To honor the 20-year anniversary of Overland Journal, we are revisiting special heritage content in the upcoming 100th issue of the magazine. Originally published in Overland Journal’s Winter 2016 issue, this article is part of that celebration.
Since taking the editorial helm of Overland Journal in 2011, I’ve had several people make tongue-in-cheek comments that I now need to acquire the compulsory overland garb of an olive drab green shirt, khaki pants with lots of pockets, and a wide-brimmed safari hat. These proclamations always make me smile, as those who share them simply haven’t known me very long—I’ve been wearing this “uniform” for decades. Although my shirts and pants become stained by grease, mud, blood, or fish guts, and are eventually tossed in the bin, my hats hold the chronicles of my travels and are preserved as coveted artifacts in my office.
In this issue, the Overland Journal staff elaborates on some of our favorite gear, the stuff we have come to rely on when the world turns pear-shaped. However, not all “favorites” need to extract you from a ditch, heat your morning coffee, or light the night. For me, a wide-brimmed hat is an essential part of my repertoire, and one that I never leave home without.
I’ve had several over the years, the first being a Filson oiled canvas Tin Cloth Bush Hat. It was a trusted companion that kept the harsh rays of the Australian sun off my Irish forehead, and torrential sleet showers in the Peruvian Andes fazed it not. After nearly losing it in the Iguazu River in Argentina during a six-week trek across South America in 1998, I retired it to a comfortable place on my bookshelf.
Next came a Rogue One Ten P from Selke Leathercraft in South Africa. I bought the One Ten while I was working with Mark Smith and Jeep Jamboree USA, and it accompanied me through numerous treks in Africa, Europe, Mexico, and New Zealand. I loved that hat, but after a decade of being dragged through the hinterland and drenched with gallons of sweat, the front became brittle, cracked in half, and the sun shone through to my delicate forehead. Services were held, and it too was retired to the bookshelf.
Next came a kangaroo-skin Hat ’n the Pouch from BC Hats, an Australian company founded by master tanner Bill Conner in 1969. It was soft and floppy, could be stuffed in my camera bag and emerge in proper form, and was as comfortable as a flannel-lined sleeping bag. It was a great hat, but our affair was cut short in 2011 when I lost it in Holmul, a Mayan ruin in northeastern Guatemala—RIP my friend.
My current cranial protection from the elements is a Fold Up from Minnetonka, famous for moccasins and the long, leather fringy stuff that defined the Summer of Love. I actually purchased it at an Arizona truck stop after losing my Hat ’n the Pouch in Guatemala—I know, it was a desperate on-the-rebound move. Surprisingly, after enduring treks through India, Cambodia, Kenya, and Australia, it has joined the ranks of its predecessors on my list of intimate companions.
The Overland Journal crew recently gave me an Akubra Overlander for my birthday. It is full fur felt with a wide, confident brim, the type you’d see shading a jackeroo in the Australian Outback. It’s beautifully stylish, but I’ve not had the nerve to stuff it in my bag and drag it through the dirt yet.
The above sketch of myself and friend John Kirch was given to me in 1998 by a Peruvian port guard while we waited for a container of Jeeps to be released from Lima’s bureaucratic maze of aduana. He sneaked over to me, raised an index finger to his lips, and whispered, “Indiana Jones, shhhh, no se permite hablar.” He was apparently not allowed to talk with importers. I’ve always cherished this simple drawing and kept it in my journal as a symbol of kindness and how similar we all are.
It seems that people tend to recognize me by my hat. I don’t know that I’ve had a favorite, as they have been like the trusted canine companions in my life—I’ve loved them all.
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