In a land of spectacular and diverse environments, curating șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű’s definitive list of the best park in every state is a tall order. To do so, I solicited recommendations from my colleagues and searched high and low for the spot that exemplifies the region’s natural features—be they precipitous cliffs, lush river valleys, or vastÌęicy expanses—and does what an outdoor recreation area should do: getÌęyou away from the hoi polloi and immerseÌęyou in the landscape.

Our selections are not your Yosemites and Grand Canyons, where you have to elbow your way to the front of the pack at Tunnel View and Mather Point. Go to those if you want. But also carve out time to enjoy these less visited destinations, which are both especially scenic and well-rounded in their offerings. Whether you like exploring on foot, water, or two wheels, the picks on this list have something for everyone. We weren’t strict about whether it was a national or state park—or even a different type of recreation area altogether—but we were strict about selecting the best destinations.

Alabama

Little River Canyon National Preserve

In the state’s northeastern corner, the 15,288-acre contains both the eponymous waterway—nÌęin the Southeast—and the 600-foot-tall Little River Canyon, one of theÌędeepest east of the Mississippi. Climb and rappel any of the overlooks.ÌęHike and bike backcountry roads. (Keep an eye out for Paleozoic fossils that date back up to 540 million years.)ÌęAnd check out a handful of waterfalls situated amid an unusually diverse range of flora, like the endangered Kral’sÌęwater plantain and carnivorous green pitcher plant. You’ll findÌętop-notch Class III–V whitewater and abundant fishing along the length of the Little River, which runs along the flatÌętop of Lookout Mountain.ÌęAlthough camping is not allowed, you’ll at DeSoto State Park, abutting the preserve.

Alaska

Kenai Fjords National Park

Denali is undeniably enticing. You’ll experience the same sense of awe at one of Alaska’s less visited parks: , near the town of Seward in south-central Alaska. The rare fjord estuary ecosystem is found in only five other places on the planet (none of which are in North America). This massive 669,984-acre park on the Kenai Peninsula has ample mountaineering. There’sÌęalso a bucket listÌęhike: aÌęspectacular 8.2-mileÌęround-trip day hike that gains 1,000 feet of elevation.ÌęThe Harding Icefield, aÌępatch ofÌęfrozen water that’s nearly 714 square miles long and up to a mile thick,Ìęoffers hiking and mountaineering. Kayak glacial lagoons with clown-faced puffins for a day trip, and backpack or boat camp the coastal backcountry amid Sitka spruces and blooming fireweed.

Arizona

Red Rock Ranger District

Okay, so this one isn’t technically a park—but you’ll be hard-pressed to find a better playground inÌęArizona. The 160,000-acre manages the portion of Coconino National Forest Arizona surrounding Sedona. The visitor center at Red Rock Ranger Station will tell you everything you need to know about the region, like where to find Sedona’s famously technical mountain biking, cinnamon-coloredÌęspires for trad climbing, and evenÌęfishing and swimming in Oak Creek—a rare treat in the otherwise parched desert landscape. There are four developed fee campgrounds in the district (no dispersed roadside camping), but backpacking is permitted as long as you venture at least a mile from trailheads.

Arkansas

Buffalo National River

In 1972, a 135-mile stretch of the became our country’s first nationally protected waterway. A local treasure, the river remains less known outside of northern Arkansas. It meanders, undammed, through the Ozark Mountains’Ìękarst rock formations in one of the Ìęof the national park system. (More than 500 caverns attract a multitude of endangered bats.) In addition to water-based activities like floating past the massive limestone bluffs and angling for 12 species of game fish, such as smallmouth bass, visitors can hike the 95,000 acres surrounding the river, including almost 36,000 acres of designated wilderness.

California

Redwood National and State Parks

ComprisingÌę131,983 acres, are scattered along the Northern California coast sixÌęhours north of San Francisco.ÌęThis mix of federal and state land is home to some of the world’s tallest trees, as well as a sea stack–lined coast (keep your eyes peeled for whales and harbor porpoises) and three rivers, including the Wild and Scenic Smith, the largest free-flowing river system in California. While most national parks don’t allow mountain biking, the former logging roads here are an exception. Camping is available at four developed campgrounds, or hit the 200-plus-mile trail system to enjoy eight backcountry camping areas.

Colorado

Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve

The Rockies are best known for soaring peaks, but the range is also home to the tallest dunes in North America, located in southern Colorado. Explore ’s 30 square miles on foot—backpacking is a great way to see the park’s alpine lakes and wetlands, too—or retire at one of the developed campgrounds after a day of fat biking, dune sledding, and splashing in the shallow, surging current of Medano Creek. In February and October, you’ll see a sedgeÌęof more than 20,000 sandhill cranes in addition to the park’s usual suspects, like pronghorns, yellow-bellied marmots, and bighorn sheep.

Connecticut

American Legion and Peoples State Forests

Combined, the total just over six square miles—but they pack in a lot of activities. In Connecticut’s wild northwest corner, the West Branch of the Farmington River divides the two areas and provides some of the best freshwater fishing in Connecticut. This Wild and Scenic River—a national designation granted to less than 0.25 percent of U.S. waterways—is a natural hub for float trips. Base out of Austin F. Hawes Memorial Campground and spend your days biking forest roads, , and hiking a 14-mile network of rugged trails that yields views of waterfalls and the river valley below. During the winter months, there’s cross-country skiing and even an at the Falls Cut-Off Trail.

Delaware

Cape Henlopen State Park

Ìęocean-based activities abound: swimming, boating, surf fishing, kayaking, clamming, paddleboarding, and windsurfing are all on the table. The park is home to two surf breaks, and . On land, hike or bike up to fiveÌęmiles within the park, or use it as a launch point for the nation’s first nonmotorized transcontinental path, theÌęAmerican Discovery Trail,ÌęwhichÌębegins here and passes through cities, towns, farmland, and wild areas en route to PointÌęReyes National Seashore in Northern California. Camp among pine-studded sand dunes, or venture to the nearby Beach Plum Island Nature Preserve, Delaware’s only publicly owned wild beach, which contains undeveloped dunesÌęand marsh habitat.

Florida

Biscayne National Park

combines the best of southern Florida. You’ll find the Everglades’ famous mangrove swamps—Biscayne’s are also packed with alligators and crocodiles—as well as the spectacular coral reefs and abundant sea life you’d expect to find in the keys, such as manatees, sea turtles, dolphins, and rays. Since 95 percent of the park is water, you’ll want to rent a kayak, paddleboard, or canoe from the visitor center (or launch your own craft for free). There are multiple marine trails for , and the Maritime Heritage Trail guides snorkelers and divers past six diverse shipwrecks that span nearly a century. Although the park is far from remote—downtown Miami isÌęvisible—you can still get adventurous. Experienced paddlers can cross the seven-mile expanse of Biscayne Bay and pay $25 to roll out a sleeping pad on one of two island campgroundsÌęon Elliott and Boca Chita Keys.

Georgia

Cumberland Island National Seashore

The largest and southernmost barrier island in Georgia is good for more than just swimming and beachcombing. features 17 miles of undeveloped beaches, as well as pristine maritime forests and marshland. Walk 50-plus miles under live oak and saw palmetto groves, keeping your eyes peeled for wild horses, alligators, and sea turtles. To get there, take the ferry from St. Marys, or kayak to the island. (Leave from town, from nearby Crooked River State Park, or from Amelia Island, which is just over the Florida border.)ÌęThreeÌęcampgroundsÌęare situated in designated wilderness areas; you can bike to two others. (Rent some wheels on the island or bring your own via ferry.)ÌęSea kayaks can be pulled ashore for camping by the Plum Orchard dock,Ìębehind the Sea Camp Ranger Station, and in the Brickhill Bluff Wilderness Campground.

Hawaii

Waiʻānapanapa State Park

Bypass the hordes at Haleakalā and watch the sunrise from black sand PaÊ»iloa Beach at . The drive along Maui’s southeast coast is epicÌęon its own, and while the park does draw a good number of pit-stopping touristsÌęon the Highway to Hana, most just want to snap a photo of the lava tube and stroll to the freshwater pools before going on their way. Unpack your tent and you’ll find there’s more to explore. Several hiking trails traverse through dense flora—stands of guava, coconut, and breadfruit trees and the largest pandanus grove in Hawaii—and pass naturalÌęand cultural attractions like rocky coves, ruins, a haiau (or temple), blowholes, and jagged rock arches. On a calm day, swim 200 feet into PaÊ»iloa BayÌęto climb aÌęfreestanding sea stackÌęwhere you can leap fromÌęaboutÌę35 feet—orÌę45 feet if you’re feeling bold.

Idaho

Hells Canyon National Recreation Area

Straddling the Oregon-Idaho border, the Snake River cuts North America’s deepest river gorge. At nearly a mile and a half tall, Hells Canyon is taller than even Grand Canyon by almost 50 percent. The 650,000-acreÌę includes 217,000 acres of wilderness, where you can backpack along isolated ridges in exchange for epic panoramas. The 8,000-foot Seven Devils Mountains tower above Class II–IV whitewater and plenty of .

Illinois

Kickapoo State Recreation Area

At , you’ll find 22 ponds and access to the Middle Fork River amid 2,842 acres of sycamore and maple forest. There are also launch ramps at nine lakes, and you can angle for large- and smallmouth bass, channel catfish, bluegill, crappie, redear sunfish, and sizable rainbow trout. Ice fishing is available in the winter, as is cross-country skiing. In the warmer months, camp at one of 184 sites and spend your days biking 12 miles of the state’s best singletrack (ranging from easy to very technical) or running past wild cherry trees and vibrant wildflowers on 35 miles of trails. (Get a good workout on the difficultÌę7.6-mile .)

Indiana

Brown County State Park

Sure, the Hoosier State just got its first national park, but Indiana Dunes is already getting close to 2 million visitors a year—andÌęunlike ,Ìęit doesn’t have nearly 30 miles of flowy singletrackÌęranging from cruisey to white-knuckling.ÌęThis parkÌęin central Indiana’s Little Smokies is actually slightly larger than its shiny new neighbor to the north. At nearly 16,000 acres, Brown County is the biggest in Indiana’s park system. Hike more than 18 miles of trails through flowering dogwood and sweet gum trees (read: gorgeous fall color). Or connect to the greater , which has 260 miles of trails for hiking and backpacking, including the 13,000-acre .

Iowa

Backbone State Park

Designated in 1920, Iowa’s first parkÌęis still its best. Named for a steep, narrow, 80-foot-tall ridge of bedrock cut by the Maquoketa River,Ìę,Ìęin northeastern Iowa, is 2,000 acres of oak and maple woods packed with dolomitic limestone outcrops. The ample rock makes for great top-roping and trad climbing, as well as varied hiking on a rugged 21-mile multiuse trail system. Cyclists will enjoy the Barred Owl, Bluebird, East Lake, and West Lake Trails—or hit the 130-mile Northeast State Park Bike Route connecting Wapsipinicon and Pikes Peak State Parks on county highways. Explore Backbone Cave and the reservoir, Backbone Lake, which offers boating and some of the Iowa’s best trout fishing. You can crash at two campgrounds within park boundaries.

Kansas

Wilson State Park

The Sunflower State isn’t all flat prairie. Situated in the Smoky Hills region of central Kansas, ÌęfeaturesÌęrolling hills that give way to prominent sandstone bluffs. Tire yourself out on the challenging or at Wilson Reservoir, which makes for pleasant SUPing, swimming, kayaking, and fishing for bass and walleye, before adjourning to one of the campsites. The adjacent Wilson Wildlife Area has 8,000 acres of hiking and habitat for deer, pheasants, Canada geese, and coyotes.

Kentucky

Big South Fork National River andÌęRecreation Area

On the southern border of the Bluegrass State, Big South Fork Gorge makes a 40-mile cleft in the Cumberland Plateau. Although ranges well into Tennessee, it has Kentucky’s characteristic sandstone arches—without the crowds of the better-knownÌęRed River Gorge. At Big South Fork, you’ll find sport climbing, Class IV paddling, bike-only trails, and bluff hikes overlooking scenic gorges and oak woodlands.

Louisiana

Kisatchie Bayou Recreation Complex

Set amid western Louisiana’sÌęold-growth hardwood and pine,Ìę has 17 primitive walk-in camp sites (and one drive-in site). It also has a boat launch for nonmotorized vessels, which makes for peaceful fishing for bass, perch, sunfish, and catfish. Ensconced in the 600,000-acre Kisatchie National Forest, you’ll have access to more than 100 miles of multiuse trails for running, hiking, and backpacking;Ìęopportunities for Ìęon roads and trails;Ìęand swimming at Kincaid, Caney, and Stuart lakes.

Maine

Baxter State Park

AtÌę200,000 acres,Ìę is a no-brainer. The difficult decision is narrowing down its recreation options: 200 miles of trails for hiking and backpacking, including the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, on Mount Katahdin; 337 campsites; mountain, road, and fat-biking routes; paddling on backcountry Wassataquoik Lake and Webster Stream, which includes Class I–III rapids and a Class V drop at Grand Pitch; and some of the most remote and challenging mountaineering in New England—not to mention .

Maryland

Assateague Island National Seashore

A dynamic barrier island that’s constantly reshaped by weather, is different every time you visit. Play in the surf and wander 37 miles of white sand beach in search of the isle’s famed wild ponies. Registered over-sand vehicles can rove a designated segment. The nearby island of Chincoteague is connected via a pavedÌęfour-mile bike path. At the end of the day, there are drive-in, walk-in, and backcountry campsites—you can even kayak to .

Massachusetts

Mount Greylock State Reservation

It can be tough to find room to sprawl in one of the most densely populated parts of the nation. But 12,000-acre , in the northwestern corner of Massachusetts, fits the bill. Named for the 3,491-foot peak—the state’s tallest—the park has 70 miles of trails, including 11.5 miles of the ATÌęand the historic Thunderbolt Ski Trail, good for hiking, mountain biking, backcountry skiing, and more. Backpackers will find primitive camping and trailside shelters amid the sylvan charm of the Berkshires.

Michigan

Isle Royale National Park

With only 25,000 annual visitors to its 132,018 acres, Ìęhas one of the lowest area-to-visitors ratiosÌęon this list. To get there, you have to take a ferry from Houghton, Copper Harbor, or Grand Portage. Famous for its , this off-the-grid archipelago features 165 miles of trails and 36 campgrounds (some accessible only by boat) to serve as your base camp for a few days ofÌęrunning, hiking, fishing, and diving on shipwrecks. Canoes and kayaks are excellent means of transportation within the park, though the former is better suited for the islands’ inland lakes than for open waters.

Minnesota

Voyageurs National Park

Named for the French Canadian travelers who explored what’s now the Minnesota-Ontario border, is best seen from its plentiful waterways. The 218,000 acres areÌęalmost half water, including four major lakes and 26 smaller ones for kayaking and canoeing the interior of the park. That said, there’s also plentiful forest hiking with numerous overlooks, as well asÌęsnowshoeing or cross-country skiing during winter months. Choose sections of the 30-mile Kab-Ash Trail, an interconnected system of four trailheads, or do the whole trail for a tour of the park. The numerous campsites include backcountry options. Brings binoculars to see the park’s moose, gray wolves, beavers, bald eagles, and river otters, and empty your pockets for wild berries and hazelnuts.

Mississippi

Gulf Island National Seashore

Stretching for 160 miles along the coast, extends all the way into the Florida Panhandle. Its ecosystems range from sultry bayous to gorgeous white-sand barrier islands, and you’re liable to see everything from dolphins and sea turtles to American black bears and armadillos. Explore the wild islets on foot, by boat, and in the water—the snorkeling and diving are prime. On shore, the 15.5-mile round-trip Live Oaks Bicycle Route connects the Davis Bayou Campground to the town of Ocean Springs, where you can resupply. Boat-in backcountry camping is available on the gorgeous Perdido Key.

Missouri

Johnson’s Shut-Ins State Park

In the heart of the St. Francois Mountains, is worth a visit just for its eponymous maze of rocky wells that form a veritable playground of shallow pools to dip in and rocks to scramble overÌęin the East Fork Black River. But there are also 150-plus miles of trails within a 20-mile radius of Johnson’s Shut-Ins, including some of Missouri’s best singletrack. A section of the Ozark TrailÌęconnects to neighboring Taum Sauk Mountain State Park and is lined with a string of natural wonders, such as Mina Sauk Falls and the Devil’s Tollgate rock. Johnson’s Shut-Ins is one of only five state parks in Missouri that allow climbing. Check out the rare forest seeps, where water wells up from holes in the ground, as well as the dolomite glade, which is representative of the Ozarks but rare in this particular region.

Montana

Flathead National Forest

Glacier National Park is spectacular, yes, but its 3 million annual visitors aren’t as pretty. The nearby has similar high-alpine terrain and fewer people. DiverseÌęrecreationalÌęopportunitiesÌęare endless: run some whitewater, mountain bike, or go backpacking. To narrow down the massive tract into something more manageable, check out , a splendid 15,000-acre hiking area in the Hungry Horse Ranger District. Camp and ski in the backcountry, or bring your rods—more than 20 lakes in the immediate vicinity provideÌęexcellent lake fishing for cutthroat trout.

Nebraska

Smith Falls State Park

Home to the Nebraska’s tallest waterfall, is a perfect adventure base camp. Sleep there and use it as a launch point for paddle trips on the 76-mile Niobrara River, a National Scenic River that wends through dramatic bluffs. Hikers can walk to the 45-foot Fort Falls within nearby Fort Niobrara Wilderness Area, as well as Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge, a 19,131-acre parcel that’s home to bison, elk, prairie dogs, and other critters. Just a few more miles down the road, the 321-mile Cowboy Trail—America’s longest rail trail—takes off. Be sure to bring your gravel bike.

Nevada

Great Basin National Park

Near the Utah border lies the Silver State’s most underrated treasure: . There’s no entrance fee to this 77,000-acre park, which sits at around 10,000 feet in the high desert. Be sure to summit the state’s second-tallest mountain, 13,000-foot . You’ll have to stick to lower elevations to walk among the park’s 4,000-plus-year-old bristlecone pines and . You’ll need a guide to take you through most of the caverns, although one wild cave, Little Muddy, is open to independent cavers with permits.ÌęWith the exception of the short trail between Baker and the Great Basin Visitor Center, bikes are allowed only on roads in the park. However, you can connect to adjacent BLM and Forest Service land to bike trails that smellÌęof sagebrush. Backpacking is freeÌęon the 60-plus miles of trails in this International Dark Sky Park—one of sixÌędesignations granted by the International Dark Sky Association to helpÌępreserveÌędark sites as a natural resource.

New Hampshire

Franconia Notch State Park

centers on a dramatic pass through the White Mountains, but that’s hardly its only attraction. The southeast face of Cannon Mountain has long been a hotspot for alpine and trad climbing in New England, and the park also has plenty of options for hiking and running. Walk through old-growth forest or moss-covered , a 90-foot-tall granite canyon that has narrow sections with only a 12-foot gap between its walls. SleepÌęat Lafayette Campground or Lonesome Lake Hut, the latter of which looks across a glacial lake and Franconia Ridge on the other side of the pass. Did we mention there’s skiing nearby at , too?

New Jersey

Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area

The undammedÌęMiddle Delaware River separates the Garden State from neighboring Pennsylvania with a 1,000-foot-deep chasmÌęthrough the Appalachian Mountains. Ranging from a quarter-mile wide at river level to a mile acrossÌęfromÌęthe top of one mountain to the opposite side, to say the Delaware Water Gap is impressive would be an understatement. The surrounding 70,000-acre isÌęalso impressive, with itsÌęwaterfalls, hemlock-filled ravines, and nearly 200 lakes and ponds. You can hike more than 100 miles of trails, 28 of which are on the AT. Bring a gravel bike for the 32-mile McDade Recreational Trail and your climbing gear for trad missions on MountÌęTammany and MountÌęMinsi. Or set off on a multiday trip on the Middle Delaware River. In the winter months, a Nordic ski setup and ice-climbing gear will come in handy.

New Mexico

Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument

In southwestern New Mexico, is contained within the Gila Wilderness: 558,014 acres of unspoiledÌęmountainous terrain. The nation’s first wilderness area, Gila features more than 400 miles of trails for day hiking and backpacking. In addition to learning about the Mogollon Native American historyÌęof the area, visitors will enjoy two hot springs within walking distance of the visitor center at the national monument. Mexican gray wolves roam the region, as do javelinas, aÌęmedium-sizedÌępig-like mammal. In the surrounding Gila National Forest, you’ll find fly-fishing and free camping at Cosmic Campground International Dark Sky Sanctuary, one of only four International Dark Sky Association–certified sanctuaries in the world.

New York

Adirondack Park

A patchwork of public and private lands, upstate New York’s is colossal. Of the 6 million acres originally protectedÌęin 1894—which still shape the park’s boundary—2.6 million acres known as Adirondack Forest Preserve remain firmly in the state’s hands. The remaining 3.4 million acres are privately owned but regulated by the Adirondack Park Agency to minimize the effects that these hamlets and agricultural and industrial areas might otherwise have onÌęthe park’s natural features. Adirondack Park is deservedly famous for its wealth of hiking, biking, skiing, snowboarding, whitewater rafting, lake paddling, fly-fishing, and climbing. The Adirondack Forest PreserveÌęcontains nearly 20 different sweeps of wilderness, including Saint Regis Canoe Area, the largest wilderness canoe zone in the northeastern United StatesÌę(and the only one in New York). If you’re up for portaging, pond-hop a classic route known as the Nine Carries.

North Carolina

Cape Lookout National Seashore

On the southernmost tip of the Outer Banks, off North Carolina’s Crystal Coast, the 56-mileÌę is part of a paper-thin strand of barrier islands. Comparable to the more popular to the north—albeit a bit more difficult to reach—Cape Lookout gets a fraction of Hatteras’ millions of annual visitors, even though it’s equallyÌębeautiful. Climb 207 steps up Cape Lookout Lighthouse (equivalent to scaling a 12-story building), try your hand at crabbing or clamming, go windsurfing, or just splash around in the warm Atlantic waves. While there are only two trails, many people hike and backpack the islands in search of wild horses. (Remember to follow these .) With 112 miles of shore, Cape Lookout has also become a go-to sea kayaking destination on the mid-Atlantic coast.

North Dakota

Theodore Roosevelt National Park

South Dakota isn’t the only place Ìęin the United States that you’ll find badlands geology. Clocking in at well over 70,000 acres, ’s plains give way to caprocks and colorful layers of stone and bentonite clay. Roam in search of bison and elk—hikes range from tenÌęminutes to 12 hours—or grab a paddle and take a multiday float trip down the Little Missouri River. There are two official campgrounds, but with nearly half the park designated as wilderness, you can also camp in the backcountry amid wild roses.

Ohio

Cuyahoga Valley National Park

The Buckeye State’s sole national park, 33,000-acre , is the largest protected natural areaÌęin Ohio. Visitors can enjoy day hiking, backpacking, mountain biking, and paddling the Cuyahoga River amid evergreen forests, sedge-dotted wetlands, and prairies. One of the park’s largest grasslands was once the site of Richfield Coliseum, a large-scale event venue that was homeÌętoÌęthe NBA’sÌęCleveland Cavaliers; it was torn down in 1999,Ìęand 327 acres of asphalt were replaced with native plants. The Palace on the Prairie site now attracts ochre-colored monarch butterflies and rare birds like Henslow’s sparrows.

Oklahoma

Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge

You’d be forgiven if you didn’t expect to find top-notch granite in the Great Plains. Welcome to the , a 59,020-acre preserve in southwestern Oklahoma. The rugged Wichita Mountains protect mixed-grass prairies and oak forests from howling winds and provide multipitch trad and sport climbing, as well as top-roping and bouldering. Hike past fauna such as bison, elk, burrowing owls, and river otters, and go fishing for largemouth bass, sunfish, crappie, and channel catfish. Keep your eyes peeled for the state reptile:Ìęthe striking turquoise Oklahoma collared lizard. has 90 sites, but if you’re looking for a little more seclusion, backcountry camping is available in the 8,570-acre Charon’s Garden Wilderness Area for just two bucks.

Oregon

Oswald West State Park

Two hours west of Portland, the 2,484-acre is not nearly as expansive as many of the parks on this list, but its wild scenery will make you feel like you’re far from society. The rugged cape epitomizes seaside Oregon’s allure: temperate rainforests filled with salmonberries and ferns populate the inland areas, while surf batters volcanic basalt and sandstone cliffs. Although this stunning park no longer allows camping, there’s plenty to keep you busy on a day trip. A good surf break,ÌęShort Sands Beach (akaÌęShorty’s)Ìęis alsoÌęa favorite with beachgoers for its seclusion and protection from the stiff coastal breeze. Offshore, protects a variety of aquatic species. Opt for a run or hike on the nearby Oregon Coast Trail, or do an eight-mile round-trip up Neah-kah-nie Mountain, one of the state’s most prominent coastal peaks.

Pennsylvania

Ohiopyle State Park

Pennsylvania has a lot of parks, but none exhibit the same combination of size and recreational diversity as . With more than 25 miles ofÌęmountain bikeÌętrails in its 20,000 acres and high-quality whitewater on the Youghiogheny River (including a set of falls you can drop during a few weeks out of the year), there’s no shortage of adrenaline-inducing activities. Slip down natural water slides, view the deepest gorge in Pennsylvania from Baughman Rocks, and explore rare plants and fossils on the Ferncliff Peninsula, which has a distinctly mild and humid microclimate. Spend the night under the stars at Kentuck Campground, or hit the Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail, a 70-mile trail accessible year-round for backpacking.

Rhode Island

Arcadia Management Area

Rhode Island’s largest recreation area, the 14,000-acre Ìęproffers more than a dozen hiking trails, tons of bouldering, and 40 miles of technical singletrack for mountain bikers. It also features swimming, some of the state’s best freshwater fishing, and the Wood River, which has Class I–II whitewater suitable for both kayakers and canoeists. All tuckered out? There are walk-in campsites where you can pop up a tent away from civilization.

South Carolina

Congaree National Park

Part of the Congaree International Biosphere Reserve (a UNESCO designation granted to areas of exceptional biodiversity, natural resources, and cultural heritage), central South Carolina’s features the largest intact expanse of old-growth bottomland hardwood forest remaining in the southeastern United States. Hikes through the floodplain forestland range from less than a mile, like the boardwalk loop, to more than ten miles. is accessible on foot or by paddle. Hit the Congaree River Blue Trail, a 50-mile designated recreational paddling trail that reaches downstreamÌęall the way from Columbia.

South Dakota

Custer State Park

When in South Dakota, head for the Black Hills. ’s 71,000 acres boast more than 500 climbing routes, miles of trails for hiking and mountain biking, and Sylvan Lake, a picturesque destination for swimming and paddle boarding beneath granite crags. The area is also known for its abundance of wildlife: birds, bison, and trout all flourish. You’ll find nine campgrounds as well as primitive camping in French Creek Natural Area, a sheer gorge surrounded by 2,200 acres of undeveloped pine and hardwood forestland.

Tennessee

Justin P. Wilson Cumberland Trail State Park

Perched atop the eastern Cumberland Mountains in southern Tennessee, the linear follows the trail of the same name from the Cumberland Gap to Signal Point, near Chattanooga.ÌęIt encompasses more than 210 miles of trailÌęand adjacent lands (and it’s growing!), with access to vistas, waterfalls, and deep gorges. and are popular sections for day hiking and climbing, while backpackers can reach remote campsites along the length of the trail. The 31,500-acre Cumberland Trail Park intersects three NPS territories, including the Obed Wild andÌęScenic River,Ìęthree major wildlife zones,Ìęand six locally managed natural regions, for a combined total of more than 330,000 acres of public lands.

Texas

Big Bend National Park

doesn’t get nearly the same visitation numbers as other parks in the system, perhaps due to its out-of-the-way location on the Mexico border, hours from the nearest major city. However, the park’s main attractions are jaw-dropping.ÌęFollow the Rio Grande back into the quiet depths of Santa Elena Canyon, and hike through fields of fragrant wildflowers while gazing up atÌętowering red rock formations like Mule Ears. Bring a boat to float the Rio Grande, andÌętoss your passport into your backpack—you can cross the international border to visit the Mexican town of Boquillas by ferry or walk across when the water level is low enough. During peak periods, escape into mountainous backcountry to backpack, or just post up at designated primitive car-camping sites, which are removed from the lion’s share of park traffic. End a long day in the Chihuahuan Desert Biosphere Reserve with a stroll down a pictograph-covered trail to take a dip at the hot springs under starry skies.

Utah

Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument

Skip the at the darlings of Utah’s park system—Arches, Bryce Canyon, Canyonlands, Capitol Reef, and Zion—in lieu of . While theÌęMighty 5’s rocks are more famousÌę(Delicate Arch, for example, or Bryce’s otherworldly spires), you’llÌęsee many of the sameÌętypes of formationsÌęat GSE. Get your fill of , bridges, hoodoos, and badlands as you hike, backpack, and camp the monument’s 1 million-plus acres. Its namesake, a 200 million-year-old geological staircase, separates the park into a series of cliff plateaus and has the most extensive network of slot canyons in the country. More popular, though, is the less remote Escalante Canyons area in the east, where visitors will find slickrock and swimming holes, like the 130-footÌęLower Calf Creek Falls.

Vermont

Smugglers’ Notch State Park

Christened for a narrow, 1,000-foot-tall rift through the Green Mountains, Ìęfeeds into the less dramatic but much larger Mount Mansfield State Forest. ItsÌę40,000Ìęacres have hiking—including the difficult climb up 4,400-foot Mount Mansfield, the state’s highest point—as well as bouldering, ice climbing, caving, and mountain biking.ÌęThe area isÌępart of the greater Mount Mansfield Natural Area, a national landmark thatÌęfeatures extensive alpine tundraÌęand arctic plant lifeÌęthat’s rare in the Northeast.

Virginia

Shenandoah National Park

At 200,000 acres, dwarfsÌęall other parks in Virginia.ÌęBike the 105-mileÌęSkyline Drive, which traces the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains through the park.ÌęCheck out the area’s renowned and bouldering, or go fly-fishing on more than 70 streams. There are 196,000 acres of backcountry and wilderness, as well as 500-plus miles of trails leading throughÌęoak-hickory forest. When you get tired, pitch aÌętentÌęat one of five campgrounds or in the backcountry.

Washington

North Cascades National Park

ÌęisÌęthe most heavily glaciatedÌęarea in the lower 48, with more than 300 glaciers in its arsenal. ItsÌęrugged terrain is home to elusive wildlife like lynx and wolverines, but people love itÌętoo. FindÌęexcellent backpacking, numerous long road-biking routes—there are even two bicycle-specific campsites:Ìęsite A3 at Newhalem Creek Campground and site 115 at Colonial Creek South—and all types of climbing, from mountaineering to bouldering and sport climbing.ÌęBookÌęboat-inÌęor car-camping sites Ìęif you don’t want toÌęcarryÌęeverything on your back.

West Virginia

New River Gorge National River

is renowned for its whitewater, from the demanding Class III–V sections of the Lower Gorge to the canoe-friendly Class I rapids of the upper area. But the 70,000 acres of protected land adjacent to 53 miles of the New River areÌęalso optimal for land-based sports. There are 1,400-plus climbing routes, tons of options for , almost 100 miles of hiking trails, great fishing, and primitive campsites. Keep an eye out for wildlife like raptors, southern flying squirrels, kingfishers, and great blue herons.

Wisconsin

Apostle Islands National Lakeshore

ComprisingÌę12 square milesÌęof mainland and 21 islands, is home to 50 miles of maintained trails. In addition to striking sandstone cliffs and sandy beaches, the archipelago has rocky Ìęthat support unique ecosystemsÌęandÌęcaves that ice over in winter, creating a walkable attraction when Lake Superior freezes (though access is sometimes ). View lighthouses and scenic vistas on foot or by boat, or go divingÌęin Lake Superior. Camping is available on 19 of the Lakeshore’s 21 islandsÌęand at one campsite on the mainland. You might see bears, beavers, red foxes, mink, and otters.

Wyoming

Bridger Wilderness Area

While the Tetons get millions of visitors, the Wind River Range, just southeast, is a wilder gem. is truly spectacular, with more than 40 named peaks over 13,000 feet, including Gannett Peak (Wyoming’s highest) and Gannett Glacier, the largestÌęin the American Rockies. About 600 miles of trails crisscross the area, and while vehicles (including bikes) are not allowed in the wilderness zone, there’s plenty of room to ride in the surrounding Bridger-Teton National Forest.

Editor’s Note: We frequently update this parks guide, which was originally published on June 6, 2019.

The post The Best Park in Every U.S. State appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The welter of Interstate 10 drowns out Yolanda Davis-Overstreet’s voice as we pedal beneath an ivy-laced underpass on the cusp of South L.A. I’m following her mauve city bike north on Redondo—we’ve just left West Adams Boulevard, the main drag through her childhood stomping grounds of the same name—and we’re heading for New Los Angeles Charter Middle School, about half a mile away as the crow flies. After her daughter, Niah, began sixth grade there in 2013, Davis-Overstreet led a grassroots campaign urging the city to install pedestrian infrastructure at the dangerous intersection in front of the school.

Today the 61-year-old is vibrant in cyan beaded earrings, Vans, and brow-line glasses, with a nineties-style choker coiled around her neck and a black ball cap tucked over tight, dyed burgundy curls. She isn’t wearing a helmet; while she normally does opt for one, personal-safety gear offers little in the face of the systemic problems she’s fighting. Besides, the lifelong cyclist knows which streets to avoid pedaling down in the place where she was born and raised.

Davis-Overstreet grew up roaming this largely Black (and later Latino) area, located about eight miles east of Santa Monica, on a gold banana-seat high-riser with ape-hanger handlebars. As an adult, she fell in with L.A.’s Black road-cycling community and eventually found her calling in mobility justice, an endeavor that seeks to make communities of color safer for those moving around within them. For many people who rent or own homes in marginalized areas, walking or biking is the only transportation option, but infrastructure for those on foot or on two wheels, such as crosswalks, bike lanes, and even sidewalks, is often absent. The problem is worse for the unhoused, who have little choice but to spend all of their time on these dangerous streets.

In the U.S. at large, .Ìę in neighborhoods where the median per capita income is less than $21,000. In L.A., , despite comprising only about 8 percent of the city’s population. Seventy percent of serious injuries and fatalities are of the city’s streets, most of which are located in Black or Latino neighborhoods.

A community organizer and strategist, Davis-Overstreet holds a master’s degree in urban sustainability from nearby Antioch University. She has collaborated on a wide range of projects, from pushing for bike lanes and crosswalks on high-risk streets to helping the city develop policies for zero-emission zones to improving access to local parklands in the community of Baldwin Hills. “We’ve been told to get at the back of the line since we came to America,” Davis-Overstreet tells me. “That’s actually what I was told—that to advocate for safe streets for New Los Angeles Charter Middle School, I had to get to the back of the line with everyone else. But my process is not working within the system.”

In 2011 she founded the platform , which educates people about mobility justice and the history of African American cyclists, such as , nicknamed the Black Cyclone, who set multiple world records in the late 19th and early 20th centuries despite death threats, intimidation, and physical attacks that attempted to slow him down. Ride in Living Color also brings people together for social rides, at times 40 to 50 bicyclists strong. “It was like, this is the remedy,” says Davis-Overstreet, recalling when she first started them. “This is the solution—everybody just get out on a bike and let’s ride.”

West Adams Boulevard is one of the most dangerous streets in all of L.A. in terms of traffic fatalities. From 2009 to 2019, at least 45 cyclists were hit here, and , including . On Thanksgiving Day in 2019, the unhoused cancer survivor was struck while walking on the street, then hit again by another vehicle, and finally dragged by a third car 13 blocks to a gas station, where he died. All three drivers fled.

In collaboration with the , which seeks to eliminate traffic deaths by 2025, Davis-Overstreet has worked to educate residents about the safety issues on West Adams Boulevard. “Community support is critical,” says Lauren Ballard, a transportation planner for the LADOT. “Yolanda’s advocacy and leadership have been key to successful community engagement and support for the project.”

Earlier in the day, Davis-Overstreet showed me the fruits of Vision Zero’s efforts on West Adams, which is peppered with small galleries and eateries, from hole-in-the-wall taquerias to a trendy, upscale soul-food restaurant slinging $16 cocktails. The city recently plastered the formerly potholed, four-lane road with newly minted bike lanes. The success of this effort will be measured by the number of fatalities that occur on West Adams Boulevard, but Davis-Overstreet secured additional resources beyond the project’s original scope, which has already improved the streetscape in myriad ways: Regular street sweeping largely clears the gutters of the Chick-fil-A detritus and beer bottles I’d seen strewn in other areas. And , which will ultimately provide shade and absorb noise, have begun to take root in the hell strips between the street’s lanes. Already, Davis-Overstreet told me, it feels different.

Instead of ripping past clusters of unhoused people at 50 miles per hour—a crush of traffic that sounded “almost like a wave,” according to Davis-Overstreet—vehicles now motor down the street at around 35. Still, as we cruised past a skate shop and a bookstore with freshly graffitied windows, a muscle car startled us as it burned rubber down the middle turn-only lane to bypass slow traffic. Near a cafĂ© strewn with copies of El Aviso, a Spanish-language general-interest magazine, a man dashed across the lanes, threading the gap with a baby in his arms. Elsewhere, a Pepto Bismol–pink ice cream truck trawled the eastbound bike lane, emitting a discordant jingle, and passenger vehicles swerved into it, too, employing it as a makeshift passing lane. Drivers weren’t used to the new setup.

Communities of color—even historically affluent ones like West Adams—are often treated as places to be driven through instead of thriving communities in their own right. The , which created the interstate system as we know it today, established freeways that cut through many neighborhoods of color. In 1960, the year Davis-Overstreet was born, her parents received a notice that their West Adams rental was among the hundreds of houses slated to be razed to make way for the new Interstate 10. “There was no fee involved in helping them to relocate,” says Davis-Overstreet. “They were given a certain amount of time that they had to move, and then they moved.”

In addition to the , the interstate system created physical boundaries that reinforced the marginalization of such neighborhoods. Many of these areas had already begun to face disinvestment as a result of , a practice that started after Great Depression that excludes home buyers in Black neighborhoods from federally backed mortgages. (Neighborhoods that were deemed risky investments—generally, that is, communities of color—were coded red on internal maps and subsequently segregated from government-subsidizedÌę.) Of course, new roadways also routed more traffic through these communities. Today, frustrated commuters still speed through many of West Adams’s streets trying to avoid bumper-to-bumper jams on the freeway.

Walking and biking would help ameliorate many of these interconnected problems: too many cars on L.A.’s clogged streets; air pollution that disproportionately harms communities of color; physical ailments that inordinately affect Black people, including hypertension and obesity (especially among Black women). But while pedestrian and cycling infrastructure would help cure some of the symptoms of disinvestment in communities of color, mobility justice also has to address the complex, cascading roots of institutional racism in housing, public health, and policing. Simply being in public while Black is a roll of the dice. Take Dijon Kizzee, a 29-year-old Black man who was in 2020 after they attempted to stop him while biking.

Or take AdĂ© Neff, a dapper, soft-spoken transplant who who rented me a bikeÌęthe day before my ride with Davis-Overstreet. In 2014, he founded a worker-owned bike co-op called in the lively heart of Leimert Park, a near West Adams. A former classmate of Davis-Overstreet at Antioch, Neff told me he had recently been pulled over on his bike while cycling on West Adams Boulevard. Legally, nothing ever came of the stop. But Neff spent the weekend in jail, and when he tried to recover his electric bike, which had been impounded, he found that it had disappeared.

For years, Neff didn’t own a car. The safest route from his residence in Hollywood to Venice Beach, which he commuted daily in street clothes, passed through the residential streets of Beverly Hills. “Like clockwork, I got pulled over damn near every day,” he told me. Neff has friends who wear spandex to try and avoid being singled out. If police “notice that you’re Black, but you have this kit on with a $10,000 bike,” you might get a pass, he says. “But if I look like this”—Neff was wearing red-and-yellow sneakers and an emerald-hued tee stating “Black Power Ride On!”—“and I’m on a $10,000 bike, whether I bought it or not, I fit the description.”

For Davis-Overstreet, addressing police abuse toward people who “fit the description”—men who look like Neff, or like her son, Nile—is part of the snaggled web of mobility justice. To make public spaces safer for Black men and for all people of color is also to build a culture of care toward the environment. “Our communities can be strong stewards for the planet, but people are afraid for their lives,” she says. “​​How can we become mountaineers? How can we become Olympians? How can we get there if we’re too frightened to even come outside our door?”

Community-led initiatives are a step in the right direction. As we coast to a stop across from New Los Angeles Charter Middle School, on the other side of I-10, Davis-Overstreet tells me that she took hundreds of photos and videos to document the dangerous street conditions here.

In 2015, the LADOT responded to her and other activists’ lobbying by approving safety upgrades for the high-speed intersection in front of the school, which didn’t even have a traffic signal. But they took five years to actually be implemented. While the project was awaiting funding, a mother and her three-month-old were seriously injured here. A month later, in August of 2019, there was another grisly accident, close to where we’re taking a breather now.

As we survey the yawning intersection on this sunny October afternoon, Davis-Overstreet’s hard-won additions seem like a drop in the bucket: four broad, yolk-yellow crosswalks; a set of traffic lights in each direction; some school signage. And yet instead of roaring by, cars idle beside us at the light. I can finally hear Davis-Overstreet clearly. She’s circled back to a story she told me earlier, about a century ride she did from Anaheim to San Diego in her forties, during which she was left behind by her friends. The chase truck crawled along beside her, proffering Gatorade and waiting for her to give in as she climbed into Torrey Pines. Not today, she recalls thinking. She cracks up at the recollection.

“You are going to be out there, sometimes, on your own,” she continues, now in a more serious tone. “That’s the thing about bicycling—nobody can help you pedal.”

The post This L.A. Resident Is Working to Stop Pedestrian and Cyclist Deaths in Her Neighborhood appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Looking for a new place to campÌęin your backyard or beyond? You’re not alone. As droves of people across the U.S.Ìęlook to safely travel by , it’s no surprise that campgrounds are more popular than ever. ,Ìęthe online and app-based booking system for both private and public campsites, is a great resourceÌęfor those lookingÌęto stay away from the hordes. From affordable camping near National Parks to decked-out glampsites with epic views, here are our favorite Hipcamp sites in every state.

Alabama

Pinewood Nature Cottage (From $85)Ìę

Located in the shrimping village of Bon Secour, 11 miles north of the Gulf of Mexico, is the perfect base camp for paddling and wildlife viewing in ten-mile-long Little Lagoon, fishing theÌęBon Secour River, andÌęsurfing the sandbar break at West Pass in the nearby town of Gulf Shores. Birders will want to check out the estuary at or .

Alaska

Seaside Farm Meadows (From $25)Ìę

This affords access to , a roughly 400,000-acre refuge that borders both the Kenai Mountains and Gulf of Alaska. You reach it via a 30-minute water-taxi ride from the town of Homer, four hoursÌęsouth of Anchorage. Once there, you can walk to a 20-mile-long beach to spot sea otters and eagles. But with stunning glacier views across the water from camp, we don’t blame you if you choose to simply linger by the raspberry patch.

Arizona

Grand Canyon GlampingÌęEco-Yurt (From $89)

A 45-minute drive from the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, , set on tenÌęacres, is only eclipsed by its hosts. They’ll make you breakfast with farm-fresh eggs, arrange private yoga classes, andÌęset up guided hiking or biking tours in nearby and National Forests.

Arkansas

Thunder Mountain River Camp (From $70)

This on the South Fork of the Caddo River, about 95 miles west of Little Rock, offers complimentary kayaks, tubes, and a paddleboat. It also hasÌęaccess to a multilevel deck and—here’s the kicker—an open-air bathhouse overlooking the river and the Ouachita Mountains.

California

Glamping in the Sierra Foothills (From $85)

Two and a half miles from the Yuba River’s Middle Fork, andÌę95 miles north of Sacramento, these boast new beds, an outdoor shower, and an onsite veggie garden between the property’s dual orchards. Swim or boat at , and hike, bike, or climb in .

Colorado

Riverside Glamping in the Rockies (From $75)Ìę

Soak in a claw-foot tub after a day exploring Rocky Mountain National Park—a 25-minute drive northwest—or the 20-plus miles ofÌętrails in adjacentÌę.ÌęÌęalso overlooks a seasonal stream and has a private trail that leads to miles of hiking and mountain biking routes.Ìę

Connecticut

Quarry View (From $100)

You’ll find waterfalls and dinosaur tracks near , which is perched on the edge of a formerÌęquarry, a national historic landmark that’sÌęnow a lake. At the neighboring , an adventure-sports center, swim inÌęthe lake, rent stand-up paddleboards or kayaks, go scuba diving, or climb man-madeÌęroutes.

Delaware

Top of the Pond (From $55)Ìę

Enjoy simple pleasures at this primitive but serene : take a walk in the woods, go fishing, or paddle the large on-site pond or one of several lakes located within a mile of the property. For a day trip, head to , six miles away.

Florida

Live Oak Cove (From $50)

Ideal for those with an RV, a trailer, or a van, sits beside a private lake that’s perfectÌęfor swimming, boating (two canoes are providedÌęat no cost), or fishing. Bonus points: there’sÌęa fenced-in area for your pups (and the owners’Ìęlovable Labs) to run free.

Georgia

Stone Mill Camping (From $45)Ìę

The owners share their remote homestead (located just over an hour north of Atlanta) with . Hiking, swimming, fishing, and off-roading await 30 miles northeast at in the North Georgia mountains.

Hawaii

Hamakua Camping Cabanas (From $38)Ìę

Swim or paddleÌęin the Big Island’s Hilo Bay, hike rainforest trails along the northeastern Hamakua Coast, or surf at . Then crash in these screened-in , located just east of —blankets and pillows will be waiting for you.

Idaho

Mountain Top Getaways (From $12)Ìę

Get back to the land at these almost entirely at the mouth of Cub River CanyonÌęin southeastern Idaho. In returnÌęyou’ll enjoyÌęsweeping views fromÌę9,460-foot Wilderness PeakÌęand everything the nearby has to offer: hiking, bouldering, snow sports, and more.

Illinois

Farm Girl and Friends (From $25)Ìę

Pitch a tent at (or bring a trailer to) . If you can tear yourself away from the miniature piglets, swim at or head to to hike, fish, and boat.

Indiana

Luxury Tiny Beach Cabin (From $100)Ìę

Wood-fired cedar hot tub? Check. Lofted, king-sizeÌęmemory-foam bed with 800-thread-count sheets? Double check. This poshÌę, located one block from on Lake Michigan, also comes with an outdoor shower, two bikes, and two kayaks.

Iowa

The Barnyard (From $55)Ìę

From , bike across the river to , or rent a canoe or kayak from , roughly 15 miles southeast, to float the Wapsipinicon River. Don’t spend all your energy, though—there might be a live band playing when you get back. If you don’t have the gear, the host offers a six-to-eight-person rental tent for $20 more.

Kansas

Enchanted Oaks (From $20)Ìę

Camp in a grove of walnut trees just 25 minutes from downtown Kansas City. This seven-acre property has , hiking trails, and a fishing pond with a paddleboat.

Kentucky

The Lookout at Raven Ridge (From $35)Ìę

Roll out your sleeping mat on a deck overlooking the famed Red River Gorge. Situated on 50 acres, is a stone’s throw from the Red’sÌępopular climbing routes, hiking trails, and , which is home to the excellent fly-fishing spots of Cave Run Lake and the East Fork of Indian Creek River.

Louisiana

Cajun Retreat Campsites (From $38)Ìę

This in southeastern Louisiana has its own boat launch for kayaking Bayou Manchac or simply watching birds and turtles. Let the friendly hosts, who live on-site, cook you a meal, set you up with fishing gear, orÌępoint you to the best local seafood markets and swamp tours.

Maine

Off-Grid Oceanfront Acadia A-Frame (From $120)Ìę

An off-the-grid A-frame? Yes, please! Literally steps from a swimmable (at high tide) sand beachÌęon MountÌęDesert Narrows, Ìęhas access to surrounding hiking trails, a dining deck, and views of Acadia National Park, a 30-mile drive away.

Maryland

Willet Family Farm (From $50)Ìę

The sound of bullfrogs will lull you to sleep at this private, secluded . Tucked away on a 100-acre farm, you’ll be just a ten-minute drive from fishing at Ìęor can head off on five miles of multi-use trails at the 240-acre .

Massachusetts

Bakers Island Light Campsite (From $35)Ìę

Set up camp on a raised platform on a grassy knoll overlooking Salem Sound. Located on Bakers Island next to its eponymous light station, three miles off the coast of Salem, this is the perfect base camp for those looking for seclusion.

Michigan

Lynx Run Wilderness Retreat (From $125)Ìę

A lush haven within the Lower Peninsula’s , features both Japanese and English country gardens, as well as an orchard, a trout stream, and a natural spring with not one but two Japanese-style bridges. Although the cabin is off the grid, you can plug in at the main house, and there’s warm water for showers and the antique bathtub on the porch.

Minnesota

The Stuga (From $79)Ìę

Named after the Swedish word for “cottage,”Ìęthis 10-by-12-foot packs a lot in. BeyondÌęthe basics—three beds and a table—you’ll find a kitchenette, a rocking chair, and a propane heater that resembles a fireplace. It’s the perfect setting for relaxing after a day spent exploring the adventure capitalÌęofÌęDuluth.

Mississippi

Camp Topisaw (From $35)Ìę

Drive right up to Topisaw CreekÌęand spend your days splashing in the sandy, spring-fed waterway, or hit up the nearby state parks, Percy Quin and Lake Lincoln, from 90 miles south of Jackson.

Missouri

ItzaWayzBack Farm (From $99)Ìę

Near a good halfway point for float trips on the Current River, two sides ofÌę in the Ozarks are bordered byÌę. Grill on your private deck, cook fromÌęthe outdoor kitchen’s wood-burningÌęstove and oven, and enjoyÌęcoffee and tea delivered to your doorstep each morning.

Montana

Cabin on Bank of Mountain Stream (From $125)Ìę

This sits on the bankÌęof Bear Creek’s North Fork, a quarter-mile walk from , six miles from the Yellowstone River—a whitewater destination—and less than 20 miles from Yellowstone National Park’s north entrance.

Nebraska

Gorgeous Tiny House (From $209)Ìę

Get the lowdown on permaculture during a tour of the owners’Ìęorganic farm, or use as home base for exploring , located on the banks of the Missouri River, a ten-minute drive away. Breakfast supplies and a hot tub are included.

Nevada

Water Rock Ranch (From $125)Ìę

Roughly 30 miles east of Death Valley National Park and 30 miles west of , Ìęat Water Rock Ranch is surrounded by ampleÌęhiking and climbing. Guests can take advantage of a pergola sitting area plus a fire pit and grill for cooking.

New Hampshire

Sacred Nectar Sanctuary (From $77)Ìę

With broad views of the White Mountains, is situatedÌęnext to a trailhead for Mount Whiteface, a 11.3-mileÌęloop. There are quiet country roads for scenic biking and a small communal shelter, but be sure to bring tents or a vehicle to sleep in ifÌęinclement weather isÌęforecast.

New Jersey

Restorative Lakeside Retreat (From $400)Ìę

This Ìę(adjacent to the property’s main house)Ìęon Cape MayÌęoffers hiking in addition to theÌębigÌęattraction: the hosts’Ìę20-acre lake. In the summer, launch free kayaks, canoes, SUPs, or a sailboat from the dock, or opt for the ocean,Ìęfive miles away.Ìę

New Mexico

AbiquiĂșÌęTiny House (From $60)Ìę

In the high desert of northern New Mexico, in the village of AbiquiĂș boasts sweeping vistas of the Chama Valley. Walk among piñon and juniper in the footsteps of artist Georgia O’Keeffe, who called this areaÌęhome for many years, raft the Rio Chama, swim at AbiquiĂșÌęLake, or day-trip to Taos or Santa Fe.

New York

Birdsong Cabin (From $125)Ìę

This is the definition of cozy: aÌęwood-burning heater warms the space, which features plush armchairs, a rocking sofa, and a queen-size bed in the loft. Come summer, six-foot-tall windows on multiple walls let in lots of light, and French doors open up onto a petite porch. For active day trips, there are plenty of nearby trails, plusÌęswimming at Dorset Marble Quarry and fly-fishing at just across the border in Vermont.

North Carolina

RV Paradise (from $100)Ìę

Ideal for motorized vehicles, ’s most popular feature is its mountaintop observation deck, whichÌęfeaturesÌęspectacular views of . Your stayÌęcomes with a slip on Lake Glenville, where you can launch the property’s complimentary canoe, kayak, and SUPs.Ìę

North Dakota

Cottonwood Campground (From $15)Ìę

This spartan in is a good jumping-off point for backcountry hiking, road biking, fishing, cross-country skiing, orÌęa multi-day float down the Little Missouri River.

Ohio

Creekside Cottage (From $80)Ìę

This fully equipped, is part of a campground in the Appalachian foothills, just over 70 miles east ofÌęCincinnati. After hiking, biking, and hanging out creekside, drive eight miles to the , a prehistoric Native American structure slated to become a UnescoÌęWorld Heritage site.

Oklahoma

Dragonfly Tiny Cabin (From $50)Ìę

Only two people can fit inside this postage-stamp-sizeÌę, but more guests can camp outside. Located aboutÌę15 miles east of downtown Oklahoma City, you’llÌębe surprised at the variety of adventure foundÌęnearby: angling, climbing, boating, biking, and hiking are all possible at , a half-hour south.

Oregon

Owl Creek Cabin (From $125)Ìę

In the mountains just east of Ashland, this delightful is adjacent to BLM land. Day-hike a section of the Pacific Crest Trail, or paddle around one of several nearby lakes, including the neighboring Howard Prairie Lake, before retiring to the claw-foot tub set under a canopy of boughs.

Pennsylvania

Summer Smiles Honey Farm (From $88)Ìę

Roam around ’s environs, a 34-acre working farm, before heading out to fish at the farm’s lake or explore nearby hiking trails. For an additional fee, the hosts will cook you meals (think wood-fired pizzas) made with fresh ingredients produced on-site. Keep an eye out for their friendly Irish wolfhound.

Rhode Island

Burlingame State Campground (From $10)Ìę

Set right beside Watchaug Pond in , thisÌę offers 20 cabins andÌę700 tent sites. Rent a canoe, hike through rocky forestland, or drive tenÌęminutes to or 15 minutes to .

South Carolina

Wild Hope Farm (From $100)Ìę

Stake out a tent at , an organic farmstead situated 45 minutes south of Charlotte, North Carolina. Amble along oak-lined trails and fish aÌęten-acre pond that’s stocked with bass.

South Dakota

Whispering Winds Campsites (From $45)Ìę

The eight RV spots and tenÌęcottages at putÌęyou within easy reach of Black Hills favorites, like and the , the latter a monument to the Lakota leader that has been under construction since 1948.

Tennessee

On the Beech Treehouse (From $110)Ìę

Perched on the edge of a mossy cliff, this indoor-outdoor includes a covered deck and can sleep six people. Cook up a storm in the large outdoor kitchen, strollÌęto the privateÌę50-foot-tall waterfall, or visit one of eight state parks within a half-hour drive ofÌęthe property.

Texas

Sky Ranch Terlingua (From $20)Ìę

Just outside Big Bend National Park, this offers respite from the West Texas heat (and wind) and a private slice of desert. You’ll have a sturdy fire pit to go with a panorama that includes landforms like Nine Point Mesa, Camel’s Hump, Black Hill, Packsaddle Mountain, and Hen Egg Mountain.

Utah

Running Deer Tipi (From $70)Ìę

Thirty minutes from Bryce Canyon National Park and an hour from Zion National Park, boasts a 360-degree vista of red rocks and the Sevier River. Unlike bare-bones tepees, this one comes with an ozan, an interior awning that catches any water that may fall in through the smoke hole up top.

Vermont

SiloSide A-Frame (From $50)

If you book this charmingly rugged , be sure to snag the farm host’s $5 Garden Goody Basket, full of fresh herbs, greens, and vegetables. You can also rent aÌęcanoeÌęto paddle on nearby Harvey’s Lake, meander among the apple trees, or head over to Ìęto hike.

Virginia

Incredible Mountain Camping (From $35)Ìę

Although it has since returned to nature, the ten-site was once a bustling resort. Best for tents, it affords pedestrian access to a wooded lake for fishing, boating, and seasonal swimming.

Washington

Treehouse Place at Deer Ridge (From $225)Ìę

Follow a circuitousÌęboardwalk through the forest to find perched among the trees, complete with a kitchenette, fireplace, slipper tub, and spiral staircase leading to the loft, where floor-to-ceiling windows are a constant reminder that you’re in a treehouse. It’s just an hour north of Seattle and near plenty of day hikes.

West Virginia

Loafer’s Glory Wilderness Camp (From $85)Ìę

Set on a scenic bike route of the , also has access to the camp’sÌęown trails (and many more to be found in the greater area, too). You’ll get to play atÌęon-site fishing ponds,Ìęnearby swimming holes,Ìęmulti-pitch trad and sportÌęclimbing at Seneca Rocks—a world-class climbing destination just 30 miles north—and the adventure hot spot of Monongahela National Forest, 60 miles west.

Wisconsin

Sanctuary at Little Sand (From $87)Ìę

A self-described “eco-glamping” site, offers a snug canvas tent, a composting toilet, and a solar-powered shower. You’ll be within two miles of the beach at , on Lake Superior, and close to paddling and swimming at .

Wyoming

Japanese Cabin (From $150)Ìę

Bike, boat, fish, climb, windsurf, swim, and paddle whitewater within a small radius of the property. You might not want to leave. Overlooking the Bighorn Basin, has a cedar sauna, a wood-fired stove framed by geometric windows, and a traditional tub in addition to a separate wooden soaking bath.

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What exactly constitutes an adventure dress?ÌęIn short, it’s a technical, comfy one-piece that gets you ready for alpine starts and out of the house without a second thought. Outfitters like Columbia and Patagonia have long made casual frocks meant for traveling or lounging at camp. But more and more brands—includingÌęAthena Outdoors,Ìę,Ìę,ÌęandÌę—are focusing on high-performance dresses, skirts, and evenÌę. Companies such as have further expanded the market with down skirts for cold climates. Those designed for running and biking often feature built-in shorts, but options without those are perfectly suitable for (and in some cases better for) hiking and other low-intensity activities.

I’m on board. The humble adventure dress has been my best friend while trekking through rain-drenched mountains in New Zealand, tracing the rocky coast of southwestern Crete, and many places in between. (I’ve worn thin my ColumbiaÌę.) However, I know I’m not necessarily in the majority here. I have friends—șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű editors among them—who balk at the thought, wondering:ÌęWhy should we be expected to dress feminine even while we’re outdoors?

It’s easy to understand why women might fear that wearing something as traditionally feminine as a dress could communicate that we’re somehow lesser—not as strong or as skillful or as experienced. Debates still rage over whether female athletes should wearÌę. Outdoorswomen in particular can beÌępigeonholed as tomboys, a term that once referred to women whoÌę, such as working and voting. Sporty women have selected their position on the gender binary, we’re told, and must double down to be taken seriously. Amid the cocksure bravado of the adventure-sports world, fluidity is read as weakness. Dresses are certainly not taken as seriously as traditional sporting attire, despite their objectively positive attributes, like breathability and mobility.

Dresses (and, to a lesser extent, skirts) are cool and breezy during the summer and an easy piece toÌęlayer when temperatures drop. They’re excellent for the shoulder months and post-work hikes that turn into chilly after-dark missions. On a five-day road trip from New Mexico to California last summer, there was no question what I would wear. When my companions and IÌępassed an enticing swimming hole in the high desert of northeastern Nevada, I slipped into bikini bottoms in the parking lot and back out of them again afterward. That evening, when we rolled into camp 4,000 feet higher, it was convenient to throw on leggings before even erecting my tent. With the addition of a puffy, I was plenty warm for nighttime walks around the nearby alpine lake.

Supremely convertible, dresses are ideal for a wide range of outdoor activities when traveling with a limited wardrobe. Generally, I don’t care about looking presentable while I’m exploring. But it’s an undeniably convenient garment for transitioning from sweaty, mussed clothes into a restaurant-ready getup with a choice accessory or two that I’ve stashed in a car or backpack.

While sailing through Polynesia, for example, I found out the hard way that Tahitians tend to exhibit a lack of regard for traditional opening hours. One dayÌęwhile anchored in Haamene, a hurricane hole offÌęthe island of Tahaa, the only food availableÌęwas at an upscale French restaurant. I was grateful to have worn a quick-drying dress that looked decent, wet though it was from the ocean spray of motoring ashore in a dinghy. (My male companions were, predictably, sportingÌęthe sole outfits they wear on most occasions.)

I’m especially keen on dresses for air travel. Case in point: when boarding a plane in Bangkok to head back to the States after a month spent hiking through Thai jungles and kayaking past karst formations in Vietnam (my dress was perfectly suited for each of those activities, too), I couldn’t bring myself to don pants in the stifling humidity, even though I knew I would freeze as soon as the A/C blasted on. Fortunately, I always squirrel away a pair of leggings in my carry-on for when the cabin gets cold.

There are myriad other reasons to embrace the adventure dress. It covers your backside when you need to pee in the desert—every female hiker knows what it’s like to try to time a bathroom break before someone rounds the bend—and it protects you from the sun while your swimsuit dries out. Although few things are more pleasurable than basking on granite slabs after a polar plunge in the High Sierra, the dapples on my shoulders from years of sun exposure indicate that I should do otherwise. A sleeved, moisture-wicking dress is the easiest thing to toss on over a damp suit.

This is all to say that dresses have serious pragmatic advantages for the adventurous outdoorswoman, not least of which is peace of mind. There’s no fussing about mismatching a printed shirt with those trendy color-blocked leggings as you sprint out the door. Dresses streamline the decision-making process, one and done, and ready you for just about anything life could throw at you.

Then again, this may be what I’m trying to convince myself. Perhaps, ultimately, it just feels safer to wear a dress trailside than running shorts that inevitably ride up and expose my fleshy thighs. Being a female athlete is confusing. Women walk a tightrope of expectations located somewhere between what’s demanded of us and what we ourselves desire. Sometimes it’s difficult to unknot my own choices from the reactions that are sure to be elicited by them.

Bucking entrenched gender norms comes with its own constraints. In that respect, tearing it up in an adventure dress is the best way to flip the bird at the status quo. Wherever you land on the gender spectrum, rocking a dress can be a freeing experience, and it’s unfortunate that the stigma deters people from enjoying it. After all, immersing yourself in nature is a way to check social constructs at the trailhead. What you wear while doing so should enhanceÌęthat experience—not detract from it. I sayÌęwear whatever the hell you want to.

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When Vasu Sojitra was tenÌęyears old, he happened upon a fellowÌęone-legged skier on a bunny slope at Ìęin Connecticut. The stranger gave him some pointersÌęand was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. Sojitra, now 28, remembers the serendipitous moment almostÌęmythically. “Now that I look back, I don’t even know if this is real or if I was dreaming about it,” he says, laughing.Ìę

One thing is certain: watching a one-legged skier crush it (“he was doing great, you know, for a Connecticut skier”)Ìętaught Sojitra early on that it would be possible for him to excel outdoors, too. These daysÌęhe’s the first adaptive athlete on the North Face’s elite roster of sponsored outdoorspeople.ÌęA passionate backcountry skier, Sojitra was the first person to land a 720 on adaptive equipment. (He now uses custom titanium ski outriggers, having broken just about every piece of adjustable equipment he’s ever owned.) In 2014, he became the first amputee to summit theÌęGrand TetonÌęin WyomingÌęwithout a prosthetic limb.

Sojitra’s athletic feats have netted him a following of nearly 34,000Ìęon . He embraces the platform, postingÌęvideos of himself that get Ìęand discussing social and racial justice. There’s a quote from the late Ìęthat Sojitra loves: “Disability doesn’tÌęmake you exceptional, but questioning what you think you know about it does.” He’s a firm believer that it isn’t disability that holds people back—it’s the barriers and prejudices that others put up.

Though he was born in Connecticut, Sojitra lived in Gujarat, a state on the west coast of India, from age two to seven.ÌęWhen he was nine months old, a bacterial blood infection necessitated the amputation of his right legÌęjust below the hip. During his childhood years in India, he constantly broke and outgrew his prosthetic leg; his parents were alwaysÌęshipping it back to the U.S.Ìęfor repairs and replacements.Ìę

One day in the third grade, after the family had returned to Connecticut,ÌęSojitra’s prosthesis buckled beneath him. He bashed his face open on the corner of a deskÌęand was left bleeding into his hands in front of his classmates. After thatÌęhe swore off prostheses for good.

Sojitra dove stubbornly into sports as a teenager. When he was ten, he got a $15 purple skateboard from Walmart and learned to keep up with his brother—who was older by almost two yearsÌęand not an amputee. “I was just teaching myself all of these things,” Sojitra says. “No video out there teaches any kid with a disability how to do a trick or go skateboarding.”Ìę

He figured out how to ski and skate using standard forearm crutches in lieu of special adaptive equipment. The boys’ parents shuttled them to ski resorts in the winter, and Sojitra became so passionate about the sport that, after high school, he chose to attend the University of Vermont so he could continue to ski while earning a degree in mechanical engineering.Ìę

He interned with at Sugarbush Resort, then got a postcollegiateÌęjob at ,Ìęin Montana, which provides outdoor-recreation opportunities for people with disabilities and children with cancer. Sojitra currently works as the nonprofit’s adaptive-sports director, and he heads up the ski program.Ìę

But don’t assume his passion is teaching people with disabilities how to get down a snowy mountain. “This is not about skiing,” Sojitra says. “This is about building self-esteem and self-awarenessÌęand connecting the slight freedom that we might get from skiing to our daily lives.”

That philosophy has inspired Sojitra to focus on work for racial equity, too. In 2017, he helped launch , a collective that helps diverse outdoorsy people find friends and mentors in Montana, where he lives and works. The group coordinates hikes, climbing, sledding, anything—all that really matters is building a community to feel safe in. The organizationÌębecame a registered nonprofit last year.Ìę

InÌęDecember, Sojitra helped coordinate an ice-climbing clinic led by and for people of color at the annual Bozeman Ice Festival in Hyalite Canyon. He collaborated with Don Nguyen, founder of the western Washington nonprofit Climbers of Color, which promotes diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice in alpine climbing. Nguyen, who has been climbing for 20-odd years and guiding professionally since 2016, admits he had “never heard of anything like it.”

In an , Sojitra celebrated the accomplishment, which drew participants from across the country. “Who knew people of color ice climbed?”Ìęhe wrote, rhetorically. “We f$&king did!”

Sojitra’s advocacy is driven by the daily barrage of threats and racism he knows that people of color like him can expect in mountain towns likeÌęBozeman, which is 92 percent white. He has a complicated relationship with his adopted home. After all, Bozeman is where Sojitra jump-started his athletic career and honed his advocacy work. Parts of the community have welcomed him with open arms: he met renowned alpinist and longtime Bozemanite Conrad AnkerÌęat the climbing gym, through Eagle Mount connections. Anker, a North Face team captain at the time, was impressed and brought Sojitra into the fold as a sponsored skier in January 2018.Ìę

“He was optimisticÌęand very clear in who he is and what he talks about,” says Anker, who has since stepped down from the role of captain but continues to be involved with the brand. “There’s not a lot of social-media varnish to him—he’s pretty real.”

Sojitra knows that his outspokenness about racial and social justice can ruffle people’s feathers. He is undaunted, but he’s not immune to it: each morning, before leaving the house, he takes a quiet moment to “put on a shield, just to make sure that I’m staying vigilant.

“It’s a scary thing,” he says. “It’s a weird thing. A lot of people are not educated about racismÌęand how to talk about it, which is fine—but there’sÌęa lot of resources out there.”

, a fellow adaptive athleteÌęwith the North Face team, says Sojitra definitely “makes noise” with his advocacy. Though Sojitra technically inked the company’s first adaptive-athlete contract, he and Beck joined the team at around the same time in 2018.ÌęThey’ve helped each other navigate the new experience of being a professional athlete,Ìęwhich they say is complicated by having disabilities—and also byÌęthe fact thatÌęBeck is female and Sojitra is Indian-American.

In Sojitra’s , he’s grinning ear to ear. Hovering above the bottom frame, you can see the collar of his shirt, a traditional top from the Indian town of Upleta. “I figured it would be kind of a statement,” he says. “I like to disrupt complacency. Hopefully it works and helps create some sort of conversationÌęor action. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Whatever. I’ll keep trying.”Ìę

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As recent have opined, our globe-trotting ways are killing the planet. The proof is in the numbers: tourism has the of any industry in terms of energy consumption. While air travel has been at the forefront of recent discussions, lodging also has a significant carbon footprint. Globally, tourist accommodations account for of CO2 emissions, and hotels rank among the most energy-consuming buildings in the service sector, behind structures like hospitals.

According to a 2019 by the Global Sustainable Tourism Council (GSTC), 70 percent of global travelers would be more inclinedÌęto book eco-friendly accommodation. The industry seems to have taken the hint: are trending. But these days, it can be difficult to discern between environmentally friendly digs and those just trying to profit fromÌęthe craze. Globally, there are an estimated 250 to 300 entities that claim to certify tourist accommodations as sustainable. They vary in reputation and offer somewhere in the ballpark of 8,000—yes, 8,000—certifications, many of them meaningless.Ìę

Take the , for example. To the uninitiated, its endorsement seems to be a legitimate seal of approval. But dig a little deeper and you’ll discover that the organization does not certify establishments or even require that members adhere to any standards—science backed or otherwise. Rather, it’s a marketing operation that lists accommodations on its website in exchange for an annual fee, starting at $201. The association distributes newsletters to its members featuringÌęideas and advice thatÌęrangesÌęfrom the rudimentary, such as enforcing smoke-free rooms, to the downright false: “liveÌępotted plants keep air healthier,” its website reads, a claim which has been by scientists. The GHA then uses its member directory essentially as a distribution list to shill products, like , and sell merchandise (flags reading “A ‘Green Hotel’ Committed to Help Save Our Planet” go for $68 a pop).

So how can you tell if a hotel is just stamping a feel-good leaf on its literature or if it’s actually taking steps toward sustainability? We’ve consulted the experts on the questions you should be asking to make sure you’re putting your dollars in the right place.

Is it certified as sustainable by a reputable organization?

Gregory Miller, executive director ofÌętheÌę, a research group based in Washington, D.C., tells travelers to look for the Global Sustainable Tourism CouncilÌęlogo on hotel websites. The organizationÌępublishes minimum for the travel industry that account not only for environmental aspects, such as energy and water conservation, but cultural considerations as well, including the protection of sensitive or meaningful sites. While the nonprofit does not certify hotels itself, it verifies that the standards used by third-party certification bodies, such as and , do evaluate whetherÌęhotels comply with GSTC criteria. ItsÌęicon, aÌę fashioned out of an infinity symbol, seen on a hotel or certification agency’s website, is an easy way to identify businesses that have been through a rigorous vetting process.Ìę

The website is another great resource for finding reputably certified hotels. It aggregates lodging options that have been verified by a variety of organizations, such as ÌęandÌęÌę(which have good reputations but are not yet GSTC certified) and other GSTC-vetted organizations like and . Book Different that all certifying bodies listed on its website perform in-person audits. ThenÌęBook Different applies its own labels to hotel listings, which it terms “staygreen checks.” The site’s “staygreen” indicators—kelly-green check-mark icons that show up next to each listing—are based on four tenets: long-term management plans, fair interaction with the local community and employees, cultural sensitivity, and, of course, environmental concerns. Hotels can be awarded checks for any or all of those categories.

What is its carbon footprint?

It’s not yet standard for eco-lodges to list their carbon footprint, so it’s a good sign when they doÌęand indicates a strong level of accountability. Alongside filters for basic amenities such as parking or breakfast, Book Different provides carbon-footprint scores usingÌęaÌę developed at Breda University of Applied Sciences’ Ìęin the Netherlands. It yields an estimated value based onÌęthe amount of direct greenhouse-gas emissions—the CO2 released by any machines owned or controlled by the hotel.

As far as interpreting the score, Randy Durband, CEO of the GSTC, says that going carbon neutral—when there’s no net release of human-caused CO2—is what hotels should be striving to achieve. While hotels that fit the bill do exist, including the in Amsterdam and the in Aruba, the industry at large is playing catchup with the . Book Different employs an easy-to-spot green foot icon for businesses that emit less thanÌę33 pounds of CO2 per guest per night, which it deems the average hotel output. It uses a gray foot icon for anything greater than that.Ìę

Paul Peeters, a professor at Breda, stresses the urgent need to decarbonize the industry while starting with a more realistic baseline figure: for the current state of the industry, he suggests that 50 pounds of CO2 a nightÌęper guestÌęis reasonable. But he thinks eco-lodges can—and should—strive for close to zero, using only renewable energy such as wind or solar.

How were locals consulted?Ìę

The GSTC’s Miller recommends seeking hotels that have addressed social considerations as well as environmental ones. In addition to the obvious positive effects of enhancing cultural heritage and economically benefiting the area’s existing community, involving locals is a good way to mitigate immediate environmental problems. People who live and work in the surrounding areas are the experts in its history of land use and speak up about issues like water and noise pollution, the disruption of ecosystems, and potential stresses on the community from overtourism.Ìę

It should go without saying that a hotel should never jeopardize local resources, and that its acquisition of land and water should comply with local rights. Some other signs to look for are whether a hotel has contributed to necessary infrastructure to handle additional tourists; whether its employees, including managers, are from the resident population;Ìęand if it prioritizes local and fair-trade products. In short, lodges and their neighbors should be equally excited to talk about what the business is adding to the community.

How does it conserve resources on a daily basis?Ìę

“Daily practices are essential,” Durband asserts. Despite all the resources that go into the construction phase, operational practices once a hotel is up and running—from cooking to housekeeping to overhead lighting in common areas— the vast majority of energy consumption during the property’s lifetime.Ìę

Heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning (HVAC) systems are particularly important as they’re the greatest carbon emitters. Lighting and hot water also of wasted energy. Ask if efficient appliances have been installed and whether they’re regularly serviced for optimal performance.Ìę

Likewise, protocol should be in place for both guests and staff to reduce energy consumption. For example, hotels can set up automated systems to turn off lights and HVAC systems when guest rooms are unoccupied. Alternatively, the housekeeping checklist can include a peek at the thermostat to ensure it’s set at a reasonable temperature while no one is thereÌęand to turn off the lights when they’re through.Ìę

It’s worth noting, though, that even when sustainable policies exist on paper, practices can vary across different green markers. “Hotels may operate very sustainably in certain aspects and do poorly on others,” Durband says. For example, they might use motion detectors and other energy-savings devices and processesÌębut make little effort to minimize the use of plastics. Others may make false claims, such as saying, “We won’t wash your towel if you hang it on the rack,” only to haveÌęhousekeeping staff put it through the laundry anyway despite the guest following the printed instructions.

Theoretically, hotels should be able to show you records of staff-education sessions and training materials. In practice, however, the easiest way to find out is to simply ask hotel staff. All of an organization’s employees should be able to tell you the last thing they did to meet the hotel’s sustainability goals—whether it’s waiting to run the dishwasher until it’s full or diverting food scraps to the compost—and why it matters.Ìę

What is its long-term sustainability plan?Ìę

According to Miller, a deliberate, demonstrated commitment to long-term sustainability is perhaps the most significant indication. While short-term practices, such as replacing small shampoo bottles with bulk containers, are important, look for more permanent investments,Ìęlike locally sourced, rapidly renewable building materials (such as cotton and bamboo)Ìęthat allow for passive heating and cooling. These design features may be more expensive for properties up frontÌębut actually end up saving them money in the long runÌęand are less easily reversed according to the whims of management.Ìę

Sustainability is an ever evolving project. If nothing else, hotels should have a thoughtful, written plan for enacting their environmentalÌęgoals. This document should lay out precisely when staff training sessions occurÌęand how they go,Ìęas well as when and how regularly resource audits happen, including what benchmarks are used. As Miller notes, “Environmental sustainability is hard, committed work.”

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It’s standard practice when writing about people with disabilities to use person-first language: “a person with a disability” is preferable to “a disabled person.” Proponents argue that it prioritizes the subject’s humanity over their condition.Ìę

disagrees.

“It inherently implies that being a person means being able-bodied, or we wouldn’t need the additional descriptor,” Nagakyrie explains. “People don’t use the term ‘person with abilities’ to describe able-bodied people.” The 37-year-old disability advocate, who uses the pronouns they or them, refers to themself as a disabled person.Ìę

Nagakyrie is the nature lover behind , a website that publishes free online trail guides tailored for the disabled community. A freelance writer and community organizer of 15 years, Nagakyrie has long, loosely curled brown hair and a gentle demeanor. As a child, they were diagnosed with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a relatively rare connective-tissue disorder that causes frequent joint dislocations and chronic pain. They’ve dislocated almost every major joint in their body—manyÌęmore than once. Nagakyrie also has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, a condition that causes dizziness and fatigue when standing up from a reclining position, among other symptoms. Combined, these things make attempting the average trail feel like “one long trip of pain and frustration, second-guessing myself and my abilities,” they say.Ìę

Nagakyrie has found solace in nature since they were a child, observing flora and fauna in their family’s yard, but it wasn’t until their teens or early twenties that they really started exploring what their body could and couldn’t do in the outdoors. But there was a lack of infrastructure for the disabled community. “Being on a trail meant for able-bodied people reminds me that my experience is of less importance,” says Nagakyrie.

There are lots of straightforward worries—How exposed is the trail? What’s the grade? Are there any crossings? How slick are they? Is there cell service in case of an accident? And then there are the complex emotions that come with the territory. “Sometimes I’m afraid of getting stuck: reaching a place in the trail where I won’t be able to continue forwardÌębut turning around would be equally difficult,” says Nagakyrie, who experiences anxiety and depression as well. “I often berate myself, wondering why I can’t do this when people are passing by me with no problem.”

Nagakyrie, who is mostly able to walk unaided but sometimes uses a sleek green cane (or more rarely a wheelchair), has long been vexed by the lack of nuanced information available about trails. Physically and mentally disabled people, as well as those with chronic illnesses—people who arguably need nature even more than the able-bodied community—are precluded from outdoor recreation because they don’t know what to expect. Hours of research before hitting the trail still often doesn’t solve the problem. “Short of a trail saying it’s ADA accessible and paved, that’s the only accessibility information that’s out there for trails,” says Nagakyrie. “A,Ìęit’s not always true. B,Ìęit’s not always accurate or helpful for people.”Ìę

Even so-called accessibleÌętrails present physical challenges that the able-bodied might never consider, such as bumpy boardwalks, inaccessible parking areas, and visual barriers at sitting height (let alone the dearth of signage and interpretive programs for people with visual, aural, and other impairments). Things that are ostensibly trivial to the able-bodied, such as the size of gravel bits, can be a determining factor forÌęa trail’sÌęaccessibility with a wheelchair or rolling walker—but good luck finding that information ahead of time.

In Nagakyrie’s opinion, few parks excel at being truly accessible for the —that’s more than one in ten—who have disabilities. “Most parks and organizations that I speak with are open to hearing about changes that need to be made and are working on possible solutions, but change is very slow,” Nagakyrie says. Compared with the costs of constructing new facilities, merely providing detailed information about existing trails, campgrounds, park buildings, and other recreation sites would be a relatively quick way to start getting more disabled people outside. But even that’s rare.

In early 2018, Nagakyrie’s frustrations came to a head. A supposedly easy trail on the Olympic Peninsula, near their home in Forks, Washington, started out with steep stairs and a narrow path along a scree-filled drop-off edge, then branched off with no markers. Nagakyrie and their dog, Ranger, an elderly beagle–Jack Russell mix, eventually made it to a waterfall. Exhausted, Nagakyrie leaned on a bridge railing, observing the early-spring flow. “It was a light-filled moment where I said, ‘Why don’t I do something about this?’”

Disabled Hikers was born shortly thereafter with three goals: organizing group hikes, celebrating disabled people’s experiences in the wild, and facilitating those experiences by making specific information readily available. The organizationÌęmakesÌędetailed , of which there are currently 11Ìęwritten by Nagakyrie about destinations in the Pacific Northwest. The guides are intended for disabled people, but can also be useful forÌęa range ofÌępeople, like friends and family of disabled people, parents of young children, elderly people, and those with temporary injuries (although Nagakyrie notes that the experience of being injured temporarily is very different from that of the permanently disabled).Ìę

Nagakyrie also thinks broadlyÌęabout trail use when putting together guides. “I define a hikeÌęas anything that you’re doing outside—any form of movement—whether that’s moving in a chair, or walking, or biking,” they say. To approximate the difficulty of hikes, Nagakyrie uses theÌę, a rating system that accounts for the limited energy reserves that disabled people have to ration. The guides weigh potential hurdles versus the regenerative potential of an outing; a beautiful vista, for example, could be worth the exertion, even if it means you have to spend the next day or two recuperating in bed. “I can’t decide for someone how difficult the trail will be for them,” Nagakyrie says. “Only they can do that. That’s why I try to provide as much information as I do.”

At present, Nagakyrie is the sole person working on the back end of the site. They from those in the disabled community as well as behind-the-scenes help from peopleÌęwho aren’t disabled. The website’s blog component, Tales from the Trails, is the foundation for a more sophisticated community forum that Nagakyrie would like to build out. It currently features post, about an accessible cabin in Wisconsin’s Blue Mound State Park, written by a couple from the state.Ìę

Although the website is somewhat limited—Nagakyrie maintains the site for free, but we’ll get to that later—Nagakyrie has plans for more diverse offerings. They hope to expand the trail-guide library to a national scale and create PDF guides to distribute to other organizations. They’re chipping away at a proposal for a guidebook, as well as curating all the online research that’s already available from other websites into a sort of e-book, to make researching trails easier. On the ground, they give presentations and work with local groups, like the Washington Trails Association, and Olympic National Park to enact change. This summer, for example, Nagakryie convinced the National Park Service to widenÌęthe pedestrian entrance toÌęOlympic Hot Springs Road, which will allow people who use wheeled mobility devices to access the area. Nagakyrie is also developing an ambassador program, which would train chronically ill and disabled folks from throughout the U.S. to lead hikes, write guides, and do advocacy work in their own communities.Ìę

Nonprofits like , which creates partnership opportunities to help disabled people get outside, andÌęadaptive groups, such as ÌęandÌę,Ìęalready exist around the country, but they’re predicated on able-bodied people assisting the disabled. Disabled Hikers is—in addition to being a disabled-led organization—a resource that helps disabled people get outside independently.

On the Olympic Peninsula, Nagakyrie coordinates group outings and leads private hikes on a donation basis, a service that’s less rare but equally valuable. (If outings are farther afield, they request compensation to cover expenses.) “This is really important,” says Sadaf Hussain, a 48-year-old retired physician from Seattle who has done one guided and one group hikeÌęwith Nagakyrie so far. “Disabled people often cannot work, or only work part-time, and have limited resources to be able to hire an experienced guide that can provide you with the confidence and support needed to be on the trails.”Ìę

Hussain says she was ecstatic to discover Disabled Hikers. Multiple autoimmune diseases, including neuro-sarcoidosis and autonomic dysfunction, have left her unable to venture out alone, even though she considers nature part of her treatment plan. “I often feel guilty when I hike with my healthier, active friends, as they would need to stop frequently for me. So I stopped asking them to join me on hikes,” Hussain says. “Syren has eliminated any reservations or guilt I may experience in slowing others down, because the group hikes as fast as the slowest hiker. When one person rests, we all rest.”

Nagakyrie goes out of their way to be inclusive, noting Native land names and adding descriptive captions to help screen readers pick up on informative text; one reads, “The rectangular photo captures the scene at an angle. Aqua blue water flows between a moss covered rock wall on one side and rounded rocks on the other. There is a small waterfall in the background.” It’s an intersectional approach informed in part by their own identity: a queer, disabled person from a working-class background. This acknowledgement of diversity has proven beneficial not just in their work but in their personal life, too. “Noticing the diversity in nature—and the ways in which all beings have a place—has been healing for me,” they say.

Nagakyrie is still recovering from a series of traumatic events that unfolded a few years ago. In the spring of 2016, their younger sister, the middle child of three, died suddenly from disability-related causes, an experience Nagakyrie describes as “absolutely devastating.” Six months later, a knee injury left them unable to walk for a time. The circumstances enabled Nagakyrie’s increasingly abusive husband to become physical. Nagakyrie knew they needed to get out. After a drawn-out separation process, the two eventually divorced in 2017, a few years into their marriage. Left without a stable place to live, Nagakyrie bounced around before landing in Forks that autumn.Ìę

Through all of it, Nagakyrie says that nature felt like a place to come home. At one point, they lived near the waterfalls of the Columbia River Gorge, on the Washington-Oregon border. “I would just kind of sit, and relax, and breathe,” they say. Around the same time, Nagakyrie started a Patreon page to help crowdfund their community work, which also includes volunteering with their local land trust, organizing grief circles, and other projects. Their disabilities prevent them from full-time work, and it can be tough to get by livingÌęalone in a rural area. “It was the first time I had really asked for financial support from my work, and since then, it’s been
” They give a big sigh. “It’s been challenging.”

Nagakyrie says people push back on social media about accessibility work: “You want us to pave over the wilderness just so a few people who use wheelchairs can see it?” Strangers quibble about how a disabled person can lead hikes, to which Nagakyrie explains, “Just because I could hike a moderate trail one day doesn’t mean I’m not disabled, and it doesn’t mean I’ll be able to do it again tomorrow.” Some people ask how Nagakyrie can spend so much time on Disabled Hikers. “The truth is, it comes at a huge cost,” Nagakyrie wrote in one . “But that doesn’t mean the work isn’t important.”

Nagakyrie has a love-hate relationship with social media that extends beyond the trolls. While Nagakyrie recognizes the value of using and as community-organizing tools, much of their frustration with the outdoor community stems from these platforms. They find that social media tends to perpetuate ableism—even, somehow, when the subject of a post is disabled. Nagakyrie is tired of hearing about “how inspired [able-bodied people] are to ‘live their best life’ and stop making excuses for themselves about climbing the next 14,000–foot peak,” they say. “That is an experience that is entirely inaccessible to a great many disabled people, and using our everyday lives as inspiration to do the epitome of able-bodied privilege is very frustrating.”

Nagakyrie rails against what they refer to as “inspiration porn,” those viral, feel-good videos that do little to advance the ball.Ìę

“I hear a lot of ‘the only disability in life is a bad attitude,’ and that is just not true,” they say. “The only disability in life is a society that is inherently ableist in an inaccessible world.”

The post A New șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Guide for People with Disabilities appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

When our 38-foot sloop approached at dawn one September morning, more than 200 miles from the nearest speck of land, we’d been staring down squalls on the South Pacific for five days and nights. We hadn’t seen a soul since departing from Bora Bora 800 miles ago, but we knew we were close when we noticed the phrase “Kiss My Arse Rock”Ìęon the chart plotter.

I had jumped on Serena three weeks earlier to help my dad, a seasoned amateur sailor, crew a zigzagging passage of roughly 1,500 miles from French Polynesia’s Society Islands to Tonga. Joined by a third crewmate, Mason, an olive-skinned 22-year-old, weÌędecided to make Palmerston our stopover in the Cook Islands, based on the hearty recommendation of two fellow California sailors we’d befriended. Per our cruising manual’s instructions, we had e-mailed our potential host, Edward John Dick Marsters, and quickly heard back that we would be welcome—especially if we brought tobacco.

Now, as we near the barrier reef encircling the atoll, an outboard-powered aluminum skiff approaches, carrying three middle-aged men. A sturdy islander clad in a rust-colored Budweiser tee and Lilliputian purple shorts guides the dinghy close. He helps us tie onto a mooring ball anchored on the coral shelf before introducing himself as Edward Marsters, chief of police.

Ed and his brother, Goodley Marsters—Palmerston’s agricultural inspector—stay aboard the dinghy, fending it off Serena’s carbon hull, while the customs officer, Arthur Neale, boards our vessel. Ed winces slightly as he gingerly flexes a knee. “Too much judo,” he explains through a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache.

Arthur is a sprightly sailor who turns out to be the son of a Palmerston woman and Tom Neale, a now deceased Kiwi known for living as a hermit on the Cook Island of Suwarrow, just to the north. He sits cross-legged on the deck, carefully pinning down our documents so they don’t flutter away as he scribbles on the immigration forms.

The shallow channel through the reef is impassable for yachts, so my dad, Mason, and I are invited into the skiff to go ashore. The men from Palmerston chivalrously use a life jacket to protect me from spray as we navigate the waves roiling over the rocks.ÌęA series of anchored sticks guide Ed through the deepest part of the pass, but I get the sense that any of these men could find their way through with their eyes shut. Though the wind must be blowing at more than 20 miles per hour, Ed pauses, and the five of us watch him roll a cigarette.

Looking back over his shoulder at Serena bouncing on her tether just outside the surf, my dad asks how often the winds turn westerly—a potential catastrophe, since the only moorings are on the west side of the reef. “When they turn west,” Ed deadpans. This is a place where the traditional advice for cyclones is to lash yourself to a coconut tree on Refuge Hill, the island’s high point at just under 20 feet.

Safely inside the lagoon, we clamber out, splashing ankle-deep into warm, limpid water. Dad and Arthur help Ed drag the boat ashore as Mason, who’s been nursing some kind of infected insect bite on his knee, hobbles in behind me. We follow Ed across the sand, studded with sharp fragments of coral, and into the trees to his brother’s house.

Nearly 2,000 miles northeast of New Zealand, Palmerston is 500 miles away from the Cook Islands’Ìęcapital and main population center, Rarotonga.ÌęThe atoll has no airport or any commercial service by sea, but if you can get there, the islanders are happy to host visitors, usually in exchange for gear likeÌęnautical hardware and rope. Most cruisers bypass it in lieu of the Cooks’ southern group, since there are no suppliesÌęfor sale here. Nevertheless, Palmerston gets several hundred visitors each year, during a dry season that lasts from May through October. Often relegated to in guidebooks, Palmerston is known more for its unusual human history than its natural beauty, but it has plenty of both.

In the early 1860s, an English itinerant named William Masters arrived on the island, part of a wave of European missionaries and traders who flocked to Polynesia in the 19th century. Although the Cooks became a British protectorate in 1888 and were eventually annexed by the colony of New Zealand in 1900, the archipelago was politically sovereign when Masters was sent there by an employer to plant palm trees for copra, a form of dried coconut from which oil can be extracted.

Masters had left England for the American goldfields in his early twenties and spent the subsequent years plying the South Pacific, working jobs thought to range from carpenter to interpreter. He came to Palmerston by way of Penrhyn, an atoll in the northern group of the Cooks. There heÌęmarried a chief’s daughter named , whoÌęhe called Sarah. He brought her to Palmerston, as well as her cousin, Tepou, who is recognized as his second spouse, though Masters had previously fathered children with a third woman from PenrhynÌęnamed Arehata. Between those three and his third official Polynesian wife, a Penrhyn native named Matavia, Masters sired 23 children. (He also sired several before leaving England.) TodayÌęalmost everyone on Palmerston can trace their roots back to Masters, with some influx from other islands.

While polygamy was not unusual in Polynesian cultures, Palmerston’s history is unique. Even on Pitcairn—the isle between French Polynesia and Easter Island that was famously settled by the mutinous crew of the Bounty in 1790—at least four original families have yielded its present-day population of about 50.

Masters was well suited to being a patriarch. Known to this day as “Father” by his distant descendants, he instituted marriage policies and other forward-thinking practices that are still in effect, like an annual bosun bird hunt, his take on the Cooks’ traditional °ùČč’uŸ± conservation culture. On the first Saturday of June, the islanders catch enough fowl to give each person exactly half a bird. Hunting the long-tailed white seabirds outside of this ritual is forbidden, a way of ensuring that healthy flocks exist in the future. Masters’s fears about food supplies were legitimate: despite his conservationist attitude, he died on Palmerston in 1899 from malnutrition, a fairly common fate at the time.

It’s difficult to understand why an expat would choose to live out his days in such a sequestered locale—until you go to Palmerston yourself. Windswept coconut trees arch over screen-saver-blue waters and bone-white sand. A ring of named but uninhabited auxiliary islets, called motu, complete a circuit around the seven-mile-long saltwater lagoon, shielding it from the open ocean that surrounds the atoll.

AllÌęof Palmerston’s residents live on Home Island, the largest in the atoll, which is less than a mile long. The three main maternal families retain their own areas (in addition to their own motu), with descendants of Masters’s first Polynesian wife, Akakaingaro, residing on the desirable interior.

Thanks to a combination of fishing, rainwater-catchment systems, and a solar generator, the community is largely self-reliant. But there are obvious downsides to this. Palmerston is far from modern medical facilities, and there are undercurrents of tensionÌęabout the costs of isolation. For years, industrious types from New Zealand have tried to build an airport on the atoll. Some balk at the suggestion, worried that another pristine environment will be polluted and overrun with tourists. But easier access to the outside world is a tempting proposition—especially in light of , which unduly affects low-slung island nations like the Cooks. An airstrip could be the lifeline Palmerston needs to get emergency support in the wake of a natural disaster.

It’s a double-edged sword: an airport would have the power to both shore up Palmerston’s greatest vulnerability and destroy the atoll as it currently exists.

Thick stands of coconut and mahogany trees shelter aÌęhome we're approaching from robust mid-Pacific gusts. Pigs and chickens wander freely under a green awning that appears to be an old parachute, supported by the aluminum mast of a ship that ran aground. The battered hull still rests near the beach.

Simon, Ed's older brother, is waiting for us, casually swinging a machete by his side. He’s shirtless, and a potbelly protrudes slightly over the top of skintight navy swim shorts. His pale, kindly eyes are striking against his dark complexion as he invites us to sit where a table is laid for lunch.

Simon’s adoptive adult daughter, Terupea, tends to his 88-year-old mother, Tuine, inside the house. She sits chairbound and mute while the rest of us settle at the table outside. Terupea’s husband, Will, a schoolteacher on the island, joins us. A shrewd Kiwi, he settled on Palmerston in 2015 to help a friend renovate a house. He’d already visited twice, both times en route to Suwarrow, having been inspired by Tom Neale’s 1966 memoir about his experiences roughing it in the Cooks, . Will married Terupea in 2018 and is now building them their own home on the north side of the island.

It’s warm but threatening to rain as we drink sweet tea and devour curried chicken with potatoes, peas, and green beans. Although the islanders grow a few crops in small quantities—they harvest starchy staples like taro and sweet potatoes and rely on trees for breadfruit and star fruit—the soil is poor, and most of what’s eaten comes from the sea. They fish for black jack and parrotfish, both crucial for sustenance. The latter is exported throughout the CooksÌęas well.

“We have more than enough fish for our own diets,” Will says, explaining that other islands’ lagoons are affected by , a naturally produced toxin that can render seafood inedible. “Demand for reef fish is insatiable in Rarotonga and Aitutaki.”

To supplement the Palmerston diet, they raise pigs and chickens, and a supply ship comes through every few months from Rarotonga,Ìęcarrying luxuries and goods like rice, sugar, and lamb from New Zealand.Ìę

As we eat, Will regales us with a story about visiting another island, Niue, after having been on Palmerston for months. Approaching it in a boat, he saw what he assumed were the glinting eyes of animals visible onshore. “I resolved that I would not make landfall until I figured out what they were,” he says. “Soon enough I realized they were cars! It had been so long since I had seen a car that initially it did not dawn upon me what I was looking at.”

Despite their remote location, our hosts are able to keep up with current affairs abroad via Wi-Fi. The Cooks are politically associated with New Zealand, meaning that Cook Islanders are automatically granted Kiwi citizenship and can move freely back and forth. Many of the young adults on Palmerston, like Ed’s son David,Ìęhave lived in New Zealand to work for a while before returning home.

Aside from exports, government jobs are the primary source of income on Palmerston. Three family heads and an equal number of deputies form the Island Council, the local governing body. The national government also compensates Ed for his duties as the constable, for example, and Arthur for his customs work.

I ask Arthur, a New Zealand national who’s lived on Palmerston since 2009, how he wound up here. “Like everyone else,” he replies. “By boat.”

After lunch, David gives the three of us a leisurely tour. Ambling past the crude structures that line the main street of the village, we learn that his family is descended from Tepou, Father’s second wife. He points out a sandy graveyard, where nearly every tombstone is inscribed with the surname Marsters. (The rÌęis a phonetic addition derived from Masters’s rural English accent, which you can still hear reflected in the of some words.)Ìę

Peering at Father’s grave, I see his death date and age, 78—though that figureÌęis thought to be off by as many as 11 years—followed by an inscription in Maori and one in English: “Blessed are the dead which die in the lord.” What’s not included is the rest of the biblical passage. “That they may rest from their labours,” it goes, “and their works do follow them.”

The next morning at nine, Ed comes out to Serena, where we’ve spent the night, to ferry us back for the most important social event on the island: church. Nearly every one of Palmerston’s 35 residents is in attendance. Ed is looking dapper in gray slacks and a matching button-down—but no shoes.

Following an hourlong Protestant service with roof-rattling hymns in both English and Maori, we return to Simon’s and feast on grilled lamb and potato salad before convening in the shade in front of Ed’s house, 100 feet away. I notice that one of the cracked plastic chairs is braced with a scrap of plywood.

“It’s a day to rest,” Ed says, as a fuzzy replay of last night’s All Blacks rugby match blares from a television inside. Two Union Jacks hang by the TV.Ìę

By this point, Mason’s knee is so swollen that it’s shiny, and he can barely bend it. Though it’s the Sabbath—no one isÌęeven supposed to swim on Sundays—Ed phones the island nurse, Sheila, who makes an exception and does a house call. She declares it a boil and administers antibioticsÌęfree of charge.

The prospect of more convenient health care is a bargaining chip that’s long been used by proponents of the airport. Still, the islanders have historically vetoed development. Only one dissenter is necessary to halt the project, and last time around, about a decade ago, one of the families voted against it: Ed and Simon’s. Ed told me their mother had gestured skyward and said, “Doctors do not hold my life. God does.”

Located on one of the motu—the trees razed—the airstrip would desecrate Palmerston’s natural resources. “Think of the lagoon in one year,” Ed says, comparing the potential effects of tourist infrastructure to the rampant pollution in Rarotonga.Ìę

There are cultural reasons for rejecting development, too. The languorous island way of living would not—could not—exist as it does. “We would not be sitting here now,” says Ed, gesturing at our impromptu circle. According to him, he was largely thinking of future generations when he opposed the airstrip. “But if my great-grandchild wants it
”Ìę

But Ed is losing ground. Despite the fact that South Pacific countries like the Cook Islands account for less than 1Ìępercent of our planet’s greenhouse-gas emissions, even faster in the Cooks than the worldwide average. The —a detriment to coral reefs and the sea life they support—and , undermining traditional farming and water-capture practices. Meanwhile, cyclones, which can not only damage infrastructure but also erode invaluable land via storm surges and flooding, are predicted to decrease in quantity but worsen in severity, facts that are all the more troubling when you’re as far from aid as Palmerston is.Ìę

Tropical hurricanes have hit Palmerston as recently as 2016, with really damaging ones occurring only a few times per century. The island just built a new cyclone shelter with funding from the Japanese government, but if a stormÌędoes hit hard, itÌęcould be back to ground zero.

On a national level, the Cooks are taking basic steps to preempt the effects of global warming, like in anticipation of droughts and to help fishermenÌęand farmers get reliable, real-time information. Although the United Nations Adaptation Fund has poured $5,381,600 into projects like this, it’s a small comfort when a major storm is bearing down on you and your family.

“Ease of access would greatly benefit the Palmerston people,” Will says. He understands each side of the debate, though. “The more we expose ourselves to the outside world, the more we have to worry.”

For Will, the biggest threat to Palmerston is reliance on modern conveniences. “We are slowly losing our traditional subsistence techniques,” he explains. “Climate change will affect food production elsewhere, and in the face of resulting unaffordable prices, we will have no resort but to return to our traditional basic agriculture and foraging. If we have lost those skills, then a remote atoll can be very unforgiving.”

When I ask him if he worries about more acutely destructive crises, like severe cyclones, he gets defensive. “It is very easy to sound like a propagandist when you are talking about climate change to someone who has no motor car and catches fish with a palm frond, including myself,” Will says. “It’s almost like, ‘Hi, guys, you need to do this and that,’ without the acknowledgement that it was not the people of Palmerston who stuffed the environment up.”

Ultimately, he concedes that Palmerston’s way of life is fragile. “We try not to worry about it,” he says, “but we realize our vulnerability.”

As long as there’s a vestige of nonconformity on the island—someone like Ed, who’s willing to do things his own way, for better or worse—daily life on Palmerston will remain much as Father experienced it. Until the last holdout caves, there’s little that can change the fate of the atoll. SoÌęfor now, we content ourselves on our wobbly plastic chairs, trying simply to enjoy the breeze as William Masters might have.

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Recently, over post-work drinks, one of our gear editors commented on my wristwatch. “It’s so small!” he said, marveling at its diminutive face. Whereas many of my colleagues wear the latest and greatest smartwatches—bulky, ostentatious displays of personal technology—I found myself compelled to defend my bijou timekeeper. It’s basic, and that’s exactly why I adore it. Whether I’m traveling abroad or just playing in my local mountain range in New Mexico, the Sangre de Cristos, it does everything I need it to do: it keeps me on timeÌęand in the moment.

The is the epitome of analog. It has a simple black silicone band and a single crownÌęfor adjusting the time. I’m not much of a runner, so I don’t mind that I can’t track splitsÌęor measure my distance. The 25-millimeter face doesn’t even have numbers—just notches for the hours and minutes. It’s water resistant, and the reliable ticking quartz movement has never failed me.

Though it costs just shy of $12, this watch has held up while rafting an underground river in New Zealand, scaling Mount Shasta, and sailing the South Pacific for five weeks. I’m not afraid to bang it up—not that it seems to show any sign of wear, anyway. I’m on my third Casio at this point, and only because I’ve lost the other two.Ìę

There are various options in this bargain-basement price range, like the men’s , which has a longer and wider strap and a larger face. TheÌęwomen’s versions tend to have smaller dials. For me, though, it’s perfect. The barely there size, minimalist interface, and durability meet my needs without a single superfluous feature. Some might consider me a Luddite, but zero distraction in this age of technological excess is the most valuable thing a piece of gear can provide.

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On a recent road trip through the southwest, my copilot mentioned an intriguing dining option. Located in the high desert of northwestern New Mexico, the restaurant featured a daily buffet of Chinese food, ice cream, and salad, with daily specialties rotating among Mexican or Navajo cuisine, BBQ, and meatloaf. Beside it sat a Subway. This microcosm of globalization at a small-town greasy spoon shows just how much our collective diet has shifted in the past century. Two new nonfiction books go long on the matter, taking us around the globe to examine how—and why—our eating habits have changed.

According to former șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű columnist , our food system is far from perfect. Although food prices have dropped, farms are more prolific,Ìęand fewer people suffer from chronic hunger, we now contend with excess: huge amounts of waste, overconsumption, and poorer nutrition. We rely on fewer, more concentrated factory farms that are detrimental to the environment. MeanwhileÌęour worldwide population is bursting—it could increase by a third by the midcentury mark—and climate projections suggest that crop yields could decline by 2 to 6 percent every decade.

SoÌęhow exactly will we get our meals in the future? For ($27, Harmony Books), Little roved the planet for three years asking that very question. The environmental journalist and professor at Vanderbilt UniversityÌęturns to a diverse set of innovators for answers, from cloud-seeding pilots in India to a lab-grown-meat start-up in Berkeley. She introduces us to researchers growing genetically modified corn in drought-stricken Kenya and a tech-savvy entrepreneur trying to keep up with China’s exploding demand for organic produce via remote crop tending. Little also interviews folks who look to established practices for inspiration, like a Virginia family intent on permaculture.

The author’s magazine-writing chops are evident. “Jorge Heraud is in a California lettuce field and he’s about to lose his mind,” begins one section about a Peruvian-born engineer attempting to perfect crop-weeding robots. Little flits smartly from one locale to the next, presenting a well-paced survey of various ways that farmers, scientists, and other thinkers are trying to keep up with our food requirements. Rather than providing a single answer to the question at hand, Little pulls back the curtain on potential game changers. Her anecdotal approach is more curious than critical—and the book is all the better for it.

A bit less compelling is ($30, Basic Books)Ìęby Bee Wilson. The British culinary writer and historian focuses on the transition from unique regional menus with unprocessed, locally grown ingredients to a globally homogenous diet heavy in packaged snacks and calorie-laden beverages. (Hello, Starbucks.)ÌęIn many wealthy nations, staple carbohydrates like bread andÌęrice make up a smaller portion of meals, while ingredients once considered splurges, like chicken, oil, and sugar, are on the rise. While she’s not blind to the fact that the obesity epidemic is a systemic problem—for many people, unhealthy food is simply the more economical option—she harps on the fact that more traditional eating habits would benefit our health, whether it’s smaller portions, more natural ingredients, or the ritual of carving out an hour to eat lunch socially. If that sounds obvious, that’s because it is.

Wilson’s ability to dive past the superficial into a more ambitious argument is stymied by the wide scope of her book. She falls into the trap that Little deftly avoids: in attempting to generalize about nearly 8 billion people, Wilson bites off more than she can chew. Positing that “marketing has created new snacking habits all over Asia,” Wilson pinpoints a dramatic Chinese shift toward snacking that began in 2004 as well as the rise of Frito-Lay chips in Thailand in the early aughts. These two examples are certainly noteworthy, but they hardly seem like definitive proof for such a broad statement. Likewise, Wilson claims that “what’s happening now with savory snacks in Asia happened in Western Europe in the 1980s,” pointing to a single 1985 report from Great Britain. Focusing on one culture—hell, even one continent—would yield a more fruitful discussion.

That said, The Way We Eat Now is worth a read for several reasons. First, it’s laced with interesting tidbits. (Did you know bananas are grown in geothermally heated hothouses in Iceland, for example, or that almost all the bananas we eat are a single, bland, monopoly variety, ?) And though Wilson spends too much time explaining how things are instead of what we should do about it, she does provide some valuable background information to explain how we got here. The fact that junk food has proliferated won’t surprise any traveler who’s seen beaches and rain gutters in disparate countries littered with the same detritus: Doritos bags, plastic Coke bottles, McDonald’s wrappers. But I wasn’t aware of the extent to which multinational conglomerates market to even the smallest villages. NestlĂ©, for instance, sends saleswomen door-to-door in Brazil. Ultimately, Wilson does what a historian should do: help us understand the status quo, which is a step toward plotting a better course forward.

Considered as a pair, The Way We Eat Now and The Fate of Food are perfectly complementary. While the former contextualizes the world in which we live, the latter looks to what lies ahead, providing hope if not a definite conclusion.

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