Gather ’round children, and let me tell you about my best-ever high-altitude dump. I was climbing the Grand Teton with and we paused for dinner on the Lower Saddle. Mac n’ cheese has consequences, as do nervous bowels. So I grabbed my TP and headed for the ridge-top latrine, where I dropped trou, admired the view of Idaho to the west, and released my burden. Sweet relief! Soon my crap was out of sight and out of mind, if not out of nose.

Want to take a dump like I did? Forget it. The Park Service , citing the high cost of hauling out waste by helicopter. Ever since, hikers have been responsible for their own Tetonic piles of crap. Which they should be: Even when waste leaves your body, it’s still yours. (That who really can’t be expected to take care of his own turds, now can he?)

What’s a responsible hiker to do-do?

I called Jeffrey Marion to discuss this shitty situation. Marion teaches recreation ecology at Virginia Tech, and he , literally, on Leave No Trace. It turned out, to my surprise and bowel relief, that there is some good news where #1 and #2 are concerned.

“In the grand scheme of things, human waste isn’t a huge problem in the backcountry,” says Marion. “It can be a problem in localized areas that get a lot of use, like on Mt. Whitney. Also in extremely cold places, or dry places, or anywhere you can’t dig a cathole. Otherwise it isn’t usually a big deal, because it’ll decompose within a year.”

Not that he’s letting you off the fecal hook, entirely. Here’s everything Marion would like you to know about dropping your load responsibly in the woods.

Cat Holes Rule

Marion is a firm believer in digging our way out of the human waste problem. Just grab , hurry 200 feet away from your campsite or a trail, dig a 6- to 8-inch hole, do your business, and then backfill. That much you knew, right? According to Marion, about 80 percent of backcountry visitors comply with those guidelines. But the tricky bit comes with the toilet paper, which seems to erupt from catholes like tulips from warm soil in springtime.

“We find a lot of toilet paper around popular campsites,” Marion notes, “either because people don’t care, or because toilet paper is the last thing into the hole, and it’s only covered by leaf litter.” His trick: After you wipe, use a stick to push the TP to the bottom of the pile, then refill the hole. In the right climate, it’ll all decompose in about a year.

Crap and Leak Creatively

When you emerge from your tent with elimination on your agenda, take a fresh look at the landscape. “People tend to spot the same big bush or a rock near the campsite and think, ‘I’ll go there,’” says Marion. “It leads to a concentration of waste that can smell bad and be dangerous.”

All those #1s and #2s add up to big numbers, and attract flies. “That’s how diseases are transmitted,” says Marion. “They land on your waste and your dinner.” The 200-foot-rule will probably force you out of the flies’ flight path. Better yet, plan on taking a nice crap break en route to your next destination, away from campsites and drinking water.

Urinalysis

Urine is in fact sterile, so spraying it around won’t harm the environment. “It’s an aesthetic concern,” says Mr. LNT, “not a health hazard.” He advises aiming at (or squatting over) a rock, rather than peeing all over the underbrush, which large ungulates will mow down for the salts and nutrients you piss away.

Pack Out Menstrual Products, Period

Backpackers who menstruate can’t always plan their adventures around their cycles, so they have two choices: learn to use (and clean) a menstrual cup, or pack out used pads or tampons. Most menstrual hygiene products contain perfumes and plastic liners, which attract critters and resist decomposition. So you’ll need to pack them out in a sealable baggie or water bottle (cover it with duct tape, if you don’t want to see red). Dropping crushed aspirin or a tea bag into the menses will cut the smell. Of course, users of The Pill can to put off their flow until they return to civilization.

Up High, and Down Low, It’s Gotta Go

In the desert, waste won’t decompose. In frigid temperatures and on rocky peaks, there’s no diggable soil, so no catholes. You’ll have to

Which brings us back to the summits of the Grand Teton and Mt. Whitney. Marion misses their high-altitude johns.

“In a high-use area, that’s really the way to go,” he says. “After they removed the latrines on Mt. Whitney, rangers gave out toilet kits to hikers, but animals would get into the bags and they would leak and smell. People said ‘I’m not packing that out,’ so we found them near the campsites.”

With the zeal of a poop prophet, he extols the seven above-ground “” Vermont’s Green Mountain Club installed along the Long and Appalachian Trails in Vermont, and . Those loos are sweet-smelling because the waste decomposes aerobically, becoming fertilizer that maintenance crews can scatter in the woods. Just the way bears do it.

For high-use, high-altitude areas, latrines and helicopter evacuations of honey buckets are the way to go, says Marion. “It’s expensive, but that can be built into the cost of wilderness permits.”

And as my Grand memories tell me, paying for a scenic latrine is anything but money down the drain.

The post Confused About Pooping in the Woods? This LNT Expert Has Tips. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I visited Alaska last summer. Lucky me, right? Only, I was on the kind of massive tour boat that provides grand views of the backcountry, but frustratingly little time to do anything aside from just gawp at it. When my ship pulled into Skagway Harbor, I looked longingly at the high peaks and forests, and thought: “I shall return.”

But on an Alaska State Ferry, next time. It provides no-crowd, low-cost (once you reach Alaska, that is) access to some of the most remote, beautiful trailheads, beaches, streams, and lakes in the land. It suffers all the vagaries of local transit, with service interruptions and cancellations. But if you have the time and patience to go slow, there’s no better way to see Alaska.

My ship—Holland America’s Nieuw Amsterdam—had a population of 3,000, while Skagway is inhabited by only 1,100 people. We overwhelmed them. But after a few hours pawing the knickknacks in town, we were herded back on board, the captain blew our big horn, and we sailed away.Ìę

“For a lot of Backpacker readers, that will be a great moment,” says Jennie Flaming, an and voice of the podcast. “When the cruise ships leave, the locals take over, and you can learn what Alaska is all about.”Ìę

Flaming is all about local flavor and color, and you can’t get more local or flavorful than the .ÌęÌę

The Alaska State Ferry—as it is also known—is as different from the Nieuw Amsterdam as Campbell’s Soup is from vichyssoise. And that’s a good thing. It’s the ferry of the people, connecting 3,500 miles of rugged coastline, 30 rugged towns, and the rugged people who live in them. According to the AMHS website, it’s the only marine route recognized as National Scenic Byway and All-American Road.

Ready to hop aboard? Flaming, who loves the ferry system, advises a bit of caution.Ìę

“Compared with a cruise ship, this is a Greyhound bus,” she says. “It’s transportation for people who don’t need a lot of amenities. There’s no cell service or wifi. It’s Backpacker, not Conde Nast Traveler.”Ìę

Sounds perfect, if you ask me. Imagine a from Bellingham, Washington, to Juneau, Alaska—a great jumping off point for further ferry or foot exploration.ÌęÌę

Long-haul Alaska ferries have a designated area where you can and while away your chug from here to there. You use a towel to dry your tent’s footprint, duct-tape it to the deck, and then toss all your gear inside so your tent doesn’t blow away in the 35-knot winds that will rake the boat when you’re underway. Long-haul ferries are equipped with showers, coin-op laundries, and—on the bigger ships—cafeterias where you can buy a beer and salmon burger, and meet the locals.Ìę

Here’s the guarantee: The views will be sublime, and you’ll have plenty of time to admire them when the summer sun shines for eighteen hours. And that also means oceans of opportunity to download town and trail beta from your neighbors on the tent deck.Ìę

But where will the ferry take you? It’s a big state, and the possibilities are nearly endless.ÌęÌę

For Dayhikers

You don’t usually depend on the D.O.T. for trail intel, but then, Alaska is no ordinary place. Sam Dapcevich, an information officer for the State Ferry, has plenty of ideas where you should take your warmup hikes.Ìę

If you don’t have time for the ferry ride from Bellingham, you might fly into Juneau, with its international airport and . It’s a good place to stock up on food and bear spray for your adventure, and it has good access to the ferry system when you’re ready for more.

For an initial leg stretcher, head for the Mt. Roberts trailhead at the end of Basin Road, a mile walk from downtown, and you won’t even need to rent a car.Ìę

“A good short loop is the East Glacier Trail, 5 miles from the airport in Juneau,” says Dapcevich. “It’s about 3.5 miles and has beautiful vistas and forest scenery. There’s some history from mining in the area too.”Ìę

Flaming recommends taking the tram from downtown Juneau to the top of Mt. Roberts, which has incredible views on a clear day. Then hike from the top of the tram to Gastineau Peak for the views and wildflowers, which bloom from June to August. Ready for more? Now hop the ferry for the six-hour scenic route from Juneau to Gustavus, the diminutive capital of

For Glacier Hounds and Kayak Trekkers

If you’ve traveled the tourist circuit, your mental image of Alaska may be of enormous cruise ships and clueless flatlanders, and they are in fact like fleas on dogs near the ferry docks. But if you manage to escape those jumpoff points, you’ll escape the crowds too.Ìę

“Ninety-six percent of the people who visit Glacier Bay National Park are on a cruise ship,” says Flaming. “It’s a fantastic destination for independent travelers by ferry.”

The Bartlett Cove campground is never full, according to Flaming, and the 4.5-mile Bartlett River Trail is one of her “must-dos.” If you really want to experience Glacier Bay, join a guided kayak tour, or plan your own. You can rent sea kayaks or join a tour offered by , , or . If you want to get up close and personal with bergy bits and growlers (the bushel-basket-sized ice boulders that cascade off of glaciers), this is the place for you.Ìę

For Angler-Hikers

Ditch the freeze-dried dinners and catch your own on a visit to Sitka. If you hop on a ferry in Juneau, you’ll be there in a mere nine hours. Dapcevich notes that there are plenty of trails that lead out of town, and good trout fishing from the lakes that you’ll find along them. In the summer, you can make like a brown bear and fish for salmon from the beaches. If you’re after altitude, he cites Gavan Hill and Harbor Mountains as a great 12-mile round trip up to the high peaks inland, with spectacular views of the Alexander Archipelago to the south. Camp at and use it as your jumping off point for exploring the , the nation’s largest.Ìę

Flaming recommends these hikes in Sitka, for the non-anglers among you: First, check in with the , to learn about the extensive trail system they’re creating and for local intel. On a clear day, head 2 miles up to , with views of downtown Sitka and the pyramidal peak of Mt. Verstovia, a perilous scramble for sure-footed hikers. In the rain (likely), take the 4.5 miles to a no-doubt gushing waterfall.

For the Trip of a Lifetime

Flaming doesn’t hesitate: “It’s the Chilkoot Trail,” she raves. “I can’t imagine too many more spectacular backpacking experiences.” You’ll catch a six-hour ferry north from Juneau to Skagway, and hitch a ride out to the trailhead near Dyea Campground. It’s a 33 mile hike to Lake Bennett, in Canada, gaining about 4,000 feet of elevation and moving through eight distinct climate zones.Ìę

“It’s like a wilderness-gold rush museum,” says Flaming. “It’s a national historic park run by the U.S. National Park Service and Parks Canada, so you’ll find interpretive signs along the way, and a cast iron stove from the 1890s, abandoned by a gold miner.”Ìę

, you can hop on the White Pass Yukon Railroad to return to Skagway. Not up for the five-day trip? You can book whistle-stops on the Yukon Railroad, and ride to a dayhike destination. The 6-mile will take you through hemlock forest, past Glacier Lake, all the way to the hanging blue ice of Denver Glacier. Book an overnight in the , and take turns playing conductor when you’re not soaking up the glacier views.Ìę

More Ports, More Hikes

Headed elsewhere on the Alaska State ferry? Here are :Ìę

Ketchikan: The 2-mile Rainbird Trail, through towering forests, or the 10-mile traverse between Carlana and Persevereance lakes, which climbs over Juno and Ward mountains.Ìę

Haines: Take the 6-mile round trip to Battery Point for water views, or Mt. Riley, a 5-mile out-and-back with the big views you came to Alaska for.

Seward: For dreamers and trail activists, consider the , which exists in bits and pieces on the 167-mile trip from Seward up to Eagle River, and then on to Denali National Park. all the way up to Fairbanks, for a total of 500 miles.Ìę

Safety

This wouldn’t be an article about Outdoor Alaska without some timely warnings, and Flaming offers them. and stay vigilant for the big wildlife (bears, wolves, moose) and the tiny predators as well: mosquitos.Ìę

You’ll need another sort of protection on an Alaska trip, as well: Travel insurance.Ìę

“It’s super important,” she warns, “if your ferry is canceled, or if you’re stuck somewhere you don’t want to be. It’s confusing, and the schedule is weird.” Flaming shops the insurance marketplace before she boards a vessel for the unpredictable Great North.

Another must: Ìę

“Test the rainfly on your tent in the shower before you go, buy waterproof footwear, and lay out for a new rain jacket and pants,” says Flaming. “Mentally prepare yourself for being a little damp, even on sunny days. The coast is a rainforest, so the woods will be soaking.”Ìę

Hey, if you launch your adventure by ferry, you’ve got to expect water, water, everywhere—flowing, falling, tidal, and frozen. But wet is wild, and Alaska’s hiking trails are as wild as they come.

The post Looking to Hike in Alaska? Try Embarking by Ferry. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I love my backpacking buds, but route-finding isn’t their forte. Nor mine. So in retrospect, it’s not surprising that the “trail” we thought we were skinning to Peter Eiseman Hut in the shadow of Colorado’s Gore Range was actually a set of random ski tracks leading to nowhere.

That’s how I found myself bushwhacking along a ridge at 10 p.m. on a February night, staring holes into the conifer forest for signs of light and life. Four hours past the point of exhaustion, I caught the scent of woodsmoke; the hut was ahead. We staggered into the fire-lit living room in a fog of fatigue, and I fell onto a couch, shivering. I was still wearing my Scarpa touring boots, too weary to pull them off.

A few minutes later, an Irish lilt called me out of my coma: “Sure but you’d like a wee cuppa?” a Gaelic angel said, as she handed me . Her smile could have melted glaciers.Ìę

Outdoor adventurers know the feeling well: A transition from hard boots to down booties, from cold wind to warm sleeping bag, from suffering to safety. The Danish have elevated it to a national obsession, in fact. They call it hygge, the Danish art of coziness and connection.Ìę

You’ve no doubt heard of the concept, put forward in endless hygge posts on Pinterest, and hygge appeals from the Danish tourism bureau. Fuzzy slippers. Firelight. Throw blankets. Steaming mugs. Purring kittens. Goose-down duvets. But hygge also applies to hardy outdoorspeople like you.Ìę

So says Meik Wiking, CEO of the —my new dream job—in Copenhagen, and author of The Little Book of Hygge. As Saint Francis of Assisi was to asceticism, Wiking is to cozy.Ìę

“Hygge is about enjoying the simple moments in life,” he says. “The ones that bring us feelings of gratitude, togetherness, pleasure. Hygge has often been associated with log fires, woolen blankets, and candles, however these should be seen more as mediators of hygge. Getting outdoors offers plenty of opportunities to enjoy those simple moments: the sounds of nature, the wind in our face, the view of the trees.”Ìę

On my tortuous route to Eiseman I’d had enough of trees, their frozen sap creaking in subzero temperatures. (Or maybe I was hearing my own knee joints, hard to say.) But the hut was a temple of hygge: wood stove, warmth, friendship, and candles casting their magic. If all that cozy combustion doesn’t burn down theÌę hut, it’ll be warming cockles for centuries.Ìę

Are your cockles, in fact, a bit chilly? Put these five Fs—all portable forms of hygge—in your backpack, and you’ll maintain a hygge-glow wherever you wander this winter.Ìę

1. FNUG

That’s the Danish word for fluff or fuzz, and residents of that country need plenty of both to help them through the wet, chilly, dark period between September and salvation (May). But that doesn’t mean they’re suffering; Denmark continually ranks among the happiest places on earth. Hygge gets them through, along with wrapping themselves in fnug. As Wiking puts it, “In Denmark, we say there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.”

Kelvin Meeks, a senior material specialist with Marmot, advises that you to “think about snuggling in front of the fire—the classic hygge. Until the fire gets going, you need your cozy blanket. Once the fire’s roaring, you might be cozy in a tee-shirt.” Planning for outdoor cozy isn’t that different. The trick is to stay flexible: cozy is the right amount of the right clothing for what you’re doing right now. And you can pack to prepare for that.

He proposes this mnemonic to max out your fnug factor:Ìę Dress in TRP on your TRiP.Ìę

Transport—: A synthetic, wool, or wool-blend shirt that’s soft, comfortable, and easy to move in, with quick-dry and wicking properties to move sweat away from your skin so it can evaporate. Cotton is the anti-fnug—clammy, clingy, cold.Ìę

Regulate—Lightweight fleece, stretch fleece, down, or synthetic insulated layering jackets have enough loft to hold body warmth, but they are breathable so you don’t overheat.Ìę

P°ùŽÇłÙ±đłŠłÙ—Your shell keeps out rain and snow and wind. Breathability is also a benefit here. It should protect you without turning into a sweat terrarium.Ìę

HYGGEAR: Kelvin Meeks gets his fnug on with . “It’s light and warm for layering,” he says. “It also works alone on cool days at moderate activity or on freezing days for high aerobic output like snowshoeing or trail running.”Ìę

2. FLASK

I left the trailhead below the Mount of the Holy Cross in full sunshine and optimism. It was late September, the aspens were aglow, and the sky was the limit. But this being Colorado, the weather turned once we hit about 8,000 feet. As the graupel doinked off my skull, I became sullen and silent, and my buddy Dave grew concerned. “Peter,” he said, “let’s stop and have some cocoa.”Ìę

Moments later his Svea was roaring, the water boiling soon after. When I brought the warm mug to my lips, hypothermia turned to happiness. His kindness warmed me as much as the hot drink did—another key lesson of cozy.Ìę

In The Little Book of Hygge, Meik Wiking writes: “Hygge is about being kind to yourself—giving yourself a treat, and giving yourself, and each other, a break from the demands of healthy living. Something sinful is an integral component of the hygge ritual. Especially if we all share the same bowl.”

HYGGEAR: Last winter I skied near Colorado’s Cameron Pass, where the Never Summer Range meets the Medicine Bow, for Backpacker. My favorite vessel from that trip: The Stanley Classic Trigger-Action Travel Mug, which can keep your hygge hot for up to seven hours. Add a nip of something sinful and share it with a friend for extra human warmth.Ìę

3. FEEL

Hygge has heart. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word is derived from the old Icelandic “hugga,” which means to embrace or to soothe. If your down sweater is giving you a warm hug, you should hug it right back.Ìę

As Wiking writes in The Little Book of Hygge, “Letting your fingers run 
 through the hairs of the skin of a reindeer is a distinctly different feeling from being in contact with something made from steel, glass, or plastic.”

I haven’t petted a reindeer recently. But I instinctively know that touch is important, like when I walk through L.L.Bean obsessively running my hands across the fleece, the sweaters, the ski socks. Now I know: I’m feeling for hygge, and you probably are, too.

“The human body doesn’t know when it is ‘comfortable,’” says Ray Davis, comfort and durability research associate for W. L. Gore & Associates. “That is a learned trait. You have trained your brain to associate . So when you are shopping for gear, eliminate potential non-thermal factors of discomfort before you proceed to checkout.”Ìę

He’s talking about fit, functionality, stiffness, weight—even the noise a zipper makes, or the swishing sound of arm friction when you walk. (You can’t unhear some things!) According to Davis, these psychological factors add as much to comfort as the loft of the insulation.Ìę

For maximum hygge, you must actually visit the outfitter, rather than just clicking through your gear list online.Ìę “Pick up the garment, feel it, wear it, stretch, and move around in it for a few moments in the store,” Davis advises, nerding out on cozy. “Assess your ergonomic and sensorial comfort.”

HYGGEAR: Backpacker gear testers assessed their ergonomic and sensorial comfort in various puffies, while preparing for the winter of 2022-23. Their hyggeligt (adjectival form of hygge) pick: “ Mythic Ultra removes the usual trade-off between warmth and packability. Thanks to a generous amount of 900-fill down in offset box-wall baffles, as well as a heat-reflective aluminum scrim (think gauze, but with the ability to bounce body heat back at you), the Mythic Ultra was warm enough to be one tester’s go-to ice climbing belay jacket in the , even on zero-degree days.” If I was single, I’d marry that jacket.

4. FEETÌę

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.Ìę

For want of a shoe the horse was lost.Ìę

For want of a horse the rider was lost.Ìę

For want of a rider the battle was lost.Ìę

For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.Ìę

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

Swap in “sock” for “nail,” “foot” for “shoe,” and “hygge” for “horse,” and you get the picture: , the backpacking battle is lost.ÌęÌę

Owen Rachampbell is a product line manager for Darn Tough—a kind of in-house expert on all things cozy. Not surprisingly, he sees hygge as a sock thing: “Your feet are not going to be happy if you are wearing a crappy pair of socks.”

Rachampbell thinks everything from the shins down is a system, and merino wool makes it run optimally. His logic: “Sheep have been hiking and running in wool for 10,000 years. Synthetic fibers cannot beat this track record.”Ìę

Darn Tough engineers comfort with soft, wicking, and anti-stink merino wool up top, merino “terry loops” to cushion the foodbed, and spandex to keep from rubbing you raw. Rachampbell alternated two pairs of Darn Tough while through-hiking the AT, and he claims his dogs never barked. in your boots. Socks can wander, stretch, bunch, and slouch. Buy a pair that will hug your feet, not hurt them.

A further tip from Wiking, to warm you from your soul to your extremities: Associate gear purchases with a happy event. Go sock shopping when you schedule that much-anticipated snowshoe adventure with friends, or just before you take the correct trail into Eiseman hut. Elevated emotion + elevated gear = hyggemotion, which is the best kind of warmth.

HYGGEAR: Rachampbell cites a notoriously cold-footed woman (know anybody like that?) for his sock recommendation: “My wife swears by our for chillier nights on the trail or even at home.” We also love pairs from Smartwool, Kora, and Swiftwick. Just remember: Try before you buy.

5. FIRE

Much of the mountain west will enforce fire bans next summer, so the classic hygge . But there are other ways to kindle warmth without it.Ìę

“In its more contemporary usage,” Wiking writes, “‘hygge’ emerges in nineteenth-century Danish literature as part of a more integrated sense of community and belonging, especially following the Prussian-Danish wars in 1848 and 1864.” I have no idea what those dastardly Prussians were up to back then, but the point is clear: There’s real warmth in camaraderie, so you can produce it even if your matches are wet.Ìę

Wiking identifies the ten key factors for hygge as atmosphere, presence, pleasure, equality, gratitude, harmony, comfort, truce, togetherness, and shelter. Alpenglow can supply that, as can your attitude when it’s time to filter water for dinner. And what my hiking buddies lack in map skills, they make up for in lightweight guitars and singing. Friendship has been the best part of backpacking for me, and it’s at the core of the Danish art of cozy.Ìę

Wiking defines the hygge hiker as “one who is intentional about how they enjoy the now and make the best of it.” Or to put it proverbially: It’s better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

HYGGEAR: “No recipe for hygge is complete without candles,” says Wiking. “When Danes are asked what they most associate with hygge 
 85 percent will mention candles.” The is designed to operate safely in a tent, and can even help to heat it. All that, and the glow is blissful—the very essence of hygge.Ìę

Be cozy out there.Ìę

Peter Moore, the former interim editor ofÌęBackpacker, is a contributing cartoonist to the , and he posts other fun/weird/adventurous stuff at .

The post Want to Make Your Next Hike Cozy AF? Embrace the Art of Hygge. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Everybody loves thinking of their favorite peaks in superlatives: the best views, the most challenging course, the least amount of tourists, the list goes on. But, which summit challenge is really the best: New England’s 4,000-footers or Colorado’s fourteeners? There are plenty of opportunities to argue this out: Colorado boasts 54 of the peaks and New Hampshire alone has 48 famed 4,000-footers. It doesn’t matter if you’re a or a , the answer isn’t as simple as you’d think. Two of our Backpacker editors duke it out.

It’s the Thin Air

I hiked all of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers as a kid, but now that I am an adult, I have put away childish things. After climbing just ten Colorado fourteeners, I know that East is least, and West is best—I write that with all due affection for the pipsqueak peaks that cower in the shadow of Mt. Washington’s 6,288-foot summit, including Mts. Tom (4,051 feet), Willey (4,285), and Field (4,340). Even if you combined those three dwarves (Sleepy, Dopey, and Pointless), they wouldn’t add up to a named peak in the Rockies. And they shrink in comparison with —Democrat (14,148 feet), Cameron (14,238), Lincoln (14,286), and Bross (14,172)—where I danced above timberline for eight hours of uninterrupted sunshine and bliss. Longs Peak (14,255 feet), the capstone of fourteener fun, required me to plunge through the treacherous Keyhole, tightrope along the Narrows, and heave myself up the near-vertical Homestretch. The elevation gain alone (5,100 feet) beat out New Hampshire’s lilliputian Mt. Lincoln (5,089), the seventh-highest peak in New Hampshire. On Longs, the thrills, like the views, are endless. A hiker’s reward for summiting Mt. Washington? Parking lots crammed with Auto Road traffic, flat landers in Bermuda shorts looking for the toilet, and a reeking cog railroad that spouts black soot. George’s heirs should sue to have his name removed. To the Yankee whiners who complain about how crowded Fourteener summits are, I respond: They’re popular because they’re worth it. —Peter Moore

Praise For Small Peaks

Until I moved to Colorado to work for Backpacker, I had no idea how easy folks in the West have it. And before you launch into your defense of the Rockies, full of scary buzzwords like “acclimatization” and “glissade” and “class 4,” let me spare you the breath: You don’t know truly difficult hiking until you struggle up 1,500 vertical feet of straight-up-the-hill trail—the East doesn’t really “do” switchbacks—striated with logs, roots, and boulders, with a grabby layer of mud and slick dirt underneath. And views? Forget about ’em. That’s the experience of hiking a ; with few exceptions, there are none of the Rockies’ high-alpine trails or nonstop views. But here’s the thing: If you only climb fourteeners, you’ll never know the thrill of breaking through the canopy at the top of a , having finally reached the summit. You’ll be hard-pressed to replicate the feeling of flying down that same switchbacks-be-damned trail on the descent. And you won’t gain the same humbling perspective: It’s obvious that a Fourteener can kick your ass, but underestimate 4000-footer at your own peril. And isn’t that how we should view ourselves as well? All hikers are more than they seem, and we all harbor the ability to astound. —Eli Bernstein

The post What’s Harder to Hike: Colorado Fourteeners or New England 4,000-Footers? Two Writers Debate. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.