Showing posts with label gear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gear. Show all posts

Friday, April 26, 2024

Tensioning Guy Lines

One thing that I read about in the late 1950s has stuck with me. I don't see it used or even talked about, which is surprising. It's immensely useful for backpacking.

What I read about was how to moor a boat using a real rope and a piece of rubber rope.

Rubber rope is a thing I've never seen, but it's the idea that counts. The same idea in the world of backpacking shelters works out to be what's called "shock cord", which is just an elastic core wrapped in fabric.

You tie some of this into the middle of a guyline for a tent, or a tarp, or a hammock tarp, and leave a little slack in the real guy line, and this lets the tent or tarp move a little, give a little in the wind, like a flexible tree bending a little, but not snapping off.

The thing is, it's hard to fasten a length of plain shock cord so it stays tied. All knots in the stuff eventually work loose.

Well, you can run this stuff through a little soft metal tube and then crimp the tube, but where do you get super lightweight metal tubing about 1/8" in diameter, in like 1" segments? (3mm by 25mm) There are things like this made for exactly this purpose, but you don't see them just sitting around in every store, and it's baffling what a guy could use as a substitute, so I've been stumped.

Yeah, so today while buying groceries and letting myself be open for ideas about whatever, and also to kill time, I blithely wandered through the women's doodad section at the supermarket and had a nice bingo moment.

Goody. Goody Ouchless Hair Elastics and Goody Ponytail Holders. Yep. Them's things, and they were there. Just about what I wanted, and all ready-made. Cheap too.

Goody.com doesn't have details. You have to follow the links from there to Walmart or Target and check them, and that's where I stole the images you see here. Too good not to steal.

I made a dumb graphic (right below) showing how to use elastic with guylines and it shows way too much slack, but I'm not going to do it over, so use your imagination. And what looks like a knot on each side should be in red. Or something. The graphic should be clearer, but I'm not a pro, hey. (Another D'Oh! moment, brought to you by me.) But it's the idea that counts, and this is one idea that is really fine. Think about it. I believe you've even caught on already. The elastic stretches just so far under heavy stress, and then the actual guyline takes over. Brilliant, as they say.

Guy line tensioner.

Guy line with elastic tensioner, showing way too much slack.

Goody elastic hair products.

Ouchless hair elastics.

Goody elastic hair products.

Ouchless hair elastics showing thickness.

Goody elastic hair products.

Ponytail holders.

Goody elastic hair products.

One ponytail holder, showing "welded" ends — no knots, no crimping, etc. Woot!

Updated tensioner graphic

Updated tensioner graphic. More schematic but possibly no clearer. At least I tried, eh?

 


Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Still trying after all these years.

 

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

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

Knife

Knife

(1) An edged tool used as a cutting instrument. Has a pointed blade, a sharp edge, and a handle.

(2) A tool for cutting. Consists of a flat piece of hard material, usually steel (this is the "blade"), which is sharpened on one or both edges, and is attached to a handle, which is the part that smart people hold. The blade may be pointed, which makes it all the better for poking with.

(3) Something to cut yourself with.

Almost every backpacker, including ultralighters, always carries some kind of knife, though realistically speaking none hardly ever need anything more complicated than a single-edge razor blade to cut themselves with.

However, a genuine knife can be useful for cutting and splitting wood, for those who burn that stuff, or for those who just like to cut and split wood. Or for hunting water buffalo (when in season).

Unlike a fork, you seldom find a knife in the road, so you can't take it even if you are the sort of person who would, even if you really need one to hunt water buffalo with. Yet another of life's disappointments.

 


Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? I didn't do it.

 

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

Wednesday, July 13, 2022

The Bearable Lightness Of Shades

The Bearable Lightness Of Shades

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.

Check it out: Rollens

 


Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff+eff@nullabigmail.com
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

Wednesday, June 8, 2022

O-Ring

O-Ring

Closeup of a torus being eaten by ice cream.

 

(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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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff+eff@nullabigmail.com
Me? O Mama! Presently surrounded by rats, some of them educated.

Wednesday, May 11, 2022

Kelly kettle

Kelly kettle

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.

More: "How the Kelly Kettle Works", and what is it, really? And some other stuff...
Company site., Internet Archive, Wikipedia.

 


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Have anything worth adding? Then try sosayseff+eff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Getting all hotted up.

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Pack

Pack

(1) To carry, as in "I'm gonna pack these here groceries out to the car now, Ma," which is the way true natives say things in Washington State.

(2) The little gemlike world you carry behind you while you are engaged in ultralight backpacking.

(3) The monstrous evil demon clinging to your back with six-inch claws while you are engaged in traditional backpacking.

 


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Me? On the road to success with a broken axle, two flat tires, and a stray weasel.

Wednesday, May 12, 2021

Definitions: Hoop Tent

Hoop Tent

(1) The place you are sent when you can't keep quiet.

Inside this device, you can hoop and holler all you want without bothering the chipmunks, even if outside you're just another loud jerk.

This might seem impossible from a structure made of fabric and a few bent lengths of fiberglass rod or aluminum tubing, but it turns out that the entire structure is tunable, and when you get the right number of hoops in place, with the right spacing between them, you can either amplify or hush any sounds inside the structure, and block any and all sounds from outside, which is darn amazing.

This means that the hoop tent is an especially good choice for mechanically-adept light sleepers with at least a moderately good ear (for the tuning part).

And it gets better.

This tunability extends beyond the range of hearing into the sub-quantum meta-aural bands, which allows you to bring in baseball broadcasts from the 1930s (when conditions are right), to control the local weather (but only to make it worse, unfortunately), and, to some extent, to affect the price of canned cat food (if bought in bulk).

(2) A tent of ancient design, handed down through thousands of generations within the tradition of the Hoo-Pal peoples of northeastern South Cattledonia, known for their acute sense of design, clever and nimble fingers, and ability to make entirely modern looking structures from lizard skin and giant bat ribs.

The first European explorers were dumbfounded by the sturdy but backpackable tent-like structures ("hooples") they found erected everywhere, but their favorite was named after the ancient local god, Maht (or Maht-Tha).

This was the origin of the sturdy four-season shelters we now know as "Mott-The Hooples".

These days these structured are generally called just hoop tents, and consist of one largish hemispherical swatch of fabric stretched over several flexible bent arches or hoops. Pretty cool, eh?

 


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If the commenting system is out again, then email sosayseff@nullabigmail.com
Me? Just woke up alone, with a note pinned to my face. Just one word on it: "Nope." No idea what that's about.

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Definitions: Titanium

(1) Titanium is... The Fairy Queen in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream? (Nope. That was Titania. Dang.)

(2) Titanium is... Proof that you've spent more money on your cook set (or stove, or boot lace tips) than anyone else in your hiking group, extended family, city, state, province, country, continent, planet. (Hmmm...ah...well...)

(3) Titanium is... Proof that you're trendy, and possibly an idiot, though still a trendy one. Let's hope you can dress the part. (Closer. We're getting closer...)

(4) Titanium is... A metal incorrectly described by absolutely everyone stupid as "amazingly lightweight and strong, and perhaps the way to go if you're obsessive about ounces."

No, it isn't. But what would you expect to read in Backpacker magazine?

Titanium is a metal, yes. And titanium is light, compared to uranium. But not compared to steel.

Stoveless and cook-pot-less and fuel-less is the way to go if you're obsessive about ounces (or even worse, if you are what they call a gram weenie), and can gag down cold, slimy, tasteless suppers night after night.

Aluminum, however, is the way to go if you're obsessive about ounces (or grams) and also about price, and if you like to compare the weights of your tools to the weights of their shadows.

Titanium is only 12% lighter than steel, though it has nearly all of steel's strength, which is good, while aluminum is a whole 54% lighter than steel and still has 75% of steel's strength (Spot the trend here?), which is plenty-nuff for a cook pot, to use the technical term.

True, titanium doesn't ding or dent very easily (because it is tough, and that is nice), and titanium is highly resistant to corrosion (which means that it stays more prettier longer). Since titanium has that toughness, it can be rolled thin. The thinner the material, the less there is of it, and so the less the finished product weighs (even if it's made of uranium), which is the real advantage of titanium, the toughness.

But if you just want a pot to cook in and you don't care a lot about exactly how pretty it is, but you do care about how heavy it is while still caring about how much it costs, then aluminum is the way to go. Sure, you sort of do care about how tough a pot is and so on, kinda, and you may also think a bit about how beat up it's going to look eventually, in a few years. Or maybe not. Your call, eh?

Titanium considered only as a material is significantly heavier and vastly more expensive than aluminum. Those who own titanium doodads tend feel smarter than the rest of us because they can afford to, and because titanium tends to keep its manufactured shine longer. OK.

Then again, a lot of people who feel that way don't go backpacking anyhow, because if they went backpacking they would get their clothes dirty and they would get tired, and what they really above all want is to keep that just-off-the-shelf, crisply-pressed, squeaky-clean, newly-unwrapped look, while continuing to smell of aftershave. Titanium will help with that. Even if you're a woman who likes to wear aftershave.

So, titanium is really for people who don't ever want to sweat or walk uphill or discover that bugs are attracted to them.

 


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Me? Still dusting my rust.

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Stealuth Hiking Tuxedo

Breaking news: Next-Level Technologies reveals next-level technology for the next level in outdoor stealth technology.

 

"Have fun, do stuff, be invisible," all great words to live by.

If you, like us, go camo whenever possible, even down to your underwear, then you might think about investing a few bucks into a Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo.

Sure, you've heard about "stealth camping", that hobby of penniless hikers, game poachers, and cheapskates of every stripe, and perhaps you've even done some, but have you gotten your fill? Maybe not, we're thinking. Maybe you'd really like to go full bore for once. Be top notch, top drawer, A-Number-One. Stand out in your field without standing out anywhere, ever.

This could be your chance.

What's a B2 bomber got that you don't? Besides nuclear weapons, and several jet engines, and a lot of excess weight? Well, even if you have some of your own excess weight?

Stealth.

That's it — stealth.

But can a B2 take a nap undetected in your average wheat field and live on mice and berries? Nope, not even.

But you can. If you want to.

Just send $39.99 and 17,000 box tops to Uncle Bob's Secret Hidey Hole & Conspiracy Scout Camp and within several months you will receive by return mail your very own Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo, complete with instructions and a field manual of dating and camping etiquette tips for the guy who has nothing but still wants to try maybe one last time.

Don't get invited to parties? Only a minor obstacle. Once you have your Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo, no one will be sure if they saw you there or not anyway.

Short on cash this week? Also not an issue. The Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo is great for trips to the grocery store, where you can grab whatever you need and then simply walk out — no one will see a thing. You can pay later on, as soon as you've found enough spare change on the sidewalks around town. Simple, simple, simple.

And if you ever do go backpacking (or even day hiking) but are a bit shy about that whole hitchhiking thing, well it's easier than you think. Find a car that's stopped, preferably at a gas station or cafe, and let yourself in. (Tip here — the back seat is your best bet, because any rustling noises your leaves make won't be so easy to hear.)

Sit quietly, try not to sneeze, and wait until you've gone somewhere. Where you end up doesn't really matter because no one will see you anyway, and if you keep trying, you're sure to find a nice town eventually. Then just get out and make yourself at home. Works every time and is totally stress free. No need for fidgeting or smalltalk. Silence is just silence, without any of the awkward parts (except for sneezing), and if you forget to climb out in time, well, you can stay with your host for a few days — hey, you're already friends, right?

Easy peasy.

 

FAQ

Q: Do I have to wash?

A: No, but your Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo (also known as a "ghillie suit") needs to be hosed down every now and then. Use cool water only. Agitate by hand. If any bugs float to the surface, don't eat them.

Q: How do I store my Tux then?

A: A cardboard box is fine — maybe even the one you already live in. If you do get a musty smell, try a bath. If the smell is from your your Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo, then maybe it's trying to tell you something, or learn to enjoy it. Either one works.

Q: Will this outfit suddenly burst into flames and end in an agonizing death?

A: Probably not. In fact, none of our customers has ever reported that they've died in this exact way. But if you are worried, even a little bit, try generously spraying your Stealuth™ Hiking Tuxedo with Flame-B-Gone and you might have a fighting chance if the worst happens. Should this induce mold growth, try a general-purpose fungicide.

Q: How long will my Tux last?

A: Well, assuming that you don't go up in flames first, probably longer than you can stand to think about it. In case of problems, see your usual therapist. Or you can write us. If we're still in business we'll think about sending a reply as long as you don't get all whiny. Good luck then.

Etc.

Ghillie suit

Ghillie Suit Warehouse - Your Ghillie Suit Experts in Camouflage

The Ghillie Suit Pros - Experts in Ghillie Suits for Camouflage

Ghillie images stolen from Red Rock Outdoor Gear and manipulated until they agreed to cooperate.

 


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Comments? Send email to sosayseff@nullabigmail.com

See if that helps.

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Squeeze Me Another Pack, Jack

Scheming and scribbling.

ReSqueeze Resurrection.

Two things I decided when I started going light — I'd always wear boots, and if I ever did make any of my own equipment, I'd never muck with packs, ever.

Boots: Last worn backpacking on Labor Day Weekend, 2000.

Packs: I made a Squeezo. Several Squeezos. In fact, I invented the Squeezo. Plus I did a bunch of doofus packs leading up to the Squeezo. (See link to previous post at the bottom.)

The last Squeezo I put together was in 2005 or so, and I intended it to be a last prototype before freezing the design and making a final, perfect pack. But Squeezo 2005 was so good that I just used it until moving out of the country in late 2012. I couldn't take everything so I ditched the pack and, since I was never going backpacking again, threw out my patterns, such as I had. (The shoulder strap and hip belt patterns were critical, as were several key measurements — all long gone. Picture me raging now.)

Continued scheming and scribbling.

Too bad you do that, you, now you know what dumb is. Yep. Me the dumb one. (The voice of reason is always right.)

See, it started with hammocks. The place I worked, there was a contractor crew on board, and one of them found out about Hennessey Hammocks and got me all eager, and I bought one. Fine.

Mark, if I remember. That's all I remember. It was a long time ago.

Some details begin to come into focus.

Then Mark found out about Gearskin packs and got me all eager in those parts, and I bought one of them. Fine, too.

The Gearskin is a brilliant idea, just not finished. It was invented somewhere in the late 1990s, developed to the point that it was workable, and abandoned at the halfway point. It turned out to be especially awkward for someone using a hammock. I like to camp on slopes along the trail. Some of these slopes have been as steep as ye olde 45°, and that's steep. Difficult to even stand on, but near the trail, clean and unused, often with no underbrush, with a clear view all around, and quiet. And the trees on slopes often turn out to be big enough to hang from and also small enough to hang from. None of these six-foot-thick giants of the lowlands.

Yeah, right. But come morning, there's a problem if you're carrying a Gearskin: You can't hardly pack it.

See, the way you load a Gearskin is you lay it flat (go find some photos). This is cool on level ground but not on a slope.

You open the pack, which is one piece of fabric, lay it all flat, and arrange your things on top of that. Then you leave the back on the ground and fold the front up over it like folding a taco. Then you cinch down the side and top straps.

That doesn't work on a slope. All your stuff rolls away, and what can't roll slides away. To load a Gearskin on a slope requires a minimum of three arms, which means getting an implant or bringing along a manservant. Neither worked for me, so after sewing a few dickhead-stupid shelters I thought I was capable of making a pack that would work better.

Eventually I was.

The problem with the Gearskin was that it had no inside. Under the right circumstances it was trivial to arrange all my goods just so before cinching down the pack, but I didn't camp where those circumstances applied. The real beauty of the pack, though, was that it used compression to achieve rigidity, and so it didn't need a frame. I think that my Gearskin weighed 19 ounces (540 g).

I had started ultralightering with a GVPGear G4, another frameless pack, but I moved to the Gearskin because by tightening its compression I could firm it up enough to be actually usable. The G4 was a good introduction to light packs but not practical (which was part of the introduction). By carrying a hammock with an underquilt, I had nothing remotely resembling something rigid, so, unlike those ground-sleepers with closed-cell mattresses, I dint have nothin to use as a fake frame. Anyway, top-loading packs, if I may say so, suck bigtime. They're nearly impossible to load properly, and the more soft stuff you have the worse it gets.

Abstract view from above. Overlapping flappers on front. Expandable from square to trapezoidal.

I eventually developed the idea of making an enclosed pack body that loaded from the front. Among packs we have top-loaders, which everyone is familiar with, panel-loaders, which are seldom available, even the bad ones, the Gearskin, and my design. I call it a slit-loader. It's a font-loading pack with no panel. My first designs were both slit and top loaders, but I found that eliminating the big hole up on top firmed up the whole pack and didn't affect utility at all. Part of these results are due to the two huge side pockets that I build in. Add a small detachable pocket that attaches to the pack's front to carry the cookset and the day's food, and there is usually no reason to get into the pack body during the day anyway.

It worked. Best pack I've ever used. Weighed 20 ounces plain, or 22 ounces after I added a couple wooden dowels to act as vertical stiffeners (567 g and 624 g, respectively). I made a couple of two-week, 200-mile, no-resupply trips with it. That hurt, but the pack worked. When you're starting out carrying close to 30 pounds (13.5 kg) in food alone, the whole trip revolves around pain and muscle fatigue, and that's unavoidable, but the important part of the story is that the pack worked. It expanded to accept a bigger-than-normal load, and then carried it, uncomplaining.

Since the mostly-closed design meant that I could load the pack on any slope, I could place my equipment exactly where it needed to go, and keep it arranged perfectly until I was ready to compress it all. Things went in in layers through the front slit: sleeping bag first, flat and wide against the pack's back, providing cushioning, then the food bag, placed vertically, then the hammock/tarp/underquilt in an inverted-U shape around the pack's inside perimeter. Put the possibles bag up top, stuff clothing and rain wear in the empty spaces, and you just about have it. Then begin cinching down the straps until the whole pack becomes one solid wad, and go. Beauty, eh?

I miss it.

The shoulder strap reinforcements help to pull the pack together.

So I'm trying to resurrect Squeezo by remembering the design. That's easy. The hard part is that I need to have exact dimensions. They have to be reinvented, and my circumstances mean that I have only one chance. I have the fabric and hardware with me, but only enough for one try. The fabric isn't anything fancy, just utility nylon from Jo-Ann fabrics, but where do you find that or anything similar in Ecuador? Closed-cell foam padding? Buckles? Nylon webbing? I don't think so.

I bought a sewing machine for $180. It's probably a $100 model in the U.S., but I have it. I'll sell it for half price when I'm done, which will be soon, because I have an airline ticket waiting to be used. When the time comes I'll either have a pack to fly home with, or not.

I don't know what the problem is, but all the packs I've used since my last Squeezo have hurt a lot, in the shoulders. REI Flash 45, Golite Jam, Granite Gear Crown 60, Mountain Laurel Designs Prophet. I don't know if it's the sharp curve in my collar bone that's unique to me, or the narrowness and stiffness of the commercially-made shoulder straps, but it's been what? Five cases of extreme bone pain? Yes, five — screaming, relentless, all-day, endless collar-bone pain. I had to stuff extra padding between the straps and my bones, which remedied but didn't cure the situation.

I think my former Squeezo straps were wider. I based them on the Gearskin that I had. I don't remember how wide they were, and now I have to guess. At least I have the MLD Prophet to trace from, for strap shape and length. The width and padding details I can adjust when I make the straps, but it will have to be a guess, and I do have only that one chance to get it right. I have both stiff foam and soft foam, so I can use layers. I'm hoping.

What else? I don't remember. Am I making sense? Who can say?

But I'm going to try.

Postscript.

I have more images of a pack I built in 2015 from a "replacement" hip belt and shoulder straps I bought via REI, and stuff sacks I bought at Swain's General Store in Port Angeles, WA. I may post them at some time.

I will post instructions if I get this current pack worked out.

2009 Post.

No Pack Is Made For Me. Has photos of my dear departed Squeezo (insert tears here).

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Improve Me Once Already! (Alcohol Stove Version)

Use these to cook like an effer.

I've been ruminating. I do that, mainly while walking.

Lately I've been thinking about stoves again, alcohol stoves. I picked up this round of stove fever after reading some old posts about poncho tarps from 2006. Besides doing some fun things with tarps, the author designed and made his own alcohol stove. Like every other alcohol stove in existence, his was the most efficient.

I have done it too. If you start using an alcohol stove you'll likely take your own whack at it. Harmless fun. There are probably hundreds of designs out there by now and they are really two or three basic designs endlessly repeated, with all the same advantages and flaws mirrored in the other designs.

But I did get thinking again.

So what then does it take to make an efficient stove system? More than a stove. The stove is one component, but not the only one. It is a system. There is a cook pot and a way to support it, protection from wind and rain, and sometimes even more components. So what's the deal then, really?

That brings us to now. By writing my thoughts I'll be able to judge the sense of them. Putting together a cooking system is a whole nother thing, as they say. Making one thing better than the others takes a lot of trials and enough record keeping to allow actual comparisons. It takes time and effort and usually one gets bit in the butt.

Knowing and doing are not necessarily related, but the thinking is the most important part, so here come the thought drops.

Ground rules:

  • Let's assume that we're heating water — no actual cooking.
  • No simmering.
  • No roasting.
  • Just heating clean water to a boil or close to a boil.

As I see it, there are at most 4 possible ways to improve the cooking performance of an alcohol stove. (When I say "stove", that's everything needed to heat water: stove, windscreen, pot, pot stand, additional thinamajigs, and so on.)

The four basic ideas are:

  1. Increase stove efficiency.
  2. Increase pot efficiency.
  3. Optimize the exhaust gas dwell time.
  4. Optimize the windscreen.

1. Increase stove efficiency.

There are several ways to do this. Making the flame as efficient as it can be is a decent place to start. An efficient flame, all other things excluded, is partly a matter of keeping it small. (Or actually, right-sized.)

A right-sized flame allows cleaner burning and less flame wasted in shooting off to places where it won't do anything.

For the best flame we should optimize the flame height, the flame shape, the flame-to-pot distance and the flame's contact patch on the bottom of the pot.

I'm not providing any details here on what or how, only noting that these are areas to think about during design.

We also need to isolate the flame from drafts.

Along with this, it's important to reduce heat lost from the stove body itself. This happens by conduction, radiation, and convection. Conduction losses are into the surface that the stove is sitting on. It shouldn't be in contact with any other surfaces but it has to be. With the ground for sure, and with some setups the pot sits directly on the stove. Any conductive loss in that case would be into the cook pot, which would be good if it heated water faster, or bad, if it made the stove less efficient.

I think that it's also a good idea to reduce the stove's heat gain to the optimal amount. A stove has to consume some of the heat it produces or it will go out, but that amount of its output is small. Let the stove soak up too much of its own output and you have a runaway reaction.

A too-hot stove runs too fast and produces an uncontrolled flame, which blows heat all over without putting it where it's needed, so controlling stove overheating by controlling excess radiation and convection inside the system is important too. The stove should generate hot gases which transfer heat to the cook pot and not back to the stove.

So far this sounds reasonable. The next area to think about is to...

2. Increase pot efficiency.

There is an optimal size and shape of cook pot for every stove. The cook pot has to have a large enough surface area to absorb the maximum amount of heat energy. There is more than one way to do this.

Internally.

One way is internal to the pot. Make a pot with a heat exchanger built in. I don't know of any pot made for any cooking system anywhere that has this. What I'm talking about is the equivalent of a standard, building-size steam boiler but sized down for backpacking use. Most people haven't seen a boiler. I worked at a junk yard one summer, and saw one. It looked goofy. It's not what you expect.

Check out the fire tube. (via globalspec.com)

You see a steam locomotive and you think it's a big tank lying on its side with a fire underneath. Nope. Isn't.

It is a big tank with tubes running through it.

They come in two forms. Either the tank is full of water and fire runs through tubes inside the tank, surrounded by water, or the tubes contain water and fire burns in the tank around them.

Either way radically increases the surface area available for energy transfer, and radically increases efficiency. I don't know how to make this in a cook pot of a 24 ounce / 700 ml size, or of any size. If anyone, anywhere in the world makes a cook pot like this, you can bet that it's too big and heavy for backpacking, but it's nice to daydream about. I'd assume that my 700ml pot would weigh around 1 to 2 pounds (500 to 1000g) and cost $100 or more, due to the huge complexity involved in making it. That would be for a pot with water inside and fire running in vertical tubes through the pot.

The Kelly Kettle is the only thing anywhere near this.

Kelly Kettle

Externally.

That's an what I call an internal heat exchanger. The kind you might actually see is an external one. Some canister stoves use this sort of thing. The "MSR XPD Heat Exchanger" is one. It's a piece of corrugated metal that wraps around a cook pot and "funnels heat up the sides for faster, more even heating". Or so they claim, and they may be right.

Couldn't hurt, eh? Well, at $40 and 6 ounces / 170 g, it's a stretch for a canister stove used sitting in a campground. At that weight, it's heavier than a lot of complete alcohol cooksets (stove, pot, windscreen, and so on). And more expensive too. But the bigger issue is whether it would help. Probably not much. Heat running through it would transfer faster to the relatively colder air around it than to the relatively hotter put it's connected to. And there's an infinite amount of cold air available every day, all day.

MSR XPD Heat Exchanger (image via REI)

Selecting the right pot.

The third way to increase surface area is by choosing the right cook pot. The pot with the biggest bottom wins. Shoot a flame up from a stove, let it hit a pot whose bottom has an infinite area, and all the flame's heat energy will be absorbed.

Perfect. Except that things don't work that way.

Make the pot too big in diameter, for a given volume, and then the pot's sides will be too low. This is awkward. Make the pot too tall and narrow, and it will have no bottom surface area to speak of.

There is a balance point in the middle somewhere. Generally, the pot's height will be somewhere vaguely around 80% to 125% of its diameter or it becomes both unwieldy and impractical.

Imusa 1L aluminum mug.

For example, take a pot 5" wide and 4" high (125% wider than it is high). This pot is exceedingly squat. Round off and you get 125 and 100mm for width and height, for a volume of about 1.3L.

Reverse the dimensions and the result is a hair over 1L in volume, with a 4" diameter, a height of 5", and a diameter-to-height ratio of 80%, and it looks more like a standard cook pot or drinking mug. For a volume of around one liter, that's about it. Max efficiency in handling, and about all you're going to get to use for thermal efficiency.

An aluminum frying pan would have a much bigger bottom area for the same volume, but how are you going to handle it? Slosh, slosh, spill if you attempt it. Try to figure out how to keep it over your stove without it tipping over. What about a windscreen? Ah...no, not likely — goofy proportions. And the heat you pour into it at the bottom will jump out the top and run away about as fast as your stove can supply it.

Seems like it would be efficient but actually not. Just like the opposite, the beer can pot, with a diameter around 85mm, with 160mm for height, giving a diameter-to-height ratio of 53% — almost twice as high as it is fat. With a too-narrow pot, a lot of the stove's flame goes up the sides and escapes, which is what happens with the typical beer can pot.

Leaving pot dimensions behind, a third way to increase pot efficiency is to decrease the pot's wall thickness. No matter what the pot is made of, a lighter-weight pot absorbs heat more quickly, and the less energy any already-hot water can lose sitting there because the whole process speeds up and there is less time for that to happen. This is a plus for beer-can pots but they already have an inefficient shape and, since they are made of extremely thin materials, they are also extremely delicate, which brings us back to that other kind of efficiency issue, handling efficiency. Frying pan at one end of the scale, beer can at the other. Not only are beer cans crazy lightweight and frail but they are crazy likely to tip over. No handles either, never.

Absorbing heat better.

There is a fourth way to increase pot efficiency. That is to increase the heat-absorption rate of the pot material itself. Dark-anodized aluminum may be the best choice, because aluminum transfers heat well and a dark surface, which anodizing gives it, soaks up heat well. Titanium is also sort of darkish, though it and steel don't transfer heat nearly as well as aluminum. But on the other hand, since titanium is especially tough, titanium pot walls can be really thin, which means heat energy passes through it relatively easily. (Notice us chasing our tail?)

3. Optimize the exhaust gas flow.

Ideally, you want a bubble of hot gas surrounding the pot and hanging there to form a sort of separate universe. This bubble protects the cook pot from the outside world and allows some of the remaining heat energy in the stove's exhaust to soak into the cook pot.

Most of this process will be controlled by the windscreen, which will stifle the exhaust gas flow and slow it, and will route exhaust gases around the pot in the most efficient way.

The "Nansen cooker" was a gem in this department, but few backpackers would want to carry something so bulky and heavy, especially anyone using a tiny alcohol stove and a correspondingly small cook pot. The Nansen cooker in fact used two pots, one for heating water and one to either warm water or to melt snow — thermally efficient but not ergonomically so.

From: The Home of the Blizzard, Australian Antarctic Division

Anyhow, back to the gases.

The aspects involved are stove design, stove materials, and stove operation, the pot stand design, the pot design (size/shape) and materials, the windscreen design and materials, and the ground reflector design and materials. (The "ground reflector" is what I call any reflective and protective material under the stove, covering the ground, insulating the stove from it, and reflecting heat back upward.)

How? Try your best. The point is to hang on to hot exhaust gases without unduly impeding the stove's operation by depriving it of oxygen, and not to trap the gases so long that they cool so much that they actually suck heat back out of the cook pot.

4. Optimize the windscreen.

Windscreens are important, especially so for alcohol stoves with small flames that burn low energy-density fuel.

Screen wind like an effer. (How it looks in operation.)

The trick is to design the windscreen to isolate everything inside it from the external world while slowing heat lost through the windscreen itself. Block drafts, prevent radiant heat loss, prevent conductive heat loss to the atmosphere, funnel and direct whatever happens inside the windscreen's envelope.

A double-wall windscreen containing insulation would do part of this job, but how does a person make one? I don't know yet.

A windscreen should reflect and focus internal radiation to maximize energy flow into the pot. It should do this while minimizing energy flow into the stove, to prevent overheating it.

If there is another reflector under the stove (the "ground reflector"), covering the whole area inside the windscreen's footprint, and there should be, this needs to be optimized too. Its most important job is to protect the ground.

Using a proper windscreen, it's all too easy to set the ground on fire. Sometimes you find out that it's flammable only after it begins smoking. (True.) Protecting the ground is the ground reflector's first job. After that, it isolates the stove from conductive heat loss, reflects energy back upward toward the cook pot, and helps to maintain a hot environment around the stove.

I really like the direction that Trail Designs took with their Caldera stove systems. Clever.

But as they say in math classes, "Necessary but not sufficient". The tapered windscreen is also the pot support, which is fine. The tapered windscreen focuses the stove's output, which is good. The tapered windscreen is uninsulated, which is not. This is a major design flaw. So far, every windscreen I know of, including mine, has this flaw. What we have is extremely hot gases flowing along a piece of metal, with the entire atmosphere on the other side: an infinite heat sink. The heat should be forced to flow into the pot, not allowed to be sucked out by the atmosphere. Some kind of insulation is needed.

But these shortcomings are good in a way. They give us something to think about. Gives us something to work on — we're not done yet, so things don't have to be boring.

The Caldera Cone also leaves the top of the pot exposed. Bad. (Bad, bad, bad.) Also good, because more improvement is possible there too.

So now I have plenty to think about. I need to design and sew up a new pack. I need to re-design my stove system. And I have lots of ideas.

Could be worse.

More:

Kelly Kettle

Mugged, so says eff, April 24, 2013.

Super Duper Ultralight Windscreen, so says eff, April 13, 2011.

Trail Designs

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Definitions: Coil Zipper

This is a device for accomplishing the most slick and slippery zippery.

If you've ever looked at a toothed zipper you can puzzle out roughly how it works. Maybe not exactly why, but how.

Coil zippers aren't like that. They are made with less toothiness, and work more magically, which might be one reason that they fail for no reason that any sane person can comprehend.

True, they tend to be more delicate, and are used on lightweight clothing more than heavy stuff like pack pockets or jeans flies, but some are more robust than that too.

Everything does wear out with use, coil zippers too, and in the case of a coil zipper, by the time the shiny newness is gone the zipper gets balky, snags, bunches, and eventually comes apart.

There must be a minuscule timer mechanism built in somewhere (it seems like it might work this way with all zippers) so that any catastrophe happens exactly when that zipper is needed most.

It's enough to make anyone, let alone a hiker, wind up into a coil and hiss for a while.

But that attracts snakes, so it's not a good idea either. Looks like you're screwed then.

Source: How to talk in the woods.

We few, we grumpy few, we rumply-hat geezers say to you Effort or Eff it. No sniveling.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Definitions: Condensation

Like the inside of your nose, but all over your tent.

Here's what the National Park Service thinks: "The condensation of water vapor into clouds and precipitation is a vital link in the water cycle."

Picture throngs of gorgeous buzzing neon rainbows at sunset while butterflies flutter by gently and birds sing their last glorious notes of the day in perfect harmony among amazing, delicately-leafed trees, and the skin of your weenie puffs out as it roasts over a crackling fire.

Meanwhile, next morning, in his tent on an actual trail, so far from civilization that he can't see a parking lot or even hear traffic anymore, in a place where animals snuffle and snort around without proper supervision and eat each other when they meet, Harold Hiker awakes from sleep.

Harold has been hiking in the rain that fell from the Park Service's condensation. Harold knows what condensation really means. Most of the rain that was aimed at him hit the ground and bounced, and then ran straight into Harold's boots, and then climbed up his legs and really got to work.

When Harold set up camp he did it with a great sigh of relief. At least, at last, he thought — at last he could stop walking and get some relief from the damn rain. For a few hours anyway he would be someplace dry where the rain wouldn't be jackhammering his head and slithering up his legs in pursuit of his underwear.

Harold wanted a night of rest. He got out of his wet clothes and right into his sleeping bag and gratefully fell asleep. When Harold woke the next morning he found that the entire inside of his tent was full of condensation.

Condensation above him, condensation below him, condensation on every side of him. His sleeping bag was soaked with it. And now it was closing in for the kill. Condensation has no conscience or sense of humor, you see. Condensation will not mellow out and just be your pal. Condensation is dedicated to doing you in.

Condensation is the physical process that changes a gas to a liquid, and liquid is the stuff that makes you wet.

This is the mad dog of physics that was in the tent with Harold, and Harold had nowhere to go. Poor Harold. Some say that double-wall tents are a bad deal because they don't allow enough air circulation to prevent condensation. This may be true, but you haven't been to hell until you have spent the night closed up tight in a shiny-new single-wall tent.

Some say that tarps are better than either of the above because tarps allow more air circulation and thereby defeat condensation buildup.

This may be true, but you haven't been to hell until you have spent the night under (under is used loosely here) an open tarp, exposed to exactly every single puff of freezing, incessantly probing, rain-saturated air in the known and unknown universes.

In other words condensation is an immutable force of nature that will always be with us. Like every other form of liquid water and all known immutable forces of nature, condensation slithers and creeps around, over, into, and through everything, anything, and usually the place it wants to go most is the very last place you want ever to find it.

Nasty. It is nasty. That is the only way to say it.

The only sure way to avoid condensation is to stay home and watch TV with a big bowl of chips and a few beers handy, in front of a hot fire.

You can roast your weenie in comfort there. Dry, condensation-free roasting, in comfort, of your weenie.

And you can have pets there too. Which are also warm and dry and soft and fuzzy. Unless you are into lizards.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Definitions: Canted Hip Belt

(1) A hip belt on a big fancy pack.

A hip belt with attitude and its own slant on things.

A hip belt that's street wise and savvy to the ways of supporting a heavy load, though it does not necessarily have its own high school diploma.

May be well-contoured but overly stiff. A hip belt like this has to be stiff, because it's carrying all the weight of a heavy pack. No wait — you are. The belt is the mechanism that transfers all the weight of a big heavy pack onto your very own soft tender hips. The hips that belong to you, the hips made of living tissue.

It's true that a canted hip belt, being angled, conforms better to your body and therefore hurts less under laboratory conditions, but you have to keep in mind that less is only less, and isn't the same as not at all.

If your pack has a canted hip belt then it's probably very well made, having been designed by engineers who intended it to be adjustable to fit a wide variety of body types. Like you when you were slim, or now, after you've gained some weight, and also your next door neighbor, who isn't anything like you (at least you hope not), but whom the belt still has to fit, as well as it fits you, which may not be exactly perfectly.

A canted hip belt may flex and move with you like a good dance partner, sweeping across the landscape, keeping time with your every twist and turn, hip and hop, swivel and sway.

But the hip belt is still the point where your fragile body connects to a heavy pack, and canted or not, there's no incantation that can take the weight away.

(2) A hip belt on a pack that you just can't face carrying any more. This is usually because your pack is too heavy, or doesn't seem to taste good any more when you kiss it, or snores thunderously in its sleep, and you canted face it any longer.

Try thinking of good and delicious yummy things like powdered sugar on crispy donuts. Or imagine what life would be like if you had a candied hip belt, or even an entire pack made of ice cream.

Think about Christmas, the fairies, the sugar plums. Try to imagine what a sugar plum might be and what you would do with it in private, if only you had one, and time enough to bend it to your will, and enough privacy so you would not ever, ever have to explain anything you thought of doing, and then did.

But why stop there?

Think about what life would be like if you had a genuine pair of Sparkle Dots Ballet Slippers from the Sugar Plum Princess Boutique.

Or a set of fairy wings. Eh?

Or a shiny, glinting, flashing tiara and matching Hello Kitty kite?

Then there's the Jingle Bells Pastel Tutu that you could wear comfortably in bear country on even the hottest day. Because it's so light, and short, and shows off your legs. And has bells.

Heck, you could spring for a Wholesale Fairy Princess Party Units Business Start Up Kit and get off the damn trail and out from under that horrible old smelly painful pack and spend all day, every day doing fun and gentle girly things like you used to do when you were young and played dress-up with your Mommy, though you'd most likely have to lose the beard.

There are worse things, maybe.

Like the one on your back.

Have a nice day if possible.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Definitions: Alpine

(1) The region where people eat Alpo or other food from cans.

(2) A colloquialism for "alpen line", a kind of traditional, all-natural, hypo-allergenic climbing and utility rope made from the twisted stems of mountain flowers braided together with strands of flaxen hair removed from high-altitude meadow wenches (the Heidi is preferred).

For a 30-foot (10 m) rope: Take one bushel each of American Bistort, Bracted Lousewort, Fendlers Waterleaf, Sickletop Lousewort, Tall Mountain Shooting Star, Western Hedysarum, Cusicks Speedwell, and Scarlet Gilia. Showy Locoweed, Mountain Oxytropis, Sulpher Cinquefoil, or Rosy Pussytoes may stand in as alternate selections.

Pull off all blossoms and leaves and feed them to your goat.

Lay the stems out to begin drying in the sun, turning frequently.

Meanwhile shear three Heidis, but only their heads.

Save the hair and then gently release the girls back into the wild.

Exercise care in choosing only from the longhaired varieties as the shorthaired breeds, though they may be comely, will not suffice for this purpose. Locks of less than 20 inches (50 cm) make inferior alpen lines. Longer is always better, so keep that in mind.

When the flower stems are nearly dry but still supple and flexible, begin weaving them together, taking care to alternate stalks from different flowers, and mixing in a generous number of golden hairs as your work progresses.

Experience with macrame will help you here, but if you are new to this you may find it advantageous to first experiment with goat hair and grass stalks. (Another reason to keep goats, and they are also edible.)

When you are done weaving your line, stretch and pull it gently to tighten the braiding, store it in a cool and dry place for several days to set, then whip-finish the ends.

Give your rope an occasional gentle brushing to keep it glossy.

Remove soil with a quality shampoo (anti-dandruff is best, unscented).

If treated with care your rope should serve you well for many years.

(3) Alpine also refers to mountain geography residing above timberline, of varying elevation depending on the exact location, but reminiscent of Europe's Alps.

In the United States "alpine" refers to areas high in the Rocky Mountains, the Cascades, or the Sierra Nevada.

The Appalachians also have alpine areas, (regionally known as "homers") but these occur only in small, isolated pockets.

Remember, every alpine zone is delicate. A simple stroll that wanders off an established trail combined with an unsupervised elbow inadvertently colliding with the environment in one of these areas can knock the whole delicate ecology off its pedestal and send it crashing to the floor, so always walk with care. Treat all Heidis with respect.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Definitions: Denier

Denier is a measurement of fuzz weight.

It is roughly a pennyweight, depending on the weight of your penny and the heft of your fuzz. How about that?

Fine, maybe, but we can go deeper.

First off, "denier" was the name of a French coin created by Charlemagne (the old French king dude guy) in the Early Middle Ages, which, compared to now, were pretty early and long, long ago, timewise.

People liked the idea of coins so much that they stole it for other European money systems. Charlemagne though was not an original thinker — he got his idea from the earlier Roman "denarius", which was worth roughly a day's wages.

In today's money a denarius would buy around 20 dollars of stuff. Back in Roman times the basic unit of stuffness was bread and the Roman denarius was about 20 dollars worth of bread. They were big eaters in the olden days.

But back to Charlemagne, also known as "Carolus Magnus", or "Charles the Great". He was a great guy in those days, in the sense that if he told someone to pinch your head off, it was as good as done. So Charlemagne's ideas were potent, and his coinage inspired the Arab and Yugoslavian coins called "dinars". Italians called theirs the "denaro". The Spanish? "Dinero". The Portuguese, "dinheiro". Even the Republic of Macedonia has its own version, the "denar".

Ah, yes then, the British. Now we come to the British. The British were a little different. Sometimes they are. In many ways.

The British equivalent of the denier was the "penny", though the British persisted in using the letter "d" to represent it, as you might expect from them. It took 240 pennies to make one British pound, which used to be a lump of silver weighing a pound.

Are ya still with us? Fine then. We'll eventually get back to fuzz, so hang in there if you have nothing else to do.

Then the British, instead of carrying around big lumps of silver, they, the folk of the green isles, learned to fashion each lump of silver into 240 "sterlings" beginning about the year 775 (or possibly 774 ½ — no one knows for sure anymore).

"Sterlings", in case you were wondering, were silver coins based on those used by the Saxons, some early German refugees who had skipped westward across the North Sea in search of greener pastures. Some of these Saxons later got bent through various accidents and wars and things and became angled, or "Angles", which, due to interbreeding, which was common even then, is where we got the Angled Saxons, or Anglo-Saxons of today, who are now best known for the things they do involving tea.

If one of these guys had to pay off a really big gambling debt he did it in pounds of sterlings. Since they were lazy just like us, they later shortened this to "pounds sterling", and then, getting even lazier, to "pounds". And now they've gone decimal and things have gone totally to hell, though decimal numbers are easier for pocket calculators to figure out.

The original silver penny though, that was introduced by King Offa of Mercia in middle England way back when. He copied Charlemagne's denier and his coin contained about what we would call 1.5 grams of silver, to make it worth something. That amount of silver equaled a fair bit of fuzz back in the day.

So fuzz already, you may wonder, eh? Shetland cows are the cutely-kinky furry ones, with the bangs and the bushy coats and all. Also from the British Isles.

The story we're sticking with here is that intrepid knitters, during silver shortages, were able to make do by fashioning penny coins from cow fuzz, and getting them just good enough to pass as currency. King Offa's wife Cynethryth may have kicked off this trend. Let's call her "Cynthia" and avoid a bunch of lisping, which is hard to do without the guidance of a professional tutor. Cynthia it is, then.

This particular Cynthia was a wicked mad knitter, she. The weight of her fuzz coins, if she used dense fuzz, was about the same as the silver ones, which was handy, and after the conversion of the world to the metric system (except for Liberia, Myanmar, and the United Arfing States), the pennyweight became standardized at one gram. Handy.

OK for weight, but since fuzz no longer comes in tight, hefty wads and most of us have trouble running out and grabbing a cow whenever we need cash, how much is that in yarn then? We use yarn now, you know. To measure our fuzz. It is said to be a more civilized way.

Well, that would be for your 9000 meter length of yarn. (That rounds up to an even 5.59234073 miles, by the way.)

So now one denier is no longer a coin but a number representing a piece of fiber (or thread, or yarn) 9000 meters long and weighing one gram. A U.S. nickel coin is about five grams. One slim yarn there, folks.

Not tough enough all by itself to make backpacks from.

Some fabrics used in backpacks are woven from 500 to 1000 denier yarns, which means they're pretty heavy, which they need to be, to make durable-enough packs for use by clueless idiots. Stands to reason. Get your fabric heavy enough and it's even bullet proof, though everyday stuff is not 500 to 1000 denier, but around maybe 50 to 100 denier.

Thread count is another thing entirely, in case you were wondering about that. Thread count is a measure of how coarse or fine a fabric is, measured by counting the number of threads contained in one square inch of fabric, regardless of each thread's weight. (Did you notice how we just fell right back off the metric system? And landed back in the English system? Didja? We did.)

Fine quality bed sheets for example start at a thread count of 180 and go up to 250 or more threads per square inch.

So if Romans measured stuff in units of bread, then how did the British measure value in their society? (Since we seem to be stuck with them.)

Well John Heywood, a 16th century British poet once said "I shall geat a fart of a dead man as soone as a farthyng of him."

A farthing was ¼ penny, so that means a penny was worth four farts.

Who was it said that Roman civilization was the degenerate one then?

Yeeg, the British.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Customize Me, Pleez



When I was a little kid, shoe stores had x-ray machines. True.

You don't remember this because I'm older than you are, but I remember. Sticking my feet into the machine and watching myself wiggling my toes around inside a potential new pair of shoes was the best part of buying shoes.

The idea was that customers could check the fit, see it for themselves, and be sure that everything was A-OK, but I liked to see the wiggling bones. That was the part I liked. This was before TV, and almost better than TV was when we got it, years later. Watching your own feet move around inside your shoes was almost better than seeing 30 minutes of Howdy Doody squirming around with Buffalo Bob's hand stuck up his back.

Almost. X-rays were a modern miracle of merchandise marketing, and the time I spent looking at my feet was definitely a loop of time forever unreachable by the intensely (creepily) unsettling Clarabell the Clown. I still don't understood why a man in a terror-suit was named Clarabell, and what the hell his connection was to Howdy Doody, and I don't want to know. Not today. Tomorrow, ever. He/it be dead now forever, we hope, and gone.

And then they took all the x-ray machines away. They were called "shoe-fitting fluoroscopes", according to Wikipedia. Buggers. All gone.

"The bones of the feet were clearly visible, as was the outline of the shoe, including the stitching around the edges." Yep. That was it. Including "two other viewing portholes on either side [enabling] the parent and a sales assistant to observe the child's toes being wiggled." And then they took all the x-ray machines away. Up to then the early 1950s had been a lot of fun.

And what if "there was not enough data to quantify the level of risk until atomic bomb survivors began to experience the long-term effects of radiation in the late 1940s"? They survived, didn't they? But the machines disappeared anyway. What's a little radiation burn here and there? Kids grow out of stuff all the time, pretty quick too, mostly.

Well, a few years later television came to town, and the rest is misery. Until then I ran around outside, played baseball, fed peanuts to squirrels, watched ants crawl around on peonies, and entered grade school. Very few if any of my toes fell off, and my shoe fit didn't seem to suffer the loss of x-rays, but I missed the scientific method as applied by gimmicky machinery to an annual footwear purchase ritual.

Choice matters.

Especially for older merchandise consumers, like adults. Especially cranky ones like me. Especially cranky ones carrying backpacks around and grunting inside clouds of flies. That's why custom packs are a good idea. There's a custom pack to fit the hump of every grump. Because. That's what custom means, doncha see?

I tried last year about this time. Heard good things and contacted Mr. Sam Jepsen of JepPaks. He got confused. And backed away. Now if I try to go back to the JepPaks web site and see what he's up to, I get only "Website Expired. This account has expired. If you are the site owner, click below to login." So I guess that's over. No more Sam, no more JepPaks.

This year I contacted Mr. Christopher Zimmer of Zimmerbuilt. Sounded good. Got a positive response. He's even made a pack that was sort of vaguely related to what I want, the "ZB2 - Gowler". So I figured he'd be open to trying to do something off the beaten track and back in the bushes about half a mile, which is what my design is like — odd but very simple to make. So I pulled together my specs and dug up a bunch of photos of my original self-made pack, and. Haven't heard a damn thing back from him.

Two possibilities: He's either otherwise occupied, with illness, a vacation, his real job, a crisis in the family, or whatever, or he's blowing me off by playing dead.

"Effort or effit." That's my new motto. I'm not going to whine and beg, so effit then. I'll find a way to make the pack I need, maybe next winter. Meanwhile, I've got a pack on order from a real company, a Mountain Laurel Designs "Prophet". It's close enough to what I can put up with to work for me. I can fudge a little, find a way to stiffen it, add capacity flexibly, add compression. Its relatively generous design should let me move the furniture around, depending on which party I'm headed for.

Hey, I did set off in the summer of 2013 on a 12-day, no-resupply trip carrying a North Face 26L "Verto". And came home again. It can be done. With some fudging. Though that was not fun.

What I did was to customize it. Get the drift here? Customize.

I sewed on two ginormous side pockets which together equaled about a third the volume of the pack bag. Then I added another pocket in front (confusingly, the "front" is the side of the pack that's way out back). This contributed another big boost to the pack's volume. And then I started off carrying my hammock, tarp, and under-quilt in a largish stuff sack lashed on top. I probably had about 45L to work with in the modified pack, and even more in the stuff sack, and stowed more and more things back inside the pack bag as I ate my way through the trip's provisions.

So things can be done.

Also, mistakes were made, lessons were learned, pain was encountered. Such is life among those living desperately.

Which is why I want to get back to where I left off, with a really good and really custom pack. And it looks like I'll have to do it all myself. Such is life, period. OK, fine. I'll do it then. But not at this moment, I guess, because I don't have materials here, or time, or a sewing machine. Right now.

And yes, this is really necessary. Necessary and normal. We're all different even in the midst of our seeming sameness. Last year I tried two different packs. Both worked. Both were wrong. The first was an REI "Flash 45" and it had all sorts of confusing little straps routing themselves here and there and beyond, and the shoulder straps made me howl in pain. The second was a Granite Gear "Crown 60". Tighter, lighter, bigger, better-designed, kinda, but the shoulder straps also made me howl in pain. And a pocket ripped the first time out. And the hip belt was permanently too big.

And I'm a good fit. If I buy clothes in my size, they fit. Like they were made right for me, you know? Pants, shirts, socks, underwear — all OK. Not so much with packs. I don't know. Something's off. If you can't fight 'em, can't join 'em, then effit, 's what I say. Eff-M-All, and make your own. Which I guess I'll have to do when I can, if I can.

Which brings us around to actual evidence. Because I'm not making up all of this. Not all of it. I have the U.S. of A.'s own Force d'Air on my side here. Right here. On my very own side. And them fellas is smart some of the time. "In the late 1940s, the United States air force had a serious problem: its pilots could not keep control of their planes." See? That's Step One, observe symptoms. "'You never knew if you were going to end up in the dirt.' At its worst point, 17 pilots crashed in a single day. The two government designations for these noncombat mishaps were incidents and accidents, and they ranged from unintended dives and bungled landings to aircraft-obliterating fatalities." Check.

Step Two is to locate the cause of said symptoms. This can be hard. "After multiple inquiries ended with no answers, officials turned their attention to the design of the cockpit." Hmmm. Maybe if we take sort-of average pilots, and measure the hell out of them, and average all the measurements, we'll be able to design a cockpit that will fit...all pilots, they thought. So. What? Then what?

Zero. "Out of 4,063 pilots, not a single airman fit within the average range on all 10 dimensions. There was no such thing as an average pilot. If you've designed a cockpit to fit the average pilot, you've actually designed it to fit no one." A true WTF moment, folks, sponsored by your tax dollars, or those of your parents, or your grandparents, depending, of course.

Step Three is solving the actual problem. Which for the Air Force was not the crashing planes (that was a symptom), or pilots that didn't fit the planes (that was another symptom), but the lack of understanding that "there was no such thing as an average person". And to solve the problem the Air Force had to actually do something. Because "any system designed around the average person is doomed to fail." Rather than finding hikers or pilots average enough to fit the ideal backpack or fighter-plane cockpit, the solution is to customize the hardware so it will fit actual humans.

As for the Air Force, "they were able to focus on fitting the cockpit to the individual pilot. That's when things started getting better...They designed adjustable seats, technology now standard in all automobiles. They created adjustable foot pedals. They developed adjustable helmet straps and flight suits."

As for the outdoor industry?

What. We have 16 different packs from one company, all made on the same basic plan, all in your choice of Medium or Large, so take your pick. You're sure to find a great fit, assuming that you like a three-foot-tall, six-pound, top-loading pack (empty weight) with two tiny mesh pockets outside, no noticeable compression, and a hip belt that fits anyone with a waist size from 32 inches to 48 inches. And you can stand shoulder straps carved from wood. And you think maroon and yellow go well with the outdoors.

And if you're a woman, well this year they're introducing a special model just for you. It's exactly the same as their real pack, except it costs more and has a tiny label over on the side that says "Designed Especially for Women".

Love it or effit.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch: "By discarding the average as their reference standard, the air force initiated a quantum leap in its design philosophy, centered on a new guiding principle: individual fit. Rather than fitting the individual to the system, the military began fitting the system to the individual...it was a practical solution to an urgent problem.." Pretty good for government work, right?

Step Four Let's see more custom-designed and custom-made backpacks because I've got a body and goals and attitude that aren't exactly like yours, and I don't like being ornery out on the trail. Are ya with me or agin' me? (Hint: I don't really care what you think, though I'm not actually too scary in person most of the time, and not all that hard to get along with, and if you get bothered you can push me down and take my lunch money and make me cry, if that's what you like. True. So don't worry.)

Criteria (There are two.): (1) My pack has to fit me. (2) It also has to suit me: durable, comfortable, capable.

That's all then. Is this really, truly impossible? More difficult than building supersonic warplanes?

More:

When U.S. air force discovered the flaw of averages

Review: Granite Gear Crown 60

Shoe-fitting fluoroscope

Desperate Living