The plan is simple: you and a buddy are calling in sick, throwing a few armloads of gear in the truck, and heading to some far-flung locale. Let’s assume, though, that, being the astute, informed, and perceptive wanderer you are, you’ve already packed the essential gear you’ll need in case you end up in a tough, potentially disastrous situation. Here, then, are 12 items that will not save your life. Should you, say, accidentally leave them next to the couch on your way out the door, you’ll still make it back home in one piece. But these items will make your trip more pleasant and help ensure that you’re ready to embrace whatever adventure may come your way out there in the great open yonder. 

Helio Pressure Shower ($99)

If you’re eschewing hotels or plush campgrounds, don’t be surprised if you find yourself craving a shower after a few nights of sleeping on the ground or in abandoned parking lots. With the , however, which holds just shy of three gallons of water and packs down to a tidy 5.5 inches by 8.5 inches, you can spray off just about anywhere with a spigot or water source to fill it. Unlike other portable camp showers, it relies on a foot-pump system to build pressure and drive the water from the hose. The effect is on par with using a strong kitchen-sink sidespray, but the water pressure is certainly strong enough to rinse the dirt and sweat off or to clean food from utensils and plates. Roughing it is a lot easier knowing that you can wash off the grime every so often. To avoid “rinse” repeat.

The New Primal Grass-Fed Beef Jerky (8 for $55)

I love pork rinds and cheese puffs as much as the next red-blooded American, but when facing serious road time, you should bypass gas-station fare for substantive snacks. A good place to start: the original grass-fed beef jerky, which is gluten-free, soy-free, low in sugar, and “paleo friendly.” Taste, though, is what distinguishes New Primal jerky—no overly aggressive flavors or weird aftertastes, just hearty, smoked meat, lightly sweetened with pineapple juice and honey. It’s among the least gussied up jerky on the market, which plays only to its favor. 

ExOfficio Give-N-Go Boxer Brief ($26)

ExOfficio’s tag line for the  is, “17 countries. 6 weeks. One pair of award-winning underwear. (Ok, maybe two).” Though that’s hyperbole (a pair will begin to smell foul after two weeks without a wash, trust me), the briefs dry quicker and remain odor-free for far longer than your typical pair would, as well as prevent filling up valuable bag space with underwear. Here’s what to do: buy two pairs. Wear the first for a day or so, then trade them out for the second. Rinse the first pair in the sink with shampoo or body wash, wring them out, and then let them hang-dry someplace in the car with ample sunlight as you drive. Repeat the process in a day or two. ExOfficio also offers the Give-N-Go in women’s versions. 

Thermacell Repellent Camp Lantern ($50)

I once asked a group of hunters and anglers which piece of gear was the best value for the money. Nearly without exception, they all answered a Thermacell. The  uses a heated butane cartridge to throw up a 15-by-15-foot mosquito and fly shield, and produces 300 lumens of light. Because if you’re camping after a long day on the road, you don’t want to fight bugs all night or be fumbling in the dark with a cell-phone light. 

Aquis șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Microfiber Towel ($10)

Bringing along a towel is key if you plan on swimming or getting wet, but full-size towels seldom dry well enough if you stay on the move. Moreover, given their size, they can be a chore to keep clean and to fit into a bag. Fortunately, the  is a solid alternative. It measures a mere 10-by-14 inches, but even at that size, it’s absorbent enough to dry off with, due to its space-age microfiber material. You could buy a larger (and more expensive) quick-dry towel, but there’s no need: the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Microfiber Towel serves its purpose well and demands almost no space. 

Orvis Encounter Fly Rod Outfit ($169)

Fly fishing has a high barrier of entry, in part because, for someone new to the sport, figuring out how to assemble a decent rod-and-reel setup involves wading through a dictionary’s worth of jargon. Since its introduction, in 2013, however, the  has demystified the process by packing most everything you need in a single, quality kit. Unsurprisingly, it’s become a favorite among budding fishermen, but seasoned anglers have taken to it, too, as a road rod, for its durability and workingman’s price. The 5- and 6-weight models will work well for trout and smallmouth, while the 8-weight can handle steelhead and most saltwater species. 

BlastMatch Firestarter ($25)

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A cigarette lighter may get a fire going, but it’s far from the most reliable way to do so. The flint-based , on the other hand, throws out a tight concentration of sparks, three times the heat of a match, and will purportedly last up to 4,000 strikes. If a BlastMatch can’t set your tinder ablaze, then it’s doubtful another firestarter will. 

16-Quart Stanley șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Cooler ($60)

You’ll save time and money, and eat healthier, on the road if you can avoid pulling off for every meal. The best way to achieve this is to swing by a grocery store and pick up a few essentials to keep in a small, well-stocked cooler. (Bread is guaranteed to get squashed, though, so if you’re into sandwiches, opt for wraps instead; plus, peanut butter and honey wraps make for a filling, not-terrible-for-you snack.) A small, hard-shell cooler, such as the , is best because you can keep it in the back seat where the person riding shotgun can easily reach it, and if stuff happens to fall on it, your food won’t get pancaked. And it's got a reasonable price tag. 

Otis Technology Flugz Earplugs ($25)

You’re rolling the dice when sharing close quarters with someone on a road trip. Unless you and your buddy have gone on an excursion in the past, you’ll likely have no idea whether he or she will pay you the courtesy of turning down the music should you want to pass out in the passenger’s seat for a nap or whether he or she snores, which can cost you much-needed shuteye. Play it safe and stash earplugs in your bag. , albeit horribly named, are comfortable, boast a 21-dB noise-reduction rating, and are reasonably priced for custom earplugs. To mold them the first time, just drop them into water, microwave for 30 seconds, and then wedge them into your ear. It’s magic.

 4,000 Questions for Getting to Know Anyone and Everyone by Barbara Ann Kipfer ($14)

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Fair warning: you won’t feel super badass pulling “” out of your pack on long car rides, but there are few better ways of passing the time or getting to know your road mate better. Likewise, the book provides you the opportunity to ask those messy, probing questions about family, sex, and religion that would come off as too brash otherwise, though, of course, they reveal the most interesting details about ourselves. 

Behring Pro EDC ($275)

You’ll need a knife. You can either buy a cheap one that will wear out and need replacing every few years or you can spend the money on a decent one that won’t fall apart on you. The  is one of the latter, with a 4-inch hand-forged tool-steel blade, an epoxy-treated paracord wrap, and all-weather sheath. As an all-purpose knife, you can use it to cook, cut up kindling, eat, and clean fish with. There’s a reason old men cry when their knives get stolen—you can rely on a good blade unlike much else in life. 

The Outlaws and Friends of Old Time Music ($35)

Road trips are not the time to deep dive into that new shoegaze band you just read about or to wade through Swans’ discography. The sound of the engine and other cars on the road tend to muddle musical texture and grate on nerves. You need simple, straightforward songwriting—three chords and the truth. Start with , released 40 years ago this year, a primer on the Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings spearheaded in the early ’70s, then move on to , an anthology of “hillbilly” and blues heavyweights from yesteryear. 

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In July 2013, 66-year-old Geraldine Largay was hiking in western Maine, nearing the end of a three-month, northbound solo journey on the Appalachian Trail. She’d logged more than 950 miles and traveled through ten states, sending regular texts to her husband, George, who was pacing her by car and meeting up with her from town to town with fresh supplies. On the morning of July 22, the two arranged via text to meet at a nearby trailhead the next day. George arrived on time and waited, but Largay never showed up.

George phoned authorities, and a search party combed the wilderness near Largay’s last known location on the trail, but found nothing. Then, last October, more than two years since Largay vanished, foresters surveying a U.S. Navy facility near Mount Redington found Largay’s remains and some of her belongings near a stream about two miles from the AT, not far from where she was last seen, . According to the coroner’s report, released in January, Largay died inside her tent, zipped in her sleeping bag. The official cause of death: inanition—the effects of dehydration and starvation—from prolonged environmental exposure.

It’s unclear what exactly happened to Largay, but wilderness experts familiar with the AT point out that a potential factor in her death reflects a major problem among hikers: an over-reliance on technology to navigate and call for help in times of distress. “One of the worst trends we’ve seen in the past 20 years is the proliferation of cell phones and technology in the backcountry,” says Tim Smith, a registered Master Maine Guide and the founder of the Jack Mountain Bushcraft School, which instructs students in brush living, guide skills, and long-term winter survival. “It gives people a false sense of security. It's the idea of, Who cares how bad of a jam I get myself into? Because if there’s cell coverage I’ll call and someone will come get me. But if you had no outside line, no way of contacting other people, you’re way less likely to take risks.”

Over the past three years, the number of thru-hikers on the AT has steadily increased. In 2014, about 2,800 thru-hikers and between three and four million day hikers took to the trail. The week after Largay’s disappearance, the Morning SentinelÌę±èłÜČú±ôŸ±Čőłó±đ»ć  noting that about 28 AT hikers get lost in Maine each year, and that 95 percent of them are found within 12 hours and 98 percent within 24 hours. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy, a nonprofit organization that promotes and encourages hiking the AT, doesn’t maintain records of deaths or injuries on the trail. But land managers up and down the 2,168-mile trail say they see hundreds of naĂŻve and unprepared hikers pass through.

Hikers land in dangerous situations all the time when technology fails. In March 2014,  got lost on a local trail and were unable to call rescuers once their cell phones died. The next day, other hikers discovered and helped save the young woman among the pair, who had fractured a leg and was unable to walk, but her male companion died, mostly likely from a fall, after leaving her to try to find help. In a case last October, a woman required rescue when she became separated from her husband and her cell phone ran out of battery. She was the fifth person saved in the park that weekend, which a lead rescue official attributed to hikers both putting too much trust in their phones and failing to prepare or do enough research. “We keep stressing to people you cannot rely on your cell phone in the backcountry,” the . “The cell service is really terrible up there.”

Cell phones bear much of the blame for these type of mishaps, but personal locator beacons, designed specifically for survival applications, are not fail-safe, either. In 2009, a fell 15 feet down a cliff in the Southern Alps, breaking an ankle, a number of ribs, and a wrist—and losing his PLB in the process. The man survived, despite having no apparent backup plan, but only after being stranded for more than a week and then hobbling two days in immense pain to safety. Then, in 2011, a  went missing in a wilderness area, but searchers didn’t pick up the signal from his PLB until the following afternoon, likely because of tree cover, leaving him unaccounted for for nearly a day.

of 235 overnight visitors to a California wilderness area found that self-identified risk-takers said that they were more likely to potentially put themselves in dangerous situations if they had a cell phone, GPS, or similar communication device with them. Moreover, 80 percent of all łÙłó±đÌęrespondents admitted to having done something in the wilderness they considered unsafe at the time. The majority of respondents acknowledged, too, that they believed technological communication devices create a false sense of security in the wilderness.

“There is little (if any) disagreement that technology like personal locator beacons, cell phones, and satellite phones makes it easier to request a rescue, often leading to an increased, and sometimes unrealistic, expectation of rescue,” the study states.

Likewise, an often-cited  concluded that, as we come to depend on our devices more and more, “confidence in the ability to go anywhere is likely to increase, and the willingness to turn back declines.” So hikers may not only be relying too much on their devices in emergencies, but they may also be slower or less eager to try to find a way out of tough situations on their own.

“If you couple the increased numbers [of hikers] taking great risks due to technology, we’ve just set ourselves up to see more backcountry mishaps—especially on the Appalachian Trail,” Smith says.

Rather than entrusting a cell phone or GPS device for safety, thru-hikers should consider bringing along an old-fashioned compass and a map—specifically a 7.5 topographic quadrangle—and know how to use them to navigate. Beyond that, Smith says, the best antidote is simply experience and preparation: “If you’re waiting for something bad to happen to then come up with a way to get yourself out of that situation, you’re relying on rational problem-solving, which probably isn’t available to you under extreme stress.” 

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Tim Marsh doesn’t remember blacking out behind the wheel of his truck, but when he came to, he was 20 miles from the nearest highway, on a muddy logging road in the middle of the Oregon backwoods. It was a rainy Saturday in November, and the 51-year-old Desert Storm veteran had set out in his F-250 with his 12-year-old golden retriever, Rusty, from Florence toward his home in Newport 50 miles north.

“I don’t know if I had a seizure or what,” Marsh says. “I just drove through Newport without knowing it and went up through this pass into the mountains.” Marsh suffers from PTSD and chronic back pain. That day, however, he hadn’t taken his medication, which, he guesses, spurred the episode. His truck had become stuck in the mud, and after trying and failing to free it, Marsh, exhausted, climbed back inside the cab and fell asleep with the engine running. When he woke up, the truck was dead, out of gas.

Marsh would later learn that he was in the mountains of Yamhill County, in coastal Oregon. It’s one of the most rugged places in the world, says Brian Wheeler, founder and lead instructor of the , which trains federal agencies and military outfits in wilderness how-to. “In the fall, with the constant moisture we have and temperatures down to freezing, hypothermia can kill you in a short amount of time,” he says. “It doesn’t need to be really cold, just a mild breeze and saturated clothing will do it.”

At first light, Marsh surveyed the surroundings: dense stands of pines and steep ridges in every direction. “I knew I was in a bad situation,” he says. The road he’d taken unspooled back over harsh switchbacks that he doubted he could scale, given his back problems. He had no cell reception, and his phone would die before the day was out. No one expected him home—his ex-wife was in Oklahoma and his grown kids didn’t live with him anymore. Only his brother in Florence knew that he’d been on the road, but Marsh was sure that he’d driven far from where anyone would think to look for him.

Marsh’s primary concern that morning was finding drinkable water. Though Rusty had no problem lapping from the muddy puddles in the road, Marsh vomited when he tried to do the same. He soon resorted to shaking rainwater from pine boughs into Rusty’s dog bowl. “But that took a long time to get just a little water,” says Marsh. “So I just started sucking the water off the boughs with my mouth.”

Wheeler commends Marsh for turning to the trees for hydration. “You can even get a trash bag and wrap it around a tree limb that’s soaking wet and shake the water into the bag,” he says. “If nothing else, it’ll help prevent you from dehydrating. But if I got to the point where I needed more water than that, I wouldn’t hesitate going after puddled water.”

Marsh had learned basic survival skills in the service, and knew that he stood a greater chance of attracting rescuers if he stayed with this truck. He spent much of his time that day shouting into the distance, hoping hunters would hear him. When not calling for help, he’d walk down the trail several hundred yards and arrange sticks into arrows pointing toward the truck and to form the word “help.” He had a Glock .380 with him, too. He fired one shot at a time into a tree trunk, trying to attract attention, but he emptied the magazine to no avail.

Each of these strategies has a low chance of success, according to Wheeler. “It’d be difficult to find those signs in the road unless someone was really paying attention,” he says. Instead, he advises focusing on creating signals, whether audible or visual, that are foreign to the landscape.

“If I’m on a rescue, I’m looking for color contrast or something out of the ordinary, like smoke from a fire or survey tape run back and forth across a trail,” Wheeler says. Also, blocking a road with debris to force drivers to stop and clear the way will improve the odds that messages or symbols left nearby are spotted. “Make a disturbance that’s obvious that it was done by a human, that somebody was there.” As for the gunshots, save your rounds, he says. “Trying to signal others is smart, but [Marsh] was out during hunting season—a single gunshot now and then means nothing to anybody.” Creating noise that’s clearly out of place, by, say, beating the truck with a large stick in peculiar rhythms, would’ve likely been a better use of effort, Wheeler says.

Marsh’s second and third day in the woods passed much like his first, but his condition gradually worsened as he struggled to stay warm. The temperature sunk below 20 degrees at night, and the truck offered little relief from the cold—water dripped in and the windows froze over. During the days, Marsh tried to stay dry, but, while out collecting water or calling for help, he was often caught in łÙłó±đÌęrain before he could make it back.

Wheeler notes that in this situation Marsh could’ve cannibalized his truck for materials to keep his body temperature up. “There’s a lot of insulation in vehicles: the padding in the seats, the headrests, the carpeting. With that, you can stuff your clothing with all that dry foam and fabric to keep heat next to your skin.”

Also, Marsh, having no lighter or matches, didn’t think that he could start a fire, on account of the rain. Though a vehicle’s batteries may not have enough charge to turn an engine, in many cases, Wheeler says, they’ll have enough juice left to create a spark, and that even in the wettest conditions, with the right tender, it’s possible to start a fire: “I may have to walk around a long time to find what I need, but I’m looking for suspended deadwood. You really don’t want to gather stuff off the ground; it’s usually more saturated than what’s stuck in the air.”

By his fourth morning in the woods, Marsh knew that he couldn’t wait for help any longer. “I told Rusty, ‘We’re not going to make it another night,’” he says. “‘Or at least I’m not going to make it another night.’” At 6 a.m., he and the dog departed from the truck and hiked farther up the logging road, hoping to find an easier route to the highway. Along the way, he found clean puddles to drink from, which provided some relief, but after four-and-a-half miles, the road hit a dead end on top of a mountain.

When they made it back to the truck a couple of hours later, Marsh, increasingly desperate, began crying out with all his strength, certain that if he didn’t attract help that day rescuers would find him dead in his truck. “I screamed for help for three days on that mountain—and finally someone answered me,” he says.

A hunter in the area responded to his cries and called local authorities. A deputy sheriff soon arrived on the scene and recovered Marsh and got him in his vehicle. “The deputy asked me, ‘Do you know what day it is?’” Marsh says. “And I said, ‘No.’ And he said, ‘It’s Veterans Day.’ And I said, ‘Well, happy Veterans Day.’ And he said ‘Happy Veterans Day to you, too.’ Then I just broke down and started crying.” He’d been lost for five days.

Marsh made mistakes, Wheeler says, but he helped offset them through sheer grit and willpower. “With his skills and knowledge, I might have done a lot of the same things,” Wheeler says. “But he had the will to survive and he did. He kept his wits about him, yet he still knew the situation was dire. He could have died, but he didn’t.”

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