I used to love backpacking.
No, that’s not quite right—I still love backpacking. It’s just that I haven’t done it in a while. And it’s not just something I loved doing; backpacking, for me, has always been a kind of life parable.
A good friend of mine is deeply driven by parables, using the words of our Savior to open up new ways of thinking about God and our place in the world. I share that view. Backpacking, though physical and earthy, carries with it the same layered meaning. It is journey, effort, solitude, preparation. It is freedom with weight.
There are, of course, some basics: There’s a destination. There’s a need to go as a self-contained entity. Time is always part of the equation.
II. The Foundation
Backpacking demands planning. One of the first books I read on the subject was The Complete Walker by Colin Fletcher. It remains a marvelous book—meticulous, practical, and almost spiritual in its devotion to the details. Fletcher insisted that the foundation of backpacking was the shoe. Not the pack. Not the food.
The shoe.
He had good reason. “When you are fifty miles from the closest civilization,” he wrote, “holes in your boots do not break.” I took that to heart. After years of hitchhiking across the West in worn-out sandals, I went all in: three pairs of Pivetta Eigers, expensive, heavy, and (frankly) a little ugly. But they had eyelets, not clips. The slower lace-up might save you days later.
III. The Destination
No one backpacks without a destination. If you never arrive, then you never left. Even if it’s just a remote ridge, a hot spring, or a looped trail—it’s the act of intending to go somewhere that transforms walking into journey. It’s not aimless. And yes, for safety and sanity, someone should probably know where you’re headed.
There’s a phrase I’ve heard: “If you have no destination, then any path will lead you there.” It’s well-meaning, but not accurate. Better: “If you don’t know where you’re going, then any path will get you there.” Important distinction. Wandering has its place. But in the wilderness, direction matters. Often the destination is chosen for what it promises: a view, a test, an experience. But it always comes with the reality that getting there is most of the story.
IV. The Burden and the Balance
Backpacking means attempting self-sufficiency. It’s not perfect, but it’s the goal. You carry everything you need: food, water, shelter, navigation, first aid. Not because you’re fleeing civilization, but because you’re stepping into a place where it may not be available.
How much food and water can you carry? That’s the central question. Food is weight. Water is heavier.
People can live without food for forty days if they have water. So I’d often plan to carry only a quart or so—just enough to get from stream to stream. A filter, or purification drops, could turn even muddy runoff into a lifeline.
As for food, the backpacker’s pantry is varied. I’ve used it all—freeze-dried meals, raw brown rice, oatmeal bricks. A hot, savory dinner at ten thousand feet is a joy that rivals anything served at sea level.
Shelter comes next. A warm sleeping bag—reliable, proven, well-fitted to your body and climate—can mean the difference between joy and misery. I’ve designed and sewn four arctic-level bags over the years. That’s probably the most useful project I’ve ever undertaken.
Beyond that are the incidentals that aren’t so incidental: compass, maps, firestarter, safety rope, belt knife, and a long list of small tools for problems you hope not to encounter. But here’s the truth— Self-sufficiency is a partial illusion. What I had was delayed dependency. I could postpone the need to resupply, but never escape it.
V. The Inner Pull
Why did I gravitate toward backpacking? Perhaps it was a continuation of childhood camping trips with my parents. Perhaps it aligned with my ability to be alone and still feel whole. Maybe it was the pleasure of planning, of testing one’s preparedness. And certainly, it was the visual reward—the sheer delight of wilderness seen by effort alone. But more than anything, backpacking gave me principles I’ve carried long after stepping off the trail. Aphorisms shaped on switchbacks, remembered in valleys, muttered on summits.
Let me offer a few: “If you don’t have a plan for your life, someone else will step in to give you one. And you’ll walk a path that isn’t yours.” “Spend time turning around on the trail and looking back. You might need to know what it looks like in order to get home.” “Conserve your fuel until you need it. Drink water often. Better to carry water on the inside than in your pack.” “Don’t become trail-hypnotized. Look up. Look around. It’s how you stay oriented, and how you remember to wonder.” “Adjust early. A small error ignored becomes a bigger burden down the trail.” “Walk lightly. Don’t leave your garbage behind.”
VI. The Next Step
By my best estimate, I’ve spent over 500 days and 12,000 hours backpacking. That time still shapes how I walk through ordinary days. I know how to carry what matters. I know that weight teaches you. And I know that rest feels better when it follows effort.
I’m ready for more.
