What鈥檚 your favorite national park? After two decades as a journalist with a specialty in outdoor recreation, that鈥檚 the question I am most often asked. I鈥檝e had the pleasure of visiting most of the big ones. I鈥檝e even led trips to Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Zion, and Denali as a professional guide, and, most recently, as a national park expert for National Geographic Expeditions. Regardless of where I am or what I’m guiding, my clients all want to know the same thing: What park is the best?

That鈥檚 an impossible question to answer. As a man in his late 50s with no kids of my own, I imagine it鈥檚 what it must be like for parents to name their favorite child. I believe they would say, just as I do, 鈥淚 love them all equally because each is precious to me.鈥�

Typically, that response is met with a heavy eye roll. Pressed to give a better answer, I鈥檒l say, reluctantly, that I have two favorites: the one I was just at and the one I鈥檓 going to next.

Of course, I鈥檓 not suggesting that all national parks are the same. Each of the 63 federally managed sites designated for natural heritage preservation have exquisitely unique and awe-inspiring features across their 52 million acres. From the Grand Tetons to Delicate Arch, and from Joshua Tree to the Everglades, each park is different and special. But they all share a single unifying characteristic: each one is an expression of American democracy.

In 1983, the naturalist Wallace Stegner wrote a letter to National Park Service Director Russell E. Dickerson to advocate for the enduring protection of public land.

鈥淣ational parks are the best idea we ever had,鈥� Stegner wrote. 鈥淎bsolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.鈥�

As America鈥檚 best idea, our national parks are a physical manifestation of our founding principles as a republic.听 Every park has been reserved for the 鈥渂enefit and enjoyment of the people.鈥� It is in these places where humanity is meant to gather, either in solitude or as a community, and experience the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Citizens and visitors alike come to our national parks to exercise our freedom as Americans. As a human right, everyone is entitled to sustainably camp, hike, ski, climb, and ride where legally allowed in our parks. Though this land was taken by force from Native people, our shared obligations of stewardship and preservation compel each of us to invest ourselves in the protection of our natural resources for future generations to enjoy.

So, I express my patriotic duty by enjoying them. In the face of the neglect and destruction of our public lands, it is up to each of us to show our support by visiting every national park we can. And in so doing, we must acknowledge the enduring conservation legacy of Native people, tread lightly, and encourage others to do the same.

鈥淚t’s a demonstration to those in the judiciary who see that Americans value their parks,鈥� Charles Sams, former director of the National Park Service, once said. 鈥淭hat’s a democratic value. And so, I’ve learned in our democracy, if you want your democracy to thrive, you got to show up.鈥�

Each of our national parks is an expression of what is best about America. Among the parks we love most, it鈥檚 impossible to pick a favorite. I, for one, love them all equally. From the last one I visited, to the one I鈥檒l visit next, each is precious.

The post As America鈥檚 Best Idea, Our National Parks Are Precious. Here鈥檚 Why. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Modern life is increasingly online鈥攂ut that doesn鈥檛 mean you have to be. One of the best ways to honor your interests and community while getting out in the world is by supporting local shops that do the same.

Activewear brands in particular tend to draw a committed audience. After all, when your clothes, shoes, and gear support your active pursuits, you tend to develop a strong connection to the companies that make them. Brands are leveraging that strength of connection鈥攁nd the collective spirit it inspires鈥攊n the best way, creating physical spaces for enthusiasts to meet up, learn, and do more of what they love.

Those who usually get their miles in solo can benefit from a bit of camaraderie and friendly competition. Independent running brand has locations in Boston, New York, and London, all of which serve as meeting places for regular runs, with weekly speed sessions taking off at local tracks. Brooklyn-based run brand takes a similar approach, with runs that begin at the buzzy brand鈥檚 Greenpoint store each Saturday.

Cyclists, meanwhile, pedal in packs from Clubhouses. The cycling company has hubs all around the world (we鈥檙e talking more than 20 cities), each hosting rides, races, and events. Between biking excursions, there鈥檚 coffee and food from the cafe, or, you know, the actual shopping.

Hybrid brand (RMU) has made community-building its business model. RMU鈥檚 locations in Whistler, Breckenridge, and Truckee feature a combination of ski and mountain biking gear鈥攎aking getting on the mountain possible in more ways than one鈥攁long with food and drink. Live music, game nights, group rides, and more provide various opportunities to connect.

For women and femme-identifying people in the ski space, Colorado鈥檚 is worthy of note. Founded by Olympian Kiley McKinnon, the ski and outdoor-wear brand boasts its own (Halfdays Chalet) for quick connections. When you鈥檙e ready to take your new friendships offline, gatherings, ski meetups, fitness classes, and more await. And finally, ladies who hike should be talking about , a Brooklyn-based outdoor clothing brand with a Hike Club attached. Take it outside with women-led day hikes and events in NYC, Texas, Colorado, California, and Oregon.

Who knew that your favorite outdoor brands were also peddling new friends?

This piece first appeared in the summer 2025 print issue of 国产吃瓜黑料 Magazine. Subscribe now for early access to our most captivating storytelling, stunning photography, and deeply reported features on the biggest issues facing the outdoor world.

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I live in New York City, where it is a commonly held belief that people walking four abreast on a public sidewalk deserve summary execution. I also run in New York City, often alone but just as often with run clubs鈥攊n other words, in groups of as few as four or as many as a hundred, and on the same extremely crowded streets. And as run clubs grow in popularity, so does the potential for conflict or, at the very least, bad vibes.

Urban run clubs are easy to hate. Early on Saturdays and Sundays, when our fellow citizens are schlepping bleary-eyed in search of coffee, we are bright, fit, and in their faces, breaking the morning calm by shouting 鈥淗eads up!鈥� in our best coach voices. On weekday evenings we鈥檙e out in force as well, flaunting our energy levels and shaming the office workers desperately trying to get home or to a bar. Run clubs have themes that veer from the quotidian (neighborhood, ability, identity) to the easily mocked: Runs that end at a taqueria! Run clubs for singles! Run clubs that aren鈥檛 overtly for singles but are, tbh, really for singles! The group selfies for the 鈥榞ram, the branded merch, the giveaways of goos and gels, the after-parties鈥攊t鈥檚 all a bit much.

(Even I hate run clubs at times, and I run a run club! The Not Rockets, which, you will be pleased to learn, has no social media presence.)

A lot of the hate is simply about space. Any city worth living in doesn鈥檛 have enough of it, so anyone visibly occupying it becomes a target. One group of 50 runners on a riverside esplanade causes a brief bottleneck. Half a dozen such groups running simultaneously provokes outrage鈥攁nd not just because pedestrians are afraid they鈥檒l be trampled by Hokas. It鈥檚 also because, for as long as we runners are there, swarming around the non-runners, we are a hot, sweaty, unignorable sign that no one here has enough room to breathe.

No one expects this to change either radically or soon. After all, New York and other cities鈥攆rom London to San Francisco鈥攈ave always been experiments in density: How many people can you cram into tiny apartments and narrow streets before they start murdering one another? The answer, surprisingly, is 鈥渕illions and millions.鈥� It turns out, we like living this way. As crime rates have dropped nearly everywhere since the 1990s, it feels as if we鈥檝e learned that we can actually get along, despite our infinite differences, by (mostly) trying not to mess with people unnecessarily and also by trying (mostly) not to freak out too badly when someone messes with us unnecessarily.

One of the ways we manage this is by complaining: to friends, co-workers, whoever sees us for twenty-four seconds on their FYP. Run clubs are just the latest, trendiest subject to kvetch about, and it’s my contention that the loudest complainers in fact love run clubs for giving them such a meaty, persistent topic to post about鈥攋ust as runners themselves love to whine about double-wide strollers, lost tourists, and inattentive dog-walkers. It’s a release that allows us all to feel equally self-righteous, to feel that the city belongs to us, whoever we may be, if only for a moment. Because in the backs of our minds, we know who it truly belongs to, the common enemy at which we鈥攔unners and non-runners alike鈥攔eally should direct the full force of our ire, our anger, our hatred: cars.

This piece first appeared in the summer 2025 print issue of 国产吃瓜黑料 Magazine. Subscribe now for early access to our most captivating storytelling, stunning photography, and deeply reported features on the biggest issues facing the outdoor world.听听

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West Virginia鈥檚 famed country roads offer an open invitation. Weaving across rugged terrain and through spirited small towns to uncrowded gems and world-class outdoor adventures alike, the roads form a latticework of endless possibilities for road trip itineraries. Five customized can help connect activities that range from serene paddling tours to thrilling whitewater runs, with pristine biking trails, productive fishing, and stunning waterfall hikes. Start your trip-planning with route options that link the state鈥檚 along the way鈥攚orthy destinations in their own right for campers who value fall-foliage panorama payoffs, the East鈥檚 most brilliant night-sky views, secluded swimming holes, and tranquil riverside camps.

Family Friendly

The primitive is an easy walk from all the major highlights of , including Coopers Rock, with expansive views of the Cheat Canyon鈥攁 must-see fall foliage stop鈥攁nd practically limitless bouldering opportunities on gritstone boulders framed with thickets of rhododendron. McCollum Campground is the comfort option here, with electric sites, Wi-Fi, and a bathhouse. Both campgrounds are closed in winter.

Road-Trip Tip > Make Coopers Rock the overnight stay to highlight your autumn leaf-peeping tour on the听 road trip. Climbing aside, this adventure portal, just 13 miles east of Morgantown, boasts nearly 30 miles of multi-use trails.

Dark Skies

Add a night in the Thorny Mountain Fire Tower to your bucket list. Sleep above the canopy of (directly adjacent to the state鈥檚 three designated ) with a 360-degree view of the night sky in this restored 1930s lookout. Available May through October, any evening is spectacular, but scheduling your stay during a meteor shower or bird migration will amplify the awe. The catch? The secret is out, and you must jump on reservations that open one year in advance on the first day of the month. Set your alarm to 12:01 a.m. and book online.

Riverside Camping

The Middle Fork River in is full of cannonball-worthy swimming holes, and half of this park鈥檚 campsites are a literal stone鈥檚 throw from the waterway. Reserve a riverside campsite to stake your claim, or simply hike the Alum Cave Trail (Lower to Upper) until you find your own personal honey hole. Exercise caution: There are no lifeguards at these swimming holes, and the high water can turn the Middle Fork into a Class IV whitewater run.

+ Refuel Detour: is a Morgantown staple for its wide variety of burritos and equally wide variety of regional craft brews.听 in Buckhannon offers farm-to-table food. Be sure to ask about the monthly and daily specials.

Explore spirited small towns, undiscovered and uncrowded hidden gems, and world-class outdoor adventures in the Mountain State, where country roads lead you far away from everything鈥攁nd a little closer to heaven. 听

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Two summers ago, I went shopping for a . I鈥檇 just moved to the Lake Tahoe area, and everywhere else I鈥檇 lived, races and group rides were how I鈥檇 made friends. I knew that if I could find a good weekly ride, I would find my new community.

The first ride I checked out had only three participants, including myself. The next was attended by riders who seemed mostly new to one another. Then I went to a ride hosted Wednesday nights by , a bar/restaurant/gear shop in the North Lake Tahoe hub of Truckee. I arrived at 5 p.m. to find thirty or so riders milling around in front of the shop. Everyone seemed to know one another. I was standing alone, wishing for an invisible-鈥檛il-now manhole to open beneath my feet and swallow me when a woman walked up, introduced herself, and offered me a ride to the trailhead. Another rider asked if it was my first time. When I said yes, he replied, 鈥淭hanks for coming.鈥� An hour and a half later, at the bottom of the descent, I watched the group cheer for the last rider, a gray-haired gentleman they called Ben. I noted once more that everyone seemed to know each other. But this time that didn鈥檛 make me want to fall through a trapdoor. It made me want to come back next Wednesday.

Friendship and community are popular topics these days, and the conversation in recent years has often turned to the notion of the third place. According to the late sociologist Ray Oldenburg, who coined the term, a third place is one that鈥檚 outside the home (the first place) and work (second place), where people can meet and socialize with strangers, acquaintances, or friends. Third places are posited as a solution for finding and building community during a time when Americans are increasingly alone. 鈥淒o Yourself a Favor,鈥� the Atlantic advised in 2022, 鈥渁nd Go Find a Third Place.鈥�

What always puzzled me was this: Just because you live near the kinds of establishments that are traditionally identified as third places鈥攍ike bars, coffee shops, parks, and libraries鈥攄oesn鈥檛 mean you鈥檙e going to become friends with your neighbors. My sister and her husband, for example, live two blocks off a charming downtown drag in the Bay Area, but they鈥檝e struggled to make local friends.

Americans who live near amenities like these are more likely to meet new people than those who don鈥檛, according to a 2021 community life survey. But the same survey also found that more than half of Americans who live in 鈥渧ery high-amenity鈥� areas chatted with strangers at most a few times a year.

Outdoor places and spaces like run clubs, group rides, gear shops, trails, ski areas, and others also fit Oldenburg鈥檚 criteria for third places. They鈥檙e free or low-cost to attend (the cost of gear notwithstanding). They bring people together from different backgrounds and put them on equal footing, an effect called 鈥渟ocial leveling.鈥� And they facilitate casual conversations.

But the outdoors may be even better than traditional third places at bringing people together and sparking the lasting connections that form a community.

A third place is less about where people gather and more about what they do together, says Debbie Rudman, a health sciences professor at Toronto鈥檚 Western University who is co-leading a four-year study on third places. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the doing that becomes the point of connection,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he relationships, sense of belonging, and community build from that.鈥�

That鈥檚 in part because a key ingredient to community-building, besides a place, is time. This is one of the biggest barriers to community building in our productivity-oriented culture, says Kathy Giuffre, a professor emerita of sociology at Colorado College. 鈥淲e feel like we can鈥檛 waste our time to go to a coffee shop and just sit around for a couple hours and meet the regulars.鈥� At a third space like a run club, however, the activity itself demands spending time together. Participants also return week after week, becoming regulars and forming bonds, because they enjoy running and its .

Even if someone does find the time to go to a coffee shop, these spaces don鈥檛 necessarily encourage interaction. Starbucks bills itself as a third place, historian Bryant Simon noted in 2009, yet 鈥渙ne learns they do not have to talk at Starbucks. Actually one learns not to talk.鈥� Sharing an activity, by comparison, makes it easy to strike up casual gab: You can bitch about the hill you鈥檙e climbing, or ask which race someone is training for.

Some argue that run clubs don鈥檛 qualify as third places because of their emphasis on exercise, or productivity. The researchers I spoke to disagreed. The guise of productivity may actually work in our favor, says Giuffre. 鈥淚t almost gives people an excuse to do something that鈥檚 actually quite pleasurable, which our society makes us feel really guilty about,鈥� she says. 鈥溾�業鈥檓 exercising, so it鈥檚 OK.鈥欌��

Hedman, who studies what makes sports clubs so effective at building communities, prefers the term 鈥渟hared goal鈥� to productivity. It鈥檚 this goal orientation that gives sports clubs such staying power as third places, and even sets them apart from other 鈥渄oing鈥� spaces like, say, an art class. As members return regularly in pursuit of these goals, relationships develop through friendly interactions and shared experiences, 鈥渂e they fulfilling, terrifying, or triumphant,鈥� he writes in a 2024 paper. People with these kinds of emotional ties, he says, are more willing to contribute to 鈥渃ollective undertakings.鈥�

I鈥檝e seen the power of outdoor sports to create what I call a community鈥攁 diffuse network of people who have bonds both tight and loose, yet nonetheless feel an accountability to one another that supersedes their individual ties. Several years ago, when my then-fianc茅 was hospitalized after being hit and nearly killed on his bike by a careless driver, we received messages, visits, gift cards, meals, flowers, Venmo transfers, and care packages from not only friends and family, but also near-strangers and acquaintances. At the time, the influx was so steady that it felt like our community was performing acts of kindness like cyclists in a paceline, each member taking a turn at the front and then peeling off to let the next rider through. After we left the ICU, his brother said, 鈥淭his was probably the worst thing that鈥檚 ever happened to us, but it wasn’t a negative experience.鈥�

The notion of third places may be evolving from Oldenburg鈥檚 original definition. Considering what people do together, not just where they gather, dispels the idea that third places are static, pre-existing physical spaces that people visit to get their daily dose of connection, Rudman says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the people who actually create the third place by doing the activity.鈥� We become the regulars, the characters that define a place.

I like this concept of a third place as one you make, not just one you find. I did keep going back to that Wednesday night group ride, and the following summer I started to help lead rides as a shop ambassador. (RMU provides me with a small bar tab and a few items of gear in exchange.) But according to this theory, every rider who comes helps to create the experience I look forward to each Wednesday. Maybe that explains why I often feel compelled to say the same thing whenever I see a new face: 鈥淭hanks for coming.鈥�

This piece first appeared in the summer 2025 print issue of 国产吃瓜黑料 Magazine. Subscribe now for early access to our most captivating storytelling, stunning photography, and deeply reported features on the biggest issues facing the outdoor world.听听

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In college, I brought guys into the forest at night because it was a place where I was less scared than they were. As a woman, dating鈥攐r even just being alone with a man鈥攆elt vulnerable. I wanted to flip the script.

I remember the second time in particular, with a man I really liked. We were a mile deep in the campus arboretum, following a trail through faint moonshadows and then, as the trees grew thicker, into a tunnel of black. My flashlight was dim. He held my arm as I led the way.

Something rustled in the dark to our right.

The man jumped a little, chuckled once, and grabbed my arm with his other hand. He squeezed.

鈥淵ou nervous,鈥� I said.

I sensed, rather than saw, his nod.

鈥淲hat are you scared of?鈥�

鈥淲hat was that?鈥� he said. He meant the rustle. Probably a mouse, I thought, but I didn鈥檛 answer. I imagined what he鈥檇 do if I said the flashlight had burned out. He wouldn鈥檛 panic, at least not outwardly, but his breath would quicken. He鈥檇 stay close; he鈥檇 squeeze my arm tighter. He鈥檇 trust me to lead the way out.

Still in blackness, I stepped back so we weren鈥檛 touching. He didn鈥檛 move. I thought about reaching back toward him, but instead I waited. Counted. One breath. Five, ten. When he still hadn鈥檛 moved or spoken, I stepped back toward him. Took one of his hands, then the other, and rose to my toes for a kiss.

鈥淭hat would never have occurred to me,鈥� he said later, back inside. 鈥淕oing into the woods at night. I just never think of it as an option. I don鈥檛 know how you weren鈥檛 nervous.鈥�

The secret was that I鈥檇 been nervous, too. But unlike him, I was used to it.

As a kid, I dreaded getting home at night because I hated walking in darkness from the car to the front door. I鈥檇 run past the roses and thuja trees by the driveway鈥攆earing that at any moment, hands would reach from the thickets and grab me tight鈥攁nd I didn鈥檛 calm down until I鈥檇 reached the bright artificial light of the entry. In the daytime, I loved being outside; I made passageways in the bushes, and tossed seeds to lure squirrels close. But at night, the yard turned into something different. It became a place I didn鈥檛 understand.

By my late teens, I spent most of my free time outside, bushwhacking through mountainsides and forests with a backpack and a map. I felt that my fear of the woods at night鈥攖hough common, normal鈥攚as one of the last barriers between myself and the wild life I wanted. But the dark wasn鈥檛 dangerous, I told myself. It was just scary. And fear, I hoped, could be fixed. It was with that intention that I tried solo backpacking at 18, laying my sleeping bag on the moss at the edge of a mountain lake called Sick Water, where I planned to spend two days. But I panicked the first night鈥搇ying frozen, eyes open in blackness, barely able to breathe鈥揳nd then hiked five miles home at three in the morning. I climbed into my own bed as the sun was rising, weak with relief.

Later that year, I tried again. It was winter. I skied uphill to the same lake, which was smooth and white, and found an open creek at the edge, barely a foot across and bounded with deep banks. I drank the water by cupping it in my bare hands, though the cold hurt my skin, and then I built a fire for warmth. I鈥檇 brought a book of poems鈥擯rufrock, I think鈥攖o read for distraction, but I never opened the book at all. I didn鈥檛 need it. For some reason, that time I wasn鈥檛 afraid.

In retrospect, I think the cold helped my nerves. Winter鈥檚 always been my comfort. The world quiets; animals sleep. And the snow doesn鈥檛 lie. At times, lying in the darkness, I imagined creatures creeping toward me. But when the sun rose again, I saw from the untouched snow that they had not.

By the way, there was nothing sick about Sick Water. I don鈥檛 know how the lake got its name. It was good fishing, so maybe that鈥檚 why. Some fisherman tried to scare folks away and claim the whole lake for his own.

My husband and I live deep in the Wisconsin woods; we take all our city friends outdoors. It鈥檚 a running joke that we can teach them dogsledding, kayaking, fishing, skiing鈥攁nd when we bring them back to the cabin late, by headlamp, and they鈥檒l say, 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 know I could do that.鈥�

And we say, 鈥淒ogsledding?鈥�

And they say, 鈥淣o, being in the forest at night.鈥�

Why is this fear so universal? I looked up science, studies. I wanted to tell you facts about what we鈥檙e afraid might happen, and how to push through. But I found almost no research at all. Only stories. Fairy tales, myths, legends, warnings. Don鈥檛 go in the woods at night, characters tell each other, or else. Or else what? In the forest, power shifts. We鈥檙e not in charge anymore. We have to face the fact that we never were.

Stories don鈥檛 create our fears; they reflect them back to us, shimmering with layers of unease. One reason humans are scared of the dark woods, wrote scholar Dr. Elizabeth Parker, who studies ecogothic literature, is because we fear nature鈥檚 appetite, even when it pales before our own. In the forest, 鈥渨e fear being eaten: be it by literal predators such as wolves and bears, or by the many monsters that we imagine within it.鈥�

In the dark, in the trees, anything can creep toward you.

You won鈥檛 see it coming.

It will open wide its mouth.

It might consume you, or might just stand there watching.

We鈥檙e scared of the dark woods, Dr. Parker writes, because they hold a secret we鈥檙e not sure we want to know.

Over the years, I have, in fact, been approached by animals at night. One time, alone in a lean-to of sticks in Florida, something huge blackened the night nearby. I imagined it might attack me. I saw from its tracks in the morning that it had been a cow.

In South Africa, I was surrounded by a pack of hyenas for several nights in a row. They circled, barking and grunting, for hours on end. I had no weapons, but I built my fire high. They didn鈥檛 dare enter the light.

Hyenas eat people. Big cats do, too. Some bears. Sharks, I guess, with all those teeth. But the fear of being consumed isn鈥檛 just a fear of dying. It鈥檚 a fear of recalling that you鈥檙e an animal, too, with warm soft flesh like the rest of them. We鈥檙e not afraid of the woods at night because we don鈥檛 belong there. We鈥檙e afraid of them because we do.

It takes practice, time, to accept that. After my stay at Sick Water, I didn鈥檛 spend a night alone outside for several years; I鈥檇 just needed to know that I could. But when I finally did venture out again, it was for weeks straight. I was visiting a Norwegian village, and needed somewhere to stay, so I set up camp in a grove of sparse birch, a few minutes鈥� walk from the nearest road. Each night I lay on my back in my sleeping bag, watching heart-shaped leaves flicker against the sky. That was the Arctic, in summer, so the sun never set. Darkness only came when I closed my eyes.

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It鈥檚 been several years since South Asian yoga practitioners opened a dialogue around what has become the status quo in yoga鈥攊ts lack of color.

Although the numbers of those from traditionally marginalized communities who practice and teach yoga have been increasing, there remains considerable underrepresentation, particularly in the Black community.

According to Yoga Alliance鈥檚 recent published in November, Black teachers and studio owners make up a fraction of a fraction of the yoga space.听 Although the number of yoga studios owned by Black yoga teachers has been on the rise, we鈥檙e still far more underrepresented than makes sense proportionate to the larger population.

As the founder and owner of a yoga studio and a Black woman, I ask, 鈥淏lack folks, why aren鈥檛 we owning more yoga studios?鈥�

After speaking with a number of Black teachers, the answer appears to be, 鈥淏ecause we don鈥檛 want to.鈥�

A Community-Centered Model

I founded in 2020 in the Houston Southside, a traditionally Black part of the city, to give displaced yogis a temporary home. I can attest to the difficulties of trying to operate a business in an increasingly crowded yoga space. Little by little, students and trainees who had never missed a class when I was teaching in an affluent part of town became less willing to make the trek to the new space. Far removed from where other yoga studios were located, my studio was failing because I was drawing on my former yoga community when I really needed to be focusing on the people right in my neighborhood.

Accessible yoga is about location, motivation, and connection as much as it is about adaptive shapes, tiered pricing, and inclusive spaces, suggests , psychologist, certified yoga therapist, , and President of the Black Yoga Teachers鈥� Alliance Board of Directors from 2020 through 2023. 鈥淲e can teach wherever we are,鈥� she says. Dr. Parker finds that many Black yoga teachers create yoga spaces within their neighborhoods鈥攃hurches, community centers, beauty salons, homes, online, and other collective spaces that don鈥檛 require that people travel outside their communities to practice.

Offering yoga in these 鈥渘ontraditional鈥� spaces can actually be considered more traditional than studios, according to the indigenous South Asian framework of yoga, where the practice has historically been shared in cultural centers, schools, ashrams, and other places where community is centered.

Reggie Hubbard, founder of Maryland-based , offers a mixture of online and in-person yoga practice, meditation, breathwork, sound, and wisdom in service to collective well-being. Although some of his in-person offerings take place in a studio, his aspirations don鈥檛 include owning a traditional space.

鈥淚 may open a studio in the model of a retreat center that teaches embodied practice or activist training,鈥� says Hubbard, who is a presenter at Kripalu, Sedona Yoga Festival, and BhaktiFest. 鈥淏ut I鈥檒l likely never own a traditional studio because it would take me away from my mission of taking yoga and peace practices to non-traditional communities primarily.鈥�

Community Can Be Different Than Inclusivity

Inclusion is not the same as feeling that you belong. Teaching through the lens of community repair requires operating very differently.

Studios and spaces owned and/or operated by Black teachers often focus on advocacy, community events, and rest. , the virtual studio I founded in 2021, was largely run by a small group of dedicated volunteers with all funds directed to the teachers. It has now transitioned into a yoga collective in which the teachers manage and run the offerings on a donation or sliding-scale basis while equitably profit sharing. Operating in this way has nurtured a community that is looking for people who think like them, look like them, and care about what is important to them.

Oya Heart Warrior, creator of U.K.-based , argues for the importance of a practice that celebrates our bodies and wanting to be together. 鈥淏lack people are often repelled by a yoga that tries to bend us into performative poses wearing tight, expensive, clothing,鈥� she says. In contrast, Warrior describes听 her offerings as 鈥渁 tender practice of moving meditation and collective rest, to mobilize our joy and metabolize our pain, without a mat or linear movement.鈥�

As Black yogis search for community online, it makes sense that her approach has amassed a virtual following of more than 53,000 in the last year alone.

Tiffany Baskett agrees with the need for spaces where Black bodies are affirmed and accepted, minds are shaped, and souls liberated. The Atlanta-based owner of runs a multidisciplinary studio that鈥檚 only five minutes from where she went to high school. Baskett bridges working in the community with studio ownership.

鈥淚 get the opportunity to share the healing powers of yoga in the place where we feel most comfortable鈥攐ur own backyards,鈥� she says. 鈥淥verall, it鈥檚 worth it to me to help create a ripple for generational healing,鈥� says Baskett.

The Quest for Community

For many teachers from traditionally marginalized backgrounds, sharing yoga strategically within the community is in service to personal and collective liberation.

鈥淏elonging, community, and uplift are exactly why Black Yoga Teachers Alliance Facebook group was established in 2009, and why it was incorporated as a in 2016,鈥� says Dr. Parker. 鈥淎lthough it is documented that Black yoga practitioners in the United States have been around since the early 1920s, we haven鈥檛 always been acknowledged. The Facebook group and organization were formed to create a sense of community in response to Black yoga teachers鈥� feelings of isolation and feeling invisible in the larger yoga community.鈥�

When the question 鈥淲hat is your biggest challenge as a yoga teacher?鈥� was posed in the BYTA Facebook group, the overwhelming response was the feeling of isolation. Baskett asks, 鈥淚f I didn鈥檛 open a studio as a Black woman who cares about Black people, who would?鈥�

Providing for ourselves has historically been a motivating factor to organize and create within the Black community. Yet it could also be a contributing factor to the lower numbers of studio ownership.

The Role of Religion

Culturally, there are still problematic conflations of yoga as religion or as a function of religious dogma that preclude many from practicing yoga.

But is yoga synonymous with hinduism and is hinduism the foundation of yoga?

鈥淵oga predates organized religion,鈥� explains , a yoga educator and Board President of the Accessible Yoga Association. The recontextualizing of yoga鈥檚 expansiveness, a movement being led by South Asian voices, is helpful for Black yoga teachers who are working toward an inclusive lens of sharing the teachings of yoga.

As the American Black听 community is 76 percent Christian, Black yoga teachers often find themselves as educators about yoga鈥檚 connection to a broader spirituality and philosophy that is inclusive of any religious practice. Arguments and accusations of blasphemy regarding teaching yoga sutras rather than Bible scripture are rife within the Black yoga community. Clarifying yogic studies as philosophical study helps bring spaciousness to a constrictive understanding of yoga.

Rao asserts that the 鈥渞eligious fundamentalism prevalent in yoga spaces should be dismantled.鈥� Her work includes offering critical indigenous insight into the yoga stories and histories that have been obscured by Brahminism, heteronormative patriarchy, and colonization.

Isolation Takes Many Forms

The isolation experienced by people of color in yoga spaces can be seen as parallel to the isolation of the Black population on a larger scale. Historically and statistically, the Black population faces inequitable access to healthcare, education, and land. Because structural racism exists, reduced access to desirable land ownership also exists, thanks to redlining and eminent domain , particularly in wealthier neighborhoods.

A sobering statistic from the 1990 census showed that 78 percent of White people lived in predominantly White neighborhoods. That shifted to 44 percent as of the 2020 consensus (), yet affluence remains largely unchanged. Black Americans represent just 1.7 percent of the population in the wealthiest neighborhoods in the country ().

Studios usually lie within wealthier neighborhoods, with some such as in St. Louis and in South Los Angeles. Because affluence and race are, unfortunately, still tethered, yoga studios and practitioners of color are driven apart.

When Black yoga teachers and practitioners teach at studios, they are largely going outside of their communities鈥攂oth in terms of location and identity鈥攖o practice and teach. At a recent training I attended, a yoga teacher lamented that most yoga teachers of color can鈥檛 afford to live in the areas in which they teach. This creates other problems that call out traditional social positioning of power, such as the potential for yoga teachers being seen as service personnel. It also creates a vacuum of yoga intellect being extracted from one part of the city into another.

Systemic Inequality Plays a Role

Brooklyn-based , a yoga teacher and financial wellness consultant, cites access to capital as a primary barrier to entry for owning a yoga studio. Studio owners have to be willing to not make money for a long while. 鈥淪mall businesses don鈥檛 really make money for the first five years,鈥� explains James. 鈥淣ot everyone can afford not to pay themselves, which is common, because they pay the team first.鈥�

For Black yoga teachers who do endeavor to own studios, lack of generational wealth leads to the necessity to find funding, which introduces other unfortunate statistics. Black business owners are less likely to receive funding from financial institutions, according to the . Of the $215 billion in venture capital raised by companies in 2022, just one percent of those startup dollars was allocated to Black founders, according to .

James states that it is essential that studio owners, like any small business owner, find other sources of revenue to sustain the business. 鈥淥ne has to understand what is the real cost of running the business and how one supports oneself when the revenue isn鈥檛 coming in.鈥� For a community that is already at a disadvantage for access to funding, the quest for financial security could mean finding an alternative method of delivering the teachings.

The Realities of Studio Ownership

The typical studio model is not one to which all aspire, especially when it鈥檚 not necessary to share the practice of yoga.

鈥淚 feel that some of the joy would get mired in the grind of making the rent, paying a staff, etc,鈥� states Ashley Rideaux, a sought-after LA-based teacher trainer for Center for Yoga LA and creator of her own online platform.

鈥淥wning a traditional yoga studio has never been of interest to me,鈥� she explains. 鈥淚 love showing up for students, holding space, and teaching. Of course, there is still the business side of things when it comes to running my own online platform, but the overhead isn鈥檛 overwhelming, which means I am able to offer my classes at a rate that is more accessible than the average studio.鈥�

This is hugely important to Rideaux, as yoga has become more and more cost prohibitive throughout the years.

Crystal Wickliffe intentionally shares yoga through offering retreats instead of working at a yoga studio, much less owning one. 鈥淗osting retreats allows me to creatively design how I want to show up in the wellness space and gives me agency over my time,鈥� says the Houston-based certified yoga teacher and creator of .

鈥淚 know better than to never say never鈥ut as yet, I have no desire for the overhead nor trusting the fickle nature of the human condition as a means of serving dharma,鈥� says Hubbard. Working from nearly anywhere allows him to engage meaningfully without needing a large physical space. 鈥淚 personally never saw the business sense in seeking to operate according to the traditional model,鈥� he says.

Although the playing field appears to have been leveled with yoga studios鈥� ability to operate fully online, the new challenge is finding one鈥檚 community in a very crowded space. Without even addressing financing the necessary technology to make for a strong user experience, investing large amounts of money in marketing creates the same inequities as rental space. This may not present a barrier to entry, but rather a barrier to survival.

Collective Care and Personal Liberation Are Not Limited to a Yoga Studio

The incredible amount of labor required to establish and run a studio in the face of financial, cultural, and historical pressures provides context to why so few yoga studios are owned by Black yoga teachers.

Yet, there are those of us doing it because it鈥檚 important and we love it. From my experience, having pivoted to a studio community that is intentionally BIPOC-affirming provides all of the nurturance and belonging that I hoped for, but never truly found, in other places.

Tiffany Baskett concurs. Baskett鈥檚 students have shared that they have somewhere where they can explore alternative ways of being, ask questions and be in observation mode. Baskett stresses how important it is for the Black community to have a place where they can let go, do more, and rest.

鈥淭hey get to walk into a sacred space curated by someone who looks like them and has them in mind,鈥� says Baskett. Seeing oneself in the teacher, studio community, and ownership empowers people who have a shared experience of erasure and isolation. 鈥淚t brings me joy to hear how beneficial having somewhere to feel at peace has been for them.鈥�

While it is an act of profound resilience to bring yoga to a larger community in spite of, and alongside, these issues, what would be better is not to have to be so resilient. A yoga community that practices self study is likely becoming curious about these disparities.

But also, maybe many of us just don鈥檛 want or need to own yoga studios because we don鈥檛 have to. Collective care and personal liberation aren鈥檛 limited to traditional yoga studios. Whether or not yoga takes place in a studio setting, there is hope for more expansive yoga spaces throughout America.

In the meantime, Black yoga teachers and students will continue to find one another in various spaces as we create expansive ways of experiencing our bodies, breath, and being.

About Our Contributor

E-RYT 500, curates yoga experiences and trainings in service of collective healing and community repair. Having begun her yoga journey in 2001 with a home practice, she now holds advanced certifications and training in Trauma-informed Yoga, Somatics, Yin Yoga, Restorative Yoga, and Yoga Nidra. Tamika鈥檚 journey has been informed by chronic pain and injuries, social justice for QTBIPOC communities, the battle between shame and compassion and quest for ancestral healing, and the love for the practice and philosophy of yoga.

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I left Breckenridge on July 3 and headed west without a plan. I鈥檇 crashed the night before with my friend Sorrel, at the mountainside condo she was renting full-time. I was on a seat-of-my-pants road trip around Colorado without a place to sleep on the eve of one of the biggest camping holidays of the year. At a highway rest stop in the early afternoon, I sent a hail-mary DM to a college acquaintance named Emily who lived in Crested Butte to see if she was around and would let me crash.

鈥淐ome through!!鈥� she responded. 鈥淲e can go skiing!鈥�

We鈥檇 seen each other once or twice since graduation, but we were mostly internet friends who both loved nerding out on skiing, social justice, and reading. Two hours later, I pulled up in front of her house. Emily outfitted me with a cutoff Canadian tuxedo and we set off for Paradise Divide. We bootpacked up a 300-vertical-foot snowfield and made the most of what remained of winter鈥檚 snowpack. I laughed to myself as slush hit my bare legs with each turn, marveling at how much less interesting my day would have been if I鈥檇 just tried to find a dispersed spot to sleep on my own.

I took off for my cousin Julie鈥檚 house in Salt Lake City, Utah, the next day, exhilarated by connecting the dots across the West鈥攚ithout dropping a penny on lodging. I鈥檇 started to travel this way in my early twenties, plotting destinations based on where I had someone to crash with for free.

It鈥檚 a natural dirtbag urge to eliminate the cost of lodging from travel. To drive your truck down a Forest Service road and sleep in the back, to nestle under a throw blanket on your friend鈥檚 couch, to lay your sleeping pad in the dirt on BLM land. In the U.S, a small Air BnB for two adults typically costs $125, according to . On average, a hotel room will run you about , so staying for free can save up to $1000 for a weeklong trip. It can also put an otherwise financially out-of-reach tourist destination on the table. Lindsay, a renewable energy policy director friend of mine based in Rockport, Maine, admits that visiting Tahoe during peak ski season was only possible for her and her family because they house-sat for a friend who was away.

I worked in outdoor education leading trips for four summers, which meant I ended up with connections in exactly the type of places I wanted to go: a friend in Gunnison, Colorado, to crash with when it was a powder day, a place to stay in Jackson, Wyoming, when it was primetime to see wildflowers and float the Snake, folks to visit in Bend, Oregon, when it came time to recertify my Wilderness First Responder and ride bikes.

The savings on lodging are just the beginning. On previous visits to Crested Butte, a friend got me buddy passes at the resort and free slices during his shifts at the pizza place in town. When I crashed on my friend Eddie鈥檚 couch in Jackson Hole, he punched out my touring boots for free during one of his shifts at the shop. The rich get richer, as they say.

Saving money isn鈥檛 the only benefit of traveling this way. Crashing with friends may be a frugal way to travel, but having a network of people to stay with is indicative of social wealth. Being connected to folks in expensive mountain towns听 can open up the list of accessible destinations, and in turn, grow the network even more. I reconnected with Emily in Crested Butte while visiting my friend Colt who lived there, and when he moved away, I still had a place to crash.

More importantly, when I鈥檓 staying with locals, I get to tap into the heart of each place in a way I wouldn鈥檛 if I came on my own鈥攆ollowing friends around the mountain and finding hidden stashes, tagging along to house parties, learning which pullouts along the river have fewer crowds.

For those without an established network of friends in mountain towns, there is , a service that connects budget travelers to a global community of 鈥渇riends they haven鈥檛 met yet,鈥澨� according to their website. When I was traveling in Argentina in 2013 with my college roommate, we met an American on an overnight bus who put us in touch with two couch surfing hosts in Bariloche鈥搘here she had just left and where we were headed. A few days later, we huffed it up a winding dirt road to meet Juli谩n and Alejandra, who not only let us blow up our sleeping pads on their tile floor, but cooked and played music with us, showed us around the city, and gave us priceless insider trail recommendations. We were supposed to stay for two days, but four days later, we were still there, soaking it all in.

In my mid-twenties, I lived alone in a three-bedroom house on the side of North Table Mountain that had absurdly low rent in Golden, Colorado. It was a thrill to be able to open my doors to others like they鈥檇 opened theirs to me. I鈥檇 pile friends in sleeping bags on the living room floor after karaoke nights at the dive bar in town, or unfold the futon in the gear room for visitors passing through to ski.

It was big enough that friends began offering it to their friends. My friend Emma was living in a tiny studio and had a friend visiting for a few days to take the Single Pitch Instructor course required to be a rock guide鈥揷ould she possibly stay with me instead?

I鈥檇 only met Betsy once, but it seemed like a no-brainer. This had something to do with having the space, and something to do with the way I wanted to be in the world. I wanted to be open to experiences and people and the ways we can mutually support each other. I wanted to leave room for magic.

Over the next few days, Betsy slept on the futon in my gear room, we split meals, and got to connect one-on-one in a way we wouldn鈥檛 have otherwise. Extended time in a shared space leads to a depth of conversation that just doesn鈥檛 happen grabbing a beer at a brewery or on a bike ride. She passed her course, hugged me goodbye, and headed back to Jackson. Betsy wasn’t just Emma鈥檚 friend now, she was my friend, too.

A while later, my college roommate Natalie called me and asked if her new boyfriend could crash with me on his way back to Temple University, where they were both in med school. I hadn鈥檛 met Mark, and had just gone through a breakup. I didn’t exactly feel like making conversation with a stranger.

When he pulled up, I summoned everything inside me to get to know someone who mattered to someone who mattered to me. We hung out on my back deck, drank beers, and chatted and laughed for hours鈥攊t turned out that having a favorite person in common made it easy for us to get along.

I went to bed that night reminded that I could still laugh, that there were still good people in the world, and that there might be joy and experiences I couldn鈥檛 possibly predict ahead.

When you live with your arms open to others, you never know when the karma might come back your way. Four years after Betsy slept on my futon, she became an editor at Backcountry Magazine. I got a text from her out of the blue saying, 鈥淧itch me some ideas! We鈥檇 love to publish your writing.鈥�

Five years after Mark stayed with me in Golden, he married Natalie. When I fell trail running and tore my shin open, I FaceTimed Mark, now an ER doctor, from the parking lot to see if he thought I needed stitches.

Crashing with friends turns hard goodbyes with people you love into a glorious network of landing pads all over the world. It converts people you鈥檝e never met into people you鈥檝e shared coffee and conversation with. It turns the mountain towns of the world into accessible and affordable destinations. It is personal and intimate in a way that hotels and Airbnbs and sleeping alone in your truck are not.

This form of travel may seem best suited to unattached dirtbags in their twenties, but it doesn鈥檛 have to be confined to that demographic. If you鈥檙e down to get creative with sleep solutions, you can keep your arms open to visitors and your mind open to visiting others. My 65-year-old dad parked his camper in our driveway when he came through Truckee, California, on a ski trip. I slept in Lindsay鈥檚 ancient van in her driveway when she was living in a one-bedroom apartment in Boulder with her husband and two-year-old. I stayed with Natatlie鈥檚 parents after my lodging fell through for her wedding, feeling like the fifth Taylor sister by the end of the weekend. We might all pass through moments of life where it鈥檚 easier for us to host or be hosted for a variety of reasons. I invite you all to join the church of You Can Always Crash on My Couch, where the belief in karma is strong, and the latchstring is always out.

A year ago, my partner, Andy, and I moved to Anchorage, Alaska. In some ways, it would fundamentally change the way we traveled鈥搉o longer would we spontaneously crash with folks on a multi-state road trip or have folks crash with us passing through to other destinations in the West. But in Anchorage we鈥檇 finally upgraded to a guest room with a real bed and a door that closed. The pain of leaving our communities in the West was eased by the knowledge that we鈥檇 be able to host people on their way to the Alaska Range, that we could lure visitors in with backcountry skiing and wild-picked berry pancakes and conversation around the breakfast table. And we鈥檇 always be able to go back to the lower 48, to our twinkling constellation of landing pads all over the country.

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I. Two Sides of a Single-Edged Blade

Franklin Park, Illinois, December 25, 2021

The sword was suspended in the basement rafters with a message from 1945 still secured to its fittings. My grandfather and I were sitting one floor above it at his kitchen table when an email arrived. It was 9:17 A.M. on Christmas Day in 2021, the Chicago weather too mild, the ground too much of a defeated brown, and the gathering too small to suggest that anything festive was about to happen. A notification lit up my phone with the subject line 鈥淢erry Christmas and a letter from Umeki-san.鈥�

The timing was convenient. I was visiting for the holidays, staying at my mother鈥檚 childhood home in Franklin Park, ten miles west of Chicago. My parents were there, too. My grandfather, Joseph Kasser, who goes by Ben or Benny, built the home in 1957 for a family of four that eventually dwindled to one. My mom, Kathy, was the first to go, leaving for college in 1971; my grandma Alice died in 2008; my uncle Bob died in 2010. They left Benny alone on Louis Street with a lifetime of modest possessions. Among them was a Japanese sword he鈥檇 found on an Okinawa beach in the final days of World War II.

It was six months after I first asked Benny if he鈥檇 be interested in finding the sword鈥檚 owner. I don鈥檛 remember what I said to start the conversation. I do remember that I was nervous asking a man who doesn鈥檛 own much to part ways with a keepsake he鈥檇 found during perhaps the most consequential time of his life as an antiaircraft gunner in the U.S. Army. He didn鈥檛 hesitate. He said, 鈥淪ure.鈥�

It was one of those inspired 鈥渟ure鈥漵 that really mean 鈥渁bsolutely,鈥� a posture-correcting 鈥渟ure,鈥� an energy-intoned 鈥渟ure,鈥� not 鈥淚 suppose鈥� or 鈥渋f you want.鈥� A momentous syllable that set something off. It was apparently something he had considered.

Now, on Christmas Day, I didn鈥檛 know if the email that had arrived contained good news about our quest. I read it silently while sitting at the kitchen table, where I had heard one side of the story for more than three decades.

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Earlier this fall, GQ鈥檚 Global Style Director, Noah Johnson, wrote an obituary for gorpcore: 鈥淸gorpcore] as a trend鈥� is dead. Let it be known.鈥� For the uninitiated, 鈥済orpcore鈥� uses an acronym for trail mix (鈥済ood old raisins and peanuts,鈥� although that meaning is ) to describe a听style that involves wearing outdoorsy clothes as streetwear.听The term, which has its origins in 鈥渘ormcore,鈥� was coined by former New York Magazine writer Jason Chen in 2017.

Here鈥檚 the thing, though, if gorpcore is dead, why is Prada selling (that look a lot like regular ol鈥� Carhartts)? Why are outlets like the听New York Post still breathlessly ? Why did a collaboration between break the internet for a day? Why did the iconic ski brand Salomon set up a aimed at courting a new, high-fashion consumer base?

In reality, the title of the GQ piece, “,” is a bit deceptive. When Johnson eulogizes gorpcore, he doesn鈥檛 mean that you won鈥檛 be seeing men and women from Brooklyn to the Harper鈥檚 Ferry headquarters of the Appalachian Trail in the North Face, Marmot, Salomon, and Patagonia. Instead, he argues that the style has become so ubiquitous it shouldn鈥檛 be considered a new trend anymore.

So where do $1,000 fleeces fit in?

To make sense of some of 2024鈥檚 most outlandish high-end outdoor wear, I talked to , the internet鈥檚 foremost men鈥檚 fashion historian, who helped me put the year’s key pieces into a broader context.

The Prada Barn Coat, a Cool $4,900

First up: Prada鈥檚 canvas barn coat, which the fashion blog In the Groove named The coat, which apparently became the , looks like something Kevin Costner鈥檚 Yellowstone character might wear while taking a rideabout on the family ranch. That, plus the Prada triangle logo. Its price is listed at $4,900. (There鈥檚 also a cropped version, which sells for $3,700.) The Prada site describes it as 鈥渂orrowed from menswear鈥� and 鈥渆nhanced with a distressed effect.鈥�

鈥淒istressed effect鈥� really stayed with me. Isn鈥檛 there something a little ironic about a $4,900 pre-worn-out jacket that is trying to mimic the type of coat that someone would actually distress over time while wearing听it, typically at work? I grew up in a small West Virginia town in the late nineties and early aughts. The men I knew wearing barn coats (Carhartts, specifically) definitely didn鈥檛 purchase them pre-distressed, and they certainly would have something to say about anyone who did.

But, according to Guy, something like the Prada canvas coat can really be seen as a celebration of the values associated with its original uses. From his point of view, all fashion choices are the result of the cultural values of the period from which they emerge.

Think about it: What other pop culture or trends might suggest that Western-adjacent, work-worn clothing would be having a moment right now that signals that culture is interested? Yellowstone is a great example. So are the insanely popular videos. Even in recent years. And what are the cultural values associated with ranching? Hard work, fortitude, honesty, independence, self reliance, connection to the land, and traditional masculinity are a few that come to mind. These values are also tied deeply to at least one version of the general American ethos.

Guy says that when different groups become culturally respected and reflect societal values, their style choices鈥攅ven if they鈥檙e initially made for technical functionality鈥攅nd up influencing the broader population. Consider the fact that Marmot, Patagonia, and the North Face all have their own version of the canvas barn coat. (I love my Marmot prairie jacket that I bought a few years ago, and the only time I鈥檝e been on the prairie is when I drove through it.) And it鈥檚 likely that none of those more traditional outdoor brands started with a vision of creating aesthetic rancher-style workwear coats. They likely also didn鈥檛 have a core customer base of ranchers and farmers looking to upgrade their jackets. The brands created these garments to meet emerging consumer taste.

Still, does close to $5,000 for a pre-distressed coat make any sense? 鈥淭he reason we celebrate these things, but then also create absurdly expensive versions is because鈥� individuals also seek status,鈥� says Guy.

When there are enough versions of a beloved item to meet various individuals鈥� price points, one way to separate yourself from the rabble is to buy the really, really expensive one.

So ranching-farming-barn culture is having a moment. People are motivated to show status. I鈥檓 still good with my dad鈥檚 vintage Carhartt from the eighties, though.

$1,000 Fleeces

If people generally aspire to the life and values that go with the barn coat aesthetic鈥攕o much so that we鈥檙e now seeing super expensive luxury versions of the staple鈥攈ow do thousand-dollar fleeces, like the ones , fit in?

The answer is pretty simple. The values associated with outdoorsy lifestyles are also aspirational for many, even if they don鈥檛 have imminent plans for a long thru-hike in their . And what are those values? Hopefully they鈥檙e familiar to anyone who considers themselves an outdoors lover: adventurousness, self discovery, environmental stewardship, physical prowess, community, self sufficiency, and technical expertise to name a few. These values, plus the promises of escape and leisure that a trip to the wilderness can provide, roll up into gorpcore style choices. Add in the basic human desire to flex status, and it makes sense why you would听end up with inaccessibly expensive all-wool fleece pullovers.

Hasn鈥檛 Outdoor Gear Always Been About Status?

My dad is a consummate outdoorsman. When I was young, he hiked and hunted. He taught me to identify North American trees and walk quietly through the woods. I have vivid memories of watching him and my uncles process a buck that they鈥檇 killed up a snowy run in West Virginia and then lugged back over the miles to a humble camp that served as their base. And they did all of it in Coleman gear.

It wasn鈥檛 until I went to college at an elite Southern university that Patagonia Synchillas entered my consciousness as a marker of status. The kids in the right sororities and fraternities all knew that you paired your Synchilla with Chubbies and artfully worn out Sperries. Those of us who didn鈥檛 come from quite the same backgrounds had to quickly make sense of the way core outdoor gear fit into the social hierarchy. I bought my first Patagonia fleece (not quite a Synchilla but close enough) at a steep discount as part of a bulk order my cross-country team made. I felt myself relax as I settled into its cozy heft on campus. Now, I think I own upwards of a dozen Patagonia, Marmot, North Face, and Cotopaxi fleeces and jackets. When I had the chance to signal my values and status, I seized it in the way Guy helped me understand.

Does that mean I鈥檓 going to start spending a grand on Austrian-made fleeces anytime soon? I鈥檇 like to say no, that鈥檚 a bridge too far, but consumer desire can be a funny thing. Even my own is a little bit unscrutable.

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