I鈥檓 the (anxious) opposite of a procrastinator when it comes to big trips. As my three-week trip to Japan approached this past spring, I was fully packed ten days before leaving, with my clothes largely based on the two-week forecast. But a few days before I left, I checked the weather for Kyushu one more time and saw the sunny, 60-degree days had changed to angry little stormcloud icons complete with sideways slanting rain.

I dug through my bag until I found the ultralight running raincoat I鈥檇 picked in an effort to save precious space in my bag. After much hesitation (probably too much), I swapped it for the , a three-layer Gore-Tex model that toes the line between a raincoat and a hardshell. I still paused, weighing both rolled jackets in my hands. I travel extremely light, and I was cramming three weeks鈥� worth of gear and apparel into one carry-on backpack. The Arc’teryx Beta SL was more than twice the rolled size of the running jacket, but in it went鈥攁nd that swap ended up being the best gear choice I made for the trip.

The post Unfortunately, I Have to Recommend This $500 Arc’teryx Rain Jacket appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

It was past midnight when I woke up to movement. Matt was awake. I could barely make out his shape sitting in the tangle of the sleeping bag.

鈥淢att,鈥� I whispered. 鈥淢att, what鈥檚 wrong?鈥�

He groaned between gritted teeth, something about the sickness coming back.

My heart sank. Maybe he just has to puke one more time. Maybe he needs some electrolytes. Maybe he鈥檒l be fine in the morning.

But as he crawled in and out of the tent, laid down, sat up, grimaced, burped a sickly sweet stench into claustrophobic tent space, the situation solidified. He was very sick, and we were out in the national forest, very far from town.

Four weeks earlier, as Matt and I dragged our cycling gear through the Greyhound terminal in El Paso, Texas, my mind looped through everything that could go wrong in the upcoming 2,700 miles. We were about to start the Great Divide, a biking route that follows the Continental Divide from the U.S.-Mexico border, across five states, and up into Canada.

Despite the endless uncertainties of a long-distance bike trip, one thing I wasn鈥檛 concerned about was the remoteness. The Divide shares many of its miles with ATVs, dirt bikes, and campers. Towns dot the map and road crossings are frequent.

Once we began riding, my other fears seemed largely unfounded. We had some bike repairs in New Mexico, ran the gauntlet of snarling dogs on the outskirts of towns, and Matt had to perform minor surgery on his broken seatpost. Nothing that wasn鈥檛 easily fixed and nothing too far from a road crossing.

Early Signs of Distress

What didn鈥檛 resolve was my exhaustion and discomfort biking 12 hours a day鈥攁nd how this effort ended up impacting Matt鈥檚 body. By the time we鈥檇 cycled 1,300 miles to Wyoming鈥檚 Great Basin, I weighed the same as when we started, while Matt looked absolutely skeletal.

His weight loss came into focus as we parked our bikes at a diner in Atlantic City, Wyoming. His shoulder blades cut lines under his shirt, his face pulled taut over sharp cheekbones.

I gaped. 鈥淵ou look really skinny. How much weight have you lost?鈥�

鈥淚鈥檓 fine,鈥� he said, grabbing his Ziplock travel wallet. 鈥淚 just need to eat more in town.鈥�

I inhaled my double cheeseburger in five bites, but Matt pushed his plate away.

The 100 miles from Atlantic City to Pinedale, Wyoming was the first time Matt rode behind me. At one point, he fell so far back I thought I鈥檇 taken a wrong turn. In town, he faceplanted onto the motel bed and slept for the rest of the day.

That night, he was so violently ill there was no way we were riding out the next day. He spent all night on the bathroom floor, and in the morning looked even more gaunt. I could see every rib, the hollows above his collarbone, all fat leeched from his body.

We took a full day off to let him recover, but he got up the next morning and started packing his bike bags.

鈥淎re you sure you鈥檙e good to leave?鈥� I asked, studiously ignoring my own exploded stuff sacks.

鈥淲e need to keep going,鈥� he said. 鈥淲e鈥檝e taken almost two days off.鈥�

I鈥檓 tempted to say the spiral started in this Pinedale motel room, but realistically, it had been going downhill for a while. Matt had been getting sicker for hundreds of miles, and my confidence from my perceived underperformance had eroded to the point where I鈥檇 stopped trusting my instincts. It was a frog in boiling water scenario, happening slowly enough that we didn鈥檛 notice our poor positioning. If I鈥檇 been in a better headspace or felt better on the route, I might have demanded we stay another day or see a doctor. Instead, we rode out of town.

We biked side by side past fields of cows with the Wind River Range rising in the distance. We rode through an RV campground and onto the rutted Union Pass Road, which straddles the Continental Divide. Matt kept up, and I felt cautiously optimistic. We pulled over 50 miles later at Mosquito Lake, deep in Bridger-Teton National Forest. We hadn鈥檛 seen anyone in hours and were surprised by the tidy tow-behind parked on the other side of the lake. We waved hello and unloaded our bags.

I read a book while Matt chatted with the tow-behind’s owner near the water. I told myself to calm down, that his illness was a short-but-violent stomach bug. Sometime after dark, I fell asleep.

A Sharp Pain in the Middle of the Night

That night, I awoke to the sounds of Matt groaning and thrashing in his sleeping bag. The hours dragged and he continued to deteriorate to the point of delirium. Any hope that he would feel听well enough to bike out faded.

My brain spiraled. I wish we hadn鈥檛 left Pinedale. I wish we were in a motel. I wish I weren’t in charge. I wish I didn鈥檛 have to figure out what to do. I wish we weren鈥檛 here.

Valid wishes, but not helpful. Think about how to get out of here, I told myself.

I snapped the map open, scanning for the next major road crossing. We had no cell service, but had passed a Forest Service cabin the day before (empty), and I saw a paved road ahead (far away). Pinedale was 50 miles behind us, the last populated campground at least 30. We were pretty stuck.

My mind didn鈥檛 go to calling search and rescue. Matt was sick, not injured, so I fixated on my thru-hiker instincts of hitchhiking. We just had to get to a road.

I laid out the options: I could bike back to the campground, or wait on the deserted road in hopes of a ride. We could wait out the sickness at Mosquito Lake, or see if the family could give us a ride in their truck.

If Matt had wrecked his bike, broken his collarbone, or been whacked by a car, the decision would be easy. Call for help, get to a hospital. Our situation felt muddier. He was so sick he couldn鈥檛 sit up, but still I doubted my instincts. Was I being dramatic? Could I just roll him back down Union Pass Road?

I vibrated with stress for three hours until dawn broke gray over the lake and I crawled out of the tent, peering through the trees. I stumbled through the wet grass into the adjacent campsite, a disheveled ghoul in Crocs and saggy base layers. The camper looked up, mouth agape.

I鈥檇 envisioned retaining some dignity, but any semblance of composure vanished and what came out of my mouth was a garbled, pleading explanation between hiccuping sobs.

The man, whose name was Mike, looked startled and confused. Then he shook his head.

鈥淚 can鈥檛 get you out of here鈥� my family is in the camper, the truck is entirely full.鈥�

I sank onto a log and put my face in my hands.

鈥淗ang on one second.鈥� Mike went to his truck and returned with an orange plastic brick. It was the same Garmin inReach Matt and I had decided to leave home the month before. Populated route, lots of road crossings, bulky device, small bike bags. Hindsight is 20/20.

鈥淟et me message my mom,鈥� he said. 鈥淪he might be able to call the Forest Service to get you a ride.鈥�

I thanked him profusely and hurried back to our tent.

Calling for Rescue in the Middle of Nowhere

Matt nodded at my update, eyes glassy. It was around 6 A.M. I sat down to grind my teeth and wait.

Mike came to our campsite a half hour later. They鈥檇 connected with Pinedale, but the Forest Service couldn鈥檛 help.

I felt myself crumble.

鈥淲e鈥檙e going to clear out the truck,鈥� Mike said, 鈥淚 think we can fit you in there.鈥�

He came back after a few minutes. Pinedale had contacted Teton County Search and Rescue; they were sending a crew from Jackson Hole.

During all those hours, calling search and rescue hadn鈥檛 occurred to me. With that clarity came a flash of regret and shame: Even if I鈥檇 wanted to call, we didn鈥檛 have our own satellite messenger.

The rest of the morning was a waiting game that tested my shattered nerves to the breaking point.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think they鈥檙e coming,鈥� Matt said weakly at one point. I feigned confidence, but this wasn鈥檛 Uber Eats; I couldn鈥檛 track their progress.

Finally, around 11 A.M., a faint hum came through the trees, growing louder as I jogged to meet Teton County鈥檚 tricked-out, emergency-emblazoned Polaris.

Any doubt that search and rescue was the right call vanished. The rescuers, named Ed and Andrew, listened as I explained the situation. They gave Matt a field evaluation and filed a report with Mike as I helped load our bikes onto the rescue vehicle鈥檚 rack.

Twenty minutes later, we began the multi-hour extraction to Jackson Hole. I stared at the trees we鈥檇 biked past the day before as Matt now lay pale and clammy across the back seat. It鈥檚 over, I thought. We鈥檙e getting out.

At the hospital, Matt was given IVs, a vague diagnosis of “something wrong with your stomach,鈥� and a $7,000 bill. He鈥檇 spend the next four weeks continuing to deteriorate at home before getting additional bloodwork and tests that showed three severe gastrointestinal infections: Giardia, campylobacter, and a viral infection. Along with this impressive triple threat, his body was deep in ketosis, burning any remaining fat stores and resulting in the sickening 鈥渒eto burps鈥� I鈥檇 smelled in the tent by the lake.

Any complex situation like this鈥攅specially with traumatic elements鈥攚ill have lingering effects. Our choice to leave and our lack of inReach made me question my complacency in the backcountry. Our relationship and communication also struggled. He was convinced I鈥檇 pressured him to leave Pinedale. I remembered him being impatient, saying we had to keep riding.

All I know is that Matt was severely ill and we needed an extraction. We are forever grateful to Mike and his family, along with Ed, Andrew, and everyone at Teton County Search and Rescue, for their skills, time, and kindness.

You go into the backcountry any number of times鈥�as I have before鈥攏othing happens. Then one day, you head out for a night that will end up completely falling apart. Some events are the ones that test you. We got lucky this time.

The post What It鈥檚 Like to Call Search and Rescue on Your Partner appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Anyone who has thru-hiked with a partner knows you won鈥檛 always be thriving at the same time as one another. It would be nice if your low-energy miles lined up with your partner鈥檚, so you could agree to cut the day short, collapse into your tent, and whine about or a squeaky pack. But in my experience, my cranky days are the days when my partner feels the best, leaving them to cruise up switchbacks while I could swear my legs have been replaced with lead balloons. Communicating during this time is challenging for both people, and I鈥檇 never encountered it more than on a trip this past spring.听

We started the route on an , and I immediately found myself struggling with the sun exposure. Conversely, my partner seemed to be having an extremely easy time, and I tried to be happy for him as he casually crushed the climbs regardless of the heat. He was kind and accommodating, but I knew he could have been doing bigger miles if I hadn鈥檛 been there. The more I got into my head, the more my mood began to spiral. If I was struggling this much at the start, what would happen when the route got harder?

I caught up to my partner at the top of a long climb one morning, collapsing in a scant patch of shade and trying to quell my anxiety as the day鈥檚 miles loomed over my head.听

鈥淚鈥檓 having a really hard time with the heat today,鈥� I told him as I gulped water, feeling a twinge of panic at how early in the day it was. 鈥淚鈥檓 exhausted.鈥�

鈥淥h really?鈥� He said, looking concerned. 鈥淭oday is the easiest day we鈥檒l have all week.鈥�

The prickle of resentment I鈥檇 felt watching him disappear around a switchback flared. All at once, I felt physically uncomfortable, inadequate, and scared to hear that I had been right and it was only going to get tougher. I burst into tears.听

We went back and forth like this for a few days. I was increasingly frustrated at my body鈥檚 struggles, and while my partner鈥檚 responses weren鈥檛 unkind, they didn鈥檛 do my fragile mental state any favors. When I was wilting from the heat, he said that it was only going to get hotter. When I said I was tired, he pointed out correctly that we had just started the day鈥檚 miles.听听

Our communication, while normally strong, was entirely misaligned during this time. He couldn鈥檛 figure out why I was having a hard time, and I needed him to acknowledge that the route conditions were hard, not tell me that they were about to get harder.听

鈥淎 response like this, though attempting to give context and not untrue, is likely to amplify the partner鈥檚 feelings of overwhelm rather than their feelings of competence,鈥� Dr. , a clinical psychologist with a background in outdoor sports, said when I told him about my trip.听

While this kind of communication can be helpful for some people鈥攊t reminds them to keep pushing鈥擱eeves says it can also feel shaming, shutting them down instead of making them feel better.听

Neither my partner nor I was really at fault, but a combination of my physical struggles and subsequent shame combined with his casual ease made everything seem more dire. I was panicking that my fears about my abilities were true, and because I was embarrassed, I felt unable to ask for a different style of communication.听

When I asked what would have been a better communication strategy, Dr. Reeves broke it down into three parts: The stronger partner , reassure them that they are there for them, and find a way to work together to get to the end. This three-part response was tailored to my backcountry situation, but it can also be a blueprint for healthy communication between people experiencing different challenges while they pursue a common goal on the trail.听

With the benefit of hindsight, I can understand now that the hike wasn鈥檛 easy on my partner either. While he never expressed impatience, I imagine it must have felt frustrating to be held up during the day and to stop earlier in the evenings.听

鈥淎 challenge of the better-faring partner feeling frustrated is they are forced to reckon with their priorities,鈥� says Dr. Reeves. 鈥淚s the objective more important, or something else? If you and your partner are both equally able, you can and have a great time simultaneously. It鈥檚 when one of you doesn鈥檛 align that you have to face what you really care about.鈥澨�

Shame and feelings of weakness are powerful emotions, especially for thru-hikers or backcountry athletes who thrive on feeling strong and empowered. Struggling on a route others are finding easy can compound shame with the notion that you鈥檙e letting your partner down. Left unchecked, those feelings can pull you into an emotional downward spiral.

To counter this, Dr. Reeves suggests breaking the entire route into management chunks. This allows the partner who is struggling to feel accomplished reaching smaller goals, and to feel good that their partner is working with them.

鈥淥ften those who aren鈥檛 struggling want to hurry their partners through their trouble,鈥� Dr. Reeves says, 鈥渂ut taking a few beats to create space for [your partner] being afraid, overwhelmed, or angry usually pays dividends when the struggling partner can work through their emotions.鈥澨�

Pushing through challenging emotions often does little more than exacerbate the feelings or create tension that can explode later on. While we never exploded, I spent the entire trip stressed. When I was reflecting on the experience a few months later, I knew that if it had felt more manageable, or we acknowledged that the route was indeed hard, my morale would have been higher and I wouldn鈥檛 have experienced the mounting dread that I was having a hard time during an 鈥渆asy section.鈥澨�

Navigating communication barriers doesn鈥檛 have to lead to fighting, and like I said, we never actually argued. In my shame and anxiety, I didn鈥檛 communicate my own needs, neglecting to tell him that his responses were less than helpful. But when we talked about it later鈥攔emoving elements of fatigue, , body aches, and heat exhaustion鈥攚e had a productive conversation where I could step away from feelings of inadequacy and communicate more rationally.听

So how will my experience change how I communicate on upcoming trips? I know that my partner and I will both need to anticipate problems and acknowledge that one or both of us may struggle鈥攐ften with different aspects of the trip. Preparing for these scenarios and working out what type of communication feels encouraging is critical.听

鈥淪hame is a killer in these situations, so establishing that tempers may flare ahead of time and planning to deal with it is useful,鈥� Dr. Reeves says. 鈥淥ften these feelings are more about fatigue, hunger, or some other discomfort, and talking about this ahead of time can alleviate some of the hurt feelings.鈥�

The inherent challenges and needs of thru-hiking throw a wrench even in the best communicators. The partner who is struggling can feel both overwhelmed by the situation and guilty for holding the other person back, and the person who is doing better might inadvertently say exactly the wrong thing.听

鈥淭ry to establish ahead of time that being tired or ,鈥� Dr. Reeves says, 鈥淚t鈥檚 part of maintaining health and safety. There is no shame if they are necessary.鈥�

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When Julia Sheehan set out for an Appalachian Trail thru-hike in 2019, she had little experience backpacking and almost no online presence. On a whim, she applied for a vlogging spot with , an outdoor-focused website whose YouTube channel showcases hikers鈥� journeys on Triple Crown trails. Her videos鈥� conversational tone and honesty about the highs and lows of trail life resonated with viewers: By the time she reached Katahdin, she was known by her trail name, Rocket, and had over 17,000 Instagram followers and one of that season鈥檚 most popular AT vlogs. And her audience wanted more.

鈥淚f I wasn鈥檛 sharing trail-related stuff, I would get messages asking 鈥榃hen鈥檚 the next trail announcement? Where are you going next?鈥�,鈥� Sheehan recalls. 鈥淚t seemed like people felt entitled to my next adventure. But it was me who had invited them on the journey.鈥�

Social media has become a way for users to live vicariously through other people, and the hiking community is no exception. Hundreds of thousands viewers flock to popular thru-hiking Instagram accounts and YouTube channels every month, seeking inspiration for their own adventures or a virtual escape from their 9 to 5.听

In some ways, thru-hikes are almost tailor-made for storytelling: They鈥檙e a quintessential 鈥渉ero鈥檚 journey鈥� for viewers to follow along with, a self-contained quest with a defined start, hardship along the way, and the promise of glory at the end. But unlike a fairy tale, no one knows exactly how a thru-hike is going to end. Only around 25 percent of people who start a Triple Crown trail with the intention of thru-hiking it will finish in a single season. Abandoning that goal partway through can feel like a failure, and explaining the decision to walk away to friends and family is intimidating. What happens when you have to do it with tens of thousands of strangers watching?

 

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The pandemic hampered most 2020 thru-hiking plans, and by 2021 Sheehan was itching to hike again. She was ready to pursue a new challenge鈥攂oth for herself and for her audience.听

鈥淚 felt that every month that went by where I didn鈥檛 announce a hike or didn鈥檛 do an outdoor adventure, I was losing access to this community,鈥� Sheehan said. 鈥淚 had to keep creating so they would keep loving me.鈥�

In late February 2021, Sheehan started the 800-mile , posting and to her own channels along the way. It turned out to be a relentlessly challenging hike. Her early start meant snow and cold weather for a large portion of the miles, and she toyed on and off with the idea of leaving the trail. Ultimately Sheehan pushed forward, determined to see the northern terminus. In April, she reached the end of the AZT, but even as she headed home, she wasn鈥檛 satisfied.听

鈥淚 felt the need to keep pushing,鈥� she says.

Eight weeks after finishing the AZT, Sheehan repacked her bag and headed to Montana to begin the , planning to post videos along the route. But soon after starting the trail, her dog back home passed away, and she found herself sobbing for the majority of her hiking hours. It didn鈥檛 feel worth continuing, so 400 miles into her southbound attempt, Sheehan hitchhiked to an airport and flew home.听

Sheehan had started the Appalachian Trail in 2019 with the goal of reaching the northern terminus, and had felt like anything besides finishing would have been a failure. The AZT had felt similar. But she had no second thoughts about leaving the CDT. It was the first time she had put her own mental health and desires over the notion of a 鈥渟uccessful鈥� thru-hike.

Her new problem: How would she tell her audience? No creator owes their followers an explanation for not reaching a goal. But inviting people into your world is easier than ushering them out. When hiking bloggers or influencers abruptly stop posting, the comments pile up: Hello? Update? Are you OK?听

鈥淎t one point I was getting hundreds of messages a day from people asking where I was and what was happening,鈥� said Sheehan. 鈥淚 was spending an ungodly amount of time responding to strangers on the internet, validating their fears that I did actually get off the trail because they were so invested in my hike.鈥澨�

Sheehan decided to be upfront about her reasons for leaving the CDT.听

鈥淚 needed to put a bow on it for people to understand that [the hike] was over, to not keep asking when I was going back,鈥� she said. She posted a video explaining the decision, and to her relief, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Her followers understood, and gave her space to process the hike and the loss of her pet. She continued posting outdoor-related content, teasing a return to the trail that following spring.

In mid-March of 2022, Sheehan arrived at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail to begin a northbound thru-hike, this time in front of nearly 30,000 Instagram followers and more than 40,000 YouTube subscribers.听

Another early start date meant Sheehan and her crew hit full snow cover early in the hike, slowing their pace and compressing their deadline for returning home. After 50 straight days of wading through snow and dealing with a litany of health issues, Sheehan made the decision to leave the PCT with 600 miles remaining. It was a tougher choice than it had been to leave the CDT.

鈥淚 was worried that people wouldn鈥檛 care about me anymore when I left the PCT, but at that point I was ready to let that audience go,鈥� Sheehan said. For nearly four years, she had felt pushed to announce the 鈥榥ext big thing鈥� to keep her audience engaged.听

Again, the audience was supportive. Sheehan had been honest about the challenges of the trail and the snow levels, and posted a similar update as she had after the CDT. But while the comments were cordial, she began to notice her follower count shrinking. Not finishing her two thru-hikes, then failing to announce a next one, had created somewhat of an exodus from her pages.听

For years, Sheehan鈥檚 audience鈥攁nd the support that came with it鈥攊mpacted her feelings of self worth, and it was clear that removing herself as a constant presence meant losing a significant part of those viewers. So while the response to her leaving the CDT and PCT wasn鈥檛 necessarily negative, watching droves of followers leave her pages was challenging.

鈥淚 was worried that my only value to people came from being Rocket, and it turned out to be true,鈥� Sheehan said. 鈥滿ost people were there for one kind of content. When you have so many people bombarding you with love and support in one category, then you say, 鈥楬ey, I鈥檓 sick and I can鈥檛 do this anymore鈥�, and they leave, it proves that you don鈥檛 have that value for people. But they subscribed to a certain genre, so I can鈥檛 blame them鈥攊t鈥檚 not about me.鈥�

Ultimately, Sheehan had to come to her own conclusions about the meaning of success. The longer she was off trail, the more she began to understand the accomplishment she craved wasn鈥檛 about a sign or monument in the wilderness, or her number of followers.听

鈥淚 have watched a beaver swim across a lake at dusk, [felt] the sun warm my skin, and [felt] mosquitoes torment me relentlessly.鈥� she said. 鈥淭he value of a thru-hike comes from getting to be in the wild 鈥� I have been gifted the opportunity to share the wild with millions of other humans looking for connection and adventure. Being accepted and loved for everything I have shared, good and bad, ugly and dirty, has made this journey absolutely worth it.鈥�

When you look past the terminus photos and the numbers game of creating content on the internet, failure and success become more nuanced concepts. Through bailing on two hikes in front of an understanding audience, Sheehan redefined for herself what it means to fail or succeed.

鈥淥ur goals change,鈥� she said. 鈥淒id you fail or did you change the goal? The thru-hike might have been goal one, goal two might be to have a good time with that section that you did. Nothing will change , regardless of how many people are watching you.鈥�

The post Her Thru-Hike Went Viral. Then She Quit. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I felt foolish and needy the first time I stuck out my thumb for a hitch on the Appalachian Trail. My hiking partner badly needed a ride to town, but the self-consciousness I felt around begging for a lift was all I could think about.

At the time, I couldn鈥檛 place why I felt so ashamed asking for a鈥攕hort! Easy!鈥攔ide with my thumb in the air. Now, years later, I get it: The concept of independence had been drilled into my brain for my entire adult life. Self-sufficiency and success were so intertwined that even the idea of needing something I couldn鈥檛 provide for myself brought an unexpected challenge to living on foot for five months.听

I was proud of my adulthood independence, but the overemphasis I and our culture had put on it left me deeply lonely. Once you get to a certain age, asking people for help (aside from a partner or family members) becomes more challenging, whether it鈥檚 a sympathetic ear or pet care when you leave town. But on a trail, the focus on independence fades, and you find yourself part of a community built around not just shared values, but shared needs. I鈥檝e described , and this sense of relatability is similar. While some hikers might have more resources鈥攖hink hotel rooms rather than bunkhouses鈥攐verall, we鈥檙e going through similar things and working towards a shared goal. For many of us, it鈥檚 our first time being part of a community like that.

We in the United States live in one of the world鈥檚 most individualistic societies: Speaking generally, we tend to hold independence in higher esteem than community.听 As the writes, 鈥淎mericans are more likely to prioritize themselves over a group and they value independence and autonomy.鈥� Whether or not you recognize it, chances are you鈥檝e felt this pressure to be autonomous. Independence equals success; neediness is not rewarded.听

Hikers are a needy bunch by choice. Though many , hikers put themselves in a position without transportation, instead hitching to resupplies and help from people at home shipping replacement gear. To make a long journey on foot is to exist not just without the comforts of home, but without the resources either. By placing ourselves in a position where we don鈥檛 have what we need to make it on our own, we take the first steps to reconnect with what it means to rely on your community.

Existing in an individualist society can feel isolating. This winter, I found myself driving to the airport multiple times, dragging my suitcase down the sidewalk from the economy lot because somehow there was no one around to give me a ride. Was this a symptom of getting older and losing community, or was it that my self-sufficiency over the years created an assumption I never needed help? I thought about how hitching had gradually lost its stigma for me as I normalized it throughout the trail and subsequent hikes. I compared it to being turned down when I sought a ride from friends, the indifference because they knew that I had my own vehicle and I could pay for parking.听

The puts it bluntly: 鈥淎merica today is characterized mainly by rampant individualism no longer held in check by communal ties.鈥� While this may be a generalization, it does seem like we are trending towards being a lonely society where individualism has superseded community, felt in everything from workplace isolation to the acute loneliness of driving yourself to the airport at 5 a.m.

The pandemic years have only. Returning to the outdoors is a reminder of what community can feel like. It isn鈥檛 just that thru-hikers share a common goal. We expect we鈥檒l all need assistance at some point, and in turn we help others.听

It might mean sharing a hotel room to save money, trading food we鈥檙e sick of, or offering to help with a clogged filter at a water source. We鈥檙e climbing the same passes and planning for the same distances between water sources. We might stop to point out a giant spider web and share the awe with hikers around us, or stop in the middle of an arduous climb around other stalled hikers, lamenting the never-ending switchbacks with people who are also climbing the never-ending switchbacks. This isn鈥檛 just idle chatter: It鈥檚 community building.

Since becoming embedded in this community, I鈥檝e given rides to hikers and sought ways to be a resource for nearby trails, including the Continental Divide Trail and Great Divide Mountain Bike Race. I鈥檝e hosted hikers, run shuttles, and picked up hitchhiking skiers. My off-trail life represents the majority of my days, which makes me wonder how else we can take that sense of community and present it in a way where it鈥檚 not out of the question to ask for a ride to the airport. Even if our common goals in the real world are more vague than a distant terminus, we should try to bring that sense of connection off the trail and back into our everyday lives.

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On November 20, 2022, 19-year-old Emily Sotelo set out on a solo hike on New Hampshire鈥檚 Franconia Ridge. Her mom watched her disappear up the trail, expecting to meet up with Emily later that day at a prearranged spot.听

Emily never showed up, and three days later, searchers on the northwest side of 5,249-foot Mt. Lafayette. From news reports, it seemed she had gotten confused on a section of the Lafayette descent, lost her way, and succumbed to exposure as the temperatures dropped and winter weather blew in.听

At first, I skimmed the news. I鈥檇 heard a hiker was missing in the , and I鈥檇 been following the story. When her body was found, I felt a stab of sadness and regret that it had ended this way. Then, I pushed it out of my mind, I didn鈥檛 want to think about it. I didn鈥檛 want to entertain the similarities between this 19-year-old hiker and the 19-year-old hiker I used to be, venturing solo on the same trails in pursuit of my own 4,000-footer list.听

It wasn鈥檛 until I sent the article to my father in New Hampshire that I actually had to think about the tragedy with something other than surface-level consideration. My dad, big-hearted and unabashed with his feelings, responded 鈥淭hat poor girl. She must have been so scared.鈥�

His simple, sincere message felt like a gut punch. I鈥檇 felt sadness for her and her family, but I hadn鈥檛 let myself get deep enough to really put myself in her place. I had gotten into the same situation as her before鈥攍ost and in the middle of worsening weather. But I had always returned with nothing more than a tale of stumbling around in the woods for longer than I would have liked.听

My dad鈥檚 message forced me to consider what it might have been like if I had been just a little less lucky. is a prolonged process. I imagined a solidifying understanding of her situation. Perhaps it took a few minutes to notice she鈥檇 lost the trail. Initial calmness might have given way to mounting panic as she scanned trees, rocks, and patches of snow for anything familiar. The more she walked around, the harder her footprints would have been to retrace. Slowly, it would have gotten darker until she was on the side of a mountain at night with exposure beginning to set in. Maybe I鈥檓 letting my imagination get the best of me. Once you slip below the surface of a tragedy that could have happened to you, it鈥檚 hard not to.听

When I went online and poked around some of the New England hiking groups on Facebook, I was relieved to see most of the comments about Emily鈥檚 death鈥攁nd there were hundreds鈥攚ere compassionate. People talked about how shocked they were, and sent the kind of thoughts and prayers that make up every online reaction to a tragedy. There were service-oriented responses鈥� and links to good GPS devices鈥攁s well as genuine questions from readers trying to understand how the hike went so wrong.

And then, like I鈥檇 anticipated, there were the self-aggrandizing commenters who announced everything Emily had done wrong, and that they would never make those same mistakes:

鈥淗ow about her core! Did she have a big puffy down jacket to put on when she was caught [in] dreadful conditions?鈥�.A good wool hat. Energy bars. Big puffy overmitts and hand warmers. This is certainly a recurrent problem up there.鈥�

鈥淭rail runners are equally useless in these conditions.鈥�

鈥淪ome are really stubborn and don鈥檛 want to hear it鈥egardless of how one attempts to share in a non-threatening way, non-critical way [their] minds are set and there is no changing them.鈥�

People can be unrelentingly judgemental when someone dies in an accident or from the elements, but maybe other reactions are just too painful. What鈥檚 the alternative? Putting yourself in her shoes? Pausing to think about the terror that must have encompassed her final hours? Maybe people who criticize a deceased hiker鈥檚 decisions are afraid that if they acknowledge it could have been them, they鈥檒l crack the door for self-doubt to creep in. If they accepted that only a few mistakes and some bad luck separated them from an accident victim, could they still summon up the courage to chase winter summits, backpack solo, or travel through bear country?

How much easier it is to judge the deceased.听

When other hikers tear apart an accident victim鈥檚 decisions, gear, and experience, they鈥檙e telling themselves: This is sad and scary, but it won鈥檛 happen to me. I鈥檓 better than that. It alleviates fear by reducing a human being to the choices that led them to their final moments.听

When someone dies in the backcountry, there will always be speculation about what they could have done differently. Maybe Emily wasn鈥檛 prepared for bad weather or losing the trail鈥攁ccording to reports, she was missing some standard winter hiking gear. But does everyone leave for a day hike with a GPS unit, headlamp, and supplies for spending the night outside? According to the best advice, we should, but I doubt most people in the comments follow those directives perfectly every time, and most of them get away with it; Emily didn鈥檛. There鈥檚 a way to discuss those mistakes without abandoning compassion.听

There is a certain amount of powerlessness we accept every time we go outside, and it can be easier than any of us think to Regardless of precautions and space blankets and GPS devices, there are elements that are out of our control. A , a loose rock, or a missed turn can get the best of the most prepared hiker.

No matter how many times we make it home, misfortune can befall any one of us. We owe it to each other and our community to withhold judgment in the face of these tragedies and practice a little empathy instead. We can and should make sure we鈥檙e prepared to experience the outdoors as safely as possible. But in the end, none of us are ever fully in control.

The post When Hikers Die, Why Are We So Quick to Judge? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Hiking isn鈥檛 just a hobby鈥攊t鈥檚 a lifestyle.听听tackles the hiking life鈥攁nd all of the joys, problems, arguments, and weird quirks that go along with it鈥攊n her column.

When I look at how I prepare for a trip now versus when I started backpacking, the difference is stark. I wrote with columns and categories before my first backpacking trip, laying out my options for layers, staring at two down jackets like they were going to stand up on their own and tell me which one to take. I brought the Sawyer cleaning kit for an overnight trip, plus multiple options for hiking clothing in case I wanted to change during the two days. I prepared enough food and snacks to feed a family, and brought two water bottles plus a hydration reservoir. It was鈥 lot.听

Yes, I was an over-packer, but this was about more than that. Back then, I tried to make up for my lack of experience with extra planning and prep. I planned my , reserving hostels and motel rooms far in advance of reaching the town. I researched road crossings and local shuttle options. I sent to towns that had plenty of places to buy groceries. I felt new and vulnerable, and knowing what to expect when I got to a town helped ease my anxiety.

I鈥檓 sure someone on the internet will read that and say 鈥淥K, you鈥檙e just describing adequate preparation and responsible backpacking.鈥� That鈥檚 fair. But in my experience, it鈥檚 also indicative of a newer backpacker. The less you leave up to chance, the less intimidating the experience is.听

These days, I have my system fairly dialed. I don鈥檛 bring a filter plunger during a three-day trip, and I鈥檝e worn enough down jackets to know which one serves me best for the forecasted conditions. But now, the mistakes I make are entirely different.

The more you鈥檝e done a specific activity, the less mysterious it becomes. You know what you can do without, and unless you鈥檙e tackling something unusual, you鈥檙e usually comfortable bringing less. But then you reach a tipping point: You鈥檝e gotten so used to prepping for your weekend hike that you go on autopilot and start to overlook things. It鈥檚 something I鈥檝e learned the hard way, on trips both short and long.

I was pretty casual about planning my town stops on the . I didn鈥檛 take any zeroes, but I did occasionally want to stay in town to shower and wash my hiking clothes. As I headed into Twin Lakes, an overnight stay felt necessary. I鈥檇 been caught in freezing thunderstorms for days, and I was ready for a few good town meals and a hot shower. But when I got to the tiny town, every room was booked. Everything. I watched the hikers around me disperse to their hostel bunks and motel rooms or meet their rides to another town, and I dragged myself to an empty church where I sat in a pew and charged my phone, feeling wretched and regretting my lack of planning.

I huddled in the bed of a pickup truck bouncing back to the trail in another storm, thinking about my first backpacking trips where I planned my mileage and reserved housing in advance. For the most part, experience had shown me that I could show up and figure it out on the fly. This time, it had come back to bite me.

I鈥檝e made other mistakes like that. Before I left for the this spring, I got talked into upgrading my phone charger and battery pack. I swapped my standard iPhone cable for a USB-C one that supposedly charged my phone faster, and bought an upgraded external battery.听

As I packed, I gave the battery pack a cursory glance to make sure it had a USB-C port, then hopped a plane. A few days into the trail鈥攁bout 20 miles from my first town鈥擨 stopped at a mud puddle to fill my water bottles and charge my phone, which was hovering around ten percent. I plugged the phone cord into the USB-C port. Nothing happened. I pulled it out, blew away imaginary dust, wiped both ends on my sweaty bandana, then tried again. Still nothing. I pushed the power button on the charger, and all four battery indicator lights lit up. I squinted at the fine print next to the USB-C port. Input only. My phone clicked down to 9 percent.听

If I鈥檇 been more thorough, I would have actually checked the charging capabilities instead of seeing the port and assuming it worked both ways. Even though I was getting to town that day to buy a new charger, I am for navigation, so I wasn鈥檛 thrilled.听

A few days later, around the 100-mile mark, I was sitting at a water source with several hikers when one of them groaned and tossed one of two identical water bottles onto the ground.听

鈥淚 just drank from my dirty water鈥� he moaned, dropping his head between his knees, muttering about not being careful enough. The water source was also a source for cows, and it was not something I鈥檇 have wanted to drink untreated.听

After trying to convince him that he *probably* wouldn鈥檛 get Giardia, we talked about how easy it was to become spacey and complacent in familiar territory. The terrain was reasonable, the conditions were good, and we were in the comfortable space of a long trail with easy resupply logistics and an app that told us exactly where the next water was. It was too easy to take the details for granted.听

This is how slip-ups happen. When the consequences of carelessness are clearly deadly, we鈥檙e careful: We know to never let our guard down with our climbing knots and anchor systems, and to always carry a repair kit on long bike rides, no matter how many rides we鈥檝e done. On the other hand, I can鈥檛 even count the number of times I鈥檝e gone on a run or day hike without adequate water or food because 鈥淚鈥檝e gone longer and it was fine.鈥澨�

Like the routines and rituals of daily life, someone who backpacks a lot might get so accustomed to the systems that the actions become automatic. But unlike life at home, there鈥檚 not much of a backup plan if something goes wrong. I couldn鈥檛 walk over to my junk drawer and find a different cord. If we were at home, my AZT buddy wouldn鈥檛 have accidentally chugged from a bottle of dirty water in the first place.听

Now that I鈥檝e started seeing this pattern, I鈥檝e also noticed the beginning of a reversal. I don鈥檛 foresee myself reverting back to overpacking and mapping mileage, but as I pack for my next trip to the desert in a few days, I鈥檝e checked all of the battery indicators on my headlamp, external battery, and headphones. I ran water through my filter to make sure it wasn鈥檛 gunked up, and I double-checked the cords to charge my electronics. I reviewed the forecast to make sure I had the right sleeping bag and layers, and I downloaded maps ahead of time so I don鈥檛 get caught off guard if I lose service faster than anticipated.All of these precautions might seem like no-brainers, but after getting too relaxed in the planning and on-trail life, it鈥檚 never a bad idea to check back in with myself and make sure I鈥檓 not developing bad habits.

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I don鈥檛 remember thinking Bozeman was particularly trendy when I moved here in 2012. I was drawn to the place because rent was cheap, it was located near my seasonal guiding gig, and the peaks were bigger than the ones in the northeast, where I鈥檇 come from. We stuffed three people into a cramped two-bedroom apartment, and I paid my $265 portion of the rent entirely from barista tips.

As far as I knew, any notable money in the area was channeled to Big Sky and the ghastly specter of the Yellowstone Club鈥攊n the real world, Bozeman was plenty affordable for someone living off coffee shop wages and the occasional dog-sitting gig. The town felt compact but never claustrophobic: Montana State University and local businesses were bordered by expansive pastures that swept into foothills before rising into mountains visible from downtown. Hit TV shows about the region didn鈥檛 exist yet, and no one could have predicted that a global pandemic the bloated expansion of a town I鈥檇 somewhat accidentally landed in.

I felt like a harmless cog in a community of aspirational college graduates looking for accessible climbing, biking, and hiking. What I didn鈥檛 think about was how our seemingly modest presence was changing the culture and landscape, transforming Bozeman from a town of ranches, dirt roads, and classic diners to a hot destination with a sprawling REI, multiple sushi restaurants, and nearly a dozen local breweries.

Now, it鈥檚 changing again. A new wave of remote workers, wealthy second-home owners, and urban dwellers looking to escape claustrophobic city life during the COVID-19 years have swarmed the valley, snapping up homes above asking price and waiving the inspections.

These days, within five minutes of my house, I can get a CBD smoothie, Botox, and an $18 cocktail. There鈥檚 a Lululemon on Main Street, and it seems like every new restaurant name has a vendetta against vowels. McMansions dot the foothills with man-made ponds dug into acres of non-native grasses鈥攁 cruel jab to a drought-stricken landscape. Rents for two-bedroom 鈥渓uxury鈥� apartments in Bozeman now range from $1,400 to $2,400, and the is $800,000. Core members of the community have left, because of the cultural changes, or being priced out, or both.

My instinct is to bash this newest generation of transplants鈥攁bundantly wealthy and full of media-fueled romanticization of Montana鈥攂ut my aversion comes with an asterisk. I鈥檓 a transplant, too, and no matter how long I鈥檝e been here, I will never be from Montana. How many years do I have to live in a place before I can mourn the cultural shift and the heartbreaking rate of development? Can I answer the question of who deserves to live in the West? Being a resident and watching these changes happen in real time make the answer even less clear.

I鈥檓 far from the only one thinking about this. In fact, is about similar tensions playing out in a fictional version of the region surrounding Bozeman. The Paramount Network show takes a preservationist stance on the influx of wealthy, coastal transplants to Montana. In the show, the Duttons, a legacy ranching family, fight to protect their land from soulless developers. Granted, the Duttons鈥� situation鈥攐wning the largest ranch in the U.S. and feeling threatened by a developer wanting pieces of it鈥攊s very different from the standard Bozeman resident getting priced out of two bedroom apartments. But the show鈥檚 tension is relatable.

How long do I have to live in a place before I can mourn the cultural shift and the heartbreaking rate of development?

Everyone wants a piece of this majestic scenery, and in visually stunning episodes, the Duttons prevail in narrative arcs that wrap up neatly by the end of each season. In this simplified, digestible manner, the show gets it right. If the area was facing a caricature of a developer bulldozing hundreds of acres of the valley, I might feel hopeful that the rapid development could be slowed. But if you side with the Duttons, you have to be ready to answer the question: OK, who does deserves to be here?

The popularity of the show has generated even more interest in southwest Montana, and has helped launch a thousand takes on the area鈥檚 spiraling cost of living. Perhaps the most widely talked about was a by columnist Ross Douthat, which caused a stir on social media, where Westerners heckled Douthat for trying to diagnose Montana鈥檚 woes after watching Yellowstone and taking a brief road trip to the region.

It also didn鈥檛 help, in these parts at least, that he tried to make a case for settlement by smitten newcomers. 鈥淎s an Easterner accustomed to big cities and dense suburbs, to experience the West鈥檚 mixture of majesty and emptiness is to feel more intensely what John Dutton鈥檚 various foils and rivals feel,鈥� he writes. 鈥淭hat something extraordinary is being effectively hoarded here, with whatever admirable intentions, and that more Americans should be able to live in the shadow of such beauty.鈥� Douthat argues that everyone deserves a piece of western heaven, and that Montantans have no right to hog their wide-open spaces. He doesn鈥檛 think a little more population density in such a massive state would necessarily be a bad thing, and that no one truly owns the rights to these places.

While I can鈥檛 argue directly with any of those points, I feel strongly that this is the opinion of someone not embedded in the culture and community. While Douthat acknowledges the 鈥渃oastal gentrification,鈥� and mentions Bozeman as a case against expansion, he understates the insidious, irreversible cultural shift that accompanies rapid population increase. It鈥檚 true that longterm residents live here for reasons that may entice others: the lack of population density, the open spaces. But if this growth explosion continues, those reasons vanish, and what will we be left with?

Here鈥檚 where it鈥檚 hard to make an argument on either side. If I refuse to accept change and growth, I鈥檓 taking the stance that certain people don鈥檛 belong. If I pretend that nothing is wrong with the current development, I鈥檓 putting my head in the sand and ignoring the heartbreaking rate of expansion. This whiplash leaves me stranded in the middle of the argument, my head spinning as I witness the unchecked growth of a town that no longer feels familiar. One part of me wants to frantically build blockades to preserve what鈥檚 left of the humble mountain-town culture; the other part knows I can鈥檛. I moved here, too, and the newcomers who see what I saw in 2012 also deserve to follow their desires.

If something doesn鈥檛 give, I鈥檓 left with the question of who this place will be for once all the land has been developed, the ranches have been subdivided, and everyone under a certain income bracket has been priced out. I wonder what will be left of the town we moved to, and where we鈥檒l all end up.

The post In 鈥榊ellowstone,鈥� Transplants to the West Are the Enemy. Is the Hit Show Right? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Hiking isn鈥檛 just a hobby鈥攊t鈥檚 a lifestyle.听听tackles the hiking life鈥攁nd all of the joys, problems, arguments, and weird quirks that go along with it鈥攊n her column.

I have attempted exactly one lottery-based backpacking permit in my entire life. It was for the in 2020. I was an anxious wreck leading up to the first permit day鈥擨 marked it on my calendar, triple-checked the time zone, and then logged on 15 minutes prior to the start, refreshing my browser every few seconds. I had been planning for the PCT for two years, but thanks to a family wedding in April, I had a narrow window of workable start dates.

I stared in disbelief when my lottery number populated. I had landed in the mid-7,000鈥檚 in the queue. As the minutes ticked by and the little pixelated hiker walked in place on the screen, I checked the PCT chat threads as they filled up with screenshots of the start-date calendar. The 鈥渋deal鈥� start dates were gone in minutes, then one by one the rest were blocked off, including every day during the two weeks I needed to start. Maybe I can , head back for the wedding, then fly back to the trail, I thought, watching the remaining dates in early March vanish. By the time I got into the reservation space, every start date was gone. My plans had evaporated in the span of 30 minutes while staring at a computer screen.

This is not a dunk on the PCT permit system, the PCT Association, or permits in general. I fully support permitted hikes and dedicated start dates; I understand that as thru-hiking blows up, it may be the only practical solution to protect the trail; and I know that there may be ways to plan around not getting the date you wanted. But if there鈥檚 one thing the experience taught me, it鈥檚 that permit lotteries just aren鈥檛 for me.

There are plenty of permitted trails I鈥檇 love to hike, like the 听in Washington, and limited-access areas I鈥檇 love to see, like the Wave in Arizona. I don鈥檛 try. Like many backpackers, my schedule is unpredictable enough that I can鈥檛 commit to a backpacking trip four months in advance.听

Beyond that, part of the joy of backpacking for me is the spontaneity. I base my mileage by how I鈥檓 feeling and the conditions, and sometimes trips and opportunities pop up at the last minute. The stress of submitting itineraries and trying for the first-, second-, and third-choice routes and campsites is just too much for me and my anxiety.听

Don鈥檛 get me wrong. There are benefits to permit lotteries. These systems allow avid hikers to plan their season around the most elusive permits, then fill in the blanks once they have a trip locked in. Prescribed routes and set dates also take pressure off mileage planning鈥攖hose hikers will never show up to a campsite only to find it full.听

Limited-access areas and lottery-based permits are also wonderful tools for sustainable travel. They allow the most popular routes and fragile areas to remain open for travel without exceeding the upper limit of foot-traffic volume.

Arguments abound online鈥攐ften during 鈥減ermit season鈥濃�攖hat restricting public-land access via lotteries and numbers goes against the idea of public land. But the choice is rarely between open access and permits; it鈥檚 between permitted access and nothing. Why would you argue against strategies to protect these lands by limiting traffic?听

But it鈥檚 OK to admit that permitted trails aren鈥檛 for you. That鈥檚 OK! There are plenty of other trails to hike (though with the boom in outdoor recreation over the past few years, it seems very possible that there might be fewer soon). I hike trails and visit areas that don鈥檛 require permits. These areas might not be as popular, but they can be just as beautiful. I don鈥檛 want to enter the lottery system to hike the John Muir Trail, in California, but there鈥檚 always the . I don鈥檛 want to plan a backpacking trip, but I鈥檒l do day hikes on the same Montana trails.听

Like anything in the outdoors, balance is key. We love removing barriers to entry and helping people experience the outdoors. But when those barriers to entry help protect the places we love, sometimes that has to trump easy access. As I鈥檝e discovered, if you don鈥檛 want to deal with permits, there鈥檚 something out there for you if you know where to look.

If you鈥檙e one of those people who likes to hike spectacular trails no matter the obstacles, well, my dropping out only benefits you. After all, if everyone was trying for a tricky permit, the lotteries would be that much more competitive.听

As for the conclusion of the PCT permit saga? I entered the second permit day a few months later, landed an incredible lottery number, and got my first choice of a start date. Three months later, I canceled my trip as COVID exploded across the country. There are some obstacles you just can鈥檛 plan your way around.

The post Why I鈥檝e Given Up on Lottery-Based Outdoor Permits appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Hiking isn鈥檛 just a hobby鈥攊t鈥檚 a lifestyle.听 tackles the hiking life鈥攁nd all the joys, problems, arguments, and weird quirks that go along with it鈥攊n her column.

One of the most Instagram-centric outdoor destinations I鈥檝e ever visited was 听in Arizona. I was on an impromptu road trip with another backpacker, and we were driving from Montana down to the Grand Canyon.听

鈥淪hould we detour and see Horseshoe Bend?鈥� he asked. I said yes immediately, not making the connection between the spot鈥檚 name and the images I鈥檇 seen splashed all across outdoor instagram accounts. When I looked it up, I groaned.

鈥�This place? We鈥檙e going to have to fight through piles of people taking the same dumb picture,鈥� I lamented, scrolling through dozens of identical photos. Too late: we were there. We stopped at a kiosk to pay the $10 entrance fee.

The most iconic places on social media and outdoor bucket-list roundups have a few things in common. These spots are usually easy to access and have a big visual payoff that looks great on the internet.听

Click through thousands of hashtags and nearly identical 100-word blurbs in travel blogs and it isn鈥檛 hard to roll your eyes at Zabriskie Point in Death Valley, Havasu Falls in Arizona, McAfee Knob in Virginia, Peek-a-Boo and Spooky slot canyons in Utah, or Park Butte Lookout in Washington. Included in this is Horseshoe Bend, where I found myself adrift in an ocean of cars and people, heat waves rippling from the pavement in the late-afternoon sun.听

As with plenty of trends and destinations that have found traction in the greater population, the judgment from the more 鈥渉ardcore鈥� enthusiasts鈥攂ackpackers and hikers in this case鈥攔uns like a current through the community. I am not excluded from this: I was absolutely feeling judgmental as I reluctantly joined the migration of tourists wearing strappy sandals and wielding iPhones for the half-mile walk to the photo op. I felt like I鈥檇 outgrown this type of outing.

But when I saw Horseshoe Bend in person, I understood the hype. Hundreds of feet below me, the water swept in a dramatic curve around a towering pillar of sandstone. The color of the water was somewhere between turquoise and navy, and the contrast between the water and the brilliant reddish-orange rocks looked like the backdrop of a movie set.听

Seeing Horseshoe Bend in front of me was a far cry from the photos I鈥檇 seen featured in listicles and edited influencer photos. The sheer scale of the feature, the contrast of the colors, and the perfect sweeping curve of the water was inspiring. We stayed for an hour鈥攕napping photo after photo, naturally.

鈥淧retty cool, right?鈥� My hiking partner asked. I fully agreed, aware that my preconceived notion of a place just because it was popular hadn鈥檛 been fair.听

These easy-access, high-reward destinations might be the beginning and end of someone鈥檚 outdoor adventures, but for others, these spots could be the gateway to further exploration. can help people discover the wonders of the natural world, as well as help them understand how to get out there. It鈥檚 easy to get wrapped up in the mindset that going big is the only way to go, and I often have to remind myself that no one starts out with 20-mile day hikes.听

There is a fair argument to be made, however, that the increased popularity of these Instagram-famous spots harms them by drawing hordes of hikers, many of whom may not understand the basics of Leave No Trace. This is a delicate balance. How, after all, are we supposed to share our love for the outdoors in the internet age without loving the outdoors to death? Conversely, when we keep the best spots to ourselves or insist that people only learn about them by word of mouth, ?听

Permitted access and reservation systems help keep fragile areas intact by limiting the number of visitors and campers. Land managers have added parking fees to spots like Horseshoe Bend. In some extreme cases, like , the spots are more regulated or even closed. The idea of limited, permitted access is a whole essay unto itself, but it鈥檚 hard to argue that limiting visitors this way helps preserve these incredible spots while allowing people to experience them, as long as they plan enough in advance.

These spots have become popular for a reason, and every time I鈥檝e been to one, I鈥檝e shared them with plenty of other people. Sure, the crowds can be frustrating, but the awe and appreciation of everyone around me also makes the experience that much more special.听

It鈥檚 easy to judge these locations simply because they became popular on the internet or because they have a big payoff without an arduous journey. But as someone who has now been to many of the spots on these bucket-list roundups and backpacked way too far to get to a remote hot spring, I鈥檓 ready to admit that there are different, equally valid ways to appreciate getting outside.听

And really, isn鈥檛 being outdoors and appreciating the natural world the whole point? Whether you walked a half-mile to see a cool bend in a river or hiked thousands of miles to touch a sign, the sense of wonder that these places leave us with is the same.

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