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It was a sparkly inner tube that punched the first hole in my dedication to ultralight backpacking.
Earlier this summer, I’d finally swapped out a few old, bulky gear items for ultralight alternatives, and my body had thanked me. I’d also finally dialed in my layers to bring as few clothing items as possible, and learned to streamline my fueling technique. I’ve never been a huge stickler for pack weight, but I couldn’t ignore the benefits of my new kit and strategy; miles passed more easily, and my joints, hips, and shoulders felt better than ever.
So when my friend sent a photo of a sparkly inner tube to our group chat, offering to loan it out for a weekend trip, I declined.
“The glitter adds weight. But it’s so pretty,” she texted.
Our plan was a low-mileage two-nighter in Washington’s Alpine Lakes Wilderness. We’d hike in a few miles, mostly in the dark, after work on Friday, move our camp a bit further on Saturday, then spend most of the day lounging and swimming in Big Heart Lake. All told, we’d gain a few thousand feet of elevation and cover roughly 15 miles total—a modest total for the time we had. I was looking forward to relaxing in the backcountry, and allowed myself the luxuries of a Kindle, a pair of flip-flops, a frisbee for my dog, and plenty of extra snacks. But the tube? I took a pass.
At the trailhead, we took stock of group gear. I eyed my friend’s Hyperlite pack, inexplicably busting at the seams. It had to weigh twice as much as my pack. What did she have in that thing?
“I packed a disco ball,” she confided with a grin. I shook my head.
We hit the trail, maintaining a steady pace despite the loads I knew my friends were shouldering. We rolled into camp by headlamp—or in my friend’s case, by glowing multicolored lantern.
The next day, I was glad for my light load. We ascended only a few miles, but a late summer heat wave and choking wildfire smoke made them challenging. We were all happy to drop our packs at a picture-perfect campsite perched above the sapphire lake.
That’s when my friend pulled a Hydro Flask of margaritas out of her pack, followed by a bag of fresh lime wedges and the makings for a charcuterie spread. So that’s what she had in that thing.
Later, I watched from the shore as all three of my friends floated out toward the lake’s deep blue center. In addition to lacking a tube, I had an excuse—I had to keep an eye on my dog, who whined anxiously as our friends drifted toward the far shore. But a part of me thought of the glittery tube sitting in my car back at the trailhead.
That night, I gratefully accepted a margarita and some fresh lime for my Knorr Mexican Rice. When I mentioned it could use some hot sauce, my friend magically produced a packet of Tapatio from her giant pack. I was starting to get on board with this luxury mentality.
As backpackers, we can occasionally take ourselves too seriously. Counting grams, forgoing comforts, and poring over spreadsheets can be satisfying—but it can be easy to forget the joys of backpacking when we put all of our focus into going lighter, faster, or further. A friend of mine, complaining to me once about the overserious ultralighters he’d encountered on trail, said, “they know it’s just walking and sleeping, right?”
I think back on that sentiment often, especially when I notice my ego creeping in. I love pushing myself in the backcountry, and reaching far-flung places under my own power. But on this particular weekend trip, my friends reminded me that some of the best backpacking trips are the ones that prioritize pure fun. Yes, we can maximize that fun by minimizing pain, and going ultralight can help achieve that. But sometimes, the best way to have fun is by leaving snobbery behind, flouting the rules, and loading your pack with supplies for a lakeside party.
On Sunday morning, the wildfire smoke worsened, and we were eager to escape the lake basin in search of cleaner air. As we hoofed it back to the trailhead, I was thankful once more for my lightweight tent, sleeping bag, and pad. But catching one last glimpse of the lake, I felt a stab of longing. Next time someone offers me a sparkly inner tube on a backpacking trip, I’ll say yes.
From 2024