ASHIMA MOVES MOUNTAINS THE PRODIGY CREATING THE FUTURE. THE NORTH FACE IS COMMITTED TO ENABLING THE NEXT GENERATION OF FEMALE EXPLORERS. LEARN MORE AT THENORTHFACE.COM/SHEMOVESMOUNTAINS. Outside Magazine Contents 05.18 Features 86 The Survivors FACES OF CHANGE 2018 56 This Is < What Adventure Looks Like Wilderness therapy has benefited everyone from wayward teens to combat veterans. Can it help heal victims of sex trafficking? FLORENCE WILLIAMS embarks on a backcountry expedition with Atlantabased She Is Able and returns with some surprising conclusions. From Ayesha McGowan, who is vying to become the first female African American pro cyclist, to Elyse Rylander, a travel expert facilitating outdoor experiences for LGBTQ youth, these 12 rising leaders are building a more inclusive adventure community. INTERVIEWS BY JAMES EDWARD MILLS 92 Like the $SSDODFKLDQ7UDLO But with More 6WRSOLJKWV :H·UH+HUH<RX -XVW'RQ·W6HH8V Ready for a through-hike that strings together city parks, concrete stairways, and underground tunnels? Fall in with distance trekker Liz “Snorkel” Thomas, unofficial captain of a fledgling movement aimed at reinventing urban recreation. BY ERIN BERGER “Black people don’t like the outdoors.” LATRIA GRAHAM has confronted this wrongheaded belief her entire life. She argues that diversity outside has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with opportunity. 78 The Tribes Y'RQDOG7UXPS For anyone concerned about the current administration’s decision to shrink Bears Ears National Monument, meet your new heroes: a crack team of Native American attorneys waging a legal battle that could shape conservation for generations. BY ABE STREEP NativesOutdoors founder Len Necefer 2 P H OTO G R A P H B Y Benjamin Rasmussen Outside Magazine Contents 05.18 'LVSDWFKHV 14 BIG IDEA No Safety in Numbers: Nepal instituted new regulations on Mount Everest. Will they actually change anything? BY ALAN ARNETTE 187+(2876,'(5 Tom and Steuart Walton: The 24 46 Walmart heirs are transforming Bentonville, Arkansas, into a mountain-biking mecca. 20 MEDIA Rural Reads: Books about families surviving and adapting in ranch and farm country. Plus, the new documentary Mountain. 24 TRAVEL Pacific Northwest: Rediscover the 34 GEAR 24 32 Used Gear: Why outdoor brands would love to sell that old puffy in your closet. Spring Jackets: The best line of defense against shoulderseason showers. Women’s Workout: Everything to pack for a hardcore lunchtime gym session. The Process: Kelli Jones of apparel-repair upstart Noso wants to patch you up. 42 FITNESS Recovery: Athletes are using 48 20 CBD, extracted from the marijuana plant, as an anti-inflammatory and to manage pain. Is it the new wonder drug? Laird’s Laws: Tips for lifelong health and fitness from the big-wave legend. Nutrition: Grain bowls packed with power. Tools: From an ingenious antisnoring device to a guided breathing system, sleep is the new life-hacking frontier. 6 BETWEEN THE LINES 108 IN MEMORIAM &RYHUSKRWRJUDSKE\ JOÃO CANZIANI 20 4 42 6HWGHVLJQE\/RX$VDUR&HUXWWL &R 6W\OLQJE\6DYDQQDK%:KLWH +DLUE\-HDQLH6\IX$WHOLHU0DQDJHPHQW 0DNHXSE\0HJDQ.HOO\ C LO C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: J E R E M Y KO R E S K I ; T U R E L I L L E G R AV E N /A U G U S T I M AG E ; K R I S T E N C U R E T T E H I N E S / S TO C K SY ; J O E Y S C H U S L E R ; R AC H E L H U DAC E K ; J O S H H A N E R / T H E N E W YO R K T I M E S / R E D U X ; P E T R A Z E I L E R ; F I N N B E A L E S Big Green, from British Columbia’s surfing to Oregon’s best brewery. 24 Hours: Secret adventures in New Orleans. TAKING AWAY WHAT’S IN THE WAY. Photo: Chris Milliman © 2018 SRAM LLC THAT’S TRUE ADVANCEMENT. Ayesha McGowan and Laura King ride the open roads of West Texas on SRAM RED® eTap® HRD. Between the Lines Faces of Change 05.18 Last May, we dedicated an entire issue of Outside to the topic of women in the outdoors. The move was as overdue as it was historic for us. In the years preceding, readers had filled our inboxes with e-mails asking us to address the gender disparity in our coverage. We took their concerns seriously, and the May 2017 issue was a step toward tackling that imbalance, though we knew we were far from finished. Every month since, in print and online, we’ve made a companywide effort to tell more stories about women and to seek out more women writers, photographers, and illustrators to feature in our pages. The angry letters have eased a little, and while there’s still room for improvement, we’re making progress. We also undertook that initiative knowing full well that there was another significant problem we needed to focus on: While all of us at Outside like to think of ourselves as inclusive, historically the magazine has done a lousy job of presenting the true breadth —CHRISTOPHER KEYES ( @KEYESER) Feedback Fuel for the Fire As Outside Online expands our coverage of the public-lands debate and environmental causes, readers are taking notice. I love your website. I am an outof-shape, somewhat unhealthy, 63-year-old American Indian woman. I am also currently the chair of the National Tribal Caucus, an advisory committee to the EPA, and have been a tribal environmental director for years. I grew up on subsistence living. I remember my brother catching brown trout just outside Yellowstone and fishing for salmon for a month near Neah Bay, Washington. I’m telling you this so you will know that I appreciate all you report on. It is near and dear to everything I have ever lived and worked for. Keep going. PAULA BRITTON Willits, California MERIT BASED I am a 14-year-old Boy Scout working on my communication merit badge, and my family has subscribed to your magazine for years. I have always enjoyed your stories about amazing places and people that I would like to see and meet some day. It’s great that I can dream and aspire to do all the interesting things in your magazine. I am hoping that you could include more family- and teenager-based adventures that your average youth could participate in. I always look forward to your next issue. PATRICK MURRAY Honeoye Falls, New York PAY TO PLAY Point of View Shooting this month’s feature on the legal fight to restore Bears Ears National Monument (“The Tribes v. Donald Trump,” page 78) wasn’t the first time photographer Morgan Rachel Levy had the opportunity to explore this region of Utah. But it was her first visit since the boundaries were drastically reduced. The site continued to astonish. “We photographed Valley of the Gods, one of the culturally significant areas that’s no longer part of the monument,” says Levy. “It was one of the most awe-inspiring landscapes I’ve ever seen. It’s devastating that someone could even think of exploiting this land. It’s not a worldview I understand.” 6 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE Good piece on staying fit as we age (“Endurance Guru Joe Friel Says You Can Still Be Fast After 50,” online), but to write off adult-specific stresses is missing a major problem, especially in an ageist employment culture. The number-one factor is time. Athletes over 50 don’t have much of it, and what little they do have is typically stolen from someone or something else. What we need is to start handing out fat early retirement packages to them, then see what happens. PETER BEAL Boulder, Colorado F R O M TO P : G R AYS O N S C H A F F E R ; E R I C K R U S Z E W S K I Plans for Expansion of perspectives and personalities in the world of adventure. Specifically, we’ve had a severe blind spot when it came to people of color, members of the LGBTQ community, and people with disabilities, among others. It’s not just an Outside problem. Survey after survey shows that these communities represent a vibrant and growing segment of the outdoor population, yet you rarely see them reflected in the adventure media, industry advertising, or the environmental movement. Seven years ago, we published a roundtable discussion on the lack of diversity in the outdoors. One panelist cited a study of Outside photography that found only 103 pictures of African Americans among 6,986 photographs published between 1991 and 2001. We patted ourselves on the back for our transparency, but I can point to little we’ve done since to effect real change. Frankly, for brands and journalists alike, it’s been far too easy to remain in our comfort zones, returning to familiar places time and again to find writers, stories, and images. This month’s issue is a concerted effort to chart a new path. Its pages are filled with the kinds of stories we’ve long overlooked, from an essay by Latria Graham confronting the misguided idea that African Americans aren’t into the outdoors (“We’re Here. You Just Don’t See Us,” page 72), to a profile of the Native American attorneys leading the fight against the current administration’s downsizing of Bears Ears National Monument (“The Tribes v. Donald Trump,” page 78), to a gallery of activists and athletes changing the face of the outdoors (“This Is What Adventure Looks Like,” page 56). Like last May’s special issue, it’s only a first step. Going forward, we’re committed to going beyond our usual sources when looking for stories, and we can’t wait to tell them. 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Feed them like family.® Between the Lines Faces of Change 05.18 “Back in the nineties, when Trump was negotiating various bankruptcies, Ethel Branch, attorney general for the Navajo Nation, was castrating horses and winning rodeo-queen contests on the reservation.” Urban-Rural Divide —ABE STREEP, PAGE 78 > Outside TV’s Outlook series catches up with motor-sports legend Travis Pastrana, one of the adrenaline junkies behind Nitro Circus, for a peek at the making of his new ﬁlm, Action Figures 2. The episode premieres April 22. Due South In this month’s “We’re Here. You Just Don’t See Us” (page 72), South Carolina writer Latria Graham exposes the stereotype that black people don’t recreate outdoors for what it is. She also speaks about her love for the southeast. “This is an area you can’t just drop in on,” she says. “You have to really listen and spend time here to understand it.” Some of her favorite places to do just that include: 1 Hunting Island State Park, South Carolina “This barrier island is my favorite place to unplug. Cell service is spotty, and the scenery takes my breath away.” RISK OF BODILY HARM WINNER: Urban 2 Everglades National Park, Florida “This was my ﬁrst national park trip and my ﬁrst slough-slogging adventure. I had mud in unspeakable places.” 3 Chimney Rock State Park, North Carolina “The incredible views and the trout ﬁshing make this one of my favorite day trips in the region.” 4 Weeki Wachee Springs State Park, Florida “It may be known for its mermaid shows, which are exactly what they sound like, but I love exploring the springs in a kayak.” “There are a lot more cars in the world than bears, and you don’t have to dodge a grizzly every time you cross a trail.” SOLITUDE WINNER: Wilderness “There’s usually no one to stop you from hiking in the nude. If that’s, like, your thing.” CUISINE WINNER: Urban Only the Brave Outside In For João Canziani, photographing Shelma Jun, Ayesha McGowan, and Knox Robinson for this month’s cover was a whole new world, literally. For the shoot’s background, Canziani, Outside creative director Hannah McCaughey, and three set designers transformed a studio into a wilderness. “It was one of the most complicated things I have done,” says Canziani, who was born in Peru but now lives in New York City. “But it was a pretty incredible experience.” There were a few headaches, one of which involved moving and rebuilding the 15-by-15-foot set three times to get the lighting and backdrop just right. “Everyone wanted to kill me,” he says, “but in the end it was for the best.” Canziani’s images also appear in “This Is What Adventure Looks Like” (page 56). 8 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE Contributing editor Florence Williams hadn’t cried on a reporting trip as much as she did while working on “The Survivors” (page 86), a look at a wilderness-therapy program helping heal women victimized by sex trafﬁcking. And that’s not something she’s embarrassed to admit. “I’ve never seen crying as a weakness,” she says. “These women modeled bravery in a way that was new to me. We tend to glorify extreme athletes or pioneering explorers, but they are honestly braver than anyone I have ever seen.” “I’ll take a burrito over the dehydrated stuff any day.” NAVIGATION WINNER: Wilderness “A dirt trail is easier to follow than a thousand linked turns down alleyways, up stairs, and across highways.” OVERALL: Tie “Just get outside, folks!” F R O M TO P : C O U R T E SY O F L AT R I A G R A H A M ; C O U R T E SY O F O U T S I D E T V ; H A N N A H M C C A U G H E Y What :H·UH Watching For “Like the Appalachian Trail, But with More Stoplights” (page 92), senior editor Erin Berger joined distance trekker Liz Thomas and a gang of urban throughhikers for part of a seven-day, 155-mile expedition across greater San Diego. Thomas’s goal is to change the way we think about cities and outdoor recreation, which made us wonder: Just how does urban throughhiking compare with its wilderness counterpart? We had Berger make the call. PLACE NEW. CAMP SOMEPLACE OLD. FIND THE END OF A RAINBOW. DANCE IN THE RA HAND THROUGH WET GRASS. PARK YOUR CAR AND WALK. SEE THE SUNRISE ONCE A ROUND YOUR BLOCK. TAKE A HIKE. WATCH THE SUNSET FROM A ROOFTOP. SIT ON YO ON A SWING. SIT ON YOUR NE STOOP. SEE W NDER A ROCK. PLAY ON A PLA GO PADDLE B WITH A FRIEND. READ A BOO TAKE YOUR D EXTRA-LONG WALK. LISTEN T UNDER THE S HOOTING STARS. SIT AROUN THE BIGGEST SEE. DO YOGA IN THE PARK. E LIFTS STOP. S ND A TRAIL NEAR THE OFFICE. RIDE YOUR BI WALK SPEND AN EXTRA DAY IN THE WOOD OOT IN A BOG. RUN A MILE AT ANY PACE. EX NEIGHBORHOOD. SPLASH IN A STREAM. H AND IN YOUR TOES. PLANT A TREE. GET A G JUMP IN A PUDDLE. WATCH T RISE. HANG O MOCK. KAYAK WHEREVER YOU YOUR BOOTS LL AROUND THE CITY. GET SA HAIR. JUMP I S. CHASE YOUR DOG. FROLIC I YOUR DOG CH HOT CHOCOLATE IN THE SNOW. COUNT THE STARS IN THE NIGHT SKY. CATCH A SNO TONGUE. HAVE A SNOWBALL FIGHT. GET MUDDY. LIKE REALLY MUDDY. FEEL THE WIND OUND YOURSELF WITH TREES. RIDE A CHAIRLIFT IN THE SUMMER. BOOGIE BOARD. JU A DRY CREEK BED. STOP AND SMELL THE ROSES. LITERALLY. GO TO SLEEP IN A TENT. T. TAKE A FRIEND FLY FISHING. GO TRAIL RUNNING. LOOK FOR A FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. L . PLAY CATCH WITH YOUR K TIONAL PARK. FLOAT A RIVER SEATS TO A SHOW. TAKE YOUR BREAK OUT BACK. SIT ON A PIER. HAVE A WALKING M K OUT A LOCAL FARMERS MARKET. TAKE A WALK BEFORE WORK. TAKE A WALK AFTER DINNER AND EAT ON THE DECK. JUST HANG OUT IN THE GRASS. MAKE FRIENDS WITH Take the quiz and see where you stand at REI.com Big lakes to scenic trout streams to the mighty Mississippi. Large and smallmouth bass, sturgeon, panfish, northern pike, muskies, and of course, walleye. It’s easy to lose yourself in one of the serene settings found only in Minnesota. P L A N Y O U R M I N N E S O TA VA C AT I O N AT E X P L O R E M I N N E S O TA . C O M C A L L 1 – 8 8 8 – 8 4 7– 4 8 6 6 F O R M O R E I N F O R M AT I O N Between the Lines Faces of Change 05.18 Tuleto Sengeny (right) and Outside GO president Sandy Cunningham Go With Us Designing a new adventure requires more than just finding an amazing experience in a beautiful locale. OUTSIDE GO has cultivated an ensemble of world-class local guides, like Tuleto “James” Sengeny. The Maasai elder and naturalist has worked with GO for over two decades and is legendary for his humor and extensive knowledge of wildlife in Kenya’s Maasai Mara National Preserve. To read more about Sengeny or to book a trip, visit outsidego.com. James Edward Mills Paper Trail F R O M TO P : N I C K K E L L E Y; C H A R L I E LOY D ; C A R LY H A R M O N Last May we published Rahawa Haile’s “Going It Alone,” about hiking the Appalachian Trail as an African American woman. Recently, she took to Twitter to announce In Open Country, a forthcoming book that grew out of that article. Below, tweets from Haile and her followers over the past five years chronicling the journey from AT dreams to book deal. Sounds Like Progress We’re launching two new special series on the Outside Podcast as part of our efforts to expand our coverage of communities we’ve historically ignored. In April, publicradio journalist and Outside contributor Stephanie Joyce began profiling remarkable women from the worlds of adventure sports and conservation. And in May, we’ll premier Dispatches episodes on the movement to make the outdoors more inclusive, hosted by James Edward Mills, author of The Adventure Gap and this month’s cover story (“This Is What Adventure Looks Like,” page 56). Listen to these stories, and all our new audio offerings, at outsideonline.com/ podcast or wherever podcasts are found. June 25, 2014 “Appalachian Trail thru-hiking blogs have replaced short-story collections on my reading list. I have no idea how these people do it.” March 22, 2016 “I love you @rahawahaile. Let’s find out.” October 3, 2016 “Elelelelelele! I did it! I hiked the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine! #Eritrea” October 3, 2016 “When they tell you black ppl don’t hike so you climb 2000 miles of mountains bc representation matters & you are a .” February 8, 2018 “And then you sell a book about it. (Yes, I’m crying. I still can’t believe this is real.)” OU TSIDE MAGAZINE 11 Starting at just $6,000, it’s easy to find your AWAY. When you go RVing, AWAY is closer and more affordable than you might think. F O L D I N G C A M P I N G TRAI LE R T RU C K C A M P E R Follow us on Twitter & Instagram CHAIRMAN/EDITOR IN CHIEF Lawrence J. Burke Editorial VICE PRESIDENT/EDITOR CHRISTOPHER KEYES @keyeser Advertising EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT/CHIEF REVENUE OFFICER SCOTT PARMELEE DESIGN + PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR HANNAH MCCAUGHEY @outsideartdept DEPUTY EDITOR MARY TURNER @maryturner505 SENIOR EXECUTIVE EDITOR MICHAEL ROBERTS @ultimateeditor DIGITAL GENERAL MANAGER SCOTT ROSENFIELD @scottrosenﬁeld FEATURES EDITOR ELIZABETH HIGHTOWER ALLEN @ehightowerallen EXECUTIVE EDITOR AXIE NAVAS @axie2020 ARTICLES EDITOR JONAH OGLES @jonahogles ONLINE MANAGING EDITOR ABIGAIL WISE @abigailwise New York NEW YORK ADVERTISING DIRECTOR TJ RAAB RESEARCH DIRECTOR TIM BROWN PUBLISHER’S ASSISTANT DIANA QUINTANILLA 122 E. 42nd St., Suite 3705, New York, NY 10168 212-972-4650, fax 212-949-7538 Boston ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER JENNIFER PALMER @jpalms 79 Blue Hills Parkway, Milton, MA 02186 SENIOR EDITORS ERIN BERGER @erineberger, WILL EGENSTEINER @wegensteiner 617-690-3212, fax 617-690-3267 J. 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Or write to Outside, Box 6228, Harlan, IA 51593-1728 and enclose a copy of your mailing label, or call 800-678-1131 (outside U.S., 515-248-7680; fax 712-623-5731). A scent-free subscription is available upon request. Back Issues and Special Issues: Call 800-678-1131 or enclose a check or money order for $7.95 per issue and mail to: Back Issues, Outside, Box 6228, Harlan, IA 51593-1728. Copyright ©2018 by Mariah Media Network LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Views expressed herein are those of the author exclusively. No dress code. No deadlines. No to-dos or have-tos. Dispatches Big Idea 05.18 No Safety in Numbers MOUNT EVEREST IS INCREASINGLY DEFINED BY BUDGET GUIDING COMPANIES—AND MORE CROWDING THAN EVER BY ALAN ARNETTE 14 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE the hundreds of climbers making plans for spring-summit attempts on Mount Everest suddenly faced a new set of rules. In December, the Nepalese government decreed that it would no longer issue permits to blind, solo, or double-amputee mountaineers for any of its high peaks. Furthermore, all expeditions would have to employ at least one Sherpa and would be forbidden from using helicopters to reach high camps. The regulations fit a pattern established by Nepal’s Ministry of Tourism, which in the past few years has issued a series of proclamations—climbers must announce plans to set records, trekkers must carry location beacons—that suggest improved management of its high-altitude peaks. Each new declaration generates a rash of international news reports about authorities making strides toward addressing safety at the top of the world. The truth is a lot more complicated. Mountaineering is big business in Nepal. Industry experts estimate that it generates some $26.5 million in tourism income each EARLY THIS WINTER, year, with around $11 million of that coming from Everest climbers alone. The enduring obsession of the Western media, including Outside, with tragic deaths on these far-off snowy peaks has resulted in a lot of free marketing. Nepal’s Ministry of Tourism, perhaps concerned that all the morbid tales might drive climbers to Everest’s less used Chinese side, has gained some control of that narrative by broadcasting more positive developments through the Nepalese press. But the rules announced to date would do nothing to mitigate the dangers of climbing Everest even if Nepal had the resources and conviction to enforce them, which it doesn’t. (Meanwhile, in March, Nepal’s Supreme Court stayed the country’s ban on climbers with disabilities.) Making a huge, hugely popular mountain safer is possible. On Alaska’s Denali, fulltime climbing rangers conduct safety checks of many teams and are mobilized for rescue operations. On Argentina’s Aconcagua, rangers patrol all high camps, and until recently, permit fees included the cost of helicopter rescues. Adopting similar policies in Nepal I L LU S T R AT I O N B Y Tatsuro Kiuchi THE ALL - NEW ©2018 FCA US LLC. All Rights Reserved. Jeep is a registered trademark of FCA US LLC. 2018 WRANGLER Dispatches Big Idea 05.18 would be a good start. A longer list of true reforms would include ordering all climbers to have previously summited a 7,000-meter peak, requiring nonguides working above Base Camp to take a course at the Khumbu Climbing Center (hundreds have done so since it was founded in 2003), and capping the total number of climbers on the mountain at 500 per season, including support staff. That last policy would both reduce dangerous crowding and help keep the mountain clean. Unfortunately, these kinds of rules are less likely than ever to be instituted on Everest, owing to the rise of budget guiding companies. Beginning in the early 1990s, Western outfitters established commercial mountaineering on the Nepal side of the peak by attracting clients willing to pay as much as $65,000 to be guided to the summit. That business model dominated for more than two decades, bringing an estimated 9,000 paying climbers to Base Camp. Consequently, Everest earned a reputation as a magnet for the rich, ambitious, and inexperienced. As in many markets, savvy entrepreneurs saw opportunities for disruption. Lower-cost guiding companies, some founded by Westerners and others by Nepalese, slowly gained traction by offering Everest climbs for as little as a third of the going rate among high-end outfitters. Then came 2014, when 16 Sherpas died after a serac collapsed onto the Khumbu Icefall, part of the main route from Base Camp to Camp I. In the wake of that tragedy, a small group of Sherpas demanded that the Nepalese government establish regulations that would improve working conditions, increase pay, boost life-insurance coverage, and provide a funeral stipend. Ultimately, Sherpas received a bit more insurance—the minimum payout was doubled from $5,500 to $11,000— but not much else. Partly in response to media attention of these events, Nepali-owned guiding companies have continued to gain influence and market share on Everest. The shift away from foreign control of the mountain is welcomed by many in the climbing community. Another positive development: lower-cost operators are increasing diversity on Everest, attracting climbers from China’s and India’s burgeoning middle classes with aggressive pricing. Based on numbers from the Himalayan Database, in 2010, four Indian and eight Chinese climbers attempted the mountain, just 6 percent of the total. Last year, Chinese and Indian clients accounted for 60 of the 199 Nepal-side summits. Unfortunately, in the absence of substantive government oversight, some of the budget companies are making Everest more dangerous by flooding the already overcrowded route with novice climbers led by inexperi- 16 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE enced guides. Any operators charging less for guided climbs are prone to bolster profits through scale, booking dozens of clients on expeditions. (The most respected outfitters set a maximum of ten.) Putting aside 2014’s tragedy and 2015’s earthquake-induced avalanche, which killed at least 17 people at Base Camp, 12 of the 17 climber deaths on the South Col route between 2011 and 2017 appear to have been clients of budget outfitters. During last year’s peak season, Kathmandu-based Seven Summit Treks, known for bringing large groups of climbers to Everest, allegedly promoted a young support staffer named Sange Sherpa to guide Everest and assigned him to an older Pakistani client. The pair reached the summit late in the day and got into trouble on their descent. They had to be rescued by experienced Sherpas from another Nepalese outfitter. Sange later had all his fingers amputated due to severe frostbite. Veteran guides are reacting to all this in different ways. Adrian Ballinger, founder of the California outfitter Alpenglow, has abandoned the Nepal side of Everest and is instead leading teams from China. As he explained it to me, the higher risk from natural dangers (avalanches, seracs, crevasses), the low standards of other outfitters, and Nepal’s mismanagement add up to an unacceptable environment. Several other prominent guides have come to the same conclusion, including Austrian Lukas Furtenbach. Others are staying put. International Mountain Guides co- The absence of substantive oversight has led to the emergence of companies that are making Everest even more dangerous. owner Eric Simonson, whose first expedition on Everest was in 1982, insists that upgrades in route-making through the Khumbu Icefall, and the establishment of dual ropes in areas prone to bottlenecks, have made the Nepal side safer, even as the crowds have grown. Everest remains the ultimate conquest for many climbers. And while most embrace the risk of high-altitude mountaineering, few understand that the biggest dangers are all too often the result of economics, not the forces of nature. Ultimately, the top priority of many tourism officials and outfitters isn’t safety. It’s O the bottom line. Alan Arnette has been chronicling developments on Mount Everest since 2002. He reached the summit in 2011. C LO C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: B I L L S T E V E N S O N /A U R O R A ; C H R I S T I A N KO B E R / R O B E R T H A R D I N G /A L A M Y; A L E X T R E A D WAY/ R O B E R T H A R D I N G /A L A M Y; KO N D O R U K / S H U T T E R S TO C K Clockwise from top left: Navigating the Khumbu Icefall; going up; Everest Base Camp; a meeting of Sherpa guides THAT LUGGAGE WON’T PAY FOR ITSELF. Switch to GEICO and save money for the things you love. Maybe it’s impeccably designed matched luggage. Or the upgrade to First Class. Travel is what you love – and it doesn’t come cheap. So switch to GEICO, because you could save 15% or more on car insurance. And that would help make the things you love that much easier to get. Auto • Home • Rent • Cycle • Boat geico.com | 1-800-947-AUTO (2886) | local office Some discounts, coverages, payment plans and features are not available in all states or all GEICO companies. Homeowners and renters coverages are written through non-affiliated insurance companies and are secured through the GEICO Insurance Agency, Inc. Boat and PWC coverages are underwritten by GEICO Marine Insurance Company. Motorcycle and ATV coverages are underwritten by GEICO Indemnity Company. GEICO is a registered service mark of Government Employees Insurance Company, Washington, D.C. 20076; a Berkshire Hathaway Inc. subsidiary. © 2017 GEICO Dispatches The Outsider 05.18 Single-Track Minds HOW A COUPLE OF HEIRS TO AN AMERICAN RETAIL DYNASTY ARE PUTTING BENTONVILLE, ARKANSAS, ON THE FAT-TIRE MAP BY ANDREW TILIN parks his bike and surveys the surrounding terrain. Where I see modest hills sheathed in uninspiring winter brown, he sees cycling gold. “The return on investment that we’ve had,” says Walton, kicking at the Arkansas dirt with his mountain-biking shoe, “proves that building urban singletrack is a great model for rural America.” In case you’re wondering: yes, Tom is one of those Waltons, grandson of Sam, founder of Walmart. And the modestly contoured Arkansas hills he’s hyping—maximum elevation maybe 1,500 feet—neighbor Bentonville, headquarters of the $500 billion company. The 34-year-old and his brother, Steuart, 36, are both cycling nuts, and they’re trying to do for mountain biking what the family business did for retailing: change everything. Today they’re giving me a cycling tour of their progress toward that goal—specifically, a portion of the 163 miles of Arkansas trails in and around their hometown that they’ve commissioned through the Walton Family Foundation. All told, they’ve helped pour some $74 million into cycling infrastructure for the region. It’s an ambitious plan, and you have to admire what they’ve created. Back on our bikes, I attempt to follow as the brothers effortlessly whip through local favorites like AllAmerican and Rocking Horse. Every trail we ride is clearly marked, categorized (“gateway,” “flow,” “technical” ), and, like ski runs, graded for difficulty. The classifications describe the riding profile of every path. Some have jump lines, others have rock gardens, still others feature one perfectly smoothed berm after another. “We talk about Bentonville as a ski town for bikes,” Tom told me before our ride. “Steu, do we have time for Master Plan?” says Tom as we reach a fork in the trail. “It’s Friday, T Dubs,” says Steuart. “Go.” There’s little question about how the brothers got their passion for bikes and being outside. The Waltons are a cycling-centric family who put a premium on outdoor experiences. When Tom and Steuart were boys, their parents didn’t keep a TV in the house. Their uncle Rob, a former Walmart chairman, is a veteran roadie. Their dad, Jim, chairman of the board of family-owned Arvest Bank, loves the dirt. Steu and T Dubs go both ways, and they always figure out a way to mix riding and travel—even on a recent trip to Azerbaijan. True siblings, they try to crush one another on climbs. Like a lot of rural America, Bentonville (population 47,000) remains small enough to enjoy close proximity to undeveloped land TOM WALTON 18 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE that’s ripe for trail use. And because the network is being built from scratch, trails can be situated minutes from downtown hotels, restaurants, and bike shops. Many of them might be beginner-friendly, but each is a blast and easy to access. “The barriers to entry for our kind of riding are all lower,” Tom tells me as we cruise a jumpy stretch of trail called Ozone. It runs right alongside Northwest A Street in town, an intentional move aimed at inspiring passing drivers to imagine themselves on a mountain bike. All this investment has earned Bentonville a surprising amount of attention from the mountain-biking industry. In 2016, the town hosted the International Mountain Bicycling Association World Summit. This year it plays host to Outerbike, a massive demo event normally staged in fat-tire meccas like Crested Butte, Colorado, and Moab, Utah. It’s also attracting tourists. According to a 2018 BBC Research and Consulting study, cycling generates $51 million annually for area businesses, including $27 million from out-of-state visitors. Both Tom and Steuart tell me repeatedly that their goal is to provide a model for other rural towns with similar access to greenspace. Their foundation shares its formula for measuring the economic impact of cycling investment with any interested community. Indeed, an “Arkansas effect” has already been felt within the fledgling trail-building industry. Nowadays trail designers and their bulldozing employees can’t keep up with demand, installing singletrack everywhere from Alabama to New Mexico. Neither brother has a day-to-day role at Walmart. Tom, a graduate of Northern Arizona University, runs Ropeswing, a local hospitality company. Steuart has a law degree from Georgetown and owns an aircraftmanufacturing startup. But you can’t help but think that they’re keeping the family business in mind as they funnel money into Bentonville’s cycling infrastructure. Walmart is rapidly shifting to e-commerce, which means courting the brightest minds in technology. Bentonville still has some distance to go to compete with attractive startup locales like Denver, Seattle, and the Bay Area, but the younger Waltons seem bent on changing that. Tom has opened several upscale restaurants downtown, including Pressroom and Preacher’s Son. In 2012, the brothers donated nearly $300,000 each to Keep Dollars in Benton County, a political organization that successfully campaigned to change their home county from dry to wet. What’s certain is that Tom and Steuart’s Tom and Steuart Walton are both cycling nuts, and WKH\·UHWU\LQJWRGR for mountain biking what the family business did for retailing: change everything. goal of making the region a cycling destination doesn’t end with tourism. They want Bentonville to be a magnet for the cycling industry, too. In February, the Runway Group, an organization the brothers created to develop quality-of-life initiatives in the region, hired Brendan Quirk as its cycling program director. Quirk cofounded Competitive Cyclist, a successful e-commerce site that launched in Little Rock. According to the group’s press release, he’ll be responsible for “positioning Northwest Arkansas as a leading region nationwide for the incubation and recruitment of cycling-related brands.” The industry has responded, although the siblings’ strategy remains a little hazy. Right now the only other cycling-related company associated with Bentonville is tiny road-bike maker Allied Cycle Works, which will relocate there from Little Rock in the fall and is partially owned by the Walton brothers’ firm RZC Investments. And last year, RZC spent a reported $225 million to purchase Rapha, the iconic London-based apparel company that has a cult following among affluent road cyclists—a curious match, given the brothers’ previous focus on mountain bikers. So far, Tom and Steuart aren’t planning to move Rapha’s U.S. headquarters from Portland, Oregon, to Bentonville. In fact, the brothers were cagey when I asked about the thinking behind the purchase. “You know, we kept all the leaders in place, because we believe in what they’ve done so far,” Steuart told me ahead of our ride. “We’ll introduce them to northwest Arkansas and let them figure out what works best here.” He may as well have said, “Who knows?” For now, Tom and Steuart Walton seem to prefer being viewed simply as benevolent ambassadors for their favorite sports—and to spend as much time as possible spreading the gospel about their ever expanding trail network. As we finish our ride on a mellow stretch of buffed-out Bentonville singletrack, we roll up on a group of school-aged kids on foot. “I’ve got one question for you,” Tom tells them. “Where are your mountain bikes?” From left: Tom and Steuart Walton P H OTO G R A P H B Y Trevor Paulhus OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 19 Dispatches Media The Wright family’s next generation HIGH NOTE A MOUNTAINEERING FILM FROM DOWN UNDER THAT’S LIKE NOTHING YOU’VE SEEN BEFORE BY SVATI KIRSTEN NARULA Nowheresville TWO NEW NONFICTION BOOKS BY STAR JOURNALISTS EXPLORE A CHANGING WAY OF LIFE IN RURAL AMERICA BY CRAIG FEHRMAN WHEN YOU LIVE far from the city, it can feel like there are only two options: move or be forgotten. Yet a pair of new books—one set in the red-rock canyons of Utah, the other in the pastures of Pennsylvania—suggest a third possibility: adapt. In The Last Cowboys ($27, W.W. Norton), John Branch tells the story of the Wrights, who settled in southwestern Utah 156 years ago. Today patriarch Bill Wright tends to a couple hundred cattle. He and his wife, Evelyn, have 13 children and a herd of grandchildren; each year the family reunites to brand the new calves. Branch, a Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter at The New York Times, describes the action expertly—the noise, the dust, the smell of scorched flesh. “It smells like money,” one participant says. Maybe, but it doesn’t bring much in. Branch runs down the factors that make life increasingly hard for midsize ranches—drought, corporate competitors, environmentalists. But the Wrights have a surprising solution: the rodeo circuit. Bill’s boys earn millions riding saddle broncs. While rodeo cash props up the livestock, it also drains the drama from Branch’s ranching chapters. The Wrights are now a rodeo family who happen to raise cattle. The subjects of Eliza Griswold’s Amity and Prosperity, which arrives in June ($27; Farrar, Straus and Giroux), have far less money 20 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE and far bigger problems. Like the Wrights, the Haney family have remained in one place— southwestern Pennsylvania—for generations. Stacey Haney is a single mom who works as a nurse at the local hospital. She embodies both the old rural economy (living on a farm) and the new one (entertaining an offer from a fracking corporation that wants to set up operations near her land). Griswold, an Outside contributor and an acclaimed poet and journalist, sifts through Haney’s reasons for finally deciding to sign a lease with the billion-dollar outfit. Haney knows the region needs jobs, she’s tired of all the war over oil, and she wants to build a structure to protect her family’s show animals. Things go wrong immediately. The rumble of heavy trucks appears to damage her house’s foundation, the water goes bad, and she and her kids become terribly, mysteriously sick. Griswold narrates Haney’s response to the fallout, and the reaction from her pro-fracking neighbors, in lean, captivating prose—it’s part legal thriller and part medical mystery. Mostly, though, it’s a tragedy. If we could turn outrage into electricity, Griswold’s book would power the planet. Both authors succeed in avoiding country clichés and reveal not only why rural Americans must adapt, but also the reasons they might want to. Mountain, a new documentary by Australian director Jen Peedom, is more like a concert than a movie. That makes sense, given its conception as a visual collaboration with the Australian Chamber Orchestra. Scenes unfold without plot or context, keeping the focus on high-altitude cinematography, handled by mountaineer-filmmaker Renan Ozturk, and the score, created by ACO artistic director Richard Tognetti. There is no dialogue, just Willem Dafoe’s gravelly voice reciting a threadbare script by Robert Macfarlane, author of the climbing memoir Mountains of the Mind. “Some people don’t really get the film at all,” says Peedom, who also directed the 2015 documentary Sherpa. “For others it’s like a religious experience.” Screening this month at the Telluride, Colorado, Mountainfilm festival, Mountain has become the thirdhighest-grossing Australian documentary since it hit theaters there last fall. The combination of jagged peaks and violins is thrilling. It includes the unmistakable shape of free soloist Alex Honnold high on a wall and footage of crowds on Mount Everest. (“This isn’t climbing anymore. It’s queuing,” Dafoe deadpans.) A montage of volcanoes spewing lava shows how the world’s peaks first rose up from the ocean floor—and how mightily things have changed since then. As Dafoe tells us, the mountains “were here long before we were even dreamed of. They watched us arrive. They will watch us leave.” '21·70,66 “The things we stand for as climbers—trust, values, honesty—are EHLQJHURGHG:H·YH got to bring that back, from our public lands to native rights to how we interact with other humans.” —CONRAD ANKER, SPEAKING TO EVAN PHILLIPS OF THE FIRN LINE PODCAST (SEASON TWO IS OUT IN APRIL) F R O M L E F T: J O S H H A N E R / T H E N E W YO R K T I M E S / R E D U X ; R E N A N O Z T U R K 05.18 Everyone’s on a much longer leash here. Wy om i n g i s w i d e - op e n p o s s i bi l it y. You n e v e r f e e l f e n c e d i n , t i e d d ow n or re s t r a i n e d i n a ny w ay. S o y ou c a n bre a k f re e a n d f i n d t h e c l a r it y t h at b e c k on s , f rom r u g g e d m ou nt a i n t o t r a n qu i l l a k e t o m e a n d e r i n g t r a i l . Fre e d om i s w a it i n g . Wh at’s h o l d i n g y ou b a c k ? Dispatches 3DFLÀF1RUWKZHVW 05.18 7KH%LJ*UHHQ IT’S TIME TO GET REACQUAINTED WITH THE PNW—HOME TO MASSIVE MOUNTAINS, LUSH RAINFORESTS, EMPTY ISLANDS, AND THE GREATEST OYSTERS YOU’LL EVER TASTE J E R E M Y KO R E S K I BY TIM NEVILLE 24 Haida Gwaii, British Columbia OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 3DFLÀF1RUWKZHVW 05.18 a b f e a, c. Oregon’s Vintages Trailer Resort b. Christian DeBenedetti of Wolves and People d, f. Hot Springs Cove e. Surfing Tofino c d GET SOAKED TASTE THE TERROIR LOCAL SALT Hot Springs Cove, British Columbia Wolves and People, Oregon Lydia Ricard, surfer Comprised of a half-dozen pools within 6,600-acre Maquinna Marine Provincial Park, Hot Springs Cove is nature’s way of telling us we’re loved. Most people visit as part of a whale-watching day tour out of nearby Tofino, but we suggest you hire an Ocean Outfitters water taxi ($160 roundtrip; oceanoutfitters.bc.ca), wait for the crowds to leave, and spend the night. After disembarking at a small dock, you’ll hike a mile through moody rainforest to the springs, which spill from a ten-foot waterfall and combine with flood tides to reach a perfect 104 degrees. You can’t sleep at the springs, but a small first-come, first-served campground is located near the dock. Want more comfort? Get a stateroom aboard the five-cabin InnChanter, a 1920s heritage ship with a fireplace, which is moored in Clayoquot Sound (from $115; innchanter.com). In 1996, Outside contributor Christian DeBenedetti scored a prestigious fellowship to study beer, traveling through Europe and Africa as part of his research. He channeled everything he learned into his brewery, Wolves and People, which opened in May 2016 in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. DeBenedetti’s creations take advantage of the surrounding agricultural bounty, incorporating hazelnuts and wild yeast from his family’s farm in addition to locally grown white truffles and golden raspberries. Best of all, the brewery is only about 65 miles from the coast, making it a worthy stop between clam chowder missions. Stay in a refurbished 1957 Airstream at the Vintages Trailer Resort, in Dayton, where cruiser bikes come standard ($95; the-vintages.com). Cap your ride at the brewery and enjoy a crisp saison in the beer garden, which is festooned with patio lights. Perfectly positioned on Vancouver Island’s western shore, Tofino remains one of the best year-round surf spots on the continent. “We’re lucky,” says Ricard, a 25-year-old instructor with Surf Sister, an all-women company that offers lessons. “All of our breaks have sandy bottoms, so you can get lefts and rights.” A six-minute drive from town will take you to two of her favorites, North and South Chesterman, which are well sheltered during storms. Another winner? Long Beach, in the 200-squaremile Pacific Rim National Park Reserve. “It’s awesome being out there with the whales,” says Ricard. Next on her agenda: the annual Queen of the Peak festival, a women-only surf competition in Tofino this September. Register via queenofthepeak.com. 26 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE C LO C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: B R YA N R U P P ; S T U M U L L E N B E R G ; A N D R E A LO N A S ; C O L D S M O K E A P PA R E L / S H AY D J O H N S O N ; B R YA N N A B R A D L E Y; R YA N C R E A R Y/A L L C A N A DA P H OTO S /A L A M Y Dispatches 3DFLÀF1RUWKZHVW a. Fat biking in Bandon b. Haida Gwaii art gallery c. Mendocino d. Elrite at the wheel e. Mendocino coastline f. Ocean House, Haida Gwaii 05.18 a b c f e d WALK ON WATER FOLLOW THE TIDE CLAIM YOUR TRAIL LOCAL SALT Haida Gwaii Archipelago, British Columbia Bandon and Brookings, Oregon Mendocino Coast, California Sebastian Elrite, fisherman Ocean House, an inn owned by the Haida people that’s opening this month off Moresby Island, offers a view of the Haida Gwaii region that few ever see. The floating 12-room seasonal lodge will be barged up the Peel Inlet from Vancouver to the island, where it will be moored among the misty cedars and Sitkas until late summer. Book a three-night stay and head out each day to scope bald eagles in the rainforest, tour native villages, or launch kayaks and paddleboards into the fjords to spy on orcas. Each night, chefs fill your belly with fresh salmon and crisp greens, washed down with complimentary local wine. Afterward a massage will prepare your muscles for the next day. From $3,500 for three nights, all-inclusive; oceanhouse.ca A trip up Highway 101 is on every long-distance cyclist’s dream list. Even better: ride the coast on a fat bike. You can grab one at South Coast Bicycles ($50; southcoastbicycles.com) in Bandon, then pick a starting spot along the Oregon coastline, where four new routes have opened between Lakeside to the north and Brookings to the south, each up to 20 miles long. Our favorite ride might be the 12-mile Banana Belt Loop, which runs from Cape Sebastian State Park to singletrack-ringed Lola Lake, with options to cruise through arches and pedal out to sea stacks during low tide. At day’s end, head back to Gold Beach for a Pistol River pale ale at Arch Rock Brewing. Stay in a beachside cabin at Ireland’s (from $149; irelandsrusticlodges.com). The 1,200-mile California Coastal Trail is about half complete, and some of its most spectacular day hikes run along the gnarled shores of Mendocino County. Plot out your adventures using the web-based app from the Mendocino Land Trust (mendocinolandtrust.org). The group recently unveiled the Pelican Bluffs Trail, which runs for a little over two miles through a forest of Bishop pines, home to endangered mountain beavers. The 2.3-mile Peter Douglas Trail, completed in 2016, now gets you access to the wildly remote Lost Coast Trail, winding for 53 miles through Sinkyone Wilderness State Park and King Range National Conservation Area. Rent a 1930s cottage with a fireplace at the Stanford Inn, an eco-resort on Mendocino Bay (from $308; stanfordinn.com). Elrite knows a good oyster. The 49-year-old Eureka, California, resident has spent the past two decades tending his Bucksport bivalves in Humboldt Bay. “This is the sweet spot,” he says of the location. Rich nutrients waft in on ocean tides and give his AquaRodeo Farms oysters “a briny burst with a melony finish.” When he’s not leading tours and handing out samples, you can find Elrite enjoying the topside bounty of the surrounding region. For hikes in Redwood National Park, he recommends the 7.6-mile Skunk Cabbage Trail, north of Orick, which wends through coastal rainforest to a secluded beach. Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park is also worth a visit, he says. On its 9.2-mile James Irvine Trail, you’ll pass the 50-foot-high walls of Fern Canyon, used as a location in The Lost World: Jurassic Park. 28 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE C LO C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: DY L A N VA N W E E L D E N ; K R I S TA R O S S O W ; R I C K H E M M I N G S ; E R I N KU N K E L ; F I N N B E A L E S ; H A I C O / K Y L E R VO S Dispatches BRANDED CONTENT Camping outside of Tucson, AZ Latino Outdoors founder José González A sunset hike for inspiration HOW LATINO OUTDOORS IS RETHINKING THE WAYS THEIR COMMUNITY GETS OUTSIDE osé González appreciates the ability to get away. The 37-yearold founder of Latino Outdoors, an organization that’s building a national community of like-minded Latinos and Latinas who enjoy and advocate for being outside, loves to leave his ofice and the congestion of San Francisco Bay Area, where he’s based, and head out to the mountains and desert to relax, think, and plan. That was the case recently as González traveled to Tucson, Arizona where he and other members of Latino Outdoors grabbed a 30-foot RV and headed to Saguaro National Park for a weekend of camping. Parked under the stars but with all the amenities of home right inside the RV, González, along with Xitlaly Reyes, the Tucson program coordinator for J Latino Outdoors, Lupe Sotelo, an intern at Saguaro National Park and outings leader for González’s organization, and Claudio Rodriguez, a Tucson local and organizer for Tierra y Libertad, huddled and shared ideas for how they might all expand the reach and effectiveness of their organizations. “Sitting in the RV; it’s like a campire,” González says. “The night grows colder, and that draws people closer. That closeness, in turn, starts to generate dialogue among everyone.” González, who migrated to the U.S. from Mexico when he was nine years old, has always been drawn to nature. In 2014, he launched Latino Outdoors. “Our basic premise is ‘Estamos aquí’, ‘We are here.’ And by that we mean that the Latinx community has been here in the Western United States for hundreds of years, and the landscape belongs to us as a culture as much as it belongs to anyone,” he says. “That’s the message that we’re trying to get out to the people. That this national park, where we are right now, is ‘our’ park as well, and with that comes a sense of opportunity and also responsibility.” Latino Outdoors also understands that the concepts of “nature” and “outdoors” might be different for many Latinos. Instead of nature being something they would travel to, many Latinos grew up in nature, either in rural North American communities, or rural communities throughout Central and South America. So, while the organization’s immediate programming is to draw more people to public lands, it also advocates for creating more urban green spaces closer to underserved Latino communities where access can be a barrier. To that end, the group now has chapters up and down the West Coast, in the Southwest, and even in New York City and Washington, D.C. For González, having the RV was a perfect middle ground for everything his organization advocates. It allowed him and his colleagues to push out beyond their communities, but it also made things Go RVing easy. No one had to worry driving ive separate cars, or about tents or erratic weather, and instead they could just travel together, get up in the morning, go for a hike, come back, make lunch, get ready to take in one of Arizona’s spectacular sunsets, and spend the evening inside warm and comfortable. With the RV, González says, “you’ve got beds for everyone, a bathroom, a kitchen, all your stuff, yet whenever you want to teleport yourself into nature, all you have to do is step out the door.” has everything you need to start an RV adventure. To ﬁnd dealers and rental companies, please visit gorving.com. To see more highlights of José and crew’s RV adventure, head to outsideonline.com/ latinooutdoors. Dispatches 3DFLÀF1RUWKZHVW 05.18 a–b. Bainbridge Island c. Bainbridge’s L’Atelier TR d. Mount Rainier e. McCloud Falls, California f. Belcampo GET MAROONED Twenty-eight-square-mile Bainbridge Island sits just across Puget Sound from the nation’s fifth-fastest-growing major city. It has a rep as a bedroom community for Jeff Bezos’s Amazonians, but we’re not buying it: with lonely roads that are perfect for biking, killer new restaurants, and no fewer than seven wineries, this place encapsulates just about everything that makes the Northwest great. Base yourself out of the eight-room Eagle Harbor Inn (from $180; theeagleharbor inn.com), a 15-minute walk from the ferry terminal, and load up on Liège waffles at L’Atelier TR, a chocolatier and bistro that opened in September. Take a hike through the firs and madrones of 240-acre Grand Forest, or rent a ride from one of the two nearby bike shops and spend the day spinning country lanes to places like Fort Ward Park, home to a secret World War II naval base. Feeling thirsty? Tour Bainbridge runs winery and history tours every day in summer (from $69; tourbainbridge.com). a b f c e d CUT IN Siskiyou County, California At the far north of the state, along the Oregon border, Siskiyou County has no shortage of adventure. Folks come to backpack for days in the 517,000-acre Trinity Alps Wilderness or to wander along the frothy McCloud River Trail to a series of cascading falls, some as high as 50 feet. You, however, should come to up your grilling game: at Belcampo Meat Camps in Gazelle, students spend three days learning how to butcher lamb shoulders and pork chops, cooking them over an open-flame wood fire, and receiving expert instruction in sauces, stews, and bone broths, all while glamping on a more than 20,000-acre organic farm. Each morning, guests take hikes around the property in the Mount Shasta foothills. Camps start June 15 and include women-only and family-friendly options. From $900; belcampo.com/meatcamp LOCAL SALT Jess Matthews, climber Matthews has been guiding for the past four years with RMI Expeditions, the oldest and most prestigious climbing outfitter on Mount Rainier. She’s glad to call the place home come spring each year. “A lot of people in the Northwest put up with the winter just to have the summer,” says the 35-year-old. “Summers here are spectacular.” To date, Matthews has logged 32 summits of the 14,410-foot peak and scaled its flanks more than 70 times. When family and friends visit, she takes them paddleboarding on Alder Lake or hiking around Rainier’s Sunrise Point. But if they’re looking for something more ambitious, Matthews suggests the trek up to Hogsback Camp, at the toe of Mount Baker’s Coleman Glacier. It’s a lung-busting route that gains more than 2,000 feet in a couple of miles. 30 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE C l O C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: K R I S T I N E A N D E R S O N /A L A M Y; J E T TA P R O D U C T I O N S / B L E N D I M AG E S /A L A M Y; TA E T R A N ; J U S T I N M U L L E T/ S TO C K SY ; A D R I / S H U T T E R S TO C K ; C O U R T E SY O F B E LC A M P O Bainbridge Island, Washington WASTE NOT, WANT NOT... AT RAINBOW® SANDALS WE ENDEAVOR TO REUSE AND RECYCLE OUR EXCESS MATERIALS IN PRODUCTION. HERE ARE A FEW OF THE THINGS WE DO: - EXCESS GLUE UP IS PEELED OFF OUR LAMINATING TABLES AND THROWN BACK IN THE MIXER TO MAKE MORE GLUE. - RUBBER DUST COMING OFF OUR BELT SANDERS IS COLLECTED AND REUSED AS A SOLUTE IN OUR GLUE SOLUTION. ALL OUR GLUE IS APPLIED IN CONTAINED AREAS AND SCRUBBED CLEAN OF VOC’S. - WE FIX AND CLEAN OLD SANDALS AND DONATE THEM TO THE HOMELESS, VICTIMS OF NATURAL DISASTERS, ORPHANAGES AND OTHERS IN NEED. OUR GOAL REMAINS PRODUCING HIGH QUALITY SANDALS THAT DON’T END UP IN LANDFILLS. WE BELIEVE BROKEN AND OLD SANDALS WILL EVENTUALLY END UP IN OUR RIVERS AND OCEANS IF THROWN AWAY AFTER THEY WERE WORN. WE GIVE ALL CUSTOMERS AT OUR FACTORY OUTLET A 10% DISCOUNT IF THEY BRING BACK THEIR OLD RAINBOW® SANDALS TO DONATE TO OUR REPAIR • REUSE • RECYCLE PROGRAM. — JAY “SPARKY” LONGLEY, FOUNDER/CEO Featured on the Left: Sandals from our Repair • Reuse • Recycle department finding their way onto the feet of orphan children in Tanzania, South Africa via Small Steps for Compassion. SSC is a unique loving home that provides a supportive family to orphan children in the community around them by reinventing the way of taking care of parentless children. Learn more at smallstepsforcompassion.org +RXUV a. La Petite Grocery b. St. Charles streetcar c. NOLA Paddleboards d. Pontchartrain Hotel e. Bearcat Cafe f. In the French Quarter 05.18 a b f c e Take It Easy NEW ORLEANS IS DESERVEDLY FAMOUS FOR ITS FOOD. BUT THE CITY’S MANY WATERWAYS, BIKE PATHS, AND GREENSPACES ARE WORTHY, TOO—AND WILL HELP YOU EARN THOSE BEIGNETS. (healthy) and Bad Cat (less so) options. Give in to sin and order the barbecue shrimp and grits. 10 A.M. Sign up with NOLA Paddleboards to check out Bayou St. John in Mid-City. The canal is lined with historic homes and abuts 1,300acre City Park. From $37 for 75 minutes; nolapaddleboards.com d ($8 per hour; bluebikesnola.com) and hop on the Laﬁtte Greenway. The 2.6-mile converted rail corridor drops you in the French Quarter, but cycle on to explore Crescent Park, a 20-acre riverfront greenspace. French bistro fare. Be sure to reserve a table in advance— executive chef and owner Justin Devillier has been nominated for the James Beard Award ﬁve times (and won it in 2016). lapetitegrocery.com 4 P.M. 9 P.M. At Bacchanal, a wine-shopcum-courtyard-hangout in the bohemian Bywater area, pick up a bottle on the way in and choose a spot close to the stage for live local music. bacchanalwine.com Start your morning with a quick 1.8-mile run around the loop in Uptown’s Audubon Park, ﬁlled with herons, egrets, and centuries-old oaks. Head to Parkway Bakery and Tavern for a locals’-favorite po’boy. Top it off with a weddingcake-ﬂavored snowball—New Orleans’s version of shaved ice— at nearby Pandora’s. Drop your bags at the Pontchartrain Hotel, reopened in 2016 after a $10 million face-lift. The Garden District property blends blue-blood style and New Orleans funk—the lounge features a portrait of native son Lil Wayne with a slice of the restaurant’s signature Mile High Pie. From $143; thepontchartrainhotel.com 8 A.M. 1:30 P.M. 7 P.M. Hit up Bearcat Cafe on Jena Street for breakfast, where the menu is split between Good Cat It’s time to ride. Grab a Blue Bike from the city’s recently launched bike-share program Formerly a neighborhood market, La Petite Grocery serves up a distinctively New Orleans take on BY CHENEY GARDNER 12 P.M. 6 A.M. 32 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 12 A.M. End the night with—what else?— beignets from Café Du Monde in the heart of the French Quarter. The 156-year-old landmark is open 24 hours, so we won’t judge if you count it as breakfast. cafe dumonde.com C LO C KW I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: S C OT T S U C H M A N ( 2 ) ; J E F F L A K E Y; C H R I S T I A N H O R A N ; F E L I C E H A H N ; K R I S T E N C U R E T T E H I N E S / S TO C K SY Dispatches THE ENDE AVOR YOU DIDN’T KNOW YOU WANTED. OR MAYBE YOU DID. DRIVING YOU BE YOND YOUR IMAGINATION. I’LL HELP YOU RE ACH FAR OFF PL ACES. AND CRE ATE MEMORIES YOU'LL KEEP, LONG AFTER YOUR RETURN. I’M COLOR ADO. AND I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE TRULY ALIVE. Get the guide at COLORADO.COM Dispatches Used Gear 05.18 Reduce, Reuse, Resell WHY OUTDOOR BRANDS WANT TO HAWK YOUR OLD EQUIPMENT ONLINE BY JOE JACKSON LAST FALL, Patagonia and REI began selling previously owned gear online. (Word has it that the North Face may follow suit.) To be clear, used-product sales aren’t untrammeled ground for these brands; REI has been holding Garage Sale events for its members for years, and Patagonia makes returned items available to employees at deep discounts. But an online store dedicated to secondhand stuff is new territory for both companies. REI dipped a toe in last October when it launched Used Gear Beta, a redistribution platform for its best gently used returns. And Patagonia’s program, part of its Worn Wear initiative, lets customers exchange older Patagonia apparel and equipment for store credit. Both companies vet the products, and acceptable items are cleaned and prepped for resale. Sites like eBay and GearTrade have long given people an easy way to sell used kit, but the decision by outdoor-industry heavyweights to jump in is about more than just marketing or a novel way to monetize returns. Patagonia, for one, sees the potential for real profit. Phil Graves, Patagonia’s director of corporate development, expects the new market to account for a double-digit percentage of the brand’s overall business by 2023. And, as with most trends these days, he believes younger consumers will drive that growth. “Millennials care deeply about environmental and social aspects when making purchasing decisions,” Graves says. Matt Powell, vice president of market-research company NPD Group, echoes that view. “This is very much an extension of where millennials are in terms of shopping. They’re more likely to buy used products.” Not to mention that the markdown is usually around 50 percent. Neither Patagonia nor REI would disclose sales margins, but Powell believes that the secondhand model is viable. If a company as large as Patagonia can generate 10 percent of its business from products it doesn’t have to make from scratch, that strategy is bound to be adopted by other outdoor brands—and other industries. Graves says he was recently on a call with the vice president of a home-furnishings company that’s exploring a model similar to Worn Wear for its products. And while convenience-obsessed millennials are spurring the changes, sites like Patagonia’s and REI’s make buying used gear more appealing for everyone. It’s certainly better than rolling the dice on Craigslist. 34 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE Tricks of the (Lightly Used) Trade Before you pull the trigger on a piece of previously owned kit, take a tip from Josh Sims, owner of the Gear Fix consignment shop in Bend, Oregon DO: Compare prices. “On eBay, each listing shows previous listings of that product and what they went for,” Sims says. '21·7 Buy used helmets or climbing gear. A helmet that looks OK may be internally unsound, and ropes can suffer unseen core shots that make an entire safety system likely to fail. DO: Embrace the gross. “Hats, gloves, and footwear are three product categories that you can get really great deals on, because of the ick factor,” Sims says. '21·7 Buy used underwear. That’s just too gross. P H OTO G R A P H B Y Rachel Hudacek THE ALL - NEW ©2018 FCA US LLC. All Rights Reserved. Jeep is a registered trademark of FCA US LLC. 2018 WRANGLER Dispatches Spring Jackets 05.18 Gimme Shelter YOUR BEST DEFENSE AGAINST SNOW, SUN, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN A BY KELLY BASTONE AND PETER KOCH A. Outdoor Research Optimizer $399 BEST FOR: Redlining Most winter hard shells are oppressive in balmy conditions—or when hiking uphill regardless of the weather. But the waterproof and feathery Optimizer proved to be tough enough for ski tours and airy enough for spring showers. Credit Gore’s new Active fabric, which is more durable and 20 percent lighter than older versions. 12.9 oz (men’s) / 11.6 oz (women’s) B. Mountain Hardwear Touren Hooded $350 BEST FOR: Summit bids This soft shell is so accommodating, we forgot we had it on—even atop a blustery ridge near Colorado’s Continental Divide. The hood, front, and upper arms are made of Polartec Power Shield, which seals out gusts, while the back and underarms feature a thin stretch-woven material that dumps heat. 1.2 lbs (men’s) / 1.1 lb (women’s) C. Black Diamond StormLine Stretch $149 BEST FOR: Dodging rain Supple, stretchy seamtaped fabric kept us from feeling Saran Wrapped in the 2.5-layer StormLine. We found it comfortable, and the elasticity let us reach for handholds during scrambling ascents. Although the proprietary membrane isn’t as breathable as some shells, it vents well enough to keep sweat tolerable. 11.3 oz (men’s) / 7.9 oz (women’s) D. Arc’teryx Sawyer $425 BEST FOR: Concrete canyons Features of mountain jackets—waterproofing, comfort, an articulated cut—are just as appealing in the city. So Arc’teryx merged them with urban styling, lengthening the hem and swapping in somber sidewalk tones. The Sawyer is a men’s jacket, but women lauded the fit. 15 oz (men’s) 36 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE B C C D P H OTO G R A P H S B Y Inga Hendrickson E. Salewa Agner Engineered DST $200 BEST FOR: Rubbing elbows with rocks We didn’t worry about babying this soft shell when scaling Joshua Tree’s coarse granite and Smith Rock’s welded tuff. It’s made from PFC-free DWR, with abrasion-resistant Cordura yarn seamlessly woven into the stretch fabric at the shoulders and elbows. 12.2 oz (men’s) / 10.2 oz (women’s) E F. Gore C5 Gore-Tex Shakedry 1985 $300 BEST FOR: Wet rides This featherweight performance shell is the second generation to use Shakedry, a paper-thin, twolayer fabric that wears its waterproof membrane on its exterior, eliminating the need for stuffy outer fabric with wet-out potential. The upshot is that it’s incredibly light and super breathable. 4.9 oz (men’s and women’s) G. Marmot Eclipse EvoDry $250 F G BEST FOR: A greener spring This all-purpose hiking jacket is the first to use EvoDry, an eco-friendly, PFCfree DWR treatment that’s molecularly bonded to the yarn, so it never washes off. It’s combined with a 2.5-layer shell made of recycled nylon. All that tech worked brilliantly, keeping us dry in a downpour. 13.4 oz (men’s) / 12.3 oz (women’s) H. Icebreaker Coriolis $220 BEST FOR: Comfort on the run Say goodbye to that crunchy, clammy sensation. This windbreaker had us feeling fine on long, chilly spring training runs, thanks to a soft, wicking, odor-resistant merino lining paired with a breathable, weatherresistant nylon face. 13.5 oz (men’s) / 12.7 oz (women’s) H OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 37 Dispatches :RPHQ·V:RUNRXW Patagonia Women’s Switchback bra $49 For high-intensity training, this is your support network. Thick crossback straps limit bounce for A to C cups, and sweat-wicking mesh fabric prevents chafing. 05.18 RYU Vapor Long Sleeve pullover $67 This is our new favorite layering piece. The ultralight, seamless fabric creates a snug fit, and a built-in antimicrobial treatment means you can wear it a few times before washing. Sweat Equity TRAINING ESSENTIALS FOR BUSY NINE-TO-FIVERS BY CARLY GRAF A. R+Co Death Valley travel-size dry shampoo $17 Tailor-made for the perennial lunch crusher, this dry shampoo quickly removes sweat and restores volume. A few sprays and you’re ready for your afternoon meeting. APL Women’s Techloom Pro trainers $140 During circuits, the Techloom Pro’s light, flexible upper keeps you moving fast. Afterward, the classy knit means you don’t have to change into street shoes. B A B. Fitbit Flyer earphones $130 Sync these Bluetooth buds to your Fitbit Ionic or phone to crank tunes from your wrist. Built for the long haul, they’re rain- and sweatproof and have a six-hour battery life. C D Lululemon Everywhere duffel $148 Like a lot of smart gym bags, the Everywhere has a laptop sleeve and separate compartments for clean clothes, dirty clothes, and shoes. And unlike most, its glossy exterior makes it suitable for the office. 38 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE C. Eating Evolved Coconut Butter Cups $3 Your sweetsnacks habit gets a performance reboot with these coconut cups. Made with chocolate beans and coconut butter, they’re chock-full of healthy fats to help you refuel and recover on the go. D. S’Well Traveler bottle $35 This triple-walled, 16-ounce bottle will keep your coffee hot for 12 hours or ice water cold for 24. Athleta Up for Everything leggings $89 Compression meets comfort in these lightweight, high-waisted leggings. They’re breathable for hot yoga and snug for a speed workout, and they include four zip pockets. P H OTO G R A P H B Y Inga Hendrickson INTRODUCING THE NEW AMPHIBIOUS FOOTWEAR FROM VIBRAM FIVEFINGERS VIBRAM.COM Dispatches The Process 05.18 “IN 2015, I HOPPED a barbed-wire fence while I was hunting and ripped my brand-new $400 Pata- Patch Job NOSO’S KELLI JONES IS BUILDING AN OUTDOOR BUSINESS WHILE REDUCING WASTE, ONE SCRAP OF NYLON AT A TIME AS TOLD TO GORDY MEGROZ 40 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE gonia Fitz Roy down parka. I cut a piece of duct tape in the shape of a heart and put it on my coat, but I didn’t like the way it looked. Nylon gear rips all the time, and I had lots of tears in my clothes, so I started buying materials online that I would cut into heart and star patches. In the tram line at Jackson Hole, people kept asking me about them. I was working in accounting but eventually realized that this was a business opportunity. I launched Noso Patches on Indiegogo in August 2016, asking for $15,000. I raised just over that, which bought me 600 yards of fabric and got the website up and running. I did $20,000 in sales the first year and $52,000 last year. Now I have two sales reps, and I think we can do $150,000 this year. Right now most of my day-to-day is product development and trying to make people aware of what we do. Through a blog on the site and social media, I show people what I’m making. I’m always reaching out to companies to ask them to donate material that will otherwise just get thrown out. The average American tosses away 70 pounds of textiles annually. If a critical mass of people start patching their gear instead of trashing it, that has an impact. I still own an accounting business. I use both sides of my brain on a daily basis. Accounting is very left brain—analytical, logical, objective. Noso is where my right brain kicks in: it’s creative, imaginative, and expressive. As much as I love accounting, it’s important for me to do something for myself that I’m really passionate about. Noso lets me tap into my creative side.” P H OTO G R A P H B Y Lindsay Linton Buk HANDCR AFTED WITH MORE THAN TEQUILA IN MIND. The perfect way to enjoy Patrón is responsibly. Handcrafted and imported exclusively from Mexico by The Patrón Spirits Company, Las Vegas, NV. 40% abv. We believe in crafting our tequila the best way possible. That’s why we’ve made sustainability a priority, from composting leftover agave fiber, to our local reforestation efforts, to developing a state-of-the-art water-treatment process at our distillery. Because at Patrón, making the world’s finest tequila means protecting all that goes into it. LEARN ABOUT OUR COMMITMENT AT PATRONTEQUILA.COM/COMMITMENT Dispatches Recovery Cannabis sativa 05.18 Charloe’s Web Everyday CBD Olive Oil $40 Hydro Therapy Floyd’s of Leadville CBD Hemp Oil $85 ATHLETES ARE DITCHING IBUPROFEN FOR CBD, AN ANTI-INFLAMMATORY EXTRACTED FROM THE MARIJUANA PLANT. IS THIS BUD FOR YOU? R AC H E L H U DAC E K ( B OT T L E S ) BY GRAHAM AVERILL ANDREW TALANSKY is almost always sore. The 29-year-old spent seven years as a professional cyclist racing for Slipstream Sports. He recently switched to triathlon and now spends hours training both on and off the bike. “I’m using muscles I haven’t used in years,” Talansky says. “My body is constantly inflamed.” Many athletes in his situation rely on common pain relief like 42 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE P H OTO G R A P H B Y Kirk Jones AND B G N I K S U RC A M E H T D S AN R E H T O R B OOD W E H T : G N FEATURI Dispatches Recovery 05.18 ibuprofen, but when Talansky strained a hip flexor last fall, he reached for a bottle of cannabidiol (CBD), an extract from the cannabis plant, instead. “I took it for a couple of weeks, and there was a noticeable difference immediately,” Talansky says. “And it wasn’t just that my hip was feeling better. I was less anxious, and I was sleeping better.” Marijuana has long been considered an alternative pain medication, with THC, the principle psychoactive compound in the plant, getting most of the attention. CBD is another active component and could offer some of the same medical benefits (anti-inflammatory, anti-anxiety, analgesic), but without the side effect of getting high. CBD interacts with serotonin and vanilloid receptors in the brain, which affect mood and the perception of pain. It also has antioxidant properties. The World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) removed CBD from its list of banned substances in January, which prompted many professional athletes, including ultrarunner Avery Collins and mountain biker Teal Stetson-Lee, to eschew ibuprofen for CBD. Some believe it’s a safer alternative to drugstore pain relievers and anti-inflammatories. Research on CBD has been slow to accumulate, largely because the federal government considers marijuana a Schedule I drug—the same classification given to heroin and LSD— making it difficult for researchers to gain access to it for study. And because many states have already legalized the drug for medical use, pharmaceutical companies have little incentive to conduct costly clinical trials demonstrating its efficacy. (CBD remains illegal in several states that have yet to pass medicalmarijuana or CBD exemptions.) Still, the market for CBD is booming. According to a study by the Brightfield Group, a market-research firm based in Tampa, Florida, hemp CBD generated $170 million in revenue in 2016. With annual sales growing at a rate of 55 percent, it’s poised to be a $1 billion industry by 2020. Charlotte’s Web, which bottles the extract in Colorado, is one of the largest producers in the industry. Talansky’s CBD of choice comes from Floyd’s of Leadville, also in Colorado, which was launched in 2016 by former pro cyclist Floyd Landis. Floyd’s of Leadville markets its products directly to athletes looking for a natural recovery supplement. “Think of your 40-year-old endurance athlete who wants to feel good when he wakes up in the morning,” Landis says. “That’s our target.” Landis uses CBD to manage pain from a hip replacement he had in 2006. He relied on WADA-approved opioid-based painkillers for years, both before and after he was stripped of his 2006 Tour de France victory 44 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE for using synthetic testosterone. Eventually, Landis leaned on pot smoking to kick his opioid habit, and in 2015 a friend in the burgeoning marijuana industry suggested Landis try CBD instead. “It’s the only thing I use now,” Landis says. “I try not to oversell it, because I don’t want to sound insane. But if you can stop taking other pain medications, if you have a natural solution, that’s probably the better option.” There is research to back up his enthusiasm. A 2008 review by GW Pharmaceuticals examined two decades’ worth of preclinical studies and animal trials before concluding that CBD can be a successful tool for pain management without many adverse side effects. A 2016 study by the University of Kentucky examined CBD’s effects on arthritic rats and found that the compound reduced inflammation and overall pain. Some studies have also labeled it a neuroprotectant, suggesting that it has the ability to bolster the brain against the damaging effects of concussion. More than a dozen countries have CBDbased medications on the market, including Canada and Israel, but in the U.S. advanced clinical trials are still in their infancy. “There is overwhelming evidence that CBD can be effective for mitigating pain,” says Jahan Marcu, chief science officer with Americans for Safe Access, which works to legalize medical marijuana. “But we haven’t seen the full clinical trials necessary to understand exactly how it works.” Prospective CBD users should keep in mind that the scientific community still has a lot to learn about the drug. For instance, there have been no studies on recommended dosage for a given ailment. There’s also no scientific consensus about how effective CBD is compared with anti-inflammatories like ibuprofen or naproxen. That could change soon: at least 20 clinical trials examining the medical benefits of CBD are currently under way in the U.S., including a $16 million effort by the University of Miami, which is looking into CBD’s effects on brain trauma. Beyond these questions, there’s also growing concern about the quality of the products currently for sale. Because the federal government considers CBD an illegal drug, the industry is underregulated by the FDA, with little third-party oversight. A 2017 study published in The Journal of the American Medical Association found that 69 percent of the CBD products tested didn’t contain the amount of cannabidiol indicated on the label. Most CBD companies don’t sell through retail outlets; they reach consumers online. “You can’t really trust what you’re buying over the Internet,” says Ryan Vandrey, who researches cannabis at Johns Hopkins Uni- CBD could offer some of the same medical EHQHÀWVRI7+& DQWLLQÁDPPDWRU\ DQWLDQ[LHW\ analgesic) without the side effect of getting high. It also has antioxidant properties. versity and coauthored the 2017 JAMA study. “After purchasing every CBD oil you could buy, we found that a number of companies were selling products that contained almost no cannabidiol, and others contained THC.” While there are many unknowns, anecdotal and preclinical evidence for the efficacy of CBD continues to build. Vandrey is conducting an ongoing survey of more than 1,000 users of marijuana products, many of them with CBD, and his initial findings suggest that the majority have seen overall improvement in terms of pain relief, sleep satisfaction, and anxiety reduction, though the cause remains unclear. And a growing number of athletes like Talansky believe that aiding recovery without the long-term side effects of ibuprofen (such as increased risk of heart failure) or the addictive qualities of opioids is a step in the right direction. “I haven’t taken an Advil in months,” Talansky says. “For any athlete who O trains hard, that’s saying a lot.” Before You Buy The lack of industry standards can make purchasing CBD risky. If you plan on stocking up, here are some basic questions to keep in mind. > Is it legal where you live? Most states have passed some medical marijuana or CBD exemptions, but it’s completely illegal in four states: Idaho, South Dakota, Nebraska, and Kansas. > Has it been tested by a third party? Independent labs check for potency, pesticides, and residual solvents. If the company doesn’t list these results, move on. > Does the company make unsubstantiated claims? CBD has not been proven to kill cancer cells, halt Alzheimer’s, or treat schizophrenia. Avoid products that promise to cure everything that ails you. 'LVSDWFKHV/DLUG·V/DZV 05.18 Basic Training THIS MONTH WE KICK OFF A NEW FITNESS COLUMN BY SURFING LEGEND LAIRD HAMILTON. FIRST UP: HIS FIVE RULES FOR PERFORMING AT YOUR BEST. No more scraping by on four or five hours. For top performance, shoot for seven to eight (or, in my case, nine) every night. To support the recovery that happens overnight, I drink chaga tea before I turn in, which kick-starts the anti-inflammation process. And since overheating in bed frequently leads to restless sleep, I use a ChiliPad, which slips underneath the sheets and drops to a temperature as low as 55 degrees to keep me cool. 2. FUEL YOUR BODY Simple whole foods have powered our bodies for generations. You can’t game the system with meal replacements, fake ingredients, or fad diets. Start to think about food as a fuel source and you’ll see real results. It’s tempting to make nutrition feel restrictive. But rather than count calories or macros in a meal, I simply avoid most processed foods 46 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE and focus on the distance between its origin and my plate. If the distance is short, I’m OK with eating it. 3. SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF You don’t need to make peak performance your full-time job like I have, but you should think of it as an all-day mentality that goes far beyond the gym. It requires near constant attention and a holistic approach to health. I spend about 40 hours per week training. People think they have no time, but I’ll crank out squats while dinner cooks or hop on my foam roller while watching TV. I’ll even flow through a few mini breathing sets when I have to work from a desk. 4. CHALLENGE YOUR WEAKNESSES My asymmetries have always plagued me and are largely a result of surfing for so many years with the same lead leg. That’s partly why I started paddleboarding—to develop strength on the other side of my body. Don’t shy away from the things you’re worst at. Focus on mobility if you lack range of motion. Incorporate endurance efforts if you’re a natural power athlete. This rule also applies to areas like mindfulness and nutrition. Add a ten-minute meditation to your weight-room routine, or put more veggies on your plate if you’re a chronic carbo-loader. Without a well-rounded approach to health, you’ll always be limited by your greatest weakness. 5. FIND YOUR CREW One of your biggest assets is the company you keep. I’m at my best when I’m around people who value health and performance the same way I do. We experiment with workouts, debate recovery methods, and share our go-to health podcasts and books. If you can take the time to listen to and learn from that group, you’ll find that it challenges you to improve. P H OTO G R A P H B Y Ture Lillegraven AU G U ST I M AG E 1. DON’T SKIMP ON SLEEP BRANDED CONTENT The Culture of Rain Wherever you go, there's a different term for the wet stuff. Burton's GORE-TEX® 2L Packrite Rain Jacket can handle all of it. MUD-SENDER: California slang for a rain heavy enough to cause a mud slide. Also referred to as a “trash-mover” in Mississippi and a “bridge lifter” in North Carolina. TOAD-STRANGLER: A term for an especially heavy downpour, most often used in the Gulf Coast states of the American Southeast. Also known as a frog strangler or frog rain. TREMPÉ COMME UNE SOUPE: French for “soaked like a soup.” Impossible when wearing a jacket made with GORE-TEX® Paclite® material, like the Packrite. COW-QUAKER: A British term for a sudden and heavy rain in May after the cows have returned to pasture. SIZZLY SOD-SOAKER: Old-school Appalachian phrase for a long and steady rain. APO PUE KAHI: Hawaiian name for a rain that happens after a loved one passes. MIZZLING: British for a light rain that might or might not make you pull out your GORE-TEX® Packrite Jacket. LIQUID SUN: Rain that falls while the sun is shining. Also referred to as a sunshower or pineapple rain. SMIRR: What the Scottish call a ine, misty rain. Women's Burton GORE-TEX® 2L Packrite Rain Jacket $219.95 // Burton.com Whatever starts falling out of the sky, the Packrite Jacket has your back. It’s ultralight and breathable GORE-TEX® Paclite® fabric will prevent you from overheating during a light smirr, but thanks to fully taped seams, a bomber hood, and stormflap at your chin, it’s also capable of standing up to the most intense toad-stranglers. To learn more, visit burton.com Dispatches Nutrition 05.18 DO THE MATH: Grains + protein + veggies + spices + crunch + toppings = all-day energy Grain Bowls for Dummies BY PETER VIGNERON GRAINS This is your base, so choose wisely. Quinoa, bulgur, and barley are complete proteins and full of iron and good carbohydrates. THE RIGHT combination of flavors and ingredients can transform the humble grain bowl into a supermeal, especially for timepressed athletes looking to pack in nutrients. “It’s some of the easiest food you can eat,” says chef Kelly Newlon, cofounder of the meal service Real Athlete Diets. Start with Newlon’s foolproof formula, then customize with your favorite components. PROTEIN Omnivores: Newlon suggests elk, darkmeat chicken, or buffalo sourced from local farms. If you’re vegetarian, fry an egg and give your bowl a breakfast- TAKE THE GUESSWORK OUT OF FUELING AND FOLLOW THIS SIMPLE FORMULA 48 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE burrito theme with black beans and pico de gallo. VEGGIES Anything goes here, but crisper choices like kimchi, pickled sprouts, or cucumbers are a great way to add texture. SPICES To boost flavor and fat content, cook the grains in a broth enhanced with anti-inflammatory ingredients like turmeric, ginger, or mushroom powder. “The liquid you use can be as exciting as the grain itself and adds layers of taste,” says Newlon. CRUNCH Nuts and seeds are packed with unsaturated fats and amino acids— especially useful for vegetarians and vegans. Peanuts and pine nuts offer bold flavors, while flax, hemp, or sesame seeds bump up the fiber content. TOPPINGS To finish things off, Newlon recommends a nutrient-filled flavor booster like vinaigrette made with miso, mustard, or cashew butter. If you prefer something dry, garnish your bowl with seaweed, lemon zest, and fresh basil, cilantro, or parsley. P H OTO G R A P H B Y Petra Zeiler Book the perfect beach vacation or weekend getaway now for the best rates. BookTheCoast.com SEE HER STORY AT VISIT NC. COM U.S. NATIONAL WHITEWATER CENTER Charlotte. A lot of pockets of this city are simply begging to be explored. You’ll quickly ﬁnd that those who wander are never lost in this humming metropolis surrounded by natural beauty that boasts lush landscapes, natural havens, and even, whitewater rapids. Plan your trip at charlottesgotalot.com. The Outer Banks ® OF NORTH CAROLINA A meri ca’ s Firs t Beach The Outer Banks has a way of staying with people long after the vacation is over. Uncrowded beaches stretching for miles and the endless possibilities that come with them. Welcome to our country’s first National Seashore – America’s First Beach -- and the place where the English first tried to settle in the New World. You’ll find that the Outer Banks is still home to the explorers and adventurers, those who wander and those who wonder. Expand your horizons on the Outer Banks. 877-629-4386 AmericasFirstBeach.com Dispatches Tools 05.18 The Sleep of Your Dreams A MORE RESTFUL NIGHT IS JUST A WIRELESS SNORE-NEUTRALIZING SOUNDSCAPE GENERATOR AWAY BY JANCEE DUNN ACCORDING TO the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, a third of us don’t get nearly enough shut-eye. Our collective bleariness has spurred a $41 billion market for gadgets and accessories promising more—and higher-quality—sleep. In my eternal quest for downtime, I tested some of the most promising ones. Here’s how they stacked up. Eight sleep tracker $299 This mattress topper fits under a sheet and “turns any bed into a smart bed,” according to Eight. While I dozed, the sensor-studded pad gathered data like heart rate, periods of deepest slumber, and number of tosses and turns. It was easy to use, and I liked the warming feature, which let me set each side of the bed to a different temperature. REM Score: 8 (out of 10) Dreampad pillow $149 and up The Dreampad uses mellow soundscapes to help you power down. Connect the device to your phone via Bluetooth or USB, and the pillow emits soft music, audible only to you as you lay your head down. There are ten tracks on offer, ranging from the New Agey “Harmonic Continuum” to “Seaside Strings” (ocean waves plus viola). I didn’t drift off any faster with the Dreampad, but it did help me fall back asleep when I woke up at night. REM Score: 6 Smart Nora Wireless Snoring Solution $299 My eight hours of restful bliss are frequently interrupted by my husband’s snoring. The Smart Nora relieves me of the need to nudge him. When the bedside audio sensor detects a respiratory disturbance, it slowly inflates the culprit’s pillow, gently shifting them into a freer-breathing position. My husband sometimes woke up briefly but was soon asleep again. For me it was heaven: one night I even checked to make sure he was still conscious. REM Score: 8 Nightingale Smart Home Sleep System $149 The Nightingale is next-level knockout tech. Two app-enabled units wrap the room in a blanket of warm ambient sound. You can P H OTO G R A P H B Y Hannah McCaughey also program the system to provide weather and traffic information when you wake up. The only downside: in standby mode, it emits a faint hum. REM Score: 9 went to bed 20 minutes earlier than usual”) and even competitive with other sleepers (“People similar to you sleep an average of seven hours five minutes”). REM Score: 7 Tomorrow Sleeptracker $89 Roughly the size of an iPhone, this slim monitor slips neatly under your mattress to analyze REM cycles and breathing patterns. When it’s getting near time to rise, a smart alarm will wake you during a light stage of sleep. It will also e-mail you a daily log and tailored tips. After one night of restive slumber, my recap chided me to cut that out: “If you’re not asleep in twenty minutes, get out of bed, go to another room, and do something relaxing.” I was soon obsessed with my performance (“Well done! Last night you 2Breathe Sleep Inducer $180 This sensor looks flimsy, but it was the most effective aid I tested. It pairs with an app and guides your inhalations and exhalations with somewhat cheesy but nonetheless soothing music. When the gadget and I fell out of sync, a soft voice discreetly corrected me. It took a week to get used to the comically deep breaths, but it worked: once my breathing was aligned, I was out in minutes. And shortly after it senses that you’re fast asleep, the app shuts down. REM Score: 9 OUTSIDE MAGAZINE 55 56 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE This Is What Adventure Looks Like Thanks to a bold movement led by activists and athletes, the outdoors at last is on its way to becoming a more inclusive playground. It’s about damn time. INTERVIEWS BY JAMES EDWARD MILLS P H OTO G R A P H B Y JOÃO CANZIANI From left: Ayesha McGowan, Knox Robinson, Shelma Jun, Krystle Ramos, Mikhail Martin 2018 Out side FACES of shortly after I graduated from the University of California at Berkeley with a degree in anthropology. I took a minimum-wage job at the local gear shop, Recreational Equipment, Inc. At that time, there were about a dozen REI stores nationwide, gas was 97 cents a gallon, and my tuition was $850 a year. With a rent-controlled apartment near Telegraph Avenue, I felt like I had it made. I drove a Suzuki Samurai 4x4 with a gear rack mounted on the spare tire. With friends from work, I skied in Lake Tahoe and hiked all over the Sierra. I learned to climb in Yosemite. I raced triathlons and marathons. Life was good. As an African American man in my early twenties, I defied convention to become a successful outdoor professional. In 1992, I landed a job at the North Face as an independent sales rep for a territory in the upper Midwest. Calling on shops in Milwaukee, Chicago, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Des Moines, Sioux Falls, and Fargo, I was the face of the brand in these cities for almost five years, and I went on to work for a number of other outdoor companies. Along the way, I encouraged people of color to participate in the activities I loved while pushing brands to grow their business by reaching out to people they’d long ignored. More often than not, my efforts were thwarted by dismissive senior executives. “James,” they’d say, “that’s just not our market.” This assumption was rooted in the dominant cultural narrative about who enjoys adventure. Gear catalogs, advertising campaigns, films, and articles in magazines like Outside typically presented the outdoors as a place for white people, most of them men. At the turn of the millennium, I decided to do something about this, pivoting from sales to journalism. I wrote about the achievements of people like the buffalo soldiers, African American members of the U.S. Cavalry who started patrolling Yosemite in the 1890s as some of our first national park rangers, and Sophia Danenberg’s historic 2006 Mount Everest climb, when she became the first black American to reach the summit. The more I looked around, the more obvious it became that the world of adventure was—has always been—far more diverse than we’d been led to believe. The stories of people of color, Native Americans, those with disabilities, and members of the LGBTQ community just weren’t being shared widely in the outdoor community. Finally, that’s changing. But not because the outdoor media and the outdoor industry woke up. What happened is that underrepresented groups took control of the narrative. Utilizing digital platforms, they’re speaking for themselves. Organizations like Outdoor Afro, Latino Outdoors, and Out There Adventures have begun stripping away the presumption of a white, male, heterosexual experience. Even more importantly, by unapologetically presenting their unique points of view, they’ve shined a light on a rich heritage of adventure and environmental stewardship that has been there for generations. Many of these change makers are just getting started, their endeavors evolving as they adjust strategies and reassess goals. As they run, ride, paddle, ski, and climb throughout our nation’s public lands, they manifest a profound sense of belonging. Collectively, they are at the forefront of a rising national movement toward an inclusive outdoor community. They are the changing face of the outdoors. Here, in their own words, are some of their stories. —J.E.M. 58 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 CHANGE DANIELLE WILLIAMS, 31 RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA Founder of Melanin Base Camp I got into the outdoors through the military. I grew up an army brat—my dad was air-defense artillery, my mom was an army nurse. I jumped out of my ﬁrst plane at age 20, when I was in Harvard’s ROTC, and was commissioned in the Army two years later. People think of skydiving as an extreme sport for adrenaline junkies, but for those of us who didn’t grow up hiking or climbing, it’s another way to appreciate nature. I started jumping recreationally in 2011, and that summer was magic. Every weekend I’d camp out at a drop zone with new friends. I moved to Alabama and traveled all over the South—Georgia, Mississippi, Florida, Virginia, South Carolina. A few years later, I met a small group of African American skydivers, all former military. We decided to set the unofﬁcial record for the ﬁrst allblack star-formation skydive, and from that Team Blackstar Skydivers was born. We got a logo and started to grow. We’re now 270 people in six countries—black, white, Latino, Asian, anyone excited about encouraging diversity in skydiving. In the Army we have a saying, “Look outside of your foxhole.” Skydiving is my foxhole, and I wanted to learn about people of color in other adventure sports. So in 2016, I started an Instagram account called Melanin Base Camp as a place where we could come together Initially, the idea was to promote diversity in adventure sports, but as we got more popular I realized that what we really need to improve is representation. Storytelling matters, and we often get left out of the stories America tells about the outdoors. We need to challenge that—not to edge others out, but to demonstrate that people of different shades are out there. DON CARRINGTON My career in outdoor adventure began in 1989, 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 59 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE KNOX ROBINSON, 43 BROOKLYN, NEW YORK Cofounder of Black Roses NYC ELYSE RYLANDER, 27 BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON Founder of Out There Adventures I had my lightbulb moment in college. I was taking a queer theory class, and one day the professor invited two graduate students to talk about a writing space they’d created for LGBTQ kids. I’d noticed this disconnect between my queer friends and my outdoorsy friends, so being 20 years old and thinking I could change the world, I wrote my senior thesis about how to build an organization that gets queer kids into the outdoors. After I graduated, I worked as a commercial wilderness guide in Alaska for a couple of years, then came back to Seattle and got to work turning my thesis into Out There Adventures. We received our nonproﬁt status in 2014, and ever since it’s been full-on trying to raise money and get programs going. Our courses are similar to what teens get in standard outdoor education, except that queers are in the majority. We also weave in time to talk about the nuances of being a queer person and how that gets reﬂected in the natural world. One of our sayings is “There’s nothing straight about nature.” Just look at the reproductive processes and life cycles of many plants and animals. Even the horizon line is slightly curved. Most of our outreach is through presentations at schools and groups, and we’ve had more than 100 students in our programs so far. It’s rare for a young queer person to attend one and say, “I love going outside! I want to do it all the time!” They come because it sounds fun. Then they get there and the magic happens. They see adults and kids who look like them doing this. That’s a profound experience for youth who’ve been told that there’s a speciﬁc way that you need to be in order to be a part of a community. After an afternoon of climbing or backpacking or sea kayaking, they walk away with a different sense of self. 60 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 P H OTO G R A P H B Y BENJAMIN RASMUSSEN I tie everything I do to culture. It’s my frame of reference. Rather than thinking of running in an empirical sense—heart rate, ﬁnishing times, personal best—I think about the fabric of what keeps us enraptured by what is a pretty basic pursuit. My dad did the occasional 10K or half marathon on weekends. I grew up believing that this was one of the tenets of a man’s life. I started running in high school. Edwin Moses loomed pretty large back then, and I thought I was going to be a hurdler, but that didn’t pan out. I was into distances early on, mainly because I was so slow. We started Black Roses NYC as a membership-based running collective. We are performance oriented, but we’re grounded in New York City street culture. We believe that running can be a connective force in our communities. Running to a bar or a dim sum restaurant in an outer borough is as important to us as training. Our name comes from a reggae song that was popular in the nineties. We love the provenance of the tune—it’s a dancehall classic. On a thematic level, we celebrate the idea of the rarest ﬂower in the garden, the one you never see. It speaks to people of African descent, but I have no problem with people from other backgrounds running in our group and enjoying the mix we create. We must consistently endeavor to support and even proselytize the image of black health. That’s crucial. We need to talk about cardiovascular-disease rates, but also mental and emotional wellbeing. Running is a bedrock for health. Moving unfettered through space, in our communities or on trails—on a good day, it’s the very essence of freedom. P H OTO G R A P H B Y JOÃO CANZIANI 2018 Out side FACES of MIRNA VALERIO, 42 RABUN GAP, GEORGIA Ultrarunner 62 My freshman year in high school, I decided to try ﬁeld hockey. I had never been on a team or done anything physical outside of PE class other than play with my friends on the streets of Brooklyn. Now I was at this all-girls boarding school, and the ﬁrst day of tryouts began with a mile run. That was a shock to my system. Then we had to do a timed mile and two and a half hours of drills. It was so painful, but joyful at the same time. I began running early in the morning before practice. I loved it. My size was never an issue. I ran to get stronger. After college at Oberlin, I moved back to New York and started entering road races. I took a running class. In 2011, I ran my ﬁrst marathon. Two years later I did my ﬁrst ultra, and I’ve run nine others since. I’ve failed to ﬁnish some races, including the 2017 TransRockies Run, which is a six-stage, 120-mile event in Colorado. I made it through two stages and over 12,540-foot Hope Pass, but I was going so slow that I pulled myself out. I decided to go at whatever pace I wanted and take pictures. I’ll deﬁnitely go back. I have a huge following now on Instagram, and people come to me with questions or encouragement. There’ve been negative things written about me, too: some folks say that because of my weight, I’m not really an athlete. They’re writing this literally while I’m running marathons and ultras. My message is be active with the body you have. I think what bothers some people is that I’m unapologetic. We live in a society of expectations and norms, and people can be threatened by something that’s different. But I continue to show them. I show up—for myself and others. O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 BRYAN MELTZ CHANGE If it’s outside, anyone’s invited, and everyone belongs. It doesn’t matter where you come from, only that you come often. So grab your old friends, your new friends, and your four-legged friends, and join us in the world’s biggest playground. Because the outside is calling, and we’re all in. 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE SHELMA JUN, 35 BROOKLYN, NEW YORK Founder of Flash Foxy At first we were just some black dudes who climbed. There were about five of us, and we’d see each other at the Brooklyn Boulders climbing gym, where almost everyone else was white. I grew up in Queens, which is one of the most diverse places on earth, so when you come from that and go into a space that’s very homogenous, you’re like, Whoa! What’s going on here? Somehow that turned into Brothers of Climbing. We’d be at the gym and call out to each other: “BOC! BOC!” We didn’t have a plan, but we knew we wanted to do something. We set up makeshift competitions. We made BOC T-shirts. We wanted it to be a talking point, for people to ask us, “What does that mean? What are you about?” The answer when we first started was that we wanted to see more black people in the sport. As time went on, we realized that it wasn’t just black people. A lot of different groups have been left out. Fast-forward to today and we’re doing events and meetups that allow people to come into the gym at a lower cost. In New York City, a day pass is $30, which is crazy. And that doesn’t include gear rental. We’ve partnered with Brooklyn Boulders to put up a climbing wall at Afropunk, a huge art and culture festival in the city. We partnered with Brown Girls Climb to create Color the Crag, a gathering that celebrates diversity in climbing. If we can at least give new people the opportunity to try the sport, we’ve done our job. People of color are trendsetters in other areas of pop culture, and I think the same will happen in climbing. We just need to create a gateway to bring in a little soul. I was born in South Korea, which has a big culture of hiking and camping. My family immigrated to Orange County, California, when I was five, and on family vacations we mostly drove to national or state parks, mainly because it was affordable. I was introduced to adventure sports in high school. But it wasn’t until a period of recovery following shoulder surgery that I got into climbing. I wasn’t able to do anything where I might fall on my shoulder, and a girlfriend invited me to the climbing gym. You can’t really fall if there’s a top rope. I got my master’s in urban planning at UCLA and came to New York to start my career, taking a job at an affordable-housing nonprofit, then an organization that works in community-based design. I also found an amazing crew of women climbers, and in 2014, I started an Instagram account called Flash Foxy to post pictures of us. The idea was to celebrate women climbing with other women. We got a lot of positive feedback, and thousands of people began following us. It was exciting, because conversations around diversity in the outdoors weren’t really happening back then. But I had an organizing background, and I felt like I needed to act on the potential to move things forward. So we started the Women’s Climbing Festival. I thought it would be 40 women hanging out in the eastern Sierra. But when we announced it, about 300 women wanted to attend. A few months later, I quit my job. The 2017 festival sold out in under a minute, and we had 800 women on the wait list. This year we’re putting on events, clinics, and trips across the country. The more women there are in climbing, and the more diversity, the better the sport will be. It’s going to create a richer culture. I’m excited to see that play out. 64 P H OTO G R A P H S B Y JOÃO CANZIANI MIKHAIL MARTIN, 28 QUEENS, NEW YORK Cofounder of Brothers of Climbing O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE RUE MAPP, 46 OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA Founder and CEO of Outdoor Afro LEN NECEFER, 30 DENVER, COLORADO Founder and CEO of NativesOutdoors I come from the Navajo Nation. My family is in Arizona and New Mexico, and they are traditional healers and farmers and ranchers. A lot of my early outdoor experiences were passing time while herding sheep. We would scramble around, look for medicinal plants, and dig up roots. When I went to college in Kansas, I started mountain biking and trail running and climbing. But I found that so much of the outdoor community’s relationship with nature was about conquering it. That felt empty. I grew up with practices that are based on an ethic of reciprocity with the land. Everything you take, you give something back. We were also taught the history of places through stories that have allowed us to live in them for thousands of years. We weren’t just out there to have fun. For my doctoral research, I looked at how cultural values toward the environment inform our preferences for energy resources like solar, wind, and fossil fuels. Later I worked for the Department of Energy on policy and technical assistance in Native communities. One of my biggest takeaways has been that culture plays a signiﬁcant role in our relationship with the outdoors and land management, and it is often unquestioned. That understanding motivated me to create NativesOutdoors, which I launched in March 2017 with an Instagram account, sharing photos of Native people engaging in outdoor sports. I wanted to normalize recreation in my community, because the prevailing imagery out there does not include us. The platform has evolved to include storytelling by Native people and geotagging social-media posts of adventures with indigenous place names in order to start conversations about the history of an area. If we can get more Native people participating in outdoor sports, we’ll bring our values of stewardship with us. Within my community, I’m an advocate for recreation as a vehicle to learn about the land and carry on our traditions. 66 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 In the beginning, the idea was to share our experiences with a blog and a Facebook page. Because of my art history background, I understood the power of stories and images to change narratives. I’d been the only black person on a lot of hikes and camping trips, something that many African Americans have endured. It gets tiring. We asked our audience about this, and we listened and grew. Over time we crafted an organization that evolved into, How can I ﬁnd other people like me who like to do these things? We’ve trained more than 60 volunteer leaders in 28 states who connect thousands of black people to the outdoors through recreational activities. The thing that really surprised us was how we enabled everyday folks to see their leadership potential. That turned out to be such a gift—a rolling wave of blessing not only for our organization but for individuals who now have an outdoor identity. It can be “I’m an architect and an outdoor leader,” or “I’m a real estate professional and an outdoor leader,” or “I’m a preschool teacher and an outdoor leader.” We’re really helping people to say, “I’m someone in my community who can create change. I can be supported in this network to be more fully who I am.” That’s exactly what happened for me. P H OTO G R A P H S B Y BENJAMIN RASMUSSEN P H OTO G R A P H B Y JOÃO CANZIANI KRYSTLE RAMOS, 31 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA Director of programs for Community Nature Connection For me, going outdoors is about being with family. In the Latino community, we want to share experiences with the people closest to us. When I was a kid, we focused on that instead of anything competitive, like getting to the top of a peak. My father worked in the parks and rec department in Los Angeles, and he always knew where to go. In college I started heading farther into the mountains, and after graduation I got a few jobs taking kids camping. Pretty soon I was working for 11 different companies, traveling all over the place. In the summer I led trips in Thailand and Costa Rica, and the rest of the year I was in the Santa Monica Mountains, the Los Padres National Forest, Joshua Tree National Park. At Community Nature Connection I do similar work, but as a decision maker and with more resources. Our goal is to bring underrepresented communities into the outdoors, both as visitors and as part of the workforce. We offer field trips for schools, public day programs, overnight camps, professional development, and rides to the beach or mountains to eliminate transportation as a barrier. Our staff reflects the diversity of the communities we serve. Last year we reached 6,600 people in the Los Angeles area. For many, it was their first time camping or seeing the ocean. With new staff, a big part of our training is helping them understand that our job is to provide experiences that our audience wants. That means being flexible. You might want to build programs around trails or big physical objectives, but people need to be allowed to spend time in nature in their own way. 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 67 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE 68 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 P H OTO G R A P H B Y JOÃO CANZIANI AYESHA MCGOWAN, 31 DECATUR, GEORGIA Cyclist and creator of the website A Quick Brown Fox When someone calls me a pro athlete I hesitate, because that’s not how I see myself. I was a biking advocate first. When I moved to New York City in my twenties, I joined a group called We Bike NYC, which empowers women cyclists through training rides, workshops, and events. I took a track clinic with them, and I had a great time. After that I was invited on a group ride in Central Park, and I showed up wearing jean shorts and a tank top and riding a steel Raleigh with a milk crate on the back. It was me and all these fit white women in racing kits. We started doing laps, and they were like, “You’re really moving. Maybe you should consider racing.” That was the spark. A year later, I took fifth place in my first race. My ultimate goal is to be the first African American female cyclist on the pro tour. This year I came really close to landing a contract with a team, but it didn’t work out. The thing is, I never once considered the possibility of becoming a pro cyclist when I was a kid. I grew up in New Jersey right around the corner from Rutgers University, which has a cycling team and hosts a big annual race. I went there for three semesters before transferring, but it wasn’t until seven years later, after I’d begun racing, that I discovered this. The information just isn’t accessible enough to everyone. With A Quick Brown Fox, I’m trying to create a space where women of color can tell stories about riding bikes. I’ve also started a virtual ride series that people can sign up for through the site. You can go as fast or slow as you want, and indoor trainers count. The idea is that anyone and everyone can do this. We’re working together to break down the barriers standing in the way of just riding your bike. JUAN MARTINEZ, 33 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA Cofounder and program director of the Natural Leaders Network In 2008, Richard Louv, who wrote Last Child in the Woods, invited me to a conference, where he asked me why people of color weren’t more involved in the movement to connect children with nature. I told him we don’t feel empowered. We don’t have a platform. That was the moment things shifted for me. I grew up in South Central Los Angeles, where many of the people able to take care of their families were gang members. I got into my share of trouble as a freshman in high school but found my way into the Eco-Club, which led to some life-changing experiences. I enrolled in a summer session at the Teton Science Schools in Wyoming, helped the Sierra Club establish an environmental-leadership academy, and took urban youth backpacking for Outward Bound Adventures. But at that conference, I saw a need to bring the methods of community organizing to the outdoors. That’s the goal of the Natural Leaders Network, which some friends and I created in 2009. We provide training, support, and peer-to-peer mentoring for a diverse group of emerging leaders so they can develop action plans to boost access to nature in their communities. We’ve trained more than 300 leaders in 47 states and are inspiring the next generation of nature-smart change makers. P H OTO G R A P H B Y BENJAMIN RASMUSSEN 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 69 2018 Out side FACES of DANI BURT, 33 SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA Women’s World Adaptive Surfing champion and physical therapist 70 I was riding my motorcycle down Palomar Mountain, in San Diego, and I went into a deceptive turn too fast. I was in a coma for ﬁve weeks. The surgeons didn’t want to tell me that my leg was gone until I could talk. I was 19 years old, and I thought my life was over. But my friends kept coming back. That lit a ﬁre in me. Getting my independence again through physical therapy was huge. I thought, What a cool job to help people through that. I got my doctorate in 2015, and now I work with some of the same therapists who helped me. I’ve been a skateboarder and bodyboarder since I was a tiny thing growing up on the Jersey Shore. I started skating again several months after my accident and was invited on a U.S. tour with other adaptive athletes. From there I got into snowboarding and began competing. But I found myself really wanting to get back into the ocean. This was 2008, when there wasn’t a lot of support for adaptive surﬁng, and you couldn’t ﬁnd a prosthetic made for the water. So I ended up getting a grant and working with a prosthetist to design a surf leg. Once I was done with school, I had time to really train, and I entered the ﬁrst World Adaptive Surﬁng Championship, placing 16th overall. After that I competed all the time, and last year I won the women’s world title. In my work, I see people going through the same things I did. I can let them know that it’s going to be OK and that they’re not alone. That’s one of the best things about the adaptive surf competitions—being around other people like you. It’s not about our disability. It’s about our ability. O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 MICHAEL BRESNEN CHANGE I DON’T WAIT FOR RESPECT, I REEL IT IN. Get your ish on at There’s a common misconception that black people don’t love wild places. L A T R I A G R A H A M , a southerner with deep connections to farms, rivers, and forests, says the problem isn’t desire but access—and a long history of laws and customs that have whitewashed our finest public lands. We’re Here. You Just Don’t See Us. 72 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE The author in Croft State Park, Spartanburg, South Carolina 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 73 When I type “black people don’t” into Google, statements like “black people don’t like to work” and “black people don’t travel” show up. 74 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 But again, the reasons for this are really more about history than desire. In that same survey, 16 percent of African Americans said they hadn’t visited a national park because they thought the parks were unsafe. (Less than 5 percent of non-Hispanic whites responded this way.) Why is this number so high? I believe it’s partly because of the Park Service’s history of discrimination. Shenandoah National Park was guilty of this shameful practice as late as the 1940s, hanging wooden signs at certain spots that identified PICNIC GROUNDS FOR NEGROES. Signs on some bathrooms said they were for white women only. These days I tend to visit a Park Service site approximately once every two years, but that’s because there aren’t many national parks close to where I live: Spartanburg, South Carolina. I’m now 31. I didn’t visit my first, Everglades National Park, until I was 26. But I’ve been a disciple of landscapes for as long as I can remember. IN MY EARLY YEARS we lived on the edge of Nashville, Tennessee, our days spent in nature. We played in a creek that ran along our property, examining tadpoles and catching bugs we found in the backyard, stowing them in mason jars, and poking holes in the lid so our specimens could breathe. We swung from the gnarled limbs of a peach tree, forcing petals to fall prematurely, violent streaks of pink strewn across a freshly mowed lawn. I was a Girl Scout, my younger brother a Boy Scout. We often tagged along on each other’s camping trips, accompanied by our father, a veteran woodsman. My brother and Many national parks were created as an escape from urban sprawl, at a time when urban was shorthand for blacks and immigrants. They were designed to be clean and white, and if we let the data tell the story, that’s how they’ve stayed. My family has always had a cultural connection to the outdoors—our relationship with the land is the cornerstone of a shared history. When we tell stories, we remember the years by what the weather was like. (I graduated from Dartmouth, in New Hampshire, in 2008, at the beginning of the Great Recession. That year, I remember, it hailed six times in Spartanburg County.) For us land ownership is a point of pride. What we have isn’t much, but it’s ours, and to us that I wanted to be artists. My father’s goal was to make sure that, whatever we decided to do, we’d be self-sufficient, always capable of feeding ourselves. When I was ten, in the summer of 1997, my father was lured back to South Carolina: the iron in his veins was calling. We landed in the suburbs of Spartanburg, but most of my free time was spent at the bottom of Newberry County, in Silverstreet, population 162. Corn and soybeans had taken over the P R E V I O U S PAG E : C O U R T E SY O F L AT R I A G R A H A M When I add “camp,” I get a Guardian article called “Why Don’t Black People Camp?” BlackAmericaWeb.com, a news site for African Americans, features a list of “22 Things Black Folks Don’t Do.” Number two is “Go camping or hiking.” Seven is “Go to national parks.” Later comes “Swim” (#17), landing just ahead of “Eat tofu” (#19). There’s reality behind some of these beliefs, but the big takeaway—that black people dislike the outdoors—is wrong. I’ve loved the woods and wild places all my life, and the same is true for my family and friends. According to a 2016 poll by New America Media’s Next 100 Coalition—a group of civil rights, conservation, and community organizations working to bring diversity to national parks and other outdoor spaces—we’re not alone. Seventy percent of those surveyed, all people of color, said they regularly participate in outdoor activities, including hiking, camping, photography, and picnicking. In that same poll, 57 percent of respondents said they’d visited U.S. public lands. So why do these stereotypes persist, despite statistics and visible evidence that prove otherwise? In part it’s because African Americans don’t always go where white people do. Swimming? Pools used to be segregated in the South and other parts of the country, so it wasn’t easy to join a team and practice your freestyle kick. Skiing? Not in the cards if you’re poor and live in an inner city. Beaches? In many places, blacks were banned by law or custom. And national parks weren’t especially welcoming, either; many were created as an escape from urban sprawl, at a time when urban was shorthand for blacks and immigrants. The parks were designed to be clean and white, and if we let the data tell the story, that’s how they’ve stayed. In 2009, the National Park Service did a comprehensive survey of the American public, consisting of phone interviews with more than 4,000 participants. According to their data, African Americans comprised just 7 percent of visitors. feels like freedom. Our 15 acres of farmland, houses, and trees—along with a nearby lake where we have access—has given my family somewhere to hunt, fish, explore, and play outdoors. It’s where my dad found a renewed sense of purpose as a small farmer. If you cut me, my blood would be the color of the red-clay hills my family has walked and worked for four generations. We were shaped by the soil, which is red from its iron content but also, in my mind, from the violence of southern history. The land fortifies us, makes us strong, and the deep scarlet dust clings to our bodies like mist on the nearby mountains. My father, in his youth, thought farming would be his undoing, so he left, part of the mass exodus of rural black men and women who went off in search of something better—college, a corporate job, new places for new dreams. He eventually came back, which allowed me a reconnection that has been one of my life’s greatest blessings. C O U R T E SY O F L AT R I A G R A H A M ( 5 ) landscape by then, Clockwise tended in neat little rows from top left: Graham’s near the highway, cloak- mother, Meling the countryside with inda; her grandgreen. Two streets over mother Mary Emma and from the main road, the father, Dennis; idyllic rural setting is at Florida’s replaced by something Disney Princess Half Marathon; more rustic. Over here, on a run with the street signs are cov- her brother, ered in kudzu. Cars that Nicholas; at the site where Marno longer run list to the tin Luther King side, jacked up, tires in Jr. wrote “Letter the air. Deserted barns, from Birmingham Jail” slowly being absorbed back into the forest, occasionally burp the damp, earthy, rotting smell of soil. The rust on metal roofs blossoms and spreads during summer like the honeysuckle clinging to my grandmother’s mailbox. We’re impossible to find if you don’t know where to look. We don’t mind. This is my inheritance, and I adore it. As children we spent our time crisscrossing a network of back roads that even the police didn’t come down unless you called them or there was a warrant out. This is home—the Graham family compound, where most of my aunts and uncles own property adjacent to the two-story, yellow and white house where my grandmother still lives. This is where I did all my sustenance and survival training under the watchful eye of my father. I learned about herbal medicines from my grandmother, committing to memory knowledge that never made its way to the page. I tended hogs with my uncle and cousins. I learned what it meant to provide for myself through hard agricultural work, my body sunburned and tense from building barbed-wire fences to keep the cows away from my ripening cantaloupes. I spent muggy, itchy summer days in long-sleeved clothing, picking okra. My eagle-eyed father could spot a pecan tree amid a thick grove of other species while lighting a cigarette and steering his goldcolored truck with his knees. He had hands the size of baseball gloves and a way with a knife that I never quite mastered. He loved the land even when it didn’t love him back. My father had a special affinity for fishing, and for him, being outdoors meant you had to accomplish something—the outing had to involve finding food or checking off a chore, like routine fence maintenance. A walk through the woods would yield a shirttail full of muscadines or a baseball cap stuffed with blackberries, the brim forever stained with juice. Generosity, love, and care all revealed themselves in his woods. I WOULD NOT experience real backcountry wilderness—the kinds of places Outside celebrates—until I went off to Dartmouth in 2004. That’s also when I started learning about the various things that black people don’t do. I’d never run up against these assertions before. In the mostly white suburb where I went to school, being black meant being different, yes, but the real split was between rural kids and the affluent kids from the other side of town. This rivalry played out every year at a high school football game between Dorman (rural) and Spartanburg (city). We would come to school dressed in overalls and clanging cowbells, with the occasional upperclassman driving a tractor in from the farm. In this setting, being black meant being hardworking and capable, not subservient. My parents encouraged anything I wanted to try. I knew how to sew and shoot before I knew how to drive. At the start of college, I began to feel ambivalent about where I came from. In the larger American culture of that period—the early days of Facebook—southern was code for stupid and black meant second-class. This was the first time I heard that black people don’t do the outdoors. Later, when I had to complete a 50-yard swimming requirement for graduation, I was told that we don’t swim either, the way women were told we weren’t interested in STEM classes. I took a wilderness-rescue course one winter, in breath-snatching cold that left 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 75 ZORA NEALE HURSTON saved me. Years be- fore I discovered the serene but spare poetry of Lucille Clifton and the devastating prose of Jesmyn Ward, Hurston, an anthropologist and Floridian who published mainly in the 1930s, was the first writer who made me feel that there was still a place for me outside. In books like Mules and Men, she made literature out of life in a way I’d never read before. She gave me a means to understand all the death and destruction I read about in history books, and the role that race and class played in it. Hurston talked about wild places and true things, about men and women I recognized, and my skin prickled with their familiarity. I wanted to be a bold adventurer like her— setting off in her car, gun in the glove box, connecting with endangered people who those in power would rather stayed silent, knowing that if they talked they would tell terrible truths. That’s how, at age 26, I found myself in the Everglades, on a trip with my parents, at a time when my father was suffering through the late stages of terminal cancer. It was February 2013, and the first time we’d ever attempted a trip like this together. When I was a child, Great Smoky Mountains was the park 76 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 closest to where I lived. We passed it plenty of times, but always on the way somewhere else. In Nashville, my parents held corporate jobs in retail management. If they were able to get two days off in a row, we often piled into our slate Mitsubishi and headed for the Graham family homestead. The trip took eight hours each way, no time for detours. When we moved back to South Carolina, we ran a farm and produce stand that became a year-round obligation. A long road trip to someplace like the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, or Olympic National Park was out of the question. Geography is one of the largest impediments to overcome. National parks are not evenly spread across the U.S. Certain chapters in our country’s history—including westward expansion, which involved the takeover of Indian land that often became national parks—explain the disparity. According to the 2010 census, 55 percent of respondents who identified as black lived in the South, which has only nine national parks unevenly scattered throughout the entire region, including Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, Hot Springs in Arkansas, Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, and Shenandoah in Virginia. Then there are the Biscayne, Everglades, and Dry Tortugas parks, clustered together deep in South Florida. In the extreme southwest corner of Texas—which barely counts as the South—sit Big Bend and Guadalupe Mountains. The states of Delaware, Maryland, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and West Virginia don’t have any national parks at all. For most people living in those areas, visiting a national park means at least a day’s drive. Park visitors also must find places to eat and sleep, at a time when most African American survey respondents list time and money as two of the most significant barriers to getting outside. SPENDING A WEEK in Everglades National Park, my parents and I explored Chokoloskee Bay and tramped through the swamps right outside Everglades City, talking to anyone who would talk to us. We were slightly disoriented by the feeling of exploring a place that we’d only read about in books, but we got in the swing soon enough. We spotted red-winged blackbirds and roseate spoonbills—and, of course, my father saw them first. We took a tram tour into Shark Valley. We stopped at every café along the Tamiami Trail, hoping that something would soothe my father’s taste buds, burned dull from the chemotherapy pills he was taking. (Frog legs did the trick.) Herons, egrets, and cormorants kept us company as we tried to figure out where we should head next. During that trip, we never camped on park Zora Neale Hurston property, instead staying in either a bedand-breakfast or a KOA site. I wasn’t sure how to go about getting a camping reservation in the park on short notice, and I needed to know that my father had easy access to medical care if he needed it. My dad was more worried about our safety. Born in 1951, he grew up in the Jim Crow South, where segregation was law— sometimes enforced with fists, handcuffs, or a rope. For all the progress America had made by 2013, he couldn’t shake the memories. During his youth, racist local laws, discriminatory social codes, segregated commercial facilities, and racial profiling by police made it impossible to relax in public spaces. Back then people of color could be embarrassed, insulted, or killed for subjective infractions like being too successful, “uppity,” or in the wrong town after dark. These fears were solidified by the brutal murder C A R L VA N V E C H T E N / B E I N E C K E R A R E B O O K S A N D M A N U S C R I P T L I B R A R Y/ YA L E U N I V E R S I T Y, U S E D W I T H P E R M I S S I O N O F T H E VA N V E C H T E N T R U S T my eyelashes frozen. The snow was up to our armpits as we practiced different ways to carry an injured friend out of the woods. Over the years, I would traverse the Green Mountains and the White Mountains. I made my way to the top of Mount Washington with people from my geography class. Often feeling marginalized a thousand miles from home, I searched for some way to understand my heritage amid the landscape of history. In high school, we’d read the traditional canon of old dead white men, and there was no room for my people in that picture. When African American literature entered my consciousness, it was all about urban spaces, created by writers who, as a result of the Great Migration out of the South, lived in cities like Chicago and New York. I needed to give voice to my experiences, too, and their urban revelations were at odds with what I knew. Nobody cared about stories like mine, I thought, and by extension nobody cared about me. Professors could smell the desperation, the sour hint of terror-sweat on my skin. Still, my body could not endure the erasure of my ancestry, of the adventurer in me. There were weeks when I couldn’t sleep at all and found myself outside, walking through uninhabited places, waiting for the sun to rise, unsure if it ever would. Hemmed in by tall gray walls of granite, I wondered if this even counted as living. of 14-year-old Emmett Till in the summer of 1955. His alleged crime? Making a lewd advance at Carolyn Bryant, a white Mississippi storekeeper, who decades later admitted that she’d lied. When someone threatens your life, you remember. When I was in college, I took my father to a South Carolina apple orchard where you paid for a set amount of apples that you picked yourself. Halfway through our excursion, the owner emerged from the trees holding a shotgun, accusing us of taking more than our fair share. She was willing to shoot us over a few apples we didn’t even have. If there’s one thing about being black in America that scares me still, it’s how quickly circumstances can deteriorate. One moment you’re a customer, the next a robber. Every time I watch black people bleed on TV, bodies slumped on pavement, I realize how easily it could have been me. Almost every person of color does this. In Richard Wright’s 1935 poem “Between the World and Me,” the narrator, a black man, enters the woods and stumbles upon a scene where another black man has been tarred, feathered, and burned can Camping Report, 42 percent of African American campers say they feel more welcome in the outdoors compared with the past. Camping among Hispanics, African Americans, and Asians continues to increase, with nonwhites now totaling onefourth of all campers—which is double what it was in 2012, the first year it was measured. We might not be in national parks, but we’re at the lake, at private campgrounds close to home, and in state parks. Disappointment comes with the desire to see results quickly. People who monitor the statistics can tell you the cost of everything—the programs and outreach initiatives—but don’t necessarily understand the value. A child’s first exploration of the natural world isn’t quantifiable. It’s hard to put a price on learning to read the sky or the ability to smell the wind and distinguish the scents it brings. I believe it will take another generation of progress to change the perception people have about how people of color relate to the outdoors. If there are stalls in that progress, it might take two. Perhaps the best metric of Born in 1951, my dad grew up in the Jim Crow South, where segregation was law—sometimes enforced with fists, handcuffs, or a rope. For all the progress that’s been made in America, he couldn’t shake the memories. alive. In the middle of the poem, a metaphysical transformation occurs: Wright inhabits the body of the victim and feels the experience of being lynched himself. Something similar had happened to an uncle of his, decades earlier. Like Wright, black people know instinctively that bad things happen in the woods. EVEN THOUGH the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibited racial segregation in public facilities, tensions persist— if not at an institutional level, then certainly among individuals. In a 2016 study by the Pew Research Center, 43 percent of blacks said they believed that America would never make the changes needed to give them equal rights with whites. Only 11 percent of whites expressed doubt that these changes would come. I don’t want to be in that 43 percent. I’m cautiously optimistic about the future of the outdoors, and recent data is encouraging. According to KOA’s 2017 North Ameri- change is word of mouth—or, in the age of the Internet, a strong social-media presence showing African American people enjoying all the places that, previously, segregation didn’t allow us to go. We are doing it. We are out there. We always have been. My Instagram feed is filled with people of color tackling V12 climbs, ascending mountains, teaching their children how to read the sky. Those images appear alongside Audubon Society and National Park Service photos of all the places I plan to go one day. That evidence is part of why I keep stacking my money, planning for another good vacation in the national parks. At times it’s the only weapon I have against despair. I’m able to do everything my ancestors couldn’t—that’s the structure of my resistance. I swim in public pools and lounge on public beaches because they couldn’t dare. I am constantly working to figure out how to make you acknowledge me as American, too. I refuse to be seen as poor and powerless, and I attempt to approach each day with a boldness and vulnerability that leaves an imprint on somebody. I continue to penetrate spaces where I’m not expected to be, hoping someone else will see me and know that they can be there, too. FOR HISTORICALLY disenfranchised peo- ple, some healing has to happen first, and it occurs when our lives are treated with dignity, respect, and care. That is what causes us to challenge vigilante violence and hateful rhetoric. We are still working our way toward reconciliation. I believe it will have to take the shape of restorative justice. People of color are still often left out of the conservation decisions and planning that affect their communities. Creating equitable outdoor experiences means dedicating money, energy, and resources to programs that have been denied us for decades. For this to happen, well-meaning white people must abandon the post-racial, colorblind fantasy they would like to believe in. The hardest part of my fight is combating the white majority’s fear-stained imagination about what they believe black people are, as opposed to the reality of who we are. Spare me your empathy if it does not come coupled with institutional change. Support the initiatives and institutions that help people of color get out there, like the nonprofit Outdoor Afro and the National Park Foundation’s African American Experience Fund. Help reframe the discussion about the outdoors. Highlight the stories of the buffalo soldiers, who became some of America’s first park rangers. Tell the children about Harriet Tubman’s ability to interpret the weather. Be unafraid of the historical contexts that hold weight in our country. Explore and overturn those caricatures that are deeply embedded in the mythology we perpetuate about the unjust portions of our history. Having an integrated outdoors means embracing all of America—complete with its messy origins, complicated backstory, and currently murky future. It might mean allowing someone else to claim what you believed to be your exclusive birthright. When you hear about what black people don’t do, know that the statistics are only part of the story and can be counterproductive to the future of African Americans in the outdoors. It’s time we change the story we’re telling. Realize that we, as a diaspora, are just as multifaceted, complex, and diverse as the national parks we are starting to explore. O LATRIA GRAHAM ( @LATRIAGRAHAM) HAS WRITTEN FOR THE GUARDIAN, ESPNW, AND THE NEW YORK TIMES. 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 77 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE Last December, when the Trump administration announced its decision to shrink Bears Ears National Monument, a crack team of Native American attorneys armed themselves with a lawsuit that ensured tribal voices will lead the legal battle to overturn it. A B E S T R E E P reports on a historic case that will reverberate for generations. The Tribes v. Donald Trump 78 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 Utah’s Valley of the Gods, formerly part of Bears Ears National Monument P H OTO G R A P H S B Y MORGAN RACHEL LEVY 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 79 Ethel Branch, attorney general for the Navajo Nation, sits on a leather couch in a Salt Lake City production studio, sipping bottled water and keeping a close eye on the television screen. Every few minutes, she picks up one of two iPhones laid in front of her to tap out an e-mail. It’s December 4, 2017. She’s been waiting for this day for eight months. A few miles away, at the Utah State Capitol, the President of the United States stands at a podium beneath a mural that reads PEACE WITH THE INDIANS . Looking at the cameras, Donald J. Trump makes a rough attempt at humor, allowing that, before arriving, he called “all of the friends I have in Utah.” President Trump asked them a crucial question about today’s announcement: “Will it be at all controversial? They all told me no.” He turns and ﬂicks his eyebrows up, lips funneled in mock bewilderment. In the studio, Branch’s colleague Jonathan Nez, vice president of the Navajo Nation, paces, emanating anger. Branch’s face registers patient, precise focus. She’s here to tape an interview with MSNBC after the president’s speech. She wears a black blazer, a matching skirt, and, on her left wrist, a turquoise bracelet. At 38, she oversees a Navajo Nation criminaljustice system that extends throughout Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. Back in the nineties, when Trump was negotiating various bankruptcies, she was castrating horses and winning rodeo-queen contests on the reservation. She went on to graduate from Harvard Law School and the university’s Kennedy School of Government, and took over the tribe’s Department of Justice at 36. On screen, the president tries to convey the signiﬁcance of today’s proceedings. “I’m a real estate developer,” he says. “When they start talking about millions of acres, I say, ‘Say it again?’ ” Say it again: Bears Ears, a landscape marked by two mesas climbing out of the Utah desert, geologic high marks overseeing a sacred region of canyons and cliff dwellings. In 2015, ﬁve tribes, some of which have long been at odds—notably the Hopi and the Navajo—formed the Bears Ears Intertribal Coalition, an effort to protect the area. That work was rewarded in December 2016, when outgoing president Barack Obama created Bears Ears National Monument using the 1906 Antiquities Act. The 80 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 protected area encompassed more than 1.35 million acres of the Colorado Plateau, sloping upward from the desert ﬂoor at Valley of the Gods to the piñon and juniper forests of Cedar Mesa and then north to the Bears Ears buttes themselves. The Clovis people hunted here as early as 13,000 years ago, and the Ancestral Puebloans built cliff dwellings in the canyons. The great Navajo leaders K’aayélii and Manuelito were born near the Bears Ears buttes. The region’s canyons are home to an estimated 100,000 archaeological sites dense with rock art, hogans, granaries, pots, and baskets. President Obama’s proclamation gave the tribes an advisory role in managing the monument. It also spelled out the name of Bears Ears in the Hopi, Navajo, Ute, and Zuni languages. For the tribes, that acknowledgement was a historic event; it marked the beginning of a cooperative plan to share indigenous knowledge with all comers. But as soon as Trump took ofﬁce, Utah’s Republican congressional delegation began to apply pressure, seeking to overturn the glinting, she said, “The earth needs us, it needs to heal,” and the crowd responded with a deep roar. Someone raised a sacred eagle staff behind her. Then she issued a challenge to President Trump. “I want him to visit Bears Ears. Take off his shoes, take off his socks, and squeeze the dirt with his toes and feel the heartbeat of Mother Earth.” Trump did none of that. And it will soon fall to Branch and her legal colleagues to try and block his proclamation, to continue the centuries-old war for Native American rights while arguing the most consequential public-lands case in a generation, one that could determine the limits of presidential authority on much of America’s wild estate. For 20 minutes in the television studio, Branch is silent as a lake. Her inscrutable expression cracks just once. It happens at the beginning of Trump’s speech, when he turns to Orrin Hatch, the senior senator from Utah, who has ﬁercely advocated for downsizing the Bears Ears monument. “You meet ﬁghters and you meet people that you thought were fighters, but they’re not so good at ﬁghting,” Trump says. “He’s a ﬁghter.” Branch’s eyes lead the rest of her face into a wide smile, the kind that’s not entirely warm; Branch sometimes kept a sleeping bag in her office in order to head up to Bears Ears. She felt that something powerful was protecting the region— something, she says, “that transcends the law.” designation. In April 2017, Trump signed an executive order instructing secretary of the interior Ryan Zinke to review 27 national monuments, including Bears Ears and 1.7-million-acre Grand Staircase– Escalante, also in Utah, which Bill Clinton designated in 1996. Trump has ﬂown here today to follow Zinke’s recommendations to shrink both monuments. Grand Staircase– Escalante will be cut in half, while Bears Ears will be reduced by 85 percent. Two days ago some 5,000 protesters, the vast majority of them Native, poured into Salt Lake City. Branch was the ﬁrst speaker to address them. Standing on the capitol steps, she introduced herself in Navajo and talked about “the potency of our prayers and the potency of our ceremonies.” Her sunglasses the kind that telegraphs, Bless your heart. A ﬁghter. At that, Ethel Branch laughs out loud. NATALIE LANDRETH doesn’t listen to the speech. She knows what’s coming. She spent the weekend skiing near her home in Anchorage, Alaska, and consulting a document counting the Chickasaw who in 1837 were sent on the Trail of Tears, where many of Landreth’s ancestors perished. It’s motivation for the coming ﬁght. But now it’s Monday, Bears Ears day. Landreth steps into her kitchen, makes a pot of coffee and a piece of toast. It occurs to her that the Hopi Tribe just swore in its new chairman on Friday. That means on his ﬁrst day in ofﬁce, the new tribal executive, a former Branch at Bears Ears 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 81 radio DJ, will be suing the president. When Landreth reaches for her toast, she sticks her hand in her coffee. Too much adrenaline. Landreth is 44, a star attorney for the Native American Rights Fund, a nonprofit group that represents the thorniest cases in Indian country. NARF was born of the civil rights movement, an organization created to defend those who had binding treaties but few lawyers to enforce them. It was founded in 1970 by a group of tribal leaders and fiery young attorneys in California, who were soon joined by author and native-rights activist Vine Deloria Jr. In his 1969 classic Custer Died for Your Sins, Deloria called the law “a trap for the unwary and a dangerous weapon in the hands of those who understood how to use it.” In short order, NARF turned the law into a weapon for Native Americans, using it to prevail over the states of Maine (in a precedent-setting case that upheld previously unrecognized tribes’ claims to land taken by the state) and Washington (in a seminal fishing-rights case). In 1973, its attorneys successfully pushed Congress to reverse the policy of tribal termination, begun in the 1950s to rid sovereign tribes of federal services. NARF also won a series of cases that led to the 1990 Native American Graves and Repatriation Act, to stop museums from incentivizing grave robbers. NARF calls its litigators modern-day warriors. The group is now headquartered in Boulder, Colorado, with satellite offices in Anchorage and Washington, D.C., and has 17 full-time attorneys. “The best Native lawyers in the whole country work for us,” says John Echohawk, the organization’s executive director. “And everybody knows that.” Landreth was hired on at 29 and has since chalked up a record that includes just one loss. “I look at Natalie as a transcendently great lawyer,” says Charles Wilkinson, one of NARF’s first attorneys, who teaches at the University of Colorado Law School and has written numerous books on Native sovereignty and the law. NARF’s lawyers have been busy since Trump’s inauguration. “It’s like being in a fort under siege,” says Landreth, “and wondering, When are we going to get some water?” On January 24, four days after his inauguration, the president signed an executive order green-lighting the Keystone XL and Dakota Access pipelines, among other infrastructure projects, disregarding the historic Standing Rock protests with a pen stroke. Shortly afterward he revoked an Obama executive order giving Alaskan tribes a say in managing 112,300 square miles of the Bering Sea. In February 2017, as politicians from Utah began pushing for the 82 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 revision of the Bears Ears monument, three of the tribes on the Bears Ears coalition—the Hopi Tribe, the Pueblo of Zuni, and the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe—asked NARF to represent them. The Navajo planned to represent themselves, and the Ute Indian Tribe used Fredericks Peebles and Morgan, which serves as its general counsel. Back in Anchorage, the phone starts to ring: reporters looking for quotes. Landreth takes this job; she’s as outspoken as Branch is circumspect. A couple of days ago, during a press conference anticipating President Trump’s proclamation, she upstaged senator Tom Udall of New Mexico and Patagonia CEO Rose Marcario, firing away about the historical looting in Bears Ears (“Certain people seem to treat this area as though it is a bank”) and fact-checking the Utah congressional delegation’s rhetoric about how Trump and Zinke were merely returning lands to locals. “The Bears Ears National Monument was created by local people,” Landreth said, “regardless of what you may hear from Senator Hatch.” is the first president to attempt to shrink a monument since the act was passed. “Whether the president has the authority to do that is a very significant question,” says Mark Squillace, a public-lands expert and law professor at the University of Colorado. “If the court decides that the president does have that authority, it really creates a lot of chaos in public-land management.” On the other hand, Squillace says, if the court determines that the president has the authority only to create a monument, and not to modify an existing one, “then lands are protected. And that’s a big deal.” THE ATTORNEYS have had a draft of their complaint ready to file for nearly a year. Echohawk convened NARF’s legal team in February 2017. Landreth’s location in Alaska was an inconvenience, but he wanted her to work the case. He also tapped Matthew Campbell, a 36-year-old member of Alaska’s Native Village of Gambell who grew up in suburban Denver and came to NARF in 2013 after following a winding path in his younger Campbell came to NARF in 2013 after following a winding path in his younger life. “I became interested in the law,” he says, “because I had run-ins with the law.” The tribes’ complaint hinges on the Antiquities Act. The statute gives the president authority to create a national monument in order to protect objects and sites of significant interest, provided that he designates “the smallest area compatible with proper care and management of the objects to be protected.” Since it was signed into law by Theodore Roosevelt, presidents have shrunk more than a dozen monuments, notably Washington’s Mount Olympus National Monument, which Woodrow Wilson downsized by half during World War I in order to source timber for military supplies. (Congress later protected most of those lands as Olympic National Park.) But those early modifications were never challenged in court. In 1976, Gerald Ford signed the Federal Land Policy and Management Act. While the law itself didn’t directly address whether or not a president could modify monuments, the final House report on the legislation noted that it “specifically reserves to the Congress the authority to modify and revoke withdrawals for national monuments created under the Antiquities Act.” Trump life. “I became interested in the law,” he says, “because I had run-ins with the law.” He’s now half of a legal power couple; his wife, Nikki Borchardt Campbell, is executive director of the National American Indian Court Judges Association. The lawyers wanted to file suit within hours of President Trump signing his proclamation. Now, watching the screen in Salt Lake City, Branch says, “He still hasn’t signed it.” The team can’t make final edits until the proclamation’s language is official. No one is sure yet whether Trump will repeal Bears Ears entirely and replace it with two smaller areas, or make a dramatic reduction. Finally, after an extended preamble, Trump sits down at a large desk surrounded by the Utah delegation. To his right are Hatch and representative Chris Stewart; to his left, representative Rob Bishop, governor Gary Herbert, and Mike Lee, the junior senator. Just outside the inner circle stands Rebecca Benally, a San Juan County commissioner and member of the Aneth chapter of the Navajo Nation, which has shown support for the reduction. Zinke stands behind Trump, and just in front of him, unsmiling, is a Navajo elder in traditional jewelry. Seeing her, Branch says, “Poor lady.” Branch keeps asking to view the language in the proclamation, but it’s not yet publicly available. She’s shuttled into a television studio to tape the MSNBC interview. “They think that talking to one Native American person, one Navajo person, constitutes consultation with the Navajo Nation,” she intones, “and they’re gravely mistaken.” Hours later, after the extent of the reduction becomes clear, Campbell edits the suit from NARF’s Boulder office while Branch rushes off to another press conference and then to the airport, where she’s the last to board the plane. By the time she lands in Albuquerque, New Mexico, The Hopi Tribe, et al., v. Donald J. Trump, et al. has been filed in D.C. District Court. BOTH THE TRUMP administration and the Utah congressional delegation often make the case that those who live closest to Bears Ears oppose the Obama designation. San Juan County’s three commissioners—Benally; Phil Lyman, a descendant of a Mormon pioneer who arrived in the area on the 1880 Hole in the Rock Expedition; and Bruce Adams, a white rancher—have vociferously objected to the protection of Bears Ears. Benally has repeatedly suggested that a monument designation could inhibit the gathering of firewood, despite the fact that the Obama proclamation explicitly allowed the practice. Benally’s voice has proven problematic for the Native coalition. Aneth is the only one of nine Navajo chapters with land in Utah that has opposed the monument; Benally’s stance gives the Utah delegation’s NIMBYism a sheen of credibility. But monument supporters say the region’s politics does not accurately reflect its population. San Juan County has been the subject of scrutiny over racial gerrymandering for decades. In 2012, the Navajo Nation filed a suit claiming that the county had failed to redraw its districts in accordance with the Voting Rights Act. A federal district judge has repeatedly sided with the tribe. Should the suit, which Branch is overseeing, hold up, San Juan County could soon have a majority Navajo commission. But for now, all three commissioners have characterized federal land management in the area as overreaching. On December 2, as Branch was issuing her challenge to President Trump in front of a roaring crowd of thousands, Lyman spoke to a group at the San Juan County courthouse, in Monticello. He assumed a polite and restrained tone even as he invoked dire threats. Using a quote attributed to Thomas Jefferson, he warned of a day when “our children wake up homeless Campbell in NARF’s Boulder, Colorado, office on the continent their fathers conquered.” Lyman used the word conquered three times, then walked off to applause. The Bears Ears dispute concerns more than just ruins. It addresses the question of whose voice rings out loudest, of whose history is prioritized. San Juan County is an area larger than Connecticut, with a population of around 17,000. The northern half is dominated by the heavily Mormon towns of Blanding and Monticello; to the west lies the red-rock country of Bears Ears. Its southern and eastern portions are primarily Navajo and Ute. The county has resources—oil near Aneth, uranium in White Canyon—but over the years, the negative impacts of extraction have seriously affected local Native Americans, in the form of contaminated ground- water near a uranium mill in White Mesa and dozens of oil spills that have flowed into the San Juan River’s tributaries. There is a third economic engine— tourism, in the form of off-roaders and desert rats looking to follow the footsteps of Edward Abbey and Everett Ruess. Still, traffic has always been thin compared with areas farther north, in Canyonlands and Moab, or west, toward Lake Powell. For adventure purists, the region has long been an empty sandstone heaven. Author Craig Childs has traversed the area for decades, often on his own. At first he was opposed to a monument. “The idea of having the place hardened by pullouts and trailheads didn’t at all appeal to me,” he says. “But when I step away from it and look at it from a larger 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 83 perspective of time and decades and centuries, I think it’s something that is more about preserving sacred and incredible landscapes for a longer time frame.” For decades, white residents of the region made a habit of pothunting—searching for artifacts—near Bears Ears. To Navajos, that sounded a lot like grave robbery. In 2009, the FBI and agents of the Bureau of Land Management conducted an elaborate pothunting sting in the Four Corners region that ended with 23 arrests and 12 indictments. Shortly after being arrested, two people committed suicide, including Blanding’s main doctor, James Redd. The events heightened the anti-federal sentiment within Blanding; for many Navajos, they also solidified the importance of protecting the region’s antiquities. In 2010, Mark Maryboy, a Navajo leader who in 1986 became the first Native San Juan County commissioner (he served four terms), decided to do something about it. Along with Gavin Noyes, a white community activist, Maryboy interviewed some 75 Native citizens, asking what they wanted to see around in April 2015 in Bluff, Utah, Maryboy acknowledged to Hopi and Zuni leaders that their ancestors had preceded the Navajo at Cedar Mesa. “Welcome home,” Maryboy said. People wept. Members of the fledgling Bears Ears Intertribal Coalition soon started traveling to Washington, D.C., where they found a willing audience in the office of interior secretary Sally Jewell. In July 2016, Jewell went to Bears Ears and came away impressed by the coalition’s proposal. That December, she sent President Obama a memo recommending the designation of Bears Ears National Monument. Just after Christmas, Obama did just that, creating a monument that preserved existing grazing leases and mining claims but banned future mineral activity. Hatch and Bishop almost immediately began referring to it as a land grab. During President Trump’s first week in office, Hatch, the chairman of the powerful Senate Finance Committee, said the president was “eager to work with me” on Bears Ears. In March, one of his aides e-mailed Zinke’s staff a map that would “resolve all Landreth likened the environmentalists’ pile-on in the months leading up to Trump’s proclamation to “a high school party— if I’m not invited, I’m going to die.” Bears Ears. The answer was fairly uniform: most wanted some protection for the region’s sacred sites. Meanwhile, environmental groups including the Conservation Lands Foundation, based in Durango, Colorado, and the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance (SUWA) had been seeking to protect the area as well. Maryboy recruited other Navajo, and in 2012, he and Noyes launched a nonprofit organization called Utah Diné Bikéyah (“people’s sacred lands” in Navajo). At first, UDB tried to work with Utah politicians to protect the Bears Ears area. Congressman Bishop was then soliciting input on a bill called the Public Lands Initiative, which he pitched as a compromise. But UDB never felt that he took the group’s proposals seriously, and the bill failed to gain any traction. Since 2010, UDB had been reaching out to tribes with ancestral ties to the Bears Ears region. Initially, the Hopi, Ute Mountain Ute, and Zuni were wary, since the effort was led by Navajos. The animosity between the tribes is centuries old, but in a meeting 84 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 known mineral conflicts,” reflecting the desires of a program that funds public schools through oil and gas leasing and other development. Meanwhile a uranium company that operates a mill just outside the monument’s boundaries started lobbying Zinke’s office. In May 2017, Zinke traveled to Bears Ears, where he scolded a Native protester who kept asking him questions, holding up a finger and telling her, “Be nice!” When the Interior Department released a video showing him riding a horse in the area, Ethel Branch noticed that someone held the reins for him as he mounted. What kind of cowboy does that? she wondered. That September, The Washington Post published a leaked copy of Zinke’s review of the 27 monuments. The memo acknowledged that protected areas can generate tourism revenue, but also stated that in some instances the “jobs and the resulting revenues from tourism do not necessarily offset the lost or forgone revenue resulting from the limitations placed on land development.” No examples were cited. It acknowl- edged that Interior had received 2.8 million public comments, overwhelmingly in favor of keeping the monuments, but said that those comments were mostly generated by nonprofits. “Too often,” the memo read, “it is the local stakeholders who lack the organization, funding, and institutional support to compete with well-funded NGOs.” The review was catnip for President Trump—written with a conspiratorial whiff but lacking any cited sources, privileging the perspective of aggrieved locals, and animated by the notion that wealth comes out of the ground. “YOU HAVE THIS identity issue,” says Campbell. “This living-in-two-worlds issue.” He is talking not just about himself but about his profession. For Native litigators, the job is not only to win. It’s to faithfully and sensitively convey a client’s worldview in a venue that’s often unfriendly to that perspective, to demand respect for that position so that the court elevates it. According to Landreth, “Microsoft’s lawyers, for example, don’t say, ‘Well, our culture dictates that this software is sacred.’ You have to figure out how you’re going to litigate it while at the same time protecting your clients and their culture and religious views.” Together, Campbell, Landreth, and Branch represent a new generation of legal advocates for Indian country. They came to the work from different places—suburban Denver, the consumer panoply of Orange County, California, and an Arizona ranch with no running water or electricity. “It’s powerful to see young Native American attorneys defend the sovereign lifestyles of tribal people,” says Heather KendallMiller, a NARF attorney from Alaska and one of the handful of Native women to have argued in front of the Supreme Court. In high school, few would have pegged Campbell as a legal power broker in the making. He was a disinterested student in Littleton, Colorado, and attended Fort Lewis College, in Durango, which offers Native students a tuition waiver. (The college once tried to eliminate the waiver, but in 1973, John Echohawk helped win a case that kept it in place.) Campbell graduated with a GPA of 2.8, and after college he applied to law schools but didn’t get in. He was working at a gym in Durango when he received a flyer in the mail advertising a prelaw summer institute for Native students at the University of New Mexico. In Campbell’s recollection, it emphasized that a weak academic record was not disqualifying. “I was like, Wow, this is really speaking to me,” Campbell says. In Albuquerque, something flipped inside. He excelled in his stud- ies, and at the end of the summer course several law schools expressed interest in him. He chose Arizona State University, which has one of the best Indian law programs in the nation, and there he met his wife, Borchardt. Branch and Landreth, meanwhile, met at Harvard in the late 1990s. Branch was an undergrad, Landreth a law student. Tall and poised, Landreth was the daughter of a Navy sailor; she’d spent her early childhood on a remote Aleutian island but was raised in Orange County after her parents divorced. Her mother wanted her to have the best education possible. “We had the fanciest public schools,” she says, “and the cheapest apartments.” Upon arriving at Harvard, she met a white girl from Montana who suggested that Landreth shouldn’t tell anyone she was Native. Instead she started attending meetings of Harvard’s Native American Program. “Whether you were an urban Indian or reservation Indian, it didn’t matter,” she says. “You had this common history.” One day during her senior year, Landreth saw a poster advertising a speech by attorney general Janet Reno, who came to discuss the fledgling Office of Tribal Justice. Landreth, an art history major, attended the talk and was so moved that she approached Reno after. “I want to work with you,” she recalls saying. Reno connected her to a colleague, who offered Landreth an internship in the new office. Her employer thought Landreth was already in law school. “I didn’t know how to find anything in the Department of Justice library,” Landreth says. The next year, she was accepted to Harvard Law. Branch also had something of an awakening in Cambridge. Not regarding identity— she was pretty clear on that. But she never knew why her family and neighbors lacked electricity and running water. The town of Leupp, Arizona, close to her family’s ranch, was too small to accommodate a high school, and Native history wasn’t taught in nearby Winslow. During her sophomore year at Harvard, Branch took a class on the history of the American West. When the teaching assistant outlined the basics of the Indian Wars—the forced marches and the dispossession, the origins of historical trauma— the circumstances back home began to make more sense. One day in another history tutorial, the lecturer had the class read a book examining the settling of the frontier from the indigenous point of view. It was bloody enough that one young woman started to tear up. Another student argued that there were bad characters on both sides and that Native Americans had blocked progress. The lecturer looked to Branch. Branch crisply laid out the definition of genocide and applied it Branch (left) and Landreth in 1998 to the work of the Texas Rangers. The lecturer suggested she take up law. Landreth, meanwhile, clerked for an Alaska Supreme Court justice before heading to Los Angeles to work in entertainment law. It was lucrative, if exhausting. In 2003, she saw a job opening at NARF, applied, and, together with her fiancé, an army engineer, moved up to NARF’s Anchorage office, where she took a steep pay cut. The couple married that December; three days later, her husband deployed to Iraq for 15 months. Landreth went to work underneath Kendall-Miller. Her first oral argument came in a case concerning several coastal Alaskan tribes’ claims to aboriginal fishing and hunting rights in the wake of the Exxon Valdez spill. She appealed a district court decision and found herself arguing in front of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals en banc— meaning that all 11 judges grilled her at once. She prepared diligently, argued, then heard nothing for more than a year. When the ruling finally came in, she lost six to five. Landreth found out about the verdict the day her son was born. Later she reviewed the case over and over. “That was the worst,” she says, “feeling like you came so close, like what could I have done better to get that sixth person?” Kendall-Miller saw it differ- ently. “I recognized immediately that she had great, great talent.” In 2008, a new intern joined NARF’s Alaska office: Ethel Branch, in her fourth year at Harvard Law. From there she went to private firms in Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, specializing in tribal issues. In 2015, the Navajo Nation reached out to Branch, asking her to apply for the position of deputy attorney general. Midway through the process, she received a different offer: attorney general, overseeing a staff of 88. Branch packed her bags and moved into a place in the Navajo capital, Window Rock, Arizona, with her mom and three nieces, plus two dogs and a cat, all female. Her mother does the laundry and keeps everyone fed. “Otherwise,” Branch says, “it would be a wolf’s den.” Recently, she got into her Nissan Pathfinder to find dark stains on the ceiling. Her mom had used the passenger seat to transport an alpaca with a bloody nose. At work, Branch oversaw an ongoing dispute with the Environmental Protection Agency over the 2015 Gold King Mine spill that turned the Animas and San Juan Rivers copper and polluted Navajo Nation agricultural waters. She also launched a whitecollar-crime initiative that hasn’t exactly ingratiated her with continued on page 96 > 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 85 The Georgia women hiking in Colorado’s Indian Peak Wilderness 86 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 P H OTO G R A P H S B Y MIKAELA HAMILTON 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE The Survivors When you take former victims of sex trafficking into the wilderness for a few days of roughing it, know this: they’ve seen worse. F L O R E N C E W I L L I A M S goes on a trip organized by Atlanta-based She Is Able and learns that one size of adventure therapy does not fit all. 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 87 Asta spent her first night in Colorado sleeping in an outfitter’s warehouse, replaying in her head the bear growls she’d learned online. She wanted to be ready. Although she’d slept outside plenty of times, usually under a bridge, she’d never camped in the mountains, and she was, to say the least, apprehensive. “I’m a little nervous, OK?” she says the next morning, practicing how to stuff her winter sleeping bag into the bottom of her loaner pack. She’s wearing leggings and a loose sweatshirt; her long hair hangs straight. “I was homeless for four years in Atlanta, so this is a new adventure,” she says. “I was afraid of the streets and the men, but this is different. It’s the mountains I’m intimidated by. Bears, lions, mountain goats, cheetahs—I don’t know, bugs, snakes.” “Are you really more afraid of bears than men?” I ask. “I know how to survive back there. This is unknown territory.” Asta’s southern accent is strong. Her body, she says, not so much. In addition to her fears about wildlife, the 34-year-old is worried about being out of shape, about not being able to carry a 40-pound pack, about holding up the group. And, oh yeah, about the cold October blast that’s expected to move in from the north, dropping nighttime temperatures into the low twenties. For Asta and five other women who’ve traveled here from Atlanta, this four-day backpacking trip in the Colorado wilderness is part reward and part recovery. (The participants’ names have been changed to protect their privacy.) They are nearing the end of various yearlong residential treatment programs for women who have lived in the grip of substance abuse and sex trafficking. Today the group woke up in the Denver warehouse of Expedition Backcountry Adventures, a company commissioned by the one-year-old Atlanta-based nonprofit She Is Able, which connects women from various recovery centers with outfitters that can take them into nature. The women on this trip range in age from 20 to 38. They are not the image many of us have when we think of victims of sex trafficking. They are all U.S. citizens, for one thing. Four are white; two are African American. Most were born and raised in Georgia; a couple were brought there by their pimps. 88 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 To listen to the women’s tales, which they shared last night over plain burgers and plastic cups of water, is to hear a litany of broken promises and broken hearts—pimps who refused to bail them out of jail, husbands or boyfriends killed or imprisoned. They have all been neglected or abused by their parents, and in some cases watched as their own children were taken away by the state. Between the forecast and the predators, this expedition is looking like yet another ordeal. Today the group will try rock climbing for the first time. Then we’ll hike into the Indian Peaks Wilderness, which borders the southern end of Rocky Mountain National Park, to spend three nights in the backcountry. The women will be tested by the fickle weather of the Rockies in autumn—and so will the philosophy of wilderness therapy itself. How much can you recover from psychological scars if you’re still profoundly traumatized? What if you’re way more easily freaked out than most people who shoulder a pack? And what if you don’t want to triumph over nature and the elements so much as get a decent night’s sleep, experience some calm, and maybe learn to love yourself again? Fears can be outsize when you’ve spent much of your life afraid. FROM THE BEGINNING, Asta’s life wasn’t so auspicious. Her mother was mentally ill, she says, and her father was a sexual predator. She was adopted by her grandparents as a young girl. The rest of her childhood was pretty typical: suburbs, school, church. She had a daughter when she was 20 and a son five years later, but his father ended up getting deported to Mexico. She became addicted to crack and alcohol, and, she says, “got the wrong attention from a man.” He pimped her out through online classified ads for dating and escort services. Atlanta is an epicenter for sex trafficking, generally defined as a transaction that involves force, fraud, or coercion. According to an Urban Institute report, the city’s underground sex economy totaled $290 million in 2007, the most recent year for which figures are available. Many of those offered up on escort sites are minors. Local advocate Mary Frances Bowley, founder of the residential program Wellspring Living, calculated in 2007 that the city’s monthly population of underage trafficked girls hovered around 395. Many, she said, were expected to see eight to ten clients per night. “Your ad is put up,” Asta explains. “And men can call and request you, and then they come to your hotel room and you have incalls and out-calls.” For her, she says, using drugs meant that decision-making wasn’t really an option. “My choices were made for me, but I allowed that door to open and then I couldn’t close it.” She lost custody of her two children—her daughter to live with the girl’s father and her son to adoption. After four years, she fled to a different set of pimps and became a street prostitute. Eventually, Asta was rescued by a worker from a Christian ministry, who scooped her into an outreach van from under a bridge. She endured two weeks of near coma-inducing detox before entering a residential addiction program. Three other women on this trip are from the same center, and two are from another Atlanta facility. Both places are affiliated with Christian evangelical groups. This lends the trip a prayerful tone. Last night, Tamara, 31, talked about losing custody of her six-year-old son, who now lives with her grandparents. She started crying quietly. “Can I pray for you?” asked a woman named Kris. Tamara nodded. Kris offered her hand. “Lord, please help heal every crevice of her broken heart. Help renew her mind during her absence from her son. Meet her where she is at, whether it’s in a warehouse or on a mountaintop. I know, God, you have a purpose for her life.” Tamara sobbed harder, then Kris started to cry, and pretty soon the whole group, including the guides, were sniffling amid piles of sleeping bags and Nature Valley granola bars. Asta climbing into that rescue van, Kris riding out withdrawal: that was bravery. These women don’t need to scale a mountain in a blizzard to gain a sense of achievement. But coming to Colorado required an unusual leap of faith. “I don’t welcome or receive. I push away,” said Asta. “I’m a runner.” She didn’t mean the sport. AS WE PACK UP for the trip, game faces are back in place. The women pull on hiking boots, colorful knit hats, and fleece jackets, all of it donated, over their street clothes. “Girl, you look good in yellow,” says one. Elise Knicely (second row, Next come the backright) on packs, hoisted into place founding She Is Able: “A amid much groaning. We voice inside pile ourselves and our packs said, ‘E, this is into a roomy white van what you’re made to do.’ ” parked out back. “The van 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 89 is new and needs a name!” says our guide, Chelsea Van Essen. “What shall we call it?” “Betty White!” yells Tamara. “Yes!” replies Chelsea. Although Chelsea, a chipper, curly-haired 26-year-old, has worked with sexually abused women before, this is only her second trip as a leader for Expedition Backcountry Adventures, and it’s the first time the outfitter has worked with trafficked women. Before loading up the van, Chelsea and fellow guide Hope Swearingen, a 23-yearold part-time mental-health coach, sit the ladies down in a circle for a briefing. “One thing we want to focus on as a theme of the trip is safety. Every day we will let you know what’s coming,” says Chelsea, who has a social-work graduate degree focused on trauma from the University of Denver. “If I feel like I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t feel safe, right? I am going to ask you before I put my hand on your shoulder, and if you say no, that’s awesome! We’re going to respect that. We recognize that if you don’t feel safe, then nothing else is going to happen, this power of healing in nature. None of that can happen if our brains are not fully safe.” This fierce defense of emotional safety may seem completely sensible, but it’s a radical departure from the way many adventure programs are run. Chelsea, along with other, primarily female outdoor educators, are drawing from a small but deep vein in feminist social science suggesting that the standard story line of “grow through toughness, conquer the peaks and find yourself” just doesn’t work for populations who have suffered long-term psychological trauma. “It has to be understood from the get-go that this is not going to look like a quoteunquote normal trip,” Chelsea tells me. In some ways, it is less than normal: fewer miles, fewer vertical feet, fewer vistas. But before long, it will turn into more of a field test than anyone expected. One thing the women are quite used to is group therapy. After months in rehab, they are so good at it that the trip leaders don’t always feel the need to step in. “I’ve learned to let the women do most of the talking,” says She Is Able founder Elise Knicely. In one year of operation, Elise—largely on her own—has commissioned 14 excursions in several states, taking some 100 women on day trips and overnights. Last year, with a budget of just $80,000, she drew heavily on volunteers and partnerships with safe houses. At 27, she has proved successful raising funds, bringing in sponsors, and recruiting a well-connected board. As someone with no training in trauma care, though, Elise says it’s easy for her to become invested— perhaps excessively so—in the women’s lives. 90 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 “I’m a very empathetic person,” she says. “Sometimes I return from these trips emotionally hungover, truly, for weeks.” At first glance, Elise seems the polar opposite of her charges: tall and wispy, regally poised, an Alpha Chi Omega with crisp outdoor gear and a confident stride. “I like your cap,” Kris says to her later. “What does that mean, Patagonia?” “Oh,” says Elise, smiling. “It’s an outdoor brand. I used to work in one of their stores.” She played a lot of sports growing up outside Atlanta and worked as a camp counselor during college at the University of Georgia. At 23, during a solo trip around the world, she landed in India, where she shadowed an organization fighting sex slavery in the slums of Mumbai. There she met young women forced to live in caged rooms. “Those encounters changed my life,” Elise told me. She went back to Atlanta and accepted a job doing corporate consulting. On weekends she took women from a sex-trafficking safe house hiking, then canoeing. The response was overwhelming. “Oh crap, that got real fast,” she recalls of the decision to quit her corporate job. “But how the heck do I begin to turn this into something bigger and more constructive?” Why did Elise think that a few hours or days in the woods could help course-correct a near lifetime of abuse, addiction, poverty, and exploitation? At first it was just intuition layered with sorority-girl optimism. She’s like Legally Blonde’s Elle Woods combined with Wild’s Cheryl Strayed. Then she started reading research showing that time in nature can help such women develop the tool kit they need to heal: self-regard, peace from the hypervigilance associated with trauma, and better, more connected relationships with friends and family. Her doubts receded. She decided to found She Is Able in January 2017, offering three levels of outdoor adventure—from half-day trips to multi-day overnights, depending on how long the women had been in recovery. “A voice inside said, ‘E, this is what you’re made to do.’ ” BETTY WHITE’S first stop on our way to the trailhead is Clear Creek Canyon, which saws up into the Front Range from Golden. The morning is cold, and when we arrive the women huddle behind the van to pull on more layers and lace up their climbing shoes. At a crag called East Colfax, named after a boulevard in Denver that passes through an area known for street drugs and prostitution, we meet up with our climbing guide, Aleya Littleton. Diminutive, energetic, and infinitely patient, 32-year-old Aleya is an adventure therapist who specializes in sex- ual trauma. She has already fixed ropes on three short routes, and she helps the women into their harnesses. “I’m just going to watch,” says Kris, gazing up at the rock. “Me too,” says Asta. “It’s your choice,” says Aleya. But she has soon made participating irresistible. “Listen to your body,” she says. “You’re going from a horizontal world to a vertical one, so use your muscles in a way you don’t usually use them. Settle down into your legs, shift your weight. If I breathe and find my center, I can zoom out, open my focus. If I’m anxious, that focus closes down.” With Littleton belaying her, Tamara practically jumps onto the wall, giddy with the task, a natural. “You are crazy!” calls out Rochelle, 32. But then she too starts to climb on the next route, slowly but steadily. A third woman, Kim, the youngest of the group at 20 and a recovering alcoholic, grins and starts up the last route. After a bit she looks down and calls out, “I’m rock climbing, y’all!” She looks out over the rocky canyon, where the nearby creek rushes past ruddy willows and yellow aspens. An hour later everyone has climbed, some twice, to much hugging and high-fiving. The guide gathers the women into a semicircle. The sun has entered the canyon, and a breeze blows upstream. The women are blinking happily in the light, like they can’t quite believe they’re here. “What was that like for you?” asks Aleya. Rochelle speaks first. “I noticed that once I started trusting, it got a lot better,” she says. “What are the odds I’m going to fall down the side of a mountain? Pretty low. When you said, ‘Take little steps,’ that really ministered to me. Baby steps. That is a truth bomb. Baby steps.” Asta is nodding. “I’m the only one who tells me that I can’t do something. I tell myself that too much.” “Yeah,” says Kim. “I can help other people, but I’m so bad at helping myself.” “I was reminded that I’m going to be OK,” says Kris. Then she starts to cry. Climbing as metaphor may seem obvious. You have to trust the person holding your rope. You have to find your breath. You move one step at a time while also looking ahead. You pull yourself up and cheer each other on. But the banalities of these points don’t make them less profound, and the benefits—from both the mental and physical effort—reach unexpected places. As Aleya explains it, healing trauma is complicated. That’s because the brain wants to hold on to memories of danger. “They’re separate from linear, logical thought pro- cesses,” she says, “so your nervous system acts like it’s happening now or is about to.” Simply talking about traumatic memories doesn’t fully work, because it engages only those neural pathways associated with logic and speech. Healing involves both separating fearful emotions from bad memories and bringing the nervous system back to the safer, quieter present. “Trauma healing happens not only through talking, but also through integrative nonverbal therapies,” Aleya says, referring to both movement and mindfulness. These happen easily in adventure sports, as long as they feel relatively safe. Still in their harnesses, the women have taken more risks than they expected. But trust is an unfamiliar feeling. They don’t trust others, and they don’t trust themselves. Before she enrolled in her current program, Asta had already experienced relapse once, returning to the streets and the bottle after a is obvious: the sky is dumping graupel. This, Chelsea explains to the wide-eyed Georgians, is a combination of snow and sleet. “Well, this is not what I was expecting,” says Kris. “It’s 90 degrees in Atlanta.” We munch some apples, layer on raingear, and drape our packs with Smurf-blue covers that look like giant shower caps. The trail is narrow and smooth, a yellow brick road of fallen aspen leaves. Over the next few hours, we walk and stop and walk again. There are clothing adjustments, snacks, blister repairs. Asta and Rochelle need to rest at the top of gentle rises. We are near 8,500 feet. “Oh Lord, this pack is heavy!” groans Rochelle. The fact that she is even feeling her body is progress, according to researchers like Julie Anne Laser-Maira, a trafficking expert and associate professor at the University of Denver. “They’ve been through so much brutality,” she says. To survive those experiences, The tough-it-out-to-toughen-up plotline is so familiar, we all assume it’s true. Many wilderness-therapy courses conform to the narrative, a male-centric, quasi-militaristic hero story that says that what doesn’t kill you, yada yada. few weeks in a safe house. “It’s always a step away,” she says. Kris has never gone this long—a year— without a drink or methamphetamine since her life started unraveling 12 years ago. She turned to meth as a way to keep her weight down after her third son was born, and she got sucked into prostitution to pay for the drugs. Sexually abused from the age of 11, she never felt that her body was worth protecting. Ultimately, she started dealing. She went to prison twice. The last time, her mom agreed to bail her out if she entered longterm rehab. That was just over a year ago. At one point, Kris asks the guides, “Why are you doing this to help people like us?” “We’ve screwed every person over, burned every bridge,” adds a woman named Joy. Hope, passing out the last of the granola bars, responds, “I know the power the wilderness has. I can’t keep this to myself.” IT’S AFTERNOON by the time we arrive at the Monarch Lake trailhead—our gateway to Indian Peaks—and it’s clear that these will be low-mileage days. The first challenge women often dissociate from their bodies. Rochelle knows this well. “I came to a place where I had to be OK with being raped,” she tells me. “I had to be OK with it because it happened every single day for a really, really long time.” Rochelle says she was basically held captive as a sex slave for a year in Boston, then became a street prostitute and meth addict. She tells me this with bright eyes that, she says, were vacant not long ago. Today she is scanning a marshy area off the trail that looks a little moosey to me. A few minutes later, sure enough, we see a mother and an adolescent moose about 100 feet away. The women fall into a huddle of exclamations and whispers. “This is my first time ever seeing a moose in person!” says Tamara. “Same!” says Kim. No one pulls out a cell phone, because they are not allowed to have them in rehab— one of many restrictions they agree to as part of their treatment. Life back there reverberates into the mountain in other ways. That first night, Kris wouldn’t zip up her sleeping bag because she didn’t want to feel trapped by it. The women go off to pee or collect water or firewood only in pairs, partly because they don’t like being alone out here and partly because it isn’t permitted in their treatment centers. It takes us over two hours to hike the three miles to camp, following Buchanan Creek and crossing into the Indian Peaks Wilderness. White patches of snow glow like spotlights on the forest floor. The temperature keeps dropping, and it’s getting dark. We set up tents, and eventually dinner is ready: thin bean soup. I figure this is the first course, but it’s the whole deal. Chelsea and Hope look apologetic and whip up some Nutella on tortilla wedges for dessert. We heat water to fill bottles that we slip inside our sleeping bags, then wrap our bodies around the hot plastic and try to sleep. According to the usual outdoor-therapy script, we’d all wake up feeling a little vulnerable, then gradually assume a mantle of fist-pumping, we-made-it-through-thenight badassery. The idea that pushing our limits builds character is as old as the hills. John Muir embraced it. So did Teddy Roosevelt. The tough-it-out-to-toughen-up plotline is so familiar, we all assume it’s true. Many wilderness-therapy courses—along with Outward Bound, the National Outdoor Leadership School, the Eagle Scouts— conform to the narrative, a male-centric, quasi-militaristic hero story that says that what doesn’t kill you, yada yada. But for trauma therapists like Chelsea and academics like Denise Mitten, who chairs the master’s program in adventure education at Arizona’s Prescott College, it’s time to rethink the old tropes. They want less Daniel Defoe, more Katniss Everdeen. Not content to be the lone victor, you’ll recall, Katniss chose to hold Peeta’s hand, and together they freed the slaves of Panem. Well, OK, I guess that’s kind of militaristic. But you get the idea. In the U.S., there is a legacy of woodsfor-hoods programs and spartan canyoncountry marchathons for troubled teens and young adults. Some of these are more compassion based than others, but most share a central theme of overcoming challenges. According to Mitten, recovery may happen in those programs despite the hardships, not because of them. “People always talk about risk taking and challenge, but I don’t think those are the agents for change,” she says. “There’s still a patriarchal creep in a lot of these groups of getting out of your comfort zone, but in general they’re geared toward people who are already comfortable. What about people who aren’t comfortable?” Mitten knows of just a handful of progressive groups specializing in wilderness experiences for women continued on page 98 > 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 91 2018 Out side FACES of CHANGE An energized group of explorers are bringing the spirit of wilderness through-hiking to American cities. Record-breaking distance trekker Liz Thomas and others are altering how we see urban spaces and inviting folks new to the outdoors along for the fun. B Y E R I N B E R G E R Like the Appalachian Trail, But with More Stoplights 92 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 It’s after sunset and we’re somewhere near San Diego’s Goodan Ranch Sycamore Canyon Preserve, about 135 miles into the San Diego Trans County Trail—a 155-mile route that winds through wilderness and state parks, then into the heart of the city. Liz Thomas and a few of her friends have been hiking and camping for the past five days. They started on January 10 at the Salton Sea, near California’s Coachella Valley, and in less than 24 hours they’ll finish at the Pacific Ocean via Torrey Pines State Reserve. I met up with the group just before noon to walk part of today’s 27-mile stretch with them. But we’ve hit a roadblock, literally. It’s a four-lane highway that we’ll need to cross and then follow in order to reach our final food stop of the day: a Costco off Scripps Poway Parkway. There’s no great alternate route, and walking the narrow shoulder of a busy highway in the dark? Inadvisable. “This is the urban equivalent of cliffing out,” says Thomas as she and her friends consult various navigation apps and a map by headlamp. Such are the risks of urban throughhiking, which entails piecing together 50 miles or more of footpaths through places never designed for trekking. Few do it better than Liz “Snorkel” Thomas. Thomas was given the trail name Snorkel on the Appalachian Trail, after a night spent slumbering with her head inside her sleeping bag. (Condensation from her breath wetted out the interior.) She’s best known for breaking the women’s unsupported speed record on the AT in 2011 and for pioneering new long-distance wilderness routes, completing them quickly and often solo. But in the past few years, the 32-year-old Japanese American, who grew up in Sacramento, has picked up another title: Queen of Urban Hiking. She’s the perfect ambassador, possessing serious cred, an uncanny navigational sense, a confident stride, and a quick-to-laugh manner. Day hiking within city limits isn’t a new concept, of course. There are guidebooks detailing trails in cities from San Francisco to Atlanta. But Thomas has pushed the pursuit further, mapping out routes as long as 200 miles from one corner of a city to another Thomas hiking under the Knott Memorial Bridge in San Diego P H OTO G R A P H S B Y and using infrastructure like stairways and public art to rack up elevation gain and provide something approximating a vista. She started in 2013 with a 220-mile through-hike in Los Angeles called the Inman 300, named for one of its creators, Bob Inman, and the initial number of stairways it included. Among other efforts, she has since hiked 60 miles through Chicago, 200 miles in Seattle, and 210 miles in Portland, Oregon. In 2015, she trekked the 54 miles from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama, on the 50th anniversary of that historic civil rights march. CA THERINE LEDNER “After your first wilderness throughhike, there’s this post-hike depression a lot of people go through, seeing this huge divide between living life on versus off the trail,” says Thomas, who is five foot eight, has powerful calves, and is wearing a plaid shirt, an olive green hiking skirt, and bright orange sunglasses. “I know through-hikers who walk 200 miles every summer and in the off-season sit at their desk and don’t consider walking their city.” Urban through-hikers are part of a larger national shift as outdoor recreationists 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 93 expand the idea of what counts as adventure and people without ready access to wilderness—the majority of us—look for ways to participate. In the past few years, millions of dollars have been invested in climbing gyms, running and biking clubs have launched in seemingly every zip code, and meetups like Mappy Hour, GirlTrek, and Outdoor Afro, which bring together enthusiasts outside active adventure hubs, have expanded their ranks. Cities like Miami and Austin, Texas, have developed miles of greenways—paths set aside for biking, running, and walking. Eventually, Austin plans to connect 400 miles’ worth of regional trails. Meanwhile, a small, ad hoc group of dedicated urban hikers have created routes of their own, the pinnacle of which are multiday endeavors that take them far beyond the official pathways. They’re slowly gaining converts via Facebook and shared GPS coordinates, and if their evolving definition of outdoor recreation goes mainstream, it could mean healthier cities for all of us. What if your entire city became your park? THOMAS’S San Diego Trans County Trail group includes Whitney “Allgood” LaRuffa, Mike “Ayce” Unger, and Naomi “the Punisher” Hudetz. Before I meet up with them, they managed to tick off ten miles that morning. They requested that I bring snacks and drinks, and when I find them, in an agreed-upon tunnel, they collapse onto sleeping pads and demolish my offering of watermelon and Cheez-Its. “It’s like feeding pigeons,” Thomas says. Now they’ve begun mentally moving on to the Costco, which is 17 miles away. “We’re gonna make some bad decisions there,” Thomas says. The group chimes in. “Polish sausages!” “Salad. With kale.” “A 12-pack of kombucha.” “And then we hit up all the samples.” As we resume walking, it feels as though we encounter the urban equivalent of a new biome every hour. Leaving the tunnel, we see teens hiking in basketball shorts; then we wander hills dotted with building materials but no discernible construction. This feeds into a dirt road where we pass what sounds like a tropical-bird sanctuary before climbing a not-quite trail up a hill strewn with golf balls and rusted metal. At the top, we look down at a sprawl of trucks and shipping containers. Full disclosure: today’s scenery isn’t particularly inspiring. Especially for this group, most of whom are triple-crowners, which means they’ve completed each of the three major wilderness through-hikes—the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail. This trip was an introductory taste of urban hiking for 94 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 “I know throughhikers who walk 200 miles every summer and in the off-season sit at their desk and don’t consider walking their city,” Thomas says. most of them. “We’ve taken an easy pace and longer breaks,” Hudetz says. “It’s been fun.” LaRuffa adds: “It’s an interesting way to see how cities treat their public lands and their urban interface.” At 7 P.M. , we cliff out at the four-lane highway. Weighing our options, we decide to call it a night. It’ll be safer for the group to find a new route in the morning. We pull out our phones, book hotel rooms a few miles away, and cram into a Lyft that carries us to an empty Indian restaurant in a strip mall. Bail-out options like this are one major difference between urban and wilderness hiking. While the number of miles covered each day is similar—ranging from 15 to 30— lodging is usually a friend’s couch or a hostel. Food is often from a corner store, a burrito joint, or the nearest all-you-can-eat restaurant. Resupply drops aren’t really necessary, and the availability of public transit means you’re never stranded. On this trip, the group camped five nights and stayed in a hotel one night. Navigation requires only a smartphone or GPS; Thomas uses the Gaia app. Purists will scoff at the uncomplicated logistics, but Thomas isn’t a snob. She doesn’t see urban routes as second-class substitutes for wilderness. Cities have historical landmarks, murals, plenty of access to greenspace, and some of the country’s 10,234 state parks. Urban through-hikes incorporate these elements. Sometimes they’re mapped out with specific goals in mind, like Thomas’s 100-mile Denver BrewThru, completed in March 2017, which hit 65 breweries in eight days. “Urban hiking draws in this whole crowd of people who don’t want to go into the backcountry, or do but can’t get there,” she says. Or they feel like they don’t have the skill set for a multi-day backpacking trip or the cash ﬂow for all the sleeping bags, camp stoves, and 60-liter backpacks. “It’s a cool way to still explore,” she adds. “There’s a lot that’s the same as wilderness hiking: mapping, exploration, meeting new people, seeing new things.” The best established urban hikes are currently out West, in cities like Los Angeles, Seattle, and Portland. The routes have one thing in common: lots of tall public stairways, a physically challenging feature. In fact, Thomas credits her discovery of urban hiking to a “renaissance of people who are super interested in stairways.” Three such enthusiasts are Bob Inman, Andrew Lichtman, and Ying Chen, who together created the Inman 300, America’s ﬁrst urban through-hiking route, connecting about 350 By speed-hiking and then blogging about new urban routes on her website (see “Go Your Own Way,” right), Thomas has brought awareness of the activity to core hikers. But who she really wants to attract are folks who don’t consider themselves hikers at all. Many of those people are among the 80.7 percent of Americans who live in urban areas, just a bus ride away from the next great concrete trail. “Cities depend on flow,” says Mindy Thompson Fullilove, professor of urban policy and health at the New School in New York City. “The more you get people ﬂowing to places that surprise them, the healthier a city is going to be.” SENIOR EDITOR ERIN BERGER ( @ERIN EBERGER) WROTE ABOUT GIRLTREK IN MAY 2017. SHE ONCE HIKED 50 MILES THROUGH ST. LOUIS. THOMAS AND HER group ﬁnish their San GO YOUR OWN WAY Diego Trans County Trail hike the next day at 3 P.M., after winding through the suburban Sorrento Valley and Torrey Pines neighborhoods and traversing ofﬁce parks and strip malls containing hookah bars and coffee shops. Just beyond marshy Los Peñasquitos Lagoon, they end up at the rocky shore of Torrey Pines State Beach, where Thomas snaps a selﬁe. Plenty of serious hikers have caught the urban bug. Michael Yadrick, a plant ecologist living in Tacoma, Washington, put together a 65-mile route in Seattle with 15,000 stairs. Some ultrarunners have completed it in a day. Dan Koeppel, a writer who Want a taste of city hiking? Follow these steps. —E.B. Thomas doesn’t see urban routes as second-class substitutes for wilderness. Cities have historical landmarks, murals, plenty of access to greenspace, and some of the country’s 10,234 state parks. public stairways in Los Angeles. Thomas was happily ticking off wilderness trails in 2013 when Lichtman reached out to her, hoping that the well-known hiker would bring some cred to the route as Inman worked on his Guidebook to the Inman 300. “It was my off-season, so I thought it could be training—and at least it was warm,” Thomas says. “I ended up really liking it in a way I didn’t necessarily think I would.” She completed the Inman in just over ﬁve days and enjoyed the experience of the neighborhoods melting one into the next as she trekked through them. Inman agrees. “I hate the different barriers that go up in this city, assumptions like, ‘Don’t go there, you’ll be killed,’ ” he says. “It really isn’t like that. Urban walking has a way of making the city seem smaller.” ary, she embarked on a 60-mile Brew-Thru of Bend, Oregon, that also targeted public art and landmarks—and that sidewalks can be just as meditative as trails. “We don’t need to divide up our world in terms of mountains being the place of solace,” Thomas says. “If we lived in walkable cities, we’d start thinking of all places as places of O solace.” lives in Los Angeles, started running and hiking stairways to train for an attempt on California’s Mount Whitney. From 2009 to 2015, he organized a two-day, 35-mile, multi-staircase L.A. hike called the Big Parade that eventually attracted hundreds of participants. Koeppel tells people that to reach the highest level of urban hiking, they need to go on Google Maps and create their own route. “In a city, there are a million ways to get from point A to point B,” he says. “You can choose the prettiest route, the fastest, the hardest. It’s very creative and individualistic. It’s kind of a radical idea.” While Thomas considers herself an advocate for better hiking access and more walkable cities, she also wants to show people just how much fun she’s having—in Febru- Join a group. Meetup, Facebook, and Gociety are a few good places to start. Looking to join an organized hike? Members of the San Diego Trans County Trail Facebook group plan a large group trek each winter and provide downloadable GPS files of the route. Try a known hike. For options in Los Angeles, download Guidebook to the Inman 300 at outsideonline.com/inman300. Dan Koeppel keeps an archive of maps for many of his walks on Facebook, under the Big Parade page’s events section. A map for the Seattle Stairway Foot Tour, a 65-mile route with 15,000 stairs, is available at outsideonline.com/ seattlestairs. Liz Thomas posts maps and information about through-hikes she’s completed in Portland, Denver, and Chicago on her website at eathomas.com. And Mountaineers Books publishes a number of urban hiking guides, such as Seattle Stairway Walks. The Rails-to-Trails Conservancy, a nonprofit that advocates turning unused rail corridors into recreation trails, maintains the TrailLink database, which includes nonwilderness route options. Piece it together. Contact your local transportation bureau for walking or cycling maps. (Portland, Oregon, has superlative ones.) Then add elevation: the website Public Stairs has maps for dozens of cities. Connect everything using Google’s My Maps feature, which lets you share routes. 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 95 BEARS EARS continued from page 85 Navajo power brokers. Soon after coming on board, she began attending meetings of the Bears Ears coalition. She found herself traveling up to the high desert, once camping between the twin buttes under a full moon. On another trip, her elementary-schoolage niece sang a traditional song about the region. Branch sometimes kept a sleeping bag in her office in order to head up to Bears Ears. She felt that something powerful was protecting the region—something, she says, “that transcends the law.” THE TRIBES WERE hardly alone in prepar- ing a complaint. In the Trump era, the gears of liberal outrage have spun freely, providing a boon to the bottom line of environmental and social-justice organizations across the country. By April 2017, when President Trump signed the executive order launching Zinke’s monument review, everyone from Earthjustice to the Natural Resources Defense Council to Patagonia was exploring lawsuits over Bears Ears. Visits to the monument spiked, and UDB prepared to sue as well. For Branch and the NARF lawyers, the outcry was welcome. But the team wanted to keep the tribal voice separate from that of the environmental groups. “In an ideal world,” Branch says, “it would be cool to work together. But we’re dealing with very different interests.” Campbell echoed that sentiment. For her part, Landreth likened the environmentalists’ pile-on in the months leading up to the proclamation to “a high school party—if I’m not invited, I’m going to die!” Landreth’s primary concern was that the tribes respond first. “It’s the first truly Native American monument,” she says. “Let the tribes talk about how fucked-up it is that the one he goes after is the one run by Indians.” The other plaintiffs respected that. After The Hopi Tribe, et al., v. Donald J. Trump, et al. was filed on December 4, two other coalitions of nonprofits held off for a couple of days before filing their suits in federal district court in D.C. Landreth was pleased. One suit was brought by the Natural Resources Defense Council, SUWA, and nine 96 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 other environmental groups represented by Earthjustice. The other was brought by UDB, the Conservation Lands Foundation, Patagonia, and a group of archaeological and conservation organizations. Meanwhile, two other nonprofit coalitions sued to block the halving of Grand Staircase–Escalante. Each of the complaints addresses presidential authority under the Antiquities Act and the Federal Land Policy and Management Act. But they differ in regard to the antiquities at stake. The environmental groups’ complaint emphasizes “outstanding opportunities for sightseeing, hiking, backpacking, wildlife viewing, spiritual reflection, and other outdoor activities.” The suit brought by UDB and Patagonia references both Bears Ears’ archaeological sites and its spectacular climbing. The tribes’ suit reads differently. It is, of course, full of legalese. But it also notes that the Zuni consider water to be “similar to the blood of their mother” and states that “Hopi ancestors buried in the area continue to inhabit the land.” Another passage reads: “The Bears Ears landscape also has seminal importance in Navajo songs, prayers, and healing ceremonies that have unique and close ties to the Bears Ears region, its flora and fauna, and its historical and spiritual qualities, including the Anaaji (Enemy Way), the Dinéee (Wild Game Way), the Dzilkíji (Mountaintop Way), and the Hozhooji (Blessingway), which seeks to restore and revitalize hózhó (harmony, beauty, and balance) for the individual for whom the ceremony is performed.” “If you read a thousand other complaints in federal court,” says Landreth, “you will not see one that looks like that.” But once the suits were filed, the press filled up with stories about Patagonia—both its lawsuit and its home page, which the company altered to read, simply, “The President Stole Your Land.” The narrative proved easier for reporters to digest. “I love Patagonia,” Landreth told me afterward. “I’m sure they’re great people. My sense is theirs is a voice people would listen to.” She paused. She liked what the company did on its website, she said. “But at the same time, it made me kind of sad. Anything we said about looting or sacredness of the land in 50-plus interviews never received that level of penetration. What are we doing wrong?” lawyers representing the administration could conceivably argue that Obama didn’t adhere to the act’s mandate to protect only “the smallest area compatible.” But, says Squillace, “That’s a very tough argument, because the plaintiffs are going to be able to show all kinds of objects that were intended for protection by the Obama administration that are now outside the protected area.” In February, in fact, a team of scientists announced that they’d discovered a bed of Triassic phytosaur fossils—an early crocodile—in an area of Bears Ears that had been stripped of protections; the fossils are located in the Chinle formation, parts of which also contain uranium. Still, Zinke’s final report, made public in December, suggests that previous presidential overreach is an animating idea behind the revised monument. It also suggests that extraphysical and even environmental concerns should not affect the creation of monuments. “Throughout the review,” he wrote, “I have seen examples of objects not clearly defined in the proclamations. Examples of such objects are geographic areas including viewsheds and ecosystems. Proper use of the Act should specifically identify the ‘historic landmarks, historic and prehistoric structures, and other objects of historic or scientific interest,’ and the quantity of land necessary to protect each object, if any.” In January, the Department of Justice requested that the case be moved from D.C. to Utah, on the grounds that the monuments are located there. “Both parties are trying to get to the friendliest forum they can find,” Squillace told me. At press time, judge Tanya Chutkan, an Obama nominee, had yet to decide on that motion. She did, however, rule on the federal government’s motion to consolidate the suits into one. Chutkan grouped the suits together as The Hopi Tribe, et al., v. Donald J. Trump, et al. for the purpose of scheduling, but agreed with the plaintiffs that the tribes could file their own briefs and argue separately. How long all this will take is unknown. The fight is, in the words of John Leshy, a former solicitor at Interior, “a pretty straightforward kind of case” from a litigation point of view. But it’s hugely consequential, potentially dictating the stability of America’s 117 national monuments—and pitting an indigenous worldview against that of a real estate developer from Queens. IF THE PLAINTIFFS’ cards are on the table, the federal government has not shown its hand. According to the University of Colorado’s Squillace, the government will have to argue “implied authority”—that the president has a power that’s not articulated in the Antiquities Act. The Department of Justice ONE TREASURE IS nearly impossible to find in Bears Ears: a map of the original 1.35million-acre monument. Because Trump took office just a month after Obama’s announcement, little infrastructure has been added. There are no Bears Ears National Monument signs in Bluff. According to Friends of Cedar Mesa, a local environmental group, use of toilet paper at the smattering of ranger stations and outhouses in the area has increased in the past year, indicating significant growth in tourism. But Bluff won’t be rivaling Moab in the near future; it still has just a few lodges and restaurants that are open occasionally. And those who wish to access the monument still need a good set of jacked-up tires and some local knowledge. On February 2, a 60-day temporary moratorium on mining claims in the Obama monument expired, meaning that anyone with a couple hundred bucks can show up, put some sticks in the ground, and claim mineral rights, just as they could for decades prior to December 2016. But the price of uranium is low; despite dire warnings from the environmental community, the race to stake new claims has not yet heated up. The next day, on February 3, Ethel Branch’s Pathfinder hurtles out of Bluff toward Bears Ears. The road is empty. Branch and a Hopi friend, a former Marine named Alfred, are driving to see some ruins. Alfred steers up the Moki Dugway, a steeply switchbacked road that climbs to Cedar Mesa. They keep driving until they can see the twin mesas of Bears Ears. Far to the southwest looms the shadow of a curved mountain. “Navajo Mountain,” Branch says. “Hopi Mountain,” Alfred corrects her. They laugh. Alfred started visiting Bears Ears in the eighties. Branch never came as a kid. “We couldn’t go 40 miles without the ranch truck breaking down,” she later explains. That afternoon, Alfred turns onto a cratered dirt road leading toward Cave Towers, an Ancestral Puebloan site in Mule Canyon. There’s a crunch, and it sounds like the right rear wheel has bottomed out. Branch and Alfred step from the car to find they have a flat tire. But there’s only so much daylight. The tire can wait. They walk out and find a sign asking that hikers visit with respect. There are two misspellings. A disappointed Branch wonders aloud if she has a Magic Marker back in the car. She and Alfred continue on, and after a few hundred yards they come to a yawning canyon. At its head are a number of ancient towers made of red rock and mud—perhaps defense outposts. Branch stays away from the ruins in accordance with Navajo custom. A few hundred yards beneath the towers, Alfred points out some small structures tucked into the cliffs—Puebloan homes. The walls have holes, he says: spaces for arrows. The people here were guarding something of great value. Swallows dive in and out of the canyon walls. Alfred hikes back to change the tire. Branch sticks around a little while longer. She walks to the lip of the canyon and pauses. “You can hear it,” she says, and sure enough there’s a gurgle. At the bottom of the canyon, far beneath the towers and settlements, there’s a clear spring bubbling with O life. Something to protect. CONTRIBUTING EDITOR ABE STREEP ( @ABESTREEP) WROTE ABOUT PATAGONIA AND THE FIGHT OVER PUBLIC LANDS IN SEPTEMBER 2017. Volume XLIII, Number 4. OUTSIDE (ISSN 0278-1433) is published monthly, except for the January/February double issue, by Mariah Media Network LLC, 400 Market St., Santa Fe, NM 87501. Periodical postage paid at Santa Fe, NM, and additional mailing offices. Canadian Goods and Services Tax Registration No. R126291723. Canada Post International Publications Mail Sales Agreement No. 40015979. Subscription rates: U.S. and possessions, $24; Canada, $35 (includes GST); foreign, $45. Washington residents add sales tax. POSTMASTER: Send U.S. and international address changes to OUTSIDE, P.O. Box 6228, Harlan, IA 51593-1728. Send Canadian address changes to OUTSIDE, P.O. Box 877 Stn Main, Markham, ON L3P-9Z9. 05.18 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 97 SURVIVORS continued from page 91 with trauma. They include Idaho-based Higher Ground, which runs trips for women veterans, and the Colorado-based Women’s Wilderness Institute, which runs LGBTQ and other programs. Aleya, our climbing guide on this trip, is planning to open an adventure-therapy center that will include courses for women suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. “Nature should put you in a comfort zone,” adds Mitten. “People with PTSD, they don’t even have a comfort zone.” THIS MORNING along Buchanan Creek, ease and repose are not exactly on offer. Water bottles left outside our sleeping bags have frozen. The forecast is calling for snow tomorrow. Then there’s the matter of last night’s Dickensian rations. Kris, in her unzipped bag, nearly froze. Joy confided in me that she was terrified of the dark. (“It was pitch-black, and the trees started screeching. And I felt like somebody was coming.”) “This just kind of sucks,” admits Elise at the morning fire. “This trip for y’all is about healing, and if that’s not what’s being accomplished, then we as leaders need to reassess and make decisions, and we can’t do that unless we’re hearing from everyone.” “All right,” Asta volunteers, “I’m a little overwhelmed. Sleeping on the streets is way different. I thought maybe I had a little bit of an understanding, but it’s definitely different. This is real camping.” “I mean, this is joyous to be out here,” adds Kris. “The scenery is amazing. But last night was pretty miserable. I’m like, What have I gotten myself into?” So while Hope brews oatmeal, Chelsea jogs back to the trailhead to find some cell reception and see about amending the plan. Meanwhile, the women do yoga in down jackets, raid the peanut butter to bulk up their oatmeal, stoke the fire, and watch the pine needles sizzle. When Chelsea returns two hours later, she gathers up the group. “OK, new plan!” she says. Instead of continuing along to a second campsite, we’ll use this one as our base camp and go on a day hike. Tomorrow morning, before the worst 98 O U T S I D E M A G A Z I N E 05.18 of the storm hits, we’ll hike the three miles back out and head for a cushy retreat center for our last night. And we’ll buy more food. The women express relief and delight. No packs today! A waiting bed! Later, Chelsea tells me why she felt the urgent need to pull the plug on a third, colder night out. It comes down to neurobiology. Everyone has a window of tolerance, she explains, in which they feel emotionally stable and can stretch and grow. “This is where you can stay connected to your frontal lobe, which is where social connections can happen, and abstract thought, creativity, self-concept, and meaning making.” People who’ve experienced trauma can go into a state of hyperarousal, becoming anxious and on edge. Or they may experience hypo-arousal, which can look like listlessness and depression. Either way, emotions hijack the controls. “Their windows shrink quite a bit,” Chelsea says. “Their windows are really small.” By midday, though, we all seem to have entered some sort of bliss bubble. The clouds have cleared, the temperature has warmed to the fifties, and the positive benefits of nature arrive on cue. We smell the vanilla bark of a ponderosa, walk across a log bridge over a fast-flowing creek, and picnic in bright sun. Over bagels and canned salmon, I sit with Rochelle, who has an easy laugh that belies her life before treatment. I ask her how she feels today. She smiles and groans. “I am feeling a little bit exhausted,” she says. “But I am honestly doing a lot of selfreflection.” One thing she’s noticing is more physical sensation, not all of it pleasant. It’s a good reminder that she didn’t always take care of her body, and now she wants to. “It’s like a loving type of awareness, you know?” This is one of the main reasons that being active and outside—in a full-sensory environment—can be so powerful. Although there’s not much research on how long these benefits last, healing from trauma is a long, slow process, says University of Denver’s LaserMaira. On a trip like this, mind and body finally start to come together again. The hope is that survivors use that base to keep themselves safer and healthier moving forward. Although She Is Able doesn’t formally follow up with participants, the idea is that they’ll remain in touch and continue to support each other. For example, Elise and many of the other women will soon be attending Tamara’s graduation from her treatment program, though that’s still hard to picture from their chilly streamside perch. WHEN WE ARRIVE back at the trailhead the next day, snow is falling. We board Betty White and head to 110-acre Toth Ranch, a Christian retreat center nestled into the rangy slopes of Hot Sulphur Springs. The main house is warm, with picture windows, deep plush sofas, and a hot tub. Kris looks around and starts crying, and Chelsea has to tell her it’s OK, she is worthy of this place. The afternoon is spent reveling in hot water, walking to a pond, and cooking up Thai noodles and Nutella cookies. Satiated and toasty, hair freshly washed, the women settle in for the evening debrief. True to form, it isn’t long before the tears and the prayers kick in. As the moon rises and the wind blows against the barren poplars, Elise talks about the many times she felt burned-out this year, desperately seeking funds, facing enormous self-doubt. She has agonized over whether to remain as executive director or move to the board level. (In several months, she will indeed hire a new director with experience treating victims of trauma.) “It’s been really hard,” she says, sniffling, “but watching you guys, the genuine conversation and the realness that’s happened here, you can’t beat it. And so you guys have made me want to keep going. This is why I’m here. And how cool, you know?” All the women tell Elise to keep going. “I know there’s six of us who have walked down a dark, dark path,” says Kris, who only 18 months ago crashed a vehicle into a gas station while being chased by a U.S. marshal. “None of us thought that we’d be sitting here today. If you had asked us a couple years ago, the answer would’ve been no. I mean, this is something that I will never forget.” “I got a lot out of this,” starts Rochelle, “even the very uncomfortable parts of not being able to breathe and my back hurting or my muscles aching or not getting sleep or whatever, like the uncomfortable stuff.” She takes a deep breath. “It just sent messages to me like, Wow, my body is actually a responsibility.” Heads are nodding, slowly. “I didn’t know that I needed any healing physically, or that there was deep, deep, deep wounding there.” Now she is crying, but she keeps going. “And I had never grieved the loss that it had caused me. And I realized that my body has never—you know, like, I never really claimed it as mine.” Outside the big windows, the snow keeps falling on the mountains we just left, where, it seems, the women also deposited a few shards of themselves, bits that needed to be abandoned. Rochelle looks out over the range. “I took back my body. I realized it could O be mine.” CONTRIBUTING EDITOR FLORENCE WILLIAMS ( @FLOWILL) IS THE AUTHOR OF THE NATURE FIX. SHE WROTE ABOUT GIRL SCOUTS IN MAY 2017. VA IL COL ORA DO JUNE 7-10 2018 AT HLET ES | A R T | MUSIC | MOUN TA INS F R EE F O R S P EC TAT O R S | F R EE C O N C ER T S | # G O P R O M O U N TA I N G A M E S | R E G I S T ER AT M O U N TA I N G A M E S.C O M ADVERTISEMENT f res h Look A G U I D E T O N E W P R O D U C T S A N D B R A N D S F O R T H E A C T I V E L I F E S T Y L E Craft Travel Recommended by Frommer’s Danner Mountain 600 EnduroWeave Craft Travel, powered by Brazil Nuts Tours, has spent 35 years curating travel experiences for adventurers everywhere. Forget big buses and tourist traps. Our trips are 100% tailor-made for you and your bucket list by our our team of travel experts. Take advantage of our special Outside Magazine offer at: The Mountain 600 EnduroWeave raises the standard by lowering the weight. 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FUEL FOR EVERY DAY PHOTO: NOAH WETZEL RackSack® Made in USA WeatherTech.com 800-441-6287 © 2018 by MacNeil IP LLC VISIT OUTSIDEONLINE.COM/MARKETPLACE TO FIND OUT MORE Marketplace “AAI is the Harvard of climbing schools” – Matt Mooney, NYTimes ACTIVE TRAVELER New Zealand South America Himalayas Europe Contact us for a free destination brochure. Call us on: 1 800 661 9073 or visit: activeadventures.com tHave fun, learn a lot, & meet other climbers tDevelop a full range of climbing & safety skills tLearn to lead at your level tClimb rock &/or glacier routes tBecome an independent climber tAlpineInstitute.com Accredited Programs in 6 states & 16 countries escape adventures® This Is Nepal 702-596-2953 Treks, climb and tours in the Himalaya since 1975 Innovative Active Itineraries Great Value, Highly Inclusive Contact one of our adventure travel experts worldexpeditions.com 1.800.567.2216 This Is Introducing our all new Electric Mountain and Road bike tours! Perfect for riders of all levels! Featuring Utah, Nevada, New Mexico, California, Idaho, and Oregon! Come rip it up with ease! escapeadventures.com To advertise in Marketplace, contact Kathleen Chambers / email@example.com Marketplace ACTIVE ON AMERICA’S WILD & SCENIC RIVERS CELEBRATING 50 YEARS OF RIVER PROTECTION IN 2018 Bike. Hike. Paddle. Explore. TRAVELER ADVENTURE call 800.GO.ACTIVE or visit backroads.com/os Join the locals and hike, bike and kayak through New Zealand’s pure wilderness Guiding Life’s Greatest Adventures since 1969 www.oars.com throug pure wild incredib erness on our le adventu res. 4 5 8 Get your free brochure at: activeadventures.com/new-zealand or call: 1 800 661 9073 VISIT OUTSIDEONLINE.COM/MARKETPLACE TO FIND OUT MORE Outside Magazine In Memoriam 05.18 Andrew Tilin (1965–2018) Andrew Tilin, who died on February 17, started working as an editor at Outside in 1991, when the magazine was still based in Chicago. He was a bright and laughing presence in a gray-sky city that wasn’t always conducive to the sports and adventures we wrote about. He also set an example: pushing back against urban life to stay in shape by running, riding his bike, and zipping all over town on in-line skates. (Rollerblades? Hey, it was the nineties, and he meant it when he self-identified as a fitness geek.) When Outside moved to Santa Fe in 1994, Andrew—who grew up in San Francisco—was at home again in the expansive West, and he led the charge as people discovered that New Mexico was a paradise for hikers, cyclists, and skiers. He operated on a different level—over the years, he took on grueling events like the Leadville Trail 100 mountain-bike race—but he would play with anybody, and he was an excellent and patient teacher, beloved by those he rode and worked with. Later in the decade, Andrew became a freelancer and wrote several classics for the magazine, including stories about the deadly coexistence of reckless drivers and vulnerable bicyclists, the healing exhilaration of riding after a divorce, the debut of clothing retailer Nau, and “I Couldn’t Be More Positive,” an adaptation from his book The Doper Next Door, in which he explored the underworld of amateur-bike-racing cheats by taking testosterone for a year and then competing himself. When he died, he was finishing up a story about two bike-loving heirs to the Walmart fortune, which you can read on page 18. Andrew moved to Austin, Texas, in 2011, where he joined a local bike club called Gruppo VOP. Our friend was snatched away decades too soon, at 52, hit by an out-of-control truck while he fixed a bike tire on the side of the road. We will miss him forever. We will honor who he was by working hard and enjoying life in ways that surely would have made him smile. —ALEX HEARD 108 P H OTO G R A P H B Y Madeleine Tilin SHELTER ON THE GO The StormLine Stretch Rain Shell combines highly stretchable fabric for ultimate mobility moving in the mountains with our BD.dry™ waterproof/ breathable/windproof solution to provide reliable protection when the weather breaks.