Last fall, I was enjoying a hike in crisp temperatures near Salt Lake City when I encountered some concerning trail rage. Rounding a corner, I saw a mountain-bike bro heading downhill聽full blast in my direction. He was hauling, and I barely managed to dodge off the trail in the nick of time.

鈥淣ice poles, puss!鈥� he yelled aggressively, spinning up a mess of dirt in his wake.

I looked down at my trekking poles, then back at him, then back at them again. Were they that uncool? What did he have against hiking equipment? Sure, the trail was mellow, but I like my poles.

This wasn鈥檛 the first time I鈥檇聽experienced anti-pole sentiment. This virulent contagion is spreading in the outdoor community. Condescension, judgment, and a hierarchical us-versus-them mentality threatens to grip our trails, boot-packs, and parks. Using them is disdained, like all the unwanted raisins in a well-picked-over bag of gorp. Pole rage is real. And I鈥檓 concerned.

As a hiker who shamelessly loves to pole about鈥攐ften at an aggressively聽slow pace鈥攖he hate confuses me, because before I started hiking with poles, getting from point A to B was a lot more miserable.

Prior to picking up sticks seven years ago, I remember countless climbs up the boot-pack at Teton Pass聽in Wyoming, heaving and wheezing without support. People would pass me and look on in confusion鈥攁nd with pity in their eyes鈥攁t my lack of poles, wondering what terrible thing I鈥檇 done to deserve such a fate.

And I recall backpacking聽harrowing,聽hair-raising sections of the Tonto Platform in the Grand Canyon聽sans poles, the trail crumbling beneath my feet. Any slip or fall meant a 2,000-foot plunge. That鈥檚 long enough to know you鈥檙e gonna die聽and still have time to think about it. I would have loved poles then, thank you.

But lately, it seems like there鈥檚 been a demarcation鈥攁 line etched in the trail dirt鈥攐f what type of hike or terrain is pole appropriate.

Sure, when you鈥檙e hiking on a 45-degree incline, they make a big difference. We all know that. But for those who aren鈥檛 in prime condition (like me), a pole or two can make an otherwise moderate hike downright sublime by adding just the right amount of support.

And聽as much as I hate to admit it, I鈥檓 not a twentysomething anymore. The rivers and mountains continue to take their toll. At 34, my joints hurt and my ankles are stiff. My back bears the burden of all of the powder days聽I enjoyed as a younger man. Poles help, and I鈥檓 not ashamed to admit it.

I want to use them on every hike, not just the hard ones. And yet聽there are those who smirk at my casual usage, deeming me a gaper or a tourist for poling around on green terrain.

It鈥檚 easy to adopt an appearance-first mentality in our image-obsessed culture to prioritize looking fashionable or core. But if hiking with poles makes you happy, then pole down, my friends.

Run with them. Hike (slowly) with them. Power walk with them. There is no wrong way to pole鈥攚ith the exception of leaving them at home when you should have brought them along.

The post Why I’ll Never Let Go of My Trekking Poles appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Dear ,

We鈥檝e been together for a long time. It鈥檚 been about four years, spending virtually every waking (and sleeping) moment together. Running rivers, crashing illegally in the back of my car, living it up at music festivals… We did it all.

Damn, we had some good times.

I remember when I first saw you, new and neatly rolled up, on the beach at Lees Ferry before we put in the Grand Canyon. My old whitewater rafting boss got you for me on a pro deal as a thank you for staying late in the season (as well as for inviting him on my Grand Canyon trip). It was love at first sight.

Normally, a 24-day first date would ruin just about any relationship, but for some reason, the chemistry between us never fell flat. You supported me over those weeks in the canyon, and I could tell you were in it for the long haul. I slept on rocks, roots, and river rubbish鈥攁nd I never felt anything but your air-and-foam-filled goodness. You were open to trying tons of different positions, and when some of the oranges in my cooler started going bad, you helped by keeping them shaded. If that鈥檚 not love, I don鈥檛 know what is.

You were so fresh in those early days鈥攏ot yet worn down by the experiences we鈥檝e shared since. I fondly remember that summer guiding the Trinity River and our fall-season stint trimming marijuana plants in Humboldt. My boss wanted us to sleep out in the crop, and you were my only company and insulation, even on the coldest nights. Waking up in a sea of green, we enjoyed those crisp NorCal mornings together. Sorry for spilling coffee on you from time to time.

What about a couple of years later? That rafting season we spent squatting in Charlie Sands鈥檚 boathouse in Jackson? Every day I鈥檇 come 鈥渉ome鈥� and stash wet bundles of cash under you from river-guiding gratuities. But you never complained or got moldy. If anything, you seemed to appreciate the better living situation that the tips promised鈥攁s long as I didn鈥檛 start eyeing new sleeping pads.聽

We even survived that disturbing night on the Hoback River, when a . I remember lying awake all night wondering if some meth-fueled madman was going to jump out from the bushes and pad-nap you along with the raft and beer. I held you tightly that whole evening, along with my knife.

And the look on the TSA agents鈥櫬爁aces when I brought you as carry-on鈥攔olled up and damn near overflowing from my pack鈥攖o Maui in 2017? But they let us on board! Sure, other passengers stared as I violently jammed you into the overhead bin, but who were they to judge? I鈥檒l never be ashamed of you. Crashing together in that rental van was way better than paying for a fancy hotel room. After all, a year鈥檚 worth of guiding tips would have only bought a few nights at the Four Seasons.

Then, of course, there was that summer on the Rogue, working 18-hour days. Cook, rig, raft, cook, rig, raft, cook, do the dishes鈥攖hen repeat, day after day. I鈥檓 still haunted by the sound of an early-morning coffee blaster as my fellow guides got breakfast going. If it weren鈥檛 for you, I wouldn鈥檛 have made it, and the river would have broken me.

I love you, Paco Pad. We鈥檝e shared so much, and we鈥檒l continue to do so. But let鈥檚 be honest: it鈥檚 not like it used to be.

Sadly, I鈥檓 not in my twenties anymore. You know I鈥檒l always love you, but our relationship has changed. When we met, I was in a different phase of my life. Gravel sandbars, sketchy out-of-view parking-lot corners, and obscure campsites made sense. A part of me wishes I was still that guy. But I鈥檓 not, and I鈥檓 sorry.

I have an apartment now鈥攁nd a real bed鈥攁nd my days of dirtbagging it out of Rhonda the Honda are over (hopefully). I鈥檒l never replace you with another pad. I promise. We鈥檝e got a trip down the main Salmon later this summer. And when it comes to laying out on the balcony and reading sci-fi, you and I still have a great thing.

But鈥攂eing together every night鈥攊t just doesn鈥檛 make sense anymore.

My yoga mat is no threat to you, and I sincerely hope you and it can be friends. Trust me, there鈥檚 still no other piece of gear I鈥檇 rather spend a road or river trip with. OK, maybe the French press. For now, rest easy in the closet. You鈥檝e earned it.

Yours in love, z鈥檚, and dirt,

Sam

The post Dear Paco Pad, It’s Time for Me to Move On appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.