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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We’re told that time and tide wait for no man, and it’s safe to say this is equally true for women. Most of us have missed chances to get away simply because we ran out of time. Which is why I’ve given a fair amount of thought to making the most of any opportunities to escape to the backcountry, whenever and wherever they arise. My “getaway pack” was one result. I described it at some length in an earlier column, but a recent e‑mail from Jason, an In the Same Boat reader, reminded me that words aren’t always the best tools for communicating:

I really like your articles and have spent a lot of time reading them over the past week or two. I enjoyed your getaway pack, and I was wondering if you had any pictures. I tried to start my own, but once I began putting all the stuff in, I found the pack was nowhere near big enough. Actually, I think all my stuff was too big to fit the pack. Anyway, it would be interesting to see some photos of your getaway pack. How do you keep the stuff organized so that you can get what you want quickly? I would be interested to see a “picture” article on this, because I think it helps a lot for people like me who have never done an activity or are only starting out with a few extended trips under the belt, to see what more experienced people have already done. And I do think you can learn from others’ mistakes and not have to make them all on your own. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Indeed it is. Sometimes. And this is clearly one of those times. So here goes, Jason. This one’s for you: Picture this—my Getaway Pack… Read more…

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Sooner or later we paddlers have to leave our boats and get up on our hind legs, if not to portage or scout, then simply because — however much we like being on the water — we’re basically land animals. A paddler who had to spend every hour of every day afloat would soon be in a predicament not unlike that of a fish out of water. Happily, few of us are so wedded to our diminutive craft that we find getting about on foot to be a burden. In fact, many of us enjoy hillwalking and snowshoeing as sports in their own right, and a small but growing cohort of amphibious outdoorspeople have discovered that cycling is a natural extension of paddling. (Does cycling belong with hillwalking and snowshoeing? I think it does. After all, a cyclist uses his legs to get him where he needs to go.) Of course, if you happen to live in the northern reaches of Canoe Country, you’ll be locked out of the water for a good part of the year, anyway. Canoes and kayaks make poor icebreakers.

The bottom line? Paddlers are only paddlers part time. Much of the rest of the time we’re pedestrians. And this isn’t such a bad thing. Still, my introductory paragraph is a bit misleading. For many of us, walking involves more than swinging our hind legs back and forth beneath us. We’re tripeds (or even quadrupeds) by choice. Like me, for instance. I take a walking stick whenever I go afield, even tucking it under my getaway pack when I go out in my little canoe. Regular In the Same Boat readers may recall that I’ve encouraged other paddlers to do the same.

And how many folks have I met who followed my example? Until recently, I could count them on one hand. But now that’s changed. Suddenly walking sticks are fashionable… Read more…

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