Blisters, Whiskey, and Stories Worth Telling

By Rick

Backpacking will break you if you let it. Thing is, I do not break easy. The trail throws pain, cold, and hunger at you, and you throw steel and stubbornness right back. Out here it is not about looking pretty for photos. It is about proving you can drag your sorry hide through miles of rock and mud, then laugh at it around the fire.

One trip sticks with me. A ridge run where the weather turned mean and the miles stacked higher than the whiskey bottles we finished the week before. I packed what I thought was light, but light turned into stupid fast. Should have taken the MOUNTAINTOP 80L, a frame that rides right and can carry more weight than a mule. Instead I strapped on some bargain-bin special that sagged like wet cardboard. Did it ruin me. Hell no. I lashed it together with cord and made it work. The straps cut into my shoulders until I had lines like battle scars. But you do not quit over straps. You grit teeth, you adjust, and you keep moving.

Gear tells on you. My buddy brought a Gazelle T4 Hub Tent, set it up in minutes, and stretched out like a king. Me. I pitched the Swiss Outdoors Rain Fly Tarp low against the wind and stacked a wall of logs in front of my fire to throw heat back. The sleet still cut sideways, but between the tarp at my back and the blaze in front, I stayed just warm enough to grin through it. He sipped coffee inside his tent while I hunched by the flames like a wolf guarding his kill, proud that I carried half the weight he did. Sometimes comfort is worth the pounds, but sometimes pride tastes better than coffee.

Knives are never optional. That trip I carried the Mossy Oak Tanto. Ten inches of steel that looked like it belonged in a bad action movie. Did I need a blade that big. Maybe not. But when my pack tore open on the ridge, that Tanto cut through cord and fabric quick. Ugly fix, but it held for the rest of the run. I have used the Morakniv too. Clean, simple, sharp enough to shave with. I do not care what folks carry, as long as they carry something that will bite when it counts.

Fire that night was pure stubbornness. Wet wood, numb fingers, sleet still coming down. I struck a ferro rod with the Morakniv until sparks lit up the dark. Took me longer than I will admit, but when it caught I laughed like a madman. Flames mean you win. I had stormproof matches as backup, but sometimes you want to fight it out the hard way. Fire is not just warmth. Fire is proof you are still in the game.

Food keeps you sane. My stove was running low on fuel by day three. I stretched it, boiled water slow, and ate noodles that were more crunch than chew. Did I complain. No. I called it trail pasta al dente and washed it down with a slug of whiskey. You eat what you have, and you eat it proud. But I will say this: when Papa Gramps pulls out that Dutch Oven, the whole ridge smells like heaven, and you remember that weight is not always wasted.

Axes are worth the trouble too. I thought my folding saw would carry the load. Snapped teeth on wet oak halfway through the night. My buddy had the CRKT Freyr axe. That thing is part tool, part war relic. He split logs while I cursed my little saw. Sometimes you swallow pride and borrow steel. Sometimes you admit the old ways are the right ways.

And boots. Boots will either save you or destroy you. I once tried breaking in new ones on the trail. Big mistake. Blisters the size of silver dollars. Did I cry about it. No. I cut holes in the sides with a Buck Zipper Guthook and kept marching. Ugly, but it got me down the mountain. Out here you adapt or you suffer. Usually both.

The last night on that run we huddled under tarp and tent, rain hammering down, whiskey bottle passing back and forth. We laughed at the misery, roasted what little we had left, and talked about how dumb we had been to pack the way we did. That is the thing about backpacking. You curse it in the moment and brag about it after. Pain turns into stories, and stories are the only trophies worth keeping.

Backpacking is not about being comfortable. It is about dragging yourself through the mud and laughing at it later. It is about carrying steel that can take a beating, fire starters that will spark even when your hands do not work, and food that makes you grin through the grind. The miles will chew on you. The blisters will scream. The pack will dig. And you will still get up in the morning, shoulder the weight, and walk farther than you thought you could.

Because that is what we do. We walk, we suffer, we fight, and then we drink to it around the fire. The trail does not care if you whine. It does not care if you brag. It only cares if you keep moving. And I always keep moving.