Why I Stopped Overpacking (A Reformed Maximalist's Checklist)

The Car I Couldn’t See Out Of

The Subaru’s odometer ticked past two hundred miles on the winding road through upstate New York, and I was still arguing with a rogue duffel bag that had slid into the driver’s seat. My trunk was a monument to indecision—a kayak paddle I hadn’t touched in years, three pillows because one might be too flat, and a tote of board games for a campsite without electricity. My shoulders ached from craning to see past the cargo, and the quiet resentment I felt toward my own packing was louder than the gravel crunching under the tires. Beside me, my friend’s sedan rolled up with a single rolling suitcase and a thermos of coffee—calm, deliberate, already settled into the idea of leisure.

That was the moment I decided to stop overpacking. Not because I’m a natural minimalist, but because I’m a reformed maximalist who got tired of wrestling with my own luggage. I now bring one bag to nearly every glamping trip—and I’ve never been happier.

The Emotional Baggage of “Just in Case”

I used to pack like I was going to be stranded in the wilderness for a month. Five pairs of pants for a weekend? Check. A full toiletry kit with tweezers and nail files? Absolutely. A book I’d never open? Why not. The thinking was: I’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. But that mindset has a cost. Time (packing, unpacking, searching). Money (buying duplicates you already own at home). Mental energy (decision fatigue from too many choices). And here’s the thing: when you’re glamping—staying in a well-equipped cabin, dome, or yurt—you rarely need more than the absolute essentials.

The Lightest I’ve Ever Traveled: My One-Bag System

Last spring, I spent three nights at a glamping site in Oregon in a safari tent. I brought one 35-liter backpack. Inside: two merino wool shirts, one pair of hiking pants, one pair of shorts, one cozy sweater, three pairs of socks, one rain shell, a wash kit, a headlamp, a Kindle, and a small first aid kit. That was it. I slept in the merino base layer, hiked in the pants, and wore the sweater by the fire. No outfit changes. No regrets.

I’ve refined this system over dozens of trips to yurts in Vermont, cabins in Colorado, and treehouses in North Carolina. Here are the two tips that changed everything—tips you won’t find in a generic listicle.

Bespoke Tip #1: The “Two-Logic” Rule for Clothing

I never bring more than two of any category: two tops, two bottoms, two pairs of socks, two underwear. One to wear, one to wash. If I need more, I wash the dirty one in the sink with Dr. Bronner’s. That’s it. The trick is choosing items that can be layered, mixed, and matched. A black merino tee works with everything. A fleece zip-up works as a mid-layer or an outer layer. Commit to the two-logic rule, and you’ll cut your clothing volume by 60%.

Bespoke Tip #2: “The Car Test”

Before I leave, I do the Car Test: I pack everything into my car and then try to see out the rear window. If I can’t, I have to unpack at least one item. Sounds ridiculous, but it’s a physical check against overpacking. The last time I failed the Car Test, I removed a camp chair, a separate cooler for drinks (I now use a single cooler with a divider), and a pair of boots I’d never wear. The drive was instantly more pleasant—and I didn’t miss a single thing.

What I Actually Bring (The Checklist)

Here’s the packing list I use for glamping trips now. It fits in a single duffel or backpack.

Clothing

• 2 merino wool shirts (one long-sleeve, one short-sleeve)
• 1 pair of hiking pants (can roll into shorts)
• 1 pair of leggings or base layer (for sleeping or cold weather)
• 1 fleece or puffy jacket
• 1 rain shell (waterproof, breathable)
• 3 pairs of socks (wool blend)
• 3 pairs of underwear
• 1 pair of comfortable shoes (trail runners or boots)
• 1 pair of sandals or camp shoes
• 1 hat (beanie or sun hat)

Gear & Toiletries

• Headlamp (with extra batteries)
• Reusable water bottle
• Small first aid kit
• Sunscreen and bug spray (minis)
• Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap (solid or decanted)
• Microfiber towel
• Phone charger + cable
• Power bank

Optional (but game-changing)

• Kindle or phone for reading
• Small journal and pen
• Inflatable pillow (if the glamping site doesn’t provide one)
• Earplugs and eye mask for light sleepers

Why Packing Light Makes Glamping Better

When you pack light, you arrive fast. You set up in minutes. You don’t spend the first hour of your trip organizing your stuff. And you have room in your car for spontaneous stops—a farm stand, a hiking trail, a scenic overlook. Overpacking is a subtle form of anxiety; you’re trying to control the future by bringing everything you might need. But glamping is about letting go—of schedules, of stress, of the weight of your daily life. Carrying less helps you do that.

I still own too many fleeces. I still have a closet full of camping gear I barely use. But when I hit the road for a glamping weekend, I pack my one bag, pass the Car Test, and drive off with a clear rear window and a clear mind. That’s the real luxury.

The One Bag Challenge

Next time you go glamping, try this: pack everything you think you need, then remove half. Then remove one more item. If you forget something, you can usually buy it or borrow it. Most glamping sites have community kitchens, loaner gear, and helpful hosts. I’ve forgotten toothpaste, a towel, and even a pillow—and I always found a solution. The freedom you gain by packing light is worth the small risk.

Resources to Book Your Light-Packing Adventure

Ready to test your minimalist packing skills? Check out these glamping options that are perfect for a one-bag trip:

• Yurts in Vermont: Cozy, heated, and often come with bedding and cookware.
• Cabins in Colorado: Rustic but equipped; bring only clothes and food.
• Domes in Arizona: Stargazing-friendly, with shared bathrooms and kitchens.

Packing light is a skill, not a personality. I learned it by failing—hard—in the Hoh Rainforest. Now I’m a convert. Try it once, and you’ll never go back.