Field Notes from a Gear Tester

All photos by Steven Gnam

Granite towers over us as we pick our way through patches of scree and across rolling slabs. Deep in Washington State’s Cascade Range, Mount Stuart’s commanding North Ridge forms a 2,800-foot staircase to the sky. This morning, my partner Michael and I had climbed the classic ridge to Stuart’s summit before descending the peak’s gentler southern slope and circling around its flank back to where we started. Now, under ominous skies and with significantly less energy, we push to close the loop and begin the lollipop stick to the car.

A gust of cold air rolls off the glacier above us, and I ball the warm, waffled fabric of my shirtsleeves in my fists. After a full day of pulling ropes, jamming my arms in cracks and wiping snot off my nose, the cuffs have yet to show any signs of pilling: a far cry from the last two prototypes I tested. I think we’re finally getting close with this new recycled fabric. Later, I’ll take a close look at the back and shoulders—hot spots for wear after 12 hours carrying a backpack—and send photos and notes to Kelly Cordes, Patagonia’s field testing coordinator.

Being a gear tester at Patagonia goes something like this: Kelly sends pieces of gear to whomever he feels will put them through the most rigorous tests, based on everything from where we live and what sports we do, to what aspects of gear we’re especially picky about. Thermal-weight baselayer prototypes might go to testers who live in northern mountain climates; a belay coat prototype with an innovative hood fit might go to an ice climber who has strong feelings about hoods.

Then, we all set out doing what we do best: using the gear hard. Throughout testing, we submit our findings, and designers make changes based on that feedback. Features are refined, fabrics improved, durability optimized, and the pieces get better with each version.

There’s a reassuring legitimacy and comforting simplicity to this sequence: real-life mountain athletes dialoguing with developers and designers, iterating and reiterating, over and over again. Gear defines the way we move in the mountains; the way we move defines the kind of gear we make. Around and around the lollipop we go .

June 1, 2024
Miller Peak, Iron Bear Loop, Teanaway mountains

June 1: a fitting date for the first high-country outing of the summer. The day’s excursion is a 17-plus-mile trail run in the Teanaway mountains. This range is not as dramatic or large as the nearby Cascades, but the conditions are dry and sunny in early summer, when most higher ranges have yet to shed their winter coats.

Two friends and I climb 3,000 feet through pine and fir forest and across balsamroot-laden slopes, the trees gradually thinning to reveal the rest of the Teanaway mountains to the west.

I love the prototype shorts I’m wearing. They’re a Goldilocks length—a 4″ inseam, by my ruler—and delightfully thin and quick to dry. They also have copious pockets, including a zippered stash in the right-hand pocket, currently holding a half-eaten bar. The shorts are so fun to wear, but is their lack of structure and boxy shape more frumpy than flattering? I file the question away for future feedback.

Atop Miller Peak, we munch on snacks and, as mountain runners do, connect the nearby ridgelines with our eyes. A draping of snow reveals a high passageway from one peak to the next. I pull up a mapping app to identify the high points before us, then tuck my phone into one of the shorts’ side pockets for quick access on the descent. As I take my first few strides, I note how the phone’s weight causes the pocket to protrude below the hem. Frumpiness confirmed, and no longer simply a matter of aesthetics. I move my phone to the zippered stash, where it rides more securely. Attach the side-pocket material to the leg of the shorts? I jot down the question in my mental notebook as we continue down the singletrack.

June 15, 2024
Horse Lake Reserve Loop, Wenatchee Foothills

Mid-June but it feels like April, the skies heavy with grey clouds. It’s raining inches to the west of the mountains, prompting my cousin Lisa to drive east from Bellingham and join me for a run in the Wenatchee foothills. I take the drop in temperatures as an opportunity to try out a pair of Endless Run 7/8 Tights that just came in the mail. This prototype is intended to test the durability and comfort of a new fabric that’s blended with clear spandex (a boon for developing light-colored face fabrics, in this case bright yellow). But fun colors are no good if they come at a performance cost, hence today’s test. During the drive, I notice there’s already a small patch of pilling in the right hip crease. I’ll send a photo of it to the field-testing team when I get home.

Under grey clouds and spitting rain, Lisa and I run a 14-mile loop around Horse Lake Reserve, the singletrack weaving through dry hills that just a month ago were teeming with purple lupine and yellow balsamroot. If I weren’t forcing myself to take note of how the tights move and breathe with each stride, I wouldn’t be thinking about them at all: a good sign.

June 20, 2024
Colchuck Peak, Stuart Range

It’s 3:00 p.m., and as I close my laptop, I’m suddenly, keenly aware of my need for a stress release. I decide to venture up to Colchuck Lake—my first foray into the Stuart Range this summer—packing an axe, crampons and my Nano-Air® Ultralight Full-Zip Hoody in case I’m motivated to go higher. Today’s journey is also a celebration: After almost two years of refinement, this lightweight insulating jacket is about to go out into the world. The final production version landed on my doorstep a few weeks ago, and it’s amazing to see all the testing hours, field notes and revisions reflected in its fabric and features:

Is there an even lighter liner fabric we could use? Check. 

Can we make sure this easily stuffs into its own pocket? Check.

Version B’s liner fights with the face fabric and other layers. Can we fix this?

Shorten the sleeves or have a really minor stretchy band at the end of the cuff? Check and check.

I run the 4-mile trail up to the lake in a little over an hour and arrive to see Dragontail Peak towering over icy blue waters. That first glimpse of the alpine seals the deal: I’m going higher. I loop around the lake, and at its southern end, I trade trail for a boulder field that cascades down the flanks of Colchuck Peak. Eventually, the granite gives way to a glacier with ski tracks still weaving down its center. The snow is soft and requires no crampons. Kick, kick, breathe.

My heart is pumping and singing, my work woes left long ago on the trail behind. At Banshee Pass, I check my watch: 5:59 p.m. The summit isn’t much farther. I climb through third- and fourth-class rock, cross a snow field, and end on a perch almost 6,000 feet higher than where I started this afternoon. I pull on my jacket to ward off the summit chill, then snap a photo of the view. When I tuck my phone away, I make a mental note of how it droops ever so slightly in the chest pocket—the unintended consequence of expanding that pocket for storage. Gear iterating is an infinite loop.

July 6, 2024
Mount Olympus, Olympic National Park

The Fourth of July comes and goes with sunny weather, signaling that summer is finally here to stay. To celebrate, I head to the Olympic Peninsula with my friends Maya and Tara to climb Mount Olympus. It’s a true runner’s climb, with almost 20 miles of flat trail just to get to the alpine.

It’s hard to know what pack to wear for a day like this, so I bring three options. I’ll decide between them at camp the night before. As a gear tester, I’m often wishing for things that don’t exist: running-shoe traction spikes with an aluminum crampon toe, a collapsible helmet, a better hybrid between a trail runner and an approach shoe. Today, I long for a 3D printer that could pop out a pack for our running/mountaineering mission: 10 liters, room for crampons and an ice-axe holder, room for hydration flasks up front and a fit that rides high enough on the back to not rub against my lower spine.

Alas, lacking an on-demand printer, I roll my crampons in my wind jacket and stuff the awkward package inside my running vest, next to my water filter and 2,600 calories of snacks. With no suitable way to store an ice axe, I leave it in the car. What about adding compression straps to Patagonia’s 18-liter pack? That way it could be versatile for a full range of activities.

After running for over four hours through the Hoh Rain Forest, we enjoy a brief foray into the high country, crossing Olympus’ Blue Glacier and scrambling the short section of rock to its summit. Thankfully, I don’t need my axe: The snow is so soft that we don’t even stop to don crampons. Our run back down the glacier is full of whoops and hollers as we let gravity work its magic.

July 24, 2024
West Ridge of Mount Stuart, Stuart Range

We’re well into summer now. The Stuart Range, cloaked in white just a month ago, is now bare and dry. Mount Stuart towers over the range, and at 9,420 feet, it’s the sixth tallest mountain in Washington and the second tallest non-volcanic peak in the state. Today will be my fifth time up Mount Stuart, but my first time up its moderate West Ridge.

We run/hike over 6 miles with 3,000 feet of elevation gain before reaching the base of the ridge, our packs laden with a small rack and draws, a thin rope, climbing shoes, harnesses, helmets, water and snacks. My friends Maya and CJ are wearing Patagonia’s 18-liter Slope Runner Exploration Pack; I’m trying out a prototype with a bit more capacity and structure, which also means I’m carrying the rope. Off the bat, I notice the prototype has beefier shoulder straps, which boost comfort. And with 25 liters of space, I don’t have to wrestle my climbing gear to fit in the rear compartment. But the heel of my climbing shoe pokes annoyingly into my back, and the waist-belt strap I was initially so excited about lands high above my belly button.

It’s still not right, I think. Do we try adding a light foam back panel? Is 25 liters just too large for a running vest? Or can we drop the pack further off the shoulders to better accommodate a waist belt?

At the base of the ridge, we don our helmets and harnesses before scrambling over 1,000 feet of immaculate third- and fourth-class granite, then pull out our climbing shoes, gear and rope for the final summit block. Our packs are now empty except for food and water. Fortunately, the prototype has compression straps on each side to cinch down my measly load. This works! I note, happy that I proposed the idea after my 3D-printing reverie a few weeks earlier.

Five short pitches of high-quality fifth-class climbing brings us to the summit, where we eat a few Sour Patch Kids and fill up our packs again for the descent.

August 22, 2024
The stationary bike in my friend Andy’s garage

Cold, dry air hits my face when I enter my friend (and fellow gear tester) Andy’s garage, a wild contrast to the hot and humid afternoon outside. Under my arm I have three rain shells identical in design but each with a different waterproof membrane. There’s no precipitation in the forecast, but it’s unnecessary. I’m testing breathability.

Earlier in the week, I brought the prototypes on back-to-back loops up the Icicle Ridge trail in Leavenworth, layered straight over a tank top on an 80-degree day. Unsurprisingly, I poured sweat and didn’t glean much from my attempted experiment beyond slight differences in the pliability and moisture-wicking capabilities of the shells.

That and the confirmation that running in a rain jacket on a sunny August day is a terrible idea.

Today, I’m taking a different approach: air-conditioned stationary bike reps. It’s not sexy, but sometimes these controlled front-country experiments can be more illuminating than a full-on backcountry day. Isolate the variables and the differences become clearer.

I soak the first jacket under a hose outside before putting it on, hoping to mimic the experience of riding in the rain. I pull the hood over my head, zip up and climb onto the bike, timer set for 15 minutes. It takes a while for my internal heat to rise, which gives me time to notice the small things. The first prototype’s liner feels cool against my skin. The next one is clammy and sticky. The third shell crunches loudly, but releases way more heat than the others. I jot notes on my phone, drops of sweat pooling on the screen beneath my thumbs.

We knew that testing these shells in August would be challenging, with no rain in the forecast and consistent 80-plus-degree weather. But this is just the first of many rounds of feedback. Soon, the sweaty days of summer will be replaced by the soggy storms of fall. As the seasons shift, so will the gear. New conditions inspire new tests, which will inspire design changes, and so on back and forth until the rain once again turns to snow, blanketing the high country and foothills.