When Teresa Martinez was a mountain-bike racer, she suffered a recurring anxiety dream. Days before any competition, Martinez would envision herself woefully unprepared, five minutes before the start. First, her shoes would go missing, then her bike, then her water bottle, then her gloves. With her gear finally gathered, she still had to find the starting line. 鈥淎nd then, you wake up in a cold sweat,鈥� she told me recently. 鈥淎nd think, 鈥極h my god, that was crazy.鈥欌€�

Martinez doesn鈥檛 need to sleep to feel that way these days. Now the executive director of the Coalition, the nonprofit that supports and sustains the 3,100-mile trail across the country鈥檚 rocky spine, Martinez has spent the last four months navigating the administrative roller-coaster of edicts and executive orders from the Trump Administration and its Department of Government Efficiency that have gutted public land agencies.

She has seen staff cut at partner agencies, wondered if the CDTC would be reimbursed for money it had already spent with prior government approval, and fretted about changing plans to balance the books for this fiscal year. It鈥檚 neither a dream nor a nightmare, just reality. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like the racecourse is being built while we鈥檙e riding it,鈥� Martinez said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like you鈥檙e waiting for the next shoe to drop as we continue down the path, not knowing if we鈥檙e going to get there.鈥�

Throughout the spring, I’ve had similar conversations with the leaders at four other iconic American trails鈥攖he Appalachian, Colorado, Ice Age, and Pacific Crest鈥攁bout how federal uncertainty has hamstrung them. The nonprofit groups that manage these trails all depend, to varying degrees, on federal funds and symbiotic relationships with federal organizations such as the United States Forest Service and National Park Service.

Their concerns, of course, varied: The Pacific Crest Trail Association had just cut six expert trail workers and more than a year鈥檚 worth of trail maintenance to be done by youth crews when I spoke to leaders there. The Colorado Trail Foundation worried about water spigots and pit toilets at trailheads. The Ice Age Trail Alliance paused registration for its trail-building season.

But they all agreed on one partial remedy: Ordinary people donating their money or volunteering their time could not only help plug some gaps created by federal instability but also bolster the spirits of those still left to do hard work with less resources. Too, it鈥檚 a way for those frustrated by the administration鈥檚 decisions or indecision to feel a little less helpless.

鈥淲e鈥檙e in an unprecedented time, the middle of this dust storm, so we鈥檙e not exactly sure where our needs are going to fall. But I have no doubt that they鈥檙e going to grow,鈥� said Sandi Marra, the ever-candid head of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. 鈥淲e鈥檙e going to need skilled volunteers. We鈥檙e going to need people in numbers that we haven鈥檛 needed in the past, because we鈥檙e not going to be able to rely on the federal support we鈥檝e had in the past.鈥�

At the Colorado Trail Foundation, for instance, executive director Paul Talley was looking for a few people who could wield a chainsaw. Cutting trees on trail is subject to a series of byzantine regulations and certifications. If a downed tree can鈥檛 be handled with a handsaw and requires either a crosscut saw or a chainsaw, volunteers have to be trained and approved by forest service personnel. But since the Federal government began slashing jobs at the Forest Service, many people with the power to vet amateur sawyers have been let go or accepted buyouts. So Talley is working his connections in Colorado and networking with other organizations to find folks who have already been certified that simply might not know about the Colorado Trail’s needs.

鈥淲e鈥檙e making a call list: 鈥楬ey, can we call you?鈥� We need help with this big tree,鈥欌€� Talley told me. 鈥淲e鈥檙e also developing a process where trainers can come to our facilities to get people certified. If we鈥檙e just relying on the Forest Service at this point, it鈥檚 a multi-year wait.鈥�

All volunteers, of course, don鈥檛 need to be highly specialized. Megan Wargo, who leads the Pacific Crest Trail Association, listed a half-dozen ways folks who couldn鈥檛 wield a chainsaw might help. Each year, the trail must be 鈥渂rushed,鈥� essentially meaning someone walks it to clear it of any overgrowth. Others lead mules to remote trail work sites, literally taking the loads off the backs of other volunteers. Some still command the kitchen, cooking for trail crews on sites, while others can help with administrative tasks and educational outreach from the association鈥檚 Sacramento office. Still, there is a catch.

鈥淣ew volunteers and existing volunteers putting in more hours can make a big difference, but they can鈥檛 close the whole gap of not having federal funding,鈥� Wargo said, noting that the PCTA鈥檚 federal funding of just less than $700,000 has remained flat for a dozen years even as material and labor costs have risen. 鈥淭he PCTA can help provide training to get those folks on the ground. But if we don鈥檛 have staff to do that, it鈥檚 hard to increase those volunteer hours.鈥�

And so, of course, it all comes down to money. Most trail organizations told me they鈥檇 found ways to mitigate their dependence on federal funding. The Colorado Trail, for instance, has built a sizable emergency fund through 20 years of compounding interest on a surplus. The Appalachian Trail intentionally diversified its revenue streams after recognizing that their federal partners were chronically understaffed, anyway, even before the genesis of DOGE. The Ice Age Trail reinstated its trail-building season not only after most of its funding finally started to trickle in but also when private donors stepped up to help because they cared about the work. The Ice Age, after all, hopes to finish 15 new miles of trail this year.

As questions loom about if and when money will arrive, such contributions mean that work that鈥檚 already been planned and authorized can proceed for now, that the effort of building and maintaining the country鈥檚 hiking trails doesn鈥檛 end with any specific administration. 鈥淎s we have funding uncertainties, private money can either step in and cover some of the costs that aren鈥檛 being covered by federal grants right now or provide us with stability when we鈥檙e asking for federal reimbursements that have been paused,鈥� Wargo, at the PCTA, said. 鈥淭hat gives us flexibility to be able to continue our operations.鈥�

But times, of course, aren鈥檛 only tight for trail organizations. Some estimates, by Senator Bernie Sanders of Vermont, say 60 percent of Americans now live paycheck-to-paycheck; new tariffs will compound that problem, because, as The New York Times , 鈥淸they] will touch almost every aspect of American life.鈥� While hiking across the United States multiple times, I鈥檝e seen at least a half-dozen trail crews consisting only of white-haired retirees. I don鈥檛 think that鈥檚 because older Americans have some special relationship with civil service and volunteerism. They, instead, have more disposable time and resources than most Americans cannot afford. Trails need help鈥攎oney, time, energy鈥攖hat many working Americans do not have the ability to spare.

But Martinez reminded me that there are ways to assist that don鈥檛 cost much at all. You can call American officials, both elected and appointed, and tell them that supporting trails matter to you. You can drop caches of water off at trailheads where there鈥檚 no working spigot. (Remember to pick up the refuse.) You can deliver a box of donuts to an agency鈥檚 office, whether it鈥檚 the headquarters of a trail coalition or park rangers, and tell them you support the work they do for public lands. See a forest service crew at a bar? Buy 鈥檈m a beer and say thanks. That鈥檚 all, Martinez said, volunteerism.

鈥淲hether it鈥檚 picking up trash at a trailhead or leaving water or setting up a feed station for volunteers, if it鈥檚 something somebody wanted to do, we could say yes and support that,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an act of kindness, and right now, we need to be reminded of how kind we can be.鈥�

The post Do You Love Hiking Trails? It鈥檚 Time to Donate and Volunteer. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

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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The Green Bay Packers were suddenly not the most interesting entertainment option听in Mac鈥檚 Pub and Grub, a dim dive packed with people wearing Packers gear on a Sunday afternoon in October in the lakeside Wisconsin town of Merrimac. Unfortunately for me, I was.

Midway through the first quarter, I had slipped inside Mac鈥檚, found an unoccupied stool, and leaned against a wall with clear sightlines of the bar鈥檚 TV gallery, exhausted and half-frozen like a piece of melting ice. I鈥檇 left camp 11 hours earlier, at 4 A.M., hustling 31 miles through a Sunday squall in order to make Mac鈥檚, or to watch the Packers鈥� bout with the Detroit Lions among the locals. But I looked as if I鈥檇 emerged from the depths of Lake Wisconsin, as puddles of rainwater pooled beneath my feet and around my backpack. Every play or two, someone else glanced askance from the bar, as if Cheers had been invaded by some primordial beast from the bottom of Boston Harbor.

鈥淎re you hungry?鈥� a broad-chested man in a Packers jersey, belly to the bar and bottle in hand, finally asked. When I nodded, he grinned and pointed. 鈥淭here鈥檚 food over there. Help yourself.鈥� For the next three hours, my wife, Tina, and I gorged ourselves on what surely must have been the most delicious potluck ever鈥攆inger-thick slabs of candied bacon, brie wheels topped with baked salmon, tortilla chip smothered in cheese-laden chili. As we slowly warmed back to life after the windy November downpour, the regulars steadily realized we were hiking across their state, endeavoring to finish the 1,200-mile Ice Age Trail before the infamous Wisconsin winter arrived. Some of them, at least, became fans.

Mac had first said I looked like a wet rat; now, he spun our laundry in the bar鈥檚 dryer, then offered to let us camp beside the bar. A couple, Paul and Deb, peppered us with questions about the adventure, then feted us with their own wilderness stories鈥攁nd several shots. Sue, a retiree who would soon head south for the winter, offered up a bathtub and bedroom, which we accepted after needlessly worrying we were being soft. 鈥淵ou kids be safe,鈥� Mac said, smiling like a proud father as we followed Sue to her car, 鈥渁nd let us know when you finish.鈥�

So goes my overall experience on the Ice Age Trail, a 40-day slog through pleasant but repetitive woods and along often-busy highways, alleviated by bouts of unexpected support and kindness from Wisconsin natives. Strangers handed us candy bars from open car windows. Fathers running errands made U-turns to scoop us from seemingly ubiquitous rainstorms, while trailside bar owners treated us like Edmund Hillary and Tenzig Norgay before offering to deliver us breakfast the next morning. A fleet of Ice Age Trail volunteers was seemingly always on call, too, ready to drive us from hotel to听trail or offer camping intel during extended road walks.

Though it is one of , alongside the more familiar and acclaimed Appalachian and Pacific Crest, the Ice Age Trail is decidedly not a premier thru-hike, best done in one continuous push. I do not recommend it as a thru-hike. But after 11,000 miles on such trails, I can say it is the friendliest long-distance experience I鈥檝e ever had, both in terms of the people on or around it and the way its stewards have shaped and maintained it. Really, it is more of a linear community center that happens to stretch between the Minnesota and Michigan borders than a wilderness experience. The Ice Age Trail is, in every positive sense, Midwest Nice鈥攑leasant to look at, if a tad boring, but as accommodating and kind as can be.

鈥淓verybody takes pride in it in our own special way, whether it鈥檚 the person serving you breakfast in a trail town or the guy who walks the same five-mile segment every day,鈥� Jared Wildenradt, who has now hiked the entire Ice Age Trail eight times, told me two weeks after I finished my walk.

鈥淭here鈥檚 a definite community here that people don鈥檛 expect when it comes to hiking in the Midwest,鈥� he continued. 鈥淭he people that power through here get to experience that, just like you did in 40 days.鈥�

What is the Ice Age Trail?

More than many of its National Scenic Trail counterparts, the Ice Age Trail remains a work in progress. First envisioned in the fifties by a Milwaukee-born outdoors enthusiast named Ray Zillmer, it was only established by Congress during 1980. The trail roughly follows the terminal edge of the Laurentide Ice Sheet, as it about 10,000 years ago. Kettles, moraines, eskers, drumlins, wetlands, hanging valleys, outwash plains: Across, down, and up Wisconsin, you crisscross these glacial vestiges, repeated in random bursts like a particularly chaotic and tremendous .

Still, after more than four decades of route-finding, trail-building, and parcel-buying, only 700 miles of the 1,200-route is contiguous, winding across forests, around fields and farms, or through tiny towns. Nearly 500 miles still depend upon what the Ice Age Trail Alliance calls 鈥渃onnecting routes,鈥� a euphemism for rural roads and busy highways. The imperative, then, is closing those gaps, pulling hikers off those connecting routes by securing land for actual footpaths.

Wildenradt has helped find six such parcels; he talks about the first one鈥攁 glacier-carved patch of property that interrupts a 25-mile road walk via a 0.7-mile roller coaster through the woods鈥攍ike a father might extol a firstborn. When we spoke, he sat plucking seeds from pine cones that he intended to plant on that plot soon. 鈥淚 went away and hacked at the dirt, started clearing away for trail. I was beat up from head to toe,鈥� he said, laughing about the spot鈥檚 temporary nickname, Prickler鈥檚 Property. 鈥淚 had close to 300 volunteer hours when it was done. I could easily drop 100 more.鈥�

All that, mind you, for less than a mile. When the current executive director, Luke Kloberdanz, thru-hiked it in 2003, he was the eleventh person ever to do so. Only two decades ago, the mileage ratio was reversed, with nearly 700 miles of road walks to 500 on trail. He now believes the path will be finished within his children鈥檚 lifetimes, meaning his grandkids could walk from Minnesota to Michigan and touch very little asphalt.

鈥淚 always thought that completion was a long way off, that I was never going to be part of that,鈥� Kloberdanz told me. 鈥淲e may not reach the end of the tunnel in my lifetime, but we鈥檙e at least starting to see the light. I鈥檝e never felt that way in my 20 years here.鈥�

That aspirational pride animates the Ice Age Trail, end to end. I鈥檝e never hiked a better-blazed path. Hikers can spot听its bright yellow stripes by headlamp as by sunlight. (When you fill out a thru-hiking certification upon completing the trail, the Ice Age Trail Alliance even asks how many times you get lost, so they can fix the problems.) And I鈥檝e never encountered a volunteer network so robust and eager to help hikers; wherever you are in the state, you are almost always a phone call away from a free ride, meal, or bed. These volunteers raved about the contributions they and their friends had made to the trail, as if thanking me for using them, for making good on their hard work.

The trail is also dotted with benches, sometimes more than one per mile, and often dedicated to a late hiker who loved the place. They鈥檙e meant, of course, to make the trail more accommodating, to give people who aren鈥檛 aiming to finish 30 miles in a day a chance to rest. You won鈥檛 see that on any other National Scenic Trail. The friendliness is by both circumstance and design, pervading everything.

In 2020, to celebrate its 40th official year, the Ice Age Trail Alliance launched the Mammoth Hike Challenge鈥攅ssentially, a reward for anyone who hikes 40 miles during the month of October, when the foliage of the Wisconsin fall is at its apex. The trail鈥檚 mascot is a . It鈥檚 so cute I now have one on my desk, dutifully carried for the last 400 miles. They鈥檝e added one mile to that requirement each subsequent year.

On weekends, we鈥檇 meet couples and crews of friends in pursuit of their 44-mile quota. They were eager not only to share the best things they鈥檇 seen but also to hear ours. More than once, my answer was you, the people who love this trail so much.

Did I Like the Ice Age Trail?

On a cold Saturday morning at a Kwik Trip, a particularly bountiful chain of convenience stores launched in Wisconsin in the sixties, I was waiting in line at an automated espresso machine. 鈥淎re you hiking the Ice Age Trail?鈥� said the woman ahead of me, her smile as bright as her pastel tie-dye. When I answered yes, her grin somehow grew wider. She introduced herself as Tarra. 鈥淚 want to do that someday, too.鈥� Several hours later, Tarra sent us an Instagram message with her phone number and an offer of help should we need it as we neared her home a few hundred miles east.

Turns out, we did. Due to a few work deadlines, we鈥檇 pushed our pace on the Ice Age, hiking at least 30 miles every day with zero rest days. As we neared the 1,000-mile mark, my body鈥攕pecifically, my left IT Band, suddenly as intractable as a massive team of mules鈥攖ightening to the point that each step felt as if a knife was being jammed into my joint. At night, crawling into the tent, my knee looked like a balloon. I knew it was time to stop. The next morning, I hobbled two miles to a gas station and texted Tarra, asking if she knew where I might rent a car nearby. The sun wasn鈥檛 up yet, but she told me she was on her way.

As I lamented my knee an hour later, she texted a friend who happened to be her physical therapist. How soon could she see me? For two hours that afternoon, Jeanie Crawford鈥攁 , a blessed sorceress per my experience鈥攑ulled, tugged, straightened, bent, jabbed, and corrected seemingly every bone in my body. I had almost crawled into her office, but I somehow walked out with a mostly normal stride. She charged me half of her hourly rate, ostensibly听excited enough by the effort to cross her state that she practically gave away her day.

For the next week, I returned to more than 30 miles every day, moving at my normal pace because a stranger had been willing to leave her home long before her workday began and find me help. The Ice Age Trail didn鈥檛 dazzle me with scenery or variety, and it didn鈥檛 prompt me to learn any new backpacking techniques. Most days, truth be told, I didn鈥檛 even like it. I contemplated quitting more often than I鈥檝e ever considered such for anything in my life.

But it did remind me of something obvious, something that can be easy to forget high in the mountains or deep in the woods: Hiking trails are for all people, and those interactions can take a dozen different forms, from the married couple hustling from one end of a state to another to the bartender who keeps asking for more of their stories, from the gaggle of retirees out for a slow Sunday stroll high on an esker to the trail runner bombing down a rock face in the rain. The Ice Age Trail is a gift from Wisconsin鈥檚 past to Wisconsin鈥檚 present and future. I鈥檓 grateful its people share it so generously.

Grayson Haver Currin has written about long-distance hiking for 国产吃瓜黑料 since 2020. He completed the Triple Crown in 2023 and has logged more than 11,000 miles on the United States’ National Scenic Trails. He writes about music for The New York Times, GQ, Mojo, Pitchfork, and many more. He lives high in Colorado’s Front Range.

The post Wisconsin鈥檚 Ice Age Trail Is America鈥檚 Friendliest Thru-Hike appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

As chilly weather approaches and the leaves turn, it鈥檚 time to swap out staying in your favorite camping tent in favor of a hot-spring resort or cabin.

As a self-proclaimed hot-springs addict, I鈥檝e been on the prowl for seven years for the most gorgeous, steamy soaking pools across the globe. Having lived in the geothermal meccas of California and Colorado for years, I鈥檝e experienced the good, the bad, and the muddy when it comes to naturally fed soaking ponds. I鈥檝e trekked to remote warm springs in the Sierra Nevada and the Rocky Mountains, in Iceland and even Antarctica, and stripped down to splash into every single one of 鈥檈m.

Even though I love a solid hike-in hot spring, my favorite way to enjoy geothermally heated pools is on a splurge-worthy weekend trip to a lodge or a resort with private cabins, where I can soothe my tired muscles in peace, without crawling into a sleeping bag in a van or tent afterwards. Here are a few of my all-time favorite U.S. hot-springs resorts.

If you buy through our links, we may earn an affiliate commission. This supports our mission to get more people active and outside.听Learn more.

1. Ojo Caliente, New Mexico

Nearest town: Taos
Prices from: $239 for rooms per night, $40 for camping

Tucked away between Santa Fe and Taos sits the vibrant , a gaggle of adobe-style suites, retro cottages, and a historic hotel, surrounded by hiking paths, bike trails, and loads of soaking ponds.

The resort at Ojo Caliente opened in 1868, and it鈥檚 been revered as a healing sanctuary ever since, offering mineral pools rich with soda, lithium, and iron. These minerals are said to aid digestion, boost moods, and bolster your immune system, respectively. The resort鈥檚 high-end spa offers a huge variety of treatments, from sound healing to blue-corn-and-prickly-pear-sea-salt scrubs. But this retreat is not all soaking and spa time鈥搃n between baths, you can treat yourself to a yoga class, hike the or chow down on piping-hot tortilla soup and chicken mole at the on-site Artesian Restaurant and Wine Bar.

2. Esalen Institute, California

Nearest town: Big Sur
Prices from: $540 (for three days/two nights)

has long been a haven for holistic hippies and New Age types looking to embark on week-long or weekend escapes filled with meditation, clean eating, therapeutic workshops, and oceanfront hot-springs access.When I stayed at Esalen a few years ago, I skipped the institute鈥檚 famed expert-led workshops and booked a self-guided weekend exploration with my partner, so that we鈥檇 have ample free time.

We still attended a wide variety of open classes, from ecstatic dance to yoga to the study of native plant botanicals. This approach allowed us tons of time to hike among the coastal redwoods at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park and spend our nights soaking in the property鈥檚 outstanding Slate Hot Springs, which overlook the wild Pacific Ocean.

3. Mount Princeton Hot Springs Resort, Colorado

Nearest town: Nathrop
Prices from: $243 a night

Unlike many hot-springs retreats, which brand themselves as adults-only relaxation hubs, offers family-friendly pools, cabins, and lodge rooms, with a seasonal waterslide and an infinity pool overlooking the sky-high Mount Princeton and Mount Antero.

Guests can choose between minimalist lodge rooms, log cabins, and motel-style cliffside stays with epic mountain views. I heartily recommend the luxe Creekside Suites, complete with kitchenettes, balconies, and fireplaces, where my partner and I stayed this fall for a hike-and-soak couples鈥� retreat. Not only are the suites close to the natural-stone warm pools along Chalk Creek, they鈥檙e tucked back behind the main lodge and pools for maximum serenity. When you aren鈥檛 getting pruney fingers in the springs, indulge in a CBD massage (my favorite treatment) at the spa or a Rocky Mountain elk filet at the on-site restaurant.

4. Quinn’s Hot Springs Resort, Montana

Nearest town: Paradise
Prices from: $269 a night

Situated a mere hour from the outdoorsy mecca of Missoula, serves up elevated, mountain-chic lodge rooms, cozy riverfront cabins, and naturally fed springs with water temperatures up to 106 degrees, which is steamier than your average hot tub.

The soaking pools at Quinn鈥檚 are open year-round and offer vistas of forested hillsides, which, in winter months, are topped with snow. The site鈥檚 Canyon Cabins boast the most direct access to the springs, but its River View Cabins, set on the banks of the Clark Fork, offer outstanding views. When you鈥檙e not taking a dip or casting a line for native westslope cutthroat trout, enjoy hearty Americana fare like bison carpaccio and wild-game meatloaf at Harwood House Restaurant, which won a Wine Spectator Award of Excellence in 2024.

5. Breitenbush Hot Springs, Oregon

Nearest town: Detroit
Prices from: $112 for camping / $117 for rooms

Following a devastating fire back in 2020, Oregon鈥檚 is back in action, with three newly built Grove Rooms, plus mushroom yurts, glamping tents, and vehicle-friendly campsites.

This off-grid, clothing-optional sanctuary is a mere two-hour drive from Portland and is open year-round. It鈥檚 a designated substance- and device-free space, so travelers can unwind and unplug while connecting with community members. Natural rock-bottom hot-spring pools and clawfoot tubs adorn the forested property, and organic vegetarian meals can be added onto any booking, including day passes.

Not keen on soaking all afternoon? Spend some time cruising the West Cascades Scenic Byway or hike the .

6. Chena Hot Springs Resort, Alaska

Nearest town: Fairbanks
Prices from: $20 for camping / $200 for rooms a night

Want to kick back in a remote hot spring while the green tendrils of the Northern Lights dance above your head? At , a retreat center in Alaska鈥檚 rugged interior, this far-flung dream can become a reality.

Choose between the hotel-style Moose Lodge Rooms, the cozy budget-friendly Fox Rooms, woodsy cabins, camping yurts, and RV-friendly campsites, then relax. With an average water temperature of 106 degrees, this soaking site is prime for year-round visitors, no matter how gnarly the Alaska weather gets. Aromatherapy and hot stone massages are also available in an adorable cabin near the main Pool House. Spend your days cuddling sled-dog puppies, touring the ice museum, or dog sledding, and when the sun sets, bundle up for an .

7. Avalanche Ranch Cabins and Hot Springs, Colorado

Nearest town: Carbondale
Prices from: $135 a night

With day pass rates of $32 and lodging starting at $135, the clear, uncrowded pools of have become a Colorado favorite, with overnight guests often having to book four to six months out.

I first heard about Avalanche Ranch back in 2019, when a canceled flight out of Aspen gave me a day to kill near Carbondale. Lucky me. Because it was a frigid weekday, I was able to make a last-minute day reservation and warm my post-ski bones with a view of snowy Mount Sopris and its rounded twin summits. It was as close to a perfect day in the mountains as you can imagine, but next time I head to Avalanche Ranch, I鈥檒l spend a little extra to bed down in one of the property鈥檚 colorful, pet-friendly log cabins. Overnight guests can use the springs 24 hours a day; day passes allow four-hour access from 9:00 A.M. to 1:00 P.M. or 1:00 to 5:00 P.M. (The pool closes Wednesdays for cleaning.)

8. Burgdorf Hot Springs, Idaho

Nearest town: McCall
Prices from: $150 a night

Accessible by regular vehicles all summer long and by snowmobile in the winter months, and its historic cabins look more like a rustic ghost town than a real-deal soaking resort. However, this off-grid haven is a slice of paradise for those who don鈥檛 mind booking a cottage without electricity and running water, and are willing to bring their own bedding.

Intrepid wanderers will be rewarded with steaming pools of up to 113 degrees, with gravel bottoms and split log sides. Nestled in the conifer-dense Payette National Forest, Burgdorf is a hiker鈥檚 heaven, with awesome nearby hiking trails like Deep Lake, Ruby Meadows and Josephine Lake (don鈥檛 forget the bear spray). Just be sure to return to the springs in time for a dreamy, post-trek sunset soak.

9. Hot Springs Resort and Spa, North Carolina

Nearest town: Hot Springs
Prices from: $45

*Hot Springs Resort and Spa was damaged in recent flooding resulting from Hurricane Helene. Please see this page. Check back in early 2025 if you plan to visit and support this small town.

Though the East Coast isn鈥檛 revered for its hot springs, a handful of all-natural warm springs have kept travelers coming back for decades. North Carolina鈥檚 is one of the rare destinations where tent campers and RVers can enjoy both nature and the option to book a in a modern, jetted hot tub. The place has also become a favorite stopover for thru-hikers coming off the Appalachian Trail.

Campers can choose from among a myriad of options, which range from primitive tent sites to spacious group sites on the banks of the French Broad River. Not so into roughing it? Check out the resort鈥檚 deluxe cabins, complete with kitchenettes.

10. The Country Inn of Berkeley Springs, West Virginia

Nearest town: Berkeley Springs
Prices from: $130 a night

First opened in 1933, this historic colonial-style hotel in the eastern panhandle of West Virginia boasts 70 guest rooms and an that offers everything from mineral baths to sugar scrubs and hot-stone massages.

The tiny hamlet of Berkeley Springs, less than two hours from Baltimore and Washington, D.C., is revered as one of the nation鈥檚 first warm-spring wellness retreats, with famous patrons like George Washington frequenting the area. Rooms at are adorned in elegant furnishings, but also provide modern amenities, like flatscreen TVs, mini-fridges, and high-speed Wi-Fi. Don鈥檛 miss live music at the Inn鈥檚 restaurant on Saturday nights.

11. The Gideon Putnam, New York

Nearest town: Saratoga Springs
Prices from: $229 a night

This elegant New York retreat is set a short 35-minute drive from Albany, in the centuries-old wellness haven of Saratoga Springs, which was once visited by the likes of Oscar Wilde and Susan B. Anthony. Today, with updated East Coast colonial-style rooms, some of which are pet-friendly, guests can kick up their feet with modern conveniences like air conditioning, HDTVs, and Wi-Fi.

What truly sets , though, is that it鈥檚 the only hotel located inside Saratoga Spa State Park. This National Historic Landmark features two different golf courses, a large swimming-pool complex, and miles of nature trails that transform into a cross-country ski paradise in winter. Be sure to check out the Gideon Putnam鈥檚 luxurious Roosevelt Baths and Spa, named in honor of President Franklin D. Roosevelt for his role in helping preserve the Saratoga Springs area, and book yourself a mineral bath and a Muscadine Moonshine Sea Salt Scrub while you鈥檙e at it.

Emily Pennington is a national-parks expert and self-proclaimed hot-springs addict who鈥檚 also a longtime contributor to 国产吃瓜黑料. To date, she鈥檚 visited every U.S. national park and hiked on all seven continents. Her book, Feral, Losing My Way and Finding Myself in America鈥檚 National Parks, was published in 2023. When she鈥檚 not frantically typing at her keyboard, you can find her exploring every hot spring known to humanity in her new home state of Colorado.

For more by this author, see:

I Visited Every U.S. National Park. My Favorite Might Surprise You.

The Best New Hotels with Easy Access to U.S. National Parks

These 10 National Parks Will Have Timed-Entry Reservations This Year

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California is more massive and geologically diverse than many similarly sized countries, which makes for some incredible hiking choices. I lived in Los Angeles for 19 years and could head to ancient sequoia groves one weekend, wander oceanfront sand dunes the next, and then trek through the Joshua trees the weekend after that. All were less than a four-hour drive away.

Whether you want to stroll alongside brilliant alpine tarns or crane your neck up at the tallest trees on the planet, there鈥檚 a hike for that, and it鈥檚 likely an easy road trip from one of the state鈥檚 metro areas. These trails are my all-time favorites, organized from shortest to longest. Most can be done in a day, though some are best savored as part of an overnight backpacking adventure.

Be sure to check out the incorporated map links to go even more granular and get your planning fully dialed.

1. Bristlecone Discovery Trail

Location: Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest
Mileage: 1 mile round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

It鈥檚 a rare and special outing to hike among the oldest living things on earth, but this mile loop lets you do just that. After a drive along the winding, high-altitude road from the Sierra town of Big Pine into the White Mountains, park at the lot and get ready to have your mind blown.

Take your time and bring enough water to keep hydrated, as the trail begins at 10,000 feet. Many of the mature bristlecones along this path are over 3,000 years old鈥攐lder than the original 13 American colonies or even the Roman Empire鈥攁nd strolling among them always puts things into perspective for me.

2. Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes

Location: Death Valley National Park
Mileage: 2 miles round trip
Access:

Although there鈥檚 no designated trail for this hike, this is a must-see California spot, with some of the most easily accessed sand dunes in the country. According to the National Park Service, it takes most hikers 90 minutes to get to and from the highest dune in the park, from which you can see the massive ridgelines of the arid Cottonwood and Panamint Mountains.

You鈥檒l probably want to spend some extra time tumbling or sandboarding down the dune field, so set aside a half day to explore this Death Valley gem. Pro tip: go at sunset to witness the dunes and valley light up in a soft pink glow.

3. Congress Trail

Location: Sequoia National Park
Mileage: 2.8 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

What鈥檚 a trip to Sequoia without a visit to the largest tree (by volume) on earth? Make that a priority, and after you鈥檝e whispered your hellos to General Sherman, get away from the throngs of tourists on this accessible, paved path through a multitude of similarly impressive giant sequoias. Pine needles dampen the noise of others nearby, so you can truly unwind as you stroll past the enormous House and Senate Groups of trees. It鈥檚 a fantastic excuse to slowly saunter down a forested path, rather than hustle to the next crowded viewpoint.

4. Convict Lake Loop

Location: Mammoth Lakes
Mileage: 2.8 miles
Access and听Gaia GPS Route:

This might just be the best easy hike in the whole state, and a stunning quarter-mile of it is paved and accessible to wheelchairs. Even the humble parking area has stupendous views of the toothy rock fins that jut out from the east face of 11,811-foot Laurel Mountain and the dark, imposing granite of 12,270-foot Mount Morrison.

Fishing for brown and rainbow trout is popular here (you鈥檒l need a ), so you鈥檒l likely see a few anglers out as you make your way around this mellow trail. After circumnavigating the glacially carved lake, from the neighboring marina or soak at the nearby Wild Willy鈥檚 Hot Springs.

5. Tall Trees Trail

Location: Redwood National Park
Mileage: 3.5 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

If you鈥檙e a fan of old-growth forests, fantasy novels, or mossy green landscapes, this hike is for you. First, apply online for a that鈥檒l get you a gate code to open the private, six-mile-long dirt road that leads to the trailhead. Don鈥檛 worry, my low-clearance, two-wheel-drive van made it just fine. After parking in a gravel lot shaded by conifers, you鈥檒l step onto the trail and be transported to a scene straight out of Hobbiton. Maples and Douglas firs will occlude the bright sun as you descend steeply for 800 feet before coming to the beginning of the ancient redwood grove itself.

I highly recommend stopping at one of the benches at the center of the grove to close your eyes and meditate on the forest magic surrounding you before returning the way you came. If it鈥檚 a hot day, cool off in neighboring Redwood Creek before backtracking to your car.

6. Lassen Peak

Location: Lassen Volcanic National Park
Mileage:听4.6 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

Want to summit a California volcano but don鈥檛 want to brave the glaciated slopes of Mount Shasta? Lassen Peak is a suitable, much easier plan B. Slap on your sunscreen before heading out, because Lassen鈥檚 slopes are incredibly exposed after the first mile, once you鈥檝e emerged from the gnarled hemlock and whitebark pines. But the trade-off is worth it, with spectacular views the whole way up and down its switchbacks.

I enjoy the bird鈥檚-eye view of Cinder Cone Volcano鈥檚 dark brown hump and the dacite lava domes of Chaos Crags as you scramble a leg-busting 1,957 feet to the summit. Take your time at the top and step off trail to descend into the interior of Lassen鈥檚 crater, which last erupted from 1914 to 1917.

7. Long Lake via Bishop Pass Trail

Location: Inyo National Forest
Mileage: 4.7 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route: Bishop Pass鈥揝outh Lake Trailhead (see map below)

This is one of the best low-effort, high-reward day hikes or in the Sierra Nevada, namely because the trailhead is already located at a lofty 9,900 feet elevation, so your car can do much of the climbing for you. From the town of Bishop, head southwest and park in the lot near the South Lake boat launch, then hike south through a forest of ponderosa pines, taking in sweet views of 11-682-foot Chocolate Peak and 12,237-foot Hurd Peak along the way. Once you get to Long Lake, toothy 13,000-footers like Mount Goode and Mount Agassiz dominate the skyline.

If you鈥檝e got an overnight trip planned, spend day two getting high above the tree line on the challenging switchbacks to Bishop Pass for a top-down look at the many cobalt blue lakes in the valley you just traversed.

8. Condor Gulch to High Peaks Loop

Location: Pinnacles National Park
Mileage: 5.9 miles
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

One of our nation鈥檚 newest national parks, established in 2013, is only 55 miles southeast of Monterey. Haven鈥檛 yet visited? Make the most of it on this loop into the park鈥檚 High Peaks area for some of the best chances in the country of spotting an endangered California condor. From March through May, a psychedelic array of wildflowers blossoms across the park that include brilliant red fuchsia, orange poppies, and delicate yellow monkey flowers.

After a steep climb into the park鈥檚 namesake volcanic pinnacle formations, stop for a photo op and peer into the mountains of the Hain Wilderness before circling back toward the Bear Gulch Day Use Area. might want to tack an extra day onto their trip to explore the park鈥檚 many, many bolted and multi-pitch routes.

9. Lost Horse Mine Loop

Location: Joshua Tree National Park
Mileage: 6.3 miles
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

This route rewards hikers with several payoffs, thanks to impressive Mojave Desert views, plenty of Seussian-like Joshua trees, and one of the in California. Centrally located in the park, near both Ryan Mountain and the Sheep Pass Campground, the trail meanders across the arid desert, passing numerous 19th-century stone ruins and the now defunct mine that once produced more than 10,000 ounces of gold and 16,000 ounces of silver in its heyday.

I suggest hiking the loop clockwise, to finish with views of thousands of the park鈥檚 namesake trees along Quail Wash.

10. Little Lakes Valley to Gem Lakes

Location: in Inyo National Forest
Mileage: 7.2 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route: Little Lakes Valley Trailhead (see map below)

If you鈥檙e up for a hike to one of the most stunning valleys in the entire Sierra Nevada, plan to arrive at the designated parking lot along Rock Creek Road before 9 A.M. because this place is popular. The trail traipses along at about 10,200 feet elevation, making it a fantastic way to experience the high alpine without huffing and puffing up scree slopes.

From the lot, the trail heads south to a valley studded with shimmering, crystal clear tarns that call to hikers on warm summer days. Dip your toes in as many as you see fit, all while marveling at views of 13,000-footers like Mount Morgan and Mount Dade. If you can, grab a coveted for the area and spend the night at Gem Lakes, which is usually the turnaround point for day hikers.

11. Vicente Flat

Location: Big Sur
Mileage: 10.2 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

Featuring wide-ranging views of the cerulean blue ocean and coastal California redwoods, the thigh-burning trail up Vicente Flat is quintessentially Big Sur. Park off legendary Highway 1, right across from the Kirk Creek Campground, and get ready to ascend roughly 2,500 feet before reaching a large backcountry campground, shaded by old-growth redwood trees as thick as a truck. Turn around here, or pitch a tent and turn the journey into an overnight backpacking trek.

There is one thing to be aware of: poison oak鈥搕he area is full of it. So know how to identify and treat it.

12. Half Dome via the Mist Trail

Location: Yosemite National Park
Mileage: 14 miles round trip
Access and Gaia GPS Route:

Looming large over Yosemite Valley, Half Dome鈥檚 immense granite facade is perhaps one of the most iconic natural landmarks in all California, with star billing given to it by Alex Honnold when he free-soloed it in 2008. Hikers will to trek this strenuous trail, and nabbing one is a highly competitive process that requires planning ahead and applying for the park鈥檚 preseason lottery during March, even if your hike isn鈥檛 until August.

The trail itself is absolutely out of this world though: you鈥檒l stare slack-jawed at the roaring Nevada Falls and scale the slick back side of the 8,800-foot-high dome, gripping tightly to its Park Service鈥搈ounted cables as you ascend the final reaches toward the summit. Want to break up the 4,900 feet of elevation gain? Apply for an to backpack up to Little Yosemite Valley, stay the night, and then tag the summit at sunrise.

13. Cactus to Clouds

Location: Palm Springs
Mileage: 21 miles from the Palm Springs Art Museum to the peak to the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway
Access and Gaia GPS Route: Palm Springs Art Museum (see map below)

Cactus to Clouds is one of those outrageous, all-day challenges that looms large in the imaginations of serious California hikers. I鈥檝e tackled its 10,819 vertical feet on two different occasions, and it remains one of the coolest trails I鈥檝e ever completed because of the diverse array of biozones you get to pass through en route to the top of 10,834-foot Mount San Jacinto (the second highest peak in SoCal).

It鈥檚 best to sleep in Palm Springs and start your trek before dawn, to avoid high-afternoon temperatures. You鈥檒l want to give yourself time to summit and then descend via the before calling a ride back to your vehicle.

An easier of the trek starts and ends at the tram station and still tags Mount San Jacinto, offering panoramic vistas of the myriad windmills of Palm Springs and conifer-speckled San Bernardino Mountains. One planning note: this trail can be temporarily closed when temperatures spike, so check out for updates.

Emily Pennington now hikes and writes about adventure travel from her home in Boulder, Colorado. Her 2023 book 听details her experiences visiting every park, including the nine spectacular units in California.听

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The hike was hot and brutal. My wife and I started on the edge of Sabana de la Mar, a village in the Dominican Republic, after breakfast and drove our rental car until the road ended. Then we navigated patchwork farms until dipping into the jungle and heading toward the coast. Liz and I were young and unprepared, so we ran out of food and water almost immediately, eating mangoes from trees and trying to crack coconuts in our thirst.

Our goal was an isolated beach with a two-stool, open-air bar that you could only reach by boat or hike. We were tired of crowded resorts and wanted something serene. We didn’t find a boat so we hiked. And hiked. And hiked. The bar was closed when we got there, but we had the beach to ourselves: a quarter-moon sliver of sand flanked by tall palms, the Samana Bay stretched out before us.

Sometimes I want to stand on a beach or outcropping or mountaintop and know that the nearest McDonald鈥檚 is days away. But just because a destination is far-flung doesn鈥檛 mean you actually want to go there.

For example, the farthest-away spot in the United States is Saint Matthew Island, which is technically part of Alaska, but located in the Bering Sea more than 180 miles from the nearest human settlement, halfway to Siberia. You have to take a 24-hour ship ride to reach the island, which is battered by storms and shrouded in fog. Oh, and it鈥檚 cold. I鈥檓 sure Saint Matthew has its charms, but I can think of more pleasant remote places to vacation.

So, I started looking into destinations across the globe that occupy that sweet spot of 鈥渞emote鈥� and 鈥渁ttractive.鈥� There鈥檚 a variety of landscapes on this list, from dunes to hot springs, so it鈥檚 not just tropical atolls,听although they鈥檙e in here, too.

Here are 11 far-flung places worth the endeavor to see them. These spots are just the beginning. It鈥檚 a great big world out there. While this is bucket-list stuff, damn, it鈥檚 fun to dream.

1. Remote Tropical Island

Lord Howe Island, Australia

Traveling to a remote island doesn鈥檛 always mean you have to enter survival mode. is a volcanic remnant in the Tasman Sea, roughly 320 miles east of New South Wales, Australia. It鈥檚 remote, sure, but it also has some pretty plush digs, and a small population (roughly 350 people) living on the northern tip of the island opens apartments and small lodges to travelers.

The south end of the island is comprised of primeval forest, isolated beaches, volcanic crags, and towering peaks. The island is only seven miles long and 1.25 miles wide, but roughly 70 percent of that mass is protected as a Permanent Park Preserve. Moreover, locals limit the number of tourists, not allowing more than 400 on the island on any given day.

While you鈥檙e on-island, spend your time snorkeling in the crystal-clear waters of Ned鈥檚 Beach, where sand leads to a coral reef teeming with mullet and kingfish. Arrange with your lodge host for a guide to take you on the three-mile trek to the top of Mount Gower. It鈥檚 an all-day adventure that has you scrambling up volcanic rock and hiking through the lush interior forest. The summit rises 2,870 feet above sea level, punctuating the south end of the island.

Or, book a to Ball鈥檚 Pyramid, the largest sea stack in the world, rising 1,807 feet from the ocean roughly 14 miles south of Lord Howe. There, you鈥檒l see turtles, wahoo, and the rare Ballina Angelfish. Trips and rates are determined once you鈥檙e on island, but you can book single-dive excursions to other sites for $160 per person.

How to Get There: A limited number of commercial flights reach Lord Howe from Sydney. It鈥檚 a two-hour flight. Accommodations are scarce on the island (there are only 400 beds in total), so book your lodging at the same time as your flight. has relatively affordable rates (from $300 a night). If you鈥檙e looking to splurge, stay at the , which has nine suites with views of both the Pacific Ocean and Mount Gower (starting at $1,900).

2. Remote Hike

Hornstrandir Nature Reserve, Iceland

The is one of the most isolated areas in Iceland, enveloping a 220-square-mile chunk of the Westfjords, a peninsula on the northern tip of the country where towering cliffs meet deep fjords. Uninhabited since the 1950s, the reserve is blossoming from an environmental perspective; since the last residents left, and with a hunting ban now in place, local species like the Arctic Fox thrive, while seals flock to the rocks against the water.

The beaches are a mix of sand and smooth stones, while ferns and wildflowers dominate the slopes up to the cliffs, with icefields above and waterfalls that drop straight into the sea. Hornbjarg, a massive buttress that rises 534 meters from the Arctic Ocean, looking like a cresting wave, is the biggest draw for hikers. The starts on the gray-sand beach on Hornvik Bay where most people are dropped off (see below) and climbs 3,500 feet up the side of the cliffs.

How to Get There: It鈥檚 a four-hour drive from Reykjavik to Isafjordur, the capital of the Westfjords, from which you charter a boat across the Bay of Hornvik, or arrange for a guide service to take you across. Arriving at the reserve, you鈥檙e on foot, as there are no roads or infrastructure. offers daily boat rides across the bay, guided hiking trips, and multi-day camping excursions into Hornstrandir (from $375 per person).

3. Remote Ruins

Rio Bec, Mexico

The , in the state of Campeche at the base of the Yucatan, Mexico, is known for its Maya archaeological sites. Here, the great ancient city of Calakmul has more than 6,000 documented structures, some towering over the surrounding jungle. You can take organized tours of these and other ruins along with thousands of other tourists every year.

Rio Bec, however, is a lesser-known Maya city tucked more deeply into the jungle of the same reserve that gets a fraction of the visitors. The ruins are so remote, and the jungle so dense, that an entire section of the structures was lost for more than 60 years after the original site discovery in 1912. Put in the extra effort (see below) to come here and you鈥檒l likely have the site to yourself as you climb the steps of stone pyramids stretching 50 feet high, built around 700 A.D.

Some of the buildings have crumbled, while others still boast the skyward-reaching twin towers indicative of the Rio Bec architectural style, unusual in that it serves no practical purpose other than to make a building look more grand. Faux steps going nowhere are even carved into the tower walls. The jungle surrounding the stone structures is full of howler monkeys, jaguars, and wild pigs, and reaching the site is half the adventure.

How to Get There: Fly into the city of Campeche (there鈥檚 an international airport) and drive 300 kilometers to Xpujil, the largest town near the Biosphere Reserve. That鈥檚 the easy part. No roads lead to Rio Bec, and most tour operators eschew expeditions to the site, as it requires an approach of 15 kilometers (about ten miles) on narrow, difficult trails. Your best option is meeting up with the local guide , who takes small groups into the jungle on ATVs and motorcycles ($450 for two people, in cash).

4. Remote Hot Springs

Uunartoq Hot Springs, Greenland

The Inuit word 鈥淯unartoq鈥� translates to 鈥渢he hot place,鈥� appropriate for this natural spring on an uninhabited island in the middle of a fjord in southern Greenland. While the island has never been permanently settled, legend says that Vikings visited this steaming pool more than 1,000 years ago.

Aside from the addition of a small wooden structure built as a changing room, the springs are the same primitive, rock-dammed pool they have been for centuries. Unlike most hot springs in Greenland (most of which are actually too hot to soak in), the water of Uunartoq is heated not by volcanic activity but by friction, as layers of the earth鈥檚 crust rub against each other, warming the water and sending it up to the surface.

The springs are usually between 98 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit, or about the temperature of a welcoming hot tub. Soak in the pool and savor the views of the iceberg-choked bay and the rocky peaks that define southern Greenland. There is no lodging on the island, but you鈥檙e welcome to camp. Keep an eye out for the resplendent northern lights.

How to Get There: Fly into the international airport at Narsarsuaq, then catch either a flight or boat to the town of Qaqortoq, the gateway to Uunartoq. A number of operators in town offer boats and tours to the springs. It鈥檚 a 1.5-hour ride across the Qaqortoq Fjord, which is full of icebergs and where you may see the occasional humpback whale. offers a half-day trip from June to September ($375 per person). The company also guides trips to the nearby Greenland Ice Cap and multi-day hikes through South Greenland that have you spending nights on local sheep farms (starting at $140 per person).

5. Remote Lookout Tower

Three Fingers Lookout, Washington

Lookout towers are by definition remote, but Three Fingers takes the concept up a notch, sitting on the summit of in the heart of Boulder River Wilderness. It requires technical climbing to approach, so you need the equipment and know-how. Built in 1933 using dynamite to blast off a section of the rocky peak, the structure is so significant that it鈥檚 on the National Register of Historic Places.

The journey to the tower is awesome but to be taken seriously. Hike for six miles through a dense forest and amid subalpine meadows to Tin Pan Gap, where the technical climbing begins. You鈥檒l need ice axes, crampons, rope, harnesses, and route-finding capabilities to negotiate snowfields and a glacier, scramble up rocky pitches, and finally climb a series of vertical ladders to the lookout on the south peak of Three Fingers Mountain.

The lookout tower sits at 6,854 feet and sleeps three or four people鈥攆irst come, first served. The views extend deep into Boulder River wilderness, and you鈥檒l be able to spot the 6,865-foot Whitehorse Mountain to the north and 5,437-foot Liberty Mountain to the south. Goat Flat, five miles from the trailhead, is a ridge-top meadow that makes an excellent campsite if you can鈥檛 score a night in the lookout.

How to Get There: Granite Falls, Washington, is the closest town. The shortest route to the tower is from the trailhead for Trail 641, the , at the end of Tupso Pass Road (FS41). It鈥檚 a 15-mile out-and-back trek into Boulder River Wilderness, with almost 4,200 feet of elevation gain. If you want a longer trip, check the Washington Trail Association website for the status of Tupso Pass Road, which was washed out at the time of publication and would add eight miles of gravel road walking. You can also take this .

6. Remote Whitewater

Middle Fork of the Salmon River, Idaho

You want the middle of nowhere? The , in Idaho, is that and then some. The wilderness comprises 2.3 million acres, making it one of the largest roadless areas in the lower 48 (only Death Valley Wilderness is bigger). With two major whitewater rivers鈥攖he Salmon and the Middle Fork of the Salmon鈥攆lowing through the Frank Church, the best way to explore this vastness is by raft.

Let鈥檚 focus on the Middle Fork, which slices through the heart of the roadless area for 104 miles, from its source at the confluence of Bear Valley and Marsh Creeks to its convergence with the Salmon. Many consider this to be the best river trip in the country, thanks to the scenery (the waterway rolls through a landscape full of 10,000-foot peaks, vertical cliffs, and thick Douglas fir) and the adrenaline rush (100 rapids, from class III to class IV, in 100 miles).

Thousands of people paddle the Middle Fork every summer. Fortunately, the river is managed for its wilderness quality, with only seven group launches allowed per day during the summer and a 30-person max for commercial trips. During the week-long trip, you鈥檒l camp on the beaches, see Native American artifacts like petroglyphs and pottery left by the Nez Perce and Shoshone-Bannock tribes, and soak in hot springs.

The most out-there you鈥檒l feel is 80 miles into the trip, paddling into Impassable Canyon, a narrow, steep-walled gorge packed with big rapids. Shortly after entering the canyon, eddy out and take a quick side hike to Veil Falls, a waterfall that drops into a cave-like amphitheater.

How to Get There: Most boaters and commercial trips put in at Indian Creek and take out at Cache Bar, after the rivers converge. offers six-day trips on the whole river ($3,599 per person) with catered meals. If you want to lead your own group, apply for a , to be assigned via a random lottery ($6 reservation fee and $4 per person per day recreation fee). Applications for lottery permits to raft between May 28 and September 3 are accepted from December 1 to January 31, with results announced on February 14.

7. Remote Hike

100-Mile Wilderness, Maine

The 2,000-mile Appalachian Trail is legendary, but it鈥檚 not exactly remote, considering that it crosses roads and dips into towns along the Appalachian chain up the East Coast. The section, in Maine, is an entirely different story, however, offering a stretch of trail interrupted only by the occasional forest road and fishing camp/hiker lodge.

Hike this piece of the A.T. from highway 15 to Abol Bridge in Baxter State Park if you want a bit of solitude, but be prepared to work for it. The route typically takes 10 days and features more than 20,000 feet of elevation gain up and over the Barren-Chairback and Whitecap Mountain Ranges. You鈥檒l ford rivers and traverse ankle-turning scree. You can filter water along the way, but will need to carry your food, so count on a heavy pack, too.

Cranberry bogs and isolated ponds punctuate the landscape of dense pine and hardwood forest, and you can see Lake Onawa from the rocky peak of Barren Mountain. As for fauna, you may well spot moose as you hike. You can add another 14 miles to the hike to tack on Katahdin (5,268 feet), Maine鈥檚 highest peak and the official end of the A.T.

How to Get There: It鈥檚 easy to reach the southern end of the 100-Mile Wilderness; it鈥檚 located off highway 15 in Monson. But traversing the truly remote stretches of the A.T. through this stretch of wilderness is up to your legs and lungs. July is the best month, as the black flies have mostly disappeared and the north-bound thru-hikers haven鈥檛 showed up yet. in Monson offers shuttles and can arrange for food drops to lighten your load. The 100-Mile Wilderness isn鈥檛 completely devoid of civilization; the Appalachian Mountain Club operates a few lodges in the area, but you won鈥檛 see them from the trail.

8. Remote Surf Break

Santa Rosa Island, Channel Islands National Park, California

Channel Islands National Park protects five islands off the coast of Southern California, and all offer the kind of remote setting many of us crave after spending time in a generally populous region. While coming here is an effort, the 53,000-acre Santa Rosa Island promises secluded backcountry beach campsites on soft patches of sand tucked into coves and surrounded by cliffs and sea caves, with wilderness-style surfing where you鈥檒l never have to wait in a lineup for a wave.

The only access is via boat. If you take the ferry operated by Island Packers (see below), you鈥檒l be dropped off at a pier in Becher鈥檚 Bay. Just 1.5 miles from the pier is the 15-site Water Canyon Campground, with drinking water and shelter from the sun. There are even flush toilets. You could feasibly base out of here and day-hike to various beaches on the southern coast of Santa Rosa, where the surfing is the most consistent in summer. Water Canyon also has its own beach that extends from the pier to East Point for several miles during low tide.

But the best surfing is further south, as the coast picks up south-southwestern swells during the summer. There are breaks along the beaches starting at East Point and moving south down the coast. After a drop-off at the pier (see below), follow Coastal Road south from the pier for several miles through grassland and Torrey Pines until it wraps around East Point. This means carrying your surfboard and camping gear. You鈥檒l see small beaches along the rugged coast that are open for camping between August 15 and December 31. Look for the high-tide line to determine which beach is safe for camping (and then pitch your tent way above that mark). Larger beaches are just another mile down the coast.

Santa Rosa offers loads of other adventures as well. The water is surprisingly clear compared to what you find off the mainland, so snorkeling is primo, with reefs and kelp forests hiding abalone and lobsters. And there鈥檚 no light pollution, so the night sky is popping.

How to Get There: If you have a friend with a boat, call in a favor, as you could cruise the 40 miles from SoCal to Santa Rosa and surf one of these remote breaks without needing to camp. Otherwise, catch a ferry with (from $45 per person, one way) and get dropped off at Becher鈥檚 Bay and start hiking. Make sure you have a in advance (from $15 per night), because you鈥檒l need that to reserve a spot on the ferry.

9. Remote Safari

Mount Nkungwe, Tanzania

Africa is brimming with remote places, but , in the western edge of Tanzania, has a special mix of isolation, exceptional wildlife, and beauty. There are no roads within the 632-square-mile park, so all travel is on foot, and Mahale occupies a peninsula jutting into the massive Lake Tanganyika, one of the largest lakes in the world, so the only way to reach it is by plane or a day-long boat ride.

The park was established in 1985 to protect the world鈥檚 largest known population of chimpanzees, which today are thriving at 1,000-strong. It鈥檚 also one of the few places in the world where chimps and leopards share the same terrain. The park鈥檚 landscape quickly shifts from white sandy beaches on the shore of Tanganyika to dense forest and steep mountain slopes cloaked in mist.

Reaching the park alone is a feat, but if you really want to tick off a far-removed spot, climb Mount Nkungwe (8,077 feet), the tallest mountain inside the park鈥檚 borders. It鈥檚 a grueling 10-day hike, requiring that you go up and over two sub-peaks and gaining more than 6,000 feet in elevation to reach the summit. Most hikers break the trip up into three days, camping along the way. The views from the top are astounding鈥攜ou can see all of the Mahale Mountains and Lake Tanganyika below鈥攂ut the summit isn鈥檛 the real highlight of this journey. In addition to chimpanzees, you鈥檒l have the chance to see elephants, giraffes, and buffalo, not to mention the red colobus monkeys that live in the higher elevations of the park.

How to Get There: The fastest way to reach Mahale Mountains National Park is by plane, but most people arrive by boat. It鈥檚 easy to charter a boat from the town of Kigoma, and speedboats make the journey in four hours. , a six-tent luxury property on the white sands of Tanganyika, is the most popular place to stay, especially since a family of chimps lives in the jungle nearby (from $2,250 a night during high season between June and September, all inclusive). Published fees to enter the park are $40 per person, but reports from some previous visitors indicate the price fluctuates. All hikes require accompaniment by a ranger. Reach out to the directly for timing, fees, and other information.

10. Remote Dunes

Athabasca Sand Dunes Provincial Park, Saskatchewan, Canada

The Athabasca Sand Dunes Provincial Park covers 62 miles of sand dunes in far north Saskatchewan. These are the most northerly sand dunes on the planet鈥攁 slice of the Sahara in the midst of Canada鈥檚 boreal forest. But unlike the Sahara, Athabasca, which is flanked by a large lake and dissected by three rivers, has plenty of fresh water.

You can only reach the dunes by float plane or boat, and there are no services within the park. No roads, no cell service, no rangers or structures, so be prepared to take care of yourself in a wilderness setting. Head to the William River Dune field, where the longest, largest dunes are. Land on the shore of Thomson Bay and hike west across the smaller Thomson Bay Dune Field for four miles to the Williams River. If the water鈥檚 low enough, you can wade over to explore the largest dunes in the park. You can within the park from Memorial Day to Labor Day.

How to Get There: Stony Rapids, on the eastern edge of Lake Athabasca, is the closest gateway town, though 90 miles east of the dunes. It has a float-plane base, making chartering a plane easy (but not cheap). Fly to Thomson Bay and start hiking west. offers a guided six-day backpacking adventure that includes the flight into the park from Fort McMurray ($3,900 per person).

11. Remote Mountain Peak

Mount Khuiten, Mongolia

A trip up Mount Khuiten (14,350 feet), the tallest peak in Mongolia, presents experiences in both solitude and culture. Khuiten sits in the heart of Altai Tavan Bogd National Park, which preserves 6,362 square miles of lakes, glaciers, and snow-capped mountains in western Mongolia. Altai is one of those places where you want to have a good map and a local guide, because if you get lost here, you could end up in either China or Russia (the park shares a border with both countries). This is a dream trip but a demanding one, so be experienced and prepared, and arrive fit and with top-flight warm gear. See below for intel on finding a guide.

The park encompasses groupings of petroglyphs and burial sites that illustrate the development of Mongolian nomadic culture over a 12,000-year time period, earning the area status. You have the chance to see some of these petroglyphs on the multi-day journey to the summit of Khuiten. You鈥檒l also see modern-day nomadic culture, as the road into the park passes communities in traditional yurts.

As for the approach, the 10-mile trek from the edge of the park to basecamp ends at the 8.5-mile-wide Potanin Glacier, with camels to carry your gear. Most people climb the smaller sister mountain, Malchin Peak, to acclimatize to the altitude before navigating the crevasses of Potanin Glacier to High Camp on the edge of Khuiten. The final push to the top of Mount Khuiten is 3,000 feet up steep, snow-covered slopes requiring crampons, ice axes, and ropework. The view from the snow-capped summit encompasses all of the Altai Mountains as you gaze down on three countries: Mongolia, China, and Russia.

How to Get There: Fly into UlaanBaatar, Mongolia, and take a domestic puddle jumper to the village of Olgii, on the edge of the park. From there, it鈥檚 a six-hour drive over rough roads to the ranger station just inside the park. Next you鈥檙e on foot for days, depending on how much you want to acclimate, before your summit bid. The trek requires mountaineering skills and local knowledge, so hire a guide. is a trekking company owned by locals that offers a variety of expeditions on and around Khuiten (from $2,600 per person).

How to Be a Conscientious Visitor

Keep in mind some basic rules when you鈥檙e traveling to these far-flung locales. Follow Leave No Trace principles, taking everything you brought to the destination back home when you leave. Respect local cultures and customs, and learn about whose land you鈥檙e on. Whenever possible, stay in a lodge where the money goes directly to local entrepreneurs, and use local guides and services. Buy something if you can afford it. Always protect the wildlife and natural environment, which means keeping your distance and minimizing your impact.

Graham Averill is 国产吃瓜黑料 magazine鈥檚 national parks columnist. If he has to choose between a remote beach and a remote mountaintop, it鈥檚 going to be sand and surf every time.

For more by Graham Averill, see:

7 Most Adventurous Ways to See the Total Eclipse听of 2024

The 6 Most Adventurous Train Trips in North America

The Best Budget Airlines鈥攁nd 国产吃瓜黑料 Locales They Go To

The post 11 Remote Destinations That Are Definitely Worth the Effort to Visit appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

翱耻迟蝉颈诲别鈥檚听Trail Magic hiking columnist Grayson Haver Currin recently completed the triple crown of hiking when he finished the Continental Divide Trail this past November.听

The Mountain View Motel & RV Park in Lima, Montana is a bit of a broke-down relic, a roadside archive of interstate architecture weathered viciously by time. Its front office is a riot of maps, souvenirs, and ostensible trash, all tossed akimbo. The room doors are faded and bent, handles catawampus in a way that suggests the long-ago spats of late-night fights between young lovers.

And the rooms themselves are reliquaries of another America, where thrift and permanence had yet to make way for planned obsolescence. The curtains are retired bath towels, the bedside tables survivors of a town thrash heap. Stained from decades of bodies and bubbling soap, the graying porcelain tub is surrounded by the exact cerulean tile I sledgehammered in my grandmother鈥檚 bathroom as a preteen.

This is the type of motel that my mother never would have allowed us to stay in during our family road trips decades ago. She would have demanded that my father press ahead in the family Ford Explorer to some chain hotel along Interstate 15.

But early last August, standing on the shoulder of an I-15 frontage road beneath ominous slate skies, I desperately waited for a ride to The Mountain View Motel as though it were some Edenic haven, an oneiric escape. By then, my wife Tina and I had trudged more than 800 miles through Montana and Idaho along the Continental Divide Trail (CDT), crossing roller-coaster terrain with 6,000 feet of gain and loss a day earlier. We collapsed into the wounded little sedan that eventually shuttled us there as though it were a chariot of the gods. We ate so much breakfast at Lima鈥檚 only open restaurant that we didn鈥檛 worry that the steakhouse everyone loved was closed for the day, meaning we鈥檇 need to forage in a convenience store for supper.

At The Mountain View, where the night鈥檚 stay cost $51 split three ways, I rifled through that waste in the front office鈥攁ctually, a series of three overflowing , full of secondhand supplies鈥攍ike it was the grocery store Lima doesn鈥檛 have. I sank into the bathtub, its dirt less a concern than my own, and stayed in its simmering water so long that I emerged deliciously woozy from the heat, staggering around in a towel destined to become drapery. That evening, the stranger in the room next door, living largely out of his car, offered to fry us potatoes on his propane stove while we lay in bed, blissed out on gas-station ice cream, Shark Tank reruns, and weed we鈥檇 walked with since Helena. Long before dawn, I was up writing at a wobbly old desk with chipped veneer. The Mountain View had everything I needed.

I adored it, still do. Because even the Mountain View felt like an oasis during our thru-hike.

What Should a Room Cost, Anyway?

Estimates vary wildly, but recent studies suggest that the average American hotel room runs from $ to $ a night. I am happy, however, to report from the front lines of dirtbag dives that all the luxuries an exhausted adventurer needs鈥攁 hot shower, a bed, and, in most cases, even a little black refrigerator that smells permanently stale鈥攃an be found from coast to coast for $100, or often, much less.

There鈥檚 the Hitching Post Country Motel in Cornwall Bridge, Connecticut, for $85 along the Appalachian Trail; the Y Motel in Chama, New Mexico, near the Colorado border on the CDT (also $85); the Packwood Inn in Packwood, Washington ($129), where the Pacific Crest Trail veers toward Mount Rainier. These are all beaten but beatific spaces, family-owned joints that care not about welcoming you into the lap of luxury but about providing just enough to send you back on your way the next morning.

As I鈥檝e walked up and down the country and across half of the American states during the last five years, cheap hotels have served as crucial stopovers. Their staffs are rarely judgmental about how dirty I am when I arrive, how much trash I put in the dumpster when I leave, or how many hikers we squeeze into a single room. They are accustomed, after all, to transience, to people arriving on one personal threshold or another.

Such spots are under-sung hubs of outdoor adventure, allowing for big conquests that adhere to relatively little budgets, no matter if you鈥檙e walking the CDT or biking or it, canyoneering along Arizona鈥檚 Mogollon Rim, or climbing in California鈥檚 Pinnacles, living in a van and needing a break, or just on a car-camping road trip. I want to say thanks to those who own and operate these cheap hotels, to the often-ignominious or altogether overlooked dives that enable us to press on. They hint at the comforts of home but not so much that we stay for too long.

Not Only a Stopover

There is, of course, a privilege to all this, to so much of what we do outdoors and adjacent to it. I have chosen repeatedly to slog my way across the United States and to stay in places that fellow middle-class Millennials would see as roughing it. My neighbors in these places have often been the dispossessed or houseless, down and out for any of a dozen reasons.

Several folks staying at The L Motel in Flagstaff, Arizona (where rooms start at $35 despite that town鈥檚 tourist boom) seemed like they鈥檇 always been there and had no plans to depart. My wayside indulgence was their survival, and respecting the space we shared despite that difference has been a crucial elements of my long walks. We spend so much time in our cloisters, walled off from the ways the rest of the world lives. I鈥檓 as guilty as anyone. These hotels are a reminder of our own relative comforts, no matter how much your legs and arms ache.

It all reminds me of something the artist and songwriter wrote while a student at what would become CalArts, back when it was bankrolled by Walt Disney. 鈥淭he quaint American town doesn鈥檛 have a wrong side of the tracks,鈥� he railed in a diatribe against Disneyland鈥檚 fake utopian microcosm. 鈥淭he castle doesn鈥檛 have serfs.鈥� It is good to get out of the woods and into the world, to recognize the difficulties our society shares. Along with a shower and a sleep, these hotels allow for an essential bit of real-world seeing.

When In Jackson Hole

About 200 trail miles south of Lima, an old hiking friend scooped us from the Old Faithful Inn in Yellowstone and braved the park鈥檚 seemingly ceaseless construction to drive us to Jackson Hole. There are, of course, very few towns in the United States better and worse suited to adventure pursuits than Jackson. It is surrounded by an absurd abundance of pristine public land, but it is also home to the absurdly wealthy, meaning that my beloved $100-or-less hotel rooms are almost impossible to find. You can park your RV downtown, as I often have, but finding a low-end room is a low-odds endeavor.

So we went the other way entirely, getting comped a room at the goddamned Four Seasons at the base of Jackson鈥檚 most famous ski resort, because I happen to write for this magazine. It was a wonderful and ridiculous and silly experience, with an hour-long personal tour of the imaginative wildlife art that graces its hallways like some hidden museum and a truly gluttonous steak dinner that, were it not also free, would have tanked our hotel budget clear to the Mexican border. In the room, the pillows felt like dinner rolls allowed to rise to maximum loft, the sheets like premium lotion. My mom would have loved it, and she would have insisted that we never leave.

But swollen from steak and wiped from walking, I found myself in bed that night doing what I almost always do in a hotel while on trail: a little stoned, a whole lot of Shark Tank. All of this luxury was nice to have, sure, and I鈥檇 be a hypocritical ninny to complain about it, to describe such a gift with anything other than gratitude. I didn鈥檛 need any of it, however, and none of us really do. Thru-hiking resets my baselines with social media, food, suffering鈥攁nd, turns out, with the level of luxury I want.

I woke up before dawn the next morning and wrote at the Four Seasons鈥� desk, just as I鈥檇 done in Lima, until it was time to leave. I grabbed a few fancy tea bags on my way out and tucked them into my backpack, assuming they wouldn鈥檛 roll like that at the Pronghorn Lodge in Lander, Wyoming, a few hundred more miles to the south. They did have a tub, a bed, and a television. That was enough for me.

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翱耻迟蝉颈诲别鈥檚 Trail Magic hiking columnist Grayson Haver Currin recently completed the triple crown of hiking when he finished the Continental Divide Trail alongside his wife, Tina.听

After three months of hiking on the Continental Divide Trail, my trip became thrown into chaos this past October in just three hours. The ordeal reduced my focus to a single and vexing question: where the hell was my wife, Tina?

Over the ensuing 34 hours, that single worry ballooned into a dozen related terrors: Was she hurt or dead? Did she think I was hurt or dead? And was I at risk of actually dying alone, high in Colorado鈥檚 San Juan Mountains, where the first gusts of winter had just ripped against the peaks? These worries spiraled back into one urgent question: Exactly how was I going to find Tina?

Let鈥檚 back up: two days prior, Tina and I had waited out a ferocious storm in the old mining town of Creede, Colorado. Almost every hiker we knew had stopped, pausing our quests for the Mexican border in favor of Falstaff鈥檚 dictum about caution over valor. Climbing south out of Spring Creek Pass the next morning, though, the snow was deeper than anyone had anticipated, shin-high and tightly packed. In one section the route was steep and slick, and a dozen thru-hikers鈥攐ur arms atrophied into string beans after three months of little use鈥攑ulled ourselves up on all fours, using whatever pathetic grip strength we might muster.

We made camp that night in a foot of snow near a trickling creek, every hiker huddled together like pioneers crossing plains. The next morning was cold, with frozen gear and shivering arms keeping us in our tents until late in the morning. We鈥檇 aim for only 21 total miles that day, we said, with a possible goal of climbing another mountain鈥攚hich would bring us to 25 total miles鈥攊f we had the time and energy.

After breakfast, I kissed Tina goodbye, our tent stuffed in my pack and our stakes stuffed in hers, same as always. I plowed ahead to get warm, the two of us slowly spreading apart on trail as we鈥檝e done for four years and 10,000 miles of trekking. I climbed a pass, crossed a ridge, and, after an hour, descended to a little alpine lake with enough broken ice for me to filch the day鈥檚 first drinking water. I sat there for half an hour, waiting for Tina to catch up. She never did.

For the next day and a half I searched for Tina on one of the most infamous stretches of the CDT without cell-phone service. Finally, I decided to see if my Apple iPhone 14鈥檚 emergency response app actually performed the way it was advertised. I linked to a satellite, sent an SOS message, and asked a stranger somewhere in space to answer my vexing question: where was my wife?

The technology worked鈥攆or the most part.

The Challenges of the CDT

On most long trails鈥攖hink the Appalachian, Pacific Crest, and Arizona trails, among others鈥攈ikers follow a standard route, periodically marked by signs or swatches of paint that verify the way.

The CDT, however, is different. It is not, in fact, a trail at all so much as a series of interconnected routes and roads, allowing you to map your own path between Canada and Mexico within certain loose parameters. Almost 50 years after the CDT鈥檚 inception, the route does boast a standard trek, but sticking to this agreed-upon route isn鈥檛 standard. Feel like tacking on a peak today or staying low and out of gnarly weather tomorrow? It鈥檚 all acceptable on the CDT.

On the morning of our separation, as I trudged through the snow, I intersected three hikers we鈥檇 climbed alongside the day before, now headed northbound. They had been slogging through the snow for three hours already and had only covered three miles; they were doubling back to the Pole Creek Trail, which would drop them into a sunny valley mostly devoid of snow, where they might speed ahead. I wished them well and then pressed on southward, to the lake where I waited.

When 30 minutes had passed with no sign of Tina, I knew something was wrong. We鈥檝e now crossed the United States together multiple times; our paces are so consistent that I expect to gain three minutes on her per mile, almost without fail. We were at twice that gap now, emergency mode. I dropped my pack next to a wooden post and reversed course, calling her name and standing on every available high point to see if she鈥檇 somehow slipped from the snow.

I kept at this for nearly two hours before finally studying the footprints at the trail junction. I鈥檇 only seen three hikers opt for the lower route, but I spied at least four distinct sets of prints鈥攊ncluding the knobby lugs of Hoka Speedgoats, a little smaller than my own feet. They must be Tina鈥檚, I thought. I raced the mile back to my pack and cut across a steep slope thick with willows, aiming for the low route. I knew I could catch Tina in that snowless valley that afternoon if I pushed my pace, despite losing two hours in my search with no rescue.

Yes, I wanted to climb the snowy peaks of the San Juans. But I really wanted to know we were both safe.

Choosing the High Route

The complications began immediately. At the base of an unstable boulder field, where the rocks gave way to Pole Creek鈥檚 marshy outflow, I saw the same 10.5 Speedgoat tracks headed up the slope I was descending. Tina, I assumed, had recognized she鈥檇 followed the wrong footprints to the lower trail. She had then reversed course to the high route, ostensibly missing my waiting backpack by a few hundred yards while I frantically looked for her. She was indeed ahead of me, but, once again, on a different route. I decided to stay low, cruising through the valley on a bluebird day, a welcome counter to my anxiety.

Just before 5 P.M., I reached our potential 21-mile campsite, Beartown Trailhead, a postage-stamp parking lot cut into a ragged road alongside a ghost town. Tina wasn鈥檛 there, and she had not yet signed the journal at the trailhead. I climbed a fallen tree that afforded a commanding view of the ridge I expected her to descend at any moment. The sun sank steadily; after an hour passed, the light dwindled. The only blots of black I had seen were a grazing bull moose and a bounding bear. I needed to go looking for Tina, to make sure we ended up at the same place that night, in the same tent, since neither of us actually had a complete one.

I pushed north on the high route for two hours, climbing a pass until I could scan the horizon for headlamps. There were none. I called her name, again and again, losing my shouts to the rush of early winter wind. 鈥淎nd now it is now, and the dark thing is here,鈥� I thought, remembering a line from a Louise Penny whodunit I鈥檇 just read on trail. This was the nightmare scenario, the dark thing.

Pulling myself together, I turned around, sprinting south in the dark toward the trailhead where I鈥檇 hoped to meet Tina. Maybe she had actually gotten there first and pressed on to our proposed second campsite at 25 miles? It was nearly 10 P.M. now, the temperature dropping deep into the teens at 12,000 feet. But still, I had to try, even if climbing another 800 feet and descending 1,100 more across a mountain mounded with snow would take until midnight.

As I grunted my way up, I finally understood desert oases: Every star hovering above the ridge looked like Tina鈥檚 headlamp, every antenna flashing in the distance to another place I might yet find her. Looking over my shoulder, I did indeed spy two lights on the ridge I had just descended, advancing unsteadily toward the parking lot where Tina and I were supposed to meet. That was her, I told myself. She had found one of our friends, and they had continued deep into the night, looking for me. She would get there, find my note in the trail log (鈥淭ina: Nebo,鈥� as in Nebo Creek, the 25-mile campsite), and find me at first light.

It was almost midnight, and I was almost sleepwalking. I made it to Nebo Creek, stretched the tent on the ground, put on every layer I possessed, crawled into my sleeping bag, and wrapped the arms of the tent around me like an awkward waterproof jacket. I slept until 4 A.M., shivered my way toward sunrise, and then, once again, waited for Tina.

Shifting to Emergency Mode

Tina never made it to Nebo Creek or Beartown Trailhead or the ridge onto which I鈥檇 raced and howled her name.

Nearly every hiker had dropped off the high route that morning, cutting instead through the valley. She was one of only five hikers to work across the snowy peaks that afternoon, helping break trail at around a mile per hour. Around 3 P.M., she found Ezra and Encore, two of our closest hiking friends, and asked how far ahead I was. But there were no footsteps ahead of their own. Collective panic set in. As the sun set, Tina sidled into Ezra鈥檚 ultralight tent, so small it doesn鈥檛 have a door. They slept fitfully, wondering when I might hobble into camp, or if I was even capable of hobbling.

When the sun rose, Tina and I separately intuited it was beyond time to shift into real emergency mode. Her triumvirate broke camp and quickly moved three miles south, to the gravel road just south of the San Juan鈥檚 stunning and famed Stony Pass. They turned toward Silverton, another Colorado mining locus that now draws droves of tourists with its narrow-gauge railroad and the Hardrock 100, and hitched into town. The moment they hit cell phone service, for the first time in more than 48 hours, they filed a missing persons report. I was their missing person.

But Tina was my missing person. I had no easy way out to town, and I had not seen another hiker in at least 24 hours. It was time to pull the technological ripcord: send an SOS, if I could figure out how. Because we鈥檝e always been so close to one another on trail, Tina and I have rarely used a Garmin inReach or the like. They鈥檙e bulky and expensive, and they just seemed unnecessary. A year earlier, though, we had both purchased an iPhone 14 before beginning the Arizona Trail. Their much-ballyhooed satellite addition鈥攅ssentially, allowing you to text emergency services and transmit your location via satellite鈥攐ffered a last resort should we never be able to help one another out of some sort of mortal fix, like right now.

With shivering hands, I started the demo, learning to trace the horizon above the canyon walls with the top of my phone to track satellites. The display guided me through an example conversation with emergency services. Finally, I was ready to try it. 鈥淚 am thru-hiking the Continental Divide Trail,鈥� I typed at 9:10 A.M. 鈥淢y wife and I accidentally got on different paths. Has there been an injury reported near Creede, Co?鈥�

There was some seemingly inconsequential back and forth, fastidious questions about intended routes and last known locations and dates of birth. After 20 minutes, I was ready to give up and start walking again, to head south toward a blip of cell phone service I knew existed on a peak in 13 miles. And then, at 9:40 A.M., the good word came: 鈥淵our wife is not injured and emergency services are working on getting her location,鈥� the person at the other end wrote. 鈥淧lease stay where you are while we get your wifes location.鈥�

I cried for the first time in 2,000 miles. Then, yet again, I waited.

Dialing SOS

After an hour of back and forth with assorted agencies talking to Apple and vice versa, I finally had marching orders. Tina was in Silverton with our friends, Ezra and Encore, waiting for any word from me at a hostel. Finally, they received an update: 鈥淗e has thrown an SOS,鈥� an emergency worker told Tina, vaguely. She knew I was alive, but little else. She was powerless.

To reach her, I had to cross nine miles and 5,000 feet of gain and loss over always-difficult terrain that was now blanketed in mostly unbroken snow. And if I wanted to make it by sunset with the possibility of catching a ride into Silverton, I had less than six hours to do it. It was the hardest hike of my life, a maddening series of skids down icy creek banks and face plants in snowdrifts of several feet, along with a snapped hiking pole and a cut face. The creature-laden swamps of Florida, the endless river crossings of the Gila Canyon, the waterless haze of Wyoming鈥檚 Great Divide Basin: I鈥檝e never been challenged by a trail like that.

But at last, I reached the road below Stony Pass, only to find that all the cars had left the busy trailhead as the sun dipped below the horizon. No one else was coming. I would either need to spend the night again near 13,000 feet with no tent or find another way down. Walking felt like an expressway to hell.

I鈥檝e always been drawn to the self-reliance of thru-hiking, the way you carry your food, shelter, and clothing on your back, the way you only ask for help if you absolutely need it. I needed it: I found the satellite signal again, logged back into the emergency chat, and asked for a ride. Fabian, the new person on the other end, told me he would dispatch a rescue team from Silverton, but it could be hours. I walked down the road until Fabian told me to stop, then climbed inside my sleeping bag. Dark set in.

And at last, I heard a siren echoing off the canyon walls below, lurching toward me. I stood up, flashed my headlamp, and told the two men inside the warm SUV what day of the week it was after they asked. The ride down was as bumpy as a wooden roller coaster on the verge of collapse, but I beamed the entire way.

When I walked into The Avon hotel and climbed the stairs at 8:30 P.M., 37 hours after I鈥檇 last seen Tina, I found her pacing the hall. 鈥淟et鈥檚 eat,鈥� I said before she saw me. She turned, stunned. All day long, she鈥檇 heard nothing else about where I was, how I was, or when I might show up. Arms around one another, we both cried again and then, of course, ate pizza at the nearest place we could find.

A Phone to the Rescue

Early into the CDT, we bought a house in Colorado, sight unseen, high in the mountains just a few hours north of where I worried Tina had died or I might die. We live here now, having settled in a week after we finally reached the Mexican border, 800 or so trail miles south of what I鈥檝e taken to calling 鈥渢he incident.鈥� We took two days off, rested our brains, and then pressed into New Mexico, racing through it without pausing for more than a night in a hotel.

It is easy, sitting here in the warmth of an office as snow mounds beyond the glass, to armchair quarterback our decisions on that day or at large. Should we hike with Garmins? Maybe. Should I have climbed back to the high route? Possibly. Should I have hiked all night to find Tina, until I got to her camp above Stony Pass? I have considered that option dozens of times now, and I still think it鈥檚 a terrible option. Did I need a lift from the SAR team? Looking back through some shame, I wish I would have walked into town, no matter how long it took.

But in the final tally, I am comfortable with everything that happened, however uncomfortable those things were. Survival is a series of choices, weighted coin tosses with varying degrees of uncertainty. Twin Garmins would have eliminated some of that risk, as would never hiking in blissful solitude, where the mind may roam far beyond the reaches of the body. But our sport is often about finding the edge of what it means to make it, then riding it for as many miles as you can. We made it long enough to hike another day, to learn our lessons and to carry on.

Had it not been for those satellites ringing the earth, though, I don鈥檛 know if I would have. The worst decision I could have made would have been to continue south, hiking deeper into winter鈥檚 alpine arrival with no usable tent and no one with whom to strategize. Remembering my desperation that morning, it is, however, likely a mistake I would have made. Those emergency texts told me to turn around. They may have saved my life.

Apple鈥檚 satellite feature has room for improvement. Two Garmin inReaches can interact, allowing users to send messages to another without cell service, while an iPhone cannot. That ability would have made all the difference, and I have to suspect it鈥檚 coming. And despite my repeated pleas, the emergency service personnel never told Tina anything about my location or condition, a simple and humane act that would have made her wait all the more bearable. So, no, it鈥檚 not perfect. But obviously neither am I, the idiot who got stranded in the San Juan Mountains with a cell phone without service and a tent with no tent stakes.

The post The iPhone SOS App Saved My Thru-Hike鈥攁nd Possibly My Life appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

This article was originally published on .听

Welcome to , a monthly taste-test of dehydrated backpacking meals. We鈥檝e surveyed the market, sampling both big, corporate brands and tiny cottage operations in our search for the very best. While we certainly take note of caloric value, food weight, and the use of unhealthy dyes and stabilizers, this is first-and-foremost about taste. Is it delicious? Does it have texture? Would you happily eat this rehydrated pouch if you weren鈥檛 starving in the backcountry?听

Mac 鈥榥鈥� cheese is a common sight on the trail: There are few off-the-shelf comfort foods as accessible and ubiquitous as a box o鈥� Kraft or Annie鈥檚 macaroni. But their complexity and caloric value leave much to be desired. That鈥檚 where these upgraded takes on the classic come in.

Unlike most dehydrated food categories, which are often freeze-dried interpretations of meals containing meat and vegetables, the trail-ready versions of dehydrated macaroni and cheese aren鈥檛 that different from what you鈥檇 cook at home: It鈥檚 basically just powdered cheddar, powdered butter or milk, and annatto extract (for color). The only thing that sets dehydrated mac apart from regular mac is that the pasta is par-cooked or 鈥渋nstant,鈥漨eaning you don鈥檛 have to waste 10 minutes and several cups of precious water on boiling noodles. (听and other big brands use the same shortcut, which makes them suitable for backpacking).

Pasta type, ratio of calorie-rich cheese and dairy to noodles, and flavor-boosting extras are what set a stellar backcountry mac apart from the Blue Box. Six cheese delivery services went head-to-head. Only one earned our top slot.

First Place: Right On Trek Bechamel Style Mac and Cheese

Score: 5/5

This mac is like a from-scratch Kraft with the volume turned up to 11.听, a meal- and trip-planning operation based out of Montana, is serious about its culinary offerings. For starters, we love the ridged elbow mac, which holds onto sauce better than regular pasta. A hacky sack-sized pouch containing cheddar, whey, buttermilk, and whole milk powders makes for a traffic cone orange, uber-gooey and luxuriant cheese sauce that positively epitomizes what this dish is all about. An optional seasoning packet containing dried onion and parsley, black pepper, and mustard seed powder adds a nice level of heat and Funyuny goodness to the equation. As a bonus, Right on Trek offers discounted pouches for larger group sizes. The only downside? It鈥檚 not a true cook-in-pouch meal, although no draining or straining is required, and it has a very short cook time.

1080 calories for a 2-person pouch; 8.7 oz; 3-5 minute cook time
$14;听

Runner Up: Farm to Summit Green Chile Mac

Score: 4.5/5

Farm to Summit鈥檚 chile-spiked dehydrated mac 鈥榥鈥� cheese is the freshest we tried. The fire-roasted green chiles (also known as Hatch chile or New Mexico chile to Southwesterners) have terrific crunch, even heat, and a smoky, blackened edge. Bites of fresh tomato, onion, and garlic are also integral to this pouch of macaroni and cheese. The combination of spiral egg noodles and dehydrated sweet cream butter made this dish rich without making us feel ill, as we often do after too much mac. It does, however, take a full 20 minutes to rehydrate. Farm to Summit also sells a 听with white cheddar, zucchini, squash, kale, chard, and spinach for those hoping to get a full dose of greenery.

890 calories; 6.1 oz; 20 minute cook time
$13.50;听

The Rest

Backpacker鈥檚 Pantry Hatch Green Chile Mac & Cheese

Score: 3.5/5

After Farm to Summit鈥檚 take on green chile mac, Backpacker Pantry鈥檚 entry felt a bit like the poor man鈥檚 version of dehydrated macaroni and cheese, but it certainly held its own in our taste test. We appreciate the diversity of powdered cheeses (cheddar, parmesan, romano) and buttery (dehydrated butter sauce) flavor. It鈥檚 a good deal spicier than our other macs, thanks not only to powdered smoked Hatch chile, but also jalape帽o powder. The extra-long elbow pasta is a bit gummy and overcooked.

450 calories; 3.7 oz; 15 minute cook time
$7;听

Mountain House Creamy Macaroni & Cheese

Score: 2.5/5

As much as we tout Mountain House as our preferred budget brand, its mac is not a banner example. The nearly flavorless cheese sauce has an odd, airy texture, almost like marshmallow fluff. That, in combination with extra-thick elbow noodles, reminded us strongly of cafeteria mac straight from the chafing dish. If that type of macaroni gives you the nostalgic feel-goods, this pouch might be worth consideration. One upshot: It packs a whopping 138 calories per ounce鈥攖he highest in this test.

620 calories; 4.5 oz.; 9 minute cook time
$9.25;听

AlpineAire Forever Young Mac & Cheese

Score: 2/5

These noodles do not, in fact, live up to the 80s synth-pop quality we hoped for given the name. Just barely a hint of cheesiness adorns this overcooked fusilli pasta. Random flecks of carrot, corn, and pea make this dehydrated macaroni and cheese taste like a sad macaroni salad at your aunt鈥檚 weekly bridge game.

400 calories; 7 oz.; 10-12 minute cook time
$9;听

Outdoor Herbivore 鈥淐heddar鈥� Mac

Score: 1/5

We rarely dole out a ranking like this, but Outdoor Herbivore鈥檚 gluten-free, dairy-free 鈥渕ac鈥� is borderline inedible. We鈥檙e not sure if it鈥檚 the nutritional yeast, turmeric, or quinoa-corn flour-based pasta, but the otherwise flavorless pouch has a slight ammonia aftertaste. Vegans deserve better.

530 calories; 4.8 oz.; 10 minute cook time
$9;听

The post The Best Dehydrated Macaroni and Cheese appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.