For many, they鈥檙e synonymous with camping: Axes, hand saws, and hatchets. Equipment that makes you want to don your favorite flannel, pop a beanie on top of your unwashed, uncombed, leaf-littered hair, and chop something down. Build a log cabin. Stack firewood. Carve your name in soft pine.

Woods tools have long been a symbol of self-reliance, of survival, of strength in the great outdoors鈥攋ust think of the towering monuments to ax-wielding, square-shouldered lumberjack Paul Bunyan and his famous blue ox, Babe, or the scores of survivalist and bushcraft YouTube channels that exist expressly to teach viewers how to chop things down and build impromptu structures in the woods.

But on public lands and in backcountry campsites, these tools have become a plague: Rangers and land managers routinely report dozens of trees hacked at, chopped down, or de-limbed. And in an enlightened outdoor community where reigns supreme, many believe they are tools of a dissolute past and that it鈥檚 well past time that we retire them or even ban their presence in the backcountry.

It鈥檚 something Jeffrey Marion feels strongly about. After all, in addition to being a recreation ecologist and USGS federal scientist, he鈥檚 the author of Leave No Trace in the Outdoors, the official LNT manual. And his position is a logical one: Woods tools like axes and saws have their place in the outdoors, but not in backcountry recreation.

Getting some folks on board with the idea has been a struggle. Many outdoors people who ascribe to an older school of thought鈥攁 self-sufficient, survivalist, Walden-esque way of life鈥攕coff at the idea of leaving behind their woods tools when they hike into the wilderness. How would one build an impromptu emergency shelter or chop down a tree for firewood without them?

Marion鈥檚 answer: One doesn鈥檛. Leave No Trace implores outdoors people to (a) collect only dead and downed wood for campfires and (b) leave wilderness areas the same as or better than you found them, which precludes chopping limbs, branches, or trees, downed or otherwise.

There are ecological reasons for , of course. Damaging or removing healthy flora not only deals a blow to the health of trees, but also opens up forest canopies, which creates unnatural sunny areas that support non-native plants, some of which are invasive, Marion explains.听

That doesn鈥檛 mean you should have at it on dead or downed wood, though. Standing dead trees often function as protective cavities for woodpecker, owl, and flying squirrel nests. Fallen logs can provide cover for wildlife and are filled with insects that are important to terrestrial food chains. Plus, downed wood鈥檚 natural decomposition replenishes soil, making it a vital part of a healthy ecosystem. If campers are hacking up these large downed pieces, they may be disrupting the natural process of the woods, resulting in more far-reaching implications than you might think.

But Marion has been struggling to get outdoorists to give up woods tools for years, most notably with an organization that鈥檚 near and dear to his heart: the Boy Scouts of America (BSA). A former Eagle Scout, Marion has helped implement and promote LNT principles in core BSA literature with great success, but many in the organization still hang onto and outdoor education.

According to Brian Gray, director of conservation for BSA, the organization has made a lot of changes in past years, including focusing more on outdoor ethics and cooking with gas stoves instead of over campfires as a way to negate the need for woods tools. But while he says they aren鈥檛 promoting the use of these tools in the backcountry, they鈥檙e still part of the curriculum. And I can鈥檛 argue too vehemently with his logic that reminds me of one presented by public school sex-ed teachers everywhere: If you鈥檙e going to use it, be safe about it.

鈥淭here鈥檚 a time for any type of tool, but the important thing is how you use it,鈥� Gray says. 鈥淲hat we teach is safety.鈥�

Trail Information Manager for the Jack 鈥淔ound鈥� Haskel agrees, at least with the first part of that statement. 鈥淭here are definitely places for axes and hatches and saws,鈥� he says, 鈥淏ut a busy and protected piece of land often isn鈥檛 the place for that.鈥� Especially along popular sections of trail, one campsite might host thousands of visitors a year. And if just a few are playing or practicing with these sorts of tools, it can result in a significant amount of cumulative impact.

Besides, LNT principles recommend not burning any piece of wood larger in diameter than an average person鈥檚 wrist. When the wood you鈥檙e meant to use is that small and easy to snap in half, an ax is overkill.

But Marion believes using vague verbiage like, 鈥淚f you don鈥檛 need it, don鈥檛 use it,鈥� isn鈥檛 concrete enough, and his studies have found that educational messaging alone has failed to effectively curb the damage they cause. Instead, he thinks it鈥檚 time that land managers and parks departments prohibit these tools in the backcountry outright. Doing so, he believes, could effectively prevent the destruction and felling of thousands of trees in protected areas that he, Haskel, and many other park and forest service employees have documented and witnessed.

What good are woods tools, then, if not for camping? According to Marion, they are perfectly suited for conservation, particularly trail construction and maintenance.听

鈥淲e encourage people who like sharp tools to ,鈥� Haskel says, chuckling. 鈥淲e need your help. We will train you to use axes and saws and you鈥檒l do good with them.鈥�

Indeed, axes and saws can and should be used to help clear trails. They are invaluable for trimming limbs and clearing areas around campsites of overgrown brush. All have their place on trail work days in the hands of trained volunteers and rangers. So if you want to chop something down, volunteer for your local trail maintenance crew and swing away. But when heading into the backcountry on your own, leave the heavy hitters at home.

The post Going Camping? Leave Your Hatchet at Home. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In the southern Appalachians, where I live, fall means primo mountain-bike conditions and car camping without the mosquitos. It鈥檚 the beginning of bouldering season and arguably the best time to take a hike in the woods. But more than anything, it鈥檚 fire-pit season, which means I spend a significant portion of my time chopping, splitting, and shaving wood听so I can have fuel听for regular blazes. I spent my summer testing axes and hatchets of various sizes and purposes to find the best tools for lumberjacking before winter hits. Here are my favorites.

Gerber Freescape Power 36-Inch Ax听($64)听

Best For:听Splitting wood

I use a sledgehammer and spike to split stumps, but once that wood is in manageable pieces, I break out the , which has everything you want in a splitting ax: it鈥檚 heavy (almost 5.5 pounds), long, and sharp. The forged-steel head slices through logs like they鈥檙e butter, but I like this tool because it is not precious. With a composite handle that has yet to show any sign of wear after months of abuse, it鈥檚 meant to take a beating. I鈥檝e ruined many splitting axes in the past due to听missed strikes, eventually cracking听the head. I鈥檓 convinced the Freescape will last forever, and it鈥檚 the least expensive ax听on this list.

CRKT Jenny Wren Compact Hatchet ($135)

Best For: The backcountry and camp kitchens听

CRKT calls the one-pound听 a tomahawk, but I consider it a multitool. At ten听inches long,听it鈥檚 small enough to carry into the backcountry. You can throw it short distances for fun at the campsite, but it has three sharp edges that make it handy for slicing anything from kindling to sausage. I found the听spiked head useful for听digging听out stubborn tent stakes.听Thanks to the 听sheath, it鈥檚 easy to strap on the outside of a pack or your belt. It鈥檚 not going to slice through large logs, but it does a hell of a job carving kindling or cutting into a branch to find dry wood.

Barebones Pulaski Ax听($122)听

Best For:听Jobs that require digging

罢丑别听听is a firefighting tool with a sharp hoe on one end and an ax-head on the other. It鈥檚 designed to chop and dig in a hurry. (Hopefully I won鈥檛 be digging fire breaks anytime soon.) Still, I鈥檝e found the Pulaski to be handy whether I鈥檓 hacking听through roots in my backyard pump track听or splitting wood at camp. It听has a steel core running through the beechwood handle, topped with a carbon-steel head. At 24 inches, it鈥檚 not long, but the hefty head makes it a viable splitting tool. The hoe works wonders if you鈥檙e making catholes on the edge of camp听or trying to divert water away from your tent. As practical as the Barebones Pulaski听is, this particular version is also an aesthetic beauty that you鈥檒l want to hang over your fireplace.听

Hults Bruk Akka Ax听($179)听

Best For:听Clearing downed tree limbs, cutting through brush

has been making beautiful tools out of the same Swedish factory since the late 1600s, so you know its听hand-forged carbon steel is no joke. The Akka is a forester ax, which is a niche tool designed for stripping errant limbs and overgrowth. It has the perfect weight-to-length ratio (2.2 pounds and 24 inches) to make it incredibly versatile鈥攍ong enough to split small logs but light enough to wield听with one hand. I鈥檝e started packing it in my 4Runner on car-camping trips, and I typically use it more like a machete for clearing downed limbs from campsites and pesky scrub brush from my backyard. The handle is a thing of ergonomic exquisiteness,听with two听natural curves: one sits low on the handle for chopping, and the other is higher for one-handed jobs. My only complaint is that it鈥檚 almost too pretty to use.听

Fiskars Norden N10听17-Inch Hatchet ($95)听

Best For: One-handed tasks, making kindling

Made in Finland, is a single-handed chopping tool built for splitting small logs and carving up wood to create kindling. I like the built-in overstrike听protection plate at the top of the handle, as well as听the overall balance, which is heavy (2.6 pounds) for its 17-inch length. That dense head gives you enough power to actually chop through larger branches. Hold it low for a full swing听or up high, just below the striking plate, for more delicate work. Fiskars makes a smaller听14-inch version, but I like the heft of the N10.

The post 5 Axes and Hatchets We Love for Wood Chopping appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

We started the day with strong coffee and a short drive south on the Alaska Highway听from a remote lodge to an even emptier stretch of snowy pavement. As the dark February day grew lighter, we laced up heavy ice-climbing boots, buckled on packs loaded with ropes and gear and food and water, and began our ascent into the mountains.

It was February 2016, and our group of a dozen or so had come from our home in Whitehorse, the small capital city of the Yukon, a few hours away, for an extended weekend of ice climbing in far northern British Columbia. My friends Ryan and Carrie听and their crew of climbing pals听had been making this trip annually for several years. This was my first time tagging along.

Ryan and Carrie are natural teachers and leaders, people who genuinely enjoy passing on their skills and knowledge to others, and for the past few winters, they had been making occasional efforts to teach me how to ice climb: to ascend frozen waterfalls using crampons, axes, and rope. I was a poor student. I liked the thunk of my ax听sinking solidly into thick ice, the soreness in my shoulders and calves as I moved up a route, step by step. I loved the glow of satisfaction when I reached the top of a climb. But I was afraid of heights鈥攕pecifically, I was afraid of falling from exposed heights. Climbing, then, was hard for me. Ryan and Carrie have both seen me cry, more than once. They鈥檝e听heard me beg to be allowed back down to the ground; they鈥檝e听heard me announce, loud and flat and on the verge of losing control, that I was 鈥渘ot having fun anymore.鈥�

I kept at it because, some of the time at least, I was having fun鈥攁nd because I wanted to learn to master my fear. But my progress had been slow, and this winter I hardly climbed at all. My mom had died suddenly the previous summer, and I largely let sports and socializing slip away in the months afterward.

It was about an hour鈥檚 uphill hike, alongside a creek bed through the snow, before we paused to strap on our crampons and then carried on up the frozen creek itself, the steel spikes offering us traction. The creek rose in slow increments: an easy step up, then a flat surface for a few steps, then a longer step up, and so on. Sometimes an icy rise would be too much to clear in a single step, and we鈥檇 kick the toe spikes of our crampons into its sloped surface and climb up that way.

Eventually we came to the true start of the climb, a route known as the Usual. One by one, we tied a rope to our harnesses and then ascended the first short wall. After that came another, longer听section of steep climbing, and then another.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear, with the temperature hovering around freezing. I was nervous, as usual鈥攅specially since there were members of the group that I barely knew. I was always even more mortified to show my fear in front of strangers. But I was handling the climbing just fine, with no tears or pleas for mercy. I was even managing, as I sometimes did, to enjoy it.

When I made it to the top, I popped out onto an open, frozen plateau with a sweeping view all the way back to the highway. I took a selfie with the vista behind me and then sat down in the sun to eat my lunch, feeling proud and satisfied.

Around 2:00, Carrie found me and suggested that I be one of the first to start making my way back down. I would likely be among the slowest. I agreed. Descending involved a series of rappels: tying in to a secured rope and then lowering myself by hand down the ice walls.

I had never tried rappelling. The gang had taught me the basics the night before, in the hotel. They听hitched me to a rope tied to a post in the hallway, and I听walked backward across the linoleum, feeding the rope through my harness as I went. Of course, that lesson had taken place on a horizontal surface.

Still, I was feeling good, feeling ready. Carrie got me set up, and I steeled myself to walk backward off the edge of the plateau and down the icy face of my most recent climb.

The first rappel went well. I was able to laugh after I lost my balance, failed to brace myself with feet wide, and swung sideways into the ice. The second one was okay too. The third was trickier: I had to make my way along a curving tunnel of ice, and again I lost my footing and swung hard into an ice wall, dangling helplessly on the rope, banging my elbows and knees. I swung and fell again as I neared the bottom of that rappel, and I slid down the rope and landed in a heap, the ice axes I鈥檇 hung on my harness digging hard into my sides.

Now I was embarrassed and in pain. I had a quick little cry there, tangled in my gear at the bottom of the rope, and then I picked myself up and moved out of the way so someone else could follow me down.

I struggled through two more short rappels, but my mood had become grim, and my control only deteriorated further as I descended. The afternoon was cooling off as sunset approached, and all that swinging and slamming had soaked me with water from the sun melting the ice through the day. I was cold, hungry, and exhausted. I was not having fun anymore. At the bottom of the last rappel, I sat down off to one side, away from the others, and cried, trying to hide my face. I ate a Snickers bar I鈥檇 been saving鈥攃hocolate almost never fails to cheer me up鈥攂ut it only helped a little. We still had a long way to go to reach the cars.

When everyone had arrived at the bottom of the last rappel, we bunched together to head down the walkable, unroped portion of the route, along the frozen creek. As the group began to head down in twos and threes, I stood on the edge of one of the low ice bulges I鈥檇 stepped up without difficulty that morning. There was maybe a foot, a foot and a half, between the flat surface I stood on and the next flat section of ice. All I had to do was reach out with my boot and step down. I stared at my feet, but I couldn鈥檛 make them move. I kept picturing myself stepping down and my crampons failing to catch in the ice, my foot flying forward like I鈥檇 stepped on a banana peel in a cartoon. From there, I watched my body collapse, slide down the first ice bump and then the next, picking up speed, sliding and sliding down every frozen rise, all the way to the bottom. I couldn鈥檛 do it, said a voice in my head. I would fall. I would die.

Some irrational force had taken over my body. I couldn鈥檛 breathe properly, couldn鈥檛 move my limbs. A tiny part of me knew I just needed to take one step down, that everything would be fine if I could only move my feet, but that voice of reason had been shoved into a corner at the back of my brain. Another voice was in control now.

Ryan noticed my distress and circled back to reassure me. I heard myself tell him that I couldn鈥檛 come down the mountain, unfortunately. The group would just have to leave me there, I said. I couldn鈥檛 walk down, so they would all have to go on. I would stay right where I was.

My flat tone said my plan was reasonable. But staying where I was, as the temperature plunged and darkness came on and I stood shivering in my wet Gore-Tex, would be suicide. Still, my feet refused to move. I watched Ryan confer with the others and send Carrie and the rest of the group on ahead听so they could make it to the cars before dark. Ryan, his friend Joel, and a third guy I barely knew, Nic, stayed behind.

Joel stood on one side of me and grabbed my left hand. Nic took hold of my right. Ryan stepped down to the next ledge and turned to face me, pointing with his ice ax听at the spot where I needed to put my foot. Slowly, taking deep breaths and clutching Joel鈥檚 and Nic鈥檚 hands hard, I forced my right foot down. My crampons caught. I did not slide to my death. Then we repeated the process with my left foot.

The light dimmed, and the night got cold. We inched down the mountain, Ryan pointing out every step, promising me that it was safe. Right foot. Left foot. I think I cried quietly, some of the time, from fear and frustration at the extent to which my body and mind had betrayed me. I was still halfway convinced that if I took one wrong step, it would be the step that killed me. It felt like the descent took hours. Eventually we pulled out our headlamps and carried on downhill in the dark.

Once we made it off the ice and onto the snowy trail for the last part of the hike down, I was finally able to let go of Joel鈥檚 and Nic鈥檚 hands. We tramped to the highway mostly in silence, and my fear receded enough for me to wonder how angry they were. Did Ryan wish he鈥檇 never invited me on this trip? Surely he must have. By the time we were in the car, the four of us piled into the single remaining vehicle, my lingering fear had been eclipsed by the most powerful feeling of humiliation I have ever experienced. I sat in the back seat, trying to shrink into nothing, unable even to enjoy Ryan鈥檚 traditional post-climb bag of dill pickle鈥揻lavored potato chips. I was utterly mortified.

Back at the hotel, I did the best I could. I forced myself to socialize with the group over cards and drinks instead of hiding myself away. I offered beers to the guys who鈥檇 peeled me off the mountain. At some point, I asked Ryan what he would have done if I hadn鈥檛 voluntarily taken that first downward step. 鈥淵ou wouldn鈥檛 have liked it,鈥� he said. I had a vision of Ryan and Joel hog-tying me and dragging me down the frozen creek, bump by bump, in a slow-motion version of my imagined death-by-sliding. He was right. I wouldn鈥檛 have liked it.

The next day, when the rest of the group went climbing again, I stayed at the hotel. I went for a long run along the highway. I read a book. I tried to relax and enjoy my weekend, tried to appreciate the blue sky and the white mountains all around the lodge. But I kept thinking back to my behavior the day before.

It was unacceptable, I decided. I鈥檇 tried half-heartedly to work on my fear of heights over the years, but the matter never seemed urgent. I had never before put my own life, and the safety of others, in danger because of it. I could hardly believe the lunatic on the mountain had been me, declaring that I would die from exposure rather than walk down a frozen creek. What was the matter with me?

I tried not to let myself dwell on it, but my collapse on the Usual was a setback when I had only just begun to put myself together again. For much of my life, I feared my mom鈥檚 death. Her own mother died when she was a child, and growing up, I had become intimately aware of the devastation the loss had left in its wake. I dreaded living through the same loss, and when my turn did come, I fell apart. In the months after, I retreated completely from my life: from friends, from exercise, from the things I normally did to challenge and amuse myself. For too long, I felt like I had forgotten how to smile or laugh, like the muscles in my face had stiffened up and no longer knew how to perform those simple acts.

It had only been a few weeks since I鈥檇 started to reengage socially. I had started running, started feeding myself properly again, stopped living on my couch in a blur of binge-watched TV shows.

I didn鈥檛 want my setback on the mountain to derail my slow, hard-earned return to normal life. I didn鈥檛 want my terror to control me that way ever again. I decided, sitting alone in that hotel by the side of a lonely highway, that I would figure out what had happened in my brain on the mountain that day. And then, I decided, I would figure out how to fix it.

Excerpted from Nerve: 国产吃瓜黑料s in the Science of Fear 漏 2020 by Eva Holland. Reprinted with permission of .听

The post The Day I Decided to Stop Being Afraid of Heights appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In July, I鈥檓 running six trips in Yosemite National Park: two intro-level three-day courses听and four more advanced five- and seven-day trips. We鈥檒l be hiking sections of the John Muir Trail, Pacific Crest Trail, Sierra High Route, and Yosemite High Route, in addition to other trails and off-trail routes.

Because of the exceptional 2018鈥�19 snowfall and a stormy spring, we expect to encounter more lingering snowpack than normal. Which means that each client and guide will听likely need to bring crampons and an ice ax.听

Considerations

Do you need crampons and an ice ax? And what specific model听should you buy?

Well, it depends. I know that鈥檚 not the answer you wanted, but it鈥檚 a nuanced topic.

My general advice is to purchase what you are most likely to need now听and听exchange or return the items later if your needs change. This approach has two benefits. It allows you to take advantage of start-of-summer sales (usually about 20听percent off) and move on to other aspects of your trip planning.

In determining whether you need crampons and an ax, and which products to purchase, here are four considerations to inform your decision.

1. Current Conditions

We know that the High Sierra got whacked this winter. But what do conditions look like right now? Nowadays, the most current information and images are听shared online by hikers after they leave the trail听or while they resupply.

Start your search with the听name of the bigger trail that transects the High Sierra and receives heavy backcountry use; e.g.,听, ,听. Then narrow your search for more specific results (e.g.,听), or start following specific hikers to observe trends.

2. Time of Day

Throughout the spring and summer, the snowpack is in a general state of melt. The seasonal trend line is interrupted most nights, however, when radiant heat loss and colder ambient air temperatures cause the snow to firm up or crust over. This can make even low-angle snow problematic for early risers and dawn-to-dusk hikers.听

3. Individual Comfort and Skills

If you have prior relevant experience (e.g., in early-season backpacking, mountaineering, or climbing) or if you鈥檙e fit and athletic, you may need less equipment than others. For example, on steep but soft snow, you may feel comfortable with just an ax, whereas another hiker would want an ax and crampons.

4. Route

What challenges should you expect? For example:

• How often will you hike on snow (which is a function of elevation)?
• What steep pitches along your route are unavoidable? Pour over those maps!
• Might you encounter a cornice on the leeward sides of some passes or ridges?
• Will a boot track or glissade track have been formed by hikers ahead of you?

Prior experience鈥攚ith map reading, early-season conditions, and the High Sierra in general鈥攊s really helpful in听accurately predicting the likely conditions.

Ice Axes

An ax is used to:

• Self-arrest a fall
• Self-belay up or down a snowfield
• Control movement on a glissade
• Cut steps in or cut through a small cornice

On most backpacking routes, axes are needed only occasionally, usually to ascend听or descend a pass听or to contour across a steep snowfield or avalanche chute below a pass.

I recognize that it鈥檚 difficult to justify a roughly $100 expense and 12 ounces of extra pack weight for an item that you don鈥檛 need often. But it can be a vital safety tool. I鈥檓 requiring that every client in my five- and seven-day trips carry听an ax, since we鈥檒l be hiking over several steep off-trail passes like Don鈥檛 Be a听Smart, Stanton, and Matterhorn. Generally, I鈥檇 recommend an ax for backpackers who will:

1. Travel on or across steep slopes in June and July without the aid of a boot track. This includes low-traffic trails and off-trail routes. By August, most snowfields will have melted听and most cornices will have lost volume and steepness.
2. Follow a major trail (e.g., the Pacific Crest Trail or听High Sierra Trail) in June and early July. After that, the increase in听summer backcountry traffic will form听a boot track听on the trade routes, helping take the edge off steep slopes and chutes that are holding snow. The consequences of a fall could still be very bad, but the risk of falling will be lower.

Specific Ice Axes

Shopping for an ice ax is fairly simple, because听options are limited听and the styling and technologies are mostly the same. The entry-level听 ($85, 16.1 ounces) is cheap but heavy. A performance ax like the ($100, 12.5 ounces) is more appropriate if you plan to use the ax often and/or need a longer length. Ultralight axes like the听 ($120, 8.9 ounces) won鈥檛 weigh you down听but are expensive. Personally, I own an ultralight ax. Its performance has been sufficient for the occasional instances I want it, and I don鈥檛 curse its weight during the miles in between.

Sizing

Conventional wisdom says that when standing upright, with the pick in your hand and your arm at your side,听the spike should fall between your ankle and midcalf. For early-season backpacking, I think midcalf is better, because you probably will use it only on steep slopes. Mountaineers use their ax like a cane听and thus prefer a longer shaft.

Leash

I installed a wrist leash on my ax, believing that the risk of losing it on a steep slope is greater than the leash鈥檚 fussiness.

Crampons

On slick and steep snowfields, boot rubber alone will probably not cut it. And on low-angle and slushy slopes, hours of slip and slide can be tedious and energy sapping. The solution is to increase your purchase with crampons or shoe chains.

Recommendations

I told my groups to skip the crampons. By mid-July more ground will be melted out than still covered with snow, and the snow will be soft enough to kick steps. Generally, I鈥檇 recommend:

1. Hiking crampons in June听and for aggressive or steep routes in July
2. Shoe chains for high-traffic trails in July to maintain traction in the boot track, which can get packed out and sometimes slick

Specific Products

Traction devices fall into three categories:

1. Just-in-case crampons, like the ($60, 2.4 ounces), which are better than nothing听and weigh very little. If there鈥檚 a low chance of needing traction, or if there鈥檚 just one token problem spot, this is a good option.
2. Shoe chains like the ($70, 11 ounces), good for packed-out trails and boot tracks. They鈥檙e听lightweight, relatively inexpensive, easy to put on and take off, and bite well into firm surfaces.
3. Hiking crampons like the ($80, 23.5 ounces),听best for icy, crusty, and deep snow听and steep slopes. For backpackers, these听are the most robust option.

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I named my first running watch 鈥淐larence,鈥� as in Clarence Odbody, angel second class, of It鈥檚 a Wonderful Life fame. I figured the device, a green Garmin Forerunner 10, would help me find my wings while running the marshy trails of my southern New Jersey home.

Psychologists have a word for this habit of naming or assigning human traits to objects and nonhuman creatures: anthropomorphism. Even if you鈥檙e unfamiliar with the term, you鈥檙e likely acquainted with the concept鈥�70 percent of us name our cars, and 36 percent of us cop to听. (Guilty. I can鈥檛 part with my sputtery听2008 Subaru Outback鈥攁ka 鈥淪uby鈥濃�攄espite the 275,000 miles on her odometer and surf wax stains on her interior.)

We also commonly humanize animals, like the听 who 鈥渂roke up鈥� with her tortoise partner of 100 years because she needed to firmly established her boundaries,听and robots: the death of NASA鈥檚 Opportunity Rover made听.

Animals, robots, and even cars all move in human-like ways, and they all have faces or face-like configurations, something听 to increase anthropomorphic tendencies. But humanizing a running watch鈥攐r any piece of outdoor gear鈥攊s a bit more confounding. And yet plenty of us engage in this weird phenomenon. There are message boards and entire Reddit threads dedicated solely to the naming of听,听,听,听, and (phew, I鈥檓 not alone)听. Even legendary frontiersman Davy Crockett affectionately referred to his bear rifle as 鈥�.鈥�

So鈥hat gives?

The practice could come down to loneliness. Research shows that people who lack fulfilling human relationships are听 to anthropomorphize their stuff. This may hold true even as we head outdoors specifically to disconnect or commune with nature. But don鈥檛 go beefing up your Tinder page just yet. 鈥淏eing human, we know a great deal about human behavior,鈥� says Spencer Gerrol, cognitive psychologist, CEO of neuroanalytics/advertising research company , and a guy who says 鈥減lease鈥� when making a request of his Amazon Echo.听鈥淪o we want to put things in this context we understand. The habit comes partly from wanting to explain the behavior of other things.鈥�

In other words, we humanize our gear when we need to make sense of it. Consider Greg Senn, a New Mexico鈥揵ased scuba instructor听who says he treats his 30-year-old regulators and听buoyancy device听like 鈥渙ld friends.鈥� When he finds himself speaking with his equipment, it鈥檚 typically because he鈥檚 trying to figure out what has听gone wrong.

鈥淚 had problems with my dive computer while in Bonair, just north of Venezuela,鈥� Senn says. 鈥淚t was telling me my nitrox mix was wrong, and I knew it was lying. It took me five days to figure it out. Turns out听I had a setting wrong鈥攁 simple mistake on my part. But talking to the computer helped me get to the bottom of it.鈥�

In other cases, we anthropomorphize gear because we鈥檙e looking for a sentient, competent teammate who will help us pull through when things get hairy. Melissa Norberg, head of the Behavioural Science Laboratory at Australia鈥檚 Macquarie University, points to听 that suggests we humanize belongings when we鈥檙e feeling uncertain about our environment. 鈥淪omeone might anthropomorphize a kayak or surfboard when navigating potentially dangerous waters,鈥� she says.

Or, for听Tanja Rosendorfsky, dangerous climbs. The 28-year-old mountaineer听has summited peaks in Switzerland, New Zealand, Bolivia, Peru, and Patagonia. In each location, she has听spoken to her equipment when she听felt outside her comfort zone. 鈥淲hen I climb in snow and ice, I am talking to my ice axes,鈥� Rosendorfsky says in an email.听鈥淚 imagine them as friends who bite themselves into the ice to help me get up, and that calms my mind, which helps me to make safer, more solid placements. I say my ice axes and crampons are my best friends. They help me get up that mountain and feel what I feel up there.鈥�

But it鈥檚 not just scary situations that prompt this feeling of camaraderie with our gear; it鈥檚 also the celebratory moments. Without human teammates to high-five, we鈥檙e sometimes inclined to invent our own. Jimmy Valm, a听surfer in New Jersey, told me he has names for all his surfboards. 鈥淚 talk to them constantly in the water: 鈥楾hat was a great ride. Nicely done, Nesta.鈥欌��

Of course, anthropomorphizing isn鈥檛 all warm and fuzzy. Humanizing gear also renders it more worthy of 鈥溾�� in our minds, meaning we鈥檙e pained when it inevitably gets dinged or scratched, 鈥渆ven if those dings and scratches don鈥檛 really affect utility,鈥� says Gerrol,听the cognitive psychologist. The habit also means we鈥檙e more likely to hang on to old gear longer than is practical, which can translate to听.

Humanized gear gives us a window into ourselves. Because we鈥檙e more likely to anthropomorphize the things we value or the things that speak to our听, reflecting on what we鈥檝e humanized can help us determine the pursuits that most light our fire, so to speak. And听when we鈥檙e overcome with gratitude for having discovered such a passion, humanized gear gives us an outlet for that appreciation.

Kayaker Susan Servos-Sept, based in Half Moon Bay, north of Vancouver, has a 16-foot touring kayak named Daisy that she describes as听鈥渇un, cute, and gentle, but a lion when she needs to be.鈥� Servos-Sept frequently takes Daisy into the beautiful waters of God鈥檚 Pocket Marine Park, home to many orca whales and a seabird breeding colony.

鈥淓ven though I have lots of friends and great family, it鈥檚 just an amazing calmness and quality of life this inanimate object gives me,鈥� says Servos-Sept, adding she will pat鈥攐r even kiss鈥擠aisy when walking by. 鈥淎nd that feeling, I think, radiates to other people, and it helps them develop that same happiness and joy of sport. It鈥檚 all quirky and weird, but it鈥檚 also just fun.鈥�

If nothing else, humanized gear gives us an out. A compilation of 听found that anthropomorphism weakens self-control and makes us more likely to cave to temptation. So the next time you find yourself calling in 鈥渟ick鈥� to work or bailing on a baby shower because the waves are up or the fish are running, know you鈥檙e not entirely accountable. You鈥檝e got friends鈥攅r, gear鈥攚ho can share the blame.

Of course, it鈥檚 possible none of these explanations apply to you. In that case, there鈥檚 one other rationale that will account for the inside jokes or long conversations you have with your favorite camping tent or carabiner, and it just might be the simplest one:听鈥淭his habit is innate,鈥澨鼼errol says. 鈥淵ou're just being human.鈥�

The post There’s a Reason We Treat Our Gear Like an Old Friend appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

When Conrad Anker gives you ice-climbing advice, you listen. We鈥檙e in Hyalite Canyon, outside of Bozeman, Montana, one of the premier听ice-climbing destinations in the country, and he鈥檚 guiding me on one of the many routes scattered over a few miles of cliff. But even as I struggle to maintain听my strength through a 60-foot-tall, mildly overhanging single-pitch ice climb, these routes are child鈥檚 play for Anker, the 56-year-old who became the face of mountaineering after听discovering George Mallory鈥檚 body on Mount Everest in 1999. Since听then, he鈥檚 climbed the world鈥檚 tallest peak three times,听taken part in听countless National Geographic听expeditions, and was the subject of a 2015 feature film听by his climbing partner, Jimmy Chin, about their summit of Meru.听

There鈥檚 also the massive list of big-mountain climbing routes he鈥檚 put up in Patagonia, the Himalayas, Alaska, Antarctica, Yosemite, and Canada. 鈥淓stablishing new routes is my publicly accepted stab at graffiti听and immortality,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 recognize the ego in that, but it鈥檚 true.鈥�

Anker was sponsored by the North Face at 21听and showed no signs of slowing down in the years after. But听in 2016, at the age of 54, he had 听while attempting to summit Lunag Ri, the tallest unclimbed mountain in Nepal. It hit, sudden and painful, as he was moving up a mixed-ice route behind the lead climber. After it passed, though, he still听had to rappel down and hike out to advanced base camp with a numb lip and aching left arm before being helicoptered out to a hospital in Kathmandu for surgery.

This heart attack听had Anker reassessing his work and life. Before nearly dying on Lunag Ri, Anker听had a superhuman ability for staying healthy鈥攈is worst injuries during more than three decades of climbing听were听a dislocated thumb and an infected听tick bite. 鈥淚鈥檇 get a cold every 18 months. That鈥檚 about it,鈥� he听says.听

After Lunag Ri, Anker heeded his doctor鈥檚 advice and moved away from expedition climbing. Last year听he stepped down as captain of the North Face鈥檚 expedition听team after 26 years in the role; the title is now held by ski mountaineer听Hilaree Nelson. Anker also limits his time at high elevation; he was supposed to manage a trip to the Himalayas in April听but eventually turned it down. Basically, Anker has been ordered to take it easy鈥攁 tricky task for one of the听most famous mountain climbers in the world. 鈥淚鈥檓 like a dog who doesn鈥檛 know better,鈥� he says while we take a break from the wall at Hyalite Canyon. 鈥淚鈥檓 always amped. Total ADHD. But the heart is the one muscle that can鈥檛 fail. So, it鈥檚 about realizing where you are in life and knowing your limits.鈥�

But it鈥檚 hard to pin down听Anker鈥檚 limits. On the afternoon in Hyalite Canyon, he spends most of his time听belaying and helping several climbers who won the chance to hang with Anker through his new sponsor, Dove Men+Care. But at some point, he gets antsy and starts traversing along the bottom of the wall, lightly tapping the axes into the ice and gently poking his crampons for purchase. Eventually, he ropes in and starts climbing routes, sending them gracefully听with only one ax.

I watch him听work his way up the toughest route on the wall. It took every ounce of strength I had to send it a few minutes earlier, but Anker looks weightless, like the feat takes听no effort at all. When asked how people can learn to climb like him, Anker smiles. 鈥淚 managed a nordic center in Utah in the eighties,听and we had European听skiers training at the center quite a bit,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hey could tell if a skier was American just by seeing them ski, because American skiers are always breathing heavy. They aren鈥檛 working efficiently.鈥�听The key to climbing, Anker tells me, whether it鈥檚 Everest or Hyalite Canyon, is efficiency of movement,听only moving as much as you have to.

Instead of swinging axes into the ice or kicking his toes into the wall, Anker sets the tip of his axes on tiny ledges and slowly and carefully places his crampons into crevices. Rather than big and dramatic movements, his are small and effortless. 鈥�Everest is basically hiking up a ski slope,鈥� Anker says. 鈥淏ut with a 2,000-pound elephant on your chest and head. You can鈥檛 waste any motions. You have to orient your body for max efficiency.鈥�

This climbing efficiently comes from knowing the medium inside and out, according to Anker. 鈥淚 know I can climb this route with just one ax, without much effort, because I鈥檝e climbed it without ropes half a dozen times this season alone. I know exactly what it takes,鈥� he听says. Developing that kind of familiarity begins at the climbing gym. He and his family have a lifetime membership to one in Bozeman, where he continues to train a few nights a week. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 where I go to relax, and they鈥檙e great spaces to get in that repetition you need to start climbing efficiently. It鈥檚 where you start learning the balance you need to keep from having to work so hard on the wall,鈥� he says. 听

Balance and efficiency. I expect Anker to go into a philosophical tangent about mindfulness, because it seems like the next logical step, but he shrugs off听the concept. 鈥淪ometimes I鈥檒l try to count to 20, but that鈥檚 about it. I should probably get better at that stuff,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 guess I do it in the climbing gym. Focus, breathing, that sort of thing.鈥�

Later that afternoon, while drinking beers in his office, Anker talks about the next phase of听his life, now that he鈥檚 not leading expeditions to the world鈥檚 toughest peaks. As vice president of the , a training ground for Sherpas and climbers at the base of Everest, he鈥檚 looking forward to听the grand opening of the new headquarters in June. He might write a book. He听hopes to serve as a mentor for the next generation of climbers. But mostly, he wants to make sure his climbing career serves some greater purpose.

鈥淚 want to be the eyes and ears of the mountains now,鈥� says Anker, who鈥檚 an outspoken member of听, a nonprofit advocating for听climate protections.听鈥淭he change I鈥檝e seen in the mountains is huge. The Khumbu听Icefall on Everest [a glacier near Base Camp] doesn鈥檛 look like it did 20 years ago.听The diminishing snowpack and melting ice tell you exactly what鈥檚 going on in the world.鈥�

When I ask him if there鈥檚 anything he feels like he鈥檚 left on the table in terms of mountain climbing,听he doesn鈥檛 seem听worried. 鈥淚 have plenty of 鈥榥o successes鈥� I could look back on, but I don鈥檛 want to live life in reverse. And I might not be leading expeditions anymore, but I鈥檓 still climbing. I鈥檓 still outside,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 might be on the injured reserves, but I鈥檓 having as much fun as anyone.鈥�

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Named after a national park in Sweden, ($159) is a well-crafted ax听meant for breaking down wood for the fire. Here, Will walks us through its build and explains what makes it the ideal splitter.

The post Staff Picks: Hults Bruk Sarek Ax appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

While the pocket knife听is probably the essential tool, the axe听is a close second. It can chop, hammer, cut, and be used as a weapon. But there's a lot of options听so we talked with Troop Brenegar, the buyer for 听and New West Knifeworks, in Jackson, Wyoming, about what you should look for when buying an axe.

“Recently, we鈥檝e seen a move away from the tactical, and toward more hand-made tools with a focus on aesthetics,”听Brenegar says. “Axes today are like functional art; They鈥檙e easy to look at, but they're also very functional.” This can make buying an axe听or hatchet more difficult as you now have to think as much about craftsmanship as utility.

His single most important piece of advice for those looking for an axe? Pay attention to how the head was made.

鈥淵ou want a head with a quality steel of course, but it also needs to be forged, rather than cast,鈥� Brenegar says. 鈥淐asted steel is cheaper and weakens over time. Forging puts more layers into the steel and makes it stronger.鈥�

Here are Brenegar's top听picks.

Council Tool Wood-Craft Pack Axe ($140)

Council is one of the oldest axe makers in the US and 听is听really innovative鈥� there鈥檚 nothing else like it on the market right now. While most axes are designed for one specific purpose, this one really versatile. It can split, chop, or carve equally well.

Gransfors Bruks Splitting Axe ($170)

The quality and design of the 听is听impeccable. Built for splitting firewood, it features听a big, five-pound head made of forged steel with a protective steel collar that guards the handle against errant strikes. They make a smaller size for tinier firewood too.

Hults Bruk Motala $380

If you think of a Viking battle axe, . It鈥檚 a double bit throwing axe, and it鈥檚 terrifyingly sharp. It would look absolutely amazing on your mantle.

Council Tool Hudson Bay Hatchet ($35)

This is a that鈥檚 made to be worn on your belt as an everyday carry for when you鈥檙e camping. The two-pound head is perfect for chores around camp, from splitting logs or clearing brush to hammering tent stakes.

New West Throwing Tomahawk ($110)

Handmade in Idaho, is a functional style made with forged carbon steel head and a strong hickory handle. The head isn't fixed so it can slip off if there鈥檚 a bad throw.

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Drop handlebars.

Nearly as old as the safety bicycle itself, the humble drop bar (or what laypeople refer to as “those curly-type handlebars like they use in the Tour de France”) is arguably one of the most iconic bicycle components. And while the design has been tweaked and modified over the past 100-plus years to include a wide variety of shapes and bends to suit different hands and riding styles, the basic concept remains unchanged. Clearly it has stood the test of time.

Nevertheless, just because something's been around for as long as we can remember doesn't mean we shouldn't scrap it (pennies, marijuana laws, and Ovaltine leap immediately to mind), and modern materials and manufacturing techniques mean we are free to configure our cockpits in pretty much any way we might imagine and break with tradition like never before.

So isn't it time we ditched these damn things already and moved on?

Well, in order to answer that, first we have to understand why drop bars exist in the first place. The answer, of course, is that in the days of the pennyfarthing, handlebars were designed mostly to facilitate bailing. However, as soon as Homo Velocipedus climbed down from the trees and onto the safety bicycle, she realized she could use some more hand positions to really rip around on those symmetrical wheels, and thus the drop bar was born.

To this day, there are three (3) canonical drop-bar hand positions, and they are as follows:

• On the tops.
• On the hoods.
• In the drops.

Collectively these are known as the Holy Hand Position Trinity.

Additionally, there are all sorts of sub-positions of varying degrees of insouciance, including but not limited to: palms resting on the curves just above the hoods (used when eating); forearms resting on the bar tops like a professor at a lectern (pros only); hands wrapped around the pivot of the brake lever with the blade held between your fingers like a cigarette (used when climbing vigorously).

Really, the number of hand positions available to you with drop bars is limited only by your imagination and flexibility, and the benefit of this versatility is two-fold: you can reposition yourself periodically for comfort on long rides, and you can orient your hands for maximum leverage and control depending on what you happen to be doing with the bike at any given time.

So in a purely theoretical sense, the answer to the question “Is the drop bar obsolete?” is an emphatic “Nope!” However, this is cycling we're talking about, and in practice here's the fact of the matter: the only thing more underutilized than the drop bar is the “off” button on Donald Trump's phone.

Consider: On what sort of bicycle is the drop bar most commonly found? Why, on the road bike, naturally. Indeed, in many ways the presence of a drop bar is what defines a road bike. However, it's a scientific fact that when you factor out the professionals,听at least 90 percent听of road-bike owners have never, ever placed their hands below their levers (reaching for the water bottle excluded). At best, they're using maybe two-thirds听of the Trinity.

Don't believe me? Before your next group ride, surreptitiously put some ink on your palm and shake everyone's hand. If by the time the ride is over even one of those riders displays so much as a smudge on their drops, I'll give you $100.*

Oh sure, it wasn't always like this. Back when bikes had downtube shifters, riders were accustomed to interacting with the front end of their bicycles on multiple vertical axes. But as integrated shifting took over, their once-wandering hands grew lazy and complacent. Now you'd be hard-pressed to find a rider who doesn't keep听her hands on the hoods pretty much all the time.

The upshot of all of this is that the typical road bike is set up for maximum comfort while riding on the hoods, and the entire drop zone of the bar has become vestigial. This is why you'll often find them set up so askew, with the bars canted upwards in a manner that brings the levers closer to the rider and completely obviates the presence of the drops鈥攏ow pointing fang-like at the floor and wrapped in unsullied bar tape that has never known a rider's touch.

Of course the bicycle industry recognizes this, which is why over the years they've offered bikes variously branded as flat-bar road bikes or hybrids for the rider seeking comfort. The real irony is that it's in a comfort-seeking application that the drop bar really shines. With raised bar height and reduced reach, any rider can take advantage of all those great hand positions, and it's only riders who fancy themselves fast who position their handlebars virtually beyond their reach. In a sensible world,听these more ambitious (read: delusional) riders would instead be using some kind of flat bar or bullhorn, while the stop-and-smell-the-flowers types would all be riding drops.

But as long as consumers continue to equate drop bars with speed this much-needed flat/drop inversion is unlikely to happen. 听In fact, it's only going to get worse as the gravel bike brings the drop bar further off-road. So unless bar-end shifters suddenly come back into fashion and people rediscover the joys of riding in the drops, I'm afraid they're destined to become the bicycle's coccyx, whether we like it or not.

Oh well, it was a good run.

听

*Disclaimer: I don't have $100 and if I did I wouldn't give it to you.

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My transition from full-on dirtbag to stand-up working man was a gradual one. After living in my truck and on couches for two years, I moved to my friend Margaret鈥檚 farm in Phoenix, Oregon, where I traded labor for housing in an aluminum trailer and as many eggs, vegetables, and raspberries as I could eat. Of all of the chores I took on, splitting wood was by far my favorite. It is repetitive while still requiring just enough athleticism to be stimulating. And there鈥檚 real incentive to pay attention, lest a glancing ax blade send you to the ER. It鈥檚 also a hell of a workout.

The one tool I bought during my time on the farm was an inexpensive maul from Home Depot. I left it with Margaret when my girlfriend (now wife) and I moved into an apartment with an electric fireplace. We鈥檝e since upgraded to a house with central heating and air, but also鈥攂lessedly鈥攁 good old-fashioned wood-burning fireplace. I buy a half-cord of wood for it every year, which I tell myself is to minimize our heating bill in winter. But really, it鈥檚 so I can go out the yard, relive my farmhand days, and swing my .

Over two years and thousands of swings, it has proven extremely resilient. I like to burn mainly madrone鈥攁n extremely tough wood to split鈥攂ut I have yet to see any significant wear or tear. I thank the burly C60 steel head, hickory handle, and five points securing the two. That connection between head and handle is often the first thing to go in an ax, and makes for sketchy chopping (plus uneven pieces) when it does. Here, an extra-long steel sleeve affords added protection if I mis-swing and power the shaft directly into the wood.

The 2.8-pound head is hefty for the relatively short 27.5-inch ax. But that means the best of both worlds: weight to really drive the head down when hammering dense cuts鈥攍ending the Pro the power of a much larger ax鈥攁nd close proximity to the wood for accuracy, even when I鈥檓 swinging as quickly as possible.

Finally, the cutting edge is excellent. It鈥檚 not the sharpest I鈥檝e tested, but the extra-long blade has remained admirably keen through repeated use. The length also gives me a bigger sweet spot when making strikes. Single-swing splits aren鈥檛 uncommon. But the edge is also small and versatile enough to break down kindling to the width of a pencil.

Now, I鈥檓 not hacking up huge logs. The Pro Universal Forestry Axe is a just-right size for cutting down woodstove fuel, eliminating the need for a separate, larger maul and smaller hatchet that would clutter up my tool shed. For someone more dependent on timber for heat or who has to split massive rounds of wood, this ax likely won鈥檛 cut it. But after dozens of hours and plenty of swings getting into the groove like a batter in the midst of a hot streak, I can confidently say it鈥檚 the perfect ax for me.

The post An Ode to the Stihl Pro Universal Forestry Axe appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.