My first navigational aid was a button compass, given to me by my grandfather when he retired from the post office, left the big city, and set up housekeeping in farm country. Though I no longer have it, I’m pretty sure it was just a trinket, maybe even a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks. It certainly wasn’t a serious tool. My grandfather probably wouldn’t have known the difference. Unlike Grandad, he was no woodsman. But I didn’t care if the tiny compass was a tool or a toy. I was only four years old when my grandfather put it in my hands, and I could see there was magic in the way the needle always pointed north, no matter which way I turned. It was powerful magic, indeed. The spell of the needle kept me in its grip from then on. A little later, when I was about 10, I got the real thing: a simple pocket compass with a red and white needle and a brass case that sported a flip‑up cover like an old‑fashioned watch. Grandad showed me how to use it, and he taught me how to read a topographic map, too.

Many other compasses have come my way in subsequent years. These include a couple of Silva orienteering models and a Brunton Pocket Transit, as well as a nifty little bell‑cum‑compass that I mounted on the handlebars of my “amphibious” bicycle. I also have several filing cabinets filled with quads and charts. After all, map‑and‑compass navigation was an integral part of my work as a field geologist, and I didn’t put my tools away at the end of a job. I took them with me everywhere I went. A compass guided me on trailless treks through mountain ranges on both sides of the continent, kept me from missing the starts of little‑used portage trails in northern Québec, and helped me stay more or less found in the (almost) featureless expanse of the James Bay Lowlands. And I still carry one, even if I’m only venturing a couple of miles from home. I always have a map in my pack, too, and it’s a rare trip when I don’t discover something new, usually with the help of these two old friends, even on waters I’ve paddled dozens of times. Map and compass stand high on the list of Ten Essentials, and for very good reason.

That said, a while back I started to think the unthinkable: I began to wonder if it was time to buy a GPS… Read more…

 
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In the last couple of weeks, I’ve been getting to know my new eTrex Legend HCx, taking it just about everywhere. When I’m cycling, it fits handily on a bracket mounted to my handlebars. When I paddle, it goes into a pocket on my PFD. But when I’m hiking, I’ve been carrying it around my neck with the included adjustable lanyard. If I’m wearing a shirt or jacket that has a breast pocket, I can slip the GPS inside, but often my shirt doesn’t have a suitable pocket. The lanyard carry leaves much to be desired. Though the Legend is a small GPS, it’s still a bulky box to have slapping against me as I hike. And when I’m carrying my camera on a sling around my neck, I have to be careful that the GPS and camera don’t collide with each step.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I needed a safe yet accessible way to carry the GPS, one that didn’t “blind” it to the satellites passing overhead. And I succeeded. The title of this article gives the game away. I bought GPS Outfitters’ Micro Pack from Ben Meadows. Here’s the big picture:

Ben Meadows’ online description was somewhat misleading, showing an earlier version of the Micro Pack. It certainly didn’t prepare me for the Pack’s considerable bulk, a consequence of a second large pocket concealed behind the flap. There’s a third pocket in the flap, as well, with ladder loops on the outside and a hook-and-loop closure on the underside. And there are elastic mesh pockets on each side of the case. These may prove handy for carrying spare batteries or a notebook and pencil, but I can’t help thinking that GPS Outfitters went a pocket (or two) too far when they designed the Micro Pack. At least the GPS pocket is lined with a soft material to protect the display from scratches. That’s a plus.

Does the case hold my GPS? It sure does, with room to spare—but not too much room, which is a good thing because this will make it less likely that the rocker button will be accidentally pressed. The case can also hold my Canon A590 IS.

That’s the supplied shoulder strap, by the way, clipped into the D-rings on the side of the case. I suppose some folks will find the strap useful, but I’m not one of the them. I plan on mounting this case on the shoulder strap of my rucksack. And that’s the rub. Literally.

The back of the case is stiffened, with a belt loop and a riveted metal clip, as well as a vertical slot. The clip will have to go, and this will entail minor surgery, since it apparently didn’t occur to GPS Outfitters that not everyone needed both a belt loop and a clip. In any case, the clip is bulky, and its sharpish edges are guaranteed to cut into the shoulder of anyone who mounts the Micro Pack on a pack strap. A classic example of over-engineering.

The bottom line? The Micro Pack is well stitched and reasonably priced, if somewhat fiddly and unnecessarily complex. It’s a GPS pouch, after all, not a summit pack. Still, I think I can make it work for me. And I’ll let you know how I get on.

 
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Ponchos aren’t elegant, and they’re a nuisance (or worse) in high winds and big waves. But for day in, day out utility, versatility, and economy they’re mighty hard to beat. Having said that, I’ve a confession to make: I didn’t always appreciate them. When I first took to the woods and waters, I wanted only high-tech, high fashion raingear. If it was endorsed by a Himalayan climber, that was ideal. I wasn’t impressed by the fact that ponchos worked. They were too everyday, too down-home, too utilitarian, too simple. I wanted flash.

Then—you guessed it—my feelings did a 180. My epiphany came when I was working as a geologist. I tramped for miles cross-country in whatever weather the gods decided to throw my way. I also hauled a rucksack full of sample bags and field gear. My job required a lot of note-taking, not to mention photography and sketching. Moreover, the work had to be completed on schedule, and each day brought a new challenge. Swamps with standing water deeper than my wellies were high. Scree slopes that threatened to avalanche with every step I took. Hawthorn thickets that tore clothes and lacerated skin. Not to mention rain. Always rain. Yet though I carried a surplus German military poncho in my rucksack, I never used it — until the day an icy November deluge caught me halfway across a seemingly endless plowed field. This was no drizzle. The rain pelted down with tropical intensity, but no tree or shrub offered shelter. That’s when I remembered the poncho in my pack. I had the rucksack off in seconds. Out came the poncho. Then I shouldered the rucksack again and pulled the poncho over my head. From that moment on I was a convert. The rain continued to bucket down, but I stayed dry from the top of my head to the top of my wellies. My pack and log book stayed dry, too. And that was just the beginning of my enlightenment. In time, I came to understand that ponchos are the Swiss army knives of clothing Read more…

 
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