Oh, backpack

I love my backpack. With it comes freedom, and opportunity. The knowledge that, along with the gear I own, I can load it up, take it anywhere in the world, and be largely self-sufficient. I can travel independently. If you do not fit in my pack; you do not come with me. I am sorry, but it is just that simple.

I am not "that guy," who only travels with a backpack. I do have wheeled luggage. A hanging bag. A carry on. Various day packs. I will not travel on principle alone.

But I love knowing that I can take off and go anywhere under my own power with my pack and sleeping bag and water filter and cook kit. It symbolizes freedom to me. Possibility. Strength.

And I love it because of all the places it's gone. Ireland, Denmark, London, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Mexico, Laos, Vietnam, Death Valley, California, Oregon, Washington, and other places I'm sure I'm not recalling now, have all fallen victim to my beloved backpack. It is an old familiar friend. One of the few "things" in my life that I am truly fond of. One of the few pieces of gear I own for which I have no upgrade lust.


One day, and hopefully one day soon, I plan to take it on the PCT. I hope to take it to Central and South America. New Zealand and New Guinea. I want to go everywhere, see everything. My backpack can make it happen.