Two Packs, Two Versions of Me: Hiking After 60

I leave in eight days. I’m making last minute orders for things I’m not sure I really need. Camping slippers, new waterproof pants, new pocket on the shoulder strap for my phone. That and waking up at 5:00 am with acid reflux, wondering how much toilet paper to bring. And then there is the question of which package.

I have two, the Gregory Paragon 50 that I took from Colorado to Crazy Cook on the CDT and a new Gregory Zulu 65 that I bought for the ODT and never used. My knee replacement surgery came ahead of that walk.

I’ve never been an ultralight, but the Paragon 50 got me close. Minimal equipment, a change of clothes, and a week’s worth of food maxed out his ability, but it worked. When I walked along the city sidewalks, I liked its compact reflection in the store windows. He’s not tough, but he’s marked. A serious hiker.

With the AT’s frequent cities and easy resupply, I intended to recruit the Paragon for another campaign. Until I started packing my bags.

Things had changed. More takeaways now; some good, others humiliating. My foldable keyboard for blogging my trip; That was good. The bottle of Centrum 50+, the can of Rogaine foam, and the knee pads, not to mention the Preparation H wipes; Those were humiliating.

Yesterday I packed everything up and put it in my trusty Paragon. Everything fit, but it was tight. Very tight. And there was practically no place for food. Hundred Mile Desert? By no means.

So I took the Zulu 65 off its hook in the basement. The tags were still on the straps and inside were packets of silica gel. I left it next to the Paragon. A monster. I loaded it. There is enough space in my Ursack for 6 days.

«Actually?» I thought. There should be room to swim there.

That night I took the Zulu for a spin: four miles to the industrial park and back. The nylon of the hipbelt was smooth and flexible, not hardened by salt. The backpack was taller, the hipbelt pockets more generous, and the fabric shiny. With the raincoat stuck in my brain, the top brushed the back of my head as I looked up at the darkening sky. The fit was good, but it made me feel like a newbie. As if she had shown up for a day hike dressed for a safari.

Hitting my poles against the concrete of the sidewalk, my steps were more deliberate; loose hips, straighter back.

Test walk, June 2026. Six miles to the industrial park and back.

I had been turning something over in my head for weeks; this ride is where it landed. There were two versions of me. The version that led Forester Pass with a wind-reddened face and a half-lidded smile, and the version with a plastic and metal knee that clicks in the morning.

When I rode the PCT and CDT, it was all about the journey, but the end was my reason for being.

Now it’s different. I’m changing course; Katahdin is my changeup, Springer is my closer. These are not about endpoints; It’s about making the path my destiny. And giving testimony.

The Paragon was that version of me that was chasing the terminal and had something to prove. The Zulu is the version of me who wears knee pads, wants to write this hike as much as walk it, and hopes to wake up in the morning, dew dripping from the edge of the fly, rays of light stabbing the canopy, and think, «this is where I live now.»

Achieving the Triple Crown at 60 comes with a lot of arrogance. It’s at the limit of what I can do. I am no longer the young man who rode freight trains in the West and worked on fishing boats in the Bering Sea. But I’m not ready to say goodbye to all that.

Not yet.

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