The Virtue in “Danglers”

Several years ago, I sat on a ferry as it crossed the waters of the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore to South Manitou Island. As we all do, I silently looked at the gear carried by the other backcountry campers headed to the island. One particular item caught my eye: a pair of camouflage Crocs dangling from an overstuffed Osprey pack. I internally scoffed. I considered the presence of danglers—items that didn’t fit inside a pack and thus had to be bungied to the outside like a Christmas tree on a station wagon—to be the backpacker equivalent to a moral failing. 

A night in the woods was supposed to be a mini-practice in austerity, I thought, a subliminal message sent by the growing ubiquity of super-sleek ultralight equipment. A Dyneema pack, for instance, is built like a spaceship, with no excessive daisy chains or gear loops to be found. It would be hard to find a place to secure a bulky set of plastic water shoes even if you wanted to. 

But, of course, it’s important to remember my own backpacking origins. My first trips into the wilds of West Virginia and Wyoming were with a stained 1990s teal-blue aluminum external frame pack. As a teenager, I took great joy in being the group member that had ample locations to which our shared cooking pot could be lashed. I proclaimed myself the Samwise Gamgee of the group, happily sharing the load of others in pursuit of our ultimate goal, companionship in the outdoors. 

It’s in this reflection that I must descend from my high-horse and remind myself that a few gear items clicked on a carabiner are not a sign of ill-preparedness, but a well-earned trade-off in pursuit of the things we all seek from an overnight in the wilderness. 

— Will De Man