When filled to the brim with every last piece of essential equipment, my 65-liter pack weighs in at approximately 25 pounds. For those that can’t easily picture such an arbitrary figure, that’s the equivalent of roughly three brimming gallons of water; or 31 Patagonia Synchilla Snap-T Pullovers; or 167 Clif Bars, depending on the flavor.
To some, 25 pounds might seem like a relatively manageable number, but to a growing body of outdoor enthusiasts, heavy gear like mine is reserved for history. As cottage brands and established outfitters introduce lightweight fibers and fabrics that are assessed not in pounds, but grams and ounces, the outdoor industry is slowly but surely parting ways with the burdensome gear it once considered revolutionary. If you need any proof of this shift towards embracing ultralight gear, simply peruse the backpacking setups found on ultralight forums, where base weights (that is, the weight of an entire backpacking setup excluding food and water) rarely exceed 12 pounds for trips spanning weeks or months.
Before we forget why we first fell in love with all the aging outdoor gear that’s shrinking in the shadow of ultralight hardware, let us take a moment to remember what makes heavy, hulking, beefy, portly, plump equipment so special; it’s not the craftsmanship, the quality, or the comfort, but a combination of all three (and then some). I, for one, continue to embrace and defend heavy gear, regardless of the added weight—let me tell you why.
Photography by Rob Schanz
Creature Comforts
Over the years, my equipment has slowly but surely transitioned from traditional gear to lighter alternatives. For instance, the cutlery set I formerly used to down a backwoods meal included a fork, spoon, and knife bonded by a keyring, until I adopted a do-it-all titanium spork (0.6 ounces). So too did I ditch boots for trail runners, use layers as a makeshift pillow instead of bringing one, and transition from a synthetic to a down sleeping bag (2 pounds, 11 ounces). But there remains a handful of odds and ends I keep around regardless of the nearly-weightless replacements now available, if only because I’m willing to sacrifice the added weight in exchange for the comfort they provide.
Take, for instance, my beloved pack, a 65-liter Gregory Zulu. It weighs two times more than the Hyperlite Mountain Gear Southwest that’s also in my quiver. Indeed, it’s quite the bundle to carry here and there, but the mesh back panel, suspension system, and load adjustment straps are traits I simply can’t pass up on a multi-day hike. (My Hyperlite weighs 30.1 ounces, but it lacks any such features.) It’s also quite durable and reasonably priced, so I don’t feel bad when it tips over as I’m eating lunch on a rock and slides into the dirt with a hard thud.
The same can be said for my tent, a free-standing, two-person model made by Sea to Summit (3 pounds 4.3 ounces) that offers mental security and loads of comfort. I can set it up in minutes, probably with my eyes closed. The same goes for the two-to-three liters of water I carry on the trail that provide a little more peace of mind when I don’t know where the next source of hydration will come from. While I’m always open to challenging the status quo, I’m also happy to embrace what still works—especially if it’s comfortable.
