We carried nearly all of our own food, supplementing it with tiny mountain trout that maxed out at 6 or 7 inches. We had state-of-the-art gear, including unlined parkas made of a 60/40 mix of polyester and cotton that you could get semi-waterproof (as long as you didn’t touch anything) with some kind of spray. We had down-filled sleeping bags and widely woven “net” undershirts that were more hole than fabric and were supposed to regulate your body temperature. There’s a reason they never caught on. We drove non-stop from Bethesda, Md., to Saddlestring, Wyo., in Charlie’s red Triumph Spitfire. It wasn’t until Denver that I looked under the hood and realized the engine was about the size of a loaf of bread.