When I moved to New York City in October 2011, I half intended to quit climbing forever. Having spent most of high school and college gradually disenchanting myself with my dirtbag dreams, I had accepted the first “real” job that came my way (as a researcher at an executive search firm in Midtown) and was trying to get excited about a long grim future of glass towers and after-work IPAs. Thankfully, however, on my first day in the city, I stumbled onto a B train, rattled across the Manhattan Bridge, and found my way to Brooklyn Boulders, where I discovered an unlikely climber’s paradise.

This was the OG Brooklyn Boulders, pre-franchise, pre-labor dispute, pre-Bouldering Project sale, and back then, as the only “modern” gym in New York City, it played host to New York’s surprisingly robust population of core climbers, which then included bone-crushers like , , , and the late .

The gym’s best two walls were its simplest: they stood beside each other, one at 30 degrees, one at 45, both about 15 feet wide and 12 feet tall, both so densely packed with holds that they almost resembled spraywalls, 40+ problems between V3 and V12 on each wall per set. This feat was made possible by the fact that the problems often overlapped each other, with most holds participating in multiple boulders, each of which was demarcated not by the color of the hold, as is now common, but by colored tape. I’d never seen so many boulder problems so close together. The route setters were constantly having to concoct fresh new tape color combinations: Brown with red and white stripes, brown with green cross, brown with Cleveland Browns sticker, and so on. Whether you climbed V3 or V8, there were often six or seven climbs to choose from on the 45-degree wall alone—each in a slightly different style. Blue-black not work for you? No problem, try camouflage. So strong you’ve sent the whole set? No problem; make up your own problems; you’ve got a freshly set spraywall right in front of you.

Instead of quitting climbing, I trained at BKB for 18 months, left for two years to climb outside again, and then moved back to the city for graduate school in 2014, just in time to watch the gym—which now had several competitors in the city—switch from taped problems to color-coordinated holds. Overnight the size of the holds increased and the problem density plummeted, even while the setting cadence (the frequency with which they re-set the walls) stayed the same. The result: where once the 45-degree wall might host eight V8s, now it held just two or three problems of that grade—and maybe ten or so scattered throughout the gym. And with fewer holds on the wall, making up your own problems was harder. Suddenly, at BKB, people were running out of problems to climb.Ìę

The Failure of Contemporary American Gyms

I mention the original Brooklyn Boulders because its story parallels my experience of the evolving priorities in American climbing gyms over the last fifteen years. As climbing has gotten more popular and an increasing percentage of climbers come to see gym climbing as a sport distinctly separate from its outdoor counterpart, gyms have gotten bigger and cleaner and plush with amenities. But more space does not necessarily mean more or better climbing. For even while square footage and hold sizes have grown, setting density has shrunk, and setters are increasingly emphasizing flashy but space-wasting holds and moves that might look good on TikTok feeds but only minimally resemble the majority of movements we find outside.Ìę

This isn’t necessarily a problem—or, rather, it need not necessarily be a problem: Saunas and coworking spaces and apre-sesh lattes can be nice; comp problems and burly slopers offer a certain kind of full-body training that creaky outdoor climbers like myself can benefit from; and making things look cool on Instagram and TikTok is too central to the communication of modern identity for me to risk dismissing without a more serious investigation than I have space to mount here. Yet my experience is that, whether they intend it or not, gyms are too often prioritizing these amenities at the expense of both the quality and quantity of climbing.Ìę

What’s More Wasteful?

The transition from tape to hold color happened slowly, gym by gym, and was regarded with fatalistic dismay by most climbers I knew. We couldn’t help but notice that the increasingly common system was synonymous with two things: (1) fewer overall boulders (since there are far fewer hold colors than there are tape combinations); and (2) fewer powerful climbs on the walls best suited for powerful climbing (since most early adopting gyms tended to equate a particular color with a particular difficulty—white is V7-8, for instance; red is V9 and harder—which meant you could never again have multiple climbs of the same grade on the same section of wall).

What’s so bad about tape? we asked.

Well, tape, the counterargument always seemed to go, is wasteful, each strip useless after its one and only deployment. Going without tape cuts down on waste while also giving the walls a cleaner look.

This is true about tape. I worked as a barter-setter throughout college (a once common but probably endangered arrangement in which climbers used to set at commercial gyms in exchange for free memberships) and can vouch for the fact that we threw away great mounds of tape back then. But I don’t buy the wider implication that not using tape is less wasteful than using it.Ìę

Because the reality is that new gyms, with their gigantic footprints and excessively proportioned holds, are plush with waste too. Polyurethane doesn’t grow on trees and is once our hands and shoes and liquid chalk have ruined their texture. And since color-based problems necessarily decrease problem density, gyms have to be bigger in order to fit enough problems to satisfy their visitors; this means increased square footage and more space to heat and air condition. It also means that setters, faced with vast empty walls, have begun using larger and larger holds to make the walls look full—i.e. to make it seem like they’ve filled the gym with its maximum possible number of climbs, when in fact, since so many modern holds consist primarily of non-critical material, they’ve just filled the walls with lots of color.ÌęÌę

If tape was vilified as wasteful, why aren’t we talking about these gigantic wall-monopolizing holds? Why aren’t we decrying the dinner-plate-sized hunks of plastic whose only usable feature is a half-pad crimp? Take a look at the Instagram account, which features literally hundreds of boulders whose holds and features cost multiple thousands of dollars, and tell me our priorities aren’t misaligned. When I see $2,000 or $3,000 or $4,000 spent on a single boulder problem—a price-to-problem ratio that is by no means rare on @expensiveboulders—the long-simmering climbing bum within me boils to life.Ìę

“Why do we need bigger gyms if that’s just going to lead to fewer problems per wall?” the bum asks. “Is this really the best use of our money? Why not pay human setters to set more cheaper boulders rather than fewer expensive boulders? Why do we need holds the size of computer screens or steering wheels when the only part you can actually grab is the size of a cell phone? Why not save money on holds and give gym discounts for local school kids or install solar on the roof or become a rolling contributor to or the or the Honnold Foundation? Why can’t we just go back to the old days and set more problems with smaller holds and distinguish them from one another with tape?”

I think the answers to those questions—and the real reason our gyms now look and feel the way they do—have to do with aesthetics and the Instagram age, with group-think and market pressures, with the priorities of venture-backed gym owners and our increasing inability, as consumers, to differentiate between viewing and participating—all of which, taken together, have distorted the purpose of climbing gyms and the role they play for climbers.Ìę

 

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Climbing Versus Aesthetics in the Age of Knee-Jerk Monetization

One way that setters have come to justify the bigger-hold, fewer-problem paradigm is by imitating the gymnastic style that—for a variety of fascinating reasons—has come to dominate the international competition scene. At their best, these comp problems are like art pieces, murals made animate by our attempts to move through them. Take a look at the , which is all about World Cup setting, and you’ll see that artfulness is a central consideration for World Cup setters—setters who, because it’s a comp, have both the climbers and the audience in mind. But when these World Cup aesthetics are deployed in commercial gyms, the logic of who the problem is “for” isn’t quite as clear. World Cup boulders are (a) designed to be hard to do in a four-minute attempt window without wasting too much energy for later boulders, and (b) are designed to be at least as pleasing for the audience as they are for the climber. But recreational climbers are (theoretically anyway) climbing for themselves, not an audience, and we can rest between attempts as long as we want. So why this proliferation of TV-worthy boulders? Are we so used to seeing climbs that we now evaluate our climbing experiences based upon how the climbs (and ourselves as climbers) might appear to a fictional spectator? Or is this spectator even fictional? Are that many of us really recording our gym sends and posting them to the ’Gram?

That said, I kinda get it. Training function (or the lack of it) notwithstanding, modern gym climbs—composed of splashy yellows and pinks, with upside down toehooks and coordination dynos—are often beautiful. Climbing walls look cleaner and neater and more accessible when a minimum of color-coordinated boulders mar the otherwise smooth surface of each panel. And I think these visual preferences, while accentuated by the Instagrams and TikToks of the world, are also deeply human: Our minds instinctively connect dots, superimposing narrative into our world, and as a result we’re attracted to clearly delineated pathways. This is one reason why competition problems stand alone on their section of the wall: they look better; they show up better in photos; and they’re easier for the audience to read and understand. (The same principle relates to attractive lines outside: Dreamcatcher and Luxury Liner are so classic in part because they take the singular path up an otherwise unclimbable section of rock.)

Conversely, spraywalls and their kin—walls clogged with holds of every shape and color—look (and are) chaotic, a sea of stars with few obvious constellations. These walls (which are expensive because of the sheer number of holds required but by definition have extremely good price-to-problem ratios) don’t just fail to easily produce pretty Instagram pictures and marketing copy, they also require climbers to work harder to see and read boulder problems. This increases the barrier to entry for new climbers—and barriers to entry are exactly what commercial gyms, whose business relies on a beginner population willing to shell out for expensive day passes and gear rentals and how-to courses, fundamentally want to minimize, even if that also means quietly minimizing the experience of other, more experienced climbers while simultaneously enlarging the gym’s environmental impact.Ìę

The catch? The chaotic visual nature of these spraywalls (and their old-school relatives) is directly related to their functionality. They are chaotic because they contain a lot of information—a lot of options, a lot of climbs. And for some climbers, those climbs are far more important than the increasingly cushy accessories found in most new gyms.

Fun fact: that first Brooklyn Boulders had no sauna, no showers, no in-house coffee makers or beer bars. The workout facility had two often-broken treadmills, some rings, and a rowing machine. Their problems rarely featured flashy protuberant holds because such holds claimed too much space on the wall. But if the OG BKB existed today with the same setters and the setting priorities, it would be one of my favorite gyms in the United States.Ìę

Maybe I’m Just a Curmudgeon Ìę

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not anti-progress. One reason that I can feel nostalgic for gyms that used shredded car-tires as landing zones is because I doubt that I’ll have to backflop on those car tires ever again. I can fondly recollect the asthmatic air quality of those dingy first-generation gyms largely because I no longer have to keep an inhaler in my climbing bag. Indeed, there’s a lot to like about modern gyms. I like the weight rooms. I like rowing machines and auto belays. I like lattes and beer bars, working spaces with organic restaurants built in. I like that there are MoonBoards and Tension Boards and Kilter Boards to offset the fact that the modern setting has strayed so far from its training roots. And you know what? When my fingers hurt, I even like the fact that these new gyms have a wide variety of open-handed volumes to dance around on.Ìę

So in the war between aesthetics and quality, can we really expect quality to win? I’m not optimistic—but I’m also not entirely consumed by despair.Ìę

To my mind, most modern gyms are out of balance, favoring looks over the kind of functionality that most outdoor climbers actually want. And I’d love to see that swing the other way a little. I’d like to see a bit more emphasis on the actual climbing over the aesthetics of the things we climb. I’d like to see more environmental consideration when gym owners and setters think about the buildings they build and the walls they design and the holds they fill those walls with. I’d like to walk onto a new gym and feel the same sense of sweaty-tipped awe I felt when I first walked into Brooklyn Boulders 11 years ago.

The post Opinion: Modern Gyms Are Failing Outdoor Climbers appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Last fall, two popular ski resorts announced name changes after decades of demands made by Indigenous women and their communities. The legendary Squaw Valley Ski Resort in California unveiled its rebranding in August, followed by Maine’s Big Squaw Mountain Ski Resort in December.

The changes followed an overdue recognition among corporate and outdoor industry leaders about the deep links that exist between racism and the environment, including the climate crisis.

The word squaw, a slur toward Native American women, is merely one example. Today, more than 1,000 offensive place names dot the nation’s public lands. They are emblems of the deeper historical and present-day inequities that people of color, including Indigenous people like me, have long faced: exclusion from the greater climate movement, sanitized versions of land theft, and the fact that we suffer disproportionate exposure to environmental health hazards, from risky oil pipelines to abandoned uranium mines.

Prioritizing what’s in a name may seem trivial amid the greater goals of reducing emissions and advancing sustainability. But when we identify the climate crisis as one caused by a continuous breakdown of our relationships to the natural world—our kinship connection to life itself—correcting this crisis begins with reexamining the respect we have for the land, and ultimately, for each other.

Drawing from Indigenous ways of knowing, “kin theory” embraces not just our human relationships, but the interwoven bonds we keep with the earth, including how we name and regard the land. The Waơiw (Washoe) Tribe of Nevada, who consider Tahoe the center of their world, emphasized kin theory in its advocacy about Squaw Valley. And ultimately, it was this thinking that got through to resort executives to change the name to Palisades Tahoe.

But there is much more work to do, and America’s recreation industry plays an outsize role in responding to the wellness of our planet, beginning with repairing its entire relationship to the land and its original stewards.

“Racism, like other concerning issues such as climate change, pandemics, violence, insurrection, mental illness, and addiction, is a symptom,” said the late Sagkeeng First Nations elder Dr. Dave Courchene, referring to our broken kinship practices. And yes, fixing these essential relationships begins with changing names.

In November, secretary of the interior Deb Haaland, a tribal citizen of Laguna Pueblo, ordered the renaming of more than 650 federal land units bearing the word “squaw” because of its disparaging reference to the female genitalia. Meanwhile, an examination is underway of many rock climbing routes, such as Slavery Wall in Wyoming’s Ten Sleep Canyon, where the first ascensionist agreed to rename the wall and several of its routes after many climbers began pushing for a change.

The recreation industry has an opportunity to take these correctional strides even further, particularly in the crowded marketplace of outdoor gear where everything from coolers and backpacks to fancy jackets bear our Indigenous names, legacies, and languages, as if we are not here to witness the appropriation. But our identities—Chilkat, Kuiu, Ignik, Cotopaxi—are not for sale. And for others to profit from them represents another oppressive act similar to branding a ski resort with the “S-word.” Companies everywhere should reevaluate whether the names they rely on perpetuate the cycle of colonial harm that has historically stoked the climate crisis.

Scientifically, climate change is caused by an increase in greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. But we must also acknowledge the human side of the problem. Generations of industrial activity and resource extraction have polluted ancestral Indigenous lands, leading to misery, dispossession, and genocide—all stemming from a clear disrespect for kinship. To continue at this pace, while also ignoring the harmful impacts that offensive names bear on our shared planet, including its original stewards, is to continue hurting the planet. Right now, what’s needed are intentional steps toward healing.

Jenni Monet is the author of the weekend newsletter “Indigenously” and a tribal citizen of Laguna Pueblo.

The post Opinion: Offensive Place Names and the Climate Crisis Are Symptoms of the Same Problem appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Last summer really sucked.

Across the planet, deadly heat waves, storms, flooding, and wildfires put an exclamation point on the reality of the climate crisis. And I felt it on a local level: in my hometown of Missoula, Montana, smoke from megafires across the West rolled into our valley in early July and lingered for weeks. We canceled our usual camping trips, trail runs, and hikes as I obsessively checked the air quality, hoping for a window where I could at least let the kids play in the backyard.

Then, in August, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change released a new report. It warned that the world must achieve net zero carbon emissions by 2050 if we’re to avoid irreversible damage to the planet. Which brought our collective hurtle toward catastrophe into high relief.

I’ve known and cared about climate change for decades, but the combination of living under that cloud of smoke and science’s most dire warning to date reached me on a new, more emotional level. I found myself awake at 3 A.M., worrying that every summer from now on would be this bad—or worse. Would the air ever be clean enough for my two small kids to experience a bluebird mountain summer? Would those ecosystems even be around when they hit the prime of their lives? It got harder and harder to concentrate at work, as dark thoughts about society’s imminent collapse intruded on my deadlines. Once, talking about climate change with a near-stranger, I burst into tears.

Plenty of us are experiencing climate anxiety, grief, and guilt. It’s terrifying, depressing, and uncomfortable; nobody wants to hang out in that mental space. But as I’ve grappled with my own climate grief over the past months, I’ve come to believe that it’s actually a good thing.

It took real panic to spur me to action. I used to care about the climate crisis in a kind of detached, helpless way. But last summer’s smoke left me with a pressing sense of responsibility. Since then, my family has committed to biking and busing as much as possible, and we’re shopping for a used electric car. Solar panels are going up on our garage roof. I got involved with a local climate action group, and I’ve taken my kids to three environmental rallies so far. I make regular calls to my Congressional reps. I’m switching my IRA to a fund with zero fossil fuel investments. And I used my influence as deputy editor of this magazine to put the global crisis front and center.

I’m not going to save the world by myself. But taking action has helped me shake off that awful sense of climate paralysis. And we need everybody on board to save the places we all love.

So join me: don’t sink into denial or despair, but keep the urgency you’re feeling. Use it as fuel to do something, anything, everything you can to fight for a better, more livable future.

Elisabeth Kwak-Hefferan is a Montana-based journalist, teacher, and OBJ contributor.

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This January, I learned that I’d soon be getting paid to bike. My employer, the bicycle advocacy organization PeopleForBikes, announced that for every ride I took—anywhere—I’d receive $4, up to a total of $100 a month.Ìę

For PeopleForBikes, launching the Bike Benefits Program was a no-brainer, a way for us to live our mission statement and get more people on bicycles. It was also a way for us to showcase our new app, Ride Spot Enterprise, which makes it easy for employers to set up bike-based incentive programs. But most importantly, it was a way for us to benefit people and planet by creating happier, healthier employees who are incentivized to do good for the environment. [Editor’s note: OBJ‘s parent company, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Inc., runs a similar program, paying employees $2 for every day they commute to work by bike.]

It’s a move other businesses are well positioned to emulate.

Help Getting Started

For most companies interested in this kind of incentive program, the first question will be “Where do we start?” Good news: there are entire organizations already set up to help you.

Since 2010, the California-based consultancy Bikes Make Life Better has helped some of the biggest brands in the world—including Apple, Facebook, and Google—set up cycling programs for their employees, helping with everything from end-of-trip bike facilities (think secure parking and showers) to the creation of bike share systems.

According to the company’s co-founder, Kurt Wallace, Bikes Make Life Better launched with the goal of capitalizing on a bike boom Wallace saw as imminent. “[Before us], no one was working with businesses to help them use bikes as part of their daily operations,” said Wallace. “There was bike advocacy…but no one was talking specifically to business.”

In the next year, Wallace expects to see a “great increase” in companies financially rewarding employees for riding, as well as legislation at the federal level offering tax breaks to support bicycling.Ìę

“You can’t address transportation issues at the corporate level, or climate change issues at the business level, without bikes,” said Wallace. “From a climate or a financial perspective, it just doesn’t mathematically work without having bikes in your solution.”

Cost Is a Factor, but Employers Can Help

Employers are also uniquely positioned to help their employees afford good commuter bikes—a barrier to entry for many would-be cyclists.

CycleBack NYC, a program led by the New York City Economic Development Corporation (NYCEDC), is spreading that idea by advocating for lease-to-own bike programs among New York employers—a model popular in certain European countries like Germany, where tax incentives make leasing a bike through your employer up to 40 percent cheaper than purchasing one directly.

“Subsidizing bikes in most cities is certainly much cheaper than subsidizing parking,” said Seth Ullman, vice president of transportation and sustainability at NYCEDC. “We’re working to facilitate easier, safer, cleaner, and cheaper options for people to get around, and bicycling should be one of those options.”

It’s already a proven model, ripe for wider adoption in the United States. In Germany alone, more than 1.6 million employees ride company-provided e-bikes, a testament to the market potential for similar programs here.

The Equitable Commute Project, also based in New York City, is pioneering another model. The group is working with Spring Bank to launch a new financing product that would supply people with micro-loans to cover the cost of e-bikes. Employers would serve as guarantors for their employees, who would repay the loans directly out of their paychecks each month.

Employers Are Key

Employers are in a unique position to instigate the culture shift to more cycling. Our workplaces own so many of our waking hours—including time spent commuting. By taking small steps to accommodate and incentivize bicycling, companies can have a stake in increasing employee wellness, which will only add to their bottom lines.Ìę

To be clear, I’m not talking about simple wellness stipends. Annual dollars given to employees for wellness expenses will largely miss the mark, as those incentives are unlikely to create new cyclists or change people’s commuting habits. What we need are programs that frame cycling-for-perks as a specific employee benefit.

I was always a regular biker, but in the weeks since our benefits program launched, my own bicycling has increased. When I need creamer from the grocery store, forgoing my car in favor of my bike covers the expense. Now, when I bike the five miles to my office, I feel good about my employer for supporting a commute that keeps me active, green, and better connected to the neighborhoods I pass through.

No matter how I feel when I leave my house, I show up at the office happy.

Kiran Herbert is PeopleForBikes’ local programs writer and content manager.Ìę

The post Opinion: Companies Should Make It a Priority to Boost Employee Bicycling appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I live in western Maryland, deep in the Appalachian range. When I decided I wanted to open an outdoor shop, despite having no experience in retail, I knew I needed a mentor. As you might expect, the population here heavily skews white, so when looking for mentorship, I was faced with the same barriers many Black people experience in professional settings. We often hear minority professionals in all industries complain about the lack of mentorship opportunities. The reasons range from a lack of access to a lack of available minority mentors. For me, this was certainly true. In my region, there are currently three bike shops and one outdoor shop and I had never seen a person of color working in any of them.

After I created my business plan, I cold-called or emailed each of the four shops, asking the owners for some time to discuss the business with them.

This is where Steve Green comes into the picture. Owner of High Mountain Sports in Deep Creek, Maryland, Steve is a 25-year veteran of the outdoor industry. In that time, he has worked in, managed, and owned a shop that offers everything from skis and bikes to apparel and experiences.Ìę

Over the next few weeks, Steve, in his quiet manner listened, answered all my questions, and sent me many articles and resources. But mostly he just listened. Within a few weeks, I was working part-time at his shop. I would finish up at my day job as a health informatics analyst, then head over to High Mountain Sports to work with Steve, where he showed me what it takes to run a successful outdoor shop.

This all was taking place in the spring of 2020, as the racial unrest surrounding George Floyd’s murder began to unfold. Steve and I had some deep conversations. It’s sad to say that here in the Appalachians, there still remain many pockets of blatant ignorance and unrecognized privilege. The lack of minority business owners became ever more glaring to me during this time and Steve made it his personal goal to support my dream and make sure I had all I needed to open my shop.Ìę

He introduced me to all the reps for the brands that I was interested in. He gave me fixtures for my sales floor. He patiently walked me through the confusion of terms used regularly in the business and provided me with all the forms I needed for hiring employees and renting out gear. He put me in touch with an outdoor-sports insurance agency. He invited me to tag along with him to The Big Gear Show, Grassroots Connect, and ski demos. He reviewed my financial records. But, importantly, he didn’t always give me all the answers. He also let me figure out some difficult problems, like employee management, for myself.Ìę

The outdoor industry has diversified a lot in a short time, and I see it changing even more every day. The cost of entry to our industry is quite steep, especially when competition is not only against other brick-and-mortar stores, but also against big-box and online stores.Ìę

Even with all the talk of diversity in the outdoor industry, getting minorities to engage will remain an uphill battle if more people who look like me are not successful in launching businesses and becoming leaders. In order for that to happen, we need more people like Steve Green—those who have walked before us, learned the hard lessons, and have the generosity of spirit to take us under their wings and share their wisdom. In helping me succeed as a specialty shop owner, Steve is ensuring that I, too, will be able to mentor other entrepreneurs and pay it forward.

I look forward to that opportunity.

Mandela Echefu is the owner of Wheelzup șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs in Cumberland, Maryland.

The post Opinion: The Power of Retail Mentorship appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

As a brand leader or retailer, how concerned are you about the quality of care your customers receive when facing a medical emergency in the backcountry?

While the guides and educators who facilitate backcountry experiences are mostly all credentialed as Wilderness First Responders, you may be surprised to know that none of the training they receive is regulated. Not a bit of it adheres to commonly accepted or agreed upon industry standards that should govern what’s being taught or how wilderness medicine education and training is delivered in support of outfitters, guides, outdoor education organizations, and the millions of consumers they serve every year.

Compare that to the certification that emergency medical technicians (EMTs) receive. EMT certification is regulated on a state-by-state level that meets minimum requirements set by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.

Wilderness medicine training, while loosely adhering to a similar curriculum, is officially overseen by, well, no one. Yes, there are several organizations that have attempted to fill the void. The nonprofit Wilderness Medical Society (WMS)Ìęprovides three types of advanced wilderness medicine-related certification. The Association for Experiential Education (AEE)Ìędeveloped comprehensive standards for common practices in the adventure education industry. And then there’s the Wilderness Medicine Collaborative, the first organization to take a stab at creating standards—which never went anywhere.

What’s clear to me is this: standardization and regulation are necessary to ensure the quality and reputation of the outdoor industry. What’s not so clear is how it can be implemented and the impact it would have on the wilderness medicine education sector.

Setting up and enforcing standards would require close collaboration among the industry’s leading organizations and employers. We could look to state governing bodies that have already standardized testing and curricula in emergency medical services for guidance.

And while I’m not a big advocate of state regulation, looking to the states for minimal competency levels might help us bring standardization to a curriculum. For example, a Wilderness First Responder trained at one institution could be expected to have learned the same material and developed the same skills as one trained elsewhere.

Are there drawbacks to state standards and regulations? Of course. For one thing, new ideas and innovations often take years to make it into a curriculum, and the resulting state standards are often set low to avoid resistance and pushback.

As an organization that offers wilderness medicine education and certification to students across the nation, we at The National Center for Outdoor & șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Education believe common standards will make it easier to evaluate job candidates. Such standards would ensure quality care provided in remote and wilderness settings regardless of where the responder was trained.Ìę

But the question remains: Who will carry the burden of setting and administering these standards? An easy pick would be the AEE, the WMS, or the American Camp Association—all of which already have robust administrative, education, and credentialing experience. For one thing, accreditation is already in these groups’ wheelhouse; most wilderness programming organizationsÌęlook to them for guidance, networking, education, and more, and each has figured out how to monetize their operations while serving the needs of the outdoor industry at large.

By taking cues from the AEE in the outdoor education field, and the American Camp Association in the camp sector, we stand a better chance of establishing standards we all can live with.

What is not acceptable is continuing to kick the can down the trail.

Zac Adair, a certified Wilderness EMT and wilderness medicine instructor, is the co-founder and executive director of The National Center for Outdoor & șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Education.

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This is pretty insane and worth pondering: last year there were more CEOs of S&P 500 companies named “Michael” or “James” than women of any name. Which is precisely why I started Women-Led Wednesday (WLW). November 24, 2021, marks the fourth annual WLW, an annual shopping holiday that occurs the day before U.S. Thanksgiving designed to support women (and women-identifying individuals) in leadership.Ìę

I am the founder of Wild Rye, a women’s outdoor apparel company. I started Women-Led Wednesday just over three years ago when I was at a loss about how to launch our holiday sales program at Wild Rye.Ìę

Black Friday seemed way too consumption-driven (plus we all should #optoutside). Small Business Saturday felt more oriented toward brick-and-mortar businesses. And Cyber Monday felt like a great way to get lost in the war of ad dollars. I thought, with all the talk of getting more women into C-Suites and on Fortune 500 boards, there must already be a holiday to promote sales of women-led brands. To my surprise, there wasn’t.Ìę

So, with my arsenal of accumulated email addresses, the power of social media, and a Squarespace website, the first annual Women-Led Wednesday was born. Since that day, the Women-Led Wednesday initiative has grown into an annual event and a robust brand directory of close to 500 women-led brands. Every year we welcome countless new additions to the directory and we all come together to lift each other up by promoting the holiday, encouraging our customers to shop consciously and vote for women in leadership with their purchasing power.Ìę

With women receiving just over 2 percent of all venture capital, finding alternate sources of funding is supremely important. This is where Women-Led Wednesday and encouraging the public to shop with intention comes in. The initiative was built around the aphorism that “a rising tide lifts all boats” and this definitely rings true with women supporting women.Ìę

Research shows women are more likely to a) hire other women, and b) be hands-on with their direct reports, bringing them up with them through the corporate ladder. So, if we are to create a more balanced economic landscape, we need to support the women who are already in leadership positions. While I probably can’t attribute it all to Women-Led Wednesday, in the last year alone here at Wild Rye I have been able to hire five women full-time and countless female freelancers. I can confidently say it’s not due to an influx of venture funding, but rather sales revenue.

How to Support Women-Led Wednesday

There are currently 500+ women-led brands in our directory. Below is a snapshot of a few of them. On November 24, 2021, as you kick off your holiday shopping, please consider supporting them.

• Title Nine is the OG women’s athletic wear retailer. Founded in 1989 by Missy Park, Title Nine is dedicated to offering women aÌęgreat selection of women’s active apparel in addition to elevating other women business-leaders.
• Carve Designs is a women’s lifestyle and swimwear brand. Carve is dedicated to celebrating women actively living our best lives, encouraging confidence in the curves of our bodies, and understanding of the needs of our diverse community.
• Dovetail Workwear is a women’s workwear brand wear-tested by thousands of working women, from farmers to carpenters to scientists in Antarctica. Through the creation of high-quality apparel, Dovetail Workwear provides tools that support women’s jobs and lives.
• Wild Rye is a women’s outdoor apparel brand specializing in mountain bike and snowsports that’s dedicated to crafting pieces that are both beautiful and technical in equal measure. Wild Rye strives to inspire confidence and welcome more women into the outdoors.Ìę
• Skida Headwear & Accessories is a proud Vermont-based company that produces playful and technical accessories and headwear. The brand is committed to local production, limited edition products, and a fresh perspective.Ìę
• Coalition Snow is a women-owned and operated ski and snowboard company. The brand is dedicated to building the gear and the communities that unleash skills and expand experiences. The brand and its leaders are committed to standing up for what matters and aims to make a positive impact in the world of snowsports and beyond.

If you’re a women-led brand and would like to join the initiative, please start by creating a free account and completing a brand directory page. If you want to support in another way, please share with your network, follow @womenledwednesday on Instagram, or reach out to me directly. Most important, make a point to shop women-led.

Cassie Abel is the founder and CEO of Wild Rye, a women’s apparel company based in Idaho.

The post Opinion: We Need More Women-Led Outdoor Companies appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Before she joined Peloton, Tonoka Metoyer wasn’t a biker, although she always wanted to be.

“I’ve always felt like bicycling was cool,” said Metoyer, who spent almost three decades living in South Florida and Atlanta. “I’ve always had friends that bike, and I saw people that did it. I just never did it.”

Metoyer, who works remotely as a medical sales representative, moved to Montgomery, Alabama, right before the pandemic. The absence of a commute, coupled with the lack of good bicycling infrastructure and a community to ride with, meant Metoyer was unlikely to take up biking on her own. When COVID-19 led to the closure of her CrossFit gym, however, Metoyer needed something to fill the fitness void. Through a friend, she was invited to a private group chat of Black Peloton users—Metoyer ordered a bike, started riding and is now nearly 250 rides of various lengths and intensity into her journey.

Peloton Interactive was founded in January of 2012, the brainchild of a Barnes & Noble executive who saw an opportunity to bring the high-end spin studio experience into people’s homes. After aÌęsuccessful Kickstarter campaign and several rounds of raising seed money, a version of the Peloton bike that’s now ubiquitous—with its mounted touchscreen and speakers for streaming classes—was released in 2014. In 2018, Peloton expanded to the U.K. and Canada and in 2019, the company went public, raising $1.16 billion (Peloton is currently valued at closer to $4 billion).

When the demand for home gyms surged amid pandemic lockdowns, many people turned to Peloton, ordering bikes despite shipping backlogs to join a community of millions. But Peloton’s success isn’t solely attributed to convenience or COVID-19. Rather, the company employs a growth strategy that values the patronage of historically marginalized groups, celebrating diversity and allowing both its instructors and community members to show up as their whole selves.

When compared to the traditional bike industry, which hasÌęlong been criticized for its diversity problemÌęand hasÌęmade few strides despite public commitments, Peloton’s user base is much more representative of American demographics. In particular, the growth of Black users, both men and women, on Peloton offers potent lessons for the bike industry as a whole, including those working in city government, transportation, advocacy, health, and the nonprofit sector. The Black Peloton group on Facebook currently has more than 29,000 members from around the globe and many of the company’s most prominent bike instructors, including Alex Toussaint, Ally Love and Tunde Oyeneyin, are Black. Anecdotally, the number of committed Black Peloton riders appears to exceed Black folks passionate about traditional bikes, with a fair amount of overlap between groups.

So, what is Peloton doing right when it comes to Black Americans? For starters, the company understands and values Black culture, a fact most evident through its marketing, programs, and music selection, which center Black lives and experiences. From Peloton’s adsÌętoÌęits websiteÌęto itsÌęInstagram, there is an open celebration of diversity, consistently showcasing Black and brown employees and customers. When honoring Black History Month, the company goes beyond rote social media campaigns, instead curating rides set to Black musicians,Ìęreleasing an apparel collection in collaboration with Black artists and hosting fireside chats with musicians, actors, and activists. When was the last time the bike industry celebrated Blackness in a similar way? The success of Marshall Walter “Major” TaylorÌęcomes to mind, but his heyday was at the turn of the last century.

Peloton does a great job of bringing in modern Black cultural icons, curating rides with music from Bad Boy Entertainment for example, or developing an eight-week series called the “Year of Yes” with television producer and screenwriter Shonda Rhimes. When Peloton partnered with the queen herself, Beyonce, the company simultaneously gifted two-year digital Peloton memberships to students at ten historically Black colleges and universities. These rides celebrating Black greatness being led by Black instructors showcases yet another aspect of Black leadership and talent, not only as creatives and cultural icons but as teachers and experts as well. What’s more, many Black celebrities, Beyonce included, are Peloton riders themselves.

“They have a brilliant marketing model and are incredibly reactive—and in some cases proactive—to the needs of their customers,” said Maisha Rudison-Bryant, a Black healthcare director based in North Carolina. “[Peloton] listens and then they change. I think that for any company that is not often an easy thing to do but they seem to do it flawlessly.”

In addition to adding more rides celebrating Blackness, Peloton doesn’t shy away from confronting current events head-on. After the murder of George Floyd in May 2020 and the resulting protests around the U.S., the company didn’t hesitate to say, “Black Lives Matter,” angering some users who viewed it as a political statement. During a time when all sorts of organizations were stalling on what to say, scrambling to craft DEI mission statements and struggling to acknowledge the Black experience, often for the first time, Peloton led the way for corporations coming out in solidarity.

Many people in the Peloton community remember a class Toussaint taught amid the worst of the social unrest, where he shared from his heart the pain he was undergoing as a Black male in America and urged his followers to take anti-racist action. Similarly, Oyeneyin created a 30-minute class dubbed “Speak Up,” which was part performance art, part activism and all fitness, imploring riders to “get comfortable with the uncomfortable” and meet the moment.

“Peloton allowed employees to speak to who they were as people and to use that platform as an outlet for some of the rage that was out there in the Black community,” said Rudison-Bryant. “They don’t seem to separate the fact that we are humans. We have things that we do in our day-to-day lives and our work but those two worlds, they shouldn’t be separate.”

Rather than censor or edit its employees, Peloton celebrates them, encouraging vulnerability and conversation. Jen Cotter, the chief content officer of Peloton,ÌętoldÌęThe New York TimesÌęthat while instructors are generally expected to avoid political topics, the Black Lives Matter movement wasn’t political. “We see this as a human rights issue,” she said. “Those are not the same for us, politics and civil rights.”

The direction from Peloton’s leadership—who represent a variety of backgrounds and ethnicities themselves—is one of the reasons the company has been so successful in reaching a diverse and devoted user base. Although Peloton’s board of directors and executive leadership, like many organizations, is still overwhelmingly white and male, its chief strategy officer, Dion Camp Sanders, and head of global marketing and communications, Dara Treseder, are Black. For her part, Treseder prioritized a marketing strategy that emphasizes diversity and promotes community over products.

“Connection to culture for us is something we do intentionally and authentically,”ÌęTreseder toldÌęAdWeek earlier this year. “It’s not enough to just talk about diversity. It’s a commitment to anti-racism: What are the things we’re going to do to be truly anti-racist? Cultural marketing is not something that sits in a silo over here—it’s something that’s infused into all we do.”

The difference is obvious to users, who take note of everything from the camaraderie and authenticity of Peloton’s instructors to the friendships and affinity groups that form outside of virtual rides.

“[Peloton] brought in some of the most well-regarded people of color into marketing positions and into roles that directly affect the customer base, and I think that’s the primary reason they’ve been so successful, no question,” said Rudison-Bryant. “At every level of the company, you see a reflection of yourself and I think that that’s important.”

That sort of modeling goes a long way toward making people feel comfortable trying something new. In fact, comfort is another reason Peloton is so successful: not only does it promote an inclusive atmosphere, but by nature of being an indoor, stationary bike company, it offers riders a way to participate in the sport without leaving their home. Peloton riders don’t have to worry about having the right gear, being discriminated against by law enforcement or neighbors, showing up to work sweaty and being judged by colleagues, messing up their hair in public, catcalling from passersby or inadequate bicycling infrastructure—many things we know affect women, and in particular minority women, more than others.

There’s also an element of safety that partially explains why Black riders might be drawn to Peloton over biking on the road. It’s a fact that traffic enforcement disproportionately affects BIPOC riders, resulting in over-policing and leading to “Arrested Mobility” with a slew of adverse social, political, economic, and health outcomes. In America, Black people must face the ever-present threat of discrimination, intimidation, and physical harm whenever they step outside, whether it be while driving, walking, running or bicycling. In the world of Peloton, that danger doesn’t exist. There, a Black man can virtually high-five a stranger without the possibility of it being taken the wrong way or putting his life and livelihood at increased risk.

While there are limitations to using Peloton for persons with disabilities, in general, it’s also a more accessible product than many similar-quality road or gravel bikes. While the original Peloton bike starts at $1,895 (plus $39/month for the required all-access membership), the company offers 36-month financing at 0 percent APR. While still expensive, the bikes are easy to navigate and cost less than many premium road bikes, gym memberships or dealing with societal unease.

“Underrepresented minorities spend trillions of dollars on stuff and a lot of companies are missing the ball by not marketing to us,” said Bianca Blades, a Black Peloton user who works as an HR consultant and diversity strategist. “We have the money and we’re going to spend it. But some people still don’t want a certain demographic representing their product due to history, which is sad.”

Once Peloton’s marketing efforts do the job of getting people in the door, the company’s dual emphasis on fitness and community is what gets them to stick around. Peloton riders are constantly being encouraged to connect with other users, via the aforementioned high-fives, various groups, and teams or hashtags. For Black riders, hashtags range the gamut from #BPR to the Black Peloton Riders Community to #BlackGirlMagic, for Black women, to a variety that represent the Divine Nine, the umbrella term for historically African American fraternities and sororities. By allowing people to use multiple hashtags, a rider can rep #BPR alongside #PeloBuddhas (the official Buddhist group of Peloton) and #Vets (for veterans). Thus, the company allows for and encourages intersectionality in a way American society typically does not.

Peloton celebrates individuality while promoting the collective, empowering people to feel free to express who they are in the context of a community. Even when riding a Peloton alone in your living room, you never feel alone. Riders can start with a group, take an on-demand class alongside others, and even get a shout-out from the instructor during a live class. As a Black bicyclist outdoors, being alone is more of a default, albeit one that Black riding groups are aiming to combat. For many Black Peloton riders, including all of those interviewed in this article, the camaraderie of Peloton often carries over to real-world interactions, via private groups, meet-ups or in-person rides.

“For me, [my Peloton community] has been a lifeline,” said Metoyer. “Just being able to connect has been very motivational, both on and off the screen.”

If everyone working in the world of bikes were able to cultivate the same level of community and motivation amongst BIPOC riders, the effects would soon multiply—more bicyclists on our streets would lead to a safer riding environment for everyone. According to a report from the League of American Bicyclists, Black and brown riders are the fastest-growing segment of the bicycling population, andÌęPeopleForBikes’ researchÌęduring the pandemic showed that BIPOC bicyclists represented 44% of new riders, compared to 33% of active riders before COVID-19.

In June of 2020, Peloton CEO and co-founder John Foley issued a public statement outlining the company’s commitment to anti-racism. In the letter, Foley announced that Peloton would be investing $100 million over the course of four years to “fight racial injustice and inequity in our world and to promote health and wellbeing for all.” He went on to note the responsibility of corporations—with their large resources, platforms, and influence—in combating systemic racism, acknowledging that “this kind of important work starts from the inside out” at the employee level. The same could be said for many government and nonprofit organizations.

Peloton’s trademark saying is “Together We Go Far” and the company brought that ethos to its anti-racism work, co-creating with rather than dictating to those who receive funding. Although simply issuing a statement is never enough, articulating a vision and committing a substantial amount of one’s budget to that vision are necessary first steps. People of color, be they customers or employees, know when an organization’s platitudes are authentic based on what follows. That, perhaps, is the most important lesson of all: actions speak louder than words.

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The United States of America is in the midst of a national reckoning. In a land predicated on the notion of “liberty and justice for all,” we have long struggled with the glaring contradiction that not all men and women are treated equally. Even those of us who work in the seemingly neutral professions surrounding adventure sports and environmental conservation are complicit in the perpetuation of cultural disparities, limiting access to public land and outdoor industry careers. In the last few years, things have improved, but the pace of progress is concerning.

It was the 2020 shooting of Ahmaud Arbery—killed by three white men while jogging on a public street—that finally caught the outdoor industry’s attention. As protests erupted over the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, companies and institutions across many industries scrambled to show solidarity. Suddenly, there was a sense of urgency among CEOs, human resource managers, and public relations professionals to do a better job of representing the full spectrum of humanity, particularly those who identify as Black, Indigenous, and people of color (BIPOC). The outdoor industry was no different, yet in many ways, we have a lot of work yet to do.

With lofty promises, industry organizations large and small have signed The Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge, created by social activist Teresa Baker and outdoor consultant Chris Perkins to hold companies accountable to change. Other brands have signed people of color as sponsored athletes or hired product designers and merchandising experts to create culturally authentic styles and fashion options. Boards of directors are moving slowly to become more racially diverse, while individuals and affinity organizations, like Outdoor Afro, Latino Outdoors, Native Womens Wilderness, and others are working to establish guidelines for equitable compensation and career advancement for BIPOC. That much is happening, and it’s exciting.

Still, the industry can do much more. Despite the fact that most of the legal barriers to accessing the great outdoors have been lifted, our trails, campgrounds, and companies remain overwhelmingly white. Now, as we emerge from a traumatic year stained by a global pandemic and defined by a social justice movement, we have another opportunity to reconcile our values through our way of doing business. We can work proactively to create an industry in which everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, gender, physical ability, or sexual orientation is not only welcome to participate but encouraged to succeed.

It seems, however, we are allowing this moment to pass without making substantive changes. Each of the signatories of The Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge was asked to submit a report summarizing why the principles of justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion (JEDI) at their respective organizations are important. They were also required to identify what they hoped to achieve over the next five years.

“In December of 2020 we had 201 brands and companies sign the pledge,” said Baker. “Today we have 180. If they didn’t submit a report, we removed their ass. I don’t have time for games. You don’t just get to say, ‘Black Lives Matter.’ You don’t get to say you care about this work and then do nothing.”

Herein lies my skepticism. Though not a particularly difficult task, 21 companies failed to even articulate their desire to achieve JEDI in their places of business. For those that did, their reports are public—and in most cases, they’re frustratingly vague and short on details. We can manage only what we can measure and thus, companies and institutions must have a set of quantifiable goals. They must commit, for example, to increasing the number of BIPOC employees by two percent over a set period of time. And to achieve a goal like that, organizations need to strategically plan for and invest financially in workplace diversity, hiring consultants that are well versed in what it takes to dismantle embedded systems of bias. And it’s important that these efforts are transparent to public scrutiny and demonstrate a willingness for company leadership to be held accountable if they fail.

“No matter what happens, an organization must be willing to share where they are and why they are or aren’t achieving their goals,” Perkins said. “The learning is so much more valuable for the community when companies highlight the places where they’re not quite there yet, rather than producing a report strictly full of successes.”

Companies must boldly claim their intentions to change and work within the broader community to achieve the goals we all desire. They must do a better job of reaching out to every sector of the population so that no one is left out. Marketing managers must create campaigns and media collateral that are culturally relevant to specific ethnic groups and racial identities so that people from all walks of life can see themselves represented. They must build relationships with institutions of higher learning, like Historically Black Colleges and Universities, to attract a more diverse pool of job applicants. Professional organizations like the Greening Youth Foundation, for example, offer a suite of skills and expertise to make direct introductions to campus career advisors and alumni mentors who can help. Hire them! Organizations must also create training programs that encourage the cultural competency of management teams that can establish workplace environments that are safe and supportive for all. Regarding marketing and communications efforts, we can’t simply show more Black and brown faces in social media posts and campaigns. Diversity initiatives should be authentic to the experience of community brand ambassadors, and those ambassadors must be fairly compensated for their time and expertise—not paid in gear or media exposure.

As we venture back into the outdoors fully vaccinated, I fear that as an industry, we’re already starting to forget the shame and heartache of the last year. Once this “Oh shit!” moment has passed, I sincerely doubt that most institutions will stick to the pledges they made, however vague, and will opt instead for paths of least resistance. Motivated by fear, I believe we’ll see many companies opt for safe choices rather than risk the social media fallout from making a mistake while doing the important work of JEDI. Few will likely realize that they only fail if they give up on trying.

Some might insist that things are different now, that this time the outdoor industry has truly changed. I don’t believe it has. For those who disagree, I pose a simple challenge: dare to do better and prove me wrong.

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In early March, my publication, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine, was acquired by the company now known as șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Inc. Overnight, I went from one of a staff of dozens who all knew each other by name to a box on a Zoom call with 500 participants. In the flurry of video meetings during the first few weeks after the acquisition, someone mentioned ERGs—employee resource groups. I’d never worked at a company with ERGs before, and I hardly knew what they were. But my overwhelmed brain managed to pick up that we could start new ones if we wanted. I composed a Slack message to the person talking about ERGs while still on the call and hit send as soon as it was over.Ìę

Back when șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű was just a magazine and I was barely a full-time employee, I’d created a tiny private Slack group for the handful of LGBTQ+ people I knew in the office. There, we shared our joys (like the latest video from our favorite drag queen, Pattie Gonia) and our frustrations (about anti-trans legislation and other oppressions, new and old). It was a small space, with rare messages, but it was ours.ÌęÌę

My first message about the ERG was essentially an attempt to save that space. We knew our Slack groups would disappear once we switched over to the company-wide system, and I didn’t want to lose my tiny queer community. The response: șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű didn’t have a queer ERG yet, but I was welcome to create one.Ìę

Just a little over three months later, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű & Proud, our company’s queer ERG, is a reality. We have a Slack channel, of course, whose members amount to more than 10 percent of the entire company. We have Instagram and Facebook accounts, where we share LGBTQ+ stories from our publications and brands and are working to build a community of queer outdoorsists. Through selling Pride tank tops, we’ve been able to make editorial grants to fund queer-centered content during the month of June. We’ll also be sharing part of the proceeds with non-profits doing important work for our community. We’re working on securing funding for other editorial projects that will make sure LGBTQ+ content is a priority for all our publications year-round.Ìę

Those are the big successes—the ones that look good on presentation slides in company-wide meetings. But the most meaningful moments, for me, are the little ones. Like when my building manager, Jim Lundy-Butler, reached out to ask if, in his words, “an old gay guy” like himself would be welcome in our ERG, and I teared up as I told him we’d love to have him. “In all of my adult life…there has never been an opportunity like this,” he told me. My co-founder, Annastasia Sewell, says it was the first time in her career she’d felt comfortable being out—we’d worked together for a year and a half before we even came out to each other. When an exciting opportunity started to come together, our executive sponsor and ally-in-chief, Jon Dorn, says “It feels like there’s some magic happening right now, doesn’t it?” and I got goosebumps.Ìę

In many ways, it has felt like magic. We have a space where there was none (nor even a hope of it) before, and at a time when it really feels like change is happening and we can have a say in it. When we ask for help to accomplish a task, incredibly talented people—allies and queer folks, coworkers and community members alike—raise their hands. When I need support from my queer siblings, there is a community that I know will be there for me.

But it has also been incredibly difficult. My co-founders and I have confessed losing sleep over trying to accomplish the lofty goals we’ve set for ourselves and not letting the queer community down. I’ve received emails and edits on documents from ERG members at 10:30 at night. We’ve stumbled trying to build a community that’s too big, too fast. While we’ve taken on all this important work, we’ve also done the jobs we were hired to do.Ìę

There have been moments when I’ve thought about how contradictory it is to ask people who are already marginalized to do more work to fight for the space they deserve, and I’ve wondered if this is why we do not yet have a BIPOC ERG. At the same time, spaces for marginalized communities created by out-group folks won’t be as useful or as welcoming to the people they intend to protect, no matter how well-intentioned. (Some companies have started to compensate their ERG leaders to alleviate this problem.)

Our queer ERG is young, which means we have both endless possibilities and a mountain of work to do. Once Pride Month ends, we’ll need to figure out how we can be successful and useful year round. That will hopefully mean directing our attention inward, to build stronger bonds among our members, in part to share the feeling of deep personal and professional satisfaction I and my co-founders have felt from doing this work. Every time someone shares in the Slack group their current queer reading recommendation, or the latest news about their favorite athlete coming out, I feel a little burst of joy. It’s an acknowledgement that, while we love what we do, we’re all more than just our jobs.Ìę

Maren Larsen is an associate gear editor at șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. She is a queer/bisexual cis woman and advocate for intersectional LGBTQ+ representation in outdoor sports.

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