Lots of people go backpacking, freak out about the weight they're carrying into the woods, and end up eating prepackaged, dehydrated, tasteless, inspirationless, nutritionless nonsense. As you'll see below, that's a dangerous gamble.
But what if, miles and miles from civilization, you ate things like this cake?
Nutella filling, cardamom cream sauce, glacier lily edible flower garnish.
The short piece below is from a book I'm putting together about the marvelous foods you can make on a camp stove. More soon. If you have ideas, let me know!
Anyway, on to the story. It takes place in Chilean Patagonia, one of the most beautiful and remote places I've ever been, where the conditions can change quickly, getting really scary really fast.
Origin Story: Backcountry Bread
Breakfast time in the refugio. A ranger with Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine is cautioning me against attempting the pass today. A hiker died on the mountain yesterday, he says, “lost” by her guide in a sudden summer snowstorm.
It’s been two days since my compadres turned around, leaving me to have my first solo backpacking experience. I’ve been scared and elated since, tramping alone through torrential rain and hurricane force winds.
The park’s communal cooking tent is sheltering trekkers from all over the world. Chilean, German, Israeli, and Spanish alike are deciding how to approach the day as they prepare instant oatmeal.
Not me. I’m going to bake bread. Cinnamony raisin walnut bread or herby sundried tomato cheesy bread, I haven’t decided.
Snow continues to drift down in wet clumps, and visibility on the mountain is…n’t. Despite official warnings, one ragtag ad hoc group is rallying to push over the pass, inviting folks to join their party in at least three languages I don’t speak.
Tempting. I’m 60 kilometers into an 80km loop, and I really, really want to make it back to town for New Years festivities. I don’t have enough food to wait hoping the weather will clear. Either I brave the mountain pass and hike the remaining 20km, or I turn around and repeat the last 60 in just three days.
A dreadlocked German man approaches wearing makeshift gaiters made of trash bags and rubber bands. Do I want in?
I eye his breakfast bowl. Is that… plain oatmeal?
“No thanks,” I say, resigning myself to the fact that I don’t have snow pants. I’m fiddling with my single speed stove, depressurizing for ideal baking conditions, trying not to spray white gas all over my hands. “Ever use that before?” he jeers, pointing to my old school MSR Whisperlite. His party laughs. Hah, hah.
I peek over at his group’s food bag. Oatmeal. Pasta. Prepackaged tomato sauce. Parmesan packets. More oatmeal. More pasta. Etcetera. Looks like yet another case of mediocre nutrition leading to dangerously mediocre decision-making.
The daunting reality of my next three kneebusting days is slowly sinking in. Why was it so hard for me to choose the safe, unglamorous, and, now in hindsight, obvious option? Hmm. That question will have to marinate.
For now, I’m going to require some sweet lasting comfort. It’ll have to be buttery cinnamony raisin walnut bread.
[note: those are cinnamon rolls, not the big ole loaf of bread I cooked then and sadly did not get a picture of. That loaf fed me for 2 days.]
Story Reposted from my blog