Backpacking with Babies: The Chaos

Misty morning on grassy ridge bald

We reevaluated and decided to have Coco ride in the kid’s backpack. That put my carry weight around 40 lbs. Heavy, but I could enjoy the hike again. Chris took off the front carrier and had Idris ride on his shoulders again—this improved his experience even over carrying Coco, whose carrier’s straps overlapped with Chris’ pack and interfered with the fit. The weight was better distributed over his hips now, and adding Idris to his shoulders actually improved his balance overall. 40 lbs for me, 70 for Chris. We were on a roll.

Addie had to go to the bathroom. Chris hiked on, giving Idris a bit of time to walk. I took her 40 yards from the trail and convinced her to attempt it only by demonstrating first myself. I heard yelling, and turned. Chris was gasping with laughter and trying to get my attention—our clump of bushes was not quite extended enough to give us privacy from the higher portion of the mountain trail. I hurriedly pulled myself together and moved Addie to a slightly more private location.

When we arrived at camp, we were triumphant. We had a gorgeous place to camp—clumps of grass, a few trees nearby for a hammock, a view of the mountains to the east to welcome the sunrise in the morning. A small ring of rocks had me hoping to start our own fire, though the wood I scavenged from the ground was too wet to burn. We ate a king’s dinner cooked on our backpacking stove, went to watch the sunset spectacularly over the blue ridge mountains, and went to bed.

No one slept.

Correction: Idris slept beautifully, as long as he was snuggled. Adelaide, in true form, attempted it valiantly, popping up every now and then to rearrange herself or locate a lost item. She was uncomfortable, I knew, but determined not to complain. Colette fussed the entire night, the new normal during teething. The critical point: I was not comfortable. I was sleeping on a lumpy tent floor, the available bedding having been commandeered by opportunistic children. I was not cold, but I was not comfortable, and I had spent the night before watching nature documentaries about Alaska, so every flutter of wind around our tent was definitely a black bear sniffing around for the half-eaten chocolate bar Idris brought into the tent. I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to hold Coco all night—so I passed her to Chris. Chris probably could have slept on a bed of nails, but he couldn’t sleep and complete the complicated bounce-and-spank maneuver required of anyone not supplying milk. So I lay awake, snuggling Idris, listening to a horde of chocolate-hungry black bears ransacking our campsite, and Chris bounced and spanked. At 4:30 a.m. Coco was nursing again, and finally burst from over-feeding.

If you’ve never over-fed a baby, you may not understand. Sometimes babies nurse to soothe themselves, not to eat. Sometimes they’re swallowing. The difference can be tricky to distinguish in the dead of night with bears sniffing around your tent. But once your baby has gorged themselves to the point that they can’t hold any more, their body rejects the excess liquid with the force of a deadly projectile.

At this point, I was relieved. Coco had soaked through my sweater, long-sleeve shirt, tank top, and the sleeping bag. She was also wet to the skin, and must be changed. Everyone was up, and I didn’t have to listen to bears having a chocolate fest outside anymore. By the time we got everyone tidied up, it was 5 am, a respectable waking hour for a family of 5 on a camp out.

The birds were singing, and the sun was rising over the blue ridge mountains. Oh! The sun was rising. We bundled the kids out onto the hammock (why hadn’t I just slept there?) and cuddled together under our blankets as we watched the light burst over the ridge line and cast a golden glow across the grass. It was breathtaking.

The kids were cheerful and excited to have an entire day to explore, play in the creek, climb on the rocks, and eat granola bars and dried mangoes. But this was our second night of sleep deprivation, and we had hit a wall. Chris broke camp while I took the kids to play on the rocks and say their tearful goodbyes.

I was pretty disappointed, myself. But I knew that a 4-hour drive back on 3 nights’ missed sleep was pushing it even for newborn parent pros.

As we hiked back, carrying our 40-and-70 pound packs, the mist rolled in. Glistening droplets of water clung to our hair, lashes, and Chris’ beard. We took leisurely snack breaks, stalling the inevitable return to the foot of the mountain. There was only one topic of conversation: next time.

We were leaving a day earlier than planned, after a sleepless night, projectile-vomit, and a brutal trek up the mountain with poorly-weighted packs. And we couldn’t wait to do it again. Next time, we would swap our bedding for ultra-lightweight backpacking pads and sleeping bags. Next time, we would upgrade to a 4-person backpacking tent. Next time, we would simplify the food a teensy-weensy bit. Next time, we would find a better method for carrying the baby—maybe even swap the kid pack for a full backpacking pack, and find some way to wear Coco in front. Next time, we would hike more days, but shorter distances, so Idris could walk the whole time, and save us from carrying his weight. Next time, we could go to….

We couldn’t stop. We got home and immediately started researching gear. I spent 6 hours studying the options for sleeping bags alone.

Because there’s nothing like it. There’s nothing like seeing your anxious 5-year-old embrace the mess and unpredictability of nature. There’s nothing like cheering your 2-year-old on as he climbs over rocks twice his height, water hose clamped between his teeth. There’s nothing like nursing your little baby as you watch the sun rise over the mountains, exhausted from a night of no sleep, and yet exhilarated that you are here. There’s nothing like the thrill of setting yourself a challenge you aren’t even sure is possible, and finding yourself equal to it. There’s nothing like the freedom and passion that comes from a life lived outdoors.

When we got home, I was flooded with Instagram, Facebook, and text messages. “How did it go? Did the kids really hike? What did they carry? What gear did you use? How did you find that trail? Can you make a recommendation? I want to do that too. I used to go backpacking. I used to hike. I used to camp. I thought I had to wait. I thought my kids were too little. I didn’t know I could. I want to do that too.”

On the way up the trail, we got a lot of attention from fellow hikers. “Look at that little kid climbing over those rocks! Wow, she is carrying her own pack! Did you see that guy carrying a kid with all that gear? Woah, the mom is carrying a kid, too! Dude, you’re a beast. #momgoals. You are one tough Mama. Are you sleeping on the mountain tonight? Are you taking that baby with you? I wish my kids would hike with me—how do you get them to do it? How far can your kids hike? Wow, you guys are brave.”

I got that one a lot. “Wow, you guys are very brave!” On the way up, I laughed and said, “There is a pretty fine line here between very brave and very stupid.” I believed it. But I also believe that somewhere between brave and stupid is where the real magic happens. And oh, that trail was magic!

We could have waited for a better time, with better equipment, and older kids. But then we would have missed this time, these precious years when our children are young and enthusiastic and squealing with joy to have their very own headlamp. We are creating a family culture. We are building character, love, and humor—and we can’t wait until our kids are grown to start. Our first trip was far from perfect, but it was beautiful and it was ours, and we learned so much that will shape our future excursions. Families belong together—and that means adventuring together, too.