Once upon a time, people of all ages walked. In the small farm town where I grew up, few families had more than one car and a surprising number had none. People walked to work at the local seed plant. Kids walked (or rode their bikes) to school. Mothers pushed babies in carriages to and from one of the three grocery stores or the many doctors’ offices. The seventy-something librarian even cycled around the village retrieving overdue books. And if you needed to get out of town you could take the train.

All that is gone now. The train doesn’t stop at my old home town anymore. The seed plant shut its doors many years ago, along with the local hospital—and the doctors left town soon thereafter. All but one of the grocery stores has closed. And while people still walk, it’s now something to do when there’s nothing interesting on television. The ordinary business of everyday life—work, shopping, taking the kids to the doctor—requires getting in a car.

Sound familiar? Of course it does. Many people I know spend about as much time alone in their cars as they spend with their families at home. And it’s not just adults. Few kids walk to school, even when school is only a ten-minute stroll from their front door. Homeowners complain endlessly about their burgeoning tax bills, but the school buses keep rolling along. The results are easy to see. Whatever his or her age, the “average American” increasingly resembles a Teletubbie in profile (minus the funny topknot). My home county is a case in point. We’re close to the top in the Empire State’s Obesity and Inactivity Stakes, a proud boast that the local Chambers of Commerce somehow forget to include in their press releases. But the Chambers’ flacks aren’t always so sluggish. For example. they’re quick to tout snowmobile and ATV trails as one-stop solutions to the county’s continuing economic malaise. Walkers and cyclists don’t drop enough money at the bars and gas pumps, it seems. So our real problem isn’t our collective inertia. It’s our tight-fisted ways. If we just had more gas-guzzling toys and more places to play with them, all would be well.

There’s more at work here than simple no-nothing perversity and the mechinations of local gasoholics, however. The face of rural America is changing. The car is king. Walkers and cyclists are left to scrabble around for whatever crumbs remain after the king has eaten his fill. Even in small towns, Main Street has surrendered to Big Box storefronts, all of them protected from the threat of pedestrian assault by asphalt moats hundreds of yards wide. Only the boldest walker will attempt to trek across these barren wastelands. And before you can tackle the moat, you first have to get to the Big Box store. Which brings up the subject of sidewalks. What about sidewalks? Often there are none at all, but when, through oversight or nostalgia, a few crumbling concrete slabs somehow survive, they’re ignored from November to May. The roads are kept clear, of course. (The king must be served, right?) As for the sidewalks… Well, look for yourself:

You can’t tell from this picture, but the sidewalk here is uneven, narrow and cracked. Two adults would be hard-pressed to walk abreast, much less pass one another. Luckily, though, pedestrian traffic is nearly nonexistent. And the best bit lies just down the road, where the sidewalk suddenly drops more than two feet to the level of the crossroad on an asphalt berm that descends at a one-in-one grade. If you’re a climber, it’s a good place to practice your flat-foot technique. If you’re not, however—if, say, you’re a young mother pushing a baby in a stroller—it’s something else. Let’s call it a challenge, shall we?

But that’s not all. As you can see, winter adds a little something extra. Since the sidewalk lies below the state highway grade for much of its length, any pedestrian foolish enough to venture out will get a faceful of salt and grit from every passing car. And if that’s still not challenging enough, there’s always the ice-slick surface concealed just below the snow, waiting to send the unwary pedestrian sprawling. Can you say “slip and fall”? Well, don’t worry. Your lawyer can.

Thank goodness the highway is clear. So there’s always a place to walk. But be ready to jump out of the way if one of the kings of the road decides to teach you a lesson, perhaps by swerving dangerously close. It’s not a rare occurrence. Roads are for cars, after all, and many drivers feel duty-bound to remind pedestrians that they belong on the sidewalk. If a few walkers are killed or maimed in the process, that’s just too bad. Kings have no need to defer to lesser mortals.

The moral of my story? Just this: There’s more to the much-ballyhooed “obesity epidemic” than simple laziness, though habitual indolence certainly plays its part. America was once a nation of men and women. Now it’s a nation of cars, and the cars are doing just fine, thanks. But for how long, I wonder? And at what cost?

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Knots are tools, among the most important in any waterman’s (ditty) bag of tricks, even if that waterman happens to be a woman. And I’ve written about them many times before, most recently in November of last year, when I described six of my “favorites.” I put “favorites” in quotes because the word is really a bit misleading. While I seldom feel the need to have more than a half‑dozen knots at my fingertips, so to speak, my list evolves with the procession of the seasons, not to mention changes in boats. I’m not alone. A sometime sailor’s knotty toolkit will differ from a full‑time paddler’s, for example. But despite all the words I’ve spilled on the subject, I may have scanted one vital aspect: how and when to use the knots I’ve described. I’ve certainly mentioned their uses from time to time in earlier articles, but perhaps I’ve never given the topic the attention it deserves. As reader Bill Forshey was good enough to point out:

I was trying to improve my use of knots in my canoeing and came across your article. ["Knots to Know! Basic Ropecraft for Paddlers" – Editor] I have, over time, learned to create the knots you describe, but I have to admit that with the exception of the trucker's hitch to secure my boat to my vehicle, I don't really know how to apply them.

And that’s the whole point of the exercise, isn’t it? Being able to tie a bowline with one hand makes a nifty party trick — and it can be a vital skill in a hard chance — but it’s more important to know what to use a bowline for. So that’s what this article is all about. I’ll look at some of the ways I use knots, both afloat and ashore.

Ready? Then let’s cast off!… Read more…

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Gossamer synthetic fabrics and compression stuff sacks have made it possible to reduce the packed size of sleeping bags to an absolute minimum. This makes sense when you’re living out of a rucksack, and it’s one reason why I bought a new sleeping bag not long ago. I wanted a bag that would slip into my getaway pack or my Axiom Champlain panniers and still leave enough room for all the rest of my gear, including a Big Agnes Insulated Air Core sleeping pad. As this shot of a pannier shows, my new down-filled Kelty Coromell 25 fits the bill admirably:

Rated to 25 degrees Fahrenheit (that’s the significance of the 25 in the name, I suppose), the Coromell is plenty light—less than 3 pounds total. Better yet, it scrunches down into a 7-inch by 14-inch package:

That’s a one-pint thermos in the photo, by the way, and the billy in the plastic bag to the right of the Coromell is a diminutive Mini-Trangia cooker. A GSI Personal Java Press completes the picture.

So… The Coromell packs a lot of comfort into a small space. I wouldn’t be doing it any favors if I kept it trussed up in the tight confines of its stuff sack between trips, however. Down is wonderfully compressible, but the tiny plumules are fragile things. Which is why I remove my sleeping bag from the stuff sack as soon as I get back from a trip, air it on the line (weather permitting), and then transfer it to a large, breathable storage bag. If the bag is badly soiled, I wash it first, of course. But be warned: Down bags aren’t easy to clean. Folks who like to snack in the sack should consider this—and remember that bears, who have a nose for any free lunch going, like to eat in bed, too. They don’t much care whose bed it is, either. And they have terrible table manners.

You say that your bag didn’t come with a handy storage sack? No problem. A large cotton pillowcase works just fine. The price is right, too.

The bottom line? Whenever your sleeping bag doesn’t have to be in your pack, give it some breathing room. After all, none of us likes to be cooped up unnecessarily, do we?

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