The Superior Hiking Trail and the Cursed Pants

Here’s a story about perseverance and the most embarrassing pants-related thing that ever happened to me. As I’ve been writing these blog entries, I keep coming back to themes about overcoming adversity, shutting out anxiety, moving on from difficult experiences, etc, and I think this story hits all of those notes pretty effectively.

For my 40th birthday, I decided I wanted to spend a week backpacking on the Superior Hiking Trail. The SHT, as it’s known, runs along Minnesota’s Lake Superior coast, from the Canadian border in the North down to Duluth. It three or four weeks to hike the whole thing, which my wife wasn’t going to give me as our first born was barely a year old at the time, but I was able to finagle permission for a five days/four nights camping and hiking, plus a few travel days. This would have to be sufficient for me to prove my manliness and competence as I headed into middle age.

I had never attempted a project on this scale before, so doing the research, accumulating the gear, and testing everything out on some smaller hikes took a few months. A few years prior to this experience, I had attempted to do a three night loop trip around part of the Appalachian Trail and ended up calling an outfitter to pick me up early because of supply issues, so I was determined to have everything in great shape before I set off into the North Woods. I bought a new camping hammock, new hiking shoes, cook stove, and a new pair of hiking pants. Of all that new gear, I didn’t even guess that the pants would be the thing to humble me.

The hike itself was fantastic. Lake Superior is my favorite US geological feature, and I particularly loved the isolation I found on the trail—- because I only had a week to hike, I elected to start at the far Northern end and hike South, so I went the first 48 hours without seeing another human being. But on the morning of the third day, as I pulled on my hiking pants and prepared to greet the morning with purpose and enthusiasm, I was myself greeted with the sound of tearing fabric. These pants were from Columbia—- a well respected brand for outdoor equipment—- and I had only worn them for a few days, but a whole had opened up around where the two inseams meet, and every time I moved, it got a little wider.

Here’s what I think happened—- this was the COVID summer, so the trail had not been cleared and maintained the way it normally would be. The day before the pants ripped, I had spent most of the day pushing through sections of trail that were totally overgrown with ferns, bushes, and weeds. This both put stress on the pants, and also soaked them thoroughly with dew and rainwater. When I got to camp, I hung them up, but there was no where near enough sunlight or breeze to actually dry them. So the next morning, when I slid into these wet, clammy pants, my toe caught part of the fabric at just the right angle and started a small tear. Once the tear was going, it just continued to grow.

I only had two pairs of pants with me—- the hiking pants, and a pair of fleece sweatpants to wear around camp that would have melted away to nothing under the stress of two more days of hiking. I did not bring a sewing kit or stapler. I had some duct tape, but it wouldn’t adhere to the wet fabric. So, I did the only thing I could do—- I started hiking in my holey pants.

I had the vague hope that the my oversize hiking backpack, complete with sleeping bag strapped to the bottom, hung down low enough to give me some coverage, but that was mostly just what I told myself to get my feet moving. That days hike took me through a state park and into a much more crowded section of the trail, so I was consistently around other people—- young, old, families, etc—- all of whom got a pretty good view of my sweaty boxers if they had to walk behind me for any length of time. Not having anything else to do about it, I walked on.

The next morning, the last morning, when I put the pants back on they tore even more—- there was no longer a “hole” in the seat of the pants, we were now dealing with a total failure of the garment to fulfill its basic functions. But it was better than not wearing anything at all, so I hiked on. This last day of the hike took me into town, down the main street, and up to the lobby of the hotel. No one at the check in desk remarked on my sad state, and I carried myself with confidence to my room, at which point I was finally able to throw the pants away and cover my shame with a new pair that I had packed in my overnight bag.

The lesson to me is twofold. First, at the time I was very anxious and embarrassed about hiking down the trail with my boxers in the breeze, but I have lived the past four years without ever encountering anyone who happened to pass me on the shores of Lake Superior in northern Minnesota. If someone had noticed my condition on the trail, the wouldn’t have thought that I was an idiot for wearing pants with a hole in them, they would have immediately understood what had happened and felt some real “there but for the grace of God go I” sympathy. And, more importantly, once the pants tore, I had no alternative to just keep hiking—- wishing I packed another pair or a sewing kit didn’t get me any closer to my hotel. So, there you go—- if you feel like things are overwhelmingly bad, all you can do is recognize that we are all in this together and the only way out is through.

Today, I am training to run 5 half marathons in 5 states in July. This is a fundraiser I’m putting on for the National Diaper Bank Network. If you’ve made it this far, it would be great if you clicked the Donate button at the top of the page and kicked in even a few bucks. Every little bit counts. I will be doing a lot of camping on this trip, but I’m car camping, not back packing, so I will definitely be able to pack multiple pairs of pants.

Postscript—- I contact Columbia when I got back and asked for a refund. They said I would need to mail them the pants as evidence that I wasn’t scamming them, or maybe so they could give the pants to the boys down in the lab to figure out what went wrong. I told them they I had thrown the pants away in a trashcan outside my hotel and they were now deservedly moldering away at the bottom of a Minnesota landfill. The Columbia rep told me there was therefore nothing they could do. So, if you’re buying outdoor equipment, I recommend you look at North Face.