Black Friday is coming, which means my inbox is already filling with subject lines promising 40 percent off technical shells and limited-edition colorways of packs I don’t need. The algorithms know me well enough by now鈥攖hey’ve clocked my abandoned carts and my weakness for a good gear story. And yet, when I actually need to grab something for a day hike or a quick trip to the corner store, I reach for the same beat-up Arc’teryx Arro day pack I’ve had for more than twenty years.

It’s not that I’m above consumerism. Like all of us at 国产吃瓜黑料, we live and breathe聽gear. I’ve bought plenty of things I didn’t need, seduced by promises of lighter weight or better weatherproofing or something that will magically keep me cooler or warmer. But this particular pack鈥攚ell–worn, with plenty of life to go鈥攈as achieved something that new gear never can: it’s become an extension of my body.

I know where every zipper is without looking. The main compartment is just large enough for a book, a water bottle, and a layer, but not so big that I’m tempted to overpack. There鈥檚 a discrete hip belt for when I might have overdone it with the granola and trail mix or acquired some things at the corner bodega. It’s traveled with me through enough years and enough places that using it feels less like wearing gear and more like putting on my own skin.

, whose upcycling work we profiled in the Fall Style + Design issue, understands something essential about the relationship between objects and memory. When she transforms old gear into new forms, she’s not just being clever about sustainability鈥攕he’s honoring the fact that worn equipment has a soul. It’s been places. It’s done things. The stains and tears aren’t flaws; they’re autobiography.

My Helly Hansen Odin mountaineering pants tell their own story. The waterproofness has mostly given up, worn down by too many days in conditions they were actually designed for. They’re no longer suitable for anything serious鈥攁 proper alpine mission or even a sustained rain鈥攂ut they’re perfect for sledding with my kids, for winter hikes where the real threat is wind rather than wet, for that in-between weather when you need coverage but not full protection. They’ve been demoted from technical gear to household workhorse, and somehow that feels right. They’ve earned their retirement into casual use.

Then there’s the Osprey pack鈥攕lightly bigger than the Arc’teryx, light enough to forget you’re wearing it, capacious enough for a laptop. For a few years, it doubled as a diaper bag, which is maybe the most intense field testing any piece of gear can endure. It survived emergency snack deployment, and that particular brand of chaos that comes with schlepping small humans around the city. Now that the kids are older, it’s returned to its original purpose: a do-everything pack for when the Arc’teryx is too small but a full hiking pack is too much. It still has Cheerio dust in the bottom seams that I can鈥檛 seem to get out.

In Brooklyn, where I live, you see branded totes everywhere. I’m not a big tote guy, which means I need bags that can handle actual weight and weather without looking like I’m about to summit something. These pieces鈥�let me move through the world with the things I need without announcing what I’m doing. It’s gear as quiet competence.

The tension, of course, is that I write about new gear constantly. I celebrate innovation. I understand that materials science has improved, that today’s fabrics breathe better and weigh less and last longer than what I’m clinging to. For anything truly demanding鈥攁 long backpacking trip, a technical climb, conditions where failure means discomfort or danger鈥擨 reach for the real deal, latest and greatest equipment. I’m not romantic enough to pretend that sentimentality trumps performance.

But for the daily texture of an outdoor life鈥攖he dog walks, the coffee runs with a book, the spontaneous afternoon hikes in Prospect Park鈥擨 want the stuff that already knows me. The gear that’s shaped itself to my habits, that’s been broken in by repetition rather than design. There’s a difference between consumption and conservation, sure, but there’s also a third category: continuation. The choice to keep using something not because you can’t afford to replace it, but because replacement would mean losing something that can’t be quantified in specs.

When the Black Friday emails arrive, I’ll probably click on a few. I’ll add things to my cart and then close the tab. Maybe I’ll even buy something. But the Arc’teryx pack will still be hanging by the door, ready for whatever comes next, accumulating new stories on top of the old ones. That’s the thing about gear that won’t die: it becomes less about what it does and more about what it knows. And what it knows, at this point, is me.

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Perhaps you鈥檝e heard of him? After the Creator, he鈥檚 the second most important figure in Indigenous stories. His name is Coyote, and he鈥檚 as real in Indigenous cultures across memory as Jesus is to Christians. He鈥檚 got a pointed snout and a wry smile. He鈥檚 complicated. One minute, he鈥檚 gathering salmon to feed his people, the next, he鈥檚 chasing every woman in sight and abandoning his oodles of kids.

Not incidentally, Coyote also leers from the cover of We Survived the Night, Julian Brave NoiseCat鈥檚 first book, published in October. In the cover image by the late Native American painter Jaune Quick-to-See Smith, Coyote holds his paws over his face, one eye peeking mysteriously out.聽鈥淚ndigenous peoples all the way from Central America to Western Canada used to tell stories about the trickster coyote,鈥� NoiseCat says to a crowd in Oakland, California,聽one night in late October. 鈥淲hile he did some good, he was often up to no good. Coyote was probably the most significant deadbeat dad in human history.鈥�

It’s a funny line, and people laugh. NoiseCat is standing at a microphone at Local Economy, a community space in Oakland, filled with plants, coffee, and art. A few minutes before, beating a small drum, the champion powwow dancer led a call-and-response song about who owns this nation鈥檚 land. Unlike Brooklyn, New York, where the 32-year-old author recently performed the same bit on his book tour, this audience is into it, their voices rowdy.

But this is NoiseCat鈥檚 hometown, a Native enclave. Tommy Orange, another Native son of Oakland and bestselling author of There, There is hanging around, waiting to have a conversation with NoiseCat. Later, they share with the audience about how cool Indian men鈥攁 term Native Americans use to refer to themselves鈥攊n the 1970s were, rocking their headbands, jean jackets, long hair, and jewelry. 鈥淭hey look like movie stars,鈥� says NoiseCat, who鈥檚 not unfashionable himself, with his dangling earrings, beaded coyote necklace, jean jacket, and black pants.

As they talk, the two authors also toss around Native stereotypes. There鈥檚 a lot of self-deprecating humor.

鈥淚 have this theory based on the Native men in my life that every Indian man goes through what I call their headband phase,鈥� says NoiseCat. He pauses. 鈥淚 am presently in that phase.鈥�

He turns to Orange: 鈥淭ommy, have you gone through one yet?鈥�

Orange, dressed in a black T-shirt, khakis, and wearing his typical baseball cap, jokes: 鈥淭his is the closest I鈥檓 going to get.鈥�

A slew of NoiseCat鈥檚 relatives and friends are present at the book event, too, including his mom. Alexandra Roddy, who is white, raised her son in the upper Rockridge neighborhood of Oakland, a few blocks away. As a member of the Canim Lake Band Tsq鈥檈scen, NoiseCat was the only Native kid in his elementary school. We Survived the Night聽a saying his ancestors used instead of 鈥済ood morning鈥� to acknowledge their tenuous reality, is dedicated to her.

鈥淭he interesting thing about Julian is from the time he was really, really little he highly identified with being Native American,鈥� Roddy told me on the phone a few days after the event. It was the first time she鈥檇 heard him speak about the book. As she sat watching him, she was in awe. 鈥淥h my god, he totally exceeded my expectations in all directions,鈥� she thought.

At 400 pages, his book covers a lot of ground: Indigenous history, colonialism, his upbringing as a Native child in a white world, and the influence of his Native grandmother and relatives on the reservation in British Columbia. Coyote stories are woven through the text, pushing the borders of nonfiction. But at its heart, the narrative explores his relationship with his larger-than-life father, Ed Archie NoiseCat, a prominent artist in Indian Country, a term that refers to the various places in the United States where Native Americans live. When NoiseCat was six, his parents divorced after his father鈥檚 drinking soared out of control. In response, Roddy worried that her son鈥檚 Native connections would be lost. Instead, his dad鈥檚 stream of relatives nurtured and guided him. 鈥淭he love for Julian did not ever miss a beat,鈥� she recalled. 鈥淭hey showed up for hockey games, for pow wow, and his high school graduation. There鈥檚 a lot of love in the culture that Julian comes from.鈥�

Although he saw his dad intermittently, NoiseCat wrote in his book that he felt abandoned. After a decade of living on the East Coast and in England, where he attended Oxford University on a scholarship, his life took a significant turn. In 2020, he began writing his book while also co-directing his first documentary with director Emily Kassie, Sugarcane, a film about Native children who were sent to residential boarding schools to erase their cultures. Sugarcane was nominated for an Academy Award for best documentary in January 2025. 鈥淥ne of the things I was very drawn to is that the silence of the residential and boarding school history was not just perpetuated by the government and the church,鈥� he tells 国产吃瓜黑料 of the documentary, 鈥渂ut also existed in my own family.鈥�

NoiseCat discovered that his grandmother, one of the last fluent speakers of Secwepemctsin, had been stolen from her parents as a child and taken to St. Joseph鈥檚 Mission. She had never talked about it. As a teenager, he鈥檇 heard tales of babies there being thrown into garbage incinerators. They seemed implausible. And then he learned this: his own father had been found in one at St. Joseph鈥檚 school in 1959, a newborn. His cries saved him.

While working on the book and the documentary, NoiseCat did something unexpected: for two years he moved in with his dad in Bremerton, Washington. By doing so, he hoped they would reconcile. Slowly they did, and in the process, the book was transformed.

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For 60 years, has run wilderness programs aimed at outdoor skills to foster personal growth. Over the decades, it’s pivoted to meet the needs of youth and adults. Today, the organization serves over 35,000 young people. The current crisis? We’ve traded time outdoors for screens.

Ginger Naylor joined Outward Bound in 2010 with a strong belief in its mission. At the time, she needed it for her own teens. Now, as the organization’s CEO, Naylor will spearhead a movement to step away from screens and reconnect with nature, contributing to a collective goal of 10 million-plus hours of real-world connection.

On January 24, 国产吃瓜黑料 will join Outward Bound and thousands of young people and their families to take

国产吃瓜黑料 caught up with Naylor to learn more.

OUTSIDE: The Reset is much more than a national day to get teens outside. Tell us more.

Ginger Naylor: Earlier last year, we all started having conversations about what’s going on with kids right now. We’re talking to teachers and their parents. The conversation everyone is having is about how much time kids are spending on their screens and how that is impacting their mental health. This is one of the first generations of kids who have moved from a play-based childhood鈥攚here you’re outside, you’re playing, you’re experiencing nature鈥攖o a screen-based childhood, where you’re sitting indoors and staring at a screen and you’re having these disembodied experiences with other people. Our kids are missing developmental milestones because of it.

Outward Bound hopes to use its long history to spark a moment, to create a national movement of folks who say, “We’re going to make the choice to step away from screens.” Whether it’s for a day, a week, or a month, the organization hopes to help youth and their families reconnect with nature and each other.

January 24 is the launch date, and that’s when we’re going to ask folks to come online, and make a commitment. It’s not about what you’re giving up; it’s about what you’re getting back. We’re not focused solely on a screen break. We’re trying to get people to think about what they get back when they make a different choice. Humans have spent 90 percent of our evolutionary life cycle, over hundreds of thousands of years, deeply connected to the outdoors. We evolved alongside the outdoors. This is the first time that we’ve locked ourselves inside and that we are not having this constant human connection and nature connection, and it’s impacting us.

Let’s talk teen mental health, specifically the problems you’re seeing in your schools.

When I was leading a school, one of the things our instructors did when the kids come in was collect their meds. When I started working at Outward Bound in 2010, those bags were usually a Ziploc bag with two or three medications. By the time I left my role as an executive director in one of the schools, those med bags were huge. Every kid is struggling; it’s just across the board, and you can see it in their prescriptions. You can see it in their behavior. There are all sorts of reports about what’s happening, but there seems to be a really clear connection to how much time we’re spending disconnected from each other and the outdoors.

Our kids are anxious right now. Youth today spend less than ten聽minutes a day outside. Whatever we can do to support them in finding healthy ways to connect, I think it’s a really good thing. There’s so much research behind the forest bathing trend, when you go outside and disconnect. Your nervous system comes down. Everything slows down. Your thoughts become clearer. Your creativity boosts. There are so many good things that happen from (though it sounds silly) the whole touching grass idea.

Tools like social media have been trapping people, but you’re going to use them to inspire people. How?

We have an opportunity right now to step in and say, “Hey, let’s find a way to use this that feels really positive, because tech is good.” I think it just all comes back to what we said earlier, that it’s not about what you’re giving up, but what you’re getting back. It’s time to focus on what you get back from disconnecting. When I was a teenager, nobody was reporting everything I was doing. I have a lot of empathy for what our young people are going through today. And I think as adults, we all do, right? And so I think that’s where, to me, The Reset is so important, because this is the spark. Here’s how you can take action. Here’s something you can do.

I think we all feel really powerless. We’re looking for ways to help and to come together and talk about it. I’m hoping that The Reset launches a movement that lasts.

Editor’s note: This interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

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There鈥檚 a particular kind of actor who feels equally at home in the wilderness and on the red carpet, who understands that the demands of the body and the demands of the spirit are not separate things. Joel Edgerton is that actor鈥攕omeone who grew up on the edge of a vast forest in Australia, who ice plunges in London’s Hampstead Heath, who collects vintage military boots and speaks about the woods with genuine reverence. He is, in other words, someone who has never quite left the wild places that made him.

Over two decades, Edgerton has built a career of quiet virtuosity, the kind that doesn’t announce itself but accumulates like sediment: directing The Gift, a gem of a subversive psychological thriller; both producing and starring in award contenders like Loving and Boy Erased; and managing to steal the scene no matter how small or large the role, from Warrior to The Great Gatsby. He’s become that rare figure in contemporary cinema: an actor-director-producer whose work consistently operates at the intersection of craft and conscience. You get the sense that he’s always seeking the human truth.

In his latest project, that is streaming now, Edgerton plays Robert Grainier, a logger and railroad worker whose life unfolds across six decades in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. Based on Denis Johnson’s luminous novella, the film follows Grainier from the turn of the 20th century through the 1960s as he witnesses America transform around him鈥攔ailroads replacing horse trails, the wilderness giving way to civilization, his simple way of life becoming a relic. It’s a role that demands something rare: the ability to convey profound emotional depth through stillness, through the language of the body and the land itself.

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IT’S OKTOBERFEST NYC聽and I鈥檓 standing with Kim Planert, a UPS driver from Ohio. We鈥檙e at Rumsey Playfield in Central Park, beneath London plane trees and a cerulean September sky. All around us is the requisite pageantry of the world鈥檚 foremost beer bacchanal: lederhosen bros, immodest dirndl cleavage, and polka music inspersed with domestic Oktoberfest classics like versions of 鈥淐ountry Roads鈥� and 鈥淪weet Caroline.鈥� I know some haters who dismiss Oktoberfest as cosplay for alcoholics, but for those of us with a soft spot for a little seasonal kitsch there are worse ways to ring in the fall.

Planert is 71 years old and his costume is relatively understated compared to some of the more committed revelers in the crowd: checkered blue-and-white Tyrolean hat, oversized Hofbr盲u聽 T-shirt, and cargo shorts. But Planert is not here just to binge on lager and wurst. For the fourth year in a row, he is competing in the Hofbr盲u Masskrugstemmen National Competition, which is about to take place on Rumsey鈥檚 concert stage. Masskrugstemmen is the German name for the increasingly popular sport of steinholding鈥攚here participants try to hold a five-pound glass of beer at arm鈥檚 length for as long as they can.

鈥淚鈥檝e actually added two minutes to my time,鈥� Planert tells me. 鈥淚鈥檝e done 14 minutes.鈥� Not too long ago, such a performance would have put him in contention for a national record. But the bar has been raised in recent years. 鈥淲e鈥檝e got guys now that can do 16, 17, 19, 20-plus minutes,鈥� Planert says wistfully.

This upping of the ante is at least partially due to the marketing savvy of the Munich-based brewery Hofbr盲uhaus, as well as American beer brands like Sam Adams, who have been sponsoring steinholding events for years. (There are now .) The 19 men and 13 women who are taking part in the 2025 Hofbr盲u nationals have all prevailed in regional Hofbr盲u-affiliated competitions across the country. As a reward, they were flown out to New York for a chance to compete for the title of national champion. The annual winner in Central Park gets a paid trip to the OG Oktoberfest in Munich, as well as a blinged-out championship belt to commemorate the achievement. Let no one tell you America is no longer the land of opportunity.

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Dear Sundog,

So many outdoor athletes sing the praises of an ultra-high-protein diet. But the last time I checked, most protein comes from meat, and meat is the least sustainable food on the planet. Isn鈥檛 it unethical for people who proclaim to care about the environment to ramp up their beef-eating just to improve performance?
Totally Opposed to First-world Unfairness

Dear TOFU,

The protein craze is officially stupid now, with Starbucks now dumping a scoop of whey powder into its , and other frothy confections designed to smear a white moustache on unwitting consumers. Spoiler alert: with its nine teaspoons of sugar (36 grams!), one of these desserts will make you about as ripped and fit as two servings of Jell-O Instant Pudding & Pie Filling. At least contains no artificial pretensions.

TOFU, you raise an important question: where all this protein is coming from? First, we should acknowledge that some of the people to whom you refer to are eating a plant-based high-protein diet comprised of beans, tofu, seeds, nuts, and pea-based powders. My hat is off to them, not just for their sustainable ethics but for their creativity in the kitchen.

Once upon a time, Sundog himself was vegan-curious. There were the usual ethical reasons of wanting to eat low on the food chain, but also Ms. Sundog, who was vegetarian, developed an allergy to eggs and dairy. How to get protein? Having subsisted largely off pinto beans and tortillas from about age 25 to 40, I needed a bit more variety. The result was a yearlong immersion in Asian cooking, with Indian dals of lentils and chickpeas, and Thai curries with coconut milk and tofu, quickly rising to the top. We ate as little meat and as much local produce as possible, which in Western Montana is abundant in the summers.

My point is that it can be done, but it requires work and skill. In the larger picture, TOFU, I tend to agree with your assumption that most high-protein diets rely heavily on meat, because it鈥檚 relatively easy to throw a slab of the stuff on the grill or in the pan (or even into the microwave), and with some salt and pepper it usually tastes pretty good.

We could try to parse the meat-eaters into two categories: those doing it for health and those doing it for performance. It would be hard to make a case that eating meat for your health is unethical, although certainly some of our most famous vegetarians have done just that. When Gandhi was 鈥渘ear death鈥檚 door鈥� with an illness, his doctor ordered him to drink milk for fortitude. 鈥淚 have a vow against it,鈥� he declared. But the doctor persuaded Ghandi that the vow didn’t include cow鈥檚 milk, and handed over a glass of goat鈥檚 milk, which Gandhi reluctantly drank down. He recovered, but years later wrote, 鈥� of this action even now fills me with remorse.鈥� (In a separate incident, Gandhi鈥檚 wife was deathly ill and refused a doctor鈥檚 order to drink beef tea. She also recovered.)

But for the rest of us, eating meat to stave off illness does not appear unethical. If one compelling reason to stop climate change is to preserve livable conditions for humanity, then I don鈥檛 think it makes sense to sacrifice one鈥檚 own health鈥攐r life鈥攖o achieve it. Even His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who became vegetarian after being exiled from Tibet to India, began eating meat on doctor鈥檚 advice. (For the purpose of your question, TOFU, which was specific to the environment, I鈥檓 addressing the only ecological ethics of eating meat, and not the question of whether eating animals is wrong.)

Let鈥檚 consider this hypothetical outdoor athlete. Imagine that he finished his latest ultramarathon in 22 hours, and now thinks he鈥檇 like to eat more ribeyes and improve his time to 20 hours. This appears a clear case of his vanity and ambition trumping any concern for the rest of the planet鈥檚 humans and non-humans. It鈥檚 obviously wrong for white people in the global north to gorge themselves with a king鈥檚 diet of steaks and chops while brown people in the global south subsist on beans as the rising waters submerge their homes. But we can easily make it less clear cut.

Most of us find the line between health and performance to be quite blurry. Maybe we just want stronger leg muscles so we can keep up with our kids on the trail. The majority of Americans suffer from some 鈥攈igh cholesterol, diabetes, obesity, high blood pressure鈥攖hat can best be solved by more exercise, which is just another word for better performance.

Back to Sundog鈥檚 vegan-esque phase. I found myself eating entire avocados on a salad, or soaking up half cup of olive oil with my baguette. I began to wonder if I was kidding myself. Could it really be sustainable to ship in cans of coconut milk from Thailand, fresh avocados from Mexico, olive oil from Spain? During the winter, we stockpiled local lentils and flour and pasta and such semi-palatable root vegetables as parsnips and turnips. As far as I could tell there was only one local food that survived the long northern winters: animals. I thought I could follow the dictum of Gandhi鈥檚 disciple Lanza Del Vasto who said, 鈥淔ind the shortest, simplest way between the earth, the hands, and the mouth.鈥� The cow was closer than the coconut.

Fast forward ten years. We started eating most foods in moderation. And yet, you may have noticed, a block of tempeh or a bin of raw garbanzos doesn鈥檛 make for a quick snack. I lapsed into some bad habits: bread and butter for lunch. Popcorn and beer for dinner. A whole bag of chips while driving. Not too long ago the doc told me I was prediabetic, and instructed me to cut the sugar, carbs and booze. Meanwhile, the nagging knee pain that I鈥檇 kept at bay with ibuprofen in my decade as a backpacking guide just seemed to get worse, and the physical therapist prescribed weight-training coupled with heavy protein intake. A nutritionist told me to eat more meat.

I mention my own diet not because it鈥檚 particularly unique, but because it鈥檚 a case study in how even for a middling athlete, the ethical diet is quite murky. I鈥檝e since started buying and eating local Montana beef, telling myself it鈥檚 a great ethical choice. Not only is it good for me, I get to support the ranchers who are stewards of the land. I prefer cowboys riding the ridges rather than the mansions that will inevitably replace them. Montana is perhaps unique in that it has lots of land and not very many jobs, so running cattle still seems a wise use of the terrain. When it comes to cattle grazing, Sundog is an enthusiastic YIMBY.

But your question forced me to do some actual research and learn that my assumptions were dubious. While local grass-fed beef may be more ethical than corn-fed feedlot cows, the on whether its carbon footprint is lower. In any case, beef is the worst food when it comes to carbon emissions, far more impactful than pork, chicken or fish, and worse by orders of magnitude than plant proteins. Meanwhile, my hunch about imported fats like and olive oil proved wrong. Shipping dry goods across the ocean remains incredibly efficient, and when it comes to carbon footprint, it鈥檚 actually far better to eat an than a cow from up the valley.

It’s complicated. I don鈥檛 want to contribute to the warming of the planet. Also I want to support the ranching industry near me. Also I think eating local burgers is good for me, and will help me get off the road to diabetes on which I鈥檇 been traveling. (Hold the bun, sadly.) Also I don鈥檛 have the time and skill to create a from-scratch vegetarian masterpiece seven nights a week. At the risk of staking out a position that lies hopelessly in the middle of the road, I鈥檒l say that the ethical path lies in moderation. Some beef.

More chicken and fish. More vegetables and fruit than you thought humanly possible. A lot of peanut butter, beans, yogurt, seeds, nuts and of course, TOFU, tofu.

Mark Sundeen teaches environmental writing at the University of Montana. These days he holds the bun but eats the burger. Got a question of your own? Send it to sundogsalmanac@hotmail.com聽

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As told to Corey Buhay

Across the West, luxury ranches charge guests anywhere from $800 to $5,000 per night for the opportunity to play cowboy. Since they鈥檙e peddling an immersive experience, these facilities have to go to extreme lengths to maintain a seamlessly Western look and feel鈥攚hich means that if you work there, you鈥檙e part of the scenery.

The higher-end lodges offer the standard suite of Western extracurriculars, like trail rides, mock cattle drives, and grill-outs under the stars. They also offer other diversions鈥攍ike wine tastings, Vitamin C facials, and sound baths鈥攚hich I have a harder time picturing Butch Cassidy enjoying out on the range, but which probably generate more repeat clientele among the big spenders. All those offerings mean hundreds of employees, and create a vibe that鈥檚 often more Disneyland than family farm. It makes for a totally surreal workplace.

To take a peek behind the scenes, I interviewed a wrangler who鈥檚 been throwing hay and roping horses since the age of 12. Since then, they鈥檝e worked at a handful of different dude ranches across the West, ranging from family-owned operations to glitzy lodges and influencer-swarmed glamping retreats. The job has its joys, but the days are long, and sleep is hard to come by. As we chat over the phone, I can hear them kicking through hay, filling troughs, and shooing off horses. It鈥檚 5:00 P.M. by the time we finish talking, and they鈥檙e still midway through the workday. There鈥檚 a truck to pressure-wash and a trailer to clean, and it鈥檒l be well past dusk before they鈥檙e done.

Is it worth it? You decide. Here鈥檚 what it鈥檚 like to be part of the scenery on someone else鈥檚 $10,000 vacay.

The Gig at a Glance

Occupation
Wrangler/Trail Guide

Age
26

Years in the business
14

Salary
$50,000 with tips ($25,000 without)

How Many Hours Do You Work a Week?

I split my time between ranches, working in the Northern Rockies during the summers and in the Southwest during the winters. During peak season up north, we鈥檙e on and off horses from sunrise to sunset, and the days can be 13 or 14 hours long. I鈥檝e worked 95-hour weeks when the ranch is busy. Things calm down a bit in the winter: right now, my shifts are only 12 hours.

Can You Afford the Rent?

The short answer is no. Horse guiding is usually paid on daily wages, and most companies start you out at $70 a day, which is dismal.

A few ranches provide subsidized housing. Some have to鈥攁 lot of the places I guide are on big properties in the middle of nowhere, and there really aren鈥檛 any rooms to rent. Not that most folks could afford to, anyway. Where I am now, in a vacation getaway town in the Southwest, my rent would be around $2,500 a month.

Besides, the work is seasonal, so I have to pick up and move every six months. Right now, I live in a camper with my partner and our dogs. We鈥檙e both guides, so it works for us, but we won鈥檛 be able to do it forever.

What鈥檚 It Like to Guide Celebrities?

Famous people can be entitled. They鈥檙e used to being able to do exactly what they want. But as soon as you put them on a horse, it changes the power dynamic in an interesting way.

The first time you tell a celebrity to put their phone away, they just stare at you. Then you look them in the eyes and list the possible consequences鈥攇etting thrown off a horse, losing the phone, breaking an arm鈥攁nd they realize you鈥檙e not afraid of them. Then they start to listen.

Are There Crazy Perks to Working at a Lodge That Costs $3,000 per Night?

Not really. At one of the fancier ranches I worked on, the employees didn鈥檛 get fed or housed. We couldn鈥檛 go into the restaurant or use the sauna or other amenities. We were there to work and then to go home鈥攖o be seen and not heard. We were not to interact with the guests unless they were on a ride.

What Are Your Biggest Client Red Flags?

Every now and then, we鈥檒l get someone who鈥檚 ridden a fancy reining horse or dressage horse before. They鈥檒l get in the saddle with us and say, 鈥淭his horse sucks.鈥� I can鈥檛 stand that. These horses are very good at what they鈥檙e trained to do. If you think you鈥檙e such hot shit, then don鈥檛 ride with me.

The other client red flag is someone who shows up in chaps and spurs. Believe it or not, that happens all the time. Or, sometimes, influencers show up to ride in strappy sandals and a sundress. I鈥檓 like, 鈥淲hat is it you think you鈥檙e going to do today? If you want photos, we can get photos. But you鈥檙e going to hate your life if you get on a horse in that kind of getup.鈥�

Who Was Your Worst Employer?

Some of the bigger ranches are terrible to their animals. If you鈥檝e got 40 horses, it鈥檚 easy for the owners to start seeing them as a commodity. I once had a boss at a fancy ranch in the West who would train the horses semi-abusively鈥攜elling at them. Hitting them. And one time, this boss put an older horse in the round pen, roped her feet to get her to pick up her hooves, and kept her in there for hours without water. A few different people tried to step in, but the boss wouldn鈥檛 listen. By the end, the horse was bleeding from rope burns on all four legs. I quit after that. It was a good job, and it was hard to walk away from that paycheck, but I had to.

Why Do You Keep Doing It?

Last winter, I had a gal who came to ride and rode alone. She was quiet鈥擨 couldn鈥檛 tell if she was enjoying herself or having a miserable time. But in the last five minutes of the ride, she started crying. 鈥淭oday is the 15th anniversary of my father鈥檚 death, and I used to ride horses with him,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 can feel him here with us.鈥�

That鈥檚 just one story, but there are a bunch like that. Horses just get to people. And those experiences keep you going.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity, as well as to preserve the source鈥檚 anonymity.聽

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In 1978, skier and kinetic artist John King, along with two pals, set out on a singular and epic adventure: a backcountry ski tour from Durango, Colorado to the Medicine Bow Range near Fort Collins. Over six weeks, the trio skied 490 miles, climbed 65,000 vertical feet. They finished gaunt and sun cooked, with boots held together by tape. Their route influenced the design of the Colorado Trail and the locations of the 10th Mountain Division hut system, but the journey has never been repeated. It鈥檚 not an overstatement to call this one of the most audacious wintertime feats of endurance in the history of skiing鈥攁 new documentary called Moving Line captures all of that beautifully. And for John King the true triumph was the artistic merit of the pursuit itself. John believes that his tracks on that trip sketched lines that extend into his present day and beyond toward his future. In John鈥檚 estimation, movement is creation, expedition is art, and all of it guides him every step of the way.

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People ask me if I see creepy things in the woods. Mostly I don鈥檛, but sometimes I鈥檓 out with my dogs at night and they growl at what seems like nothing. Their hackles rise, and my hackles (that is, arm hairs) start prickling, and I wonder what they鈥檙e seeing that I鈥檓 not. Do I believe in ghosts? I think I don鈥檛. But the idea scares me, which is to say that I haven鈥檛 ruled them out, either. And twined with that fear, I鈥檒l admit, is a desperate hope: if ghosts are real, then death isn鈥檛 the end.

This October, in an effort to get to the bottom of this fear-slash-hope, I reached out to a professional ghost hunter named David Olsen, the founder and leader of a ten-person crew called . David said it was tricky to gauge spectral presence outdoors鈥攈is equipment might pick up on animals or stray hikers instead鈥攂ut I could join him on a nighttime investigation at an abandoned church and rectory that was about to be torn down. His team had investigated there previously, and the site was, he said grimly, 鈥渁ctive.鈥�

Sure enough, when I arrived that Saturday afternoon at the church, a vast beige building with boarded doors and torn pages of the Chicago Catholic scattered with trash on the ground, one of the investigators had already been hit in the calf with a bolt.

He pulled the bolt from his pocket to show me. 鈥淚 was standing still,鈥� he said, 鈥渁nd it came out of nowhere. It was a direct hit.鈥�

鈥淲ait,鈥� I said. 鈥淕hosts can physically hurt us?鈥�

There was a long pause.

鈥�Typically no,鈥� he said.

This was a smallish investigation: only three ghost hunters, including David, and two camera guys, who were corporate videographers by day. While David organized equipment鈥攈e鈥檇 acquired about $100,000 worth over his 20 years of ghost hunting鈥攖he other hunters, AJ and Ryan, showed me around. AJ was the youngest at 30, long-haired, with a Misfits tee and tattoo of stigmata on his arm. He鈥檇 grown up religious, he said, and got into ghost-hunting when he dated David鈥檚 niece. (The romantic relationship ended; the ghost-hunting one stuck.) Ryan was a fireman with a tendency to swear, then apologize鈥攂ecause I was a lady or a guest, I couldn鈥檛 tell. I said I didn鈥檛 mind. David cleared his throat. 鈥淟et鈥檚 be polite,鈥� he said. 鈥淭here could be kid ghosts here.鈥�

They led me through the nave, with its cracked stoup and crooked pews, then upstairs to a floor of classrooms, a long hall with a dozen open doors. One of the doors, they said, had slammed closed on its own during their last visit; they鈥檇 spent an hour searching for drafts, stepping on various parts of the floor to see if shifting weight could make the door move like that. (It couldn鈥檛.)

Ruling out the mundane, it turns out, is the most time-consuming part of hunting the supernatural. 鈥淪ay aloud if you鈥檙e having trouble breathing,鈥� AJ advised me. 鈥淚t could be ghosts, but it could also be asbestos.鈥� He and Ryan had covered each window with black paper, blocking reflections and light. And anytime someone sneezed, or moved, or scratched an itch, we were to 鈥渢ag鈥� the sound by naming it aloud. 鈥淩yan! Ryan! Ryan!鈥� Ryan said after sneezing. 鈥淏lair taking notes,鈥� I practiced to myself, noting suddenly the volume, the suggestive scratch, of my pen. 鈥淏lair鈥檚 stomach making a noise like the moans of the undead.鈥�

I tried hard to notice sensations that I might have otherwise ignored. That scratch in my throat, as we shuffled through the rectory hallway, with its moldy books on the floor and torn poster of Diego Rivera鈥攚as I coming down with something, or experiencing a sympathetic connection with an entity who couldn鈥檛 speak? The rectory air was humid; sun poured through windows on the southern side, so that certain rooms sweltered and others felt as cold as a cave. One room, an office at the far end, gave me the creeps. As soon as I stepped inside, I wanted to leave. Ryan and AJ shared a glance. In their last investigation, they said, several female ghost-hunters had hated this room, but none of the men got bad vibes. It must be part of the rectory where women weren鈥檛 allowed; that energy lingered, through intelligent spirits or just echoes from before.

Ghosts might cling on to us. But if need be, he had tools to get them off.

By now the sun was setting, the outlines of covered windows fading to black. After discussing what to eat for dinner (would DoorDash deliver to a condemned rectory with a blocked-off parking lot? Probably not; Ryan left to get pizza), David gave me a tour of his gear. It is not possible, I鈥檓 afraid, to express to you the sheer quantity of this equipment, nor, despite my efforts, do I understand what it all does. There were thermal cameras and night vision cameras and voice phenomena recorders, laser grids that projected onto every wall, string lights that changed color to track movement beside them, trip lights, various black boxes with proprietary names, thermo-activated music boxes, electromagnetic sensors, plug-in electromagnetic 鈥減umps鈥� so that ghosts wouldn鈥檛 need to drain our phone batteries (or us) if they needed energy to communicate, motion-detector stuffed bears that would light up and dance if a curious child spirit came close, and much more. By the time it was all set up, the whole cold, disintegrating place was threaded with lights and lines, flickering everywhere, black and red, the sheer quantity somehow terrifying and embracing at once.

It was time to begin. I鈥檇 had goosebumps for an hour straight.

鈥淚f anyone feels not right,鈥� said David, 鈥渓ike you鈥檙e not yourself, step out.鈥� Ghosts might cling on to us. But if need be, he had tools to get them off.

We stood in the entryway of the rectory, shifting weight, holding our breath in the reddish dark. 鈥淚s anyone here?鈥� said David, loudly, as if calling to someone outside. 鈥淚s there anything you want to tell us?鈥�

Nothing answered. A shadow passed toward the stairs. A shred of light, maybe, from the edge of the windows; headlights gliding outside. Or else a spirit heading downstairs.

鈥淭he last time I was here,鈥� said Ryan, 鈥淚 felt like I was gonna hurl.鈥�

I felt nauseous myself.

We decided to try the next room. AJ gestured, politely, for me to walk in first. 鈥淣o way,鈥� I said.

鈥淔irst is fine,鈥� he told me. 鈥淲hat you don鈥檛 want to be is last.鈥�

I stayed in the middle of the group, making sure to be within an arm鈥檚 reach of at least one person at all times. The next room held only a stained mattress, half-covered with sheets on the floor.

鈥淲e just want to talk to you,鈥� David told the ghosts. 鈥淧lease. We don鈥檛 mean harm.鈥�

Nothing was answering us, not now, although later David would scour the recordings, listening for voices we might not have heard at the time. But room after room felt empty. We all agreed. Another shadow passed the doorway, heading toward the basement stairs. AJ suggested, this time, that we follow it down.

The basement was freezing. It felt like stepping into a cold pool. David set a temperature-sensitive music box on the stairwell, lasers by the door, and we sat on moist chairs around a table in the center of the space. No sooner had we sat down than the thin melody of the music box sounded from the stairs.

We turned toward it as one, hypnotized, chilled.

鈥淢ake it stop,鈥� called David, and I thought, at first, that he was speaking to us. But he was facing the darkness. 鈥淢ake it stop, so we don鈥檛 think it鈥檚 a false alarm.鈥�

The notes kept on.

鈥淵ou鈥檙e not listening,鈥� he said to the ghost. 鈥淚f you keep it going like that, I鈥檓 going to think it鈥檚 a false alarm, not you.鈥�

The box went silent.

鈥淒id I scare you?鈥� he said.

Silence. A few notes. Then silence again.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what to believe,鈥� said David. 鈥淚f it鈥檚 you, I don鈥檛 want to discourage you from messing with the equipment. Maybe you like this piece more than the other stuff. But I just can鈥檛 tell鈥斺��

The music interrupted him, lilting and slow. A few seconds. Then it stopped.

鈥淲ere you a musician?鈥� called AJ, gently.

鈥淚 think it鈥檚 a false alarm,鈥� said David. 鈥淥r the way it鈥檚 messing, it鈥檚 something like a child would do, in my opinion.鈥�

鈥淲ere you upstairs before?鈥� said Ryan. 鈥淒id you lead us here?鈥�

David moved the music box, and Ryan put a laser grid projector in the spot where it had been. 鈥淭his one just makes lights,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not going to hurt you at all. See? I can touch it. It makes pretty colors. You get more rainbow colors the more you touch it. Or if you really like this music box, I鈥檓 putting it by the other stairs.鈥�

By the other stairs, the music box sat still. I stared at the laser鈥檚 red lines, willing them to change.

鈥淵ou can play with it鈥︹�� said David. 鈥淚t won鈥檛 hurt you. You can play.鈥�

And with that line, with the boyishness of his voice鈥�I have this, will you play?鈥擨 stopped, in an instant, being scared. It was the familiar sweetness of his wish. David had cool gear! And he really, really wanted the ghost to like it.

The laser lines were still. All of the music was gone.

Even if the ghosts didn鈥檛 want to play with the equipment, we could. AJ pulled out a box that generated words on a screen, and we all guessed what they might mean, though to me the words seemed more like story prompts鈥斺�渇elt desert鈥�鈥�than messages from beyond the grave. Then we turned on a device that scrolled through radio signals, and strained for meaning in the gargling, staccato din. The guys heard something that sounded like 鈥渆vil.鈥� To me, it sounded like 鈥渒ey lime pie.鈥�

鈥淲hat I think is interesting about ghost hunters is that they鈥檙e looking. Regardless of what they find.鈥�

When I finally left, crossing the parking lot to my car, I felt less nervous than I ever have in a dark parking lot in my life. But I sure as hell stopped at a 7-11 en route back, as David advised, to shake off any spirits that might follow me home, and also to buy Skittles.

As luck would have it, I found myself at dinner that week with a Catholic priest, and told him about the church. 鈥淲ould there be a room in the rectory where ghosts wouldn鈥檛 want women to come in?鈥� I asked him.

鈥淲ell,鈥� he said, 鈥渁ll of it.鈥�

Another dinner guest leaned forward over his salmon. 鈥淲hat I think is interesting about ghost hunters,鈥� he said, 鈥渋s that they鈥檙e looking. Regardless of what they find.鈥� And suddenly I understood what had felt familiar鈥攖hat excitement, that spine-tingling hope鈥攁s we鈥檇 held our breath for the ghost to respond, and why every friend I鈥檇 told about the experiment had demanded to know the outcome, regardless of their beliefs. The search wasn鈥檛 really about ghosts鈥攐r at least, not just about ghosts鈥攁ny more than a hike is about getting somewhere. We鈥檙e all just finding new ways to look for more.

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