Even if you鈥檝e never set foot in New England, you probably know Katahdin by its reputation: Maine鈥檚 highest peak,听the storied terminus of the Appalachian Trail,听the spot where . You might not know that a hiker can鈥檛 simply show up at a trailhead there听and start hoofing it up the mountain. Or that Katahdin isn鈥檛 found, as some reasonably assume, at Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument, 听in 2016.听(It鈥檚 next door.)听You almost certainly wouldn鈥檛 recognize the names of the other neighboring parks and preserves鈥攅ach administered by a different outfit and governed by different rules鈥攖hat together make the Katahdin region arguably the East Coast鈥檚 finest wilderness-recreation bloc.

And so, a primer. The patchwork management of Maine鈥檚 wild and听woolly听north woods can be confusing for a first-time visitor. Here鈥檚 what a would-be Thoreau needs to know.

Baxter State Park

What鈥檚 there: Mile-high Katahdin, for one. More than a half-dozen intersecting trails reach its summit,听, with most of them falling in the alpine zone听for miles and requiring some scrambling or climbing on iron rungs. AT thru-hikers start or finish their trek on the mountain鈥檚 western slope, but the showstopper is the eastern approach called the Knife Edge, a boulder-strewn ridge walk of just over a mile where the mountain鈥檚 spine is sometimes all of three听feet wide听with a 2,000-foot drop听on either side. Less exhilarating but equally sublime is Chimney Pond, tucked into a cirque on the mountain鈥檚 north side, near a cluster of coveted .听

But there鈥檚 more to Baxter than Katahdin. The 330-square-mile wilderness park encompasses more than 40 mountain peaks, backcountry ponds full of native brook trout, and a handful of idyllic cabins and campgrounds鈥攁ll accessed by one gravel road and some 220 miles of trail. One of Maine鈥檚 most underrated hikes is the Traveler Mountain Loop, near the park鈥檚 north entrance, which stays above treeline for more than half of its 11 miles. The trail ends听at Traveler鈥檚 3,551-foot summit, and听it has much of Katahdin鈥檚 grandeur and a fraction of its foot traffic.

Who runs it: The state, with limitations. Maine鈥檚 governor in the early twenties, Percival Baxter, wanted the state to acquire and protect Katahdin and its surroundings. His initiative failed, but after leaving office听he spent 30 years buying the land听and deeding it to the people of Maine. So while Baxter is a state park in name, it exists outside of Maine鈥檚 park system, legally bound by deeds forbidding anything that might intrude on its unique character.

Getting in: Entrance is free if you鈥檙e in a car with Maine plates; otherwise听it鈥檚 $15. Things get tricky if you want to hike Katahdin. Unless you鈥檙e waking up inside the park (campsites and cabins book up months in advance), you鈥檒l need a day-use parking reservation鈥攁 DUPR, or 鈥渄ooper,鈥� in Baxter parlance鈥攖o claim a space at a Katahdin trailhead. Non-residents can for $5 starting two weeks before a planned trip. On the morning of your DUPR, you must be at the park鈥檚 south entrance by 7 A.M.鈥攁t 7:01, your space goes up for grabs to the DUPR-less hopefuls who often hover outside the gate. Once the park admits enough cars to fill the trailhead lots, Katahdin has reached capacity听and you鈥檙e looking for an alternate hike.

Know before you go: Baxter has no cell service and no facilities with Wi-Fi. (Or electricity, for that matter.)听The entrance gates are within a few miles of campgrounds with stores, but you鈥檒l find nothing for sale inside the park, so come听prepared. Pets are forbidden, and kids under six can鈥檛 go above treeline鈥攔angers will enforce both rules. Some trails have rather conservative cutoff times, and rangers may turn you around if you鈥檙e caught hitting the trail too late in the day. Baxter is a bit of a rule-happy park, and so听 before heading in.听

What鈥檚 nearby: The recovering mill town of Millinocket, an AT trail town where you can gear up at听听and eat amazing donuts at the 听while听admiring thru-hikers鈥� signatures on the ceiling panels. Lodging in town is mostly budget motels, with a few campgrounds and lodges clustered outside the park entrance, including the sprawling .听

Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument

What鈥檚 there: Katahdin鈥檚 forested foothills, several of them bald-topped, their summits accessed along 30 miles of the . Mountain bikers come听for a few dozen miles of old forest roads, and paddlers watch for moose along the . The monument also has some of the planet鈥檚 best stargazing,听as by the .听

Who runs it: The , after President Obama鈥檚 Interior Department accepted a gift of 87,500 acres from ,听the Mainer cofounder of Burt鈥檚 Bees.听

Getting in: As of yet, the monument has no entrance stations, so there鈥檚 no fee. Camping is free, too, available on a first-come, first-serve basis in a handful of primitive sites and lean-tos scattered throughout the park. Katahdin Woods and Waters abuts Baxter to the east, but it鈥檚 a wilderness border鈥攜ou can't enter听one park from the other by car.听

Know before you go: As a new NPS unit, the monument is still light on frontcountry听attractions, other than a 17-mile scenic driving loop with听overlooks and interpretive displays that听will tax any lower-clearance vehicle. (As will all the monument鈥檚 roads.)听There鈥檚 no road connecting听the monument鈥檚 north entrance to its south entrance, and it鈥檚 a 90-minute drive between the two听on roads outside the park, so seeing the whole place requires some trip planning. There is next to no ranger presence, and, as in Baxter, cell service is nil. Leashed dogs are welcome.

What鈥檚 nearby: A rural stretch of Maine, without much for amenities. You can get surprisingly good barbecue at in Patten, then check out a replica 19th-century logging camp at the . Near the monument鈥檚 north entrance, is a mellow old sporting camp that serves incredible family-style meals (currently available for听takeout only).

Penobscot River Trails

What鈥檚 there: Some (that serve as听ski trails in the winter) along the East Branch of the Penobscot River, just south of the national monument. The private park opened just last year, and听it鈥檚 maybe the most manicured trail system in New England, where bikers still have to watch out for ambling听moose and black bears.听

Who runs it: , a philanthropic foundation听听retired finance titan Gilbert Butler, who bought the former timberland and funded construction of the trails and a pair of warming huts听that look like small national-park lodges.

Getting in: Park in a lot right off the paved state highway, sign in at a visitor center that may or may not be staffed, and hit the trail. There is no fee.听

Know before you go: Ordinarily, Penobscot River Trails has a fleet of mountain bikes and kayaks (and in the winter, skis and snowshoes) to rent听by donation, although the rental program is on hold during the pandemic. No dogs, ebikes, or camping allowed.听

What鈥檚 nearby: Not much! Medway, the next town south, has , a , and the rare lobster roll听100 miles inland at听.听

Debsconeag Lakes Wilderness Area

What鈥檚 there: Some 46,000 nearly roadless听acres of lakes and ponds, most of them听connected by well-maintained portage trails and dotted with lakefront campsites. Also 15 miles of the Appalachian Trail, some stands of old-growth forest, backcountry ice caves, and so, so many loons.

Who runs it: , which acquired the property in 2002 from Great Northern Paper Company, once Maine鈥檚 largest landowner.

Getting in: In contrast to Baxter, Debsconeag is sparsely听regulated, with no permits, reservations, or fees. (No dogs are allowed, though.) Campsites are first come, first served and accessible听via at the edges of the preserve.

Know before you go: As elsewhere, don鈥檛 count on cell service. Mountain bikes are verboten. You鈥檒l want a vehicle with decent clearance to access the boat launches.

What鈥檚 nearby: The AT leaves the northeast corner of the Deb听right next to the , a clutch outpost for last-minute tent stakes, fishing flies, and beer, as well as a staging area for northbound thru-hikers about to launch their final push towards Katahdin. It鈥檚 also a base camp for听 on the West Branch of the Penobscot, which separates Debsconeag from neighboring Baxter.听

Beyond the Katahdin Region: the North Maine Woods

Wait, isn鈥檛 it all the north Maine woods? Well yes, but听head north or west along the rutted logging roads that spider out from the Katahdin region and sooner or later you鈥檒l reach a gated checkpoint. This is run by , which administers recreational access to some 3.5 million acres of forests, mountains, lakes, and streams in the state鈥檚 undeveloped northeast corner.听Most of the land is owned by commercial timber interests, but there are hundreds of remote campsites, plus a few sporting lodges and housekeeping cabins catering to anglers, hunters, and paddlers. Among other things, North Maine Woods regulates access to the 92-mile , one of New England鈥檚 . The Allagash has its own fee structure, but out-of-state visitors elsewhere in the North Maine Woods a $16 entrance fee听plus another $15 for each night of camping.

This story was produced in partnership with magazine.

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When 32-year-old Robby Huang, a freelance videographer and Zumba instructor in Indianapolis, showed his brother the pilot for a planned YouTube series chronicling his backpacking trips, Huang鈥檚 brother said, 鈥淕reat, but are you sure people are going to want to watch you just out walking?鈥� Four years later, has 38,000 subscribers who tune in for hourlong videos of Huang and his cousins Bryan and Andrew Lin walking, driving to trailheads, consulting maps, hanging hammocks, cooking, eating, and now and again waxing romantic about nature and solitude鈥攁ll in high-def 4K resolution with a kind of spa-jazz soundtrack.

国产吃瓜黑料 Archives is part of a social-media-era version of outdoor programming you might call normcore bushcraft鈥攔egular people broadcasting their decidedly un-extreme outdoorsy exploits. And millions of people are watching, further proof that YouTube has done more to stretch the definition of entertainment than the Roman Colosseum and televised spelling bees. At the heart of the niche are a few bona fide Internet celebs with legions of followers. Seven million subscribe to the channel, on which a parade of ornery and venomous animals bite and sting a walking Steve Irwin parody calling himself Coyote Peterson. Nearly five million subscribers Zen out to the silent, anonymous Australian hero of , who makes huts and stone tools and has earned gushy tributes from the likes of for doing something few YouTube hosts seem capable of鈥攕hutting the hell up.

Channels like these are a guilty pleasure akin to watching public-access shows on deep cable. Who doesn鈥檛 want to see some charismatic jackass get stung by 3,000 bees? This is more or less why YouTube was invented. But during one exceptionally long binge session, I become inexplicably fasci颅nated by woodsy auteurs like Huang and company, ordinary folk intimately documenting their soft adventures. Why do 7,000 people want to watch eat pasta out of a pouch during his overnight in Banff? Who has the free time to join Clint and Melody Parker (the State Parkers, an A-plus squad name) repeatedly pausing to adjust and discuss their trekking poles on their way up West Texas鈥檚 Guadalupe Peak?

鈥淲hat you have to remember is that YouTube has a multimillion鈥揹ollar audience that just watches people play video games,鈥� explains Thomas Sinard, 国产吃瓜黑料 Archives鈥� 24-year-old cocreator and an occasional tagalong hiker. 鈥淚f people will watch that,鈥� adds Huang, 鈥渟omebody will watch us hike.鈥� 国产吃瓜黑料 Archives viewers skew male, ages 18 to 34, says Sinard, and commenters consistently describe the episodes as cathartic and relaxing. 鈥淚 luv your films so much,鈥� reads one characteristic response. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e like 颅therapy sessions.鈥�

Digital catharsis doesn鈥檛 come easy, though: the 国产吃瓜黑料 Archives crew, so busy setting up shots and lugging around 30 pounds of film gear, covers all of four miles a day. Still, I resist the layup critique of such videos鈥� postmodern absurdity (a wilderness experience for the couch bound, undermined by the very technology used to capture it) if only because, hey, it鈥檚 hard to throw stones at earnest people who just want to take you hiking.听

I hold my tongue, because five videos deep into the 国产吃瓜黑料 Archives oeuvre, I am met by a breathtaking shot of a lakeside Yellowstone campsite where I once enjoyed a profoundly memorable wolf sighting. The sun glints over the crest of a hillside shaggy with lodgepoles; in the foreground, the team savors a campfire dinner, and I can almost smell the wood smoke. My cynicism dissolves in a rush of calming endorphins. I think I鈥檒l watch just one more.

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Friday

Dear 国产吃瓜黑料,

Thank you for sending me to summer camp. I arrived tonight after dark to find a bonfire surrounded by boozy millennials eating s鈥檓ores and playing something called flip cup. A perky young woman gave me a name tag and a Sharpie and told me to write my name and the first record album I ever purchased. I scribbled down 鈥淩.E.M.鈥檚 Green,鈥� and the greeter鈥攚hose name tag said 鈥淏link-182鈥濃�攍ooked at me like I鈥檇 just written 鈥淏art贸k鈥檚 Hungarian Peasant Songs.鈥�

I鈥檓 36, and not only am I pretty confident that I鈥檓 the oldest camper at the , but I also suspect I might be the oldest person many of my fellow campers, most of whom are in their twenties, have ever met. But, hey, am I embarrassed to be the only guy here wearing dad jeans? Or to politely and repeatedly decline a turn at the beer pong table because, at home, about an hour away, my wife is alarmingly pregnant with our second son, and it鈥檚 not impossible that I get a phone call demanding I sprint from the bonfire and drive at top speed to the delivery room?

Well, yes, I am somewhat embarrassed by these things. But, hey, kid鈥檚 gonna need diapers and health insurance. So when one gets an assignment to see what the fuss is about at the nation鈥檚 most popular adult summer camp, one grabs a sleeping bag and packs one鈥檚 duffel.

Before tonight, I鈥檇 never been to sleepaway camp. I鈥檇 always considered it an East Coast phenomenon, as foreign as foie gras to my middle-class Midwestern upbringing. My church youth group hosanna-ed its way out to a cabin from time to time, sure, but legit summer camp was a thing that only happened in teen sex comedies, where it looked pretty dope, and I鈥檝e sometimes wondered whether I missed out on some crucial rite of passage鈥攑articularly since moving as an adult to New England, where the natives all seem to cherish golden memories of campfire sing-alongs, epic capture-the-flag campaigns, and make-out sessions among the pines.

The nascent adult-summer-camp industrial complex is banking on this kind of nostalgia. In the past five years, at least half a dozen camps in the mold of CNC have hoisted their vintage pennants, from to . The sector鈥檚 pioneer is arguably Brittany Gibbons, who founded in the summer of 2013 and told me the vibe she鈥檚 going for is 鈥渞etro communal debauchery鈥濃�攑lacid afternoons of archery, dodgeball, and friendship bracelets听followed by raucous nights of body shots, dance parties, and panty raids. Camp No Counselors traces its origins to the fall of 2013, when an NYC startup bro named Adam Tichauer organized a quasi-private camp outing in upstate New York. Tichauer has since promoted his concept on TV鈥檚 Shark Tank and grown the CNC camp network to 16 locations, from Los Angeles to Nashville to Miami to Toronto.

The camp you sent me to, 国产吃瓜黑料, is technically CNC鈥檚 Boston outing, although it鈥檚 held in Maine, not far from where I live. CNC will host 29 three-night campouts this year, split between early and late summer, when most camp facilities are unoccupied by their usual juvenile clientele. This weekend, we鈥檝e commandeered a nearly , an idyllic lakeside spread complete with totem poles, rustic commissary, ropes course, archery range, the works.

Camp No Counselors, I should note, totally has counselors鈥攖hey just call them non-counselors, which isn鈥檛 fooling anybody. They seem friendly, though. Tonight, they paused the bonfire-and-shot-pounding shenanigans long enough to lay a few ground rules. Consider limiting your daytime alcohol intake to mealtimes, the non-counselors suggested. Also, campers are forbidden from starting conversations by talking about our jobs, a rule that serves CNC鈥檚 core mission to 鈥渆nable adults to create genuine friendships through shared experience.鈥� It鈥檚 an edict that throws me, since it basically limits my conversation starters to weather, parenting, and the first couple seasons of 鈥攏one of which seem to jibe with the overall frat-party vibe.

Finally, the non-counselors explained, when they want the group鈥檚 attention, they will get it by repeatedly shouting, 鈥淵ou down with CNC?鈥� To which campers within earshot are to yell back, 鈥淵eah, you know me!鈥� until everyone has joined the call-and-refrain. This routine is not only embarrassing but also peculiar, given that the reference dates to 1991, when most of the crowd around me was presumably more into Barney than Naughty by Nature.

It鈥檚 been a long week, so after a couple s鈥檓ores and a few failed conversations about Veep, I wandered off to find my cabin. I鈥檓 the only one here now, about to enjoy a self-imposed lights-out. I鈥檓 sure I will build some genuine friendships tomorrow.

Thanks again,
Brian

Saturday

Dear 国产吃瓜黑料,

Today I caught the winning out in a kickball game, learned to shoot a bow and arrow, and witnessed a scantily clad Batgirl grinding on a scantily clad Wonder Woman. No genuine friendships yet, but that could be because I鈥檓 not actually at camp anymore. Let me explain.

This morning got off to a rocky start in Cabin #9. Turns out I鈥檓 bunking with two different groups: a mellow band of co-workers from a sunglasses manufacturer in Rhode Island and a hard-partying crew who self-identify as the Thunder Chickens (they have T-shirts) and who are themselves the staff of a youth summer camp in New Hampshire. Between 5 and 6 a.m., three separate iPhone alarms went off on the Thunder Chickens鈥� side of the room, which鈥攂ecause their owners were basically comatose鈥攑rompted shouting from the Rhode Islanders. Tense-if-groggy words were exchanged, and it seemed like things might escalate until a loon started calling outside and everyone quieted down to listen.

At breakfast, we signed up for activities鈥擨 put in for kickball, archery, and a free swim period鈥攖hen set out on a mandatory friendship walk across the property. It was cloudless and humid, and as the temperature climbed to 90 degrees, campers toured the grounds in a hungover throng, pausing here and there to answer icebreaker questions: How would we spend a moderately sized lottery jackpot? Who was our celebrity lookalike?

My kickball team consisted mostly of short, tan guys who called each other 鈥渂aby鈥� and pumped their fists a lot. Never have I been among so many men wearing tank tops. Afterward, I reported to the archery range, where a bemused instructor, accustomed to coaching ten-year-olds, taught me and my Rhode Island roomies how to nock and release an arrow. We fired a few dozen volleys and chitchatted about the evening鈥檚 costume party鈥攅very night is an open-bar costume party at CNC, and tonight鈥檚 theme was Superheroes vs. Villains. One of the Rhode Island women was planning to go as Sexy Punisher, and she wondered whether the happy-hour bartenders would fill her squirt guns with liquor, and if so, what kind.

For my part, I spent much of the day trying to tease out whether adult summer camp is a charming opportunity for harried grown-ups to revisit their salad days or a sad little carnival of perpetual adolescents still clinging to them. Over predinner beers on the swing set, I asked the Rhode Island crew what brought them to camp. They told me they just wanted some kind of outdoor getaway, a place to blow off steam with a little boozing and kayaking and lawn sports.

Fair enough, I said, but for $525 a head鈥攖he cheapest CNC registration fee鈥攜ou guys could have rented a swank cabin and indulged all the drinking and paddling and cornhole you could handle. Was there some ingrained millennial instinct at work here? Some yearning for structured, organized recreation, instilled by a lifetime of play dates and music lessons and soccer leagues?

Nah, they scoffed, but who has free time to plan a decent weekend trip? Adult summer camp was basically the woodsy equivalent of , they explained鈥攁 little on the douchey side, maybe, but convenient and all-inclusive.

At dinner, I set down my tray next to 30-year-old Lauren Torres, a fit and wavy-haired teacher from Beverly, Massachusetts, who I鈥檇 noticed was one of the few other campers rolling solo. Hell yeah, this was an exercise in nostalgia, she told me鈥攕ummer camp had been a foundational part of her upbringing. 鈥淚 am who I am because of camp,鈥� Torres said, which wasn鈥檛 something that everyone in her adult circles understood. At a place like CNC, she could be anonymous, indulging the same thrill of sudden independence that had made camp so exciting the first time around.

I didn鈥檛 pack a costume for Superheroes vs. Villains, so I found a pair of Yaktrax in the back of my car, strapped them tightly around my jaw, and tried to pass myself off as Bane from Batman. Even if I鈥檇 wanted to play beer pong, the Yaktrax made it difficult to bring a Solo cup to my mouth, so I just hung around the barn-cum-dance-hall, where a DJ spun house music for midriff-baring Catwomen and caped-but-shirtless Supermen. I even danced a little with what I think was a Powerpuff Girl, who told me I looked 鈥渟cary as fuck.鈥�

Back at the cabin, I found the Thunder Chickens already sacked out, still exhausted from the night before. I lay on my cot and started drafting this letter, something about how adulthood is swell, but maybe a little arrested development never hurt anybody.

And that鈥檚 when my wife called to tell me she was in labor.

I crammed my gear into my duffel, had a lightning round of high-fives with the Thunder Chickens, and tore out of camp within minutes. Once in your life, 国产吃瓜黑料 reader, I hope you get to make the But Officer, My Wife Is In Labor drive鈥攊t is super fun. I covered 45 miles in less than a half-hour and got home to find my wife breathing deeply and bouncing on an exercise ball.

Fast-forward a few hours, though, and alas: false alarm. After the contractions subsided, the two of us were blearily eating cereal on the couch when my wife looked over and asked just what the hell were those weird indentations around my jaw.

More tomorrow,
Brian

Sunday

Dear 国产吃瓜黑料,

As of 10:00 this morning, my wife and I were pretty sure we were not imminently bringing new life into this world. So even though the outcome of the color war suddenly seemed pretty trivial, I had no good reason not to return to summer camp.

When I got there, I found things had taken a turn for the weird. A naked man jogged past me as I walked to my cabin (he鈥檇 just left the showers, I think, but still). I happened upon my bunkmates (amused to see me) at the kickball field, where a Thunder Chicken who we鈥檒l call Kelly鈥攁n otherwise mild-mannered counselor at that New Hampshire kiddie camp鈥攚as standing on third base, swilling straight from a magnum of ros茅. The camp-wide color war was in full swing: our cabin was on the green team, and Kelly had appointed herself its one-woman pep squad. After kickball, everyone filed into the field house for a lip-synch competition, where Kelly pranced before the crowd, wiping the blue team鈥檚 flag on her ass and crushing a half-full beer can on her forehead.

Kelly led my teammates in a chant: 鈥淟ean green drinking machine!鈥� Our rallying cry, apparently. I swigged my bottled Frappuccino (free in the mess hall, courtesy of Starbucks) with as much wild abandon as I could muster.

After a tug-of-war and roshambo tournament, the color war culminated in a camp-wide, multi-event Apache relay鈥攌ayak races, cereal-eating competition, apple bobbing, you name it. It was just like the climactic camp showdown in all those teen sex comedies, except I didn鈥檛 much care who won. My role was to shoot a layup in the gym, roll the basketball between my teammates鈥� legs, and then run to the finish line for the relay鈥檚 final component: a giant slip-and-slide that each camper had to careen down before chugging a beer.

What can I say? My team lost badly, but I got to play on a slip-and-slide, which I haven鈥檛 done since I was 12. Also, I watched a grown-ass woman spit ros茅 out of her mouth like a rotary sprinkler. After the race, there was a lot of sloppy hugging, even a few besotted faces stained with happy tears. Friendships were made, it seemed. And who am I to say they were anything less than genuine?

I bailed on the evening鈥檚 Woodstock-themed party, having spent enough time at Phish concerts in the 鈥�90s that getting drunk in a woven poncho has lost a lot of its appeal. Some rites of passage, I would suggest, are better left passed.

Back home, I put the toddler to bed and settled on the couch for an evening of Thai takeout and Veep鈥攋ust me, my severely pregnant wife, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus. You down with JLD? Yeah, you know me.

Here鈥檚 to next year,
Brian

The post A (Too?) Long Weekend at Summer Camp (for Grown-Ups!) appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

As of this writing, the Trump-fearing American hordes have not descended on Cape Breton, the craggy Atlantic island that blooms off the northeastern tip of Nova Scotia like the business end of an exploding cigar.

Not yet, anyway, says Rob Calabrese, the 40-year-old radio DJ who created the (at first) tongue-in-cheek and then (inexplicably) viral website. When I drove up to Cape Breton a few weeks back, Calabrese met me for beers in the rustic-industrial taproom of Breton Brewing Company, in the port town of Sydney, the island鈥檚 service center and de facto capital.

鈥淕oing viral is one thing,鈥� he said, sounding a bit weary and sipping a hefe, 鈥渂ut going viral while enraging a group of militant Trump zealots is another.鈥� His (since streamlined) invited disaffected Americans to 鈥渟tart a new life in Cape Breton, where women can get abortions, Muslim people can roam freely, and the only 鈥榳alls鈥� are holding up the roofs of our extremely affordable houses.鈥� After going live in February 2016, the site earned wry shoutouts from both President Obama and Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau鈥攁long with seemingly every media outlet in the United States and Canada. It鈥檚 been visited more than 2 million times, and Calabrese has marshaled a small corps of local volunteers to help him field something like 6,000 inquiries from anxious would-be expats.

鈥淔or a while, it stayed at a nice manageable pace,鈥� Calabrese said. 鈥淭hen Trump won the election, and it just exploded. Then he put in the travel ban, and there was another mini-explosion. [The inquiries] coming in now are people who are immigrants in the U.S. and are scared.鈥�

If you ask Calabrese, Cape Breton damn well ought to welcome them. The island鈥檚 population has been in free-fall since the the 2000s, when its steel and coal industries collapsed after decades of decline. Recent census numbers put the population at just over 132,000, down from more than 158,000 in 1996鈥攁 nearly 17 percent plunge鈥攁nd the grimmest metrics project a dip below 100,000 by the early 2030s. Last year, the island鈥檚 main school district shut down 17 of 52 schools. At Sydney鈥檚 5,000-seat hockey rink, built in the 1980s and home to the major junior league team, the Cape Breton Screaming Eagles, it鈥檚 a pretty good night when fans manage to fill half the seats.

I went to Cape Breton in February wondering if any Americans have heeded Calabrese鈥檚 call鈥攁nd discovered an under-the-radar (and incredibly affordable) adventure paradise. The island is a four-season playground with a handful of disparate ecosystems sandwiched together. In the west are the Highlands, a sculpted plateau of low mountains and plunging river valleys; in the east, 200 miles of Atlantic shoreline are speckled with wild beaches and salt marshes; in between, the inland sea of Bras d鈥橭r Lake offers 424 square miles of what Calabrese, a casual yachtsman, calls 鈥渢he best sailing in Canada.鈥� For better or worse, much of the island has reoriented toward tourism. In summer and fall, hikers and sightseers descend on the Highlands, while tens of thousands of cruise-ship passengers offload in Sydney for whale-watching day trips and sea kayaking excursions. Come winter, the tourists clear out, the Nor鈥檈asters deposit a few generous dumps, and the locals strap on skis or snowshoes to explore an abundance of forested trails.

As Calabrese鈥檚 website points out, an American in Cape Breton can enjoy all of this on the cheap, in part because the island鈥檚 economy is slumping and in part because the loonie is at a historic high against the dollar. The median sales price of a single-family home on Cape Breton hovers around $120,000 Canadian鈥攔oughly $90,000 in U.S. dollars. In the former mining town of New Victoria, you can get two bedrooms with two oceanfront acres and a lighthouse view for the U.S. equivalent of $135,000. A pint at Breton Brewing Company costs just north of four American bucks, and a full-day snowshoe rental from North Sydney鈥檚 gear shop runs you $7 and change.

Paul Finney, who opened Escape Outdoors with his wife, Sherry, in 2012, sees opportunity in Cape Breton鈥檚 natural resources and rock-bottom cost of living. I joined him on a snowshoe hike one afternoon at , about an hour outside Sydney. While he鈥檇 love the entrepreneurial pep that a wave of new immigrants (American or otherwise) would bring, Finney says he tries to take his island鈥檚 population loss in stride.

鈥淢y mom was one of 12,鈥澨鼺inney told me as we hiked up a steep-walled granite canyon. 鈥淚 was one of six. We had one daughter. My daughter has a dog.鈥�

When the trail ended at Uisge B脿n Falls, a 50-foot stunner in a sylvan little pocket, Finney and I stood around munching his store鈥檚 house-made granola bars. 鈥淎t some point, I think we鈥檒l reach equilibrium,鈥� he went on. Finney looked at me, then around at the falls and the maples and the 500-foot canyon walls, as if to say, Hey, look at everything we鈥檝e got. 鈥淭here are people out there who value the outdoors, who don鈥檛 want to be in populated areas,鈥� he said. 鈥淧eople are attracted to this lifestyle.鈥�

So where are all the outdoor-loving Americans who鈥檝e emailed Calabrese in the past year? Well, if anyone actually has moved to Cape Breton as a result of the election, he has yet to meet them. Immigrating to Canada, it turns out, is kind of a bear. In a nutshell, a determined Trump evacuee needs one of four things: a job offer from a Canadian company; a spouse or family member as a sponsor; an established track record of self-employment as a farmer, athlete, or creative; or a giant pile of money and a willingness to invest it. Unlike in the United States, a Canadian province can sponsor a foreigner based on its own immigration criteria, but Nova Scotia鈥檚 nomination program requirements include a personal net worth of $600,000 (Canadian) and a minimum investment of a cool $150,000.

鈥淪ometimes provincial programs look great on the surface,鈥� Damien Barry, an immigration lawyer in Sydney, explained over coffee one morning. 鈥淏ut my concern is that ours is metro-centric. For example, $600,000 net worth? It might be needed in Halifax, but I don鈥檛 think it鈥檚 needed in Cape Breton.鈥�

That鈥檚 why Calabrese has taken his viral celebrity and joined a loose committee of islanders lobbying the Canadian government to give Cape Breton its own nomination program, independent from the province. Nova Scotia welcomes between 2,500 and 3,500 immigrants a year, but the great majority settles in the provincial capital of Halifax, a shipping and shipbuilding hub and with a bustling population of more than 400,000. Calabrese wants to see Cape Breton attracting 2,000 immigrants a year, with an emphasis on young families, who might find work in the island鈥檚 service industries or nascent tech sector, plus students and folks over 55. In other words, mostly people who probably aren鈥檛 sitting on 600 large. The group has been meeting since last year and is working with a high-profile Halifax attorney on a proposal to deliver to Canada鈥檚 federal immigration agency.

鈥淭his problem that made me do the website is still a problem,鈥� Calabrese told me鈥攖hat is, the low population. 鈥淲e鈥檙e on the precipice of oblivion here.鈥�

Barry thinks a Yankee wave may still be on the horizon. The island has seen property transactions tick up in the past year, and he wonders if prospective settlers are feeling the place out with vacation homes鈥擜mericans can own property in Canada and stay half a year without a visa. What鈥檚 more, Barry said, he has a handful of new U.S. clients actively seeking paths to citizenship.

鈥淚 always ask them, 鈥榃hy do you want to leave?鈥欌�� he said. 鈥溾�極h, I don鈥檛 like the way the States are going,鈥� they鈥檒l say. I had a couple from Oklahoma up here last summer, and when I met with them, they said, 鈥業 don鈥檛 think you quite get it鈥攚e live in Tulsa, where there鈥檚 an open-carry policy. We genuinely live in fear of being shot at.鈥� You always feel it sounds dramatic, but at the end of the day, you鈥檙e hearing it from this person who made the effort to come here.鈥�

As Barry and I talked鈥攕itting at , a hipstery Sydney coffee shop run by a pair of Vancouver transplants鈥攈e waved over some friends from across the room. Mark and Danielle Patterson were born and raised on the island, married, and did stints in Florida and Newfoundland before returning three years ago to start an IT security company. Make no mistake, Danielle said, the 鈥淭rump bump鈥� from the website is real鈥攚hether or not any American exiles ever materialize. 鈥淭he whole island got behind all the publicity,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just fed the community with excitement and momentum, like this is a place that鈥檚 special to live, like it does have a lot to offer.鈥�

Elsewhere around Sydney, though, I found the outlook more caustic.

鈥淲e couldn鈥檛 feed 30,000 people, so we had to drown them in the harbor,鈥� deadpanned an old duffer in a barbershop where I stopped for a trim. The salon鈥檚 proprietress, Anne, lowered her clippers and threw him some side-eye. 鈥淎lways comedy hour in here, eh?鈥� she muttered. She had the wisp of a brogue that鈥檚 common among the largely Scottish-descended Capers.

Sure, Anne said, tourism was up last year, but the truth is that Cape Breton鈥檚 young people are abandoning the island in droves, chasing jobs and opportunity in Halifax or Toronto or the oil fields in Alberta. 鈥淭here鈥檚 just nothing here now,鈥� she said. 鈥淭he tourists come off the cruise ships and see all these boarded-up shops downtown.鈥�

Did she know of any Americans who had moved up to escape the Trumpocalypse? Not yet, Anne said, and she chuckled at the thought.

鈥淵ou want Americans?鈥� croaked the duffer. 鈥淗ead for the Highlands鈥攖here鈥檚 some been hiding up there since Vietnam.鈥�

There are worse places to dodge a draft (or escape a crypto-fascist regime) than the Cape Breton Highlands, which comprise the island鈥檚 northern and western reaches and are where I spent three days after leaving Sydney. Imagine Vermont had a baby with Norway, and then Maine and Scotland raised it: fjord-like river canyons streak through a range of 1,500-foot peaks that rise up steep and misty from the shoreline. The slopes are shaggy with birch, beech, fir, and sugar maple, which turn gobsmackingly vivid come autumn. Summer and fall tourists wend along the famed Cabot Trail鈥攁 pinion-testing drive skirting sheer oceanside cliffs鈥攕topping here and there to crack lobsters in postcard fishing villages and enjoy a veritable Lollapalooza of Gaelic tavern concerts and ceilidh dances.

In the winter, though, when 150 inches of annual snowfall render the Cabot Trail sporadically impassable, the Highlands go into a light hibernation. When I pulled into Ingonish, a seaside resort town, I could hardly find a local, much less an American alien. Year-round, only about 2,500 people live in Ingonish and the dozenish surrounding villages in its census division (down from 3,300 in 2001). If parking lots at the local ski hill, , and Nordic club, , are any indication, a lot of them were on planks that afternoon. I passed these up, though, en route to an ungroomed trail in , the 366-square-mile semiwilderness that encompasses much of the Highlands鈥� roadless interior.

The park鈥檚 gates were unstaffed and its visitor center closed. I skied eight miles out-and-back from an empty trailhead to a half-frozen waterfall, climbing enough to enjoy a couple whistle-worthy ocean vistas. Here and there, moose tracks two feet deep crisscrossed the trail鈥攁 gravel road in summer鈥攁nd on the way down, I took a corner briskly enough to surprise a red fox who leaped and skedaddled like I鈥檇 caught him breaking and entering.

It wasn鈥檛 until the next day, though, that I started daydreaming about real estate. I spent the night at a bed and breakfast outside of Cape North, just shy of Cape Breton鈥檚 northern tip and geographically closer to excellent polar bear habitat than to a single state Trump won last fall. In the morning, while ogling the adjacent white coastal mountains, I skied another eight blissful miles of flowy and impeccably groomed trails at the . While signing in, I asked Dolores, a native Cape Northian and the clubhouse鈥檚 sole staffer, whether any American malcontents had recently relocated.

鈥淣ot yet,鈥� she said. 鈥淲e got them all in the 鈥�70s鈥攚e like to call that our hippie stage.鈥�

I followed the Cabot Trail south and west through arguably its most impressive stretch, with frequent overlooks of rocky cliffs and frosted green slopes pouring into the sea. Then, near a Francophone fishing town called Ch茅ticamp, I stopped for a chat with a genuine disaffected American.

A local real estate agent had put me in touch with Valerie Grosman, until recently of Annapolis, Maryland. It was early last year when Grosman, a fiber artist and former bookkeeper, and her husband, Jack FitzSimmonds, a woodworker and contractor, decided to move to Cape Breton, back when the Trump campaign still seemed like just a sideshow. When they closed on 25 oceanfront acres last May, neither thought a Trump presidency would happen. They just wanted out of what Grosman calls an overdeveloped Annapolis, and Cape Breton, which they remembered fondly from a camping trip years before, offers waterfront real estate cheaper than anything in the States.

Initially, the question of their legal status hadn鈥檛 seemed urgent. It鈥檚 not uncommon for Americans who own Canadian property to stay their six-month visitation period, head briefly back to the States, then simply reenter. But now, in 2017, the reality of President Trump has the couple fervently pursuing permanent residency.

Grosman welcomed me into their temporary rental just as an overcast day (the norm in winter) began to clear, exposing the mountains through her living-room picture window. 鈥淭he sun comes out and people just go trekking,鈥� she said. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 avoid being in shape here.鈥� Even better, Grosman went on, is that everyone in Cape Breton seems to not only know their neighbors but also trust and rely on them. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think there鈥檚 that malice and cynicism here that we have in the States,鈥� she said.

Grosman walked me through a few neighbors鈥� yards and down a dirt road to the horseshoe cove on which she and her husband plan to build a net-zero home. It鈥檚 an enviable plot, perched on a cliff overlooking the sea. (One of her closest neighbors is actor Alan Arkin, whose summer home is visible nearby.) I promised not to reveal the property鈥檚 price tag, but suffice to say that if Grosman parked a nice on it, the rig would cost more. The couple has plans for their land鈥攁 couple rental cabins; maybe a small organic farm; Grosman wants to run some Shetland sheep, send the wool to a spinnery on Prince Edward Island, and sell yarn and textiles at local markets. But any plans to work or run a business hinge on the long shot of attaining legal residency.

On election night, Grosman told me, she and her husband went to bed early. In the morning, she said, 鈥淚 was just beside myself.鈥� As it happens, Grosman is an immigrant herself. Now 56, she came to Maryland in her mid-20s but grew up outside Paris, the second generation born in France after her dad鈥檚 family fled Poland before the Holocaust.

鈥淚 chose to come to the U.S., to be there,鈥� Grosman said. 鈥淚 chose to make my home there. Now I feel like there is no room for me.鈥� We stood for a few minutes, watching the waves as they lapped at the edge of her new property. Then Grosman turned to look back at the island that lured her, the low-cost-of-living recreationist鈥檚 dream that may yet lure others.

鈥淚 really hope we can stay here,鈥� she said, 鈥渂ecause I鈥檓 not going back.鈥�

The post Dispatches from the Canadian Island for Trump Escapists appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

You remember the book that did it for you, the book you found on a library field trip that鈥攑ow!鈥攕uddenly put you right freaking there at that storm-battered base camp or on that threadbare raft as it was pummeled by waves. For me, it was The Sign of the Beaver. I was nine years old and otherwise devoted to my Nintendo. But after a few chapters of Elizabeth George Speare鈥檚 young-adult survival saga, I was suddenly spearfishing and fending off rampaging black bears in the woods of 18th-century Maine. I wrote the author my first-ever fan letter and grabbed my Scholastic Book Club catalog, jonesing for another fix.

These 15 books elicit that level of enthusiasm. We think they鈥檙e the best kids鈥� adventure stories ever written鈥攁nd every single one deserves a place on the shelf of adventurers-in-training.

15. 鈥楶eggony-Po: A Whale of a Tale鈥�

By Andrea Davis Pinkney; illustrated by Brian Pinkney

Grades K鈥�3

The 鈥攁 fearless boy carved from driftwood who crews aboard an 18th-century whaling ship鈥攄raws inevitable comparisons to Pinocchio and Moby-Dick. But Ahab never harnessed his white whale and rode it around the world, like Peggony-Po does with the monster who took his father鈥檚 leg. And Geppetto had nothing on Peggony-Po鈥檚 dad, Galleon Keene, a tough black whaler from an era when Americans of all races served side by side at sea. Spoiler alert: this one鈥檚 not for PETA types, as the leviathan antagonist eventually becomes whale steaks and scrimshaw.

14. 鈥楳agic Tree House: High Tide in Hawaii鈥�

By Mary Pope Osborne

Grades 3鈥�5

Arthurian wizardess Morgan Le Fay sends a bookish bro and sis on a (really long鈥�55 books and counting) . The entire series is almost required binge听reading for youngsters, but a听fun start is #28, which lands them in precontact Hawaii. The siblings听get up on alaia boards, practice the hula, and escape a tsunami. Osborne听fudges some details about Hawaiian culture, but in stressing the strength of friendships formed outdoors, she nails the aloha spirit.

13. 鈥楲ittle House in the Big Woods鈥�

By Laura Ingalls Wilder

Grades 6鈥�8

This is the听first and best of that introduced generations of kids to pioneer life. Laura and her family carve out a life in the woods of western Wisconsin, while occasionally fending off听bears, panthers, and wolves. Laura goes on to be quite the backwoods badass, but the real hero of book one听is Charles 鈥淧a鈥� Ingalls. An expert hunter, woodcarver, fiddle听player, and storyteller, he鈥檚 been setting the bar impossibly high for dads since Big Woods hit shelves in 1932.

12. 鈥業sland of the Blue Dolphins鈥�

By Scott O鈥橠ell

Grades 4鈥�7

A survival tale with a truly epic sweep, was inspired by the tale of the Lone Woman of San Nicolas Island, the last surviving member of the Nicole帽o tribe听who lived for nearly two decades on one of California鈥檚 Channel Islands before being discovered in 1853. O鈥橠ell鈥檚 story of Karana鈥攚ho becomes a resourceful hunter, forager, and tamer of feral dogs鈥攔eads as fresh as it did when it won a Newbery Medal in 1961. The prolific O鈥橠ell also wrote The Black Pearl听(1967),听a moral fable of a young pearl diver, which would find a spot on a longer version of this list.

11. 鈥榊es, Let鈥檚鈥�

By Galen Goodwin Longstreth;听illustrated by Maris Wicks

Grades K鈥�3

Get up early. Grab boots and backpacks. Drive to the nearest trailhead and spend the day goofing off with your kids, preferably near water. Get milkshakes on the way home. This to the day hike is an easy read for elementary听school kids or a read-along for the younger set鈥攂ut it鈥檚 also a weekend instructional for moms and dads. Bonus: If you dig the art, graduate to Primates, a comic biography of primatologists Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, and Birut茅 Galdikas that鈥檚听a collaboration between illustrator Wicks and fellow science-obsessed graphic novelist Jim Ottaviani.

10. 鈥楾he Lorax鈥�

By Dr. Seuss

Grades K鈥揂dult

Theodor Geisel, Dr. Seuss himself, once told a biographer that was his favorite work. The explicitly environmental parable finds a wizened, Wilford Brimley鈥搇ooking wood sprite squaring off against a greedy developer. As Seuss鈥檚 characteristically colorful and fuzzy truffula forest gets trashed to make cheapy听apparel called thneeds, grown-ups wearing microfiber-shedding fleece laugh nervously.

9. 鈥楾he Little Prince鈥�

By Antoine de Saint-Exup茅ry

Grades 6鈥�12

Antoine de Saint-Exup茅ry鈥檚 of a stranded aviator and his adolescent听extraterrestrial pal is the nearest thing to a 20th-century fairy-tale masterpiece. On the surface, it鈥檚 a desert survival story with space exploration interludes. But then it hits with insights like this: 鈥淚t is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.鈥� The book is actually a series of unfolding parables about adulthood and human relationships鈥攍essons young readers will unpack years after reading.

8. 鈥楾he Sign of the Beaver鈥�

By Elizabeth George Speare

Grades 3鈥�5

When his father is delayed on a trip to the colonies, the adolescent son of white settlers in the woods of 18th-century Maine. He gets by with the help and generosity of nearby members of the Penobscot tribe, gradually befriending a capable boy his own age鈥攁nd trying to win respect as he learns their ways. The Penobscot characters鈥� pidgin English is cringeworthy, like old Hollywood portrayals of Native Americans鈥攁nd the word 鈥渟quaw鈥� pops up more than it should鈥攂ut the overall message is one of cross-cultural empathy and respect.

7. 鈥楶aint the Wind鈥�

By Pam Mu帽oz Ryan

Grades 3鈥�7

An orphaned girl trades upper-crust Los Angeles听for the high, wild Wyoming ranch country where her mother was raised. The book trades perspectives听between 11-year-old Maya and Artemisia, the now wild horse Maya鈥檚 mother once rode. Things get harrowing when an earthquake strands the duo in the backcountry. It鈥檚 more than just a 鈥攖hroughout, Mu帽oz asks the question: What does it mean to be tamed, wild, or free?

6. 鈥榃here the Wild Things Are鈥�

By Maurice Sendak

Grades pre听K鈥�4

Who, after a hard day, hasn鈥檛 wanted to sail away to a jungle island, don a costume and crown, and enjoy a few days of bacchanalian ruckus? Maurice Sendak鈥檚 is often invoked among the best picture books of all time, thanks to his rendering of the animalistic wild things (which are simultaneously cute and menacing) and his suggestion that sometimes an adventure鈥檚 best course leads back home. Some schools and libraries pulled the book off shelves after its 1964 publication, fearing Max鈥檚 feral rebellion among the wild things was too subversive for kids. We鈥檙e all for it.

5. 鈥楳y Side of the Mountain鈥�

By Jean Craighead George

Grades 3鈥�5

This book could also be called听 Fed up with his claustrophobic life in 1950s New York City, Sam Gribley ditches his parents鈥� apartment and bugs out for an old family plot in the Catskills. Sam鈥檚 detailed account of self-taught homesteading makes it sound easy (read a library book on falconry, steal a chick, and suddenly you have the coolest pet an off-the-grid teen could ask for). But his internal monologue听about the benefits of companionship and culture versus solitude and self-sufficiency make this book a classic. Be warned: two sequels, published 31 and 40 years later, respectively, do not hold up to the original.

4. 鈥楬eart of a Samurai鈥�

By Margi Preus

Grades 5鈥�8

It starts with the desert-island shipwreck of a Japanese fishing vessel. Then the action moves to an American whaling ship. Then the California gold rush. Followed by a mutiny at sea. Margi Preus adapts the real-life story of Nakahama Manjir艒, one of the few 19th-century Japanese citizens to visit the West, 鈥搘inning adventure tale that鈥檚 a hymn to the spirit of exploration.

3. 鈥楶eak鈥�

By Roland Smith

Grades 6鈥�9

Fourteen-year-old Peak is a New York City听hood-rat graffiti听artist with a knack for scaling buildings. His estranged dad is a climbing bum (hence his son鈥檚 name) who鈥檇 like to see Peak become the youngest person to summit Everest鈥攁nd who鈥檇 also like the publicity and profits the stunt would bring his guide company. Smith鈥檚 characters are , he gets Everest听Base Camp culture mostly right, and Peak鈥檚 eventual epiphany about the value of a summit bid is worth his 29,000 feet of effort. As Peak鈥檚 Sherpa pal warns him, 鈥淵ou can never tell who the mountain will allow and who it will not.鈥�

2. 鈥楾he Hobbit鈥�

By J.R.R. Tolkien

Grades 6鈥�12

Long before Hollywood cashed in with an听overblown blockbuster trilogy鈥攁nd years before J.R.R. Tolkien fleshed out Middle Earth to epic proportions in The Lord of the Rings鈥攖here was , or There and Back Again, a winding, mythic, impossibly charming adventure yarn starring one of YA lit鈥檚 best-ever protagonists. Likable homebody Bilbo Baggins shares anxieties about his limitations with many of his young readers.听Like them, he鈥檒l discover his capacity for courage, curiosity, and friendship only when he shoulders his pack and heads into the mountains and woods.

1. 鈥楬atchet鈥�

By Gary Paulsen

Grades 5鈥�8

A 1987 Newbery Honor winner and bestseller, Gary Paulsen鈥檚 quintessential finds somber 13-year-old Brian Robeson surviving a plane crash and听hacking out a living for two months in the Canadian bush. His only tool? A hatchet he鈥檚 never wielded. The trick of any survival story鈥攏ever mind one written for kids鈥攊s to render failure and slow progress in a way that feels authentic but not dull. Paulsen鈥檚 terse sentences and Brian鈥檚 pensive inner monologue (on top of it all, he knows his mom is having an affair) keep things moving. From Brian鈥檚 fantasies about food to his mantra-like repetition of his survival strategies to the abruptness of his rescue, Hatchet simply rings true. Lest we forget these words to live by: 鈥淵ou are your most valuable asset. Don鈥檛 forget that. You are the best thing you have.鈥�

The post Essential Reading for Young 国产吃瓜黑料rs appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

By my count, I brought along some 40 pieces of gear on my last weekend camping trip, approximately zero of which I owned the week before. That鈥檚 38 more pieces of shiny new outdoor equipment than I acquired the entire year prior, assuming you count both my skis separately.

It鈥檚 not that I鈥檓 a minimalist, per se; it鈥檚 just that I spend most of my money on diapers and beer. Plus I live in a small cottage鈥攏o extra room for outdoor bric-a-brac鈥攁nd I don鈥檛 like to quit on my kit until it quits on me.听I鈥檝e had my sleeping bag since the Clinton administration. My cookware looks like I grave-robbed a 49er.

And not to get preachy, but the outdoor-rec crowd has always had an uncomfortable relationship with consumerism. As Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard has famously (and, yeah, hypocritically) pointed out, the production and disposal of our outdoor products have serious impacts on the outdoor places we love. We tell ourselves we need more of these products when, in fact, we do not. And our stockpiling of such gear tends to preempt our acquisition of practical skills and knowledge of the natural world (neither of which I have, of course, but I like the idea of them).听

So I have a pretty ingrained skepticism about any paid service that offers to send me a never-ending stream of things I didn鈥檛 ask for and was doing fine without. This view seems unpopular, however, as the subscription box industry听apparently generates , with outdoors and 鈥渟urvival鈥� products comprising . But I鈥檝e wondered, how useful is this stuff? Isn鈥檛 it all cheapie flashlights and and ? Could you actually, say, outfit a weekend camping trip with nothing but boxed subscription swag that shows up on your doorstep?

Turns out you can! I requested sample boxes from , , , and , all of which graciously complied. For eats, I got from 鈥攏ot a subscription box, exactly, but a pre-portioned, packaged-to-order (and, honestly, pretty brilliant) camp-meal delivery service. Then I piled a tent, a toddler, and a dozen-ish cardboard boxes in the back of the Subie for a long weekend in the Maine north woods. (Oh, and in case the toddler got bored, I threw in an outdoor-themed Discovery Box听from .)

A few hours later, we pulled up to a primitive campsite next to a beaver flowage east of Katahdin, and I tore into my boxes. Instantly noticeable was a glut of items that seemed to share the theme “This Camping Trip Is Going to Go Poorly”: a 30-hour emergency-heat survival candle, a pocket outdoor survival guide, something called a 鈥渟urvival grenade,鈥� which is apparently seven feet of paracord wrapped (in the shape of a grenade) around a loose knife blade and a bunch of fishing hooks and christ-only-knows-what-else because there鈥檚 no way I鈥檓 unraveling that thing with a toddler around.

There was a healthy number of chintzy items dangling from chintzy carabiners, the kind of stocking-stuffer tchotchke you get for someone you don鈥檛 like that much: a tiny dangling compass, a tiny dangling stainless-steel mug (the package of which helpfully notes, 鈥淐an be used for hot or cold beverages鈥�). There were trinkety things I, grudgingly, found kind of charming: a Barbie-sized technical blanket from (complete with stuff sack) for cozying , a (for that conflicted minimalist who likes getting a box of stuff every few weeks).

I unboxed some staples (I鈥檓 good on sunscreen until 2020), a few things I don鈥檛 bother to use but I imagine someone does (camp soap?), and a couple of cruel, twisted jokes (multiple bags of freeze-dried ice cream, which I maintain is a crime against nature).

But let it be said: there was at least one legitimately useful item in each box鈥攕tuff that came in handy all weekend听and stuff I鈥檒l likely keep using for years: a thoroughly decent knife from BivySak; a bright solar lamp from Nomadik that lit our tent after hours; a sturdy Mountainsmith day pack from Isle Box.听

The nicest, most genuinely useful gear came from Cairn鈥攑articularly that company鈥檚 handsomely designed, premium-level (which cost $200 a quarter but, um, kiiiinda bring out my inner alpha-consumer). I got away without a sleeping bag thanks to a . Mornings were a bit chilly until I threw on my new merino base-layer hoodie. I cooked all weekend on a svelte with accompanying .听

My pork-fried rice bamboo bowl from the Fireside Provisions parcel? Better than any take-out I was going to order that weekend.听I might start cooking out of pre-portioned baggies at home. And my kiddo is still talking about the Green Kids Crafts glow-in-the-dark owl he made out of a sock and some puffy paint while I cooked dinner.

So am I a subscription-box convert? Maybe sorta, with reservations. Yet unused after three days in the woods are three different varieties of fire starters, sourced from multiple boxes (including some zipper pulls that apparently ignite in an emergency and that I am somewhat nervous to wear). I can鈥檛 imagine why any gear-box subscriber would need fire starters鈥擨鈥檓 currently sitting on enough cardboard and shredded-paper packing material to keep me in campfires the rest of the summer.

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This summer鈥檚 catalog of new travel, adventure, and natural history titles is deep. But why waste valuable trip-planning time surfing book reviews? Use our simple flowchart to match your summer adventure plans with the (let鈥檚 face it) one new book you鈥檒l actually get around to reading this summer.听

The Decision:

The Books

1. 'Buffalo Jump Blues' by Keith McCafferty听

On the high plains of Montana, a femme fatale is looking for her old flame, whose disappearance might be tied to a herd of bison that was mysteriously slaughtered. Who better to investigate than Sean Stranahan鈥攖he dilettante private eye who stars in this mystery series and who鈥檇 rather be throwing loops into trout streams. Think . $26; Viking. Available听June 28.

2. 'What a Fish Knows: The Inner Lives of Our Underwater Cousins' by Jonathan Balcombe听

The Humane Society Institute鈥檚 director of animal sentience (real job title!) tells a pop-sci audience what anglers already know: . For anyone who鈥檚 ever had a brown trout stare directly into their soul. $27; Macmillan.听

3. 'Color Your Park' by hitRECord

Joseph Gordon-Levitt鈥檚 hipster crowdsourced-media cult made a for the National Parks Service. We'll admit:听it鈥檚 kind of amazing. Keep the kids busy in transit鈥攐r find your zen while they鈥檙e off doing the ranger program. $20; National Park Foundation.

4. 'The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America鈥檚 National Parks' by Terry Tempest Williams

Lyrical essays and , brought to you by the high literary priestess who once famously pontificated for 100 pages on the day-to-day lives of prairie dogs. This turn is more urgent, as Williams gives us a tour of all the perils our public lands face. $27; Macmillan.

5. 'Engineering Eden: The True Story of a Violent Death, a Trial, and the Fight over Controlling Nature' by Jordan Fisher Smith

How do you sex up a detailed, hundred-year history of public-lands management philosophy? Wrap it around and the courtroom drama that followed. Great tent reading for wilderness wonks. $28; Crown.

6. 'And Soon I Heard a Roaring Wind: A Natural History of Moving Air' by Bill Streever听

Biologist and amateur skipper Streever sails from Texas to Guatemala. Along the way, he digs deep on the . All the thrills of Kon-Tiki, but with the added fun of obscure historical meteorologists (not being sarcastic). $26; Little, Brown. Available听July 26.

7. 'Real Food, Fake Food' by Larry Olmsted听

Olmsted, a Forbes and USA Today food columnist (and perhaps 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 only record-holding contributor), is a globe-trotting gourmand out to in the unregulated global food industry. It鈥檚 Bourdain Lite, with some eyebrow-raising revelations about what鈥檚 on your plate. Hint: don鈥檛 order the Kobe beef sliders. $27.95; Algonquin. Available July 12.听

8. 'On Trails: An Exploration' by Robert Moor

鈥淚t is impossible to fully appreciate the value of a trail until you鈥檝e been forced to walk through wilderness without one.鈥� So begins hiker and journalist Moor鈥檚 on how trails鈥攖he ones we plan and the ones we accidentally leave behind鈥攕hape our culture. The rare thru-hiker whose philosophical ramblings you鈥檒l actually want to read. $25; Simon & Schuster. Available听July 12.

9. 'This Road I Ride' by Juliana Buhring

The 听did it unsupported, unsponsored, and mourning the loss of a lover, South African whitewater kayaker Hendrik Coetzee. Her easy-reading memoir听gets at what makes hard-charging adventure folk tick. $26.95; Norton.

10. 'Trespassing Across America: One Man's Epic, Never-Done-Before (and Sort of Illegal) Hike Across the Heartland' by Ken Ilgunas

Earnest and free-spirited Ilgunas along the proposed route of the now-nixed Keystone XL pipeline. Your summer trip may be less ambitious, but his travel memoir offers plenty to chew on regarding property rights, climate change, and the merits of batshit crazy undertakings. $27; Blue Rider Press.

11. 'Braving It: A Father, a Daughter, and an Unforgettable Journey into the Alaskan Wild' by James Campbell

What Wild did for being alone, Campbell does for being with your progeny. It鈥檚 a sweet father-daughter story, wrapped in a of hunting caribou and hiking the Brooks Range. $27; Crown.

12. 'To the Bright Edge of the World' by听Eowyn听Ivey

A dashing Army lieutenant leads a mapping mission through听19th-century听Alaska while his wife pushes Victorian social boundaries at home. Oh, and there are tree-babies and sea monsters!听, from the Pulitzer-nominated author of听The Snow Child. $26. Little, Brown. Available August 2.听

13. 'Pinpoint: How GPS Is Changing Technology, Culture, And Our Minds' by Greg Milner

Premise: You haven鈥檛 begun to realize how fundamentally the Global Positioning System has . Punctuated with chilling tales of overly reliant travelers鈥� 鈥渄eath by GPS,鈥� this one belongs in your pack (next to the paper map and compass that for the love of god you should be bringing with you). $27.95; Norton.

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There鈥檚 a lot going on in dogsledding that鈥檚 tough to capture on film: subtle physical demands, the bond between human and animal, the struggle against the elements. Every so often, a filmmaker really nails it; other times, he says the hell with it, does a few bong loads, and makes Snow Dogs. Our picks for most memorable mushing movies:

Iron Will (1994)

The storyline comes courtesy of the 1990s Family Movie Plot Generator: Small-town kid with a heart of gold enters a high-stakes dogsled race in order to (literally) save the farm, following the tragic death of his dad (while mushing). Luckily, he has a Wise Old Indian to help him in his quest! Fluffy Disney fare here, but the racing scenes are smartly filmed and rather harrowing, and the title character鈥檚 relative level of bloodied exhaustion at the finish line nicely approximates actual long-distance mushing. Plus, !

Snow Dogs (2002)

https://youtube.com/watch?v=Qjkpap_gMpM

Take the director who gave us Beethoven, Problem Child 2, and Jingle All the Way. Add a career-nadir Cuba Gooding, Jr. getting dragged off of cliffs and bit on the ass by sled dogs with trippy CGI facial expressions. Throw in an unsummarizable subplot about racial harmony, a cameo by Michael Bolton, and a surreal dream sequence where a Siberian husky speaks in the voice of Jim Belushi. This is the best that Cheech and Chong never made. (Hey, we called this a 鈥渕ust-watch鈥� list, not a 鈥渂est of鈥� list.)

Antarctica (1983)

More than just a great dog movie, this is one of cinema鈥檚 best (and most overlooked) survival flicks. Based on a true story (and rehashed by Disney into the mediocre Paul Walker vehicle ), Antarctica has all the tension of Alive or Into the Void, the terse human drama of a great war movie, and the emotional wallop of Old Yeller or Marley and Me. An aborted Antarctic mission causes a team of Japanese scientists to leave a team of sled dogs behind at their research station. While the men鈥攊ncluding the dogs鈥� guilt-ridden handler鈥攆ind themselves adrift in urban Japan, the stranded dogs fight cold, predators, and starvation (all realistic enough that the American Humane Association raised concerns, and all set to an otherworldly electronic score by the guy who did Blade Runner and Chariots of Fire). When Japan launches its next expedition, the handler returns to bury his dogs. If your eyes are dry during Antarctica鈥檚 last five minutes, you are not a human being.

Call of the Wild (1976)

This list would be incomplete without at least one adaptation of Jack London鈥檚 famed novel about Buck, a kidnapped St. Bernard鈥揷ollie mix who becomes a lead sled dog in the Yukon before slowly going feral. Sadly, there are at least eight such adaptations, and every one of them sucks (Charlton Heston called his 鈥渢he worst movie I ever made,鈥� requesting in his memoir that people not watch it). But this made-for-TV version is worth the if only because the script is penned by author , his cinematic follow-up to , and it occasionally channels some of the same eerie wilderness psychosis as its predecessor. 鈥淣ever eat the snow,鈥� warns Dickey鈥檚 version of Francois. 鈥淒rives you mad.鈥� (So might looking at the Tetons for an hour and pretending it鈥檚 the Yukon.)

Spirit of the Wind (1979)

A perfectly understated indie drama made on a shoestring budget, this biopic of Athabascan champion sprint musher George Attla was re-released on DVD last year after unfairly fading into obscurity. premiered at Cannes in 1979, won Best Picture at the U.S. Film Festival (the predecessor to Sundance), and was praised by film critics for its stark landscape cinematography. Pius Savage (a pipeliner before he auditioned for the film) captures the quiet intensity of Attla, a tuberculosis survivor who spent his teenage years in a state hospital and returned home feeling severed from his people. The supporting performances are a little wooden, but the climactic race sequence is still thrilling.

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For roughly the last 2.6 million years, winter has won out in the Arctic. The region鈥檚 short summers simply weren鈥檛 up to the task of melting ice produced during the cold months, a phenomenon that allowed glaciers to flourish, erected climactic barriers keeping out southerly species, and kept barometric pressure high, warding off storms and keeping the region in a sort of clear-sky stasis.

All that changed in 2007, says veteran Canadian journalist Edward Struzik in his new book . That was the year, many scientists agree, when the Arctic鈥檚 summer melt started to overtake its winter deep freeze, a tipping point that鈥檚 since had dramatic consequences for terrestrial and marine wildlife, meteorology, the people who call the Arctic home, and those who want to access the bonanza of oil and natural gas protected beneath the permafrost.

But somehow, this isn鈥檛 the most provocative point that Struzik makes in Future Arctic. What really ropes you in is his scene-setting, an opening chapter looking back beyond those 2.6 million years, conjuring a time when the Arctic was a lush, tropical landscape filed with 鈥渁lligators, giant tortoises, snakes, lizards, tapirs, hippos, and rhino-like animals… in a climate that was similar to what is experienced today in Georgia and the Florida Everglades.鈥� Look, says Struzik, climate change happens. On the scale of geologic time, it happens pretty frequently鈥攁nd for every few species that lose because of it, another handful stand to gain.

That鈥檚 the pull-no-punches launch pad from which Struzik blasts off on a detailed, impeccably reported exploration of how man-made climate change is already reshaping the Arctic. Future Arctic is refreshing in part because it鈥檚 not just a litany of glum figures and heartstring-tugging anecdotes, arranged to stir up maximum alarm. Those glum figures are in there, of course, and they seem unassailable, deriving from Struzik鈥檚 countless visits to the Arctic alongside world-class biologists, energy industry geologists, and 鈥渞ugged, bean-eating rock doctors who think nothing of going a month without a shower.鈥�

But Struzik鈥檚 deft rendering and the conclusions he draws make Future Arctic a steal at a bargain-basement ebook price of $3.03 (at which Amazon started offering it this week). Rarely does a book on climate change adopt the view that our task is one of adaptation rather than avoidance鈥攁t least not without seeming fatalistic and alienating. Whether Struzik describes the tough political task of relocating communities to avoid storm surges, heralds new migrations of (sometimes threatened) species now beginning to populate the Arctic, or urges caution and oversight with regards to the resource exploration that鈥檚 hot on the heels of the receding tundra, he does so in the voice of an informed pragmatist.

This description, I realize, makes the book sound dull. It ain鈥檛. Struzik sets up most chapters with well-spun yarns from his journeys (of wildlife encounters, end-of-the-earth islands, close calls in bush aviation), and there are 鈥渨oah鈥� moments every few pages, as the book lays out details of Arctic ecotastrophes that have flown under the radar (like the 1970 natural gas blowout on King Christian Island, during which a nearly 300-foot column of uncontrolled flame burned the equivalent of 2.5 million gallons of gas every day for four months).

The Arctic鈥檚 future isn鈥檛 bright, says Struzik, but it is adaptable, if we鈥檙e smart. In any case, it is inevitable, and Future Arctic is a must-read for lovers of the far north and climate change realists.

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If you鈥檙e a regular watcher of The Weather Channel or consumer of weather-related social media, you probably already know that the country was recently besieged by Winter Storm #Sparta before being hammered by Winter Storm #Thor.

And if you鈥檙e familiar with the naming conventions for winter storms, you鈥檒l know that they (like hurricanes) are assigned their monikers from a 26-name alphabetical list established at the start of the season.

So you might be wondering: seeing as March just started and we鈥檙e already on 鈥淭,鈥� what happens when we hit the end of the alphabet? The answer, it turns out, is simple鈥攚e start over again at 鈥淎.鈥� This didn鈥檛 happen last winter, when we only made it to Winter Storm #Zephyr, but the year before, after Winter Storm #Zeus, a freak May blizzard in the Midwest prompted a reboot with #Achilles. The year before that, of course, nobody bothered to name winter storms.

Plenty of has been over The Weather Channel鈥檚 three-year-old blizzard-naming schtick. The National Weather Service is not on board with it. Journalists, bloggers, and dissenting meteorologists have called it everything from 鈥溾�� to 鈥溾�� to 鈥溾��.

On Twitter and other social media, however, the Greek- and Latin-based handles鈥攍ike #Kronos, #Neptune, #Janus, and #Nemo鈥攈ave been heartily, if sometimes ironically, embraced. And this, argues The Weather Channel, amounts to a proof of concept: the whole notion of naming storms derived from Twitter鈥檚 ascendancy and the resulting need for shorthand, explains Weather Channel executive and meteorologist Bryan Norcross. 鈥淭here isn鈥檛 any good way to describe a storm occurring in a certain region if you鈥檙e on a medium that goes everywhere,鈥� he says, 鈥渆specially when you鈥檙e limited to a 140 characters. So it was really driven by the need of a hashtag.鈥�

Rarely reported in the flurry of takes on The Weather Channel鈥檚 naming scheme is the actually rather charming fact that, for the last two winters, the network鈥檚 list of blizzard names has been penned by the Latin Club at Bozeman High School in Bozeman, Montana. The students sent an unsolicited list back in 2012, says Norcross, and they were so enthusiastic about it, he鈥檚 been working with them to come up with names ever since.

One criticism often lobbed at The Weather Channel is that its naming system is needlessly alarmist, that it seems almost designed to cause panic鈥攂ecause what kind of callously indifferent school district isn鈥檛 going to preemptively cancel classes with something called #Maximus bearing down on it? For the sheer over-the-top epic-ness of storm names like #Titan, #Pandora, or #Hercules, however, we actually have the Bozeman High Latin Club, rather than The Weather Channel, to thank/blame.

The network, for its part, realizes that some names have a more aggressive connotation than others, says Norcross, but hey, there are only so many names out there that have a Classical etymology and are also sufficiently easy for your average Twitter user to spell. 鈥淪ome are kind of bracing by the nature of them,鈥� he acknowledges, 鈥渟o we think about that, but we don鈥檛 fret about it.鈥�

How鈥檚 this for bracing? Up next is Winter Storm #Ultima. And if we make it past #Zelus with no sign of spring? Not to worry鈥攖he Latin students at Bozeman High have already given The Weather Channel a list of overflow names.

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