Outdoor Idiosyncrasies - Contemplating High-Performance Gear

A story inspired by a hiking trip in the High Tatras of Slovakia and Poland. It was useful for me to step outside the Northern Rockies mountain town "bubble" I've lived in for so long and take a closer look at my gear buying habits.

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With my feet ensconced in low-cut hiking shoes, I sat on the summit of Rysy, a 2,499-meter peak on the Slovakia-Poland border. A few moments later, my travel companion Andrew, in rigid, high-cut leather hiking boots, plopped down beside me.

“Let me rest a minute,” he said with a grimace. 

Using an impressive selection of British slang, Andrew doctored his blister battered feet, so we could finish our traverse of the High Tatra mountains. I was dying to ask why he took new boots on this trip, but I kept my mouth shut as I didn’t want to alienate my new friend or be a know-it-all American.

Exploring a mountain range for the first time is always exciting and this corner of Eastern Europe, relatively free of Americans and not on any top-ten lists, felt wild and undiscovered. Meeting others who share my passion for mountains was one of highlights of my travels, and Andrew was a connection I made on the train a few days prior. I was in my element and content, so why was I thinking about what was on our feet?

Andrew and I stared towards Poland, our destination sitting 1,400 vertical meters below. We began the steep and exposed descent, but long stretches of fixed chains were there to grab during the sketchiest parts. While Rysy was far from extreme, it was challenging enough to please us when we reached the bottom.

A short bus ride from the base of the mountains brought us to the funky resort town of Zakopane, Poland. Dogs ran off-leash, folks cruised by on skateboards, and we had our pick of lively pubs with outdoor seating. Zakopane reminded me of my home in Bozeman, Montana, and Andrew and I joined the festivities for a celebratory pivo (Beer), a mountain experience transcending all languages and cultures.

Outdoor adventures like this have been a staple of my adult life. Years prior, I wanted to escape the consumption-driven lifestyle I was exposed to growing up in a relatively affluent exurb in northern New Jersey. There, high school classmates talked about the high-powered jobs they aspired to and dreamed of fancy cars, boats, and houses. Over the years, I bought a designer bag or two, briefly thought about majoring in business, and even had a Saks Fifth Avenue credit card, which sat unused in my wallet.  Over time, upscale aspirations lost their appeal and I made my way to Wyoming for graduate school where I began pursuing powder instead of Prada. I said no to a corporate career and cruises replacing them with nonprofit work and year-round adventure. Mountains, rivers, and outdoor pursuits became my currency.

Today, I still live near the mountains and find myself surrounded by outdoor enthusiasts. While I’m not surprised by people’s never-ending passion for adventure, I am regularly puzzled by people’s fixation, mine included, on gear; the time spent talking about, researching, and agonizing over the newest equipment, the obsession with shedding weight, the amount of space it takes in our garages and closets.

I first noticed preoccupation with gear when I lived in Colorado in the 1990s. At the time, shorter, fatter skis were transitioning from being a novelty into being an everyday tool for avid skiers, and I was living in a house with three bro-brahs. I recall one of the guys praising the importance of owning the latest outdoor equipment. He even had a name for it, high-performance gear.

At first, he seemed a bit full of himself and I chuckled at his label. Eventually, as I got more into backcountry skiing, mountain biking, and other mountainous activities, I found I had amassed my own collection of high-performance gear. One pack each for skiing, backpacking, and biking; skis for the backcountry, skating, and the ski area; shoes just for biking, shoes just for climbing; all of the equipment necessary to take off down the trail for a few days carrying everything I need on my back. It was a hefty pile tucked into the closets and mudroom of the house I shared with the dudes. Although I never referred to it as such, high-performance gear was part of my life, and I considered it necessary for the outdoor pursuits I had grown fond of.

As I descended Rysy, gripping chains to keep me from plunging over precipices, I watched as folks, very few of them decked out in the newest high-performance gear, marched towards the summit. Like Andrew, many wore heavy, high-cut leather hiking boots, and the equipment got even more cumbersome. A perky couple walked by carrying bulging external-frame backpacks. A family, sporting blue jeans and cotton t-shirts, gave an enthusiastic cześć (hi) as I passed. There were even a few nuns in habits, toes of hiking shoes and collars of fleece jackets peeking out from beneath the long, staid garment. 

When traveling abroad, I’m curious about those who cross my path in the mountains. Normally, I try to chat with them, but on Rysy, I didn’t feel like exerting the effort, even if I could speak their language bursting with consonants. As I saw it, these Pavels, Stanislavs, and Zuzannas were the equivalent of a jeans-wearing tourist in the lift-line at Bridger Bowl, not a kindred spirit.

On the train to Krakow the next day, I reflected on my trip to Rysy and realized my opinion of the people I saw was influenced by what they wore, and my curiosity was tainted with judgement. Was my attitude any different than the one I grew up with and wanted to leave behind? I was so disappointed with myself.

I thought back to the gear I had with me on Rysy: lightweight Scarpa trail shoes, a waterproof Patagonia jacket, Icebreaker wool shirt to be worn for days on end odor-free. Other gear was hauled in my Arc’Teryx pack. It was the mountain equivalent of a Gucci bag, a Burberry overcoat, and a pair of Jimmy Choo’s. I cringed as I did a rough estimate of my gear’s retail value. How many people in Slovakia and Poland could afford this get up? Would they even care to spend their money this way?

The experience in the High Tatras was the first time I contemplated the idiosyncrasies of mountain town living. In towns like Bozeman, traditional status symbols are shunned but it’s okay to have a $5,000 mountain bike and nine pairs of skis. We enjoy the purity and simplicity of the outdoors and think we escape consumerism when we make a life in the mountains, but sometimes it seems as if we trade a Tesla, a Rolex, and a stock portfolio for a full-suspension mountain bike, a Gore-Tex jacket, and a quiver of skis.

Since Rysy, my gear purchasing decisions have taken on greater scrutiny with potential purchases sitting heavy on my mind. Every season, glossy outdoor magazines review the newest outdoor equipment, and catalogues and websites tout the latest gear. Each item promises to help provide a more pleasurable experience in the mountains. Advertising copy reinforces the need for the latest high-performance equipment. I think I’m immune to the sales pitches, but I find myself ogling over all of it.

I spot a pair of Movement Alp Tracks skis I’m sure will help me tackle every condition the backcountry throws my way. I covet a lightweight Black Diamond I-Tent to be carried in a Granite Gear pack weighing a mere 18 ounces. I contemplate a new pair of Scarpa hiking shoes I’m certain will allow me to fly up the trail.

With a great consciousness I try to put it into perspective and a million thoughts race through my mind. Lewis and Clark explored the uncharted west in woolen overalls and buckskin jackets, and for decades Himalayan Sherpas hauled fancy gear for wealthy clients wearing primitive gear of their own. Will new equipment make a difference in my performance? When do innovations make new gear worth buying? How long is long enough to own something? I work hard at my job and use my gear often. Maybe I deserve it? 

Sometimes I wonder if I could be more like the folks I saw in the Tatras by heading into the mountains with a pair of clunky hiking boots, a 30-year-old external frame pack, and a poncho, but I’m not sure I could do it. Maybe I’m more of a consumer than I’d like to be. Maybe I’m insecure and enjoy having what is de rigueur in my mountain community. High-performance gear is a way to mark me as part of the tribe of outdoor folks, not to be mistaken for a tourist. Perhaps I doubt my capabilities. Could I be strong and fast enough without the gear?

When I think back to my trip to Rysy, what really matters is not the gear I was wearing but the thrill of reaching a mountain summit a world away from home. Crossing an international border via a mountain top was a distinctive experience but the post-hike revelry was familiar. In the end, the people I came across during my trip aren’t really that different. Me in high-tech gear, locals in old school gear, and Andrew with gear somewhere in between. We all share a love of the mountains.

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Read More..

• This is not the first time I've agonized over purchasing decisions - https://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/2020/09/woody-allen-confronts-produce-section.html

• More musings about high-performance gear https://annvinciguerra.blogspot.com/search/label/High%20performance%20gear