I love a good road trip, especially in the mountains of Colorado, where I live. It鈥檚 when I do some of the best creative thinking, and it feels like the possibilities for exploration are endless. Should I hike a fourteener tomorrow? Cross the border into Utah to go mountain biking?

I scoured the globe to put together this list of the most stunning drives you could imagine, from the snowcapped peaks of Chilean Patagonia to the windswept west coast of Ireland. I鈥檝e completed a handful, driven parts of many of them, and the rest are on my bucket list. I also chose these road trips for their proximity to adventure, and include essential details like the best hikes, beaches, and accommodations along the way. Buckle up.

The Dempster Highway to the Arctic Ocean, Canada

Miles: 550
Road terrain: Mostly gravel
Best time to go: The Dempster Highway is open year-round, but traditional summer festivals in the Arctic towns and the aurora borealis viewing in winter are seasonal highlights.

Truly rugged and remote, this overland expedition traverses dramatic tundra landscapes, boreal forests, and mountain ranges en route to the Arctic Sea. Begin in the gold-rush outpost of Dawson City, Yukon, and load up on supplies鈥攖he unpaved gravel road is a known tire eater, so be sure you have a spare and a four-wheel drive car. From there the heads north through the historic Klondike region, crosses the Arctic Circle, and enters the Northwest Territories, where you鈥檒l have panoramas of what鈥檚 known as the polar Serengeti, a wide-open wilderness teeming with caribou, moose, and grizzlies.

Along the way, you鈥檒l pass through Indigenous communities such as Tsiigehtchic, reached by ferry in summer after the snow melts. If you’re traveling during August, you can watch canoe races and listen to traditional music during Tsiigehtchic鈥檚 Canoe Days celebration. By the time you arrive in Inuvik, Canada鈥檚 largest community north of the Arctic Circle, you鈥檒l have logged 457 miles. Pitch your tent or park your teardrop at (from $28), perched on a bluff overlooking the Richardson Mountains and the nation鈥檚 largest river, the Mackenzie.

Pick up the final stretch of the trip in town, the Inuvik鈥揟uktoyaktuk Highway, an 86-mile gravel road that winds past the Pingo Canadian Landmark, a collection of pingo (mounds of earth-covered ice) more than 100 feet high, and ends in the Inuit shorefront hamlet of Tuktoyaktuk.

Scenic Byway 12, Utah

Miles: 122
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Early spring and early fall

This expanse of highway connects Bryce Canyon to , traveling through Dixie National Forest and the northern part of Grand Staircase鈥揈scalante National Monument. The whole thing could be completed in three hours, but given its proximity to so many perfect playgrounds for hiking, paddling, biking, and fishing, I suggest a four-day road trip. Bookended by Panguitch to the west and Torrey to the east, this designated bisects multiple ecosystems,听 from sage flats to slickrock deserts, and sleepy rural communities like Boulder, where you should stop for a meal at . The photo opps are endless, but Powell Point Vista, between the towns of Henrieville and Escalante, affords some of the best views of the area鈥檚 distinct Wasatch Limestone formations. If I could overnight in one place along the way it鈥檇 be , which has a drive-in theater, a pool, and a food truck (from $99).

The Romantic Road, Germany

Miles: 220
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Spring or fall

Germany鈥檚 Romantische Strasse, or Romantic Road, could be the backdrop of a Grimm鈥檚 fairy tale, with its turreted and crenelated castles, red-roofed villages, and lake-dotted countryside in the Alpine foothills. This scenic byway across Bavaria connects the baroque town of W眉rzburg with the pastel-hued town of F眉ssen. The former is home to the Unesco-designated W眉rzburg Residence, one of the nation鈥檚 most opulent palaces, while F眉ssen is five minutes from what many consider the route鈥檚 highlight, King Ludwig鈥檚 , which was the inspiration for the palace in Disney鈥檚 Sleeping Beauty. If you want to stretch your legs, you can tackle the hike to Mount Tegel, located behind the castle, or take the cable car up and explore the trail network at the top.

Along the way you鈥檒l pass plenty of beer gardens鈥攖he riverfront in the hamlet of Landsberg am Lech is a must-stop鈥攖he vineyards of the Franconia wine region (pick up a bottle of dry, white Silvaner), and spend a few hours rejuvenating in the historic spa town of Bad Mergentheim; at the ($150), you can take advantage of the indoor pool, spa, and gardens.

The Explorers Way, Australia

Miles: 1,864
Road terrain: Paved (and remember, Aussies drive on the left-hand side)
Best time to go: Australia鈥檚 fall, March through May

The ultimate outback odyssey, the is a road trip through Australia鈥檚 Red Centre. Much of the drive follows the Stuart Highway, named after 19th-century explorer John McDouall Stuart, the first European to successfully traverse the continent from south to north. Stuart鈥檚 expedition took nearly a year, but two weeks is ample time to complete the journey from Adelaide in South Australia to Darwin in the Northern Territory.

I highly recommend detours to to stand in awe of the 2,831-foot-high monolith sacred to Aboriginals and to Litchfield National Park, teeming with waterfalls and wildlife like dingo and wallaby. Dedicate at least a day to explore the Aboriginal art galleries of Alice Springs, the Northern Territory鈥檚 second largest city and the approximate midway point of the route. When you reach the Top End, toast your trip with a bush negroni at Willing Distillery in Darwin or celebrate with a bush safari at (from $2,425, all-inclusive), just northwest of Kakadu National Park, home to more than .

Atlantic Road, Norway

Miles: 22
Road terrain: Narrow, paved
Best time to go: The coast is most dramatic in September and October

Norway has 18 designated national scenic routes, but the fact that the Atlantic Road was selected as the stage for the James Bond film No Time to Die is a testament to its wow-factor beauty. Officially known as , this drive links the village of K氓rv氓g on Aver酶y Island with the fishing village of Bud on the mainland via an archipelago connected by eight low-lying bridges. Few roads bring you so close to the ocean: roll down your window and you鈥檒l likely be kissed by sea mist.

Essential detours include the coastal path at Vevang to see Jan Freuchen鈥檚 鈥�,鈥� a sculpture scattered across the rocks and heath-covered hills, and the glass-walled viewing platform at Askev氓gen, which affords spectacular mountain and ocean vistas. Str酶msholmen Seasport, located between the towns of Kristiansun and Molde, offers scuba diving, fishing excursions, and wildlife safaris on the water. It also has four waterfront cabins that sleep up to ten people (from $55).

The Ring Road, Iceland

Miles: 820
Road terrain: Mostly paved, with some stretches of gravel
Best time to go: Late spring or early fall

Stretch after stretch of otherworldly landscapes unfold along this , also known as Route 1. It shows off vast lava fields, tumbling waterfalls, spouting glaciers, and bubbling geysers. You鈥檒l want at least seven days to enjoy all the attractions and adventures along the way, and if you do the drive in May, June, or July, you can take advantage of nearly 24 hours of sun.

Most road-trippers start in the capital, Reykjav铆k, the city closest to Keflav铆k International Airport. You can tackle it counterclockwise or clockwise, but if you do the latter first, the scenery crescendos from pretty to jaw-droppingly gorgeous. If there鈥檚 one thing you shouldn鈥檛 miss, it’s a detour to the northern Troll Peninsula, which loops around the headlands past the end of the Skagafj枚r冒ur fjord.

On the southeastern coast of Iceland, take time to explore J枚kuls谩rl贸n, a glacial lagoon studded with icebergs, and nearby Diamond Beach, named for the brilliant chunks of ice that sparkle like gems against its black sands. The geothermal waters of the Blue Lagoon, just 20 minutes from the airport, are the perfect final stop. Or tack on an adventure鈥攎aybe kayak in a glacial lagoon or ride an ATV along the beach鈥攚ith outfitter .

Wild Atlantic Way, Ireland

Miles: 1,600
Road terrain: Narrow, winding, and paved (you鈥檒l also driving on the left-hand side here)
Best time to go: summer to take advantage of longer day-light hours

One of the longest coastal routes in the world, the Wild Atlantic Way hugs the Emerald Isle鈥檚 rugged and spectacular west coast for miles, from its northern terminus on the Inishowen Peninsula in County Donegal to its southern terminus in the town of Kinsale in County Cork. The route is broken into 14 stages, and you鈥檒l want to budget a minimum of five days to complete it.

There are loads of opportunities to stretch your legs on untouched swaths of beach near soaring sea cliffs. Those at Slieve League jut up 1,972 feet at their highest point; follow the Pilgrim鈥檚 Path from Teelin village 1.5 miles to the tops, and after pop into town for lunch. You鈥檒l have plenty of options, but I highly recommend the award-winning pub (rooms are also available from $54). The iconic Cliffs of Moher, in the lunar-like Burren region, are one of the natural treasures of Ireland, with a five-mile (one-way) coastal walk that connects the charming villages of Liscannor and Doolin.

On Achill Island, explore Keel Beach, a nearly two-mile stretch of golden sand. When I visited, the waves were pumping and I rented a board and a thick wetsuit from . If the water鈥檚 calm, you can rent a stand-up-paddleboard. If your final destination is County Cork, celebrate with a pint at , a pub in Ballydehob that鈥檚 been run by the same family for a century.

Pacific Coast Scenic Byway, Oregon

Miles: 363
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Late spring, early fall, or winter

Most people associate the Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, with California, but the storied road spans from Canada to Mexico. Some of the best lengths, in my opinion, are in Oregon, where the road skirts virgin beaches, craggy mountains, and rocky coves, through a series of quirky seaside resorts and sleepy fishing villages. You could zip along all of it in 10 to 12 hours, but five days is the better plan, stopping at the many parks and public lands along the route. Ecola State Park (sea stacks, tidepooling, wildlife-watching) and Oregon Dunes Recreation Area (whose sweeping sandy expanses are said to have been the inspiration for 顿耻苍别鈥�s planet Arrakis) are both top of my list.

About 30 miles northwest of the city of Bandon is Cape Arago; this short detour off the byway takes you through the South Slough National Estuarine Reserve, home to more than 150 kinds of birds and . In the town of Coos Bay, I like to overnight at the modern cabins at Bay Point Landing ($235). The next day, you can drive 24 miles east to the remote Golden and Silver Falls State Natural Area and hike 1.4 miles to the top of Golden Falls for an eagle鈥檚-eye view of the cascading waterfall and old-growth firs. Schedule your journey for spring and winter and bring your binocs鈥攜ou can often spot the blows from migrating gray whales as they surface off the coast.

The Garden Route, South Africa

Miles: 124
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: June to December, when you can spot whales from shore

This ocean-hugging highway showcases the Western Cape鈥檚 outrageously beautiful beaches, lush forests, national forests, and abundant marine life. Just under two hours鈥� drive from Cape Town, the former fishing village of Hermanus Bay is the gateway for the Garden Route. I always stop here to take advantage of the excellent land-based whale-watching between June and December. Continue three and a half hours east on the N2 highway to the harbor town of Mossel Bay, the route鈥檚 official starting point. Spend some time trekking around before heading out on your drive; my favorite is the 2.5-mile out-and-back trail from Pinnacle Point to Oyster Bay.

, approximately midroute, is a great spot for birdwatching and kayaking and has accommodations that include campsites (from $20), cabins (from $50), and a bed-and-breakfast (from $90). A half-hour farther east is Plettenberg Bay, nicknamed the Saint Tropez of South Africa for its palatial beach homes. Just south is , a nice picnic spot where you can observe seal colonies. Spend a day exploring , which boasts a 50-mile-long shoreline and an interior with 500-year-old trees. Looking to burn off some energy after hours in the car? I suggest the Otter Trail. South Africa鈥檚 oldest hiking trail takes five days to complete and begins near the Garden Route鈥檚 eastern terminus at Storms River rest camp.

Queenstown to Milford Sound, New Zealand

Miles: 180
Road terrain: Paved, two-lane highway
Best time to go: New Zealand鈥檚 fall, March through May, is perfect for hiking

Described by Rudyard Kipling as the 鈥渆ighth wonder of the world,鈥� Milford Sound is big nature on steroids. The drive on the South Island from Queenstown along State Highway 6 (a.k.a. the Southern Scenic Highway) and then State Highway 94 (Milford Sound Highway) will get you there听 in just over four hours, but slow down to marvel at the waterfalls and alpine lakes framed by mountains. Te Anau is the halfway point of the drive and an ideal place to overnight, refuel, and stock up on food as there are no services farther en route to the sound. The lakeside town is also the gateway to the glacier-carved wilderness of and the jumping-off point for the Milford Track, arguably one of New Zealand鈥檚 most famous , so consider tacking on a few extra days.

The Carretera Austral, Chile

Miles: 770
Road terrain: Rugged, pock-marked dirt, requiring four-wheel drive
Best time to go: Austral spring and summer, November to March听

Waterfalls tumbling from hanging glaciers. Forests of lengua trees and turquoise lagoons. Ancient marble caves and flamingo-filled lakes. The wild backdrop of Chile鈥檚 Southern Highway (Route 7) is an adventurer鈥檚 fantasy. Also known as the , this road cuts through remote, mountainous wilderness in northern Patagonia. Set aside at least two weeks so you can take time to visit Queulat National Park and Pumal铆n National Park, both located along the route.

Puerto Montt, a bustling town in the Chilean Lake District, is your starting point. It鈥檚 considered Chile鈥檚 seafood capital, so attempt to score a table at Pa Mar Adentro Restaurant and try the caldo curanto, a traditional seafood stew, before starting your journey south.

Coyhaique, the capital of Chile鈥檚 Ays茅n region, marks the route鈥檚 midway point. Take a day here to trek the trails of Reserva Nacional Coyhaique, home to two beautiful lakes, Los Sapos and Venus. Campsites are available in the Casa Bruja section of the reserve ($5), or continue a couple hours south to听General Carrera Lake and hole up at the family-run听 ($170). The owners serve terrific farm-to-table meals and partner with local guides who lead kayak trips to the Marble Caves and treks across Exploradores Glacier.

Rumbo Sur Hotel ($190), in the isolated terminus town of Villa O鈥橦iggins, is a comfy final base surrounded by hiking trails and glaciers. A 4×4 is recommended, as most of the road is unpaved.

国产吃瓜黑料 travel columnist Jen Murphy hates driving but will happily sit shotgun on any road trip. Last fall she navigated on a weeklong mother-daughter road trip through southwest Colorado.

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Jon Waterman, a former ranger in Denali and Rocky Mountain national parks and a member (with Roger Mear and Mike Young) of the team to make the 1982 first winter ascent of the 20,310-foot Denali鈥檚 Cassin Ridge, has spent a lifetime exploring the natural world. He has written 16 books, including听In the Shadow of Denali, Kayaking the Vermilion Sea, High Alaska, Running Dry, Arctic Crossing, and the upcoming Into the Thaw (from Patagonia Books), in addition to making five films about adventure and wild places.

Waterman鈥檚 most recent book, will be published October 3. Below, he explains his idea of wilderness and, in an excerpt from the book, reveals some of his favorite places in the far reaches of the U.S.

No place can truly be called wilderness, because the term is more a feeling about undeveloped landscapes, a subjective and often elusive state of mind rather than a defined geography. But more than ever before鈥攁nd on the eve of the 60^th Anniversary of the Wilderness Act鈥攚e need wild places as antidotes to the madding world and as balms for the soul. Wild places are essential amid population growth, diminished natural habitats, adjacent development of natural resources, and the climate crisis.

I鈥檝e chased the wilderness ideal all my life. From Baxter State Park in Maine, where I cut my teeth as a mountaineer, to the cherished lakes in Minnesota鈥檚 Boundary Waters. I paddled the Colorado River from source to sea, marveling at the wonder of its vast delta with a sky that feels as big as all the desert hemisphere. I took to the Arctic repeatedly, most recently through the remote Noatak National Preserve, struck by our greatest of all legislated wilderness areas. I鈥檝e repeatedly climbed the Yukon鈥檚 gigantic, ice-cloaked Mount Logan鈥攈idden amid the greatest non-polar icefields on earth鈥攊n the seldom-visited Kluane National Park. I鈥檝e taken to the granite or carried my skis into the ever popular John Muir Wilderness of California. These are six of my favorite trips and places.

Baxter State Park, Maine

December 29, 1974: We left our tent at Chimney Pond in the dark, kicking steps up Katahdin in our double boots. When we reached tree line an hour later, I donned sunglasses and marveled at dawn as it sparkled off lake ice, then blazed over an infinitude of spruce stretching across the horizon.

My crampons squeaked against subzero ne虂ve虂 as I continued up. Waist-high krummholz trees lay plastered with horizontally suspended daggers of rime ice that pointed to the lee as if to caricature the wind. Up above, rime encrusted everything: rocks, the summit cairn atop Pamola, and hair that hung below our balaclavas. As we descended down onto the Knife Edge for the final mile-long crossing to Baxter Peak, we threaded over and around frosted boulders and bashed off huge branches of rime with our ice axes to avoid being poked as we balanced along the precipice.

I had come to northern Maine to experience the ultimate New England wilderness. In this place that demanded self-sufficiency, I wanted to learn the craft of winter mountaineering on New England鈥檚 most arctic mountain so that I could climb in the world鈥檚 great ranges.

As I clambered slowly across the spine of a mountain sharpened by the last ice age, I focused on each step. Inches to the right, frosted slabs dropped more than a thousand feet to Chimney Pond. Then [Lee Nonemaker] yelled, pointing left: 鈥淭he Brocken spectre!鈥� We had been engulfed in mist, and the sun cast our clearly defined shadows鈥攕urrounded by strange rainbow halos鈥攐nto a thick cloud bank in front of us. We lofted our ice axes to the sky.听

Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, Minnesota

September 12, 2021: Shaded by tall pines at a campsite in mid-Winchell Lake on a sunny afternoon, we promptly pitched our tents, assembled our fishing rods, and stepped back into the canoes. Over the last two days, none of us had caught a fish, and because we were eager to take a break from freeze-dried food, we paddled out into a narrow bay and started our casts.

The end of the bay bristled with sedges, and as Peter [Stock] and David [Rhude] worked those shallow waters, Gil [Bovard] and I cast into the depths alongside granite ledges below our campsite. Earlier in the day we had heard the persistent howl of a wolf, but this afternoon only a blue jay called, and the air laid still amid fragrant pine, loamy-smelling dead logs and the sweet rot of fall.

We returned with a large northern pike. After Gil expertly filleted the fish, we deflated its bladder, paddled the skeleton out, and reverently sank it in the deep water of the lake.

According to the Ojibwe origin story, back in a time when gods interacted with humans, there was an animal god named Wemicus. He had repeatedly killed off all but one of his human sons-in-law, but in a final birch-bark canoe race, Wemicus was outsmarted. Goaded by his last son-in-law, Wemicus capsized in his canoe in the wind. When the man paddled over to the spot where Wemicus had fallen into the water, he saw his father-in-law transformed into the pike.

Four hungry canoeists couldn鈥檛 have been more thankful.

Upper Gulf of California Colorado River Delta Biosphere Reserve, Baja

December 2, 2008: At the border Pete McBride and I had paddled our pack rafts down an increasingly narrow stream that was once the mighty Colorado River. But within a day we were forced to carry our pack rafts and walk the route of 19th-century steamships. We bushwhacked and trudged through sands washed from the Rockies; baked by the hot sun, we perspired faster than we could drink. We stumbled south with blistered feet because it was no longer possible to float the last 90 miles to the sea.

Occasionally the river would reemerge in stagnant ponds shaded by cottonwoods and guarded by reluctant great blue herons, sentries of a former cornucopia. Most of the time we were lost in the dried-out maze of delta cut by farm fields and salty canals. Eventually, a small tributary, el Rio Hardy, resuscitated the delta.

Before the vast, dried-out sponge of a delta absorbed the large creek, we reinflated our boats and began to paddle. On the second day afloat, entering the biosphere reserve, we found an unexpected wet paradise. The glowing green phosphate water turned clear, scrubbed clean by a rowdy coiffure of reeds and plants.

These curlicues of hidden river were lush with an upwelling of underground water, temporarily arisen before it would be reabsorbed and blocked from the ocean by ancient sand grains spread as far as we could see. Here, briefly, nature endured: rattling kingfishers, squadrons of circling mallards, and hushed, stern-faced cattle egrets. We could smell the postcoital tang of ocean tides.

Tamarisk thinned. Salt grass bearded the ground. Pintail ducks, curlews, ibis, plovers, and black-crowned night herons fluttered and gabbled and splashed. Sere mountains surrounded us under an infinite sky bisected by a once unstoppable river that scarcely knew banks. As the stream narrowed, we could feel it gather momentum, as if it would once more meet the sea.

Noatak National Preserve, Alaska

August 5, 2021: As I rowed down the Noatak into the preserve, a golden eagle swooped silently 40 yards south. Then a bull caribou swam the river, its antlers held high like a waiter lofting a tray. It came ashore with a clatter over the river cobbles, then dashed out of sight into a thicket of dwarf birch.

We camped at a stream so gin clear that for once, amid America鈥檚 greatest wilderness, I abstained from a filter, cupped my hands, and drank like a passing wolf from water so cold my teeth ached. My son Alistair looked at me as if I had gone mad.

Hungry, I cast repeatedly out into the cloudy Noatak River and reeled back in along the confluence of pellucid, insect-laden waters. When a fish hit the lure, I lifted the rod tip and a torpedo-shaped, silvery grayling swam quickly past my feet, where I guided it ashore and dispatched it fast and mercifully.

His colorful dorsal fin protruded like a sail, battened with a score of rails and bordered ruby red with freckled pink dots. His eyes still held the light, with shiny gold irises that circled night-black pupils bigger than any fish. To keep bears out of camp, I slit its belly in the cold water and briefly held his shiny entrails in my hand, with appreciation, before I released all that we could not eat into the current.

We minced garlic into spitting olive oil, and I saut茅ed the white meat, scales down. Wind blew against the stove, and I could imagine a bear miles downstream, standing up while parsing out floating molecules of fried fish through its nose.

With the spatula, I flaked the grayling out onto a half dozen plates. Before anyone could eat, my son said, sotto voce, 鈥淭hank you, fish.鈥� And as we all recited our thanks, it felt better than church.

John Muir Wilderness, California

April 8, 1993: In midweek after a big snow winter, we shouldered our packs at the trailhead hoping to ski Whitney and then continue a circumnavigation around the mountain. [Deborah Hutchinson and I] clumped uphill in our big boots, then cut off the broken mule trail and made our own trail in unbroken snow up toward Upper Boy Scout Lake, our skis like cumbersome antennae as they bumped Jeffrey pine branches and released the sweet smell of butterscotch. Atop the snow near the lake at 11,000 feet, we laid out our pads and slept contently under the stars鈥攁s if they provided heat on that cold night.

Before dawn under our headlamps, we unrolled the ski skins and strapped them to the skis, stepped into the bindings, and began walk-sliding up to Iceberg Lake. The Mountaineer鈥檚 Route proved too steep to continue with skins, so we strapped the boards on our packs and continued kicking several-inch-deep steps in hard snow up the route. It took little more than hour to race one another to the notch just above 14,000 feet. We stashed our skis there and strapped on our crampons for the last steep bit. We frontpointed side by side up firm snow, with our ax picks a-squeak with every punch. Although our breath came in gasps, we were exhilarated by the dance of axes synchronized with crampons. Above all else in the lower 48, the sky seemed an impossible cobalt, and peaks stretched in a dazzle of white as far as we could see.

We had the broad, helmet-crested summit to ourselves, but with the temperature rising, we couldn鈥檛 linger. Back at the skis, we clipped into our bindings with the snow now perfectly softened and corned up. We carved glorious turns, one at a time, slipping and sliding on velvet snow, arcing close to a hundred figure eights down, down, down in the footsteps of John Muir.

Kluane National Park, Yukon

July 9, 1978: After nearly a month out, we had climbed all the blue ice pitches up and across the unclimbed West Ridge of Mount Logan (19,551 feet). But the last two days鈥攁s we drug our gear across the high plateau and wheezed through the 16,000-foot air鈥攑roved an incredible workout.

Before the sun disappeared on one of our final nights, [Steve Davis, Roger Hirt, George Seivwright, and I] laid out our black tarps on a sloping snowfield and shoveled snow on top. Within an hour, the intense sunlight absorbed by the black tarp began to melt the snow, and several quarts of water trickled down into our pots at the bottom. The technique had saved us nearly a gallon of stove fuel over the last weeks of travel through the frozen wilderness.

Then as the sun fell below the horizon鈥攊n the penumbral light that constitutes night in the summer subarctic鈥擥eorge and I broke trail for an hour鈥檚 steady climb up to the North Peak. We couldn鈥檛 stay long on top in 20-below temps, with our beards iced over and frozen snot-sicles tusking out of our nostrils, but we were rewarded by the view to the north: three vertical miles down to the ice fields, gilled like the flanks of sharks with dark crevasses and dozens of snow-covered peaks as far as we could see, with no trees or buildings or roads or humans anywhere. In between were several more peaks we still needed to climb on the Logan high-altitude plateau. Off to the south, like a great planetary reflection mirror, the Gulf of Alaska glowed across the whole horizon, and I couldn鈥檛 help but shiver for how small it all made me feel. One look between us was all it took to signal our descent, and without words we hoofed it back down toward the tents, where our partners awaited with the last of the hot cocoa.

Jon Waterman lives in Carbondale, Colorado, and is a recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship and three grants from the National Geographic Society Expeditions Council. The second of three large atlases, Atlas of Wild America (National Geographic, October 3, 2023), which contains 251 maps or graphics and 310 photographs, follows the bestselling Atlas of the National Parks (2019). Atlas of Wild America is available to purchase .

Also by this author:

The 8 Most Endangered National Parks

For more information on backcountry travel:

The post A Former National Park Ranger Reveals His Favorite Wild Places in the U.S. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Last year I discussed my five recommended food-storage techniques, including when to employ each one. Many readers were skeptical about the last of these options鈥攕leeping with it. Here I鈥檒l go into more detail about when and why it may be appropriate听and what my results have been.

First, a disclaimer: sleeping with your food鈥攑ossible bait for wild animals鈥攊ntuitively seems riskier听than storing it farther away from camp. There are ways to mitigate this听risk, but if you decide to sleep with your food, the consequences are on you.

Sleeping with Food

If I鈥檓 sleeping in an enclosed shelter, I听keep my food inside it. If I鈥檓 cowboy-camping, I sleep on it or immediately next to it. Often I use my food bag as a knee rest, to relieve pressure on my back.听It can make a decent pillow, too.

Food should not be left on the ground nearby.听From the perspective of an opportunistic food thief, unattended food is open for the taking. Wildlife looks for easy calories, and only the most brazen and desperate bears and rodents would try to take food that鈥檚 obviously in my possession.

When the conditions are right, I always sleep with听my food. It鈥檚 the lightest, simplest, cheapest, and least time-consuming storage method. In other words, it鈥檚 the most convenient.

When and听Where

Three conditions must be met before I decide to sleep with my food:

1. The land agency must not require a specific storage method.
2. The risk of a bear entering my camp is acceptably low (ideally zero).
3. The risk of rodents in camp is also low听(ideally zero).

If the land agency requires a specific method, then I adhere to the regulation.

If I鈥檓 not comfortable with the bear risk, I听use permanent infrastructure (like bear boxes, bear poles, or hanging cables), a hard-sided canister like the , or a soft-sided bear-resistant sack like the .

If I think that rodents may occupy my camps, I鈥檒l plan to hang my food out of their reach, using听a听rodent hang (which will not be out of reach for a bear, because the food will be only a few feet off the ground)听or a soft-sided rodent-resistant sack like the .

Assessing Risk

How do I determine the risk of bears or rodents? I rely on personal experience and research. What have I observed before? What am I being told by area guidebooks, online forums, trip reports, rangers, and the local news?

I would consider an area to have low bear risk if:

• Few or no bears live in the area
• Little or no sign of bears has been seen (e.g., prints, scat, root digging)
• I鈥檓 camping far from their seasonal food sources (e.g., berry patches)
• There are no recent reports (and, ideally, no reports at all) of bears stealing food from backpackers or campers

Assessing the risk of rodents is more straightforward听and also less consequential. At high- and moderate-use campsites, I expect to have rodent problems. At low-use campsites, it鈥檚 rare but possible. At virgin campsites, I don鈥檛 recall ever having a rodent issue.

Personal Results

I haven鈥檛 kept count, but I鈥檝e probably slept with my food for more nights than all the other overnight storage methods combined. This includes many thru- and section hikes of long-distance trails, a loop around Alaska and the Yukon, and weeks on the Wind River High Route听in Wyoming and the听Pfiffner Traverse听in Colorado.

I鈥檝e had a few bears enter my camp, each time in California鈥檚听Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks听(where hard-sided bear canisters are generally required鈥攁nd always required for commercial groups). I鈥檝e had far more problems with rodents, especially at high-use campsites on popular trails like the Appalachian Trail and in national parks.

Over the past 15听years, the risks, regulations, available methods, and my thinking have evolved, and they will continue to do so in the future.听If I repeated those trips, I鈥檇 do things differently in some cases.听For example, if I were to do the AT again, I would give serious thought to a rodent-resistant bag听rather than just carrying my food in a nylon stuffsack. I , but I would take back all of the hangs I ever did. And if I did my Alaska trip again, I would have a bear sack for more of it听or at least in Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve,听where this is now the regulation.

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WHITEHORSE, Yukon鈥擜 Yukon woman set a new benchmark for a听solo, unsupported expedition听to the grocery store last week. , an adventure racer,听overcame numerous obstacles in reaching听her local market听for provisions and returning safely home again.

The vision for the expedition came together when her car went into the shop for an unexpected brake job. 鈥淚 knew then that I had an opportunity to really do something special,鈥� Holland says. In desperate need of groceries听before the full force of the coronavirus听hit her area, she decided to set out overland.

Hauling empty packs, Holland traversed the icy subarctic route from her home to the bus stop: roughly one-third of a mile, in temperatures that hovered around zero degrees Fahrenheit. She then rode the bus for two miles, disembarked, and approached the grocery store. (When pressed by 国产吃瓜黑料听about her use of public transportation, which would normally disqualify an expedition from using the 鈥渦nsupported鈥� label, Holland said she was guided by Colin O鈥橞rady鈥檚 more expansive definition of the term.)听

At the grocery store, Holland encountered her crisis: a fiber-optic听outage had knocked out听the internet, and registers听could not accept payment by credit or debit cards. It was chaos, and some felt there was no way forward. Undeterred, Holland improvised a traverse south for half a mile to the bank, withdrew cash via a human teller, and circled back. 鈥淢y strength was still good at this point,鈥� Holland听recalls. 鈥淚 was behind schedule, but I still felt confident I could complete the expedition.鈥�

Back at the store, Holland navigated aisles largely stripped of items听like evaporated milk, rice, and canned tomatoes. (She was, however, able to secure the last carton of chicken broth.) It听was modestly busy with shoppers but the more challenging obstacles were the听employees, who were heroically restocking the shelves from large carts听loaded with eggs, canned soups, and other essentials. How did Holland maintain safe social-distancing space?听

鈥淢y reflexes were solid,鈥� Holland says. 鈥淚 was able to maneuver around them.鈥�

Checkout was mercifully easier than Holland anticipated. The lines鈥攃arefully spaced, socially distant lines!鈥攚ere only five or six shoppers deep, rather than the ten or twelve that our seasoned adventurer had prepared for. Soon Holland was clear. With the summit听behind her, she loaded her packs for the return trip.听

That鈥檚 when things got really hard.

After dragging her heavy load out of the store and to the bus stop, Holland waited in vain for public transit听that never showed. (Anyone who鈥檚 ever waited for resupply knows that feeling.) With temperatures dropping, Holland made听another half-mile southbound traverse, fully loaded, to the main bus depot.听

鈥淭here were moments when I felt like breaking,鈥� Holland later said, admitting that she came close to calling a cab. 鈥淏ut ultimately, I was able to just take it step by step听and focus on doing the work, just man-hauling down to Main Street.鈥�

Once she caught a bus at the depot, all that remained was a final leg of overland travel to her home to finish the expedition. (Spoiler: she made it.) But for Holland, it鈥檚 not really about bragging rights.听

鈥淚 learned so much about myself along the way,鈥� she听says.听鈥淲hat I鈥檒l remember is the journey.鈥�

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In late August, a British Columbia man pled guilty in a Fort Nelson courtroom to hand-feeding grizzly bears along the Alaska Highway in northeastern B.C.

I鈥檓 sorry, you might say, can you repeat that?

Yes. Hand-feeding grizzly bears along the Alaska Highway.

The man, Randy Scott,听had apparently been posting photos of himself feeding roadside bears to social media since at least 2017. In a photo released by the B.C. Conservation Officer Service, an adolescent grizzly can be seen taking a Timbit鈥擟anada鈥檚 answer to the donut hole鈥攆rom a human hand, presumably Scott鈥檚.

That鈥檚 a violation of B.C.鈥檚 Wildlife Act, in addition to being a mind-bogglingly stupid and dangerous thing to do. , 鈥淎ttracting Dangerous Wildlife,鈥� the act reads: 鈥淎 person must not intentionally feed or attempt to feed dangerous wildlife.鈥�

, the charges stemmed from last October, when a conservation officer happened by while Scott and a woman were in the midst of feeding a bear from their car. (The woman was originally charged too, but her charges were stayed during the same week that Scott pled guilty.)

Scott was fined $2,000 (a little over $1,500 in the U.S.)听and ordered to stay 50 metres (which converts to about 164 feet)听away from bears for the next six months.

鈥淗opefully it sends a message and deters people that this is not wise, it鈥檚 not lawful, and it should never happen in the first place,鈥澨齛rea conservation officer Shawn Brinsky told the CBC.

I hope so too. But while I鈥檓 glad that the COs pursued the case, to me the consequences don鈥檛 match the crime.

Fifty metres听seems like a bare minimum distance to try to stay from any bear, any time, for anybody, regardless of whether or not you鈥檝e been convicted of delicately placing a sour-cream-glazed听into a grizzly鈥檚 open mouth. That鈥檚 not a punishment鈥攖hat鈥檚 just common sense!

In its , the National Park Service鈥檚 top tip is that visitors should 鈥渞espect a bear鈥檚 space鈥�; they recommend the use of binos or a spotting scope in lieu of trying to get anywhere close. Some parks have specific requirements, and they鈥檙e stricter than Scott鈥檚 restraining order: 300 feet in Yellowstone, 200 feet in Shenandoah National Park.

British Columbia鈥檚 on staying safe around bears reminds drivers viewing roadside animals to 鈥渞emain a respectful distance鈥� and to stay in their vehicles at all times. The pamphlet warns drivers that any bear who approaches their vehicle 鈥渕ay have been previously fed by people and could be dangerous.鈥�

And that to me is the heart of the issue. Scott didn鈥檛 just endanger himself, and the bears he fed鈥攚ho are now at much higher risk of being put down by the COs for aggressive or nuisance behavior鈥攈e also endangered all the people who like to walk, hike, run, bike, or otherwise enjoy the wilderness in that stretch of northern British Columbia.

It鈥檚 easy to joke around about Scott and his Timbits, or in Haines, Alaska, a few years ago and then charged into the proximity of听a feeding grizzly sow and her two cubs. Their stories go briefly viral, people make their jokes online, and then we all move on. And I鈥檓 not against a !

But when I think about the other kinds of bear stories that go viral, the ones about human-bear encounters that end in death, it鈥檚 harder for me to laugh. Randy Scott鈥檚 actions could have gotten people killed鈥攊n fact, they still could, as the bears he fed are still roaming around. In that context, two grand and a laughable restraining order seems like a slap on the wrist.

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Gjermund Roesholt left the cabin on Einarson Lake, in the remote backcountry of the central Yukon, around 9:30 A.M. on November 26, 2018. He headed out by snowmobile to check a trapline that was laid north of the cabin. His partner, Val茅rie Th茅or锚t, stayed behind with their ten-month-old baby girl, Ad猫le.

Th茅or锚t was a grade-school teacher on maternity leave; Roesholt was a wilderness and hunting guide. The couple, who normally lived in Whitehorse, the Yukon鈥檚 small capital city, had flown in to their cabin on October 4, intending to stay until the new year, when Th茅or锚t was due back at school. At the cabin, they hunted for game and maintained their modest trapping concession, a designated area where they were permitted to catch and kill small fur-bearing mammals, living out a dream of rugged self-sufficiency. Both were experienced in the wild, and they were careful about attractants鈥攖hey stored the remnants of their hunts in a secure container听inside a shed a short distance from the cabin.

Around 2:30 in the afternoon, five hours after he鈥檇 set out, Roesholt was working his way back toward home. It had snowed gently on and off throughout his morning on the trapline, and as he retraced his own newly dusted trail, he could see fresh bear tracks heading in the same direction. Before he reached the cabin, the tracks turned away.

When he got to the cabin, it was quiet. Th茅or锚t and Ad猫le were not inside. Roesholt walked down the well-used trail toward a sauna, calling their names. Increasingly worried, he knew he might have to use the loaded rifle he carried.

His partner and child were not at the sauna. Roesholt kept going, down a trail they used for a small trapline that was close enough to the cabin to be checked on foot. He was about 800 feet from the structure when he heard a bear growl.

The grizzly charged Roesholt from 50 feet, but he got his rifle up in time, fired, and didn鈥檛 miss. The bear collapsed, shot fatally through the head. Behind it, just off the trail, Roesholt found his family. They听had both been killed.

Later, after he had used his Garmin InReach to contact the nearest detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), and听after nearly 21 nightmarish听hours had passed while he waited for an investigative team to arrive at his remote location and evacuate him, and after the Mounties and other agencies had done their work, a coroner鈥檚 , published in March 2019, would conclude that Th茅or锚t鈥檚 injuries 鈥渜uickly proved to be fatal鈥� and that baby Ad猫le鈥檚 were 鈥渋nstantly incompatible with life.鈥�

The bear, a male grizzly, was 18 years old and starving. He still weighed just over 300 pounds, in muscle and skin and bone, but he had already burned away all his body fat. Too emaciated to hibernate and听apparently hampered by a weeks-old injury in his abdomen, he had recently taken the desperate step of eating a porcupine, and he was pierced internally by听quills听from throat to gut.

The bear had followed the snowmobile trail earlier that day, left it behind to circle wide around the cabin and the sauna, and then rejoined the trail south of the buildings. There, investigators believe, he had sensed Th茅or锚t coming toward him, out for a walk, her baby in a carrier on her back. In the chilling phrasing of the coroner鈥檚 report, the bear had retreated from the trail and 鈥渕oved into a position of advantage鈥� under the thick, obscuring branches of a spruce tree, six feet away. It was an ambush: no one could have seen him coming or reacted in time if they had. Th茅or锚t might as well have been struck by lightning.

The next day, at 1:30 in the afternoon, I was at home in Whitehorse when I saw on the Twitter feed of the Yukon Mounties:

Yukon RCMP and Yukon Coroner鈥檚 Service are investigating the death of two individuals following a suspected bear attack on November 26, northeast of Mayo, near the NWT border. Environment Yukon is assisting with the investigation. More information will be released soon.

I remember thinking: Two? That鈥檚 weird.

There had been three previous fatal Yukon bear attacks in recent memory. An adventure tour operator named Claudia Huber died in 2014听after a grizzly invaded her home in the Johnson鈥檚 Crossing area, off the Alaska Highway. Jean-Fran莽ois听Pag茅 was killed by a defensive mother bear in 2006, after he unknowingly walked by her den while staking mining claims outside the community of Ross River. And a hiker visiting from British Columbia, Christine Courtney, was mauled to death in Kluane National Park in 1996. I knew these stories well, and I had read about other attacks elsewhere, but I couldn鈥檛 remember hearing of a double fatality before. It never occurred to me to think of a mother and her baby.

Awful clarity came less than two hours later, when a media release from the Yukon鈥檚 chief coroner landed in my inbox. At the same time, my Facebook feed began to fill up with photos of Val茅rie鈥檚听smiling face. Whitehorse is a small, close-knit community, and while I didn鈥檛 know this family personally, our worlds overlapped many times over. As I watched from my couch, our mutual friends changed their profile pictures to shots of themselves with Val, shots of themselves with Ad猫le, shots of Val and Ad猫le together. People were reeling and paying immediate tribute to their friend鈥檚 life the best way they knew how.

What happened next, I suppose, should have been predictable in our extremely online era. Local news spawned national news and then international news. 鈥淐anadian Press picked up the story,鈥� Yukon News reporter Jackie Hong told me. 鈥�The New York Times picked it up, The Washington Post. And then suddenly it wasn鈥檛 just a Yukon story or a Canada story. It was an international story.鈥� Hong the attack for the Yukon News, and soon she was receiving requests from outside media, some as far away as Norway, to help her make contacts or to provide them with updates herself.

I was not exempt from all this. 国产吃瓜黑料 contacted me less than 24 hours after the news broke听to ask if I鈥檇 be interested in covering it. I was torn: I didn鈥檛 want to add to the noise, and I wasn鈥檛 eager to ask my friends to speak on the record about their pain. I didn鈥檛 want to have to try to track down Gjermund Roesholt and intrude on his agony. But I also didn鈥檛 want someone else, someone who might be less sensitive to the issue than I was, to get the assignment. I told my editor I鈥檇 be willing if we could wait for the results of the coroner鈥檚 report. Then, I thought, I might actually have something new or meaningful to share with readers.

Meanwhile, a TV reporter made the long journey north from southern British Columbia and set up shop outside Whitehorse Elementary School, where Val茅rie had taught. As grief counselors were made available to the students there, and as local parents struggled to figure out how to explain to their children that their teacher had been killed, the school received e-mail听and phone calls from around two dozen different media outlets.

As the story spread, Facebook and Twitter听and the comments attached to news articles听filled with the most callous contributions imaginable.

鈥淲ho in the world takes their wife and 10 month old into bear country,鈥� one person wrote in response to the RCMP鈥檚 initial tweet. 鈥淲hy wasn鈥檛 she carrying a weapon?鈥� said another. A third: 鈥淭hey both were torturing animals in traps for their whole lives, and now this bear fought back in his territory. I feel sorry for the baby, for the bear, who paid with his life, and for ALL THE BEAUTIFUL WILD ANIMALS THESE TWO PEOPLE MURDERED !!!鈥�

It was like that everywhere: She should have had a gun. Or听they鈥檇 been trapping and killing animals, so they had it coming. Or听they should never have taken a baby out there.

I wasn鈥檛 the only one feeling conflicted about covering the attack. Claudiane Samson is the Whitehorse reporter for French-language Radio-Canada. She knew Val茅rie socially; they shared a tightly knit circle of friends in the Yukon鈥檚 Francophone community. She heard the news before the RCMP and the coroner made it public鈥攕he鈥檇 heard rumors of a grizzly attack, and then a letter arrived for the parents of children at Whitehorse Elementary, announcing that Val茅rie Th茅or锚t had died. Samson did the math.

鈥淚t鈥檚 the kind of story where I hate my job,鈥� she told me. 鈥淎nd it was not my first.鈥� Jean-Fran莽ois Pag茅 had been her friend, too, and she鈥檇 been obliged to report on his death 13 years ago. But back then, social media was in its infancy, not the global force it is now. And so Pag茅鈥檚 death was not scrutinized in the same way.

鈥淚 kind of knew where this would lead,鈥� Samson said. All she could do, she figured, was try to use her work to show what Val茅rie鈥檚 life had been all about鈥攈er passion for the outdoors, her love of the Yukon wilderness, and her desire to be immersed in it. Like me, she figured she would do a better job than some outsider. 鈥淭hey were living their dream out there,鈥� she told me. 鈥淭hat was my driving force in my whole coverage.鈥�

But she听was in a difficult position. Some media reports struck locals as insensitive鈥攖he station that sent the TV reporter to Whitehorse ran a segment that included charging bears and injured mauling victims describing their attacks. Even the most respectful coverage was tainted by the comments that faraway readers left online.

鈥淚t became a judgment over our lifestyle,鈥� said Samson, who has had bears pass through the same backyard where her children play. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 where we鈥檙e at with social media.鈥� (While Roesholt and Th茅or锚t had gone deeper into the bush, and for longer, than most of us do, trapping and hunting are common activities around Whitehorse.) Very quickly, friends of the couple became reluctant to speak to reporters, fearful that even their most loving memories of Val would be smeared by online hatred. Months later, that fear is still fresh鈥攚hen I eventually approached a friend of Val鈥檚 for this story, she described the pain of seeing her friend鈥檚 picture everywhere in the days after the attack and听always surrounded by harsh comments from strangers. A teacher herself, she worried about fielding questions from her students, about scaring them away from the outdoors. She was no longer living in the Yukon, and she didn鈥檛 feel able to tell many people in her daily life about the loss she was grieving.

Reaching out to family members for comment is fairly standard practice when news reporters cover a person鈥檚 death. The Mounties had asked the media to refrain from contacting Roesholt or any other relatives. Not every outside reporter honored that request, but all local reporters that I鈥檓 aware of did. Samson told me she couldn鈥檛 bring herself to call Gjermund. Jackie Hong agreed. 鈥淭here was no indication at all that he wanted to talk or was ready to talk,鈥� Hong听said.

The scrutiny was unprecedented. It鈥檚 a running joke among Yukon reporters that their stories only go national when they鈥檙e about animals. The wolf that chased a cyclist. The Bohemian waxwings that got drunk on fermented berries and then were locked in the government鈥檚 avian drunk tank. The wild boars that escaped from a farm and terrorized a rural subdivision. Now our joke had come true again, in the worst way.

Bear attacks are personal here鈥攖here is no hiding from them, no distancing yourself from the horror and thinking, That could never happen to me. As Samson notes, while strangers on the internet accused Val茅rie of being irresponsible for bringing her baby into bear country, every parent in Whitehorse knows that a bear could wander across their driveway or through their yard someday. Our whole lives are lived in bear country.

My favorite hiking trail winds right by the area where Christine Courtney died鈥攖here鈥檚 a monument to remind me, in case I鈥檇 managed to forget. I didn鈥檛 know Claudia Huber, but I had a dozen friends in common with Val茅rie Th茅or锚t. And when I worked for a mining company as a field laborer a few years ago, I walked into the lobby of the office on my first day鈥攁bout to head into the bush for a month, where I would hike alone听for eight hours every day鈥攁nd found a memorial to Jean-Fran莽ois Pag茅 mounted on the wall. Attacks are incredibly rare, but when they do happen, they feel real to everyone in the community.

Maybe that鈥檚 why the response to this one bothered me so much. In the aftermath, I found myself surprised and disturbed by the amount of attention the attack received. I felt intensely protective of my grieving friends and my shocked, horrified community鈥擨 wanted to shield them from the intrusive phone calls, the strangers creeping into their social-media profiles, the awful, cruel comments appended to every news story. When a reporter for The New York Times the Yukon 鈥渄esolate,鈥� I wanted to reach through my laptop screen and shake him, to try to make him understand a place he wasn鈥檛 describing properly. Life here is amazing, I wanted to say. This is the kind of place where you can hike to a glacier, watch it calve, and then engage in a howl-off with a pack of nearby wolf puppies. This is where grizzlies swipe spawning salmon from streams, and caribou still flow like rivers across the mountains, and the northern lights come out at night. It鈥檚 the opposite of desolate.

鈥淭his is a great place to live,鈥� Samson agreed. 鈥淵es, we live in bear country. [But] I鈥檓 not going to judge people raising kids beside a river because a kid drowned one year.鈥�

In any future tragedies with the awful potential to go viral outside the territory, Samson would like to see authorities devote more resources to helping families cope with the deluge of media requests. The police could connect the family with a designated spokesperson, for instance, and all requests for information could be funneled through them. That kind of thing 鈥渉elps the families,鈥� she said, 鈥渂ut it also gives media what they need.鈥� It directs their energy away from elementary schools and the Facebook accounts of the grief-stricken听while still feeding their need for quotes and copy.

I kept wondering about that need, though. For Yukoners, this was real news鈥攚e needed to know that a friend and community member had been killed, where counseling services were available, and where public-memorial events were being held. For a community, the media can play a role in processing the event, even in healing. It can offer people a place to say: My friend was wonderful, and I will miss her.

But what about those outside that circle鈥攖he reporters in New York, in Vancouver, in other cities where grizzly attacks are not a threat? What need are they serving for their readers? On some level, it鈥檚 obvious: horrible stories travel around the world. We know this. We click on the tales of trauma and tragedy the way we slow down on the highway to gawk at the shrapnel of a broken vehicle. But at least the aftermath of a car accident can remind you to slow down yourself. For people outside bear country, was reading about this tragedy really anything more than voyeurism?

All winter these questions troubled me. As people around Whitehorse strapped canoes to the tops of their vehicles听in midwinter听to remember Val, whose boat had seemingly always been riding around on top of her little car, and as my friends who knew and loved her went on adventures in her honor, I thought about how the media and social-media dynamics had made their grief even harder. I wondered if it had to be that way. I didn鈥檛 find easy answers.

When the coroner鈥檚 report came out in March, it emphasized the family鈥檚 preparedness, their听experience, their听safety precautions. The investigators鈥� reconstruction of the attack made it clear: even if, somehow, Val茅rie had had a loaded gun in her hand when the bear made his move, she wouldn鈥檛 have had a chance. The only thing she could have done differently, I realized, was not be there. Not have gone听for a walk with her child in the freshly fallen snow,听not have been听in the backcountry to begin with.

But those of us who love the outdoors understand: staying inside is no option at all.

The post When a Fatal Grizzly Mauling Goes Viral appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Last spring, in Wasilla, Alaska, I ran into another musher at a burrito shop and mentioned that I planned to sign up for the Iditarod, the听thousand-mile dogsled race. 鈥淲hy?鈥� he said. 鈥淲hy do that听when you could be warm and dry and have money?鈥� He had just finished his second Iditarod himself, and he wasn鈥檛 quite serious, but he wasn鈥檛 joking either. 鈥淲hy does anyone do it?鈥� I responded. A dodge. I didn鈥檛 really know the answer, which made me uncomfortable. The truth was that I鈥檇 run one dogsled race, a 20-miler, and it was too short. Then I ran a 100-miler, and a 300-miler, and each time听at the finish line, I thought: I could keep going. We could keep going, the dogs and I. We could eat food and take a nap and put on our booties and leave this parking lot, this school, this bar鈥攚herever the race ended鈥攁nd go back into the wilderness where we belong. What would happen, I wondered, if we just kept mushing?

And so my husband and I left our home in Wisconsin and traveled to Alaska and kept training our dogs and chopped thousands of pounds of meat and and (usually) slept too little and (sometimes) cried too much, and the next thing I knew it was March 2,听and I was standing on my sled at the ceremonial start in Anchorage, the dogs leaping to run, with thousands of people cheering. And then it was the next day, the real start of the race, when teams head into the wilderness, and there were miles of crowds and signs and fans with their bonfires, and then the bonfires were farther apart, the stretches between them minutes or hours long, and pretty soon it was just me and the dogs crossing the huge wild state of Alaska.

If you鈥檇 asked me at any point during the winter what scared me most about the Iditarod, I鈥檇 have told you the , a series of three hazardous drops onto the frozen Happy River, which come fairly early in the race. I spent my first two days on the trail dreading the Steps听and the last miles before them in a state of suppressed panic. The dogs trotted in switchbacks through an airy forest, rising through the foothills of the Alaska Range. Everything was bright and peaceful. Birds were singing. I had the distinct sense of cranking to the top of a roller coaster鈥檚 first drop.

Then we came around a corner, and the trail just disappeared. It dropped over something I might call, in other contexts, a cliff: not quite vertical, but you couldn鈥檛 walk down it, either. The dogs didn鈥檛 hesitate. They flowed over the edge, vanishing, and then the sled tipped after them and fell beneath me. We half slid, half fell down the slope, and then the bottom caught us, and within seconds it was over. A minute later, another Step: everything fell away, we dropped, we landed. And once more鈥擨 held my breath, almost giddy at this point, the sensation now familiar鈥攗ntil we came to rest, at a gentle lope, along the sun-kissed snow of the bare and glowing Happy River.

It was over. We鈥檇 done it. I鈥檇 heard that there might be photographers waiting there, because they liked to document the wipeouts, but I didn鈥檛 see any. , identical-twin mushers Kristy and Anna, were resting their dog teams on the river, and so was musher , and we waved to each other (this too was surreal鈥攆riendly faces, athletes I鈥檇 admired for years)听and I pulled past their teams and off the trail, and my dogs rolled in the snow and gnawed on slices of frozen salmon, and I lay back on my sled in the warmth of the winter sunset and basked in the pride and satisfaction of having put the hardest part of the trail behind us.

You see? I knew nothing.

Later听someone asked me about my best moment on the trail, and I thought back to those hours we rested on the Happy River. I was gloriously naive. It was the first and last time in the entire race that I thought: we鈥檝e got this. Back when I still felt that each effort, each challenge, brought us markedly closer to crossing the finish line. Before I started seeing challenges not as individual triumphs to be celebrated听but as signs of how much harder things could鈥攁nd would鈥攇et.

After the Steps came a windswept mountain pass, the highest point on the trail, and then the Gorge, a careening descent that follows Dalzell Creek down a canyon to the valley floor. We crossed slanted ice bridges, skidding toward open water time and again before the dogs鈥� momentum pulled the sled back onto solid ground. I鈥檇 look down at dark water rushing under the ice, trying not to think about how close we鈥檇 come to falling in. It was definitely gonna get easier after the Gorge, right?

Then came the Farewell Burn, a mostly snowless 30-mile stretch of dirt and gravel that wound through burned forests. The runners made horrible sounds as they scraped over boulders, and the stress broke the bottom of my sled basket. The basket鈥檚 broken plastic, in turn, sawed through the rope that connected the dogs to the sled. We ran for two days and a night with the broken sled tied together with spare pieces of rope, unsteerable.

Next came miles of bare tussocks that my lead girl, Pepe, loved and my knees hated. At the Iditarod checkpoint, an isolated ghost听town that marks the race鈥檚 official halfway mark, warm weather had thawed the meat in my drop bags so听we made do with kibble. This was the beginning of a hot-weather stretch of above-freezing temperatures that made the trail slushy and everything else wet. We spent 38 hours traveling up the frozen Yukon River in the rain, dodging pools of open water. We forded creeks that felt like rivers. We reached the bottom of endless hills, and I would lift my headlamp to see the trail markers, bright reflective specks,听rising back up into the stars. I told myself constantly that the next checkpoint would be the finish line. All we needed to do was get there. After eating and resting, we didn鈥檛 keep going; we got up and started over. Our race ended and began a thousand times.

In Shaktoolik, a village of 257 on the shore of the Bering Sea, I found an envelope that a friend鈥擟hrissy, the cook at Alpine Creek Lodge, where my husband and I trained our dogs last winter鈥攈ad tucked into my drop bag. 鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 get easier,鈥� she wrote. 鈥淵ou get stronger.鈥� This struck me as the most profound thing I鈥檇 ever seen. Because I鈥檇 seen the dogs get stronger, day after day. Ever since we crossed the Alaska Range, they鈥檇 started getting a little less tired after each long run, a little more confident, a little bouncier. They were efficient. They developed incredible appetites, with each dog devouring up to three pounds of meat per meal. They rested when they could, napping at river crossings while I waded into the frigid water in search of the best place to ford, then got up quickly when it was time to go. They bonded as a team, trusting each other鈥檚 senses, sleeping in cozy piles with their heads on each other鈥檚 necks. I could see them growing, adapting, with each mile.

But it hadn鈥檛 occurred to me that something similar might be happening to me鈥攕omething I hadn鈥檛 noticed, because I鈥檇 been busy watching the dogs. I was learning to break the impossible into tiny pieces. I was learning the difference between limits that can and can鈥檛 be pushed. I kept waiting for the trail to get easier, but maybe it wasn鈥檛 going to. Maybe all you could do was keep moving.

Even in White Mountain, which was my last planned stop before the finish line in Nome, I couldn鈥檛 tell you if we鈥檇 make it there. There were 77 miles to go, several of which passed through so-called blowholes, natural wind tunnels where weather sweeps down from the mountains and out to sea, sometimes reaching hurricane-force speeds. (鈥淚f you get lost on sea ice,鈥� my notes for this part of the trail read, 鈥� until you reach the shore.鈥�)

My team was strong, if small. Teams this year started with 14 dogs, and no new dogs could be added, but mushers could leave dogs at checkpoints along the way to be cared for by volunteers until the end of the race. I chose to leave two dogs behind for the final run鈥攐ne girl, Hunter, because she needed a bit more rest than her teammates, and the other, an exuberant boy named Colbert, because he鈥檇 snuck into my sled bag and devoured two bags鈥� worth of chicken skins, which were currently squirting out of his very enthusiastic back end. I watched Hunter and Colbert climb into a bush plane smaller than my truck, wagging their tails and sniffing noses with a dog from another team. I liked the idea that they were headed to the finish line, where my husband would care for them until we reunited. They鈥檇 reach Nome before me鈥�if I reached Nome.

I left White Mountain in the early-morning hours, when the wind is said to be gentlest, but it was already blowing hard. Drifts had formed since the last team passed through. Pepe zigzagged between the trail markers, searching for a hard-packed path. Sometimes she found one and we flew for a few yards; sometimes she stepped off an unseen ledge and sank chest-deep in powder. By the time the sun rose, the white landscape lit with a colorless glow, wind from the northeast hit us like a wall. We ran diagonally, all of us leaning; the dogs lowered their heads. At the same time, an opaque fog formed at my eye level, resting on clear air like oil on water. When I ducked beneath it, I saw deserted fish camps听half-buried in drifts, wooden buildings and drying racks abandoned for the season in hard-packed mounds of snow.

I鈥檝e heard stories of mushers hallucinating during the race, but I never thought I was hallucinating myself until we saw the lights of Nome, 13 days after leaving Anchorage. Even after we crossed the finish line听and the dogs were chomping on pork chops and my husband and parents were hugging me and the race director, Mark Nordman, shook my hand. It wasn鈥檛 real. I was sure of it. For days I waited to wake up. Because something had changed out there, changed for me and my dogs, and we were the only ones who knew it. The trail was our life, and everything else was a dream.

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In this episode of 鈥檚 Campfire Stories, recounts a near disastrous run-in with a bear in the Yukon during a mountain-bike and raft trip down the Tatshenshini River.

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After 12 years of dogsledding, four years of training my own dog team, and two years of qualifying races, I鈥檒l be entering my first Iditarod听in less than three months. This is no time at all, especially considering the 1,500 miles of training I plan to complete between now and then. All the things I鈥檝e encountered up to this point鈥攖he blizzards, the moose, the 30-below mornings鈥攑ale against the specter of the big race itself: a thousand-mile trek across the Alaskan interior, which crosses the jagged Alaska Range, goes alongside the bone-cold Yukon River, and ends with a three-day push along听the .

I live in Wisconsin, but before I even registered for the Iditarod, I knew I wanted to train for it in Alaska. 鈥淚 know a place you can stay,鈥� a friend told me this summer, 鈥渂ut you鈥檒l be, like, all in.鈥� It sounded good. What else was I going to do before my first Iditarod: think about other things?

Which is how I, along with my husband, Quince Mountain, and our handler, Chrissie Bodznick鈥攁 wildland firefighter and longtime friend鈥攅nded up renting a听tiny cabin on a steep hill, overlooking 29 wooden doghouses, which in turn overlook the white Susitna River. The cabin is part of , a wilderness camp along the Denali Highway, which is impassible to cars all winter. From November on, the best way to get to the lodge from the closest plowed road, which is almost 70 miles away, is by snowmobile or dogsled.

If you can get to it at all, that is. The first time we tried, exhausted after two weeks of driving from Wisconsin (and stopping to let 29 dogs in and out of the truck four times a day), we encountered some mushers at the end of the plowed road. The snow was light, but Denali Highway was blanketed with glare ice鈥攖oo slick for driving and mushing. Attempting to navigate the road was 鈥渄eath defying,鈥� the mushers told us solemnly, and these weren鈥檛 the kind of guys who used听words like death defying听lightly. We and the dogs ended up living out of the truck for four frustrating days, until snowfall brought softer trails.

When Claude and Jennifer Bondy founded Alpine Creek Lodge in 2008, friends advised them not to cater to mushers. Mushers smell like dog poop. They fall asleep in public and stuff their pockets with snacks. They鈥檙e usually broke, and their huskies howl at two in the morning.

鈥淪ounds like my kind of people,鈥� Claude said. In the years since it opened, the lodge has become a hub for Alaska鈥檚 mushers and handlers, who use the adjacent snow-covered highway to train for races. Tourists come out for northern-lights viewing or hunting trips and find themselves across the communal table from former Iditarod champs, spooning moose-aroni out of paper bowls. The Bondys鈥� teenage son, Bob, leads gold-prospecting trips near the lodge when he鈥檚 not running his trapline. He鈥檚 turning 16 next year, so he鈥檚 moving into his own cabin, which he鈥檒l build using beetle-killed-spruce logs from a nearby forest. His Jack Russell terrier puppy, Ruby, bounces at his heels while he works.

In our short time at the cabin, we鈥檝e already established a routine. We live most of our waking hours by headlamp and run the team for as many hours as we听sleep, dancing to stay warm on the thin runners of a tandem dogsled. Then we scoop poop and mash up thawed beef while the dogs rest in their wooden houses. We fetch water from a creek below the cabin and carry it up a steep hill to warm on the lodge鈥檚 woodstove. We doze off in our boots. We stack food for the dogs on pallets鈥�400 pounds of kibble and 700 pounds of ground beef (we鈥檙e working on buying 1,000 pounds of chum salmon)鈥攁nd then watch those stacks dwindle with alarming speed. 鈥淪ome people dream about this kind of self-sufficiency,鈥� Chrissie observed听the first time she hauled a cooler up the icy hill from the creek. 鈥淧ersonally, I think it鈥檚 inefficient in the modern era.鈥�

Everything here is inefficient in the modern era, but that鈥檚 kind of the point. Dogsledding听is itself a rejection of modernity. The sport reached its heyday a century ago, when communities across the north used sled dogs to transport mail and supplies. Old-timers still remember when every family had their own dog team. But by the 1950s, when the Iditarod was barely a gleam in the eye of legendary musher , the sport was already dying out. Twenty years later, in partnership with historian Dorothy Page, Joe and his friends organized the first Iditarod鈥攖hen a monthlong trek from village to village, with racers stopping to bargain for beaver and caribou meat along the way. The purpose was threefold: to preserve a historic gold-mining trail, to honor a turn-of-the-century dogsled relay that brought in time to prevent an epidemic, and to save long-distance mushing from disappearing altogether.

Today, the Iditarod is the sport鈥檚 marquee event, its Wimbledon and Daytona 500 combined. Top teams finish in eight to ten days, averaging more than 100 miles per day on the trail. Sure, you can drive a snowmobile now, or even a car, and spend your winters waiting inside for spring. You could 鈥渂e warm and have money,鈥� as one Iditarod veteran (optimistically) imagined the non-mushing life during a recent conversation. Or you could cross the Last Frontier at a dog鈥檚 pace, step by step, your mukluks gliding inches from the ground, staring at your best friends鈥� butts by the glow of your headlamp. I know where I鈥檒l be.

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In 1965, mountaineer guided Senator Bobby Kennedy up his brother鈥檚 namesake mountain. It would be听the start of the duo's committed friendship.听In 2015, Jim鈥檚 sons, Bobby (who鈥檚 named after, you guessed it, the senator) and Leif, teamed up with Chris Kennedy to repeat their fathers鈥� historic 1965听ascent. This is the trailer for ,听from filmmaker 听The full film will premiere at .听

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