Before my 2016 Appalachian Trail thru-hike, I spent an absolutely ridiculous amount of time researching backpacking equipment. I was researching gear at work when I should have been working, then going home and spending my evenings doing more of the same. I had spreadsheets comparing tents, backpacks, sleeping systems, and just about everything else I planned to carry. Every item had a weight, and every weight had a place in the spreadsheet.
It was exciting. I was preparing for something I'd never done before, and researching equipment made me feel like I was making progress. There was always another product to compare, another review to watch, or another few ounces I could eliminate.
The logic seemed reasonable. If I carried less weight, hiking would be easier on my body. If hiking was easier, I'd be more likely to finish. I figured that if I made enough good decisions before starting, I'd have a better chance of reaching Katahdin.
Looking back, I wasn't necessarily wrong about the benefits of lighter equipment. I was wrong about how much those numbers could tell me.
Everything Looked Great on the Spreadsheet
One of my carefully researched decisions was to leave the inner tent at home.
I'd purchased a freestanding tent that could be pitched in a fast-fly configuration, using the rainfly and footprint without the inner tent, called fast fly at the time. It saved weight, which made it an obvious improvement according to my spreadsheet.
In practice, I was essentially sleeping under a tarp, except I was carrying a freestanding tent structure to do it. I already had trekking poles, so I probably could have carried an actual tarp and ground cloth and saved even more weight.
But the weight wasn't the problem.
What I discovered was that I didn't like sleeping that way. At the end of a long day, I wanted somewhere that felt like my own little space. Somewhere I could crawl into, organize my things, and have some privacy. The fast-fly setup never gave me that feeling. Eventually, I had the inner tent sent to me and sent the footprint home.
I experienced something similar when I switched to a hammock. It worked as a shelter, but I never really felt like I had a home to retreat into at night. This is the same hammock I purchased a 3/4 length but net to save weight and found it didn't actually keep bugs out so i ended up sleeping in my rain suit in July. But hey it was still ultralight. I eventually went back to my full tent.
I'd spent countless hours comparing shelter weights, packed sizes, and floor dimensions. What I hadn't accounted for was how I wanted to feel when I stopped hiking.
There's no column for that in a spreadsheet.
We can compare two shelters down to the gram, but those numbers don't tell us whether we'll enjoy living in either one for five days let alone five months. Sometimes the objectively lighter choice is the wrong choice for the person carrying it.
My Pack Was Dialed. My Hike Wasn't.
By the time I started the Pacific Crest Trail in 2018, I had more than 2,000 miles of thru-hiking experience. I'd completed the Appalachian Trail, experimented with equipment, and spent years refining my backpacking system. My kit was extremely dialed.
In my photo at the southern terminus of the PCT, my backpack was so small that you could barely see it. The shoulder straps were practically the only visible part. I'd accomplished what I'd spent years working toward: a lightweight, compact system that allowed me to move efficiently.
I assure you I am wearing a backpack and have 2 liters of water.
By the time I reached Big Bear Lake, I was ready to go home.
It wasn't because my backpack was too heavy or because I needed better equipment. I had been moving down the trail, passing people, and doing exactly what my gear was designed to help me do.
But I wasn't making friends. I wasn't experiencing the community that had been such an important part of my Appalachian Trail hike. I was covering miles without getting what I actually wanted out of the experience.
Fortunately, the old advice to never quit on a bad day was still in the back of my mind. I took a zero day, started spending time with other hikers, and began building friendships. That changed everything.
There were two other occasions on the PCT when I was hiking alone and having a rough time, and the same hiker, Goatman, happened to cross my path. Once in the Sierra and again near a fire closure in Oregon. Both times, running into him turned my day around.
I'd spent years learning how to carry less weight, but none of that preparation could tell me how much those relationships would matter.
The community didn't weigh anything. It wasn't part of my base weight, and there was nothing I could purchase that would guarantee it. Yet it made the difference between wanting to go home and wanting to keep hiking.
I had an excellent backpacking system, but I wasn't using it to have the experience I wanted.
You Can't Predict a Thru-Hiker by Looking at Their Backpack
The night before I started the PCT, I met two hikers whose equipment couldn't have been more different.
One had an exceptionally refined ultralight setup. She was knowledgeable about equipment, had a YouTube channel, and had clearly spent considerable time researching what she planned to carry.
The other hiker was carrying an enormous backpack. I remember thinking she had something like four books in it. Her approach was almost the exact opposite.
If you'd judged our chances of finishing based exclusively on equipment, you probably would have favored the two ultralight hikers.
All three of us started the same day.
Two of us finished: me and the hiker carrying the enormous backpack. As I recall, she was still carrying a very large pack at the end.
The ultralight hiker went home. I don't know why. She may have been injured, may not have been enjoying herself, or may have had something entirely unrelated to hiking that caused her to leave. It would be unfair to suggest her equipment had anything to do with it.
And that's precisely the point.
Looking at someone's backpack tells you very little about whether they'll complete a thru-hike. It can't tell you how they'll respond to adversity, whether they'll enjoy the experience, or what might eventually send them home.
I'm not suggesting carrying four books is a better strategy than going ultralight. I'm suggesting that the things we can easily measure aren't necessarily the things that determine whether someone succeeds.
Sometimes the Best Gear Advice Is to Change Your Mind
Early in my Appalachian Trail hike, I developed Achilles problems.
I was wearing a popular zero-drop shoe. At the time, I knew a lot of hikers liked zero-drop footwear, but I didn't really understand what it meant for my own body or whether I was prepared for it.
I wasn't pushing particularly big miles, either. I'd heard Sir Packs A Lot's advice at Top of Georgia Hostel about taking the early part of the trail conservatively. My plan was to avoid consistently hiking more than 15 miles a day until I was through central Virginia.
I eventually visited Outdoor 76, where we discussed what was happening with my feet and the footwear I was using. They helped me recognize that the shoes I'd chosen might not be appropriate for me.
I switched to Dynafit footwear and hiked the vast majority of the Appalachian Trail in two pairs of those shoes. Interestingly, I didn't finish in Dynafits. My second pair was trashed after roughly 700 miles, and the model had been discontinued. I couldn't find another pair, so I finished the trail wearing a $65 pair of New Balance shoes.
I still don't consider myself an expert on footwear. Even after thousands of miles, there's a tremendous amount I don't know about it.
But I learned something valuable: when something isn't working, you have to be willing to do something about it.
That lesson followed me to the PCT. By the time I reached Hiker Heaven, I'd gone through approximately three footwear options before settling into the shoes I'd use for most of the trail.
I hadn't budgeted for that many shoe changes in the first part of the desert. But continuing to wear footwear that wasn't working could create a much bigger problem than the cost of replacing it.
I didn't need to become a footwear expert. I needed to recognize a problem, seek useful advice, and reconsider a decision I'd already made.
That's a skill that applies to far more than shoes.
Why Gear Dominates the Conversation
So why do we spend so much time discussing equipment and comparatively little time discussing the things that make someone a more capable backpacker?
Part of the answer is that gear is easy to talk about.
You can photograph a backpack, put it on a scale, compare it with three alternatives, and explain why you prefer one. You can make a short video about a sleeping pad's weight, R-value, or packed size. Those are useful details, and they're easy to understand.
It's much harder to explain how to recognize accumulating fatigue, adapt your hiking routine when conditions change, or figure out whether the system you've assembled actually works for your body.
Those subjects require context, experience, and answers that often depend on the person asking.
There's also an obvious financial incentive.
Manufacturers and retailers make money selling equipment. Reviewers can earn money through affiliate links, sponsorships, and product-focused content. Social media rewards material that captures attention quickly, and a new product is often easier to explain than a complicated lesson learned over several thousand miles.
None of that automatically makes the information dishonest or unhelpful.
But when you combine those incentives, it's not surprising that so much of the information aspiring backpackers encounter revolves around what they should buy.
And buying something feels like progress. I understand that feeling because I spent an extraordinary amount of time doing exactly that.
Yes, I Own an Outdoor Apparel Company
There's an obvious contradiction in criticizing the industry's obsession with equipment while owning a company that sells backpacking apparel.
I don't have a particularly neat explanation for it.
TownShirt is a business, and I want people to buy our products. I care about designing technical apparel that works well for hikers. I'm interested in materials, construction, fit, and everything that goes into making better equipment.
I also believe we spend too much time talking about those things at the expense of other parts of hiking.
TownShirt began as a passion project. I have an established consulting business that I started about ten years ago, which gives me the freedom to approach TownShirt differently than I might if my livelihood depended entirely on apparel sales.
TownShirt fills my cup. I want it to be successful, but I also want it to contribute something worthwhile to the hiking community. I'm interested to see whether that perspective changes as the company grows. I suspect it will, because my perspective on hiking and business has always evolved with experience.
I also see larger outdoor brands increasingly adopting approaches pioneered by cottage manufacturers, including bringing experienced hikers into product development and marketing. That could be a good thing. Experienced hikers have valuable perspectives that deserve to influence the equipment being made.
But there's a difference between creating content that looks like trail culture and understanding the culture. Great photography, technical specifications, and a marketing campaign can tell an appealing story about a product. They don't automatically communicate what it's like to spend months living on trail.
That's part of what I want the TownShirt Trail Log to explore.
Not because equipment is unimportant, but because hiking is much more interesting than the equipment we carry.
Even Experience Doesn't Prevent Bad Decisions
Before my PCT hike, I was still making equipment decisions that looked good on paper and didn't work particularly well in practice.
I'd used a quilt on the Appalachian Trail, and I didn't like it. Before the PCT, I owned a 20-degree quilt and a synthetic overquilt, and I took that system on a trip along Pennsylvania's Mid State Trail.
The trip reminded me how much I disliked sleeping under a quilt.
So I decided to switch to a mummy sleeping bag for the PCT.
That should have been straightforward. I'd identified something I didn't enjoy, tested it again, and chosen a different approach based on experience.
Then I went back to comparing sleeping bags.
I looked at the specifications, considered the weights, and selected the lighter option.
The first time I slept in that bag was on the PCT, and I discovered it was too narrow through my shoulders. I was warm enough, but I felt confined and uncomfortable. I'd addressed one problem and introduced another because I'd once again allowed a number on a spreadsheet to influence a decision about comfort.
This was after completing the Appalachian Trail.
Experience doesn't make you immune to bad decisions. And a spreadsheet doesn't become more capable of measuring personal comfort just because the person using it has more miles behind them.
What I'd Tell Someone Preparing for Their First Thru-Hike
If someone told me they were starting the Appalachian Trail in six months and had spent hundreds of hours researching equipment, I'd tell them to start proving to themselves that they actually like the system they're planning to carry.
Not just that it has good reviews, that it's light, or that other successful thru-hikers use it. I'd want them to find out whether it works for them.
Before the AT, I went through several backpacks. I tried an Osprey Exos, which was enormously popular at the time. I didn't like it. I tried a GoLite Jam, the first frameless backpack I'd ever handled. I didn't like that one either. Much of this equipment was purchased used, which allowed me to experiment without buying everything new.
Eventually, I settled on a Zpacks Arc Blast.
The important part wasn't finding the perfect backpack. It was giving myself opportunities to discover what I liked and didn't like before committing to carrying it for thousands of miles.
I'd encourage a prospective thru-hiker to do the same thing with their entire system.
Get out for an overnight trip. Hike five miles with a loaded backpack. Then try eight or ten. Sleep in the shelter you've chosen. Use your cooking system. Find out whether your sleeping bag is comfortable, whether your backpack carries well, and whether your clothing works together when conditions change.
Do it again in different weather.
And before any of that, sit down with an experienced thru-hiker and talk through your entire system.
Not just a traditional gear shakedown where the objective is to eliminate weight. Have a conversation about how the equipment works together, what limitations it has, and what problems you might encounter.
Then go hiking and find out for yourself.
Those miles will help prepare your body, but they'll also teach you things that are difficult to communicate through reviews and social media. You'll begin to understand your own preferences, limitations, and habits.
And you'll probably discover that some of the equipment you were absolutely convinced you needed isn't what you want after all.
The Trail Is More Than the Gear
I still enjoy researching backpacking equipment. I own a company that designs and sells it, and I believe good equipment can make hiking more comfortable and enjoyable.
But some of the most important lessons I've learned about thru-hiking had very little to do with equipment.
I learned that a lighter shelter wasn't necessarily a better place to sleep. I learned that an exceptionally efficient backpacking system didn't mean I was enjoying my hike. I learned that the people I met could have a greater influence on my experience than anything I carried.
And I learned that sometimes the most valuable gear advice is recognizing that something isn't working and being willing to change it.
There's no shortage of information telling aspiring backpackers what to purchase. We have gear lists, spreadsheets, reviews, and videos explaining nearly every piece of equipment imaginable.
What we need more of is information that helps people understand themselves as hikers. How to recognize problems, make decisions when conditions change, adapt their systems, and enjoy the people and places they're hiking through.
Those lessons aren't as easy to package into a product review, and they don't always give someone a reason to buy something.
But they might do a lot more to help someone enjoy the next 2,000 miles.
And isn't that the point?
