British reserve . . .

I'm reading Valerie Pakenham's book shown above. 

She references a letter sent by Joyce Cary, a district commissioner (and later a well-known novelist) in northern Nigeria in 1916. Comparing conditions in his district to those in southern Nigeria, he wrote his wife:

"Northern Nigeria is a paradise compared to those parts. And the people are gentlemen. Not that slaves aren't seized up here and men eaten, but it is done in a polite manner - not obtrusively."

What could I add to that?

Et tu, Filson?

Lumberjacks well-equipped in early C.C. Filson clothingThe history of exploration in the 20th century is littered with outfitters that got their start and earned fame by offering high-quality, durable clothing and equipment suitable for demanding use in the field, and which then devolved into mere fashion outlets flogging branded urban wear showing little if anything in common with their heritage.

Walk into an Abercrombie and Fitch store today and tell a clerk you’d like to be fitted for a new 16-bore sidelock shotgun. You’ll probably find yourself chatting with a policeman in short order. Yet for seven decades A&F was the premier U.S. outfitter for outdoorspeople, whether they were headed out for a weekend of flyfishing or, as one customer and former U.S. President was in 1909, off to Africa for a year of shooting and collecting for the Smithsonian. One could figuratively walk into an A&F store in one’s underwear and leave ready to tackle the Dark Continent. But in 1976 the company declared bankruptcy, and the hallowed name was bought by Oshman’s, which relaunched it as a mail-order shadow of its former self. That was a mild fate compared to the eventual acquisition by The Limited, which has morphed Teddy Roosevelt’s outfitter into . . . well, something he would not recognize.

Abercrombie and Fitch, then . . . . . . and now.

There was Willis and Geiger, founded in 1903, who supplied Roald Amundsen, Amelia Earhart,  and the Flying Tigers, among many others. When Charles Lindbergh needed a shearling suit for his flight over Antarctica, he turned to W&G, and when Ernest Hemingway wanted a bush jacket made to his own design, he did likewise. I still have several carefully hoarded W&G shirts and bush jackets in their bespoke, tough Bush Poplin.

In a twist of fate, W&G was Abercrombie and Fitch’s largest creditor when it filed Chapter 11 (because of branded merchandise), and it did not survive the writeoff. A new owner, Richard Avedon, revived the brand, the products, and the quality, but the writing was on the wall. Various takeovers ensued, production of new items moved offshore until the company was purchased by Lands’ End, which let it fade away ignominiously. (Speaking of which, does anyone here recall that Lands’ End got its start selling foul-weather gear to offshore sailors?)

There are others. Eddie Bauer was a sportsman who patented the quilted down jacket, supplied the military in WWII, and outfitted Jim Whittaker on the first U.S. ascent of Mt. Everest.  Once the company was sold in 1968, new corporate owners General Mills turned its focus to everyday clothing and began capitalizing on the evocative name, a marketing assault that hit its nadir when several Ford 4X4 vehicles—and eventually a minivan—received outdoorsy cosmetic packages and were sold as the “Eddie Bauer Edition.” And although Banana Republic’s history dates from just 1978, the company quickly gained a reputation for fine and practical outdoor clothing, only to lose it just as quickly after selling out to Gap Inc.

Jim Whittaker atop Mt. Everest, in an Eddie Bauer parka.

A page from a Banana Republic catalog.

One company weathered all this with standards intact. Clinton C. Filson was born in 1850, homesteaded in Nebraska, then opened a loggers’ outfitting store in Seattle in 1890. In 1897 his business expanded to outfit prospectors on their way to the Alaska gold rush with sleeping bags, boots, and clothing. With the end of the rush, it was natural to shift emphasis to equipping sportsmen with gear for hunting and fishing trips. The family ran the company and the catalog remained small for the next seven decades, until a skiwear manufacturer named Stan Kohls bought the name and expanded the line hugely, while retaining the original design philosophy and maintaining exceptional quality. 

This period was arguably the golden age of C.C. Filson. The company produced clothing ranging from heavy-duty outerwear for winter duck hunting to Feathercloth shirts suitable for the hottest African savannah, and luggage seemingly immune to wear. Through the 90s and into the 2000s, Filson shirts became nearly a uniform for me. One medium Filson duffel has made, as near as Roseann and I can figure, 13 trips to Africa between us.

One of our Filson duffels on its . . . 10th? . . . trip to Africa.Sometime around 2005, I noticed some production had shifted offshore. Although the quality remained, to be honest, apparently the equal of the U.S.-made predecessors, prices not only did not drop but began rising to heights at which tearing the sleeve of a Feathercloth shirt on an acacia really hurt. If I’d looked, I would have discovered that at this time Filson had been purchased by a California-based private-equity firm and a former Ralph Lauren executive.

Uh oh.

Still, I remained loyal because the products seemed to stay consistent, they lasted long enough to make the investment worth it, and there was really nothing else I found that I considered equivalent. 

Then, a couple of months ago, in preparation for a trip to Kenya, I went to the Filson website to buy a couple of new Feathercloth shirts, steeling myself for the $70-per-shirt hit on my bank account.  I found, to my chagrin, that the feathercloth shirt had been discontinued. 

No, it was worse—it hadn’t been discontinued, it had been rebranded. It’s now called the “Seattle Shirt”—and the price has doubled magically to $140. Each. So much for a shirt to wear in the bush—clearly this one is no longer intended to risk danger worse than having a latte spilled on it.

Expedition to Starbucks, anyone?

A little research reveals a disturbing development: “Filson Holdings” was sold in 2012 to Dallas-based Bedrock Manufacturing, which is backed by the founder of the fashionable accessory manufacturer Fossil. Note that “fashionable accessory” part. As if to confirm my worst fears, it was just this time I happened to catch the news of the “Filson Edition” AEV Brute, a $130,000 customized Jeep pickup outfitted with twill and leather seats (Filson logo prominently displayed), brass trim, and a rear-seat organizer equipped with special Filson bags.

Sigh . . .

It’s actually too early to write off Filson altogether. For example, the company has moved production of many products back to the U.S., a commendable effort. However, the prices of those, and other, items have ballooned so comically that it’s difficult to avoid the conclusion the company is targeting an entirely new customer base—one with whom a name such as “Seattle Shirt” will resonate. 

I know I’ll be looking elsewhere for my Kenya shirts. 

Update on 2014-01-30 00:56 by Jonathan Hanson

When I first found the $140 “Seattle Shirt” on the Filson site, I sent an email to the generic Filson customer service email expressing my disappointment, and describing my history with the company’s products in field use ranging from the Arctic to the Sahara. To my surprise, I received an extensive personal reply from a customer service manager named Phil, who assured me that others had written expressing similar opinions, and that all had been forwarded to management. 

I later forwarded the original OT&T post above to Phil, along with the comments, as an FYI. Very quickly I received this back from him:

Jonathan,

Thank you for sharing your post and the comments. I read them all and will happily forward this up the food chain to as many people who will read it as I can find. Just a couple comments.

If you will forward the boot guy to me I will take care of him.

You are not the first to mention pricing. Others have and it is an issue management is aware of. As for the AEV Jeep—it is a marvelous machine (we have one here in Seattle) that nobody ever expected to sell many of. I went to see the AEV website and their videos of a similar jeep climbing mountains and such. Very impressive.

I can not answer for everything but I can tell you that many costs, for example that of our Moleskin shirt fabric, have more than doubled recently. Cotton and wool prices have gone way up, as has the price for leather.

Bedrock has been very good for Filson. They have the money to invest in us, which has allowed us to make critical infrastructure and software updates that otherwise would not have been possible. Things such as this allow us to bring more manufacturing back to the USA.

Filson lives for our customers' comments and on their opinions. If we fail to listen to them, we fade away. I will be happy to answer any questions you have as best I can, and please direct your friends to email me here and I will do my best for them. 

Thank you, 

Phil L

I’ve forgotten how many other companies I’ve written to, with either praise or critique, and received nothing but a toneless boilerplate response, so this is indeed heartening. And Tim (the “boot guy”) will shortly be receiving a new pair of boots. (Phil told him they’d had trouble with the initial supplier of the boots and had switched to a different source.) 

It would have been easy for Phil to completely ignore my email, yet he’s not only engaged me several times but has forwarded this thread to others at Filson. So I believe him when he says the company is determined to be responsive to their core customers. But will they need to redefine who that core is?

Consider this wonderful note from the comments section:

Jonathan,

My Dad purchased a Filson upland coat in 1945 upon his return from the war in Europe. It was handed down to me and I've handed it off to my eldest son, grouse blood and all. He still wears it. It's going on 70 and I just turn 70.

Bill

A revealing story regarding Filson quality. But let’s examine it more closely. It should be obvious that Filson can no longer expect to remain profitable by selling upland coats only to grouse hunters such as Bill’s father (or elk hunters such as myself). Hunting is (sadly) in decline in the U.S., although fishing seems to be holding on somewhat better. Much other outdoor activity seems irretrievably wedded to modern technical fabrics (although my Barbour has outlasted several Gore-Tex alternatives). Nevertheless there are many outdoor pursuits besides field sports for which Filson makes superbly suitable clothing—and of course there is their equally superb luggage. I wonder, then, if Filson can defy history and remain true to its heritage, while profiting as much as is necessary from sales to those after nothing but the look. (Random related example: Redwing boots—the orangey-colored moc-toe, eight-inch-tall, white-ripple-sole model beloved of truck drivers, bird hunters, and construction workers—are apparently now the footwear of choice among hip-hop artists. Go figure.)

We’ll stay tuned . . . 

An unexpected truck review

The Ram 1500 in front of the Very Large Array in New Mexico

Christmas day found Roseann and me driving a rented pickup from Tucson to Cubero, New Mexico, due to an unexpected family situation. We wound up with a 2014 Ram, a two-wheel-drive 1500 Quad-cab (four doors but a slightly smaller rear passenger area than the Crew-cab). I’m always interested to drive new vehicles, and it had been some time since I’d been in a current Ram.

Mostly it was familiar and unremarkable big-truck territory. Plenty of room, a well-organized if ordinary dash and interior. The ride was on the excellent side of very good, as were the seats. But what got my attention was the drivetrain: a 5.7-liter Hemi V8 and a six-speed transmission.

The engine of course had more than enough (395) horsepower, although the “Hemi” hype is a bit misleading. Hemispherical combustion chambers were fairly advanced stuff 50 years ago—in addition to their cross-flow design, the dome-shaped combustion chambers allowed larger intake and exhaust valves to be fitted, and the centrally located spark plug enhanced flame propagation. But the configuration inhibited fuel quench - the turbulence generated when the piston reaches the top of its compression stroke - and thus struggled to achieve complete burn. Modern overhead-cam, multi-valve heads have eclipsed the design in most aspects - power, fuel economy, and emission control—at the expense of complexity and weight, of course.

Nevertheless, Chrysler has made the 5.7 work, using various newer tricks such as variable camshaft timing and variable displacement (cylinder deactivation at highway speeds) to keep it competitive.

The biggest problem with the truck we drove (and of course it was a single example, albeit quite new with fewer than 20,000 miles on it) was that six-speed transmission. Accelerating from a stop at part throttle, there was a massive hesitation between first and second gear; it felt like a manual shift performed by a 15-year-old with a learner’s permit. Floor it to the point of burning rubber and the syndrome went away completely, but one does not want to drive that way all the time, especially in one-streetlight New Mexico towns with bored sheriff deputies hanging around annoyed at having to work the holiday. 

Then, once to speed, on any sort of ascent the transmission hunted schizophrenically between ratios, constantly downshifting one gear, two gears—then upshifting again if the grade flattened by one percent, only to drop back down again. Really, I would have thought given 410 lb.-ft. of torque such eager downshifting would be superfluous. I finally began using the manual shift rocker on the lever to hold the truck in one gear on ascents.

However, the tranny foibles were (nearly) forgiven once I tallied the fuel economy for the 1,000-mile journey, which came out to almost exactly 20 miles per gallon. For a 395-horsepower, 5,200-pound pickup on a real-world trip involving lots of mountainous terrain, that’s impressive, and made me think the "Hemi" has some life in it yet. I’m really looking forward to seeing what the Ram’s new 3.0-liter turbodiesel V6 will deliver. 

It’s nice to see the American truck makers back at the forefront of innovation in full-size trucks. Ford’s 2015 F150 is set to be a stunning example with its extensive use of aluminum. I can’t help but wonder if Toyota is ever going to step up and do something equally revolutionary with the Tundra.

The über camera strap

The camera straps included with pro-level DSLRs from the Canon/Nikon/et al factories have improved significantly over the years, from the stingy half-inch-wide strips of yore to reasonably comfortable nylon webbing an inch and a half across. However, at the same time we’re carrying cameras increasingly burdened with additional battery packs and massive lenses. So overall comfort has scarcely advanced. 

 For those of us who pursue photography in the outdoors, especially in active or even hazardous situations, the stock straps fall short in several other ways. Adjusting the length from a cold morning under a down jacket to a warm afternoon in shirtsleeves is such a pain as to be not      worth the trouble. And the only way to get the camera off is to lift it over your head and whatever headgear you might be wearing. Usually this is simply inconvenient, but what if you need to ditch it right now in a real emergency?

These considerations and others inspired William Egbert of Vulture Equipment Works to start from scratch and design the A2 and A4 camera straps.

The Vulture straps are made from true military-spec nylon webbing, an inch and three-quarters wide. The weave is tight but extremely pliable; I found the A2 strap conformed to my shoulder comfortably even burdened with a 5D MKII and a heavy lens. It’s also adjustable for length in seconds. But that’s not where the innovation is. The connection to the camera’s stock strap eyelets is accomplished with two short “lower risers,” which then clip to the main strap via a pair of carabiners. Not the cheesy little things you find in the jar at the counter of the hardware store—these are stout mountaineering-grade items.

The carabiners perform several functions. You can unclip one to remove the camera and strap without having to go over your head. You can also convert the system to single-point carry by clipping one carabiner to the other. Traveling alone in a vehicle? Clip the risers to the posts of the headrest on the passenger’s seat. Your camera will be instantly accessible, yet immune to bouncing off the seat. You can also easily rig slings to suspend the camera inside vehicles or aircraft, or attach extra sets of lower risers to other things you might want to carry with the strap—heavy tripods, for example.

For me, their most useful function is realized by clipping them to the Vulture Equipment Works “A2T” strap. This cunning device is best described as a reverse monopod: Picture an adjustable length of nylon webbing with a loop at each end. Clip the lower risers on your camera into the upper loop, step into the lower loop and put upward pressure on the camera. I was astonished at how much stability it adds and how much camera shake was eliminated for video work, all from an accessory you can roll up and carry in a bush-jacket pocket. A brilliant accessory (and which could be used with a standard camera strap by looping the strap through it).

Monopod in a pocket: the VEW A2T

The A4 camera strap is similar to the A2, but adds a true one-hand quick-release. Normally secured with a safety-wire loop, this buckle will instantly free you from the camera with a single squeeze—assuming you find yourself in a position where you’re willing to instantly free yourself from $5,000 worth of camera and lens. I can think of a couple times I’ve been close. There was this elephant in Zambia . . .

While the Vulture straps adjust for length quickly, the shortest setting was a bit long for me. I found I could easily reduce the length beyond that setting, but then a tail of strap hung loosely. I’m considering simply cutting it off and burning the end; however, that would eliminate the nice factory-stitched end. Perhaps Vulture will offer optional strap lengths in the future. I also worry about those stout carabiners damaging the camera itself—I noticed that, with shorter lenses, the carabiner could theoretically whack the front element. Whether it could do so with enough momentum to cause damage is speculation. 

If you think you’ve got a need for the stoutest, made-in-the-U.S camera strap on the planet, Vulture Equipment Works is HERE.

Remove before flying: A safety wire secures the quick-release when you're unlikely to be chased by elephants. 

Coming soon to the JATAC

A brief tutorial on hill-descent control

Truck and SUV manufacturers are incorporating more and more technological gadgets into their vehicles with the goal of enhancing off-highway performance and safety. One that is becoming nearly universal is hill-descent control. I was dubious of the system at first, but after driving several vehicles equipped with it, I have to say it does a better job than I can do in my manual-transmission FJ40 using engine braking along with threshold application of the brake pedal. Yes, you're relying on a mechanical aid, and I believe you should also practice the skills to do without it just in case something fails, but otherwise it's a brilliant invention and makes negotiating a very steep downhill slope child's play. 

I'm going to be publishing a series of short videos on various systems such as this, for those not already familiar with them. Here is the first one, on our Vimeo channel (click on the title to go to the full-size version):

Overland Tech and Travel - Hill-descent control from ConserVentures on Vimeo. 

Idiot-proof two-way satellite communication

There are certain things I’m good—even very good—at learning intuitively. Bicycle and car repair, plumbing and electrical systems, carpentry, leatherwork—these are examples of skills I learned by simple trial and error, or with a book. I picked up adequate welding pretty quickly with some tutoring from Master Brian DeArmon. No “assembly required” toy or piece of furniture has ever given me the slightest trouble. 

Sadly, computers, smartphones, GPS units, and similar devices are not among those things. My wife could sit down with a laptop manufactured by Alpha Centaurians who use click language and a base 7 numbering system, mess around with it for about five minutes, then exclaim, “Oh! Okay . . . got it.” Not me—I still struggle with basic keyboard shortcuts on my Mac Air, and the single most frequently uttered line from my desk in our office is, “Honey, can you come here and make this damn thing work?” It’s not that I’m a Luddite—I’m in awe of the new world represented by these tools. I simply have no aptitude for them.

Which, of course, makes me the ideal person to test them. If I can master, say, a GPS unit, it’s a safe bet an average three-year-old can as well. I’m referring here to a three-year-old bonobo.

When I stopped by the Text Anywhere booth at the Outdoor Retailer show last summer, the device on display certainly looked Jonathan-friendly: It had exactly one operating button, for “on” and “off.” (Oh! Okay . . . got it, I thought.) The information claimed one could send and receive text messages from virtually anywhere on earth through the Iridium satellite network (Fantastic, I thought) by synching with a Wi-Fi-equipped smartphone, laptop, or tablet.

Sigh . . . I should have known there’d be a catch. Nevertheless, I asked to take home a unit to test, and arranged with Gary Harder of ROM Communications to walk me through the setup later over the phone. 

Unlike some similar devices, the TA uses a web app rather than an OS-specific app, which gives the user more flexibility in the choice of paired devices. Also, critically, it can be activated with a $29.99 monthly rate (which includes 100 text or email messages, each up to 160 characters long), or the account can be idled for $5 per month—extremely handy if, like most people, you only take a few trips per year when satellite messaging would come in handy or essential. The 4 by 4 by 1.5-inch cuboid device works off four available-everywhere AA batteries (alkaline or rechargeable) or an included 12V cigarette-plug adapter. The Iridium satellite network ensures true global coverage, unlike systems reliant on the Globalstar or Inmarsat networks.

I called Gary a few weeks later, and (after teaching me how to use the speaker function on my iPhone: “Oh! Okay . . . got it”), he figuratively held my hand through a sequence most people would do on their own with the quick-start guide included with the device, after setting up an account. I powered up the Text Anywhere on the hood of the Land Cruiser (as with any satellite-dependent system you need a clear view of the sky), found its network on the iPhone, then used Safari to connect to the Text Anywhere site, and add a bookmark for it on the phone’s home screen. 

“All right, what now?” I asked. 

“That’s it,” he replied.

“Um, say again?”

“That’s it; you’re ready to go. When you want to send a text or email, just power up the device, call up the Wi-Fi on your phone and choose the Text Anywhere network. Then tap the Text Anywhere icon on the home screen, and hit the mail icon. Type in either an email address or a phone number, then type your message. The red status light on the unit stops blinking when the message has been sent successfully. If someone sends you a message while it’s off, it will be stored in the system for five days until you log on again.”

I made a vaguely bonobo-like sound of amazement. Could it possibly be that easy? I hung up, powered everything down, started it up again, and sent a text to Roseann, who was in town (I do have opposable thumbs). A couple of minutes later I got a return text. 

Sold.

Since then I’ve sent and received messages in various locations outside cell range and have yet to have a failure (unlike some devices, the Text Anywhere only connects via satellite, rather than bouncing back and forth between cell and satellite networks). I’m hoping to hang on to the review sample long enough to take it to Africa later this year.

Besides the utter simplicity of use and ease of idling the account, there’s another difference between the Text Anywhere and, for example, the DeLorme inReach or SPOT devices: The Text Anywhere includes no SOS emergency button, so it’s up to you to arrange help by communicating with friends or local emergency services. Frankly that’s fine by me, as it will eliminate expensive false alarms such as the incident we had at last year’s Overland Expo, when a visiting motorcyclist accidentally activated the SOS on his SPOT (he was found by local rescue services having a beer in a Flagstaff pub). Also, while it’s more trouble than hitting a single button, you can arrange far more effective and relevant assistance by making potential rescuers aware of the exact situation. Response might vary considerably depending on whether you’re lying with a broken leg at 16,000 feet on Mount Kenya, or sitting 10,000 feet below with your arm swelling from a puff adder bite.

Mostly the Text Anywhere will simply enable you to keep in touch with friends and family no matter where you are on the planet. Two-way communication means they’ll know you’re okay and you’ll know they’re okay. You can also post to social media to update hundreds of “friends” at a time about your adventures.

After several products have attempted with varying degrees of success to provide global text communication for travelers to remote locations, the Text Anywhere finally has made the concept accessible and simple, even for those of us lacking basic technological aptitude.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a banana.

The Text Anywhere is $399 and is compatible with almost all Wi-Fi-enabled devices. An iSE version, compatible only with iOS devices (iPhone, iPad, and iTouch) is $339. Text Anywhere is HERE. (http://www.textanywhere.ca)

Farewell to an overlanding dog

If you’ve done much exploring around the backroads and four-wheel-drive trails of Arizona in the last few years, odds are you’ll remember at some point noticing a silver Jeep Wrangler being led by a black lab mix with a white chest patch, either trotting along at a good pace on a dirt road or scrambling up a 4+ obstacle. This was Brian DeArmon’s Cherokee, who for a decade served as companion and canine overland ambassador extraordinaire. Cherokee got along with just about any human, any dog, and any thing—with the notable exception of scale RC models, which she despised and attempted to forcibly disassemble whenever one dared to buzz through a group camp.

She also had a fine-tuned sense of diplomacy. Most other dogs she would bound right up to, tail wagging. But at a camp six or seven years ago, when our border collie Rob was old, half-blind and deaf, and frightened of other dogs, we watched Cherokee gallop up to the margin of our site, then wait, tail wagging, until Rob noticed her. She then tiptoed in slowly, still wagging, until Rob was able to take full measure of her and relax. This, we realized, was a dog that grasped senility.

As she got older and grayer, Cherokee’s extra-vehicular excursions became fewer and shorter, and she got used to riding in the cab of Brian’s Dodge pickup, to be lowered to the ground where she could wander around camp with just as much joie de vivre but a bit more dignity.

There will be an empty space in those camps from now on. Cherokee RIP. And say hello to Rob for us.