Wet Boots & Miles of Mud
How crying in the Porkies led me to overhaul my backpacking gear
This post is part of my Type 2 Fun series, where I write about the less glamorous side of my outdoor adventures. Not familiar with the concept of Type 2 fun?
The Porkies are undeniably beautiful. If you haven’t hiked the Escarpment Trail during fall foliage, that needs to be added to your to-do list immediately. Even shrouded in fog, the area will take your breath away.
So when I tell you that I cried on a solo backpacking trip in the Porkies, that shouldn’t be construed as me disliking the park. The views were fantastic! My wet feet, poor time management, and heavy pack—not so much.
It was a last minute decision to go leaf peeping. The backcountry campsites were pretty solidly booked for weeks to come, so I could only reserve a single site for a Thursday night. But I was desperate to get outdoors and decided that even an overnight trip was worth the drive.
I live in Chicago. The Porcupine Mountains are in the Upper Peninsula. Google Maps estimates 6 hours and 40 minutes to get from my front door to the Visitor Center, without accounting for bathroom breaks or slowed traffic. That meant I was packing 14+ hours of roadtripping and 21 miles of backpacking into less than 48 hours, while still finding time to eat, sleep, and take a few photos at the scenic overlooks. With a whirlwind schedule like that, it’s not a surprise that some mud pushed me to the brink.
The first day of any backpacking trip, I’m always anxious about time. I don’t like setting up my tent in the dark, so when I descended into the old growth forest along the Big Carp River and the thick canopy reduced the sunlight, I started to channel the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland: “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!”
I had planned my loop so that the last thing I would do before reaching my campsite was cross the Big Carp River. My campsite (BC-6, for those curious) sat on the far side of the Big Carp, so after wading through in sandals—brought expressly for that purpose—I would be able to let my feet dry fully at camp before they had to be shoved back into socks and boots the next morning.
Or not.
I was in a total froth about being late by the time I reached the river and instead of taking a deep breath, I struck up a conversation with two hikers. They had just crossed in the opposite direction and pointed out the orange rope strung between tree branches on either bank. The water level was low—not quite mid-calf deep—and they said the rocks on the bottom of the riverbed were smooth.
I threw caution to the wind. Instead of changing into sandals, securing my boots to my pack, and using trekking poles to stabilize me as I crossed, I did the opposite. I took my boots off and gripped them in my right hand. I held my trekking poles in my left hand and walked into the water barefoot. The stones were slick and uncomfortable under my feet, so I grabbed the orange rope with what little room remained in my left hand.
I only took a few steps before slipping on a rock. If my trekking poles hadn’t gotten tangled in the rope, I would have easily been able to right myself. But instead, my boots, poles, and lower half of my body all ended up submerged in the Big Carp River. Now that I was wet, being careful didn’t matter. I scooped up my scattered gear and hightailed the remaining hundred yards to my campsite in bare feet so I could disappear from view of the hikers who had witnessed the whole fiasco.
I spent that night trying to dry out my boots. Waterproof boots are handy when the water is on the outside, not so much when they’ve taken a turn in a dunk tank. I fussed for hours—removing the insoles and wringing them out, pressing on the insides of the shoes to expel the liquid a few drops at a time, shoving each end of my microfiber towel into the toes to soak up the wetness, and storing them upside down as I slept in the hope that gravity would prevail. The next morning, they still squished when I walked.
Day two began with 2.8 miles of ankle-deep mud and blowdown on the Correction Line Trail. I have no photos of the mud so I’ll forgive you if you think I’m exaggerating, but a quick Google search for “correction line trail mud” will offer plenty of evidence in my favor.
I had overslept that morning and couldn’t make up time because every step I took caused me to sink several inches into soft ground. My socks were damp (courtesy of my wet boots), my pack was heavy, and the underbrush was so sparse that I couldn’t find a good spot to pee. I knew I was going to be late to check-in with my parents that afternoon, but I had no cell service so I couldn’t send them an update to tell them I was fine, just moving slowly.
So, I started crying.
Not loud wails or heaving sobs, just a persistent dribble of tears down my cheeks. For those couple miles, I felt like a failure, but I couldn’t even give up because I still had to hike back to my car. To add insult to injury, as the mud was finally lessening during the final quarter mile of the Correction Line Trail, the two hikers from the day before caught up to me and breezed past. My face was red and blotchy from the tears and I looked like an overworked pack mule. I couldn’t fully deflate my self-inflating sleeping pad, so it was strapped to the back of my already stuffed 60L pack. Every step I took required a pep talk. In contrast, they sported ultralight packs and a spring in their step that gave the impression they were simply out for a morning stroll to their favorite coffee shop. I plastered on a smile when they asked how I was, but I know I didn’t fool them.
Obviously, I lived to tell the tale and have continued to go on backpacking trips. My day improved once I got to Mirror Lake and took advantage of the pit toilet there. I loitered a bit over lunch to catch my breath and enjoy the view. I even got a fleeting bar of service to text my parents when I got back onto the Escarpment Trail. Everything worked out.
However, the mishaps of the trip forced me to think more critically about my gear. Including food and water, I had hauled 37.5 pounds for an overnight. Most of the food was still in my pack when I returned to my car after 21 miles. The waterproof sandals I brought—but didn’t use—for the water crossing were a pound of dead weight. My 11 ounce foam pillow and 33 ounce self-inflating sleeping pad were comfortable, but bulky. A pot, a mug, and a bowl for my cooking set up was unnecessary, but it was truly absurd that I had brought both a spoon and a spork. Every little item that seemed like inconsequential weight when I packed became an anvil when I hit that stretch of mud.
I learned my lesson on the Correction Line Trail. Two years later on a solo backpacking trip to Isle Royale, my pack with food and water for a four night trip would weigh in at a mere 26 pounds. And that included a satellite messenger so I no longer had to worry about cell service!
I won’t go so far as to say that I’m glad I cried in the Porkies, but it’s not the worst spot if you have to pick somewhere to let out a few tears. There aren’t many people once you get a mile or so from the parking lots and there’s always something interesting to look at! Plus, the experience gave me a good metric going forward for deciding whether a piece of gear is too heavy or frivolous: “Would I want to be carrying this on the Correction Line Trail?”