The Sea to Summit Boab 30°F Sleeping Bag is ideal for side sleepers and warm-weather camping, offering exceptional comfort without down insulation—a huge relief for anyone with allergies to feather-stuffed bags. Its roomy design supports active or side sleepers, and a full-length zipper provides customizable ventilation for shifting nighttime temperatures. (It’s also available in a 15°F version for colder sleepers.)

Constructed from recycled materials and featuring PFAS-free water-repellent fabric, the Boab is a sustainable and eco-friendly sleeping bag choice.

MSRP: $129
seatosummit.com

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The repair process is straightforward, with the shop providing an initial assessment of the damaged item after you have completed the online form on its website, followed by a repair quote. Once your project is confirmed, you can drop off your clean gear for repair at The Evergreen Gear Exchange (1003 E Trent Ave., Suite 105 in Spokane). After an item has been fixed and paid for, you’ll be notified​​ to pick it back up at The Evergreen Gear Exchange. Nimbus can also come pick up and deliver your gear for some local projects. Visit the shop’s website at Nimbustw.com for details, including specific items they do and do not work on.  

The post The Inland NW’s New Gear Doctor: Nimbus Threadworks  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Cover photo courtesy of Derrick Knowles

Honestly, the musical genre barely registered when Out There Venture publisher Derrick Knowles invited me and several other riders to bikepack from Spokane to Medical Lake, Washington, for the 2024 Blue Waters Bluegrass Festival in August. It takes very little for me to say “yes” to bikepacking, and since my weekend was free, it was a no-brainer. But the promise of a homegrown, small-town feel with some of the best bluegrass bands around added to the appeal. And I discovered that a music festival has some great perks as a bikepacking destination.

The Blue Waters Bluegrass Festival in Medical Lake, WA, has welcomed musicians and fans from across the U.S. since 2022. World-class bluegrass music is offered at this modest but memorable festival, with camping fees that spoke to my dirtbag heart. The festival’s proximity to Spokane’s urban core promised a pleasant, scenic pedal to buzzing Medical Lake Waterfront Park.

While it would be easy enough to load up the bikes with gear and pedal straight to Medical Lake, there are enough scenic options between downtown Spokane and the lakefront to encourage gravel-centric bikepacking routes through the West Plains and around nearby lakes. Our bikepacking route from Spokane took us south on the Fish Lake Trail, then west through Cheney and Four Lakes, popular areas for gravel biking in Eastern Washington. While spending hours on Ride with GPS finding the best routes isn’t my cup of tea, I’m grateful to have lots of adventure buddies who love this aspect of trip planning and always find interesting, challenging, beautiful routes to take.

Approaching Silver Lake from the east was sobering, as evidence of the 2023 catastrophic wildfires greeted us. Though many homes are being rebuilt, the blackened trees and scorched earth were a stark contrast to the sparkling lake. It’s easy to pedal along, spinning out about the increasing impact that wildfires are having on our beautiful, pedalable home.

With four riders, lots of gear, and plenty of time, we took snack and drink breaks and paused to enjoy wildflowers. I’m assuming the others waited patiently for me to catch up. While much of the weight on my bike was vital camping gear (tent, sleeping bag, festival chair), I needn’t have packed so much food. The best part of bikepacking to a music festival was discovering the diverse food trucks at the venue—an unexpected culinary bonus after a long ride. From Feast World Kitchen’s tofu pad thai to a truck selling hot coffee in the morning, my freeze-dried meals just couldn’t stack up, so they stayed packed away. Since Medical Lake is a delightfully small town with wide streets, it wouldn’t have been hard to pedal into town for a bite or beverage if needed.

Live bluegrass music filled the air all day, from regional acts and local players in the afternoon to national headliners in the evening. The Saturday night headliners, New Dangerfield, were introduced by the festival organizer who calmly assured the audience that in 22 years, they’d never been rained out … even as the inevitable thunderclouds that follow me everywhere gathered on the horizon and rumbled over the rolling hills. My travel companions glared at me as they pulled out their rain jackets. But, I did warn them.

Knowing at least some rain was on the way, our cozy campsite right on the water’s edge was secured with rain flies zipped and bags packed away. We kicked back, enjoyed the music, and watched festival staff and volunteers scramble to right the canopy sheltering the sound system as gusts of wind brought the storm ever closer. The musicians, professional performers, carried on with their set, bringing the audience to their feet with toe-tapping tunes and classic sounds of Appalachia.

Most people camping for the weekend were using trailers and RVs, but those of us sleeping in tents were relieved when Mother Nature left just a few drops and carried the thunder and lightning north instead of raining on our parade. The next morning, as we packed to leave, I was pleased to see musicians young and old gathering at picnic tables and under trees for a series of music workshops—generations sharing their art and carrying on the language of string-based bluegrass for new audiences to discover.

Pedaling away from the bustle of the campground reminded me that bikepacking truly is my favorite way to adventure. The freedom of circumventing crowded parking lots and lines of vehicles, carrying everything I need on my bike, pedaling until I’m tired, then sleeping, then pedaling again, is my perfect adventure. Sharing conversation, suffering, and camaraderie with others turning pedals with (or usually far ahead of) me—there’s just nothing like it.

The 2024 Blue Waters Bluegrass Festival (August 8–10 in Medical Lake, WA) is just one of many bikeable music festivals in the Inland Northwest. The region boasts a lineup of events for various genres, schedules, camping experiences, and price points. These festivals are well-supported, with camping, restrooms, concessions, and other comfort amenities. They offer community and something to look forward to during your miles of pedaling—and they’re typically close enough to “somewhere” that you can access an easy exit strategy if things go sideways.

If bikepacking has been on your “want to try” list, find a fun, local festival, pull whatever bike you have out of the garage for a quick tune-up (at least lube the chain and pump up the tires), throw a tent and a sleeping bag in a backpack or some panniers, and get out there—bikepacking to festivals is the perfect blend of adventure, music, and outdoor culture.

Carol Corbin is looking for ways to monetize the rain that follows her on all her outdoor adventures, having recently achieved international notoriety by breaking an unseasonable dry spell with four days of biking in England.

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By Holly Weiler 

Cover photo courtesy of Holly Weiler

Outdoor enthusiasts know that there is no bad weather, only inappropriate gear and clothing. There is no need to put away the camping supplies just because it’s below freezing and there’s a little snow on the ground! That choice campsite that is impossible to reserve in the summer is most likely wide open for winter, and a willingness to try winter camping leads to opportunities to recreate farther afield at a low cost. 

Gear You’ll Need 

While a four-season tent is a definite upgrade for winter camping, it is also possible to use a three-season tent for all but the most challenging winter conditions. A closed-cell foam sleeping pad helps reflect and retain heat and should be placed on top of an inflatable pad if using both for extra cushion. Check the temperature comfort rating on sleeping bags against forecasted low temperatures, but the temperature rating of a three-season bag can be improved through the use of a silk or fleece bag liner inside the sleeping bag, and with a minimalist bivy over top. If car camping, there’s no reason not to toss in some extra blankets, too! 

Where to Go 

Test your gear system by trying a night in your own backyard or at a nearby campground that’s open year-round. Many campgrounds have reduced rates for winter. Here are a few fun trip ideas: 

• For those who live in Spokane, Riverside State Park’s Bowl and Pitcher campground is a great place to test winter camping gear. A standard campsite is $25 and can be reserved in advance. Hike, snowshoe, or fatbike the trail system right out of camp. Enjoy heated bathrooms and hot showers when you return from the trail. 

• Lake Roosevelt National Recreation Area maintains year-round access to Spring Canyon, Fort Spokane, and Kettle Falls campgrounds. Reservations are required, with a winter rate of $11.50. The best recreation opportunities will be a short drive away from each of these sites, although shore fishing (and beach walking) are available from camp.  

• A favorite shoestring-budget ski trip to Mission Ridge includes a night at Wenatchee Confluence State Park. A standard campsite is $25. No reservations needed, seldom full, and Mission Ridge is just 30 minutes away. Nearby Squilchuck State Park is groomed for fat bikes and has a sled hill.  

• Grant County PUD maintains several campgrounds for year-round camping access, with fees ranging from $15-20 for a standard campsite. Campgrounds are located close to the Columbia River at Sand Hollow, Rocky Coulee, Priest Rapids, and Jackson Creek Fish Camp. Fish from shore or check out nearby trail systems. 

• Steamboat Rock State Park offers standard campsites at $20, with hiking available right out of camp or at nearby Northrup Canyon. 

• Many (but not all) SnoPark locations on National Forest land allow overnight parking and camping, making for great Nordic and backcountry ski or snowshoe outings. Check regulations for your favorite SnoPark location before you go. A popular spot is Sherman Pass on Highway 20, which you will need a SnoPark permit to camp at.  

Holly Weiler is the WTA Eastern Washington Regional Coordinator and “The Trailhead” columnist for Out There.  

The post Where to Go Winter Camping Around the Inland Northwest  appeared first on Out There Venture.

EXPLANATORY STATEMENT 

Bikepacking is a method of recreation that entails riding your bicycle loaded with all of your camp gear across potentially wild terrain to get to and from a predetermined campsite. “The Packfiller Podcast” host and creator Pat Bulger went on his first bikepacking trip last summer, and he did not fall in love. Pat’s “against bikepacking” argument has been met with a spirited rebuttal from Out There’s “Everyday Cyclist” columnist, Justin Short. Read on for a “pro backpacking” argument from cyclist and regular contributor Carol Corbin, who ultimately would choose bikepacking again and again. Carefully review these arguments and make an educated decision on whether bikepacking should be your next great summer adventure. 

AGAINST ARGUMENT: A Cyclist’s first Bikepacking Trip 

By Pat Bulger 

Freedom to explore. At one with nature. Off the grid. Simple. These are just a few of the comments I regularly hear from cyclists who have entered the world of bikepacking. Long gone are the days of “tourists” who would load pound after pound of camping gear, clothing, and personal items onto their bike to slowly, arduously, pedal to some chosen destination to sleep on the ground and painfully do so again the next day. Bikes are lighter. Camping gear is packable and efficient. Bike bags are waterproof, rugged, and creatively designed. Bikepacking is here to stay.  

Then why do I dislike it the way a school librarian dislikes childhood joy? Last summer, I assigned myself the task of an overnight bikepacking trip. I had already purchased most of the equipment needed on, well, let’s be honest here, some random evenings with a glass of adult beverage and an open shopping web browser. The destination was decided upon as a “medium” distance to test everything out, stay the night, experience the “joy,” and pedal home the next day. The destination, beautiful Lake Benewah, was just outside of St. Maries, Idaho, about 45-50 miles each way depending on the route loaded into my GPS.  

Fast forward two days later, in 98-degree heat, on a rear flat tire that I had no energy to change for the last three miles, massive heat exhaustion, a sore back and neck from the “sleeping pad” I endured, GPS mistakes, and, I have to say that bikepacking can, well, take a hike.  

Here are my reasons why I’ll take a pass on bikepacking.  

1. I ride my bike for the feeling that I experienced as a child. The feeling of flying. The wind in my face. The speed. Bikepacking, as a close friend once said to me, is “like you’re a bird who’s had their wings clipped.” A fully-loaded bike with all of my gear was over 50 pounds. Fifty! Why not just give me a classic Schwinn Varsity with rubbing brakes?! Getting out of the saddle to climb, accelerate, or even relieve sit bone pressure was impossible, and maintaining any type of momentum was akin to pedaling with flat tires in tapioca pudding.  
 

2. Camping is great. Heck, even tent camping is great. But, after four hours in the saddle maintaining a scant 14 mph, I would have happily traded for a subpar hotel and a pizza place. Every time I moved the next morning I emitted verbal sounds that could only be described as “old man grunts.” This being said, I do have to attest to the great food and coffee options that have been made available to those adventuring out into the woods. Give me a proper RV and day trips from a campsite instead, please.  
 

3. Once arriving at your destination, there is little chance of obtaining any extra provisions. My wonderful camp host informed me that, should I want to grab some cold beverages or additional snacks, my closest option was a “short 17-mile drive” away. Yeah, I wasn’t about to add 34 miles to my adventure.  

I now fully understand why many bikepacking social media groups I follow tend to have a multitude of equipment for sale. Anyone want to buy some bike bags? 

AGAINST REBUTTLE: “Hold Your Horses, Pat” 

By Justin Short  

Don’t go selling your bikepacking gear just yet—we haven’t even been on an overnight adventure together. But before we go, we’ve got to talk about your route. I think you learned the hard way why you should never ever under any circumstances go bikepacking in the Palouse during the dog days of summer. There’s no amount of water you can carry that won’t be instantly vaporized along with all of the moisture in your body in that treeless hellscape.  

Heyburn State Park is a lovely destination, though, and there’s a much better way to get there when the Palouse has reached the temperature of the sun. Ride out the Centennial Trail to Coeur d’Alene; you’ll probably carry enough speed coasting from the South Hill to get halfway there. Get a good cup of coffee and a devastating pastry at the Bakery by the Lake, then make your way over the saddle to the far side of the lake for a delightfully scenic pedal to Beauty Bay Campground, where you’ll refill water bottles from the crusty old cast iron pump with the most delicious and refreshing water sipped by anyone ever.  

Okay, the climb over Caribou Ridge is a ball-buster, but it’s a cool, shady ball-buster. Ride the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes down to Harrison, jump in the lake, get some ice cream, and then stock up on the much longed-for provisions, such as fizzy beverages and snacks for the return trip. You’re 11 miles from camp.  

And that brings me to my next point: never take directions from the camp host. I’ve listened to a well-intentioned camp host pour over my map for a half hour about some scenic route I needed to take; the map was upside down. Your host obviously wanted you killed if they recommended the 17-mile ride into St. Maries. Never mind the bike, that road is terrifying to drive in a semi. If you’re needing the services of a major metro area, Plummer, Idaho, is much closer, and the entire ride is on the bike trail.   

“Crunchy old man back” is a thing with which I am well acquainted. All I can say is, experiment with air pressure. My wife carries an inflatable body pillow and a feather pillow with her now, and I hear far less grumbling from her side of the tent these days.  

Finally, 14 mph is slow?!! That is literally flying by bikepacking standards. If I ever hit a double-digit average speed, it’s like 10 or 11 mph, tops. And I don’t even want to know how much my bike weighs when it’s loaded, but it’s a lot closer to ALL THE POUNDS than 50 pounds.  

So, let’s set a date during the fair weather for a fun and easy overnighter with the Gravel Braintrustees. I promise, there won’t be much bushwhacking, but one of us will definitely make you laugh so hard you’ll shoot fizzy electrolyte water out of your nostrils. 

FOR ARGUMENT: “People and Puffy Pants” 

By Carol Corbin 

It was only 37 miles, and mostly flat, but after only four “base-building” rides in the last three months, it was a relief to be out of the saddle. My tent, pad, and sleeping bag were set up for the night with clean, warm socks and a cozy base layer. As my travel companions gathered deadfall for a campfire, I wriggled into my puffy pants and was engulfed in warmth. But not just physical warmth. A soul warmth. A warmth that comes from a physically demanding day fading into a magical, starlit night. 

When I discovered bikepacking half a dozen years ago, it combined two things I love the most about being outside. Pedaling a bicycle and having everything I need to survive–and sometimes even be comfortable–in whatever level of wilderness in which I might find myself. Since that first ride with my five-year-old on the Palouse to Cascades Trail, I’ve spent many nights in tents, my faithful gravel bike outside, my dusty Revelate bags crowding around me, and another day in the saddle awaiting when I wake up. 

Over the years, I’ve come to know intimately that bikepacking is hard. Really hard. Throw-my-bike-off-the-side-of-a-mountain hard. On nearly every trip, there is at least one moment when I cry out in anguish, “Why can’t I be indoorsy?!” And yet, I still go. This particular trip, my puffy pants accompanied me on my fifth annual “Fishtrap Shakedown,” where a few intrepid bikepackers pedal from our front doors in Spokane to the “wilderness” of Fishtrap Recreation Area in the channeled scablands for an overnight review of just what this activity requires. 

“Why are you doing this?” For every time I’ve been asked this question by others, I’ve probably asked it of myself at least twice. And it’s hard to put into words. The meditative process of making a packing list, and then assembling dusty, trail-worn and intimately familiar gear, is blissful! As I press sleeping bag and tent into compression bags, zip headlamp and powerbank into a frame pack, and carefully tuck a fuel canister into my steel cup, cushioning it with a wool beanie, I picture myself reveling in the simplicities of life away from . . . everything. Everything but my tent, my bike, my people, and, ultimately myself. 

Through the years, my most memorable and empowering experiences have been bike-based. As have many of my closest friendships, and most memorable transient ones. From Melinda and Sue, my ride-or-dies for years, to Jean, who shared a Canadian campsite with us one night in July on her way to Mexico, these are friends whom I can suffer with, laugh with, cry in front of, and maybe even share a freeze-dried pasta meal with at the end of even the roughest trail days. 

Bikepacking strips away everything that isn’t essential. Not just things like furniture and climate-control, but personal insecurities, body image issues, work and family stressors. When I’m making camp after a long day in the saddle, it’s when I feel the most alive, the most connected, and the most, well, me. 

One doesn’t have to look far to find the cons of bikepacking. There is very little comfort and ease. The trail rarely ends in a cold beverage and a hot meal. There’s cold and wet, hot and dry. Mechanical failures, forgotten niceties and necessities, and no easy outs. Sunburns, bug bites, bear encounters, blocked trails, wet feet, cold fingers, cramped legs . . . the list goes on. There are a thousand reasons not to load up your bike and pedal into the wilds. 

But that warmth of the puffy pants and the friends who are the same kind of crazy as me? I’ll pedal a helluva lot farther than 37 miles for that. 

FOR ARGUMENT: “Bikepacking Magic” 

By Eric Deady 

Bikepacking can mean many things to many people, but for me, the best way to describe it is “transformative.” I have seen magic happen on bikepacking trips. The kind of magic that gives you a warm-fuzzy feeling and forces you to look within for its cause. I have seen nervous wrecks transformed into the kind of peaceful pedalers that we all wish we could be. I have seen bodies and minds transformed in ways that beg the question, why can’t I always feel this good?  

You could chalk it up to endorphins, dopamine, and a soup of brain chemicals, and you would be right to credit our biology for some of it. But not all. There is a magic that I have only been able to see and feel on bike trips that can sustain me for months or even years with its power, and it always leaves me yearning for more.  

So, you want some of that magic, eh? All you need to do is go take it! It’s there waiting for you on the top of mountains after a grueling climb. It’s there when your fingers threaten to stop working from the cold of a long, wet descent. It’s there whispering to you from the trees and rivers and clouds and dirt. It’s there when you least expect it and will always leave you a better person.  

You don’t need much to start bikepacking. Bikepacking, in its most basic form, is a person on a bicycle carrying their own camping gear, food and personal items, usually off of paved roads. How that happens, and with whom, is up to you. Of course, there are some things that can make your journey more comfortable, or less traumatic, but it’s all on a scale, and if we wanted easy, we would get in our cars and drive.  

Get the bike that’s comfortable to ride, and make sure it’s tuned, lubed, and loved. Plan a route that sounds fun, or challenging, or beautiful, and get that route onto your phone or GPS. Pack a backpack, or panniers, stuff sacks, or even burlap sacks full of whatever you might need for the time you’ll be out and start pedaling. Keep your senses alert, and your body in tune.  Be safe and smile. No matter what happens, you will find magic.  

The post The Great Bikepacking Debate appeared first on Out There Venture.

Permethrin, picaradin, DEET, bracelets, candles, lotions, sprays. All I know at 11 p.m. when they whine past my ear and I smack my tentmate in the chest with my headlamp for the fifth time, trying to squash them before they gorge themselves on my blood, is that I. Hate. Mosquitoes.  

My significant other isn’t bothered by mosquitoes. They sometimes bite him, but rarely, and when they do, he says it doesn’t itch. I, on the other hand, am ready to murder someone by the third bite as it swells, gets red, and itches (sometimes for days!). He says it’s because I use bug repellant and he doesn’t, that the chemicals are actually an attractant. But the science seems to indicate that I just smell better. And I’m hotter. To mosquitoes, anyway. 

Mosquitoes are drawn to body heat, exhaled CO2, and kairomones–chemical signals that attract one species to another, for the benefit of the former. These kairomones are sensed using olfactory (smell) receptors. And mosquitoes have olfactory receptors that can sense carbon dioxide, lactic acid, ammonia, organic fatty acids, ketones, aldehydes, alcohols, and esters. The combinations of those smells are a strong attractant for them. There are many other factors at play as well, such as one’s number of skin glands, skin pH, metabolic rate, body mass, one’s breathing rate and intensity, as well as the microbes living on one’s skin. 

Figuring out the right solution to protect your flesh, blood, and sanity gets more confusing all the time. After some research, though, here’s my take on the 411 for avoiding these tiny terrorists on your next outdoor adventure. 

Permethrin 

Uses: A spray or wash-in option for clothes, footwear, tents, sleeping bags… any outer fabric that will be joining you on your trip. The treatment will last through several washes and is a staple for international travelers headed to places where malaria is common. Permethrin is the main ingredient used in clothing that is sold touting insect repellency. 

Pros: The treatment can be done ahead of time. Once fabric is treated and dry, there is no odor. It repels not just mosquitoes, but most other bugs as well. It doesn’t typically damage technical fabrics. 

Cons: The spray or wash is toxic to pets when it’s wet. It can be difficult to ensure thorough coverage with the spray and may take more than one treatment. Manufacturers recommend washing permethrin-treated clothing separately from other clothes, since it is designed for outer fabrics and should be kept away from other articles of clothing like underwear. 

Picaridin 

Uses: Picaridin was developed in the 1980s as a less offensive-smelling option to DEET. It is available in sprays, creams, and wipes. It’s touted as a synthetic compound that mimics substances in plants used to produce black pepper. It’s believed that picaridin works by blocking insects’ ability to sense their prey, but it doesn’t kill insects. 

Pros: It’s odorless. Well, not completely (in my opinion), but almost. Very little of it absorbs through the skin. That which makes it through comes out in urine. Picaridin doesn’t damage clothing and lacks the sticky residue of typical bug repellants. 

Cons: It is mildly toxic to fish. Because it has only been approved in the US since the early 2000s, it’s not as readily available as its prime competitor, DEET. And, in my experience . . . it doesn’t work on mosquitoes. 

DEET 

Uses: This tried-and-true anti-bug chemical has been used for years to keep the skeeters at bay. It comes in sprays, creams, and wipes. But not all DEET-bearing products are created equal. Many products splash “DEET” all over their label, but ultimately contain only 30% of the insect-fighting substance, padding the rest with alcohol or additives that try to mask the caustic smell reminiscent of endless summer nights, sticky sleeping bags, and burnt marshmallows. 

Pros: Simply put, mosquitoes hate it. Even Yellowstone mosquitoes. Even Great Lakes mosquitoes. Even (dare I say it?) Alaskan mosquitoes! They sell it everywhere, so when you run out (like on a kid-friendly, overnight bikepacking trip to Harrison on the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes), it’s easy to replenish. 

Cons: It stinks! It’s easy to understand why the bugs hate it. No one likes it. No one! And it’s sticky. Once you spray it on, you’re committed to being camp-sticky, and stinky, in a big way until your next shower. It can degrade and discolor technical fabrics. You know, like your tent, your hiking boots, your top-of-the-line zip-off hiking pants, and the promotional logos on your swag freebie sunglasses. Some people also have lingering concerns about potential health risks from using DEET, even though the widely-used product has a long track record as a safe and effective topical mosquito repellent.  

While there are plenty of other bug repellant options on the market, from coils to bracelets, crystals, seances, and the blood of a goat, I’m not going to justify those options with space in this magazine. They don’t work. And while you either love or hate DEET, it’s the one thing that reliably keeps the wicked bloodsuckers away, and the only thing I trust with my delicate porcelain peel. 

Carol Corbin commits the first 5-10 minutes of every overnight stay in a tent to hunting mosquitoes with all available light sources, and once carried the slaughtered carcass of a Yellowstone mosquito on her kayak for a full day, just to deter other would-be bloodsuckers from attacking. 

The post The Buzz on Bug Repellant appeared first on Out There Venture.

As we wended our way through recent burn-out, crested to the lake, and set camp alongside the July mosquitos and mayflies, the relief that night would bring was on my mind. We shared a two-person tent, zipped in early to do crosswords, and set the alarms on our phones for midnight.

On past backpacking trips, our exhaustion from hiking had outweighed leaving the tent; the alarm would go off and we’d each agree that stars were stars, and that we should stay in our sleeping bags. But on this hike—damn our midnight selves—we were going to get out of the tent to look at the sky.

It felt more important, perhaps to me, because I saw my brother less often now that we were adults. Because it was the only backpacking trip we would make that summer. Because I expected the wilderness to provide a more transcendental experience than the suburbs.

When our stargazing alarm went off, we donned beanies and coats and stumbled out into the mild July night. We were at 8,000 feet, the sky was clear, and the stars were . . . underwhelming. I thought I could see the Milky Way, if I squinted.

Determined to make an experience of it, I went muddling around camp to find a prop for my phone to take photos of the night sky. I reached for what I believed to be a chunky piece of wood, possibly a good length of pine bark, picked the item up, and then dropped it, immediately, in horror. It took my midnight brain a moment to process: I had just picked up a human turd.

In dream-like disbelief, I returned to where my brother stood and tried to laugh it off as he laughed long and heartily like any brother would at such cosmic, comic misfortune. I tried to forget about the turd. I tried to forget that I did not bring hand sanitizer into the mountains. I took a photo of the Big Dipper, the way it tipped precariously between the summer larches, and compared star photos with my brother. I crawled back into my sleeping bag and tried to go to sleep. But damn if that turd didn’t haunt me and become the most memorable part of my hike. It was seared into the brain-space that I had expected to fill with stars.

I never intended to tell another living soul that I picked up human feces in a beautiful place in the Cascades. In truth, the experience stayed with me and provoked a different sort of wonder: at the impact we humans leave on these wild, distant places, not to mention the close places, and how we might reckon with travel when we expect to find something pure or enlightening and are met with something ugly or unexpected instead.

I still consider stargazing a worthwhile pursuit, which is to say, it will always be worthy to seek a sense of wonder. Chart the constellations; put the next meteor shower in your calendar. Look up, look outward, and look outside of yourself. And maybe prepare for a let-down, since these places we seek are not immune to the everyday pitfalls and waste that life creates. (Though I hope your let-down will look different than mine.)

In this issue, we’ve included a feature on summer stargazing and the many ways you might learn about the stars in our region: from visiting the planetarium at SFCC to using apps that can tell you which stars you’re looking at. We’ve compiled a list of local night hikes and camping spots that are great for one-night stays to catch the stars. Learn what to bring, where to go, and how to judge your light pollution.

I’ll still set my alarm to look at the stars the next time I’m in the backcountry. I feel the experience can only go up from here, after all.

• Lisa Laughlin, Managing Editor

The post An Enlightening Backcountry Encounter appeared first on Out There Venture.

I don’t know about you, but, when I was a kid, I loved making shelters. I think most kids do! Especially after a fresh dump of snow, which offers new possibilities for fun and creativity. If you grew up in snow country, you probably have had some experience of building some sort of snow fortress to ward off the enemy’s attack during a snowball fight. Perhaps you dreamt of creating an ice castle or palace that was your domain to rule.

What seems like child’s play can be an effective way to empower your child with a sense of independence and self-reliance. Practicing snow shelter building instills self-confidence as they fantasize about being king or queen of their world. It can also create memories and family bonds that last of a lifetime! I remember my dad and I hiked somewhere up Snoqualmie Pass, made a simple open-sided snow cave, ate lunch and went back home. I wanted to sleep in it, but we didn’t bring our sleeping bags. A cherished memory made over 50 years ago!

What may be simple, fun, play time now, could also serve as a life-saving survival skill in the event that a future snow adventure goes awry. Building a good snow shelter can be critical in a real-life situation.

Here are some tips to ensure that your snow shelter is safe and effective.

First of all, there are many types of snow shelters. The snow cave, a Quinzee hut (similar to an igloo), or using a tree well have been proven the most effective. Your choice of shelter depends on your situation, time available, the consistency of the snow, and your landscape.

Quinzee Shelter: If you are in a flat meadow area with ample amount of packable snow, and a bit of time on your hands, consider making a Quinzee. It’s the most effective, but takes time to build. Pile snow into a large mound. Poke one-foot sticks over the pile as guides and wait about an hour for the snow to settle. Start digging at the base for your door. Make sure you have a decent arch (not peaked) shape for your roof. Build a sleeping platform inside lined with tree boughs.

Snow Cave: Look for a large snow drift with good packable snow. If you can make a snowman, you’re in luck! Dig your door into the base of the drift. Dig up into the drift and create your cave. The ceiling should be arched and your door lower than your sleeping area.

Tree Well Shelter: If you are in a treed area and need something quick, I’d consider huddling down into a tree well. Dig down until you reach the ground, pack out the walls and cover the bottom with boughs. Put larger tree branches above your shelter to prevent snow from falling in and keep the heat from escaping. Not ideal, but it will get you through the night.

What makes a good snow shelter?

There are a few common items that make a good snow shelter:

• Packed-out walls, at least 1 foot in thickness
• The ceiling should be smooth, so as not to create a drip point
• Arched ceiling (remember, “flat goes splat!”)
• Roof is not peaked and does not have a lot of heavy snow on top
• Appropriate ventilation
• Door opening placed 90 degrees from prevailing winds
• Raised sleeping area (heat rises, while cold air goes down and out)
• 6 inches of tree boughs to insulate you from the ground

In a survival situation, take care not to sweat while making your shelter! Once your clothes are wet and you stop moving, your core temperature can drop and cause hypothermia. Always wear wool, as wool will help you stay warm even when wet.

So, get out and go play in the snow no matter what age you are! Spend time with your kids and practice making shelters. If you believe your shelter is safe (you could let it set overnight to see if it holds), then take the challenge and sleep in it. Learning these skills are fun and may save you or your child’s life.

Karie Lee Knoke is a wilderness/primitive skills instructor and founder of Sacred Cedars Wilderness School in Sandpoint, Idaho. She was a contestant on the reality survival TV show, Alone Season 9, on the History Channel. Go to www.karieleeknoke.com for more information, or follow her on Facebook @SacredCedarsWildernessSchool or Instagram @Karie_Lee_Knoke

Cover photo courtesy of Fiona Hicks Photography

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Perform Basic Maintenance

Test your battery and check your wiper blades and windshield washer fluid. Now is a good time to get any windshield chips fixed before they crack and spread. Check all of your vehicle’s other vital fluids or take it to a shop for an oil change,  tune-up, and coolant and brake check. Replace the bulbs on any headlights and any other lights that are out.

Inspect Tires

Check your tire tread depth (or have a tire tech check) and if they are nearing the end of their functional life, consider a new set of all-season or winter-specific snow tires. If you’re not confident driving in snow, many tire experts recommend getting snow tires. While studded snow tires are typically not necessary for all-wheel-drive vehicles, they may be a good option for two-wheel-drive cars and trucks.

Dial in Your Vehicle Recovery Kit

If an epic powder day turns into a parking lot disaster, being prepared will allow you to extract yourself or others from unplowed snow or ice. Pack these recovery gear essentials to be ready for the worst.

• A snow shovel (full-sized is best, but even an avalanche shovel will be a welcome tool when you need it).
• Chains or snow socks (fabric covers that go over your tires to create traction) for your vehicle.
• A solid tow strap made specifically for towing.
• Maxtrax or some other kind of recovery boards or rubber traction mats to help you get unstuck from snow.
• Jumper cables for the inescapable time when you or someone else has a battery that’s given up.
• Extra windshield wiper fluid. Inevitably an ice storm or blizzard is going to hit that day you or someone else uses the last drop of ice-melting windshield fluid. And don’t forget an ice-scraper tool.

Pack an Emergency Supply Kit

If you end up stuck in deep snow or stranded along the side of the road, these items may make all the difference between a comfortable delay and a miserable ordeal.

• Extra drinking water and food.
• Blankets, sleeping bags and hand warmers.
• Extra jackets and warm clothing.
• First-aid kit to be ready for any minor injuries.
• Flashlight/headlamp with extra batteries.
• A backpack to put your food, water, and other emergency gear inside in case you have to walk to find help.
• Road flares.
• A good book.

The post Getting Your Adventure Vehicle Ready for Winter appeared first on Out There Venture.

This pack addresses one of the most common issues with large seat packs (wagging or flopping from side to side as you’re riding) by including a light-weight aluminum rigid rack to hold the bag in place in the roughest conditions. When I installed it, instead of reading the directions, I installed the rack upside down and then got frustrated that I couldn’t tighten it enough to eliminate movement. Until I realized the included heavy-duty straps loop through the platform of the rack, through the sides of the bag, and overtop of the seat rails to hold everything solidly in place.

The 15L capacity is enough space for a cold-weather sleeping bag, my favorite inflatable Sea to Summit pillow, base layers and change of socks, and a lightweight puffy—so, my entire sleep system, with an easy “compression sack-packing” technique. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for my original Revelate set-up, and the Terrapin will be my back-up. But this Roswheel bag is the bee’s knees of bikepacking gear, and I’d recommend it to pretty much anyone!

Carol Corbin

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