Packing

Years ago, I fell in love with backpacking. At first, I took day trips, carrying my Gregory Jade pack that fit me like a best friend. Sometimes I brought nibbles and ate whatever appealed to me while happily mountain-top resting. My favorite hiking snack was landjaeger, bought from a specific German deli in Portland, Maine. Sometimes, when it was cold, I packed ingredients and cooked a stew or soup on my little, one-burner propane stove.

My boots, chosen after trying on many pairs, took me wherever I wanted to go; over tall rocks, through fast-flowing streams, up steep switchbacks, down steep switchbacks, through fire-ravaged landscapes, into denser underbrush, across open fields. On the trail, despite how far away from towns I’d get, I felt like I had everything I needed. When I clipped my pack on and laced my boots, I felt at home.

Day hikes became overnight hikes. Vacations became “go out into the woods for as long as I can arrange”. Once, I flew to Salt Lake City, rented a car and hiked in Zion, Bryce and around the Grand Canyon. The landscapes were shockingly diverse and splendid.

Once, after a conference in the EU, I flew to Vienna, rented a car and drove to the Alps. Unfortunately, I didn’t pack enough winter gear for what I thought would be, well, not winter in the Alps. So I soaked in the hot springs, ate gluten-free wienerschnitzel made by my hosts, and smoked a cigar in front of a cozy fire, chatting with new friends. The following year, I took my backpack to the Lauterbrennen Valley in Switzerland, at the right time of year, and discovered that the Swiss have trainstops along their hiking trails.

When I lived in Montana, I’d hop on my BMW F650GS dual-sport motorcycle and disappear for days down logging roads. Or put on my pack and hike for days without seeing another human. Now, living in New York, a week goes can go by without me leaving the house.

I work too much. I would argue against “too much” — I am doing now what I dreamed of doing then. My forest, my adventure, my deep feeling of home, arises in the solitude of my study, crafting concepts and building systems. Or riding on trains, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, working. I have invested and risked much for the garden that is my career — I’m happy to be sustained by the fruits.

(Okay, I confess, sometimes I work too much. I don’t rest enough and I certainly don’t exercise enough. But at least my toenails won’t fall off.)

This year, like last year and the year before, I’ll spend three+ months traveling; speaking and teaching at conferences, working with colleagues, eating new food in new cities. Tomorrow, I leave for Soltau, Cologne, Brussels, Paris, London, Zurich, the Swiss Alps, Copenhagen, New York (with a pause at home), Munich and Berlin. My backpack is now my suitcase.

I’m bringing on-stage clothes and soaking in hot springs clothes and funky-fun clothes and, most importantly, comfortable do-not-wrinkle (much) clothes. I’m bringing my laptop, ipad, phone, kobo, noise-cancelling headphones, airpods, chargers, adapters and copies of my new book. Because I’m allergic to fragrance, I’m bringing shampoo, conditioner, face soap, moisturizers and hair spray. I’m packing nail polish, makeup, medicine and my thermarest travel pillow.

All in a single carry-on suitcase and under-the-seat computer bag.

Seriously. (Except, okay, I haven’t yet been able to fit my pillow in my carry-on but this time, I’m determined.)

In Paris, I must carry my suitcase up and down flights of stairs in the subway, so it can’t be heavy. In every city, I will drag the rolling wheels over cobblestones and concrete, wearing them down. When I slide my backpack onto the long, silver extended handles of my suitcase, it’s easier to get around. But I am often lifting them both to maneuver in places not designed for accessibility. (I often wonder how my colleagues who rely on accessibility manage their frustration.)

My boots are now ON sneakers. My pack is my underseat computer bag and a Travelpro carry on. This trip, I might take my Cotopaxi Allpa instead. I wear, heavier things, like a nice pair of dress boots. I stay in AirBnB spaces rather than hotels, when possible, so I can cook and do laundry with TruEarth fragrance-free laundry strips. I stay in towns the way I stayed in the woods, not visiting as much as camping in its midst.

I feel a familiar pleasure on mornings like this, preparing to leave for JFK. Gear geekery, packing a pack with exactly what I need, is a creative and intellectual challenge. A step into uncertainty.

I also feel afraid. Every time leave, I imagine dying. I know this sounds melodramatic and it is. But like many of us, I’ve been taught that stuff is security and staying put is safe. Perhaps but it’s never been satisfying.

Leaving the comforts of home and living out of a small suitcase might seem like impoverishment, doing without comforts. On the contrary, I feel rich, like I did every time I snapped on my pack. There is something about the elegant simplicity of a system that makes everything easier to manage. Everytime I leave home, dragging my suitcase behind me, I remember the deep self-reliant pleasure of not needing anything more than I can carry.