Swimpacking tends to inspire strong reactions. Why would you choose to hitch all your camping gear and food into a dry bag and drag it behind you through the water to create possibly the slowest form of travel? Good question. But over the past couple of years, as we’ve all become alive to the possibilities of outdoor swimming, I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I had to give it a go.
A couple of weeks after this realization, I find myself standing on the shore of Lake Granby in Colorado, just south of the Rocky Mountain National Park, where, unable to convince any of my increasingly skeptical friends to join me, I’ve settled for a friend on a kayak instead, with whose help I plan to cross this lake.
As I take my first steps into the lake, my inflated bag bobs behind me like an excited puppy. Waist deep, I ease forwards. The water is as warm as I could have hoped for in the Fall, with splotches of yellow aspens dotting the surrounding mountains.
I swim past the boulders, towards the edge of the cove, where the lake opens up. The motion of the bag feels odd behind me, the strap reaching from its bright blue bulk to my waist, moving against my legs. I focus on the stretching reach of each stroke and start to settle in. I can see my destination across the lake, with everything I need bobbing behind me. I have never started a swim without knowing that I will shortly return to the exact same point, but today I am going somewhere.
I have never started a swim without knowing that I will shortly return to the exact same point, but today I am going somewhere.
My friend on the kayak, however, is not having such luck. I swim to a submerged boulder and stand up to see. I let out an exited holler as I take in the landscape around me. But waiting turns out to be a mistake I should have learnt to avoid in my previous swims: don’t dilly dally in cold water!
When the kayak catches up, I take a final glance at the mountains before plunging my face back into the lake, recapturing the spirit of adventure. As we start to reach the widest point, the wind picks up; the kayak, also making its maiden overnight voyage, dips and bobs in the waves.
I make cold, slow progress, measuring my progress against a small island which never seems to move. I attempt to grab a snack from the side pocket of my bag but struggle in the waves, transported back to a game we used to play where the winner was the first person to wrestle an oiled watermelon out of the pool.
Stroke after stroke, I reach the other side. I stumble out of the water like a newborn deer, shivering and dizzy, where I collapse on a boulder, a resting spot which won’t damage my wetsuit. Lying down, I watch the world spin, grateful for the motion sickness pill I took before we set out. After a minute, I push myself back up to deflate and open the swim bag, grabbing my towel, clothes, jackets and winter hat.
After setting up camp, I look across the lake and wonder what exactly I’m doing here. Swimpacking? At times, the world of outdoor swimming can seem dominated by two main groups – kids splashing around and endurance athletes. Multi-day swims seem increasingly to be on the outer reaches of endurance activities, with expeditions like Jari Cennet Tammi’s 500 km swim from Stockholm to Helsinki or Ross Edgley’s epic swim around the UK.
I wanted to see whether someone who liked outdoor adventure but had limited experience of open water swimming could participate. In short, I wanted to see if this growing sport had room for amateurs like me.
After the trip, I spoke to Ilya Capralov in British Columbia, who runs the swimpacking Facebook page. When I mention this dichotomy of wild swimmers, Ilya agrees but suggests this combination is exactly what makes swimpacking unique, adding not only a new dimension to your environment but a childlike sense of adventure. There are no trails here. You plan your own trips, destinations and how to get there. Nothing beats looking at a point on a map, surrounded by blue, and figuring out how to get there, with only what you can pull behind you.
I wanted to see whether someone who liked outdoor adventure but had limited experience of open water swimming could participate. I wanted to see if this growing sport had room for amateurs like me.
I wake the next day dreading a return to the water. After packing up camp, and clambering back into my wetsuit, I stand in the sun, feeling my body start to overheat in the black neoprene. This time, having learned my lesson, I wait for my friend to launch before getting into the water.
As it turns out, I had nothing to fear. The morning water, still and clear, breaks easily before me. Adjusting to the cold makes the world gleam. Each breath reveals an expanse of glossy water and mountain reflections.
I attempt to eat from my bag’s side pocket but my snack slips away from me again. Another reason to swim along shore, besides the safety and motivation of watching the surroundings change, is the freedom to stop for a bite. I settle for my friend handing me a bar from the kayak, feeling like a seal who has performed an underwhelming trick.
Still, my body feels loose and free, like I’m gliding through the sky’s reflection spread out before me. After yesterday’s rough conditions, today is a wonderful experience. I keep my pace steady and breaks short, telling myself they are only to appreciate the epic views. I finish the swim in almost half the time and step out buzzing with excitement. I want to go further despite the soreness in my shoulders, the difference between the days pointing to how much a little experience can make.
Afterwards, excited to learn more, I reach out to Ilya’s friend, Colin Macleod, who’s based in the Scottish Hebrides and runs a page about ‘swim camping‘, as they call it, which might better describe my own trip. When I reach out to Colin, he asks if a few friends can join the conversation. Everyone is welcoming and excited to talk.
Colin’s friends got into swimpacking to reach places they otherwise couldn’t go. They stayed, however, not only for the places but also the process of getting there, the beauty of swimming through kelp forests, the new world beneath the water and the camaraderie of camp. They all agree that swimpacking is ‘weird and wonderful’, celebrating the cheap and often DIY-nature of the sport in the same breath as suggesting more gear made for swim packers would be a valuable addition.
I’m startled to discover that, in my quest to learn whether swimpacking is available to amateurs, I have found perhaps the most open community I’ve come across. As a sport which usually requires a partner, swimpacking suffers from a lack of widespread interest, but this also means it’s much easier to make connections with avid fans looking for a new adventure. After speaking for an hour or so, I leave both conversations with invitations to swim.
Swimpacking might not be ripe for an explosion of interest – at least not in America which, for some reason, hasn’t experienced the UK’s resurgence in swimming outdoors. But it is open for a surge, for this international community to spawn local ones for those people who do, in fact, love it. I think I might just be one of them. The water’s warm, they seem to be saying, even in Scotland.