Pack Rat Love

There is no upside to being the packer in the family. No one will thank you for remembering his toothbrush or her bathing suit. But God forbid you forget something--like your husband’s entire suitcase—and you will never hear the end of it.

So remember the real stress of that stress-free summer holiday you have planned is not the long airport security lines, or a passport that still hasn’t arrived, or even being the 26th car in line behind a RV going 35 mph on a two-lane road out of Victorville.

It’s packing. There are just so many ways the job can go south.

I am always searching travel magazines for helpful hints from experienced packers. A lot of the tips are pretty lame. Why on earth would I want to take only one pair of underwear and wash it out in the bathroom sink every night?

How much space could my underwear possibly take up?

Let me rephrase that.

Underwear space in the suitcase is prime real estate. I like to think of extra underwear as insurance. Ever since I got stuck in Death Valley because both roads washed out in a massive downpour, I carry spares.

So I’ve decided to come up with my own packing tip. I only have one but it is really good and I’ve never seen it before, not even in Heloise’s Hints. Here goes: Travel only to hot/cold (circle one) places.

Think about packing for Hawaii. Bathing suit. Shorts. Flip-flops. Done. If you like, you can buy one of those cotton sarongs at the ABC Store for $4.99. Then you’ve added a skirt, a top, a turban, a beach blanket, tablecloth, knapsack, stroller shade, and a costume for Halloween.

Simple.

That’s because Hawaii is hot. Everywhere. All the time. Even in a hurricane, Hawaii is hot. Earthquake? Still hot. Volcanic eruption? Even hotter. Makes for easy packing.

Have you ever planned a ski vacation? Let me guess. You pull out the duffel bag filled with gloves, goggles, long johns and wool socks and you are ready. Sure it’s bulkier than your Maui carry-on, but it’s not rocket science.

The trouble comes with those volatile weather destinations. For simplicity in packing, avoid at all costs places with temperature changes of more than ten degrees. That’s why a summer trip to the mountains is always a bad idea. You might as well strap your whole closet onto your back. You’ll need everything in it, most likely within the space of fifteen minutes.

We should have followed our own advice on our recent trip to the mountains. The first clue was that little digital temp gauge on the rear view mirror clicking over faster than the super-unleaded pump at the gas station.

Within minutes, we went from triple digits so hot the “Check Tires” light flashed ominously to complaints of frostbite from the back seat between episodes of “I Love Lucy.”

Instead of heeding the signs and turning around, we tried our best to compensate. After all, we were on vacation! And it was going to be fun!
We couldn’t wait to get out on the trail in that fresh alpine air.

Our favorite mountain activity is hiking. For me, it is the downhill part. Although we all carry packs on our backs, we are not backpackers. We are day hikers who are vainly trying to cover every meteorological base. There are extra outfits for swimming, sunbathing, snow, wind, heat, mosquitoes, and falls in mud or streams.

I suspect my children’s daypacks weigh more than they do. I worry that if they fall over backwards like beetles, they may never get up. But that’s the cost of being prepared.

Still, you never know what you forgot until you need it desperately. In our case, it was toilet paper. Stupidly, we hadn’t conserved. During lunch, someone spilled a Capri Sun on the picnic tarp and we mopped it up with our most precious commodity.

Ten minutes up the trail, child #2 gets a nosebleed. Of course she is wearing a white shirt. Of course there is enough bright red blood everywhere to bring in CSI: Eastern Sierras. Of course this freaks her out which results in more flinging of blood. At this point, we all are flecked with red.

Some toilet paper would come in handy.

Thankfully, we had some. It was just stuffed in a ziploc, soaked in Wild Cherry and squished against the remnants of a tuna fish sandwich.

If only I had a sarong…