I love to travel. I don’t love sleeping on the go. Why? Think about it: the average adult human head weighs roughly 11 pounds—as much as a bowling ball—and balances on the very precious neck. So when you nod off, seated upright, or even reclined, all that pressure dumps into your vertebrae and shoulders causing unwanted kinks and muscle soreness that can make flights, road trips, and train rides a living hell.

Enter: the neck pillow.

I asked şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř‘s travel editors to search long and hard for the comfiest, most supportive, and portable neck pillows for travel—because we like going to cool places pain free. From long-haul and red-eye flights to cross-country and worldwide road trips to train travel, here are the neck pillows that are actually worth bringing along. Plus, one puffy jacket hack if you don’t have space in your suitcase. You’re welcome.

If you buy through our links, we may earn an affiliate commission. This supports our mission to get more people active and outside. Learn more.

Best for the Lightweight Packer

Sea to Summit Aeros Premium Traveller Pillow

As a traveler who prides myself on lugging around the least amount of stuff possible, I’ve always been a neck pillow skeptic. Really—are they absolutely necessary? But recently, I picked up the from REI out of curiosity.

Boom, I was hooked overnight. This inflatable neck pillow blows up for travel with just a few deep breaths, and at only 2.5 ounces, it packs down conveniently into a small, zippered case that’s stuffable into any bag.

When my husband and I tackled a 5,000-mile summer road trip from New Mexico to Canada this summer, it became my napping go-to. I used it daily for siestas in our rig, which was packed to the gills with gear and impossible to recline my seat. It’s a perfect lightweight option for quick snoozes on short flights, and when we take our long-haul to Thailand next year, you can bet I’m bringing this puppy along.

Its soft, comfy polyester knit cover and inflate/deflate options provide just the right amount of pressure and support for serious Zzzs. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m a complete neck pillow convert now. And if, like me, you loathe carrying extra crap, this lightweight option is best for you. —Patty Hodapp, Senior Contributing Travel Editor, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

Best for the International Traveler

BCozzy Neck Pillow for Travel

First, an intelligent appeal to commercial airlines: You should offer neck pillows to all passengers, just like you do blankets and pillows. In fact, scrap those sorry excuses for regular pillows you hand out and replace them with the modern kind we all really want. Preferably the , which is soft and supportive and caters to the head nodder and the side angler alike.

Last fall, settling into our seats for our 12-hour flight from Los Angeles to Tokyo, my brother and I pulled out our choice in neck pillows and mocked each other’s briefly. “Nice padded python you’ve got there,” I said. “I’d rather wear this than your rigid medical neck brace,” he countered. But his pick was perfect—the BCozzy—and when he opted not to sleep, I gave it a try and was immediately won over.

The BCozzy was cushy yet not suffocating or overly hot. Its “arms” were long and flexible enough for me to wrap it comfortably around my neck twice and beneath my chin, yet it didn’t feel restrictive. I found I could actually relax in an upright position instead of trying to determine how my seat plus pillow would best support my head without giving me a neck ache.

BCozzy doesn’t pack down as much as some other neck pillows, but it does come with a carrying bag that helps compress it enough to be easily stuffed at the bottom of a daypack. And for its midrange price, it does the job way better than the standard, ubiquitous U-shaped ones as well as the high-end contraption I ended up chucking at the Tokyo airport.Ěý—Tasha Zemke, Managing Editor, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

Best for the Traveler Who Hates Neck Pillows

FlyHugz Neck Travel Pillow

I’m a minimalist, carry-on only packer, and I’ve never wanted to lug along a neck pillow on trips. But I’m also always sitting in coach and don’t sleep comfortably on longer flights, so I’ve been on a mission to find a neck pillow that packs down small and actually works.

I kept seeing ads for the FlyHugz travel pillow on Instagram. Their smart marketing campaign sucked me in, so I ordered it. I was going to test it out on a trip back east (I live in New Mexico), but that was canceled. So I tried it out on road trips in my car, where the seat mimics a stiff, upright airline seat.

The pillow, which is made of memory foam, wraps around your neck and attaches with velcro. At first it felt a bit claustrophobic. It took me a while to get the pillow to a comfortable place where it was loose enough and would still support my head. One thing I immediately liked is that the part of the pillow behind the neck has a slim profile and allowed me to lean back comfortably; other neck pillows I’ve tried have been too fat at the back of the neck.

Without a neck pillow, when I’m sleeping on a flight my head generally falls back with my chin up and mouth wide open, snoring. Lovely! This pillow kept my head from nodding backward or forward and supported my chin in a stable position. I also found it really comfortable to lean my head to the left to sleep. For some reason it didn’t support my head as well when I tilted it to the right. I need to keep messing with that position to get comfortable on the right side.

The pillow is lightweight—4.5 ounces—and packs down to about the size of a roll of toilet paper. I will definitely be taking it with me on my next long flight. —Mary Turner, Senior Brand Director, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

Best for the Memory Foam Enthusiast

Cabeau Evolution S3 Travel Neck Pillow

I’ll admit it: if şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř hasn’t reviewed something I’m considering buying, I almost always check Reddit before making purchases on gear. I don’t care much about how brands want me to see them; I want to know what real people—who aren’t getting any sponsorship dollars for their opinions—think of things. Multiple Reddit threads brought me to the . It’s made of memory foam, which is great, but the feature that Redditors really seem to love are the two straps that allow you to secure the pillow to your headrest.

I should also admit that I suffer from a serious case of tech neck. I’m stiff and sore and misaligned frequently, so I try to do all I can to counteract the time I spend on computers in both the exercise that I do and the ergonomic support I give myself when I travel.

I put the Cabeau to the test on a 14-hour road trip, and I’ll gladly admit that, yet again, Redditors delivered! This neck pillow is SERIOUSLY comfortable, and it doesn’t move around, which allows you to adjust yourself without having to constantly re-adjust the pillow. I was able to sleep with the pillow, and I woke up without that crunchy, over-exerted feeling my neck can sometimes get when I cram it into the door of the car, using only my arms as support.

The Cabeau bills itself as the “Best Travel Pillow of 2024” according to CNN Underscored, and I can honestly say it gets my vote, too. —Ryleigh Nucilli, Digital Managing Editor, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

BONUS: Best for the Low-Maintenance Traveler

The Puffy Jacket Hack

The best story I ever heard about head-tipping, that jolt that startles you awake when you were just drifting off to sleep while upright, was from two climbers on El Capitan who got stuck—ughhh—sitting out the night in their harnesses. One of them got tired of the tilt, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and—kid you not—taped his head to the wall.

I have certainly awoken due to the same movement on a plane, but I’m not going to tape my head to the seat. Nor do I want to carry a neck pillow. I had one once, but gave it away. I’m juggling enough when I go anywhere: I’ve always got my phone out, and a laptop in a carry-on, and am now strict about carrying a water bottle rather than wasting more plastic. No need to be dropping a pillow on the dirty floor.

The perfect trick came from my friend Eliza, an international flight attendant, who over the years tried all manner of neck pillows purchased at home and abroad. And it turns out that her favored method meshes with my habits. If there is one thing I always carry to travel, it is a light, packable puffy jacket, which will save you if you get stuck in an airport overnight or even in cold airplane AC.

I have a , but other kinds would do; I pack it into its own pocket, as intended, while leaving the jacket arms hanging out. Boom, it makes a firm little shoulder pillow. Tie the arms together to hold the padding in place on either side of your neck. —Alison Osius, Senior Travel Editor, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

The post The Four Best Neck Pillows for Travelers appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Get out the pack, Jack. Make a romantic plan, Fran. No time to be coy, Roy. OK, you get the drift.

With Valentine’s Day on the horizon, maybe you’re looking to impress someone with a night or two that will ignite the fire. We’ve got you covered, with our favorite romantic getaways of all time. These trips are perfect for best buds and to save for future mates, too.

The şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř staff have pretty much ditched the roses-and-chocolate rigamarole in favor of road trips to remote Southwestern desertscapes, ridgetop hikes, and fly-fishing excursions followed by steamy soaks in hot springs. Because, for most of us, nothing cements a relationship likeĚýoutdoor appreciation. If your partner doesn’t share the awe of a spectacular sunset, the joy of a sweaty mountain-bike ride, or the seduction of fireflies on a porch in Appalachia, we ask: Is that person really for you?

Here are some of the best romantic getaways that have sparked şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř relationships and friendships over the years.

Isle Royale National Park

Location:ĚýLake Superior, Michigan

Price:Ěý$7 per person, per day for backcountry permits; one-way ferry and sea plane fares from $90 and $275, respectively

Why We Love It: In 2020, I met the love of my life at the Rock Harbor Trailhead in northeastern Isle Royale, a national-park archipelago in Lake Superior. Due to pandemic restrictions, the isle was accessible only by seaplane, so I , for a solo, seven-day, 75-mile-ish backpacking trip. I had no concrete plans other than to criss-cross the island southwest to Windigo, hitting the bays, ridges, Superior shoreline, and interior lakes along the way.

I had just snagged a permit from the ranger station, strapped my fly rod to my pack, and was about to set off when I noticed a tall, blonde guy stumble out of the bushes. He was dirty, bug-bitten, sunburned, and full of trekking beta. I struck up a conversation: Where had he gone? How about the coolest vistas? Must-stop camp spots? Trails to avoid or take?

We talked for 20 minutes, and parted ways with smiles but no phone numbers—me, to the trail; him, to catch a seaplane out. A month later, he tracked me down on Linked In to see how my trip went. Six months later, we met up for a trail run in Sedona, Arizona. A year later, we got engaged and married. But here’s where it gets good: We returned to Isle Royale for our honeymoon.

From our seaplane drop in Windigo, we backpacked for a week, averaging about 14-16 miles per day, charging through both fresh and familiar territory up toward Rock Harbor. We started with the 30-mile in the southeast, where we encountered bull moose with five-foot racks in marshy spits, fields of purple, yellow, and red wildflowers, and turquoise Superior vistas from the fire tower. Then, we pushed north to , where we hunkered down on the lakeshore with freeze-dried chili mac and cheese, and slept under the stars to a symphony of howling wolves. After, we climbed along the spine of the island via the , stopping at Lake Desor to soak aching feet and rest, before trekking to in the west for an orange-sherbet sunset. We polished off our trip playing cards and hiding from cheek-reddening wind at Moskey Basin in our tent, before plunging into Superior and cracking cold beers from Rock Harbor’s camp store. It was tough to board our seaplane out, but we’ll be back throughout our lives. I can’t think of a better, more meaningful place to celebrate getting hitched. —Patty Hodapp, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř senior digital travel editor

Location: Southeast Utah

Price: Free

Why We Love It: When my wife and I discuss the formative months of our relationship, we inevitably begin to reminisce about a weeklong 2016 meander through southeastern Utah. A maiden road trip is the ultimate relationship test. Can we get along for hours on end in the car? Are our tastes in music compatible? Are we both comfortable with a blank itinerary and no clue where we’re going to eat or sleep each night? Pringles or Doritos? It was on the first day of that trip that we learned the answers: yes, yes, yes, Doritos. We were a perfect match.

If you were to ask us to pinpoint the location where everything fell into place, we’d also provide matching answers: , about two and a half hours south of Moab. Tucked between Bears Ears National Monument to the north and Goosenecks State Park to the south, this 152-square-mile plot of BLM-managed land is sometimes referred to as Little Monument Valley. Explore it via its 17-mile dirt access road and you’re quickly surrounded by the same massive sandstone spires you’ve seen in countless westerns and postcards, but with hardly any other visitors competing for the photo ops.

We turned onto that road around 4 P.M., drove six miles in, and turned again onto a short, dead-end spur road, where we pitched our tent just beside a massive wash. Then we cracked open some beers and sat on the back of my car to watch the sunset. There were no other sounds in the universe save for the whoosh of an occasional breeze, and the colors changed every two minutes. Most people probably wouldn’t describe Valley of the Gods’ rugged, barren landscape as romantic. But for a magic half hour each evening, I can’t think of a more romantic place on earth. —Christopher Keyes, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Inc. vice president and general manager, Outdoors

Los Poblanos Historic Inn and Organic Farm

Location: Albuquerque, New Mexico

Cost: From $350

Why We Love It: If a 25-acre lavender farm with wandering llamas, artisanal purple gin cocktails, and beautiful gardens and courtyards that the affianced dream of booking for their weddings doesn’t appeal to your romantic sensibilities, this place will change your mind. Los Poblanos is a lovely, quiet getaway from the whirrings of the world. I recommend it frequently to friends or generally anyone traveling through Albuquerque with time to spare.

My husband and I came here to celebrate an anniversary years before the media began bestowing it with awards, but we have returned a handful of times since, to enjoy family celebrations at its farm-to-table restaurant, Campo; sit down to a leisurely brunch (we can’t seem to order anything but the eggs Benedict—those homemade English muffins are worth the hourlong commute); and take part in the convivial that are quickly booked by local Burqueños and held at one or two very long tables.

Stay a night or two in a North Field room with a fireplace (make this request, as not all have them), but get there early enough to spend time out on the patio, surrounded by the rows of lavender, at their height in June, and watch the shadow of dusk fall slowly over the towering Sandia Mountains. If the weather’s nice, and it tends to be in Albuquerque, borrow a bike and ride along the Rio Grande. Make s’mores at the fire pit. Wake up late and walk the farm’s fields, visit the chickens. Savor the relaxed pastoral atmosphere. Time with your partner in such a setting can’t but work wonders. It has for us. —Tasha Zemke, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř associate managing editor

Lake Crescent Lodge

Location: InsideĚýOlympic National Park, Washington

Price: $211

Why We Love It: Lake Crescent is my happy place. Its perfectly clear, deep blue waters are ringed by majestic evergreens and framed by rolling mountains. The best spot along its perimeter is the , a white, Victorian-style property built in 1916. There’s a beautiful sunroom for grabbing drinks, and a verdant lawn rolls down to the waterfront, where Adirondack chairs are positioned perfectly for sunset viewing. There is also a sit-down restaurant on-site, but national park food always leaves something to be desired, so instead, my husband and I opt to grab takeout from Frugals, a burger drive-through in Port Angeles, and enjoy a picnic by the lake.

For my 25th birthday, we managed to snag a room in Lake Crescent’s historic lodge building. There are newer buildings and cabins on the premises that offer private bathrooms, but the original lodge, with its lace curtains and wood paneling, charmed us. Each year my husband grants me my birthday wish—a canoe paddle on one mountain lake or another. It’s the only day of the year he’ll get in a watercraft with me, due to my hopeless paddling skills. After 20 minutes of me steering us in circles, he patiently does all the work to navigate us around the lake while I take pictures and eat sandwiches. It’s heaven.

That year we grabbed the earliest canoe rental possible–7 A.M.—and took off across Lake Crescent before any motorized boats ventured forth. The water was like glass, and early-morning fog rose from its surface. We peered down at submerged logs and skirted the shoreline to avoid the more than 600-foot icy depths with no sounds other than birdsong. —Mikaela Ruland, National Park Trips associate content director

Ojo Caliente and Taos Spa, Resort and Hot Springs

Location: Ojo Caliente, New Mexico

Price: From $239 per night; from $45 for soaks on weekdays

Why We Love It: Angie knew what was coming when we left Denver for an extended weekend getaway in Taos, New Mexico, a few years ago. We’d been together for three years and had spent the previous eight months discussing our future and The Big Question. It was time. We’d already picked out the engagement ring and planned an itinerary:Ěý Dinner at . A hike in the Sangre de Cristos. An afternoon in downtown’s plaza.

But our most anticipated spot was , a well-known spa resort west of Taos. We’d visited Ojo Caliente (Spanish for “hot eye”) the year before, and it immediately became our favorite hot springs. Seven outdoor geothermal pools of varying warmth surround a cool soaking pool and mud bath. The smell of burning cedar and mesquite waft through the grounds. Staff ask everyone to keep conversations to a whisper. And the compound is tranquil, tucked in among the piñon and cottonwood trees at the base of a rocky bluff andĚýsurrounded by a network of hiking trails.

We kicked off our getaway by spending a day in relative silence, soaking in the hot water, enjoying each other’s company, and unwinding with a massage. We booked a private pool and ate at Ojo’s restaurant that evening. Two days later, we hiked up 13,167-foot Wheeler Peak and exchanged rings at the top, just as we had planned. —, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř articles editor

The Grand Traverse

Location: Grand Tetons, Wyoming

Price: Variable, depending on whether you do it yourself or use a guide company

Why We Love It: When my girlfriend and I started dating, we thought it would be a good idea to try the Grand Traverse, a 14-mile line across ten summits with 24,000 feet of vert. She had lots of experience climbing, but she’d never been on a multi-pitch adventure before, let alone a multiday alpine effort. For some reason, we decided it was a good idea anyway. Over three days in July, with the help of , we traversed the Teton skyline, moving fast over complicated terrain, camping in a tiny tent on small ledges, and relishing in the splitter weather. It was the kind of trip that either demolishes a relationship or hardens it into something that lasts. We’ve been together for nearly a decade since. —Matt Skenazy, former şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř features editor

Granite Park Chalet

Location: Glacier National Park, Montana

Price: From $140

Why We Love It: When my wife and I got married in September of 2000, our grandparents weren’t happy. Not because they didn’t like our choice of partner, but because they couldn’t attend the wedding. The 7.6-mile hike to the remote site we’d chosen to tie the knot—Glacier National Park’s historic —was just too much. But we were enamored with the century-old stone-and-wood structure, located just west of the Continental Divide, atop a hill with sweeping views of Glacier’s peaks and valleys, scenery made even more spectacular by the light show that happens when the sun dips below the jagged horizon.

Our wedding party, just under 30 strong, trekked to the chalet via the , which hugs the famed Garden Wall, a sharp ridge that at the time was laced with glittering streams and sprays of wildflowers. If you find romance sleeping at tree line in an alpine wonderland, miles deep in the wilderness, Granite Park Chalet is your spot. But full disclosure: room service is not one of the perks. You’ll cook meals on the chalet’s propane stove and schlep water from a nearby creek.

Yes, we pressed our wedding guests into pack duty, asking them to help us haul in three days’ worth of drinks and food. My mother-in-law-to-be baked a wedding cake on-site, and the bridesmaid decorated the chalet’s community dining room. But the collaborative spirit only added to the allure of holding our celebration here. How good was the reception? After seeing the pictures, even our grandparents were happy. —Dennis Lewon, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Inc. director of content

Shenandoah National Park

Location: Near Sperryville, Virginia

Price: Variable, depending on whether you pitch a tent in the park (campsites from $30) or stay at a local Airbnb or hotel

Why We Love It: They say Virginia is for lovers. I haven’t traveled enough around the state to vouch for that, but I’ve spent many weekends at this national park, and I think you could honestly say that the Shenandoahs are for soulmates. Just north of Sperryville, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, there’s a dirt road that distances you from gas stations and billboards and delivers you to the base of a gorge known as . Each time my then-boyfriend and I set off on the modestly challenging two-mile trail, the hushed vibe instantly reset our moods and our rhythm.

There’s something different about this place, unlike other hikes I’ve known, and how it sequesters you among the crowded trees, obscuring daylight. Away from the tensions of everyday life, it brought on an almost tangible expression of what filmmaker Jason Silva refers to as a “.” We navigated moss-covered rocks and fallen trees, danced in a stream, gawked at what appeared to be bear tracks, geeked out at the geography, and paused solemnly at a cemetery.

We stayed at a rustic (and slightly terrifying) old cabin loaned to us by a friend. It had shoddy cell reception but was comfortingly close to the trail and replete with an outdoor shower, cast-iron cookware, firewood, and our hauled-in provisions. Sitting on the porch at dusk, we joked about DIY glampingĚýwhile sipping Champagne and watching fireflies the size of lanterns dance with the constellations. My memories have since outlasted that relationship, so “soulmates” may not be entirely accurate. But then, as with pretty much anything in life, it is what you make of it in the moment. —Renee Marie Schettler, Yoga Journal executive editor

Sun Mountain Lodge

Location: Winthrop, Washington

Price: From $172

Why We Love It:Ěý The magnificent views here have been awing guests for decades. Established in 1968 in central Washington’s Methow River Valley, the is an aerie atop a foothill boasting immense 360-degree vistas: the mountain terraces and spires of the North Cascades and thousands of acres of Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest. Guest rooms and a dining room are built around those views. I’ve been fortunate to stay here four times, teaching writing classes for the and hiking on glacially carved slopes where strong winds cause trees to grow sideways.

I have been here with friends and colleagues, but never a romantic partner: I wish! Instead, each time, I sent my husband and our two sons cascades of photos: Mount Gardner from my room, the horse ranch I can spy from my class, the nearby Lake Patterson, where people fish, and even the stuffed bison in the lobby (his name is Floyd) and the massive musk ox and caribou heads mounted above the fireplace. Every season has its charms: sunflowers and wildflowers in spring and summer, the brilliant red foliage of fall, and, in winter, snow (not to mention the annual , a 40K race that begins on the valley floor, continues on what’s touted as North America’s largest ski-trail network, and finishes at the lodge).

My husband would love to skate-ski here. We’d both like to tackle some of the daylong rock climbs around Mazama, 23 miles to the northwest. My friend Jill LaRue, a nurse who works the conference, mountain bikes the trails around the lodge. If you hadn’t packed for all of the recreational possibilities, you can square things away at the lodge’s sizable gear-rental shop. This being Washington, it is perhaps unsurprising that the salmon served at the lodge is always great. And if you have time for further exploring, you might try snacks and soup at the Rocking Horse Bakery and Little Dipper Cafe in the quintessential mountain town of Winthrop, ten miles east, or visit the funky cabin-like Mazama Store in Mazama. —Alison Osius, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř travel editor

The Highlands at Harbor Springs

Location: Harbor Springs, Michigan

Price: From $200

Why We Love It: I am turning 40 this month, and to celebrate, my husband and I are spending our first weekend away from our three-and-a-half-year-old. We didn’t want to travel too far, and we also wanted something that both felt luxurious and had skiing. That last bit was important—I was born and raised in Sun Valley, Idaho, and having recently relocated to northern Michigan from New Mexico, I thought our skiing options would be fairly limited.

But then I discovered the “Deer Valley of the Midwest,” (formerly known as Boyne Highlands). Booked! We’re staying in a slopeside Gleneagles Ultra Luxury Suite in the resort’s historic and recently renovated main lodge, and I’m looking forward to the soaking tub, Italian linen sheets, bidet, record player, included breakfast, and ski-valet service. And the highlight: a snowcat-accessed moonlight dinner at the resort’s mountaintop North Peak restaurant the night of my birthday.

It’s not going to be the deepest skiing of my life, or even my season, but I can’t imagine a better way to turn 40 than a fancy, toddler-free ski weekend with my favorite ski partner. —, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Inc. director of digital sales strategy

Red Cliffs Lodge

Location: Moab, Utah

Price: From $129

I didn’t actually go on a romantic getaway to just outside Moab with my partner. I went on a romantic getaway there with myself. But this lovely lodge—recently acquired by Marriott—has been top of my list for a weekend with my husband soon.

Bonding over new experiences as a couple is awesome, and there are plenty of ways to do that at Red Cliffs. The lodge offers great amenities, and also serves as an adventure concierge. During my stay, I checked out the onsite and relaxed with a sound bath. The Lodge also arranged a guided canyoneering trip with , and an Arches stargazing photography tour at 1 a.m.

The lodge itself sits 25 minutes from the Arches entrance, 14 miles up Grandstaff Canyon alongside the Colorado River. And you don’t have to head into the town of Moab to go on a climbing, mountain biking, or hiking date. Climb at nearby Fisher Towers or boulder at Big Bend. Shuttle the Whole Enchilada. Take a hike on Grandstaff Trail. Or go for a scenic drive up into the La Sals.

No phone service, the pastoral setting, and the soothing sound of the Colorado River don’t hurt the romantic vibes either.

If you’re heading to Red Cliffs soon, keep in mind that the property is under renovation until early 2026, so some areas are closed and some offerings/amenities are temporarily on pause.Ěý—, Climbing editor in chief

Lake Creek Road Dispersed Camping Area

Location: Ketchum, Idaho

Cost: Free

Why We Love It: A few summers back, my boyfriend and I went on a quest for a weekend retreat in Idaho that led us just beyond Ketchum, to the Lake Creek Road camping area. Nestled along the eponymous creek, it became the perfect haven for a few days of mountain-biking adventures and tranquil post-ride relaxation. The beginner-friendly , which guided us to a mesmerizingĚývista, was practically at our doorstep. The , weaving through sage and aspen, provided a captivating forested singletrack experience, revealing glimpses of the majestic Pioneer Mountains.

Also close by was Frenchman’s Hot Springs, an idyllic setting for rejuvenating soaks, enhanced by the refreshing flow of the nearby Warm Springs Creek. What made the getaway truly special was the sense of being off-grid, with no interruptions from cell-phone service, allowing us to fully immerse ourselves in the weekend. Evenings were spent reconnecting by the campfire under the incredibly bright stars. It was a much needed escape from the ordinary. —Sierra Shafer, Ski editor in chief

The New Mexico–Colorado Borderlands

Location: The San Juan River and Pagosa Springs

Price: $500 for a day of guided fishing; rooms at The Springs Resort and Spa starting at $340

Why We Love It: Over Thanksgiving, my boyfriend booked a day of fly-fishing from a drift boat on the San Juan River, a fishery in northern New Mexico that’s well-known for its absolutely massive trout. There are a few area outfitters with similar offerings, like and . Neither of us had ever fished with a guide, and after countless long days wading upriver and tying rig after rig, it was a treat to have someone else do the dirty work so we could just fish. Then we drove through a blizzard to Pagosa Springs, Colorado, about an hour and a half away from the takeout, to stay at theĚý, where we soaked late into the night. The next day we caught little trout in the river below the resort and once again soaked until we were prunes. This is a good trip to take in the colder months, when there are smaller crowds on the (very popular) river. And the hot springs are that much sweeter when the weather’s unfriendly. —Abigail Barronian, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř senior editor

Cape Alava, Olympic Wilderness Coast

Location: Olympic National Park, Washington

Price: $8 per person per night for a backcountry-camping permit; park-entrance fee additional

Why We Love It: The northern stretch of Olympic National Park coastline is pretty much my favorite place on earth, period. It’s the place where I always feel totally present, which is the main reason I’d take a partner there for some quality time. The ocean, the remove from roads and other people, and the terrible cell service make the rest of my life seem very distant, and the world shrinks to the rocky beach, the waves, and my companions. The tide pools full of anemones, starfish, and other sea life in the large intertidal zone at Cape Alava make it my preferred spot, and you can pitch a tent at dozens of campsites strung out along the rocky beaches.

Starting at the Lake Ozette ranger station, it’s a three-ish mile hike through windblown forests and peat bogs on a well-maintained trail to reach the cape. The effort-to-scenic-payoff ratio is unmatched, and the mellow route to campsites on the coast avoids a few backpacking pitfalls that can spoil the romance—no one is going to bonk, it’s easy to loop back to the car for forgotten essentials, and the short distance means you can bring extra goodies like a bottle of wine or a small watermelon.

The downsides include the long drive to get there (five hours from Seattle, longer if you have to wait at the ferry), the hassle of , and potential storms and high winds once you’ve arrived. Full disclosure: I’ve never taken a partner here, just friends, although one friend I brought along did leave the coast as more than a friend, so make of that what you will. But if I ever wanted to spend a few days with a sweetheart, to simply enjoy the picturesque surroundings and each other’s company, I’d take them to Cape Alava. —Miyo McGinn, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř assistant editor

AutoCamp Joshua Tree

Location: Joshua Tree, California

Price: From $223

Why We Love It: Think of romance, and you might think of iconic destinations like Paris or Venice, but I feel most connected to my partner when we visit Joshua Tree. We recently stayed in for an overnight excursion to the high desert, and the amenities and proximity to the national park—a quick six miles—made it one of our loveliest weekends together. The property’s Airstreams have been converted into trendy tiny homes but offer the novelty of vanlife. (And when you’re living out of your van in wintertime, there’s no complimentary hot cocoa and cider bar, as there is here the entire month of December.)

We had a great time in ours: the beds are plush, the bathrooms are large, and there’s heating and A/C. Also, every airstream unit comes with a private outdoor fire pit and dining area with a table and chairs, so you can cozy up next to your beau and toast with s’mores while stargazing up one of the darkest, most decorated skies in the world. Not interested in sleeping in a converted Airstream? Check out its cabins. AutoCamp is so romantic that it literally hosts weddings on-site at its large gathering space. It also hosts loads of activities, day and night, from themed hikes and new-moon soundbaths to concerts and cultural tours. —Emma Veidt, Backpacker associate editor

Garnet Mountain Fire Lookout

Location: Custer Gallatin National Forest, Montana

Price: $73

Why We Love It: More than 8,000 fire towers perched on high points across the U.S. at their peak in the 1950s, giving lookouts a vantage to spot the telltale curl of a wildfire start before it could spread. Today, only a fraction of those still stand. But at a few of them, backpackers can spend the night, enjoying panoramic views and stellar mountaintop stargazing for themselves.

For the first anniversary of our first date, the woman who is now my wife and I ventured up to one of those—, elevation 8,245 feet—to try and claim some of that magic. From Bozeman, it’s a 26-mile drive to the Ěýand from there it was a 3.5-mile hike to the summit, through a conifer forest and wide-open mountain meadows that still held late-spring snow on their western faces. Before long we’d settled into the fire tower, a squat, two-story building with a woodshed on the bottom and a full wraparound porch surrounding the square living quarters on top. Furnishings were solid but spartan—a small pantry, a propane burner and wood stove, a table, and four bunks, each just big enough for two determined lovebirds to squeeze into. But when that night’s sunset lit the hills, I would have taken it over any palace. —Adam Roy, Backpacker executive editor

International Bonus: Hvammsvik Hot Springs and Northern Lights

Location:ĚýMosfellsbær, Snaefellsnes Peninsula, Iceland

Price: Soak from $38

Why We Love It: A couple of years ago, to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, my husband and I cruised around southwest Iceland for six days. We love a thermal-springs soak after hard hikes and trail runs, and prefer to dodge crowds and drive less, so this smallish outdoor mecca was a no-brainer addition to the end of a stint in Ireland.

We rented a Dacia Duster 4X4 with a rooftop tent in ReykjavĂ­k ($900 for five days, tricked out with sleeping and cooking essentials and a hot spot for GPS, via ) and headed out with no agenda except to explore the country’s remote terrain rich with waterfalls, lava fields, alpine valleys, and camping spots. A few days in, we decided we needed a geothermal soak. So we headed west along offshoot F-roads (FĚýforĚý´ÚÂáä±ô±ô, which means “mountain” in Icelandic) to on the Snaefellsnes fjord. There, we spent hours hopping from one pool to the next, mowing down salads from its on-site bistro, and sipping champagne from its swim-up bar—glorious rewards after miles on backcountry trails. After we plunged into the Atlantic to scrub our dirt and sweat away, we scored a campspot nearby, made pasta on the stove, and kicked back to watch the most dazzling five-hour northern lights show we’ve ever seen. All told, we’ve been lucky to share lots of romantic moments in stunning places worldwide, but this memory tops our list. ‱÷.±á.

International Bonus: Kasbah Tamadot

Location: Atlas Mountains, Morocco

Price: From MAD 7,550 per night (roughly US $775)

Why We Love It: As a couple, it can be tempting to take the easy route when traveling overseas, the road more traveled. Relationships are adventurous enough. Why add more blind corners?

Sometimes, though, it pays to explore the back roads.

Such was the case for my wife and I during a delayed honeymoon to Morocco, two years after we were married. Neither of us had been to the North African country when we decided to spend a week in Marrakech, a well-trodden tourist destination that somehow remains as mystical as it must have been when 16th century sultans ruled it. Today, the medina is full of souks selling Berber rugs, piles of spices, and elaborate kaftans—not to mention a long list of bougie hotels. Basically, you know it’s going to be comfortable, even for my wife, Keren, whose idea of roughing it is an outdoor massage.

Me, I’m a sop for “off-the-beaten path” experiences. I can’t think of anything more boring than an afternoon massage, which is why I insisted on spending at least a few nights in the mountains outside of Marrakech. So I decided unilaterally, because I was in charge of reservations, to book us into , a private home turned remote retreat overlooking a river valley in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.

The resort, an hour and a half outside of Marrakech, is centered around a large 1920s riad, a traditional Moroccan house with rooms surrounding a central, tiled courtyard. The grounds of Tamadot include gardens, an oversized pool, fancy Berber tents for glamping, and a little farm with camels, donkeys, and chickens, among other critters. There’s even a Turkish bath and spa. Despite the extensive grounds and long list of upscale amenities, everything about Tamadot feels intimate, like being welcomed into a family home, one with multiple fountains covered in floating flower petals.

Oh, it also happens to be owned by Richard Branson, whose mom fell in love with the riad years ago, so he bought it and transformed it into the oasis it has become. Let’s be clear, this isn’t exactly the road less traveled, despite its surroundings, but Tamadot was my concession to my wife, so I could do all the other things I wanted to do.

The end of the valley, for example, is a popular launch point for trekking in the mountains, including to the summit of Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa. With Kasbah Tamadot as our base camp, we were easily able to explore the valley’s upper villages, including Imlil, which is often referred to as the Moroccan Chamonix. After a hike on our first full day, we were welcomed into a local’s home that doubled as a makeshift restaurant. We sat next to a low table on elaborately-sewn cushions and were served a traditional vegetable tagine, heated over a wood fire in the backyard. The vegetables—carrots, potatoes, peas, and zucchini—were cooked to perfection, and served with a platter of steaming couscous. Keren, as a vegetarian, had been struggling to find food she liked for days, even in Marrakesh. Here, after a long hike, we finished even the last bite.

The following day, we visited a woman-owned cooperative producing and selling argan-oil products—soaps, moisturizers, and other cosmetics. We bought a bag-full of their wares. In the afternoon, I hiked up a ridgeline while Keren visited the animals at the farm. On our final day, I arranged a motorcycle tour—set up through the tourism company —that would take us through the mountains to the Agafay Desert.

In the U.S., Keren wouldn’t get on a motorcycle if ashes from a volcano were about to rain down on us. “Those things are death traps,” she kept saying in advance of the day. But when our driver, Hussein, pulled up to Tamadot’s front gate on a Chang Jiang 750, a vintage Chinese bike outfitted with a leather-seated sidecar—one that happens to be stylish as hell—the magic of the moment took over. We both saddled up and spent the entire day on the motorcycle, careening down dirt roads, visiting a small village in the desert with an ancient mosque, and walking through a narrow, ancient souk. The vendors and locals stared at us every step of the way, as if we were the first foreigners they’d even seen. We bought candy and shared it with local kids running on the streets.

Halfway through the day, we stopped at the home of a prominent Iman now occupied by his great-grandson. Our host served us wild mint tea and cookies, pouring the kettle from high above his head into small cups held below his waist. It was the traditional pouring style, he explained, a sign of hospitality and respect, because the long pour created foam on top of the tea to catch the dust in the desert air. I’ve never felt a more welcoming gesture.

Back at the resort that evening, the staff of Kasbah Tamadot had left a bottle of Moroccan grenache and glasses on our nightstand, along with rose petals on the bed. The forced romance might have felt mawkish, but after a long day on the bike, we sat silently on the terrace with a glass each, watching the sun disappear.

After two years of marriage, it was clear we had both fallen in love again—with a new country, slightly expanded versions of ourselves. A simple willingness to explore, despite our reservations, brought us together in a way that no ceremony could.

The next morning, I even ventured over to the spa, hand in hand with my wife. —Ryan Krogh, şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř contributing writer

The post 18 Romantic Getaways That Are Far Better than Roses or Chocolate appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I bought my first car when I was 24 years old during a move to Boulder, Colorado, for a job. She was a metallic-blue Honda Fit—a subcompact I could actually afford—and I was psyched to have wheels for mountain adventures.

Being an avid angler, backpacker, trail runner, and snowboarder, I made her my second home for high-alpine pursuits. She was a fuel-economy champion on a tight budget, a cozy bed in lightning storms, and a reliable-ish rig to reach hidden trailheads, camp spots, and rivers.

Now, though, I cringe at my younger self.

She was a Honda freaking Fit. But perhaps because I’d grown up driving in northern Minnesota (hello moose, black-ice, and squalls), I figured I could handle Colorado. So, I pushed her like the ATV she wasn’t, down dirt tracks she shouldn’t have been on, barely dodging would-be mistakes. It wasn’t until I braved a blizzard on Loveland Pass, topping out at 11,990 feet and nearly grazed a guardrail, that I knew it was time to trade up. It broke my heart to let her go, but I opted for an SUV with all-wheel drive, higher clearance, and better safety specs. I haven’t looked back since.

For adventurers like myself, cruising backcountry roads and off-grid highways comes with a major payoff: breathtaking vistas, zero crowds, and miles of solitude with prime access to wilderness. Yet, it also carries caveats, like having the proper skills, essential gear, and the right rig. Skimp on these, and BAM, you’re in SOS territory fast.

şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř of human error, some roads are simply trickier to navigate by nature. Bob Wilson, statewide communications manager for Colorado Department of Transportation (CDOT), says obstacles like weather, hairpin turns, steep climbs, missing or confusing signage, shoulder-edge drop offs, debris, potholes, and wildlife add complexity to backcountry driving. “These technical elements should be treated with extreme caution, no matter your skill or the conditions,” Wilson says.

The U.S. offers a plethora of spectacular, tantalizing routes in beautiful places. Here are eight stunners, from extreme tracks that switchback thousands of vertical feet to remote highways with no one else around. Some, I’ve done well equipped. Others are on my maybe list. Driving any one of these scenic, yet dangerous roads should be taken seriously. Our advice? Proceed with caution. If in doubt, stay home and gawk online instead.

Dalton Highway, Alaska

For: Prepared mountain-accustomed drivers with 4WD, snow tires, and chains
Length: 414 miles
Maximum Elevation: 4,653 feet
Get There: From Fairbanks, take Elliott Highway (AK Route 2) north to Livengood.
Best Time to Go: End of May into June
The Pay Off: Wildlife, no humans for miles, remarkable mountain peaks
Beware Of: Avalanches, infrequent services, wildlife

The Dalton Highway stretches 414 miles across northern Alaska from Livengood to Deadhorse and the Prudhoe Bay Oil Field on the Arctic Ocean. It winds through birch woodlands and spruce forests, crossing the Yukon River, Arctic Circle, and the Brooks Mountain Range, where it climbs over 3,000 feet to top out on Atigun Pass.Ěý

Originally constructed to support the trans-Alaska oil pipeline in the 1970s, it’s rugged, prone to avalanches, and has a number of non-conforming features. You’ll encounter 12 hills over 10 percent grade and several sharp curves. It’s mostly gravel and there’s no cell service. Frost heaves and other geological conditions promise a bumpy, pot-hole ridden ride, and with just three gas stops, you’ll travel up to 240 miles before your next fuel opportunity between Coldfoot and Dalton’s endpoint. Watch out for muskox, caribou, bears, wolves, and moose that traverse the ribbon of roadway and pipeline, and can crumple a vehicle.

Don’t Miss: Atigun Pass Summit at mile marker 244. Here, the Dalton crosses the Continental Divide where rivers to the north empty into the Arctic Ocean and rivers to the south dump into the Bering Sea. If you’re lucky with a perfect weather window, stay at any of the four along the way (mile markers 60, 115, 180, and 275).

Safety Tips: “Weather conditions make this road most challenging,” says Jeff Russell, Dalton district superintendent for Alaska Department of Transportation and Public Facilities (DOT&PF). “Winter storms have buried tractors and closed the road for several days,” he says. Russell recommends avoiding traveling during colder months for sightseeing and to be wary of caribou as they cross the road in herds without warning. The bottom line: “Understand that there are no emergency services,” he says. “People have died on that road waiting for transport to a hospital.”Ěý

Black Bear Pass Road, Colorado

For: Experienced overlanders only, with modified 4WD, high clearance, and a short wheel base
Length: 11.1 miles
Maximum Elevation: 12,840 feet
Get There: From Silverton, head north on US Highway 550, then west at Red Mountain Pass on Forest Road 823 to the top.
Best Time to Go: August and September
The Pay Off: Proximity to waterfalls, astonishing box-canyon views
Beware Of: Shoulder-edge drop offs, ledges, hairpin turns, snow into July

Colorado’s Black Bear Pass Road (Forest Road 648) is infamous for vehicle rollovers and SOS calls. In fact, off-road rescues here are getting out of hand, and Bill Masters, the state’s longest-serving sheriff, calls unprepared off-roaders who attempt it as —for good reason.Ěý

The road starts deep in the San Juans at Red Mountain Pass (Forest Road 823) off of US Highway 550 and climbs 3.2 miles and 1,822 feet to its high point on Black Bear Pass. This is where most people turn around. Some descend over 4,000 feet into Telluride.

For those who do, the road grows tighter and lumpier as it passes Ingram Lake into its basin. At mile 5.6, drivers hit a series of steep, technical rock ledges called the “Steps.” Masters, who often e-bikes the route from Telluride on his lunch break, has responded to dozens of emergency calls on this section. “From a vehicle, these drop offs look like they’re 10 feet,” he says. “A lot of people get here and freak out. They freeze with their foot on the brake. Add a thunderstorm to that, with that level of exposure, and people go over the side.”

After the Steps, the road turns into one-way, downhill only traffic for a mile through several tight, cliffedge switchbacks to Bridal Veil Power Plant. It meets Bridal Veil Falls and turns two-way again. For the inexperienced and underprepared, driving Black Bear Pass is like poking a bear with a sharp stick: deadly.

Don’t Miss: The shocking power of Bridal Veil Falls up close. Nearby, the power plant perches on a 400-foot cliff overlooking Telluride and produces sustainable energy for the town.

Safety Tips: Aside from extreme terrain, Masters says weather and conditions can be dicey—the road often closes from mud, rock, and snow slides, even during summer months when it’s open to drivers. “People get trapped on the pass with avalanches in front of them and behind them,” he says. “Make the assumption that you won’t make it to Telluride in your vehicle. Bring good hiking shoes so you can walk out in deep debris, because that might be your only option.”

Wilson, with CDOT, also recommends bringing: spare tires (and know how to change them), water, a sleeping bag, a shovel, tow cables, heavy-duty jacks, a fire extinguisher, tools, first-aid kit, stretch cords, and tire sealers, at minimum.Ěý

Beartooth Highway, Montana and Wyoming

For: Prepared mountain-accustomed drivers with AWD and all-weather tires
Length: 68.7 miles
Maximum Elevation: 10,947 feet
Get There: From Billings, take Interstate 90 to Laurel, then US Highway 212 southwest to Red Lodge.
Best Time to Go: July through mid September
The Pay Off: Lodgepole pine forests and alpine lakes rimmed in wildflower meadows
Beware Of: Extreme storms, hairpin turns, other motorists

The completely paved Beartooth Highway connects two small Montana towns—Red Lodge, to the northeast, and Cooke City, to the southwest—dipping across the Montana/Wyoming state line into Yellowstone National Park. You’ll face steep grades, hairpin turns, sheer drops, and narrow lanes as you cross through 20 peaks over 12,000 feet high. The road itself ascends 4,000 feet over 10 miles to reach Beartooth Pass, the 10,947-foot pinnacle, making it the highest highway in the Northern Rockies.Ěý

On a bluebird summer day, this road may seem undaunting for most mountain-accustomed drivers. But while it’s only open from June to October, don’t let Beartooth fool you. The route notoriously fields sudden snowstorms, fog banks, high winds, severe lightning, and lashing rain—unpredictable weather catalyzed, in part, by peaks in the surrounding Absaroka and Beartooth Ranges. Plus, grizzlies, bison, elk, moose, and bighorn sheep are just some of the wildlife hanging around.Ěý

It’s also a National Scenic Byways All-American Road leading to one of the most visited national parks in the U.S.

Don’t Miss: The quick 200-yard hike to Lake Creek Falls, an unmarked waterfall tumbling through a narrow gap on the north side of the highway, located 1.5 miles east from the junction of Beartooth and Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (WY Highway 296). Surrounding trails make for a solid pit stop to stretch your legs, and most people miss it.

Safety Tips: Road-closure information is a jurisdictional headache. The U.S. National Park Service (NPS), and the Montana and Wyoming departments of transportation (MDT and WYDOT, respectively) share maintenance responsibilities for Beartooth Highway. None keep a road-conditions livestream. According to the , it coordinates “closely” with the NPS to keep the road open, but its doesn’t show shutdowns. lists barebones intel on a 35-mile stretch of the route after it adopted the “orphan” section in 2014 when . The is your best bet for in-park closures. But above all, keep an eye on the to avoid getting hung up in a storm.Ěý

Steel Pass Road, Death Valley National Park, California

For: Experienced overlanders only, with modified 4WD, high clearance, and a short wheel base
Length: 29 miles
Maximum Elevation: 5,111 feet
Get There: From CA 190 at the junction for Scotty’s Castle Road, head north 38 miles, then turn right on Big Pine Road. Drive 34 more miles, and take a left on South Eureka Valley Road. Head 10 miles until you hit Eureka Dunes dry camp.
Best Time to Go: October through March
The Pay Off: Close-up canyon walls, no humans for miles, sweeping mountain vistas
Beware Of: Rock ledges, boulder fields, pinch points

This gnarly 4X4 track in California’s Death Valley National Park crosses its most remote northwestern area, and according to NPS ranger Brent Smith, without technical gear and the right ride, you won’t finish the drive. “Most people just don’t have the vehicles for it,” he says.ĚýĚý

Steel Pass Road stretches 29 miles from Eureka Dunes Dry Camp, northeast, to Saline Valley Warm Springs campground, southwest, and generally takes four hours. From Eureka, you climb a narrow sandy wash toward Steel Pass through Dedeckera Canyon until you reach three rock benches, which require precise maneuvers to conquer steep grades and abrupt turns, simultaneously. The first ledge isn’t so bad. But if you don’t approach the second just right, you might crunch your vehicle into the volcanic rock on either side. The third step lies in a pinch point where only meticulous wheel alignment gets you through. “If you don’t hit it perfectly, you’ll probably lose something on the bottom of your vehicle,” Smith says.Ěý

The road continues up the canyon to a fourth pinch and a fork: according to Smith, who has driven this road several times on the job, right is harder, left is easier. Ascend through more wash to the top of a high-desert mesa sprinkled with small Joshua trees at 5,111 feet elevation. Cross this plateau (the drive’s easiest five miles, Smith says) before you descend into Saline Valley, shimmying through a red-band boulder field with careful tire placement.

Note: recent, extensive flood damage has erased many parts of this stretch, so check for updates and obey closure information.

Don’t Miss: Take a break at the mesa before you descend into Saline Valley. Here, you’ll get a dazzling panorama of the Inyo Mountain range, the western park boundary.

Safety Tips: According to Smith, it can take several hours for a rescue from the closest ranger station at Furnace Creek, over 100 miles away. There’s no cell service, so bring a satellite communication device in case of emergency. “There can be days where no one travels this route and it’s a really long walk to anywhere else in the park,” Smith says. “If you’re not familiar with the range, err on the side of caution and bring extra gas.” As far as weather goes, Death Valley gets the least amount of rain in the U.S. but when the clouds let loose, it comes in a deluge. “Don’t venture to Steel Pass in these conditions because it does flash flood and the boulders move around underneath you,” Smith warns.

Tail of the Dragon, Tennessee and North Carolina

For: Prepared mountain-accustomed drivers
Length: 11 miles
Maximum Elevation: 1,988 feet
Get There: From Asheville, head west on Interstate 40, then take US Highway 74 to NC Route 28 and Deals Gap.
Best Time to Go: April through October
The Pay Off: Old growth oak and hickory groves, serpentine, but paved, curves
Beware Of: Dramatic back-to-back curves, wildlife

This snaky ribbon of US Highway 129, dubbed “Tail of the Dragon” thanks to its 318 curves over just 11 miles, borders the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and Cherokee National Forest on the Tennessee/North Carolina state line.Ěý

It begins where NC Route 28 intersects with 129, coined “the mouth of the Dragon” by locals at Deals Gap, and climbs, dips, and twists almost 1,000 feet to finish at Tabcat Bridge in Bounty County, TN. Navigating its hairpin turns, blind crests, steep cambers, and double-backs demands utmost concentration—most curves are so sharp they’ve earned nicknames like Rockslide Corner, Gravity Cavity, and The Whip.Ěý

Steep rocky or forested embankments line both sides of the Dragon, there are no guardrails, and frequent summer-afternoon rain showers promise slick, perilous conditions. Though it’s paved with pull offs and warning signs—a safety initiative by the Tennessee Department of Transportation (TDOT) to reduce gravel on the road and caution motorists—even these features don’t prevent adrenaline junkies from launching off cliffs or into the oak, walnut, and hickory trees below.Ěý

Don’t Miss: Calderwood Overlook, slightly over nine miles into the drive, it has gorgeous views of Cheoah Dam below and Tennessee’s Smoky Mountains awash in fiery colors when leaves turn in fall.

Safety Tips: The 30-mile-per-hour speed limit exists for good reason, according to Mark Nagi, TDOT region one community relations officer. “Heed the warning and advisory signs posted at most curves, reverse curves, dips, and winding sections,” he says. “We’ve installed these to advise motorists of the features ahead.” Also, keep an eye out for deer, hogs, and black bears crossing the road as they travel through southern Appalachia. According to Nagi, 20 years’ worth of accident reports show several crashes involving wild animals.Ěý

River Road, Big Bend National Park, Texas

For: Experienced overlanders only, with modified 4WD and high clearance
Length: 51 miles
Maximum Elevation: 2,419 Ěýfeet
Get There: From Panther Junction Visitor Center, head east 15.7 miles until you reach the east entrance to River Road on your right. If you’ve hit Hot Springs Canyon Trailhead, you’ve gone too far.
Best Time to Go: October through March
The Pay Off: Primitive camp spots, no humans for miles, rich history
Beware Of: Extreme heat, sandy washes, flash floods

Over 51 miles, the scorching, 4X4-only River Road traverses the most remote part of Texas’ Big Bend National Park. Ironically, though it parallels the Rio Grande to the south, you won’t actually see water.Ěý

The route, typically a one-way journey, links the eastern Rio Grande Village to the western ranger outpost at Castolon, and crisscrosses creosote-sprinkled sandy washes and hardened lava flows through the Chihuahuan Desert. It takes at least four to five hours to drive, and hits several deep-bottomed arroyos with massive boulders at sharp grades. The NPS recommends making the trek only if you have, at minimum, 15-inch tire rims, high clearance, and four-wheel drive. “Even all-wheel-drive vehicles will get hung up in the silt and sediment because it’s unforgiving,” says Tom Vandenberg, chief of interpretation and visitor services at Big Bend. “In summer months during the rainy season, you could be driving a Sherman tank and not get through.”Ěý

River Road sits in the park’s lowlands, so though alpine climbs and cliffsides aren’t a threat, July to September is rife with isolated thunderstorms that cause frequent flash floods. “If it looks like it’ll rain in front of you, turn around,” Vandenberg says. “Often, sections become impassable until they dry out.”

Don’t Miss: , now an abandoned collection of empty buildings, used to be a bustling village home to early-1900s pioneers hunting for mercury. It’s located on the northern end of Mariscal Mountain about 18 miles in from River Road’s east entrance. If you’re lucky, snag a permit in person, 24 hours in advance, from Panther Junction. Here, sleep at the single, primitive across the road to catch the sunrise as it brushes across the vacant buildings.Ěý

Safety Tips: According to Vandenberg, summer temperatures on River Road are at least 10 degrees hotter than what’s reported from the park’s headquarters, almost 2,000 feet higher. They can top 115-degrees fahrenheit, or more, so he recommends driving the two-tracker in winter for optimal weather—if you attempt it. Also, confirm there’s air in your spare. “I can’t tell you how many people blow a tire, go to change it, and realize their backup is flat, too, because they haven’t looked at it in years,” Vandenberg says. Bring several gallons of water and wear protective clothing and proper footwear. “You need to be self reliant,” he says. “If you get stuck, stay by your vehicle. We don’t regularly patrol the road, but chances are someone will come along eventually, and out here, you’re a long way from help.”

Moki Dugway, Utah

For: Prepared mountain-accustomed drivers
Length: 3 miles, including Muley Point
Maximum Elevation: 5,750 feet
Get There: From Moab, head south on US Highway 191 to Bluff, then take US Highway 163 west until it intersects with UT Route 261 to the north.
Best Time to Go: April through October
The Pay Off: Far-reaching canyon vistas, no Moab crowds
Beware Of: Sharp switchbacks, steep climbs, no guardrails

Moki Dugway is a three-mile gravel section of the paved UT Route 261, northwest of the Valley of the Gods, a series of red sandstone mesas, buttes, and spires sacred to the Navajo. Its name comes from “moqui,” the term Spanish explorers used to describe footholds local Puebloans chiseled to scale the crag, and “dugway” from the cliffedge road carved by ore miners in the 1950s.

The arduous, 11-percent-grade dugway switchbacks in 180-degree bends to climb 1,200 feet to the top of Cedar Mesa, revealing spectacular vistas of Utah’s meandering canyons as the valley floor drops away. Take the offshoot to Muley Point, Moki’s apex at 5,750 feet, for views of Colorado’s Ute Mountain to the east, and New Mexico’s Ship Rock to the southeast. But, beware: with the exception of the summit, the road doesn’t have guardrails to protect vehicles from shoulder-edge drop offs. Two-way traffic can make even the sturdiest drivers edge each other out from nerves.Ěý

Thunderstorms can cause severe runoff, and early spring freeze-thaw cycles generate rockfall. There’s also no cell service, so be ready to hike out if you get stuck.Ěý

Don’t Miss: Muley Point Overlook, not to be confused with Muley Point East. The latter gives you a glimpse of the San Juan River below, but if you drive a few minutes past it, the former, located at the end of the pointed rock stretching out from the mesa, gives you a much wider river panorama.

Safety Tips: “Drive the five mile-per-hour speed limit,” says Kevin Kitchen, Utah Department of Transportation (UDOT) region four senior communications manager. “This road requires focused driving at slow, consistent speed.” Use low gears, and ensure your brakes are in proper working condition and aren’t overheating. Also, don’t expect to turn around on the Moki Dugway: if you have a fear of heights, this drive is not for you, Kitchen warns. “Opinions about the Moki Dugway range from terror to ecstasy,” he says.

Road to Hana, Maui, Hawaii

For: Alert drivers prepared for narrow, single-lane bridges
Length: 34.3 miles
Maximum Elevation: 1,200 feet
Get There: From the town of Kahului, head east on Hana Highway (HI Route 36) about 17 miles, until it turns into HI Route 360, known as the Road to Hana.
Best Time to Go: December through March
The Pay Off: Tropical hikes, 18 waterfalls, rugged coastline
Beware Of: Single-car bridges, blind corners, tourists in rental cars

Hawaii’s curvy Road to Hana hugs Maui’s northeastern shore around Haleakal� National Park, and hints at the island’s trapped-in-time allure, before tourists ever came. But despite devastating wildfires in Lahaina last year, Hana and other spots remain open and encouraging of visitors.

The road starts at mile marker zero near Paʻia (your last chance for gas, to the north) where HI Route 36 turns into 360, and snakes toward Hana along the coast. With sea cliffs to the east and emerald peaks to the west, it’s as picturesque as it is dangerous, but not for the reasons you may think.

Yes, drivers tackle 617 white-knuckle switchbacks and blind corners, and cross 59 bridges, 46 of which only have one lane. And in poor weather conditions (usually rain or wind), it’s evermore crucial to obey the 25 mph speed limit.Ěý

However, with the rise in post-pandemic travel, Hana’s biggest danger lies in a tarmac battle between rental-car tourists clogging the artery and commuting locals who get from point A to B. In June 2021, 400 to 600 people per day travel the road, many of whom park illegally for views of gushing waterfalls, white-sand beaches, and jungle canopies, causing gridlock and accidents that stifle the narrow route. Hawaii’s Department of Transportation (HDOT) and tourism officials are considering toll, reservation, fine, or permit systems to regulate the kerfuffle, but it’s all moot until who currently fund it.

Don’t Miss: Pull off at Ho’okipa (meaning “hospitality” in Hawaiian) Beach Park near mile marker nine. From the lookout, you can view the best surfers in Maui riding cerulean waves below. Then, push onward to enjoy the road’s access to bamboo forests, coastal hikes, and gushing waterfalls.

Safety Tips: Maui local Jason Brewer, who makes the journey by moped mostly in the fall off-season for fun, says the trip has two logistical requirements. “You must make it to Hana as there are no gas stations available along the road,” he says. “A tank of gas will just get you there, and a tank will just get you home.” Also, know this: if you’re stopping to take photos and see the sights, pull over in designated areas and let locals pass. (They’ll be riding your butt, otherwise.)

Patty Hodapp hadn’t been nervous on a road in a while. But last September, she and her husband snagged a Fiat Panda for an Ireland roadtrip. As they were retracing their steps over Conor Pass—a narrow, high lane in the Dingle Peninsula—it dumped torrential rain. Atlantic storms had socked the surrounding mountains in with fog. Sheep jumped fences in front of them, eager to reach low ground. And tourists zipped by at astronomical speeds. So they white-knuckled it down, swearing the whole way.

The post The 8 Most Jaw-Dropping Scenic Roads in the U.S. appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I clawed up the steep mountainside near LeĂłn, , digging my fingernails into clay to steady my body, pitched forward under my pack.Ěý

Step, claw. Step, claw. Step. Heavy clouds threatened to downpour. Wind whipped tendrils of hair across my face.Ěý My rain jacket whispered softly. Sweat stung my eyes. burned. My lungs gasped. Focus, almost there.

ĚýIt was July, 2018 and I was 330 miles into the French Way of , a 560-mile blend of mountainous singletrack, pavement, farm road, and vineyard paths across Northern Spain. The Camino is actually a network of routes through Europe leading to Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain and originates from a 9th-century Catholic pilgrimage to pray at St. James’s bones, allegedly buried in the cathedral there. In a normal year, some 300,000 people make the trek.

I didn’t embark on a pilgrimage, as millions do, for religious reasons. I was raised in a liberal Catholic household, and though I had an inherent understanding of the Camino’s Christian context, I went for a life reset. As I approached 30, I was tired. Tired of noise and disconnection. Of forgetting what I ate for breakfast; rapid-fire emails; bowing to bosses; scrolling through people’s curated lives on social media. So, I quit my job in publishing to hike The Camino solo and contemplate life’s two fundamental questions: Who am I and why am I here? I knew, having hiked the final 60-mile stretch from Santiago de Compostela to Finisterre twice before, that it wasn’t a vacation. It was a soul-seeking journey. No one else could carry my pack, or walk the miles for me.Ěý

Like 186,198 other pilgrims walking the French Way that year, I carried a pilgrim’s passport. It became my most sacred possession, wrapped safely in plastic, tucked deep in my pack. A 70-something Frenchman had presented it to me when I registered my hike in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France. Colorful ink stamps from the Camino’s historic sites sprinkled the card-stock—testament to hundreds of miles on foot. To the Santiago Pilgrims Office, it would be proof enough to record my name on a Latin certificate saying I completed the trail. To me, it held memories, andĚý was my ticket to low-budget beds at pilgrim-reserved hostels.

For the entire 33-day trek, I carried only essentials and hiked 20-plus miles per day. Without a map (like most others), I followed yellow arrows and scallop-shell signposts marking the trail through rural villages, humming towns, crimson poppy fields, silver fir thickets, and rows of plump grapes.

Three weeks in, I began to understand why some refer to the Camino as a great metaphor for life. It hurt. At that point, I had hiked enough of the trail to know pain. I’d been soaked by rain, pelted by hail, scorched by sun. Chapped lips, sunburn, sweat stains, voracious hunger, and eternal exhaustion were just side effects. Each step’s pinch and bite promised blood between blistered toes. Time and distance under my pack’s weight peppered bruises on my hips and collarbones. I became an expert in self-rehab. All pilgrims do. At each day’s end, I’d loosen my trail runners, peel wool socks from open sores, knead aching muscles, and fall into a six-hour coma. Then, repeat it the next day. Profanity muttered in foreign accents by my fellow pilgrims reminded me that pain is more universal than language.

But I also found joy, unearthing bliss in simple things: aromatic eucalyptus forests and rose-gold sunrises; a breeze and clouds that floated with me; sinks to rinse sweaty socks; duct tape and a wide-brimmed hat; soft black vineyard dirt; silence and salty French fries; rivers to soak swollen feet; café con leche. Most of all, joy came through connections with fellow pilgrims.

As the journey unfolded, my Camino crew formed—an IT manager from Sweden, an obstetrician from New Jersey, a university student from England, an opera singer from Pamplona, and a cancer survivor from Barcelona, among others. Small talk only lasts a mile or two. We hiked together for days, laughing, swearing, crying, sharing. To walk El Camino—or any long path—is to live a shared vulnerability. We cultivated intimate conversation unlike anything I’ve experienced. We talked not of politics or profession, but of life’s joys and sorrows, speaking our truths, fears, darkest secrets, and innermost desires, free from judgement or pretense. In essence, we were walking naked.

On paper, we had little in common. And yet, we each came to the Camino to embrace deep, arduous, soul-changing work vital to self-actualization. Everyone was here to discover something, and in our shared humanity, the trail’s magic became clear: Though we were all broken, together we were somehow whole.

On day 21, with rain looming and no promise of sunrise, I pushed over the Montes de León to El Acebo, 7.5 miles from Foncebadón—the basecamp village where most pilgrims stop for the night to inhale pasta, slurp beer, and treat blisters.

Step, claw. Step, claw. Step. I stumbled as the ground evened out. Lifting my gaze, I finally saw it. Cruz de Ferro: a 3-foot-tall iron cross, mounted on a tall wooden pole marking El Camino’s highest point, a sacred apex for many pilgrims. The cross was planted in a colossal mound of stones, ribbons, letters, weather-beaten pictures, prayer beads, extinguished candles—tokens of pilgrims passed by.

Alone and grateful for a moment of silence, I unclipped my pack and set it down. My pilgrim’s scallop shell, tied to the outside, clacked on the ground. I climbed the pile and took six small stones from my pocket, one for each of my family members and me, pulled from the Eagle River in my Colorado backyard. I tore paper from my journal and scribbled prayers to the universe, then wrapped stones in my words, and set them down.Ěý

I rested my palm and forehead on the cool wood and inhaled. As I looked up at the cross it began to rain. It took me a moment to notice the taste in my mouth: a cocktail of mist, sunscreen, and salt. My heart felt full. I relished this peace as drizzle washed my cheeks. Then, I climbed carefully down the pile of intentions, hoisted my pack, and wished “Buen Camino” to two breathless pilgrims cresting the hill. I hiked on toward a warm meal, dry clothes, antiseptic spray, and dreamless rest in my cotton sleep sack.

Though historically Christian, the modern spirituality of El Camino doesn’t seem to hinge on doctrine or dogma. The path aligns with the Milky Way galaxy (used by medieval pilgrims to navigate the journey), and is considered a “thin place”—where the veil between Earth and cosmos feels translucent. Though I’m not religious per se, I exercise my version of spirituality and The Way honored it.

The trek unfolded for me in three parts. Physically, during the first 179 miles from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Burgos, I learned to walk. My body hardened, bruises and blisters formed and healed. I slowed down and plugged into the present. Worries concerning my next meal or bed or career move faded. And my urgency to arrive in Santiago evaporated.

The middle section, 102 miles from Burgos to LeĂłn, held the mental battle. For seven days, I crossed flat arid plains under beating sun where water was scarce. I chased a flat, endless horizon. “You better be OK with being in your own head,” my brother, a three-time Camino pilgrim, had warned me. Thoughts came and went, and to my delight, I found freedom from past or future concerns. I simply was where I was.Ěý

The final stretch, 198 miles from León to Santiago, brought spiritual growth. As the miles melted, I found myself grieving the end the hike. I had grown accustomed to walking. To pain, joy, presence. But I also felt gratitude for the wisdom I’d gained on the trail. It taught me that I’m much stronger than I think I am. That life can be simple, if I make it so. That it’s important to slow down and smell the flowers; beauty is in people and details. That when I look for it, I can find kindness everywhere. I felt more authentically me than ever before.

I continued for three days and 70-some miles past Santiago to the Atlantic Ocean. It had taken me more than a month of blood and sweat to reach open water. In the final miles along a white-sand beach, I waded, reflecting on the peace I felt at Cruz de Ferro. The journey was the toughest, most fruitful thing I’ve done. This is the common experience. The Camino is a deeply personal journey for all who attempt it, yet somehow still universal.

Since El Camino, I’ve learned to keep moving. As with any pilgrimage, there’s no training for life. It takes grit, humor, perseverance, and courage to live well, despite fear. Just as I did on The Way, I choose to walk on, even if it hurts, it’s uncomfortable, or desperately monotonous. These lessons form the kit of my life.Ěý

Its wisdom calls me daily to . To trust, find beauty, and be vulnerable. To share pain, joy, and connection. To, with practice, patience, faith, and grace, continue walking. Ěý

The post Breathe, Hike, Repeat: Finding Deeper Meaning on Spain’s Camino de Santiago appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

I met the love of my life on September 2, 2020, at a trailhead on Isle Royale, a remote national park in the middle of Lake Superior, only accessible by seaplane during the pandemic.

A pilot flew me from Grand Marais, Minnesota, to Rock Harbor, the park’s entry port on the northeast tip of the island, in his Cessna 206. My plan? To pull off a seven-day, point-to-point, 75-mile solo backpacking and fly-fishing trip. I added fuel canisters to my pack, grabbed my permit from the ranger, and was just about to shove off when a tall, lanky blond guy stopped nearby, on his way off the island.

He was dirty, sunburned, alone, and seemed to be chock-full of trekking beta. I couldn’t help myself. “Hey!” I called. “How was it?” Little did I know, those four words forever altered my life.

“It was awesome,” he said, grinning. Taking the opening, I grilled this guy, Ryan, about his five-night trip, during which he ran ultra-length distances on the island’s overgrown singletrack. Did you see any moose? How ’bout wolves? Did your tent survive the gale-force storms?

We chatted for 20 more minutes about our mutual love of seeking out solitude in the woods, then we parted ways—he was eager to catch the seaplane out, I was keen to bag 14 miles before dusk. I thought we’d never see each other again.

Call it fateĚýor coincidence, but two weeks later he found me on LinkedIn. A few months after that, we met up for a hike in Sedona, Arizona, which turned into a six-month, coast-to-coast, trail-running road trip together. Since then our adventures have only grown richer. We’re planning to return to Isle Royale after our wedding this summer.

Ryan and I aren’t unique in the way we met. This spring we to readers for their meet-cutesĚýand got an an overwhelming response from couples who have been together for decades, those freshly in love, and every kind of relationship in between. The one thing we all share is that adventure brought us together. Here are the most jaw-dropping, hilarious, and heartwarming outdoor love stories from our şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř audience.

Intersecting Paths on the Camino de Santiago

Ginny and Benny Truscott met at Bar Restaurante Cubasol in 2011 in Astorga, Spain. Benny was cycling the Camino de Santiago in reverse, toward his home in Belgium, finishing a charity ride in honor of his late wife. Ginny, from University Place, Washington, had lost her husband several months before. She heard about the Camino from a friend and set off to hike the final 62-mile section from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela to heal and rejuvenate. Before Ginny began trekking, she toured northern Spain’s biggest cities, including Astorga.

The night they met, Ginny entered the bar ravenous, with a language-translation book tucked under her arm—an aid to help her order food. Benny tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she spoke English. Relieved, Ginny said yes. The two shared dinner, chatted about the heartaches of losing partners prematurely, then parted ways in opposite directions: Ginny to hike west, and Benny to cycle east.

But they couldn’t stop thinking about each other. A few days later, Ginny contacted Benny on his blog. They emailed back and forth and decided to meet for Ginny’s final miles leading into Santiago, the trail’s official end point. Benny whipped his bike around, hammered hard to get to her in time, and walked with her into town. After a couple days in Santiago, they parted ways again: Ginny to Rome, which she had plans to explore after the Camino, and Benny back to Belgium.

A week later, as Benny cycled by the Toulouse, France, airport, he gave Ginny a call, and she agreed to an impromptu visit. He bought an $800 day-of plane ticket leaving from Toulouse, stashed his bike at a train station, and met her in the Italian capital.

Their friendship grew and developed into a long-distance relationship. They talked daily. Time passed, visits ensued, and in 2014, Benny emigrated to the U.S. on a fiancé visa. They married fewer than three months later and introduced their grown children to each other on a trip to Italy’s Amalfi Coast. Now retired, they adventure and thru-hike all over the world and haven’t looked back.

Advice from the Field

Ginny: “Neither of us were looking for love. It comes in the most unexpected places.”

Benny: “The long-distance relationship isn’t bad. We talked every day for at least 20 to 30 minutes. Normally, people don’t sit and talk to each other, but we did, and it made a good base for us.”

A Canceled 100-Mile Trail Run Goes Right

In 2019, Katy Barker, from New Zealand, met Mike Nash, from South Africa, at a hotel breakfast table in Gressoney-Saint-Jean, Italy, as they fueled up for the Ultra Tour de Monte Rosa—a grueling 100-mile trail race through the Alps on the Swiss-Italian border set to start that morning.

However, an intense snowfallĚýblew in, and race officials canceled the event for safety reasons.

Bummed but not deterred, Katy, Mike, and two other athletes crafted a plan B: they found an alternate, less snowy route from Chamonix, France, to Courmayeur, Italy. The group relocated to Chamonix and hit the trail at 3 A.M., trekking poles in hand, sporting headlamps and carrying food and water. For 62 miles, they ran, scrambled, and power-hiked nearly 17,500 vertical feet through steep, technical high-Alpine terrain. Occasionally, they stopped at rifugios for a cappuccino, piece of cake, soda, or ham-and-cheese roll. During their journey, Katy and Mike spent several hours talking, running together, and hitting it off.

Once they finished, nearly 22 hours later, Mike invited Katy to Slovenia to run some more, where they fell in love quickly. They lived a nomadic lifestyle, trekking up mountains, until Mike got a job in Canada. They didn’t have a joint bank account or share property, but Katy was able to follow him on a work permit when they justified their domestic partnership to the Canadian government with Airbnb receipts and Strava screenshots.

Advice from the Field

Katy: “Trust your instincts and your heart. Take a chance on a person if you think they might be the one. It might not work out, but it’s better than forever wondering about what might have been. And if it does work out, wow.”

Mike: “Don’t let logistics get in the way—if someone is worth it, you’ll find a way to make it work. Even a pandemic couldn’t keep us apart.”

A Marriage Revived While Glamping

Necota and Sonya Staples met in 1998 at North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University and fell into a whirlwind romance. They married five years later but eventually started drifting apart.Ěý

In 2016, after years of intensive marriage counseling and on the verge of divorce, Necota’s therapist suggested they say yes to each other for 90 days—a last-ditch effort to save their union.

During this period, Sonya wanted to go camping. Necota, averse to the idea but determined to play by the rules, agreed. They packed up the car and headed to Wadmalaw, South Carolina, for a glamping weekend with family and friends. It was rainy and muddy, and Necota hated every minute of that first night. However, Sonya challenged him the next day to “choose a happier emotional experience,” and it was then that everything clicked for him: he realized he had been saying no to his wife for far too long. The two built a fire, prepared and cooked food together, laughed, and had such a blast on the rest of the trip that they decided to do it again.

They’ve camped regularly ever since, rarely returning to the same spot twice. During their first several trips, the two fostered teamwork and reestablished their communication skills by setting up camp and exploring nature together.Ěý

Along the way, they started a to inspire others to feel more comfortable, confident, and curious outdoors. This grew this into a business, called , that leads community-building events and teaches others outdoors skills.

Sonya and Necota have also gotten into off-roading and overlanding and started —an Instagram community for those underrepresented in the outdoors who like to drive around in the backcountry. “We felt it was important that people see themselves and feel seen in where and how they recreate,” says Necota.

Advice from the Field

Sonya: “Always look outside yourself and try to understand another perspective. Often we get caught up in how we see things, how we feel, and how we were hurt, and can choose to ignore how someone else feels or sees a situation. Remember, there’s your way, my way, and the truth.”

Necota: “Understand communication in its fullness. There’s verbal and nonverbal communication, and knowing how your partner communicates in both areas is key. Working diligently on communication is very much related to the success of your relationship.”

An Epic Paddle Where Sparks Literally Flew

Corey and Leah Belt met in 2008, in Asheville, North Carolina, through a trusted mutual boating friend at a concert. Corey had just scored a new kayak. Leah had plans to paddle section nine of the French Broad River, fives miles of flat and Class III whitewater ending at a hot springs—her favorite post-work spot. They traded phone numbers on their flip phones, and she invited him along.

After phone tag (and some butterflies), they met up the next day and set off to shuttle their cars to either end of the float. Unbeknownst to them, in the surrounding Cherokee National Forest, a fire had begun. They arrived at the take-out in a rural area about 30 minutes from Asheville and parked Leah’s car. They noticed that the air was smoky, as fresh ash fell from the sky, but wrote it off as a controlled burn. They proceeded to the put-in and made it a mile downriver when a couple of canoers hauling boats on their shoulders and walking upstream started screaming at them to get off the river. There was a massive fire around the next bend, they yelled.

Leah and Corey turned around, battled the current to the put-in, and rushed back to Leah’s car, which was covered in ash. Deciding not to let the date become a bust, they opted for drinks, which turned into dinner, and a sweet smooch at the end of the night.

Inseparable for the next few months, they hiked, camped, paddled, and formed a deep friendship. In 2016, Leah and Corey got hitched and held their wedding reception on the banks of the French Broad.

Advice from the Field

Leah: “When I met Corey, I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was focused on spending any free time I had doing what I loved, and that meant kayaking. I think when you can focus on being yourself and doing what makes you happy, that happiness is attractive to everyone around you.”

Corey: “The perfect combination is to do what you love outdoors and meet someone who loves doing the same—and then end up falling in love.”

Missed Signals and Missing Powder

Mountaineer Erin Parisi is attempting to become the first transgender person to tackle all Seven Summits. (She’s already knocked off five.) In the fall of 2017, Erin met the woman who is now her wife, Allison Smookler, when mutual friends dragged her to a bar in Denver after throat surgery. Erin’s doctor had put her on mandatory vocal rest, so although she found Allison attractive and funny, a nod and wave was the best she could muster. Meanwhile, Allison perceived Erin as standoffish.

A few weeks later, they ran into each other at a Halloween party. This time, Erin came equipped with a notepad, and they shared messages and glances all evening. That night, Erin didn’t pick up on Allison’s flirtatious advances. Afterward, Allison googled Erin, read about her endeavors in an şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř story, and sent Erin a Facebook message inviting her to dinner. Erin, not realizing it was a date, towed along a few friends.ĚýErin laughs about it now, reflecting on the fact that she’s a mountaineer who spends most of her time in a tent, so she simply wasn’t connecting the dots.

On their official first date, to Colorado’s Arapahoe Basin Ski Area, Erin was determined to chase powder despite the crappy snow conditions. She convinced Allison to posthole to a stash, but it didn’t actually exist. Instead, they slid down an icy luge on their butts, called it a day, and headed to a New Year’s Eve party. In the car, Allison asked Erin how long they should tell their friends they’d been dating. To which Erin replied, “We’ve been dating?”

They married in 2020 in a tiny ceremony, with a city official on Zoom. They still explore the backcountry when Erin isn’t chasing her final two Seven Summits and advocating for trans rights in the outdoors. Cracking up about their flirtatious debacle, Erin says the outdoors teaches you to take seemingly unfunny moments and find the humor to continue onward and have faith that everything will be OK.

Advice from the Field

Erin: “I learned there’s someone for everyone out there. I fretted for most of my life that I wouldn’t be able to find love and partnership if I came out. Being authentically me didn’t have to come at the cost of my life and joy in the world. Manifesting my sense of self made everything better and has opened frontiers in my ability to love and be loved.”

Allison: “We come together and enjoy the outdoors in a way that is supportive for both of us. Find common ground—a difference in ability can be overcome with some planning. We find ski runs that have moguls and jumps for Erin, with an adjoining blue run for me. We can go on an easy or moderate hike, and Erin will carry 50 pounds of water weight in her pack and we both get a good workout in.”

A Mountain-Biking Meetup Turned Meet-Cute

Robin and Vernon Huffman met 20 years ago at the Loma Alta Preserve, north ofĚýSan Francisco in Marin County, on a winter joyride with their mountain-biking club: the Forest Knolls Freewheelers. Vernon, a pioneer of the group, engineered the 15-to-20-mile, six-hour social event. Robin was new and had agreed to tag along after she was invited by a coworker. She arrived 30 minutes early to the meetup in the parking lot and chatted with Vernon as they waited for the rest of the 25-person crew to show up.

Halfway into the ride, Robin’s coworker, who noticed chemistry between the two, asked Robin if Vernon was her boyfriend. Robin replied, “Not yet,” and word got back to Vernon. “It was quite a premonition and apparently carried some weight with Vernon,” she says.

The Forest Knolls Freewheelers reconvened for another ride, on New Year’s Day, up Mount Carmel, south of the Bay Area, planning to meet at the local brewery afterward. Everyone else bailed on drinks, but Robin and Vernon ended up going for post-ride beers anyway. They talked late into the evening. Vernon realized he had so much in common with Robin, and vice versa, that they moved in together three months later, married a year and a half after that, and still regularly mountain-bike.

Advice from the Field

Robin: “Share similar interests and passions—we both love to ride our bikes and travel to meet mutual friends who do, too—which maintains a healthy activity to build a strong relationship and friendship.”

Vernon: “Enjoy your day to the fullest and tackle difficult issues in the morning over coffee.”

A Motorcycle Crash That Changed EverythingĚý

Massimo Alpian met Brett Kennedy in Manhattan in 2006. As an active, adventurous guy who preferred to ditch the bustle to bike, hike, camp, and ski on weekends, it was a nightmare to date gym rats, partiers, and restaurant snobs in New York City. Then he met Brett on Myspace. Massimo instantly gravitated toward Brett’s “perfect smile,” self-deprecating humor, and similar lifestyle. The two met for dinner, hit it off, and made plans to bike and hike for a weekend in Phoenicia, New York, a small town in the Catskills.

Brett, an avid mountain biker, convinced Massimo, a passionate road cyclist, to join him for a trail ride. Massimo figured it wouldn’t be that hard to pick up. But Brett took off on the technical singletrack. A minute into the ride, peeved with Brett for speeding away and realizing he was out of his element, Massimo wiped out hard. Brett eventually circled back and taught Massimo how to follow his wheel.

A few days later—partly as payback—Massimo designed a road ride from Manhattan over the George Washington Bridge to New Jersey and back. He dusted Brett on pavement. Both men point to these two rides as critical to strengthening their bond, crafting a stable foundation, and dialing back the intensity from the get-go.

Though he had come out to his friend group, Massimo was living closeted with his parents, saving cash, dating in secret, and crafting a life plan after graduating from New York University. His parents, upon discovering that Massimo identified as gay, asked him to leave his childhood home. He didn’t speak to them for six years.

Massimo moved in with Brett temporarily, then permanently. But in 2009, he had what he describes as a “late-twenties crisis.” Fearing he had entered a serious relationship too young, Massimo broke up with Brett, moved across the city, and bought a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle.

One day as he was ripping down First Avenue on the Ninja, a taxi blindsided Massimo. His bike rocketed into the air and landed over half a city block away. He sustained several fractures and blew out his knee; his body was beaten to a pulp. Paramedics rushed him to the emergency room. In the ambulance, when asked for a contact, he told them to call Brett. Brett came to the hospital and called Massimo’s parents to notify them of the accident. Despite having been estranged for the better part of a decade from their son, Massimo’s parents showed up. Then the healing between the four of them began.

Brett invited Massimo to move back in so he could help him with physical therapy, and five weeks after the accident, the two reconciled. They’ve since moved to Colorado, got married in 2014, and now hike fourteeners, cycle near Boulder, and tackle international climbing expeditions. Massimo says he has a wonderful relationship with his parents, too.

Advice from the Field

Massimo: “Through our 15-year relationship, I’ve learned that love languages are different. Remembering that we all are individuals, and showing love and acts of service to your partner in different ways, is important and truly something special.”

Brett: “Adventuring with your partner is an exciting shared experience that pushes you to strive, collaborate, navigate, and reassure one another, which can only build trust and magnify intimacy.”

Do you and your partner have an adventurous backcountry love story? Or perhaps you’ve experienced the worst outdoor date ever? Send your best and worst romance tales toĚýlove@outsideinc.com. Also, tune in to the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Podcast for in-depth interviews and hilarious conversations about love in the backcountry.

The post Our 7 Favorite Outdoor Love Stories Recounted by şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Readers appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Welcome to Ask a Gear Editor, a monthly column where we answer readers’ most puzzling gear questions. Have a burning question of your own? Become an ĚýtoĚýask an şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř expert for advice.

I’m an avid runner but mostly stick to shorter distances. This year I’m shooting for my first 50K. How will I know when it’s time to replace my trail-running shoes, since I’ll be tackling lengthy, high-volume training? FYI, I’m also on a budget. —Ultra Newbie

Dear Ultra Newbie: Trail-running shoes can be expensive—upward of $200 a pop. So I tend to run mine down to their last lugs before I commit to new kicks.Ěý

Last year I trained for my first ultramarathon, and over nine months, I bagged trails coast to coast, from Washington’s Columbia River Gorge to North Carolina’s Appalachia. The terrain varied from roughĚýlimestone-shale fields to swampy singletrack to slick red sandstone.ĚýAbout 700 miles in, on the same pair of , I noticed worn spots developing on the tread. I also felt soreness in my ankle joints not akin to the usual fatigue I’d feel after 20-milers. So I bought a new pair and broke them in before race day.

As I’ve learned since, putting down major mileage on the same pair of shoes may increase the risk of injury. Essentially, there’s a sweet spot between squeezing the bang for your buck and pushing your trainers too far—and it’s different for every athlete.ĚýSeveral variables play into how often runners should update their trail shoes, including stride habits, terrain type, training goals, body composition, and even weather conditions. While there’s no straight answer, I chatted with a few running experts to get more clarity for you, Ultra Newbie.

Maximum Mileage for Your Trail Shoes

According to Eli White, a trail-running coach and manager at in Salt Lake City who has set course records at five U.S. ultras, any runner who gets 700 miles out of one pair of shoes is an outlier. “Just like road shoes, most trail shoes will last around 300 to 500 miles,” he says. “There are always exceptions to this rule of thumb, based on the person, the shoe, and the terrain, but 700 miles is well above average.”

The life of your shoes also depends on how well you take care of them. I wear mine exclusively in the backcountry and pull the insoles to dry them out after each run—likely the main reason I maxed out that pair at 700 miles.

Signs That Your Shoes Are Breaking Down

General wear and tear in trail-running shoes corresponds to the three main parts: the upper, the midsole, and the outsole. The thing is: it’s easy to see if your shoes are falling apart on the outside, but it’s easy to forget what fresh cushioning feels like on the inside as you gradually wear them down.

The upper and outsole show the most obvious signs of wear, like seam- and heat-seal separation, thin or bald tread, holes and small tears, stretched-out material, and other visible deformities. Notice any of these? Replace your shoes.

But it’s the breakdown of the inner midsole that’s often overlooked, hard to identify, and can be most dangerous in propagating injury potential. Philip Snyder, general manager of in Wheat Ridge, Colorado, and a running-industry specialist for more than a decade, says midsole breakdown was the likely culprit for my ankle soreness.Ěý

Tiny air pockets throughout the midsole’s EVA foam compress as your foot lands with each stride. In a shoe with life left, the cushion rebounds to its original shape. “A shoe that has started to flatten out at best makes the running experience less enjoyable and at worst leads to overuse injuries,” says Snyder, who runs on trails 45 miles per week himself.ĚýIn other words, it’s safe to say you shouldn’t push your shoes as far as I did. Lesson learned.

The type of terrain you frequent can also determine how quickly and where aĚýshoe breaks down. “Running on rough, rocky surfaces will wear down the tread on the outsole faster. And harder, packed surfaces will cause the midsole cushion to compress quicker,” says White. If there are rips in the material, your foot may slide around, causing blisters or poor balance. If the inner cushion gets compressed, you’re less protected underfoot.Ěý

Tips to Increase the Life of Your Trail Shoes

Clean the Upper Regularly

“Periodically, rinse off sweat and debris from the upper, which can expedite the breakdown of the materials,” says Snyder. He recommends removing the insoles, soaking the shoes with a mild dishwashing detergent, and using a scrub brush to knock loose larger particles. Then air-dry them with newspaper stuffed inside. “Don’t put running shoes in the dryer,” he warns. “The heat will break down the adhesives and potentially damage the midsole.”

Use Your Trail Shoes Exclusively for Trail Runs

Slip on a pair of recovery shoes or sandals before and after your runs, as well as to and from the trailheads. “Not only will this extend the life of your shoe, it will also ensure that your shoe is performing to its greatest potential,” Synder says. “Walking and running put different forces on your shoe, and the materials in your shoe will adapt to your running gait. If you also use your shoe casually, the materials won’t fine-tune to your gait.”

Similarly, he says, taking off your shoes after runs allows the midsole foam a chance to refresh and reset before your next outing.Ěý

Stock Up on More than One Pair

Make the most of the inventory at a specialty running store by trying on a variety of shoes there. “If your budget allows, consider having multiple shoes in your trail-shoe quiver, as the proper amount of trail running shoes is n plus one,” says Snyder.

Erik Dube, a 15-year veteran of the running-shoe industry at in San Luis Obispo, California, says it’s important to have at least two pairs of shoes in your arsenal and to rotate using them. “While there are a lot of good all-around trail shoes in the market that will cover your needs, I enjoy getting shoes that fit a certain aspect of my weekly trail life,” says Dube, who has completed 80-plus ultras over his 24-year trail-running career. He recommends “something that has more cushion for the weekend long run, something with a little more grip for the rocks, roots, or mud, or something a little more low profile and nimble for the up-tempo runs.”Ěý

After learning the hard way last year, I now have three pairs of running shoes: two for trails, one for roads.

Keep Track of Your Mileage

It’s especially important to log your shoes’ mileage and stick to that 300-to-500-mile range when it comes to gauging midsole vitality. Dube says that while most well-made shoes can last for 300 miles, this can vary greatly depending on the type of shoe you use and your running stride. “I know some people who will go through a pair of shoes in 200 miles, while others can get over 500 miles on the same pair,” he says. The bottom line? Chart your mileage so you don’t push yourself to injury like I almost did.

The post When Do I Need New Trail-Running Shoes? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Dylan McWilliams might be the luckiest guy in the world. He might also be the unluckiest guy in the world. That depends on whether you think surviving a rattlesnake bite, a bear attack, and a shark bite within three years is fortunate or if he must have created some seriously bad juju to be bitten by all those animals in the first place.

For the past few years, McWilliams, originally from Colorado Springs, Colorado, has been backpacking around the United States and Canada, making money on odd jobs and as an outdoors survival instructor. That’s partly how he came to be attacked by three dangerous animals, all before he was old enough to legally sip a beer. Below, McWilliams tells the story of each attack—any one of which could have killed him.

In September 2015, I was hiking out of Grandstaff Canyon, near Moab, Utah, at about 7:45 p.m., after an all-day high-angle wilderness rescue training. The sun was setting. I had just switched from my climbing shoes to sandals and rolled up my pants to cool off. My three buddies and I were a few miles from the trailhead.

I was second in line, and as I stepped off a ledge, I felt a sharp, needle-like stab in my right leg. I thought I kicked a cactus. I looked down to see two puncture wounds an inch apart in my shin. Sure enough, a pygmy rattlesnake, dark, reddish-brown with pink spots, lay coiled up under the ledge.

Thanks to my wilderness emergency medical response training, I knew I had two options. I could call a helicopter to airlift me to the hospital, or I could wait it out in hopes that it was a dry bite (no injected venom). Knowing roughly , I decided to take my chances.

I sat down on the red slickrock and waited. I pounded water and kept my heart rate down to dilute and slow the spread of any venom. We watched, ready to call a chopper at the first sign of swelling or nausea. After 20 minutes, when none came, we decided to hike out. It took us three hours to cover three miles. Downhill. I vomited once that night and once the next morning, but after that I was fine and grateful that my gamble paid off.

Then, last July, I was teaching wilderness survival skills at Glacier View Ranch near Boulder, Colorado, and five of my co-workers invited me to sleep outside with them. We spread out our sleeping bags and dozed off.

Around 4 a.m., I woke up to a crunch—like someone squeezing a handful of chips—and felt a jerk from the base of my skull. A 300-pound male black bear had . He dragged my six-foot, 180-pound body by the head 12 feet from my bag. I punched the bear hard and jabbed his eyeballs. He was pissed, and he dropped me and stomped on my chest a few times before running away.

The whole thing lasted less than 25 seconds.

I grabbed my head and blood gushed down my arms. It soaked my flannel shirt and my jeans, dripped on to my bare feet, and ran into my eyes. I couldn’t see. I am going blind, I thought.

That was the scariest part. I knew it was bad.

Someone called Boulder County EMS, and an ambulance took me to a hospital, where doctors told me I had five bite marks in my head, deep cuts from claws across my face, and bruises on my chest and neck. Colorado Parks and Wildlife caught and caged the bear. They tested him, found my blood and bits of scalp under his claws, and put him down.

The attack puzzled me. We knew better than to leave food out. We were in the middle of an established campground, and there were dozens of kids in cabins 100 feet away. The shock was nerve-wracking, but I camped again two days later and haven’t looked back.

Then, this April, I was while surfing off the coast of Shipwreck Beach in Keoniloa Bay, on the south shore of Kauai, Hawaii. It was day five of my two-week trip, and I had just finished helping emergency response teams with flood rescue and mitigation on the North Shore. I was ready for a break and eager to get on my board. I went out at 7:15 a.m.—just three other surfers in the water and incredible waves. I caught one, rode it in, and turned around to paddle out again.

About 30 yards offshore, I felt a hard bump and sharp twinge on the inside of my left calf. For a split second, I was confused, then saw my body and red board shorts marinating in a cloud of blood. Shark, I thought.

I kicked out and connected with its nose. It felt like hitting a giant rubber inner tube underwater, in slow motion. Then I saw it: a huge six-foot silhouette circling below my board. I spun around and paddled swiftly toward shore, praying I still had my leg. Time stopped. All I could think about was getting to land. It took an eternity.

I crawled onto the sand. Blood pumped out of holes in my leg. A local lady saw it happen and called an ambulance. I got seven stitches, loosely sewn so the wound wouldn’t become infected. Three days later, determined not to miss this opportunity, I duct-taped my leg and surfed the same beach. My trip clock was ticking, and I figured if I didn’t get back on my board, I never would.

I don’t think I’d call it lucky or unlucky. Stuff happens. I was just in the wrong places at the wrong times. I’ve revered Davy Crockett since childhood—experiencing outdoor adventures and honing my survival skills are a huge part of me. Now I travel the United States giving wilderness seminars to people who want to learn how to thrive outside.

Statistically, I might be the luckiest man in the world, but even so, these fluke attacks won’t keep me from doing what I love most: being outdoors. And being able to do what I love? That, to me, is lucky.

The post The Man Who Survived a Rattler, Bear, and Shark Attack appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

On June 20, popped up on his stand-up paddleboard in Lake Itasca, Minnesota and started south. Eighty-two days and 1,282,133 strokes later he hit the Gulf of Mexico. The trip was the fourth of 25 human-powered, 1,000-plus-mile journeys that Cornthwaite plans to make as part of his Expedition1000 project. Here’s what one of those journeys looks like, by the numbers.

Cornthwaite in St. Louis, Missouri

Cornthwaite in St. Louis, Missouri

120: Number of blisters Cornthwaite developed during the trip, mostly on his fingers. “It didn’t get too bad though,” says Cornthwaite. “I’ve learned to look after my blisters since a half-tennis-ball-size blister developed on my right foot when skateboarding the length of Britain.”

41.5: Packets of beef jerky Cornthwaite consumed. He also downed 135 Nakd energy bars, 55 Coca Colas, 30 boil-in-the-bag dehydrated dinners, and 12 burgers on his way to consuming 7,500 calories a day.

123: Number of other paddlers that joined Cornthwaite along the way. The largest group included 19 people from Memphis who matched him stroke for stroke for 20 miles, from Shelby Forest to Memphis, Tennessee.

1: Size XXXL Elvis jumpsuit and “proper cape” Cornthwaite acquired from Graceland. “I arrived in Memphis a British man and paddled away as Elvis,” he says.

77.2: Longest distance Cornthwaite paddled in one day, starting 27 miles downstream from New Orleans and finishing in Venice, Louisiana, beating the previous world record by 16.5 miles.

3.25: Hours Cornthwaite slept on a typical paddling day.

11.1: Cornthwaite’s fastest speed, in miles per hour, clocked going around a large bend just outside Vicksburg, Mississippi.

0: Times Cornthwaite fell off his board, though rapids knocked him to his knees on three occasions.Ěý “All my swimming was done by choice,” he says.

3: Number of times barges blew their horns at Cornthwaite, the last of which was near Baton Rouge.

9: Alligators Cornthwaite saw from his board. He also saw 17 snakes, including a North American water moccasin he found snuggled up under his tent one morning halfway between Helena West, Arkansas and Rosedale, Mississippi.

1,282,133: Approximate number of paddle strokes Cornthwaite took during his journey. Cornthwaite figured the number using the total distance from his GPS, based on his estimate that he took one stroke every three meters.

4: Puffs Cornthwaite took from a 12-inch cigar given to him by a man in Memphis after he reached the Gulf of Mexico.

The post Source to Sea appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

North America’s Top 10 Beginner SUP Spots

From a stand-up paddleboard in Mexico’s Banderas Bay, a hundred yards to shore can look like miles, especially when you don’t have any idea what you’re doing. But that’s why I was there with Jeri Grant, a SUP instructor based in Puerto Vallarta. “Just stand up and paddle,” she told me, as three-foot waves rolled under my board. Right. Simple, except that I felt about as coordinated as the pelicans lumbering overhead. Still, there has to be something beyond the beginner awkwardness—stand up paddleboarding is America’s fastest growing water sport.

Paddleboarding, like surfing, has its roots in Polynesia. It stayed there, more or less, until 2008, when celebrity surfer Laird Hamilton hyped stand up paddleboarding to Good Morning America’s four million weekly viewers. More than a million people have started stand up paddling boarding since last year. Despite its unwieldy acronym, the sport is gaining traction in surprising ways. Shops now cater to whitewater junkies in central Colorado and fishermen on Lake Michigan’s southern shore. I thought I’d SUP in a place that made the most sense to me: the 86-degree water of Mexico’s Banderas Bay.

Per Grant’s instructions, I stroked from my knees to gain momentum, popped up on the board, and promptly face planted. Two hours later—I couldn’t believe it—I was up and wobbling my way around the bay. By afternoon’s end, I surfed a beach break to shore and fell backward into knee-deep water before a family of six. No matter. I still wanted more.

Want to SUP? Here are the top ten beginner-friendly places to paddle in North America.

South of the Border

SUP Puerto Vallarta on Mexico’s Wild West Coast

Puerto Vallarta’s ideal for stand up paddleboarding for the same reason it’s rife with pudgy beachcombers: 86-degree water and the wind-sheltered Banderas Bay. Take a covered boat six miles offshore to Las Islas Marietas, a protected wildlife sanctuary, and spend an afternoon paddling above coral reefs, floating by the arid coastline, and scoping endangered sea birds perched on rock pinnacles. ($90/person w/ boards;Ěý)

Yoga Paddling

Yoga on Your SUP in Mission Bay, San Diego

Mission Bay Aquatic Center takes beginner paddlers a hundred feet into San Diego’s 4,235-acre Mission Bay and teaches them to downward dog (plus a whole series of yoga positions) on their boards. Bring a sense of humor—it’s as fun as it is ridiculous—and expect to swim, which is fine, since the water is 65 degrees in summer. ($39;Ěý)

Rip Curled

SUP Classic Surf on Half Moon Bay

Surf classic waves in California’s Half Moon Bay—it’s home to Maverick’s big-wave surf contest, but that’s not the reason you’re going—by heading to the bay’s northern corner in summer or fall. A steady northwest wind blows in lazy six-foot rights that are perfect for mortal SUP surfers. Rent a board with fins from Half Moon Bay Kayak Co. ($50/day;Ěý) and beat the crowds by catching the morning high tide, when the wind is gentle and the waves are still glassy.

Desert Multiday

SUP Colorado River Caves and Canyons

Escape Lake Mead’s motorboats and frat boys on Desert şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s two-day SUP trip. You’ll join four paddlers and a guide at Hoover Dam on the lake’s southern shore and paddle 12 miles down the Colorado River’s Black Canyon, a 600-foot deep cleft in the basalt of Nevada and Arizona’s desert. Camp gear is strapped to boards and nights are spent on secluded beaches. The highlight: paddling to the back of Emerald Cave, a green-water cavern barely big enough for four boards. ($339, all-inclusive;Ěý)

Hot Springs

SUP to Hot Springs on Lake Tahoe

The secret to cold-water stand up paddleboarding? Hot springs, like those on Lake Tahoe’s north shore. Pick up boards from Tahoe Paddle & Oar ($90/person guided tour and rental;Ěý) and from Kings Beach State Recreation Area, paddle 30 minutes east along ponderosa forest to the granite-rimmed Crystal Bay. On the return trip, stop to warm up by the 120-degree Brockway Hot Springs, a three-pool cascade that warms the lake’s frigid waters.

Floating and Fishin’

Fish from your SUP on Minnesota’s Lake Nisswa

You can SUP on most of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes. The trick is picking the one with the biggest fish. Try central Minnesota’s Spider Lake. Rent a board with a rod holder from MN Surf Co ($65/person;Ěý) and paddle three quarters of a mile to the lake’s sheltered south shore. Most boats overlook its narrow entrance. But from a board you can fish the cove’s pine-lined shallows for eight-pound bass, northern pike, and walleye. Bring your own rod.

Air Time

SUP Downwinders on Maui’s North Coast

It’s not sailing, but with a steady 30-knot wind blowing parallel to Maui’s north shore, the eight-mile trip from Maliko Gulch to Kanaha Beach Park will feel like it. Go in October or March, when the waves are smaller than seven feet, and spend a day cruising along the white-sand beaches. Before you go, organize a shuttle—the trip is one way—from Kelly Moore ($10,Ěý) and rent boards from the Naish Maui Pro Center ($45/day;Ěý).

Island Hopping

SUP Mangroves in the Florida Keys

The best SUP trip for wildlife in the Florida Keys is between Stock Island and Key West, the two westernmost flecks of land in the 822-island chain. The mile-long Cowkey Channel tunnels through mangrove forest interwoven with hundreds of tidal creeks and passageways just wide enough to paddle through. Expect to see barracudas, octopus, rays, manatees, and more birds than you’ll believe. Rent boards and take a two-hour guided tour with Lazy Dog ($40/person;Ěý), launching from their dock in Hurricane Hole Marina.

Rapid Rush

A Whitewater SUP School on California’s Salmon River

At Otter Bar Lodge’s all-inclusive whitewater SUP school in California, beginner paddlers move from flat-water ponds to Class III whitewater in a week. Up to 14 guests stay in the western-style lodge along a Class II section of the Cal-Salmon, one of six rivers within an hour’s drive of the resort. Go in August, when the daytime temperatures rise into the mid-90s. Ěý($1,990 all-inclusive;Ěý).

Urban Escape

SUP New York’s Jamaica Bay

The real beauty of New York’s Jamaica Bay is that it’s a 90-minute subway ride from Times Square. That you can paddle between grass islands and estuaries within sight of the NYC skyline is just a great bonus. Call Ed Lindh, the owner of New York’s only SUP-specific shop, and book a three-mile loop out of Marina 59. Afterwards, stop at Rockaway Beach’s Elegante Restaurant for a slice of New-York style pepperoni pizza. ($100/person,Ěý).

The post Best SUP Spots appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Read more at

The post Feds Investigate Polar Bear Shooting appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.