Outfitting the Well-Burdened Clotheshorse

"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes."
Thoreau, Walden, 1854.

In July not long ago, Cora and I were hiking in the popular Indian Peaks Wilderness near Denver when a powerful thunderstorm rolled in over Arapaho Pass. A hard rain began, which quickly congealed into stinging hail. Cora and I dove into our packs and pulled on the full rain suits – pants and jacket – that we carry on all but the shortest hikes, even at the height of summer. Now comfortably shielded from the storm's depredations, we continued our hike, enjoying the wild peals of thunder and the staccato lightning bolts glimpsed through the trees.

Suddenly a couple in their early 30's appeared around a bend, heading for the parking lot a mile away as fast as they could run in their $2.97 flip-flops. Their shorts and T-shirts were already soaked through by the 35-degree rain and melting hail. The man carried a baby in a backpack, shielding it as best he could with the only piece of protective clothing they'd brought, a nylon windbreaker that was certainly not waterproof. We knew they would probably come out all right so long as neither of them seriously sprained an ankle on the slippery, muddy trail, but we both shook our heads at the unnecessary misery as we stood aside to let them pass.

While that incident was an extreme case, it was by no means the first time I'd seen poorly prepared summer hikers blown like chaff before the wrath of a Rocky Mountain thunderstorm. It's easy to forget, when you leave the city on an 80-degree summer morning, that in the mountains it may be hailing and near freezing by 3 o'clock.

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