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I left Breckenridge on July 3 and headed west without a plan. I’d crashed the night before with my friend Sorrel, at the mountainside condo she was renting full-time. I was on a seat-of-my-pants road trip around Colorado without a place to sleep on the eve of one of the biggest camping holidays of the year. At a highway rest stop in the early afternoon, I sent a hail-mary DM to a college acquaintance named Emily who lived in Crested Butte to see if she was around and would let me crash.

“Come through!!” she responded. “We can go skiing!”

We’d seen each other once or twice since graduation, but we were mostly internet friends who both loved nerding out on skiing, social justice, and reading. Two hours later, I pulled up in front of her house. Emily outfitted me with a cutoff Canadian tuxedo and we set off for Paradise Divide. We bootpacked up a 300-vertical-foot snowfield and made the most of what remained of winter’s snowpack. I laughed to myself as slush hit my bare legs with each turn, marveling at how much less interesting my day would have been if I’d just tried to find a dispersed spot to sleep on my own.

I took off for my cousin Julie’s house in Salt Lake City, Utah, the next day, exhilarated by connecting the dots across the West—without dropping a penny on lodging. I’d started to travel this way in my early twenties, plotting destinations based on where I had someone to crash with for free.

It’s a natural dirtbag urge to eliminate the cost of lodging from travel. To drive your truck down a Forest Service road and sleep in the back, to nestle under a throw blanket on your friend’s couch, to lay your sleeping pad in the dirt on BLM land. In the U.S, a small Air BnB for two adults typically costs $125, according to . On average, a hotel room will run you about , so staying for free can save up to $1000 for a weeklong trip. It can also put an otherwise financially out-of-reach tourist destination on the table. Lindsay, a renewable energy policy director friend of mine based in Rockport, Maine, admits that visiting Tahoe during peak ski season was only possible for her and her family because they house-sat for a friend who was away.

I worked in outdoor education leading trips for four summers, which meant I ended up with connections in exactly the type of places I wanted to go: a friend in Gunnison, Colorado, to crash with when it was a powder day, a place to stay in Jackson, Wyoming, when it was primetime to see wildflowers and float the Snake, folks to visit in Bend, Oregon, when it came time to recertify my Wilderness First Responder and ride bikes.

The savings on lodging are just the beginning. On previous visits to Crested Butte, a friend got me buddy passes at the resort and free slices during his shifts at the pizza place in town. When I crashed on my friend Eddie’s couch in Jackson Hole, he punched out my touring boots for free during one of his shifts at the shop. The rich get richer, as they say.

Saving money isn’t the only benefit of traveling this way. Crashing with friends may be a frugal way to travel, but having a network of people to stay with is indicative of social wealth. Being connected to folks in expensive mountain townsÌę can open up the list of accessible destinations, and in turn, grow the network even more. I reconnected with Emily in Crested Butte while visiting my friend Colt who lived there, and when he moved away, I still had a place to crash.

More importantly, when I’m staying with locals, I get to tap into the heart of each place in a way I wouldn’t if I came on my own—following friends around the mountain and finding hidden stashes, tagging along to house parties, learning which pullouts along the river have fewer crowds.

For those without an established network of friends in mountain towns, there is , a service that connects budget travelers to a global community of “friends they haven’t met yet,”Ìę according to their website. When I was traveling in Argentina in 2013 with my college roommate, we met an American on an overnight bus who put us in touch with two couch surfing hosts in Bariloche–where she had just left and where we were headed. A few days later, we huffed it up a winding dirt road to meet JuliĂĄn and Alejandra, who not only let us blow up our sleeping pads on their tile floor, but cooked and played music with us, showed us around the city, and gave us priceless insider trail recommendations. We were supposed to stay for two days, but four days later, we were still there, soaking it all in.

In my mid-twenties, I lived alone in a three-bedroom house on the side of North Table Mountain that had absurdly low rent in Golden, Colorado. It was a thrill to be able to open my doors to others like they’d opened theirs to me. I’d pile friends in sleeping bags on the living room floor after karaoke nights at the dive bar in town, or unfold the futon in the gear room for visitors passing through to ski.

It was big enough that friends began offering it to their friends. My friend Emma was living in a tiny studio and had a friend visiting for a few days to take the Single Pitch Instructor course required to be a rock guide–could she possibly stay with me instead?

I’d only met Betsy once, but it seemed like a no-brainer. This had something to do with having the space, and something to do with the way I wanted to be in the world. I wanted to be open to experiences and people and the ways we can mutually support each other. I wanted to leave room for magic.

Over the next few days, Betsy slept on the futon in my gear room, we split meals, and got to connect one-on-one in a way we wouldn’t have otherwise. Extended time in a shared space leads to a depth of conversation that just doesn’t happen grabbing a beer at a brewery or on a bike ride. She passed her course, hugged me goodbye, and headed back to Jackson. Betsy wasn’t just Emma’s friend now, she was my friend, too.

A while later, my college roommate Natalie called me and asked if her new boyfriend could crash with me on his way back to Temple University, where they were both in med school. I hadn’t met Mark, and had just gone through a breakup. I didn’t exactly feel like making conversation with a stranger.

When he pulled up, I summoned everything inside me to get to know someone who mattered to someone who mattered to me. We hung out on my back deck, drank beers, and chatted and laughed for hours—it turned out that having a favorite person in common made it easy for us to get along.

I went to bed that night reminded that I could still laugh, that there were still good people in the world, and that there might be joy and experiences I couldn’t possibly predict ahead.

When you live with your arms open to others, you never know when the karma might come back your way. Four years after Betsy slept on my futon, she became an editor at Backcountry Magazine. I got a text from her out of the blue saying, “Pitch me some ideas! We’d love to publish your writing.”

Five years after Mark stayed with me in Golden, he married Natalie. When I fell trail running and tore my shin open, I FaceTimed Mark, now an ER doctor, from the parking lot to see if he thought I needed stitches.

Crashing with friends turns hard goodbyes with people you love into a glorious network of landing pads all over the world. It converts people you’ve never met into people you’ve shared coffee and conversation with. It turns the mountain towns of the world into accessible and affordable destinations. It is personal and intimate in a way that hotels and Airbnbs and sleeping alone in your truck are not.

This form of travel may seem best suited to unattached dirtbags in their twenties, but it doesn’t have to be confined to that demographic. If you’re down to get creative with sleep solutions, you can keep your arms open to visitors and your mind open to visiting others. My 65-year-old dad parked his camper in our driveway when he came through Truckee, California, on a ski trip. I slept in Lindsay’s ancient van in her driveway when she was living in a one-bedroom apartment in Boulder with her husband and two-year-old. I stayed with Natatlie’s parents after my lodging fell through for her wedding, feeling like the fifth Taylor sister by the end of the weekend. We might all pass through moments of life where it’s easier for us to host or be hosted for a variety of reasons. I invite you all to join the church of You Can Always Crash on My Couch, where the belief in karma is strong, and the latchstring is always out.

A year ago, my partner, Andy, and I moved to Anchorage, Alaska. In some ways, it would fundamentally change the way we traveled–no longer would we spontaneously crash with folks on a multi-state road trip or have folks crash with us passing through to other destinations in the West. But in Anchorage we’d finally upgraded to a guest room with a real bed and a door that closed. The pain of leaving our communities in the West was eased by the knowledge that we’d be able to host people on their way to the Alaska Range, that we could lure visitors in with backcountry skiing and wild-picked berry pancakes and conversation around the breakfast table. And we’d always be able to go back to the lower 48, to our twinkling constellation of landing pads all over the country.

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Last fall, at a dryland dogsled race in Pearson,Wisconsin, one canine athlete stood out from the rest. While her competition—mostly pointers and Alaskan huskies—ran one- to three-mile sprints, then rested, she entered multiple divisions in such quick succession that she once hurried straight from the finish line to the starting line without slowing down. Her gaze is stoic. Her fur is orange. Her legs are four inches long.

Musher Betsy Heidt of Wausau, Wisconsin, didn’t plan for her 18-pound dachshund mix, Muppy, to become one of the most recognizable sled dogs in the Midwest. As it turns out, that was all Muppy’s idea.

“I could never get Muppy to walk on a leash,” Betsy told me over the phone. (I’m a dogsledder myself, and cheer for Muppy at races, but I don’t know Betsy well; I reached out to learn the full story.) “Someone commented that I should walk faster, so I walked faster, and then Muppy started running, so I started running, and then she started running faster. I don’t have the cardio for that, so I hooked her up to a bike and off she went. I was like, oh, I guess this is a thing.”

Betsy grew up on a dairy farm in the southern part of the state. As a kid, she sometimes hooked up the farm collies to a plastic sled with bailer twine, then threw snowballs for them to chase so they’d pull her. But those experiments, plus the movie Snow Dogs, were the only context she had for sled dog sports. So she turned to YouTube for urban mushing tutorials, which explained the basics of , , and : dogs pulling bikes, scooters, and human runners, respectively. The videos were helpful, but geared toward folks with huskies and other big dogs. They didn’t address many of the problems she encountered, like that Muppy was so short that she had to swim through puddles. Plus, where do you find a good harness that size?

But Muppy loved pulling so much that Betsy was determined to figure it out. She contacted a harness company called , ordering their smallest adjustable size, and got some goggles so that Muppy’s eyes were protected from sticks and burdock. They trained on deer trails in the woods by their house. Muppy was ecstatic to pull, and her never-ending energy felt like magic—even when she turned to chase critters, and Betsy went flying. “I got really good at reading her body language,” she told me. “I can tell by the way she holds her tail if she’s locked into something ahead of us, whether it’s a person in the distance or an unsuspecting rabbit.” Betsy learned to brace herself, and Muppy learned not to swerve: “She throws into the harness even more to get out that frustration.”

When Muppy was four, in 2021, Betsy posted a picture on Facebook, and a page called Twin Cities Dog-Powered Sports liked her post. “I sent some messages to their page, asking them 900 different questions, and they were super helpful.” When she saw that they were hosting a first-time race in Minnesota, she signed up for the 1.3 mile bikejoring event. She was terrified.

For one thing, Betsy didn’t know if other mushers would accept her. “But my biggest fear,” she said, “was that someone would pass us.” That summer, Muppy had been attacked by three golden retrievers at a park, and she’d been sketchy around strange dogs ever since. How would she react to a team coming up behind them? Betsy made a plan: if another team approached, she would veer off-trail and sit on the ground, holding Muppy, until they were gone. As it turned out, she and Muppy both had so much adrenaline—“We were pedal to the metal!”—that no other teams came close. They finished the course in just five and a half minutes, averaging over 14 miles per hour. The duo didn’t make the podium, but they weren’t on the bottom, either.

After that, they were hooked.

When most people picture sled dogs, they imagine huskies racing 1,000 miles through snowy wilderness. But in dryland racing, an ever-growing corner of the sport, teams consisting of one to six dogs compete in parks, cities, and small towns worldwide. Mushers gather at trailheads and parking lots for long weekends of racing, with world-champion sprinters (often huge, muscular pointers with legs a mile long) competing alongside teams of purebred Siberians and assorted mutts. When Betsy and Muppy first started showing up at races, people assumed that Muppy belonged to a spectator, or that she was a pet accompanying another team. But it wasn’t long before they took her seriously, as both a friend and competition.

Muppy’s not the fastest dog on the race circuit, but she’s among the most recognizeable, and crowds will sometimes gather to chant her name. The affection is mutual: there’s a bar on the country road that leads to one of the race sites, and whenever Betsy makes the turn in her car, Muppy starts screeching with excitement. In the starting chute, while the judge counts down, she wails, eyes glued to the trail ahead—and the moment Betsy releases the brake, they take off at top speed. She’s become a pro at some of the more technical aspects of racing, like getting passed—or, just as often, passing. “The dog parts of the other team, sometimes they just stare as they’re running, trying to decide if she’s food or friend,” Betsy recalled, laughing. “And their mushers will say, ‘Come on, Snowball! You’re getting passed by a wiener dog!”

For the past four years, during dryland season, Muppy races frequently, and trains by pulling Betsy or her husband two to three miles up to four times a week. Betsy works at a composting facility, and even brings Muppy to work sometimes, so she can practice running up and down the compost rows—which smell enticing, making them perfect practice for resisting distraction. Until this year, winter’s been Muppy’s off-season; she spends the snowy months digging and shredding sticks. But Betsy recently bought a fatbike, and the duo have been training for fatbikejoring races on snow.

Last May, Betsy and her husband adopted a second dog, Journey, who’s a terrier-shepherd mix. Journey’s bigger than Muppy, and not that into pulling, but she does love running, so sometimes they enter two-dog races together. Muppy pulls, and Journey simply runs alongside her. Betsy doesn’t mind. The point of dog-powered sports, as she sees it, is to make dogs’ lives richer, and that means embracing each dog’s skills and interests—so as long as Journey’s happy, she’s happy too.

As for Muppy, she’s fully embraced her role as an icon; she prances when fans call her name. Betsy’s thrilled to be her ambassador. “If someone has a pet with boundless energy, a sport like this is a great opportunity for them,” she told me. “Even for a dog who doesn’t pull a lot, like Journey, being out in front and making decisions seems to tucker her out more than games of fetch ever did.”

But Betsy’s favorite thing has been seeing how much joy and inspiration Muppy’s athleticism brings to people. “I want to show that little dogs can do things,” she said proudly, “and help more dogs live enriching lives!”

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My memoir focused on the first 25 years of my life as a climber. This reflection is about the next 25 years of my life as a climber and mother. I couldn’t have imagined that what started out as a simple outing in 1975 with my two older sisters, my brother, and my sister’s boyfriend Chuck would become such an integral part of my life, connecting me to a community of people all over the world.

If my life’s meaning could be summarized in a simple phrase, I would choose this quote from MarkÌęTwain: “The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”

In looking back on my life, I realize that perhaps the day I found out my “why” is September 16, 1994, when I free climbed the Nose in one magical day. I had no idea how this ascent would impact my own life, as well as the lives of so many people throughout the world. At that time, no one—not even me—understood that it would take over a decade for this ascent to be repeated by anyone, man or woman.

By the time I had finished writing Climbing Free in 2002, the only person to have repeated a free ascent of the Nose was Scott Burke, who summited in 1998 after 261 days of effort. Due to an impending storm on his 12-day ground-up ascent, Scott top roped the Great Roof pitch, though he was able to free climb this pitch. It took over a decade before Tommy Caldwell and Beth Rodden finally repeated an all-free ascent in 2005. In the 30 years since my first free ascent, only 12 people have made an all free ascent of the Nose. Tommy Caldwell is still the only other person to have done a free ascent of the Nose in one day.

I returned to Yosemite in 2018 with a talented young Swiss climber named Nina Caprez, who was interested in making an all free ascent of the Nose. This turned out to be an ideal opportunity to support my friend, while celebrating the 25th anniversary of the first free ascent. In those 25 years, I hadn’t even sent a route of comparable difficulty. Nonetheless, my personal goal was simply to try free climbing as much of the route as possible. This experience gave me a much better perspective of the difficulty of this route, as well as a chance to reflect on how my life as a climber and mother had changed over the years.

In 2003, I bought a house in Boulder, Colorado and a few months later, I gave birth to my son, Owen. I was content to adopt a more stable lifestyle in a progressive community close to good climbing, skiing, and hiking. By the age of two, Owen had already traveled to more than 10 different countries. As soon as he was old enough to go to school, my travels became less frequent, especially since I had become a single mom living on a drastically reduced income.

My priority was no longer about my own climbing goals, yet I still managed to climb while Owen was in school or between work engagements. Adopting a cat and then a dog made traveling even more complicated. Most of my climbing took place at Boulder’s local crags, or more often than not, at the climbing gym, with occasional trips to far away destinations. Speaking engagements, climbing camps, and other work related opportunities enabled me to make short trips across the US, and to several countries in Europe and New Zealand. On one occasion, I flew all the way to southern China just to spend five days climbing in this extraordinary place!

Many people assumed that Owen would become a climber since he is such a talented natural athlete, but climbing was not his passion. Maybe that’s because, as he explains, “climbing is too slow.” Or perhaps it was the pressure he might have felt as the son of Lynn Hill. Despite our many camping and climbing trips with friends and kids his age, he seemed to enjoy swinging on ropes more than the actual climbing.

A relatively new sport that did appeal to Owen, however, was parkour. We took a basic parkour class together with a few friends back when one of the first parkour gyms in the country opened in Boulder. Shortly after our parkour gym closed, Owen and a bunch of his buddies began to meet at a local gymnastics center, where they created a new form of movement called “tricking.” Similar to the tumbling sequences of gymnastics, tricking is a kind of performance art that involves an innovative series of flipping maneuvers.

I was happy to see the camaraderie that Owen shared with his friends, as well as the confidence he gained, and the physical strength and skills he was developing. It reminded me of the early days of climbing, when our intimate group of friends—now referred to as the Stonemasters—were pioneering new routes and pushing the level of free climbing at our local crags.

However, unlike climbing, which is a great lifestyle sport, tricking took a toll on Owen’s hips, so he turned his focus to playing music. Perhaps the exposure to different languages and accents on all our travels helped him develop a keen ear for language and music. One day, without any prior piano lessons, Owen blew my mind by playing a beautiful piece of classical music. It brought tears to my eyes. For his first album that he mixed together with a friend, Owen sang, while playing the drums, guitar, and base. Unfortunately, like climbing, making a living from your passion is not an easy path.

It’s also a path inevitably shaped by the technologies that Owen grew up using. As the way we work, conduct research, and communicate constantly changes, our virtual connections are rapidly impacting our in-person interactions. Climbing has also evolved as a result of technology. I remember when my friends and I would joke about the seemingly ridiculous possibility that there would be climbers who only climbed indoors on artificial walls. With the advent of climbing board systems like the , it’s possible to repeat the exact same boulder problems with the same configuration of holds anywhere in the world.

Technology has also enabled climbers to “work from home,” thanks to Starlink technology that provides Internet connection in the most remote places on the planet. It’s no wonder van life is so attractive to many climbers. The cost of living in my hometown of Boulder, like many other desirable places, has become increasingly difficult to afford. Meanwhile, the need for guidebooks has been all but replaced by apps such as Mountain Project, which has given climbers free access to all the beta, from GPS coordinates to recent updates about routes.

With the exponential growth of climbing worldwide, several nonprofit organizations such as The Access Fund, The American Alpine Club, and The Outdoor Alliance have become indispensable in helping manage the environmental, political, and ethical issues that climbers in the US face today. Gone are the days of dirtbags making spontaneous plans to climb in our beloved national parks without making a reservation in advance and paying an entrance fee.

Political and legal issues associated with climbing are not limited to the US. Even in France, where the culture of climbing and mountaineering is revered, many recent closures to climbing on private lands have resulted from threats of lawsuits due to accidents. Thanks to the organizations in the US, we have the legal support to help protect the interests of climbers and outdoor enthusiasts. In December 2024, the finally passed, allowing climbers the legal right to manage the replacement of fixed anchors and bolts on existing routes in designated Wilderness areas (provided they do not diminish the Wilderness character of the area.) The ethic of the Clean Climbing campaign first introduced in the early ‘70s by Doug Robinson has come full circle. Climbers are now working with the National Park Service to help strike a balance between the protection of outdoor recreation and the preservation of our natural resources.

Along with the growth of the outdoor industry, more climbers and “extreme athletes” are making a living through sponsorships, or as social media influencers. As the level of competition has grown, so too have the level of performance and the level of risk. It’s no surprise that there has been a corresponding increase in the number of serious injuries and deaths in recent years.

The rising temperatures associated with global warming have also contributed to the rising number of deaths in the alpine environment. Due to the rapid melting of glaciers over the last 100 years or more, there has been an increasing number of avalanches and unprecedented rockfall in mountains around the world. When I lost my brother-in-law Chuck on his first mountaineering expedition to Aconcagua, I began to question the level of risk I was willing to take.

Though I have done some free soloing in the past, it was apparent to me from the beginning, that free soloing was not worth the gamble of possibly losing my life. After my near death experience when I fell 72 feet to the ground in Buoux, France, I’ve come to accept the risks associated with climbing. Being a mother has made me even more cautious when it comes to risks. Over the years, I’ve lost an increasing number of friends—some due to climbing accidents, but more often than not, due to cancer, heart disease, car crashes, or other unexpected accidents.

In 2022, Sasha DiGiulian invited me to be her partner in an attempt to free climb Logical Progression, a 28-pitch (5.13b) route in Chihuahua, Mexico. It wasn’t the right time for me to be focusing on a big wall project like this. My son was about to graduate from high school and my father-in-law was battling melanoma. This was also during the end of the COVID lockdown period and I hadn’t visited my mom and her husband in over a year. The day I called my mother to tell her that I had made the decision not to go to Mexico, I found out that later that same day, my step-father had passed away. I was glad to be there for my mom during this painful time, and to be able to celebrate my son’s graduation ceremony in person.

Rather than go climbing with Sasha in Mexico, I proposed that we establish a new route in our own backyard instead. After picking out a beautiful line up the south face of The Maiden in near our homes in Boulder, I wrote up a proposal to get the necessary permission to establish our new route. Our proposed route went directly up the middle of an improbable looking face with just enough features that it appeared feasible to free climb.

In order to get the permission we needed, we had to find a way to place some natural protection on this overhanging face to allow us to get a better idea of the actual difficulty and where we would place protection bolts. Since this 278-foot tall formation is overhanging and the last section of the route traverses to the side almost the same distance as it overhangs, this proved a more challenging task than I had imagined.

I started out by leading up the first pitch of an existing route called Kor Dalke, that criss-crosses up the south face and intersects with our objective in a few places. I was able to climb up to a belay ledge above Kor Dalke, where I placed adequate natural protection for our first anchor point. To establish the next anchor point, we climbed the third pitch of Kor Dalke, where another natural anchor was installed above the second pitch. The last pitch involved a lot of acrobatic maneuvers and clever rope management techniques in order to get in a few pieces of gear on the dramatically overhanging face.

Upon submitting a second proposal with more specifics about our proposed route, we gained permission to begin working on our project. The following winter, Sasha and I spent numerous days cleaning the rock, establishing protection bolts, and working out a sequence of moves up this beautiful face. Though Sasha is a Millennial from a completely different generation, we had a great time getting to know each other and working together to create a fun climb to share with our community. By the spring of 2023, we had completed the first ascent of a three-pitch (5.13c) route that we named Queen-line.

After retiring from my career as a professional climber, I thought a lot about how I wanted to earn a living. Rather than focusing on the accumulation of financial wealth, I chose to dedicate my time to utilizing my most unique assets to provide a service to others. The countless number of interviews, videos, and podcasts I’ve participated in over the years—as well as endorsing numerous environmental campaigns—has been my way of giving back to the climbing community and helping preserve our natural environment.

Of all the services I have offered over the years, teaching and coaching has been my favorite means of sharing meaningful experiences with others. While Owen was a toddler, I took the American Mountain Guides Association (AMGA) rock instructor course, along with the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) Wilderness First Responder course, so that I could become a certified rock climbing guide. After years of experience as an instructor, I realized that it would be useful to create an educational video to demonstrate the mechanics of climbing technique. Through a lot of experimentation with graphic tools that didn’t exist when I first embarked on this project over a decade ago, I was finally able to produce a video called, “Fundamentals of Climbing.”

In 2006, with the intention of eventually hosting climbing camps, I bought a parcel of land in Hueco, Texas, home to world-class bouldering and fun route climbing on uniquely featured rock unlike anywhere else on the planet. Located 40 minutes outside of El Paso, Hueco Tanks is an oasis with a unique history that has attracted humans and animals for more than 10,000 years.

When Owen was a toddler, I had started a business offering climbing camps in various places across the US and a few in Sardinia, Italy. I knew that by the time Owen graduated from high school, I would have more time to develop my property in Hueco. With this vision in mind, I have made progress in developing my property over the years. After clearing a spot on my land and installing a septic tank, I purchased a 1976 Airstream that had rolled and needed a lot of work to become livable. It took me until just a few years ago to get electricity installed, along with a 3,000-gallon water tank and pump. Last year, I hired a few local climbing friends to build a bathhouse with a shower, sink, and two toilets. As of last week, I have the architectural and structural plans necessary to build a house that can accommodate groups of people, climbing teams, or simply friends who want to climb with me in this amazing place.

In 2019, I returned to the Nose with Nina Caprez for the second time. She had been so close to sending the route the previous year, that I was psyched to go back and support her again. On our final push—we had been on the wall for a week—Nina had led and free climbed every pitch on the route up to the Changing Corners. I was happy to have free climbed all but the two most difficult sections on the Great Roof and the Changing Corners. On Nina’s final attempt to free climb the Changing Corners, she fell only one inch away from sending and was too exhausted to give it another try! I felt bad for Nina since she was clearly capable of free climbing every inch of the Nose. But I had never been away from my son for more than two weeks and it was time for me to return home.

My relationship with Nina had grown through our experiences together and I knew she was struggling to process this experience and move forward in her life. After a difficult period of reflection, she decided to take the opportunity to climb in a tropical limestone paradise on an island called Makatea in French Polynesia. As it turned out, Nina met her partner, Jeremy, with whom she fell in love and had her first child named Lia. Within the next few months, Nina will give birth to their second child. Ironically, Nina’s so-called “failure” on the Nose, led to her realizing perhaps the most meaningful success of her life.

People sometimes ask me if I still climb. I can’t imagine ever quitting climbing unless I become physically incapable. I love the feeling of grace and fluidity that I experience when moving over the rock. I can’t think of a more appropriate way of learning and adapting in the world than by climbing on the beautiful shapes and forms of nature.

I’m grateful to have been able to follow my passion all these years. Climbing remains my anchor in life that provides a connection to nature, mind/body health, and to so many people in my community of friends and peers all over the world.

My hope for the future is that we will unite and cooperate together as a global community to create a more sustainable way of life for all.

The post Lynn Hill Isn’t Done Climbing appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Things are not going well for Woody.

The 50-year-old retired cop is thirsty and exhausted, and his attempts to spark a campfire using a ferro rod have failed miserably. Now, Woody can’t boil his drinking water. He stands in his barren campsite and raises a canteen filled with untreated pond water to his lips. “Lord, please don’t let me get sick,” he says into a camera.

The shot cuts to the cozy confines of a television studio. Woody’s son, Blake, and his nephew, Colin watch him gulp down the nasty beverage on a massive television screen. Colin shakes his head and buries his face in his palms.

And, cut!

This scene is the climax of episode 1 of ·ĄłæłÙ°ùČ賊łÙ±đ»ć,Ìęa new outdoor survival show that debuted on Fox this past Monday. I recently watched the opening episode, as well as advanced screeners for episodes two and three, with my mouth agape. As a longtime fan of wilderness survival shows—you know, programs like Alone, Naked and Afraid, and Man vs. Wild—Extracted marks a stark turning point for the genre. Apparently, TV producers are now shipping everyday schmoes with zero wilderness training into the backwoods and filming them as they contract Giardia. And they’re doing this for our entertainment.

This element isn’t even the weirdest part of Extraction—not by a long shot. The show’s central premise is like an psychological experiment.

Twelve “survivalists”—yes I use this term lightly—are plucked from small-town American and shipped off to a forested lake somewhere in British Columbia. They must stay there as long as possible, and the last one to remain wins $250,000. Producers have affixed dozens of surveillance cameras to the trees, rocks, and stumps in the area so we can spy on the 12 as they go about their business of building shelter, procuring food, going to the bathroom, and screaming into the void.

But here’s the real twist. A short distance away, producers have erected a TV studio, and each survivalist’s family members are stationed there, where they watch the action unfold 24 hours a day. At random points throughout the show, the family members are able to pack up survival gear—knives, cans of beans, bear spray—which are then delivered via flying drone to their loved one.

The survivalists themselves cannot tap out. That job can only be done by the family members in the studio. A family member must march to the center of the studio and push a big and ridiculous red button that says EXTRACT.

I won’t spoil the show, other than to say that this single rule creates the tension at the heart ofÌę·ĄłæłÙ°ùČ賊łÙ±đ»ć.ÌęContestants beg to be removed, but their loved ones don’t always comply.

While watchingÌęExtracted I often thought about Blair Braverman’s recent column about our collective affection for survival TV. Braverman, herself a former contestant onÌęNaked and Afraid,Ìęmakes more than a few pointed conclusions about why the TV genre is so beloved: watching people in nature is relaxing; survival connects us to our hunter-gatherer roots; we love cheering for and against characters; watching the battle to survive is inherently relatable to everyday people.

“Negotiating jobs, health insurance, child and elder care, housing? That’s all survival, viscerally so,” Braverman wrote.

Alas, I fear that the survival genre is quickly moving away from the themes Braverman adores. Extracted comes on the heels of Netflix releasing its first two seasons of its own survival game show °żłÜłÙ±ôČčČőłÙ.ÌęBoth shows tap into emotions that are more sinister, and psychological reflexes inside us that are more ominous.

±őČÔÌęOutlast, the survivalists wage psychological war on each other throughout the season by switching teams, stealing gear, and destroying shelters, all for a chance at cash. The cameras focus on this drama, and it triggers some lobe inside our lizard brains.

Extracted isn’t quite as extreme, but the format of the show makes it feel dramatically different from Alone ŽÇ°ùÌęNaked and Afraid. ±őČÔÌę·ĄłæłÙ°ùČ賊łÙ±đ»ć,Ìęthe audience views everyday people as they watch their loved ones suffer in nature. The tension created by these relationship drives our intrigue. We see caring mothers and fathers fail to deliver the survival goods that their cold and hungry son requires. We watch a divorced couple argue and question their parenting decisions as their teenageÌęson acts like a toddler in the woods.

Sure, there are moments of joy and triumph as well. But Extracted is still a voyeuristic look into a person watching a loved one in peril. As I watched it, I felt as though I was the scientist staring through reflective glass at a psychological experiment. It’s no wonder that the frames linger on the black surveillance cameras dotting the forest.

That said,ÌęExtracted has something that Outlast lacks—at least through its first three episodes. By choosing novice (or downright inept) survivalists, the show is legitimately funny, and more relatable than other survival shows. In episode one, we meet the contestants, and quickly learn that all of them will be fish out of water in the Canadian wilderness.

One woman, Davina, 41, is described as a hairdresser and a professional clown. “I think she’s lost her mind,” her sister, Devin, says into the camera.”She’s been given everything her entire life by my parents and now her husband. He probably wipes her ass.” A few scenes later we see Davina sitting by the lake, bemoaning her experience outdoors. By this point, she’s been in the woods for a little more than a day. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she wails.

I’ll admit,Ìę·ĄłæłÙ°ùČ賊łÙ±đ»ćÌęmade me laugh more than a few times, and that’s why I plan to complete the series. I have no clue whether watching it will change my relationship with the outdoors, or with my loved ones.

The post Fox’s New Survival Show ‘Extracted’ Has a Sinister Twist appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The first time Reagan Goodwyn led a climb, she was four years old. My son is also four, and sometimes I still wipe his butt.

But Reagan—and her family—inhabit a different realm than us mortals. Reagan, her parents, and her three little siblings live in a van. All the kids (except the almost two-year-old) climb. And most mind-boggling of all: The Goodwyn family didn’t start climbing until after having kids.

When I found this out, I felt like I had missed some serious beta. To me, becoming a parent is synonymous with climbing less (and worse). But for the Goodwyns, it’s been the opposite. Reagan started climbing when she was three years old—just casual bouldering in Alabama. “We actually weren’t into climbing at all,” Reagan’s dad David Goodwyn says. “We were more into mountain biking.”

Then the family moved into an RV and headed west to find better mountain biking. The impetus for getting into climbing was a fluke—the Goodwyn family had been on the way to ride in Bentonville, Arkansas when an injury threw a wrench in their plans.

“We were in Memphis, Tennessee, about halfway there [to Bentonville],” David remembers. “I was stepping out of our camper and I rolled my ankle.” Unable to ride, David pointed the RV further west to Moab, where an off-roading event they wanted to check out was taking place.

After some off-roading, the family noticed all the climbers at the Wall Street area off Potash Road. They’d always wanted to try roped climbing and they already had climbing shoes for bouldering. So they bought a rope and some quickdraws and “got pretty into it.” The family started with sport climbing, but quickly got into trad. And it wasn’t long before a natural leader emerged among the Goodwyns.

World’s Smallest Rope Gun

Reagan got her first foray into leading on a low-angle slab route at the in Moab. Then, shortly before her fifth birthday, while hanging out in Indian Creek, she asked her dad if she could lead a trad climb: , a 5.9+ thin hands crack.

David recalls initially brushing off his daughter’s bold request. But then Reagan waltzed over to the route, climbed up a bit and plugged a cam into the crack. David took a look: It was bomber.

“She crushed it,” David says. “I was blown away.”

Reagan says she climbs because it’s fun—and for the sense of achievement. “I like the feeling of getting up high and feeling accomplished when I send,” Reagan reflects. “I like that feeling a lot ‘cause I’ve overcome my fear of falling.”

Most of Reagan’s accomplishments have been in the crack department. Her —which is managed by her parents—is filled with reel after reel of her sending splitter sandstone cracks in , wearing her signature send uniform: Carhartt overalls, a pink long-sleeved shirt, a magenta Ocun harness, and a blue helmet. (Thankfully, Ocun also makes crack gloves small enough for her hands.)

Watch Reagan Send Spaghetti Western in Indian Creek

While she’s a crack climber through and through, Reagan will climb slab if there are decent crystals or holds. She says overhanging sport climbs feel “weird” because she can’t see the next hold to assess whether it’s any good.

Reagan’s also been getting more into multi-pitch climbing—and has even learned to make her own anchors with trad gear. “We’ve done a lot of multi-pitch together where she’s had to build her anchors all alone, up above me,” David says. “She belays me up on the anchor she’s built. So I definitely trust her.”

I asked David if he was nervous the first time Reagan belayed him on an anchor she built. “I’m always like, ‘You’re pretty sure it’s bomber?’” David says. But every anchor that she has built has been solid, according to him.

One thing Reagan loves is topping out on a multi-pitch climb, then eating a snack in the sun—dried mangos or stroopwafels. “That’s always a really fun thing to do when you’re at the top and you just accomplished something you really wanted to do,” she reflects.

Safety Check: An Eight-Year-Old on the Sharp End

“We feel like what we’re doing is pretty safe,” David says. During Reagan’s early days of leading trad, David would hang on a static line above her to make sure her placements looked good as she worked her way up. Though he tried to remain relatively hands off “as long as everything looked safe.”

“Have you taken any whippers? What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?” I ask her.

Reagan level-sets with me: “I’ve never had a placement where I’ve been not sure that my gear was going to hold.” Though this was Reagan’s first interview ever, she consistently exudes a confidence beyond her years—in her gear placements, in her climbing, in herself.

As for whippers, Reagan took a few on what she considers her favorite route of all time—and also the scariest climb she’s ever done. is a 5.12 in Indian Creek on the Way Rambo crag. The .75 hand crack is right in Reagan’s wheelhouse, but the roof puts her skills to the test. “The rope gets so heavy that I just fall on it every time and I’m like, ‘Dang it!’” she says.

“She’s taken some pretty interesting whips on that one,” David agrees.

But did Reagan—who always wears a helmet—sustain any injuries on those interesting whips? “I just chipped my fingernail, that was all,” Reagan says. The chipped nail remains her only climbing “injury” to date.

The day after struggling up Slice and Dice, Reagan went back to try it again—and sent it. “I overcame my fears and I knew I could do it,” she says.

The other safety question implicated in Reagan’s story? Trolls. David started the account before she really even started climbing, mainly to take videos of her riding her bike. He put “rocks” in her handle because the family was doing a little bouldering at the time. At first it was for fun, but then it became about documenting Reagan’s accomplishments.

Initially, the Goodwyns experienced a “mixed” response on Instagram, with some people who were very supportive, and others who felt that kids shouldn’t be attempting what Reagan was doing. Some started to suggest the photos they were posting of her leading were staged, so David started posting more videos instead of photos. But these days, the response to Reagan’s content is overwhelmingly positive.

“We’ve seen less and less of the haters out there,” David says. “If anything, now it’s just people saying her hands are so small or the strength-to-weight ratio makes it easier for her, trying to discount her achievements.” But the family could care less about those haters—Reagan is working hard and having fun and “that’s all that matters,” David says.

Reagan’s Climbing Advice for Grown-Ups—and Kids, Too

“Go to Indian Creek”: That’s Reagan’s best pointer for anyone who wants to get better at climbing cracks. She explains that climbing in Indian Creek “teaches you to stay in the crack” because there’s nothing on the face.

And how might a full-grown adult acquire the confidence of this crack climbing prodigy? “I get scared sometimes,” Reagan admits, “but you just got to place good gear and feel confident in everything you’re doing.” Beyond that, she says her main goal is safety.

Another goal of Reagan’s? To find some climbing partners who aren’t grown-ups. “I would love to have more little friends out there,” she says. “It’s kind of hard to come by.” She’s hoping more kids will start getting into climbing like her.

On the upside, Reagan is starting to serve as a mentor to her three younger siblings—in play and on belay. Her oldest brother Anderson just turned six, and he’s already led his first 5.11. “I was so nervous,” David recalls of the milestone, though he notes that Anderson got up the route no problem. “He’s gung-ho trying to lead more and keep up with his sister,” David explains.

A Rock Warrior’s Childhood

In a world of hectic schedules, growing academic obligations, and pervasive screens, Reagan’s childhood is rooted in the outdoors and climbing. Her family of six drives the van where the climbing is good. Schooling is unschooling, and David says they follow Reagan’s lead. When she’s into math, they focus on math. Now she wants to be able to read more signage, so she’s working on spelling and reading. After a few hours of learning, they go outside, explore, and climb.

Moab is as close to a “home base” as the Goodwyn family has, and it’s where you’ll likely find them in spring or fall. It is, after all, where they store their mountain bikes. During the rest of the year, you might find them in Vedauwoo, Joshua Tree, Squamish, or Red Rock, where they spoke to Climbing from the back of their van. One day, Reagan says she hopes they can visit Patagonia. “I’ve looked at some pictures and I would like to climb those really good sheer rock faces,” she says.

As for nearer term climbing goals, Reagan wants to do more multi-pitch and get into big walls. But there’s “one big goal” that she really wants to tick off: Belly Full of Bad Berries (5.13), an invert offwidth in Indian Creek.

I asked her when she’s hoping to climb this notoriously challenging route. “I don’t really have any timelines,” Reagan says. “I’ll do it when I really want to. Sometime soon.”

The post Here’s What You Can Learn from the 8-Year-Old Who Climbs Way Harder than You appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

It’s a bluebird day at Val Thorens in France, the highest ski resort in Europe, and there’s still an hour and a half till the lifts close. But unlike your diehard last-chair Rockies skier, we’ve abandoned our skis. We’ve traded the lift lines for the queues at La Folie Douce, a famous outdoor bar above a steep blue run.

To my left, a group of skiers in Hogwarts regalia bops along to house music. Artificial fog engulfs the group on the table in front of me, where a flannel-clad man is dancing in front of the crowd. He and his friends are doing lewd things with a six-liter bottle of rosé—550 euros—and taking turns drinking straight out of it. A woman sways in black sequined pants. In the right lighting, she could be mistaken for a disco ball.

“Champagne
 shower. Champagne
 SHOWER,” the DJ starts to chant from a balcony overlooking the wooden deck, slowly building speed and volume. He waves for the crowd to join in.

“Champagne
 shower,” we chant back. “Champagne
 shower. Champagne
 SHOWER. CHAMPAGNE—” and then we get what we want: three bottles are popped and fizz rains from the balcony. We scream and duck, but there’s nowhere to hide from the spray. We’re packed in tighter than ski bums jockeying for the first tram of the morning.

We’re above treeline, surrounded by views of sharp, snow-covered peaks, yet the Alps are forgotten. The mountains aren’t the point—they’re the vehicle.

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Leslie Gaynor, 68, loves survival shows. After she finishes her day’s work as a therapist, she makes herself some tea and puts on an episode of Naked and Afraid. By the time the show’s over, it’s dark out. Her dog has to pee, but she doesn’t like to go outside at night. What if there are wild animals in the yard? One time last year, her dog ran out and saw a possum, and the possum flopped over dead, and when she went out a few minutes later it was gone. So it wasn’t really dead, but the whole thing was traumatic anyway. Not for the possum. But for her.

Leslie’s my aunt, and my husband and I were both on Naked and Afraid; we’re outdoor folk by trade, and when we were invited to apply for the show, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to step into a ready-made adventure. That’s not why my aunt watches it, though. She was a fan first. “I can’t really explain it,” she told me after we watched a scene together of a proud, hungry woman plucking a grouse for stew. “I just think it’s relaxing!”

Leslie’s not the only one who finds survival shows addictive. Ever since Survivor premiered in 2000, and promptly became one of the highest-rated shows on network television, survival-themed reality shows and their spinoffs have reproduced like rabbits. In addition to Naked and Afraid, there’s Alone, Survivor, Dual Survival, Survivorman, Ultimate Survival, Man vs. Wild,, Race to Survive, Outlast, and Celebrity Bear Hunt, not to mention numerous spinoffs and international versions. (My personal favorite title? Naked and Afraid’s Shark Week special, Naked and Afraid of Sharks.) Sure, some of their viewers are outdoorsy, but the shows aren’t just made for survivalists any more than shows about serial killers are made for, well, other serial killers. No: what makes survival shows so popular is that, while they depict extreme situations, the feelings they tap into are damn near universal.

There’s pleasure in seeing someone succeed despite hardship—and there’s also pleasure (maybe more) in watching someone fail spectacularly, particularly if they went in cocky. Whenever a survivalist’s intro includes them sayingany version of the phrase “making nature my bitch,” you know they’re gonna get their ass handed to them. It’s just a matter of when and how.

“Some guy’s hungry, or cut himself with his knife, and it’s time to tap,” says my husband, Quince Mountain, who survived 21 days—mostly alone—in the Honduran jungle. (We were on the show at the same time, but were sent to different locations.) “He’s crying because he misses his wife and kids too much, but he says it like, ‘It’s really unfair to them, me being out here
’ Is that his epiphany about how his wife does massive amounts of invisible labor to keep his life comfortable, and now he’s going home a changed man, a grateful, devoted, humble partner—or is it his excuse because he’s hungry and lonely and doesn’t know how to take care of himself? You decide!”

In one of the most popular survival shows, Alone, participants film themselves in complete isolation without knowing how many of the other contestants are still out there. The show premiered in 2015, but viewership soared in 2020 when select seasons became available on Netflix and Hulu. “With COVID, there was a lot of interest because of the isolation aspect,” recalls Juan Pablo Quiñonez, author of the survival book , who won Alone’s season 9 after surviving 78 days in Labrador with a strategy of fasting, drinking unboiled water, and hunkering down to rest. “There aren’t many shows that are really truly unscripted, and where you can see real emotions, like craving for fish, or craving to be with a loved one. How often do we get to see someone catch a fish after five days without food? These moments are super powerful.”

He believes that we’re all hunter-gatherers at heart, and that survival shows—and wilderness survival in general—connect us to an ancestral legacy that feels both vital and familiar. “There might be strong feelings on The Bachelor, but it’s definitely not as real.”

As much as skeptics in online forums might debate the authenticity of their favorite shows (a common theory centers around the idea that when people are getting too weak, production will leave a dead animal in one of their traps), it’s hard for viewers to dismiss the fact that at least something real is happening onscreen. People don’t lose 20 pounds in three weeks without going awfully hungry, and a lot of the effects of survival—sunburn, frostbite, open wounds—are physically undeniable. There are even ways that being on a show can be harder than plain old survival. Camera crews inadvertantly scare away game, and interrupt survivors for interviews, even when they’re beyond exhausted. Plus, the survivors are usually limited by geographic barriers that have little to do with what’s actually practical or effective. You’re ravenous, searching for any darn calories, and finally spot some berries in a clearing that’s off-limits? Too bad, so sad. This isn’t just survival, it’s a show, and you gotta perform for both.

Another factor in their proliferation is that survival shows—and reality shows in general—are economical to produce. “The reason that unscripted TV came out of the gate so strongly is that it’s cheaper,” says Rachel Maguire, who’s been an international showrunner and executive producer for Naked and Afraid and Dual Survival. “You don’t have high-paid actors. There are no writers. The cast is generally not union.” Although, she adds upon reflection, Naked and Afraid does have awfully pricey accidental death and dismemberment insurance.

Her theory as to why the genre’s so popular? People are increasingly aware of instability in the world—including a steep increase in natural disasters due to climate change—and watching survival shows helps them feel prepared.

I agree with Quiñonez and Maguire, but I also think there’s another instinctive appeal. We worry about extraordinary disasters, but we worry about problems in our lives just as much, and usually more. Survival shows are addictive because much of our daily life is also about struggling to meet our basic needs, and we feel that stress even when we can’t name it. Negotiating jobs, health insurance, child and elder care, housing? That’s all survival, viscerally so. And so watching people get shelter by building it from scratch, and food by catching it in a handmade trap, isn’t about watching them go through challenges that are completely disconnected from our own. It’s about watching our everyday adversity reflected back to us, but distilled into a pure form. We empathize when TV survivalists want to tap out; we cheer when they succeed. It’s relatable. It’s therapeutic. We know—deep down—that we’re all just trying to survive.

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Earlier this year, a PR rep from Fox News asked if I’d want to review the conservative network’s upcoming docuseries on the history of Yosemite National Park. Called Yellowstone to Yosemite with Kevin Costner, the three-part series is the brainchild of the Academy Award-winning actor, and the follow up to his 2022 series . As I stared at the email, I wondered: What can Fox News teach me about the importance of the national parks? As it turns out, a lot. But their approach delivered a few surprises.

Yellowstone to Yosemite, which airs Saturday, February 8 on Fox’s streaming service, Fox Nation, tells the often-repeated story of a 1903 camping trip that then-U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt took with naturalist John Muir through Yosemite. Over four days and three nights, theÌętwo men yukked it up around the campfire, admired the soaring monoliths and waterfalls, and became friends. Similarly, Costner, now 70, embarks on his own camping trip within Yosemite as he narrates the story.

In the first episode, Costner quickly establishes the significance of Roosevelt and Muir’s campout. It’s May, 1903, more than 30 years since Yellowstone was established as the first national park. Five other parcels of land have become national parks, but the designation has done little to actually protect their ecosystems. Loggers are plundering giant sequoias in Yosemite and poachers are decimating bison herds in Yellowstone. The federal government, meanwhile, lacks the teeth to stop them. “Congress saw the national parks as a zero-cost initiative. Each park has an unpaid superintendent responsible for enforcing regulations,” Costner says. “It’s not working at all.”

Muir, the famed naturalist, believes the only way to save America’s parklands is by harnessing the power of the president. He invites Roosevelt to Yosemite to show him the wonders of the park up-close, before pitching him on the bold idea of actually protecting the six natural wonders.

And we’re off—over three 45-minute episodes Costner tells the story of the camping trip while weaving in other historic anecdotes and ecological tidbits about Yosemite National Park. Yep, there’s a heroic mini-biography of Teddy Roosevelt. There are Nature Channel-worthy segments about the lifecycle of a Sequoia and the geologic forces that carved the valley. Costner name drops Lynn Hill as the first rock climber to free climb the Nose of El Capitan. There’s even a reenactment of the massacre of Miwok tribespeople that preempted their forced removal from Yosemite in 1851.

But as the docuseries unfolds, Costner also performs some rhetorical jiujitsu that muddies the current political divide around a few topics. He frames the conservation movement as inherently patriotic, and funding the national parks as part of our American heritage. He presents the corporate interests of industry as evil, and the seizing of land from Tribes as cruel. He even tells the viewer that the reintroduction of grey wolves—a wedge issue in many Western states—is something that Roosevelt, a Republican icon, would have supported.

Costner presents these perspectives with a sincere tone that lacks any hint of cynicism or moral superiority. After praising John Muir for advocating on behalf of Yosemite’s trees and rivers, Costner lays down in his sleeping bag as the temperature plummets. “God I love this country,” he says. “Everything about it. Even the cold.”

Costner’s melding of these concepts—patriotism, conservation, American heritage, and honoring Indigenous tribes—helps him sell a contemporary vision to his audience: national parks are worthy of our protection and our tax dollars.

Sure, Costner’s sincerity and mythical retelling of a camping trip may inspire some eye rolls. Still,ÌęI couldn’t help but admire his approach. Perhaps somewhere in Yellowstone to Yosemite is a playbook for bridging the political divide when we debate protecting National Monuments from drilling, or the reintroduction of apex predators, or why we should save endangered species. I don’t watch Fox News, but my parents do, and I firmly believe that they would love Yellowstone to Yosemite, even though it’s essentially a three-hour pitch for the environmental movement.

Costner’s story concludes on a high note. Roosevelt is inspired by Muir, and after he’s reelected he signs the Antiquities Act of 1906, which grants him the power to protect federal lands. He sends the U.S. military to defend the national parks, and he establishes a series of national monuments to honor the legacies of indigenous tribes.

I recently asked Costner about the balancing act in Yellowstone to Yosemite, and whether it was challenging to blend so many disparate socio-political themes in an hour-and-a-half programÌę He brushed the question aside with a laugh. You can read my interview below.

Why Kevin Costner Wanted to Tell the Story of Yosemite National Park

OUTSIDE: Why did you want to tell this story in 2025?
Costner: I was not waiting for the right year to tell this story. I recently did the film Horizon and I thought of it back in 1988. With Yellowstone: One Fifty, I realized that we just don’t know our history and the intricacies of the routes we drive and the mountains we look at. With Yosemite, we all think we know the park. But I knew there was a story to tell about Roosevelt and Muir. In this 30-year span after the creation of Yellowstone, there was nobody who could actually protect the parks. Nobody took into account that it would would take manpower and a governmental body to actually protect them. I like these parts of history that seem obvious, but aren’t. And this story had plenty of these elements, so I had a sense that I wanted to share it. I wanted to start with the Native Americans—even if we’re going to highlight Roosevelt and Muir, it was important for me to go that distance and to talk about original inhabitants. I wanted to tell viewers just how tragic things were for them. They’re always in our history and we somehow forget them. They are a part of Yosemite as much as any story we tell.

But I also wanted to show how these two men, of like minds, each had a level of poetry in them that helped them understand that saving the parks was the right thing. I wanted to tell this story without beating people on the the head. I wanted to educate them.

Your story navigates more than a few political topics that are still debated today, such as funding the NPS, reintroducing apex predators, and the constant tug-of-war between protecting federal lands and opening them to drilling or logging. How did you navigate these without seeming partisan?
Ha. I don’t care where the chips fall, and I’m honestly not that careful. I’m not looking to present a side here, I’m just looking to tell the story of who was doing what, who was saying what, and what actually happened. This project isn’t catered to any crowd. It had to get above my bar in terms of its intellectual literature. And I felt like we told the version of the story that I set out to tell. I don’t talk down to my audience or around them. I honestly don’t see the world as being dangerous when I’m telling historical truth. You have to tell the story with all of its warts. Other people might be worried about what I’m going to say. But I didn’t ever worry about it. I never had a single thought about this.

This is your second project around the U.S. National Parks. What about the Parks has attracted your interest in storytelling?
I’m really pleased that national parks are an American idea. Today there are like 1400 national parks around the world, but we set the tone. We came up with the idea that the land could have a higher economic use than just exploiting it—that some day, people would come and visit. But when I think of environmentalism, it isn’t just about the fish in the streams, and the trees. It’s also about the connection to the past. That I can walk where other people walked 100 years ago. And also, to know that a place like Yosemite will be the same forever. And to know that these places aren’t just enjoyed by the wealthy, that everyone can enjoy them. Setting aside land for a national park is such a simple idea, but in reality it takes a fierce attitude to move an idea to being practical, especially when money is at stake.

You’ve spent several decades telling stories about the American West, fromÌęDances With Wolves toÌęYellowstone.ÌęWhat is it about the West that continually sparks your imagination?
I stumble on these stories, and I know that I’m only going to be able to tell so many of the in my lifetime. Right now I’m flirting with a very historical project that I’ll probably do, and it’s right in the vein of what you’re talking about, but I can’t discuss it here. As Americans, we think we know our history, but you never really know that much about it until you dig down. We read about the Native Americans somewhere in the fourth grade, like one chapter in one book, and that’s it. All of Yosemite was on the backs of people who were exterminated. This great park came on the heels of shipping them off to a river where they would die in anonymity. And they’re not even on a sign anywhere.

We rarely get down to what is human about them. I think that Yosemite gets down to what is human about John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt. People can be touched by the truth. They can be affected by lies, but they can be truly touched by the truth.

This interview was edited for space and clarity.Ìę

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Dear Sundog,Ìę

Last September, in California’s Malibu Creek State Park, a mountain lion pounced on a five-year-old child. The father managed to save his kid by fighting off the cat, and soon after, officials euthanized the cougar. Isn’t this immoral and outrageous? The lion was behaving just as nature intended.Ìę— People against he Unethical Murder of Animals

Dear PUMA,

This is not the only recent alarming attack on humans by a cougar. In 2023, an eight-year-old boy was while camping with his family in Olympic National Park; his mom chased off the cat, and he escaped with minor injuries. Last April, two brothers were out in looking for shed antlers when they encountered a cougar. It attacked both young men, killing one.

As a professional arbiter of ethics, my job is to see at least two sides of any given issue. However, as the father of a five-year-old who I regularly take to the woods and canyons, I am unable to access the other side here, to find what John Keats might have called the “negative capability” to tolerate the mystery that falls outside of reason. My take is strictly Old Testament: I say smite the beast. If an animal tried to drag off my child, my notions of animal rights and equality among the species would go straight out the window. I would try to kill it even if it escaped, assuming that, if left to live, it would try the same thing again.

I seem to be in line among people in positions of responsibility—at the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, as well as wildlife advocacy groups. “We don’t have a mountain lion jail,” Beth Pratt, the California state director of the National Wildlife Federation, told the after the Malibu Creek incident. “As much as it pains me, I think the officials made the right decision here.”

The conundrum is not new. But we might say we’ve had a respite. After a cougar killed a human in California in 1909, the state went more than 80 years without another fatality. In 1990, fearing the lion was going extinct, voters passed a ballot initiative to protect the animal. The past four decades have seen mountain lions acting more aggressively. Even so, it’s still a small number. According to the , there have been 26 verified cougar attacks on humans since 1986, four of them fatal.

These ethical dilemmas about what an animal is “allowed” to do pre-date the United States, of course. During the Middle Ages, animals were put on trial for crimes ranging from caterpillars stealing fruit to pigs who committed murder. “Here were bears formally excommunicated from the Church,” writes Mary Roach in her book Fuzz: When Nature Breaks the Law. “Slugs given three warnings to stop nettling farmers, under penalty of smiting.”

And yet, buried in my psyche, was the belief that killing a cougar for being a cougar was just . . . wrong? I turned to an expert in the field to see what I was missing. Christopher Preston is a professor of environmental ethics at the University of Montana and author of the book . Because mountain lion attacks are still so rare, Preston thought there wasn’t much official protocol. Bears, however, attack more frequently. When a bear kills or eats a human, it will be euthanized. But if a bear attacks a person while demonstrating what authorities consider natural behavior, it will be spared. “If you surprise a bear with cubs or on a kill, and it attacks you, then the bear can be let off,” Preston told me. “It’s not a pattern of behavior that demonstrates unnatural instincts.”

It’s unclear if the behavior of the Malibu Creek cougar was natural.Ìę The event that you refer to, PUMA, involved a young lion approaching a group of humans in a picnic area and dragging off a child, a particularly brazen act. Yes, it’s perfectly natural for a mountain lion to haul off a smaller creature in hopes of dining on it. But, said Preston, this cougar had left its natural environment and entered a human environment: a picnic area in a state park. “Where do you draw the line when natural behavior starts to impact us pretty severely?” he asked. We have no problem cracking down, he adds, when forms of life like bacteria and viruses exhibit their natural behavior of infecting our bodies.

Preston made another point: humans are constantly expressing their dominance over the natural world, and if we just kill anything that makes a problem with us, then we’re not learning anything. But in his opinion, even this line of reasoning doesn’t merit a puma pardon. “Someone can feel sympathy for the lion for doing what lions do, but that probably won’t get you a non-shoot order.”

“We need to dial back our dominance, but this case brings it into sharp contrast,” said Preston. “I don’t know how many environmental ethicists would say, ‘Yes, let’s just let lions keep dragging kids out of picnic areas.’”

Preston and I decided to find out. He sent out a note to a handful of colleagues. The first to respond was Philip Cafaro, a professor of philosophy at Colorado State University:

The way I see it, mountain lions and people have a right to live in California (and elsewhere). But there are way too many people in CA (~ 40 million) and way too few mountain lions (probably less than 5,000). It’s way out of balance, way unjustly tilted toward us hogging most of the habitat and resources. So, speaking strictly to the justice of the situation, mountain lions that attack and even kill people should be left alone. We can spare a few people from our teeming hordes, while there are precious few pumas left.

But even he shied away from cougar clemency:

Pragmatically speaking, people are too selfish and cowardly to act ethically in such cases. So, the next best thing is let them kill some mountain lions in the hope that they will leave the rest alone.

A second Colorado State professor of philosophy, Katie McShane, raised other important questions, which perhaps explain why we no longer drag beasts before a judge and jury:

I’m not sure we blame animals very much at all; but in any case, killing the mountain lion isn’t conceived of as punishment, but rather, keeping people safe.

Maybe there’s an animal ethics question about whether killing the lion is the best way to protect people? Given mountain lion behavior, I can’t imagine that confinement would go well. Are there sanctuaries? I don’t know; they’d need to be huge. Anyway, my guess is that killing the mountain lion is the most humane option as well.

The short answer to that is, mountain lions require too much terrain to be placed in sanctuaries. And relocating an animal that’s attacked a human doesn’t mean it won’t attack again. I find myself agreeing that killing is the best option in this difficult situation.

Before Preston signed off, he also speculated that there might be something in the human psyche that calls for harsher punishments for pumas than for other predators—bears, for example. “There is something singular about the lion,” he said. “You get stalked. You don’t know it’s coming. Bears kind of look like people when they stand up on two legs, so we know what they are about. The lion occupies a different place in our cultural imagination: the stealthy undesirable ghost in the forest that we don’t want to empathize with.”

Mark Sundeen lives in a canyon in Montana where cougar sightings are frequent, yet in his four decades of exploring and guiding in the West, he’s never seen one in the wild. Sundeen’s new book, Ìęcomes out February 18.

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