North Face Base Camp Duffel thoughts, part 1

Two well-used North Face Base Camp Duffels

This review is more than half a decade old. Perhaps it has been waiting for some unknown inspiration, or perhaps I simply forgot. The oldest of the three bags mentioned below was given away to a friend heading to Berlin years and years ago, in San Francisco. Otherwise every word holds true, and I publish it now for future reference.

I’m on my third. This is a statement of luxury and trust, because they haven’t died. The first one sits down in the garage, filled with cleats and hats, water bottles and discs. It goes with us to tournaments and is so often covered in dust that the black surface is permanently lightly textured.

The second one, also black, isn’t mine. It’s Tara’s, bought for a trip I can no longer remember. They’re not the same, these two black duffles with large silver logos on the ends. The newer one is the 2015 model, with no carry straps across the opening and smaller webbing handles and loops around the edges. It has an outside zip pocket at one end, which is transformative as the old version has only clip-on features on the exterior. Being able to stash keys, a transit card, headphones, a power cord, and an inhaler without opening the duffel makes it a much better backpack, and a much better single carry on. This goes hand in hand with the better backpack straps and the removal of the top carry handles which either dangled one on each side or rubbed in the middle of the back when the old one was used as a backpack. Filled loosely, as the one now used for cleats is mostly, that’s fine, but when traveling sometimes the bag is packed tight, and the carry handles made the shoulder straps harder to use. After a decade of promoting the bag for all purpose use the North Face designers decided to focus and optimize for the backpack carry rather than the single arm carry, and the bag is much stronger for their decision.

The third one, which sits above me in the economy class overhead on this flight to Shanghai, is gray with pink straps. In many ways it’s the accent piece to my travel gear, which is otherwise mostly gray, black, or dark blue. I have a bright orange Patagonia jacket that I mostly wear for ultimate that serves the same purpose, being by far the brightest thing I own. It’s immediately visible in a sea of players at a tournament, which is the point. Recognizable. The new bag is the same, bright and flashy while still essentially being a gray bag. It was a present from Tara in early 2016, before the spring travel season. I’ve checked it once, but mostly use it as a single carry bag, with pack-it cubes. Right now it’s filled with Amazon purchases for a friend in Shanghai, my wool hoodie, a spare pair of pants, and two cubes of t-shirts and underwear. On the way back it’ll be lighter, meaning I’ll conform to the rule of saving 10% for the journey, at least in one direction.

In a lot of ways this review then is about packing style rather than the bag. The details, the rough sketch of the bag, are important though: it’s very water resistant, and very dirt resistant. Most scuffs can be wiped or rubbed off with a dirt cloth. This is important when traveling in a lot of different circumstances with a bag on one’s back. If it looks beat to heck then so do I, because it’s as big as my torso. All 3 of our bags are the small size, 50 liters, which is really plenty for a couple of weeks on the road. If they were bigger I’d take more crap which would make them heavier which would make me want to travel less. The absolute number one rule I’ve learned these last few years is carry less stuff when on the road. It makes life a lot better, makes me more likely to explore, and makes me happier once I have done so. Backpack style travel enables faster transitions and better motion than wheeled luggage, with the trade off of one’s spine supporting whatever’s in the bag rather than the wheel. This is a good trade off in general, as it’s easier to change plans, to handle obstacles, and to blend in, but it’s a trade off that rewards packing light, as back pain makes me reluctant to climb stairs or explore alleys that I otherwise would want to.

The mesh pocket on the opening flap of the bag is great for pens, change, transit cards, and other quick access stuff. In the older version I used to leave my inhaler in there, which isn’t a good idea as the outside of this pocket is pressed against the center of the back when using the bag as a backpack. If the bag is full this meant the inhaler would jam into my lower spine. In the newer version the inhaler goes into the top zip pocket, which solves that problem.

The shoulder straps on the new version are wider, thicker, and spaced more naturally apart. They can also be used as a carry handle, grabbing both of them as a poor replacement for the old dedicated carry handle. Whether this is useful is a matter of opinion, but it’s not horrible. The side and end handles on the 2015 version are far superior. They’re slender, and there are handles on all four sides now, instead of just two. This makes a huge difference trying to get the bag fully loaded in and out of taxis, tuk tuks, and truck beds.

The big downside to this bag of course is the huge North Face logo. I’ve tried removing it, on my oldest bag, with very limited success. If anyone has a secret recipe that works and doesn’t damage the bag’s surface or waterproof nature, I’d love to hear it.

For those interested in the subtler color ways, there’s a genius black version that I’ve only seen in person in Bangkok but must be available elsewhere. It’s black, with a matte grey logo that blends in much better than the standard US version’s silver. Even better, the whole bag is lightly sparkled, looking like a star field at night. It’s just a tiny bit of flair on an otherwise very black bag, and a really wonderful effect.

I’ve gone with the pink and gray instead, because I mostly use this bag on work trips or on vacation, and it’s great to have an easily-visible piece of luggage after years of near-identical black gear.

All in all this bag is a steal at $120 US recommended retail, and I highly recommend it if this style of travel suits you. I’d get the newer 2015 version even if there’s a price difference, because the backpack straps and zip pocket are that big an improvement. And then I’d take it somewhere that it needed cleaning after.

Which is entirely the point.

Language of life

At twenty months 5’s language explodes. She sings twinkle twinkle little star after hearing it a half dozen times. She says the abc’s and constantly makes small sentences. We are astonished onlookers.

We have no pride in her outbursts, only shock. I am often an open-mouthed observer of this person, so barely able and yet so clearly someone new. I watch her repeat things to me that I do not understand with a patience I still search for. Her grin when at last I catch on is full of pride, and of joy. The value of communication, after a year plus without, is clear from her face.

In the evenings we sit on the balcony and play with seeds, with shells, with rocks. She makes messes and picks them up, pours small objects from one flower pot to another, and asks for help finding rocks that have snuck out of reach under other objects. I lean against the glass of the sliding door and watch, eyes half on her and half on the harbor. These are the content moments, work done, evenings routines not yet upon us. We are happy here, not yet forty five and not yet two, and I try to watch carefully enough to remember.

Two weeks later she says “Yes please 5’s blow it” when offered hot food, and we are shocked but happy with the easy communication. She wanders the house saying “Mommy where are you?” when one of us is out of sight, the kind of comfortable exclamation that has been impossible the past twenty one months. She exhorts her Tita to take her to the bath house, a place that does not exist in this country. She asks for fizzy water and then for its transformation through fruit into lime soda with a clarity born of our own love for both. In between these moments she tells us how she misses her friends, reciting their names constantly. Soon she recites everyone’s names, including a friend’s new girlfriend.

Mostly we are not ready. The family words of scant months ago, of this same year, like ‘tato’, which she used to wander the house requesting, disappear into potato at a speed we did not prepare for.

These words, like the memory of these months, will drift out of our minds with exhaustion, with worry, with the progress of life. And so I try hard, on this Saturday in Tokyo, to write them down, to remember. Twenty one months now, and astonishing.

Weekends away

A two story concrete castle play structure in a park in northern Tokyo

On Thursday we slip out, taking calls from the airport mid-day. By dinner we’re in Tokyo, eating sandwiches and milk on the Skyliner, holding on to the grip handles of the Yamanote, and wandering the little streets we know before bed. It’s a good way to start a long weekend. It’s exactly what we were hoping for.

On Friday the ladies visit the aquarium, a day out in the kind of chill rain Hong Kong never gets. It’s 5 C and we’re happy, wearing clothes we’d almost forgotten we owned. Winter feels like a long time ago, in our lives, and 5’s has never really felt one, only a few days on the east coast of the US last year. She says “rain” and “cold” as we wander, both relatively new words.

Mostly we enjoy the kind of simple empty life that is common in new places and rare in our homes. It’s rare to have weekends without schedule, without sports or birthdays, friends or planned gatherings. That’s good, because we live for the groups, for the sports and activities. We are who we share our lives with. Mostly. Other times it’s nice to take the tram to stations we have only seen from mapping apps and to explore new parks without larger ambition. We find castles this way, and a view of train lines. We find swings and slides and so many children. These are the parts of Tokyo we’d hoped to learn, entirely new areas. We have a new way of looking at a city we both love, through the eyes of a toddler searching for rocks, for seeds, and for playgrounds. The kid infrastructure here, like I tell my friend, is amazing, new kinds of play areas, castles with double decker slides.

In the evening we bathe together. The Japanese style shower before tub enables a certain kind of sharing, a certain family style, that’s hard to do otherwise, especially in the cold. Here it feels normal, and the weather makes 5’s clamor for bath a couple hours earlier than normal. It’s the kind of evening I hoped for, no tourist spot or life reason to be in Tokyo, just the quiet reality of being here, of living like this.

Twenty plus years later I still feel more comfortable here than most anywhere.

Later we go to dinner, a local place that caters to groups of young working folk, good food, big drinks, and not very expensive. I love it, the combination makes a perfect spot for our family. 5’s charms groups of ladies and we already know the staff. As we pack up a group of eight middle aged women come in to share a meal, a kind of social gathering that doesn’t feel so rare, here on the north side of Tokyo.

We walk home happy, a quick stop at the grocery store for yogurt and strawberries, and then read books and roll on the floor before bed.

“This is your twenty year old self’s dream,” a friend told me, back in October.

I’m not sure, any more. The twenty years between then and now are hard to see through.

I am happy though, here in Tokyo in twenty twenty four, exploring parks and buying groceries, taking baths and eating out. It’s a good break from the rest of our lives.

Healing and forgetting

Looking south down the edge of Manhattan from the Little Island, in winter

The scars on my side are ten years old. I pass the anniversary in San Francisco, and bike to Four Barrel at 7 am for a coffee to celebrate. Sitting outside in the chilly morning air, with my e-bike on hold next to me, I look around at how much has changed, and how much hasn’t. Just under ten years ago I spent 45 minutes walking the two blocks to this coffee shop, pausing on a fire hydrant to cry, uncertain of whether to continue or return home. I was in pain, and alone, out of reach of medicine or friends.

Ten years later the scars on my side are an afterthought. The double slashes of two chest tubes, done a week apart, are easy to miss. They aren’t the scars I notice in the mirror, dwarfed in visibility by the eight holes on the same shoulder, the remnants of twenty twenty’s reconstruction. And the shoulder scars aren’t even the most recent, themselves overshadowed in freshness by the three on my stomach from this January. Ten years has brought a lot of change, some of it good and some of it the gradual wear and tear of life, the slow abrasion and sudden breaks.

I haven’t forgotten everything, though. The second chest tube scar has faded, but the memory of the incision hasn’t. It remains the most painful experience of my life, an evening I hope not to top. The more recent scars, perhaps more invasive, were at least planned, and I was properly sedated. Our hospital list grows much faster than our emergency room list, for which I am grateful. I am grateful for so much, really. For medicine, for health insurance that spans countries, for friends who’ve given advice by phone and carried us home on their backs. For friends who’ve offered up sofas, and brought food. It’s a long list, and good to remember on anniversaries like this, even as I forget.

And so, biking across the city I used to live in on this chilly March morning, I try to be grateful for the distance, for the progress we’ve made since. Our ten year anniversary comes shortly after this less auspicious one. Our cat is almost twelve. Our daughter will be two in June. We’ve lived in Hong Kong more than half the decade since, something that would have been hard to predict. And we still love New York, planting good memories over and around the painful ones, as the years accumulate.

Clothes remembered

“I used to have the best jean jacket,” she tells me over dim sum in Hong Kong. “I left it in the taxi to the airport when I left Berlin. That was fifteen years ago. I still think about that jacket.”

My mind goes to my favorite garment, a green corduroy and laminate North Face black label jacket bought as a self present on arrival in Hong Kong five years ago. It’s been my favorite piece of clothing ever since. And then I remember my four pointed felt hat, black with two gray stripes, purchased in Shinjuku in 2003. And then to my partner’s comments, on looking through old photos this weekend, so often exclaiming “oh my god that shirt!” or “do you remember those shoes?” I do, of course, the photos tracking our relationship, yet many of the memories have faded, and require these pictures to access. My body, as I often write, has forgotten.

When this site began I worked in the garment industry, spending hours on fabrics, stitching, trim. I think back to those days, to the personal focus on quality that came out of that experience, and I remember things. Physical possessions. Expensive jeans, mostly, a hoped-for connection between the increase in garment cost, livable wages for the sewer, and water treatment facilities for the indigo dye. After a bit I remember my wool knit hoodie, Triple Aught Design, my first merino garment. It was purchased early on in our time in SF, and worn almost daily there. It’s hanging in my closet as I type this, more than ten years later. For a long time I never traveled without it, my one essential item. It has been used as a pillow in countless mid-tier hotel rooms, slept in on dozens of transpacific flights, and worn on every evening bike ride all the rest of our ten years in that foggy city.

In some ways these garments shape us, even years later. I wonder what events my friend took her jean jacket to, what she felt like when she wore it? I wonder if she’ll ever feel that strongly about a jacket again? Does that part of us fade as we age?

I think of my wife’s green jacket, which she’s had from high school or early college, which she wears now around Tokyo in the winters. How many of these garments are for cold weather, how many of them are rarely worn now, able to be pulled out intact for good memories? Or is that just because we moved to the tropics, and they so rarely feel necessary?

In January for a few days the weather cools. I wear my favorite garment everywhere I go. It’s something to treasure, feeling good in clothing, feeling good in a way we’ll remember.