Peaks and Pints 10 Essentials List
Ah, the 10 Essentials. That sacred totem. That cracked leather-bound gospel tucked in the rainfly of every grizzled backpacker’s subconscious. Not so much a checklist anymore as it is a quiet pact with the universe: If I go into the wild, will I come back out with all my fingers, dignity, and sense of wonder intact?
Born in the misty, flannel-clad cradle of 1930s Pacific Northwest mountaineering lore, this divine inventory was canonized by The Mountaineers — those noble alpinists of ice and enlightenment who believed that surviving a night in the Cascadian wilds meant more than brute grit and moose jerky. It meant knowing how to turn fear into foresight, rain into poetry, and emergency bivouacs into character development. It meant Tacoma Mountaineers in Old Town Tacoma evenings filled with tales, headlamps, and quietly fierce camaraderie, as the Tacoma Mountaineers etched those commandments into the soul of local adventure.
But lists, like mountains and facial hair trends, evolve. Once a rigid Ten Commandments of survival — map, compass, knife, matches, and so on — the Essentials have since shape-shifted into something… more Peaks & Pints. Less Scout Manual, more spiritual toolkit. Less “Don’t die,” more “Thrive with a touch of mischief and maybe a crowler of West Coast IPA.”
And so we offer the Peaks & Pints 10 Essentials — equal parts reverence and irreverence. Still concerned with your safe return, mind you. Still poised to save your rain-soaked butt when the fog rolls in and your GPS starts speaking in tongues. But now with the added bonus of a well-packed sense of humor, curated beer wisdom, and just enough rogue philosophy to keep you on the knife’s edge of awe and absurdity.
Because the wilderness doesn’t just ask if you’re prepared — it asks if you’re paying attention. And also, did you bring snacks?
ONE
Sun Protection: Yes, dear wanderer, the sun. That radiant deathball. That incandescent overlord of vitamin D and existential reckoning. Beloved and feared in equal measure, especially once you’ve spent five hours traversing a snowfield with no more SPF than a bar napkin.
So let us be clear: Proper sun protection is not optional. It is not for the weak. It is for the wise. It is for those who understand that the Earth spins beneath a furious, hydrogen-fueled tantrum 93 million miles away, and your face? It’s the first to suffer. Hence: sunglasses so good they whisper haikus. Lip balm and skin-blocking lotions thick enough to withstand both the midday blaze and your own questionable decision-making. Lightweight fabrics spun from unicorn breath and SPF 50 promises.
And of course, the true Peaks & Pints upgrade: our Campfire Crowlers—because not all oxidation is spiritual. These stainless steel time capsules guard your liquid joy (read: West Coast IPA or whatever hoppy deity you prefer) from the twin evils of UV rays and the passage of time. Slide them into our complimentary, brown-hued, six- or four-slot carriers—rugged enough to endure trail dust, sun dazzle, and your over-packed sense of ambition.
Because what is true sun protection, really, if not a lifestyle? A vibe? A declaration that you will, in fact, return from the wilderness hydrated, glowing, and uncracked—skin supple, beer cool, lips unchapped, spirit intact.
Protect thyself. Glow responsibly.
TWO
Insulation: Let’s dispense with illusions: Nature doesn’t care what you’re wearing. It doesn’t care if your base layer is Italian merino or if your boots cost more than your last speeding ticket. The mountain laughs—quietly, ominously—at your vanity. But you, dear alpine aspirant, must still give a damn. Because comfort is survival. And layering, well, that’s both science and sensuality.
Start with the holy basics: inner and outer socks—because toes are friends. Underwear, preferably wool, because chafing is never heroic. Sturdy pants, a shirt that breathes like an enlightened monk, a fleece jacket or sweater for your soul, a hat that hugs your brainpan, gloves or mittens that say “I have wrestled ice demons and won,” and rain gear that doubles as a mobile sanctuary when the clouds decide you’ve been just a little too smug.
But here’s the twist: bring more. More layers. More warmth. More absurdity. Because an unexpected bivouac—aka nature’s sleepover with no snacks or dignity—demands insulation for both body and existential dread. Think: the long, motionless hours where your breath fogs into tiny regret haikus and every rock becomes your therapist.
And, naturally, the Peaks & Pints Campfire Crowler: your gleaming vessel of sanity. A 32-ounce liquid mantra of barley and bliss, it does not merely accompany you—it anchors you. Cradled in your mitt-clad hand, it whispers: yes, the stars are cold, and yes, your butt is frozen to this log, but you are still alive, and the IPA is still glorious.
THREE
Illumination: You know this already. You do. But let’s say it aloud anyway, like a mantra murmured to the trail gods between gulps of elevation: Bring a headlamp. Or a flashlight. Or both. And for the love of Orion’s Belt, bring extra batteries, too. Because dusk is a trickster, and your legs are slower than your ambitions. One missed switchback and boom—you’re starring in your own low-budget found-footage survival film, complete with mysterious rustling and regret.
Light is life. Illumination is divinity. And once the sun dips behind the ridge and the shadows start whispering your childhood fears back to you, you’ll be grateful for that tiny lighthouse strapped to your sweaty forehead, guiding you not just home, but back to yourself.
At Peaks & Pints, we understand this intimately. Which is why our cooler—our shimmering portal of chilled salvation—is blazingly lit like a Scandinavian spa at midnight. Because when you’re staring down the icy abyss of 600 craft beers and ciders, you deserve clarity. You deserve fluorescence. You deserve the kind of divine glow that makes a farmhouse saison hum a little louder and a barrel-aged stout whisper your name like an ancient incantation.
FOUR
First-Aid Supplies: Let’s be honest: You’re going to fall. Maybe not today. Maybe not this trail. But one day soon, you’ll catch a root mid-stride, or try to leap that snowmelt creek like some granola-fueled gazelle, and gravity—sweet, unyielding gravity—will remind you that knees are fragile and pride even more so.
Hence: the First-Aid Kit. Not just a box of gauze and good intentions, but a tactile expression of hope and humility. Stock it like you mean it: gauze pads, roller gauze, butterfly bandages (because wounds deserve flair), triangular bandages for your inevitable Shakespearean exit limp, battle dressings worthy of backcountry duels, tape, scissors, soap, gloves, and that most analog of life-saving devices: a pencil and paper, for scribbling your last haiku or, more practically, an “I’m okay but slightly embarrassed” note to your hiking partner.
But don’t stop there. No, no. Because sometimes the real danger comes after the trail—when you swagger into Peaks & Pints with sunburned bravado and a parched soul, and reach—foolishly, recklessly—into our cooler of 600+ beers and ciders without letting one of our legally deputized beverage sherpas assist you.
Let us be clear: State law requires us to open those blessed bottles and cans for you. This is not a suggestion. This is not a game. This is civilization. Disregard it, and you may find yourself in need of metaphorical triage—or worse, the wrath of a gently scolding bartender with a bottle opener and a clipboard.
FIVE
Fire: It begins, as so many good stories do, with fire. Not metaphorical. Not poetic. Literal, primal, life-giving fire. When the sky breaks open, the rain turns sideways, and your fingers go numb from clutching a granola bar of questionable origin, you’ll want that butane lighter. Or two. Because redundancy is sexy. Because soaked matches are sad. Because warmth is not a luxury—it is a love letter to your circulatory system.
And should the weather turn Wagnerian—sleet, howling winds, that cold, wet slander known only to the Pacific Northwest—then candles, chemical heat tabs, canned heat… they are no longer mere items. They are gods. Tiny, flaming gods.
Here at Peaks & Pints, we too keep fires lit—but of a different kind. The kind that flicker behind the eyes of a guest who dreams of Fuzzy Mouthfeel Peach Lambic at 3 a.m., or who yearns for the elusive embrace of a 14.2% Old Laundry Barleywine last spotted in a Copenhagen cellar next to a taxidermied owl and a crate of Björk albums.
You ask. We listen. We don’t always say yes, because import laws exist and bureaucracy is the wet blanket of passion—but if it’s legal, if it’s available, if it can be summoned through the sacred channels of distribution and whispering to reps at just the right moment in a moon cycle, we will get it.
Six-pack of hyper-local IPA? Done. Sour so obscure it comes with its own existential crisis? Let’s talk. Have questions about availability or special orders? Don’t be shy. We love beer questions like fire loves kindling—fiercely, enthusiastically, with just a little smoke around the edges.
SIX
Repair Kit and Tools: Let’s not kid ourselves. The wilderness is not Ikea. Nothing comes pre-assembled. There are no helpful diagrams, no tiny Allen wrenches in shrink wrap, no cheerful voice asking if you’ve tried turning your tent poles off and on again. Out here, you are the repair manual. You are MacGyver with dirt under your nails and a suspicious blister forming on your left heel.
Which means tools. Not just a knife, though yes, definitely a knife. But also a chaos-proof satchel of salvation: leashes (for dogs or possibly for humans), extra shoelaces (because irony is real), safety pins, duct tape (obviously), nylon fabric tape (you will sit on a jagged rock, it’s only a matter of time), cable ties, buckles, thread, needle, wire, cordage, and that tiny spare part from your stove you swore you wouldn’t need. You do. And crampon screws. And snowshoe doodads. And ski whatzits.
And canned craft beer, of course. Repeatedly. Not just for hydration (that’s what water’s for), but for morale. For ceremony. For after the gear catastrophe, when the snowshoe strap snaps and your tent pole makes a break for Canada and your ski binding decides it prefers a solo life. That’s when the can cracks, cold and hoppy, and suddenly everything feels… survivable.
The staff at Peaks & Pints gets it. We too carry our tools—namely, bottle openers clipped to hips like holy relics. Because when someone asks for a cellar-aged Oud Bruin and the cap isn’t twist-off? That’s a spiritual emergency. We meet it with reverence and stainless steel.
SEVEN
Nutrition: Let us now praise the humble snack. The pocket-stashed sustenance. The sacred trail chew that keeps your legs moving, your mind sharp, your spirit from collapsing into a damp pile of existential ennui just south of mile marker 7.
Even on a mere out-and-back. Even on a sunshine-drenched jaunt with nothing more threatening than a squirrel with boundary issues. Because one wrong turn, one squall, one friend who thought they packed trail mix but actually packed an empty Tupperware stained with peanut butter ghosts—and suddenly, your gummy bears are a lifeline. Your jerky? Divine. Your dried mango? A poem.
So yes, bring food. Bring the good kind. The non-cookable, eternally edible, indestructible stuff: jerky, nuts, candy, granola, dried fruit—nutritional jazz riffs, all. If you’re hauling a stove (and you’re feeling a bit like a wandering alchemist), cocoa, dried soup, and tea may be summoned like delicious spells in titanium cauldrons.
And when you return, weary and trail-blissed, dusted in pine and story, we at Peaks & Pints will greet you with our own version of this survival art: sandwiches. Ah yes, sandwiches—the moist-mouthed miracles, the symmetrical saviors. Tasty food matter pressed lovingly between slices of carbohydrate architecture. The architecture of flavor. The blueprint of bliss. You want meat? We got meat. You want umami chaos with pickled surprises? Done. You want it vegan, herbaceous, kissed by aioli and wrapped in fresh-baked dreams? We got you, honey.
EIGHT
Hydration: Water, darling. The original elixir. The molecule that birthed us, sustains us, and occasionally mocks us from the bottom of an empty Nalgene as we attempt to summit both literal peaks and metaphorical shopping lists.
Whether you’re slogging through an alpine meadow, chasing the horizon, or just perusing scented candles and artisanal cheese in Tacoma’s Proctor District, you must carry water. Not a splash. Not a half-hearted gulp sloshing in the bottom of a BPA-scarred bottle. Bring extra. And then bring more. Because thirst is sneaky. Because nature is dry-mouthed and unapologetic. Because the only thing worse than a navigation error is a dehydration spiral with no cell service and no electrolytes.
And let’s be real: survival means knowing how to find water when yours runs dry. How to coax it from streams, collect it from leaves, cleanse it of its invisible sins with filters, iodine, UV light, or sheer willpower and a good backcountry sob.
But should your journey—glorious, heroic, mildly consumerist—lead you back to us at Peaks & Pints, let us say this plainly and with zero gatekeeping: If you want a glass of water, just ask. No fanfare. No side-eye. No judgment. Because hydration is sacred. Because we are civilized. Because for every crowler of imperial stout and every Nordic saison with botanicals and a 17-letter name, there must also be… water.
NINE
Emergency Shelter: The forecast lies. The clouds don’t care. The wind has opinions, and none of them are about your comfort. That’s why you, wise wanderer, must carry shelter—not hope, not entitlement, but actual shelter—on your back and in your soul.
Be it a sleek ultralight tent engineered in a Scandinavian lab, or the humble majesty of a reflective emergency blanket that doubles as a space-age toga, bring it. A plastic tube tent? Glorious. A jumbo trash bag with strategic breathing holes? Heroic. Because one moment you’re basking in alpine serenity, and the next you’re performing interpretive dance to dodge sideways sleet while your map dissolves into wet pulp.
But beware, fellow urban explorer, for this truth also applies to the unforgiving asphalt wilds of Tacoma’s Proctor District, where the two-hour parking limit lurks like a passive-aggressive forest ranger. One sip too many, one vintage shop too captivating, one sandwich too transcendent—and suddenly, you are over time and under siege.
In those moments, you’ll wish you had shelter. Not from weather, but from bureaucracy. From fluorescent-orange tickets and the unyielding clack of a meter maid’s boot heels. So go ahead, unfurl your reflective blanket. Turn your trash bag into couture. Erect your emergency bivy between the bookstore and the wine shop. Declare sovereignty. Occupy your parking spot with style and survivalist flair.
Or, you know, just set a timer and come inside Peaks & Pints for a pint and a knowing nod. We’ll keep you safe. And mostly dry.
TEN
Navigation: Knowing where you are is, we dare say, helpful. Spiritually, geographically, emotionally. And while life itself may offer no compass, no neatly triangulated coordinates for heartbreak or enlightenment, the wilderness absolutely demands them.
So bring the map. A real one. A topographic one. One with squiggly contour lines that whisper tales of ridges and ravines, switchbacks and salvation. Fold it. Re-fold it. Place it lovingly in a protective sheath, like a sacred text or your last decent pair of dry socks. Carry a compass too—an elegant relic from a pre-GPS world, still unbothered by dead batteries, still pointing, ever true.
Because out there, in the rain-laced cathedral of fir and fog, your phone might die. Your sense of direction might turn poetic. And your hiking buddy might start quoting Thoreau while leading you in precisely the wrong direction.
But here’s the thing: navigation doesn’t end at the trailhead.
Enter Peaks & Pints, where orientation shifts from terrain to taste, and your new sacred duty is deciphering the glowing Western red cedar tap log—our fluid map of 28+ ever-rotating craft beers and ciders, each etched in chalk like ancient hieroglyphs of the fermented divine.
IPA to your left. Saison to your right. Barleywine straight ahead, dangerously close to the existential abyss. You’ll need internal bearings. You’ll need a guide. You may need to ask which tap holds the tart cherry sour brewed with wild yeast and childhood memories.
You can receive a live feed of our tap list at peaksandpints.com, our Facebook page, and the DigitalPour and Untappd apps. Don’t forget to check our website daily for new craft beer arrivals, our beer flight of the day, South Sound events paired with craft beer, 6-Pack of Things To Do, plus craft beer and cider news.
Special thanks to Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills, published by Mountaineers Books, for the 10 Essentials list.
LINK: Trailhead beer
