Roughage. It’s not a word you hear much nowadays, but it was common enough when I was growing up. Farmers referred to coarse feed as roughage, and mothers often urged it on reluctant children. This isn’t to say that these nagging mothers dished up animal feed for their kids, of course. To women of my mother’s generation, roughage was simply fiber — or more specifically, what would now be called insoluble fiber. And it was held to be a sovereign remedy for every sort of digestive disturbance.

Fiber is still being touted as a cure‑all for many of the ills that afflict us, and the medical evidence on this point seems pretty strong. There’s even support for the notion that a high‑fiber diet helps you live longer. But my mother’s concern was more fundamental. She was sure that fiber would keep her kids “regular,” and she knew that regularity was a very good thing. The ads on TV told her so. In fact, regularity was a touchstone of good health for Americans back then. As it still is today, I suppose. At least that’s the message I get from a quick survey of the self‑medication shelves in the local HyperMart, where laxatives vie for pride of place with cold remedies and antacids.

It’s a good bet that one reason for Americans’ obsession with the state of their bowels is the ubiquity of highly processed convenience foods, few of which boast much roughage. Don’t get me wrong. In most respects, paddlers and backcountry travelers are well‑served by the food industry, which makes a wide range of compact, lightweight, shelf‑stable meals available at not too exorbitant prices. Some of them are even tasty. But what about roughage? Aye, there’s the rub. Roughage is bulky and low in food energy. And it scores badly on the calorie‑per‑gram scale. It also has what the food fabricators like to call “poor mouthfeel.” In short, roughage doesn’t sell well. Which means there isn’t much to be found in many backcountry entrées.

As I learned to my cost some years ago, when I got an unbeatable deal on a case lot of canned, freeze‑dried beef stroganoff from a climbing shop that was going out of business. Talk about penny wise and pound foolish! The stuff was good. Really good. But once opened, the contents of a can had to be eaten without delay. And a #10 can is pretty large. So for several days I lived largely on beef stroganoff. It formed the backbone of both lunch and dinner menus, and for a time I even contemplated beef stroganoff breakfasts. At first, it was a treat. Like I said, the stuff tasted good. But my all‑beef‑stroganoff diet soon began to pall. Still, I stuck with it. Money was tight, and in any case, I’ve never liked to throw away food.

Nonetheless, my determination was sorely tested during the time it took me to empty that first can of my bargain lot of freeze‑dried stroganoff. And my mother’s dire warnings about the results of a roughage‑deficient diet were promptly confirmed. By the time I’d worked my way down to the bottom of the can, I was convinced that my digestive tract had become a cul‑de‑sac. All that was missing was a sign saying “No Exit.”

Needless to say, I didn’t repeat the experiment. It did, however, accomplish one good thing: It forced me to reevaluate my backcountry menu plan, and that resulted in a roughage-rich menu for roughing it… Read more…

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Some time back, in my weekly column at Paddling.net, I wrote a glowing review of Jiffy Pop popcorn—a favorite food of my childhood—in which I extolled its virtues for backcountry travelers and other peripatetic souls in search of a quick and easy campfire treat.* The column was entitled “Popcorn Blowout,” and I’m afraid the title proved prophetic. Just the other day, my old favorite showed its ugly side. What I had intended as a relaxing end-of-the-day treat in camp turned into something very different—a mini fireball. Subsequent forensic investigation of the offending Jiffy Pop disclosed a pinhole in the aluminum foil pan that forms the base, lying almost hidden in a newly developed crease. This allowed liquified fat to ooze out and drip onto my stove, where it almost immediately caught fire and flared up, adding an unexpected (and unwanted) element of high drama to an evening in camp. Happily, the cook (me) wasn’t hurt and the fire didn’t spread beyond the immediate vicinity of the stove, but it really was a close-run thing.

The moral of my story? If you take Jiffy Pop with you on cycling or paddling trips, be sure to protect the foil from deformation and punctures—and inspect the pan carefully before setting it over a flame. I do this now even at home. And I won’t be making Jiffy Pop in camp on high fire-risk days, even if I can’t see any pinholes in the pan.

* A use not endorsed by Jiffy Pop’s makers, ConAgra Foods, by the way. The package cautions against popping “over a charcoal grill, open campfire, or other uneven heat.” Users of camp stoves, however, get a pass. They need only “follow directions for gas range.” That’s good advice, obviously.

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When I made my first batch of Hundred-Mile Oatmeal Bars I figured I had a winner. And others apparently thought so, too. The article describing their creation has proven to be one of this site’s enduring attractions. It’s even received the ultimate accolade—being copied verbatim and published on a website that bills itself as “the largest online diet and healthy living community,” albeit without credit or attribution. It would have been nice to see my byline attached to my words, of course, but I suppose I ought to be flattered that someone thought them valuable enough to steal.

I’m not, though. Still, the matter is now moot. Why? Because I’ve just developed a new and improved version of my old favorite. Call them Hundred-Mile Plus Bars. They’re as chewy, filling, and flavorful as their predecessors, but they now have—wait for it—added fiber. No, that won’t do, will it? It’s too reticent. Too understated. So let’s make it “Added Fiber!” instead. And this extra fiber is the real thing: wheat germ, wheat bran, flax, and sesame seeds.

Why is this important? Well, as anyone who’s had to live out of a pack for more than a day or two can attest, many concentrated, high-energy foods are sadly lacking in the dietary essential that my grandmother used to call “roughage.” And the effects of this shortcoming often start showing up (or rather not showing up) on or about Day Three of a trip, when you’ll probably find yourself wondering just how it is that bears find it so easy to do what they do in the woods.

But be of good cheer. Help is at hand. So to speak. At least it is if you have a stock of Hundred-Mile Plus Oatmeal Bars in your pack. And there’s more good news: You won’t have to run down to the HyperMart to stock up. You can make them in your kitchen at home.

Here’s how it’s done:

Hundred-Mile Plus Oatmeal Bars
(makes approximately 24 bars)

•  1 cup (2 sticks) room-temperature butter or margarine
•  1 cup firmly packed brown sugar (either light or dark brown)
•  1/2 cup granulated sugar
•  2 eggs
•  1 teaspoon vanilla extract
•  1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
•  1 teaspoon baking soda (NOT baking powder)
•  2 tablespoons flax seeds (golden or brown, your choice)
•  2 tablespoons sesame seeds
•  2 tablespoons wheat germ
•  2 tablespoons wheat bran
•  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
•  1/2 teaspoon salt
•  3 cups uncooked old-fashioned OR quick-cooking oatmeal (NOT instant oatmeal)
•  1 cup mixed dried fruit, chopped fine (see Note below)
•  1/2 cup chopped walnut meats

NB You’ll also need two large mixing bowls and a 9-inch by 13-inch baking pan that’s at least 2 inches deep. Alternatively, use two 8-inch- or 9-inch-square baking pans.

To business: An hour or more before you plan to start baking, place the butter or margarine in a large bowl and leave it on the kitchen counter to come to room temperature. Then, while you’re waiting, assemble your other ingredients. Once all is in readiness, move one rack to the center of your oven and preheat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. As the oven is warming up, combine the softened margarine, brown sugar, and granulated sugar in one of the two mixing bowls and beat till you have a sandy paste. (A sturdy wooden spoon is the tool of choice for this job, by the way.) Next, add the eggs and vanilla extract and resume beating until all the ingredients are blended.

The flour, baking soda, flax seeds, sesame seeds, wheat germ, wheat bran, cinnamon, and salt now go into the second bowl. Stir with a clean fork until the contents are well mixed, then pour into the first bowl and beat thoroughly. The oatmeal, dried fruit, and walnut pieces are the last ingredients to be added. As before, beat well. The end result? A very thick, stiff batter. Spoon this out into your baking pan—there’s no need to grease the pan—and spread it as evenly as you can, being sure that there are no gaps between the batter and the pan walls. Use the back of a wetted soup spoon to push the batter around, if necessary.

Now it’s time to put the pan in the oven. After 15 minutes, check to see how things are doing. If the batter isn’t browning evenly, rotate the pan 180 degrees. Then check again after another 15 minutes, and every five minutes thereafter. As soon as the top is a uniform golden brown, you’re done. (This probably won’t take longer than 35 minutes.) Remove the pan from the oven and set it on top of the stove to cool. To avoid sticky situations, wait a few minutes before cutting into bars and use a sharp knife. Be sure to run the knife blade around the periphery, too.

Once the newly cut bars have cooled to room temperature, remove them from the pan with a spatula and stack them loosely on a cookie rack or paper-towel-draped plates, allowing them to sit for a little while longer. (If you store oatmeal bars when they’re even the least bit warm, they’ll soon become soggy.) Then, when you’re certain that the bars are as cool as they’re going to get, pack them in sturdy plastic bags, expelling all the air before sealing the bags and popping them in the freezer. The bars freeze well. They’ll keep for months. Just don’t forget to let them thaw before eating!

A note on dried fruit… You can use whatever dried fruit you like, provided that the pieces aren’t too large (a quarter of an inch is about right). I use raisins and dried apricots, adding other dried fruits as the spirit moves me.

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