I was in second grade when I learned that outdoor spaces were not meant for me. It was also when I realized that I was Black. Honestly, 鈥渞ealized鈥� isn鈥檛 the correct word鈥攎ore like declared. It was recess. The air was a little chilly, and the sky was gray. My classmates and I were pretending to be Star Wars characters. Another girl, who was white, and I both wanted to play Padm茅 Amidala. We bickered back and forth until a second white girl looked at me and spat out: 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 play her, because you鈥檙e Black and you look like poop.鈥� The other kids, mostly White and one Latino kid, laughed. I laughed, too. Not because I thought it was funny, but because I laugh when I鈥檓 uncomfortable or angry. I immediately felt out of place. I didn鈥檛 want to play anymore. I walked away, found a spot to sit along the wire fence enclosing the playground, and stayed there for the rest of recess.

This is a memory I鈥檝e frequently cycled between replaying and burying in my mind throughout my 31 years of living. But, most recently, it was Netflix鈥檚 newest true crime documentary told through hours of bodycam footage, that hauled this memory鈥攐ne that impacted my identity and self-worth for years鈥攆rom the depths of my brain to the forefront.

The Perfect Neighbor opens with an aerial view of a complex located in Ocala, Florida. Large green lawns are dotted with ivory homes, and a wide paved road cuts through the complex, marking the battleground of a two-year-long dispute between Susan Lorincz, a white woman, and 35-year-old Ajike, 鈥淎.J.,鈥� Owens鈥� four children鈥攁ll of whom are Black. Lorincz, who referred to herself as 鈥渢he perfect neighbor,鈥� was known around town as anything but. She frequently took issue with Owens’ young children and other neighborhood kids playing outside. Her disdain for their typical adolescent activities鈥揻ootball, cartwheels, hide-and-seek鈥攎anifested in several episodes of verbal harassment, racial slurs, and dials to 911. She, allegedly, even . Tension brewed and came to a devastating head on June 2, 2023, following an argument between Lorincz and Owens that ended in the latter鈥檚 tragic death. Lorincz was of manslaughter with a firearm in November 2024 and sentenced to 25 years in prison.

It would be an understatement to say that this story rocked me to my core. Watching Lorincz target those kids just for having fun outside transported me back to that time on the playground during recess, where my Blackness鈥攏ot my emphatic and slightly obnoxious 鈥淚-am-Padm茅鈥� declarations that matched the tone and volume of those spouted from the girl I argued with鈥攕ucked the joy out of playtime. I was left to reckon with, yet again, that damn Star Wars game.

I鈥檝e always loved being active and getting outside. My dad owns a printing company, so he sets his own hours. This meant he was home with my twin sister and me a lot as kids. We went bike riding, flew kites, climbed trees, and went paddleboating. Every Tuesday night, while I was still in grade school, the three of us met up with my uncle at the YMCA to swim. Sometimes, we鈥檇 go to an open field, lie in the grass, and watch the Blimpie blimp fly overhead. My dad, mom, and uncle were always around. It was almost suffocating at times. It wasn鈥檛 until I became an adult that I understood where their fierce protectiveness came from.

For me, the outdoors is a place where I find peace, an escape from my laptop or my apartment. But it’s also where my hypervigilance peaks.

I can鈥檛 remember exactly how old I was when my dad first gave me and my sister 鈥淭he Talk,鈥� not the sex talk. The Talk that most Black kids are familiar with: about how to be Black in America. While my dad’s tone was gentle, there was a sense of urgency and warning underneath it. Even when I was young, I got the feeling he was telling me this because he鈥檇 lived it himself. I was instructed to never be too loud, never leave my sister鈥檚 side, and never answer the door.

I recall a moment where I was in the middle of the road in my uncle鈥檚 neighborhood, kicking around a water bottle left lying on the ground. Me, my sister, and my dad had just left the community playground and were on our way back to my uncle鈥檚 house. His neighbor, an older white lady, admonished me for punting the bottle around, to which my dad said, 鈥淪he鈥檚 just having fun.鈥� The woman then proceeded to badger my dad with questions about where we were from and if we all lived together. 鈥淲e live together,鈥� he replied. She pressed him further. 鈥淏ut where do they鈥攔eferring to my sister and me鈥� live?鈥� My dad firmly told her that my mom, sister, and he all live together under one household as a family. I didn鈥檛 fully understand what had just happened. He later told me that 鈥渁 lot of white people can鈥檛 understand that a Black father would live under the same roof as his children.鈥�

The Talk evolved as I got older. In high school, he told me I had to be twice as good as my white peers to get half of what they had. When my dad taught me how to drive, I learned that I should never have my music too loud and that if the cops ever pull me over, I should keep both hands on the wheel. Now, I love to go for long runs in the park or rent a bike when I don鈥檛 feel like running. I remember my dad telling me to always pay attention to my surroundings and not have the music in my headphones so loud that I can鈥檛 hear if someone 鈥渞uns up on me from behind.鈥�

For me, the outdoors is a place where I find peace, an escape from my laptop or my apartment. But it’s also where my hypervigilance peaks. Instead of only having to worry about encountering a rabid raccoon on the trail, falling, or getting lightheaded if I neglect to fuel properly, I鈥檓 also worried about which white person is staring at me like I don鈥檛 belong. I worry if I look intimidating or angry鈥攐r like I鈥檓 going to attack someone. I fear that if I cover my hair with my sweatshirt鈥檚 hood, even to just protect my ears from biting winds, someone will think I鈥檓 a criminal. So, I just let my ears get cold.

The outdoors is supposed to be for everyone. But who is everyone? If Owens鈥� four Black children, Israel, Isaac, Afrika, and Titus, can鈥檛 play outside without being verbally attacked, then who can? I don鈥檛 know the answer to that. But I think not having that answer is one of the reasons why I took this job as an editor at 国产吃瓜黑料. I ache to see that day when people who look like me can enjoy the outdoors without fear of being deemed a nuisance, a threat, a stain. I鈥檓 still going to go for a run tomorrow, not just for the second-grade version of myself who never got to be Padm茅, but for Owens and for her four Black children鈥攚ho dared to play outside.

The post Netflix’s New Documentary ‘The Perfect Neighbor’ Forced Me to Reckon with What It Means to Be Black Outdoors appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Grab your plaid flannel shacket. Grab your wide-brimmed fedora. Grab your bottle of antihistamine. It’s pumpkin patch season!

C’mon honey, let get the kids! There are only ten days remaining for us to indulge in America’s favorite autumnal tradition: traipsing about an actual farm to snap selfies with smelly livestock, get desperately lost in a cornfield, and fork over top dollar for a decorative gourd or three.

Aha! A parking space, right next to an antique John Deere tractor. Everybody, listen up. A century ago, this hunk of iron was responsible for producing 85 percent of the American calorie intake, and hey, get back here! Don’t you want to hear the rest of my dad history lesson?

Fine, let’s go inside. Do you have the hand sanitizer? What about the Bactine? Great!

Hooboy, look at this place: its as if a museum of American agribusiness and a McDonald’s Playplace were sucked up by a tornado and then dropped into the suburbs. There are real goats and horses here, as well as a snack bar serving funnel cakes, plus hay bales stacked dangerously high, and all manners of rusty farming equipment painted to resemble barnyard animals. Where should we start?

Oh cool, a livestock feeding tank filled to the brim with corn kernels. Dive in everyone鈥攚hat could go wrong? Oh god, it’s so deep! I’m sinking! Where did my daughter go? There you are鈥攚ait, you’re not my child. Aha! Nope, that’s someone’s shoe. Who’s crying? Are you my kid? You are! Fabulous. Let’s never go in there again.

Look, the farmer has erected a wild west boomtown out of plywood. Look kids, there are all sorts of storefronts from a bygone era of American capitalism: a saloon, a dry goods store, and even a Blockbuster Video. How quaint.

Who wants to do a potato sack race? Kids, back when I was your age, I was the LeBron James of this event in Field Day. Let me show you how it’s done. On your mark, get set. Go! I’m winning! I’m winning. I’m鈥�oh my god, my lower back! Honey, get the Tylenol.听

OK, enough of that. Should we check out the corn maze? The advertisement on Instagram said it spans two zip codes! You lead the way, kids, let’s see if all that time playing Fortnite can help us navigate a labyrinth.

Wow, another wrong turn. And another one. Kids, where are you taking us? How long have we been in here, anyway? I could sure go for a funnel cake. We haven’t seen any other people for a while now. Are you sure we’re still in the same county?

Oh look, the farmer has placed a few plastic Home Depot skeletons in this corner of the maze as Halloween decorations. What, honey? Those aren’t fake? Where the hell are we!

OK, thank god, you found the exit, and not a moment too soon. Kids, go up to those plywood face cutouts and let me get your photo. This one is of a dog and cat. This one is a farmer and a cow. Ooh, this one is of a homicidal purple alien chainsawing my child’s head off. I think we found our 2025 Christmas Card.

Great, let’s wait in line for the hayride. Here comes the tractor pulling the hay cart. Climb aboard! Finally, this is relaxing and not stressful, and I can see the entire farm from up here. It looks like the farmer is driving us over to the pig pen. Ah, we get out here? Oh, the farmer is handing us pitchforks and shovels. Oh, you want us to scoop up the pig manure and move it to the other side of the pen? Why are you handing me this 1099 IRS form? Kids, don’t fill that out!

OK, I’ve kind of had it with the pumpkin patch. This is awful. Let’s get the heck out of here.

Alright, arlight, I’ll calm down. You’re right, we haven’t picked out our pumpkins yet. There they are, all arranged nicely in a field. No, I don’t see any pumpkin vines anywhere. My guess is they just trucked these pumpkins out here and now we’re supposed to pick them up and carry them back. Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense, but oh well. Nothing about this place does, right?

Hey, that’s a great pumpkin you’ve chosen, it will carve up perfectly. Yours is fabulous too, honey. Oh, you want me to carry it. OK, sure. And this one, too. Oh, that’s a big one. And that one, and this one? Oof, my back hurts even more. I wonder if there’s a chiropractor’s office back at the plywood boomtown. Guys, wait up for me!

OK, let’s settle up with the cashier. We have four pumpkins, six mini pumpkins, and three winged gourds. And four cups of cider. Wait, how much? Can I pay in installments?

Well, I’m pooped. And dirty. Did you guys have fun? Great!

Yeah鈥擨 can’t wait for next year’s pumpkin patch season, too.

The post It鈥檚 Pumpkin Patch Season! appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Delilah Cupp () grew up watching the MTV show Jackass, and in college, she started posting videos on YouTube and Instagram of her athletic shenanigans with her friends, which included shotgunning beers mid-run at a downhill mountain bike race and spinning 360s in a bikini on skis. Her following took off in 2021, when she and two girlfriends made a film called “Girls Gotta Eat Dirt,” in which they wore jorts by performance denim maker , tore around on their bikes like banshees, and poured handfuls of loam into their mouths. She became known for her lighthearted and irreverent online presence (“20 photos that i took of myself in 2024 that u never asked for never wanted & yet here they are,” she captioned a recent photo dump, “better luck next year!”) and for her Instagram videos, in which she rode and skied with a slashy style that felt inspiring yet almost accessible. Despite suffering knee injuries three years in a row, her following kept growing. Today she’s sponsored by brands including K2 skis, Arc’teryx, and Fat Tire. Even in the three years she posted more kneehab than ski content, she lost just one sponsor. The rest told her they stuck by her because of her uniquely authentic online presence and the connection she’d created with her audience.

She is part of a cohort of athletes that I’m calling the anti-influencer: athlete-creators who are breaking the rules of traditional influencing, yet who are nonetheless shaping the culture of outdoor sports. The anti-influencer isn’t the goody-two-shoes brand partner of yore, posting glowy inspo shots and bringing you along for their Goop-inspired morning routine. They’re online in a way that feels uncurated, unique, and authentic to who they are, often with an edgier style inspired by countercultures like skate and punk. “We’re the millennial generation that grew up watching Jackass, surfing, and skating,” says ultrarunner Max Jolliffe, 33 (). In these scenes, “it’s almost like the less you tried the cooler you were.”

Authenticity has become a social media buzzword鈥攕o much that the idea in itself has been co-opted by creators seeking clicks. The movement started with the hashtag #nofilter, then escalated to some athletes and influencers being “overly vulnerable” in a way that felt almost contrived, says , director of social at , , , and , who shares social-media advice for athletes and brands on LinkedIn. The sweet spot now is someone who strikes a balance between relatable and aspirational, says , social media director at the outdoor marketing agency . (This aspirational quality gives athletes an advantage over pure creators just producing, say, funny skits.) You want to be able to see yourself as an influencer, Hinrichs says, but you also want to see something you aspire to. Otherwise, what’s the point of following?

Jolliffe, who’s sponsored by and , lives in the middle of that Venn. The tatted Strava memelord, who came to running as part of his sobriety journey, owns the fact that he’s not yet competing at the highest level of the sport, winning UTMB or Western States. But he’s nonetheless won several trail races, including the brutal Moab 240, and he’s known for maintaining a three-and-a-half year run streak, which he broadcast on TikTok. Jolliffe gets his own appeal. “The fastest person at Olympic trials鈥擨 can’t even relate to them,” he says. “I’m just relating to the person out there grinding every day.”

Anti-influencers have become increasingly valuable to brands. “Everything has been done in terms of standard brand campaigns,” says Cupp, so “every company is trying to think of ways to be different.” Leaning into the individuality of their athletes is one of those strategies. That’s why, to some brands, an athlete with a big following is now less important than one with an inimitable personality. Satisfy is known for scooping up-and-coming athletes with that X factor, like Jolliffe, who had just a few thousand followers on Instagram when he signed with the cult running brand. So is Ripton, which partnered with Cupp when her following was similarly nascent. Charismatic underdogs are more affordable for small companies, but Ripton founder Elliot Wilkinson-Ray tells me they’re good for branding, too. These athletes, he says, “are such interesting people that it makes Ripton look a lot more evocative, interesting, and tapped in.”

The term anti-influencer is also apt because most of these athletes are producing content, product, or events outside of Instagram or TikTok. Both Cupp and Jolliffe have created short films and vlogs, but one of the earliest and best-known examples of this may be skier , whose YouTube series The Fifty Project followed his journey to tackle all 50 of the classic North American ski descents. The Fifty flipped the powder-reel formula on its head鈥攖he footage was more slogging than skiing, the skiing could be heinous, and despite receiving advice to keep his videos short, Townsend eventually ran them at an average of 25 minutes per episode. The longer they got, the more they gained traction, he says: “It goes against everything that every social media manager tries to tell you.” He believes the series’ real and substantive format was key to its popularity. “People desire connection,” he says. “If you’re chasing the algorithm and chasing what you think is gonna go viral, you’re just playing a dumb game that in the end isn’t valuable for anyone.”

Keenan Takahashi () has a similar philosophy. The pro climber always loathed posting about himself on Instagram; he says it felt “weird and self-aggrandizing.” His online reticence was such that, when signing contracts with sponsors, he’d negotiate to reduce his social media obligations. Takahashi went on to found the climbing apparel company Antigrav (), and he’s also contributed to , a platform that produces YouTube films and a print magazine founded by friend and fellow climber Shawn Raboutou (). Raboutou was another pro athlete who never wanted to play the social media game, and, according to Takahashi, Mellow and Antigrav were created to showcase climbers like them, who wanted to do more longform storytelling.

It seems to be working. Despite sporadic posting, Raboutou is now sponsored by The North Face, and Antigrav’s last t-shirt drop sold out in four minutes.

“Those two brands are really cool to me,” says Hinrichs, who says that younger followers love their “Handycam, skate-style” aesthetic. When she’s sussing a climbing influencer, she tells me, she’ll see if they’re followed by either account as an “authenticity check.” The anti-influencers have become surprisingly influential.

At this point, it barely feels accurate to say that social media isn’t real life. The boundaries between our real and virtual worlds have collapsed; interactions in one realm directly impact those in another. However, the success of anti-influencers suggests an upside to this fusion: We’re developing the same kind of instincts for gauging people online as we do IRL. Our “BS meter” is highly attuned these days, Paget says, and we’re learning to recognize those who give us a good “gut feeling,” even if the platform hasn’t rewarded them with virality. By opting out of chasing likes and instead focusing on creating more meaningful stories, these anti-influencers seem to be taking a more optimistic view of humanity: They’re betting that not all of us are just the vapid, attention span鈥揷hallenged screen-swipers that the apps suggest we are.

Our “BS meter” is highly attuned these days, Paget says, and we’re learning to recognize those who give us a good “gut feeling,” even if the platform hasn’t rewarded them with virality.

If influencers are a category of celebrity created by social media and shaped by its algorithms, anti-influencers may represent a small but growing corner of the Internet where humans are breaking free of the algo. They may not ever represent the majority, says Takahashi: “But I think there is space for that now.”

The post The Rise of the Anti-Influencer: How Outdoor Athletes Are Breaking the Algorithm appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

I don鈥檛 recommend stepping on a cactus in socks. But if you do, do it like Alexi Pappas.

We were out on the Malibu bluffs at the tail end of a long shoot day鈥攐ne that started at her cabin-y home in Topanga, wound through the canyons to a rustic theater, and ended in that golden-pink stretch of dusk that makes you understand why so many movies are filmed in California. Alexi was prepping for a shot when she, yes, stepped on a cactus. In socks.

Most people would鈥檝e cursed. But Alexi looked down at the offending sprout and said, 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 see that little one, but I鈥檓 proud of him growing there. Of asserting his space.鈥�

罢丑补迟鈥檚 the thing about Alexi. She doesn鈥檛 just show up for a shoot鈥攕he inhabits it. And like that little cactus, she asserts her space. Not just as a runner or writer or actor, but as a modern athlete鈥攐ne who鈥檚 as comfortable running a marathon as she is workshopping a poem or preparing for a role.

Sometimes, athletes are expected to exist in one sole gear. Grit. Discipline. Drive. And sure, there鈥檚 nobility in that. But there鈥檚 also joy in complexity. For a lot of us, fulfillment comes not from performing one role perfectly, but from giving ourselves permission to be a few things at once. To be both serious and silly. Strong and stylish. To step on a cactus and admire it.

国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 first Style and Design issue is all about those intersections鈥攚here sport meets art, where function gets a little flair. You鈥檒l read about the new cool kids of running gear, like , , and , who are borrowing from music, skate, and streetwear scenes to make clothes that feel as good as they perform鈥攁nd allowing new runners to more fully express themselves. You鈥檒l meet Nicole McLaughlin, a wizard of upcycling who can turn a climbing harness into couture. You鈥檒l learn about accomplished hiker Zelzin Aketzalli and her quest to build Baja鈥檚 first thru-trail. And you鈥檒l get a snapshot of America鈥檚 modern land art out west, where the awe of the mountains and new art become one and the same.

The most meaningful things in life鈥攐ur gear, our goals, our identities鈥攁ren鈥檛 meant to stay pristine.

But back to Alexi. Earlier in the day, we found ourselves onstage at the Will Geer Theatricum Botanicum, a tucked-away, wooded amphitheater where she often ends trail runs (conveniently, there’s a bakery on-site). Wearing her blue Olympic blazer, she swung Tarzan-style from a rope tied to a stage-side tree. It was completely unplanned, like the best moments are. Later, she noticed the blazer had torn a little in the process.

鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 meant to be in a closet,鈥� she said. 鈥淭oday, it was meant to get messed up swinging on a tree in Topanga.鈥�

That line stuck with me. Just like Alexi鈥檚 blazer, the most meaningful things in life鈥攐ur gear, our goals, our identities鈥攁ren鈥檛 meant to stay pristine. They鈥檙e meant to see the world. To get a little torn up. To live.

See you out there,

Kevin Sintumuang
Editorial Director

Scout Report

My favorite finds of the season

The post What a Cactus Taught Our Editor About Style, Sport, and Living Fully appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

When R.F. Kuang first took up running in college, she was stymied by what it meant to be a “real” runner. “I thought you had to run at least two miles without stopping, and I thought you had to have a seven-minute mile time,” she says. But after several false starts and a couch-to-5K training breakthrough, she realized that “real” runners have just one thing in common: they get out the door and keep moving.

Kuang is the mega-bestselling author of several award-winning novels, including , , and the . Nowadays, she travels the world speaking about her books in far-flung cities鈥攁nd wherever she goes, you’ll find her running along the nearest river first thing in the morning. Currently training for a half marathon, with the goal of working up to a full marathon, her insights from the road always pour onto the page. Her latest novel, , launches on August 26.

When Did You First Become a Runner?

I’ve been trying to become a runner off and on since I was in college, but I wasn’t training the right way, so I would try to run a mile, then get pooped and give up. But about two years ago, I discovered a couch-to-5K training plan and thought, “Maybe this will work.” At the time, a 5K seemed like a Herculean achievement. I was like, “People run for half an hour continuously? That’s crazy.” The day I ran my first 5K, I was ecstatic. It was one of the best running experiences I’ve ever had. I’m very much a late-stage adult runner, but it was cool to see that you can get into it at any point in your life.

How Do Running and Writing Interact for You?

The main thing is a sense of discipline. My thinking on this is inspired by Haruki Murakami, who so famously loves running that he wrote a book called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. In his essay collection, Novelist as a Vocation, he writes about the physical stamina it requires to sit on your ass and work on a manuscript for hours every day. Writing advice is always very cerebral, but he writes about how you must stay physically fit. There’s a crazy line where he says, “Once a writer puts on fat, it’s all over.” I think that’s a little bit extreme, but I understand the gist. The moment you start getting lazy or taking your foot off the gas, that’s when creatively, it gets dangerous.

The other part of discipline is doing something even when absolutely nobody is forcing me to. If I don’t go out there every morning and run, there will be zero consequences. I think of writing the same way. Nobody is asking me to write books. I’m creating something from nothing, and the only thing propelling me to do that is sheer willpower. So every single morning, I do the enormous task of forcing my body to keep doing something that I don’t want to. And when I sit down to write, I’m forcing my mind to do something that it doesn’t want to, because naturally, you want to be at rest. But the rewards only come when you push yourself into an uncomfortable zone.

How Has Running Shaped Your Approach to Discipline?

Running has been incredible in teaching me that when I wake up in the morning, even if I don’t feel up to doing all the things I need to do, the hardest part is just getting out the door. Then your body takes over from there, and it all gets easier from that point. Similarly, when I don’t want to start a writing session and I’m dragging my feet by doing the laundry or putting away all the dishes, I remember that the worst part of writing is sitting down and opening the file. But then once I’m looking at the words, I forget that I didn’t want to write that day. Then I’m fully immersed in the problem. The run of my creative process has begun, and I’m not stepping off the trail until I’ve written whatever scene I need to.

Do You Think About Writing When You Run?

Running is very good brainstorming time. I used to run to music, podcasts, or audiobooks. Now I prefer to run in total silence, because it’s time to think and the world is quiet. I have to entertain myself somehow when I’m on the road. So I think I do my best writing鈥攐r at least my best brainstorming鈥攚hen I’m bored and I have to generate my own entertainment. If I took an hour off to just brainstorm in my office, I would feel very antsy, because I would think I should be doing something more active. But giving my mind that unhurried time to think in the mornings is wonderful.

Do You Talk About Running with Other Writers?

In my immediate writing circle, nobody else runs, and they think I’m a crazy person for subjecting myself to this. Runners are the most boring people on the planet, because the only thing we want to talk about is running. It feels like this secret brotherhood. I get bored talking to people about writing, but I never get bored talking about running.

Do You Run in Other Cities When You’re on Book Tour?

That’s a big priority for me. I used to find touring really exhausting, because it was all about being on trains and planes every single day. So it’s a little bit delirious of me to force a run into that schedule, but it’s actually provided some good structure to the day, because I’ll wake up very early just so I can run at least a 5K in a new city before we have to move on. It’s a fantastic way to see a city on foot without it taking hours. My default strategy is to find the river as quick as I can and just follow the river. Another surefire way to find a good running path is to head out in the morning when everybody’s running, find a runner who looks local, and follow them wherever they’re going. I did this in Milan and it led me to a really nice loop around the castle.

What’s Your Advice For a Newbie Runner?

I wish I’d known it’s OK to run slow. Even if you’re running a 12-minute mile and you’re only running one mile, you’re still running. When you do that and do it continuously, you get faster and faster, and you start accumulating a capability for distance. The training plan that finally made running work for me was based on intervals, a lot of breaks, and starting from very short runs. I was dazzled by how quickly my endurance and speed built up.

It’s very similar with writing. You think about writing a novel and it feels like this insurmountable mountain鈥攈ow on earth am I going to write 90,000 words? But you don’t write the entire novel at once. You write it one sentence and one paragraph at a time. You write 500 words a day. Five hundred words is two good paragraphs鈥攁nd anybody can come up with two good paragraphs in one day. If you do that for six months, suddenly you’ll have a novel-length draft. So focus on the very achievable task right in front of you. Don’t focus on the end goal鈥攜ou can’t get there overnight. Just focus on finishing the next mile.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed.

Buy Kuang’s New Book

The post Why Bestselling Author R.F. Kuang Runs in Silence Every Morning appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Dear Sundog,

I listed an old sailboat for sale for $3,000, which happened to be the amount I鈥檇 put into it with a new engine and other repairs. No takers. I dropped the price but still nothing. Finally I slashed it to $1200, and got three buyers immediately. One guy said he’d buy it sight unseen. I was out of town when he came by and hauled it off on its trailer. Well, 19 miles later, the axle bearing shit the bed. The tire blew out, and the sparks of hot metal dragging on pavement started a small grass fire, which the guy was able to contain. The only way I know this is through a series of increasingly angry texts and photos. The buyer then paid $600 to a wrecker to haul the boat and trailer to his house. Now the buyer is texting me asking for some money back. I鈥檇 just hauled the boat and trailer a hundred miles the week before, and did not know that it had any problem. I still think the buyer got a good deal. Am I obliged to refund any of his money? 鈥� Seller B. Wary

Dear Seller,

We all know how much new equipment costs: boats, trailers, ropes or skis. It鈥檚 prohibitive! How can a semi-unemployed vagabond make it in the outback today when it costs tens of thousands for the basic outfit? We do what your buyer did, and cruise the bargain basements for steals too good to be true. But here鈥檚 the thing. It usually is too good to be true. The raft has slow leaks. The truck chassis is rusting. The thing broke in two but was repaired in the garage and will probably, almost certainly, perform good as new.

During the pandemic, a peculiar inversion occurred. When factories and shipyards shuttered, new equipment was expensive or even impossible to purchase. As a result, owners of used boats, trailers and trucks could unload their junk for nearly as much as they鈥檇 paid a decade earlier. This bubble persisted for a couple of years, and even now you鈥檒l find ambitious sellers asking retail prices for cracked, dented, leaking, rusty gear. It would appear that you, Seller B. Wary, did not fall into this category, and quickly adjusted the price of your old boat to what the market would pay.

To be sure it鈥檚 a bummer for the buyer. Blown tires, a day wasted, expensive repair, and a wildfire to boot: What a mess! These things happen to those of us foolish enough to haul trailers filled with gear around the hinterlands. Sundog himself once toppled a trailer full of kayaks on a dirt road in Baja California some two hours from the nearest town or auto garage. In this case he left the trailer, drove to a garage, and hired a mechanic to come back with him and fix the thing where it sat. The Mexican mechanic brought a chain and a block of wood and a small tool kit. Upon getting the trailer to run, he looked with satisfaction at his two hands and pronounced, 鈥淧uro mano.鈥� (pure hands).

Nonetheless, by the basic premise of the familiar slogan 鈥渂uyer beware,鈥� his problems are not your responsibility鈥擨鈥檇 add that your responsibility decreases in direct proportion to the sales price.

Sundog also learned the same lesson the hard way. His first car ever purchased was a 1969 Plymouth Fury that was already 22 years old when Sundog bought it from a trollish hippie named Bobby for $500. Having driven approximately half a mile from the point of purchase, Sundog was dismayed when he heard a loud clank followed by a thunderous roar from the V8. The exhaust line had snapped, and the muffler dragged on the asphalt.

I was pulled over by two separate cops on the short drive home, and issued a fix-it ticket. This being California, registering the Fury would have required a new exhaust system, a smog check, and God knows what else. I didn鈥檛 know how to do the work myself. I was going to have to pay hundreds鈥攖housands, maybe鈥攆ar in excess of what I鈥檇 paid for the Fury just to get the thing street legal. When I took this news to Bobby and asked for some refund, he remarked memorably if not justly: 鈥淗ey man, you can鈥檛 squeeze water from a rock!鈥�

Sundog received little sympathy. When I told people I鈥檇 paid $500 for a 22 year old car that turned out to be a lemon, they said (I鈥檓 paraphrasing here): 鈥淲ell, duh.鈥�

I鈥檇 imagined myself the kind of guy who could fix a car, or if not that, the kind who鈥檇 run the risk of driving around an explosively loud unregistered beast. I was neither. I ended up paying a wrecker a hundred bucks to tow the thing to a junkyard. After that, I bought better cars. Lesson learned.

You鈥檙e not obliged to refund his money, nor to pay the $600 for the tow. The buyer could have made other choices: repaired it on the side of the road. Had he towed it back the 19 miles to your house and asked for a refund, you鈥檇 have more of an obligation to take it back. If you鈥檙e going to buy decades-old gear at rock bottom prices, then you should be the type of person who knows how to repair it. Inversely, if you can鈥檛 repair equipment yourself, you should buy new or at least newer gear, with the warranties and peace of mind that comes with it. It would appear that your buyer wanted the best of both worlds: dirtbag prices with dealer assurances. It didn鈥檛 work out that way.

Indeed, your buyer got a deal that was too good to be true.

Mark Sundeen teaches environmental writing at the University of Montana.听Got a question or a response? Email听sundogsalmanac@hotmail.com

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I watch Alone differently than others.

My lavish snacks aren鈥檛 unique鈥攅veryone knows nothing builds an appetite like watching other people starve. For most viewers, the hunger is psychological. For me it鈥檚 a visceral memory.

I rarely watched television before being recruited for the show back in 2018, but now I never miss an episode of Alone. Each one brings me right back to the places my own two seasons as a cast member took place, the shores of Great Slave Lake and the rugged coast of Labrador.

My two Alone journeys were vastly different. In Season 6, set at Canada鈥檚 Great Slave Lake, I loved every day so much I was certain I would never tap, but did. On Alone Frozen, held in 2021 in Labrador, I thought about tapping every day, but didn鈥檛. Together, both experiences give me a unique Alone-watching superpower: I can generally spot a tap out before it happens, and often before the participant knows it themselves.

Why? Because, while it is extremely physically challenging, Alone is 90 percent mental.

When the Mind Wants to Quit, the Body Will Follow

I鈥檝e seen the same dynamic play out thus far on Season 12. This season of Alone is taking place in South Africa鈥檚 Great Karoo Desert, as opposed to a cold climate, and the warm and dry conditions bring unique challenges and sets this season apart.

The pattern holds true, however, that most people tap out mentally well before they reach their physical limit. From the point when they quit in their minds, no matter if it takes days or hours, they are just waiting for the justification to act on it. When I watch the show, I read the clues of the participants鈥� mental state in their posture, voice, decision-making, self-talk and more.

Days 1-10 are the first threshold. You鈥檇 think that with everyone full of excitement, energy, and calorie reserves, this period would be the easiest. Not so. Going from socialized, well-fed, and comfortable, to total isolation and little to no food can be brutal, and the transition can blindside people. Just the inevitable shift to ketosis鈥攁 physical state in which your body runs on fat instead of blood sugar鈥攃an cause headaches, fatigue, nausea, digestive issues, and other symptoms that can masquerade as more serious illnesses. Extreme discomfort is inevitable out there. Finding mental comfort within the physical discomfort, while also recognizing and avoiding the real physical dangers, is essential.

People adjust, and life in the wilderness gets a bit easier after a week or so, but in early episodes I can often see the participants鈥� fear that things won鈥檛 improve. It comes across in the slump of their shoulders and the sense of defeat in their voice.

The body and mind are incredibly connected. When the mind dwells on leaving, the body is often happy to deliver an excuse鈥攁n injury from a stumble, an accident with a knife or axe, you name it. The suffering mind can even cause heart palpitations, digestive problems, or other physical issues. Likewise, a strong mind can overcome dire physical circumstances.

If You Want to Stay, Your Body Will Find Ways to Survive

On Season 6, I was slowly starving to death, but I was so in love with the experience and the pristine wilderness of Great Slave Lake, that I felt not only strong, but joyous, even as my body began digesting my own muscles.

In contrast, my first week on Alone Frozen was gruelingly difficult. A storm hit before my permanent shelter was finished, and I spent days drenched and hypothermic. I longed constantly for my cozy fireplace and my sweet partner back home.

I carried on.

Without enough trees to build with, I dug my shelter into the thin soil and hauled rocks and sod for the bulk of my walls. Between that and prying mussels off rocks under the frigid sea water, I developed wrist tendonitis so extreme that I could hardly turn my headlamp on.

I could still haul rocks though.

I carried on.

Days later, I woke up in the night with shooting pain in my toe, dreaming that someone was trying to cut it off. In the morning, I found a huge, green, pus-filled blister on the nail bed. I could barely put weight on it and was almost comically crippled with my hooked hands and heavy limp.

鈥淥kay body,鈥� I said, 鈥淚 see what you鈥檙e doing. You鈥檙e providing excuses to give up and go home. I鈥檓 sorry I gave the impression I wanted that.鈥�

I hobbled on, but promised myself that if I remained this miserable for three more days, I would consider tapping.

In the middle of the following night, I scrambled out of bed to go outside to pee.

I heard the hiss before I sensed the burning. The safety on my pepper spray had been pulled out by wading through spruce thickets and my fumbling had pushed the trigger. I鈥檇 just doused my sleeping bag, my rain jacket, and my fur parka with pepper spray.

But as the pain subsided and my eyes and nose stopped flowing like a faucet, I rocked back on my heels and laughed.

At that moment, I knew I could win Alone Frozen, if I wanted to. The environment was brutally challenging. My body had given me every justification to tap, then pepper spray on top of that, but I didn鈥檛 want to go.

I had won the mental game, and now I just needed to carry on and not screw up until the timeline played out.

Signs That a Participant Is About to Tap Out

Having been to the very brink of the mental tap out then back again, here are some of the things I look for to indicate if participants are still in the game.

How do they handle adversity?

The locations of Alone and the survival circumstances are always incredibly challenging. You must expect little failures, but focus on the positive and celebrate every small victory. 鈥淗ey,鈥� I鈥檇 tell myself each day I went without food during Season 6, 鈥渓ook how much time I鈥檓 saving by not cooking!鈥� Fixating on the hardship instead of the beauty will take you out.

Are they curious about and engaged with the place, or are they looking at their photo and talking about home and family?听

Staying long-term demands connecting with the environment, learning its patterns, and adapting to them. You must really be there, body, mind, and spirit. Alone producers allow participants to bring one photo with them, and I think this is a booby trap. Dwelling on thoughts of home invites reasons for heading back there.

Are they becoming careless with essential gear?

When your life depends on the ten survival items you bring into the wilderness, you must take extreme care with them. Not doing so can provide a quick and easy excuse to go home.

Are they thinking critically and planning for weeks or months ahead?

Making poor choices like building a shelter inadequate for the harsher weather that is inevitably coming is, consciously or subconsciously, choosing a short-term stay.

Are they bettering their situation every day, or merely enduring their suffering until it overwhelms them?

Hopelessness and helplessness are not long-term strategies on Alone. You must believe it can be better, then make it true.

Ultimately, everyone chooses their own unique Alone journey. I don鈥檛 believe participants must push themselves to the very brink of survival to succeed. Deciding to leave Season 6 before being medically evacuated remains one of the most important and proudest moments of my life.

While billed as a competition, Alone is really a journey of personal discovery鈥攁n initiation of body and soul. It is as humbling or as empowering as we let it be.

Each participant finds what they need to out there, and in their own time. But I always wish a long stay for everyone. There is a huge gift in surrendering to the experience, letting it push us beyond our pre-conceived ideas of self, and finding the strength and resilience on the other side.

was the first woman to win Alone, and between her two seasons, holds the record for the most cumulative days on the show. An author, educator, and speaker, she chronicled her time on Alone Season 6 in her memoir, . She teaches ancestral, wilderness, and survival skills and offers consultation for Alone hopefuls, writers, and filmmakers. Learn more at www.woniyathibeault.com or join her on Patreon for exclusive content and early access to her writing and classes.

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Dear Sundog,

Some friends and I recently booked a big house for a mountain biking trip. It wasn鈥檛 cheap: $800 per-person for the week, and we reserved months in advance, with a strict no-cancellation policy. Since then I broke my collarbone and can鈥檛 ride my bike. I told my friends that I can鈥檛 come and that I don’t want to pay. My injury has cost me thousands in medical bills and missed work. I鈥檓 also bummed to be missing this upcoming trip. They don鈥檛 want to pay extra for my empty room. One of them suggested that I go anyway, even if I can鈥檛 ride. 鈥� Reader

Dear Reader,

On the surface this quandary is simple: you basically entered into a contract with the homeowner to pay the rental fee, knowing that with the cancellation policy, you鈥檇 have to pay even if you didn鈥檛 attend. By that standard, you should simply cough up the dough. If it would be enjoyable to hobble around a rental house while your pals ride bikes, then do it. If not, stay home.

But this situation is complicated. Our human relationships are not merely financial. The people demanding that you fulfill your promise aren鈥檛 bots or banks or faceless property managers: they are your friends. They are under no ethical obligation to bail鈥攐r buy鈥攜ou out of your commitment, and yet, if they refuse, it would certainly be worth examining the true depths of their friendship.

I would like to think that a friendship is built on a stronger foundation. Friends might be willing to make a sacrifice for one of the group who has fallen on hard times. This would be quite different if you鈥檇 merely changed your mind about the trip or got too busy with work. Then they could rightfully tell you to go pound sand.

But what you describe appears to be a legitimate hardship, and you鈥檇 not be crazy to hope your friends would step up. I suppose I am also considering that people who pay $100 per night each to go mountain biking (instead of, say, camping out) are fairly comfortable financially. I assume they could feasibly pay a bit more (or invite someone else to take your place).

Sundog鈥檚 verdict: ask your friends to cover your costs. If they refuse, pay what you owe and consider finding new friends.

In a recent column, Sundog discussed the question of homeless people camping on public lands, determining that he himself would not take action to evict. One reader opined that reporting such campers was actually the ethical move:

The bourgeoisie don’t accept everyone. That is a fact鈥攈aving compassion and patience for people disregarded by society is a spiritual endeavor not suitable for everyone. Having experienced violence inflicted on me that was initiated by a local newspaper article that declared war on homeless tents, and having my home of 6 months destroyed and stolen within one day, I understand the trauma inflicted by societal norms. My camp was clean and tidy yet was gone nonetheless because of a front page headline that enabled any citizen to destroy my camp and tent. That is all.

Another reader took the position that compassion trumped legality:

I would definitely work with the Forest Service/ BLM and local police to alert them to the presence of a camp, and to schedule it to be cleared after fair warning. These are much like graffiti, they spread if left unmitigated. It鈥檚 not OK and violates local and federal laws. We live near Alpine, Wyoming, on the Palisades Reservoir where seasonal construction workers live and camp way past the maximum permitted stay. Even if left clean in the fall/winter, the continuous occupancy damages the site. Cat holes with human excrement from months of use don鈥檛 go away and leach into the reservoir. Many camps aren鈥檛 left clean, and they are scary as heck to walk/ run/ bike near ruining the co-existence with local home owners and family weekend campers. So yes, you are entirely justified and, in my option, compelled to report illegal camping. Leave a note, then call the authorities.

A different but related column asked if we should report to police if we found someone squatting in a vacant Airbnb. Sundog told the questioner she was not ethically bound to report this. A reader disagreed:

No offense. Read the article. Definitely see both or all three sides of the argument. Not in agreement though.

I live in Whitefish, Montana Between the pandemic and the TV series Yellowstone, Whitefish, Bozeman and most of western Montana have been inundated with people moving here or buying up properties.

It鈥檚 both flattering and annoying. I wasn鈥檛 born here, but I have owned property here for 35 years, before Ted Turner and so many affluent people came. So I consider this to be my home, and myself to be almost native. So I can see why locals are upset: higher taxes, lack of affordable housing, etc.. But two wrongs don鈥檛 make a right.

If you see a crime, you say something. It doesn鈥檛 matter if it鈥檚 someone illegally parking in a handicapped spot, squatting in a vacant rental or abusing their dog, child, etc. Apathy and lack of respect for others or their property and the rule of law is never acceptable. 罢丑补迟鈥檚 what is happening everywhere nowadays鈥攅specially our politicians (both parties) and their lack of accountability for their actions.

It鈥檚 just my opinion. I don鈥檛 have to like someone before I would do the right thing. And the right thing would be to make sure the squatters know there are consequences for their actions.

Mark Sundeen teaches environmental writing at the University of Montana.听Got a question or a response? Email sundogsalmanac@hotmail.com

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Well, that escalated quickly.

Alone Africa isn’t even a week old, yet the survivalist are dropping like flies. During the third episode, titled “Thirst Trap,” two more contestants quit, bringing the total to four tap outs after just five days in the wilderness.

The high attrition rate has me wondering if the dry and rocky landscape in South Africa’s Great Karoo desert is, indeed, the toughest location in the show’s history.

It’s a Thirsty Crew

(Spoilers ahead!)听I’ll get to the tap outs later, but to me, the biggest revelation of episode 3 was that the fight against thirst would become the season’s defining struggle after all.

Yes, the show’s pre-season marketing material hyped-up the hardship created by the quest for water. I admittedly shrugged it off as hyperbole while watching the opening episode, when it became clear that all ten participants were stationed on the banks of a massive lake.

But as we saw in episode 3,听access to water in the desert doesn’t diminish thirst鈥攐r shrink the massive workload required to keep thirst at bay.

In this episode we got a sense of the grueling daily regimen survivalists must maintain in order听to stay hydrated. Get water. Filter out the gunk. Build a fire. Boil the water in a pot that holds two quarts. Let it cool off. Drink. Repeat.

Yeah, it’s a full-time job.

And the ramifications of this process are massive. Participants must keep fire going. They can’t take on too many mid-day tasks鈥攍ike building a shelter or fishing鈥攖hat steal their attention from the water-purification process.

And, perhaps most importantly, they cannot stray too far from camp, for fear of wilting in the heat and losing access to their stores of purified water.

In a speedy flash of听Alone text, we learned that just four participants chose to bring a canteen into the Great Karoo: Douglas, Doug, Nathan, and Jit. Everyone else has to stay close to home. When I learned this information, I made a mental note鈥攚ill a canteen separate the winner from everyone else?

In episode 3 we saw two survivalists address the so-called “thirst trap” head on. Kelsey created a water storage cistern made out of a strip of tarp and rocks.

Douglas, meanwhile, scored mega bushcraft points for building his own water storage unit out of a massive agave root. I don’t know if Douglas has what it takes to win this season, but his quick thinking vaulted him way up in my own mental ranking of the survivalists.

Did They Have the Right Stuff?

I thought a lot about Douglas and Kelsey while watching Pablo, 55, struggle under the unrelenting sun and eventually call for rescue. Pablo’s demise showcased the serious toll of the water workload.

I will likely never personally experience the discomfort and struggle that any Alone participant endures in the wild鈥攖hank god. But armchair quarterbacking their decisions is, of course, a crucial component of Alone fandom.

While seated in my armchair of omniscience, I couldn’t help but wonder why Pablo didn’t try to construct some type of water-storage system of his own. I also wondered if he could have lasted longer听by choosing a canteen instead of a shovel and a saw.

That said, I passed little judgement when I watched Will, 31, become the season’s fourth resignation in dramatic fashion. After eating a stew made from acacia nuts and prickly pear cactus, Will suffered terrible gastrointestinal stress, eventually vomiting blood. I squirmed in my seat as I watched Will writhe in pain. He called for an emergency rescue鈥攕omething you rarely see in 础濒辞苍别.听

My only takeaway from Will’s departure is that we’ve now seen two people quit (Jit left in episode 1 with a bad stomach) after eating prickly pear, which may be the proverbial poisoned apple of this season.

Is This the Hardest Setting in听Alone History?

You have to go way back in 础濒辞苍别’蝉听history to find an attrition rate this high in the opening week. In 2015, during the show’s debut season, four participants gave up in the first four days. A fifth quit on day five.

That year producers staged the show on a remote and soggy corner of Vancouver Island, where water, food, and shelter were in abundance. Three guys bailed due to fear of bears and wolves. A fourth departed after catching a water-borne illness.

Since then, no other season has seen four tap-outs within a week.

So, is听Alone Africa really the hardest season so far? I’m leaning toward yes, and to understand why, I think it’s worth examining season 12 through the听lens of the听show’s history.

A few years ago I asked its executive producer, Ryan Pender, about the early dropouts in season 1. It turns out the flurry of tap outs sounded alarm bells within the show’s production circles.

“We were concerned,” he told me. “Because of course it’s a massive undertaking, lots of money was spent on the season, and the concept was not proven.”

Pender attributed the high attrition rate in season 1 to the casting choices. Back then,听Alone was still untested and unknown. To find the ten participants that year, casting directors sought out people they met at survival trade shows or saw online.

“Not everybody knew what they were in store for, and that’s what it really came down to,” Pender said. So, long story short, the survivalists that year were green.

But fast forward to 2025.听Alone now attracts millions of viewers each year and has spawned its own culture of bushcraft fanatics.听These days, Alone receives 70,000 applications each year, and its casting department follows a multi-step process to听find the ten best. By and large, the contestants coming on the show听these days know exactly what they’re getting into, and they spend months preparing.

“The participants’听skills are always improving from year to year,” Dave Holder, the show’s safety expert, recently told me. “I love to see how people are practicing these skills in their daily lives. The overall level has gone way up.”

But the x-factor is that all of听Alone‘s previous seasons have been set in cool, damp, and in some cases frozen environments. Dehydration isn’t much of a hurdle in coastal Labrador, the Great Slave Lake, or Vancouver Island. And Holder told me that the curveball created by Alone‘s African setting absolutely caught some people off-guard.

I spoke to Holder prior to听Alone Africa airing, and while he didn’t divulge any spoilers, he did share a takeaway from what he witnessed during the filming.

“It’s about the stress caused by dehydration. Their skills need to be at a high level so that they can constantly purify water and hydrate,” he said. “This takes up a great deal of the day. You have to remember to drink. You will see people get so engrossed in other tasks that they forget to drink. And for them, the dehydration just gets worse day after day.”

There are no grizzly bears, or wolf packs, or arctic winds in South Africa’s Great Karoo. But its silent killer鈥攄ehydration鈥攊s enough to convince me that it is the toughest season yet.

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My phone buzzes with an incoming call, the world “HOME” flashes on the screen.

In the nanosecond before I answer, the half-dozen worries that come from having elderly parents flash through my mind. Did somebody fall over? Was there a concerning doctor visit? Is everyone OK?听

My 83-year-old father’s voice crackles on the other line.

“Fred, I just talked to Steve,” he says. “You really need to write an article about him for your magazine.”

I’m silent. My mind races again, this time bouncing off disparate emotions. Relief. Confusion. Annoyance.

For the past six months, my father has relentlessly asked鈥攏o, commanded鈥攎e to write about a buddy of his named Steve. From what I’ve deduced from my dad’s enthusiastic pitching, Steve loves to explore subterranean caves. In Mexico. Yep, Steve goes caving. This, in my father’s opinion, makes Steve a fabulous person to profile in the pages of 国产吃瓜黑料.听“Steve is a really great guy,” my dad always adds.

This, of course, is not the first time my father has prodded me to write about something. Each one has evoked complex feelings that can only come from a parent-child relationship. Intellectually, I know that my dad is just striving for connection, some way to relate to the adult son he once took fishing and tossed a baseball with in the backyard.

Alas, his determination听(you NEED to write about Steve) unearths thousands of memories of past parental commands: tie your shoes, no elbows on the dinner table, don’t forget your homework.听All of a sudden, I’m 13 years old again, pushing back against my dad’s authority, striving for my own independence.

I sigh as I respond into the phone: “Dad, I’m really busy right now.”

The Complexities of a Parent Pitch

Working in journalism means constantly fielding story pitches, and as my 22-year career in media has progressed, this has only grown in number and intensity. At 国产吃瓜黑料,听my email inbox overflows each day with more than a dozen story ideas from freelance writers, PR agencies, non-profit watchdog groups, and even politicians.

Most are narratives about a personal adventure into the backcountry, or a request to write about a product or idea. Very few of them, however, check all of the boxes that we editors consider when assigning an actual story. Is it timely or newsworthy? Is there a person at the heart of it who has a compelling arc? Does the story say something about a wider dynamic in outdoor culture that a general audience would find compelling? Is the subject matter actually of interest to 国产吃瓜黑料 readers?

Very few pitches meet the standards above, and even if one does, we must make a final assessment.听Does the writer have the reporting experience, access, and writing skills to tell this story?

My father’s pitches rarely meet the bar for pursuing a story. Most involve some element of geology or geologic exploration鈥攖he field he’s worked in for the last 60 years.

Assessing a story is a complicated vetting process, and one that is nearly impossible to explain to a parent or family member without that person’s eyes glazing over with boredom. This is why nearly every journalist I know can share stories of fielding bad story pitches from their loved ones.

“My dad also started ski touring last winter and got his avalanche training, so every time he reads about an accident in the news, he听shares it with me, I think in an effort to remind me that avalanches exist,” says Anthony Walsh, one of the Climbing editors.

“When my dad does try to pitch me stories on climbing, it’s like guided mountaineering clients or news we already covered a week earlier,” writes Maya Silver, Climbing’s听editor-in-chief.

“My dad is an avid cyclist and doesn’t really follow running, so he sends me all the Velo听articles he loves and then sends me stories about running from the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal that we covered like two years previously,” Abby Levene of 国产吃瓜黑料 Run ays.

These are all relatable anecdotes. Many of my father’s pitches are stories he reads in the Wall Street Journal. When I’d tell him that coverage in a major newspaper usually means that a similar story in 国产吃瓜黑料 will generate less of an audience, he shrugs.

“But it’s still an interesting story,” my dad always says in a last-ditch attempt.

But Sometimes Parent Stories Work

These anecdotes are reminiscent of my favorite episode of , the celebrated podcast and public radio show. Back in 2010, the show’s reporters . The logline to the episode reads: We try something harder than anything we’ve ever tried before, by taking the random ideas that members of our own families have told us would be “perfect for the show” and turning them into actual stories.听

Lisa Pollack’s mom wanted a story about funny funerals. Nancy Updike’s dad had a great idea for a radio episode about the building of the Erie Canal. Alex Blumberg admitted that his father’s pitches are “generally big and abstract,” like the one he pursued: corporate personhood. Another reporter told the story of how her father, back in the fifties, tinkered with his Oldsmobile in a way that it could be turned on by dialing a rotary telephone.

The most relatable anecdote was from reporter Jane Feltes, whose dad pitched a profile about the local Methodist pastor, a guy named Harry Brakeman. At first, Feltes was skeptical of her dad’s assertion that Brakeman had founded a university in Haiti. But Feltes called up Brakeman, investigated his work, and stumbled upon a wonderful story about a dynamic person doing amazing work.

I recently re-listened to the episode and analyzed each parental pitch. No, none of these story ideas had much mainstream appeal, newsiness, or timeliness. But each of the tales were, in their own way, compelling. The Harry Brakeman segment, specifically, drove home the point鈥攎aybe some parent pitches do work. While listening, my mind wandered to my dad, and to his friend named Steve. No, Steve’s story has very little potential to harness a major audience, or to break news. But what if Steve’s story was just as dynamic as that of Harry Brakeman? What if my teenage tendencies to ignore my father were blocking my own sense of curiosity?

I decided to call up Steve.

A Story About Caves

A man answers on the other end of my phone and identifies himself as Steve Maynard. Within a few minutes, I am laughing. My father is right: Steve, who is 70, is an extremely great guy. And boy does he love caving. Over the course of a half-hour call, Steve recounts the many multi-day expeditions he’s taken deep into the Earth’s crust to explore tunnels and chambers in the pitch black depths of caves.

“I鈥檝e crawled through places that were pretty tight, and I’ve been in tunnels where I had to exhale just to get through,” he tells me. “For whatever reason, it doesn’t bother me.”

In the nineties, Steve completed several dozen expeditions into the Lechuguilla Cave in New Mexico’s Carlsbad Caverns National Park, where he helped map some of the 150 miles of passageways. More recently, Steve has embarked on trips to a recently discovered cave in Oaxaca, Mexico, called Xine Xao.

“The passages are as big as subway tunnels,” he tells me. “It’s mostly an easy walk鈥攁t least as far as caves go. You’re scrambling, but you’re not crawling on your hands and knees.”

Steve and other cavers wonder if the Xine Xao tunnels link up with the nearby , which stretches 5,118 feet into the ground, making it the deepest cave in North America. Linking together two massive cave systems would represent a massive breakthrough鈥攁t least within the tight-knit world of cavers.

“You’re talking about a few thousand people worldwide who really care about this stuff,” he says.

As Steve shares stories of his expeditions and discoveries, one major question pops in my head: Why? It’s easy to understand why mountaineers scale high peaks鈥攇lory, fame, personal accomplishment, and, well, because society rewards such feats with attention. But why explore the depths of the Earth’s crust? The only mainstream attention caving receives is during or after a or disaster.

Steve is silent for a few moments after I present my question.

“It’s an adventure,” he says. “I’ve had the good fortune of being the first human being to ever step into some chambers on a few occasions. That’s a feeling that’s really hard to describe.”

There’s also a social pull to it. Since he began caving in the early nineties, Steve has made friends within the international caving community. When he goes on one of these eight-day expeditions, he gets to catch up with other friends who share his passion.

And finally, there’s the attraction of science and discovery. Steve has a background in geology鈥攖he same as my father. When Steve explores a cave, he can visualize the mountains, mineral deposits, and other features of the Earth’s crust that surround him. It’s a relatable perspective that reminds me of dozens of road trips I took with my dad, during which he spent hours explaining the geologic forces that created mountains, gullies, and canyons.

Steve tells me that it may take decades to fully explore the Xine Xao system and to find the chambers and tunnels that lead to the surface.

“Part of my motivation for being interested in it has been to help people learn about caves and map them out,” he says. “Maybe someday, when I’m in a wheelchair in the old folks home, someone will make a connection at Xine Xao听to the surface. I will raise my cup of prune juice to them.”

I mentally raise my own cup of prune juice to Steve, and to my father. His relentless pitching has led me here, to Steve, and I am absolutely compelled by Steve’s perspective on caving. Will his story produce the next great piece of American journalism? Probably not. But it has kept me enthralled and interested鈥攖he bar that all stories must cross.

Before we end our call, I do my final bit of diligence. I ask Steve if these multi-day caving expeditions into dark and deserted corridors deep underground will ever become a recreational activity for the masses, like mountain climbing or whitewater rafting. Steve laughs. He is doubtful.

“It’s dark, you get dirty, and personal hygiene is an issue,” he says. “You don’t realize how bad you stink until you get out of a cave.”

Fair enough, Steve.

Articles editor听Frederick Dreier grew up in Golden, Colorado, and everything he knows about the outdoors he learned from his father, John Dreier.听

The post For Father鈥檚 Day, I Wrote the Story My Dad Pitched Me. It鈥檚 About Caves. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.