My relationship with GoLite – and specifically with its founders and owners, Kim and Demetri Coupounas (“Coup”) — goes back nine years, to the summer of 2003 when GoLite welcomed me to Boulder, Colo. as a summer intern. We have both grown a lot since then. During my speaking and book tour earlier this Spring I fielded a few questions to the effect of, “WTF is happening at GoLite?” in regards to its decision to abandon the traditional retail market, drop its prices, and open its own stores. In this interview I give Coup an opportunity to explain this decision and its effects, as well as his broader perspective on the company. 

GoLite's flagship store on Pearl Street in Boulder, CO. This store, plus a growing number of others in addition to its website, are part of GoLite's direct-to-customer strategy.

Andrew: GoLite was founded in 1998 – 14 years ago – as arguably the first “lightweight backpacking” manufacturer. It has evolved several times since then. How does GoLite describe itself now?

Coup: We take pride in continuing to make some of the lightest backpacking clothing and equipment in the marketplace, as well as light, simple, functional products for travel. And we have increased our commitment to sustainability in recent years.

Andrew: You have been its president since the beginning. How is Kim, your wife and GoLite’s co-founder, now involved?

Coup: Kim was CEO, as in Chief Executive Officer, for years. For two years she was Chair of the board of the Outdoor Industry Association and that was a second full-time time job. In that role, she helped focus the industry on accelerating its commitment to and performance toward being more sustainable as she’d already been doing at GoLite for years. When her term was up, it was natural to continue the emphasis on that work at GoLite. To save printing costs and save paper, we called her Chief Environmental Officer, still our CEO. Two years ago, George Demetrios Leonidas Coupounas was born which, as every mother knows, was and is a huge, if glorious effort. So, Kim has two full-time jobs again. At GoLite, she continues to spearhead all our sustainability work – more broadly as Chief Sustainability Officer, and of course she has tremendous institutional memory and is an owner.

Andrew: When GoLite began to shift away from purely function-driven and minimalist products (think: the Coal Parka and Lair Tarp/Nest), some accused it of “selling out.” Why did GoLite’s product direction change? Why did you not just remain a more focused – albeit much smaller – cottage company?

Coup: From the very start we wanted to help as many people as we could to lighten up and enjoy the outdoors. We’re not here to just help a few – we’re here to help many. Some don’t seem comfortable with that. Some use terms that, if they were in my shoes, they’d find offensive, rude and unfair. No one here has “sold out.” If we had, we’d have more money :-~)

I look at this issue like the way I look at (listen to) music. I don’t hold it against the Beatles that the White Album contains “Revolution 9” a “song” I don’t care for – I just don’t listen to it. I listen to Let It Be, A Day in the Life, Hey Jude, Eleanor Rigby, and continue to thank John, Paul, George, Ringo and their various producers and managers for the greatest music I’ve ever heard.

Similarly, at GoLite, why it would bother someone that we make certain products that are “light” instead of “ultralight” is beyond me. Everything we make we make for a reason and because the signals we’ve received from all of our customers and potential customers over the years have indicated needs and desires that are broader than what any individual or small group may care for.

Coup, Kim, and son George. Clearly, there's a perk to owning a company that makes winter outerwear, though I believe Coup is wearing a Midnight Sun Parka, which stopped appearing on racks in 2002.

Andrew: Over the last 1-2 years GoLite has transformed its business model, from being focused on its wholesale business (the traditional model, whereby a manufacturer sells its products to a retailer which then re-sells these products to consumers) to being focused on direct sales, through its website and stores. Can you explain what the model looks like today?

Coup: In the US and Canada, virtually all sales are now direct to customers through our website, our town stores, and our outlet stores. In all other markets, we sell through distributors that decide what in our line to purchase and resell, as well as how to price and market it.

Andrew: Have you “bet the farm,” so to speak, on this new model?

Coup: When you run a small business in this economic environment, you bet the farm frequently. And this bet is working. We now sell far more through our website and stores than we ever did through traditional outdoor retailers.

These results are due to a combination of being able to: present the complete brand, holistically; tell the lightweight and sustainability stories with integrity; and pass on to our end customers the dramatic cost savings that this model realizes.

Andrew: What drove GoLite to change? Why did it struggle to succeed as a traditional wholesaler? Was it a failure of GoLite’s product, branding, or management? Was it the strength of GoLite’s competitors? Or was the retail market too difficult to crack?

Coup: We were dissatisfied with how slowly our innovations were accepted in the traditional sales channel, as well as with how diluted the message was by the time it got to the end customer. Previously, there was a merchandiser, buyer, sales rep, store manager, and sales staff between GoLite and the end customer. Now there is nobody between GoLite and the end customer.

Andrew: Is this the “new” GoLite, or is the model still evolving? What changes or additions will take place in the next 12-18 months?

Coup: The basic strategy is visible now – this is what we’re doing. However, there are constant tactical adjustments that need to be made based on our continuing learnings. This is a whole new way of doing business for us. It’s better. We’re much happier with how we are able to present product and the brand, to interact with our customers, and to grow sales. But there continues to be lots to learn.

Andrew: How are customers affected by this change, in terms of prices, customer service, and product availability?

Coup: I hesitate to answer for customers – generally, it’s good to hear them speak in their own voice. But what I have heard and seen is that they are able to now understand the whole brand, what it means and stands for, and how the products should be used, than previously. They also seem to appreciate that our products are not just light on their backs and light on the planet, but also light on their wallet. On the backend, we are able to service our customers better because there is a direct and extensive stream of information (e.g. popular products, sizes, and colors; feedback about product design and store layout; etc.) coming into our systems daily, whereas before this feedback loop was much more diluted and delayed.

Andrew: GoLite’s pricing is sweetly discounted versus industry averages. For example, right now its 20-degree 800-fill mummy bag costs just $200, and long-sleeve merino wool tops costs just $45. If the old adage, “You get what you pay for,” is true, then there must be a catch. What is it here?

Coup: It’s true that you get what you pay for. And if you want to pay for tradeshow fees, tradeshow booths that cost as much as a house, sales rep commissions, sales meetings, obsolete inventory, pre-season discounts, collection fees, bad debt, order cancellations, lots of flights, rental cars, hotel rooms and dinners, as well as all the traditional retailer’s expenses, go pay some other company $400 for that bag and $90 for that shirt. If you just want to pay for quality, sustainable materials and an excellent design, plus a fair rate for labor, shipping, and rent – which we can deliver at a cost of about 1/3 – 1/2 below the industry average – then get them from GoLite.

Screenshot from GoLite.com. A Jam for just $80? I used this pack for my entire 6,875-mile Great Western Loop, most of my 7,800-mile Sea-to-Sea Route trip, plus a handful of other "small" trips. It's very light. It's durable. It has all the necessary features. And it's only $80!

Andrew: Since GoLite has always sold direct on its website – although at wholesale prices – and since it has been doing semi-annual sales in Boulder and Denver for several years, it might seem like an easy transition to start selling direct exclusively. But I’m guessing it was not so straightforward. I have two sub-questions:

Andrew: 1. How difficult has it been to find store locations, train employees, and keep good inventory levels as you build up your direct business?

Coup: It’s a lot of work, but it’s all work that bears fruit, which makes it satisfying and rewarding. In selecting real estate, for example, we have run lots of experiments – not always intentionally – around square footage, customer access (parking versus walk-by traffic), and various towns and regions. And we apply all that learning to places we select going forward.

As for staff, we have good people here at headquarters choosing good people out there in the field. Like all personnel decisions it takes time, work, and insight. But, again, it’s gratifying and rewarding to know that when we find the right store managers and staff, they will spend their entire workday thinking about, and helping customers understand and appreciate, just one brand – GoLite’s full story and full range of products, with integrity. Our employees are also better able and more than willing to pass along insightful feedback from customers.

Andrew: 2. How have you had to change development and production now that the entire product line is available at GoLite stores, instead of just a few standout items that a retailer might have carried?

Coup: The product selection and production process has been liberated. For example, take the Ion pack, which we had to discontinue because there wasn’t enough demand for a single production run per season at our former sales volume and the amount that had to be charged at retail. At the price we’ll be able to charge in the future, and our increased size, we’ll be able to run several production runs per season. Previously, we had to make bets on what buyers at retail stores would want, not knowing if they would want enough in one season to justify an entire production run. Even if they did want enough for one run, they might not want much more, in which case our distribution center becomes a warehouse, which is unfortunate. We also no longer have to sell buyers on entirely new products, convincing them that there is a demand. Instead, we can simply make a single production run and watch how quickly it sells. If it sells quickly, we’ll order more next season; if not, we’ll order less, or discontinue it. This sort of rapid, detail-rich data feedback was simply not available in the past. And with so many more voices weighing equally in the process, it’s a more democratic way of doing business.

Andrew: Related to development and production, what has GoLite been able to do since it went direct that it was unable to do as a wholesaler? New products, designs, materials?

Coup: Next year we will have the lightest free-standing tents on the market, at a very affordable price. It’s ultra-light for an ultra-low price. Previously, it made no sense to present these products to buyers since they already had a preconceived notion about GoLite’s role in their store and since they may have already had another brand supplying them with similar product. Similarly, we also now sell great merino wool base layers in our stores. This makes total sense for us – our customers understand merino wool’s advantages and they want it. Before, we could never have even considered selling wool base layers to traditional retailers, since those retailers already relied on several other suppliers that had a brand story and product line entirely oriented around wool. This is a product category that will expand next year.

Andrew: I have presented at most of the GoLite stores – Boulder, Denver, Fort Collins, SLC, Santa Fe – and I’d say that few of the customers or the employees are hardcore, or even avid, backpackers. It’s much more mass market. Knowing this, how do you avoid losing your core customer and your identity?

Coup: Our web site sales are equipment rich and ultra-lite skewed; far less so our store sales as you’ve witnessed. Introducing and re-introducing true core products is something that we are very much looking forward to. Our direct website and stores, and our pricing, now enable this, since we have the sales outlets and volume to support more niche items.

Andrew: In my early years I was very focused on a product’s weight, but my view has evolved and I now actually think there’s too much emphasis on it — it’s only one important characteristic of gear, along with functionality, durability, reliability, ease of use, etc. I think GoLite was ahead of me on this, since it was putting hip belt pockets on its packs and #5 zippers on its raingear before my thinking had fully evolved. So it’s funny to hear you use the word “light” so often. Where does GoLite stand on this?

Coup: Weight is very important. It’s the third characteristic of our hierarchy for designing gear. First is function/performance. Second is durability. Beating one’s chest while proclaiming that one has the absolute lightest product available – regardless of function, fit, durability, cost, etc. – doesn’t make sense to me. I still remember going out for an overnight with nothing, head to toe, just to see if that was best. It’s not. But we continue to emphasize weight because when you stop focusing on weight, things will naturally become heavier and heavier until you are right back at traditional, overbuilt gear. At GoLite, the weight of our products is discussed and emphasized from the start of the design process, all the way through quality control and shipping.

Outdoor fabrics are frequently described as being “breathable,” and this is (except in one case) a desirable characteristic. My observation based on clinics and online writings is that the concept of breathability is generally understood, but usually superficially. Further, there is some confusion about how it relates to “ventilation” as well as some unrealistic expectations about the performance of breathable fabrics. In this post I will try to explain what I know.

Screenshot from Columbia.com marketing their waterproof/breathable fabric, Omni-Dry. Their emphasis on breathability is common.

Breathability is the layman’s term for moisture vapor transmission rate (MVTR), which is the measure of how quickly (or slowly, if at all) moisture passes through a fabric or other substance. It is usually measured in g/m²/day, or the mass of moisture that passes through a square meter of fabric in 24 hours.

Not surprinsgly, breathability is an oversimplification of MVTR: whereas MVTR measures a degree, breathability is used as an absolute. Specifically, if the MVTR of a fabric is greater than zero, the fabric can be described as “breathable,” even if realistically it is not. (There is no industry standard for breathability.) So, for example, even a body suit made of painter’s plastic could be described as “breathable” if the suit had a few needle-sized vents in it, because in theory moisture could pass through these vents.

To describe a fabric’s breathability, the task is left to adverbs like “extremely,” “very,” and “ultra,” which all seem susceptible to exaggeration by writers of product marketing copy.

Why breathability is (usually) a good thing

The cotton knit t-shirt I am currently wearing is breathable. If it was non-breathable – e.g. suppose it was made of latex – then it would trap my perspiration. With time, the shirt would feel clammy, especially if I began exerting myself like by running 100-meter sprints between sentences.

A clammy shirt obviously would be uncomfortable, but the repercussions can be more significant on a backpacking trip. For example:

• If my base layer clothing or rain gear is insufficiently breathable, I will get wet from the inside due to trapped perspiration. Since water is significantly more thermally conductive than air, wet clothing can be significantly colder than dry clothing.
• If the outer shell of my sleeping bag is insufficiently breathable, moisture will get trapped inside my sleeping bag, wetting the insulation. Even synthetic insulations – which are sometimes falsely described as being “warm when wet” – would be compromised in this scenario; the effect on goose down insulation would probably be more significant.
• If my fully-enclosed shelter  (e.g. a “tent”) is insufficiently breathable, moisture vapor resulting from respiration, perspiration, and drying equipment will likely cause condensation to collect on the shelter walls, potentially soaking me and my gear.

The one instance when breathability of fabrics may be undesirable is in extreme cold temperatures. Read more about vapor barrier liners for an explanation.

After a long day of skiing across the Alaska Range, I crawled into my shelter and removed my soaking-wet "waterproof" boots, resulting in visible vapor emanating from my socks. If I had been using a fully-enclosed shelter that didn't breathe well, this vapor would have collected on the inside of the shelter as condensation. However, I was using a mid-shaped tarp that excellent ventilation, so condensation was less of a problem.

How fabrics breathe

There are two ways that moisture can pass through a fabric:

1. Ventilation. A porous fabric allows the direct passage of air through it – in other words, it vents – and this air may carry moisture in the form of vapor. Fabrics with many and/or large pores (e.g. bug netting and base layer fabrics) breathe better than fabrics with few and/or small holes (e.g. eVent or Omni-Dry raingear fabric).

2. Solid state diffusion. Some non-porous fabrics permit the transmission of moisture. Latex, painter’s plastic, and Cuben Fiber will not, for example. But there are many varieties of “waterproof-breathable” fabrics (in fact, most, including the Gore-Tex family) that feature a membrane partly made of non-porous polyurethane. Polyurethane normally repels water (i.e. it is hydrophobic) but it can be chemically altered to absorb water (i.e. hydrophilic). Then, this type of fabric acts like a dish sponge: water vapor is absorbed out of the air; it moves through the sponge in a solid state towards the other side; and when it reaches the other side it can evaporate again.

Screenshot from eVent website, which includes images of porous membrane versus a non-porous membrane (e.g. eVent versus Gore-Tex), plus an explanation of the difference.

To fully understand how fabrics breathe, I should make two other points:

1. For a fabric to noticeably breathe, there must be a humidity differential between the two sides of the fabric. For example, if the humidity inside a rain jacket is 90 percent and the humidity outside is 20 percent, then the water vapor inside will naturally want to pass through the fabric to the outside. However, if the humidity is 90 percent inside and outside the jacket, then the fabric’s breathability will not be noticeable, even though it can still pass moisture.

2. Water can move both directions through a fabric. For example, if the humidity inside a rain jacket is a mere 30 percent and the humidity outside is 80 percent, then moisture will actually move inwards. This would be a strange situation, but there is one instance when this can happen, as explained in the next section.

Why breathable fabrics fail

As a general comment, I think we expect too much of our gear. Every piece of gear has limitations, and nothing is a complete panacea for Nature’s challenges. Gear manufactures seem less willing to acknowledge this reality, either because it’s better for business to ignore them, or because they are oblivious to them (which is an understandable but sad result when non-users design, market and sell gear).

The breathability of fabrics seems more overstated than average. Every time I see a “Guaranteed to keep you dry” hang tag or read product copy for “waterproof” shoes, I dream about taking that company’s marketing department for a short trip in Alaska, the Pacific Northwest, or the Appalachians. If their experience is anything like mine have been, they might be more realistic about the performance of their products when they return.

Fabric breathability can halt or slow for three reasons:

1. Moisture may not move through the fabric fast enough. If this occurs, you will get wet from the inside via trapped perspiration. In dry environments, most “breathable” fabrics work well. In semi-humid environments, waterproof-breathable fabrics struggle. In very humid environments, nothing is going to keep you dry, sorry.

2. The “outside” humidity is too high. If the outside air is nearly saturated with water vapor already, there is simply no capacity for it to absorb additional vapor generated by you. When you perspire, it remains next-to-skin, unable to evaporate.

3. The fabric can “wet out,” or become saturated with water. When this occurs, usually due to the failure of a durable water repellant (DWR) finish, the outside humidity is essentially 100 percent. Moisture on the inside of the fabric cannot pass through these saturated spots. And, in fact, if humidity inside the jacket is less than 100 percent, then moisture can transmit into the jacket from these saturated spots, since it’s actually less humid inside than outside the fabric. This scenario explains why it’s important to regularly restore DWR finishes of rainwear, like by using ReviveX Synthetic Fabric Cleaner.

When a supposedly breathable fabric "wets out" (i.e. when the exterior fabric becomes saturated with water) its breathability slows because moisture will not pass through the fabric in these spots. I have found that moisture can actually enter the fabric at this point, since it is more humid outside the jacket than inside.

Founder's Bridge over the Nantahala River, with Chris Willett and Daddy Mention. Notice that my 75L pack still wasn't big enough to fit all my stuff plus my sleeping pad, despite ditching a bunch of gear in Hiawasee and at the NOC. I bought trekking poles shortly after this photo was taken.

Nearly ten years ago, on May 5, 2002, I started my first long-distance hike: the 2,175-mile Appalachian Trail. The AT was one of my first backpacking trips as well — the first had been only two months earlier during Spring Break, when I’d gone to Yosemite Valley by myself and had gone on two one-night trips, to Little Yosemite Valley and to the top of Yosemite Falls. I wasn’t an experienced day-hiker or car-camper either: I had done both activities only occasionally and casually as a child and teen.

Needless to say, I had a lot to learn about backpacking.

It’s almost hard to believe, but my backpacking credentials were actually not sub-par compared to my fellow AT thru-hikers. Very few of us had previous long-distance backpacking experience, and only some had more backpacking experience than me. Mostly, we were all on the same journey — learning to backpack “the hard way” through trial-and-error while walking north towards Katahdin.

Yes, I'm behind that backpack. Note the orange shirt draped over the backpack -- not sure why I thought this "quick dry" shirt would dry in those conditions.

Insights from the first 2,000 miles

When I reached that majestic peak three months later, the gear and supplies I carried on my back had almost nothing in common with my starting kit. I had a new sleeping bag, sleeping pad, shelter, stove, and water purification system – of course, all packed inside a new backpack. I had also ditched many items that proved unnecessary, including a solar-powered battery charger, sunglasses, reflective mirror, two extra sets of clothes, 50 feet of rope, and an extensive kitchen set (three utensils, plate, bowl, sponge and 8 ounces of dish soap!). I ate different foods, drank more water, and carried a first aid/foot care/repair kit that was much more streamlined.

My pack weight dropped by half — to about 17 pounds from 35 — due to these changes. But my primary goal was not necessarily to lighten my load—instead, it was to make hiking more enjoyable. A lighter pack helped. But so too did adding some items that I didn’t start with, like a set of trekking poles and ibuprofen.

Like my gear and supplies, the skills I carried between my ears also changed. For example, I learned how to calculate the exact amount of food, water, and fuel I needed between towns and water sources, to avoid carrying more than I needed. I learned that hiking more, not hiking faster, was the key to covering many miles per day. And I learned how to better manage rain, cold, humidity and bugs. Again, these skills made my experience more enjoyable, and allowed me to be safer and more comfortable even though I was carrying less gear.

Near Mt. Madison in Hampshire, looking south towards Mt. Washington. Look at that smile! Over the previous 1,750 miles, I had found a way to make hiking enjoyable.

Pursuing the mantra of further, faster, and lighter

The AT had taught me a great deal about the gear, supplies and skills that make hiking fun. But I didn’t yet know it all, and in the 9.5 years since I finished the AT I have continued to overhaul and improve my system. Some of these changes were inspired by what I learned from backpacking magazines, in online forums, and from knowledgeable peers. But many of these changes resulted from continued trial-and-error, especially in the course of groundbreaking trips in new environments and new seasons, when there was not yet a tried-and-true model to follow.

Learning to backpack through trial-and-error was ultimately effective — a decade and 30,000 miles later, I’m fairly competent out there. But, if I was just getting into backpacking today, hopefully I would have the sense to R&D those who have already figured it out — as in, “rip off and duplicate.” Given the quality of backpacking gear and the body of backpacking knowledge that exists today, there’s simply no reason to waste your money and your time learning the hard way.

The costs of trial-and-error

How much money did I waste in the process of developing a system that worked? It’s hard to calculate precisely, but certainly it was in the thousands of dollars. I ran some quick numbers, and calculated that I wasted at least $1,358 on gear that I thought would be applicable for the Appalachian Trail (or similar conditions) and eventually concluded that it was not. Here’s a breakdown:

• Sleeping bags. Experimented with five models. Net waste: $505
• Sleeping pads. Experimented with four models. Net waste: $70
• Shelters. Experimented with four models. Net waste: $135
• Trekking poles. Experimented with three models. Net waste: $30
• Stoves. Experimented with three models. Net waste: $118
• Water purification. Experimented with three systems. Net waste: $90
• Backpacks. Experimented with three models. Net waste: $400

Click here for the PDF that details my experimentation

And I didn’t even try to calculate the waste on clothing, footwear, or any of the “extra” gear that I decided wasn’t actually necessary, e.g. my solar-powered battery charger.

Learning through trial-and-error not only has a tangible financial cost, but there is also an intangible cost—my Appalachian Trail experience was much harder and less enjoyable than it should have been. A sampling of my suffering just from that trip:

• Severe shin splints and tendonitis of the iliotibial (IT) band for the first 500 miles
• Painful maceration of the feet whenever my shoes and feet got wet
• Borderline hypothermia in the Smokies during a cold-and-wet rainstorm
• Sleepless nights during seasonal cold snaps in the Smokies, Roan Mountain, and southern Vermont
• Sleepless nights in the Mid-Atlantic due to overheating inside my waterproof/breathable bivy
• Sleepless nights in New Hampshire due to heavy rain while inside my bivy
• Tortured by mosquitoes in Maine
• Bad case of jock itch due to poor backcountry hygiene

I learned many lessons on other trips too. For example, on my Sea-to-Sea Route I learned that poncho-tarps are best used as “just in case” rain gear or shelter, not for regular use. In Southern California on the Pacific Crest Trail I learned that full-coverage clothing was cooler than my East Coast-inspired wardrobe of shorts and a T-shirt. On the Sierra High Route with Buzz Burrell I learned the value of having a headnet when the mosquitoes are bad (because neither of us had one). And on my Alaska-Yukon Expedition I learned the value of fleece, which retains its insulating abilities when wet much better than other insulations.

Have you learned through trial-and-error?

I was fortunate that I could afford to learn to backpack through trial-and-error. I had more time than money, easy access to gear, flexible jobs, and a willingness to suffer. However, most backpackers are not in this position: they have commitments to family and careers, limited free time for recreation, and a desire to make the most from each backpacking trip.

What lessons related to backpacking gear, supplies or skills did you learn the hard way, that you could have learned from someone else? What resources have you found best to avoid making the same mistakes that others have made before?

Based on my relationship history and my past comments about relationships, it may be surprising—though not really a secret—that for the last 18 months I’ve been “the luckiest man on the planet” (her words, but I wisely won’t disagree). In presentations, online posts, and media interviews I have made numerous references to my girlfriend, Amanda, which always seems to generate some interest and curiosity. In this interview I wanted to give her an opportunity explain exactly what it’s like to date an adventurous nomad.

Andrew. A common assumption is that, since I’m an avid outdoors person, that you must be too. Are you?

Amanda.   When we met, no.  Am I now? Not exactly. But I’d like to be, and I do enjoy being outdoors, particularly with you.  People typically assume that I go on long trips with you, but your long trips are designed to be done solo, so even if I wanted to go, I don’t think it would be preferable.  I also have a conventional job that prevents me from being gone for months at a time.

Andrew. I’m somewhat surprised to hear that you may be interested in a “long” trip. That’s a big shift from when we first started dating. What gives?

Amanda. A couple of things.  Firstly, it’s impossible to be around you and not want to do those things—you’re pretty inspiring.  Secondly, you push me physically—whether it’s running, skiing or hiking—and I find that I like that experience, despite how feisty I may get with you, or myself, in the heat of the moment.

Andrew. Even though we like to run, skin and hike together now, I think it’s fair to say that these activities have not been our shared passions from the start. What, then, are the other drivers of our relationship?

Amanda. I would clarify and say that I’ve always enjoyed those things, just not at the level or caliber that I do now, with you.  Beyond that, I feel that we balance each other very well (e.g. you challenge me physically and I remind you to slow down and smell the roses) and I believe our core values and overall perspective of life align really well.  Despite being opposites in many ways, such as you being rather serious and me being a bit goofy, your need to plan and my aversion to wearing a watch, me being vegetarian and your love of red meat, the things we do have in common—the things that drive our relationship—are incredibly solid.  And, if ever I lose sight of those things, you have another redeeming quality: a really nice bum from all that hiking.

Andrew. The way I usually explain it, we seem to be equals in some things—like intellect, values, and upbringing—and opposites on many others. You give me style, culture, warmth, and spontaneity; I add analytical thinking, borderline anal planning, and unrestrained ambition to the mix. Is this description fair?

Amanda.  It is.  I think opposites can attract (and remain attracted) if the two people bring out the best qualities in each other, which I believe we do.  A key to our relationship is that we appreciate—and cultivate—the differences that drew us to each other in the first place, and don’t try to change them. For example: I love that you are so different than me, and that you have to “plan when to plan,” or always be a few steps ahead; whereas, you appreciate my more Bohemian tendencies.

Andrew. For the record, how did we meet?

Amanda. Through our mutual (wonderful) friend, Laurel.  She invited me to your very first Alaska-Yukon presentation, organized by your friends.  I actually didn’t want to go, and I called Laurel that day to tell her I might not make it.  Then at the last minute, the universe gave me a gentle nudge and I decided to suck it up, thinking I might meet a nice, professional guy instead of the motley crew of Match.com dates I’d been subjecting myself to.  So, who is the first person I shake hands with—the disheveled wanderer who had just returned from a 6-month solo trip  in the Alaskan wilderness.  And, here we are! I blame it on your dimples.

Andrew. We have been dating for about 1.5 years now. Of that time, I probably have been out of town for presentations and guided trips for about 6 months. And we’ve also been living in different towns—Denver and Boulder—and separated by a 35-minute drive. How have we overcome these structural impediments?

Amanda. Oh boy. I’m fiercely independent and well-established in Denver with a good core group of friends and family.  I have a demanding job that keeps me busy.  These things help tremendously when you’re gone for extended periods of time.  I know how to function on my own.  I have hobbies.  True, the commute from Denver to Boulder, while it isn’t that far mileage-wise, is a struggle when you combine it with how infrequently you are in Colorado, but I think we’re working on the logistics of that and I’m preparing to move to Boulder.  Just don’t expect me to swap my entire closet of high heels for all trail-running shoes!

Andrew. I’m glad to hear that. Keep all of your little black dresses too, please.

Amanda. Gladly.

Andrew. So, again, back to this issue of my absences. How have you learned to manage?

Amanda. Hmm…I’m more involved with the process now, both in the planning and execution of it, and I feel more invested. For example, I help ship books and magazines when you’re gone, and I offer business advice when you ask for it. I also want nothing more than to see you happy and thriving, and for that to happen the reality is: you have to be gone.  I see how hard you work throughout the year, preparing for these presentations, clinics, and guided trips, so it is natural for me to support you both while you’re here and while you are gone.  Ergo, it is both a challenging and rewarding experience.

Andrew. You make it sound as if our relationship is not adversely affected by my travels. Do we somehow make up for it, or do we just accept this part of it?

Amanda. Admittedly, your travel schedule is taxing.  I don’t know that everyone is cut out for a relationship where one party is constantly on the road.  Sometimes I just wish you were here to have a beer with me after work.  There are moments, and I have expressed it with you, when I question if I handle it well, and if I’m supportive enough.  But I do not ever question whether you are worth it.  You are.  I also know it is simply not an option for you to be around more often, as this is who you are—it is what you do—and it’s a wonderful thing.  As they say, “I know what I signed up for.”  That being said, there is always a silver lining and ours is that it keeps us on our toes and always searching for ways to let the other know how much they matter.

Andrew. I fly back to Colorado on Sunday morning, after being gone for seven straight weeks and seeing you just twice. What do we have to look forward to when I get back?

Amanda.  I’m so excited to see your face!!  I’m practically bouncing in my seat as I write this.  Okay, I am actually bouncing. I predict plenty of trail-running, a trip to the Colorado Plateau where you can help me become a pack-rafting goddess, catching up with our friends, me cooking for you again (no more cheeseburgers for you mister, sorry!) and other things that are better left unsaid—our moms read this blog, after all.  Oh—and helping you to finally write that book about the Alaska-Yukon trip.  That is definitely on the to-do list.

Andrew. One of the questions I received almost nightly during this tour was, “What’s your next big trip?” I don’t yet have an answer, but my history suggests there will be another one. How do you feel about this?

Amanda. I know it’s coming. Although, it sounds like it’ll be 2014 at the earliest, which gives us a while to focus on what we have now. When the time comes, I’ll be supportive. I know these trips are important to you personally—actually, they are a way of life for you. I trust that you’ll be safe and thoughtful.

As a professional long-distance adventurer with zero musical talent, the speaking and book tour I’ve been on for the last six weeks—and this week too, in the Pacific Northwest—is about the closest I’ll come to being a rock star. Performing by night, traveling by day, sleeping and eating and partaking in sex and drugs running when it’s possible and/or convenient.

If the tour finishes as well as its gone thus far, it’ll have been a worthwhile investment of time and resources. However, like every backpacking trip I’ve done, I’m looking forward to its end and to my next project. There are certainly perks to living on the road, but it’s not all glitz and glamour:

Pro: Six nights per week, an audience shows up to hear me

Drawing a sizeable audience is a primary objective of every traveling musician, comedian, dancer, speaker and/or author. And there’s a resulting sense of pride and achievement when I’m looking out into a crowded sea of eyes that are all looking right back, or fixated on the images or videos illuminated on the screen. Equally rewarding are the post-presentation handshakes, photo requests, and follow-up emails—reactions that suggest I at least achieved my goal of being entertaining or informative, and perhaps thought-provoking and inspiring too.

Great turnout at Sunrise Mountain Sports in Livermore, CA for a gear & skills clinic

Pro: Hard work pays dividends

Throughout this tour I have acted as chief scheduler, marketer, accountant, travel agent and driver. It also took thousands of hours to write my book, The Ultimate Hiker’s Gear Guide (the sales of which have been very strong), and to develop and master my two presentations. My bank account may still not bulge like those of my friends and family members who took more conventional routes (e.g. lawyers, engineers, financial advisors, and accountants) but it’s encouraging to see that my hard-won adventurous lifestyle is becoming more of a legitimate occupation.

Signing books at Pack & Paddle

Pro: “It’s so great to see you! How long has it been?”

The tour has unintentionally served as a tax-deductible reunion with family members, childhood friends, former teachers, former teammates, and past clients on guided trips. I’m generally not great about keeping in touch, so it’s convenient that my job gives me the opportunity to catch up over a mid-day coffee, a post-event drink, a night on their couch or in their guest room, or even Easter weekend.

Easter with the LePage's of St. Louis. Tom (back row, center) is my dad's cousin.

Pro: New places and new faces

Whenever I’m on the road, I’m inspired by newfound opportunities to further explore and experience—trails to run or hike, restaurants and bars to check out, events to attend, geological events to research, and histories to read. The road is also an opportunity to make new friends and connections, and to match real faces to virtual names and handles.

Exploring Lake Martin near Lafayetee, LA, with Pack & Paddle owners John and Becky

Con: I miss her dearly, and Boulder too

The last time I was on the road for an extended time—for five months in Spring 2006, on behalf of GoLite—I never became homesick, probably because at the time I didn’t have a “home” to long. My situation is different now. First, I am deeply in love with a woman in Colorado. We’ve been able to rendezvous twice, for weekends in Fort Lauderdale (with my parents) and in Kalamaoo (with her parents), but otherwise we’ve had to depend on phone calls, Skype, emails and texts—all sub-optimal forms of communication—to keep the fire burning. Second, in the last six years Boulder has become my true “home”—it is usually where l live, and it certainly is where I belong. Its network of recreation trails, its who’s-who outdoor community, and its eccentric personality suit me very well.

With girlfriend Amanda on a 3-day getaway in Fort Lauderdale.

Con: Mind and body struggle with constant travel

Flying is mentally disorienting. Interstate driving is monotonous and homogenous. Waking up, traveling, working out, and eating at different times every day has caused my GI to become utterly confused. Eating out usually twice a day, seven days a week, has taken a (small) toll on my waistline. And shortly after I ever feel “settled” somewhere—in a motel room, at a coffee shop, or in a rental car—it’s usually time to pick up and move again. I get restless if my life is too routine, but I struggle to handle the variability of life on the road.

How many nights can I eat like this before having to go for another multi-month hike just to burn it off? With Tim (left) and Ryan (right) of Quest Outdoors in Louisville, KY.

Con: There’s little else to do but work

Early in the tour a friend joked with me that being an entrepreneur keeps you about as busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Probably not PC, but totally true, and especially so while on the road. It’s hard to ever “get away” from work out here. On average I give presentations six nights a week, and my “day off” is usually spent traveling to a new region of the country. I rarely have friends or family around to help balance my activities. And my (hopefully) daily trail runs—which are sacred to me—are often shorter than I’d like, due to miles that still must be traveled or work-related tasks that must be completed.

Writing this blog post from a Safeway in Seattle. As soon as I hit "Publish," I'm going for as long of a run as I can before tonight's event at The Mountaineers.

Big and enthusiastic crowd at Google HQ in Mountain View

Earlier this Spring I had the opportunity to present at Google’s main campus in Mountain View, CA, as part of the Authors@Google program. Special thanks to Andrew de los Reyes for organizing and marketing the event — it was a huge success.

The video below is fairly representative of the clinic with which I’m currently on tour. It is essentially a microcosm of my book, The Ultimate Hiker’s Gear Guide: after discussing trip objectives (hiking versus camping) and environmental and route conditions, I explain the gear, supplies and skills that I would need for one specific hypothetical trip, in this case a 3-day hike near Mt. Whitney in July.

The clock limits my ability to give very in-depth explanations for my selections or to mention the pros, cons, trade offs, and limitations of other product options. For that level of content, you must refer to the book, or join me on a trip.

Severely macerated feet after a day of Spring skiing across the Alaska Range in "waterproof" leather boots.

“These are waterproof, right?” asked the customer to the Campmor sales clerk, as he walked around the footwear area testing out a pair of backpacking boots. Out of intrigue, I stopped to watch how the conversation would unfold, despite needing to get back to the area where my gear and skills clinic would be starting in 20 minutes. The clerk confirmed that the boots were indeed waterproof, but said nothing more.

At the risk of losing a sale for Campmor, who was paying me to present there, I had to interject. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, do you think you need waterproof boots for backpacking? If so, why, and do you think that they will actually keep your feet dry?”

The customer was surprised at my question, but answered, “It’s my impression that, yes, waterproof boots will keep my feet dry. And I want to keep them dry because I think having wet feet would quickly get me into trouble.”

This post is dedicated to this customer. I’ll first explain why your feet will not stay dry on a backpacking trip, especially in wet conditions like those in the East. And then I will explain my techniques to successfully cope with wet feet.

Futile attempts to keep your feet dry

Wet feet is an inevitable reality when backpacking in prolonged wet conditions, such as those encountered early-season in the Mountain West, and those encountered throughout the backpacking season in the East, Pacific Northwest, and Alaska.

I have tried many ways to keep my feet dry, including:

• “Waterproof” shoes, which—as I’ve explained before—do not work as advertised;
• “Waterproof” socks, which don’t work for similar reasons;
• Multiple pairs of socks, which eventually all get wet;
• Multiple pairs of shoes, which eventually all get wet too.

The one system that I have not tried is rubber hip gaiters. I think I know how this experiment would end: the poor fit would severely blister and chaff me, and since rubber is not breathable my feet would “get wet from the inside” via the trapped perspiration.

Why wet feet can be bad

Attempts to keep my feet dry all proved futile. So I shifted my focus on reducing the effects and aftermath of having wet feet, which might prove more effective. Wet feet can result in:

• Maceration, or pruning, which results from the outer layer of skin absorbing moisture. The skin becomes sore, itchy, and soft, which makes it prone to blistering.
• Cracking of the skin as it dries out after being macerated, because the skin has been robbed of its natural oils by the moisture. These cracks can be very painful and difficult to treat, depending on the size and location on the foot.

How I treat wet feet

I do five things to reduce the effects and aftermath of wet feet:

1. Wear non-waterproof shoes, which drain and dry out quickly;
2. Wear thin, non-cushioned merino wool socks, which don’t absorb as much water as thicker socks;
3. Take off my shoes and socks to let my feet air dry during any mid-day rest stop that will be longer than 20 minutes;
4. Wear dry and warm socks at night, to give my feet 8-9 hours of recovery time; and,
5. Apply Bonnie’s Balm Climber’s Salve, or a similar topical treatment, to the bottoms of my feet.

I recently purchased a wholesale quantity of Climber’s Salve, the distribution of which is pretty limited. The cost is $12 with free shipping for a 2-oz jar, which would be enough for me for a 2-month trip in daily wet conditions. Buy now.

Bonnie's Balm Climber's Salve, a wax- and oil-based topical treatment that will reduce maceration and prevent cracking.

Why Climber’s Salve helps

Climbers Salve will reduce—but not entirely eliminate—the effects and aftermath of wet feet, specifically by:

• Minimizing the amount of moisture that the outer layer of skin will absorb, thereby reducing the severity of the maceration/pruning. The Salve does not seem to clog pores, however, which would cause other problems.
• Keeping the skin moisturized, thereby minimizing the likelihood that the skin will crack as it dries out.

How to apply Climbers Salve for best results

Apply Climbers Salve before your feet get wet, ideally hours before. If you apply it after your feet are wet, or immediately before they get wet, the effectiveness is very limited. Normally, applying Climbers Salve is one of my nighttime housekeeping chores, along with looking at tomorrow’s maps and separating out tomorrow’s daytime food.

1. After drying my feet thoroughly, perhaps with the help of a warm fire, I coat the bottom of my feet with Climbers Salve and rub it in, paying special attention to the rim of my heel and my forefoot, which seem to suffer the worst when wet.
2. Once the Climbers Salve has been rubbed in, I put on a dry and clean sock, and go to bed. I don’t spend much time in camp—if you do, then protect your dry and now-treated feet from your (potentially) wet shoes using a bread bag or other waterproof liner.
3. In the morning, and sometimes even in the middle of the night, I check my feet to determine if they need another coating of Climbers Salve. If my feet still feel waxy, then they don’t. If they are dry again, which indicates that all of the Climbers Salve was absorbed, then I reapply.

Lost Cost, Alaska. By setting up my camp in this Sitka spruce forest, I was able to safely carry less: a plush sleeping pad was unnecessary due to the soft mossy floor, and I didn't need a traditional 4-season shelter because the trees helped protect my 13-oz tarp from the winds that gusted off the Pacific Ocean all night.

Two years ago my younger sister and her boyfriend went on their first backpacking trip together—a weekend-long summer outing in New Hampshire’s White Mountains. Based on our shared genealogy, she apparently assumed she’d been blessed with comparable backpacking wisdom as her older brother, so she borrowed some equipment I’d left in my parent’s basement and drove to Pinkham Notch. Like many Trips Gone Bad, she and her fiancé can tell great stories from that experience, including how they tried to keep themselves dry underneath a tarp during a nighttime downpour without having poles or guylines, which they didn’t realize they needed until they arrived at their camp.

A tarp was a poor choice for them—like many pieces of lightweight equipment, it requires a level of skill to properly use, and they didn’t have the know-how. In this post I discuss nine skills you can learn in order to safely carry less and lighter gear on your next trip:

1. Assess your true needs

Where, when and for how long you are going is the primary determinant of the conditions you will encounter: temperatures, precipitation, sun exposure, water availability, snow coverage, hours of daylight, bugs, wildlife, and remoteness.

If you know the conditions you can realistically expect, you can pack accordingly. Uninformed backpackers justify poor gear choices on the grounds of unfounded “What if…” and “Just in case…” scenarios.

2. Select a good campsite

I avoid established campsites whenever possible. Instead I look for a virgin site that:

• Has a soft bed of natural materials, e.g. pine needles, leaves, moss, tundra;
• Is not in the very bottom of a drainage, where the air will be colder and more humid, and where the bugs will be more intense; and,
• Is not near a wildlife travel corridor.

By selecting this type of campsite, I can take a thinner sleeping pad, a lighter sleeping bag and less bug protection, and less robust food protection (e.g. odorproof sacks instead of a bear canister).

3. Minimize food weight

As a long-distance hiker with a ravenous appetite, I love coming up on overloaded backpackers who are delighted to give me some of their extra food. But for your own sake, please don’t feed the thru-hikers! I recommend 3,000 calories per person per day; this equates to about 1.5 pounds, assuming a caloric density of 125 calories/ounce. Some backpackers need more and others need less, but this is a good starting point.

To minimize the weight of these 3,000 calories, eat fatty foods (e.g. chocolate, nuts, peanut butter, cheese, Fritos, and cookies), since fat is 2.4 times as calorically dense as carbs or protein or a given weight, i.e. 240 calories per ounce versus 100.

4. Minimize water weight

In arid environments, water is sometimes worth its weight in gold. Unfortunately it is almost as heavy—it weighs 2 pounds per quart—so don’t carry more than you need. How much do you need?

1. Determine the distance to your next water source and the time it will take you to reach it.
2. Recall how much water you have needed in the past for similar stretches.

For example, if it will take me 3 hours to reach the next water source 6 miles away, and I’ve been needing 1 liter every 2 hours, then I will need to carry 1.5 liters with me.

5. Keep down insulation dry, and know when to use it

I generally prefer goose down instead of synthetic insulation—it’s warmer for its weight and more compressible, and it has a longer lifespan. While synthetics are not “warm when wet” like they are sometimes marketed (no outdoor gear is warm when wet, sorry), down is more adversely affected by moisture.

It is easy to protect down against rain and river fords—simply line your pack with a plastic trash compactor bag. (Avoid pack covers, which don’t work, and waterproof stuff sacks, which wear out and are expensive.)

Protecting down against ambient humidity is more challenging. You can use a shelter that has good airflow (e.g. a tarp instead of a stuffy tent) and dry it regularly in the sun or near a fire, but in consistently wet environments like the East and Alaska synthetics are probably a better choice.

6. Use map and compass

People often seem shocked that I don’t carry a GPS, relying instead on old-school paper maps and (sometimes) a $12 baseplate compass. I’m equally shocked that GPS units are so popular. A GPS might tell me exactly where I am, but I can do the same thing by tracking my progress on my maps. And a GPS might tell me the direction and distance to my next waypoint, but I can use my map to figure this out too—and, more importantly, with the map I can identify a route that will avoid thick brush, canyons, extra elevation gain and loss, unpassable passes, and steep side-hilling. A GPS may take me across all of that.

7. Make an alcohol stove

My Fancy Feast Alcohol Stove weighs just .3 oz (10 grams); it has no moving parts; it will never clog; if I step on it, I can bend it back into place and keep using it; and it costs just $1.50 to make—$.50 for the can and $1.00 for the hole punch (grab a plastic bottle from the recycling bin for fuel storage). Alcohol stoves are best for 1-2 people since they do not produce the heat of a canister stove, which is my preferred setup for group and/or winter use, with some exceptions. To use this stove successfully, you will need a windscreen made from aluminum foil and a wide-and-short pot, which is more fuel-efficient than a tall-and-skinny one.

8. Be realistic about in-the-field first aid

There are two categories of first aid situations:

1. Field treatable, e.g. blisters, headaches, mild diarrhea, small cuts, and anaphylaxis; and,
2. Not field treatable, e.g. broken bones, HAPE and HACE, anad cardiac arrest.

My first aid kit is designed only to treat the former. I carry ibuprofen and loperamide, Luekotape and duct tape, Krazy Glue, Hydropel, and callus cushions (to take pressure off blisters), among a few other items.

In the very unlikely event something more serious happens, I get resourceful with what I have (closed cell foam pad, guylines, extra clothing, pen knife, etc.) and make a call for help with my SPOT or satellite phone. Even if I carried 50 pounds of medical equipment and was a certified EMT, I’m still not equipped to treat serious medical problems in the field over the long-term.

9. Pitch a tarp

I love tarps: they are ultralight and versatile, and they are less prone to condensation build-up because they have better airflow than conventional double-wall tents or tarptents. I use tarps year-round, even last winter during the Alaska-Yukon Expedition when I was 30 miles north of the Arctic Circle. Tarps have two main drawbacks:

1. They do not offer full protection, and
2. Pitching them is not foolproof.

For protection against groundwater and bugs, I compliment my tarp with a groundsheet, water-resistant bivy, or bug nest—making a “modular tarp” system. To achieve a taut pitch, I do the following: practice in my backyard before I go; use two simple knots—the bowline and the trucker’s hitch; and adjust the shelter 2-3 times after its initial pitch, to get it perfect.

10. Now it’s your turn

What skills do you have that allow you to safely carry less? What did you do before you developed these skills — Did you suffer or did you carry something differently?

This is another post in a series of “how to” articles I’ve written recently. If you’d like me to address a particular subject in the next installment, leave a comment for me. If you’d like to read more content like this, then consider buying my book, The Ultimate Hiker’s Gear Guide.

Navigating around Alaska, the old-fashioned way, with an 11"x17" USGS map (created with National Geographic TOPO! software) and a simple baseplate compass (located in my side pocket, attached via the lanyard to my shoulder strap).

I adore some GPS applications, like when driving in unfamiliar areas. But in the backcountry, a map and compass combination is the most reliable and most functional navigation system; it’s also much less expensive. I struggle to describe GPS units as anything more than “gadgets.”

A map and compass is more reliable:

• No batteries
• No electronics that can malfunction
• No screen that can break or freeze up in cold temperatures

With a map and compass I can do everything that a GPS can do:

• Pinpoint my location to a relevant degree of accuracy (maybe not within 3 meters, but I’ve never needed to know my route within three meters anyway), by paying attention to my pace and surrounding landmarks
• Determine the distance and direction to my next destination
• Mark my route, by writing on the map with a pen
• Share my route virtually, by re-drawing it in TOPO! and/or Google Maps, or converting my TOPO! file to a .kml file (Google Maps) via GPSbabel freeware.

And, in fact, with a map and compass I can do even more:

• Identify the path of least resistance to my next destination, unlike a GPS which can only tell me the distance and direction. Whereas a GPS might send me across a canyon or lake, into the thickest brush, and through a series of pointless ups-and-downs (PUDS), by reading the map I can avoid all of that.

When might a GPS be better than map & compass?

In landscapes that are topographically subtle and/or visually limited (e.g. tree cover, fog), GPS units are admittedly more user-friendly. But I have traveled extensively through this type of area and it’s not difficult to overcome these challenges and rely solely on map and compass.

• Plan routes that follow a natural topographical feature, like a river or ridgeline. If those are unavailable, then simply take a compass bearing and stick to it.
• Follow your progress carefully: note every feature you pass, and “dead reckon,” whereby you multiply your assumed rate of travel (MPH) by the time you have spent hiking.

Why I like paper maps

While there are GPS units with high-resolution screens and detailed map packages, but I’d still rather use a paper map, for the reasons listed above and because viewing an 11″x17″ map is much more pleasant than a 3″x4″ LCD screen, plus the expense and unreliability of said map packages.

For more information about maps, read this post about how to create a custom mapset using TOPO! software.

Do you use a GPS? If so, why? What has bee your experience using a map and compass?

Warning: This video contains profanity. Hope you can understand why.

Of all the stories that came from my Alaska-Yukon Expedition, scaring the shit out of a grizzly bear is certainly one of the most memorable. The accompanying video footage is also a guaranteed crowd-pleaser during my “Circling Alaska & Yukon” slideshows.

Speaking of, my Spring speaking and book tour kicked off on Monday at Google headquarters in Mountain View, followed by two great presentations at Sunrise Mountain Sports in Livermore. Tonight and tomorrow I’ll be at the Sports Basement in San Francisco, and over the next two months I’ll also be making stops in the South, Southeast, Northeast, Midwest, Northwest, and finally Colorado.

All of my events are mapped below. For more event details, go to: www.andrewskurka.com/slideshows-clinics/current-schedule. I assure you that the Alaska-Yukon slideshow contains many more great stories. And the “Ultimate Hiking Gear & Skills” clinics are packed with valuable how-to information to help with your own future backpacking trips.

View Spring 2012 Lectures & Clinics in a larger map