Finishing my 48

We hunkered down behind some rocks at the summit of Mt. Jefferson. The wind was chilly for August 12 but the sun was still warm. Below us a dozen hikers were hanging out on Monticello’s Lawn, a grassy area at the intersection of Caps Ridge and Castle trails. A guy in shorts and a t-shirt was scrambling over the rocks at the summit nearby, talking to anybody who would listen.

“Wow, this is great,” he said. “This is my 48^th! I finished my 48!” People on the lawn below cheered for him.

I smiled at my partner, John, and we congratulated the guy. Then I took the man’s phone and snapped some photos of him, beaming and with his arms held high, Mt. Washington looming behind him.

It was my finish too, my last of the 48, 4,000-foot peaks in New Hampshire, a quest I began some 16 years before when I climbed Pierce and Jackson with three of my then-preteen daughters. At the time I thought it was ridiculous to jot the date down in the back pages of my White Mountain Guide because the list of 4,000 footers was long and I was in peak parenting mode, not peak bagging mode. There were soccer games and dance competitions to attend in 2007. I couldn’t imagine devoting time to the frivolous pursuit of hiking.

History of the 48 Footers

The idea of a list of 4,000 footers, and rules to govern their qualification (look up “prominence” to learn more) started in the 1930s, according to the Appalachian Mountain Club’s website. The list wasn’t refined and widely disseminated until the mid-1950s, when people had wider access to motor vehicles and more time off work. That’s when hiking took off, and the club has kept a list of finishers – as well as lists of other lists, such as those who finish all 48 in winter, or those who hike all 67 of New England’s 4,000 footers. Those who are interested can submit their completion dates for documentation and attend an annual dinner of the 4000 Footers Club held by the AMC each spring. They can also wear a patch designating them as members of the group, which in 2019 numbered over 14,000 (and 324 dogs!).

I never openly aspired to join that elite club. Over the years I’d rediscover the White Mountains guidebook among my hiking and camping gear and jot down another date next to the name of a significant peak. I was hiking about one a year. In 2014 I checked off the Bonds and Zealand while on an overnight with a big group, and the next year my sister-in-law and I climbed Franconia Ridge. The list of 48 was slowly whittling down but I still couldn’t envision the day that I’d fill in the last line on the list.

Hiking Madison and Adams alone in June 2019 was a big milestone. I made mistakes (forgot hiking socks, for one!), talked to myself a lot, got smoked by another female hiker, and could barely walk by the time I reached my car. But my kids were grown and I felt like hiking was something I could do – that I might actually finish that list of 48 someday. I had dates next to almost a dozen of the peaks by then, 12 years into my occasional quest for the 48.

Lessons Learned

Since meeting my partner John about 15 months ago the challenge to finish my 48 shifted into high gear. He’s an OG of the mountains who has almost completed the New England 67 Grid (that’s the 67 tallest in the region, summited in each month of the year, for over 800 total peaks) as well as other feats like the Colorado Trail and nearly all of that state’s 14,000 footers. Together we hiked all last fall, winter, and spring, knocking off dozens of the mountains remaining on my list of 48 and then some. As of this writing I’m a weekend away from finishing the New England 67 highest.

In the last year hiking became more than a quest to check off the list in the back of the guidebook. It cemented our relationship, developed my outdoors skills, made me fall in love with winter again, and reminded me that I’m not to old to learn a few things.

One thing I learned was that it’s not always the right time to summit. In February we attempted to climb Mt. Jefferson via the Jewel and Gulfside trails. Wind was roaring up through the Gulf between Mt. Washington and Mt. Clay, blowing us sideways, almost off our feet. Although the day was otherwise sunny and I was never uncomfortably cold, I couldn’t maintain the stamina needed to reach the peak. We were within sight of the top when I told John we had to turn around. I didn’t want to create a problem for myself or for him by pushing beyond my limits. The mountain would be there another day.

My layering game is totally on point now. Historically, I’d overdress or get blisters from doubling up socks but there’s nothing like a ton of practice to iron out the wrinkles, and comfort is of primary importance. Now I wear multiple thin layers of techwick-type tops according to the outside temperature. When it’s cold I’ll add an EMS ascent full-zip hooded fleece under a solid insulated polypro vest (also EMS) (for most hikes near or under 30 degrees). Keeping the same layers packed in my duffel makes hiking every weekend a breeze because the habit eliminates guesswork and decisions.

Nutrition on the trail has been nailed down and simplified. There’s nothing like a frozen PBJ in the shelter of a rock on a summit to make me feel like a real hiker. But that’s not all I pack, because I’ve learned through trial and error that I need plenty of replenishing electrolytes as well as gels to ingest a steady supply of calories, starting in the first hour of any outing. Skipping snacks results in poor performance on my part (and might have spiked my first attempt on Jefferson last winter).

Proper footwear continues to be my obsession. I’ve blogged about trying to find the right running shoes for many years, and the quest continues with hikers. I have bunions that can be painful if my boots are ill fitting, but I’ve finally settled (like Goldilocks) on a system of KT Tape and toe socks that alleviate much of that problem. Still, I have four pairs of hiking boots and shoes that provide varying levels of support and cushion, giving me plenty to fuss over before, during, and after each outing.

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Rosy Memories

It took me a long time to understand John’s compulsion to hike every weekend, but I think I have the answer. It’s not about memories of individual events like skiing down Sawyer River Road on rubbery legs after summiting Carrigain. It’s the addicting glory of witnessing the sun poking through the clouds on a summit, the feeling of accomplishment at the end, and the unspoken privilege of waking up and doing it again the next morning on sore legs and in wet boots because we can.

Even so, I have favorite memories of hiking the 48, like hand feeding the grayjays on the Hancocks, powerwalking the last few miles of the 14-mile roundtrip to Owl’s Head so we’d average two miles an hour; the bluest of blue skies above the snowy and challenging summit of Whiteface in winter, and the wild feather-shaped rime ice formations on the summit of Garfield on a freeze-your-nose January day.

August 12 was the day of my 48^th, but it wasn’t my final mountain. We’re still hiking because it’s now our lifestyle, not just a short-term goal.

Take the tour.

My life philosophy has changed, dramatically. I no longer believe that meandering through a foreign city, a new museum, or an unfamiliar bike park is worthwhile.

Of course I continue to do those things, but it’s the meandering that’s changed. I’m now on the tour bus.

It turns out that reading the placards next to the paintings in museums doesn’t provide the same illuminating (and often humorous) context that a docent provides. Nor does wandering a city, staring up at the buildings and statues. The same goes for mountain biking — after years of riding alone on self-guided explorations (or the same old, same old trails) I’m finally embracing group rides.

The first time I realized the difference in depth and appreciation that a tour can provide was when we visited Versailles, in France. My daughters loved this stop on our trip, more than a decade ago. Purely by coincidence our wandering around the opulently overstimulating mansion matched that of an organized tour group. We overheard the tour director talking about the paintings on the ceiling and who was added (or subtracted!) according to the whim of the artist and the person’s popularity. That was fun, so we proceeded to the castle of Neuschwanstein, in the Alps, and took the tour that detailed the former owner’s peculiarities. Knowing more about the history added great depth to our visit and plenty to chat about on the Autobahn afterward.

In Peru, my companion Grace insisted on a tour of Cusco, the city high in the Andes where we stayed before and after visiting the ruins of Machu Picchu. Along with discussing the architecture and various conquerors who took all of the gold from the former capital city, we were treated to a cooking class (I still like to make the chicken and potato dish for company) but my favorite part was the salsa dancing. About a dozen of us, all in hiking boots, attempted to stomp our way through a dance lesson on the second floor of a very old building. My utter lack of rhythm, the wall of mirrors showcasing the absurdity of the event, and being able to see through the floorboards of the creaky old structure just added to the flavor of the trip and expanded the experience beyond the hiking we did.

Group bike rides are similar to museum tours: you get the inside scoop on trails that you might not otherwise ride. I skipped out on these events years ago after a couple of bad experiences (once, in Lynn Woods, I took off with an “intermediate” level group but should have known something was up when most of the 30-something guys were wearing body armor..). Now that I’m old enough to not give a damn about looking like an idiot or being somewhat slow I’m happy to crank alongside anyone else who shows up. It started this summer when I heard about group rides at the state park where I practically grew up — I was not at all familiar with the trails for biking there and needed to know. What better way to learn than a guided tour?

The group of 20+ seemed intimidating. Only four were women. I expected them to be speedy and I was right. But I didn’t hear or experience negativity directed toward those who were slower or had trouble with obstacles. I was a little too busy with maneuvering quickly to pay much attention to memorizing the trails but that’s okay, I had a great ride. In fact, I think I went home with a better appreciation of the group than the terrain.

Just to prove that wasn’t a fluke event, I did another group ride this week. There was about the same male-female ratio (5:1) but this time I realized I was assuming the men would be more experienced riders. Whoa, pump the brakes on stupid assumptions! It turns out I’m just as experienced and skilled as most of them — I just have a self preservation instinct that kicks in and prevents me from doing dumb stuff that is likely to result in injury or bike damage. It seems the guys don’t have that (just kidding, I simply prefer to keep my wheels on the ground while they scaled ledges and dared gravity not to interfere with their descents). Even better, I was exposed to trails I never knew where there in my own backyard.

One might not think that group rides make that much difference to a rider’s abilities, but I disagree. I love being tested, and I’m amazed each time I push through an obstacle without first slowing down to ensure it’s do-able. In these woods that means clearing rock gardens, going over instead of around small boulders and logs, and thinking even faster on the go when approaching new obstacles. Every time I clear something or roll over a boulder instead of going around it, my skills expand tenfold.

I’ve ridden alone for years, growing my skills inch by inch rather than by leaps and bounds. This is an epiphany. Nobody cares that I’ve advanced lightyears in my skills and abilities — except for me. But it matters.

Winter hiking: Why wasn’t I cold?

We were struggling up Mt. Jefferson, a 5,712-foot peak on the Presidential Range in New Hampshire. It’s the third-highest peak in the state and spitting distance to Mt. Washington, which is the tallest at 6,288 ft. I had to take a break, again. John leaned in and said, “If you can’t do it, there’s no shame. I’ve turned around before. The mountain will be there another day.”

The struggle we faced was not the elevation of the trails we chose, which were long but not particularly steep. There was ice, but it was spotty. One of the major issues was the wind. It was trying to relocate us to Vermont, I believe, if not Albany. Each step forward required more strength than usual, even when equipped with spikes and hiking poles. The wind pushed and twisted my body, redirecting my feet involuntarily to places I didn’t want to go. Sometimes it threatened to lay me flat.

According to the Mt Washington Observatory, we were dealing with winds around 40 mph with gusts as high as 52. It felt like 75 mph but after a certain point you just deal with each step rather than trying to classify the pressure on your body in relation to previous gusts.

I was fascinated by the way the gusts roared up from the Great Gulf, a giant hole between Washington and Jefferson (and Clay, also on the same ridge). Of course it made me think about sailing and what decision I’d make about facing that kind of wind on the sea. Once when the trail turned and the wind shifted, coming behind us, John said, “get the spinnaker out!”

Other times the wind was terrifying. I thought about my flagging energy level, which was the second major issue on this hike. My legs felt heavy and lacked bounce. I was even light-headed at times. The more I focused on the difficulty I was having putting one foot in front of the other the worse I felt. The bare summit stood before us, up a boulder-strewn slope that seemed insurmountable. I wondered if I had the energy to turn around and make it back to the parking lot. I really, really wished I had found time to purchase some Gu, or energy gels, which usually make a tough hike achievable for me. Even after all these years (decades?) of half marathons, trail runs, cycling, and life, I’m still learning about managing my energy levels.

Mountain hiking of the sort John and I have done since September is one of the most physically demanding pursuits I’ve encountered. We’ve reached the summits of 19 of New Hampshire’s 4,000 foot peaks, three of Vermont’s 4,000 foot peaks, and four of Maine’s since early September. Twenty six (26!!) significant peaks in five months is not just remarkable for me, it’s been life-changing (rounding, that’s over 160 miles at approx 2 mph, so we’ve spent something like 80 hours hiking).

But darnit, Jefferson would not be inked in the back of my White Mountains Guidebook when we got back to my apartment. We turned around.

My rationalization was that I’m not a real four-season hiker until I’ve tasted defeat. Am I right? It’s also about being responsible and in control, acknowledging that it could be dangerous to me and others to continue when I felt the way I did. The sting is that we were only about a mile from the summit and could see it. And I should have found a place to buy some gels that might have kept me going.

So, what does all this have to do with the title?? I wasn’t cold the whole time (with the exception of my fingertips). With those wind speeds and air temps around freezing, the wind chill was at about zero degrees all day. We saw a couple of other people zipped up to their noses and clad in windproof shells. At least one group we encountered turned around when they got above treeline and felt the wind.

My outermost layers were an EMS Ascent fleece hoodie (full zip) and an EMS poly vest. It made no sense to either of us that I wasn’t cold. Layered under the Ascent hoodie and vest were two EMS techwick “sweatshirts” (quarter zip) — one that’s at least 14 years old and very well worn — and beneath those, a lightweight techwick long sleeve t-shirt. On the bottom I wore my really old Nike winter running tights and (yes, EMS again!) EMS Endo pants (a favorite for cross country skiing), then knee-high gaiters, Hoka boots and Hillsounds spikes.

That’s a total of five breathable layers (plus a cute Patagonia beanie in complimentary colors). The Ascent hoodie has some wind blocking properties, and of course the nylon/poly vest does as well, but they’re not a puffy jacket under a hard shell, which is just what I’d recommend to people contemplating the hike in similar conditions.

I’m mystified. I certainly don’t run hot regularly. My reason for layering this way is actually to be able to vent when necessary. It’s hard for me to follow the dictum to “go out cold” and adjust layers as needed. My primary concern is being able to unzip and breathe when I’m climbing, and I typically unzip most of the layers during our ascents. Getting my insulated Camelbak drinking tube inside one or more layer to keep it thawed is another concern. Yesterday all I had was Nuun tablets in my hydration pack to supply the energy I needed to make it up the mountain and it clearly wasn’t enough.

So, the 9-mile hike with 3600-foot ascent wasn’t a total flop. Maybe Jefferson will be my final 4,000 footer sometime in the spring, just to put the frustrating episode behind me. And now I really do practice what I preach when it comes to self-preservation.

You can’t throw caution to the wind in the high peaks.

Sailing with Starlink

We’re 20 miles offshore of Cape Hatteras, SC, an area known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic. There’s only one other sailboat in view, a blue-hulled speedster that’s pulling away from us in the gusty, 15 mph winds. It’s a gray November day with choppy and disorganized swells, rocking our sailboat one way and bouncing it back. It’s thrilling to be sailing aboard Free Spirit again, southbound offshore, yet there are issues.

This is a trip I dream of: beyond a temporary disconnect from everyday life, it’s a hard reset. The vast stretches of open ocean invite my thoughts and imagination to roam without boundaries. There are no jobs to dress for, no phone ringing, and no dusty apartment clutter to distract me. I packed an engrossing novel alongside half-written books waiting for my attention  and a notebook for collecting sundry scribbled inspiration. After several days offshore there’s  nothing like the feeling of being a mole that comes to the surface, blinking, unaware of what has taken place in the world while it was underground.

Unfortunately another passenger is one I hadn’t anticipated: Elon Musk. Wouldn’t you love to read an article or column that doesn’t mention the billionaire of the moment? Me too. But along with transforming personal transportation and disrupting social media channels, he’s infiltrating my last bastion of peace and solitude: sailing.

When the captain announced that he purchased Starlink I was excited to see how it works. It’s cutting-edge for sailors looking for ways to lengthen their tethers to society. Thanks to Musk’s Starlink system, which the owner of this boat gleefully adopted and installed the day before we left, we can stay connected to the internet via Wi-Fi even when dozens of miles offshore. 

Captains looking for crew are advertising their Starlink systems in order to get the upper hand over boats that are not connected. The technology is enabled by thousands of little satellites that pepper the skies. Apparently Musk and the U.S. government have also  provided the technology to Ukrainians fighting the Russian invasion. While I was intrigued by Starlink I never imagined I’d be fighting its invasion of my quiet time at sea.

The first impact of the Wi-Fi removed the anticipatory stress of packing and planning. I  don’t have to download books to an iPad before traveling, nor do I need to lock in a return ticket home — now I can do all these things from the rocking cockpit of the boat. It allows me  to video call my grandchildren to show them the dolphins keeping pace at the bow. Sadly, I’m reporting that Starlink works perfectly along the east coast, even 30 miles offshore. It allows me to procrastinate at sea as well as I do at  home.

The uninterrupted connectivity removes one of the last links to the tradition of sailors making a leap into the unknown, crossing vast empty spaces on a sail and a prayer. Starlink’s transformative effect on sailing is underscored by my usual lack of sailing tech. This  summer I sailed my own 25-foot sailboat in Rhode Island and to Cape Cod. My boat,  Esmeralda, is a low-tech, bare bones vessel, with almost no electronic gadgets at all. In fact, an issue with wiring the boat’s single car-sized battery left me with no FM radio, navigation devices, or lights for most of the summer. I got by just fine with a battery-operated lantern and a phone app for navigating. It made me feel like a purist, closer to traditional sailing.

On this larger (55 foot) sailboat we are surrounded by wind and speed gauges, an auto pilot, satellite communications gear, and computer chart plotter, all standard equipment for sailing hundreds of miles along the coast. The cockpit feels like a NASA control room full of gauges and screens to monitor. But do we also need Elon tagging along? Joshua Slocum is surely turning in his grave.

The captain justifies Starlink as a safety measure. With it he can pore over weather maps and communicate with experts easily, routing around bad weather or staying in port to wait out storms. The boat is his home, he explains, and he doesn’t want to take unnecessary chances. Its primary use is not emergency connections, which we have Iridium and AIS devices for. He said it will help him when he’s on the hook in US ports and the Bahamas, where communications are sketchy and laborious to maintain.

Also, boats this big need constant maintenance. When I applauded the captain for replacing a bad starter engine on his generator he demurred. I’m not that smart, he said, I’m  just YouTube smart. Certainly, engine repairs or troubleshooting systems are more easily accomplished with instantly accessible online resources. The alternative is time consuming jury rigging or doing without until reaching a marina office with Wi-Fi. Perhaps Slocum would empathize. 

The captain also mentioned, with great amusement, that Starlink’s coverage is so good that another boat’s crew was able to watch the Packers game live while crossing the Gulf Stream toward Bermuda.

So, when that other speedy boat was alongside us, out here in the formerly  disconnected and  untamed blue ocean, we chatted with them via VHF radio. We asked where they were going and shared recommendations of warm island destinations for riding out the winter. The other sailboat captain confided that he has Starlink so he can continue to work while anchored deep in the Bahamas.

I’m adding my voice to those lamenting that it’s become impossible to be free of screens, email, and corporate expectations anywhere anymore (while simultaneously happy to have Starlink when we get stuck in a coastal harbor waiting out bad weather). The worst part is, during my night watch when I sneak out on deck to gaze at the canopy of twinkling stars above I can’t help wondering which of them is a Starlink satellite.

On the other hand, I can’t help wondering if I can write off the purchase of a system so I can bankroll my explorations by land and by sea next summer..

Solo sailing and leveling up

I gathered a bunch of snacks by the companionway door, put a bottle of water and a couple of store-bought iced teas with them … and a pee cup. I was off on my first solo coastal sailing trip, from New Bedford MA to Newport RI, not nervous as much as wary that I had likely overlooked a few details. Like having my handheld VHF nearby. At least I had my PFD on (for the first time on my 10 day boat-based vacation).

Sure, this isn’t the solo around-the-world voyage of Joshua Slocum (pre-1900) but it’s an important first step for me. I bought the sailboat last summer and have learned a LOT. It challenges my decision to seek experiences that expand my world and test my skills. The first step was deciding not to wait for someone to have a day off to sail with me.

When I told my yacht club’s salty commodore that I planned to sail to Martha’s Vineyard, he said, “That’s more sailing than most people in this club ever do!” But why own a boat if you don’t use it to go to the places you love? So with John’s help and support Esmeralda made it to the Vineyard in a casual, three-day trip punctuated by a moment of horror when in Wood’s Hole a megayacht’s wake broke over the cabin top. But that was soon forgotten as we had an amazing vacation: going to concerts, skinnydipping, stargazing on the deck, and biking around the island all week.

When he and Grace had to go back to work on Monday I took a deep breath and stepped up. I wasn’t going to wait for someone to meet me in New Bedford. I’d done this leg along the coast several times and it was pretty straightforward (just once with Grace on Esmeralda but many times in the past with my ex-husband on our Catalina 36, Ceilidh). In fact it was probably the best opportunity for a solo trip. And I have to thank all of those who participate in the Women Who Sail social media page that boosted my confidence.

Leaving New Bedford went like clockwork. I got my fenders and docklines stowed like I’d done this all before. I got through the hurricane barrier as the incoming tide slackened. I knew my route. I reassured myself this was just like sailing with Grace or John or Terry because I was still calling the shots. Of course I know how to sail it by myself. And nobody argued with me.

After turning into the wind and raising my mainsail, I pointed Esmeralda, my Catalina 25, down the channel toward the west end of Buzzard’s Bay. I had put a lot of thought into my route given that the NE wind that blew us into New Bedford the day before had clocked around to SW, directly on the nose. There’s nothing that can be done about the wind but to plan accordingly. I hoped to cross the bay with the wind on a starboard reach, then turn west and keep it just to port.

It was a Monday, so boat traffic was light. In fact I saw no commercial ships to speak of, just a few large pleasure craft (sailing and powering). As I neared the Elizabeth Islands I considered going through Robinson’s Hole, the gap between two of them, to get south of Cuttyhunk and make Newport more of a straight shot west. I still wish I had. Instead I stayed north of Cuttyhunk and got a bit hung up on the Hens and Chickens rocks outside of the Westport River. I just couldn’t steer southwest enough – into the wind – to clear them, so I had to tack close to Cuttyhunk to get around them. That took a bite out of my allotted travel time.

Traveling alone was pretty boring. There wasn’t much to distract me, and the coastal milestones crept by at a glacial pace. I’d avoid looking to the north as much as possible so I didn’t have to see that the same town was still in approximately the same place I’d seen it 15 minutes before. I had to remind myself that I was making progress.

The wind wasn’t as strong as I’d hoped but the waves were small. I had steered through some gusty stuff getting the boat up to 7 whole knots a few times (woohoo!), and wanted more of that to make the passage quicker. I knew the tradeoff would be more stress but once the hours started to mount I worried about getting to Newport while there was light enough to navigate. All of the currents were with me but my rig just isn’t tall enough to push my boat very fast when there’s less than 10 or 12 knots of consistent wind. I was averaging about 3.5 kts. The trip would be just about 40 nautical miles. And I was relying on my phone for the entirety of my electronic navigation.

I hated to do so but cranked up the engine before I reached the Sakonnet River, east of Newport. It was nearly 5 p.m., I’d been out there about 7 hours, and I knew I still had some distance to travel. The push from the engine, in addition to the sails, put me at or over 5 kts. I got to the east entrance to Newport around 7 p.m. with a big tanker looming over my left shoulder. It was dusk. So of course this is when my phone froze and I had to dive below to turn on my running lights. That way I’d be legal in the eyes of the Coast Guard even if I got crushed by the massive ship bearing down on me.

Then I had to find and secure my mooring in the dark. So. Much. Fun.

In the middle of the channel between Jamestown and Newport I looked up and saw a sliver of moon over the fading colors of the sunset. I had to grab a photo to remember that night. It turned out beautifully.

My daughter Paige and granddaughter Alice met me in Jamestown for a sleepover on the boat. Rowing them out to the mooring distracted me from the feeling that I still wanted to vomit from the stress of the trip.

As we rocked to sleep my headache dissipated, my shoulders relaxed, and my arms stopped aching from the day-long death grip on the tiller. I laid there feeling full – of happiness or pride or something else I’m unfamiliar with — knowing I’d done it.

Life After Fitbit

I was leaning over the back of my boat, trying to start the outboard when my watch popped off and dove in. Within seconds it had slipped beneath the coffee-colored water and disappeared.

Thus began Life After Fitbit.

When the watch was gone I felt badly but not too badly. One of my daughters was right next to me – she’d arranged it as a group gift for someone (me) who doesn’t want anything but can’t get enough of fitness gizmos and data. That’s the part that made me feel bad.

On the other hand, literally, it was a relief of sorts to lose the watch. I write about data brokers hoovering up personal info online so I know that extensive amounts of biometric data collected by the maker of Fitbit is a goldmine. In fact, the company probably was interested in collecting personal data when they dreamed up this watch. I can just imagine the marketing meeting:

“We make a watch that monitors the wearer’s heart rate and calorie burn, and people will give us all of their personal information just to use it. And they’ll pay us, too!”

“Nah, no way. Nobody’s that dumb.”

Well surprise, surprise, Google saw the potential in Fitbit and paid more than $2 billion for the company. They’re not in the business of just helping folks trim their waistlines through data.

Honestly the watch was a bit of a pain to use. Yes, it tracked my calorie burn, the number of hours I slept, my location, and a lot about my activities. Getting it to start tracking and stop tracking when I was biking was a pain – and only worked correctly about half the time. Still, that was comparable to my Garmin watch and chest strap heart rate monitor, which frequently left gaps in my tracking data due to a poor fit (sorry, I was breathing at the time).

Last summer I had to step back and wonder WTH I was doing when I left on an average weeknight ride with a Fitbit on my wrist, a heart rate monitor on my chest, and a similarly aggravating Garmin Edge mounted on my handle bars (I’ll have to write about the latter cluster sometime – don’t buy an Edge until you read it). Really, how much personal tracking data is really necessary, and is there a point when the ride or run or hike becomes more about the numbers than the enjoyment?

Over time I completely stopped trying to track my activities on the Fitbit and just used it for overall calorie burn and general activity levels. Under these conditions I decided it had benefits. I learned that my sedentary days resulted in only about 1,600 calories burned, but if I biked 8 miles it easily shot above 2,000 calories. And when I was skiing hard last winter I saw my heart rate top out at 182 bpm without passing out or bursting my aorta, which was kind of cool.

As a woman of the 80s for whom dieting was a complete lifestyle, I’m here to say that a fitness tracker isn’t the only tool you need to lose weight if that’s your objective. I actually gained weight while skiing my arse off last winter, watching my daily calorie burn soar above 2,200. That’s because I came home and shoveled pasta in my mouth — although I was eating fewer calories than I burned it was the wrong food at the wrong time. I’m not sure there’s a tracker that will jump between the fork and your mouth to prevent dumb decisions like that.

Still, $10 a month for monitoring is a lot to spend to have a machine tell me “get up and keep moving” and I have unanswered questions about how it recorded 11,000 steps one day aboard a sailboat. Seriously.

Now that my wrist tan has filled in and I’ve been a couple weeks without my tracker I wonder how many calories my Fitbit is burning on its swim? Bon voyage.

Finding My Free Spirit – and a UFO?

When I heard the engine start I jumped out of bed and pulled my pants on. Stumbling around I had trouble locating my glasses. The floor was definitely moving – and no, I wasn’t under the influence.

When I arrived on deck after my brief nap the captain was at the helm. “Thunderstorms over there,” he said. I looked across miles of empty dark ocean to see the clouds flicker and go dark again.

Then he instructed me to hold the course while he went out on deck to wrestle the whisker pole off the genoa, which is the big “accelerator” sail in the front of the boat. We needed the ability to bring in that sail if the winds got crazy. I held my breath, running through the list of steps to take if he went overboard.

It was a lot to take in, especially while still waking up. Then I had to wait patiently for him to casually coil some line and secure it to the “granny bars” at the mast before making his way back. It was clearly his thinking time, when he was looking ahead to our strategy for dealing with changing weather. I wanted action — NOW! — and had to relearn that impatience is rarely the way to deal with a situation.

Crewing on sailboats is something I’ve always wanted to do. As usual I only thought about the positive outcomes or experiences. I tend to forget that failure and hardship are the best teachers – and that I would meet them along the way.

This story is not about my boat, which is a smallish 25 foot Catalina that definitely is not going to be out sailing miles offshore in the middle of the night. This is about Free Spirit, a 55-foot Tayana, which I was lucky enough to crew on. We were two days out of Stuart, Florida, somewhere 600ish miles north, 60 miles off the Carolinas in the Gulf Stream. We were heading home to Massachusetts, a trip of about 1,100 miles.

Tried fishing in the Gulf Stream, caught a lot of sargasso weed and lost a lot of lures

A few of the many lines on Free Spirit

I make ugly burritos but when you’re busy sailing they’re easy to grab

It’s not a simple boat like my Catalina 25; there are at least 6 drums on the mast

Getting acquainted with Free Spirit

At the dock in Stuart FL

Plenty of time to look at clouds and wonder — do you see the cormorant drying its wings?

There was a nice long green flash after this sunset

Not the UFO, just a sunset

That busted snatch block shows the winds and seas were nothing to sniff at.

wild ponies in Beaufort NC

A year ago I chucked portions of my life in order to rebuild it with lots more opportunities for exploration and excitement, and this was a big one. I was aware rebuilding it wouldn’t be easy, but I don’t want easy. Easy is living in Florida where there are literally no hills, no steps – life on one level! Everything is air conditioned and soft and comfortable, with few challenges, except perhaps where to go for happy hour. That’s not the life I want. Having the ability to jump into this crew position and to spend time with people doing fun and challenging things is more than worth it. I freed myself from the things that were holding me back and dove head-first back into life. I don’t regret it.

Last year’s trip to Alaska and buying my own boat were the first steps of my new life. Offshore crewing checks another box.

When the sailing was boring – just the indigo blue of the water and pale blue sky in sight – I thought about how few years I have to chart my own course. A decade, maybe two? It doesn’t seem like enough. Fortunately Free Spirit’s owner is a good role model, a liveaboard sailor well older than I am who has had many careers and is always looking for new challenges. I need to hang with more people like him and fewer who are full of negative-nanny advice while devoid of actual experience.

As my brother says, “tell her ‘no’ and she’ll do it twice!”

After just a few hours on Free Spirit I knew I could trust this boat and its captain. It’s solidly built and well-equipped. The captain, with whom I spoke many times before our meeting, is experienced and safety conscious. The boat is his home so he treats it well by using high-quality components and doing things like checking engine filters and fluid levels regularly – proactively, before anything goes wrong. I asked to crew so I could learn about sailing beyond my comfort zone, and there we were, at 3 am, many miles from my comfort zone.

While I always thought I wanted to live aboard a large sailboat, I had second thoughts during this trip. Many of the lines used to control the sails (and there are so many) mostly do not lead back to the cockpit. The drums for securing the mainsail and other components like the whisker pole are located on the mast. That means a lot of the work has to be done outside of the cockpit, even when far offshore and in iffy conditions. When conditions get concerning for a boat this big (55 ft) it’s time to listen to your gut and pull back. Still, between the captain’s calm demeanor and the ship’s sturdiness I never felt unsafe.

When he left the cockpit, the captain clipped his harness onto a lifeline and started walking (carefully) to the mast, holding onto fixed points as he went. The deck was all lit up by halogens above, on the “spreaders” that extend from the upper mast like skinny wings. The dark ocean was rushing past and we rose and fell with the swells. Lightning showed through the clouds every few seconds. I couldn’t help but think about the 84-foot mast and how we were the only boat out there for miles around, essentially a lightning rod.

Tired and wary of the pitching deck, he managed to unhitch the 8-foot aluminum whisker pole from the edge of the genoa, about 10 feet above the deck. I started breathing again when he was back in the cockpit beside me. But that wasn’t the end of the challenges. It was still the middle of the night, and the conditions were deteriorating. Ships were showing up on the radar around us. It was tense, and would be for many more hours.

Sailing can be hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror. That was true for this trip. We motor-sailed a lot due to low wind, which is monotonous. Then in the middle of the second night we ran up on a couple fishing boats (seen on radar) that we had to steer around. Fortunately the captain was alert and took it all in stride.

Not long after, something really interesting happened. We both saw a red light cross our path from west to east. I was alarmed at first, thinking it was a freighter, but it was moving too fast and, as it approached, it was well above the water. My second guess was a helicopter. I said that to the captain, who agreed but noted there was no sound associated with the light.

Because it was pitch black out there, we had no way of guessing how close the light source was to us. It appeared suddenly and didn’t change size, so I assumed it was on a steady course west-to-east. Then it got weirder.

As we watched the light move across our path to the east it suddenly bounced up several degrees, bounced again, and disappeared in the dark.

We talked about it afterward, trying to figure out what we’d seen, but had no explanation. The next day got too interesting, weatherwise, to revisit the strange event, and it was forgotten. UFO? Maybe just another good sailing story.

The last time I did a blue water (open ocean) passage like this was about 12 years ago, on the return leg from Bermuda to Annapolis MD aboard a 60-foot Swan, a luxury racing yacht. We set the course in Bermuda and basically didn’t touch the sails for a couple days. Unfortunately I was on the dogwatch in the middle of the night when we approached the Gulf Stream, notorious for big waves and ocean-created weather systems. I could see a thunderstorm in the distance, and we were sailing directly into it. I alerted my crewmate who opted to do nothing. When we entered the storm and squall winds laid the boat on its side the captain emerged from his cabin in his skivvies and adjusted sail with some choice words for the crewmate who didn’t act. We continued on, that being the most exciting part of the trip.

My trip on Free Spirit offers more to remember.

Our bleary-eyed scramble to control the sail lines and stay on course was just a taste of what the day would bring. The wind and big genoa sail were overpowering the wheel: I couldn’t keep the boat from doing 360-degree spins and couldn’t understand why the compass would start spinning and I had no control at the helm. It was maddening. By 10 am, both exhausted from navigating through steep 10 foot waves and wild wind gusts up to 40 knots, we decided to head in to Morehead City NC rather than push through the unpredictable weather any longer. High winds had blown apart a heavy snatch block that one of the big genoa lines ran through. That was a sobering sight. I’ll always remember that line whipping against the deck but I had no idea of its power until I saw that broken component.

After 3 days of short watches and napping in the cockpit we were aware that we didn’t have the energy to deal with situations like that much longer. The forecast was for more of the same squally, wind-against-waves weather.

The high seas didn’t abate until we were within an hour of Morehead City, which is near Beaufort, NC. We’d made it over 650 miles. But now we’d hunker down at anchor and hope for a clear weather window to continue the trip north.

After we rested Beaufort was fun, all beaches and barrier islands and wild ponies on the shore. We spent a couple days exploring and looking for a weather window but in the end I rented a car, got on a flight, and returned to reality, reluctantly.

I had a taste of Free Spirit and will be back for more.

Sailboat ownership: the other story

On Sunday my daughter Grace and I rounded Fort Adams in Newport RI and turned up into Narragansett Bay. The weak onshore wind picked up at about the same time, giving my sailboat, Esmeralda, a nice lift. We shifted the sails to wing-on-wing and noticed the speed kick up to over 6 knots.

We high-fived.

Yes, it’s silly to celebrate moving at a pace slower than you’d normally ride a bike (6 kts is almost 7 mph) but it had been a long weekend of sailing and motoring. By the time we parked Esmeralda we’d covered 75 nautical miles in two days. Most of it was in disorienting fog that required steering by compass. And all was done without a radio to distract or entertain us.

We were also celebrating our adventure’s impending end. We were tired and bruised and a little stressed out.

Sailing is awesome. Sailboat ownership is another story.

Soon after we settled into the downwind run I needed to lift the engine in its mount so we’d have less drag. We didn’t need it on this multi-hour run up the bay.

Lifting the 100+ pound outboard engine is no mean feat. I wrap a thick rope around the handle of the bracket it’s mounted on. Then I simultaneously kick the bracket with my foot and pull up on the rope to free it from the position it’s locked in. It’s just a little sailing ju-jitsu move performed in a precarious crouch on the very edge of the stern deck over the water. If the bracket cooperates I can then pull up with the rope using all my strength, to get the motor lifted to its highest position.

Times like these I’m grateful for a low center of gravity.

As soon as the engine was moved I had lots of other little tasks to do, like wiping the shadow of winter mold off the interior walls.

Grace had spent a good amount of our voyage trying to hook up the 12 volt battery so we’d have a radio and lights, the few little conveniences (there aren’t many) this boat offers. Oh yeah, and the Coast Guard requires some of them. Unfortunately we had to do without a radio or lights on this trip because the battery and dangling tangle of wires resisted our attempts at logical sorting and connecting. She even consulted a friend with a lifetime of practical experience on boats (he was raised on a houseboat) who didn’t mind having his brain picked at 9am on a Saturday.

I think she gave up just after the time there was a “Z-z-zap!” sound followed by “oops!” I don’t know, I was driving.

So now that I own and maintain a 25-year-old sailboat the way I spend my free time has changed, dramatically.

Youtube videos are my thing now. I watch people pull their boats apart and rebuild them. I consume hours viewing couples who actually make a living by posting videos of themselves dealing with boating issues while living offshore. The former is reality TV for me, the latter is fantasy.

Mostly I spend my time trying to make money to keep Esmeralda afloat. And I’m using a lot of the F-word: “fix this, fix that.”

While I’m substitute teaching at a school this week I’m grateful for time to worry about my big expensive outboard engine. I want to keep it in good health for many years through proper maintenance. So I’m watching more Youtube videos of a large man wearing a ball cap and speaking with a southern drawl as he calmly dismantles an engine.

“Let’s just take these screws out here and pull the pump off,” he says nonchalantly. Then, “ooh, look at that, it’s the impeller, and it’s in bad shape. Look how the old one is worn down compared to the new one.”

In the man’s giant mitt of a hand are two black rubber objects, one nominally round while the other has about six little wings on its sides so it’s somewhat star-shaped. Apparently the round one used to look like the winged one, and its current condition is worse than poor. This prompts the guy to delve deeper into the problem with his outboard engine, removing more screws and dropping additional chunks of the engine off the main structure.

It all seems so ordinary – until I think about it in practical terms.

My outboard is massive. I bought it under duress, so even thinking about it stresses me out. I don’t have a spotless workshop like the one the guy in the video occupies. In fact I don’t know right now how I’ll move my outboard next fall when the sailing season is over. It’s too big for me to manage (it’s roughly my size in height and weight but very awkward to move).

Right now I have to figure out how to lift and lower it on my boat’s rear bracket without destroying the part of the boat it’s mounted on. But I’m also concerned about tiny sea creatures taking up residence in the raw water intake (which cools the engine by running through one of those star-shaped impellers).

Then I have to replace a halyard on my jib. And replace the jib. And a million other little jobs that could be easy or could bankrupt me.

Taken together, owning a sailboat is so overwhelming. There’s so much to think about, so much to stress about. Will the calming effect of sailing counteract all of the stressful parts of boat ownership?

Ask me in September when hurricanes are forming in the South and I have to find a place to haul my boat.

If I were smart I’d stick to sailing on other people’s boats!

One Rock at a Time

How long has it been, 12 years now, or more like 15? There are days I get to the base of this rock and dismount to walk up it, and there are days I give it my best shot.

Last weekend I helped with a girls mountain biking clinic. Most of the kids did okay on our three mile ride, which had some challenging terrain for such a short ride. A couple were beset by lousy bikes (typical sidewalk-type rides with 20 inch tires, too small for their growing legs) and one poor kid had zero confidence. She kept her eyes on the ground when I spoke to her and didn’t even try to ride up or down most small hills or over any obstacles.

Six of them don’t need much help at all, they’ve got the confidence they need to do anything they attempt. But I want to tell that one girl, the one who couldn’t meet my eyes, to keep trying, to consider it successful if she’s able to ride two or three feet further than she did the last time. Because that’s how you get over shit in life. And in my opinion that’s the essence of mountain biking.

When you’re mountain biking you need to focus intently on the ground just a few feet in front of you. This barely allows enough time to react to whatever is coming at you next. Depending on your speed you may have two or three seconds to choose a path through the rocks or get your ass off the saddle to balance for a drop off a rock.

The problem with the rock in the picture is that I know it’s coming long before I get there. It’s the actual and symbolic entrance to Vietnam, one of my favorite MTB destinations. This jagged climb is an indication of what the whole park will be like: tough, unforgiving, and requiring skill.

If I am mentally prepared I attack this rock and hope to get halfway up before I bail off the bike. On a lazy or scatterbrained day I give up before I get there. I don’t attack at all.

That has to end.

This year I’m going to teach myself to climb that rock.

It’s about damned time. I’ve been riding here – and trying to – for a decade, more than most of those girls have been alive. I have a great bike now, one that I know will get me up that rock if I ride it right.

I love Vietnam because it’s close to home but even more because it always holds challenges for me. On my first visit, which I thought would go well because I had a “good” (full squish) bike, I got my ass handed to me. The mud, mosquitoes, and fallen trees blocking the paths were nearly insurmountable. It was a while before I went back.

That was many bikes ago. It was also a few relationships ago. As I’ve aged I’ve actually improved tremendously as a biker. I take more chances. My balance often surprises me as I backpedal among the natural obstacles so I don’t have a pedal strike on a rock. I have tons more confidence. Fallen logs are no longer considered debris that someone should clean up, they’re now fun obstacles to pop over, and I always do.

There are trails that I still find nearly impassible due to rocks but instead of avoiding them I now seek them out. It’s a test to see if I can get a few feet further on them each time I try.

This is what I want to tell that girl. And all of the girls. Keep riding. Don’t give up. Always look for an obstacle to attack and seek to conquer it, one stroke of the pedals at a time.

Best Hikes in Alaska — Must-Have Gear

Alaska is remote and unfamiliar to many of us, so we feel like we have to take absolutely everything we might need just in case there’s no place to pick up gear when we get there. That’s a mistake. I suggest going as light on gear as possible. In fact, my trip improved the minute I dumped a deadweight boyfriend!

Seriously though, my hiking partner and I planned and trained and made lots of lists with the mindset that we’d be far out in the wilderness without resources. That’s not a bad thing, because we were both looking forward to completely unplugging from society and getting serious about our gear helped us cut ties, at least temporarily, with our normal lives.

Anchorage was our jumping off point for all three legs of the trip. It’s a well provisioned city, including a large REI store, some used gear stores, and a big Bass Pro shop. Unfortunately we went shopping almost as soon as we arrived. Bass Pro supplied a lightweight daypack for me, lots of freeze dried food, and monoculars for sighting wildlife. Oh and yeah, bear spray.

The food and daypack were really necessary as the pre-trip packing fell a bit short. We planned for four days at Twin Lakes where we’d be hiking and there was zero opportunity for scrounging provisions. We had one large bear safe for storing food, so everything that had any scent (think toothpaste, chapstick, lotion, and all foods) had to fit in that container. It seemed big when I first got it but planning for four days of meals for two of us made it shrink quickly.

Gaiters, trekking poles, hats, bear spray, a frying pan .. a fishing pole … what’s your essential gear?

Worried about taking the right gear? Beyond the obvious, gaiters were great to have, day packs and bear spray were a must, and a frying pan would have been nice but we were able to borrow one rather than having to carry it.

Our food planning wasn’t stellar. One day after a long hike I actually ate dry tuna mixed with peanut butter. Mmmm! I got anxious when counting our tiny sachets of instant coffee. We shared a large freeze dried dinner each evening. Fortunately we also brought fishing poles and reeled in two good-sized fish to be cooked over the fire. That made a big difference in stretching our food supply as well as just giving the freeze dried food a break. It gets old real quick.

What kinds of things did we pack and bring?

MSR Pocket Rocket stove, 2 large white gas cans (plenty for 4 days), one pot and one set of cups/bowls.

At least one large Mountain House freeze dried dinner for each night.

A large “tube” of peanut butter (flexible packaging allows more to fit in the bear can).

Lots of little instant coffee sachets and a ziplock bag of instant capuccino.

Foil packets of tuna.

Rice, plain oatmeal in ziplock bags (cooked oatmeal mixed with peanut butter is a great breakfast)

Miscellaneous Larabars and protein bars (plan for 2 each per day)

“Freeze dried” granola with blueberries for breakfast (best with warm water!).

What’s not here? Bread or crackers. They just couldn’t be squished into our food container. Most fruit and vegetables were also impossible to take (but we’d try to make up for it when in town). Some dinners had freeze dried veggies but our favorites were Pad Thai and Lasagne, as both were flavorful and plentiful. Thumbs down for any freeze dried egg product for breakfast. Yuck!

Eating this way for a couple weeks changed me. There really was no snacking unless we were on a long hike and nibbled on an extra LaraBar along the way. We were ravenous when we got back to camp, ergo the tuna/peanut butter combo was fine with me! We drank tons of water. Due to the veggie shortage that’s what we ate in town — so I was feeling really trim and fit by the end of the trip!

Clothing/Shoes

Short pants aren’t really a thing in Alaska even in July. I think we wore the same basic hiking pants/shirts day after day but changed socks and underwear more often (right there you can save space and weight by skimping on clothing). The temperature was also pretty comfortable until we got wet and cold on the Kenai Peninsula. Both of us were pretty happy with our regular hiking shoes/boots but a pair of crocs or water shoes for in camp is a great idea too.

Key items:

windbreaker/rain jacket with pit zips for ventilation

windblocking fleece (full zip)

polypro shirts and ripstop hiking pants

knee-high gaiters

non-cotton socks and sock liners

non-cotton underwear

hats (amazingly we both had headnets for bugs but they weren’t a problem so we never used them)

Are ankle-high hiking boots necessary? Maybe not. I wore some Merrell hiking shoes with an integrated “sleeve.” They’re super comfy and keep dust/pebbles out BUT take a while to dry. The gaiters were a solid addition because bushwhacking is a significant part of hiking in AK.

After the dance party in the mud that was Salmonfest on the Kenai Peninsula I have been jonesing for XtraTuf boots.

Tents

The Sorting Hat tent (an ultralight AliBaba tent that I got used for about $100) earned its name on this trip. It’s a pyramidal-shape one-person tent supported by a trekking pole in the center. No joke it looked just like the Harry Potter sorting hat as it swayed in the breeze on the shore of Twin lake. It was also a bit temperamental. While it was nice to have the vestibule space for my pack the mosquito netting seemed extra-flimsy (especially when there was a porcupine on the other side of it). Thanks to its size and ultralight weight I will definitely use it for bikepacking but the jury’s out for future hiking/adventure travel.

The second tent was a one-person REI Quarter Dome. It’s easy to assemble with just one pole structure and can be picked up and moved as long as there are no stakes in the ground. It seemed sturdier than the sorting hat as it maintained its shape under all conditions and was easier to dry out too. (Because it was tough to stake in certain soils, the sorting hat tended to collapse on itself in rain and layers stuck together given its flimsy shape/construction). While I love it, the materials is just a bit bulky for carrying it for backpacking or bikepacking.

Bags/Pads

My 20 degree mummy bag was sufficient but the piece of sleeping equipment that made the trip amazing was my pad, an inflatable Sea to Summit with diamond-shaped baffles (that’s key for side sleepers!). I slept better than I ever expected and had little or no hip pain at night. The pad was worth every penny of its approx $150 cost. My hiking partner had a closed cell accordion pad, which looks like it would be annoying to carry (strapped on the outside of his pack) but again, as long as you’re sleeping well it’s worthwhile.

Emergency gear

Bear spray — it’s a given in Alaska, but we never needed it. We bought ours at Bass Pro when we arrived, (of course you can’t take it on commercial airlines), each can is about $50. After a friend told a story about an overzealous visitor spraying it into the wind and clobbering him with the horrible stuff (instead of the bear), we were particularly cautious. But we carried it everywhere. (Read my post about Denali for the reason we didn’t see many bears.)

Garmin InReach — I got one of these devices used from Facebook Marketplace for less than $200. It was a great purchase. The $15/month subscription can be turned off when not needed, which is a plus for me. The InReach allows you to track your hikes and to communicate with family members as well as call for help in an emergency situation even when you’re well out of range of cell phones (but don’t expect Seal Team 6 to show up in minutes, it’s more like the SAR team arrives in a few days to look for what’s left of you). It will be useful on my boat or anywhere I plan to go. HOWEVER, don’t give the contact number to any crazy future exes. Trust me. The last thing you want when you’re hiking to a glacier is hearing the “beep” of incoming messages. And they cost you.

Packs

I spent some time obsessing about the pack I should get: not too big or too small, something with a good belt system.. something I could afford without it being more than 20 years old. After obsessing over details on GearLab.com I found a used $50 REI women’s pack, about 60 liters, that fit well. But I hardly used it! Why? We got everything nicely stored in our packs to fly from Anchorage to Port Alsworth then to Twin Lakes — then we put the packs down and used day packs for our hikes. Same at Denali. Same in Homer. In fact I used this pack more in New Hampshire on training hikes than I did on my entire trip. Keep that in mind.

First aid kit — get one that fits in your daypack and carry it. We didn’t need first aid on this trip but I often add Gu gels to my kit, and those have come in handy on hot mountain hikes.

Water filters — We each carried large Nalgene bottles, and I had a LifeStraw too. My Sawyer mini was just okay for filtering stream water for drinking. It’s a slow process. The Sawyer bag that you scoop the water into is small, so the process of scooping, attaching the filter, and squeezing into your drinking reservoir over and over is laborious. Fortunately it was only really needed at Twin Lakes where there was no dedicated water source (we had a rushing glacier-fed brook between the campsite and the Proenneke cabin). I refuse to risk giardia infection so I filtered everything but my partner drank some unfiltered and lived. I also had water purification tablets in case things got really sketchy but I never used them.

Conclusion

I’m going back to Alaska, and soon. There’s so much to see there and I love being off the grid (heed my warning above about the InReach!). Don’t stress about your gear, just go. You’ll figure it out.