I make a second attempt at paring down to bare essentials. Trim my six shirts to four. Likewise with the rest of my clothing.
I’m still debating pants options when Luciana emerges from the bathroom. She runs a comb through her wet hair as she eyes my project.
“Those are your clothes? All of your clothes?”
“I travel light.”
“No, I mean, no hiking pants, quick-dry shirts, wicking tank tops?”
“There are wicking tank tops?”
She sighs heavily, looks me up and down. “You’re smaller than me, but not by much.”
Height-wise, maybe. But build-wise, the Colombian beauty has curves I’ve spent my entire life pining for and haven’t managed to grow yet.
Now she crosses to her own gear, piled near the closet. “First up, don’t bother with the jeans,” she informs me. “Denim gets too heavy, leads to chafing.”
“Chafing?” I eye my jeans warily, having had no idea of their hidden dangers.
“Try these.” She throws me a pair of olive-colored pants. They are incredibly lightweight, with a drawstring waist, a multitude of pockets, and zippers that encircle both pant legs. To turn the pants into shorts, I realize. I’m already impressed. Talk about a clothing item designed for the minimalist on the go.
Next, Luciana throws me two tank tops and one button-up baby blue shirt. The fabrics are lighter and silkier than anything I own, clearly some kind of quick-dry blend. I finger each piece in admiration as Luciana heads back to my hiking bag and yanks out everything I’ve managed to wedge in thus far.
“But,” I protest, “Nemeth approved these items. I swear it. We already reviewed them!”
She ignores me completely, continuing with her inspection. “All right, Josh might be a drunk, but at least he knew what he was doing. Notice you have redundancy. Waterproof matches plus a butane lighter, first aid kit plus moleskin, headlamp plus a flashlight. Hope for the best but plan for the worst, as the saying goes.”
“Sure.”
“Now, you want to spread out what you’re carrying. Say, stash the matches in your pack, put the butane lighter in your pocket. That way if you and your pack are ever separated, you still have the power to make fire.”
“Nemeth told me to strap the knife to my person.” I unsheathe the tactical blade, holding it up for her inspection.
“Holy shit. I carry a basic wilderness knife, but it’s half this size and not nearly so serious.” She takes Josh’s knife, the overhead light of the motel room winking off the wicked-looking serrated edge. “I’d put this up there with an assault weapon. Something a special ops team might carry.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I don’t know. Guess it means Josh has serious tastes in knives.”
There’s something in her voice, however, a slight hesitation, that leaves me unsettled. In my line of work, it’s not what people tell you but what they don’t that is often more important.
“Okay, back to Wilderness One-oh-one.” Luciana returns her attention to my pile of gear. “When it comes to basic survival, you want to remember the rule of threes: You can go three minutes without air, three hours without shelter, three days without water, and three weeks without food. Prioritize accordingly.”
I’m already skeptical. “I can last longer than three hours without shelter.”
“Assumes adverse conditions—say, a blizzard or torrential downpour or absurdly hot temps. Hyperthermia is a bigger killer than you might think.”
Now I get it. “The rule of threes is about prioritizing. My first job is to get air. Then shelter, then water. Don’t worry so much about food.”
“Exactly. This one-dollar lighter”—she holds up the Bic—“represents fire. Which will assist with shelter—keeping you warm at night—and boiling drinkable water. This magnificent if slightly terrifying survival knife can assist with building a shelter as well as creating kindling to start a fire. These two items alone can go a long way toward keeping you alive.”
“Hence I should carry them on my person.”
“See, you’re a natural. Now, the emergency whistle.”
“I have a whistle!” I’m genuinely excited. “I carry it around tough neighborhoods all the time.”
“Your idea of self-defense in an urban environment is a whistle? Are you trying to die?”
I do not answer that question.
“Whistles are too bulky for pants pockets. I recommend this instead.” Luciana throws a thickly corded bracelet in my direction. I catch it in midair, finger the camo-colored weave.