It’s official. Lean Solid Girl and I have formed an artistic collaboration called The Camoufleurs. We’ll be found an artists’ residency and showing late this year.
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Lean Solid Dogs is honored to present our first guest post by Sgt. Šileika, a kindred “marching philosopher” and my oldest and most reliable mentor in everything related to rucking. I dearly hope that one day he will write a whole autobiography, but the part of his resume that concerns us here is that the good sergeant has logged many, many, many miles on his feet, first as a vagabond-adventurer-pilgrim, then as an infantryman of The Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment) of Canada serving overseas, and later as a reservist in his homeland of Lithuania.
Sgt. Šileika sent this advice to Lean Solid HQ in response to my recent curiosity about the idea of “third-line” equipment, items that you don’t need to carry attached to your person (the absolutely essential “first-line” gear) or in your ruck (“second-line”) but would still be nice to stash somewhere in the field.
The info is too good to keep to myself, so with the Baltic trail Yoda’s permission, we are publishing it here for the benefit of lean, solid dogs everywhere.
Over years of experimenting with “third line” equipment, I’ve come up with my own “formula” designed for the three most common scenarios:
Scenario 1) You will operate out of a vehicle. In this case, you have lucked out. You can bring all the third-line equipment you want. Pack it in a duffel and leave it in the vehicle. In fact, go ahead and pack a huge steamer trunk if you want. When Theodore Roosevelt embarked on his African safari, he brought leather-bound editions of Shakespeare, Homer, the Bible, Milton, Dante, and 54 other volumes. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t carrying them all. Personally, I’d have skipped Walter Scott’s sentimental Victorian genre fiction to make room for Carl Jung’s Red Book and a modest kettlebell instead, but it’s immaterial: you can go bonkers on third-line gear provided you’re leaving it in a vehicle.
Scenario 2) You will carry everything into the field on foot, set up your own base camp/staging area, and operate from there. When I was in recce platoon, usually there would be an ORV (objective rendez-vous) prior to the objective itself, and that was where we’d drop kit, and some would stay to man the radios and others of us would continue on to patrol, man the vantage point, or hunt for chantarelles and catch butterflies.
I would carry third-line kit in an ALICE pack or Canadian Pattern 64 pack, and to the top of that I would lash a small pack containing second-line gear. (See image above. It’s grainy, but in the background you can just make out a Pattern 64 with a small Camelbak pack on top.) That way, when we hit the base camp, I could shed the main pack and continue on with the small pack. When we returned, I simply attached the small pack back onto the ALICE/64 pack and carried on. That saved me from repacking things hurriedly, which usually devolved into a frantic goat rope.
Here the general principle is modular packing, so you can shed gear and pick it back up quickly, without fuss. You can drop it and go, then recover it and go, with just one or two clicks of a buckle.
The Pattern 64 and ALICE packs are great for modular packing because of their big external frames: they’re perfect for lashing stuff to. But if you don’t have one, you can just attach your small pack under the bottom of your larger back, where you would traditionally strap your sleeping bag, or you can attach it under the floating lid of a modern pack.
Scenario 3) Surprise! You have to carry extra things! Sometimes you’re just on foot and there won’t be any further base camp/staging area. You’ll be carrying everything, so you’re not bringing any third-line gear to stash along the way. If you’re bringing it at all, you’ll be carrying it the whole time.
But now—surprise!!—you stumble across a pot of leprechaun gold. Are you just going to leave it there and hike back to look for a truck? Hell, no. You have to carry it.
The worst way to haul something heavy or awkward is to actually carry it in your hands. It’s slow, uncomfortable, and fatiguing. And carrying it on your shoulder like a stevedore isn’t much nicer. Instead, if you can somehow put it on your back, the difference will be like night and day.
To prepare for this possibility, you have two options, which I call “pack in a pack” or “partly empty pack.” I go with the first option: inside my small pack, I keep an empty “crunch pack,” some sort of satchel or other carrying device that scrunches down to 1L or less. If I discover buried pirate treasure (which used to happen all the time in Quebec), I fill the satchel and lash it to the top or bottom of my pack.
The second option is cheaper: you just carry an oversized pack, with more room than you need for your gear. If you meet a village full of Smurfs who want to stow away with you, you just expand your pack to its full size and then dump them in on top your field stove. Close up the pack and no one will be the wiser, unless they burst into song.
Without meaning to, this weekend I got to spend 48 hours in the field. A buddy and I planned a weighted ruck and gear test in the mountains, and we came home gloriously delirious and trashed, and just as I planned to slip into a hot bath, I got an opportunity to join a major search operation elsewhere in the mountains. So instead of a lavender-scented bath, I got a hasty resupply and a 3:00am departure. It was awesome!
Did it really count as being “in the field” for 48 hours, given that I made it home between the hike and the search? Not precisely, but my inner lawyer argues thus: “Yes, your honor, I did get one hot meal. But it was week-old ravioli re-heated in a microwave and eating standing up at 2am. And granted, I did sleep in a bed with sheets. But it was only for 2.5 hours and I was wearing dirty BDUs. And if the court will allow me to approach the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, they will find in my favor just based on how I smell.”
It was paradise, or some near-synonym that means “something gloriously horrible that you would like to do again soon.” And I learned tons, which I will dump out into print here:
1) Options for dressing for high heat
How should you dress for prolonged exercise in high heat? One school of thought says you should wear shorts and a tank top, like a marathoner, and be cooled by sweat and breezes. The other school says to protect yourself from radiant heat by covering up, like a farmer. Both philosophies make intelligent points and science has tried to adjudicate between the two philosophies. But the results are inconclusive.
So my hiking buddy and I ran an unscientific test of our own. We were the perfect pair of subjects: I like to hike in short shorts (though normally I wear long sleeves on top) and he is farmer and works every day covered up in hot sun. So I wore French surplus, which is the ideal type of the “sweat and breeze” approach, and he wore inexpensive technical pants and shirt, ably representing the “block the rays” approach.
On this particular hike, I was the lucky one. We walked in shade for much of the way, sparing me from a lot of radiant heat. And we were carrying moderately heavy weight (45 lbs./20kg for each) with significant climb, generating lots of body heat. We both agreed that I got the better bargain that day. Even with all of our huffing puffing, my body heat dissipated right away, his did not. And despite my exposed skin, I had the luxury of intermittent, partial shade; I did not have to provide all my own shade with my clothing.
Though I lucked out that day, I could also have lost under some circumstances. It is hard to be certain of the conditions you will find in an unfamiliar environment, and as Goggins says of environmental stress, “…more than any other variable [it] can break a motherfucker down fast.” From what I’ve experienced, people can compensate for heat and cold for a long time, but once we cross some threshold, we collapse suddenly and badly. Once that happens, we are so compromised that it’s extremely difficult to save the situation by our own actions.
So on training hikes like this, I might as well carry more gear. After all, once I’ve decided to haul 45# for the hell of it, there’s no reason I shouldn’t trade some of the steel plates or bricks for clothes, shelter-building supplies, batteries, tools, and three days of food instead. So my next experiment in romping will be to devise an easy on/easy off weight so that I can do my weighted rucks with my regular, homely, lovable, eminently useful SAR pack.
2) Map is not territory: On the search, I got lucky and was placed with one of our teams “tribal elders,” so to speak, who has half a lifetime of lessons to teach about searching. She pointed out how wrong the topographic lines on our maps were. The maps were composed from aerial photographs of the tree tops, she explained, and the cartographers’ (highly) educated guesses about the ground below. But they might have had no way to know about some deep, narrow fold in the earth that we were struggling across where the map showed no obstacle.
3) The compass is king: All of our search teachers emphasized map and compass skills, and early on they told us that the compass isn’t just an analog backup in case your GPS breaks. But only now have I come to understand why. First, my GPS is great at telling my location and my track, but it sucks at telling my direction. But more importantly, if I’m staring at my GPS unit, I’m not searching, I’m just walking. With a compass, I can set a heading, find a landmark to walk toward, and then keep my eyes up and moving. (Uncle Ron, one of our nav gurus, even teaches a clever, quick trick for laying your compass on top of your GPS screen and getting map bearings to a distant objective. Then you can put your GPS away, glance down at your compass only occasionally, and still arrive at your destination.)
Part II in our series on “The Je Ne Sais Quoi of French Surplus”
Can you call something your “favorite” if you find it uninteresting and humdrum but you still choose it over most other things? If so, meet my favorite daypack, the French “musette F1/F2.”
I guess I love this thing. It’s basic and boring, but based on my actual behavior, it must be my favorite, because I use it literally every day and take it into the field several times a month.
In about the Seventies, the French army replaced their simple canvas modèle 50, which they’d carried through their Indochina and Algeria campaigns, with the musette F1, made of a clever rubberized fabric to keep water out. In the late Eighties they issued a slightly enlarged version, the F2.
You can find both on the surplus market for a little as $20. Also available but far less common are Austrian rucks that seem clearly like improved homages to the F2.
For a 1970s design, these bomb-proof French packs ride pretty comfortably, sitting nice and high on the back. I can pack almost 40# (18kg) of bricks into an unmodified F1 before it grinds against my low back.
Though the straps can scarcely be adjusted, they have the golden ingredient for comfort: they are broad. Not padded, but broad. (I owe this discovery to Sgt. Šileika, the Lithuanian trail Yoda.)
All I can criticize the straps for is that you cannot adjust them for length. However, we fix that in just a few minutes. We just need to replace the original “quick” attach hook.
See, the pack was designed with the idea that first you’d put your right arm through the strap and then, instead of awkwardly slipping your left through another tight strap, you would just have that left strap flopping free and then re-attach it to the pack with a hook near your left hip. (This may even have been necessary to make it fit with the FAMAS rifle’s unusual sling.)
But that hook is impossibly clumsy and slow (at least for me), and you can’t shorten or lengthen the strap to cinch it up to your body.
Happily, you can change all that for $1. Cut that hook off and replace it with a “G hook” and a short length of 1″ (25mm) webbing. And, regardez! You have an adjustable strap. (Believe me, if I can do this, you can do this.)
While you’re at it, replace the buckles, which as one commenter writes at La Tranchée Militaire, “… are almost impossible to use because they give you so little room to pass the straps through,” and you have to thread/unthread two long straps through two slots each.
Instead, buy a pair of 25mm “split-bar” buckles. You can slip them right on and you don’t even have to remove the original buckles.
Finally, take my advice and get six “web dominators,” which are basically little bungee spools for loose straps flapping all over. You’ll want them because this thing has about 2m of extra straps, and unless you’re currently using them all to strap stuff all over the outside of your pack, you’ll want them out of the way.
After prolonged talk and little follow-through, I finally camped in the Marijuana Highlands for the first time this year. Since the lockdown, I’ve seen over 10 times more people up there than ever before, but as usual everyone is exceedingly neighborly. Hikers being almost non-existent there, people in trucks and ATVs routinely slow down to offer a ride, a bottle of water, or a beer. (The really scary thing isn’t even the people driving with an open White Claw. It’s the guy at the roadside who turned to offer me a beer while operating a chainsaw.)
On this outing, I was experimenting with food (i.e. bringing some) and a new bivvy sack, but I also got a bonus lesson about how to not fall on rocks.
Cooking and Eating
I usually do this trip with minimal food, but I was inspired to try Officer Rob’s Thanksgiving Dinner: a freezer bag with instant mashed potatoes, sausage, and some chili. Great! Next time I’ll just add some butter for calories, so I don’t have to gobble down five servings of mashed potatoes.
I forgot my beloved Esbit stove but improvised successfully with just a perforated coffee can. It’s still nice to have the stove, if only to hold up the water kettle stable (which is so small that it fits inside the coffee can), but I made do with some stones.
Because I’m paranoid about wildfires, I was terribly proud of my brilliant idea to cook on a boulder in the middle of the creek. And indeed, this worked reasonably well at dinner, but at breakfast it was a different story. When I woke up in 50 degrees (10 C), I wasn’t thrilled to get naked and wet and do my cooking waist-deep in a cold stream. And though I’m a huge fan of morning polar bear swims, it’s one thing to do it near my house before work but quite another to get shivering cold in the middle of nowhere. So maybe I’ll just face the inconvenience of meticulously grooming a large patch of earth near my sleeping bag.
Speaking of my sleeping bag, I had success with the new Gore-Tex bivvy sack. When I first tried a bivvy sack, I loved how cozy it makes me feel: it insulates me and blocks breezes. But as I noticed this winter, I was waking up with condensation in the bivvy sack. It was trapping my breath and getting my sleeping bag damp. Not good! So on this jaunt I tested a surplus Dutch bivvy sack (which seems to be a copy of the famous British one) made with something like Gore-Tex that lets moisture out, and it worked as advertised.
Furthermore, I tried leaving my tent at home and just using the bivy sack. This one has a collapsible hoop that holds the top of the bag up off your face, so that you have a sort of tiny micro-tent. That went well too.
What will happen in a light rain? Will I suddenly wish I’d brought a proper tent? We’ll try some backyard science. I’ll ask Lean Solid Girl to tuck me into the bivy sack and then hose it down. We’ll update you soon.
Pride Cometh Before the Fall
Just last week I looked at my now-battered boots and mused, “I wonder when I should replace them…” Apparently that time is now, because I lost my footing and skidded on a slope that is bad but not truly noxious. So I checked my boot soles, found them pretty worn, and did some mental math. I bought them for last year’s 50-mile Star Course, and though they don’t yet have a thousand miles on them, they’re probably getting close, with a lot of miles on scree and other nasty surfaces.
So I’ve already replaced them. I won’t risk falling with my leg folded under me the wrong way and spending six months on the couch with a knee injury.
Henceforth I’ll replace boots on a schedule, like they do with critical machine parts. For my lightweight Rockies, I’ll give them five hundred miles before I retire them to “second-string” status: still OK for ordinary training hikes on roads and other tame surfaces, but no rugged terrain and no use for SAR. And if I save my “first-string” boots for just the rough stuff, I think I can milk a year or more of use from them.
I’ve long preached that you should do workouts that you enjoy. It’s actually pretty easy to make progress, and if you’re consistent about doing those easy things, you’ll soon be achieving milestones that put you far, far, far ahead of the general population.
And how do you know if you’re continuing to make progress with your easy, enjoyable training? You just keep track of some key benchmarks over time, including some standard workouts. If you keep improving in those numbers, you’re doing something right!
For example, easy running guru Maffetone has his athletes run a standard test workout periodically. They run three miles at a pre-determined, low heart rate: if their time improves, they know their aerobic base is improving.
One of my benchmarking workouts is the hike to my favorite camping spot in the Marijuana Highlands. It’s 15 miles of bad, steep terrain. On my first romp out there in 21 months ago, I took a pack weighing 45# (wet) and needed 7 hours to arrive in camp. When I got there I was delirious and sore all over, my feet looked like raw chicken breasts, and it took a long, painful time just to strip off my clothes and boots. On future trips I cut the hike down to 5.5 hours and didn’t wreck myself getting to camp, but it was still a substantial hike.
So I was blown away by my last trip. Despite taking it very easy, I arrived in camp an hour faster than ever before and fresh as a bowl of strawberries. This being my first big romp of the year, I assumed I would be tired and slow, but on the contrary it was barely lunch time and I was sitting in camp with hours of daylight left, tons of pep, and nothing to do.
So I packed up and did the whole thing in reverse! I spent 95 minutes eating nuts, swimming in the stream, and having coffee, and then I rucked up and marched all the way back. It was a joy! I didn’t push myself on the return march (and in fact had to slow down several times to keep my heart rate under control), but without trying I ended up equaling my best-ever time of 5.5 hours.
This was a huge surprise. I figured it would be possible to hike straight back, to save someone’s life or as a stupid stunt, but I supposed you’d have to do it on pure gumption and willpower.
But now I know better because I just did it, out of boredom and with a smile on my face!
For the looted, stripped minivan on my favorite backwoods hike, sung to the tune of “The Sound of Silence”:
“Hello Honda, my old friend.
I’ve stopped to gawk at you again.
Some tweakers brought you up here joyriding,
Jacked you from the the Skyway Burger King,
With a 308 they put you down when you ground out here,
Like a crippled steer,
Far from the sound of sirens.
“Up here the law is hardly known. Hill folk wanna be left alone.
Crimes go without much a-reporting
By the felons with whom they’re consorting.
Silent trees are mute to mischief that no man sees,
Can bring no sound of sirens.
“You’re just a basic CR-V
A soccer mom’s tender minivan
Unsuited to this rocky wasteland.
When you bottomed out they shoved over the steep cliffside
In the trackless night,
Far from the sound of sirens.”
In the snatch, if you’re going to last the full 10 minutes, you must spare your grip. How? Use your legs. After you “pull” the bell up, bend at the knees and dip down. That way you won’t have to pull as high. Even more importantly, when you drop the bell back down, rise up on your toes and use your legs as shock absorbers. Tip your body back from the knees so that your arm falls across your chest and belly early in the drop—that will absorb more shock and slow down the bell’s fall.
As the bell falls to the bottom of its arc, “give” at the knees a little to spare your grip muscles from sudden, abrupt wrenching. Then straighten your legs. When the bell pendulums forward again, bend your legs a second time so they can help “alley-oop” the bell upward. You’ll accelerate the bell more smoothly, and that way you’ll spare your grip even more.
You can spare your grip further by how you hold the bell’s handle. When holding it overhead, let the handle rest diagonally down your palm. Go ahead and insert your hand as deep as you can. That way you can relax your grip. (Expect some growing pains as you get accustomed to steel pressing against unyielding, bony places. That only lasts a few weeks.)
When dropping the bell, do your best to hold it with just the first two fingers and thumb. Try not to grip the handle tightly. Just make a firm ring with those three fingers and let the handle rotate somewhat loosely within it. We don’t want a lot of muscle tension from over-gripping the bell, nor do we want torn callouses. This is one of the reasons that you will progress faster if you err on the side of lighter weights for higher (50+) reps. Master that, and you will progress to heavier bells naturally and swiftly.
Over-gripping is also a reason that you should use competition-style bells if possible, rather than the cast-iron ones. With their more slender handles, you can snatch them for much higher reps without a death-grip that will tear up your palms and cost you training time. Nor are they so very expensive, and since you will have these for the rest of your life (hell, your grandchildren’s lives!), you might as well get the good ones.
With some experimenting, you’ll feel most comfortable and efficient when dropping the bell if you hold the handle at the corner, not the middle. (See picture above.) And on the backswing, when you relax your arm, the bell will rotate on its own so that your thumb is pointing back (or at your bottom). Let it do that.
And if you’ll permit me a moment’s snobbery, for heaven’s sake, don’t pay more for “chip-resistant enamel coating.” Kettlebells are not fine china or ladies’ silk undergarments. They are like blue jeans—when new they look weird and a little embarrassing; when battered and worn, they look legit.
Want to learn more? Start ransacking the archives at Dr. Smet’s site, Girevoy Sport After 40. He’s been experimenting for years and translating materials from his native Russian about the evolving state of the sport. Girevoy sport is still fairly young and people are still making advances in technique and training methods. (If you follow martial arts, just compare the karate of the 80s with the early UFC of the 90s and then the far more advanced state of MMA today. It’s like three different geological ages.)
In particular, check out of two of Smet’s recent translations with commentary of snatch tutorials by Sergey Rudnev, five-time champion of the world. A small-framed man, Rudnev was competing with bells that weighed half his own bodyweight (!), and he developed a snatch technique that is exquisitely efficient. As Rudnev and other champs advise, whatever care and attention you invest in efficient technique, you will be repaid for amply.