What makes the best hiking pants?
BY JACK HAUEN
Before I left for a three-month trip to hike my way through the Balkans, I decided to find the holy grail: pants that do it all.
They had to stretch; four ways, not two. They had to have pockets: as many as could humanly fit, including a zippered one for important gear like my compass, phone or passport. They needed to look decent. For as much time as I hoped to spend on the trail, I wanted to be able to go to dinner in them, too. Navy. Not too slim. Water repellency was a must, as was a built-in drawstring. Reflective cuffs would be a bonus. Gusseted crotch? I only learned what that meant during my research, but you bet your reinforced groin area that it was a necessity.
After agonizing over third-party and user reviews, forums and too many “Best Hiking Pants Ever” SEO articles, I settled on a pair: the 686 Everywhere Pant.
They stretched. They moved. They had pockets. The drawstring was internal—you could even flip the drawstring around and hide it inside. Cuffs: reflective. Crotch: gusseted.
I ordered them, tried them on and they fit beautifully. They felt great to walk in. I could see myself in them on a thru-hike as well as at the bar.
Before I left for the big trip, I took them for a weekend camping trip to test their ruggedness. I immediately burned a hole in them. A stray campfire spark taught me in half a second what I failed to realize throughout my hours spent searching, comparing, and consuming: In researching the best outdoor pants, I didn’t take into account the fact that I would mostly be wearing them outdoors, where bad things will likely happen to them.
I got the hole repaired, and I took them on my trip. They worked great. But I was always a little bit worried about them. Does this rock have seagull poop on it? Am I going to drop my s’more in my lap? My super pants were no longer invincible.
Now when I go hiking, I wear a different pair that I won’t feel bad about burning a hole in, ripping or getting dirty. They’re objectively the worst pants I own, and they’re 100% replaceable.
They’re made of nylon. The material is thin as hell, but tough. It does not stretch, but they’re so baggy it doesn’t matter. They have a drawstring and two pockets that don’t zip. They’re a little bit too short, so I tuck them into my socks when the mosquitoes come out.
They’re black, but they have a white stain on the back that I colored in with a Sharpie (you can still see it). They don’t have a label. I don’t even know where I got them.
But I love them. When I wear them, they never cross my mind. If I sit in seagull poop or drop a smore in my lap, the stains just add character. If I burn a hole in them, I can patch it or replace them. If I really need a nicer pair for in-town travel, I’ll bring them—but most of the time, I’m fine to look a little shabby.
I've taken the ember burning my crotch as a signal from the universe that I'd wasted many hours on research when the $5 solution was staring me in the face.
Now, when I'm watching yet another ultralight gear rundown and start to have thoughts about whether my buff should be merino, I remember the lesson I learned the hard way: sometimes pants are really just pants.
And you know what? Now that I think about it, the other pair was a little too warm.
