According to Shakespeare, there are lessons and stories everywhere in nature鈥攐r, as he puts it, books in the running brooks, tongues in trees, and sermons in stones. I鈥檓 down with that idea. But in case the running brooks aren鈥檛 meeting your educational needs this summer, here are some suggestions for actual books to tuck into your backpack. (You can also look for more top picks on my holiday book list and last summer’s book list.)

Water Borne, by Dan Rubinstein

The tale of an epic wilderness voyage to鈥� New York City?! Rubinstein is a longtime outdoors journalist and avid stand-up paddleboarder, and in 2023 he set out to paddleboard from his home in Ottawa on a 1,200-mile loop via Montreal, New York City, and Toronto. His trip ends up being a fascinating tour through the varied waterways and communities of the Great Lakes region, a deep dive (sorry) into the health-promoting powers of being in and around water鈥攁nd also just an enjoyable and often funny read about a quirky and impressive trip.

Pushing the River, by Frank Bures

My own preferred mode of paddling is in a canoe, and Bures鈥檚 book adds to the surprisingly sparse ranks of canoeing literature. (Don鈥檛 @ me, I know there are some great canoeing books out there鈥攆rom Thoreau to Roy MacGregor to Adam Shoalts鈥攂ut not as many as the world deserves.) The central part of this story collection is a historical account of the 450-mile Paul Bunyan Canoe Derby, but for me the most engaging stories are Bures鈥檚 own adventures and the reflections they inspire: a voyage down the Mississippi from Minneapolis to his hometown, Winona; an unexpected dunk in hypothermic waters. Disclosure: I wrote the intro to this one.

How to Fall in Love with Questions, by Elizabeth Weingarten

In times of upheaval, we get a lot of books about how to handle uncertainty鈥攁nd, in many cases, how to embrace uncertainty. Weingarten, a journalist and behavioral scientist, thinks this advice is too pat. After all, being mired in uncertainty about important questions can be miserable. More worryingly, being too eager to resolve uncertainty鈥攚ith instant answers from AI or overly confident advice from wellness gurus, say鈥攃an lead us astray. This is a nuanced look at a complex topic.

Ballistic, by Henry Abbott

I first encountered Marcus Elliott in Charles Bethea鈥檚 epic 国产吃瓜黑料 story about 鈥渕isogis鈥� back in 2014. He sounded like an interesting dude, but I didn鈥檛 realize at the time what a major figure Elliott is in the world of injury prevention for pro athletes. That鈥檚 the topic of Abbott鈥檚 new book, which is part biography and part injury prevention manifesto. Elliott is a big believer in the importance of ballistic movements like jumping and landing, and also in the power of 3D motion analysis to pick up subtle signs of impending injury. My general take is that injury prediction is somewhere between really hard and impossible, but by the end of the book, I couldn鈥檛 help thinking, 鈥淢an, I鈥檇 like this guy to take a look at my running stride.鈥�

Adaptable, by Herman Pontzer

Pontzer is an evolutionary anthropologist at Duke University, and his new book is basically an account of how our bodies work as viewed through the lens of evolution. You might be familiar with his previous book, Burn, which covered the modern science of metabolism and calorie-burning. What makes both books worth reading is that Pontzer is exceptionally good at explaining science in a clear, rigorous, and entertaining way.

How Economics Explains the World, by Andrew Leigh

If Pontzer鈥檚 credo in Adaptable is 鈥渆verything makes sense when viewed through the lens of evolution,鈥� Leigh鈥檚 is 鈥渆verything makes sense when viewed through the lens of economics.鈥� Leigh is an Australian politician and government minister, as well as an accomplished ultrarunner and former economics professor. The subtitle of his new book is 鈥淎 Short History of Humanity,鈥� which captures its spirit nicely: it鈥檚 basically a fun and fast-paced history of civilization as seen from the perspective of economists.

Win the Inside Game, by Steve Magness

Longtime science-of-running fans will remember Magness as the author of the encyclopedic tome a decade ago. Before that, he鈥檇 been a 4:01 high-school miler and later a coach of college and professional runners. In recent years, though, Magness鈥檚 focus has broadened to performance in its broadest sense. He wrote a couple of performance-focused books with former 国产吃瓜黑料 columnist Brad Stulberg, and then the 2022 bestseller . Magness has always been an exceptional synthesizer, drawing connections across an impressively wide range of domains. His new book is more personal than his previous ones, drawing on his experiences as a whistleblower at the Nike Oregon Project, and seeks to guide the reader not just to performance but to fulfillment.

Out and Back, by Hillary Allen

In 2017, Allen fell 150 feet off a ridge during a mountain race in Norway. Her injuries were horrific. This book is her account of what happened after the accident. Spoiler: contrary to all predictions, she managed to return to the top levels of elite ultrarunning, and in fact her career continues to this day. The story itself, as a straightforward narrative, is fascinating. But what takes it up a notch is her attempts to understand what being an endurance athlete means to her鈥攂ecause you don鈥檛 fight back from an accident like that without a clear understanding of your whys.

North, by Scott Jurek

Jurek鈥檚 second book, after his 2012 bestseller , grapples with some of the same questions Hillary Allen鈥檚 book does. But instead of a mountain accident, he鈥檚 facing a more inexorable foe: aging. He was 41 when he set out to attempt to break the Appalachian Trail record, his career as a legendary ultramarathon champ fading out. Like Allen鈥檚 book, Jurek鈥檚 top-level narrative鈥攊n this case, the record attempt鈥攊s a great story on its own, full of improbable twists and impressive feats. But it鈥檚 the existential angst that kept me turning the pages.

Burke & Wills, by Peter FitzSimons

I spent the last five years writing a book about the science of exploring, which meant I read a lot of exploring stories. Among the most epic was the tale of the Burke and Wills expedition, the first to cross the interior of Australia. It鈥檚 by far the most famous Australian exploration tale, but relatively unknown outside the country. That should change: it鈥檚 a wild saga, a mix of adventure, fortitude, comedy (the first time I heard about the expedition was in a Bill Bryson book), and tragedy. For a long time the definitive account was Sarah Murgatroyd鈥檚 2002 book The Dig Tree, but FitzSimons鈥� 2018 book now holds that mantle.

The Explorer鈥檚 Gene, by Alex Hutchinson

You can also find out about Burke and Wills by reading鈥� my new book! They feature in a chapter that compares the exploration of Australia to the strategies mice use to explore water mazes: thigmotaxis, scanning, incursions, and so on. Burke and Wills used a strategy that鈥檚 very effective for crossing large expanses of unknown territory, but not so good for getting back home again. More generally, the book is about why we鈥檙e drawn to explore, how we do it, and what we get out of it鈥攖he perfect accompaniment for whatever adventures you have planned for the summer. Happy reading!

For more Sweat Science, join me on and , sign up for the , and check out my new book .

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It may be inspired by fiction, but HBO鈥檚 The Last of Us has a funny way of making me ask serious questions about real life. And Season 2, with its Seattle setting, has me wondering: Would this city really be the best place to live out the apocalypse? Given all the zombie drama, The Last of Us doesn鈥檛 exactly showcase the Seattle we know, but it does seem like a decent place to spend the end times in real life. The weather is cool and rainy. There鈥檚 plenty of water. And even with climate change, the city might still be pretty comfortable given that the current average high temperature is 72 degrees in the hottest months of the year.

The risk and severity of extreme weather events that create real-life apocalyptic scenarios鈥攆loods, droughts, heat domes, hurricanes鈥� as the planet warms, as robust has demonstrated. Plus, the a warming planet. That means that many of us could one day be searching for a more climatically stable city to flee to鈥攊n other words, something some have called a climate haven.

The myth of climate havens

To try to answer my own questions about the climate future, I spent some time reading about these so-called 鈥渃limate havens.鈥� For the uninitiated, climate havens are places that, because of their location, seem less likely to experience the most extreme effects of climate change, like dizzyingly high temperatures, rising sea levels, severe wildfires, and floods. Examples that frequently include places like Buffalo, New York, and Ann Arbor, Michigan, for their relatively low average temperatures, distance from the threats of sea-level rise, and lack of history with extreme weather events, broadly speaking.

However, the entire concept of climate havens might be more of a clever marketing tool than a trustworthy descriptor of specific cities. Experts seem to increasingly doubt the entire idea of a climate haven or refuge because, as a put it, 鈥淭o the extent that a climate refuge even exists, it鈥檚 not a particularly physical or geophysical phenomenon. It鈥檚 social and economic.鈥� In other words, there鈥檚 no zip code that in and of itself will be totally immune to the threats posed by climate change and extreme weather events. But the kind of preparation and mobility that financial capital can provide does offer a potential buffer鈥攆or some鈥攖o its worst outcomes.

And to make matters worse, the whole idea of climate havens might have just been taken out of context and used as a tool to attract transplants to invest in real estate in areas of the U.S. that have seen population and industry decline, such as, as its slogan puts it, 鈥渃limate-proof Duluth,鈥� Minnesota. The aforementioned Vox story spends time unearthing the history of climate havens lingo as city council marketing tools.

Moreover, being described as a climate haven doesn鈥檛 mean a place is immune to extreme, devastating weather events. A heart-wrenching recent example is Asheville, North Carolina, which, before the devastating flooding in 2024, had often been described as an ideal 鈥渃limate haven鈥� city.

When the worst happens, where do you want to be?

Still, despite my research, I held onto hope. I thought an expert might be able to hand me the key to my apocalyptic bunker. I talked to Daniel Swain, PhD, an acclaimed climate scientist based in Los Angeles. Given his credentials, I thought he might know a thing or two about a thing or two.

After agreeing to chat with me, Swain quickly set the tone for our conversation: 鈥淢y forewarning is that I generally don鈥檛 think the notion of 鈥榗limate havens鈥� makes much sense in general (or, at least, does not mean anything close to what people tend to think they represent!).鈥� Gulp.

Still, my conversation with Swain was illuminating because it gave me the tools to think about specific locations through the lens of our climate future in a different way. In fact, according to Swain, the right map of the best locations to weather the future might actually be 鈥渢he inverse鈥� of the locations we鈥檙e used to seeing on roundups of so-called climate havens.

How does that make sense?

For Swain, the thought experiment (along with the robust data he interprets) is really quite simple. 鈥淲ould you rather experience a particular major disaster in a city that very rarely sees those kinds of events or in a city that sees them frequently?鈥� In other words, would you rather live in a city that does have a high and regular risk of certain types of disaster that it is increasingly prepared to manage and mitigate, or do you want to live somewhere with a lower risk but no infrastructural response for when the worst does happen? Swain would pick the former scenario. And after talking to him, so would I.

Looking at environmental apocalypses this way means that suddenly Los Angeles might seem like a better option than, say, St. Louis, if your goal is to live somewhere prepared to manage the specific disasters it may face.

Is Seattle right for the end times?

But what about Seattle? As much as I enjoyed learning about how Swain thinks about environmental risk and the ways in which the climate haven data has likely been misinterpreted, I did want to know his opinion on the specific spot that motivated the whole inquiry.

And, well, if you didn鈥檛 know, Seattle is at risk of a pretty major seismic event, which an objectively terrifying 2015 story in the New Yorker calls 鈥�.鈥� Seattle, along with the rest of the Pacific Northwest, Vancouver, Canada, and parts of Northern California, lies along the Cascadia subduction zone, which, based on the geological data, is poised to produce a massive earthquake and potential tsunami that could be among the worst natural disasters the U.S. has ever faced. And sea level rise fueled by climate change could than previously predicted, according to published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA.

Swain told me that he鈥檚 glad Seattle seems to be taking the risks of a Cascadia subduction zone earthquake more seriously than it has in the past, but he would still take Los Angeles over Seattle when it comes to preparedness. When I asked why, Swain told me that Californians鈥� visceral collective memory of recent catastrophes, like the 2025 fires or 1994 Northridge quake, has created stronger infrastructure and preparation for managing and mitigating such disasters.

Cities like Seattle still have a fair amount of work to do to catch up. However, Seattle has started within the last decade to . And emergency alerts in cities across the U.S.鈥攊ncluding those for earthquakes and other seismic events鈥攈ave improved over the past decade, too, Swain told me. They鈥檙e super fast and efficient compared to how they worked in the past, especially since most people have a direct line right in their pockets in the form of a smartphone. That means being in earthquake territory (i.e. Washington) isn鈥檛 necessarily worse than being in wildfire territory (i.e. Colorado) or Tornado Alley (i.e. Kansas). So, though we may not be able to predict exactly when earthquakes might hit, modern alert technology means we can react to them pretty fast. If the idea that a city鈥檚 specific disaster preparedness makes it more of a 鈥渃limate haven鈥� than its temperate climate, then maybe Seattle really is an increasingly smart choice.

So, what’s the best option?听

No place is the silver bullet to surviving our climate future. Individual preparedness, evacuation plans, information sharing, and infrastructural investment on the part of local governments are still the best options available to us.

Given that my family is about to relocate from Virginia to Seattle, I鈥檓 deeply grateful for the conversation with Swain that writing this story allowed me to have. Nowhere is perfect, but now, I have the chance to prepare.

Ryleigh Nucilli is the former Director of Digital Editorial at National Geographic, and she takes extreme environmental events very seriously. She is soon to be based in Seattle.

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Earlier this year, a PR rep from Fox News asked if I’d want to review the conservative network’s upcoming docuseries on the history of Yosemite National Park. Called Yellowstone to Yosemite with Kevin Costner, the three-part series is the brainchild of the Academy Award-winning actor, and the follow up to his 2022 series . As I stared at the email, I wondered: What can Fox News teach me about the importance of the national parks? As it turns out, a lot. But their approach delivered a few surprises.

Yellowstone to Yosemite, which airs Saturday, February 8 on Fox’s streaming service, Fox Nation, tells the often-repeated story of a 1903 camping trip that then-U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt took with naturalist John Muir through Yosemite. Over four days and three nights, the听two men yukked it up around the campfire, admired the soaring monoliths and waterfalls, and became friends. Similarly, Costner, now 70, embarks on his own camping trip within Yosemite as he narrates the story.

In the first episode, Costner quickly establishes the significance of Roosevelt and Muir’s campout. It’s May, 1903, more than 30 years since Yellowstone was established as the first national park. Five other parcels of land have become national parks, but the designation has done little to actually protect their ecosystems. Loggers are plundering giant sequoias in Yosemite and poachers are decimating bison herds in Yellowstone. The federal government, meanwhile, lacks the teeth to stop them. “Congress saw the national parks as a zero-cost initiative. Each park has an unpaid superintendent responsible for enforcing regulations,” Costner says. “It’s not working at all.”

Muir, the famed naturalist, believes the only way to save America’s parklands is by harnessing the power of the president. He invites Roosevelt to Yosemite to show him the wonders of the park up-close, before pitching him on the bold idea of actually protecting the six natural wonders.

And we’re off鈥攐ver three 45-minute episodes Costner tells the story of the camping trip while weaving in other historic anecdotes and ecological tidbits about Yosemite National Park. Yep, there’s a heroic mini-biography of Teddy Roosevelt. There are Nature Channel-worthy segments about the lifecycle of a Sequoia and the geologic forces that carved the valley. Costner name drops Lynn Hill as the first rock climber to free climb the Nose of El Capitan. There’s even a reenactment of the massacre of Miwok tribespeople that preempted their forced removal from Yosemite in 1851.

But as the docuseries unfolds, Costner also performs some rhetorical jiujitsu that muddies the current political divide around a few topics. He frames the conservation movement as inherently patriotic, and funding the national parks as part of our American heritage. He presents the corporate interests of industry as evil, and the seizing of land from Tribes as cruel. He even tells the viewer that the reintroduction of grey wolves鈥�a wedge issue in many Western states鈥攊s something that Roosevelt, a Republican icon, would have supported.

Costner presents these perspectives with a sincere tone that lacks any hint of cynicism or moral superiority. After praising John Muir for advocating on behalf of Yosemite’s trees and rivers, Costner lays down in his sleeping bag as the temperature plummets. “God I love this country,” he says. “Everything about it. Even the cold.”

Costner’s melding of these concepts鈥攑atriotism, conservation, American heritage, and honoring Indigenous tribes鈥攈elps him sell a contemporary vision to his audience: national parks are worthy of our protection and our tax dollars.

Sure, Costner’s sincerity and mythical retelling of a camping trip may inspire some eye rolls. Still,听I couldn’t help but admire his approach. Perhaps somewhere in Yellowstone to Yosemite is a playbook for bridging the political divide when we debate protecting National Monuments from drilling, or the reintroduction of apex predators, or why we should save endangered species. I don’t watch Fox News, but my parents do, and I firmly believe that they would love Yellowstone to Yosemite, even though it’s essentially a three-hour pitch for the environmental movement.

Costner’s story concludes on a high note. Roosevelt is inspired by Muir, and after he’s reelected he signs the Antiquities Act of 1906, which grants him the power to protect federal lands. He sends the U.S. military to defend the national parks, and he establishes a series of national monuments to honor the legacies of indigenous tribes.

I recently asked Costner about the balancing act in Yellowstone to Yosemite, and whether it was challenging to blend so many disparate socio-political themes in an hour-and-a-half program听 He brushed the question aside with a laugh. You can read my interview below.

Why Kevin Costner Wanted to Tell the Story of Yosemite National Park

OUTSIDE: Why did you want to tell this story in 2025?
Costner: I was not waiting for the right year to tell this story. I recently did the film Horizon and I thought of it back in 1988. With Yellowstone: One Fifty, I realized that we just don’t know our history and the intricacies of the routes we drive and the mountains we look at. With Yosemite, we all think we know the park. But I knew there was a story to tell about Roosevelt and Muir. In this 30-year span after the creation of Yellowstone, there was nobody who could actually protect the parks. Nobody took into account that it would would take manpower and a governmental body to actually protect them. I like these parts of history that seem obvious, but aren’t. And this story had plenty of these elements, so I had a sense that I wanted to share it. I wanted to start with the Native Americans鈥攅ven if we’re going to highlight Roosevelt and Muir, it was important for me to go that distance and to talk about original inhabitants. I wanted to tell viewers just how tragic things were for them. They’re always in our history and we somehow forget them. They are a part of Yosemite as much as any story we tell.

But I also wanted to show how these two men, of like minds, each had a level of poetry in them that helped them understand that saving the parks was the right thing. I wanted to tell this story without beating people on the the head. I wanted to educate them.

Your story navigates more than a few political topics that are still debated today, such as funding the NPS, reintroducing apex predators, and the constant tug-of-war between protecting federal lands and opening them to drilling or logging. How did you navigate these without seeming partisan?
Ha. I don’t care where the chips fall, and I’m honestly not that careful. I’m not looking to present a side here, I’m just looking to tell the story of who was doing what, who was saying what, and what actually happened. This project isn’t catered to any crowd. It had to get above my bar in terms of its intellectual literature. And I felt like we told the version of the story that I set out to tell. I don’t talk down to my audience or around them. I honestly don’t see the world as being dangerous when I’m telling historical truth. You have to tell the story with all of its warts. Other people might be worried about what I’m going to say. But I didn’t ever worry about it. I never had a single thought about this.

This is your second project around the U.S. National Parks. What about the Parks has attracted your interest in storytelling?
I’m really pleased that national parks are an American idea. Today there are like 1400 national parks around the world, but we set the tone. We came up with the idea that the land could have a higher economic use than just exploiting it鈥攖hat some day, people would come and visit. But when I think of environmentalism, it isn’t just about the fish in the streams, and the trees. It’s also about the connection to the past. That I can walk where other people walked 100 years ago. And also, to know that a place like Yosemite will be the same forever. And to know that these places aren’t just enjoyed by the wealthy, that everyone can enjoy them. Setting aside land for a national park is such a simple idea, but in reality it takes a fierce attitude to move an idea to being practical, especially when money is at stake.

You’ve spent several decades telling stories about the American West, from听Dances With Wolves to听Yellowstone.听What is it about the West that continually sparks your imagination?
I stumble on these stories, and I know that I’m only going to be able to tell so many of the in my lifetime. Right now I’m flirting with a very historical project that I’ll probably do, and it’s right in the vein of what you’re talking about, but I can’t discuss it here. As Americans, we think we know our history, but you never really know that much about it until you dig down. We read about the Native Americans somewhere in the fourth grade, like one chapter in one book, and that’s it. All of Yosemite was on the backs of people who were exterminated. This great park came on the heels of shipping them off to a river where they would die in anonymity. And they’re not even on a sign anywhere.

We rarely get down to what is human about them. I think that Yosemite gets down to what is human about John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt. People can be touched by the truth. They can be affected by lies, but they can be truly touched by the truth.

This interview was edited for space and clarity.听

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I have run and bicycled a certain one-mile section of the paved riverfront multi-use path in my hometown probably at least 200 or 300 times. A handful of times, I have thought to myself, 鈥淚 should really stop and read some of these historical plaques along the trail.鈥� I believed there to be two or three of them, and in four years, I never made the minuscule effort to pull off the trail even once for the 60 to 90 seconds required to read them.

A few weeks ago, though, I finished reading what I think is now one of my favorite adventure books, and I got inspired. Because books can do that.

Dean Karnazes鈥檚 Ultramarathon Man inspired hundreds or thousands of people to try ultrarunning, Colin Fletcher鈥檚 books inspired probably thousands of people to take up backpacking, and Cheryl Strayed鈥檚 Wild inspired a generation of thru-hikers. My friend Alastair Humphreys鈥� new-ish book was the catalyst for one of the least epic, but most satisfying adventures of my recent life.

The book is called Local: A Search for Nearby Nature and Wildness, and the concept is this: A guy who lives in the suburbs of London looks for adventure on the 400-square-kilometer map with his house in the center. This particular guy has bicycled 46,000 miles around the world for four years, rowed a boat across the Atlantic Ocean, and walked across the Empty Quarter Desert towing a giant homemade cart. It鈥檚 no Into Thin Air, or story of survival in Antarctica, or tale of the first human forays into some unexplored corner of Earth. But Al got this map, decided to spend a year essentially 鈥渟taying home,鈥� exploring one randomly-selected square kilometer per week, whether or not it looked interesting on the map.

Here is one of my favorite paragraphs in the book, on page nine:

鈥淲hat if where I live, this bog-standard corner of England, which had held no surprises for me, was actually full of them, if I only bothered to go out and find them? Not known, because not looked for. This was an opportunity to get to know my place for the first time and to search closer to home than ever before for things I鈥檝e chased around the globe: adventure, nature, wildness, surprises, silence and perspective.鈥�

I imagine having to write a book about the experience pushed Al to try to dig up interesting things about each grid square he explored鈥攚hich, in my reading, often resulted in me looking up from the book and saying to Hilary, 鈥淒id you know 鈥︹�� And it reminded me of some of the best tour guides I鈥檝e met on trips, who remain enthusiastic after repeating the same facts and figures hundreds of times鈥攐r my sister-in-law鈥檚 father, John, who has lived in the same town in Wisconsin for almost his entire life and seems to have a million pieces of local trivia ready at all times. And how last year I traveled to a spot very close to my hometown鈥檚 , but still hadn鈥檛 read the goddamn signs on the riverfront path I鈥檓 on five times a week.

So Tuesday morning, after riding my bike to drop off our little guy at daycare, I pedaled down the section of path I鈥檝e traversed so many times on foot and on skinny tires, and I stopped at every single plaque. There are 10 of them in the span of that one mile, detailing the human and geologic history of the valley here dating back 16,000 years: the lumber baron who built a mansion near the mouth of the creek (and whose widow, more notably, donated the land for the city鈥檚 first park), the bridges that washed away in floods, the glacial lake that flooded and carved out the valley several times in 鈥渙ne of the most significant geological events in the history of the world,鈥� and did you know we used to have a streetcar here? I mean, I guess not really 鈥渨e,鈥� but the people who lived here a century ago.

Several years ago, at an American adventure film festival, I saw a film of an expedition to climb a mountain in a country halfway around the world. In one scene, as the team of climbers slogged onward and upward through the jungle under ridiculously heavy backpacks, they passed through a village and a few local children and adults watched them. The characters in the film were of course far from home, very 鈥渙ut there鈥� in many ways, and struggling against great odds for a goal and a story about trying to reach that goal. But to the people who lived in the village, it was just Wednesday. Maybe a notable Wednesday, since these weird people with colorful clothing and backpacks were passing through, and that didn鈥檛 happen every Wednesday. But I found myself thinking more of the contrast: Eight people having a capital-A adventure within ten feet of other people sitting in their front yards. Which is something that never happens in my neighborhood, because people don鈥檛 fly halfway around the world to climb the mountains near my house.

But should you have to spend several days and thousands of dollars traveling to have an interesting experience? Seems a little elitist, doesn鈥檛 it?

My friend Forest and I have spent time together in many beautiful places, usually as photographer (him) and writer (me). I have picked up a handful of camera tricks from him over the years, but have no illusions about switching careers to photography. I asked him one time to tell me how I could improve my photography, based on what he鈥檇 seen, and he gently suggested that I should try to get closer. Of course he was right鈥擨 always default to the 鈥渢iny person in huge landscape鈥� shot, which is easy for me to see and feel (we鈥檙e so small out there!), but hard to replicate without a long lens. Being able to look closer, to zoom in, is something I still struggle with, literally in photography and metaphorically in life. Isn鈥檛 it harder to experience wonder the closer you are to where you live and work and get stuck in traffic and take out the trash, or is that just me? I aspire to be someone who can find wonder anywhere.

I鈥檓 not saying that reading a handful of plaques has now made me some sort of expert. But it did send me to the library, and to Google some things鈥攚hich I wouldn鈥檛 have Googled without having my interest piqued by what was on those plaques (the environmental disaster behind the old dam) and what was not on those plaques. (Okay, but what about the history of indigenous people in this area?) Which is something we are lucky to have the ability to do nowadays, to follow up on our interest(s) .

Another paragraph from the introduction of Local:

鈥淚鈥檇 imagined this would be a year of poking around rabbit holes in the countryside, but it became a year of falling down internet rabbit holes about hundreds of obscure topics, as well as reading dozens of books about history, nature, farming, and the climate emergency. Anything clever you read in the following pages, and almost every fact and figure, was new to me when I began this book. Do not make the mistake of thinking I鈥檓 a clever person who can stand in an empty field and see biology, geology, and every other 鈥檕logy, while you merely see a field. I, too, saw only the fields before I started, but paying close attention unveiled so much.鈥�

Of course I love to travel, and some of my favorite places in the world are special because the first time I visited, a friend who lived there showed me around. And tour guides are great, but nothing beats someone who is enthusiastic about where they live, because they鈥檝e paid attention to it and don鈥檛 mind sharing it with someone else. Now if you鈥檒l excuse me, I have to do some research on this streetcar we used to have here in the early 1900s, so I can tell visiting friends about it for the next decade.

If you鈥檇 like to read Local (which has been longlisted for the Wainwright Prize!), here鈥檚 where you can find it:

听听听

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Paige McClanahan, a journalist and travel writer, is much too diplomatic to phrase it this way, so allow me to be the grump: you鈥檙e the reason locals so often dislike tourists.

鈥淭ravel has become a consumerist exercise where the goal is to get our money鈥檚 worth out of a place,鈥� McClanahan says in a phone interview from her home in France. 鈥淲e need to wake up. Paris owes you nothing.鈥�

The tourist-local tension has been around since before Marco Polo, but in her debut book, , McClanahan shows us just how bad things have gotten. Globally, travelers will log some 1.5 billion trips abroad by the end of 2024鈥攖he largest movement of people the planet has ever seen. In a handful of years, that number could reach 1.8 billion. Closer to home, Americans are on track to take almost two billion domestic leisure trips annually by 2025. Despite the buzz around mindful experiences and sustainable travel, locals from Athens to Zermatt have had enough of us. Some Hawaiians have requested that we stay home. Romans fine tourists up to $280 for clogging the Spanish Steps. In July, an annoyed mob roamed Barcelona鈥檚 boulevards dousing visitors with squirt guns.

McClanahan, who writes for The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Guardian, has plugged her journalistic pen into this bursting dike with empathy, not by shaming or lecturing anyone. Nor does she ask people to stay put, which would be detrimental to conservation work, prosperity, and cultural bridge building. Instead, McClanahan uses the voices of locals adversely affected by tourism to inspire us to travel with more curiosity, humility, and appreciation for how our holiday can be hell on the climate and local residents. Above all, she wants us to know that we have the power to make travel a force for good.

This elevated mindset is the hallmark of the new tourist. Becoming one isn鈥檛 hard. It means visiting Iceland in the off-season or trading the line at the Louvre for a Paris Noir walking tour to soak up the city鈥檚 Black history. You can control your partying in Amsterdam and stay behind the fence at the Grand Canyon. You can insist on supporting local guides and locally owned hotels, restaurants, and food carts. (The Barcelona mob targeted people eating at a Taco Bell, among other spots.)

鈥淓ven if you鈥檙e a low-budget traveler, you can still be a high-value visitor,鈥� McClanahan says.

McClanahan, who left the United States at age 26 and has spent the past 17 years writing from Africa and Europe, admits that she has made plenty of old-tourist mistakes鈥攍ike posting a self-serving Instagram reel from Angkor Wat that barely showed Angkor Wat. 鈥淚 live in a glass house,鈥� she says.

McClanahan casts no aspersions on the types of trips you like but does bristle at people who consider themselves 鈥渢ravelers鈥� and not tourists. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 deny that people travel for a huge range of reasons, some higher-minded than others,鈥� she writes in The New Tourist. 鈥淪o, sure, call yourself a traveler but never forget you鈥檙e a tourist, too.鈥� What matters is that we make informed decisions on how to travel in ways that put places and the people who live there first.

鈥淥ne of the most constructive things we can do in our flickering moment of life is to embrace the chance to leave our comfort zones鈥攖hose dangerous lairs where we learn to languish,鈥� she writes. She adds to me: 鈥淣one of us can wave a magic wand and change the behavior of millions of other people, but each of us can be that change.鈥�

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I started watching the hugely popular TV series Yellowstone in 2020, during the height of the COVID pandemic. By then, there were multiple seasons available, and my husband and I had nothing but time. We were hooked.

We鈥檙e not the only ones. The second half of Season 5, which came out on November 11, saw more than . Only NFL football had than Yellowstone last season. Character names like Rip and Dutton have seen exponential increases in their use for newborn babies. And, as the recently reported, Americans really want their own piece of the Yellowstone landscape, and the show may be partly to blame.

Which got me thinking: How much of the show is based in reality, and is it really affecting what’s happening in the West? The show is over-the-top melodrama, but writer and co-creator Taylor Sheridan obviously chose real-life conflicts in Montana and other western states to base the plot on. Here are four ways the show bears more resemblance to reality than a casual fan might realize.

1. The Series Suggests Big Developers Will Stop at Nothing to Broker Land 鈥淒eals鈥濃�擳hat May Be True.

In Yellowstone, the Duttons are constantly navigating nefarious plots to seize their ranch by out-of-state land development interests. Some, it seems, will stop at nothing to dispossess the family in order to capitalize on the value of their land, creating ridiculously violent scenes.

In real life, there is example after example of complicated land deals in Montana and the West in which developments for the wealthy take up premier land. The Yellowstone Club, which is just north of Yellowstone National Park in Big Sky, Montana, has been a bastion for the ultra-wealthy since it opened in the late nineties. Boasting 鈥減rivate powder鈥� and ruthlessly protected privacy for its members, among other features, the Club was created through swaps with the Forest Service, which turned a checkerboard of public and private land into consolidated acreage for the Club鈥檚 founder, Tim Blixseth.

While the Yellowstone Club is already controversial among Montanans (few of whom can afford the steep costs of membership, which involve a , annual club dues of $36,000, and annual property owners association dues of $10,000), it鈥檚 also trying to expand into a contentious area of the Crazy Mountains. As Ben Ryder Howe reported in New York magazine’s , a group of billionaires associated with the Club has been maneuvering to privatize contested swaths of land that yield access to the Crazies for some time. The Forest Service, ranchers, the Native Crow, the general public, and the Yellowstone Club all seem to have a stake in the outcome.

2. Places Like Bozeman, Montana, Really Are Becoming Overrun with Furs and Fancy Cars.

I know folks who live in Bozeman, and I鈥檝e read plenty of the reporting we鈥檝e done here at 国产吃瓜黑料 (and elsewhere) related to life in mountain towns like Bozeman, where affordable housing shortages, the aftermath of a global pandemic, remote work, and the glamorization of mountain lifestyles have created a rich broth of income inequality that is apparent as you navigate the city.

Writing in 2022 for 国产吃瓜黑料, Maggie Slepian, who has been based in Bozeman for more than a decade, noted the visual changes on the town and the landscape that were being wrought by the influx of new, wealthy, second-home residents. Watching Yellowstone, some of the fashions my beloved Beth Dutton opted for on her runs to town struck me as a bit much even for her unparalleled character. (Silky sheaths beneath a luxe full-length fur coat, anyone?)

Sartorial considerations aside, affordability remains a major issue, and Yellowstone focuses primarily on the more glamorous troubles a family that owns the largest ranch in the area would face, not on the person being priced out of their apartment or the family acknowledging that they鈥檒l never be able to swing it for a single family home.

3. The Duttons Struggle to Afford Their Ranch. So Do Many Real Families.

In the years since Yellowstone premiered, a number of outlets have interviewed real generational ranchers in Montana to get a sense of their view of the show. The dynamics among the family itself often get highlighted as one of the most believable elements. In an Variety from 2023, a third-generation rancher from Idaho, Jesse Jarvis, highlights the familial dysfunction as one of the most realistic elements of the show.

The Duttons鈥� interpersonal conflicts are largely driven by the struggle to afford their 700,000-acre ranch. In real life, the total number of farms and ranches in Montana is down 10.3 percent from 2017, from 2022. And with continued interest from developers to obtain large tracts of land in the area, it seems likely land and home prices will continue to rise. Recent data from the indicates a consistent increase of cropland value in Montana from 2012 on. And this is to say nothing of the capital needed to operate a large-scale ranch.

4. Indigenous Land Is Being Acquired and Compromised by Development.

Fans of Yellowstone see complex dynamics of power and history at play in the dealings of the Duttons and others with the fictional Broken Rock Indian Tribe. As the screw twists and turns, the Broken Rock, led on the show by the Chairman Thomas Rainwater, find themselves on both the dealing and receiving ends of bad land deals and villainous behavior from local and out-of-state actors. This contemporary dispossession of Indigenous people fits into the long and violent history in which legal and extralegal measures are taken by those in power to forcibly remove Indigenous inhabitants from their land.

To cite a recent real example, you can look again to the Crazy Mountains in Montana. The Crazies are filled with significant and sacred sites for the Native Crow. In the current proposal for there, private land prevents the Crow from visiting many of these sites without permission from the landowner. 翱耻迟蝉颈诲别鈥檚 reporting on the Yaak Valley offers another illustrative example of these dynamics.

There鈥檚 likely much more to say about the real power dynamics in the Mountain West and the fights for public lands that overlap with some of what you see on the small screen in Tyler Sheridan鈥檚 fantasy universe. As they say, truth can really be stranger than fiction.

Ryleigh Nucilli got a master’s degree and half of a PhD in literature and culture from the University of Oregon before leaving to pursue a career in digital media. She loves reading and writing about the intersection of popular media and culture.

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My new book, Ultra-Something, explores humans鈥� weird proclivity for endurance, and how we express it鈥攊ncluding, but not limited to distance running, factory work, benign masochism, improv comedy, and rooting for football teams that will never win a championship. I ran thousands of miles and explored dozens of rabbit holes of research, athletics, and storytelling, then built it into a narrative, with more than 90 illustrations I drew. The final product is a 285-page book and it鈥檚 out now.听 (Buy it at Bookshop , or at Amazon in paperback , and on Kindle .)

Here鈥檚 the book trailer:

The below is excerpted from the book’s prologue.

At the finish line of the 2015 Western States Endurance Run, arguably the most famous and most prestigious American ultramarathon, the crowd suddenly became energized. A runner was coming, entering the Placer High School track, where the 100-mile race ends after winding up and over California鈥檚 Sierra Nevada mountains from Olympic Valley Ski Resort.

Spectators cheered, clapped, and frantically rang cowbells, as the runner, Gunhild Swanson, rounded the track. A group of runners who had joined her peeled off at the start of the straightaway, clearing the way for her finish. The sides of the track were lined with people anxiously yelling 鈥淐ome on, come on!鈥� and other words of encouragement which sounded more like worried hope. More spectators ran across the infield, and a few paralleled her on the other side of the barrier fence set up on the track. Dozens of cameras and phones recorded her as she chugged toward the white finish arch, her strides shortened by 99-plus miles of mountain running and hiking over the previous day and a half. As she crossed the timing mat at the finish, the crowd erupted, hundreds of arms popping up into the air in a coordinated burst of emotion. Three feet past the finish line, the runner bent at the waist, hands on her knees, exhausted but grateful to be finished. Online videos of this minute of running would be watched hundreds of thousands of times.

Gunhild Swanson had finished dead last, 254th out of 254 runners. When she crossed the finish line on the track, the clock above her head read:

She had beaten the final 30-hour cutoff time by six seconds.

When that year鈥檚 winners, Rob Krar and Magdalena Boulet, crossed the same finish line hours earlier, in 14:48:59 and 19:05:21, respectively, the scene was almost serene in comparison: some applause, some cheering, but with the overall energy and volume turned down.

The climax of Sylvester Stallone鈥檚 1976 movie Rocky, when boxer Rocky Balboa finally squares off with the defending champion, Apollo Creed, only lasts about nine minutes, but might be the most famous boxing match in film history.

Apollo, who had been scheduled to defend his title against a boxer who was injured, needs to find a new opponent, and decides to put on a show: As the original fight was scheduled to take place during America鈥檚 bicentennial year in 1976 in Philadelphia, Apollo says he鈥檒l fight an up-and-coming boxer. Rocky Balboa, a Philly club fighter with more heart than skill, is chosen.

When the fight begins, everyone, including Rocky and Apollo, is surprised that Rocky actually lasts more than a few rounds, even landing some good punches, and as the fight drags on, ends up making it longer in the ring than any other boxer has against Apollo.

After Apollo knocks Rocky down during the 14th round and he battles to pull himself back up, the camera cuts to two people who we believe have much better judgment as far as Rocky鈥檚 well-being: First, the trainer, Mick, who growls from just outside the ropes to Rocky, 鈥淒own. Stay down.鈥� Then, Rocky鈥檚 girlfriend Adrian, who has just entered the arena to see Rocky at his worst, writhing in pain on the canvas. She looks away.

Rocky staggers in his corner like a drunken man trying to get back up on a barstool. Apollo stands in his corner with both arms raised.

Rocky gets up at the count of nine. Apollo drops his arms and his jaw in disbelief. Just before the bell, Rocky lands a shot to Apollo鈥檚 ribs.

When both fighters are in their corners, Apollo鈥檚 trainer says to him, 鈥淵ou鈥檙e bleeding inside, Champ. I鈥檓 gonna stop the fight.鈥�

Apollo replies, 鈥淵ou ain鈥檛 stopping nothing, man.鈥�

Rocky鈥檚 team cuts the swollen skin around his eye so he can see again, and Rocky stands up, saying to Mick, 鈥淵ou stop this fight, I鈥檒l kill you.鈥�

The two haggard fighters trade punches throughout the 15th and final round, mumbling promises to each other that there will be no re-match, and the bell rings, both men barely upright, but having survived. A bloodied Rocky calls out for Adrian, who finds her way to the ring, where she and Rocky profess their love for each other.

In the 1979 book, Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, Syd Field laid out what would come to be known as 鈥淔ield鈥檚 Paradigm,鈥� or the Three-Act Structure. Every screenplay, or actually, the story that forms a screenplay, Field argued, has three acts: set-up, confrontation, and resolution. The three-act structure is often drawn as a diagram, in various levels of complexity. A simple version might look like this:

Rocky went on to be a surprise box office success, and was nominated for nine Academy Awards, winning three, including Best Picture. The film spawned eight sequels over the next four and a half decades.

One scene in the original film, in which Rocky goes on a training run and ends by sprinting up the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, became famous, inspiring tourists to run up the stairs, and prompting tributes and parodies of the scene in other films and TV shows. The 72 steps themselves became known colloquially as the 鈥淩ocky Steps,鈥� and before the premiere of Rocky III, Stallone commissioned an eight-and-a-half-foot statue of Rocky to be built and placed at the top of the steps. Philadelphia City Commerce Director Dick Doran welcomed the statue and said Stallone had done more for Philadelphia鈥檚 image 鈥渢han anyone since Ben Franklin.鈥�

Rocky Balboa did not win the fight in Rocky. As the closing theme music builds, the ring announcer calls the fight 鈥渢he greatest exhibition of guts and stamina in the history of the ring,鈥� and then announces the split decision in favor of Apollo Creed.

The plot of Rocky, as well as the plots of all eight sequels, per the three-act structure, might look like this:

At almost any marathon race in the United States, there is a solid chance you will hear, played on a sound system near the starting line, or on a spectator鈥檚 stereo along the race route, one of two songs, if not both: The song 鈥淕onna Fly Now,鈥� also known as 鈥淭heme from Rocky鈥� (a version of which appears in the first five Rocky movies), and the Survivor song 鈥淓ye of the Tiger,鈥� commissioned by Sylvester Stallone for Rocky III.

Every year around the world, about 1.1 million people run a marathon, an organized race that鈥檚 26.2 miles, or 42.195 kilometers. The story of why we do this dates back to 490 BC: During the first Persian invasion of Greece, a heavily outmanned Athenian army defeated the Persian forces in battle near the town of Marathon, Greece. A herald named Pheidippides was chosen to deliver the news of the victory to Athens. He ran the entire distance of 26.2 miles/42.195 kilometers, addressed the magistrates in session saying something like, 鈥淛oy to you, we鈥檝e won!鈥� and then died on the spot.

The Greeks also created the tradition of the Olympic Games, held every four years, or each Olympiad, from 776 BC to 393 AD. The ancient Olympic Games never had a marathon race鈥攖he 鈥渓ong-distance race,鈥� or dolichos, introduced in the 15th Olympiad, was somewhere between four and nine kilometers (approximately 2.5 to 5.5 miles). The last recorded ancient Olympic Games were held in 393 A.D., after which they took a 1500-year hiatus.

When the Olympic Games were revived in 1896 in Athens, the first marathon race was held, celebrating Pheidippides鈥檚 legendary (and fatal) run from Marathon to Athens. A few months later, the Knickerbocker Athletic Club organized a marathon race from Stamford, Connecticut to The Bronx, and in March 1897, the Boston Athletic Association held the first-ever Boston Marathon. From there, the marathon race spread all over the world.

If you signed up to participate in a running race, such as a marathon or a 10K, your personal journey could also be seen as three acts:

No one, from the fast runners hoping to win the race to the people just hoping to finish, has any idea how their race is going to go. As the race day draws near, tension builds, whether you feel it or not, and the only thing that releases all that tension is the actual running of the race. When it鈥檚 over, whether you鈥檙e happy with the result or not, it鈥檚 over.

The first time Ray Yoder ate at a Cracker Barrel, he wasn鈥檛 that impressed. He was in Nashville in 1978, helping to set up an RV show at the Opryland Resort and Convention Center, and there was a Cracker Barrel nearby. So he ate there, and it didn鈥檛 exactly blow his mind. But he had a job delivering RVs across the country from a manufacturer in his hometown of Goshen, Indiana, and he spent a lot of time on the road. So he found himself in a lot of places with Cracker Barrel restaurants. He kept eating at Cracker Barrels, and they started to grow on him.

He was almost always on the road by himself while his wife, Wilma, was at home raising their four children. When all the kids had finished school and moved out of their house, Wilma started to join Ray on the road. Around 1993, they realized they had eaten at lots of Cracker Barrel restaurants, and decided to try visiting all of them.

By August of 2017, the Yoders had both turned 81, and had visited almost all of the 600-plus Cracker Barrel restaurants in the United States, Ray mostly eating blueberry pancakes if it was breakfast time, meatloaf if he was there for lunch or dinner, and pot roast if it was Sunday. Cracker Barrel caught wind of Ray and Wilma鈥檚 quest and flew them out to Portland to visit the newly-opened restaurant in Tualatin, Oregon, Number 645. A line of applauding Cracker Barrel employees greeted them at the door, with a bouquet of sunflowers and roses for Wilma, and custom aprons for both of them.

Their journey had taken them to 44 states, and Ray estimated they had driven more than 5 million miles. 鈥淲ell, everybody does something, usually anyway,鈥� Ray said. 鈥淪o we thought we would do this and it would be fun.鈥�

At the 2017 Run Rabbit Run starting line at the base of Colorado鈥檚 Steamboat Ski Resort, 314 runners stood in the corral, every one of them hoping to finish the 102.5-mile race. Only about 58 percent of them would actually make it to the finish line.

The Run Rabbit Run is not typically mentioned as one of the hardest ultramarathon races in the United States, and 2017 wasn鈥檛 an abnormally hot or difficult year. Generally, about one-third of people who start the race each year don鈥檛 finish for one reason or another: injury, gastrointestinal distress, dehydration, exhaustion.

No one standing in that starting corral believed it was impossible for a human being to travel 102.5 miles of mountainous terrain in 36 hours. Everyone was aware that it was something humans did. They had heard of these types of races before, maybe knew someone who had completed one, or maybe they鈥檇 even run this one in a previous year and had fun doing it. They believed they could be one of the people who earned a Run Rabbit Run 100 finisher belt buckle, and that鈥檚 why they were standing just inside the red start/finish arch, pacing, chatting with other runners, shaking out their nervous legs.

I was there too, standing in the corral, anxious and jittery, with a race number pinned to my running shorts, as the morning sun started to warm the high-altitude air. Like everyone else, I knew that people, arguably 鈥渘ormal鈥� people who had day jobs and families and credit card bills, were perfectly capable of running a 100-mile mountain ultramarathon in 36 hours. It was something that had been done plenty of times before by human beings just like me.

Well, maybe not like me. I wasn鈥檛 sure if I鈥檇 be just like them, a finisher. And I鈥檇 been unsure for eight months, since I鈥檇 paid my entry fee.

I was still unsure when the gun went off and the crowd of runners started shuffling forward through the starting arch. I started jogging with them, and no one tried to stop me, so I just kept going.

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In 2020, Kevin Kelly wrote a post on his website titled 鈥�68 Bits of Unsolicited Advice,鈥� which he鈥檇 put together for his 68th birthday. I read through it, found myself nodding along with his Tweet-length recommendations, loved it, and shared it in . This one was the second bullet on his list: 鈥淏eing enthusiastic is worth 25 IQ points.鈥�

The post was shared widely, first by people who were fans of Kevin Kelly, and I imagine later by people who hadn鈥檛 heard of him before but found the list to be insightful. I knew Kevin Kelly as the founding executive editor of WIRED, and the guy who came up with the back in 2008, and an avid backpacker and traveler. (TLDR; lots of people think he鈥檚 a pretty wise person.)

In a scenario that every online writer dreams of, a publisher decided the 68 Bits of Unsolicited Advice would make a good book, so Kevin Kelly removed them from his website, added 150 more bits of advice, and in May 2023, the book was published.

My friend Mario mailed me a copy of the book back in April, and of course I blazed through it in a couple hours. But in reading it, I started thinking that many of the bits of advice are applicable to adventure, whether it鈥檚 a big-A, expedition to some faraway mountain range 国产吃瓜黑料, or a little-a, let鈥檚 bike or hike to a new place this weekend adventure. So I started flagging them with Post-It notes, in order to compile a list. Here are 25 of them, with a few of my illustrations.

Tend to the small things. More people are defeated by blisters than by mountains.

Taking a break is not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength.

A vacation + a disaster = an adventure.

Acquiring things will rarely bring you deep satisfaction. But acquiring experiences will.

If a goal does not have a schedule, it is a dream.

A major part of travel is to leave stuff behind. The more you leave behind the further you will advance.

Experiences are fun, and having influence is rewarding, but only mattering makes us happy. Do stuff that matters.

The greatest teacher is called 鈥渄oing.鈥�

Your enjoyment of travel is inversely proportional to the size of your luggage. This is 100 percent true of backpacking. It is liberating to realize how little you really need.

Always read the plaque next to the monument.

Ask anyone you admire: Their lucky breaks happened on a detour from their main goal. So embrace detours. Life is not a straight line for anyone.

Looking ahead, focus on direction rather than destination. Maintain the right direction and you鈥檒l arrive at where you want to go.

In preparing for a long hike, old shoes of any type are superior to brand-new shoes of any type. Don鈥檛 use a long hike to break in shoes.

For every good thing you love, ask yourself what your proper dose is.

Purchase the most recent tourist guidebook to your hometown or region. You鈥檒l learn a lot by playing the tourist once a year.

Should you explore or optimize? For example, do you optimize what you know will sell or explore something new? Do you order a restaurant dish you are sure is great (optimize) or do you try something new? Do you keep dating new folks (explore) or try to commit to someone you met?

The ideal balance for exploring new things vs. optimizing those already found is 鈪�. Spend 鈪� of your time on exploring and 鈪� on optimizing and deepening. As you mature it is harder to devote time to exploring because it seems unproductive, but aim for 鈪�.

Hikers鈥� rule: Don鈥檛 step on what you can step over; don鈥檛 step over what you can walk around.

To have a great trip, head toward an interest rather than a place. Travel to passions rather than destinations.

Your flaws and your strengths are two poles of the same traits. For instance, there is only a tiny difference between stubbornness and perseverance or between courage and foolishness. The sole difference is in the goal. It鈥檚 stupid stubbornness and reckless foolishness if the goal does not matter, and relentless perseverance and courage if it does. To earn dignity with your flaws, own up to them, and make sure you push on things that matter.

The big dirty secret is that everyone, especially the famous, are just making it up as they go along.

The chief prevention against getting old is to remain astonished.

You choose to be lucky by believing that any setbacks are just temporary.

Measure your wealth not by the things you can buy but by the things no money can buy.

If you are stuck in life, travel to a place you have never heard of.

When making plans, you must allow yourself to get lost in order to find the thing you didn鈥檛 know you were looking for.

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This story update is part of the听国产吃瓜黑料听Classics, a series highlighting the best writing we鈥檝e ever published, along with author interviews and other exclusive bonus materials. Read 鈥淭hese Pants Saved My Life,鈥� by Natasha Singer here.

She had us at 鈥渁ngry walrus attacks.鈥� The vision of hardy frontier folk stepping up to the mic to regale friends and neighbors with gonzo tales of death-defying rescue by outerwear was too good to pass up. So we sent Singer back to Talkeetna to cover the annual event. (Which is still going strong, despite a COVID-19 interruption in 2020.) At the time, the ball consisted of locals modeling Carhartt鈥檚 spring line at the VFW hall, followed by a storytelling competition at a nearby bar. Not only was it sponsored by Carhartt, but the clothing manufacturer鈥檚 main man in Anchorage served as the event鈥檚 emcee (decked out in a 鈥渂espoke brown Carhartt tuxedo with black lapels,鈥� natch). Singer鈥檚 story ran in the magazine鈥檚 25th anniversary issue, in October 2002, under the rubric 鈥淩evelries of the Rustics.鈥�

This wasn鈥檛 the first time Singer had traveled to a remote locale for 国产吃瓜黑料, and it wouldn鈥檛 be the last. As a roving correspondent for the magazine in the early 2000s, she documented a cockeyed attempt to return Keiko鈥攖he killer whale star of Free Willy鈥�to the sea off the coast of Iceland, hopped a ride on a U.S. Coast Guard cutter attempting to break through the ice-choked Northwest Passage, and slogged through the jungles of Thailand in pursuit of a group of WildAid activists trying to halt an illicit trade in endangered species. (鈥淥h, my God,鈥� she said, recalling that reporting trip, 鈥渄id I tell you about the anti-leech socks?鈥�) These days, she writes about technology and education for the New York Times business section. Stowe recently caught up with Singer about her globe-trotting experiences.

OUTSIDE: Maybe I shouldn鈥檛 say this, since I wrote it, but your story ran under my favorite headline: 鈥淭hese Pants Saved My Life.鈥� It鈥檚 straight to the point, prominently employs the word 鈥減ants,鈥� and has the added value of being true. How did you discover the Carhartt Ball?
SINGER: There鈥檚 this saying about Alaska鈥攊f you鈥檙e a woman looking for a guy, the odds are good but the goods are odd. And in Talkeetna especially, the odds are better but the goods are odder. I had been sent there to do a story on the bachelor auction, and I started to hear these really interesting stories, episodes where people got into trouble and their Carhartts鈥攎iraculously, like the Shroud of Turin鈥攕eemed to have magical properties that were healing or lifesaving. People were telling real stories, like: This tree fell on me, but I was wearing my double-knee Carhartt pants, so I didn鈥檛 get hypothermia. I survived for three hours. This was normal discourse, and the pants were the common denominator.

I鈥檝e always thought there鈥檚 a reason people go to live in Alaska, and it鈥檚 mainly to get away from the rest of us in the lower 48.
We all have tribes, and we all have things that distinguish who gets in the tribe and who doesn鈥檛. The Carhartt epic is a way of saying, 鈥淥K, we have a shared lived experience, even if yours is, you know, dropping your lighter on your pants and flaming out the crotch.鈥� It鈥檚 a common thread that binds people and demonstrates their Alaskanness.

Was it easy to get people talking?
One of the things I love about being a reporter is when people share their passion for the things that matter to them, whether that鈥檚 expertise about the bearded iris or how to butcher a roadkill deer. So even in standoffish places, I find that if you鈥檙e authentically interested, people will show you something, and then it will be super cool. And you鈥檙e naturally going to say, 鈥淥h, that鈥檚 amazing.鈥� And they鈥檒l say: 鈥淲ell, you want to see the next thing?鈥� And then it鈥檚 three hours later, and they鈥檝e shown you every single pair of Carhartt pants in their closet.

At one point you meet Ted Kundtz, a 鈥渏ack-of-all-trades鈥� in Talkeetna, and over eggs and reindeer sausage he scoffs at the tourists who鈥檝e tried to buy his Carhartts right off him. He says: 鈥淭hey called the years of wear and tear I put in them 鈥榓uthentic character.鈥欌�夆�� He鈥檚 very perceptive. Like, these Alaskans know they鈥檙e being ogled just as much as the grizzlies.
Essentially, he was saying: These are real. The tourists want the veneer of reality, but they don鈥檛 want to live our lived experience. Which鈥攊t鈥檚 tough to live in Alaska, right? It鈥檚 cold. And the winters are harsh. And it鈥檚 still our frontier鈥攖hat is, if you don鈥檛 live in downtown Anchorage. I got what he was saying. People want frontier cred without actually putting the years into the effort.

How did you get your start?
I studied Russian in college and wanted to go off to Russia. Even though I was not fluent, I ended up going to Moscow and staying for a decade. This was in the 1990s. The Soviet Union had just collapsed, and it was inexpensive to travel because everything was in rubles. So I was going all over. I was covering human rights for The Forward, business for USA Today, and fashion for Vogue. It was this crazy decade. You know: If it鈥檚 Monday, this must be Siberia! If it鈥檚 Tuesday, I鈥檓 doing a segment on Good Morning Kazakhstan! And then I was asked to help start Vogue Russia. I鈥檓 grateful I was able to cover those former Soviet republics, but at some point you have to either decide to stay forever or go home. Then I went back to New York and nobody wanted me to write about New York. I was Ms. Strange Places.

One of your first 国产吃瓜黑料 stories was about an American billionaire鈥檚 attempt to release Keiko back into the wild. In another you hitched a ride on a U.S. Coast Guard icebreaker as it busted through the Northwest Passage鈥攁 trip made possible by climate change. When you think of those pieces along with the Carhartt Ball, the range is impressive. Ridiculous, sublime, daunting鈥攜ou were able to do it all.
The various stories I did with 国产吃瓜黑料 had an adventure quality, but they also had a quality of observation. It鈥檚 what we now call lurking, right? Watching what鈥檚 happening and then explaining it. I felt lucky to be in that position.

We have this romantic notion of icebergs, but the Northwest Passage, it鈥檚 just miles and miles of bumpy, ugly ice. As I wrote: 鈥淯nlike freshwater icebergs, sea ice is not romantic. It is neither majestic nor soaring. It does not give off that otherworldly spectral glow of pure whiteness born of glacial snow. Its verticality does not threaten ocean liners with a predatory, awe-inspiring loom. It is not prehistoric in origin. Quite the contrary, most sea ice is younger than a decade. It is flat and flawed. It is often pockmarked, dirty with algae, and lumpy with protruding hummocks.鈥�

I love that paragraph, and I still don鈥檛 know how I got away with writing it, or how anybody signed off on it. I鈥檓 working at the Times now, and I don鈥檛 get to write paragraphs like that very often. So the other thing I鈥檓 grateful for is that 国产吃瓜黑料 pushed me to write at the top of my range.

I was very happy to sign off on that.
We still have to talk about my friend from high school who wrote a letter to the editor of 国产吃瓜黑料. She was like: I read the story by your writer Natasha Singer. I went to school with a Natasha Singer, and I鈥檓 wondering if it鈥檚 the same person. Because in high school, we didn鈥檛 think of her as an 国产吃瓜黑料 girl. We thought of her as an inside girl鈥攁s in, inside the house.

I鈥檓 glad we were able to help you defy the opinions of former classmates. You鈥檝e been able to report on a lot of amazing things that go on in the world.
It鈥檚 like when we said that those pants saved Alaskans鈥� lives. In a way, 国产吃瓜黑料 changed my life. To be able to write those stories, report them, and meet all those people and get to do all those things鈥攔eal stories, where there were people telling us real things that really mattered鈥攊t was a gift to be able to do that.

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The world’s most interesting video game designer just hid a treasure in the woods. What’s he up to? Jason Rohrer has been pushing the limits of game design for 20 years, but his latest creation takes players into the forests of New England in search of a sculpture made of solid gold. The catch? He says there isn’t one. But people familiar with his past work aren’t so sure.

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