Gore-Tex is an industry myth!
I shouted, the string of words disappearing into the writhing grey sky. As if in response, the boiling peaks released a barrage of hail on to the exposed mountainside. I ran, my shoes slipping and catching against rocks emerging from the earth; my eyes, blinded by the wind, frantically searching for cover in the remnants of a burned forest. The blackened carcass of a Ñirre tree wrapped its arms around me, as I rung the water from my jeans. For three days I had waged my gratuitous crusade against the outdoor apparel industry, deciding to backpack the 5-day Torres del Paine W-trek in running shoes, jeans, a down jacket and a cotton sweatshirt. Yet halfway through this third day, my relationship with the weather turned acerbic and my resolve began to weaken like the muddied earth eroding beneath my feet.
Like any good zealot, my crusade was prompted by necessity — camera or raincoat, drone or boots, lens kit or rain pants — and so on. The radical ideology of my crusade was shaped by the quizzical looks and comments from the yellow, pink, green and purple highlighter uniformed Patagucci legions that thronged the park. People ogled behind $15 rehydratable meals as I pulled bread, tuna, cheese and ketchup from my bag. I don’t savor the griminess of the outdoors but I did start to wonder when did the dress code, the code of conduct of the outdoors become so standardized and clean, so commercialized and materialistic?
Before I get to the hills that I choose to die on, I’ll pick up where I last left off. The second half of March I spent at the end of the world, in Tierra del Fuego. I traveled to Punta Arenas, a city closer to Antarctica than to Santiago, where I spent time with a disappearing indigenous group, the Kawesqar, learning about their fight against the salmon industry. In this cold and brutally windy city, I also learned about the strange public opinions regarding energy extraction. In 2018, Tierra del Fuego had the worst oil spill in recent Chilean history, yet the public seemed to be entirely against the two ongoing hydrocarbon projects in the region — odd considering that the processes used by these projects were far cleaner than the extraction of petroleum from the sea. I spent a week chatting with people and visiting museums, trying to better understand this strange public perception. Eventually I chalked it up to propaganda and familiarity. The oil companies have been in the region for a while, and many of the nature reserves and scientific institutions are funded by these companies. It is probably safe to say that the influence these companies have certainly extends beyond the realm of science in a small city like Punta Arenas. A disheartening but realistic look at how things work.
By the end of March I felt like I had overstayed my welcome. I had spent nearly 5 months in Chile, 2 more than I had originally intended when I first landed in Santiago. The idea of staying in one country for half of the year felt suffocating, but before I could leave, there was one thing I needed to see: Torres del Paine National Park. This was supposed to be time entirely without work, but in my preparations I discovered that the park was nearly 50% privately owned by one family. Since private conservation had become such a large focal point of my time in Chile, I was able to use this time to observe and analyze how the design of the park and the collaboration between government bodies and private companies facilitated the movement of tourists in a protected area. These were interesting observations, but not nearly as entertaining as the one-man, five-day misguided campaign against the outdoor industry I held while inside the park.
My time inside Torres del Paine started on March 25th with an hour and a half bus ride from the city of Puerto Natales. Just weeks before, I had missed an expensive series of flights that had left my budget tighter than I had hoped. I did not bring camping equipment with me on the fellowship, and so, hoping to save money, I rented only the necessities, a tent, a sleeping bag, mat and a hiking backpack from a shop in Puerto Natales. The park has an expensive entry fee, then a limited and unreasonably high price for campsites along the trail. For a total of three nights in a tent, I was expecting to pay nearly $200. Under my financial constraints, I put together a plan to cut down on costs as much as possible: if I ate tuna sandwiches for lunch and dinner, and apples and instant coffee for breakfast, I wouldn’t need to rent a camp-stove and pay for gas. If I picked up a paper coffee cup at a cafe, I wouldn’t have to spend $15 on an ultralight, aluminum mug that I was sure to throw out. If I wore my good running shoes instead of renting boots, I could save another $60. There may have been things, like boots, that I should have been willing to spend on, but this is the situation I was in at the time; how to save money on what felt like an unnecessary luxury trip.
I started the hike headed east to west, trudging up to the base of the iconic triple towers (Torres in Spanish). The hike last around 9 hours, a demanding 22 kilometers that despite its difficulty was overflowing with hikers. Back at the campsite, I “enjoyed” my dripping tuna sandwich and avoided the upturned nostrils of other campers before turning in for the night. My second day consisted of bright blue glacial lakes, wind-blasted mountainsides and the black twisted peaks of Los Cuernos, which translates to “The Horns.” That evening, I chatted with other hikers in a dining space and made friends with another American about my age named Ashley. It was on the third day that the consequences of my budget cuts began to take shape.
The morning started with the faint spattering of raindrops on top of my tent. I bumped into Ashley on the way out of camp and navigated under the dark branches of Lenga trees, chatting about the weather and the hike ahead. Within an hour, the rain had gone from brief sprinkles to intermittent showers and the rising rivers that transected the path flushed cold water into my shoes. The squelching sound of each step could hardly be heard as we rounded a bend to discover the path completely obliterated by a stream
that must have quadrupled in size overnight. A Chilean woman named Maria Paz stood uncertainly at the foot of the imposing river when we arrived. We helped each other through the swift current, and once on the other side our group of two became a group of three. We trudged onward, with each step, water toppled from ferns and tree branches onto my darkening jeans, metaphorical ink blotches spilling from the misguided pen that wrote my plan.
The sky shifted from an overcast grey to a tangible cloud that rested meters above the treetops. My fingers slipped clumsily into my palm, forming a fist inside the wet gloves that flapped fingerless with every gesture. As the wetness seeped through each layer, the cold began to set in. My down jacket dripped at the waist, and previous comments from other hikers floated like vengeful ghosts through my head. Maybe I was wrong, I thought, side-eyeing the bright blue and purple Gore-Tex raincoats of my newfound companions. Yet with each shiver that ran down my spine and each desperate thought that pushed me to walk just a little faster, I became convinced that no matter how good the marketing was, no product could keep you dry forever.
We reached a fork in the road after a few hours under the rain. The scenic lookout for the day, a panoramic vista called Mirador Britanico was a 3-4 hour hike uphill, into the bulging mass of clouds that hung over the mountain’s face. We had the option to hike to the lookout or continue for 2-3 more hours to the next refuge, Refugio Paine Grande. After a brief chat we decided to skip the lookout, as cloudy conditions would kill the visibility, and the cold had started to hit the other two members of my trio. Feeling chummy and proactive with our decision made, we embarked on the last hours of the hike, only to walk into the clutches of the worst weather I have ever experienced in the outdoors.
Between us and the refuge lay nine kilometers of burned, barren scrub. Lone trees charred by wildfires splintered out of the desolate earth like skeletal fingers. The wind slashed and whipped at our faces as the sterile wasteland unfolded before us. The cold dripped into my chest where the last remnants of warmth cowered, and the icy aching in my fingers turned to a burning sensation. I looked back at my companions only to see the gaps between us widening; the cold isolating our minds to focus only on the next placement of our feet. Beside a burm I waited for my friends, telling them as they arrived that I may need to move on ahead, the sensation in my fingers worsening. As I did so, the rain, which had stopped momentarily, began again, this time heavier than before. I glared, shaking my fist, dripping with water, and shouted my mantra in defiance at the merciless heavens. My companions, equally soaked only shook their heads.
We continued onward yet the rain only worsened and it was then that I once again let loose my battlecry to which the mountain released a profusion of battering hail. My feet forced me onward yet hampered by poor visibility, I stumbled as I ran, praying that I would reach the refuge before catching a foot against a rock and falling. I would run until I found the shelter of a tree or scrub then waited, bouncing on my feet to stay warm, until I saw the reflective blue of a raincoat staggering towards me. Then, I began running again, repeating the process for what must have been two hours.
The refuge came into view as I crested the final hill, a glorious, fortress of warmth surrounded by red and yellow domed tents. Tumbling down the sloping path I buried myself under a ledge of dirt then waited for my companions to arrive.
We lugged the heavy entrance doors aside and ignored the signs to leave our bags outside. A mess hall formed the heart of the refuge, wooden tables piled high with camping equipment and the odor of feet. I rested my bag beside me on a wooden bench as the adrenaline seeped out of me leaving only the cold behind. The warmth of the hall enveloped me, yet even after tearing off the saturated jeans and jacket, and putting on dry clothes, a numbness remained.
My body slowly recovered, and as it did, I began socializing with people sitting nearby. Along with my friends Ashley and Maria Paz I met several other hikers who were kind enough to share their food and drink. Warm bowls of ramen and thrilling stories were passed around the table, yet the brightly colored tents just outside the refuge were an ominous reminder of the cold night ahead. The new friends we made were staying in the bunk rooms of the lodge and told us that most of the beds were still empty. I didn’t want to pay upwards of $100 to sleep in a smelly room with 10 other people, but the thought of returning to the mercy of the elements was even less enticing. I asked the receptionists if any there were any beds available, but to my dismay she told me the refuge was fully booked.
My shoes squeaked as I walked forlornly back to the table where my friends were gathered, knowing that a return to the outdoors to set up my tent was imminent. Yet, in response to the bad news, my friends offered an alternative plan. I would go set up the tent, but if the beds in their room remained empty after 10 pm, they would sneak us in, saving us from a frosty night. The hope of this plan helped me don my wet shoes and set up the tent, savoring the idea that I might not even step inside it.
A dinner of spare ingredients, tuna sandwiches and donated foods kicked off the evening events with bottles of wine and cards quick to follow. We played games, chatted loudly and attempted in vain to dry our clothes. I was deservedly roasted for doing the trek in jeans and running shoes, as well as for my dripping tuna sandwiches. My explanations for bringing a drone instead of a rain jacket only caused more laughter. I had originally intended to leave the next morning, but as more card games and bottles of wine blurred together, I was convinced to extend my hike an additional day to the next viewpoint. Our group of 6 or 7 expanded to around 12 individuals as another group of hikers joined us, issuing in another round of games and drinks. As the hours passed, people leaving the mess hall gifted us with half eaten pizzas and melted sweets. Intoxicated by the generosity of others and the bottles of wine from someone’s birthday celebration, our raucous group were the last people to leave the hall, ebullient and boisterous yet lingering far longer than the staff appreciated.
It was well past ten when the reception desk closed for the night. Without anyone working the desk, no one new would be checking in to the refuge. The moment of truth had arrived. We waited patiently in the darkened lobby as our friends checked the number of empty beds in their room. Waiting in the dark, I was worried a staff member would appear and tell us to leave, that the refuge was closed for the evening. My fears seemed to be realized as the echoing of footsteps clattered down the nearby staircase. I held my breath, the dream of a warm, comfortable night starting to flicker out of reality. Yet, the person who appeared at the bottom of the staircase was one of our friends, and with a big smile told us that there were several empty beds. No one would be sleeping outside. I threw my arms into the air and silently celebrated, like I had just scored a match winning goal. Joy coursed through my blood vessels as we quietly scampered up the stairs into the vacant room. Thoughts of the one day bounced around inside my head as I lay down to rest. From an easy start early in the morning to a wretched storm of ice and rain to new friends and an evening of celebration and generosity, this day was one of the most memorable moments of the year.
After this third day of the hike, the remainder of the trek was fairly pleasant. Friends, free food and many gorgeous views rounded out what had been a physically demanding but rewarding journey. I am happy to say that I am still in touch with nearly all of the friends I made and that I couldn’t ask for a more fun group of people to meet during a trek.
Despite the obvious poor decisions regarding a pair of boots and a raincoat, and the much deserved, but all-in-good-fun roasting that I received I was left with the lingering question, why did my clothes stand out so much on the hike?
A lot of people have written obvious criticisms about people who go out into the wild completely unprepared and end up in dangerous or deadly situations. I’m not here to sympathize with that kind of decision-making. My decision to not bring a raincoat might fall under that category, but I also only planned to trek for 3 days, with a pair of dry backup clothes and the understanding that each campsite was next to climate-controlled buildings. I knew before I left that I should’ve brought one, but I also knew that if I didn’t, the risk was rather low.
So after the trek was over and several days had passed, I did begin to wonder, when did we adopt the idea that to go outside, to go for a hike, you need to have specific clothes designed for the outdoors? I’m not talking about something silly like wearing jean shorts and a tank top to Torres del Paine, but I do wonder why jeans and a hoodie, clothes commonly used for working outdoors, might draw so much attention. These outdoor-specific clothes might be optimized for outdoor activity, but a regular hoodie (when dry) will keep you just as warm as your North Face fleece. You might be a little bit less comfortable or a little bit bulkier or need to be a little bit more aware, but we as outdoorsy people have picked up this notion that you need a standard set of brands to enjoy the outdoors. Why? Because we have commodified the outdoors into a lifestyle that you buy into —it is not something we can live out by solely our actions but in our ownership of Patagonia jackets, stickered Nalgene bottles and Carhartt beanies. As someone who has worked in the field of outdoor education, it seems like it is the appearance of being “outdoorsy” that is given near equal value as the actions or experience of being in the outdoors. I’m equally guilty of this: I’ve got all these products and more sitting in my closet back home, but this experience of going trekking with just regular clothes made me realize just how deep into the Gore-Tex padded, Clif Bar-sponsored rabbit-hole I am. There is nothing wrong with these products, but within reason, these aren’t the essential products that we make them out to be.
Don’t read into this too seriously, this is just me defending myself from my own bad decisions in a quasi-intellectual way. The point here is that you don’t always need expensive clothes and equipment to enjoy the outdoors. You bring what you need, and if you’re anything like me, you might cut corners where you know you can. Anyways, thanks for reading!
