I started this out as a thread on thebackpacker.com website. It was so popular there, that I had to bring the "best of" to my site.
You may be hiking too much if...
The soles on your boots wear out before the laces.
More people ask where you hike, than where you work.
You can pack for a weekend trip, without leaving the house.
Your planning your weekend hike all week at work.
You feel weird NOT eating out of a ziploc baggie.
You carry a compass in your briefcase.
You can count on one hand, the number of vacations you have taken where you actually slept in a bed and had indoor plumbing.
You know when &where you got all of your gear but can't remember your anniversary.
You talk to your gear and call it by name.
Every time you go to the head at home you still have to take a trowel.
Everything in the garage is considered junk except your backpacking gear.
You mount your gear on the wall of your basement/rec room like some people put up trophies.
If you leave a fully stocked fanny pack, hiking boots, canteen and a set of state wide topo's in the back of the car "just in case" you 'happen' to end up close to a hiking spot.
There are topo maps in your file cabinet at work.
You are on a first name basis with Forest Rangers.
The Campmor operators have your address memorized.
The Forest Rangers know YOU by name.
Your internet "bookmarks" are all hiking related.
When you think of the woods as going home.
Your day pack is good for three days and almost any weather.
When you know Backpacker magazine is a day over due.
When it doesn't matter where you are hiking.
You don't bother unpacking your pack Sunday night, after all you just got to repack it next Thursday night for the weekend.
When your fire permit is laminated and can be passed down to your kids.
You proudly wear and display the "hat" that's been on your head during every outing you�ve ever been on, and it STILL hasn't been washed.
When you�re constantly on the lookout for a pack better than the one you currently own.
20 miles in one day is considered "light work."
You've hiked in Big Bend when it was 120F in the shade and thought "nice weather we're having eh?"
You fondly remember the first time you ever had sex was during a hiking trip.
Rednecks from south Texas see you hiking and think YOU'RE roughin� it.
You eat instant oatmeal at home too, and like it.
You have spreadsheets with all your gear and how much each item weighs.
Your kids are named Dana and Gregory.
You go out of your way to buy and wear polyester.
Your pillow is a sack with the clothes you wore the day before in it.
You go to put on dress socks and find you have first put on liner socks.
Your gear is better quality than your furniture.
You have more gear than you have furniture.
Most of your pictures on the walls are of outdoor scenic shots.
Every week you are thinking about what new foods you can dehydrate for a tantalizing on the trail meal.
The centerfold of that new magazine you just received is of the John Muir Trail instead of some beautiful woman.
People start conversations with you by asking where you are going to hike this weekend.
You respond more quickly to your trailname than your given name.
One kitchen cupboard is reserved for ramen noodles, oatmeal and Clif Bars.
Your briefcase is a daypack. And a compass, trowel and some TP are stuffed in a side pocket.
Your friends don't recognize you when you're not peppered with insect bites and branch scratches.
You vacuum under the bed weekly so the sleeping bag can be stored there, fluffed up, and not get dust bunnies on it.
Gear store operators within a 50 mile radius recognize your phone voice and will special order stuff without a deposit.
Women in gaiters are more of a turn-on than women in garters.
It's winter, you can't wait to hike, so you set up camp in your livingroom.
All you own is wick clothing.
All the family pictures are in a box, only backpacking pictures on display.
You can't have guests in your guest room, it is now the gear room.
Your purse is a daypack.
You are female and always carry a Swiss army knife in your purse.
You pack better food for a day hike than you take to work for lunch during the entire week.
When you are thinking of quitting your 27 year career and moving to Weaverville to be closer to the Trinity Alps.
You prefer going outside to pee.
You use a mail scale and a spreadsheet program to figure out optimum pack weight.
"I'm working in the garage" translates to "I'm fondling and fooling with my camping gear."
When your office decor is topo maps, spreadsheet calculations of expected miles per day, route maps; your office calendar has "countdown to trip" annotations.
You spend your lunchtime memorizing gear shop catalogues.
On Fridays your co-workers don't say "have a good weekend", they say "have a good hike!"
You know the weight of any item in your pack but can't remember your spouse's birthday.
You shop supermarkets by reading nutrition labels, calculating the best weight-to-calorie ratios for good new hiking foods.
Your gear has seen more miles than your current car
You plan family vacations near hiking trails so you can sneak off and hike instead of spending with family.
You forget the toilet flushes.
The soles of your boots wear out in less than 90 days.
You see a small hair in your food and eat it rather than fish it out (it's too much trouble to fish it out and you're usually too tired).
All the books next to your desk are hiking guides and map books.
99 percent of your photographs are of hiking trips and scenery.
The ONLY new clothes you've bought in 5 years are hiking clothes.
The centerfold of your dreams is the tent on sale in the latest gear catalogue.
You own more polar fleece jackets than dinner jackets.
Y2K doesn't scare you, because, with all your gear, you're prepared for any pandemonium.
First dates don't get a second chance if they A) Don't know the real use for Baby Wipes, and B) think "peak-bagging" must be some sort of sexual reference.
