Do I really need a winch?

Recently my friend Sergio Mendez Santiago emailed me from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where he and his wife, Ruth, are putting the finishing touches on their new Mitsubishi Triton, a fine turbodiesel-powered 4WD pickup (sadly unavailable in the U.S.). Like so many of us setting up a new vehicle, Sergio has been vacillating on the decision of whether or not to install a winch. We both thought it would be a good subject to explore. Since I have a Warn 8274 on my FJ40, and I installed a Warn M8000 on Roseann’s FJ60, I certainly appreciate their value (and I think my objectivity is on solid ground)—however, I certainly don’t think one absolutely needs a winch to be able to undertake even ambitious journeys.

No matter what vehicle you drive, from a two-wheel-drive pickup with street tires to a Jeep Rubicon on BFG Mud-Terrains with diff locks front and rear, a 4:1 transfer case, disconnecting sway bar, etc. etc, you’re going to find yourself in situations for which a judgement call is needed. Obviously the two-wheel-drive pickup will have a much, much lower threshold at which discretion should kick in and you turn around, but the Rubicon will have its own threshold, beyond which you stand a good chance of getting stuck. 

In such cases, a winch can give you the leeway to push the threshold, a little or a lot depending on several factors: 

• Are you with other vehicles that can serve as anchor points for the winch line, or which are equipped with winches themselves?
• If you are traveling solo, are there natural anchor points, such as substantial trees, within reach of your winch line? If not, would it be possible to rig an anchor, such as by burying a spare wheel in sand?
• If the vehicle becomes immobilized, will the situation be immediately hazardous to occupants or the vehicle itself? Examples would be getting stuck in an off-camber situation next to a drop-off, or in beach sand below the high tide line.
• If you are traveling solo, and for some reason cannot self-recover even with the winch, are you a three-hour walk from help, or a three-day trek from civilization?

A winch also provides insurance for situations when you’re simply caught unaware and find yourself stuck—a seemingly firm dry lake bed that suddenly gives way, an innocuous patch of snow that reveals itself as tractionless ice. If you travel solo frequently, and far off the beaten track, a winch offers substantial peace of mind even if you’re not prone to pushing the envelope. And of course with a winch you can assist others, although few people are willing to spend the money solely to be able to act as a good Samaritan.

Speaking of money: There’s more to buying a winch than buying a winch. You’ll need a rock-solid bumper designed to accommodate the winch you’ve chosen. You’ll also need a full recovery kit, including a tree-protector strap, at least two properly rated shackles, a snatch block, a winch-line damper, gloves, and preferably a winch line extension. I strongly recommend replacing the steel winch cable that comes with most winches with a synthetic line, which is far lighter and safer—and more expensive. Even with that weight savings, you’ll probably need to beef up your front suspension to properly handle the mass suddenly placed far out on the front of the vehicle. Finally, you’ll need a heavy-duty battery and charging system in the vehicle—preferably a dual-battery system in case of failure of the primary battery. 

Add up everything and you can figure on tripling the cost of a moderately priced winch by the time you’re finished. (Speaking of which, I urge staying away from the cut-price Chinese clones of Warn and Ramsey winches, for reasons of both quality and ethics.)

Learning about winches and winch lines at OX10.Oh, one more thing: A winch is fully capable of maiming or killing its operator or nearby spectators. So if you do install one, you are obligated to learn its proper and safe use. 

Given the significant expense, the significant associated modifications, and the learning curve, it’s tempting—and a perfectly reasonable strategy—to simply do without the winch; to use prudence when faced with questionable situations, and to make sure you have alternate methods for self-recovery.

To start with, a high-quality air compressor will enable you to properly reduce tire pressure when needed. Obviously you don’t need a compressor at all to lower tire pressure, but if all you have with you is an inexpensive compressor that takes a half-hour to inflate them again, you’re much less likely to air down when it’s called for. Very frequently, if a vehicle becomes stuck in soft sand, all that’s needed to get underway again is to reduce tire pressure to one bar (around 14 psi) or even a little lower. 

A good compressor, like this Extreme Air, is an important tool, especially if you decide to go winchless.A good shovel is mandatory. The cheap little folding “military” shovels are better than nothing, but a one-piece pointed shovel with a stout D or T handle is much better. A KERR (kinetic energy recovery rope) or equivalent snatch strap is also mandatory. Even though we have winches on both our Land Cruisers, the KERR approach is much faster—we used a strap on our last trip twice, once to free a truck from a ditch and once to pull a fallen tree out of the road.

Some people swear by sand mats, others spurn them, still others seem to view them as a necessary overland fashion accessory. The lightweight aluminum replacements for the old surplus steel PSP are much easier to manage, as are even newer plastic designs such as the Maxtrax. But sand mats are still a bulky, mostly single-purpose tool. You must make up your own mind if the terrain you explore makes them worth carrying.

Sand mats, like these plastic ones from MaxTrax, are another good addition to your kit.Another love-it-or-hate-it tool is the exhaust jack, essentially a giant heavy-duty balloon you inflate with the vehicle’s exhaust. An exhaust jack can lift one side of a vehicle clear of even clingy muck. However, I’ve witnessed more failures of these things than makes me comfortable, from incompatible exhaust pipes to failed blow-off valves. Here’s an example from LROTV:

Hi-Lift versus exhaust jack

Put me in the hate-it camp.

Finally, of course, there’s the Hi-Lift jack, the tool everyone loves to hate. Awesomely versatile, fond of jamming, and dangerous if used incorrectly, the Hi-Lift can do everything up to and including winching—if you’re careful. 

I think one of the best uses for the Hi-Lift is as a “casting” jack. Sometimes when a vehicle is stuck in a rut, the only thing needed to regain traction is to move it sideways out of the rut. In such a situation, you can jack up one end of the vehicle until the tires are clear, then simply shove the vehicle sideways off the jack and on to firmer ground. It sounds and looks quite alarming, but is perfectly safe if done carefully. This was the first thing I was taught to do with a Hi-Lift, but the technique seems to have been mostly lost. 

A Hi-Lift can be used to lift buried tires out of sand in order to insert sand mats, but you’re wasting effort if you lift the body of the vehicle and have to overcome suspension droop. Better to use the optional fitting made to hook onto a wheel; then your efforts will produce immediate results.

Winching with the Hi-Lift is glacially slow, and requires a fair amount of chain and other accoutrements—but it works, and its very slowness gives you time to think and avoid unsafe moves. There are several kits made to turn the Hi-Lift into a winch; this video is about the most succinct I’ve seen on the actual process:

Winching with a Hi-Lift 

So there’s my stance. A winch is a valuable accessory, but I would never let the lack of one stop me from exploring—in fact my FJ40 had no winch for the first 20 years I owned it, including all the time I was guiding other vehicles into remote beaches in Mexico, and towing a trailer full of sea kayaks. If you wonder whether it’s possible to accomplish higher-level expedition travel without a winch, I give you Tom Sheppard, who has soloed 100,000 miles of the Sahara in a succession of Land Rovers and a Mercedes G-Wagen—not one of them burdened with a winch.

What is the best simple, portable power pack?

Do you have a recommendation for an (affordable) portable power pack, the kind that can jump-start a dead vehicle battery and power A/C off it? Basically a portable car battery. I had a Statpower Portawattz for the last 10 years that has served me well, but I am looking to replace it. It was around $100 +/- and looking to stay in that range. Thought you all might be able to recommend a brand.

Eric Wallace

Research Specialist, University of Arizona School of Natural Resources

Equipment review: micro stoves, part 1 of 3

Let’s be frank here: Adventure motorcyclists are essentially divided into two species—those who ride a BMW R1150GS or R1200GS, and those who ride anything else (including other BMWs). We can argue about whether or not the big GS bikes are the best adventure motorcycles on the planet, but you can’t deny they’re the most prominent, and their fans make the most zealous Sturgis-tattooed Harley rider seem fickle.

To continue the Linnaean angle, the mega-GS riders I know generally separate into two sub-species when considering camping equipment: They either think, I’m riding a zillion-pound motorcycle. What difference does it make what my equipment weighs? Or, I’m riding a zillion-pound motorcycle. I need to save every gram I can on equipment. 

If you’re a member of the former group, and you’re in the market for a stove, I can happily recommend a three-burner Partner Steel model, which will strap on your rear luggage rack with room to spare. A 20-pound propane tank should give you plenty of cooking fuel. For the latter group—or any of you who ride mere mortal motorcycles, I offer a review (the first of three, with a final winner to be chosen) of two micro stoves.

We've Come a Long Way

My first backpacking stove was a beautiful little white gas SVEA 123, considered “light” at the time despite being made from solid brass, which has a density not far this side of neutron star core material.

How times have changed. Compare the 18-ounce heft of that SVEA with the 1.9 ounces of a Snow Peak LiteMax Titanium stove. Sure, the LiteMax has no built-in fuel tank, but add a full canister of isobutane/propane mix and you’re only up to 8.5 ounces, less than half the mass of the empty SVEA.

However, as important as weight is to a motorcycle traveler, it’s not the only consideration when choosing a stove. Stability, efficiency, wind resistance, boiling time, and simmering ability all factor in as well.

Furthermore, weight can be deceptive. Canister stoves are virtually always lighter than liquid-fuel stoves even with a canister attached, since they require no pumping mechanism—but for most trips you’ll need more than one canister, and the weight (and bulk) of them adds up quickly.

Then there’s disposal: Recycling spent canisters is an on-again, off-again possibility in many communities. Sometimes they’re just trash. (JetBoil makes an excellent tool for puncturing empty canisters, required for recycling in most areas.)

First in a Series of Stove Duels

I decided to take a highly opinionated, who-made-you-the-expert? stab at pronouncing which is the best lightweight stove on the market. However, rather than review every single one of the dozens of models available, I’m cheating a bit—I’ve chosen what fairly broad experience has led me to believe are:

• Two of the best top-mounted canister stoves
• Two of the best remote-canister stoves, and 
• Two of the best liquid-fuel stoves. 

The winner of each duel will face off in the final.  

I looked at top-mounted canister stoves first. The major advantages and disadvantages of this style can be summarized thusly:

Advantages:

• Extremely lightweight and compact
• Extremely simple to assemble and operate
• Quiet and clean-burning
• Excellent simmering ability
• Most affordable to purchase

Disadvantages:

• Least stable of three stove types
• Marginal cold-weather performance even with mixed fuel
• Canisters are bulky on long trips
• Susceptible to wind (and care must be used with wind deflectors to avoid overheating of the canister)
• Generally slower boil times than liquid-fuel stoves (although speed of assembly and lighting compensates)
• Difficult to quantify remaining fuel
• Fuel costs are higher
• Canisters often not available in developing countries

Of all the top-mounted canister stoves I’ve used, I like the Primus Express Stove and the Snow Peak GigaPower the best, for their light weight, simplicity, and affordability.

Primus Express Stove (on Snow Peak canister), $54Snow Peak Gigapower (above right), $40 ($50 w/pietzo)

The Express also comes in a titanium version, but the scant .4 ounce saving (2.5 versus 2.9) isn’t worth the extra $20 to me—that’s a set of titanium utensils which would save more weight. Snow Peak has the fine newer (and slightly lighter) LiteMax, but I prefer the four-trivet stove base on the GigaPower, and it folds more compactly as well.

There are other good stoves out there. The JetBoil is absolutely fabulous at boiling water quickly, but I find the system cumbersome for general cooking duties, and even its titanium versions are fairly heavy. The MSR Pocket Rocket was a contender, only passed over because—just once—I had one of its three trivets fold up on me while I was setting a pot on top, and almost lost the whole thing. Another near miss was the Optimus Crux Lite—an excellent stove that is a champ at simmering, except I’ve occasionally had the flame die unnoticed when on its lowest setting.

So—let’s decide between these two. Both are designed to use standard Lindal-valve canisters, and each company’s proprietary canisters contain an isobutane/propane mix, which enhances low-temperature performance (pure propane would be best as its boiling point is -40ºF versus butane’s +31ºF, but pure propane requires a stout steel canister).

Primus Express

Snow Peak Gigapower (above right)Weight difference is negligible: 3.25 ounces for the Snow Peak versus 3 ounces for the Primus. However, my Primus includes a piezo igniter; the equivalent GigaPower is 3.75 ounces. So a slight .75-ounce nod goes to the Primus here.

Both stoves are effortless and speedy to employ. Less than 30 seconds out of the stuff sack for either and you’re cooking.

I timed boiling for each, using 500 ml of water (note my commitment to scientific rigor by using 500 milliliters rather than a crude pint) in my favorite do-it-all solo pot/kettle/bowl, an MSR titanium Titan.

The GigaPower accomplished the task in 3 minutes, 13 seconds; the Primus was slightly quicker at 3 minutes, 7 seconds. Again, a slight nod to the Primus. (I used Snow Peak canisters for both to eliminate differences in fuel. I suppose Primus could protest, but since their stove was faster anyway . . .) Both stoves simmer extremely well, but the burner of the GigaPower spreads the flame over a wider area, so it wins there. 

Stability on top-mounted canister stoves is marginal at best. You should always provide a flat, firm surface for this type of stove. (I discovered the Snow Peak Baja Table while I was sea kayaking. It’s a cunning aluminum contraption that’s just high enough to get food prep and cooking off the ground, and which doubles elegantly as a cocktail table for a Kermit Chair.)

The Primus has a wider trivet assembly then the GigaPower, but the latter has four trivets versus three, which I find adds security. More importantly, the Primus, at 14.5 centimeters tall, sits 1.8 cm higher than the Snow Peak—almost three-quarters of an inch. That might not seem like much, but with these tippy stoves every bit helps. Win to Snow Peak.

What else? The wire-loop valve on the Snow Peak sticks out farther than the plastic knob on the Primus, so you don’t have to get your hand so near to the flame to adjust it. Both stoves fold very small, but the GigaPower collapses into a symmetrical shape, while the three trivets on the Optimus protrude somewhat even when folded, creating slightly awkward storage inside a pot.  

Since I already knew I liked both these stoves, choosing between them was difficult. I’d happily carry either, and do. But when the time came to pick one, my hand finally strayed to the Snow Peak GigaPower. Its balance of features and performance tipped the scales ever so slightly.

Next time we’ll look at two of the best remote canister stoves on the market. 

Snow Peak

Primus

Overland Review: Sportsmobile, 50 years strong

Put the words “conversion” and  “van” in the same sentence, and you’re likely to induce imagery of smoked bubble windows and orange shag carpeting. You can almost hear strains of KC and the Sunshine Band. A Sportsmobile is a different beast. More a remanufactured overlanding vehicle on a Ford or Chevy platform than a mere “conversion,” the Sportsmobile is not only a seminal product in its field (2011 marks the company’s 50th anniversary), but can be configured as a heavy-duty, four-wheel-drive, self-contained camper capable of extended journeys in the most remote regions on earth. 

On a trip through California last month, we visited Alan Feld, the owner of Sportsmobile West (there are two other divisions as well), in his factory in Fresno, to see the entire process of building the vehicles, from stock van to completed Sportsmobile.

Once the minimal factory interior is removed from the van, the vast rectangular box is essentially a blank canvas, open to a number of semi-stock interiors or nearly any custom configuration a customer can dream up.  If you want to go beyond the basics of stove, fridge, sink, bed, and toilet, you can add flat-screen TVs, captain’s chairs, furnaces and AC units, a shower—the list goes on. The roof can be permanent full-height or a retractable “penthouse.” Everything from counters to plumbing is of first-rate quality.

I enjoyed looking at the well-thought-out interiors, but it was the four-wheel-drive conversion process that most interested me. I’ve seen them done poorly and seen them done well, but rarely have I seen one done as well as here. So seamless is the installation that, looking at a half-finished chassis on a rack, it was impossible to tell where the Ford factory parts left off and the Sportsmobile parts took over—except that the latter were arguably stronger.

The heavy-duty front axle, springs, and transfer case are all made in California. Furthermore, Alan has been on a mission to source as many components as possible from the U.S. and even his own state. He uses a stout, all-gear Atlas II transfer case (made in Paso Robles, CA), an equally stout Dynatrac Pro Roc 60 axle assembly, and, as of quite recently, leaf springs manufactured right there in Fresno. The extended-range fuel tanks are also manufactured in California.

The result is a comfortable and surprisingly capable machine—at the 2011 Overland Expo, even the veteran Camel Trophy team members who ran the Land-Rover-sponsored demonstration course were surprised at the Sportsmobile’s tolerance for side-slope angles. And it’s well-built enough that the company provides a 50,000-mile warranty. 

Mercedes Sprinter van camperSprinter with bike bay in rear, camper in front.I should note that Alan is also using the Mercedes Benz Sprinter van as a base for some beautiful camper conversions. Although the four-wheel-drive version of the Sprinter is not (yet) available in the U.S., we do at least get the brilliant BlueTEC V6 turbodiesel, which is capable of 20-plus mpg on the highway. One completely self-contained unit I spent some time in was stickered around $75,000—a bargain considering the combination of Mercedes and Sportsmobile quality, and more so when compared with some far more expensive but troublesome “conversions” I’ve seen. It got me dreaming of that loop up through the Maritime Provinces we’ve always wanted to do. I’m beginning to think a “conversion van” might fit right into place between our Land Cruisers. 

Just to be sure: Despite lurking behind stacks of parts and peeking through closed doors at Alan’s factory, nowhere could I find a hidden stash of smoked bubble windows or shag carpet.

Overland Tech: Battery welding in the field

Welding with automotive batteries is one of those near-mythical skills, like seating a tire bead with starting fluid, that most people never even attempt. But unlike explosive bead-seating, which a quick YouTube search will confirm can go wrong easily, battery welding is pretty straightforward. Recently, Doug Manzer had an opportunity to try it in the backcountry of Utah. 

Doug and his 11-year-old son, Nick, were on a solo-vehicle trip in their Toyota FJ Cruiser, towing a military M416 trailer modified by Doug for camping duty. While climbing a series of 90-degree rock ledges, both front spring mounts tore off the trailer’s frame. Inspection revealed that insidious rust had weakened the mounts. 

Doug had seen Matt Savage’s video of battery welding on one of Overland Expo’s 60-Second Overlander spots, and realized he had the perfect opportunity to try it. However, he only had two batteries with him, and was lacking a few other needed items, so he and Nick left the trailer and made the three-hour drive to the nearest town, Green River, for supplies. 

Click for larger imageBack on site, Doug hooked up his existing AGM batteries, including the main Odyssey, in series (positive to negative) with a purchased lead-acid battery, to create a 36-volt power source. He used a standard jumper clip on the positive terminal and a welding rod holder on the negative end. A C-clamp and the Toyota’s receiver hitch served as a makeshift vise for cutting 2 by 5-inch rectangles of flat steel to create a spring mount reinforcement. 

In his first attempt, using 6011 and then 6013 rods, Doug actually found the arc too hot and focused. A 316 rod turned out to be perfect for the thick, mild steel. A few rough but strong beads later, and father and son were on the trail again. So adequate did those welds turn out that all Doug did on returning home was to clean them up a bit. He’s certain the battery-powered field repair is far stronger than the factory mounts.

An interesting postscript: The Odyssey battery, reinstalled in the FJ Cruiser, started it right up after welding duty. But a check of the new lead-acid battery at home showed it to be 90 percent discharged. Chalk up one more anecdote for the superb Odyssey.

(Editor’s note: For those intrigued by the concept of battery welding, but inexperienced at using sticks, check out the excellent Ready Welder, a wire-feed unit capable of welding steel up to 1/2 inch thick using three batteries.)

To buy or not to buy: 1991 Toyota Land Cruiser

I currently drive two different vehicles—a fuel sipping Ford Focus, mostly to cover the short distance to work, and a fuel-guzzling Ford F-250 diesel, mostly for fishing and hunting . My wife has been encouraging me to downsize my fleet and recently observed that one of her friends has a ’91 Land Cruiser for sale. “What about something like that?” was her question to me; it could get me out to some remote fishing spots as well as fit a couple car seats for transporting kids (which my old truck doesn’t do so well). 

And so, I’ve been doing a little bit of looking into Land Cruisers. I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.

-  This vehicle originally came from the States and has a fair number of miles on it (250,000). How many is too many? I’m currently driving a truck with 225,000 miles.  So, it wouldn’t be a whole lot more than what I’m already driving, but certainly wouldn’t be a step toward a lesser-used vehicle, which would be nice for peace of mind.

-  What sort of a ball-park price do you think is reasonable for a vehicle of that vintage? Obviously you won’t know the exact condition, but it seems to be in reasonable shape for its age.  There is a bit of surface rust starting to show up on the back door, below the window, and just above the windshield. I don’t think that it has been abused, but it hasn’t been babied either.

-  Would I be better off spending a bit more for a lower mileage vehicle? I need to keep my total purchase price below $10,000. This one is well below that. Unfortunately, there aren’t a lot of these available in Alberta, from what I’ve been able to find. I’d potentially consider importing something from the States if that made sense.

-  Are other options worth looking at instead?  I’ve thought about Jeeps (Wrangler and Cherokee) or picking up a 4Runner, both of which are probably better on fuel and a whole lot more common.  I’d love to have a Tacoma, but won’t be able to find a 4-door in my price range.

Thanks for your feedback,

Robert Anderson via email, Blairmore, Alberta, Canada

Equipment review: Viking Off Road Recovery Bag $130

I wrote a brief review of Thor Jonsson’s stout U.S.-made Recovery Bag when I was with Overland Journal, but since then I’ve had more experience with it in the field. Nothing I’ve seen has altered my initial impressions of its quality and utility. 

If your vehicle is equipped with a winch designed for anything but pure poseurship, you need a comprehensive recovery kit to accompany it. A winch doesn’t work in isolation: If you’re winching from a tree you must use a tree saver strap to prevent damage to the trunk that could kill the tree; if you’re attaching to another vehicle you need proper shackles. In many situations you’ll want a pulley block to redirect a pull or increase power. Gloves, a winchline extension, a KERR (kinetic energy recovery rope) or strap, a winchline damper—all should be part of a winch kit.

Furthermore, if you’re winching it’s likely to be at least a somewhat stressful (and certainly potentially dangerous) situation, so you’ll want everything organized to eliminate fumbling and delays. Therefore I consider the recovery kit’s container to be just as important as the contents.

The first thing you’ll notice about the Viking bag is the can’t-miss-me-orange 3M reflective tape, which will prevent you misplacing the bag at night, and will warn anyone driving up on the scene to slow down. Open the bag and you’ll see the sturdy double-layer construction, using an orange liner which keeps the contents easy to see. Actually there’s a third layer: The central rope/chain compartment comes out for easy cleaning after a recovery that renders stuff muddy. The other compartments tidily hold shackles, pulley blocks, gloves, a KERR, a winchline damper (which can be Velcroed to the exterior via straps)—virtually everything associated with a comprehensive recovery kit. The lot is comfortable carried via a fat rubberized handle or a broad shoulder strap.

If you stuff this bag with the full assortment including a choker chain, it will represent a potential 30-pound projectile in the event of an accident or rollover, so it should be secured any time the vehicle is moving. I run a single ratchet strap over mine, but Viking has also thoughtfully included four tie-down rings on the base.

Virtually everything I could have thought of to include in a recovery kit bag is here, thanks to Thor’s extensive experience. It’s a U.S.-made product I highly recommend. Incidentally—I had my own recovery gear to fill this bag, but Viking offers a selection of well-considered kits to suit any overland vehicle from a Subaru to a Unimog.

Winchline.com

- Jonathan Hanson, Overland Tech & Travel editor

Equipment review: U.S. military surplus two-quart canteen—up to military standards?

Over the years I’ve used every water container imaginable for hiking, backpacking, and sea kayaking, from WWII-era metal canteens to Nalgenes (I tried the CamelBak-style bladders exactly once, and simply couldn’t abide the sucky-tube thing). A couple of years ago I found what I thought could be the ideal container for my needs: A U.S. military two-quart soft canteen with a nylon cover insulated with synthetic fleece.

This combination had several advantages. First, in the desert southwest you need two quarts of water for any reasonable hike. One just isn’t sufficient. Second, the fleece insulation did a good job of keeping the contents cool on warm days. Finally, the flexible container let me squeeze out air as I emptied the canteen, which prevented sloshing and significantly reduced noise when birdwatching or hunting. I noted at the time that the canteen’s plastic material seemed quite thin, but I assumed the designers knew what they were doing.

Maybe not.

First, a few months ago the plastic leash holding the cap snapped in two. Annoying, but I didn’t think too much about it. More recently, while teaching wildlife tracking on a ranch in northern Mexico, the group was out on a hike and I felt my backside getting soaked. I took off my day pack and pulled out the canteen, and found a split in the upper corner of the container. Not good at all. Fortunately my camera was in a separate pocket of the pack, or the results could have been disastrous. Not to mention if I’d been relying on that water to stay alive somewhere, and the split had decided to happen at the bottom corner . . .

The date stamp on the canteen is 1993—not that old when you consider the millions of WWII metal canteens still providing fine service seven decades on. Could this one have received some UV exposure that weakened it, is it a rare manufacturing error, or is it truly a design flaw? All I know is, my confidence is shaken, despite the fact that one failure is the scarcest kind of anecdotal evidence. I have another of these units, dated 1997, that I could continue to use, but my inclination, given the vital importance of water in the desert, is that one strike means this kind of container is out for me.

- Jonathan Hanson, Overland Tech & Travel editor