#Trek-Iceland*: my Ultimate gear Guide

The Rab Andes 800 isn’t so much a sleeping bag as it is a guarantee. In satsuma orange, you look less like a hiker and more like a Cambodian monk waiting to be rescued in the snow. At €699, it better be more than just bright, it better be warm. And it is.

• 800gr of 800-fill-power hydrophobic goose down - loft that stays put even when damp.
• −22 °C comfort rating (EN/ISO) - the kind of number that means you wake up, not freeze in your sleep.
• Weight: ~1.5–1.7 kg - heavy enough to feel serious, light enough to haul.
• Pack size: rugby ball → small melon territory - fits in a pack without taking the whole show hostage. (And no, I don’t mean a watermelon. Think sad fridge melon.)
• Suitable for people 6,4ft -  Plenty of room to move.
• Suitable for people with ample width - hit the gym long enough and you become wide.
• Weather proofing applied and ready to go - nice little beads, no penetration.

On paper, that’s the tech. In practice, it’s what stands between you and misery when the tent walls freeze solid. A tent keeps out the wind, sure, but this is the thing that keeps you alive.

The details matter. The zipper is smooth as butter, no catching, no midnight wrestling match, just open and close like it’s supposed to. Anyone who’s fought with a jammed zipper in the cold knows the rage that follows, usually ending in a broken pull and a long, miserable night. This one just works. And the pull cords? They’re all here, and then some. The cinches around the head, face, neck, and just below the shoulders make all the difference when it’s −14 °C with 38 m/s winds and the MSR tent (review here) is practically kissing you flat to the ground.

About four winters ago near Vestrahorn, I hit the wall. I was too tired, slipping into micro-naps behind the wheel, the kind where your head jerks back and your eyes burn dry. I pulled over. Sleeping in the car is illegal (readers, don’t be that inspired), but I wasn’t about to nod off in the driver’s seat. Then I remembered the fried chicken wings I’d bought at Krónan earlier that day. I’d eaten them, tossed the bones, and left the box in the car. One breath of fresh air told me the Land Cruiser now smelled like a mobile KFC kitchen. So I sighed, grabbed the Andes 800, pulled on a balaclava and my Icewear wool cap, and crawled underneath the lift-kit, big-wheel beast. When I woke up, my nose was swollen from the cold, the Cruiser still smelled like fried chicken, but the rest of me was warm. Call it a win.

“No death for me,” I thought that morning. Seriously though, people forget what a human body can handle, and it’s more than you think. A few tips: don’t stay razor-lean, a little fat is insulation you can’t fake. Heat packs help, I throw in four. Do some exercise before you mummify yourself. The Japanese squat works, looks ridiculous, but it fires the thighs and gets the blood moving with skiing-style arm swings. If that’s not your thing, do some jumping jacks. The rule is simple: get hot, then get in. A sleeping bag doesn’t warm you up; it only keeps what you bring. Enter warm, sleep warm. And here’s another: keep the 12-fl-oz Gatorade bottle you finished earlier tucked close in the tent. When it’s raining sideways at 3 a.m., you’ll be grateful you don’t have to crawl out into the storm.

Hand-filled in Derbyshire, it’s built with box-wall baffles and Flowgate trickery to stop the down from slumping to your feet. Which is nice, because waking up with warm ankles and a frozen chest isn’t my idea of good engineering.

One last thing: keeping a bag like this alive means giving it some care. Every three or four months, you’ve got to pull it out, let it puff up for a day or two, then tuck it back in its big carrier home. It sucks, yes, but a €699 lump of clumped down or a moth’s dinner is far worse.

And no, it won’t cure the otter-drool problem - guilty - but you’ll still be warm. Which is more than I can say for most British engineering.