I love to clean out my closets, garages, sheds.
At least twice a year, I swing the doors wide open and tear through my little caves, tossing random effects over my shoulder like heaps of dirt flying from the backside of my busy terrier as he unearths a bone.
These jeans make my butt look big.
Who sent me this Christmas sweater?
Pogo sticks are dangerous.
Did I really buy a Spam cookbook?
Pretty soon, a box is overflowing. I drag it out to my truck, heave it up onto the bed, speed to the nearest thrift store, and hand it over to an employee who immediately rummages through my junk, hoping to find a treasure.
I drive off into the sunset feeling light and free – no clutter for me.
To be honest, I am not this ruthless with all of my belongings. I am a sentimental fool about certain things. I have selective clutter.
Outdoor gear that has treated me well and taken me to great places is on my “must keep” list.
Really… how can I possibly get rid of a backpack that I carried on the Appalachian Trail for 6 straight months?
People who have stood in the same room with this internal frame, Dana Design pack will tell you exactly why I should haul it off to the dump – it reeks.
Appalachian Trail (AT) hikers are known for being pungent characters; after all, we wore the same clothes every day, usually stopping to do laundry once every week or so. Our packs acted like sponges on our backs, soaking up thousands of miles of dirt and grime and sweat.
It was routine for us to park our backpacks outside of restaurants so we could go inside and feast; we often heard people walking through the door, holding their noses and complaining, “What is that awful smell?”
We just smiled at each other and nodded our heads, silently proud of the earthy tang we’d been cultivating for months. It takes a lot of work to smell so bad.
I went through two pairs of hiking boots on the AT. The soles are worn smooth. The laces - ripped and tied back together in multiple spots – have cut deep X’s into the leather tongues. These boots, smelling pretty darn ripe all on their own, have a place of honor right next to Dana.
My tent not only smells like mildew, BO, and campfire smoke, but the white ripstop is covered with brownish-red polka-dots from the thousands of mosquitoes and black flies I smashed with my thumbs against the tent walls. I point out the bloody battle scars to friends; for some reason, no one wants to share a tent with me.
And then there’s Kirby’s pack – I will never, ever get rid of my furry sidekick’s Wenaha saddlebags. On the AT, Kirby carried his own dog food, a bowl, his favorite Kong toy, Milkbones, and all of the trash.
Kirby went ballistic, dancing in place and yodeling with joy, every single time I picked up his pack. He ran thousands of miles, swam rivers, waded marshes, trudged through snow, killed squirrels and coons, rolled in cow pies and roadkill - all while wearing this pack. It was a part of him.
I was conflicted when I got out of long distance dog mushing. I wanted to hoard all of the dog bowls and booties, harnesses and sleds. But the quantity of gear was great and much of it was quite valuable. It didn’t make sense to keep everything, so I decided to pick and chose.
Overall, I saved enough good gear to be dangerous. If I wanted to get back into mushing, it wouldn’t be hard – I’d just need some dogs. A small sprint sled and my mushing equipment are parked right next to my hiking paraphernalia in the garage, ready and waiting to be used again. I did get rid of one thing that I immediately regretted - I sold my Iditarod sled. A friend of mine made it custom just for me, but we both agreed that it was large and costly and it was made to be used. I knew another musher wouldn’t appreciate the time and effort it took to make this sled nearly as much as I did, but still I decided to let go of it. I can’t keep everything, right?
A month ago, I realized that I couldn’t take it anymore – I wanted my sled back. That sled was built for me, it carried me across Alaska. All of its dents and scratches were part of my history, my story. I called the musher who had my sled, and thankfully he was willing to sell it to me back to me.
Standing on the runners, gripping the handlebars, stepping on the brake - it was like a reunion with an old friend. I handed over a big check, carefully slid the sled into the bed of my truck, and drove off into the sunset feeling light and free and very relieved.
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