Mission Project

As far as challenges go, hiking the AT is a relatively tame one. Certainly not on par with climbing a big wall or one of the seven summits. But there are moments.

During October and November of 2006, while I was hiking the southern end of the AT, the temperatures had also been unseasonably cold. Nighttime lows often plunged to the high teens and low 20s; daytime highs rarely got above the mid-40s. It rained frequently, everything from light mists to torrential downpours. High winds transformed tolerable conditions into miserable ones. The snow and ice I encountered in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park was sour frosting on a bittersweet cake.

Local hikers I met commiserated and offered encouragement: "This weather is really unusual. But it's supposed to warm up and be real nice next week." So I kept going, my spirits buoyed and the conditions made more bearable by the anticipation of warmer, drier weather on the way. And when the weather the following week turned out to be just as lousy, a new batch of hikers would lure me onward with the same words of false hope: "This weather is really unusual. But it's supposed to warm up and be real nice next week."

I ended up doing more backpacking in winter conditions than I ever wanted to do in my entire life. I grew up in Hawaii. I don't tolerate the cold well. Upon reaching Springer Mountain, I vowed "Never again." With all due respect, Mountain Hardwear, I don't find your Grand Prize of "A guided mountaineering trip up Mt. Ranier" to be the least bit appealing.

In an attempt to keep my promise to myself, I had monitored the weather before committing to this trip. The prognosticators had heralded the arrival of spring and forecast a warming trend with highs inching up into the 50s over the next few days.

The bad news was that it looked like the day's high wasn't even going to reach the predicted low. The good news was that I had also checked historical weather records. My gear selection was based on normal conditions plus a safety margin for below average temperatures. I figured I'd be fine (albeit borderline comfortable) as long as I didn't encounter record lows. With all the talk about global warming, what were the odds of that? Greater than I thought, apparently.

As the day wore on and I wore down, I began fantasizing that when I arrived at Eagle's Nest shelter I'd be greeted by other hikers who had a roaring bonfire going. Imagine my surprise and elation when, after 17 frigid miles, that's exactly how the reality played out.

But that was the only wish I was granted. It seems they just don't make genies like they used to. The one I got was probably a cheap knock-off created in a country that ignores patent laws.

The nighttime low nudged 20. I woke up to a landscape blanketed by snow. The high temperature on the second day barely topped freezing and the bite of the wind made it feel colder. Windsor Furnace shelter (an ironic name considering the conditions) was where it was supposed to be, but the trail to the shelter wasn't. After an hour of searching and two extra miles of walking, I finally found it just before dark. No one else was there; my only company would be the shelter mice. I hustled through my camp chores faster than Rush Limbaugh jumps to conclusions and crawled into my sleeping bag as soon as I was done.

The next day was more of the same — except it didn't snow. But rain was in the forecast. Been there, done that. It's worse than snow when the temperature is so low: Arriving in camp soaked (from precipitation or perspiration, take your pick). Immediately changing into my spare set of dry clothes. The next morning, delaying as long as possible before clenching my teeth and donning my still wet and now chilled clothes. (Gotta keep the dry clothes dry.)

It was a turning into a replay of last fall's trek, the one I pledged never to repeat. So I bailed. What can I say? It was a matter of principle.

I'll be back, of course. When palm trees sprout on the summit of Mount Washington and the Shenandoah Wilderness is designated a tropical rain forest. Or in September. Whichever comes first.

What does this have to do with Mountain Hardwear?

My backpacking gear is an eclectic mix — from "home made" to "cheap but good enough" to "moderately priced functional" to "you-can't-get-any-better expensive." Most of my clothing falls in the "cheap but good enough" category — castoffs (including some reputable brand names) I purchased at local thrift shops for less than five dollars each. I've paid a premium price for only four pieces of apparel: my hiking boots, socks, rain jacket, and Mountain Hardwear Compressor PL Jacket.

I almost didn't buy the Compressor PL Jacket. In January, 2006, I went to a local outfitter to exchange a Christmas gift. Always on the lookout for a bargain, I spotted a "Clearance Sale" rack of clothing and detoured toward it. Two Mountain Hardwear Compressor PL Jackets were hanging there, marked down to $100.

The one I tried on fit perfectly. But, even at $100, it seemed pricey. That was 20 times what I had paid for my fleece. Yes, it would shave a few more ounces off my pack weight. And it scrunched up to a smaller volume. But was it worth it? Reluctantly, I hung the jacket back up and headed to the rear of the store to do what I came for.

On my way out, I couldn't resist taking another look at the jacket. I dithered there for a quite awhile, debating with myself, struggling to come up with a rationalization to justify the purchase. My persistence paid off. I finally remembered my birthday was later in the month. (At my age, there are some things I'd just as soon forget.) It would be a present to myself.

What started as an extravagant splurge has become one of my favorite pieces of gear. My Compressor Jacket is one of the few items I never switch out or leave at home. There have been periods (including this hike) that I have worn it 24 hours a day for days at a stretch to keep warm.

The relatively hard and frequent use has left scars: at present count, three tears in and two holes melted through the outer nylon fabric. And there's another story behind each one.