Somebody (I think it was the late Colin Fletcher) once lamented that one of the few downsides to backcountry travel was the scarcity of upholstered seats. And if a former Royal Marine like Fletcher, inured to wartime hardships and privation, thought this lack of home comforts worthy of note, what about the rest of us, who are accustomed to a much softer life? Well, speaking for myself, I spend too much time sitting as it is. But when I have to sit — and it’s hard to paddle a canoe or ride a bike while standing — I miss having a comfortable seat. Of course, one person’s idea of comfort is likely to differ from another’s. When my uncle saw the impossibly narrow (and implacably adamantine) saddle on Farwell’s “amphibious” bike, he prodded it gingerly, then observed that if he were ever forced to sit on “that thing” he’d have to have it surgically removed. So it’s obvious that notions of comfort vary wildly.

Still, there’s no denying that wood‑framed cane seats and granite rocks aren’t conducive to comfort. Not over the long haul, at any rate. And as I’ve just said, I spend a lot of time sitting down, both at work and at play. Moreover, I don’t share Farwell’s taste for the hard life, at least not in fundamental matters. I like my seats to be well upholstered. In short, I find myself keeping company with the spirits of Nessmuk and Colin Fletcher. I go to the woods to smooth it, not to rough it.

This mindset is reflected in my choice of bedding, among other things. And for quite some time I’d followed Fletcher’s lead in using my sleeping pad, suitably folded and trussed, as a lounge chair while in camp. But this was hard on the pad, and it didn’t lend itself to short lunch stops, let alone brief breathers along the portage trail. I needed something handier. And after a little looking around, I found it… Read more…

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Connoisseurs of irony are in for a treat. Only last week I was singing the praises of “the paddler electronic” for my weekly column on Paddling.net — with more than a little help from some like‑minded readers. But what a difference seven days makes! This week I’m pointing out the danger of becoming too dependent on high‑tech gadgets. Before I get down to business, though, here’s a little bit of backstory. When I took my first tentative steps out into the world beyond my parents’ backyard, my navigation toolkit was pretty limited. I had my eyes, my ears, and my brain. And that was that. Still, I got by. By the time I was ready for kindergarten, however, my inventory of tools had grown to include a button compass, courtesy of Cracker Jack. It wasn’t much of a compass, to be sure, but after my grandfather explained the magic behind the north‑seeking needle, I treasured it. Nonetheless, better compasses soon supplanted the Cracker Jack windfall, allied with a growing library of maps of all kinds.

Map and compass. You might say they helped me steer my course through life. I even worked as a cartographer for a time, surveying and mapping archaeological sites throughout a broad swathe of territory, using essentially the same instruments as those employed by David Thompson and other pioneering explorer‑mapmakers. Which may explain why I wasn’t much interested when I first learned of the Global Positioning System. I was managing all right with my tried‑and‑true tools, a collection that now included a Brunton Pocket Transit and an inexpensive plastic sextant. The technology behind this toolkit was centuries old, of course, but nothing in my navigation locker needed batteries to function, and that gave me a comforting feeling of independence.

Yet GPS technology was steadily maturing. Consumer‑grade receivers were starting to appear in outfitters’ catalogs with price tags that weren’t much heftier than those on top‑of‑the‑line orienteering compasses. Then Farwell started working with a local nonprofit, compiling a guide to recreational trails. A GPS came with the job, and before long he was taking it with him on almost every outing. In short, he was hooked, and when the job ended, he bought a GPS of his own. Somewhat reluctantly, I followed suit. I was pleasantly surprised, though, and in due course I wrote about my new navigational tool here.

Fast‑forward to today. My Garmin Legend HCx is still going strong, and it’s served me well both on and off the water. But its days may be numbered. There’s a cloud on the horizon… Read more…

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Where would we be without duct tape? We’d come unstuck in a hurry, that’s where. Duct tape makes hard repairs easy, big jobs small, and quick fixes more or less lasting. No great skill is required, and you don’t need any special tools. Duct tape even has history on its side. Like so much modern gear, from the venerable Grumman tin tank itself to the latest in MREs, duct tape was forged in the fires of war. When Uncle Sam needed a way to insure that ammo cans stayed watertight in the steamy heat of the Pacific Theater during World War II, surgical-supply company Johnson & Johnson was the first to find a solution. By sandwiching gauze between a latex adhesive and a waterproof backing they invented a new kind of tape. It was everything the War Department wanted. It was tough. It was flexible. And it kept the water out. Scuttlebutt has it that GIs nicknamed the stuff duck tape, because it shed water just like a duck’s back. Be that as it may—pragmatic historians note that the waterproof backing was originally cotton duck—it wasn’t long before duck tape was drafted to do a lot of jobs besides sealing ammo cans. And when the GIs came home at war’s end, duck tape came with them… Read more…

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