blacknblue
Active member
I bought a EMS 2000 backpack way back in the summer of 1995 (or so) in Burlington, Vermont. It was my bread and butter backpack for my hiking trips, bike rides, and international flights. I stuffed it full of books and binders for school; I stuffed it full of day planners and bag lunches for work; I stuffed it full of clothes and water bottles for hikes. It has carried skis, boots, cameras, maps, books, and spare socks. It has been to Maine and California and Asia and mountaintops and valleys and many places in between. I love that old green backpack.
Over the years, it has burst a seam here or there. Some buckles have broken and I have quickly replaced them. I cleaned it by hand and mended its wounds. I have dried it when wet, warmed it when cold, and aired it out when stinky from hauling my hiking socks.
On a recent hike, the chest strap buckle broke. Without its service, the backpack was no longer able to function adequately on any hike of modest proportions. The break occurred such that I could not simply replace the broken buckle with a new one. The repair would require—at minimum—major stitchwork to be undertaken. Quite possibly, it could not be mended to be as good as new. Considering his (the backpack’s) age, a full recovery seemed unlikely. After all, he is 80 in backpack years.
Still, my love runs so deep that I decided to operate. I made the requisite purchases at REI and sat down on Friday night to perform the operation. First, of course, I made sure to notify friends so as to saturate the procedure in prayer. Then I laid hands on the backpack. Armed with a Swiss army knife, butane lighter, new buckle, clamp, brick, hammer, carabiner, pliers, nailgun, powersaw, superglue, duct tape, cold beer, and determination, I got to work.
Half of the buckle went very smoothly. I broke the old buckle off and finessed the webbing through the new buckle. The other half, however, would require either massive stitching or a clean cut that I hoped to close afterward. I cut the webbing, inserted the new buckled and began to mend the webbing around the buckle. It did not work. I tried for over an hour to reassemble the webbing. I even did a ritual dance. Eventually, I sat on the floor with the backpack in my arms, he breathing his last breaths. If you have never held a backpack in your arms while it is dying, or even seen a backpack’s last breaths, you have missed one of the more poignant moments of humanity (and backpackity).
With a hike at 10,000 feet only eleven hours away, I became desperate. Nevermind that I own maybe a half-dozen other backpack-like-devices. I could not bear to part with him, my EMS 2000. In haste, I concocted a crude method to replace the chest strap altogether that would still ensure proper fit for a hike. The hike would involve carrying crampons, snowshoes, and an ice axe on the outside of the pack, with full winter clothing inside. I knew he would pull through for me. I had undying confidence. He slept beside me throughout the night and I could hear his determined, though raspy, breathing.
Saturday dawned and I drove to Brainerd Lake and began the hike. It was not entirely comfortable, but my work-around proved adequately effective for the occasion. As I switched from boots to snowshoes to crampons during the hike, he performed admirably, bearing his task with aplomb. After miles of wind-blown snow and stunning alpine vistas, I returned to my car in the early afternoon, thankful and overjoyed.
Then, as I was adjusting my snowshoes, I witnessed another blowout in the lower left of the backpack. A quick survey revealed that the injury was severe. I stood back and looked at my backpack.
He was tired. Not from the day at altitude, but from a lifetime of service. He had tears and rips and stains all over him. He had years and miles and stories to tell, but not the energy to withstand them. He sat in the back of my Jeep, hunched over and clinging to my other snowshoe and my crampons. He was faithful but wearied; he was tried, true, but exhausted.
A new backpack was already en route, being shipped by the good folks at REI, but still I stood and tended to his injury like Mel Gibson’s red-haired friend in Braveheart tended to his fatally-wounded father after a battle. I knew it was his time. Yet I stood and contemplated what more I could do. At one point, I heard my backpack audibly say, "Let me go… I’ve lived a good life… I’ve lived long enough to live free… I’ve seen you grow into the man you have become…"
And then his voice trailed off. I donned a black armband and drove back to Boulder with my headlights on.
Please feel free to express your condolences, but please don’t expect an immediate reply. It’s too soon.
Over the years, it has burst a seam here or there. Some buckles have broken and I have quickly replaced them. I cleaned it by hand and mended its wounds. I have dried it when wet, warmed it when cold, and aired it out when stinky from hauling my hiking socks.
On a recent hike, the chest strap buckle broke. Without its service, the backpack was no longer able to function adequately on any hike of modest proportions. The break occurred such that I could not simply replace the broken buckle with a new one. The repair would require—at minimum—major stitchwork to be undertaken. Quite possibly, it could not be mended to be as good as new. Considering his (the backpack’s) age, a full recovery seemed unlikely. After all, he is 80 in backpack years.
Still, my love runs so deep that I decided to operate. I made the requisite purchases at REI and sat down on Friday night to perform the operation. First, of course, I made sure to notify friends so as to saturate the procedure in prayer. Then I laid hands on the backpack. Armed with a Swiss army knife, butane lighter, new buckle, clamp, brick, hammer, carabiner, pliers, nailgun, powersaw, superglue, duct tape, cold beer, and determination, I got to work.
Half of the buckle went very smoothly. I broke the old buckle off and finessed the webbing through the new buckle. The other half, however, would require either massive stitching or a clean cut that I hoped to close afterward. I cut the webbing, inserted the new buckled and began to mend the webbing around the buckle. It did not work. I tried for over an hour to reassemble the webbing. I even did a ritual dance. Eventually, I sat on the floor with the backpack in my arms, he breathing his last breaths. If you have never held a backpack in your arms while it is dying, or even seen a backpack’s last breaths, you have missed one of the more poignant moments of humanity (and backpackity).
With a hike at 10,000 feet only eleven hours away, I became desperate. Nevermind that I own maybe a half-dozen other backpack-like-devices. I could not bear to part with him, my EMS 2000. In haste, I concocted a crude method to replace the chest strap altogether that would still ensure proper fit for a hike. The hike would involve carrying crampons, snowshoes, and an ice axe on the outside of the pack, with full winter clothing inside. I knew he would pull through for me. I had undying confidence. He slept beside me throughout the night and I could hear his determined, though raspy, breathing.
Saturday dawned and I drove to Brainerd Lake and began the hike. It was not entirely comfortable, but my work-around proved adequately effective for the occasion. As I switched from boots to snowshoes to crampons during the hike, he performed admirably, bearing his task with aplomb. After miles of wind-blown snow and stunning alpine vistas, I returned to my car in the early afternoon, thankful and overjoyed.
Then, as I was adjusting my snowshoes, I witnessed another blowout in the lower left of the backpack. A quick survey revealed that the injury was severe. I stood back and looked at my backpack.
He was tired. Not from the day at altitude, but from a lifetime of service. He had tears and rips and stains all over him. He had years and miles and stories to tell, but not the energy to withstand them. He sat in the back of my Jeep, hunched over and clinging to my other snowshoe and my crampons. He was faithful but wearied; he was tried, true, but exhausted.
A new backpack was already en route, being shipped by the good folks at REI, but still I stood and tended to his injury like Mel Gibson’s red-haired friend in Braveheart tended to his fatally-wounded father after a battle. I knew it was his time. Yet I stood and contemplated what more I could do. At one point, I heard my backpack audibly say, "Let me go… I’ve lived a good life… I’ve lived long enough to live free… I’ve seen you grow into the man you have become…"
And then his voice trailed off. I donned a black armband and drove back to Boulder with my headlights on.
Please feel free to express your condolences, but please don’t expect an immediate reply. It’s too soon.
