We asked professional outdoor writers to share their stories describing how clothes had played a role in the success of one of their outdoor expeditions. The responses were impressive! Here our winners share their true stories from the great outdoors.
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My favorite outdoor adventure was discovering the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Scorching desert sun and sandstorms require that one wear protective clothing. One cannot always escape the heat by ducking into caves, hiding beneath olive trees, or floating on the Dead Sea.
With my guide's coaxing, I quickly learned to adapt to the natural environment. At a market outside the capital city of Amman, I purchased a red and white checkered smagh. Encircling my crown, a complementary black egal held the smagh in place. This essential garb kept me surprisingly cool and comfortable. This traditional Middle East apparel and my medium complexion often allowed me to blend with the native people.
I wore my headgear virtually everywhere. Sometimes, it transported me to a surreal yet pleasant "Neverland." Riding an Arabian horse, camel, donkey, and chariot, I became Indiana Jones at Petra. Treading across the beautiful sienna sand of Wadi Rum, I envisioned Lawrence of Arabia, or was it a mirage?
Back in America, I store my treasured keepsakes in a bedroom drawer. Though they could serve nicely as a tablecloth, I elect not to do so because someday I will return to Jordan and again wear my precious smagh and egal.
Sitting by a campfire on the shore of the Nottoway River one frigid night, it was time to go check my trotlines. I started down the hill toward the boat and clambered up onto the front deck. I untied the boat and stepped in. I lost my balance and fell backwards out of the boat with one leg remaining in the boat stuck. I lay stunned on my back the cold dark river finding its way into my clothing. I tried to move, but when I did the untied boat moved backwards dragging me to deeper water. I tried to get my boot loose but every time the boat crept out further pulling me closer to disaster. I figured the next try would have to be good or I'd drown. It failed but I stopped moving deeper. Invigorated I tried again. My foot dislodged and I was free. I struggled up fighting whatever had held me. Miraculously a root had stuck through my belt loop holding me. I tied the boat, crawled up the bank, wet, cold and in terrible pain. I thanked my maker for my survival and thanked Wrangler for making jeans that had strong belt loops.
A former Eagle Boy Scout, I know what it means to "be prepared". Invited to a media trip on Lake Erie, a big lake famous for being unpredictable, I packed my most foul weather gear.
A relative newcomer to outdoors writing, I was excited to be with working wordsmiths. I had no idea what initiation they had in store for me. The weather turned nasty and, out in the middle of nowhere, the outboard stopped. Phoning for help with GPS coordinates, a member of our group pulled up. A few minutes of on-the-water diagnostics determined a particular part was needed, but someone needed to stay with the boat. I was "volunteered."
Wearing fleece-lined Wrangler Rugged Wear thermal jeans, the blowing wind and setting sun dropping the mercury from the "balmy" 40's to freezing didn't faze me! Before dark the guys returned laughing. This "break down" was just a "joke" as they had pulled the kill switch cord, then popped around the corner out of sight. But the joke was on them. I was warm and toasty and catching fish, while they still had to endure the cold ride back to the launch ramp.
The older I get the more I sweat. Or is it the heavier I get the more I sweat? Perhaps a combination, but I've fought the outdoor body heating and cooling challenges my whole life.
The layering concept took time to sink in; avoid cotton when I’m under exertion, and build from my naked hide with fabrics that wick and insulate. I finally came up with a layering system that works for me.
A cold October morning found me on a classic North Dakota waterfowl hunt. Classic has as much to do with weather as cooperating birds. Temps were in the teens and winds gusted from 40-60 mph. Decoys set, we hiked in and waited. I was sweaty, and concerned. Hunkered down, I hoped I could shed the moisture, and looming chill. Wool/poly underwear was next to my skin, followed by a wool sweater, followed by a fleece vest, topped with a hard-shell, insulated coat. Beneath, a pair of GameHide pants, and my time-worn Wrangler hunting jeans were wool/poly bottoms.
I warmed to the moment when the action started, but especially when I realized I wasn't cold. We shot nine geese that morning.
When my fiancé suggested kayaking, I donned my favorite pair of rugged jeans and bright red shirt.
The location? The Cape Fear River. The name struck a chord in me somehow. Maybe it was that scary movie with Robert De Niro...
I worried about turning over the kayak and not being able to right it. "Oh, don't worry," the guides said. "That won't happen."
One guide buttoned me into my kayak. I got about five feet and Bloop! I flipped. I took my paddle and tried to reach the bottom. Too deep.
After over a minute had passed, I was still staring at the same murky silt far below. My fiancé was hollering for a guide to help. Soon I was flipped over, choking and splurting water.
I switched to a sit-on kayak. Numerous times over the next four hours, I capsized in the Level Four rapids and was flung against one boulder after another like a human pinball. My companions could easily follow my red shirt.
I was almost entirely black and blue for two weeks, but it was definitely an experience to tell my grandchildren. And the jeans and shirt survived the trip!
The right equipment and clothes can make a trip...and, on occasion, save your life.
Backpacking in Paria Canyon, Utah. Early October, granite skies, and unseasonable rains. Unease grows as the river begins to rise as quickly as filling a bath tub.
A ford of thigh-deep water renders the color of chocolate milk by turbulence that echoes off the canyon walls like a jet afterburner.
Uncinch the backpack in case it needs to be dropped. An agonizingly slow sideways shuffle holding a rope secured between banks by the strongest who makes it across first. No hope of seeing foot placements, and muscles begin to numb in the frigid water.
Suddenly a slip and you’re face down, underwater, and clinging to the rope like a bed sheet whipped horizontal in the wind.
You sputter and choke as many hands guide you ashore. Then hypothermia sets in.
An extra set of dry clothes rescued from deep in your pack and several hours in a down sleeping bag are what eventually stop the uncontrollable shivering.
I've heard many times that the outdoors is not a fashion runway. It's true, most of the time. But not always.
It was May and I had camped out in the mountains of Montana for nine days, too frugal to pay for "civilized" lodging. A sense of adventure and a lack of economical alternatives also convinced me to hitchhike seven hundred miles to get home.
Hitchhiking is about presentation. Nobody wants a tramp in their truck. In Montana, nylon travel clothes are a good way of shouting "I'm the one who's turning your ranch into a ski resort" to any driver more than fifty miles outside Helena or Bozeman.
Jeans, on the other hand, were born and bred on the frontier. Nine days of campfires, rain squalls, and pushing bush, and my blue shanks still looked presentable on an interchange.
My hitchhiking sojourn took me just a day and a half. Many of the drivers had never picked up a hitchhiker before. When asked why they had chosen to pull over, the reason was always the same: "because you looked good".
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