Planning & Packing

“I did some research on that wilderness area you were talking about…I read it has the highest concentration of grizzlies in the lower 48. You know that, right?”

We were planning a trip to Montana. For Joe and I, that usually means a volley of naming off every town, river, and point of interest we’ve ever heard of, then trying to talk out a logical path that connects each waypoint. In short, it’s a exercise in cramming a two month vacation into 12 days.

“So, on day one we’ll leave at two or three in the morning and drive straight through to Bozeman. We can stay at the Bozeman Inn to shower and rest so we don’t have to worry about finding a camp spot on the first day”

“Sounds good, and then maybe float a section of one of the rivers close to town, then swing down to Ennis and stay in that little hole in the wall fisherman’s lodge?”

“Right on, sounds good. From there we could swing up in an arc towards Missoula, aiming to get up to Whitefish by mid-week. I really want to spend a few days backpacking in the Bob Marshall wilderness, too.”

“Cool, what about the Big Hole? Or is it the Big Horn?”

“It’s both, both are in Montana. They’re out of the way, though. Maybe we can hit them on the way back down.

“Got it, let’s go to Glacier National Park while we’re up there.”

“Do you think we have time for that?”

::Stares Back::

“Ok, yea, let’s do Glacier, too.”

“I also want to spend two or three days fishing in Yellowstone National Park…”

“In September?...it's the high season. Too many damn people. Don’t you want to go back in October like we did last time? Well, shit, I have two weddings in October. Ok, we’ll try it, too. “

It’s like that.  

An efficient logistician sits in front of Google Maps with a calendar and an itinerary to work out the details. Our planning takes place when we’re wrenching under a vehicle, driving to a river, or sitting at some seedy bar. In any case, we don’t write anything down. The preference is instead to have the exact same conversation 47 times in the six months preceding the trip's start date. By the time the journey happens we have a pretty solid understanding of what area we’ll be in on any given day, but we have no imposed accountability to stick to the original plan. We like it that way. 

My grandfather was the opposite. He was an engineer. He liked lists and made plans. He stuck to them. My cousin has the packing lists and menus from our annual Tellico trip dating back to the early sixties. Over the years each list looks pretty much the same, give or take a few pairs of underwear or socks. Of course, the essentials are the fishing gear, gas cans, camp kitchen, and sportsman’s grill. The list is thorough, yet uncomplicated; a hallmark of any proficient outdoorsmen. Perhaps the best entry is in the dead middle of the page from the ‘02 list. It reads, “...flashlight & batt, pistol, glasses, teeth…”

Teeth.

It’s not just the idea of leaving the dentures at home that makes me chuckle. It’s the placement within the list. The teeth are line item 15 of 55; not important enough to be top 5, also not an afterthought he scribbled in at the last second.

No, I think he was up early one morning having a cup of joe, humming to himself while the joy of prepping for a fishing trip started to take hold. He was running through the mental list he’d scribbled out so many times before and something triggered him to write “teeth” down. 

I tend to pack for a trip by envisioning where I’ll be and what I’ll be needing. For instance, I’ll pick up my sleeping bag and think, well, this thing is useless without a sleeping pad and a tent. When I’m laying there I’ll probably benefit from a headlamp, too. So then I gather all four items and toss them in the pile. For cooking it’s similar. I’ll gaze at all the food on the counter and do a mental checklist of the things I need to turn it from cooler-fare into fine cuisine. Alright, for the coffee I’ll need the percolator, propane, lighter, and a coffee cup. For these fajitas I’ll need the cast iron, aluminum foil, salt & pepper, and tongs. And so on. 

The gist is that I tend to surround myself with all my gear and engage in a pseudo-meditative state of realizing my needs. Maybe Grandpa did the same. Maybe he was ticking off items on his mental checklist and whispering to himself, “...flashlight & batt, pistol, glasses…,” and in his excitement was lost in a streamside reverie. The chatter of the river. The luminescent green canopy. A quick underhand toss placing a rooster tail perfectly along a swirling seam line. All the while taking small sips of coffee and sucking his teeth. 

Hm, he thought. Teeth.

My approach to packing in the early season is always a bit ridiculous. I have trunks, garages, and closest full of trinkets that have caught my fancy over the years: headlamp light diffusers, trekking poles that slide, trekking poles that snap, chairs that fold up to the size of a Nalgene, tiny stoves, big stoves, and waterproof covers to cover items that are already waterproof themselves. You get the point. There are many one-use wonders in the galaxy of outdoors marketing. I’m a sucker for quite a few of them. 

By mid-to-late camping season I have the packing process down. I’ve whittled the excess of gadgets, creature comfort items, and redundant accessories that I’ve acquired over the years. I don’t need to spend hours debating on what is going in my vehicle. Most of it is strewn around the garage in the place I left it to dry out a few days prior. The frivolities made their way back to storage months ago. I simply gather everything that’s around my truck, throw it in the bed, gaze at it, and ask myself, Can I eat? Can I sleep? Can I fish? 

No matter whether you’re a list maker, a visioneer, or a “grab everything you see in the closet and hope for the best” packer, there is a moment we all have in common. It’s the commitment of slamming the tailgate, closing the hatch, or shutting the door, followed promptly by the quip, “Alrighty, I think that’s everything.” 

It’s a statement, an agreement between outdoors partners that means there will be no further discussion about what we may or may not need. What it implies is, Let’s get the hell on the road before we think of something else. 

The caveat, of course, is that an hour or so down the road one of you remembers what was left behind. 

A quick stop at a smalltown discount outfitter or gas station turns into a three-quarter hour detour. This is why I have so many sub-par camping trinkets. Those little pit stop inconveniences turn into landmark memories in the years to come. You’ll be lost in a seemingly unfamiliar mountain road or prairie that connects one fishing spot to another, then look up and see a familiar sign.

“Hey, lookee there. Remember last time we came through here and you forgot your [fill in the blank]. Man, you were pissed.”

You chuckle, then start running through a mental checklist to make sure that’s not still the case.