Spring has long been celebrated as the season of rebirth and renewal, a time when the earth shakes off winter’s threadbare mantle and cloaks itself afresh in new life. But even the diehard romantics among us probably don’t imagine that this annual renaissance extends to the world of consumer products. I certainly don’t. Of course, I’m not what you’d call a material girl. I buy things because they work for me, and then I hang on to them till they wear out. My pack canoe, ash paddle, and “getaway” rucksack have all been with me for a quarter of a century, or near enough, and I don’t see any reason to replace them.

I feel the same way about my little Silva Huntsman compass, which has been keeping me company for almost as long as my pack canoe and paddle. And that explains why, when I went looking for a second Huntsman, I was bitterly disappointed to learn it was no longer available. The fact that its name had now been bestowed on a zombie product — inferior in every way to the original Huntsman, at least in my eyes — only served to add insult to injury. But I couldn’t afford to waste time being sentimental. I needed a small compass that I could slip into the transparent map pocket on my “amphibious” bicycle‘s handlebar bag whenever I felt like heading down the road, folding boat in tow. That compass had to be… Read more…

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I’ve been collecting compasses since the day I discovered one in the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. That was quite a while ago. Before I first set foot in kindergarten, to be exact. So you probably won’t be surprised to learn that I now own no less than six compasses. You’d think this would be enough for anyone, wouldn’t you? But—as the economists are fond of reminding us—human wants are insatiable. And I recently decided to add one more compass to my collection. That’s when I hit a roadblock.

Here’s how it happened. Not long ago I turned out the contents of my ditty bag. If you read In the Same Boat regularly you’ll know this already, because I wrote about it earlier. One of the items I showcased in that article was my Silva Huntsman compass. It’s not my principal compass—a Silva Ranger fills that billet—but it’s an excellent backup, and it’s so small and light that I’m never tempted to leave it behind. It’s no Cracker Jack toy, however. The little Huntsman is a serious instrument, accurate, rugged, and versatile. I have often recommended it. But no more.

The story began when I decided I needed a compass to tuck under the transparent map pocket in the handlebar bag on the bicycle I use for “amphibious” treks. (Spring is coming, after all. It pays to plan ahead.) The Huntsman would be perfect for that, I thought. But I didn’t want to “borrow” the Huntsman I normally keep in my ditty bag for this job. Someday I might forget to return it to the ditty bag, and that would likely be the day I needed it. There was a simple solution: get a second Huntsman.

But I wasn’t sure if I could. My Huntsman is more than 20 years old, and I didn’t think I’d still find it for sale after so long a time. (Truth to tell, the pace of product development has become so frenetic that any item of gear that’s been on the market for more than six months may already have disappeared without a trace.) You can imagine my joy, therefore, when I found a picture of my Huntsman at an online retailer’s website. The description jibed, too. Apparently, the Huntsman had escaped the iron jaws of planned obsolescence. And I lost no time in placing my order.

My joy was short-lived, however. When the package containing my new Huntsman arrived, it wasn’t what I’d expected. The Huntsman compass in the box didn’t look anything like the one in my ditty bag. And it didn’t look anything like the picture on the retailer’s website, either. But it was labeled “Huntsman.” The name had been retained, even if the new Huntsman bore little resemblance to the old. Was I disappointed? You bet. I was even moved to coin the phrase “zombie product” to describe the phenomenon, and I vented my spleen about the whole business on my own website.

Happily, the retailer’s customer service representative promptly refunded my money, though she wouldn’t allow me to return the unwanted compass, even though the blister pack was still intact. It seems that the Huntsman incorporated hazardous materials. It was now too hot to handle. This hadn’t stopped the retailer from shipping it to me, of course, but I’ve learned not to question corporate logic. And I wasn’t exactly the loser in the transaction, anyway. I kept both my cash and the new compass. I’d rather have gotten what I ordered, but…

Is there a lesson to be learned from all this? I think so. In fact, it’s summed up in a hoary Latin tag: Caveat Emptor… Read more…

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No trekker’s equipment list is static. As our interests change and new opportunities arise, we make adjustments. Which is why I spent a lot of time with my head in my gear closet last year, taking stock of my collection of sleeping bags.

A word of explanation is in order here, I suppose. Sleeping bags are durable things. If you use a liner (or sleep in long johns), keep your bag away from hot embers, store it properly, and avoid eating in bed, a bag can serve you well for several decades. And some of my bags are now 30 years old. Moreover, most of them were purchased with Big Trips in mind. But Big Trips, by their very nature, are rather rare beasts. They’re costly, they’re months in the planning, and — this is the killer — they take you away from your family and your work for long periods of time. The upshot? Even the keenest paddler probably can’t do more than one or two Big Trips in a year, and many of us are lucky if we can manage one in every decade.

I like to spend as much time out of doors as I can. But I also need to earn a living. And that means that the great majority of my trips are impromptu getaways, of the sort that writer Richard Frisbie christened “miniature adventures”: day trips and weekenders. This is why I’m such a fan of “amphibious” trekking. With many prepackaged outdoor holidays — though certainly by no means all — driving (to the put‑in, the adventure center, the airport) and waiting around (for the flight, the TSA pat‑down, the bus, the guide, the safety briefing) seem to take up most of your time. When you embark on an amphibious trek, however, the adventure begins right on your doorstep. In other words, amphibious trekking is experience‑dense. It’s self‑powered and self‑directed from the start, with very little downtime. I like that.

Yet this freedom comes at a price. Not in dollars and cents, of course. Once you have the necessary equipment, amphibious treks can be dirt cheap. But they impose strict limits on the weight and bulk of your gear. Pack canoes, rucksacks, and bike trailers aren’t in the same class as SUVs and freighters when it comes to load‑carrying, and amphibious trekkers have to haul all of their gear, all of the time. The bottom line? My gear list is evolving toward the go‑light end of the spectrum. And that means that many of my Big Trip items are destined for semi‑retirement. I’ve already acquired a new cooker, mattress, and tent. But I’d put off buying a new sleeping bag. Until now… Read more…

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