Nearly all backpackers have experienced this at least once. A trip in which more is packed than is necessary, and for the rest of the trip, you are paying the price for the added burden. It may not seem like a problem when packing at home. While packing, it’s easy to disregard that everything placed in the backpack must be carried on the trail. And in the beginning, it does not seem like a huge deal. Until the straps form craters on the skin and your body grows fatigued after minor summits. Each trip is a learning experience, with these moments of discomfort serving as anecdotes for the next backpacking adventure. So, without further ado, join me while I share a backpacking blunder of the time that I grossly overpacked for backpacking on a trip to the Appalachian Trail.
An all too eager newbie backpacker
When I become interested in something, I throw my whole self into it. Backpacking was no exception to this tendency. I spent hours scouring the internet for information on how to pursue this endeavor. Once the world of backpacking pierced my periphery, it swiftly became my focal point. The thought of going to sleep under the stars and waking to the birds above my head filled me with playful anticipation. It was as if the little girl inside of me was waking up after a long slumber, eager to explore. So, I planned a trip– found a trail, marked potential camp spots, and rationed out the food for my dog and me. Yet, when it came time to pack my bag, I felt perplexed.
I discovered helpful pages online, but there was conflicting information about trekking poles vs no trekking poles, ultralight vs weight acclimation. In the end, I wound up with a hodgepodge of gear, ranging from a 6.4-pound tent to a $30 foam sleeping pad. This assortment of gear lent itself well to my wallet, but the trade-off was in the weight and bulk. Aside from having bulky gear, I packed a lot of useless items. Such as toys and bones for my dog, and a daily change of clothes. I was bringing the comforts of home along on the trail, unrelenting to the weight these comforts carried.
A house on my back
The day before leaving for the trip, I wore the pack around to adjust the straps and approximate my tolerance for the weight. Of course, accuracy gets lost when the conditions are completely different. Plus, I was too enchanted by the upcoming adventure to notice how the pack swallowed my torso. So, off I set to embark on a novel adventure. On the first day, I recall passing two hikers on the trail, and in their greetings, they remarked on how large my backpack was. One of them exclaimed,
You have a house on your back!
I laughed along because at this time, I wasn’t feeling the burden of the extra weight. The notion of spending the next few days on the trail had me utterly charmed. Unbothered, I was, by the clanking cans of chili in my bear container or the 1-L metal canteen storing cold water. I had no problem carrying chew toys for a dog too tired to bother with anything after her evening meal. Never mind the spacious tent that demanded half the pack space, but was competing with the extra clothes and fleece pajama pants. The next day, however, the spell broke, and the weight of the cargo took its toll. The unnecessary stuff and unwisely chosen things made themselves known with each ascent.
Lets talk numbers
Including water, my backpack initially weighed approximately 52 pounds. For some, that may not seem like much, but I set off carrying ~40% of my body weight! Plus, I wasn’t Team Trekking Poles at this time, so my poor joints were bearing the entire brunt of the pack weight. It was a gift to have been in my 20s with the element of youth and quick rebound on my side.
A lesson learned on overpacking for backpacking
This fledgling trip carried its fair share of hiccups and mistakes, and my pack weight intensified each misstep. By the third, and final, day of the trip, my body ached. Not only was the backpack taxing, but my cheap sleep system allowed only a quarter of an inch between the ground and me. Thus, the rocks digging into my hips at night and the backpack straps digging into my shoulders during the day claimed my body. The final trek out was driven by the momentum of getting the pack off my back. I imagined myself arriving at my car, throwing the backpack into the trunk, and taking a moment to stretch out the knots. Those last 3 miles felt like eternity, and I believe I even shed a tear or two when I spotted my car in the distance upon approaching the trailhead. Dramatic, I know, but that is type II fun for you. And I would not have changed this trip, because it verified my love for this activity. I returned home with a gratified soul after spending 3 days on the trail.
Closing thoughts
This overzealousness with which I approached backpacking lent itself nicely in the end. It tested whether it would be worth further investment. Despite the screaming shoulders and overburdened joints from an overpacked backpack, I had fallen head over heels in love with backpacking. Shenandoah National Park was bewitching, home to a spectacular section of the Appalachian Trail. It’s all part of enduring type II fun– the kind of fun that leaves you tired from exertion, questioning your strength and abilities. A type of enjoyment where you sometimes hate it and yourself for putting yourself through it. Yet it is remembered as an experience where you felt most alive despite the suffering.
