A creek snakes through the farm where I grew up, a babbling brook with waist-deep eddy pools on wide bends. Through tall grass alive with insects it winds over rocks and under a footbridge, past a pond near our old stone house, twisting, turning and disappearing through a gutter under the road.
Chasing fish, frogs and creatures of our own imaginations, my sister and I splashed and played, returning home with mud between our toes and soaked-through jeans and t-shirts. In summer’s heat we fell asleep under stars to the stream’s steady song.
Summer camp took adventure to the next level—canoeing, hiking, camping for nights at a time—and eventually I applied to a multi-month, expedition based outdoor program. I couldn’t get enough. Along with my acceptance letter into the program came a three-page list in the mail: Essential Equipment. This must be the real deal, I thought, I need so many things.
Between the packed racks of an outdoor store, my mom and I read tags and referenced our list, following it to a T and deferring decisions to enthusiastic employees who explained fill power and denier.
I climbed mountains and ran rivers, trudged through streams and slot canyons, cooked gourmet meals in wind and rain, hiked, biked and slept in my tent for 100 nights of the following year. Then I got a job at the gear store.
Employed in the same place where I’d taken my list, I helped customers with lists of their own, preaching the pros and cons of equipment I’d relied on for my own endeavors. At first the job helped my gear habit grow—discounts and endless attention on the best, brightest and lightest made my personal inventory expand. As weeks and months went by, I assisted countless customers in making gear choices for their own adventures.
As I saw more and more shoppers check off items of Essential Equipment, unsettledness took root. The more I sold, the less inclined I was to buy stuff myself. It was a nagging feeling of doubt, at first, an increasing discomfort with the contrast between eye-blurring aisles of colorful, quick-dry synthetics and the sublime nature where many of the products would be taken.
It came to a head when a girl came through the door with a list just like mine, three pages stapled together on an outdoor company’s letterhead. Somewhere between base layers and outerwear, she mentioned how excited she was for her two-day trip.
Two days? I did my best to hide the surprise. I also mentioned the wool sweater she was wearing would be fine for the campsite if she didn’t feel like spending $120 on a mid-weight fleece with seamless shoulders, a helmet-compatible hood, adjustable shockcord hem and storm flap zipper with a chin guard.
My sister and I were a stone’s throw from home when we slept under the stars but our adventures weren’t that different from this customer who was about to break the bank. No wonder prospective campers left the store wide-eyed—it all sees so complicated.
My approach to customer service changed: make adventure easy and affordable.
There are trips where ounces equal pounds and pounds equal pain—silnylon has its place in the world—but I spent 18 years of life outside before I took that Essential Equipment list shopping. Now I buy things only after thoughtful consideration and lend gear to friends and family as often as possible. Money is better spent on tickets and travel, and cotton doesn’t really kill that often.
