From extrovert to introvert.

 

Those salad days of youth when being seen was about the most important thing.  How stupid I looked was a very distant second place.

Moving forward, not being seen is about the most important thing on the agenda.  How I am perceived is of even less interest to me now, I know I look daft.

In halcyon days of long lost summers the external frame backpack (rucksack was not a term in my vocabulary) was the thing.  It was blue and vile, built to survive nuclear threat, I was not built to survive it.

But the key point was, lots of places to tie stuff.  I must have been quite an event walking through quiet villages, a one man band clanking through.  Small children knowing only marginally less than me would stop, stare and point.  Elders would cast nervous glances, I was too young to be a vagrant, but still, just maybe…

My backpack had travelled through Seth Brundle’s teleporter and come out the other side inside out to all intents and purpose.  It was all hanging and swinging off the backpack frame for legitimate reason.

Naturally the bright yellow rollmat did not fit in, so it was strapped to the exterior.  The tent spars were too large to fit inside, so they lived on the outside.  Given this it made sense that the tent might as well live on the outside as well in its own bag.  After a bit of use the tent had all the form of a bag of unwashed clothes strapped precariously on the pack.  You could compare it with the wet clothing hanging off the bag to dry.

My sleeping bag was enormous, comfort was important, it did not matter it was so wretched hot I seldom got in it.  Too large to fit in the backpack it was strapped on the top comfortably extending above my head.

This arrangement now caused issues with regard low hanging branches which was neatly resolved by hanging a large parka over the lot, blue with orange lining.  The parka, a sacrificial layer, it got snagged, not the sleeping bag.

All this strapped on with a bungee or two and yards of string.

Finally the cooking pot, much to dirty to live within the pack it was on the outside, rattling and clanging merrily with every stride.  It even annoyed me at times, but not enough to do anything about it.

Finally, and this must be the most absurd of all, a spare pair of boots.  The message to the outside world, I walked so far along such un-trodden paths I needed at least two pairs of boots to complete the journey.

I have no idea what was in the backpack itself, some food, but never enough and certainly not enough water.  Food and water was for softies.  I suspect there was all manner of gizmo’s that never got used and backups and spares for these un-used items.

This touches on the reason I wished for the recognition.  I was on a journey, perhaps an epic one, that few mortal men would consider and few in that number would live to see the destination.

I can laugh now, but then I didn’t.  The backpack was digging into my back in all manner of hideous ways as the load simply had no rhyme nor reason, it was heavy where it should have been light, light where it should have been heavy.

The whole shooting match swung precariously without any assistance from me, but as I wobbled and tottered under it I gave it plenty of extra incentive to upend me.

Travelling under low branches (or bridges even, but memory might be playing tricks on me here) I did not so much duck as sag at the knees to get under obstacles without ripping holes in parka and sleeping bag or dumping me on my back.

Getting this backpack on and off without some bit of equipment either dropping off or walloping me was an art to be mastered.

The process by which these items disappeared into the bag was slow.  But it has happened and only last year did I realise it was completed when the sleeping mat was replaced by a self-inflating mat which would live inside the rucksack.

Along the way for reasons of comfort the sleeping bag headed into the pack first.  Having got smaller and more manageable.  A bag was made for cooking equipment, an old pair of moleskin trousers donated a leg for the purpose.

The purchase of a bivvy bag meant the tent could be exchanged for a poncho tarp.

Now all that remains strapped to the exterior of the pack is a pair of walking poles, they look less daft there than they do in my hands.

There was still that nagging feeling this simply did not look the part.  Real men had stuff hanging off their pack, it was manly.  Fortunately Ray Mears came to my rescue.  You cannot doubt his manly credentials and everything is always neatly squared away in his rucksack (or in the landrovers).