I’m a ski instructor, but not a backcountry skier. This was my first time at Monarch. I was with a friend, and we spotted some powder at the edge of a run. At no point did we duck a rope. We skied for a long time before we realized that we were lost. I checked my phone, which had just enough battery life to show us how far we’d strayed. That was around 3 p.m. Instead of backtracking, we headed in the direction we thought would take us to the highway.

Just before dark I built a lean-to. It was a cold night. I had stepped in a creek, and my foot was wet. At one point, I went out to pee and fell over. I got up and started yelling, “We’ve got to move—if we stay here we’ll die!” I was crying. My friend calmed me down. He said that if we went wandering in the dark, we really would die. He was right.

In the morning, we retraced our tracks. We spent the day sidestepping and tripping through snow up to our thighs, encouraging each other not to give up. At dusk we reached a road and decided to follow it, each in a different direction. If either of us came upon some reason not to keep going, we’d turn around. We’d either meet up again or know that the other person was farther down the road. After a while I saw a sign: CURVES AHEAD NEXT 19 MILES. I threw my skis in frustration. I have a vivid memory of falling into a snowbank and feeling like I was wrapped in a warm blanket. I just wanted to sleep. But I thought about how it would affect my family and friends if I gave up. That pushed me to keep going, even though it meant turning back.

My friend had turned back, too, after he came upon a giant snowbank in the road. That night we made a snow cave. We were delirious. I had dreams of going to a 7-Eleven for taquitos and beer. I pissed myself. In the morning, I couldn’t take another step. My friend offered to scout and come back to make sure I was alive. He headed straight up the mountain until he collapsed. A backcountry skier had to jump over his body to avoid hitting him. Then my friend popped up and explained that we were lost and had been out for two nights. The skier sent him back to me with peppermint tea and granola bars and went to get help.

My friend returned, shouting, “I have snacks! I have tea!” I can’t describe the relief. When ski patrol reached us, my internal body temperature was near 80 degrees. I went into shock on the helicopter. Somehow the doctors saved my foot, except for a small piece of my big toe.

As told to Will Cockrell.

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Our team was diving in Lake Sibinacocha, in Peru, which is at about 16,000 feet. We wanted to collect data on the effects of diving at altitude and also look for Incan artifacts. I’d been a rock climber and a diver most of my life, and I thought of the trip like a first ascent.

My dive partner on the third day was Geoff Belter. We were heading down to around 200 feet, with four tanks each and battery-powered scooters. At about 165 feet, my scooter died, which was a serious enough failure that the dive was essentially over and Geoff would have to tow me up. At about 110 feet, my first tank ran out of gas, so I switched to the other and it immediately ran out. That was a surprise. We weren’t supposed to get close to blowing through that much gas. We’re still not sure what happened with the tanks, and in any case it’s clear our judgement was compromised for some reason—most likely we got too cold. Geoff tried to give me a hose so I could share his air, but I realized that his tank was empty, too. We immediately went up to 80 feet, where it was safe to switch to our remaining tanks, problem solved. I signed to Geoff to send a signal bag to the surface, where another diver, Umberto, was standing by in a kayak. But we were really unstable in a water column, suddenly oscillating up and down and away from each other. The last I remember seeing Geoff, he was holding the bag in his hand in a peculiar way that I’ll never forget. Then . His body was never found.

I got pulled all the way back down to 110 feet. I hit a button on my drysuit to use air from my new tank to help me get back to a shallower depth. But I lost control and shot to the surface. I yelled to Umberto, who picked me up in the boat, put me on oxygen, and paddled me frantically to shore. Bubbles were forming in my body, and I was expecting to have a massive stroke. I was hypothermic and shivering violently, so the team put me in a winter sleeping bag. After an hour, I could feel my toes. A helicopter evacuation wasn’t an option, so they put me on a horse, but after 30 minutes I lost control of my abdominals and fell off. They carried me in an inflatable boat over a 17,000-foot pass, then drove me to a decompression chamber in Cusco. Back in the States, after rehab, I did my first dive in 2015. Last year, to Lake Sibinacocha and recovered an ancient artifact from the bottom. There’s now a memorial to Geoff in Florida’s Jackson Blue Springs Cave.

As told to Will Cockrell.Ěý

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David Finlayson: I’d been taking Charlie into the backcountry since he was a baby. In 2015, when he was 13, we planned a trip to climb these granite towers about 13 miles into Frank Church–River of No Return Wilderness, in Idaho. A week in, we were about 1,000 feet up a tower. There was loose rock, so I anchored Charlie off to a tree to belay me while I did some route finding. That’s when I heard the crack.

CharlieĚýFinlayson: I didn’t see the boulder hit him, but I saw the rock flake he was standing on come off the wall.

David: My left arm was above my head, and the boulder snapped it, crushed my helmet, and broke my back and my left leg. I ended up 40 feet below Charlie.

Charlie: I couldn’t see him, because there was this bush in the way, so I didn’t know if he was alive. He was silent for like five minutes. I kept shouting, asking if he could hear me.

David: I woke up and heard Charlie yelling. I told him I was OK but bleeding and needed the first aid kit. He lowered it down, then rappelled to me and lowered me another 20 feet to a ledge, where he helped me get bandaged. We were so far up the wall, I thought I might bleed out before we got down. But I just couldn’t say, “Hey, I might not make it.” I told him that if I passed out, he should tie me off to the wall and go. It took us until nightfall to reach the bottom.

Charlie: There was one point where I knew he was delirious, because he said, “OK, you can scramble from here, it looks pretty flat.” We were still 100 feet up.

David: Charlie went to our camp in the dark to get sleeping bags, water, and food. We stayed up all night talking. He’d doze off, then pop up to make sure I was awake. At first light, he got me moving very slowly back to camp. Many times I said, “Charlie, I can’t go any farther.” He’d say, “Let me help you make it another inch.” At camp, I told him he had to go get help.

Charlie: I said, “No, I’m not going out by myself.”

David: That was emotional. I wasn’t too worried about him getting lost, but there might not be anybody at the trailhead. The next morning he was ready. He said, “I guess I better get going.” He gave me a big hug and left.

Charlie: About three miles from camp, I ran into a couple of hikers, who told me there was a big group behind them. I asked them to check on my dad, and I kept going. At first I didn’t see anyone else, so I blew my whistle. This guy ran up to me and then went to get a ranger. That’s when I knew that my dad was going to make it.

David: I had my final round of surgeries in December. I’m still recovering, but we did an all-day climb a couple of weeks ago.

As told to Will Cockrell.

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When I first fell in love with surfing, I spent quite a while in France, working as a lifeguard in Biarritz. When I came back to Scotland, I would always go up to this beach in Westport. One morning, I headed there with just a short funboard and paddled out. There were six- or seven-foot swells. Conditions were great. I was the only person in the water, but that is perfectly normal for this beach. It’s one of the most isolated parts of Scotland.

I’d only caught about three waves before everything went wrong. I paddled out behind the break to rest. I’d really worn myself out climbing at an indoor gym two days before, and now my arm was cramping. I sat there for a couple of minutes catching my breath, but the wind began carrying me out. When I started trying to head back in, a cramp in my right shoulder made my paddling shockingly bad. So the wind just took over. By that time, there were a few people on the beach, and I tried signaling for help, but they were too far away. The wind became relentless. Instead of trying to paddle in, I decided to aim for the jut of land to the south, but the wind was still pushing me away from shore.

After several hours, the current switched and began carrying me north, so I tried to hit a different piece of land. But I was maybe three miles from shore at this point. By late afternoon, I ended up so far out, I no longer had any reference point to tell which way I was moving. Night fell and I was exhausted. I decided to count 30 seconds paddling, then stop and count 30, then paddle again. I was basically heading toward Ireland.

It was the middle of the night, I was freezing cold, and I was passing out. I was thinking I was going to die. I was paddling as often as possible to generate heat, but the board was so small, and I could only keep about half my body above water. The wind really started whipping up waves, which were going over me, causing me to cough and sputter. My feet were numb, my muscles were cramping.

At some points, I wanted to just pass out and slip into the water. I started saying goodbye to everyone in my head. Goodbye, I love you, I’m sorry.

When the sun began to rise, I immediately thought about how I was supposed to be at work that day, and figured they might contact my parents to find out where I was. I found out later that that’s when the search started. By about noon, I actually saw a helicopter searching in squares—but it stopped a couple of squares away from me and flew away. I decided to try and stay in that area, but it never returned.

I was horribly, horribly dehydrated and a little bit delirious. The day was ending. I thought I’d done well to carry on this long, but I was done. I was ready to die. Then another helicopter came from the direction of the sunset. I could see the copilot looking. Even when they were getting ready to drop down and recover me, I still wasn’t convinced it was really happening. Once the line was in the water, the rescuer came up to me and said, “Well done.”

As told to Peter Frick-Wright.

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Sydnie and I had never met, but that’s normal when you’re putting in hours. When we took off, all signs were normal. After we climbed to 2,000 feet, the plane started to rumble a bit, but it wasn’t enough of a concern to turn back. After about an hour in the air—at the widest part of the channel between Maui and Kona—the right engine went out. Sydnie got on the radio to tell air traffic control that we may need assistance. Then the left engine went. We declared emergency right away. We were basically gliding.

We weren’t that high—I think about 3,000 feet—which doesn’t give you much time. I remember looking out at the ocean as we were descending—it just got bigger and bigger and bigger. I don’t know how we didn’t die on impact. We were probably approaching at 70, 80 miles per hour, and the plane only had lap belts, no shoulder straps. Sydnie said that she landed it like a regular plane on the ground. She did an amazing job.

As we were getting our bearings, the water was already halfway up the dashboard and gushing in the door. We exited onto the wing and next thing you know, the plane is gone. But I wasn’t really panicking yet, because I was thinking, We just survived a plane crash, and the Coast Guard knows where we went down.

We crashed at about 3:15 p.m. and saw the first rescue aircraft about an hour and a half later. There were a few planes circling, and then a couple of helicopters. But the water was really rough—six-foot whitecaps—so they couldn’t see us. One plane flew right over us. After the sixth or seventh pass, I started to lose hope. Then the air cartridge on my life vest fell off and it deflated.

We realized we had to do this on our own. The good thing about the Big Island is that it’s got two large volcanoes, both nearly 14,000 feet. So even though we were about 25 miles away when we landed, we could see land. By the time we decided to swim it was dark, but we could see lights on the island. We just switched gears and agreed to keep each other positive.

After swimming for a while, I was getting to a point where I couldn’t even keep my head above water. This was my lowest moment. Then Sydnie noticed something on my vest—I hadn’t pulled the toggle to inflate one side. I was like, Holy shit, I’m back!

Then Sydnie swam into a massive jellyfish. She screamed in pain and rolled onto her back, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily, and she wasn’t responding. She slowly came back, and then she just switched on. She said, “We gotta get outta here.”

At first light, we got the sense of how far we’d swum. It was amazing. We even began talking about the first meal we were going to eat after we made it to shore. That’s when we saw the shark, about ten feet below us, probably six or seven feet long. It made a big slow circle around us, like you see in movies. It stuck around for about 30 minutes and then disappeared.

Eventually, we saw a Coast Guard helicopter, but it flew past. Then I heard one behind us and, without even looking, I knew it was coming for us. Once the guy got down to us, he said, “Man, we are so happy to see you.”

The crazy thing is, we were probably five miles from shore. We would have arrived around sunset, but we definitely would have made it on our own.

As told to Will Cockrell.

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We always knew fire was a possibility. When it came that day, there was no warning. We smelled smoke and that was disturbing, so we got on our phones and tried to find out what was going on. All five neighbors on the dead-end road where we lived had left. We decided to throw stuff into our cars and drive down to check our exit route—but by then the fire had reached the end of the driveway. We could see it on the ridge coming toward us. I thought, This is not possible.

What actually saved our lives was a motorcycle trip we’d taken about six years earlier to Big Bear Lake, in Southern California. We’d stopped at a coffee shop and the guy who ran it told us how a fire had come through and he and his buddy had survived in a pool. After that, I always had that in the back of my mind as a last resort. Jan called 911 as we were running and told the dispatcher we were going to the neighbor’s pool. Luckily, it was only five feet deep, so we didn’t have to tread water. When the fire hit, the tree went up behind the pool, it got so hot. We were underwater holding our breaths and then coming up and sucking air, and then going back down. We did that for, I don’t know—it was timeless. There were ashes flying all over and the neighbor’s house was burning, so we moved as far away from it as possible.

Once the trees, the houses, everything was consumed, I thought, We’re going to be OK. Jan’s phone had melted on the pool deck, so we had no way of connecting with the outside world. We decided to get out of the pool and see if our house had survived. It hadn’t. We stayed there, keeping warm by a burning railroad tie. I think it was 48 degrees that night. We huddled around that little thing until dawn, then walked three miles, barefoot, to the road at the bottom of our hill. We ran into a sheriff, who took us to a friend’s home. When I got out to thank him, he saluted me.

As told to Will Cockrell.

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It takes some of the most extreme situations to test our desperate desire to live.

How a 13-Year-Old Saved His Dad’s Life

Charlie Finlayson was on the ultimate climbing adventure with his dad, David, when a loose boulder forced him to make a daunting rescue.Ěý

Adrift at Sea

With no shore in sight, the only thing Matthew Bryce had to cling to was his surfboard and the hope that someone would find him.Ěý

Way Off-Piste

It only took one wrong turn for Kelsey Malin and her ski partner to find themselves 52 hours deep into the backcountry with no food, water, or way to get out.

A High Case of the Bends

George Watson and Geoff Belter went diving in Peru. One of them was never found again.Ěý

Sink or Swim

When two young pilots flew out over the Pacific together to log hours, they didn't plan on having to make a crash landing.Ěý

How One Couple Survived the Tubbs Fire

Imagine opening your door to a fire. Now imagine there’s no way out.Ěý

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Sprawl is what happens to growing municipalities that lack a creative approach to density and mobility. But now some visionaries are reinventing it to relieve pressure on ­crowded and expensive city cores. Los ­Angeles is doubling down on to connect once disparate communities and allowing denser development around transit stations, which could eliminate the need for a true city center. Meanwhile, developers in Austin, Texas, are creating a “” ten miles north of South Congress that will feature co-­working spaces, mid-rise commercial buildings, and housing.

In , where one of the most successful urban renewals has taken place over the past half century, many living in or near the city center are looking to the suburbs as an escape route, both literally and financially. And with some inspired urban planning that emphasizes greenspace, transportation, entrepreneurship, and culture, four of its fringe towns are positioning themselves to be much more than bedroom communities.

Wheat Ridge

Population 31,294

Problem: An aging and declining population.

Plan: Attract younger residents by constructing nearly 700 middle-income housing units, narrowing the street through its 38th Avenue business district to create a pedestrian-friendly corridor, and building a wakeboarding facility.

Outlook: More than 30 new businesses have opened on 38th Avenue since the plan was adopted in 2011, and the city hopes to maintain that momentum by developing nearly 200 more acres.

Lone Tree

Population 13,566

Problem: A classic edge city, Lone Tree has a population that drops by half each evening as workers head home to more livable communities.

Plan: Turn 2,500 acres of adjacent land into a walkable smart city that integrates fiber-optic networks, electric-vehicle charging stations, and sustainable infrastructure, all designed with future growth in mind.

Outlook: City planners expect up to 30,000 new residents over the next three decades. Meanwhile, an emphasis on preservation means that the town will punch way above its weight in terms of parks, trails, and bike paths.

Arvada

Population 118,807

Problem: Connecting its rapidly growing population to the outdoors.

Plan: In 1964, Arvada planners pledged to make sure that every resident lives within a ten-minute walk from a park—a tough task when the city expects to see 16 percent growth in the next 12 years.

Outlook: The city is 92 percent of the way there, with 86 neighborhood parks and 152 miles of trails.

Golden

Population 20,571

Problem: Keeping its economy vital.

Plan: Attract a new wave of entrepreneurship by focusing on modern municipal services, including cutting-edge data and communication infrastructure, carless commuting, and lending support to a business accelerator.

Outlook: City planners have seen a drastic change in the town’s entrepreneurial spirit over the past 15 years, with technology, energy, and outdoor-recreation startups calling it home.

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In 2000, when a study commissioned by three nonprofits declared that tech workers are serious thrill seekers who want to live in places with access to outdoor recreation, you’d think that CEOs throughout the city would have prepared for a mass exodus. While Pittsburgh is home to Carnegie Mellon (one of the most prestigious com­puter-science schools in the country) and was on its way to becoming a player in the startup arena, the Rust Belt isn’t exactly known for ski resorts or surf breaks.

But the study also identified an untapped resource—Pittsburgh boasts more than 8,000 acres of greenspace, meaning nearly a quarter of its land is ripe for adventure. That could be a holy grail for attracting startup entrepreneurs and coders if left undeveloped. “Most techies will admit that they don’t have a lot of time to be active,” says urbanist Richard Florida, who authored both the study and the book . When they do have time, they want to be able to recreate immediately. So the cultivated what Florida calls “just in time” activities like cycling and trail running. Today, mountain-bike singletrack, hiking paths, and an environmental center fill (the city’s largest at 644 acres), and kayak rentals and greenways line the confluence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers.

The investment has paid off. When Lynsie Campbell, founder of the bike-commuting app , returned home to Pittsburgh after stints in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, she found a perfect mix of urban and adventure amenities. “I’m someone who wants to live in the center of everything,” she says, “but the flexibility to be outside is the main reason I’ve always come back here.” She’s also discovered that the city’s greenspaces make it easier to recruit out-of-town millennials to work for her. “I rode to a meeting this morning mostly on trail—I think I put only 4,000 miles on my car last year.”

Meanwhile, smaller mountain towns are getting in on the action, too. When the published a plan to draw more workers to tech hubs like ­ a few years ago, recreational opportunities became a rallying cry. Montana’s homegrown startup scene is small but booming in places like , and a recent survey found that its outdoor lifestyle was a major reason 189 of the state’s technology and manufacturing companies could bring in and retain skilled employees.

Still, it’s markets like Pittsburgh, which offers both industry and adventure options, that will compete against the major players, Florida says. , for example, is actively looking to leverage its location halfway between Silicon Valley and Lake Tahoe to woo some of the 46 percent of residents planning to leave the Bay Area in the next few years due to the cost of housing. But given Pittsburgh’s investments in local startups, which totaled $125 million in 2017 alone—a number that holds its own against Atlanta, Chicago, and Washington, D.C., on a per capita basis—this city has provided the blueprint.”

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What kind of return on investment can a town expect from its outdoor investments? We crunched the numbers to find out.

Boone, North Carolina

Asset: Pump track
Name:
Economic impact: $2.7 million in 2013

Ouray, Colorado

Asset: Man-made ice-climbing routes
Name:
Economic impact: $3 million in the 2016–17 season

Red River Gorge, Kentucky

Asset: Natural sandstone cliffs
Name:
Economic impact: $3.8 million in 2015

Oklahoma City

Asset: Whitewater park and adventure complex
Name:
Economic impact: $5.5 million on average per year

Leadville, Colorado

Asset: Mountain-bike race and ultramarathon
Name:
Economic impact: $15 million in 2012

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