ā€œHow does our relationship with the outdoors define us as individualsā€”and as a nation?ā€ As a storyteller and an environmentalist, Iā€™ve been running after this question for the better part of 20 years. As an African American, Iā€™ve been exploring this relationship my whole life. So I was excited to hear it posed by Black writer and activist Baratunde Thurston at the beginning of the new six-part series heā€™s hosting . (The first episode premieres tonight, Tuesday, July 5, at 9 p.m. Eastern.) As Thurston told me during a phone interview, his aim with this show is to create ā€œa more holistic version of the story of being American.ā€ He does this by traveling to diverse landscapes across the U.S., from West Virginia to Los Angeles, and talking to the people he meets there. The show allows viewers to become armchair travelers who can see and learn about the history and complexity of our outdoor spaces without ever having to pack a bag. ā€œI feel small and I feel lucky to be a part of all this,ā€ Thurston says at the end of the first episode, looking out at Death Valleyā€™s vast desert from a lawn chair in front of his RV. ā€œNo doubt,ā€ I say while watching, nodding vigorously in agreement.

America Outdoors is one of a growing number of travel shows attempting to shift how we talk about nature and our relationship to it, and to change who we trust to tell us those stories. Refreshingly, it allows Thurston to color (pun intended) the conversation with commentary about race, gender, ablelism, and other forms of difference, to remind us that there is no singular experience of nature that takes precedence. In the first episode, while visiting Death Valley, he meets Mosi Smith, an African-American ultrarunner. ā€œThe outdoors is supposed to be a place where we all belong,ā€ Thurston says. ā€œBut thatā€™s not always the case for many of us.ā€ Thurston and Smith discuss Ahmaud Arbery, the 25-year-old Black man who was shot to death in 2020 while jogging in Glynn County, Georgia. ā€œI canā€™t go out the door without thinking about that,ā€ says Smith, whoā€™s run the 135-mile Badwater Ultramarathon multiple times. But, he says, ā€œI refuse to let outside things dictate my joy.ā€ In one short scene between two Black men, the show highlights our countryā€™s legacy of racism and how itā€™s experienced today, including in the outdoors.

Youā€™ll need to put on your metaphorical hiking shoes because Mr. Thurston covers a lot of ground, geographically and topically, in this series. He slogs through the Great Dismal Swamp in southeastern Virginia with archeologist Dan Sayers and rides a kayak in the New River Gorge National Park with Eric Thompson, a parapelegic rafting guide who talks passionately about accessibility and adaptation in the outdoors. While visiting Appalachia, Thurston meets Jennifer Pharr Davis, who has hiked the entire Appalachian Trail three times. They talk about how she has been slighted and underestimated because of her gender. Initially, she hoped to set the record for the fastest woman ever to hike the AT, not even thinking it possible for her to break the male record. ā€œI told myself that what I do wonā€™t be as good as what the guys did,ā€ she says. Her greatest challenge, it turned out, was her own limited thinking. In 2011, on her third AT hike, she broke the trailā€™s overall supported speed record, becoming the fastest person of any gender to complete it. (Her record has since been broken.)

Thanks to Thurston, the show does an exemplary job of elevating the stories of others on their own terms, not simply as an extractive exercise or an attempt at virtue-signaling. This is not an easy task, but Thurston, who is an accomplished writer, pundit, and comedian, is no stranger to engaging diverse audiences. He leans into his role as transmitter and translator with confidence and joy, bringing a degree of earnestness and respect to every encounter. This is on display when he meets up with a Timbisha Shoshone elder and activist in Death Valley and an Anishinaabe couple in northern Minnesota. At a time when some have questioned the authenticity of land acknowledgements on social media and elsewhere, their stories felt genuinely presented. The show emphasizes the importance of engaging with each other, listening, and being curious.

Thurstonā€™s visit to Los Angeles may be my favorite episode. In L.A., Thurston acknowledges the challenge of seeing urban spaces as part of nature, while also addressing how the cityā€™s racial and economic disparities are reflected in its greenery. He speaks with Black surfers from , an organization that offers free surf lessons to people of color, and then visits a community garden where he interviews Florence Nishita, a Japanese-American woman who speaks about her love for gardening and shares the scars her family carries because of their experience in Japanese internment camps during World War II.

His journey continues when he meets with previously incarcerated men and women of various ethnic and racial backgrounds who have become firefighters. Thurston talks about the practice of using incarcerated people to fight the wildfires that ravage California every year, but this story isnā€™t about the prison industrial complex. Itā€™s about the passion these men and women feel for firefighting, and their willingness to risk their lives. Itā€™s hard to ignore, though, that these firefighters are up against a system that resists giving people a second chance once theyā€™ve been in jail. The show seems to say that redemption is real and possible. But I wonder if we are ready to make the necessary changes that redemption requires?

Itā€™s hard to talk about these kinds of sensitive subjects without potentially alienating people. I can attest to thisā€”in my own work, I have engaged with hundreds of organizations, institutions, and community groups who invite me to talk about our complex and complicated relationships with nature in the U.S. How do you bring up hard truths in a way that is discerning but not judgmental? That doesnā€™t shy away from what is difficult, but is generous in meeting people where they are, so that they can make that leap to ā€œget outside their comfort zones,ā€ as Thurston suggests, and ultimately change and adapt?

America Outdoors doesnā€™t always go as deep as it could when exploring issues on the show like climate change, racism, and economic disparity. Whether talking about xenophobia in Idaho or the loss of jobs in West Virginia, the conversations sometimes only scratch the surface of the hurt, fear, pain, and resistance to change that so many of us contend with. I also wanted to know more about what Thurston was actually feeling during those conversations. When I asked him about this, he revealed that his personal journey did not always make the final cut. Thurston told me that his most significant moment came during a visit to the Great Dismal Swamp, which was a refuge for fugitive enslaved people for more than 200 years. While contemplating this place and its history, he says, he ā€œfell down to his knees and just weptā€¦out of a sense of awe.ā€

Skimming over those moments was a missed opportunity, perhaps, because for an audience to change their minds, they must be willing to feel uncomfortable while addressing the hard questions. I understand that America Outdoors is a television show, and part of its mandate is to entertain. Yet I canā€™t help thinking that true change comes when we feel something. Only then can we address the inherent biases that we all possess.

But all journeys have a beginning, and America Outdoors gives its viewers a free ticket to take that first step. ā€œI have tasted transformation,ā€ Thurston says. ā€œI want that for more people.ā€ I believe him. He and his team have created a new breed of nature show, one that highlights, as Thurston puts it, that ā€œweā€™re all connected.ā€ And it does so with honesty and a commitment to telling a good story.

As it happens, this show is not the only one venturing into new territory: at least one other new series about the outdoors with a nonwhite host is coming our way: , featuring Christian Cooper, who was infamously accosted in Central Park by a white dog owner named Amy Cooper. But we still have work to do: while both series have Black hosts, both are men. How might the viewpoint of these series be further expanded and transformed by challenging who has authority to instill public trust and tell a good story? Thurston said it best: we need ā€œto get light shining on the same lessons from different anglesā€ in order to illuminate and liberate us all.

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Thereā€™s a personal story Iā€™ve told many times about myĀ experience of being African American in the great outdoors.Ā 

Back in the late 1990ā€™s I used to live in Bellingham, Washington. One afternoon, I went with a couple of (white) friends on a hike up Mt. Baker. It was a typically overcast day in the Pacific Northwest, and as we hiked, we began to feel the chill in our bones. We stopped at a lodge along the trail with a gift shop and a roaring fire. As my friends perused souvenirs, I walked over to the fire and with my shawl wrapped around me, stood there like a content cat warming my backside. Soon I noticed an elderly white woman staring at me. As I adjusted my stance under her gaze, she jumped. I jumped. Then she walked slowly in my direction. She said, ā€œDear, I thought you were a beautiful Indian statue!ā€ Ā 

To this day I canā€™t quite remember what I said (I believe I mumbled a thank you). I think I was just confused and astounded, because in one breath she had managed to compliment me and consider me not real.Ā 

I have many stories like this. In every circumstance, I usually wonder: Has this person ever seen a black person hiking? Has she or he ever seen a picture or heard a story of someone who looked like me in a similar setting?Ā 

While I consider myself a predominately urban person (born and bred in New York), I am no stranger to the backpack and the hiking boot. Iā€™ve had the privilege of backpacking in many different parts of the world, trekking up to 17,000 feet. For a time, I lived in Nepal with regular access to the Himalayas. I have been serving as a member of the National Parks Advisory board for the past seven years, and before that I served on the , a team of advisors who in 2009 gathered to draw out issues and priorities for the National Park Service's next 100 years. During that time, I have had the privilege to visit many national parks across the country.

But I have always been astonished at how often white people are surprised by my presence in these spaces. For the most part, people are not unkind. Iā€™ve been asked more than once to have my picture taken, and people want to know where I come from. Still, it never ceases to leave me with a deep-seated feeling of discomfort, of being different, and feeling decidedly out of place in these outdoor settings.

Today, part of my work as a writer, public speaker, and geography professor at the University of KentuckyĀ is challenging all us to think differently about who has something to offer when it comes to the outdoors and environmental issues. But it started off as something personal.Ā 

Was that myth trueā€”that ā€œBlack people donā€™t ______ (fill in the blank: swim, camp, ski, and so on)ā€? I didnā€™t think so. I watched my parents care for twelve acres of land that belonged to someone else and do so for nearly fifty years. My father cared for every part of that landscape: the flower gardens, the fruit trees, the lawn. My mother was especially skilled at growing tomatoes, basil, and dill in the vegetable garden. And she was always pointing out the wildlife to usā€”the black squirrels, the white deer, and the snapping turtles. While the estate owners visited on weekends and holidays, my family lived there 24/7. My parents couldnā€™t afford to take us on vacation to a national park, so that estate was where my brothers and I developed a great appreciation for nature.Ā 

Though the outdoors shaped my own childhood, I rarely saw black and other non-white people in mainstream coverage of the topic. Mainstream media and environmental organizations have been slow to consider or represent a large chunk of those who love wild placesā€”and in light of the celebrations around the national park system this year, itā€™s become even clearer that we still have a lot of work to do.Ā 

If, as I have, you sorted through the historical narrative surrounding the national parks, the movies and books about the parks, the magazine and newspaper coverage of the parksā€”youā€™d come up with narratives that largely leave out the experiences of people of color.Ā 

Some might say that many of these works and organizations are about the parks, not people. But I would respond that the parks are about us. And that ā€œusā€ has always been diverse, even if those in the positions to write the stories and make the policies have not.Ā 

The parks are a repository of memoryā€”only, the different or more challenging parts of our history donā€™t get as much airtime in our national narrative. Weā€™ve all heard about John Muir and President Roosevelt standing on Glacier Ridge in 1903. But at that same time, African Americans could not move freely in any space around the country because of Jim Crow; American Indians were still fighting about being forcibly removed from much of that park land; HispanosĀ in New Mexico were watching their access to these lands diminish as federal land agencies took over; and a diverse Asian population was experiencing a variety of challenges for simply being different on this soil.Ā 

Did you know there was an all-black that was responsible for taking care of the trails at Mt. Rainier? Have you heard about , who bought three islands in Key Biscayne back in the late 1800ā€™s and whose son, , ended up resisting the overtures of developers who wanted the land and instead made a deal with the NPS? Or , a woman who gave away all of her wealth (including her home) to environmental causes starting in the 1970s? She convinced the NPS to protect 8.2 acres of sand dunes on Amelia Islandā€™s American Beach; her great grandfather had purchased it in the 1930ā€™s so that black people could live on and go to the beach in Florida during Jim Crow segregation.Ā 

None of these stories are any less important simply because we might choose to universalize one piece of the parks story. Thatā€™s why so much of my studies focus on what gets left out. Itā€™s still happening today: films like the recentĀ National Parks ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų ; mainstream outdoor media (ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų included) still feature a majority of white subjects; and people of color are in environmental organizations.

When I look at the majority of environmental and outdoor media these days, I donā€™t see me. More specifically, I donā€™t see a space for me. Making that space is critical: my run-in with the woman on Mt. Baker, for example, gave us a chance to engage and have our worlds shift just a little. By seeing people who look different from us in these spacesā€”with their histories, memories, and their possibilitiesā€”our story about the parks, and environment in general, can more fully embrace the complexity of the human experience. Ā 

How can we make this happen? Iā€™m privileged to be part of the Next 100 Coalitionā€”an ethnically and racially diverse group of civil rights, environmental justice, conservation, and community activists. We believe that in this centennial year, staff, leadership and community engagement with all our public lands agencies (National Park, Forest Service, Fish & Wildlife, Bureau of Land Management) does not reflect the growing diversity of our country.Ā We have that addresses workforce diversity, landscape scale conservation, stakeholder engagement, historical and cultural preservation, and access to public lands. Ā We met with Christy Goldfuss, managing director of the White House Council on Environmental Quality (CEQ), to discuss our visionĀ and strategize specific policy suggestions. And across the country, we continue to talk with the press andĀ media, both locally and nationally, to tell our stories and make our case.Ā 

I believe that people tend to write and create what they know. You want a different story? Letā€™s get different people to tell it! Part of the challenge of representation is understanding who has the privilege of being part of these structuresā€”and who does not. Itā€™s pretty simple: More diversity at the table means more diverse experiences, knowledge, and ways of seeing the world.Ā 

There are folks like , who blogs for the Huffington Post and wrote two books with her husband, Frank, on their national parks experience. Or (known as Queen Quet) who, along with her community in South Carolina, was instrumental in creating the . spent 22 years walking across the U.S. to spread a message of environmental respect (and did it without talking for 17 of those years). , a Harvard-trained anthropologist, founded in Boston to create a new model for sustainability and community engagement in the city. , the NFL center who walked away from millions of dollars to start a thousand acre farm in North Carolina, learned to farm on YouTube (really) and now gives away thousands of pounds of vegetables every year. How cool would it be to have the face of this black football player on a movie or television screen? Ā Can you imagine all the kids who would be surprised and positively impacted by that ¾±³¾²¹²µ±š?Ģż

I hope a lot of people will go watch the movies and read the books celebrating the centennial and our national parks. Iā€™m guessing that for many, the closest they may get to some of our grander spaces like Yosemite or the Grand Canyon is the movie theater or that book. But I also hope that there are those who will wonder why their presence in this story is not apparent; who will take this opportunity to talk about it with others; and who will not be stopped from going to experience the great outdoors wherever they live.

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