Wyn Wiley, also known by their drag name Pattie Gonia, told their story to producer Maren Larsen for an episode of The Daily Rally Podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I think that birds sing to each other in the morning as a way of asking each other if they made it through the night. It’s like doing a little roll call of, Hey, did you make it? Did you make it? And I think that queer people do the same thing. I think that why we are loud and proud and celebrate pride and are who we are is to do our version of shouting across the meadow, our version of a little roll call of like, Are you here? Did you make it? I made it.

My name is Wyn Wiley, but you might know me as Pattie Gonia, Patricia Gonia, if ya nasty. I’m a drag queen, I’m an environmentalist, and I’m a professional gay person. As Wyn my pronouns are he/they and in drag, my pronouns as Pattie are she/they.

Most all of my drag is inspired by the outdoors and by nature. There are so many species that exhibit queerness, and so many of my drag looks are based on that, but also so many of my drag looks are taking very masculine outdoor gear and making it into the gayest little outfits you’ve ever seen.

That’s the very visible, very outward-facing side of drag. But really drag is an art form that queer people use to express their femininity, to go on a personal journey to community organize, to be an activist.

So that is what I do.

As a little queer kid growing up in Nebraska, the first spaces I ever felt myself were in my backyard. I would literally just jump off a swing set and perform Cats, the musical. I would make mud pies. I would just observe all the insects and nature and squirrels, and I just felt so alive. A lot of that changed in middle school and high school, when I started to encounter homophobia, and I was told that for me being gay, I was not natural. I was wrong. I started separating myself from nature a lot.

I had two really vivid high school experiences attached to nature. They were both summer camp experiences. One was with Boy Scouts, and this other summer camp experience was this YMCA summer camp called Camp Kitaki.

I went to both of these summer camps every summer from freshman year of high school to senior year of high school, and going to both of these camps for the first time was just night and day different.

I remember being at a Boy Scout summer camp, and just the amount of homophobia that was there, and insecurity that was there, and toxic masculinity that was there, and militarization that was there, was just astounding to me. I always just remember being on edge. But I didn’t know any better or different. I thought this was what men or boys were supposed to do.

But then going to this YMCA summer camp, Camp Kitaki, at the end of the summer was the most relieving experience ever. I could be myself, other people could be themselves. It was so freeing and welcoming and a lot of the counselors themselves were queer.

Camp Kitaki’s slogan is, “Where the magic never ends.” And I really feel like that magic is really meeting people where they’re at and helping them succeed. Really being an open place for youth no matter where they’re at. A lot of the campers that go there are from different economic backgrounds, and camp is just a really great equal playing ground for kids to grow in a relationship with each other.

I think that YMCA summer camp of Camp Kitaki saved my life in high school in a lot of ways. It was the only space that kept my relationship to the outdoors alive growing up.

If I think about why I go outside, it is to connect with that little queer kid that was sitting there in that backyard in Nebraska. It’s to connect with that high school kid that was at summer camp. It’s to take back a lot of life that I feel like I couldn’t live because I was too worried to be who I really was.

So when Pattie was born, I knew that it was gonna be important to me to try to find some sort of a summer camp thing that I could give back to, and I found Brave Trails, which is such an incredible space for queer youth to have a summer camp experience that’s created by LGBTQ people for LGBTQ people. Even the med staff is LGBTQ, so you’re having transformed healthcare at our summer camp. It is a dream, and it is such an important space where we can use the outdoors to find out more about who we are. I want that experience for every queer person.

I remember the first time I went to Brave Trails as a counselor. The first night I was there at camp, there was a drag show. It was so amazing to see these kids perform, and throw on different outfits, and throw on different wigs, and make these fantasies a reality, and perform for each other. The crowd would go wild after every single performer. It was an environment where people felt so supported. When people feel so supported, the brilliance that can happen is out of this world.

Honestly, I get asked all the time who my favorite drag queens are, and I’m like, “My summer campers at Brave Trails.” A hundred percent. Seeing these kids take the stage and perform drag with more confidence than I could ever muster myself as Pattie was so inspiring, and I was like, the youth, they got us, they’re gonna be just fine. I am a grandparent drag queen now, just Grandma Pattie.

But there is a huge come down after coming back from Brave Trails, reintegrating into the world after being in a space where you’re around 100 percent queer people. Things have been hard lately. It’s a more polarized and divisive world than ever. But I think that there is an invitation to keep the magic alive. In my life, I just want to keep that magic of summer camp alive no matter what I do. I think we’re all kind of just waiting at the sidelines for an invitation to play and be our true selves.
I think if I could give a younger version of myself one piece of advice, it would be to find your other little birdies to sit in the tree with and sing with. It doesn’t have to be a lot of birds, it just needs to be a few. But find your people to check in with and make sure that you’ve made it.

We need queer people in the outdoors, not only for ourselves, but also for each other. There’s a lot of people out there that need to see other queer people exist and be happy and be proud and be in the outdoors.

Wyn Wiley is an environmentalist, diversity and inclusion advocate, and climbing, surfing, skiing, and hiking drag queen. They co-founded the , a nonprofit that creates a more diverse outdoors through education and community building. You can follow them on Instagram @, and see their work with Brave Trails at .Ěý

You can followĚýThe Daily RallyĚý´Ç˛ÔĚý,Ěý,Ěý, or wherever you like to listen. and to be featured on the show.

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The worst thing about my new gym is all the mirrors. They line every wall, so I can’t ignore the contrast between my reflection and everyone else’s. I look small, soft, and uncertain, and I’m wearing clothes better suited to hiking than lifting. Everyone seems ripped and confident, pumping iron in skintight tanks.

I’d always subscribed to the “mountains are my gym” model of physical fitness, but after moving to a city recently, it became harder to stay fit by outdoor activity alone. The obvious solution was a gym membership, so I proposed a 30-day workout experiment to my editor. At the very least, I figured, I’d get in shape ahead of ski season for once.

I found an option that’s a 13-minute walk from my apartment and emailed Todd, the owner, to share my story: I’ve never belonged to a gym that didn’t have a yoga studio or climbing wall, and I’ve definitely never lifted weights, but I want to try. We agreed on a month of personal training: three sessions per week. Combined with the membership fees, it cost almost three-quarters of my rent. That reminded me why I’d never done this before, and it made me resent my high school PE teacher for not covering the weight-training basics.

On day one, I meet Todd at the front desk early in the morning. He offered to work with me as a personal trainer. He’s shorter than me but at least twice as wide, and he looks like he could pull a school bus with his bare hands.

Todd explains the breakdown of my three weekly sessions: we’ll spend one day focused on legs and shoulders, another on chest and triceps, and the third on back and biceps. Each workout will be sandwiched between a warm-up and an abdominals-focused cooldown. I nod like all this makes intuitive sense.

The first session is a blur. By the time I finish, my legs feel like Jell-O and my stomach is queasy. Inexplicably, I’m smiling. Todd tells me I did well—for someone who’s never pumped iron. He fist-bumps me and says he’ll see me tomorrow. I get the sense he’s laying odds on whether I show up.

The walk back home takes a few minutes longer than it should. When I get to my building, one leg buckles on the stairs and I nearly eat it. By afternoon the soreness is setting in. I tell my best friend that I’m worried about day two. Their response is: “Pain is temporary, Maren. Muscles are… also temporary, but fun!”

The next morning, Todd greets me with a lunatic grin and asks how I’m feeling. “Awful,” I say. Somehow I make it through, though I am pretty sure I looked like a baby deer standing up for the first time. (Mirrors were avoided.) Todd keeps saying that “movement is medicine,” and as my muscles warm up, I start to believe him. At the end, though, I feel rough. But I know now that I can get through a workout even if I feel like I can’t, and that’s new.

The next day I can barely walk, but I force myself to. Movement is medicine. I’m supposed to take a rest day and then get back to it, but I catch a horrendous cold that keeps me in bed for four days straight.

When I return to the gym the following week, the equipment doesn’t seem as intimidating. Todd tells me that the soreness I experienced was normal, and this week will be only half as bad. I’m not sure I believe him, but the prediction pans out.

Over the next three weeks, I feel a bit stronger with each session. The exercises get easier, and I notice that the numbers on the weights Todd hands me are going up. Little milestones feel like victories: one day the weights actually feel too light. I do my first squats with a bar. I show up at the gym in a sports bra instead of a T-shirt.

At the end of week four, my trainer tells me I look stronger and I’m moving better. I feel it—not just in the gym, but elsewhere in my life. I’m now used to waking up early, and the lingering soreness reminds me that I’m building muscle. Best of all, I want to keep pushing myself. I can’t afford a trainer for every workout, but I have a plan to go solo, including a few strategic days with Todd to learn new workout rotations.

During my final training session, I check my form in the mirror and realize that I don’t look out of place. I notice other people who don’t look like Greek gods, either—an older couple, two women my age, a preteen boy. We’re all learning together. The same goes for the people who look like they belong: they share tips, spot one another, and offer encouragement. Sometimes they even nod at me, as if to say: Hello, fellow gym rat.

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Pattie Gonia is the platform-boot-wearing drag persona of Wyn Wiley, an environmental advocate and, in their words, “professional homosexual.” In January, Wiley cofounded a nonprofit called , which is committed to protecting the planet, promoting inclusion in outdoor spaces, and inspiring adventure. We caught up with Pattie to hear more about the project and why they’re bullish on the inclusive future of the outdoors.

OUTSIDE: Do you have a drag philosophy?
PATTIE GONIA: My drag philosophy is have fun and be gay outdoors. Drag is a queer art form where people not only bend gender but also personify different characters and derive inspiration from fashion as well as, for me, from nature. I love using drag as a playground to represent the beauty I see in nature. I recently did a project with the Audubon Society for the western meadowlark, the state bird of my home state of Nebraska as well as my current home of Oregon. There was a beautiful ecosystem that brought the project together. Two amazing designers created this dress, complete with ten-foot wingspan. They used plants from the grasslands where the bird lives to dye the fabrics. We got to meet with queer bird experts to learn about queer behavior in birds, along with the threat of habitat loss. It was a cool intersection of fashion, art, and activism.

Tell me about the Outdoorist Oath.
The Oath was founded because I, Teresa Baker [creator of the Outdoor CEO Diversity Pledge], and José González [founder of Latino Outdoors] believe that individuals have the power to shape the future of the outdoors. We have so many tools that teach us how to treat nature, but we have very few that teach us how to treat each other. And so the Oath hopes to help individuals create their own personalized plan of action to create change locally. If we can create a culture that connects people to nature and shows them what’s worth fighting for, we can help people see that being an environmentalist can be part of your everyday life. What that looks like at the Oath is workshops and education models. Right now we teach workshops online, but we’re in the process of making curricula we can put in educators’ hands.

What are you trying to teach people through those workshops?
I think we have to make space for people to mess up. Shame and fear never work as motivators. I want places that are filled with relationships and joy—those things make people come back and take action. It’s like a new muscle. You’re not going to be good at it early on. Hell, I wasn’t good at it. I’m still not good at it. There’s no recipe for how to do allyship.

How has this first year been for the organization?
We’ve gotten a crash course in the nonprofit-industrial complex and just how hard it is to set up an organization. It’s hard behind the scenes, but it’s worth it because this community is unbelievable. We’ve educated thousands of people. We’ve succeeded in fundraising enough to support our team. I have such respect for anyone in the nonprofit field. It requires so many hoops to jump through, and it’s no wonder there’s not more diversity in the nonprofit space.

What else have you been working on?
I’ve spoken at lots of universities. I’ve gotten to visit Outdoor Outreach, an amazing nonprofit in San Diego getting underrepresented communities outdoors. And a lot of my effort and energy have been focused on Brave Trails, which is a summer camp for queer kids that also provides mental health services year-round. They do family camps to help teach parents how to accept their kids. Additionally, they educate other camps about how to be inclusive to the queer community. It makes me think about how much better my own summer camp experience could have been if space had been made for me as a queer kid.

You also relaunched the Queer Outdoor and Environmental Job Board over the summer. Can you talk about why that has been important to you?
Since creating Pattie Gonia, I have seen so many queer people who wanted a job in the outdoor industry but didn’t know where it was safe to work. I also saw so much interest from brands and nonprofit organizations who wanted to hire queer people but didn’t know how to find them. The job board was sparked from that. Last year I launched it with a Google sheet. It was scrappy but it was awesome, and we wanted it to have more functionality. A web designer named Red Fong built it out as a website. We got to pay a queer person to do what they do so well. It’s been a dream project.

Any other projects keeping you busy in the day-to-day?
This might sound cliché, but I’ve been working on my outdoor joy, my time out of heels to connect with nature on a personal level. That’s happened through running. I had no idea I would like running, but I do. That’s been an important project for me this year, because it’s so easy to focus on the viral journey of Pattie, but daily I’ve been scared shitless. I’ve just decided that fear and doubt are always going to exist, so I’ll find queer joy outdoors, too.

How do you hope Pattie Gonia will continue to inspire others?
I never thought I could make a difference in this world. But if I could be the example for anything, it would be for people to realize that everyone has a closet to come out of, no matter what it is. Everyone has a pair of boots to put on, no matter what they are. And everyone has a beautiful life to live, if they can be their truest selves.

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There’s a sinkhole in Chile that’s growing fast—it doubled in size over the past week—and has caused the shutdown of a nearby copper mine. According to the most recent , the potential hellmouth was 164 feet wide and 656 feet deep, and people on the internet have been trying to quantify that the way they do best: by telling us all the things we could stack inside it. Notable comparisons include four of Paris’s Arc de Triomphes and one Seattle Space Needle.Ěý

https://twitter.com/Rik_H_/status/1556762005368934400

If your mind is still boggled, here are some metrics that, as anĚýşÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř reader, you might be better equipped to understand.

• 1.7 Hyperions, the world’s tallest tree, stacked on top of each other (excluding root systems), or 2.4 General Shermans, the world’s largest tree by volume
• 106 Springbar Outfitter canvas tents
• Five full rappels on even the longest (at 80 meters)
• 91 of Denver Broncos quarterback Russell Wilson’s supersized trucks, if we assume, based on some eyeballing and sticky-note math, that the truck is seven feet two inchesĚýtall (or 2.19 meters); or 30.2 of those vehicles stacked end to end
• 73 nine-foot fly rods
• Two-thirds of , if you stood it on end; or 127 Kim Kardashians (she’s five foot two)
• One thousand eight-by-three-inch breakfast burritos, stacked longways
• The entire K2 summit conga line … and then some

A few natural wonders, however, really put the pit in perspective. It could fit just 20 percent of El Capitan’s Freerider, the route free-soloed by Alex Honnold,Ěýor 0.00005 percent of the length of the Pacific Crest Trail. Undoubtedly, it won’t be long before the sinkhole attracts its own posse of outdoor hopeful record setters going for the FKD (fastest known descent).

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We demand a lot of our swimwear: it needs to look good, dry fast, stay put, and perform when the waves are big or the beach games heat up. These fresh pieces—the best swimsuits and boardshorts—kept us covered after countless pool laps, bridge jumps, raft days, and lazy paddles.

Nike HydraLock Fusion Racerback One Piece ($90)

If you want to feel fast, Nike’s Fusion is your pick. Its quick-drying polyester-spandex blend has a firm stretch for maximum support (“It locks everything in,” said one DD-cup tester), and its grippy, triangular interior pattern prevents fabric creep during activity. All this performance comes in a Baywatch-esque silhouette with high-cut legs and a scoop neck. (XS–XL)

Patagonia Hydrolock Boardshorts ($129)

When the waves are big, testers reach for this pair of stretchy poly-spandex trunks. The key is the drawstrings, which attach to strips of beefy recycled nylon that run through the waistband and are sewn into the rear. It’s one of the most secure and chafe-free fits on the market. (28-40)

Saxx Betawave Boardshorts ($80)

Most boardies with built-in underwear have seams that chafe, mesh that irritates, or a cut that’s too baggy. Enter Saxx’s first pair of boardshorts, which feature the brand’s signature pouch for the tender bits. The tight fit and flat seams yield all-day comfort, wet or dry. And the stretchy poly-elastane fabric and liner provide exceptional range of motion, whether we were running, swimming, or doing beachside yoga. (28–40)

Prana Seleina Top, Willow Falls Reversible Top, and Gemma Reversible Bottom ($69, $70, and $55)

Together, this reversible bikini set and cropped long-sleeved rash guard can take you from casual beach hangs to adventurous paddlesport outings. The chlorine-resistant bikini set held up to repeated pool use, and the long-sleeve’s thumb loops and wide bottom band keep your sun protection in place. (XS–XL)

TomboyX Swim Racerback Zip Top and Swim 4.5-inch Shorts ($69 and $49)

TomboyX offers swimwear in androgynous athleisure cuts, with an impressive size range that’s actually been tested on plus-size bodies. Both pieces are made from a UPF 50 poly-spandex blend. The top’s front zipper has a protective fabric flap and hook-and-loop closure for added comfort and security, while the bike-style shorts boast a wide and flat waistband. (XS–4X)

Quiksilver Original Arch 18-inch Boardshorts ($60)

We love the Original’s throwback 18-inch length, ultradurable polyester-hemp-spandex blend, and iconic checkerboard pattern, which is synonymous with the rise of professional surfing. We also dig the polyester fabric, made out of recycled bottles. Of all the swim shorts on this list, these ones will last the longest. (28–40)

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This article is part of şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s Sandal Battle. Vote for your all-time favorite here.

My earliest memory of Birkenstocks is of my mom’s chunky, classic two-strap leather sandals sitting by the sliding door to the back patio of our house. It was baking hot outside—too hot for bare feet on concrete—so I slipped them on. They were too big, and the leather sole was worn satiny smooth from years of use, so my feet slid around in them as I walked. At the time, Birks seemed profoundly uncool—a symbol of my crunchy, outdoorsy, embarrassing mom who I swore up and down I would never turn into.

I am now the proud owner of not one but two pairs of Birkenstocks, and I wear them almost every day from March to October if the weather allows. At campsites and on beach days, you’ll catch me lounging in my ($50), whose tread has been worn down (but isn’t smooth) from three summers of intensive use. While I’m writing this, I’m wearing the ($160) model, which looks classy but has a sole you could hike in. They’ll come with me on errands later today and then on a date.

Birkenstocks are the perfect après-outdoors/summer casual shoes. Not only are they incredibly versatile, but they also have supreme staying power: the two-buckle style my mom wore in the ’90s is nearly identical to the pair I wear today. But the real beauty of these shoes is how they wear with time, only becoming more comfortable and more beloved over the years until they reach the satiny-smooth ideal of the first pair I tried on.

For me, other sandals just don’t cut it. I want something comfortable and functional that I can slip on at a moment’s notice and be ready for almost anything a summer day has to offer. No bending over to fasten straps, please. And I will not stand for flip-flop chafe between my toes. Just give me the outstanding arch support and casual style of my two-buckle friend, the Birkenstock.

I’ve chosen my side in the Sandal Battle, and I will passionately defend the “earthy” looks of the Birkenstock to the last. Sometimes, during shoulder season, I even pair my ’stocks with socks. Don’t tell tweenage me, but I’m definitely turning into my mom—and I’m not mad about it.

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I allegedly learned to ski when I was three years old, though I don’t remember my first days on the snow. There is a photo that documents my initial forays on the hill: I’m stuffed inside a multicolored, very nineties onesie and sandwiched between my mom’s tele skis, taking my very first run down the bunny slope at Colorado’s Eldora Mountain. These days I can vaguely recall maneuvering through the trees, which I know was my favorite part of being out there, and my mom putting my ice-cold toes directly on her bare stomach (in an effort, I’m sure, to stave off a meltdown and salvage the remainder of a ski day).

In the intervening 23 years, I really should be a lot better at this by nowĚýbecame my ski-season mantra, a self-admonishment repeated under my breath as I side-slipped after friends and coworkers (a statistically improbable percentage of whom are former ski racers or sponsored shredders) down narrow backcountry runs and icy in-bounds bumps. Although technically I was having fun, I was also gripped, stressed, and out of my depth. I definitely was not having as good a time as my companions, who whooped, hollered, and yoo’d their way down the hill far ahead of me. Stuck at a level somewhere above intermediate and below advanced, I spent my ski seasons enviously regarding my friends’ ease and comfort on the slopes.Ěý

Why did my skiing plateau? Let me count the excuses. Skiing is expensive. I spent ten years in high school and college almost entirely away from snow, and neither school had a ski team. I didn’t have my own gear, and then when I did, it wasn’t the right gear. And finally, I never took a single lesson.Ěý

But now, in adulthood, those excuses have largely fallen away. I budget to make sure I can afford a pass every year. I live close to several resorts. And while it’s too late for me to join a team, I have plenty of pow-hound friends. I bought myself some honest-to-goodness shred sticks, so I can’t gripe about my gear anymore.Ěý

At the start of this season, the only excuse that stood between me and what I was sure was steezy ski glory was my objective dearth of technical skill, built on two decades of repeating the bad form I developed as a toddler. So when Taos Ski Valley, my favorite nearby mountain in New Mexico, announced its annual locals’ clinic early this winter, I signed up immediately.

Ski lessons, on trend with the rest of the sport, can be extremely expensive. At Taos, a half-day lesson with up to four people costs $550 total. By comparison, the locals’ clinic—which offers six comparable lessons for just $300 per person—is a steal. (Many resorts offer something like this;Ěýcheck out your area resorts for similar deals.)

My first lesson was held the second Saturday in January. WeĚýmet at a lodge midway up the mountain and lined up for a one-by-one ski-off that would sort us into groups. I was so nervous that, on my try, I took one turn, caught an edge, and ended up on my butt.Ěý

I recovered quickly, but my first fall on a groomer in years was a less than inspiring start to my season. Despite my wipeout, I managed to end up in a group of six intermediate-to-advanced skiers—my instructor, Tom, called it Bumps and Beyond. And right away, we were off. By the end of that first day, we’d taken drops and detours I never would have attempted alone. I survived a double-black-diamond run I’d taken a day-ending spill on the previous season. And I had a lot to think about: between laps on expert terrain, Tom also reviewed the basics, making me consciously analyze what, exactly, was happening when I leaned into my habitually messy turns.Ěý

Each week got progressively harder and more fun. We explored almost every corner of the mountain and worked on a range of skills, from body positioning to edge control and pole planting to moderating speed in bumps. We ended runs with rounds of pole clicks and expressions of stoke. Sometimes I even thought these lessons were actually right on time, rather than decades overdue: I contemplated my technique in a way that I’m sure would have gone far over my head as a child, and adult me has had the drive to practice until the lifts close—a determination that mini me lacked.Ěý

Just a couple lessons in, Tom pointed out that my problem was not necessarily a lack of skill, like I’d always thought; rather, it was a lack of confidence to commit to my turns. And of course, he was right. Forced to choose between committing to a steep turn or side-slipping over a bump, I’ll usually choose the latter. The problem with this revelation is that confidence is much harder to develop as an adult than as a child,Ěýas anyone who has seen a little ripper rocket blindly down technical terrain can attest.Ěý

As the weeks passed, however, my confidence improved. Now, having completed the course, I can drop into challenging terrain without hesitation, catch air without panicking, and look at a trail sign bearing two black diamonds and feel glee rather than dread. I’m sure this is partially a result of simply spending more time on skis, but having an instructor show me the line was reassuring in a way that following my sandbagger friends down sketchy runs never was. Though Tom occasionally took us into thin cover that earned me a couple of base scratches (remember: tools, not jewels), I trusted that he wouldn’t leadĚýour group into anything we couldn’t handle.

I had my final lesson in early February. For our last run, my class headed to Kachina Peak—the very top of Taos (its lift line is littered with “No easy way down” signs). We posed for a picture, wide grins on our faces and the sun in our eyes, before stepping into our bindings and following Tom into another of his many top-secret powder stashes, so well-kept that it was still untracked at 11:30 on a Saturday. We shouted joyfully all the way down the mountain, taking occasional breaks to click poles and marvel at how good the day was. Tom told us he was impressed by how much we’d all improved and remarked that while my confidence had definitely seen big growth, I’d also fine-tuned my technique. As we parted ways at the base, I realized that over those six weeks, my ski-season mantra had changed. Now it’s:ĚýDamn, that was fun. Let’s go again!Ěý

Sick of feeling like a mediocre skier who struggles with bumps, steeps, and speed? Check out our Ěýonline course on , where şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř+ members get full access to our library of more than 50 courses on adventure, sports, health, and nutrition.

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I caught the #vanlife bug last winter. In the midst of the pandemic, cooped up in my combination home-office with two roommates, I figured that the freedom, solitude, and self-reliance of a never-ending road trip would be the ultimate panacea. But there was a catch: all the vanlifers I followed on Instagram seemed to be either trust funders or freelancers, unencumbered by a demanding work schedule. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to give up my full-time gig as a podcast producer.

So the following October, I decided to embark on a ten-day trip designed specifically to determine whether I could live in a van and maintain a nine-to-five job. I packed a duffel full of clothes, a small library’s worth of books, and an array of podcasting equipment. Then I picked up my rental abode—a fully equipped Mercedes Sprinter from VanCraft in Denver—and was off.

The first few days were a dream. I drank coffee in front of a different view every morning, worked at a handful of charming libraries, and took wandering walks on my breaks. It soon became apparent, though, that it’s hard to maintain a regular work schedule while staving off loneliness and backaches cooped up in a 50-square-foot space. There was no boundary between work and leisure: at different times, my bed, kitchen counter, and passenger seat all served as my desk. Still, I mostly enjoyed the challenge. One night outside Leadville, Colorado, the sun went down on a campsite that was far from inspiring in daylight. Now I found that I had a front-row seat to an amphitheater full of stars. Nearby, two people were sitting around a fire, strumming a guitar and singing folk songs. Soaking up the outdoors on a weeknight tipped the scales of work-life balance in a positive direction.

Then, at midnight on the second to last night of my beta test, the rear window of my temporary home suddenly shattered from high winds, and with it any semblance of the peace I’d attained over the previous nine days. I raided a dumpster for cardboard to patch it up before catching a few hours of sleep, then drove back to Denver to return the van a day early. When I handed over the keys, I was grumpy and exhausted, and I hadn’t showered in days.

Living in a van brought higher highs and lower lows than working from home. In that tiny space, minor inconveniences quickly became catastrophic. Yet the freedom and novelty of being constantly on the move made me feel like a well-rounded person every day of the week, instead of just a weekend warrior trying to cram all my adventures into two too-short days. I’m still not sure I’ll make the leap to vanlife anytime soon. But for now, during idle moments at my desk, I find myself scrolling through Craigslist for vans, dreaming once again of life on the road.

Roaming Essentials

Three products that made my traveling office functional

Signal Booster

At campsites with cell service, I used my ($500) to boost my bars and turn my phone into a hotspot, often resulting in faster Wi-Fi than at libraries and coffee shops.

Standing Desk

Working from bed or while hunched over a laptop is terrible for your back. ($200) turned my kitchen counter into an adjustable platform—a lifesaver.

E-Reader

Though I packed plenty of paper books, it was my ($140) that I used most on the road. A must for bookish vanlifers short on space.

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Welcome to What You Missed,Ěýour daily digest of breaking news and topical perspectives from across the outdoor world. You can also get this news delivered to your email inbox six days a week by for the What You Missed newsletter.Ěý

The entrepreneur behind a believes his technology will provide a solution to traffic jams that occur along Colorado’s I-70 corridor during ski season. The highway offers access from the Denver metro area to many of the state’s most popular ski areas and is notorious for its extreme (and ) overcrowding on powder days.

French expat Erwin Germain created the new app, , to mimic similar ones he’s used to find carpooling options in Europe. The app vets and then matches drivers and riders heading between various destinations along the route for fixed fees. Rides are intentionally priced low (just below the Internal Revenue Service standard for business driving, at 56 cents per mile), with 16 percent of each fare going back to the company for processing and other expenses.

It’s just the latest proposed solution to the congestion caused by Colorado’s notorious ski traffic—and maybe the most affordable yet. But even carpoolers run the risk of getting ensnared in the terrible traffic heading up the mountain.Ěý

Resorts and government entities have tried a variety of approaches to the commuting conundrum, too, from opening up extra toll lanes, to raising parking fees to encourage skiers and boarders to use other methods of transit. The problem with the latter approach is that public-transit options are slim and expensive: tickets for the train between Denver and Winter Park Resort, created in partnership with Amtrak, start at $29, and the bus, with service to four mountains, starts at $25 (and also gets stuck in traffic).

Treadshare seems promising—it has already been downloaded more than 700 times since its late-November launch. But in concept, the app is just another way for Colorado to put off investing in the solution everyone who’s been stuck in a five-hour ski-traffic jam has prayed for: reliable, high-speed, .

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“Heather Hansman on Her New Book Powder Days” The şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř contributing editor’s latest release was the November pick for the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Book Club. We spoke with her about the appeal of chasing powder and the many crises facing the ski industry. şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

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I’m not ashamed to admit that worked on me: as a queer Millennial woman, it’s the only automaker I’ve ever felt any kind of brand loyalty to. I want everyone on the road to know I’m gay and outdoorsy, and for that there’s nothing better than a Subaru. But as an environmentalist, I’ve been holding out hope for an electric powertrain so I can eschew internal combustion for good. And my dream is finally about to be possible with the , the brand’s first all-electric model.

Unveiled at the Los Angeles Auto Show on November 17, the Solterra is a mechanical twin to Toyota’s electric bZ4X, which was also announced at the show and shares much of the same technology and specs under a different body and badge. (The two makers have a technical partnership to help split development costs, and Toyota owns 20 percent of Subaru.) Like other Subarus, the Solterra will have more than eight inches of ground clearance, with standard AWD and the brand’s X-Mode, which limits slipping tires, making it capable on dirt roads and safer in winter. There are few details yet on how the AWD system will work in the new system, except that there will be an electric motor on each axle. Like many other Subarus, the vehicle also comes standard with the brand’s EyeSight technology, a suite of collision-prevention and driver assist safety features, which will keep me and my copious houseplants safe on my weekly trek home from the nursery.

Size-wise, the Solterra falls between Subaru’s Outback and Forester models, with 30 cubic feet of cargo space that leaves plenty of room for all my DIY project materials, outdoor adventure gear, and premature . With higher ground clearance than Tesla’s Model Y, which I tested in 2020, it may be slightly more off-road capable, but the battery’s estimated 220 mile range (compared to the Tesla’s 350) may limit your access to truly out-of-the-way destinations. But when you need to power up, fast-charging capabilities will give you an 80 percent charge in less than an hour so you can still visit your long-distance girlfriend.

The Solterra will be available to the public in mid-2022. I look forward to receiving subtle head nods of approval from other members of the LGBTQ+ community when I’m behind the wheel of the green Lesbaru of my dreams.

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