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The path was laid before me. The trail was set. The reckoning had come.
The Appalachian Trail, now in its hundredth year, awaited my arrival—but no legend is forged empty-handed. Every hero requires his armor, every knight his steed. And so, I would assemble a gear list not of mere mortals, but of gods—a collection so finely chosen, so meticulously calibrated, that it would not merely carry me across the miles, it would carry me into history.
I surveyed my belongings the way a warrior surveys a battlefield—not for beauty, but for utility. I unearthed forgotten items from closets and bins, brushed off the dust of old trails, and turned them over in my hands like relics. Some were bent. Others, tarnished. A few still held the faint smell of rain and regret. But in my eyes, each piece gleamed. What others might call obsolete, I deemed proven.
Some sought readiness through catalogs and checkout carts, believing that salvation could be purchased in ounces and grams. Others, through suffering alone. But I was no Simon. If I was to walk this trail, it would not be on the backs of brand-new purchases, but on the shoulders of wisdom hard-earned.
And so, I gathered my gear—not pristine, not perfect, but prepared.
Before all else, my pack…
The pack was my Klymit Motion 60. Inflatable spine, duct-taped nobility. Paired with a Nylofume liner—faith in plastic form.
For shelter, I carried the Gossamer Gear One, a spinnaker-draped whisper of home, a tent so revered it might be mistaken for a religious artifact. The first model that set legend afoot. born to ride the wind, to sail across campsites and shelters, to bear me forth beneath the weightless sky. It had weathered storms, held fast against the night. It did not need to be replaced—only restored. A mere 17 ounces to provide shelter—a manor for this errant wayfarer.
My sleep system was humble but determined: a Static V half pad, the Kelty Cosmic Down for warmth, and, for the truly cold nights, an ALPS foam mat and a prayer.
Clothing was less an ensemble than a belief system. A puffy jacket of questionable puff. Rain gear sealed in hope and a contractor bag. Base layers thrifted, shorts with more history than stitching. A shemagh for flair. Wool socks marked “Time May Tell.”
Shoes? Trail runners worn smooth by memory. For camp: Crocs. Not for comfort, but for penance.
My cook setup was a Foster’s can pot, MYOG forged in the fires of inebriation, and an Altoids stove—a sacred tin altar for which to worship esbit. Willow had once carried a Jetboil, but cast it off like a false idol. I followed suit. My titanium spork was long-handled for elegance and distance from flame. Two Bics—blue and green—for luck. A leather glove, because sometimes the ritual matters more than the flame.
As for Water System, I had once entrusted my survival to the Steripen, wielding the power of ultraviolet light to banish unseen threats. But that trust had been misplaced. Batteries drained, faith shattered, I cast it aside.
This time, I would heed the wisdom and videos of Daniel the gear Provisioner. I would trust in the Sawyer Squeeze, the unyielding standard of the trail, its form perched atop my Smartwater bottle like a sentinel.
Simple. Reliable. Immutable
As for trekking poles, the lance with which a hiker jousts the miles of the trail. I would return to service the Lekis of the past, Draped not in gold, but in the chevrons of experience—leukotape and duct tape wound tight around their shafts, signifying my rank on trail, each layer a testament to miles endured and battles to be fought.
Electronics: Would Jeremiah Johnson need Farout? Would Daniel Boone hit the Garmin button? And yet, I carried mine. Headlamp, PLB, cell phone, headphones, batteries, cables—the drugs of technology, measured and apportioned into Ziplocs, safeguarded against the very elements we came to embrace but which they could not endure.
For further protection, I sealed them within a Hilltop bag, custom-printed with a sigil—a mark that, in another age, would have adorned banners, battlefields, and the halls of kings. But soon, it would mean something else. Out here, on the trail, it would become a relic of the life I was leaving behind.
For hygiene and first aid: the Ace of Spades trowel, a toothbrush so small it questioned its own purpose, and A final Ziploc of providence performed double duty—a pillbox of chance, a clearance sale of forgotten remedies. Aspirin, Bayer, Tylenol—a hodgepodge of green and orange Dollar Tree cold medicines, their expiration dates irrelevant to a body fueled by stubbornness.
In matters of safety and vanity, I bore the InReach Mini —my button to beg the gods. Bear spray, Whistle, Bells.
And the Flextail pump, because …
“I would not carry the gear of saints—no tin cup and verse wrapped in wool—but still I walked with the same need: to vanish into a green cathedral and let it speak first.”
The gear was ready. The trail was chosen.
And in five days, I would step from silence into story.
Day One Is NEXT.
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