Every year, hundreds of hikers set out on the Appalachian Trail carting pounds of gear that they will NEVER use. Mountain Crossings Hiker Outlet at Neels Gap makes a killing each year inspecting packs and mailing hundreds of pounds of gear home. About 30 miles into the trail, they are situated right at the point where most hikers are wondering “Why on earth did I bring all of this CRAP?”
Don’t make that mistake.
I know I’ve talked extensively on this blog about the gear I’ll be using, and don’t get me wrong — it is important. But many hikers highly overestimate the importance and the amount of gear that they will need on the trail.
Your gear will not get you to the end of the Appalachian Trail. Your feet will.
Hikers today believe that they need the fanciest, most high-tech, rain-proof, wind-proof, everything-proof, so-much-like-home-you’ll-never-miss-it expensive gear in order to hike the Appalachian Trail.
They are wrong.
In 1955, Grandma Gatewood was the first woman to hike the Appalachian Trail at the age of 67. She wore Keds Sneakers and used a raincoat and a plastic shower curtain for shelter, which she carried in a homemade rucksack slung over one shoulder.
The fact that you find this impressive is very telling of our high-tech post-industrial culture.
Our ancestors, so-called “Primitive Man”, walked NAKED across thousands of miles of desert, dangerous rainforest, arctic tundras, and far more challenging environments than anything we are bound to encounter today — even on the Appalachian Trail.
Yet we, “Modern Man”, supposedly the pinnacle of evolution thus far, can’t set 5 miles into the so-called wild without doing all we can to bring along the comforts of home. We are less hardy, less rugged, less individually self-sufficient than we ever were before. It’s a good thing we have less and less of that pesky wilderness around to deal with.
Hiking the Appalachian Trail is hard. It is not a picnic in the park. But a week into the trip, you will forget about half of the stuff you agonized over, stressed that you would miss the creature comforts of home. Here are a few of the things you don’t need:
You do not need 3 different titanium pots and a mug. Trail cooking isn’t that fancy, and if you’re trying to eat like you did back home, you’ll starve. There’s no Olive Garden on the trail.
You do not need a portable blowup air mattress. You will sleep on the ground. You will enjoy it.
You do not need soaps and toiletries. You will stink and no one will care. Get used to it. Your skin isn’t designed to deal with soap anyway, despite what the beauty industry wants you to think.
You do not need extra clothing. You will wear one outfit. It is not a beauty contest. You’re lucky you have fancy synthetic-fiber breathable stuff and don’t have to wear the skin of a dead animal like your ancestors did.
You do not need a mug. You will not need coffee to wake up every morning when you are sleeping when it gets dark and waking up with the sun. Real hikers drink water.
You do not need sunglasses. This ain’t the desert.
I’m sure you can think of plenty more.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not immune to “gear-fever” either. Admittedly, quality gear will certainly make things easier, and I intend to get the best stuff I can on my limited budget. But I feel that I will get far further, and have a much more enjoyable time, by packing only the absolute necessities. You may disagree with my personal list — that’s fine. As long as you think long and hard about each piece of gear, and bring only what you absolutely need to use, you’ll be fine. Avoid trying to bring every conceivable comfort from home for every conceivable eventuality. Don’t worry. You will survive. And your feet will thank you.
