Last summer鈥攚hen the streets across America started聽burning, Black Lives Matter became a mainstay in the national discourse聽and her employees began pushing loudly for a company reckoning on race鈥擠onna Carpenter knew she was in the midst of another one.

Another ‘Oh, Shit’ Moment

Carpenter is chair of the board at Burton Snowboards, a company founded by her late husband, Jake Burton Carpenter, in 1977. Over the years, the couple had their share of 鈥淥h, Shit鈥� Moments, as they called them, on everything from gender equality to the environment to LGBTQ+ inclusion. In the aftermath of George Floyd鈥檚 killing last spring, like dozens of other white executives, Donna Carpenter had her 鈥淥h, Shit鈥� Moment about race. 鈥淲e always talk about barriers that people have to leadership, or to becoming a great athlete,鈥� she said. 鈥淏ut, all of a sudden, it was like, 鈥極h my God, we鈥檙e part of those barriers,鈥� and we have to do more to dismantle them.鈥�

On June 11, Carpenter broadcasted that realization on the Burton blog, writing that the moment was 鈥渁 wake-up call for all white Americans, even those of us who saw ourselves as committed to social justice.鈥� Working at warp speed, Carpenter returned three months later with one of the most comprehensive diversity and inclusion agendas the outdoor industry has witnessed to date鈥攚hich even she admits is late and not enough.

鈥淚 think the industry is way behind in talking about this stuff,鈥� Carpenter said. 鈥淸The industry] is terrible. It never inspired me to do anything.鈥�

A Long Road Ahead

The outdoor cohort certainly lags behind other industries (such as pharmaceuticals, biotech, and travel), several of which have spent years stripping their company cultures down to the studs聽and rebuilding them with diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) at the forefront. For example, Marriott International, the top-rated company by DiversityInc (an organization that promotes the business benefits of diversity), has made DEI a part of its business model for nearly 30 years. People of color and women make up half of its board of directors and senior management, and own more than 1,400 of its 7,000-plus hotels. The company also spent more than $900 million in 2019 with diverse or women-owned suppliers. Twenty years ago, Marriott became one of the first companies to establish a board committee focused on the advancement of inclusion.

So far, in comparison, the outdoor industry is in the crawling stage, committing mostly to showy surface actions. 鈥淸Outdoor] companies place a priority on the marketing of diversity, and not the cultural or systemic changes that need to happen in order for that change to be sustainable,鈥� said C.J. Goulding, an outdoors diversity advocate who is program manager at the Children and Nature Network and a partner in the Avarna Group, which consults and trains organizations around justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI). 鈥淭hey are more willing to repaint the house鈥� marketing, influencers, surface-level workshops, statements鈥� than to repair the foundation.鈥� That work, he adds, involves active anti-racism, shifts in hiring practices and structures, active white allies, and undoing mental models of exclusion.

It is difficult to know what to expect from an industry that serves a system of recreation so steeped in white supremacy. John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt started it down that path in 1903, hatching the notion that national parks and wildernesses are respites for elites from urban stressors鈥攁 thinly veiled code for people of color鈥攁nd the outdoors has been a place of white privilege ever since. Any movement on outdoor industry diversity must be considered in the context of this lingering past.

A Slow Awakening

Only recently have outdoor businesses begun to confront this historical foundation. 鈥淸The industry] has to look better than it did, because a year and a half ago there was nothing,鈥� said Teresa Baker, who founded the Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge. 鈥淪o any progress looks promising. And I think that鈥檚 where we are: promising.鈥�

So far, such promise comes primarily from companies diversifying the people who appear on their Instagram feeds or trail running in an ad. Diversity advocates and industry observers like Baker have encouraged this visual approach as low-hanging fruit because of its ease, zero incremental cost, and potential to break the self-perpetuating barrier of BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and people of color) individuals not seeing themselves represented, and therefore not entering the organized outdoors. This outward-facing shift is a baby step toward more meaningful internal developments, such as better representation in decision-making suites.

During the past couple of years, a few brands have exemplified this first wave of change. Merrell, for example, created its 鈥淥ne Trail鈥� online exhibit depicting trails around the globe on a single day and also substantially diversified its ambassador ranks. Peak Design, maker of outdoor bags and accessories, also began telling more stories of outdoor athletes of color in its 鈥淔ield Notes鈥� blog.

Beyond the digital realm, Mammut has entered into a DEI partnership with The Lady Alliance that includes a company-wide au- dit, along with workshops and trainings to ensure a more inclusive environment for employees. Merrell created a short- and long-term action plan it calls 鈥淭he Trail Ahead,鈥� which includes internal and external inclusion measures. It has conducted an internal culture audit, and this year, will introduce a footwear collaboration with Jenny Bruso and her Unlikely Hikers group.

Leadership Stumbles

Merrell was also the first brand that had signed the Camber Outdoors CEO Outdoor Equity pledge to also join Baker鈥檚 pledge in 2019. That was after a very public kerfluffle in which white-led Camber Outdoors generated considerable backlash for appropriating Baker鈥檚 BIPOC-led pledge established nine months earlier. Many consider the dispute an awakening for the outdoor industry. 鈥淚t rammed down the throat of this industry that we鈥檙e not going to stand for this stuff anymore,鈥� Baker said. Her Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge saw a surge of interest last year, prompted by national social justice protests. It had 89 signees at the end of 2019, but piled up another 100 between March and September 2020 alone.

Still, the embrace of DEI has had its limitations. Out of the 58 companies that signed the Camber equity pledge, only 17 have also signed Baker鈥檚. That鈥檚 significant, diversity advocates say, because the Camber signees are considered among the largest and most influential brands in the industry. In fact, the two brands with some of the most presumed influence, Patagonia and REI, have been criticized by industry observers for not doing enough (both signed the Camber pledge, but not Baker鈥檚).

Scott Briscoe, a member of the first all-Black team to attempt to summit Denali, left his post in 2018 as an inclusion and equity coordinator at Patagonia out of frustration, he says, for its reluctance to attack the issue of diversity. Briscoe, who has since founded WeGotNext, a nonprofit that elevates outdoor stories from typically under- represented communities, says Patagonia disappoints because it has otherwise earned renown for its activism.

鈥淧atagonia is so successful at so many things鈥攕aving the environment, conservation, policy, sustainable apparel, impacting businesses worldwide,鈥� Briscoe said. 鈥淏ut they weren鈥檛 willing to apply that same boldness to DEI that they applied to other things.鈥�

Last September, Patagonia posted an acknowledgment of its shortcomings on DEI work. And when asked about the brand鈥檚 future plans, CEO Ryan Gellert told The Voice, 鈥淥ur urgent task is to listen to and support our fellow employees, our industry, and our global community.鈥�

Similarly, an REI spokesperson provided a statement noting, 鈥淏oth REI and the industry at large can and should be doing more in this space.鈥� The co-op has updated its public commitment to racial equity, outlining a plan for workforce practices, industry leadership, nonprofit partnership, and advocacy. And last December, it updated its Product Impact Standards to include DEI measures.

The hesitancy in the industry is not confined to the powerhouse brands. Many companies are paralyzed when it comes to DEI, saying they 诲辞苍鈥檛 know what to do or fear doing the wrong thing, inflicting unintended but significant harm. This frustrates diversity advocates, who say doing nothing is worse than making mistakes.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not like the industry doesn鈥檛 know how to exercise leadership,鈥� said Jose虂 Gonza虂lez, founder of Latino Outdoors. 鈥淔acing some of those questions brings up uncomfortable things, but it鈥檚 not a question of capacity. If it鈥檚 an incredibly challenging science policy issue, like climate change, they鈥檙e willing to go to bat for that. But when it comes to racial justice, all we get is, 鈥楲et鈥檚 save all these other things.鈥欌��

Walking the 鈥渨oke capitalism鈥� line鈥攖aking only low-cost, high-profile measures that contribute more to the bottom line than true reform鈥攁lso frustrates advocates, who call such gestures 鈥減erformative鈥� or 鈥渃heck-box.鈥� True reform takes commitment and time, something Carpenter knows firsthand. Back in 2003, at a meeting of Burton鈥檚 global directors, she noticed that of 25 executives, two were women. Carpenter started the internal Women鈥檚 Leadership Initiative that year; it took ten years to start gaining traction. 鈥淲e know we haven鈥檛 gone far enough, fast enough with diversity,鈥� she said. 鈥淏ut, with gender, we came from behind and became a leader. I hope it鈥檒l be the same here.鈥� At stake, she asserts, is survival鈥攐f company, community, and industry. 鈥淭his is a big boat we have to move. We鈥檙e all in this together.”

Four Ways to Meaningfully Invest in DEI

Here are four examples of how outdoor companies have effectively put their money where their mouths are where DEI is concerned. The first two, done in isolation, can be performative if not part of something like the third and fourth, which drive more significant change.

Turn Up the Star Power

Jimmy Chin, the climber, photographer, and Oscar-winning director, arguably has been the highest-profile outdoorsperson of color for years. And now he and Lena Waithe (left), the director and Emmy-winning actor (鈥淢aster of None鈥�), have been tapped for The North Face鈥檚 鈥淩eset Normal,鈥� an awareness and funding campaign. The two will lead the brand鈥檚 new Explore Fund Council, a $7 million effort to advance equity and access in the outdoors.

Teresa Baker said, 鈥淭hey鈥檙e bringing in freaking celebrities now. That鈥檚 not to say every brand has the financial ability to do that, but this is huge step.鈥� Advocates like Baker have hoped for the use of higher-profile models or spokespeople, especially BIPOC individuals, to draw more attention to the diversity issues in the outdoors.

Companies that can鈥檛 quite shine Hollywood-level klieg lights on DEI can still partner with better-known athletes or activists of color. One example is Chad Brown, who is black, a veteran, and the founder of the nonprofit Soul River. He is a brand ambassador for Marmot, Mystery Ranch, and Ruffwear, and has been featured in social media by companies such as Columbia Sportswear and Keen.

Make It Personal

It was 2016, and the Trump administration had Rob Coughlin fired up about diversity and the mounting attacks on the environment. So he rounded up his colleagues at Granite Gear, the Minnesota-based backpack and gear brand. 鈥淲e need to make a bigger difference,鈥� Coughlin,聽the company鈥檚 vice president of sales and product development, told them.

This wasn鈥檛 a small ask because, with 24 employees and $5 million in annual revenue, Granite Gear is a relatively small company. The team would have to do more with whatever it had鈥攍ike its Instagram account with only a modest following. The brand began by increasing representation of marginalized communities on its social media channels, which led to the weekly Instagram TV hit, 鈥淎 Hot Minute,鈥� and helped Granite Gear鈥檚 following increase by 25 percent.

The show is pure Coughlin鈥攈umorous, open, and welcoming to people not normally depicted in an industry that he鈥檇 discovered upon entering is 鈥渋ncredibly white.鈥� Coughlin鈥檚 show is trading wisecracks with Teresa Baker. It鈥檚 Coughlin crying as Amiththan Sebarajah, the Canadian thru-hiker, describes seeing his uncle hanging from a streetlight during civil war in his native Sri Lanka. Or staying up all night to read The Unlikely Thru-Hiker in preparation for his session with its author, Derick Lugo.

鈥淩ob takes elevating the stories of people of color to a level nobody else has reached,鈥� said Scott Briscoe, a black climber and founder of WeGotNext. Jose虂 Gonza虂lez added, 鈥淩ob is sticking his neck out. He鈥檚 willing to try things with different people.鈥�

Go Where BIPOC Are

The birthplace of Aretha Franklin, the Soulsville neighborhood of Memphis, Tennessee, remains one of the Blackest stretches in the country. Lately, it has also been among its poorest. So it might be the last place you鈥檇 expect to find something as emblematic of white experience and privilege as a climbing gym.

鈥淣obody invests in a climbing gym in a neighborhood like this,鈥� said Jon Hawk. 鈥淲e came here on purpose. We鈥檙e breaking down as many barriers as possible.鈥� Hawk is the director of operations at Memphis Rox, a nonprofit climbing gym founded by local director and writer Tom Shadyac (鈥淎ce Ventura: Pet Detective,鈥� 鈥淭he Nutty Professor鈥�) that opened in 2018.

The pay-as-you-can gym is, Hawk said, 鈥渁n access point to our relationship鈥� with Soulsville鈥檚 people. It has served 30,000 free meals, offered professional development programs, hired half of its staff from the surrounding area, and served as a safe space in a tough environment.

Memphis Rox cost about $10 million to open, but Hawk says other programs can be effective without rising to that scale. For example, The North Face has invested in climbing walls in underserved areas through its 鈥淲alls are Meant for Climbing鈥� campaign. And brands can reach out to underserved communities by opening stores or even or pop-ups in urban locations.

Remake Company Culture

Having been chased off slopes during the early decades of their existence, snowboarders at least have a sense of what it鈥檚 like to be excluded. That history has聽helped push Donna Carpenter to at Burton. Its ambitious plan includes internal demographic auditing and hiring reform, cultural education and revision, increased internal anti-racism infrastructure (a JEDI committee and employee resource groups), and charity/foundation work. Among other things, it鈥檚 donating $100,000 to the NAACP and expanding the company鈥檚 Chill Foundation, an award-winning youth development program.

Such a comprehensive approach is far more likely to move the needle on diversity. Many companies tend to deal with DEI as if choosing a gesture from an a虁 la carte menu. The result, said Scott Briscoe of WeGotNext, 鈥渋s not affecting any sustainable change at a cultural level.鈥�

Jose虂 Gonza虂lez of Latino Outdoors, added, 鈥淚f you want to focus on a grant-giving program or being more inclusive in terms of your design process for gear鈥攅xcellent. Just 诲辞苍鈥檛 pretend like that鈥檚 all of the work.鈥�

The endgame for diversity advocates is reforming hiring practices, a move that would address the gaping absence of BIPOC representation at the highest levels of companies and the industry as a whole. But this includes a difficult process of first preparing company cultures to embrace employees from outside the usual circles. As difficult as hiring may be, retaining employees of color is an even bigger challenge. One study found that the tech industry, which is struggling with similar issues, spends a mind-boggling $16 billion a year on retention.

Enlightened companies have landed on a process that begins with hiring an outside consultant of color who can help audit company demographics and policies, and devise and help execute a DEI plan that includes anti-racism training appropriate to the organization. Companies should be prepared to engage such consulting on an ongoing basis for years because cultural transformation and DEI work is not a single goal. It is a continuum, countering the centuries of colonialist white supremacy that got us to this point.

The post Opinion: Will the Outdoor Industry Ever Get DEI Right? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Late last week, a nonprofit organization originally established to advocate for women in the outdoor industry did a seemingly wondrous thing. announced an expansion of its CEO Pledge, a gender-equity initiative launched in 2015,聽to include equity, inclusion, and diversity. More than 50 industry brands, including powerhouses like REI and Patagonia, have signed on to the covenant, renamed the , which Camber initially touted as the 鈥渇irst of its kind.鈥澛�

But here鈥檚 the rub: a聽group of people and organizations of color launched the similarly named in July 2018. The Trail Posse, a nonprofit media entity that I founded, is a member of this pledge鈥檚 steering committee.

Camber Outdoors and several of its eventual signatories declined to work with us, but we have 28 brands on board, the most recognizable being Marmot, which was the first to commit. These companies are each working with a member of our steering committee to establish actions on workforce diversity and representation in media, marketing, and with brand ambassadors. The companies agreed to be held accountable for those actions.

The steering committee is unpaid. We have no umbrella organization or funding behind us. We are connected by our mutual blackness or brownness, our passion for the outdoors, and our drive to elevate access and equity. We are trying to negotiate space in a world that, frankly, mostly indicates it doesn鈥檛 want us.

The initiative by Camber Outdoors and its allies did not make us feel any differently. It聽launched on February 1, the first day of Black History Month. With great fanfare, they created the optic of a large group of white-led outdoor brands signaling a preference to follow a white-led organization on diversity instead of an alliance of organizations of color聽organized by a black woman, Teresa Baker of the African American National Park聽Event.

From the outside, it might be tempting to dismiss this latest tempest as a mere dustup between trekking-pole-wielding tree huggers. But the outdoor industry generates annual consumer spending of $887 billion and 7.6 million American jobs, according to the latest projections by the Outdoor Industry Association. The sector accounted for 2.2 percent ($412 billion) of the 2016 U.S. gross domestic product, according to the federal Bureau of Economic Analysis.

With so much at stake, it鈥檚 no wonder the space is fraught with conflict over equity and inclusion. But because outdoor brands are private, it鈥檚 difficult to gauge just how lacking in diversity they really are.

The conservation and environmental sector is most similar to the outdoor industry in its employment and leadership鈥攁nd its numbers are dismal. According to a 2018 report by , an initiative dedicated to increasing racial diversity in environmental organizations, foundations, and government agencies, nonwhites comprise 26 percent of full-time foundation staff, 4 percent of senior staff, and 21 percent of foundation board members. Those numbers actually could be underselling the racial divide since they are based on self-reported data. Outdoor-industry insiders will admit that the lack of diversity in its companies is likely far worse. And that lack of diversity can lead to bad decisions and misguided actions.

Responding to the outcry, Camber Outdoors issued a statement on February 4 in which its executive director, Deanne Buck, apologized for characterizing its initiative as 鈥渇irst of its kind.鈥� But in that same press release, Camber still described itself the 鈥渇irst and only authority鈥� advancing opportunities鈥� for everyone鈥� in the outdoors.

Amanda Jameson, a black聽long-distance hiker, was among those who found Camber鈥檚 apology disingenuous. Jameson is one of three women of color who work for Camber鈥攁t least until her last day later this month. She resigned her position as program manager on Monday.

鈥淚f you鈥檙e an organization that is interested in change and some authentic negotiation, some authentic diversity, and some authentic being in that discomfort, it鈥檚 important to be clear,鈥� Jameson told me. 鈥淚t鈥檚 important to be open. Certainly, in [Camber鈥檚] response to this particular issue, that鈥檚 not what I鈥檝e seen.鈥�

The apparent hollowness of the gesture left outdoor advocates of color with the familiar gut punches of appropriation, erasure, and lack of self-determination that stung our ancestors, on whose shoulders we stand. They were the recipients of this country鈥檚 original sins as it slaked its thirst for claiming and cleansing public lands and establishing a culture of recreation that values solitude, respite, and inaccessibility. We find these appeals at odds with our immigrants鈥� culture of extended family, our historical ghettoization, and our wont for congregation because of safety and social reasons.

As we have been pointing out for centuries, we are outside, of course, but聽even in its glorious light, we seldom feel seen.

鈥淧rivilege has the privilege of not seeing itself,鈥� said Carolyn Finney, an author, cultural geographer, and member of the Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge steering committee. 鈥淚 believe actually that [the Camber pledge] was a big risk, but they 诲辞苍鈥檛 see it. The risk is losing all of us folks of color聽who they deem to care about and say they want to help elevate and include. So either they 诲辞苍鈥檛 care, or they are just so clueless.鈥�

Many in the outdoor industry seem to hold onto the false notion that there is a dearth of nonwhite candidates to hire, models of color to feature in ads and catalogs, and minority consumers who want to buy gear. This persistent people-of-color-are-not-outside narrative is reinforced by statistics such as those showing low visitation to national parks (about 22 percent of visitors are nonwhite) or low participation rates by nonwhite groups in some outdoor activities like bird-watching (7 percent, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service). But a lot of us feel like we 诲辞苍鈥檛 count because we aren鈥檛 properly counted. Some of our immigrant tongues 诲辞苍鈥檛 have equivalent terms for words like camping or trailhead that make up the American lexicon for outdoor recreation. For others, our history in this country has conditioned us to believe that we 诲辞苍鈥檛 look or act like outdoors people, so we might call 鈥渙ut for a walk鈥� what a white person would readily identify as a hike.

Finney, the author of , reviewed issues of 国产吃瓜黑料聽magazine published between 2001鈥�1991 and found聽that only 103 of the magazine鈥檚 4,602 pictures of people contained African Americans. She says that while things have improved since then, underrepresentation remains significant. John Robinson, a black former Forest Service biologist and a longtime birding advocate, says the self-perpetuating nonwhite scarcity in certain outdoor activities results from what he calls the 鈥淒on鈥檛 Loop鈥�: People of color 诲辞苍鈥檛 (insert activity) because people 诲辞苍鈥檛 engage in an activity in which they 诲辞苍鈥檛 see people like themselves.

The question is: How is this loop disrupted?

In a big way, it just was.

Our history tells us that conflict usually is required to catalyze meaningful change. While the Camber pledge didn鈥檛 involve snarling dogs or battering batons, it was the public exposure of the kind of appropriation and erasure that takes place all the time in the darkened corners of what I call the 鈥渙rganized outdoors鈥濃�攔ecreation, conservation, and environmentalism, as defined by the U.S. mainstream. This time聽it was greeted with significant backlash.

The Don鈥檛 Loop can be further disrupted by marked improvement in representation of nonwhites in the industry workforce, marketing and advertising, and ambassadorships. The usual industry ploys鈥攊nviting people of color to serve on panels, sharing our social-media posts, and plying us with high-margin gear that provides the illusion of value鈥攁re inauthentic avenues to claiming commitment to diversity by association.

Recruiting, hiring, onboarding, and retaining people of color requires real commitment, real work, and real resources. More than just the right thing to do, equity and inclusion should be viewed as business imperatives, a survival strategy in the face of rapidly changing demographics in this country. The alternative, in which people of color create our own outdoor companies to serve our growing communities, would not offer a bright future for legacy brands.

Glenn Nelson founded the Trail Posse聽to cover the intersection of race and the outdoors.

The post Op-Ed: After the Camber Equity Pledge Blowup appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

A black man, a Mexican American woman, and a Filipino American man walked into a park. On a gloomy April afternoon in Seattle, they鈥檇 been given a set of coordinates and were instructed to find each one, in sequence, using their maps, compasses, GPS apps on their mobile phones, and, on occasion, their wiles. This meant locating numbered poles planted in wetlands, brambles, and soccer fields. As they bantered about being among the only nonwhites living in rural towns, the trio located the landmarks and, before long, were down to the last one.

Gabe Juzon, a yoga instructor and Lululemon ambassador from Eatonville, Washington, decided to stash his compass, declaring that he鈥檇 eyeball the final checkpoint.

鈥淧ractice your orienteering,鈥� urged Denver-based climber Monserrat Matehuala. 鈥淚 am Oriental,鈥� Juzon quipped. 鈥淚 was born this way.鈥�

They laughed, because they could. The weekend was meant to be a safe space for outdoorsy people of color, carved out of a large swath of whiteness. The participants were halfway through a workshop that kick-started Climbers of Color, a Facebook meetup founded with the goal of creating a solid foundation of nonwhite mountaineering leaders. Juzon pocketed his navigation device, and the group quickly found the last checkpoint. They were to reassemble, mountainside, early the next morning.

But first, dinner: northern Chinese biang biang noodles, served at a hole-in-the-wall joint near the University of Washington. There, Climbers of Color founder Don Nguyen joined a group of mostly other Asian Americans, clad in plaid shirts and moist boots. The party included his workshop partners Christopher Chalaka and Mariko Ching, who together founded Outdoor Asian in 2016 to connect people of Asian and Pacific Island descent by organizing outdoor activities across the country. It was Nguyen鈥檚 insight and persistence that united them. Another partner, Nicco Minutoli, provided technical support during preparation for the gathering.

In 2016, Nguyen started a guiding career with International Mountain Guides in Washington, eventually landing with Alpine Ascents. On the mountaintops where he made his living, the racial composition of fellow leaders and climbers was predominantly white. Nguyen saw climbing culture as generally closed and judgmental and, after moving to the Pacific Northwest from a small community in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, he continued to note an absence of climbing mentors, particularly for people of color.

But Nguyen, 30, seldom balks at barriers. He is the son of a doctor from Vietnam who was a prisoner of war for four years. Thuong Nguyen told his son tales of surviving the ordeal by subsisting on rice and pumpkin. Thuong and his family fled to the United States after he was released from prison camp in 1979; Saigon had fallen four years earlier. They eventually relocated to Oklahoma City, which, because of the influx of war refugees, has one of the largest Vietnamese communities in the country. His family鈥檚 experience, Don Nguyen says, is a reminder that 鈥減eople have done better in worse situations. They didn鈥檛 have a choice.鈥�

Improving inclusion at altitude didn鈥檛 seem like a choice for Nguyen. It was more an imperative whose mission began to crystallize during conversations he had with Minutoli at a wilderness survival skills camp they taught in 2016. The Outdoor Asian founders brought social media savvy and organizational skills that prompted the group to stage its first workshop, meant to 鈥渢each the teachers,鈥� as Nguyen says. They hoped the inaugural cohort could form the beginnings of a wave of nonwhite guides, mentors, participants, and advocates that could help alter the face of mountaineering.

Alpine Ascents, Outdoor Research, Patagonia, and Petzl either discounted or loaned the meetup gear, which helped Nguyen keep the April clinic free. Applicants were recruited solely through Facebook outdoor groups for people of color, then vetted for skill level and their commitment to paying the training forward. For Nguyen, Chalaka, and Ching, that meant a spectrum of a dozen participants, including everything from professional guiding to inspiring and mentoring friends to simply wanting advanced skills to attempt more challenging outdoor adventures.

The climbers consequently had varying levels of recreational and outdoor leadership experience. Matehuala is an outdoor educator and leader in the affinity group . She flew in from Denver for the opportunity to acquire more skills in, as she said, 鈥渁 space with other people of color.鈥� Doug Barclift, a veteran from Orting, Washington, is an experienced sport climber and backpacker seeking to become the second African American man in the country to open a climbing gym. 鈥淢ountain鈥� Dieu (pronounced 鈥渄ew鈥�) Nguyen (no relation to Don) is a mother of two Boy Scouts; she went from doing her first sunrise hike with a glow stick and cellphone flashlight to self-taught mountaineering that helped her summit Mount Adams, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Hood with her friend Hannah Hanson, who also attended the workshop.

The two-day training began at a neighborhood library branch in north Seattle and focused on navigational skills and trip planning. Amid talk of declination, waypoints, and terrain association, Nguyen also imparted his do-as-I-do approach to outdoor leadership. He told to the group that 鈥測ou are ambassadors for people of color outdoors鈥� and should emulate the highest standards expected from professional guides, right down to a tidy backpack and impeccable form. 鈥淚f people see you doing it the right way, they鈥檒l do it too.鈥� They ended the day tracking down waypoints in a slight drizzle at Magnuson Park.

The second day was spent in the field, at Mount Ellinor, on Washington鈥檚 Olympic Peninsula. There, the group held a mock guide meeting, practiced breaking trail in the snow, and, with Ching鈥檚 assistance, learned to self-arrest falls with their ice axes. Nguyen continued to stress pacing, his pet peeve in guiding. In a typical scenario, he explained, the strongest move to the front and the weaker members fall back and, soon, everyone is spread out. He told a cautionary tale of a snowshoe trip at Mount Rainier where leadership assumptions went badly awry and two clients fell to their deaths in near-darkness.

Nguyen hammered in the point: In the mountains, everyone rises together. This may as well be the Climbers of Color motto. Inclusion is paramount, in every way possible. 鈥淲e want to be guides for everyone,鈥� Nguyen says.

Climbers of Color plans to host its Mountaineering Leadership II workshop August 8鈥�10 on the slopes of Mount Baker.

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Last week, Department of the Interior Secretary Ryan Zinke for downplaying the significance of workforce diversity in his department, saying things like, 鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 think that鈥檚 important anymore.鈥�

I am a journalist of color who specializes in covering race and the outdoors, but I鈥檓 not mad at Zinke for what others might characterize as outrageous, backward-thinking insensitivity. How could I be? It鈥檚 just business as usual.

The institution that Zinke inherited was, as of 2016, . In other words, the business that鈥檚 usual in the Interior Department is overwhelming whiteness.

Zinke鈥檚 exceptionally sensitive and capable predecessors, Sally Jewell and Ken Salazar, only created false hopes because of the potential they represented as a woman and a Latino from equity-driven western states. Alas, they didn鈥檛 possess superpowers. Under them, the workforce at the National Park Service, arguably the face of federal public-land management, actually got whiter, increasing to more than 83 percent white in 2015, from 82 percent when Obama took office.

The Interior Department鈥檚 whiteness is so baked into its roots, bureaucracy, and hiring procedures that it would probably require a divine being dedicating every minute of every day and every ounce of creative juice to bursting the diversity logjam. Obama made headway by creating monuments relevant to underserved communities using the Antiquities Act. Otherwise, the system is so rigged against people of color that even our first black president was rendered largely powerless against it, and the country is suffering a backlash for his even trying.

The more immediate human toll is the morale-crushing impact that the diversity downplay has on Interior Department lifers. There are many true believers among them in the diversity imperative鈥擨鈥檝e met quite a few鈥攖hough their boss and his minions have done their best to expose and scatter them far from the flame of power.

I must admit that I was confused last fall when Zinke proposed new monuments at Kentucky鈥檚 Camp Nelson, the training grounds of African American regiments in the Union Army, and in Jackson, Mississippi, at the home of civil rights hero Medgar Evers. I thought maybe he was feeling repentant for ignoring tribal leaders a year ago at Bears Ears in Utah. In retrospect, proposing these designations that are relevant to nonwhite history seem like red herrings meant to distract from his suggested gutting of an embryonic national monument full of significance to indigenous Americans.

Last week, Zinke reestablished his what-country-are-you-really-from bona fides after Rep. Colleen Hanabusa (D-Hawaii) told him a story about her grandparents being held in World War II concentration camps and asked why funding was cut to preserve those sites. 鈥�,鈥� he responded to the Hawaii-born Japanese American.

I鈥檇 rather know where a guy is coming from. The eight years under Obama and all that silly talk about a post-racial society was rather like jogging through a dog park in darkness. You just never knew when you were about to step in crap.

This Zinke guy, you just know, is full of it.

The interior secretary鈥檚 straight talk about diversity should clearly reveal the void that can be filled only by the remainder of the green ecosystem鈥攖he affinity groups, conservation and environmental organizations, and outdoor industry. These are largely self-determining institutions, presumably unencumbered by Byzantine federal hiring regulations and politically motivated leadership and oversight. If they want to hire brown people, women, LGBTQ people, or people with disabilities, no matter the administration in power, they can place them directly in the service of public lands.

To get there, the tree huggers who work outside the government need to stop practicing the low priority on diversity that Zinke preaches. So far, the only real difference between them and Zinke is that they like to talk (and talk and talk) about the value of diversity.

In the meantime, I鈥檇 prefer things to appear as they are. I鈥檇 have been mad, for example, if Ryan Zinke had retained the acting National Park Service director he inherited in Mike Reynolds. A longtime change agent for diversity in the agency, Reynolds was pressured by the Trump administration into high-profile assignments like of his inauguration crowd.

Dan Smith is now the highest-ranking white dude at the Park Service鈥攁nd of course he is. Before this, he was best known for allowing an NFL owner to improve his view by cutting down trees on federally protected land. That was until last week, when Smith became the focus of an Interior Department investigation for allegedly grabbing his nether regions and on the walls of the same hallways where Zinke is presumed to be pissing on diversity.

鈥淚 can think of no one better equipped to help lead our efforts to ensure that the National Park Service is on firm footing to preserve and protect the most spectacular places in the United States for future generations,鈥� Zinke said in a release about Smith鈥檚 promotion.

Ah, the sweet sound of transparency.

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Back in the early 1980s, during an undergraduate environmental studies class, Dorceta Taylor asked a question that would whisk her onto a path leading, in recent years, to groundbreaking research on diversity in environmental organizations.

Taylor realized about midway through the course at Northern Illinois University that she was the only nonwhite person in it. She asked her professor why during class one day.

鈥淭here are no other black students in the course,鈥� Taylor recalls the professor replying, 鈥渂ecause blacks are not interested in the environment.鈥�

Taylor was aghast. Her native Jamaica is a black nation聽where environmental studies and concerns are embedded in daily life. She thought her professor was an idiot and went to the library to prove it. But after pulling every article she could find about black people and the environment, Taylor was shocked at her findings: They all said the exact same thing her professor had.

鈥淚 realized, oh my god, this is a body of thought,鈥� Taylor says. 鈥淎nd for the first time, I had this out-of-body experience that I鈥檓 black and not supposed to do environment. And I鈥檓 not supposed to be good at it. But I still had this nagging feeling that said, 鈥榊ou guys are wrong.鈥欌��

Some decades, four advanced degrees from Yale, and four books later, Taylor is the (DEI) at the University of Michigan鈥檚 School of Environment and Sustainability. In January, she released a startling report, 鈥�.鈥� It builds on her oft-cited research for Green 2.0, an independent advocacy campaign to increase diversity among environmental groups. The big takeaway: Environmental nonprofits only seem to be trying when someone is watching.

The original Green 2.0 report, 鈥溾�� released in 2014, was considered the most thorough study ever of the racial composition of environmental and conservation organizations and federal agencies. The news was resoundingly appalling: 191 environmental nonprofits, 74 government environmental agencies, and 28 leading environmental grant-making foundations were found to be overwhelmingly white鈥�88 percent of staff members and 95 percent of governing boards. The United States is 39 percent nonwhite, according to the latest census figures.

Taylor independently funded and released her latest report so that she could expand beyond the 40 largest environmental groups that Green 2.0 has staked out.

Of 2,057 environmental organizations analyzed in the latest study, Taylor and her team found that only 14.5 percent even report diversity-related data to GuideStar, a leading compiler of information from U.S. nonprofits. Taylor further found that, after a surge in 2014 (which corresponds to the first Green 2.0 report), the percentage of organizations that reported diversity data for staff members fell from 5.8 percent to 2.7 percent in 2016. The percentage of organizations that reported diversity data on the composition of their boards fell from 8.1 to 6.1 percent during the same period.

Taylor and her team sought data on the race, ethnicity, gender, and sexual orientation of board members, as well as full-time, part-time, and senior staff. They also looked into organizational participation in DEI activities and training. The most commonly reported of these metrics was DEI activities, and mostly of the 鈥渓ow-hanging fruit鈥� variety鈥攍ike placing a diversity statement on the organization鈥檚 website, holding cultural celebrations, and expanding recruitment efforts.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the report found that the most likely type of organization to report diversity data were those related to environmental justice.

When she began in this field in the 1980s, Taylor estimates that 2 percent of environmental organizations had staff of color. That鈥檚 risen to about 15 percent, but has begun to flatline. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not enough,鈥� Taylor says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I will keep putting out reports.鈥�

Taylor鈥檚 next major study will delve into the reasons organizations give for the low level of diversity-data reporting. Based on her decades of studying the sector, she speculates a few reasons why environmental organizations might not report. Maybe they object to doing so because they feel diversity has nothing to do with the environment, or they feel it鈥檚 no one鈥檚 business and they only share internally. Maybe they鈥檙e too embarrassed to release data that makes them look bad. Maybe they 诲辞苍鈥檛 remember to do it.

She is soon releasing a paper that will address nonwhites鈥� purported aversion to nature. The recent proliferation of outdoor racial affinity groups, Taylor says, is busting the myth that people of color are not outdoors, a notion she calls 鈥渁bsurd.鈥�

鈥淏lacks and other people of color were doing environment; we were just defining it the wrong way,鈥� Taylor says. 鈥淲hat are you asking on your surveys? Have you gone to Yellowstone? Have you seen a bear? Have you wrestled an elephant? You鈥檙e not asking about that jackrabbit that runs around the neighborhood. So that鈥檚 not nature as defined by the mainstream. Nature is this other thing that鈥檚 removed from our experiences.

鈥淲e 诲辞苍鈥檛 need permission to go outdoors,鈥� Taylor says. 鈥淲e鈥檙e already doing it.鈥�

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The last time I visited Yosemite National Park, I made the jaunt to Glacier Point. Standing at the edge of the drop-off, I tried to imagine myself taking in the magnificent vista while discussing the then revolutionary idea of preserving wild places for the public good with Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir, back in 1903.

It would not have gone very well.

Like many people of color living in American cities, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 see the sense in grand efforts to protect far-off landscapes that 诲辞苍鈥檛 intersect with my daily life, either culturally or geographically. More my cup of tea, almost literally, is the on Bainbridge Island, across Puget Sound from Seattle, my hometown. Though small鈥攊t鈥檚 about eight acres鈥攖he site is rooted in the American past in a way that feels uniquely personal to me. Its centerpiece is a story wall made of old-growth red cedar, 276 feet long, one foot for each person of Japanese descent鈥攑eople like me鈥攍iving on the island at the start of World War II. Most were forcibly removed and exiled to prison camps in California and Idaho. The memorial is nestled in a forest of alders and firs, abutted by shoreline. If I stand in front of the wall, close my eyes, and ignore the occasional blast of a ferry horn, I almost feel like I鈥檓 in nearby Olympic National Park.

The Trump administration鈥檚 highly publicized review of national monuments last spring was a giant catalyst for the conservation movement. Environmentalists, along with suddenly energized鈥攁nd surprisingly vocal鈥攐utdoor-gear brands, launched million-dollar awareness campaigns focused on Utah鈥檚 Bears Ears and Grand Staircase鈥揈scalante. That struggle, as well as bids to preserve the sanctity of Alaska鈥檚 Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, has since shifted to enormously expensive lawsuits.

This is laudable work: the beauty of these areas is without question, and Bears Ears holds special significance for a number of Native American tribes. But these efforts also represent a dangerous distraction at a moment when we must focus on lands that matter most to our growing and racially diverse urban communities. Places like the Exclusion Memorial may not offer majestic landscapes, but they serve as bridges between historically marginalized communities and America鈥檚 public lands. The great accelerated browning of the American population demands that we prioritize expanding access to open spaces and ensure that newly protected sites speak to people who have been largely left out of conversations about conservation and outdoor recreation.

Nonwhites are moving toward majority status in the U.S. by 2044, if not sooner. And we care about the outdoors. When voters of color by New American Media and the Next 100 Coalition last summer, 70 percent said they participated in outdoor activities. Latinos, the largest ethnic group in the U.S., have consistently polled very strongly in their commitment to recreation and the environment. They also spend more per capita on outdoor gear鈥�$592 annually鈥攖han any other racial group, including whites, according to other research by the Outdoor Industry Association.

What people of color 诲辞苍鈥檛 do much: go to national parks, where some 80 percent of visitors are white. This is partly due to the economic and logistical hurdles of reaching attractions like Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon. The underappreciated factor is that the revered notion of solitude in wilderness, sprinkled throughout agency mission statements, legislation, and the literary writings of white men, can feel alien and even exclusionary to immigrant communities that value crowds for safety, socialization, and support. Culture matters. According to 95 percent of the New American Media poll respondents, it is 鈥渋mportant for young people to see their culture and histories reflected in public lands.鈥�

That concept was championed in One Hundred Years, a plan for the future that the National Park Service released after its 2016 centennial. It was also reflected in a flurry of monument designations by President Obama near the end of his second term: from Freedom Riders in Alabama, to Stonewall in New York City, to Belmont-Paul Women鈥檚 Equality in Washington, D.C.鈥攁ll pieces of the American pie carved out for traditionally underrepresented groups. Interior secretary Ryan Zinke has even embraced the idea, recommending new monuments at Kentucky鈥檚 Camp Nelson, where African American regiments in the Union Army trained, and in Jackson, Mississippi, at the home of civil-rights hero Medgar Evers. Recognizing these places offers a window to view our role in the American story, giving us a sense of ownership in a system that wasn鈥檛 hatched with us in mind.

Going forward, we need to work even harder at bringing parks to the people. This means centering our efforts on establishing and defending places like the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area, a 153,075-acre patchwork of federal, state, local, and鈥攕ignificantly鈥攑rivate properties bordering Los Angeles. In October a California congressional group introduced a bill that would more than double its size, expanding its boundaries to encompass the so-called Rim of the Valley Corridor (a half-dozen Southern California mountains) and creating a link to the San Gabriel Mountains National Monument, which has become a primary escape for Los Angeles鈥檚 near majority Latino population. This kind of public-private collaboration, many years in the making, has enabled the growth of numerous urban parks across the country. In an era of slashed budgets, it has also helped fuel innovative outreach efforts in the Santa Monica Mountains such as La Ranger Troca, a food truck turned mobile visitor center that offers guidance on how to enjoy the peaks while also collecting and sharing stories about how people connect with nature in the urban sprawl of the valleys below.

Places like the Santa Monica Mountains and the Japanese American Exclusion Memorial help people of color make the cultural, psychological, and political leap to caring about a distant desert canyon in Utah or caribou in Alaska. At my own outdoor oasis on Bainbridge Island, the words NIDOTO NAI YONI, or 鈥淟et it not happen again,鈥� are mounted on a stone wall in metal letters. It鈥檚 a reference to the despicable targeting of a people based on their race. But it鈥檚 also a sentiment that I take as a warning about what might happen to our public lands if America clings to a narrow interpretation of the places worth saving.

Glenn Nelson founded the website to cover diversity in the outdoors.

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Congratulations, Outdoor Retailer. You鈥檝e moved your biannual trade show from a state, Utah, whose leadership is openly hostile to the concept of inclusive public lands and pushed the Trump administration to shrink Bears Ears National Monument, which is so critical for its protection of Native lands that agreed to co-manage it. You moved to Colorado, a place progressive enough to legalize marijuana and have the inestimable Latino adventurer Luis Benitez in charge of its office of outdoor recreation industry.

Denver is a far more acceptable place to convene more than 1,100 outdoor and active-lifestyle brands, as the industry will do . But we haven鈥檛 changed the stance we held when the show was held in Salt Lake City for the previous 20 years: We still ain鈥檛 coming.

It may be a different venue, but it鈥檚 the same old party. Like our president shuttling between the White House and Mar-a-Lago, the places change, but the faces鈥攁nd results鈥攔emain the same. Outdoor Retailer remains a show of whiteness and power in their greatest form鈥攁 gathering to promote gear, products, companies, and commitment to the great outdoors that apparently does not include any people of color.

Oh, there will be a smattering of us in Denver, hoping to be noticed. And it will be hard not to notice when the few 诲辞苍鈥檛 look like the many. We know the feeling well. We were just part of a panel, along with our friend Scott Briscoe of Patagonia and Expedition Denali, at the . We often were the only three nonwhites wherever we went in the small town of Nevada City, in one of the very whitest counties in California.

Even so, what followed us around in Nevada City were the winds of change. The festival has developed a statement of inclusion and encourages equitable work among filmmakers. It asked us to hold an honest discussion about race, and we did, in a room jammed with people on a sunny day with films showing all around us. People stopped us on the streets to ask for leads, names, and advice. The past few years, the festival roster has included films showcasing people of color.

This is a small organization in a small place making small changes, but as hotelier J. Willard Marriott once said, 鈥淚t鈥檚 the little things that make the big things possible.鈥� We see the bigger possibilities, unfulfilled, in the outdoor industry, which according to its own research contributes billions of dollars to the U.S. economy.

So many outdoor companies have talked to us about the importance of diversity and inclusion that we鈥檝e lost count. We鈥檝e always agreed wholeheartedly. While filmmakers might have an artist鈥檚 sensibility about the value of inclusion, the outdoor industry鈥檚 is a survival imperative. If your customer base is almost exclusively white and aging out, as is happening with the membership of environmental groups, then you need to ride the coattails of demographic change in this country. If you haven鈥檛 courted people of color with urgency and sincerity by the time nonwhites are the majority in the United States, in 2044 or earlier, will you still be in business?

The outdoor industry has talked a good talk, but its actions have been barely a whisper. The racial makeup of management teams and boards of directors speak the real truth. Where are the decision-makers of color? Where are the faces of color among employees and in social media and other marketing materials? American history has us so accustomed to being excluded, all it might really take is just an invitation鈥攖o look, to buy, to build loyalty. But we鈥檙e still waiting for that first company to publicly and overtly court us.

The lack of attention prompts us to gaze into a mirror and ask: Why has an entire industry looked past us without a second thought of inclusion? Why has an entire industry shown little to no interest in having us as the face of their products? Why has the outdoor media not placed us on their covers? Are we not enough?

Or maybe we鈥檙e too much.

We noticed an event at this year鈥檚 winter Outdoor Retailer show, 鈥�.鈥� It made our hearts skip a beat, but in the end it was yet another slap in the face. A panel of four white executives discussing a new world is not much different than the sci-fi films from most of our lifetimes鈥攏either much envisions people of color in the future. Three years ago, the so-called CEO Pledge touched off a movement for female leadership, and 鈥減rogress鈥� was made by hiring women executives who were white. The industry has become adept at playing this shell game of intersectionality鈥攃loaking racial inequities with whitewashed choices based on gender, sexual identity, and physical disadvantage.

It鈥檚 time to stop the dishonest narrative of nonwhites missing from the outdoors. We鈥檙e there, just not the way the country鈥檚 default culture likes to define it. Our absence, and the supposed need to get us outside, is a fable the outdoor industry likes to perpetuate to justify not showing us. As such, we find great hope from looking within, from entrepreneurs of color like Len Necefer of . If we can鈥檛 be written into the script, we might as well flip it. If you can鈥檛 join them, beat them. And in a few years maybe, while the show goes on in Denver, we鈥檒l be in a place like, say, Flint, Michigan, telling our own stories and celebrating our own successes.

Glenn Nelson founded to cover race and equity in the outdoors.

Teresa Baker is the founder of .

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With the sun about to kiss the horizon, (trail name: Snorkel) needs the last rays to illuminate her path. She is ascending and descending steps during an urban thru-hike in Seattle, one of the hilliest and most public-staircased cities in the country. This is not a task to be executed in complete darkness, especially at her pace.

Thomas sheds her jacket. She hands off her pack, a maneuver known as slackpacking. Unburdened, the 31-year-old from Sacramento, California, is like a spacecraft engaging booster rockets. It鈥檚 clear how she held the women鈥檚 unsupported hiking speed record on the Appalachian Trail for five years.

Thomas鈥� high profile in long-distance hiking circles has attracted an entourage in Seattle: a videographer recording the hike for posterity, a marketer from her footwear sponsor, and a couple local hiking groupies. The object of their admiration kicks into high gear, and the group starts to fade into an afternoon memory. The only one close enough to feel Thomas鈥� tailwind is Vivian Doorn, an ultramarathon runner who was part of the first-day retinue. But as Doorn hits the bottom of an impossibly grueling sequence of staircases, Thomas nears the top, her arms pumping like a derrick.

Thomas is alone, out in front, a position to which she has become accustomed.

In 2011, Thomas, who is Japanese American, hiked the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine in 80 days and 13 hours, cementing a reputation as a trailblazing woman in the American hiking community. She has completed hiking鈥檚 Triple Crown, which in addition to the Appalachian Trail includes the Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental Divide Trail. Thomas estimates she has logged some 15,000 miles on long-distance trails. This summer, she published a book about the art of thru-hiking called (Falcon). She is presently thru-hiking the Pacific Northwest Trail, which spans 1,200 miles from the Continental Divide to the Pacific Ocean. 鈥淚 like the process of walking and seeing the world at two to three miles per hour,鈥� says Thomas.

She wants more people to experience the same, even those who live in cities, far from a good trail system. The past couple years, Thomas has logged concrete mileage in more places than anyone, hoping to show urban dwellers the ease of recreating, no matter where. Her so-called urban thru-hikes have stitched together landmarks, such as her Denver, Colorado, meander through 65 breweries (including one for kombucha) and one meadery. Thomas called it the Brew Thru.

Thomas is not alone in her cause. Powerful players like Michelle Obama and REI have been trying to get increasingly inert Americans, particularly youth and marginalized communities, into wide-open spaces鈥攆or their own physical and mental good. Trouble is, many of the prompts and programs for the back-to-nature movement are complicated and daunting and therefore 诲辞苍鈥檛 have much lasting effect. Take , for example: The federal program requires families of fourth graders to first recognize they are eligible for a free yearlong pass to federal public lands, and then figure out how to acquire one, then to use it, which often requires transportation and gear to which they often 诲辞苍鈥檛 have access. Urban thru-hiking, on the other hand, is as simple as stepping out one鈥檚 front door.

In 2015, the fathers of urban thru-hiking invited Thomas to take on the . They tout it as the world鈥檚 first urban thru-hiking trail, linking more than 340 public staircases over some 220 miles in Los Angeles. The idea for it first came about when L.A. attorney Andrew Lichtman and his wife, Ying Chen, were thru-hiking the 211-mile John Muir Trail in California鈥檚 Sierra Nevada. Dan Koeppel, a writer, had been tackling stairways while training for his own John Muir hike. Bob Inman had written a guidebook about public stairways in Los Angeles and, with prodding from Koeppel and Lichtman, connected the staircases into the urban route that bears his name. They found that hiking in the city had many of the same appeals as trekking the backcountry, including physical exertion and elevation gain, wildlife sightings, navigational challenges, even solitude.

鈥淵ou see fewer people on the Inman 300 than you do on the John Muir Trail, so you鈥檙e really getting more of what you鈥檙e looking for in the mountains, but you鈥檙e in a city,鈥� Lichtman says. 鈥淚f we鈥檙e going to have a mass movement, with REI selling us the gear and crowds of people enjoying each other鈥檚 companionship, you couldn鈥檛 pick a better place to do it than a city, rather than a wilderness area that鈥檚 going to be destroyed by the attention.鈥�

Adding the dimension of thru-hiking to urban settings is kind of like publicizing marathons to promote jogging鈥攊t gets more people interested in the activity by bringing it closer to home at the highest level. Depending on when she鈥檚 asked, Thomas might even say that she prefers the urbanized strolls. 鈥淚鈥檝e hiked in rainforests, in deserts, and all kinds of ecosystems around the U.S., and yet there is something appealing about a city to walk through,鈥� says Thomas, who earned her masters in environmental science from Yale. 鈥淭here is that same aspect of exploration, of not knowing what鈥檚 around the next corner. You have to go through the same planning process as you would for going out in nature.鈥�

Thomas has been inventive in piecing together landmarks to create themes for her thru-hikes. In Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle, she followed public staircases. Pittsburgh, the city with the most communal flights, is considered urban thru-hiking鈥檚 holy grail. In Chicago, Thomas followed waterways. She crowdsourced city features in Portland, Oregon. In Denver, where she used to live, she鈥檚 also followed Colfax, the longest boulevard in the country.

The city is not without its backcountry-like challenges. During the Brew Thru, Thomas imbibed at every stop. This necessitated a 鈥渄esignated hiker鈥� who made sure Thomas safely navigated 鈥渦rban fords鈥濃�攃rossing highly trafficked thoroughfares鈥攚hich she considers urban thru-hiking鈥檚 greatest hazard. Thomas discovered the urban equivalent of 鈥渃liffing out,鈥� which in nature means following a route to a ledge or drop-off where the only alternative appears to be turning around and backtracking. In a city, that can mean unmapped dead ends or reroutes due to construction. A man attacked Thomas and videographer Miguel 鈥淰irGo鈥� Aguilar near one of the Portland鈥檚 many bridges. 鈥淣ot unlike a bear encounter in the wilderness, a person asserted his dominance,鈥� explains Aguilar. In Seattle, Thomas received a lesson in navigational redundancy after relying solely on the GPS in her mobile phone, which got wet and blinked out as evening began to fall.

I caught up with Thomas during her 200-mile, 65-staircase, seven-hill urban expedition in Seattle. I spent parts of two days on the municipal march, so technically I only was section hiking. That was enough to get a sense of the ease and allure, as well as experience some of the problem solving that rang familiar from my backcountry experiences.

One afternoon, during which we slip-slided on a boardwalk made slick with decomposing leaves, huffed up and puffed down staircases near the floating bridge across Lake Washington, and detoured for handcrafted ice cream, we emerged from a slim, muddy alleyway into a tony neighborhood called Madison Park. We exalted as if we鈥檇 just punched our way into Yosemite Valley and were hailing Half Dome for the first time.

It was a sight just as glorious: a remodel job big enough to require the presence of what they call in these parts a honey bucket. When you鈥檙e on an urban hike, it鈥檚 not like you can duck behind a bush for a restroom break.

Relieved, or about to be, Thomas swung open the door to paradise and declared, 鈥淭he trail provides.鈥�

Glenn Nelson founded to regularly cover race and equity in the outdoors.

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