The backpacking trips I've taken in the past few years have involved renting or borrowing or using cast-offs of other people's equipment. Zero gave me his old backpack, his pre-teen daughter has somehow been tricked into letting a geezer use her sleeping bag, and lodging has often come from a poor old guy who is too busy enjoying his new wife to give his tent proper use. My headlamp and flask were gifts. And I've even had to borrow other's bear canisters to keep the wildlife out of my food. Because camping has become a renewed annual tradition, I feel justified in acquiring my own equipment. Earlier this week, I inadvertently ended up in an REI store where I bought a new membership and my first sleeping pad, yet another vital piece of equipment I'd had to charm away from somebody else. The directions indicate the pad should not be stored all rolled up so it rests under our bed, partially inflated, and its presence has infused my dreams.
My mind is already thinking about gear for next summer's trip. Having always borrowed stuff, there has not been much advanced preparation beyond stashing spare undies and socks into ziplock bags. As I consider what type of sleeping bag and tent I need, I find myself weighing options that previously had not been part of my preparations. Before, I knew I'd get by with whatever color, weight, or sizes were presented. Now, I wonder whether a creamsicle orange sleeping bag is a good idea or not. The price is good, the filling is down, and the weight is low. Can I sleep with something so incandescent? Then there are the tents where "comfort" will be determined by some odd equation that juxtaposes weight against roominess.
None of these internal debates are troubling. I do wonder whether my desire to be toasty warm justifies the extra weight and expense of a bag that is rated for 15°F or colder. Similarly, once I know I can sit upright in a tent so I can put on socks, does it really matter how much space there is on either side of my sleeping pad? It's not like I require floorspace for a library or rock collection or multiple outfits. However, what strikes me is that having the choice of equipment prompts me to consider what is necessary and what is just convenient. Frankly, it's a great mental distraction. I envision a discretely colored tent concealed among the brush. I hold onto the dream of having no equipment lashed to the outside of my pack. I squirm at the notion of my pillow (last year's only equipment buy) nestled inside a large and lofty sleeping bag.
What does prevent me from falling asleep is wondering how to compel a novice researcher to nominate a theory – any theory – as a useful cognitive tool as she descends into a the swamps of interview transcripts. Because she has never had to find her way out on her own, she does not appreciate just how important it is to have packed the right equipment. She's got a canvas bag thrown over her shoulder that holds a digital recorder, a new notebook, and a rainbow assortment of sticky notes. Those will work fine only if nothing unexpected arises. And if nothing unexpected arises, then the journey was not worth her trouble. Had she taken advantage of previous research opportunities, then she might lay awake wondering whether there are sufficient tools for sorting through the mess of data. Or she might even have a couple of tools to consider and will make a final decision as conditions warrant. Unfortunately, the choice she appears to be making is the glorious presumption that the interviews and concept maps will all coalesce around intriguing and meaningful concepts. To distract myself from that impending disaster, I wonder whether I can find something like an Adirondack tin cup that would bring an East Coast flair to the Sierra and Cascade cups that jostle for hot water each morning.
