fuzz that came to hand.
Horsehair, dog whiskers, goat beards, cat lint, and corn silk were all pressed into service with varying degrees of success until someone tried sheep fuzz and became not only pretty good at making knit goods but also immensely wealthy in a neolithic sort of way. (I.e., was suddenly easily able to buy a second spouse for use on rainy days.)
Following the invention of shears it was no longer necessary to drag sheep behind horses to rub off the fur, and life proceeded with much less friction (and howling) until the invention of explosives (or the cat grinder — no one is exactly sure which produces the most noise, though the latter was quickly outlawed as unsportsmanlike).
The prime qualities of knits are that they are soft, drape well, come in various thicknesses, are now usually made of durable, easily washed and rotproof synthetic materials, and they don't bark.
No known fabric does verifiably bark, but still, why quibble over details, or take a chance either? The real key item about knits is that the yarns going into them loop around thither and yon, locking and then yet again interlocking with one another, and end up not only agreeably barkless but pretty cushy too.
We could do worse, and lots of us have already, so take a look at the knits. They might help you with your recovery.
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Me? Recently nominated for something by someone, somewhere.
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A large pocket knife. Often a large one. Or sometimes one not-so-large, but a pocket knife.
The jackknife may have gotten its name because it originally was associated with sailors, formerly called "tars", or "jack tars". "Jack Tar" being an English term for seamen. (Sea men, sea-men, men who go to sea in ships, but not that other stuff you might be thinking of. Keep it clean and tidy, 'K?)
Or "tars".
They were also called "tars" because they put tar on stuff. A lot. It's what they did a lot of. To seal up the leaky ships, which once upon a time were made of boards. Boards of wood. Which were kind of leaky, you can imagine. (Right? Are we right?) But they didn't want to sink down with the ship, the tars didn't, if the ship sank, so they slathered tar all over the place. And likely the knife business came in somewhere, 'cuz guys like knives an stuff. Who can say?
Also known as: "pocket knife". Mostly because it's a knife that fits in a pocket, maybe? Yeah, prolly.
Anyhow, handy. A handy thing. A tool.
Handy to cut stuff with, and because the blade or blades fold into the handle, you don't cut your hand while handling it. Unless it's unfolded and the blade is out. Which is when you don't want to put it in your pocket, so you "jackknife" it and get it all folded and safe. And then you put it back in your pocket. If you're not stupid. (Good luck there, Bud.)
All of which seems kind of complicated, but that's life sometimes, isn't it?
Bye.
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Me? Working on my situps. For some reason they expect you to be upright at work, but it's a hard attitude to maintain. Working on it.
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Very difficult to get started, and even harder to keep lit, but terrible in its effects — the fiercer it burns, the colder the flame.
It is believed that the entire Arctic region was created by a giant ancient igloo fire that reached critical mass and burned out of control several thousand years ago.
Think about it.
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Me? Shivering with delight.
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The feeling that attacks you from the inside after hanging your food and finding that you can't get it back down again. Fatal if not treated soon enough. (See image, 'K?)
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Me? Recently fed.
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So Mommy says don't put beans up your nose, but did she ever try it? Don't think so.
My mom came from a time and place where beans went into the ground (spring) or into the soup (any old time). And that was it. No nose beans, because everybody knew that beans and noses were not meant to be. No need to try it yourself. End of story.
A lot of things were like that where I came from. Common knowledge. Absolute limits. Duh.
Look both ways before crossing the street, even an empty street.
Wear your mittens.
Brush your teeth once a day, right after getting out of bed, before eating.
Always have on clean underwear, in case you're hit by a truck, so the people at the hospital won't be disgusted as you die.
Never miss before-bedtime prayers, lest the god-thing rise to anger and reach for the whacking stick.
Eat everything on your plate to make up for starvation somewhere.
Respect authority. All authority. Everywhere. All the time.
Rejoice in progress, for it will make us all happier, richer, and ever more content. Even if it hurts and is confusing.
It's for your own good, so conform. Comply. Shut up.
If it now comes in a pouch, and costs less, and is never touched by human hands, and is harder to understand, and can't be repaired by ordinary mortals, and goes faster, and sluices you into the drain of complete faceless anonymity, then it's progress. So give up — you can't fight it.
I just finished a long airline trip. It was a miracle, a miracle of our age.
Imagine traveling thousands of miles in a single day, spending a day or two in a strange place, and then rewinding it all and magically returning home with all your original parts in place, albeit a tad tired. That's me, after an incident of progress.
And you know what? Poop on it.
Just poop on it all.
The best way to travel is the slowest. Not the fastest but the slowest. The most primitive, the most rudimentary, ordinary, most old-fashioned analog way you can. The way most open to fumbling, misdirection, error, and serendipity, with plenty of slow-motion time flowing all around so if something kinda goes wrong? You know? Wrong? Well, you still have plenty of time to fix it.
The way that gives you time to think, and time to feel. And time to sleep a little if you want to, and not be left stranded thousands of miles from home because your life, your self, didn't quite fit into an arbitrary schedule.
Multi-day, cross-country bus trips used to be an ordeal, but now that we have cross-continent and cross-ocean air travel, I long for a simple, agonizing multi-day bus trip, the sort of ongoing event that would let you get out and stretch your legs every now and then, and sniff the air, and hear a thing or two, and actually see, in person, whatever small town the bus happened to be stopped in, if only for a few minutes.
Air travel is fast, and that's all. Everything else about it is horrific.
I'm not big as people go these days, but sitting in my airline seat, I didn't even have room to cross my legs. That's bad enough. Two eleven-and-a-half-hour layovers, one going, one returning, were worse. It's now five days later and I'm still running into walls, and I have a head cold or something, and a headache and a sore throat, and I didn't even cross a single time zone.
I would much rather get on a boat and kill two weeks each way than to fly any more. I would much rather mount the stairs and board a gigantic fantasy airship that held a thousand people and cruised at 50 miles an hour and took a whole week or two, and be able to sit and look out the window and marvel at leisure, and walk around and be totally at ease than to sit, stuck in a tiny seat just barely big enough for my smaller-than-average self, for four-and-a-half-hour flights. Yes.
I cannot at all imagine a really long flight like the ones that cross the Pacific. I'm not even sure that humans can actually endure that sort of experience, despite knowing that they do. Some do — good grief how?
I'd even be willing to try walking or bicycling from one continent to another, if that could be managed. Perhaps not in the world as we know it, but it's a thought — in a better world, yes, maybe I could do that. Maybe I'd be willing to try. It would not be fast, but it would be real, a journey to remember.
But flying any more? Not really, no, unless I absolutely have to. Not any more. It's too much progress for me to comply with any more. I'm done complying.
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Me? Jetlagged, yet somehow not full of hope.
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(1) A piece of clothing for the hands, not a mitten, and covering all or part of the hand and fingers, while allowing independent movement of the fingers. (Yay! Uh...all, or part? Or...which?)
(2) Garments for covering the hands, having separate sheaths or openings for each finger and the thumb. Fingerless gloves have openings for but no covering sheath for each finger. (Uh, yay?)
(3) Backpacker's pot grippers. Unless you are German, in which case we're talking about Handschuh, or hand-shoes. (OK then. Okie-dokie, etc. Whatever.)
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(1) One source describes this as the container that holds and dispenses gas, but this could be a good description of your hiking partner, so it isn't quite precise enough, and we like precision. So how about this, from Backpacker magazine's (now defunct) online More Jargon file: "Tanks come in several varieties, from separate bottles to screw-on canisters to integral tanks. Most liquid-fuel stoves link via a fuel line to a refillable fuel bottle that must be pumped to pressurize the fuel for use. Most also require priming, or preheating. Liquid-fuel stoves demand varying degrees of assembly and periodic maintenance. While they are bulkier, heavier, and less convenient than canister stoves, they stand up better to strong winds and cold weather. Models that burn multiple fuels, like white gas, kerosene, and auto gas, are valuable when traveling overseas. Liquid fuel is lighter than canisters for long trips with infrequent opportunities to refuel, and it offers you the flexibility of packing the amount you need in fuel bottles of various sizes."
Are you dizzy yet? Well, so are they, obviously, never managing to define fuel bottle, and using so many words to do it. Who said all the bureaucrats work for the government?
(2) A fuel bottle is just a bottle to carry fuel in, for a backpacking stove. If using an alcohol-burning stove your only absolute requirement is that the container does not leak. Since alcohol is non-explosive and about as close to non-toxic as you can get, you don't have to worry about getting any bottle that might require a bank loan. Keep it simple, eh?
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Me? Recovering from my latest nose-hair-shaving attempt. (Slowly.)
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(1) A movement within the earth's crust or mantle, caused by the sudden rupture or repositioning of stressed subsurface rocks as they release those stresses. (The crusty definition.)
(2) The event formerly known as earthdin. What you feel whenever the earth rolls over in its sleep. Or it could be the snoring that does it.
An 1828 dictionary says "A shaking, trembling or concussion of the earth; sometimes a slight tremor; at other times a violent shaking or convulsion; at other times a rocking or heaving of the earth. Earthquakes are usually preceded by a rattling sound in the air, or by a subterraneous rumbling noise." Which about sums up earthdin. Also known as eorthequakynge, among the kinky.
Anyway, it's hard to stay on your feet during a typical earthquake, and hard to sleep through one, and all that.
One of these may temporarily rupture hiking trails, but hikers are a busy lot and nearly instantly get back to work like hordes of buzzing ants, tidying up our trails and restoring things, so overall earthquakes are only amusing entertainment. (Do ants buzz?)
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Me? Rumbling, gently for now, but look out.
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It's easy to tell when day comes, because you can see things. The wrong time is called night, and is dark.
Night is the when you stumble around and bump into things that you can't see. This is good, since a lot of these things, you don't want to see. But also it's not so good, because even though it's dark, and you can't see them, that does nothing for bumping, and the teeth and claws, and their dark, compelling, overpowering, and unspeakable appetites which, if you bump into one of them, you get to experience first hand.
But back to the light side.
As is known by just about everyone, and already stated here, day is when you can see stuff. Day is divided into several parts. The first part, called dawn is technically part of day, and contains a lot of light, but is better slept through. Despite this, by any shred of common sense whatsoever, dawn is when birds emerge from their burrows, climb high enough in the trees so you can't get a clear shot, and then begin skreeking, chirping, peeping, twirping, squawking, hooting, cheeping, shrieking, chirruping, cooing, screeching, tweedling, and cawing at one another, and at you. And pooping from on high, liberally at times.
Once forced from your cozy bed by this unholy racket, you have to face several things. One of these is of course the fact that you went to bed filthy, after having been unable to bathe for several days, and woke up not only filthier than ever but also hungry, thirsty, and with a headache caused by all that mindless uncompromising arboreal dissonance. You want nothing more than to destroy something with your hands, or to shoot it dead, or at least pinch its head off. As soon, that is, as you have breakfast, a bath of some kind, and anything at all with caffeine in it to drink, whether that is tea, or coffee (you wish), or the blood of someone who has even passed within shouting distance of a cup of hot coffee within the last week or two.
Oddly though, after you've eaten something and scraped some of the crud off your body with a damp and frigid rag, you find that you don't feel all that bad, considering, and resume your journey, which takes you into the next part of day, which is that period between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. — the Sunburn Hours. If you are lucky, and the sky is pleasantly overcast, you find that your skin has been spared, but this feeling of relief is brief, because an overcast day is perfect bug weather, and the bugs attack en masse, fully aware, in their tiny brains, of where each of your most sensitive and least protected spots is, confident that no matter how many hundreds of them you kill, or even thousands, that their reserve forces can overwhelm you at any moment, and suck you completely dry, though they always prefer to prolong the agony, and sip lightly, each a little bit.
But at the last moment, when you are nothing more than a wriggling upright pillar of swollen and itching flesh, covered in tiny bites numbering in the millions, and howling in frustration, you are saved. By rain, which falls for the rest of the day, and follows you along the trail, from where you can see clear sky all around except (and it always happens this way on this kind of day) overhead, where the cold, cold rain is, falling directly onto your head.
But this ensures that at least you become, during the last few hours of light, less foul and nasty in the way of dried sweat, hair grease, and eye boogers, but much less pleasant to be around for anyone desiring sparkling afternoon repartee.
At least, at last though, evening does arrive, and signals the last part of the day, when, no matter what, you simply have to cease walking due to imminent darkness, so you find a camp site, stop, eat supper, hang your food, crawl into bed, and fall asleep, only to be wakened somewhere around midnight by a plague of frenzied mice, attracted by the smell of food on your lips, and perhaps the salty residue on your skin, which reminds them of the spilled stash of corn chips left by the last person to use this camp site, but which nevertheless shoves you howling into dementia, caught in an agony of fear and surprise, slapping at your things and hopping around camp with one leg irretrievably tangled in your sleeping bag so you trip over every guy line you have and rip your tent to shreds, but at least, at last, finally they retreat long enough so you can catch your breath.
Which is when you hear that sound overhead. No, not the birds again, not yet. Not this time.
This time it is something large, and furry, of great weight. All that, and slightly visible thanks to the merest dim glow of starlight, you discern the outline of a bear reaching out toward your food, reaching a bit too far, and then you hear the crack of that limb as both the bear and your food come hurtling toward earth, toward you in fact, as you realize that you are far too near what you realize is ground zero. At precisely the last possible instant you fall over backward as the hairy beast and absolutely all the food you have left for the next seven days hit the ground mere inches from your face and the earth shudders.
With what is left of your mind you feel the tiniest flicker of joy as you discover that the bear has survived, to run away, and not even over the top of your supine body, but in the other direction, and a feeling of grateful relief flows through your entire quivering body, which is exactly when the last cog of the last toothy gear in the great clock of the day clicks over, to dawn, and the birds go off again.
(2) Divisions of the week, by day.
(a) Sun Day — Day of the Sun, created in honor of the Lord Ultraviolet.
(b) Moan Day — Moaning Day. For healing and recovery from whatever happened on Saturday and Sunday.
(c) Tubes Day — Tuber Day, to commemorate potatoes, all potato-like things, and whatever it is they have done for civilization.
(d) Woeds Day — Or Woody Day or Woods Day, or maybe Wedding Day. Get one, or go there, or attend one, whatever works for you. It's all to the good, supposedly.
(e) Thrus Day — To memorialize thru-hiker journals and literacy, and those who have not forgotten how to read and write and stuff. Also fast food, for some reason, maybe because it just goes through you on its way to a more permanent home.
(f) Fry Day — Fried Fast Food Day, when all AYCE buffets are half-off, or should be. This day is frequently brought to a close with a quart or two of ice cream, sometimes deep fried.
(g) Sat Day — The day when you commemorate the last time you sat down for a real bath by doing it again if you can, so you can say you do it at least once a week. Especially for the young, this is the time to get clean and squeaky, become drunken, and commit unspeakable personal acts with others, better looking than you if possible.
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Me? Trying to find my way home by smell. Have met several interesting people along the way, a few in uniform. At least that's what they feel like.
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Any low herbaceous or woody plant growing so densely that it forms a resilient, cushion-like mat.
The backpacker's ideal landscaping.
Lie down anywhere and bingo, you have a mattress.
Cushy.
Planty.
Sweet-scented, sometimes.
Get it scrunched overnight? A little too compressed? Wrinkly? No problem, just move two feet to the left and you have another fresh, bouncy mattress.
Botanists claim that there are actually plants like this, plants that are so dense and branchy (And low to the ground!) that they make a sort of thick, pleasantly soft, resilient sleepable mat.
Heather might qualify.
Yes, heather might, if you stick to the plant, but don't try any of this with Heather with a capital "H", not her, the plant, dumbnuts.
Unfortunately, in the real world plants like this want to grow in tufts, kind of like bunch grass. Tough and tufty, like a woody wad perched up top a lump.
And you can't sleep on that.
But if you're short and curl up a little you can sleep on heather and pretend that there is a rainbow over your bed, and a pot of gold nearby, and that you hear sounds of unicorns munching marshmallows, although it may be just some flies in your ears, whispering yet more lies.
Example: Bob found out the hard way that cushion plants may be low and dense, but not not all are that cushiony. (What did you expect, Bob? Are you dense?)
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Me? Taking it easy. So easy.
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(1) The yellow-rumped warbler (Setophaga coronata), known for the yellow patch on its behind and its fondness for ham sandwiches, although they are primarily insectivorous. When hanging out, they prefer forests, both mature coniferous and mixed coniferous-deciduous ones. In winter the hardier ones look for fruiting shrubs and scattered trees like those found in parks, open pine and pine-oak forest, dune areas, and open streamsides, but the smart ones move into apartments with central heating and cable TV.
(2) A ham-sandwich-eating soul who gets more exercise with his jaws than with his legs, thus accumulating an Olympic-sized sit zone.
(3) Touron. Defined elsewhere. Look it up. (Hint — Wikipedia knows.)
(4) An accomplished but not physically imposing hiker who seems to accumulate more miles than anyone else with no fuss while remaining disconcertingly plump.
This case is something like that of the bumblebee, which is reputedly unable to fly because of its round shape and distracting body fuzz, but which does pretty darn well, thanks.
The cruel, joyous irony is that someone like said butter butt can keep ahead of you forever because, unlike your muscular, lean, wiry little starving self, the butter butt is not — ah, how shall we put this — starving, and can go pretty much anywhere and keep doing it pretty much forever and you can't, though you might rack up longer days and have a higher average mileage for the first week or so, but after that you end up in the hospital attached to the business end of a high calorie nutrient drip.
You do that while old butter butt stays out there and keeps on hiking in a happy cloud of multi-colored butterflies and bumblebees, whistling a happily-ignorant tune.
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Me? Trying to remember where I hid the ham.
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(1) Armpit. You know who you are. There is hair growing out of you and you are sweaty and you stink.
(2) Given that, imagine every backpacker.
(3) The medical term for armpit, a common place for gonadal hair after puberty. Armpit hair is referred to medically as axillary hair, but most of us prefer to remain ignorant.
Example: Axilla the Hun had plenty to spare of armpit hair.
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Me? Gotta go shave something, right now.
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This is a designation earned by any person who has hiked the official (white blazed) Appalachian Trail in its entirety, between Springer Mountain in Georgia and Mount Katahdin in Maine's Baxter State Park.
The term is used as a matter of tradition (the original estimated length of the AT) and for continuity (rather than changing the designation each time the trail has a length adjustment when it is rerouted, which is pretty often).
Those who claim 2000-miler status should have hiked every mile of the AT between its termini, not just any 2000 miles.
The sequence, direction, speed, or length of time in which each section is traversed and whether one carries a pack or not don't matter, but only covering the entire trail counts, even for those who decide to hike the trail backwards, or sideways. Yes, equal recognition is given to thru-hikers and section hikers alike.
Example: Ed's a "2000 Miler". He hiked the whole trail.
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Me? Just trying to get out of bed most days.
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so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
(3) How you hike when your mind is somewhere else than your body, which is hiking without you.
(4) Being so tired and stupefied by physical effort that you've lost track of where you are or what you're doing, maybe even who you are, leaving your body stumbling numbly along a trail while your mind (or what's left of it), has run off to hide elsewhere. This sounds bad until you remember that you're not stuck in a cubicle or lurching through anything even remotely similar to your ordinary daily routine.
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Me? Thinking. . .Brain — super food or not? (Asking for a buddy.)
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
(1) So "Yo" is a greeting, as when two hikers meet. "Yo-yo" is a double greeting, one that you can give to yourself by first reaching the end of the trail, and then really quickly turning around and starting back the way you came so fast that you bump into yourself. Swearing works too.
(2) Even if you're not fast enough to execute a one-person collision, you can still use "yo-yo" to mean hiking from one end of a trail to the other, and then hiking back to where you started. Some people do this over really long trails, if they have a whole lot of time to kill and no imagination.
(3) A stupid person. (What was your first guess? See previous definition.)
(4) Someone with nothing better to do than to hike a trail, and then turn around and do it again in reverse. This person may be a yokel (a yo-yo mechanic) on vacation. Or may have left his wallet back there. That happens too. But there are lots of reasons why this can happen, all of them uninteresting.
(5) Walking from one end of the trail to the other, then turning around and walking back. May become part of a hikers name, as in "Yo-yo Dumbnuts." Also used as greeting by those who think they are cool. Meh. No.
(6) Etc.: "Yo-Yo Hike", "yo-yoing", "yo-yoer". Yawn. Enough already. Let's get out of here.
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Me? Tried yodeling but got all tangled up in the string.
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so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
(1) A trail whose route was marked by splashes of paint applied by the Wooty Woot Trail Forgery Brigade.
(2) Hiking while drunk, determining direction not so much by watching the blazes, or by sight at all, but by bonking into obstacles with your head. Involves frequent face plants and unceasing profanity.
(3) Spirit hiking. Ghost wandering. The Continental Divide Trail being the pinnacle of this sport, though any trail that braids into a myriad of potential routes, all of which prove false, before vanishing entirely, also qualifies.
(4) Aimless stumbling in any or all directions while outdoors.
(5) A type of trail marking found on the Continental Divide Trail, the Hayduke Trail, and some other places where the trail (or at least its markers) often vanishes. Wooo.
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Me? Still lost somewhere in the basement.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Clever, eh? They fit comfortably behind glasses. [left] They also work without glasses, and you can shoot out a slightly smug look too. [right]
Are you still looking for the ultimate in post-mydriatic and dental procedure protective eyewear?
Or could you use some really light sunglasses? You can now have both.
While having an eye exam several years ago I realized that I'd found the perfect sunglasses. This was when I was redoing my whole approach to backpacking and getting wicked light.
I already had a pair of clip-on sunglasses. Those are great. They're polarized, so they cut reflections and glare, and let me see into pools of water. I like that. I always want to know what's in there, breathing water and watching me back. Can't hurt.
And the polarized lenses interact with sunlight and reflections and make the world a little sparkly and shimmery at times. I'm not sure quite how this happens but it can be fun on a boring day.
But these sunglasses aren't perfect. The little clipper thingies always end up scratching my expensive lenses where they touch. And the clip-on lenses get scratched too. It's awkward to take them off because they themselves pick up scratches even if I keep them in a soft cloth. And taking them off means that I can lose the suckers, or break them. They break. Breaking isn't good.
OK, done with that subject.
Besides the clip-ons I had a couple pair of giant goggle-like things. These are all plastic, all transparent, all tinted, and will fit over glasses. You can wear them with or without your own glasses underneath. This is good. I think some models come with polarized lenses too, which is a plus. You've probably seen geezers wearing these around. Geezers take to them the way kids go after candy.
But they're big and heavy, they can break, they get scratched, they're relatively expensive, and it isn't harder to lose them than to lose anything else.
I wear glasses all the time. I can't wear contact lenses, don't want pre$cription sungla$$es, and am not likely to get my eyeballs carved by laser beams.
So I can't wear a pair of dark glasses unless I want to stick them on over my real glasses and scratch the snot out of them and look enormously entertaining to normal people.
Looking goofy isn't too big a problem. I've got that pretty well nailed anyway. The real problem is finding cheap, light sun protection that works, and that doesn't destroy my prescription lenses.
So back to paragraph three: While having an eye exam several years ago I realized that I'd found the perfect sunglasses. This was when I was redoing my whole approach to backpacking.
I hate these exams. They are the ones where you get the eye drops that burn like crazy, and then after a few minutes your pupils get so big that people start backing away, if not turning to run for their lives. Well that part is kind of cool, but by the time your eyes are that dilated you can't see what's going on anyway. You have to go over the surveillance tapes with the police after they show up.
But that's kind of fun sometimes, except for the burning eye part.
Right, so there I was with these buggy eyes and then my eye doctor handed me a roll of dark plastic in a paper sleeve. Rollens. Damn. I was so much in love, like instantly. Like totally.
Rollens is a single piece of flexible plastic. It's a springy plastic sheet, fairly sturdy, but completely flexible, transparent, and tinted. It's a piece cut out in the shape of my big goggles — at least the front part. If you unroll it and hold it flat on a table it looks like goggles without the pieces that go around the side of your head and over your ears.
It doesn't look too weird until you put it on.
Then, if you don't wear glasses it still looks pretty much OK, even sexy on some people. At least I think so, though not on me of course..
If you do wear glasses, you put the Rollens on, and the springiness and curl of the plastic holds it in place on your head, but then you put your glasses on over it and get a second chance to scare the bejeebers out of everyone. And you also can't scratch the lenses of your gla$$es.
For an ultralighter everything is fine as long as it's light. We're all about weight and utility, and Rollens is great. I've laid one of these down on a table, all rolled up, and pounded it with my fist to demonstrate how good they are. No problem. A slight crease is all, and that didn't even amount to much.
They get scratched but who cares? They don't contact the lenses of your real glasses, and even if you just wear the Rollens without any glasses, they stay on your face because of the inherent springiness of the material.
Rollens offers 80% ultraviolet protection, the design is full-coverage (almost no light leaks in around the edges), it doesn't break, and you can't tear it, it's small, it's cheap. And of course it's light.
I can't tell you how light one of these is because the postal scale where I live doesn't even twitch when I drop one of these onto it. So that's less than a tenth of an ounce each (less than 3 g). Rollens doesn't register. At all.
The bad part is that you can't really buy these, sort of. I bought a box of 50 at 50 cents each, shipping included, from the maker. That was a good enough deal. But they sell only in bulk. On the other hand this is roughly a lifetime supply. I hardly ever use sunglasses anyway, but it's no problem bringing one of these, and a spare too, just in case.
Highly recommended. By me.
Colors: amber, gray, and clear. Clear won't work for sunglasses (Duh!) but you still have the UV protection. The gray is a good dark shade and makes a huge difference. Don't know about amber.
I have a whole bag full of empty plastic 35mm canisters. I use one of these to carry my Rollens. The canister is a little too short but if I was fussy I could trim the Rollens down with a scissors (you can do that, no problem). I roll them up really tight and fit two into one canister. Small package. Stows easily.
If you want to try Rollens without ordering a bunch, you could check around at offices of nearby optometrists or ophthalmologists. If you already do business at one they might toss you a couple for free.
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Me? Recently painted myself blue. Now I'm blue.
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Vent. It's a slit in a garment, usually in the lower edge of the back of a coat, to allow easier movement.
Or maybe it's an opening through which gases, especially air, can pass. Or the opening of a volcano from which lava flows. In other words, a conduit and/or orifice through which volcanic materials (lava, gas, and water vapor) reach the earth's surface, with that distinctive, characteristic sound.
Here are a couple further thoughts to shove you along...
(1) If the vent in your jacket is emitting lava, then you've overheated.
(2) I let it out at the vent, or it let me out, depending on the point of view. Anyway, it fits better now and I don't feel bloated any more.
Take your pick, based on how you feel today, and what you've eaten lately.
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Me? Recently got blown off. (The usual.)
Etc...
so says eff: sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions: outdoor terms fiyh: dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb: dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits: nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding: missives from a certain mobile homer noseyjoe: purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
(1) A hiker who completes a long trail from end to end. The term usually refers to someone who has hiked the Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail or any other, less-well-known but still really long route, especially one requiring careful planning and grim determination.
(2) A hiker who intended to complete a long trail from end to end (one like the Appalachian Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, or the Continental Divide Trail) but couldn't make it, and instead decided to be through with hiking.
(3) One who completes the hiking of an the entire trail in one year, whether that hike matches a calendar year or not, as long as the actual walking is an unbroken journey. Or one who completes an entire trail in the allotted slice of time, whether that division of time meets anyone else's standards or not. A thru-hiker just goes all the way. Simple. Done.
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Me? Chuffed about something.
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so says eff sporadic spurts of grade eff distraction definitions outdoor terms fiyh dave's little guide to ultralight backpacking stoves boyb dave's little guide to backpacks snorpy bits nibbling away at your sanity last seen receding missives from a certain mobile homer nosey joe purposefully poking my proboscis into technicals
Like training wheels for dirt. Won't help keep your pants up though.
A retaining wall is...
(1) A structure that prevents soil from slumping, sliding, or falling onto a trail. A retaining wall is usually made of logs, stone, soil-filled bags, blocks, or paving materials. Retaining walls are often used to provide stability and strength to the edge of a trail or stream bank.
Also known as: Revetment, Cribwall, Cribbing, Mono-Wall, Multi-Tier Wall.
(2) A structure intended to prevent trail incontinence. Since most trails are built up from or cut out of the landscape, they typically need some help keeping themselves together. Retaining walls do this. Retaining walls retain. They are like trail diapers. They keep soil from creeping out and messing things up when no one is looking, because once it starts it can get nasty, and then you have to look, and no one likes looking at nasty. The landscape enjoys doing this unauthorized creeping and will keep doing it, and before you know there will be no more trail, only a nasty mess. Which you will have to walk through. So there's where the "retaining" part comes in. And as for the "wall", look it up.
(3) A retaining wall is an anti-creep device. So far, retaining walls work only on dirt, which moves at a pace somewhere between glacial and geological, both of which are tediously boring. To see this process in action go look at a hill. Bring lunch and something to sit on. Within a scant several hundred years you will begin to notice the first faint signs that the entire hill is slowly glooping downward under the force of gravity, lubricated by rain. If that's where you are, down below somewhere, don't worry. You still have several hundred more years before it gets anywhere near you, and even then it probably will only gum you gently and spit you out because you don't taste good. Though this process could take several hundred millennia longer to reach completion, leaving you seriously late for any appointments you might have scheduled, it can be fun to observe if you don't have that much else going on. So yes, folks, it's true, all hills do move. Slowly. So very slowly. But go in and dig around and you disturb the whole balance of nature situation, and then everything speeds up, probably because it's pissed. Like if you cut a trail into the side of a hill and instead of waiting several hundred years to see anything at all (Anything! At all!), the whole shebang may spring a huge surprise by slumping over on top of you even before you have a chance to wipe off your shovel and pretend that you were only out there standing around doing nothing at all, just like every other innocent idiot in the vicinity.
So in this sense (of keeping disturbed soil from getting unpleasantly uppity, not to mention rapid), retaining walls are good. They are A Good Thing, and work well as anti-creep devices. But only for dirt.
They (so far) don't work on the kind of creep that might glom onto you while you are out backpacking and spoil what was otherwise a pretty decent day. So for now, you still have to carry a stick and know how to use it.
Another view, below, temporarily borrowed from the kindly Forest Service (slightly modified).
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Me? Been out doin' some slow creepin'. (Can be fun!).
(1) Pants: Plural of pant. May indicate either exhaustion or excitement as signified by rapid action of the lungs. Or from exhaustion following anything even remotely exciting, if you're getting older.
(2) Pants are also an article of clothing worn over the lower body. May be called "trousers" by some. They have two legs, just like most of us. Each leg consists of a separate tubular fabric compartment, open at the bottom, which allows the occasional ingress of unwanted visitors such as the trouser snake, which sometimes enters the pants in search of its most-desired prey, the wrinkly pants worm, which may be found hiding in there.
(3) Worn by both men and women, pants are an outer garment that clothe the body below the waist. Pants cover each leg separately, from the crotch to the ankle. They are also known as "trousers", which was already mentioned as you know by now, if you were paying attention.
"Hot pants", a kind of "short-shorts" for young women, were released to the world by marketing geniuses in the 1970s but the term actually dates to 1927 for some reason. Shorts are a kind of pants, but shorter, and the memories of the hot pants days can still induce panting in those who were male teenagers then. With good reason, maybe. Works for me.
But wow, hot pants go back to 1927? That leaves me panting. My breath comes in pants, with cuffs, a zippered fly, and a watch pocket. But you don't have to hike in pants. You can use a kilt, albeit a manly one. Unless you are a woman, in which case you can do anything you want without having to explain yourself.
Getting into further explaining, the word "pants" originally came from "pantaloons", a word based on Pantaloun, an old man character in an Italian comedy of the 1580s. He was a guy who wore tight trousers over his skinny legs. Probably a thing back then. Who can say?
(4) Pants: The sounds that hikers make when going uphill. Or "gasps", if you are actually doing it right. Short, labored intakes of breath with the mouth open, so's you're always ready to yell for help at any instant. Or swear, whichever seems like it might do the most good in any particular situation. Sometimes both.
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Me? Recently seen gasping in embarrassment (fly open again).
(1) An O-ring is a gasket consisting of a flat ring of rubber or plastic shaped like a doughnut, but not really a doughnut. Only shaped like a doughnut. A little one. An overly-chewy little one.
It is used to seal a connection against high pressure gases or liquids.
So pressurized stoves use them. To seal connections against high pressure gases or liquids.
You can think of an O-ring as your personal ring of power. With it, your stove works and you can make supper. Without it you're only cold and hungry again. Your choice. Remain alert! Mind your torus, Horace!
(2) Also known as a packing, or a toric joint, an O-ring is a mechanical gasket in the shape of a torus, a doughnut, or if you lack imagination, the letter O. (Lions! and Tigers! Or Owes. Meh.)
This thingy is a loop of elastomer (rubbery stuff) made to be seated in a groove and squeezed in tight between two or more parts during assembly, creating a seal between them. And so it is used in pressurized stoves, of course. To seal its connections against high pressure gases or liquids.
The Dark Lord didn't need an O-Ring, but his stove did.
Come to think of it, he didn't need a stove either.
Never mind that then.
(3) An O-ring is a stove part that forms a seal, in stoves that need seals. These rings are usually made of some sort of flexible material, like silicone-based rubber. They are not needed in simple alcohol-burning stoves.
Like every other complex thing, your O-ring usually fails at the worst possible time, and can't be replaced by any old whatever that you might find lying around. So keep in mind how well O-rings served that space shuttle, then maybe take another look at alcohol stoves. You could do worse, mate. And the onus is back on you.
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Me? O Mama! Presently surrounded by rats, some of them educated.
Navigational Error Recovery is an important skill that involves first recognizing that you are not where you want to be.
Q: But how? A: The features around you do not align with those on the map.
Q: What map? A: The one you should have brought.
Q: Oh. A: Go home and get one then. We'll wait here.
Q: Mmmm. First tell me more. I'll have to think about it. A: You recover by identifying the features around you and pinpointing your exact map position. So easy!
Q: Ungh. A: But every situation is different.
Q: Seriously? A: Yes, and since every situation is different, each new situation requires a different recovery method.
Q: Mrrrph. A: First you backtrack to a previous feature you can identify, stand still, look all around, and piece together a mental picture of the terrain by comparing what you see to what your map shows that you ought to see.
Q: Identify it how? A: Or if you can't do that, continue walking, hoping to come to a new identifiable feature.
Q: And get more lost? A: Right! Maybe! Even experts get disorientated, some of them on nearly every trip, but the ability to recognize early on that you have a problem, when it can still be fixed, is the sign of an expert, so not to worry. Being lost can be fun too.
Q: Can I be a living expert who keeps on living? A: Ideally. That's mostly the point. Not everyone can quite manage it though, sadly.
Q: So how often do I have to do this? A: Keep in mind that this is something you will need to do often because on every trip there is a slight disorientation at every stage.
Q: For real? A: Yep. Now get lost.
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Me? Can't find my pants. Again?
(1) A kind of wool that provides a good balance of insulation, durability, odor resistance, and moisture absorption. Due to its fine fibers it feels soft and does not itch like normal wool. Often used in socks and some brands of underwear.
(2) Sheep fuzz of such insanely high quality that it very nearly has its own religion.
It is warm in the cold and cool in the heat. It wicks away sweat. It sheds water, retains its warmth when wet, and doesn't stink even when given permission to. And it is soft.
And not itchy. And has a great warmth to weight ratio. And a knack for regulating body temperature. And repels flies, mosquitoes, ticks, mad dogs, and unpleasant hiking partners.
True merino also adds a spicy yet clean almost peppery dimension to salads, though when stir-fried with vegetables or added to stews it paradoxically produces an unexpectedly rich, deep, mushroom-like flavor.
If combined with a little fresh fruit and yeast, tightly corked and left in a cool dark place, merino brews itself into a stimulating lightly carbonated drink that is hopping with vitamins and anti-oxidants yet surprisingly never intoxicates.
Besides all that, merino makes great socks that wear almost forever, and are so single-mindedly committed to keeping you safe and comfy that if you ever really do get deep into trouble, just kick off your shoes, tap your woolly heels together three times, and repeat "There's no place like home."
If you are wearing Genuine Merino Wool FuzzySocks, you'll instantly be whisked back to the safety of your very own childhood bed, even if you were a homeless orphan and fended for yourself in the streets and alleys from age five, and never even had a bed, only a pointy stick.
Of course if your socks say Genuine Merino Wool but are actually Genuine Fake Merino Wool, well then you're probably screwed. Might as well eat the socks to at least get a little roughage and some salt back into your system, and then hope for the best, if that is even possible any more.
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Me? Guess. Just try once.
And there it is, maybe slowly creeping this way, even. (Map stolen from Wikipedia.)
1) Sparse taiga.
Trees are well-spaced and lichen covers the ground.
In far northern taiga, the forest cover is more sparse and also stunted.
Ice-pruned trees are common.
Thoughts you might have there: "I'm likin' this lichen woodland 'cuz it's sparse an' ice-pruned. Too bad the flies got Ed though."
2) A woodland, definitely, but what about this other thing? How do we fit it in? This lichen thing. What is a lichen anyway?
The ancient Greeks called it what eats around itself. Yeep! I know, it's supposed to be a "symbiotic organism", one that is composed of two or more different and unlike organisms, one living inside the other, with both benefiting from the arrangement. They say. They say this is how it is, but is it?
The pod people claim it is so, at those times when they speak. When they speak. Without enthusiasm. Without any noticeable emotion at all, at those times when they speak, but still looking through you the way they do.
"It is good" is what you hear, if you hear anything. Aside from that odd tinny buzz. Even though silent and emotionless, you see them wandering everywhere. Wandering by day, wandering by night, with wires dangling from their ears. Is the pod in control or the person? Is it even a person any more?
And those wires, what are they doing in there? Seeing pod people makes you wonder about these things and about many more things. Likely you won't even think about lichens, but they are just as strange, comprised as they are of an outer, shell-like fungus wrapped around and sheltering some inner algae.
Lichens aren't even vascular plants. If they are plants. Are they? No, not really, one supposes.
Vascular plants stand up and have roots and leaves and internal plumbing that moves water and nutrients around, but lichens, no. They lie there, flat, crusty, almost inert, waiting among the trees, or on rocks, with that little dead zone around them.
Waiting for something, it seems, whatever it might be. And then there you are. Oh, yes. You come hiking along, in this pleasant, open woodland with colorful, licheny patches on the trees, listening to your music player, with those wires coming out of your ears. And the lichens, then they perk up. Yes? Yes. They perk up then.
They may even follow you for a bit, but discreetly, of course. Silently. Through the woodland. You don't even notice. And who knows what may come next?
Indeed.
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Me? Seem to be leafing out again.
Boiler in a bottle: Shiny, contains fire, makes hotness.
This is also often called a volcano kettle. It's a one-piece pot and stove thingy, designed vaguely like a thermos bottle, but these things are useful only for heating water.
Some were used by Irish fishermen in the early 20th century, though other versions of the story vary. Anyway, damn clever lot, they. Another reason to love the Irish, if you're so inclined.
The place where you'd have your coffee stored is a firebox. The part around that, where the thermos bottle would have an insulating vacuum chamber, is actually a water jacket surrounding the firebox. Hot gases from a fire of burning twigs heat water in the water jacket as they rise through the central chimney and escape out the top. Kettles like these can rapidly boil water even in windy weather.
More names: Benghazi Boiler, Storm Kettle, Ghillie Kettle, Thermette, Survival Kettle, and so on.
1) A small opening designed into a stove through which pressurized fuel passes so it can mix with air and burn efficiently. Jets were slowly developed over centuries by legions of engineers patiently working through a deliberate process of trial and error just so you could have a backpacking stove, you selfish, thoughtless bastard.
2) An opening in the burner of a stove where the flame is produced. Also, the flame itself. (Ffffft!)
3) Still not sure? It's like a snot rocket, but hotter, though generally should not be fitted nasally.
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Me? Looking for my pipe cleaner.
From the French for jaque, a kind of tunic, possibly based on the generic term for French peasants. Maybe even some of your more distant relatives.
A short, tight-fitting, sleeved coat, waist-length to hip-length, worn on the upper body, as is proper for such garments. If only a shell, it keeps out wind and some cold by forming a bubble of retained, body-heated air next to the body, but can just as well be insulated. May also be breathable, non-breathable, windproof, waterproof, or a combination. Or not. Confused yet?
Example: Jane put on her jacket to keep out mosquitoes and found that it worked. Since it was camo, she instantly became invisible.
And...The outer skin of a potato, sometimes worn as clothing, if the potato is big enough, though less useful in bear country.
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Me? Recently drenched in butter and covered with sour cream. The cat now likes me. Worse has happened.
