For a year or so in my twenties, I had the pleasure of working at an outdoors store in Chicago. The store was called Uncle Dan’s and it was basically a local version of an REI. Unfortunately, my girlfriend could never remember the store’s name. She told everyone I worked at Dick’s Sporting Goods, which deeply insulted me. I liked hiking and camping, not dribbling different sized balls. I am outdoorsy, not athletic. I’ve never worn cleats in my life, but I’ve bought so many Merrells, I should have a style named after me. Anyway, the time I spent working at Uncle Dan’s—or as we now refer to it in our house: NOT DICK’S SPORTING GOODS—made me an expert in outdoor gear. I can tell you why Osprey makes a better backpack than Deuter and recite from memory the specs of an Arcteryx outer shell. I even know what Gore Tex is and how it works. But none of that compares to the amount of useless information I have about water bottles.