Not Packing My Fears

The phrase “Don’t pack your fears” is common in the backpacking community. Some backpackers use it to raise fear, by threatening others who are not “ultralight” that they are carrying too much weight. But most use it for good, by discouraging newcomers from over-packing and encouraging them to bring only what they need. The phrase stems from the belief that a backpacker needs only one of everything—one set of clothes to hike in, one set of clothes to sleep in, one place to sleep, one first aid kit, and just enough food for the trip. But scared backpackers will pack more—extra layers for the cold, extra food if they are hungry, or anything else just in case. When new backpackers fear the unknown, they will over-prepare for everything they expect may happen. Fear means extra weight. 

If I am going to hike nearly 2200 miles in five months on the Appalachian Trail, I need to pack light. I need to reduce the weight of my entire life to under twenty pounds, so I can walk the length of the East Coast with it. Not packing my fears is crucial to success on my thru-hike. 

But I am scared. 

I am scared of being cold.

I am scared of getting wet.

I am scared of going hungry.

I am scared of what I cannot control. 

I have always over-packed, wanting to be perfectly ready for every situation. My school bag is full of every knick-knack I could need. By carrying a stapler, safety pins, sunglasses, and contact solution, I am prepared for anything. My car is even worse. I am ready to sleep in it at a moment’s notice, and I have any tools needed if I break down. I will always be prepared—maybe over-prepared.

My desire to over-pack—to be prepared for every situation—stems from the desire to always be in control. I never want things to be out of my control. I always like to call the shots. When I can’t, I want to be ready for whatever could happen next. At a minimum, I can control how I have prepared. Even if I cannot control the situation. Being in control—and over-prepared—is comfortable.

But if I am going to walk 2200 miles, I will be uncomfortable. I will be cold, wet, hungry, and scared. When I spend five months in the woods, there will be few times that I will be in complete control of anything. All I can control is what I eat, how far I walk, and where I sleep. These three choices will be all I make for the five months that I thru-hike. I will not get to choose the weather, the temperature, or the terrain. I can choose only how I respond to it—especially when I am uncomfortable. I can give up when things do not go my way, or I can face the fear, embrace the discomfort, and keep moving. 

With so few choices, I do not need to over-pack. I will bring only what I need. I do not need to pack my fears because they are inevitable. On the trail, I am going to be afraid of things, and I am going to be uncomfortable. Why would I weigh myself down by bringing things that can only comfort my fears if no amount of preparation or over-packing can stop them? 

When I leave for my thru-hike, I will not pack my fears. I will leave a desire for control at home. But I will bring an understanding that the world will be unpredictable, and I can only keep walking.