1 – Limbo. On the Idaho side, getting to the rim requires eight miles of trail time over the well-maintained Seven Devils Loop trail. Looking for something less committing than the out and back? The 26-mile Seven Devils Loop is spectacular and worth a trip in its own right. Photograph by Steve Graepel

42 miles, 18,000 feet of climbing, and a swim across the Snake make North America’s deepest canyon a lofty goal.

The Grand Canyon gets all the attention: it’s dramatic, beautiful … a natural wonder. It’s well deserved. But here in Idaho, we know that Hells Canyon is steeper and deeper, taking home the prize for North America’s deepest canyon. Scratching the itch, I dug a little to find it hasn’t been run before. More so, it hasn’t been done out-and-back. I was game to find out why.

2 – Lust. Ten miles as the crow flies, the route is anything but direct. Rarely visited, the official trail braids into game trails and is obfuscated by washout and overgrowth. Expect aimless navigation through Class II bushwhack after the McGaffe Cow Camp at 5,600 feet. Photograph by Steve Graepel

The adjacent rims sit at just over 8,000 feet (Idaho), and at 5,600 feet (Oregon), spanning a void of 10 miles. Sitting inside a National Recreation Area, getting to either rim requires a committing approach: eight miles from the Windy Saddle trailhead in Idaho and another two or so from Hat Point, Oregon.

3 – Gluttony. One way, traversing from Idaho to Oregon will cost you 21 miles, 8,000 feet of climbing and 10,000 feet of knee-jarring descent. Trekking poles aren’t a bad idea. Photograph by Steve Graepel

The “route” itself tumbles down a staggering five ecosystems with a mixed bag of manicured alpine trails, trailless bunchgrass, and scrubby desert canyon scrambles. Point-to-point, Idaho to Oregon will run you 21 miles, 8,000’ of climbing, and a bonus 10,000’ of knee-jarring descent. Out and back, well, you get the picture…its a big ditch!

4 – Greed. People have tried to eek out a living in the canyon’s basin for over 11,000 years: Ppehistoric, Native Americans, homesteaders and most recently ranchers. In the end, the canyon takes it all back. Photograph by Steve Graepel

And then there’s the river. Though dammed, the Snake drains all of the Snake River Plains, drawing from the Owyhees, Jarbidge, Sawtooths, and Tetons. In spring, it can flow upwards of 60,000cfs. Fall, with depleted snow reserves, is much more forgiving at 15,000cfs. But its drought waters still run swift with Class III and IV rapids. Navigating the Snake requires a boat or swim … or if you are lucky, hitching a ride with passing-by jetboat.

5 – Anger. The Snake River is the watershed for much of southern Idaho, northern Nevada, and the Tetons. Even in fall, it can flow as much as 15,000cfs. If you are lucky, hitch a ride across with a float crew. But be prepared to swim it well above objective hazards. Photograph by Steve Graepel

Going for the double was fairly ambitious and included an unplanned bivi under the shelter of thunderheads. A more reasonable trip would be for two parties to start simultaneously at either side and make the high-five key-swap at the river. The crux? Hells Canyon is a Roadless Wilderness—a 200-mile drive separates the 10-mile gap.

6 – Heresy. The view from Hat Point lookout tower gives bragging rights and dramatic perspective. Most parties will tackle the traverse in three to four days. Going for it in a day required an unorthodox approach…stripping gear to the bare minimum. We walked out with one bar between us. Photograph by Steve Graepel

Deep, hot, and abundant with wildlife (we spotted mountain goats, rattle snakes, elk—enough shed antlers to assemble a lodge chandelier—bear, and a llama), to “Hell and back” was a memorable traverse and well worth the trip. If dramatic elevation is your currency, then this might be your sort of top-down economics.

7 – Violence. Before it went wild in 1975, the region was ranch land. Remnants of its ranching history can still be found on the middle slopes of Hells Canyon and, in this case, posed a tragic end for one member of the nation’s most robust elk populations. Photograph by Steve Graepel

8 – Fraud. Climbing out of the canyon on the Oregon side poses some significant objective hazards, including route finding over trail less rocky terrain and patches prickly pear cactuses. Photograph by Steve Graepel

9 – Treachery. The canyon is home to abundant wildlife. We saw mountain goats, elk, bear, rattlesnake, wild turkey, grouse, hawks, eagles, and a llama …. Photograph by Steve Graepel

Climber descending Khan Tengri's saddle on the West Ridge route, Kyrgyzstan; Photograph by Steve Graepel

With contributions from Doug Colwell

Nothing shouts middle age quite like shopping for life insurance. But there I was, answering questions about my height, weight, smoking … and then came the dreaded question: “Have you climbed in the last three years…?”

I quickly try to run the numbers. “In the last three years…?” Stalling, I ask for clarification. “Can you define climbing”?

Clearly I wasn’t selling my low-risk persona and a week later I was sent a questionnaire to parse out my extracurricular vitae—which raised a whole string of red prayer flags.

A few calls later put me in touch with Doug Colwell from HD Insurance. I entered his office I find myself face-to-face with an oil painting of K2’s Abruzzi Ridge … clearly this was my guy. Doug manages risk during the week, but plays in it on the weekend. An active climber, he’s set over 150 new technical routes in Idaho. As a sitting board member for the American Alpine Club (AAC), he’s volunteered countless hours helping the AAC navigate member insurance options. Doug has experience with folks like us—responsible individuals who carefully manage risk. I sat down with Doug to get a top-down perspective of life insurance for those pursuing the vertical life.

Base Cost

Climbers tend to have dirt-bag proclivities; so you first might ask if you even need insurance. Fair enough, not all climbers have the same needs. If you don’t have family responsibilities, the AAC might have something for you. Included with its $75/year member fee, the AAC provides all members with a $10,000 rescue plan: a $5,000 reimbursement package toward domestic (U.S. only) rescue services and another $5,000 toward worldwide rescue and evacuation services, pulling you (or what’s left of you) off the mountain and back home. It’s a cheap and responsible option for the young or un-tethered.

Got a family? Fancy yourself as the next Alex Honnold? Keep reading.

Skeletons in the Closet

Life insurance is purchased to cover the needs of your loved ones after you pass. But it’s also a contract between you and the underwriter. And like all contracts, it’s steeped in stipulations and legalese and should be entered cautiously.

As part of the contract negotiation process, expect the underwriter to have a call-center conduct a phone interview. They’ll run you through a gamut of questions. It’s all good until you trip a line in their code. It can be smoking, past medical issues, family medical history, or a handful of statistically deemed “risky behaviors” like skydiving, SCUBA, or climbing. All the sudden you’ll find yourself rapping off a tower of babbling details, exposing things you haven’t even revealed to your mother. It’s in these nuanced questions that you need to stay at the sharp edge of the discussion.

Consider it like a first date. Do roll out the dirt, talk about your exs? Resoundingly no! It’s a don’t, ask-don’t tell conversation. Same here—this isn’t the time to volunteer that epic in The Park where you dropped your stove and half your rack off The Diamond in the dead of winter. Your partner backed off but you soloed through the night. Great story, but not the one your insurance suitor wants to hear.

Ultimately, underwriters are in the business of helping people. All State realizes that we aren’t all saints; they insure real people with a little chalk under their fingers. But their actuaries have run the numbers to determine when risk management favors good business over risky business.

In preparation, consider these questions before you pickup the phone:

• When did you last climb? Probably the most important question is when did you last tie in to a rope? If your hardware has been gathering patina since K2 was in theaters, you’re not likely to get off the couch and take it up again. But if your picks are still bloodied from slaying November rime on Dragontail in the North Cascades … well, I’d expect you’d have some further questions. Three years appears to be the magic number.

• What grade do you climb at? So you still climb. No worries, they have a policy for that. But here’s where you need to start doing damage control. Answer what may seem painfully honest to your beer buddies. I mean, do you really still climb at 5.11c?
• What type of climbing do you do? Beyond a rope and harness, top roping at the gym and leading mixed routes at Hyalite have little in common. Believe it or not, actuaries know this, too! Again, be honest. If you haven’t swung an axe lately, don’t go there. But if you are currently flicking steel into smears, expect that it’s going to cost you.

• What’s the length of your climbs (afternoon…days…weeks)? Are you a weekend warrior or are you frequently on extended holiday in Hindu Kush? The longer you hang it out there, the more you expose yourself to risk.

• Do you have any professional training? While that belay training at the Y probably doesn’t cut it, did you take a course through a guiding service? Better yet, do you climb with guides? Put any of that knowledge you’ve paid for in your corner.

• How safe are you? If you do get the climbing questionnaire, use this as an opportunity to identify yourself as a safe, low-risk candidate. Share a dialogue about how you protect your belay, how you regularly clean your gear, how you prematurely retire gear before it sees signs of ware and tear.

Honesty is the Best Policy

A key component to the process is being honest … with yourself and with your agent. If you haven’t picked up an axe or roped up in 3+ years and have no existing plans to do so in the next 2 or so years, you’re all good. If your policy is in place and you get that call from your Camp 4 squatting years to head off to the Valley … you’re still covered. Things happen, plans change, they (mostly) understand. The trouble starts if you are already saddled up and indicate otherwise, which would be considered a breach of contract.

A word of advice? Don’t try and game the system! You are entering a legal contract. And because it’s about money, insurance companies are certain to check in from time-to-time—particularly in that posthumous time before funds are paid out. In the least, not answering honestly will void your contract. Worst case, it could leave your loved ones high and dry.

Find and Advocate

Doug left me with this. “Work with someone who can get a proper picture of you as an individual, assess you as a person, learn your true risk and match you with the best-suited underwriter”. Like most things associated with climbing, hasty decisions don’t pay off. Only here, your biggest risk is likely being unnecessarily tabled at a much higher rate, costing you hundreds, if not thousands of dollars a year.

Photograph by Steve Graeppel

My first sleeping bag was liberated from my dad’s musty military kit. With incisor-sized zipper teeth and a jumar for a slider, the M-1949 was more of a feather bed than a mummy bag. Weighing in just under eight pounds, it had the deadweight of a futon mattress and siphoned moisture like ShamWow®. Fortunately I had an external-frame pack to strap its bloated mass to.

Weight begets weight, and a sleeping bag (next to the tent and pack) is one of the top three perps to consider when lining up guilty pounds. While there have a been significant advancements in insulation (…down curated from the abandoned nests of free-range Elder ducks by gluten-free Gaelic hermits…), like any decision made when going light, you cut that which doesn’t contribute. And this is where the quilt rises above the fill.

Katabatic Gear Palisade quilt; Photograph by Steve Graeppel

The quilt is a simple concept; it’s a fitted duvet that wraps around your body, leaving the superfluous on the workroom floor…including the zipper, hood, and most noticeably, the underside insulation. At first blush, this backside exposure appears to channel all the accouterments of a hospital gown, but the design has a lot going for it.

Insulation alone does little to keep you warm—it lofts, trapping heat radiated by your body. Compress it—by, say, sleeping on it—and insulation loses its heat-trapping qualities, leaving you to haul the deadweight. But a foam or air pad resists compression and is a great insulator. And since a backpacker always brings a pad, the quilt leverages the thermal efficiencies of both the underlying pad and top loft, and scraps overlapping structures.

Katabatic Gear Palisade quilt; Photograph by Steve Graeppel

At the risk of hanging it all out, intelligently designed quilts eliminate the dead-air space between you and the quilt, putting your BTUs to work for you. Manufacturers tackle this in a few ways.

First and foremost, a quilt needs to integrate with a pad to reduce escaping heat. Most quilts on the market—like those from GoLite and Therm-a-rest—have two to three straps that wrap the quilt around the pad. For those who toss in their sleep, this gives you some wiggle room. Other quilts, like Katabatic Gear, use a cord-lock solution where the quilt straps on top of the pad, tucking the sidewalls between you and the pad.

A quality quilt will have a differential cut between the shell and inner liner. It’s a bit like a tailored suit versus an off-the-rack fit; a differential cut will contour to the body’s shape, reducing baggy ‘draft channels’ between you and the pad. A draft collar, elastic trim and lightweight snaps can reduce heat from top-spilling around the neck. And baffled design, as opposed to sewn-through construction, will reduce cold spots with a continuous layer of insulation. Lastly, most quilts have a “foot box”, enclosing the feet and lower legs, allowing the wheels to comfortably recover after a long day on the trail.

At first blush, the quilt might appear to be a niche tool with limited range. But it’s exactly its simplicity that contributes to its wide versatility. In summer, I’ll make do with just my clothes worn and a 30F quilt; if I get too hot, it’s easy to vent. In the shoulder seasons, I’ll cinch the quilt down to the pad and extend its comfort range with a hat or balaclava—roughly 6 percent of our body heat is lost through the head! Come winter, I’ll always bring an extra full-length pad and integrate my parka, insulated pants and booties into my sleep system. So with one 18-ounce, 30F quilt, I’m covered between 15-50F.

That military bag? It’s relegated to my father’s bunker. But I now watch my own kids playing with my ‘vintage’ mummy bags, circa 1992—two-way zippers, hoods, draft tubes and all. Meanwhile, the quilt has stepped up to meet 90% of my outdoor demands where it’s likely to stay…that is until the Gaelic hermits manage to harvest Helium infused down….

Testing the Altai "skishoes" in Washington's Cascades; Photograph by Steve Graeppel

I’m lazy.

That is, I’d rather run 50k than ski it. The simplicity of lacing up and heading out has always been my bias. The rub? I like to play in my sandbox all year long. So I’ve got a small army of skis ranging from AT to Nordic to touring that help me cope until spring. But I still loathe the weight, the amount of gear, and particularly, the time-sucking ritual of strapping and stowing skins.

But I recently had a chance to try out a new pair of boards—Hoks, from Altai skis—that may have me changing my mind. Billed as a combination of snowshoes and cross-country skis, “skishoes” are short (125 cm or 145 cm for the clydesdale or deep powder), wide, and noticeably light (under five pounds for a pair with bindings). The sides have a slight parabolic-cut with a metal edge for durability, but it’s the integrated skin that catches your eye. The theory is you get enough traction to climb, but enough glide to cover ground efficiently. In short, it’s my kind of niche gear.

Altai Hok ski, front and back; Photograph by Steve Graeppel

The skis come with threaded inserts for two binding options: 75mm that fits a 3-pin boot, or a universal binding that can accommodate any boot that has a flexible sole. You can purchase an adapter plate that fits other 3rd party backcountry bindings. Which you choose depends on the boots you have and the terrain your covering; the more serious the terrain the more happy you will be in a boot that can appropriately respond.

Before I took my pair out, I watched videos of people effortlessly genuflecting through backcountry woods. I also watched skiers sitting way back in the saddle, dragging a big pole behind them. Nils Larsen, the co-owner of Altai skis, has spent years researching the birth of skiing. He’s narrowed in on northern Asia—the Altai Mountains, where the Tuwa people have been skiing for thousands of years. Skiers use a long pole (called a Tiak) like a third leg: for balance on the up and as a tripod’s third leg on the down.

My interest was piqued (but I reached for my Lekis instead); I packed my Hoks and headed to the Cascades to give them a try. I had a day to play in the spring mountain snow, so I chose familiar territory. The 30-mile Loowit trail that orbits Mount St. Helens.

Because of my all-day requirements, I mounted the 75mm bindings and reached for my lightweight plastic touring boots. To save time, I packed my skis and boots and ran the solid surface up to the 4800′ mark—passing several backcountry skiers along the way. At timberline, I swapped my trail runners for the boots and snapped into the skis. The skins did indeed slow me down, but the metal-edged, wide base gave me enough speed to zip through the trees with a smile on my face.

On climbs, their shorter length maneuvered easily around tree wells and securely across exposed slopes. When traversing, instead of lifting each step, I simply slid my foot forward. And when I had to dismount to cross the snowless ‘blast zone’, I was able to do so quickly and the skis carried securely without catching a lot of wind.

While the skis had enough float for soft snow, they also had a lot of flex. This was limiting a day prior on Rainier, where skiing through deep powder blanketing sun cupped snow with a 30-pound pack was painfully unpredictable. We ultimately fought with the skishoes more than we hoped. Perhaps the longer, 145 cm would have made the difference.

Finally, they are reasonably priced. At about $200 for the pair and another $50-100 for bindings (depending on if you select 3-pin or universal), they are significantly less than a good AT set up but on par with a quality pair of snowshoes.

Likely geared towards the snowshoer who wants a controlled glide (over the devoutly committed backcountry skier), I’d also reach for them on fast and light trips that start and end low, but bridge spring snow left in the mountains. I’ll certainly be looking for opportunities to broaden my playground.

Skin Anatomy: Our skin is richly vascular; these vessels keep our skin healthy but also help regulate our temperature. Sensory nerves in our skin constantly feed information about our environment to the brain. Sensing cold, and we restrict the flow of blood to deeper vessels, protecting our core. The hotter our perceived environment and blood is diverted superficially to radiate heat. Our central nervous system also engages the sweat glands to spill off fluid—and with it—heat. Illustration by Steve Graepel

While on their way to the summit, the National Geographic Everest team will contend with many expeditious foils, including lack of appetite, decreasing atmospheric pressure, dubious weather, and no doubt the big chill.

But regardless if you are chopping steps at 8,000 meters or kicking glides on spring snow, the laws of thermodynamics universally apply. And understanding a bit how the body works can provide invaluable insight into how to layer your gear appropriately when chasing down your own summits.

Overheating: Above an ambient temperature of 88˚F, the body's thermostat kicks in its cooling system through sweating. But the hotter and more humid the environment around us, the more difficult it becomes to exchange heat...there's no gradient. A waterproof breathable shell requires a relatively high humid environment before moisture will pass through it and a thick fleece can trap sweat. As the temperature inside the shell increases, nerve sensors in the skin tell the brain "its getting hot - keep sweating". But sweating by itself does nothing in the way of cooling the body, so the cycle repeats itself. Illustration by Steve Graepel

Rules of Conduct(ion)
Thermal energy exchanges in a socialized economy. Always seeking a happy medium, particles with higher temperatures seek stasis by sharing energy with cooler particles. It’s called a thermal gradient, and its key to understanding how we cool.

This energy exchange is expressed as heat and it happens in four ways:

Conduction is the transfer of heat through contact with another solid object—like how your back feels cold when sleeping without a pad or your feet chill while standing on a frozen surface.

Convection is the transfer of heat through currents (like air or water). For example, when you ride or ski, the wind around you pulls heat away more quickly than if you were standing still. In general, the faster the current, the quicker the heat exchanges.

Radiation is the transfer of heat through wavelengths—like how on calm, crisp autumn mornings, your body feels increasingly colder as you stand still.

Lastly, evaporation is phase change of a liquid (sweat) to gas (vapor). We breathe out a significant amount of evaporative heat. As wind passes over the skin’s surface, the conversion of sweat to vapor pulls with it heat energy. We feel this cooling as wind-chill.

During an average day of pushing pixels, we’ll spend 60 percent of our calories pegging the thermostat at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit—it’s our basal metabolic rate. Out of the office and into the saddle, we’ll rev up our caloric engines, burning off over 80 percent of our calories as heat, raising the core to about 100 ˚F—still relatively steady.

We owe a lot of our ability to regulate our temperature to water; it’s a very good insulator—in fact, it has the second highest specific heat capacity of all molecules (after ammonia). This means it takes a lot of energy to move its temperature up or down. As a result, it buffers large fluctuations in temperature, keeping our core temperature relatively steady. Good news for us, as we’ve got a lot riding on our ability to maintain our core temperature. A few degrees difference either way forces systemic decisions that sacrifice digits and kidneys to protect the heart and brain … which is a bad place to be.

To accommodate schizo-frenetic activity levels (like those experienced during high-altitude mountaineering) the body has developed several workarounds to micro-regulate our temperature, ensuring our core is always within an acceptable tolerance.

Hypothermia: Overheated, you have two options: stop or strip layers. Do both at once and you'll trip the thermal gradient from a cascade into a waterfall. Our hypothalamus is still telling the body to sweat to cool off as the outside elements rapidly whisk our heat away. This 'flash-off' effect can quickly push you into hypothermia. Illustration by Steve Graepel

More Than Skin Deep
Skin plays a key role in temperature regulation; it’s the consummate waterproof-breathable shell. Immediately under its surface is a layer of insulating sub-q fat, preventing heat from escaping too fast while buffering the external environment from freely robbing us of our heat. Furthermore, while our core temperature hums along at 98.6 ˚F, our skin runs cooler (86-88 ˚F). It’s our body’s internal thermal gradient, enabling a steady flow of heat to cascade from our core towards the skin.

Within the skin is an extensive network of sensory nerves—constantly sending feedback to the brain about our environment—and a micro-vascular plumbing system that runs both shallow and deep. When the brain senses temperatures under 86 ˚F, the body restricts circulation to its deeper vessels, hoarding warmth to protect the core. Above 88 ˚F and the body opens the flow of blood from the deep to the shallow vascular plexus and into a network of capillaries.

Now, when it comes to real estate, the body is like a Manila high-rise; a master of efficiency always looking for the most bang for its Peso. Throughout the body we see repetitive, plicated structures that exemplify this resourcefulness; we see it in cells (microvilli), the lining of our gut (villi), the structure of our brain (gyri), and in our skin. Between the dermis and epidermis, the dermal papillae folds into the epidermis (on your fingertips, you see these repeated as your fingerprint). In each papilla runs a mesh-work of capillaries, greatly increasing the vascular surface area, allowing conductive and radiant heat to quickly transfer to the outside world. It’s a bit like how your refrigerator radiates heat via cooling fins.

It’s no surprise that good cardiovascular health gives a person a leg up in regulating their internal temperature; something our Everest athletes have taken to heart. (Conrad Anker’s advice on staying in shape? Don’t get out of shape!)

We know water can hold a lot of heat. So wherever we store water … be it solid, liquid, our breath, our cells, or our sweat…with it we store heat. As we are exposed to hotter temperatures—either internally (a huge bi-product of burning calories is heat) or externally—the body triggers cells to leach water, which eventually collects in our sweat glands and is funneled to the skin’s surface, bringing with it heat.

Sweat by itself does nothing to help us cool. But move a current across the skin’s surface (like wind), and sweat will evaporate—exchanging heat energy with the surrounding environment—cooling the skin’s surface.

Equilibrium: The ideal solution is to wear a 'second skin' that continues to engage a thermal gradient between you and the outside elements, but provides enough buffer so that you are not subjected to immediate evaporative cooling and convective heat loss. Rather, moisture evaporates safely away from the skin, releasing heat at a consistent and comfortable rate. Illustration by Steve Graepel

Core Competencies
The hotter and more humid the environment around us, the more difficult it becomes to exchange heat; there’s no gradient for energy to move along. This is why overdressing in winter can feel like the Gulf Coast in August. Throw in abysmal weather, and the body’s safety net becomes porous … and this is generally where trouble starts.

Consider skinning up a backcountry peak wearing a fashion-forward, waterproof-breathable jacket. Skinning is hard work and quickly works up a sweat, but waterproof-breathable fabrics require high humidity before they can effectively transport moisture across its membrane. So as a humid microclimate builds inside the shell, heat is trapped. Like sitting in a Russian shvitz, the body’s thermostat kicks into overdrive, pouring out more sweat in a futile effort to cool the body. But it can’t. Sweat is trapped under a blanket of humid air, further insulating heat, signaling your body to sweat more to cool off … and the cycle repeats.

So while you are recklessly sweating out the contents of your CamelBak, you have two options: slow down (and get dropped) or strip down and get cold. Do both at once and you will immediately feel the super-cooling effects of evaporative heat loss—a flash-off —risking hypothermia … again, not a good place to be.

To stay comfortable while working, you need to mimic the body’s thermal gradient with a clothing system that gradually drops the temperature gradient from the skin’s surface to the outside. You need a microclimate.

This second skin starts with a lightweight, highly breathable base. Nothing new here; we all have a few pairs of these kicking around the bowels of our gear den and the crew on Everest will certainly be living in these. But how it works is worth noting. Its function is to lightly insulate (a less dense fabric allows air to work as an insulator) and quickly pull moisture away from the skin. By wicking sweat away from the skin, you reduce the effects of rapid conductive and evaporative heat loss. By spreading it across a larger surface volume, you allow evaporation to occur both readily and safely away from the skin.

Depending how much energy you are expending, a light insulation might be enough. Consider what the top finishers at the Boston marathon will be wearing … not much. But if you aren’t pulling down sub five-minute miles, a cold wind can cut right through this layer. So if you are feeling the chill, consider layering with a woven microfiber windshirt or jacket over the base. Microfiber is tight enough to block the convective cooling effects of wind and has some water repellency, but is porous enough for moisture to permeate across at a lower humidity than a waterproof-breathable. Some companies, like Montane and Marmot, offer a two-in-one solution: a wicking inner layer and a microfiber wind-block outer layer. Regardless, the results are the same; highly desirable thermal equilibrium. This combination can find a home in every kit: running, cycling, skiing, climbing … its simple, its cheap, its genius.

Keep in mind that there are several fabrics out there that are marketed as softshells, laminating a membrane for better overall weatherproofing. Unless you are flossing granite off-widths with your torso, these softshells can be overkill. While highly windproof and sporting better water repellency, they typically don’t breathe enough for on-the-go pursuits and can wet-out from sweat, slowing evaporative cooling; caught in a true deluge and they will soak. If you feel you need one, consider a woven fabric, which breathes better than a membrane softshell, while still providing protection from the elements (and Hoodoo cavity searches).

Does this eliminate the need for a traditional hardshell? No way. Wet and cold can be fatal, rapidly pulling heat from your core. So I’ll always bring something waterproof. But because I keep it in the pack 95 percent of the time, I look for the lightest, no-frills shell I can find. Unless you live in your gear, there is probably no reason to bring anything heavier than 11 oz. and many companies offer gossamer-weight shells tipping the scales between 6-8 oz.

If you expect to take extended breaks or spend the night out under a canopy of stars, you’ll want to pack some sort of insulation … either synthetic or down. Contrary to the trite adage (and applying what we know about water’s heat specificity), nothing is truly warm when wet. A wet garment—down or synthetic—will conduct heat energy from your core before reaching thermal equilibrium in its own boggy core. But a wet synthetic parka will hold its loft better than down (which will lose all its loft when wet), providing some space for your depleted warmth to settle in before it dissipates entirely.

In general, the more active or longer the pursuit, the more inclined I am to bring synthetic. When I stop, I’ll throw it on over my second skin to trap body heat. When I’m ready to roll, I’ll squeeze out the moist air in the jacket, pack it up and go.

Taking it to Extremes
I used to live in Minnesota. For a good time, we’d drive six hours to a crack in the North Shore wall where we’d take turns whacking ice picks into a frozen dribble. We’d also spend a lot of time fighting back waves of nausea as blood crept back into our frozen candy graspers. The screaming barfies—I miss’em already.

Twenty to one, the body prioritizes preserving its core warmth, often leaving the digits to fend for themselves. Sitting further from your core, extremities are more vulnerable to the elements. Everything that touches your hands and feet—even socks and gloves—pulls heat away…so happens an aluminum shaft conducts at a (much) quick rate. And that death grip on a pair of tools? It constricts vessels, hindering the flow of warming blood to the digits. Put a leash around your wrist and you restrict blood flowing into the hands even more so.

Furthermore, the wrists—like the neck, groin, and armpits—have prominent shallow vessels, creating ‘thermal windows’ that siphon heat off the core. Exposing these regions can leach serious BTUs. While not-so-good while ice climbing, pit zips and side zips can rapidly adjust your thermostat while on-the-go.

Lastly, different parts of the body have different surface to volume ratios. Do the math, and you’ll see that fingers, toes, arms, and ears have a greater surface to volume ratio than our trunks and legs. As a result, these regions lose heat much faster. This concept applies to smaller people, too—Emily Harrington has a greater surface to volume ratio than the other Everest team members and will be prone to cooling more quickly.

To help regulate your comfort zone, bring a variety of hats, gloves, and socks to match changing conditions.

_______

A coach once left me with “everyone is an experiment of one.” True, what works for one may not work for another. But the laws of physics aren’t biased and cold, wet and miserable is no time to pontificate on the principles of thermodynamics. And while most of us will never holiday working ropes on the Khumbu, staying comfortable is relevant at any altitude.

The zodiac, your horoscope, tea leaves…people have been trying to make sense of human attributes since the dawn of dirt. Corporations pay big money to navigate these muddied waters and will train employees to better understand personality types to harness them for productivity. I recently revisited one such matrix, the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), which hypothesizes that it’s possible to distill human characteristics into 16 personality types. David Keirsey later mapped these types into four general temperaments: the Artisan, Rational, Guardian and Idealist.

I jokingly wondered if these metrics have ever been applied to an expedition setting; exhaustion, hunger, and cold, wet conditions can quickly strip insulate layers of city life, exposing our reptilian ids. What may seems like "character" over coffee can reveal itself in spades below the crux. I began to contemplate my past adventures and consider what I could glean from temperament theory to apply toward my own trips. Here’s what I found. Keep reading for discussions with ultrahiker Andrew Skurka, mountain biker Rebecca Rusch, and veteran adventure racer Michael Tobin about their "types."

The Artisan: Adventure is…hey, watch this… 
Your classic fun-hog, a conversation with the Artisan, may start with a text hinting “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” only to leave you teetering on a cornice as the Artisan, careens into the void with a frosty Mountain Dew grin screwed into his powder keg-head.

To some, his bias for action may appear to orbit around the outer Kuiper-belt fringe of lunacy. Once the idea has been pitched, their perceived work is done. The laws of attraction have already guided them onto the next shiny object, sometimes leaving the details of the current project incomplete.

Before you start screening their calls, though, appreciate the Artisan’s creativity and their ability to pit-bull a tangled mess into submission. They are more often than not, fun to be around and their polarized goggles seem to see a world ‘half-full’ of opportunity, picking solutions the rest of us overlook.

Be aware they may not be able to carry these ideas to completion—at least not in detail. And they may sometimes come to the party unprepared (I’ll figure it out when I get there…).

These guys are great at trouble shooting unexpected situations, say, negotiating a "customs charge" out of Kazakhstan.

The Rational: Adventure is the result of poor planning.
I recently schemed an idea to traverse Idaho by bike, pack raft and foot. I'm an ideas guy—with a big picture sort of view—so I thought it wise to invite a friend who lives in the details to look at my proposed 850-mile route. Jason is an ER doc and an adventure racer with giant quads (which fits his fashion preference for scrubs and Lycra). He immediately turned to the maps, highlighting potential pitfalls in my "plan."

The Rationals have a no-nonsense, logical approach to decision making—either the plan is going to work, or it isn't. If the latter, don't expect them to buy into the pipe-dream unless you can provide data to support the contrary.When the proverbial hits the fan, though, they maybe caught off guard. Troubleshooting is akin to a lack of planning. To counterbalance, they are meticulous thinkers and may constantly be offering up plans c, d and e…just in case.

Without a doubt, these are your navigators with instinctive mapping skills.

The Guardian: Adventure is to be prepared.
I was a Boy Scout—there, I said it in public. Before my first weekend trip, my patrol leader, John, handed me a tin Band-Aid box (aging myself here). John thought it wise to send each member into the wild with a home-made survival kit, packed with enough supplies for Bear Grylls to winter in the Cascades. Among his ten essentials were an FAA approved signal guidebook, a Slim Jim, enough twine to snare a wildebeest, and a quarter (to make a call in case we wondered off to, say, Folsom?). John was the quintessential Guardian.

Guardians are conservative on change but didactic in preparation. Their systematic approach to process can be perceived as pedestrian by some, and their work ethic and obsessive mindfulness of time lines might walk on those who prefer to mix it up. In times of change, this person will be antsy until a decision is made. But expect support once a direction has been chosen.

He’s the guy you want to tie into when on-belay or to dig the snow pit before launching into fresh pow. Guardians know the rules and why following them is smart. He thrives planning meals and logistics.

Idealist. Adventure is exploring the human condition.
This group maybe the most misunderstood as their motivators defy the rest of the population. These types yearn to be part of the group, but don’t outwardly express motivation in measurable ways (money, producible goods, etc.). Their strength is in their ability to be inclusive, protecting democratic input. As such, they will often rise to roles leading teams through friction.

Idealists are passionate about their goals, tirelessly devote themselves to other’s ideas, and are generally positive. If they are on your team, provide ample opportunity for them to weigh in and soft-pedal criticism, as they could take it personally. Keep in mind that you may find it necessary to bolster strategic and logistical tasks through other avenues.

Putting Stealth Rubber to the Trail

People are complicated; we’re not likely to radically identify with the temperaments outlined above. But it captures the general flavor. I wanted to test these theories against reality, so I asked a few pro-level junket junkies about their personality traits to evaluate how they may fit into this schema.

CASE STUDY #1
Andrew Skurka, 2007 National Geographic Adventure of the Year, is a professional ultra hiker. He promptly agreed to weigh in and even knew his specific profile: ISTJ (Guardian). I laughed. If you haven’t seen it, Skurka posts excel spreadsheets of every adventure to his

website, where he meticulously itemizing everything according to its weight and value. Skurka confirmed that his success starts with his logistical mind. “I just break the whole thing down in a spreadsheet–distances, pacing, itinerary, gear, food, supplies…”, crunching reams of data into bite-size possibilities. His mastery of the minutia perfectly defines his Guardian profile.

But with a nose to the trail, a logistical mind may tend to wander off into weedy details, sometimes forgetting to lift their head up to see the big picture. I asked if Skurka if this sounded familiar.

AS: During the Alaska Yukon Expedition, I had to deviate from my past trips, where I’d follow man-made trails…(I had to ) operate almost entirely on Nature’s terms…deviating from my ‘planned’ route when factors like snowpack and visibility made a detour more practical.

SG: Is keeping an intuitive eye open your greatest challenge?

AS: I really wish I was just smarter so that I required less data and could process it faster. But I’ve learned…the importance of getting things right.

Skurka seems to have a healthy dose of Rational, which ultimately may nail his success to the trail post. He balances his logistical, take-action mind by keeping an eye open for new information that might change his situation.
 

CASE STUDY #2
Rock climber turned adventure racer turned world class mountain biker, Rebecca Rusch is an ultra endurance, knobby-wheel phenom. In addition to winning several World Mountain Bike Championships, she’s won the Leadville 100-mile mountain bike race three years in a row and is the current women’s record holder for the race. Like Skurka, Rusch also tested out as a Guardian. But her persuasions are different.

While Skurka relishes in the articulation between preparation and action, Rusch shared that’s not the case for her. She still identifies with the Guardian’s need for structure (order and organization are mandatory for success), but she works with her coach to strategically layout a detail training plan to get it.

Rusch also shared she feels an absolute sense of duty; duty to those she trains with, her coach, and her sponsors. This sense of responsibility is the carrot that keeps her on target for her larger goals. But, if she doesn’t deliver, a dread of letting people down can follow. Of course, this can also be a burden. If things start to go south, Guardians can be hard on themselves– almost pessimistic. Rusch agreed that she’s her harshest critic.

According to Rusch, her road to success isn’t seal-coated with natural ability, “it’s accomplished through hard work”. And in the end, this is her dominant Guardian trait. In her coach’s words, “she’s able to churn surreal amounts of disciplined suffering into world-class results”.

Case Study #3
Michael Tobin could be the most uncelebrated elite athlete you’ve never heard of. Low key, he’s a cat 1 cyclist, elite-level runner, a solid paddler and he plays a mean game of tennis. Racing for Team Nike—yeah, that Nike—his W-9 read professional adventure racer. Now retired, his specialty was crushing the competition over 500-mile courses inside 5 days…on 13 hours of sleep.

Tobin tested out as an Idealist, which is rare in the population…rarer yet among elite level athletes. I asked if he agreed with the typical traits of the Idealist. He somewhat agreed. “I’m a really good follower” he joked, “…as long as we’re gong the direction I want.” I probed deeper.

SG: We all have blind spots. Some Idealists may focus on making sure everyone is on- board with a decision or they may be less proficient with details or analytic skills. Do you relate?

MT: I’m pretty good at those things, though not always the best on the team. At times I should have probably applied myself earlier instead of being content with following…I noticed a tendency toward dealing with what happens instead of creating outcomes.

SG: What about other teammates? Did others bring something to the table that compensated for those tendencies?

MT: I was always grateful when their personalities were drawn toward handling situations I didn't care for. I had a teammate who thought we could still win when we were hopelessly behind. His fight was almost laughable, but I couldn’t believe how often (his plan) worked out. Another teammate had an almost delusional optimistic attitude; he could turn a (mess) into a possibility.

The teammates Tobin referenced were no doubt Type A, Artisans—alchemists, spinning their optimism into podium gold.

On the topic of ‘challenging’ teammates, Tobin shared he’s come to appreciate the diverse qualities and contributions of all his team members–even those that caused friction at times. This reinforces the theory that even the bluntest ‘tool’ can excel at the task it was designed for.

To Test or Not to Test?

So should you and your travel-mates take a temperament test before your next foray into the hills? At the risk of scaring off partners, probably not. Perhaps the soundest advice I’ve found is to identify your own weaknesses and have an open conversation with your companions about them. If you are going solo, be keenly aware of your shortcomings and look for ways to overcome them through coaching, skill building, or perhaps ask another to join you. Aligning your blind spots with another's strengths can provide coverage when nature decides to express her own temperaments.

I had just moved to Boise and was training to climb Mount Fairweather in Alaska’s notorious Fairweather Range. Hardened legs and deep lungs are de rigueur for alpine climbing; the rolling Idaho foothills were the perfect crucible to prepare for the 15,000-foot giant. So each weekend I would shoulder a weighted pack and hump loads up and down our steep foothills. I’d climb for three to four hours, accumulating thousands of feet of elevation.

Fairweather was a bust—there’s not much you can do to train for chest-deep confectionery snow—but I knew I had tapped a new power supply with my off-piste training cirque. My legs and ankles were stronger, I had less knee pain, and my aerobic capacity was boosted. The following year I swapped the boots and pack for my running shoes and began to run my off-trail route.

What I didn’t know was that running hills was a tried and true sport. It’s called fell running. The British have been doing this sort of thing for centuries (no surprise there, hey have a knack of wringing good sport out of hard efforts: Everest, the South Pole (Shackleton!), a 20-year Scotch…). What started nearly 1,000 years ago in an effort to find a royal messenger kicked off the Highland Games and eventually matriculated into a sanctioned culture of mountain runners, weaving a bit of trail running, orienteering, cross country and sometimes, grueling overnighters. The goal? To run the steepest hills as fast as you can!

Running is a simple sport and its best appreciated that way. But taking it to the highlands requires some slight modifications to your strategy. Here are some tips to help ease into it.

Shoes Make the Man (or Woman)
When I first started running off-route, I simply donned a pair of road shoes and headed out the door. I spent a lot of time on my backside, sliding down the hills. To compensate, I would resort to strapping on micro-spike crampons for traction.

If fell running is nothing else, it’s traction. A good shoe will have a lot of it to keep you upright over wet grass and chossy terrain—more than your typical trail shoe. A proper fitting fell shoe can do as much for your running as a climbing shoe does for climbing. Expect aggressive tread with sticky rubber for traction over rock and mud, a low stable profile for ankle stability, some toe flexibility, and just enough mid-foot protection to nick the edge off rocks underfoot.

Many shoes have a waterproof upper (par for the wet Lake District conditions…or the Pacific Northwest), making them a great winter shoe. If you live in a hot, dry climate, opt for a breathable shoe.

Inov-8 has been marketing fell-specific shoes for years. Montrail and Salomon have thrown their last into the field as well. If you see descriptors like ‘talon’, ‘mudclaw’, ‘cross’ or a reference to the highlands in the name, you’re probably on the right track. The right shoe does indeed make a difference!

Tip: Hills add a lot of vector force to your step, and everyone’s foot is unique. To compensate for a “standard last,” learn lacing techniques to keep your heel locked in your shoe and consider buying an aftermarket footbed for a custom fit.

Gaiters
To keep the weight off my feet during a monster mountain run, I opted not to bring gaiters. I was climbing an average of 1,000 feet a mile in Idaho’s Boulder Mountains, but most of the boulders appeared to be pee-gravel…piping right into my shoes. By the end of the 15 miles, my feet were trashed and I was stopping every ten minutes to pour out gravel.

Running cross-country can funnel a lot of debris into your shoes, adding wear and tear to your shoes, socks and most importantly, your feet. Many companies that market off-trail shoes will sell low-profile gaiters as well. These are an inexpensive, lightweight addition to enjoyable running. Without them, expect to frequent stops and battered feet.

Trekking Poles
I’m sure they are considered a faux paux by purists, but don’t hesitate to use them when getting started. They add stability over variable terrain, significantly decrease stress on the knees, and can help build upper body strength. Get an adjustable pair to adapt to climbing, descending, and contouring. Also consider that you’ll be subjecting poles to an extra measure of stress. Lighter, expensive poles can be more fragile.

Tip: Keep your hands out of the wrist straps or remove them all-together. If you fall, its better to jettison the pole than risk breaking them (or worse, you).

Technique
Not unlike spinning, fell running can be as hard as you want to make it. And just as making the jump from the road to trail takes an adjustment period, expect a transition from trails to fell running. Take time to find your ‘gearing’ while running off trail…determine what you can run and what you should hike. And don’t be ashamed to walk—in some cases, it’s faster (more efficient, safer…) to hike than run. But also expect huge gains in fitness through persistent running.

In general, shorten your stride when climbing. On steep hills, pick a line that runs at a slight angle to lessen the grade. When running down hill, vary your gaze a few paces ahead with immediately in front of you. Keep your arms out for stability, and step on your toes to leverage your foot’s arch as a “shock absorber.”

Precautionary
As they say, misery loves company…safety in numbers. Adventure running should always be treated with some respect. Since fell running isn’t for everyone; perhaps look to your more adventurous running friends first.

Here in Southern Idaho, we’re blessed with high alpine desert—its relatively easy to keep a bearing. But I’ve spent time out East and in the Midwest where this wasn’t the case. Off trail hill running entailed thick brush and hardwood forests, making it much easier to get lost. If this sounds familiar, brush up on your map and compass skills.

Where to go
Stay off private property or ask for permission before you go. Look to wilderness, national forests, or better yet, BLM land (which is often not as rugged, optimal for adventuring running). To limit trailside erosion, stay away from popular trails when venturing off on public land. And keep a watch out for wildlife. Game have a knack for finding a weakness in the topography. But try not to startle them in winter when they are already physically stressed.

In my seven years running the Boise fells, I’ve only seen one other person. Her parting words: “shhh, this is our best kept secret!” I couldn’t agree more; I love the isolation, the presence of moment, the wildlife and the workout. But running the hills is too precious an experience not to share.

I’ve seen herds of 50+ head of elk, run with coyotes, foxes, and deer. Vary your route and you vary the experience. Its ideal training for adventures deeper into the wilds, but if you only have an hour or two, it’s a pretty good substitute.