The Camino For American Long Distance Hikers, Part 3: ¡Cada día es un día en la ciudad!

Approaching town!  Again!

American Long Distance Hikers are probably familiar with the excitement of “Town Day.”  You’ve
probably been talking for at least the previous 24 hours about what you’re going to eat first, how long a shower you’re going to take, and how little walking you’re planning on doing once you get there (I once actually hitched to a place I could point at in Gorham, NH).  Sure, there are always chores to attend to, but town is also a place to enjoy things you’ve been missing, like flush toilets, chairs with backs, and large pizzas you have absolutely no intention of sharing with anyone.

On the Camino Frances, however, you won’t have very long to miss those things, because you’ll most likely start and end every day in town -- and many days you’ll hit a few along the way as well.
  

Leaving Pamplona at 6am.  Breakfast is at a cafe 11km away.

Our day usually started with packing up and getting out of town early, as we tried to get in our miles for the day before it got so hot that the whole Siesta thing started to make sense.  Some albergues offer breakfast, but we were rarely around for it.  Instead we were on the Camino by 6am, looking for yellow arrows in the dark, anticipating yet another beautiful sunrise, and listening for the first rooster of the day, whose crowing is the signal to all other roosters that it’s time to start annoying everyone and, despite what you might think, keep doing so for the rest of the day.  Also despite what you might think: somehow this is true whether you’re in the middle of nowhere or the middle of downtown Burgos.

Just in case I haven't made it clear: I'm not a big fan of roosters.

After a couple of hours of walking we’d stop in the first town of the day for breakfast. Towards the end of the Camino we discovered that orange juice in cafes in Spain is fresh squeezed to order and one of the best things in the world ever, but usually we’d just have some coffee and a pastry and move on.


Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in town.
In this case breakfast involved the smallest muffin in the world.

Sometimes the fuente is
disguised as an elaborate
statue.

More walking, and then another town (and sometimes two) before ending up at our end point for the day, which, by now it should go without saying, was also a town.  And while each town definitely had its own character, there seemed to be a pattern to the towns we passed through during the day:

“There's the edge of town!

There's the fuente.

There's the pelota court.

There's the albergue that has a cafe and a store.

There's the bar.

There's the Church.

There's the plaza next to the Church with another fuente and the cafe.

There's another albergue.

There's the tienda.

There's the edge of town.

(Ten minutes later)

There's the cemetery.”

Eventually you’ll reach your destination for the day and the first thing you’ll notice is that everything is in Spanish, because it turns out that you are in Spain.  Unless you’re at the very beginning of the hike in France, or just a few days on trail (in which case there might be some Basque), or at the end (where you’ll also see Galician).  The one guarantee I can offer you about the language is that by the time you figure out what word to use for “bathroom,” you will have walked to where the word for that is completely different.  In any case, it’s good to know some Spanish before you get on the Camino.  You don’t have to be able to tell your life story -- my Mom knew enough to order red wine and decaffeinated coffee.  And I knew enough to make hotel reservations over the phone (but not quite enough to guarantee that the person on the other end of the phone agreed that’s what I was doing).  At the very least, learn enough to avoid accidentally ordering cheese-flavored ice cream.

I wasn't kidding about the cheese-flavored ice cream.  I think.

The second thing you’ll notice upon arriving is that it’s getting unbearably hot, which will either make you want to have an ice cold beer (me) or lapse into something like a coma (my Mom).  But first you need to get some chores out of the way.

The Municipal: big, cheap, and loud.

 First you need a place to stay, and the obvious and sometimes only choice is an Albergue, which is essentially a hostel.  But the larger the town the more options there are -- everything from an Albergue Municipal, which is cheap and large and jam packed with snorers, farters, and way more Canadians than you were expecting, to an actual hotel -- which is more expensive but does have one English-language TV channel that only ever seems to be running an Alaskan Bush People marathon.  The main downside to hotels, aside from the fact that the only English-language TV channel is running an Alaskan Bush People marathon, is that you don’t get to hang out much with other peregrinos.  We stayed in hotels about once a week, but mainly chose the middle path of smaller Private or Association Albergues.  Eventually we figured out that many have non-bunkhouse private rooms (with their own bathroom!), which I highly recommend if you are a fan of sleeping.

One of my favorite and least pronounceable Albergues.
Maralotx?  Really?

Once you’ve secured a bunk or room: unpacking whatever bedding you have, journal & guidebook, first aid kit, clothes bag.  Next: shower & change clothes.  Then: rinse out hiking clothes and hang to dry.  And finally (for now): relax, because it’s Siesta and if you try to accomplish anything else you’re just going to end up all hot and bothered.  And not in a good way.
 

This is what you do during Siesta.  If you're smart.

I know some Americans get frustrated with Siesta.  You want to get things done so you can relax.  But Spaniards seem to have a different approach: relax all of the time.  And relax even more during Siesta.  All I’m saying is that no one is on your schedule.  Stores will be open later than you’re used to.  Dinner will be much later than you’re used to.  And if you’re worried about not getting something done in town today you have missed the entire point of this article: you’re in town again tomorrow.  So relax.

Don't worry.  It'll be open later.

You will know Siesta is over because the guy who runs the outfitter will unlock his shop and go back to the bar next door, at which point you can complete the rest of your tasks.  There will be a tienda where you can get tomorrow’s snacks.  If you need to replenish your med kit there will be a pharmacy (marked by a green arrow).  There will be a pharmacy on the next block over too.  And a pharmacy on the block after that, assuming there is a block after that.  Spanish towns have more pharmacies than Gatlinburg has ice cream shops.  And if the town is too small for a pharmacy, fret not: there will be a pharmacy vending machine.

 

The Pharmacy Vending Machine, on the
other hand, is never closed.

And that’s pretty much it for shopping, although I should add that from personal experience I can tell you a Ferretería is a hardware store and not a place to buy ferrets.  Apparently.

No ferrets.  But feel free to ask.  That should be hilarious.

Back at the Albergue, your clothes are most likely dry and possibly scattered all over the place because someone took the clothespins you were using.  Clothesline space is highly valued real estate, and becomes more so later in the walk -- unlike American trails that are more crowded at the beginning, the Camino is more crowded towards the end.  People with less time to walk hop on at places like Sarria, because everyone wants to end their walk in Santiago (and from Sarria to Santiago is the shortest distance that qualifies a person to get the Compostela -- the certificate of completion).

This beautiful Albergue has room for thirty, a full restaurant
and bar, and one tiny drying rack in the lower left.

Once a week, when we hit a large city, I wouldn’t have to worry about rinsing and drying clothes because I’d go to a laundromat.  The best thing about laundromats in Spain?  The machine puts the detergent in ALL. BY. ITSELF.  The second best thing?  They’re all across the street from a bar AND open during Siesta.  That’s really two things.  But I couldn’t choose and anyway they’re kind of related.

Sometimes the laundry facilities in smaller towns are, um, subpar.
But every Albergue has, at the least, a place to rinse your clothes.

 Housing secured and tasks completed, there’s not much to do until dinner, which at the earliest happens at 7:30pm and often much later.  But it’s worth the wait.  Some Albergues have communal dinners, but even in restaurants the meals are cheap, the portions are enormous, the food is often local, and dinner usually includes a bottle of wine.  Town food every night is the reason why the Camino is the only walk I’ve done where I think I actually gained weight.

I know a lot of long distance hikers who don’t eat meat.  I do, so I didn’t really pay much attention to how good the dining options are for vegetarians.  All I’ll say is that it wouldn’t surprise me if the Spanish word for “vegetarian option” also translates as “slightly less ham.”

I'm not going to tell you what this is.  But if you're offered
it after dinner, drink it.

One thing I should add about restaurants and cafes is that you have to ask for your check.  Nobody is going to bring it to you unasked, because that’s considered rude.  The restaurant and cafe culture doesn’t revolve around tipping and turnover, so when you sit at a table you have basically rented it out all night or until you feel like leaving.  Some Americans have somehow been convinced that it’s bad service if your server isn’t essentially asking you to get out.  It’s not.  Good service is letting you sit at your table in the Plaza Mayor after dinner, maybe with a bit more wine, chatting with your friends, enjoying the night air,  and wondering what all of these toddlers are doing running around the Plaza at 10pm.  Where are their parents?  How the hell are they still awake? I mean, geez.  I can barely keep my eyes open over here.

We finished dinner about an hour ago.  If we never ask for the
check they might let us sleep here.

Anyway.  When you want your check you just raise your hand in your server’s general direction and say, “La Cuenta?”  And then he or she brings you your check, you pay it, go back to the Albergue, possibly fall asleep, and do it all again tomorrow.

Because every day is Town Day.

If you missed the rest of the series so far, what's wrong with you?  Part 1 is HERE and Part 2 is HERE.  Don't let it happen again.

On a practical note, I highly recommend "A Pilgrim's Guide To The Camino De Santiago," which has all of the information you need for planning and walking the Camino, including info on different housing options, facilities and services in towns, and handy maps.  You can find more info on it HERE.

In the next (and final) part of the Camino Series, entitled "La Mezcolanza," NHTM will cover all of the things I forgot to include in the previous parts, including flora & fauna and other odds & ends.

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The Knob: A "Thru Story" Appalachian Trail Short Film

 

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The Camino For American Long Distance Hikers, Part 2: En La Mochila

If you’re an American Long Distance hiker, you’re used to the idea of being at least somewhat self-sufficient while you’re on trail.  You’re carrying everything you think you need to survive independently -- shelter, food, a stove, clothing, first aid, water purification, a light source, a lighter, a Twister Mat, a compass, a sleeping bag & pad, etc.

This photo of sunflowers bowing to my Mom is proof you
don't need a large pack on the Camino.
And that sunflowers think my Mom is a God.

What each individual chooses to carry will vary by person and change depending on the trail -- some people will say, “well, I’m going no-cook so I don’t carry a stove” and others will say, “I don’t think I need a compass on this trail,” and just about everybody but me will say “wait.  Twister mat?  Did I just read ‘Twister Mat’?”

Yes, you just read "Twister Mat."

The point isn’t so much the things themselves as it is the mindset.  And because you’re going to be in town on the Camino de Santiago more often than a habitual yellow blazer, being self-contained isn’t as much of a focus when you’re putting together your gear.

I walked the Camino with my Mom, who was definitely not a Long Distance Hiker.  She did a lot of her own research, and after putting together what she thought she wanted to bring we laid it all out and pared it down a bit further.  I knew that people are more receptive to the idea of getting rid of stuff after they’ve carried it for a while, and that we’d do this exercise again in Spain.  All I’ll say about that first stateside paring down is that we had vastly different opinions on what constituted “a week’s worth of underwear.”

Unlike my Mom, you probably already have a good appreciation of what it means to carry weight.

But unlike you, my Mom had engaged the services of a sherpa, which, to my surprise, was me.

So we did do another paring down in Pamplona, abandoning some items and mailing some expensive or sentimental stuff home (caution: international shipping costs quite a bit and has the potential for going missing).

But I also ended up shifting a number of items to my pack to lighten my Mom’s load.  That’s right, I’m looking at you, makeup kit.

By Burgos, my Mom had gotten rid of enough stuff
to go from a 50L pack down to a small daypack.
Somehow my pack got heavier.  Hmmmm.

Anyway.


I’m not really into gear lists, and there are a number of Camino-related blogs out there that do a good job of providing guidelines for what you might want to carry.
Instead, I’m going to focus on

A) things you really don’t need to carry that you may be used to carrying

B) things it might not occur to you to bring if you’re used to American trails, and
C) Camino-specific items you might carry, including one that you kind of have to.


WHAT YOU MIGHT NOT WANT TO BRING

Shelter:

Weird.  It wouldn’t occur to me to not carry a shelter of some sort on a National Scenic Trail.  But on the Camino you will almost certainly be in town every night.  As I walked I noticed a couple of spots it might have been both possible and nice to set up camp, and there were one or two times where almost getting shut out of a full albergue made a tent seem like a good idea, but for the most part you can do without one.

This is your shelter for the night, which is far too heavy to carry.

Stove/Pot/Food Bag:
No need for any of that.  Other than carrying snacks (picked up at stores each day), most eating happens in town.  This alone is a tremendous weight savings -- on American trails I’m usually carrying 8-10 pounds of food when I leave town.  On the Camino I was carrying bananas, chocolate, and nuts.  Oh, and Jamón-flavored Ruffles.  Man.  I forgot about those.  I would murder you right now for some Jamón-flavored Ruffles.

Food bag.  Sort of.

A “Sleep System”:
You should bring something for sleeping, but it doesn’t have to be a 20-degree bag and a sleeping pad.  We carried actual sheets and pillow cases treated with Permethrin, because there are occasional outbreaks of bedbugs along the Camino (I also treated our packs to avoid bedbug hitchhikers and cross-albergue contamination).  Most albergues will have sheets, and many have blankets.  I suspect our paranoia about bedbugs was mostly overblown, and that all you really need is a travel sleep sack, silk liner, or something like the 55-degree REI Helio Sack -- which my Mom also used -- that can be opened up completely to use as a quilt.

Water Treatment/Filter:

Every town has a “fuente” (which means “source”) -- basically a water fountain for public use.  And there are many in between towns as well, and almost all of them are potable.  I was fine with just a couple of water bottles (I had Aqua Mira with me and never used it).



A walker and two cyclists filling up at a fuente.

Navigation Aids:

Aside from the maps in the guidebook, you don’t really need maps or a compass.  The only time you’re likely to get “lost” is on the way into or out of a large city.  And you’re probably not going to die of exposure standing next to a McDonalds on a street corner in Burgos.
In case you do lose the Camino in a city, learn the phrase, “¿Dónde está la Catedral?”  Invariably, the Camino goes past the Cathedral; you can pick it up again there.

Generally speaking, if a thing is something you use for camping in the wilderness, you don’t need it.  Because you’re not camping in the wilderness.


ITEMS I HIGHLY RECOMMEND

Buff:Never used one on trail before.  But we picked them up along the way and found them invaluable for sun protection in the Meseta, warmth in the early morning, eye shades for snoozing before lights out, and above all, to keep flies out of our mouths, ears and noses.  I cannot emphasize enough just how many flies there were in certain places, or just how badly they wanted to be inside the various holes in my head.  If my Mom hadn’t had a Buff, she would have been driven even crazier than she already is.

Either my Mom covered up to avoid bugs, or a Basque terrorist.
But probably my Mom.

Ear Plugs:

If you’re staying in albergues, you’ll be staying in bunkhouses right up until you A) can’t deal with another sleepless night and B) realize that albergues also have private rooms for rent.  Or maybe you’ll stay in bunkhouses the whole time!  Who knows?
Either way, the chances are excellent that at some point you’re going to be enjoying an all-night command performance by the International Orchestra of Bodily Noises, unless you bring ear plugs.  Good ones.  The kind used by jackhammer operators.
Bonus: also helps you sleep through the people who pack their bags at 4am, loud Italians banging around in the kitchen, and a comically drunk German repeatedly trying and failing to climb into a top bunk at midnight.

This guy snored so loud I actually took a photo of him in case I saw him at future albergues.  Even earplugs didn't work with him.  So bring earplugs.  And avoid this guy.

Travel Towel:
All albergues have showers.  Not all albergues have towels.  Or soap.  Or shampoo.

Town Clothes:
I recommend having a set of clothes you walk in and a set of clothes for town, because you’ll honestly spend an awful lot of time in town around normal, non-stinky people.

Also bring the other typical outerwear for a hike -- rain jacket, a fleece or puffy jacket, a wide-brimmed hat for sun and maybe also a warmer beanie-type.  We picked up gloves in Astorga (because it was getting cooler in the mornings in September), and they came in handy a few times.  For some reason Europeans really seem to like big clunky hiking boots.  We wore KEENs because they weren’t full boots but would definitely last the whole way.

Headlamp:
Bright enough to see arrows in the dark in the early morning, preferably with a red light-mode for bunkhouse use.

You might not be night hiking, but you probably will be
early morning hiking.

Multi-USB charger:
It should go without saying, but if you’re carrying electronics you need a charger that works in Spain.  I’m not saying you’re dumb.  I’m saying that a lot of other people are dumb, and if you have a Type-F voltage converting charger with 4 USB ports, sooner or later you’ll be the hero of a whole bunch of dumb people in a one-outlet albergue.

Toilet Paper/Trowel/Hand Sanitizer:
Pretty much what I carry on American trails.  You’re in town often, and if you get on some sort of regular schedule you’ll never need your trowel.  On the other hand, the Camino is littered with evidence that a whole bunch of people made unfortunate assumptions about how their bodies would respond to eating octopus.  And those same people have no idea about digging cat holes.  It’s a problem.  Don’t be part of it.

(The one thing we didn’t bring with us that would have been incredibly useful is clothespins.  We rinsed out our hiking clothes almost every day, and albergues usually have clotheslines.  But they rarely have enough clothespins.  I’m just not sure how you keep other people from hijacking them, because believe it or not they’re usually in very high demand.  Maybe get wooden ones and write your name on them with a Sharpie?  Not sure.)

Again, this is obviously not a complete list of gear.  If you Google “Camino Gear List” you’ll have an incredibly long list of lists from which to choose.


TWO VERY CAMINO-SPECIFIC THINGS


(Note: You can pick up a Shell at the Pilgrim’s Office in St. Jean.  The Credencial is available both there and in Roncevalles, but we ordered ours in advance from American Pilgrims On The Camino, a very useful site)

A Scallop Shell for your backpack.
As mentioned in the first article in this series, the scallop shell, or concha de vieira, is one of the symbols of the Camino, and wearing one on your pack is one of the ways you identify yourself as a Pilgrim, or Peregrino.
There are various reasons for the shell’s association with the trail.  Some are based in myth, like St. James’ martyred body surviving (that’s probably not the right word) a shipwreck and washing ashore covered in shells.  There’s also the symbolism of the lines of the shell all coming together to a point, just as the many different Camino paths all meet at Santiago.  And there’s the practical history of Peregrinos through history using shells for drinking water before bottles came along and ruined the Shell Water Container Industry.

Today, it’s mainly just a cool thing to hang on your pack, not as obviously religious as a St. James’ Cross or as goofy looking as a drinking gourd (or calabaza).  Seriously, don’t attach a calabaza to your pack.  It’s too much.  Just go with the shell.

For some people, there is an inverse relationship
between how many things you need and how
much extra crap you attach to your pack.

The Credencial

The Credencial is a Passport of sorts in which you collect stamps (or sellos) as you walk the Camino.  This is a nice keepsake, but it’s also a necessary thing to carry for two reasons:
The very first thing you will have to do upon checking in to any albergue is present your actual Passport as ID and your Credencial to verify that you are walking the Camino.  There are many types of accommodations in towns -- hotels, hostals, casas rurales -- but in many small towns the only option is a Camino-specific albergue, and to stay in one you have to be a Peregrino.  You can’t just be some random oddball who showed up in town from wherever; you have to be a random oddball who walked through every town on the Camino east of where you currently are.  And the Credencial (and the sellos in it) are your proof.

Likewise, a Credencial full of sellos is the proof you provide to the Pilgrims Office in Santiago if you want to receive your Compostela, the religious document that certifies your pilgrimage.  To get the Compostela you need one stamp per day for most of the trip, two per day during the final 100 km, and two on the day you enter Santiago before you enter the town.  The same requirements apply if you want the secular Certificado de Distancia, which indicates the first day and starting point of your walk, the kilometers covered, the day of arrival in Santiago and the route taken.

You’ll most likely end up with a stamp from each place you stay (even regular hotels have stamps), but honestly, practically every place you’ll go has a stamp.  Churches, bars, restaurants, tourist sites, cafes, outfitters, food markets.  Some towns have a general town stamp.  Hell, one day in the middle of nowhere there was a donkey tied up next to the trail.  The donkey had his own stamp.

And later, when your walk is over and you’re back from Spain living what is probably a relatively donkey-free life, the Credencial changes from a practical necessity to a colorful memento of your walk.

In the next part of “The Camino For American Long Distance Hikers,” the Night Hiking To Mars blog delves further into the fact that EVERY DAY IS TOWN DAY.

To read Part 1 of this series, click HERE.

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The Camino For American Long Distance Hikers, Part 1: La Introducción

A few years ago Francis Tapon wrote a blog article outlining the ways in which the Camino de Santiago “sucks” and is “overrated.”  If you’ve read the article it's clear that by “sucks” and “overrated” he means “is not exactly like the trails I like to hike” and “is enjoyed tremendously by a lot of people who are not me.”

"Um, I was led to believe there would be trail on this trail."

Unfulfilled expectations can be a big mental hurdle when on a long distance hike.  If you think the AT is going to be a solitary experience, you’re going to be disappointed.  If you think there are going to be shelters all along the PCT, you’re going to be disappointed.  And if you think the CDT is going to involve walking on actual trail the entire time, you’re going to be completely lost and slightly terrified and eating nothing but olive oil for an entire day.

And disappointed.



In my opinion, the best way to combat the disappointment that comes from unfulfilled expectations on trail is not to have any expectations at all,
other than “I will be walking really far.”  And possibly “my feet will hurt.”
 The second best way to combat disappointment is to actually know what the walk you’re going to do is like and what it’s not like.

So just in case it isn’t completely obvious: a pilgrimage route in Spain established around the 9th Century is not really very much like a National Scenic Trail in the United States.  At all.

This series of articles will hopefully give you a sense of what the Camino de Santiago Frances is like, how it differs from long hikes in the United States, and why, by the end of your walk, you will want to murder every rooster you see.

But first, the basics.

The Route

The Camino de Santiago Frances (hereafter referred to as “The Camino” because I’m too lazy to type the whole thing every time) is a pilgrimage route that probably starts in St. Jean Pied De Port on the French side of the Pyrenees and ends in Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain.  I say “probably” because some Peregrinos (Pilgrims) start in Roncesvalles on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees.  I don’t recommend this, not only because St. Jean Pied De Port is a beautiful little town and the views in the mountains are amazing, but also because people who don’t climb over the Pyrenees rob themselves of the opportunity to say, “what the hell was THAT?!?  Everyone told me this walk was EASY.”

A look that says, "Wait.  OVER the Pyrenees?!?  What the crap?"

I also say “probably” because many people continue on past Santiago, either to Finisterre or Muxia or both.  I do recommend this.  There is something spectacular about finishing your journey across Spain at the ocean, gazing out at the Atlantic with your fellow Peregrinos as the sun sets, and saying, “that looks like a tough ford.”

A Peregrina realizes her journey is over, because she cannot swim.

Miles are for suckers.

The walk itself is about 500 miles long and cuts across northern Spain on a path that is occasionally what you might think of as trail but is more often dirt road or what are called “sendas” -- dirt or gravel walkways alongside roads.  You should get the “about 500 miles” bit out of your head as quickly as possible, though, and start thinking of it as “about 800 kilometers.”  Why?  First, nobody else uses miles, weirdo.  And second, it sounds a lot more impressive to say you walked “24 kilometers” yesterday instead of “15 miles.”

Why all of the roads?  Because the Camino was designed as a pilgrimage route.  It wasn’t built to go over the most challenging ground possible and scale the highest peaks.  It was built to take the simplest route to Santiago for people who were walking across Europe a) to expiate their sins and b) because they couldn’t afford a donkey.

And it turns out that the simplest route to somewhere is also where they put the roads.  In fact, if you’re on something that feels like an American trail, the chances are excellent that you’re really just on an old Roman road that hasn’t had any repair work done since 8 BC.

So the route is neither particularly remote nor anything even resembling technical.  You’re just walking.  And if you’re the sort of long distance hiker who loves "town day," you are going to want to marry the Camino.

Markers Along The Way

The modern shell & arrow marker next to a cross, because
those are everywhere too.

Compared to some American trails, the Camino is very well marked.  I’d say it’s on a par with the Appalachian Trail, in that theoretically you could walk it without maps (but in reality you should totally carry maps).

There are two main symbols or markers that will guide you as you walk the Camino.  The first is the scallop shell, or concha de vieira.  At first you will notice the modern blue and yellow version of the shell on markers and signs, and then the more you look around you will see it everywhere.  On railings, on walls, in churches, on light posts, on sidewalks, details on buildings, graffitti, tee shirts, business signs, your dreams.  EVERYWHERE.  If being severely allergic to shellfish meant you couldn’t LOOK at shellfish, there would be piles of dead people all over the place along the Camino.  But more on the shell later, because you’ll probably also be carrying one.

Eventually you will see shells pretty much everywhere.

The other main marker is the yellow arrow, or flecha amarilla.

This is terrifying.

These directional arrows point the way as you walk west, and are incredibly helpful unless you can’t find them in the dark when you’re starting your day at 6am because you really don’t want to hike in the afternoon.  You’d think something bright yellow would be easy to find, wouldn’t you?    And they usually are.  But sometimes you miss one because it’s tiny and faded and nine feet up on a wall
(or down on the curb)
(or on a wall you won’t see until after you make the correct turn),
and you wander around in the dark muttering to yourself about how some jackass like me told you the Camino was “very well marked.”

Really, though, the only time we had an issue was leaving town early in the morning, in the dark.  The solution?  After arriving in town, one of the tasks I assigned myself was doing some recon while it was light out and figuring out how to leave the next morning.  And just because that recon also involved visiting every bar in town, it didn’t mean I wasn’t doing work.  Because Estrella beer signs probably also qualify as one of the markers of the Camino Route.

What?  I'm working over here.

In the next Night Hiking To Mars article, I’ll detail the things we needed to carry, the things we didn’t need to carry but carried anyway, and all of the things that people carry on a National Scenic Trail that you will be perfectly happy leaving at home.  To read the next article, click HERE.

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Wizardvice: Good And Bad Advice From Hikers On The Appalachian Trail

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Gear Review: BSR Pack Possum™

Both of the people who read this blog know that I don’t often do gear reviews, but in the case of the Billville Safety Research Pack Possum™, I felt I had to make an exception.

Nobody was more skeptical than me the first time I saw a couple of German hikers with Pack Possums™, but the more concerned I grew over the danger of ticks, the more it made sense.

Folks who have spent a lot of time on the AT are aware of the dangers of things that want to drink your blood.  Savvy hikers know that “want to check each other for ticks?” is routinely voted the #1 pick-up line on the trail, that the mosquito is the official New Jersey State Bird, and that Stratton, Maine is almost completely populated by vampires.

And while mosquitoes and vampires are of some concern, it’s really ticks that pose the greatest risk.
Deer Ticks are abundant along the Appalachian Trail and, in addition to Lyme Disease (which is scary enough as it is), ticks can transmit a whole bunch of other things that I can’t even spell, like babesiosis, ehrlichiosis, anaplasmosis, and tularemia.

And they also give me the heebie jeebies, for which there is no known cure.

So what to do in order to avoid ticks?
Staying on the couch has been an attractive option, because I’m pretty lazy.  But eventually I forget that I hate hiking and venture out, so that’s not really a long-term solution.

DEET is apparently composed of the blood of the creatures from the Alien movies, and I once watched it eat a hole through the entire bottom of a backpack.  So that appears to be something to avoid.  But on the other hand, natural repellents like citronella only seem to make your skin smell nice as things are actively biting you.

"TNT" with his Pack Possum™ at Lehigh Gap

The most popular anti-tick repellent lately is Permethrin, a neurotoxin that people are inexplicably confident about having next to their skin.  “It’s perfectly fine,” they say, “the military uses it!”  Somehow, though, knowing that Permethrin is used by the organization that thought Agent Orange was safe doesn’t really make me feel any better.



So I’ve been relying on DEET, because while it will melt non-natural fabrics, the part of me that keeps the rest of me inside of me is made entirely of natural fabrics.  It has always seemed to me to be the least bad option, up until the release of the entirely all-natural, zero-chemical Pack Possum™.

My Pack Possum™ arrived in a cardboard box with air holes, and appeared to be dead.  Don’t be fooled, though -- it’s most likely perfectly fine.  I didn’t fall for this trick mainly because I've had a number of girlfriends who have tried to get rid of me by attempt the same thing.

Weighing in at a hefty ten pounds, the Pack Possum™ is by no means a piece of UL gear, but BSR representative Timothy Scott notes that “it weighs significantly less than the doctor who will treat you for Lyme.”

I took my Pack Possum™ out on a quick weekend trip on the AT, and I have to say it worked exactly as promised.  Even while sleeping on my pack during the day, the Pack Possum™ attracted every single tick that would have otherwise attached itself to me, and then when it awoke it groomed itself and ate every single one.



Scott claims that a single Pack Possum™ can consume up to 4,000 ticks per week, a number that I find to be both impressive and terrifying.

So what’s the downside?

Well, weight, as mentioned -- and with all those ticks being eaten, I don’t think this thing is going to get any lighter.  Also: it hisses at EVERYTHING.  Other hikers, dogs, backpacks, trees, other Pack Possums™.  It’s like every moment you’re a person talking in a theater and someone behind you is trying to get you to shut up.  The only other issue is that on night two of my first trip with a Pack Possum™ I woke up with its face inches from mine and I had a minor heart attack.

Pack Possums™ waiting for their owners to finish
their probably tick-free breakfasts.

But I think the positives far outweigh the negatives.
A Pack Possum™ is the perfect remedy for the tick-infested forest of the Appalachian Trail, and once you get used to the weight the only problem you’ll have to deal with is every person you meet telling you that you have the ugliest cat they’ve ever seen.


The author with his Pack Possum™

Contrafactual notes: Pack Possums do not exist, although possums do indeed eat an awful lot of ticks.  Billville Safety Research is not a real company.  Timothy Scott is a real person, but did not say that.  The mosquito isn't the the official New Jersey State Bird, but probably should be.  And my belief that Stratton, ME is almost entirely populated by vampires has yet to be disproven.

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Thru Story: A Season On The Appalachian Trail (Official Trailer)

 

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“Why on Earth would you speed hike?”

The author and Anish crossing paths on the AT.
Anish is smiling, I am grimacing in pain.

Honestly, I wouldn't.

But every year, someone announces their intention to attempt a speed record on a long distance trail.  And as inevitable as that is, so too is the chorus of people who feel the need to tell everyone that they can't possibly figure out why anyone would want to do such a thing.

The chorus also seems to have definite ideas of how people who attempt speed records could better spend their time, in much the same way that people who don’t hike trails at all often think that long distance hikers would be much happier if they, say, bought a house, or drove a vehicle that wasn’t 22-years old, or, at the very least, showered more than once every 5 or 6 days.

So it goes without saying that none of us really understands what makes other people happy or why.  Or at least it went without saying right up until just a sentence ago, when I went ahead and said it anyway.

But the Night Hiking To Mars blog is nothing if not informative, and so we present to you the results of a survey we’re pretending to have done, in which we asked “speed hikers” what benefits they derive from hiking an entire trail in the time it takes me to eat a half gallon of ice cream at Pine Grove Furnace State Park.

The Top Ten Benefits Of Speed Hiking

#10: Getting to smell the roses at 4am, when their odor is less likely to be overpowered by hiker funk.

#9: Dramatic reduction in the number of times you’ll hear Wagon Wheel.

#8: On trail at both dusk AND dawn, thus increasing the number of Bigfoot encounters.

#7: Pink Blazers give up after half a day.

#6: Getting to hear the part where people say “Hike Your Own Hike, but . . .” and being out of earshot by the time they’re telling you what you’re doing wrong.

#5: Fewer hotel stays means more money to spend on whiskey and Honey Buns.

#4: Acquiring the knowledge of what it feels like to elevate your chafe game from a minor annoyance to a full blown medical condition that requires skin grafts and rehab.

#3: Quickly outpacing people who want to tell you all of the advantages of hammocking.

#2: Ability to annoy internet “hikers” without having to suffer the indignity of starting a gofundme campaign.

And finally:

#1: By the time the giardia symptoms appear, you’re already sitting on your toilet at home.


Dedicated with love to my very fast friends, some record setters and others just plain speedy, whom I support without understanding you at all -- Anish, Tatu Jo, Snorkel, Trauma, Swami, Lint, and any other lunatics whom I'm forgetting.

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Guidebooks For Trail Widths: A Review

If I'm delusional, why does this tee exist?

As many of you know, late in 2015 I set the Fastest Known Time for hiking the Twiple Crown, hiking the Widths of the PCT, CDT, and AT in a record 3 days, 6 hours, and 35 minutes.  It was a pretty awesome accomplishment.

Ever since setting the record, I have been bombarded with emails from hikers asking for all sorts of information and advice concerning hiking the Widths of the Trails, also known as Side To Side Hikes (or S2S).  And while that previous sentence is absolutely untrue, I think we have to ask ourselves if it’s an outright intentional lie, or if I’m living in some weird fantasy world where hikers not only want to hike Trail Widths, but also one in which people actually read this blog.

Hard to say.  But either way, I’ve decided to offer help via a review of the guidebooks that may or may not be available for hiking the Trail Widths, because frankly I am far too busy customizing my Hiking Eating Helmet to keep answering all of these emails that may or may not be coming in.  So let’s start with the PCT.

Pacific Crest Trail
There’s really only one choice here.  Yogi’s Pacific Crest Trail Width Handbook has all of the information you need to successfully hike the Width of the PCT.  The first part of the book has advice from a number of previous Width Hikers, which is incredibly helpful when in the planning stages of your hike.  The second part is an on-trail guide with all sorts of useful information, including trailhead locations, good places to nap, water sources close to roads, hotels to stay in before your hike and bars to celebrate in afterwards.  Highly recommended!

Continental Divide Trail


As with the PCT, the recommended guide book is put out by Yogi.  Her Continental Divide Trail Handbook Width Edition has the same basic format as the PCT book, so if you’ve used that it will seem familiar.  Admittedly, you can probably get by without a guide book for the PCT Width, but a guide for the CDT Width is a must.  Sometimes there’s no footbed for the Width, sometimes you can be on it and not realize it, and sometimes you think you’re walking the Width of the CDT and you’re really on a game trail.  It also includes such vital information as the best place to buy a velvet John Wayne painting while on trail, where you can ride an enormous stuffed Jackalope, and which restaurants have burgers so large that in order to eat them you have to unhinge your jaw like a snake.


I haven’t used them, but I’ve heard from other Width hikers that the recently completed Jerry Brown Width Map Books are excellent.  Nobody thinks they’re going to get lost while hiking 2-4 feet of trail, but it happens all the time.  Particularly if, like me, you’re easily confused.


Appalachian Trail 

Hiking the Width of the Appalachian Trail is the most popular of the Width hikes out of the three trails, due mainly to its close proximity to large population centers full of lazy people.  Consequently, there are more options.  All of them have their pluses and minuses.



AT Guide


David Miller’s AT Width Guide has information on the distance from one side of the trail to the other for the entire AT, which would seem like overkill if this were an actual book.  It includes the slope of the width as well, integrated into each page using an overlaid slope map.  The nice thing about this guide is that it is available in both Eastbound and Westbound versions.  It also comes inside a heavy duty zip-lock bag, which is perfect for people who live underwater and hikers in the Smokies in April (which is pretty much the same thing).


ASDHA Width-Hikers Companion


The Width-Hikers Companion is compiled every year by Appalachian Short Distance Hikers Association volunteer field editors and is available from that organization as well as the ATC.  It has excellent information on trailhead locations, which is ideal for driving to the trail and walking three feet.  There is a pdf version available as well as a companion phone app, but the 288-page book is the recommended version for starting fires and swatting at mosquitoes.


Width Data Book


All of the information in the ATC-published Data Book is available in both the AT Guide and the Companion, but it is the smallest, lightest option and is recommended for UL Width Hikers which, honestly, really should be just about everybody.


There are, of course, other options out there, including not bothering with a guidebook at all.  But whether you’re a planner or a winging-it kind of hiker, keep in mind that with Width Hiking, “The Very Short Journey Is The Almost Immediately Reached Destination.”

Note: For reasons that boggle the mind, some people want to hike the lengths of these things instead of the widths.  Not sure what that's all about.  But if you are one of those lunatics, the same guidebooks are available for lengths!

With thanks to Matt Bowler and Bill Garlinghouse for help with terminology!

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