In the new normal of inescapable household intimacy, the pettiest irritations can quickly escalate into intolerable aggravations. For some couples, this might be the ultimate test. But if you can survive quarantine together, you can certainly survive a long-distance hike.
Having backpacked 12,000-pluscumulative miles on the Appalachian Trail together, as well as sections of the Pacific Crest TrailandNew Zealand’s Te Ararora, wecan say with confidence that the gear we chose for long trekssaved our marriage. And afteryears of testing, we’ve found that certain gear picks change the way we interact with each otherand make it easier to coexist on the trail.
Shelter and Sleep Systems
When we decided to spend most of our fifth year together on anAppalachian Trail thru-hike, we knew we had toupgrade our shelter for more space. Our biggest complaint about our single-wall tent was that thefront door—the onlydoor—forced us to clamber over each other and our stuff in the vestibule if we needed to get out. It also lacked ventilation, so if one of us accidentally hit the tent wall in the morning, it resulted inan unwelcome shower of condensation.
Forking over the big bucks for our tent ($450) stung at the time, but it has become our stalwart gear champion years later. (We’ve used multiple Copper Spur models as the line has evolved, and werecommend them all.)
Thistent is one of the reasons our marriage is still thriving after hundreds of backcountry nights. Besides Patrice’s late-night bathroom trips being less disruptive thanks to two side doors, one of us brings more stuff than the other, so each of ushaving our own vestibule is like having individual closets. The steep walls yield 40 inches of headroom, and the 29 square feet of usablefloor space helps prevent bumping elbows and fraying nerves.
Respect for personal space (and an average of one shower per week over several months) is also the reason we’ve maintained individual sleep systems. We have both opted for sleeping pads (starting at $145), but because Patrice is a cold sleeper, she sticks with a 20-degree bag (starting at $370) and packs a ($63), just in case. Justin uses varying blankets and bags, such as the ($439), depending on the temperature.
Cookware and Food
Trail-food habits certainly run a wide gamut. We met a hiker in New Zealand who chomped on cold ramen in order to go stove-less. Another guy on the Appalachian Trail carried a four-pound jar of peanut butterbecause hedidn’t realizeit would be easy to resupply. But we don’t judge, because we have our own quirks, like eating cold oatmeal out of the packets to speed up our morning routine and spare usdish duty.
Truthfully, we are lazy backpackers. And there are somechoices we agree on, includingmeals and meal prep.We’ve done nothing more than boil two cups of water in our 1.4-liter pot from the ($65), usingour ($45), to put togethera dehydrated meal night after night.
The most creative we get is to save certain meals for special occasions. We had ($8) the Thanksgiving we spent on top of Guadalupe Peak in Texas and ate ($11) to celebrateValentine’s Day in New Zealand. We spice up birthdays with a dehydrated dessert, like the ($4).
Neither of us has a romantic notion of camp dinners over an open fire—too much time and effort. Plus, we are grazers, so splitting a two-serving meal at night is usually enough. At the end of a 20-mile day, we like to equally divide camp chores and keep our routine low fuss. There aren’t even any dishes, since we eat right out of the package with our long-handled ($4).
Suffice it to saywe’ve eaten more dehydrated dinners than we want to admit. We areso obsessed with this routine that when we thru-hiked New Zealand’s Te Araroa, we toted 76 dehydrated meals through customs for fear that we wouldn’t be able to find reasonably priced meal varieties overseas. Admittedly, we felt silly when the agent spilled the meals across a metal table and said, “You do know we have food in New Zealand, ay?”
Backpacks and Other Essentials
The same laziness applies to our water situation. Justin’s water intake is morecamel thanhuman, but Patrice has an unquenchable thirst and sweats when she looks at the sun. We match our opposite needs by using our ($22) to drink on the spot duringextended breaksat the various water sources. In addition, Patrice always carries a ($40), while Justin’s weight-saving strategy is to be more conservative, carrying maybe one liter on the hottest stretches.
You’ve probably figured this out by now, but we’ve never claimed to be ultralight, so that goes for our packs as well.
We lug around our life on our backs with the and (women’s and men’s, respectively, both $300). They’re ourfavorites because of their numerous pockets and compartments. We prefer this organized system tokeep an efficient camp life. While Justin tends to shoulder more of our joint gear—particularly the tent—Patrice totes lunches and dinners, resulting in diminishing daily pack weight.
We fill our packs with our own snacks (gummies are a necessity) and personal gear. Justin’s luxury list is admittedly longer than Patrice’s, like his ($35), a spotting scope, and one too many extra layers (another reason having his own vestibule has been a relationship game changer). One luxury item we agree on: our favorite card game, ($8).
It took years of misadventures and failures to perfect our backpacking system.If only we could go back in time tothat first backpacking trip together in 2003 to tell ourselvesthat sharing one foam pad is not worth the cost savings.