Base Weight: What I Carried, What I'm Still Unpacking

This is the companion post to Episode 2 of the podcast. If you haven't listened yet, head there first — then come back here for everything I was still thinking about after we stopped recording and in my listen back.

In the pod, I say, “In hindsight, I’d do things completely differently.” Let’s talk about it.

I am not the same person who stepped onto the JMT nine years ago. I know that sounds like something everyone says but I mean it in a specific, bodily way. Since the JMT, I’ve had cancer, now live with chronic pain, and I understand my neurodivergent brain in ways I didn’t.

At 26, I prepared like many of us do: by reading everything I could get my hands on–blog posts, social media posts, even memoirs of people’s own long-distance hiking journeys. That reading became my mental checklist of what to bring versus what to leave behind. (Special shout out to the ladies of the JMT Facebook page–y’all rock.) 

Listening back to this episode was both trippy and sweet because I can hear her, that earlier version of me, doing the best with what she had: a lot of gear, a lot of book knowledge, and just a basic understanding of the trail in front of her.

I’m also in a different phase of life now. I’m established in a career. A little more settled. With more ability to financially plan for adventures than I had as a graduate student. 

Now, I would invest in lighter gear (student loans notwithstanding and to be planned around). But I think that lighter gear would make a world of difference. Even with lighter gear, I’d still need to bring some of what I brought because some of it was absolutely about comfort. 

Let’s grapple with comfort for a second.

Nine years ago, I believed I was medically sound. Chronic headaches and migraines, yes–but that was just life. That was my normal. Standing on this side of the trip, with chronic pain after cancer, and migraines that are as worse as they’ve ever been, and post-menopausal neurodivergent brain…well, I don’t think I’ll ever be an ultralight backpacker. 

Why? Why do I think I won’t ever be an ultralight backpacker? Because all three of the things I listed in the last paragraph require tending to. Let’s look at some examples to ground this out. Chronic pain: I may always need a heavier sleeping mat with more cushion and more support to set me up for success during the day. Chronic migraine: I will always need to carry multiple migraine medications and supplements. Neurodivergence: there will always be things for my neurodivergence, like a little tool to clean the dirt out from under my fingernails because I cannot stand the sensation. 

All of these things add weight. So while I think I could get parts of my pack weight pretty low with planning; there’s a limit. And the limit is me. 

It’s hard being chronically online in outdoor spaces sometimes because of gear discussions. There can be a lot of talk about pack weight but not a lot of talk about pack weight at the intersection of accessibility. 

In preparing for the JMT all those years ago, I didn’t understand that I was navigating accessibility in backpacking when it came to my migraines and neurodivergence–I thought I was just overpacked. And anytime I struggled with the discomfort of my pack, there was an internal voice, right there–loud and nagging in equal measure–telling me that it was my fault. For having too much stuff. For doing it wrong. 

I pushed it down every time. And every time it found a way to come back.

It never occurred to me that the things I brought, the things I carried, the things I was so adamant about not sending home–that they were worth the weight, were accommodations. More than that: it never occurred to me that I might need accommodations in my day-to-day life either. 

That realization didn’t come on the trail. It didn’t come after cancer. It comes while Nikki and I were recording this podcast. When, in an upcoming episode, Nikki uses the word "accommodation" for the first time.  

It was a shock. Then a profound internal silence. Then a long ponder. 

I call myself a percolator. When something big hits, I need to sit with it. 

I’m sitting with this one. But the things I carry–I carry them with far less shame.