Don’t get me wrong, I love a good campsite. But sometimes after a big day of adventure, I crave the comfort and ease of a great hotel with a friendly staff, farm-to-table meals, gear rentals, and maybe even a sauna and cold plunge. Both in the U.S. and abroad, a plethora of brands are catering to guests who love the outdoors, such as glamping masters Under Canvas and community-centric LOGE camps.

But we all have limited vacation time and need to pick our getaway stays thoughtfully. As someone who’s on the road half the year, I can assure you that these are worth traveling for.

The newest outposts that excite me most are popping up in perfect locations, from the doorsteps of popular national parksĚý to some urban gems bringing nature indoors with innovative biophilic design. Here’s my hotel hot list for 2025.

Snow Peak Campfield Long Beach

Long Beach, Washington

I’ve long been a fan of the Japanese gear company , not only for its design-minded outdoor equipment, but also the creative ways it brings its brand to life. For example, the company flagship in Portland, Oregon, features an excellent, wood-fire-focused Japanese restaurant, Tabiki.

Across Japan you can stay overnight at 13 Snow Peak campgrounds, but last summer the company debuted its on Washington’s rugged Long Beach Peninsula, 110 miles west of Portland near the mouth of the Columbia River. The 25-acre site—no surprise—feels like an outdoor concept store, showcasing Snow Peak products like folding chairs and fire pits. Book one of 48 campsites and bring your own gear (or rent theirs), or glamp it up in spacious tent suites or minimalist wooden Jyubako cabins (the latter for up to two adults and two kids) designed by Japanese starchitect Kengo Kuma.

The area is full of adventure options, like kayaking Willapa Bay and hiking in Cape Disappointment State Park. My plan is to visit this winter specifically to enjoy long soaking sessions in the camp’s onsen-inspired .

Price:ĚýCampsites from $77, tent suites from $119, and Jyubako cabins from $219

Populus

Denver

may be downtown, but the property’s biophilic design is meant to make guests feel as if they’ve entered a large grove of aspens (Populus tremuloides), with 365 eye-shaped windows that allow light to filter in. The nature immersion continues at every step: the front desk is crafted from fallen cottonwood trees, the soundtrack of birdsong recorded in nearby Estes Park plays in the elevators, and the lobby bar is adorned with hanging reishi mushroom skins.

The hotel opened in October as the nation’s first carbon-positive hotel. It boasts 100 percent renewable-energy, eco-friendly materials, like low-carbon concrete and leather made from reishi mushrooms, and a biodigester that composts all of its food waste, which is then returned to local farmers. Moreover, the property plants a spruce tree in Colorado for every night booked.

Its sustainable initiatives convinced me to stay, and the friendly service, stellar farm-focused food, outpost of Little Owl Coffee, and welcoming coworking space and gym have given me many reasons to return. The Populus also overlooks Civic Center Park, where the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Festival and Summit will take place from May 30 to June 1, and ticket holders get special deals on rooms booked here through .

Price:ĚýFrom $299

Under Canvas Yosemite

Near Groveland, California

Scoring camping reservations in Yosemite can feel like winning the lottery. Don’t want to gamble? Treat yourself to a cushy stay at the new , slated to debut May 15 with 71 tents just ten minutes from the park’s west entrance on Route 120.

The upscale glamping brand is known for hotel-worthy touches like West Elm furnishings in its spacious safari tents and daily programming that might include yoga classes or nightly s’mores sessions. This 85-acre site is no exception.

You don’t even have to deal with the stress of taking your car into the park itself—this Under Canvas location is across from a Yosemite Area Regional Transportation System (YARTS) stop with regular park service to three major destinations.

Return at day’s end to a menu of California cuisine served beneath soaring black oaks and live music by the campfire. Families will love the El Capitan Suite— two connecting tents, each with ensuite bathrooms; it can sleep up to six people.

Price: From $319

Firefall Ranch at Yosemite

Near Groveland, California

The Yosemite area has never had more choice for boutique accommodations, and this is another property on Route 120 I’m eager to recommend. The 300-acre opened last summer and is made for the active crowd. You can look forward to a spacious saltwater pool (complete with shave-ice service), forest disc golf, bouldering, and beach volleyball.

Pick up picnic supplies at the on-site general store or dine at the casual tavern or more ambitious restaurant, YOVA, which features dishes like salmon and caviar and boar chops, complimented by an impressive wine list.

For families, roomy accommodations include 55 standalone one- and two-bedroom cottages or three-bedroom villas with private decks and indoor-outdoor gas fireplaces.

Fun fact: this property was a stop on the original stagecoach route to Yosemite in the 1870s.

Price: From $650

Yellowstone Peaks Hotel

Island Park, Idaho

Wyoming and Montana are most often associated with America’s first national park. But 1 percent of Yellowstone’s 2.2 million acres lies within Idaho (an underrated state for adventure, in my humble opinion). The park’s west entrance is just 30 minutes away from the small town of Island Park, whichĚý recently welcomed the family-owned .

The property’s 19 Scandi-inspired accommodations are the epitome of cabin porn. Each A-frame cabin can accommodate up to six guests and has its own cedar-wood-fired soaking tub. There’s also a communal area with saunas and cold plunges.

While proximity to the park may lure you here, its location across the street from the fly-fishing mecca that is Henry’s Fork River will appeal to anglers. Nearby but off-the-radar attractions include the Caribbean-esque Wade Lake and the 114-foot-tall cascades of Mesa Falls.

Price: From $440 per night, two-night minimum

Cascada

Portland, Oregon

Portland is home to plenty of nature fixes, but the newest is the underground thermal-springs experience at the recently opened, 100-room (pronounced cascade) hotel in the Alberta Arts District. The Conservatory, the heart of the thermal-springs area, was designed by landscape experts, including members of the Portland Botanical Garden, and features a with a 25-foot-tall living wall and rare flora planted throughout the space.

Soak and socialize in the mineral-infused vitality pool, or complete a sauna, steam, and ice-bath hydrotherapy circuit in the silent sanctuary space. If you’re passing through the city en route to a wilderness adventure, you can still enjoy a soak, but you’ll need a reservation ($100 for two and a half hours). You can feel good about knowing that Cascada is committed to using ethically sourced spa products.ĚýRounding things out are an excellent restaurant, Terra Mae, that fuses the flavors of Portugal and Japan (think: tonkatsu and linguica croquettes), as well as zero-waste kitchen practices.

Guest rooms feature kitchenettes, balconies, and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Price: From $299

Edgecamp Pamlico Station

Outer Banks, North Carolina

One of my goals this year is to improve my kiteboarding skills, and I can’t imagine a better place to get back on the water than the Outer Banks. With steady winds, an abundance of sandy beaches, and calm, shallow sounds, it lives up to its nickname as the kiteboarding capital of the East Coast.

Professional kiteboarder Rita Arnaus takes off in Pamlico Sound. (Video: Courtesy Edgecamp Pamlico Station)

Thanks to the recent debut of , a 14-suite boutique hotel at Edgecamp Sporting Club on windswept Hatteras Island, travelers finally have a stylish base that offers everything from an on-site kiteboarding school with equipment rentals and lessons to a wellness deck boasting a sauna, cold plunge, and hot tub.

I love that the suites feel like residences, each with a full kitchen, washer and dryer, living room, wood-burning fireplace, and work desk. And after a day of kiting, you’ll appreciate having in-room amenities like a Therabody massage gun and foam roller at your disposal.

Price: From $189

Trailborn Grand Canyon

Williams, Arizona

I’m embarrassed to admit that, for as much traveling as I do, I still haven’t visited the Grand Canyon. I really have no excuse now that , a new outdoorsy-focused hotel brand, is opening its fourth location in the town of Williams. The 96-room hotel is just down the road from the Grand Canyon Railway, the train that deposits visitors at the South Rim entrance of the national park.

Trailborn has partnered with hiking outfitter to run guided excursions in the park, like a private day hike along the challenging, eight-mile round-tripĚý ($600) or a group excursion that takes in the South Rim’s greatest hits, like the ($340).

On property, a saloon-style Camp Hall hosts free concerts, movies, and bingo nights, and for $35 families can have their room transformed into a camping-inspired slumber party. This spring the property will open Miss Kitty’s steakhouse and bar.

Price: From $175

The Wildbirch Hotel

Anchorage, Alaska

For years I viewed Anchorage as nothing more than a gateway to epic wilderness adventures. When a cancelled flight stranded me in the city for 24 hours, I discovered that, actually, Anchorage was a destination in its own right, home to seriously great restaurants, a cool urban-arts scene, and a 500-plus-mile trail network that connects some 200 green spaces.

InĚý April, the city will get its first true boutique hotel when the opens in the Mushing District. The 252-room property will showcase works by local craftspeople, such as carved topographic maps that double as headboards, and an art collection curated by the nearby Anchorage Museum. An on-site brewery, outdoor decks with fire pits, and sweeping views of Mount Susitna and Knik Arm are sure to attract just as many locals as visitors.

With the world-class salmon fishing of Ship Creek steps away and guest rooms that overlook the ceremonial starting line of the Iditarod sled-dog race, held each March, you can’t ask for a better address.

Price: From $199

LOGE

St. George, Utah

During the height of the pandemic, I rooted for a few fledgling brands. , which is pronounced “lodge” and stands for Live şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř, Go Explore, is one of them. The original LOGE Camp launched in 2017 in coastal Westport, Washington, and I loved its adult-summer-camp vibes and affordability.

There are camp or RV sites, or choose from a variety of room configurations. All the gear and amenities you could wish for are available to rent, from Traeger grills to Wave Bandit and Lib Tech surfboards. The brand launched similar concepts in mountain towns in the Pacific Northwest, and I’m stoked to see it expanding into the Southwest in 2025. I’ve marked my calendar for early February, when LOGE St. George starts taking bookings for its April opening.

The hotel will be a sweet base camp less than two miles southwest from the heart of the city. Perks include a hot tub, pool, and mountain-bike rentals, and the trails of nearby Zion National Park and Snow Canyon State Park are a short drive away.

Later this year, LOGE will open a handful of East Coast properties. Host towns include Asheville, North Carolina; the Catskills of New York; Mount Snow, Vermont; and Southport, Maine.

Price: From $137

Foreign Properties I Have My Eye On

The Caribbean and Mexico

Salterra Resort and Spa

On February 15, American Airlines will introduce direct flights twice a week from Miami to South Caicos in the Turks and Caicos. Around the same time, this up-and-coming island will welcome , a sustainably minded hotel that will offer adventures like kiteboarding, bonefishing, kayaking, and diving. But it doesn’t come cheap.

Price: From $1,300

Hotel Humano

I’ve been plotting a surf mission to Puerto Escondido and am hoping to base myself at the new , located steps from famous Zicatela Beach (a.k.a. the Mexican Pipeline).

Price: From $190

Amet

On a recent trip to Cabo San Lucas, a guide clued me in to , an intimate new nature retreat in the town of Santiago on Baja’s Central Cape. You can choose between suites or glamping tents, and excursions range from hikes to nearby hot springs to ATV drives to waterfalls.

Price: From $315

Argentina

Glamping Los Palmares

El Impenetrable National Park in northern Argentina is a wilderness mecca, home to giant anteaters and jaguars, as well as a swath of Gran Chaco, one of the world’s fastest disappearing forests.Ěý recently opened on the park’s northern border with just four tents overlooking the Bermejo River.

Price: From $359, all-inclusive

Finland

Kotona Manor

If you’ve jumped on the cool-cation travel trend, you should have Finland on your travel list and in particular. The family-owned, 11-suite waterfront property willĚý debut in the Lakeland region this summer. Seasonal activities range from bear watching to snowmobiling and sailing.

Price: From $1,530

Madagascar

Voaara

One of my favorite far-flung places is Madagascar, and not just for the mind-boggling amount of biodiversity but also for the amazing, crowd-free adventures, like kiteboarding, freediving, snorkeling, and hiking. I visited last December and got a sneak peek at the newly opened , a barefoot luxe hotel on idyllic Isle St. Marie, just off the country’s northeast coast. Guests can snorkel the vibrant house reefs, whale-watch with the resident marine biologist from June to September, and learn to wing foil with pro surfer Willow Hardy.

Price: $1,230

Jen Murphy is an şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine correspondent and frequent contributor to şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online. (Most recently, she wrote a guide to maximizing winter fun in Colorado’s mountain towns and reviewed the best compression socks for long-haul flights.) Murphy has been lucky enough to stay in some of the world’s best hotels, both rustic and luxe, and believes that warm service truly makes a stay.

The post 16 New Outdoor-şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Hotels We Can’t Wait to Visit appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

Many of America’s 63 national parks charge an entrance fee, usually $30-$35 per vehicle or $15 if you’re walking or on a bike. Or you can get an for just $80. The fee covers you for seven days, and the money goes to a good cause: according to the NPS, 80 percent is used within the park, helping to improve trails, campsites, and roads, and 20 percent goes to other park sites. And there are six or so .

You can also have a national-park experience for free another way, by visiting one of the 20 national parks that don’t charge an entrance fee ever. Come and go as you please without dropping a dime. Many of them are among our least-visited national parks, which means you might have these landscapes to yourself.

These are the 20 national parks that are free to visit every day. If you’re wondering whether these are good ones, they’re not—they’re great ones.

1. Biscayne National Park, Florida

A coastal park located in south Florida where the mainland transitions to the Keys, Biscayne National Park is a collection of islands, mangroves, coral reefs, and open water that’s largely inaccessible except by boat. While entering the park doesn’t cost a thing, if you’re bringing a boat and want to anchor at certain areas, expect a $25 docking fee on weekends and holidays.

Best Time to Visit: Summer is hot and buggy (with temps in the 90s and mosquitoes), and hurricanes are possible in the fall. Shoot for winter, when temps hover in the mid 70s and the storms and bugs are dormant.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Biscayne Bay is known for its shipwrecks, and the Mandalay, a schooner that sank in the ’60s, is one of the top sites, as the hull sits in shallow enough water to be seen by snorkelers as well as divers. This wreck is part of the which includes five others. Don’t want to spend your time underwater? Head to Boca Chita Key, also part of the park, a 32-acre island with camping ($25 a night, first-come, first-served), hiking, and a lighthouse. The half-mile trail that circumnavigates the small island leads to its beaches.

2. Channel Islands National Park, California

Channel Islands National Park encompasses five rugged islands in the Pacific Ocean about 30 miles off the coast of Los Angeles. If you ever wondered what Southern California would look like without the development and traffic, this is it. The park is full of remote beaches, steep cliffs, expansive meadows, and pristine forests.

Best Time to Visit: Summer, as the water and air temps are both in the 70s, a little cooler than most of Southern California but still warm, so you can make the most of those beaches scattered throughout the park.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: I hit Channel Islands last summer as part of a seven-day adventure cruise, but the easiest way (compared to arriving via seaplane or private boat) to reach the park is by ferry, with (day trips from $96). Get dropped off on Santa Rosa Island and hike the 12-mile out-and-back to Skunk Point, a prominent peninsula with sand dunes and cliffs jutting into the Pacific. You’ll pass rare Torrey pines, a gnarled-looking, wind-twisted type of tree only found on the Channel Islands and in La Jolla on the mainland, and have copious views of the ocean and island along the way.

Or book a sea-kayaking tour with and paddle to sea caves and gaze at natural rock arches (from $145 per person).

3. Congaree National Park, South Carolina

You could say Congaree National Park is a swamp, and you wouldn’t be wrong, but the word doesn’t do the place justice. The 26,692-acre Congaree holds the largest intact old-growth bottom-wood forest in the South, boasting trophy-sized loblolly pines and cypress that rise straight from the water. The same forest has one of the tallest canopies in the eastern United States, with an average tree height of more than 100 feet.

Best Time to Visit: Avoid summer because of the sweltering heat and bugs. Winter and spring are fine, but you might as well show up in the fall when the weather is perfect, the rivers are full from seasonal rains, and the hardwoods, like tupelos and sweet gums, are popping with color.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Most of the fun in Congaree is water-based, so bring a canoe or paddle board and slowly make your way through the , a 15-mile marked “path” that winds through old-growth cypress. The current is mellow enough to paddle up or downstream, so you don’t need a shuttle.

4. Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

An oasis of public land sandwiched between the bustling cities of Cleveland and Akron, Cuyahoga Valley holds 33,000 acres of forest and historic farmland surrounding the Cuyahoga River. What the park lacks in towering peaks or grand vistas, it makes up for in waterways, waterfalls, and cultural significance; you can ride your bike beside the Ohio and Erie Canal, which connected the Ohio River with Lake Erie, key to the country’s western expansion during the early 1800s.

Best Time to Visit: It’s a four-season park (although winters can be cold and snowy), and I could make an argument for every season. Fall brings bright foliage, and spring is mild and uncrowded, but show up in summer and you can take advantage of the many farmers’ markets in and around the park. The Cuyahoga Valley is still a very active agricultural hub of the Midwest.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: You have to bike at least a section of the , a 100-mile crushed-gravel trail that follows the Ohio and Erie Canal. Roughly 20 miles of the Towpath sit inside the park, passing through small towns and meadows full of wildflowers, like trillium and bloodroot, with deer and foxes along the way.

5. Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, Alaska

Want remote wilderness? Go to Alaska, then keep heading north into the Brooks Range, and you’ll find Gates of the Arctic, a 13,000-square-mile expanse of mountains and river valleys north of the Arctic Circle. There are no roads in Gates of the Arctic, nor a visitor center or gift shop, nor even established trails. Just herds of caribou, the glow of the northern lights, and several federally designated Wild and Scenic Rivers winding through the tundra. Ěý

Best Time to Visit: Hands down, summer has the warmest temps, as well as rivers that are full from snowmelt and a landscape that comes alive as everything from wildflowers to grizzly bears makes the most of the sunshine. There’s plenty of that, too; you’re so far north, you can expect daylight for up to a month at a time in the summer.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Try, if you can, to see this park from the hull of a boat. Consider paddling the Noatak, a sinuous river that’s carved a broad valley through the Brooks Range. You’d plan for a 10-day canoe-camping trip, with mostly calm water and a few stretches of class II rapids on the 60-mile section inside the park. You’ll float past meadows full of alpine sunflowers and snow buttercups, fish for arctic char, and keep an eye out for grizzlies, wolves, and Dall sheep ( from $8,900).

6. Gateway Arch National Park, Missouri

Gateway Arch isn’t like other national parks on this list. It’s an urban park, located in St. Louis, that was originally set aside to commemorate the cultural significance of our country’s push westward. It’s only 91 acres, tucked into the banks of the Mississippi River, and has the 630-foot Gateway Arch as its centerpiece. Fun fact: this is the tallest arch in the U.S. Inside the park are five miles of paved trails for walking and running along the Mississippi.

Best Time to Visit: Show up in fall or spring, when the weather is mild and the crowds are minimal.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Really, ride the tram to the top of the arch. The journey takes you through the structure’s hollow legs and ends at a viewing platform with a panorama of the Mississippi River and its many bridges below. The only catch? The ride will cost you $19.

7. Great Basin National Park, Nevada

It takes some effort to reach Great Basin National Park, in eastern Nevada roughly 285 miles north of Las Vegas, but once you’re there, you won’t need to contend with crowds. Only 140,000 people a year venture to Great Basin, compared to 14 million visitors for Great Smoky Mountains National ParkĚýin 2023. Yet Great Basin has towering 13,000-foot peaks; groves of shimmering aspen as well as old-growth bristlecone pines, which are believed to be the oldest known tree species in the world; and a fascinating system of caves to explore.

Best Time to Visit: Much of the park can be inaccessible during winter, when the 12-mile Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, which ascends from 6,700 to 10,180 feet in elevation, is unplowed but open to skiers and snowshoers, and there are various other winter closures. So going between late spring and early fall is your best bet. Late summer will give you the best chance for snow-free trails.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: The cave tours are popular, but I say hike to the top of 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak, where views of the Great Basin Desert, the only “cold” desert in America—the precipitation comes from snow—stretch in every direction for 100 miles on a clear day. It’s a 6.1-mile that gains 3,000 feet, much of which is above tree line, so take it slowly if you’re coming from sea level. Interested in something milder? Hike the 2.7-mile , which brings you to the edges of Teresa and Stella Lakes, both pools surrounded by evergreens.

8. Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina and Tennessee

This is the most popular national park in the country, with, as said above, some 14 million visitors annually. Fortunately, there are 500,000 acres of mountains in Great Smoky Mountains National ParkĚýfor all those people to explore, with more than 900 miles of trail that access 6,000-foot peaks, pristine trout streams, and historic farming valleys.

Best Time to Visit: There’s no bad time to hit GSMNP. The foliage goes nuts come fall, winter can bring snow and solitude, and spring is budding with renewed life…but I like summer in the Smokies. Sure, some parts of the park are crowded, but the temperatures are perfect for splashing in the waterfalls and swimming holes.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Most visitors stick to the scenic Newfound Gap Road and its short nature trails, but I recommend hiking the 11-mile out-and-back up to LeConte Lodge, a backcountry inn on top of the 6,000-foot peak of the same name. Some sections of the trail are so exposed you use cables for safety, and you’ll pass through Alum Cave, a rock overhang with a long-range view into the park. If you can’t score overnight reservations at the lodge, purchase a sack lunch from the kitchen for a picnic in some quiet spot with a view before heading back down to the trailhead.

9. Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas

An aerial view shows Hot Springs Bathhouse Row, Hot Springs National Park, Garland County, Arkansas, in summer amid the region’s green hills. Video courtesy Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage and Tourism

Forget rugged cliffs or backcountry lakes. Hot Springs National Park protects a small town that was built on top of thermal springs that attracted travelers for centuries before the area ever became a national park. Today, you’ll find two brick bathhouses for soaking your weary muscles and public fountains where you can fill a jug with natural spring water for drinking.

Best Time to Visit: The weather in the park is generally mild, so it’s a popular destination year round, but winter feels like the right time to sit in a tub of hot water.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Can relaxing be an adventure? Who cares? When in Hot Springs National Park, you sit in hot water. The Buckstaff Bathhouse has small private tubs, while the has a series of larger, Roman-style pools for group bathing as well. A man-made steam cave captures the radiant heat from the 143-degree water (from $25 per person). You can also hike the trails here and are welcome to bike on any of the paved roads and the Pullman Trail.

10.Ěý Katmai National Park and Preserve, Alaska

Katmai National Park is surely best known for its live bear cams, where you can watch massive brown bears fish for salmon from the comfort of your office chair. But this 4-million-acre park in Southern Alaska is more than just an internet sensation; it’s a playground of lakes, rivers, and mountains, with an active volcano.

Best Time to Visit: Show up in July when the temps approach 70, and the brown bears are actively hunting for fish.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Try to get a campsite or lodge room at the float-plane accessible (make reservations starting January 5, $18 per campsite per night) on the edge of Naknek Lake, and hike the 1.2-mile out and back to Brooks Falls, where the park’s most popular bear cam catches grizzlies poking around the water for salmon. Don’t worry, the hike ends at an overlook a safe distance from the action.

11. Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska

The heart of Kenai Fjords is the Harding Icefield, a 700-square-mile sheet of ice that has shaped Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula by leaving glaciers and carving fjords. Visitors to the park have 600,000 acres of fjords to paddle, many trails to hike, and innumerable icy crevices to explore, with Ěýoptions available.

Best Time to Visit: Technically, Kenai Fjords is open year round, but winters are cold and snowy, and the only way into the park is by fat bike, XC skis, or dogsled. Show up from June through August and the trails are open to hikers, the roads are clear, and wildlife is most visible, as animals actively look for food.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: This is your chance to explore a glacier in all its shrinking glory. A paved road leads to the edge of Exit Glacier, which forms the tail end of the Harding Icefield. From here a system of trails explores the valley carved by the glacier, offering a variety of views. Hike the 8.2-mile out-and-back , a strenuous climb through cottonwood forests and meadows, then above a tree line ridge that stops at the edge of the massive expanse of ice.

12. Kobuk Valley National Park, Alaska

Kobuk Valley is one of the least-visited units of the national-park system (just over 17,000 people made the trip in 2023), but that’s more a reflection of the park’s location north of the Arctic Circle than its landscape, which is a mix of rivers and sand dunes that are populated by a hell of a lot of caribou traveling along the Kobuk River. No roads lead into Kobuk Valley, so most visitors arrive via . The other option would be a very long paddle in.

Best Time to Visit: Shoot for June or July, when you’ll enjoy nearly 24 hours of light every day, blooming wildflowers like the herbaceous locoweed, and temperatures in the mid 60s. Or show up in August when the caribou begin their migration through the park.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: With no established trails or campgrounds inside the park, you need to be self-sufficient. Most people show up to camp in the 25-square-mile Great Kobuk Sand Dunes, or paddle and fish for salmon and whitefish along the 61 miles of the Kobuk River within the park’s borders. Either way, keep an eye out for caribou, which look like lean reindeer.

13. Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska

Much like Kobuk Valley, Lake Clark has no roads leading into the park and is typically accessed by small plane. But make the effort and you’ll see 4 million acres of quintessential Alaskan terrain with 10,000-foot peaks, backcountry lakes, glaciers, and wild rivers, all about 100 miles southwest of Anchorage.

Best Time to Visit: It’s Alaska, so summer will give you the longest days and warmest weather of the year. The brown bears are active too, filling up on salmon running up the rivers, so it can be a once-in-a-lifetime thrill seeing them (from a safe distance).

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Catch a to Crescent Lake and spend your time on a boat, fishing for sockeye salmon, which fill the lake in July during their annual migration, or lake trout. Bring your binoculars too, as the lake is a hub for brown-bear activity during the summer.

14. Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky

Most national parks wow you with what’s above ground, but Mammoth Cave’s secret sauce lies beneath the dirt; the park protects the largest cave system in the world, with more than 400 miles of mapped passages.

Best Time to Visit: Mammoth might be the truest year-round park in the system, as the temperature in the caves is a consistent 54 degrees through every season. But visit in the fall and the hardwoods above ground are bursting with color.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: The landscape offers plenty to do above ground, from paddling the Green River to mountain biking the park’s 20 miles of singletrack, but you’re here for the caves. The Historic Cave Tour is the classic introduction, a two-hour guided adventure that hits the biggest rooms and tight channels alike ($24 per person). Or if you’re feeling adventurous, sign up for a Wild Cave Tour and crawl through tight passages that lead to lesser-seen rooms over 5.5 miles of exploration ($79 per person).

15. National Park of American Samoa

Looking for something remote and tropical? American Samoa is a collection of seven islands located 2,600 miles south of Hawaii. National Park of American Samoa protects pieces of four of those islands, boasting tropical rainforests, steep peaks, remote beaches, and access to the surrounding ocean and coral reefs.

Best Time to Visit: It’s warm year round in American Samoa, but winter can be rainy. The dry season runs from June to September, offering the best chances of good weather for hiking and clear water for snorkeling.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Tutuila, the largest island of Samoa, is loaded with hiking trails that lead through rainforests to dramatic viewpoints over the coast. If I ever get to go, I’m visiting Ofu Island, which has a remote shoreline with pink sand that has been called the most beautiful beach in the world. The is amazing too, as the water is clear, the coral reefs are close to shore and packed with colorful fish, and the area hosts more than 950 species of fish.

16. New River Gorge National Park and Preserve, West Virginia

New River Gorge National Park packs an adventurous punch in its svelte 73,000 acres, protecting 53 miles of the class IV New River and the steep, rocky gorge around it. Rock climbing, mountain biking, whitewater rafting…you can do it all inside this relatively small park.

Best Time to Visit: Summer brings the warmest weather for rafting, but if you’re looking to climb, show up in the fall when the humidity dissipates, temps drop, and the leaves pop.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: It’s hard to pick just one here, but rafting the New has to top the list. The river drops 750 feet inside the park’s boundaries, unraveling in a series of III-IV wave trains, drops, and big pillows. A number of outfitters , from half-day milder water options to two-day overnight adventures.

17. North Cascades National Park, Washington

North Cascades might be close enough to Seattle for a day trip, but this landscape is a world removed from the bustling city, with high alpine terrain full of evergreen forests, craggy peaks, backcountry lakes, and more than 300 glaciers–the largest collection in any park outside of Alaska.

Best Time to Visit: Late June to late September has the most user-friendly weather and the best chances for snow-free trails.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Take on , a steep 9.4-mile hike from the edge of Ross Lake that passes through meadows toward sweeping views from a historic lookout tower that Jack Kerouac once lived in while working as a fire scout. On the horizon are the craggy, fin-like Hozomeen Peak and a portion of the Ross Lake National Recreation Area.

18. Virgin Islands National Park, Virgin Islands

Protecting two-thirds of the island of St. John, Virgin Islands National Park is packed with beaches, lush mountains, and tropical rainforests. Visitors will split their time between water activities, lounging on beaches, and hiking through the hills.

Best Time to Visit: Summer can be hot and rainy and fall brings hurricanes, but winter in the Virgin Islands is delightful, with temps in the 80s and minimal rainfall.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: Explore Salomon and Honeymoon Bay, dueling white-sand beaches separated by a rocky point. Snorkelers have colonies of coral reefs teeming with tropical fish to explore. Or go for a swim in Brown Bay, from a beach that’s only accessible by boat or a 1.5-mile hike on Brown Bay Trail.

19. Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

Situated on the Canadian border in Northern Minnesota, the 218,055-acre Voyageurs National Park is known for its series of lakes interconnected by 60 miles of canoe trails. Moose and wolves thrive inside the park, which is also a good spot for seeing the northern lights.

Best Time to Visit: Visitor centers and tour operators open in June and the lakes are busiest in the summer, but September brings changing colors and fewer crowds. The season ends quickly, though, and October can feel more like winter than fall.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: People visit Voyageurs to canoe and fish the lakes for walleye and northern pike. The larger lakes can be busy with motorboat traffic, but the smaller interior lakes are linked by a series of marked canoe trails and backcountry campsites. Paddle the 13-mile Chain of Lakes trail, which traverses four small lakes on the Kabetogama Peninsula via small creeks and short portages. Each lake has a campsite, and the park service stages boats for use by those with camping .

20. Wind Cave National Park, South Dakota

One of the oldest national parks in our system, established in 1903 by Theodore Roosevelt, the 33,000-acre Wind Cave protects a landscape in transition, where the Great Plains give way to the Black Hills. Above ground, the park boasts broad swaths of grassland occupied by herds of bison and elk, but underneath that bounty of wildlife are 143 miles of mapped cave passages.

Best time to Visit: Summer is hot and thunderstorms with hail are common, while winter brings snow and sub-freezing temps. Hit Wind Cave in the shoulder seasons (spring or fall) for mild weather and to see active wildlife.

Signature şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř: The only way to explore the caves is on a . The Natural Entrance tour is a good family-friendly option, as visitors experience the winding opening of the cave system before exploring some of the larger interior passages, known for walls that look like honeycombs. If you want more of an adventure, sign up for the Wild Cave tour, which will have you crawling through smaller, undeveloped passages deep down in the system ($17 per person).

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national-parks columnist. Based in Asheville, North Carolina, he is fortunate enough to live within a few hours of three free national parks. He recently wrote about the best hikes in Joshua Tree National Park, his favorite mountain town, and the national park he chose as the most adventurous.

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In the summer of 2023, climbers Tommy Caldwell and Alex Honnold tackled an adventure of monumental size: they biked, hiked, and sailed 2,600 miles from Colorado to Alaska, and then ascended a massive granite monolith deep in Tongass National Forest called the Devil’s Thumb. The duo made history: they became the first climbers to ascend the 9,000-foot formation’s five jagged peaks—a challenge known as the Diablo Traverse—in a single day.

The adventure is the focal point ofĚýNational Geographic’sĚýlatest feature-length documentary, titledĚýThe Devil’s Climb,Ěýwhich debuted in October. Caldwell, who conceived of the adventure, spoke with şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř about some of the most pivotal moments that were left out of the film.

“We spent four days doing like a quarter mile an hour bushwhacking through the Alaskan wilderness,” Caldwell said. “It was the hardest part of the whole trip, all the way from Colorado, but none of it’s in the film.”

Most climbers attempting to scale the Devil’s Thumb get there via helicopter. But for the film, Caldwell and Honnold spent 38 days biking 2,320 miles from his home in Estes Park, Colorado, to the tiny town of Prince Rupert, British Columbia, where the roadway ends. Then, the duo sailed for ten days up the Alaskan Panhandle, before trekking 20 more miles to reach the peak.

The hike to the peak should have been relatively straightforward, following a historical route up a glacier. But the glacier had melted into a lake of slush and icebergs when the duo reached it. So instead, Caldwell, Honnold, and the eight-person National Geographic film crew had to chart a new route in the adjacent valley—an old-growth temperate rainforest.

Caldwell recalls being “soaked to the bone” by the dense, wet understory, fighting his way through ten-foot tall Devil’s Club, a shrub covered top-to-bottom in noxious thorns, for “hours and hours.” One of the crew developed trench foot. Another almost fell to their death while the group was hiking after dark along a steep, forested hillside above Class V rapids.

“They lost their footing and just disappeared through the forest below us,” Caldwell said. “We thought they fell into the rapids. Luckily, they stuck it right at the lip of the cliff.”

Caldwell and Honnold’s longest, most sustained effort of the entire journey occurred during that trek. They put in 15-20 hour hiking days because it was impossible to move quickly through the vegetation. “The bush is so thick,” Caldwell says, “there were periods were we didn’t even touch the ground, where were just kind of like hovering.”

He hit rock bottom, mentally, during the trek, and credits the filming crew with renewing his focus. “We’re bushwhacking in the rainforest, completely wet, kind of lost, just miserable, and suddenly one of the guys who loves to sing starts beatboxing,” Caldwell said. “The whole crew joins in and starts rapping, making up this song.”

The spontaneous injection of levity was exactly what Caldwell needed. “The film was very focused on Alex and I,” he said, “but there were so many other people who were a big part of it for me.”

One of those people is Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard. Caldwell and Honnold spent a couple days at Chounaird’s house during the early portion of their expedition, while biking through Jackson, Wyoming. Caldwell originally dreamed up of the Devil’s Thumb climb as a way to shine a spotlight on the Tongass National Forest. Specifically the need to protect it from logging and other development—a cause also championed by Chouinard, who Caldwell said is “essentially my boss” these days.

Besides being a professional climber, Caldwell also works for Patagonia as a Global Sports Activist. “A big part of my job is trying to figure out places that have a conservation need and a climbing component,” he said.

Chouinard was part of the reason Caldwell decided to expand the Diablo Traverse into an epic adventure, to do it human-powered, and to do with his best friend Honnold. Caldwell had recently read A Wild Idea, a biography by author Jonathan Franklin about the late businessman and conservationist Doug Tompkins, and was inspired by the conservation work (and expeditions) Tompkins and Chouinard had done together in Patagonia.

Caldwell calls his and Honnold’s time with Chouinard the “most endearing” part of their journey. Biking to Chouinard’s home, Caldwell quickly realized how many of the original houses in Jackson had been scraped to build mansions. Not Chouinard’s. It is the same as it was 50 years ago when it was purchased. Pedaling up the driveway, Caldwell noticed a beater Subaru, “the shittiest car I’ve ever seen in my life,” with a bumper sticker proclaiming “Every billionaire is a policy failure.”

Chouinard stepped out of the modest home to greet Caldwell and Honnold. “He’s wearing this stained white t-shirt and these jeans that he probably got when he’s a teenager that he’s cobbled back together with hand-stitched patches,” Caldwell said. “And we were like, Oh my god, he really lives it.”

Caldwell had hoped that the conservation angle would have been a larger part of the documentary film. Particularly the time he and Honnold spent with an Indigenous leader and activist named Marina Anderson on Prince of Wales Island, while they were sailing in the Tongass National Forest archipelago. Caldwell first met Anderson at a climate conference in Miami, and was excited to learn about her home region’s ecology and biodiversity.

While the cameras were rolling, Anderson taught the climbers about the importance of temperate rainforests (Tongass National Forest is the world’s largest at nearly 17 million acres) and took them salmon fishing. Those scenes were ultimately cut. “It was a little bit of a hard pill to swallow, honestly,” Caldwell said. “We were ultimately making this story to save the forest.”

Want more of şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s in-depth coverage of adventure stories like this one? .

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I’m not usually a one-word text guy, but when this name flashed across my phone screen last week, I knew something big was coming.

A quick follow-up confirmed it: Candide Thovex—flying Frenchman, breaker of the ski internet—would be helping usher in a new era of freeski competition as part of the first-ever Natural Selection ski event. The skier’s skier was back.

This event, , is modeled after the highly successful snowboard-focused Natural Selection Tour (NST), created and curated by legendary snowboarder Travis Rice. Debuting in Alaska in 2025, Natural Selection Ski will be part of a broader series, including skiing, biking, and surfing competitions. The snowboard iteration of the event has captivated audiences worldwide, showcasing head-to-head runs down big mountain courses that mix natural and man-made features. With the polish of high production values and streaming accessibility, the snowboard NST has become a new benchmark, putting snowboarding events in the same conversation as other popular streaming spectacles like the World Surf League (WSL).

Now it’s skiing’s turn. Rice has tapped top-tier freeskiers like Thovex, Sammy Carlson, Kristi Leskinen, Chris Benchetler, and Michelle Parker to ensure the event stays true to its freeski roots. These athletes form a unique advisory board that will keep NST authentic to freeskiing, and rumors suggest some of them, including Thovex, may be its first competitors.

But this is much bigger than just Candide. The Natural Selection Ski represents a turning point for the sport during a time of transition and uncertainty. For years, freeskiing has searched for ways to showcase its most talented athletes, but that’s no easy task for a sport built on defying convention. Attempts to define freeskiing inevitably fall short, as the very spirit of the sport lies in its creativity and disregard for boundaries. This has driven freeskiing to evolve beyond traditional freestyle, but it has also made it challenging to package the sport for a wider audience.

Historically, freeskiing has been showcased through film—a seasonal highlight reel of the best runs, stunts, and moments—but these lack the immediacy and excitement of a live sports event. The X Games took a shot at bringing some of these athletes to the screen, but it’s never fully embraced the raw, high-alpine terrain that freeskiing often requires. And while Red Bull Cold Rush—a beloved event held between 2009 and 2016 that featured four big mountain disciplines over a week—was a fan favorite, it hasn’t been revived. Today, the Freeride World Tour (FWT) is the main competitive series, gathering a global roster of athletes for big mountain challenges. However, with its recent partnership with the Fédération Internationale de Ski (FIS), FWT now faces concerns from fans and athletes alike about increased governance from FIS, which is seen as rigid and rule-bound—a tricky match for a sport that thrives on freedom and creativity.

Enter Natural Selection Ski—a fresh and much-needed alternative. Snowboarding faced a similar identity crisis until Rice launched NST in 2021. He had hosted one-off events that became snowboarder favorites since 2008, but with NST, Rice introduced the world to a refined, live-streamed version that embraced the cinematic nature of big mountain snowboarding. His formula was simple yet game-changing: gather the best athletes, pick visually stunning locations, build impressive courses, and bring in pro riders as commentators. Broadcast online, the event was a huge hit, delivering a visceral viewing experience that traditional formats rarely achieve.

While the FWT has aimed for similar goals in recent years, NST’s production quality has resonated differently with audiences. NST’s broadcasts capture the sheer scale and excitement of the slopes, with dynamic camera angles and a production team that amplifies the adrenaline. The question now is, can NST replicate this formula with skiing, biking, and surfing? The freeskiing community should be hopeful—it’s a chance to see the sport in living, trick-stomping, and cliff-dropping color.

The signatures of freeski icons like Thovex and Carlson signal a promising start. These athletes had largely stepped back from competition as freeskiing shifted deeper into backcountry and high-alpine pursuits. Their endorsement is a vote of confidence in NST’s vision and direction, and with its debut in April 2025, NST could mark a new beginning for freeskiing on a global stage.

While NST has only one ski event planned for 2025, it has expressed interest in expanding the series as it gains traction. As skiing evolves in response to changing interests, technologies, and landscapes, NST is poised to bring back the raw energy and excitement that first drew many to the sport. With the potential to reach new audiences across screens big and small, NST offers a way to redefine how we experience freeskiing, taking cues from the success of WSL in surfing and NST itself in snowboarding.

So, here’s to what’s next. With a proven formula for success and an eye toward reaching more viewers, NST could be the game-changer that finally brings freeskiing to mainstream audiences. They’ve got Candide on board, and that’s a text worth responding to.

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More than 40 years ago, the then park ranger Jon Waterman took his first journey to Alaska’s Noatak River. Captivated by the profusion of wildlife, the rich habitat, and the unfamiliar landscape, he spent years kayaking, packrafting, skiing, dogsledding, and backpacking in Arctic North America—often alone for weeks at a time. After three decades away from the Noatak, he returned with his 15-year-old son, Alistair, in 2021 to find a flooded river and a scarcity of the once abundant caribou. The Arctic had warmed nearly four times faster than the rest of the world.

The next year, 2022, Waterman took a last journey to document the changes. The following is excerpted and adapted from his prologue in Into the Thaw: Witnessing Wonder amid the Arctic Climate Crisis (Patagonia Books, November 12).

A former ranger in Rocky MountainĚýand Denali national parks, Waterman is the author of 17 books, including (National Geographic Books), In the Shadow of Denali, Kayaking the Vermilion Sea, Running Dry, and Arctic Crossing. He has made five films about adventure and wild places.

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The below is adapted from Into the Thaw: Witnessing Wonder amid the Arctic Climate Crisis.

A Certain Type of Fun, July 10-12, 2022

My hands, thighs, and calves have repeatedly locked up in painful dehydration cramps, undoubtedly caused by our toil with leaden packs in eighty-degree heat up the steep streambed or its slippery, egg-shaped boulders. After my water bottle slid out of an outside pack pocket and disappeared amid one of several waist-deep stream fords or in thick alders yesterday, I carefully slide the bear spray can (looped in a sling around my shoulders) to the side so it doesn’t get knocked out of its pouch, an action I will come to regret. Now, to slake my thirst, I submerge my head in Kalulutok Creek like a water dog.

Kalulutok Creek would be called a river in most parts of the world. Here in Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, amid the largest span of legislated wilderness in the United States, it’s just a creek compared to the massive Noatak River that we’re bound for. But in my mind—after we splash-walked packrafts and forded its depths at least 30 times yesterday—Kalulutok will always be an ice-cold, wild river.

It drains the Endicott and Schwatka Mountains, which are filled with the most spectacular granite and limestone spires of the entire Brooks Range. One valley to the east of us is sky-lined with sharp, flinty peaks called the Arrigetch, or “fingers of the outstretched hand” in Iñupiaq.

As the continent’s most northerly mountains, the sea-fossil-filled Brooks Range—with more than a half-dozen time-worn peaks over 8,000 feet high—is seen on a map as the last curl of the Rocky Mountains before they stairstep into foothills and coastal plains along the Arctic Ocean. The Brooks Range stretches 200 miles south to north and 700 miles to the east, where it jabs into Canada. Although there are more than 400 named peaks, since the Brooks Range is remote and relatively untraveled, it’s rare that anyone bothers to climb these mountains. My river-slogger companion, Chris, and I will be exceptions.

We carry a water filter, but it would be silly to use it. We’re higher and farther north than giardiasis-infected beavers and there is no sign of caribou. The creek is fed from the pure ice of shrunken glaciers above and ancient permafrost in the ground below. In what seems like prodigious heat for the Arctic, the taps here are all wide-open.

Thirty-nine years ago, I decided to learn all I could about life above the Arctic Circle. As a climber, I traded my worship of high mountains for the High Arctic. I felt that unlike the study of crevasse extrication and avalanche avoidance—you couldn’t just read about the Arctic or sign up for courses. You have to go on immersive journeys and figure out how the interlocked parts of the natural world fit together. Along this path, acts of curiosity out on the land and the water can open an earned universe of wonders. But you must spend time in the villages, too, with the kindhearted people of the North to make sure you get it right. And you can’t call the Arctic “the Far North”—it is “home” rather than “far” to the many people who live there.

So, after twoscore of Arctic journeys, in the summer of 2022, I’m on one more trip. I could not be on such an ambitious trip without all the previous experiences. (The more I learn, it sometimes feels like the less I know about the Arctic.)

But this time the agenda is different. I hope to understand the climate crisis better.

Chris Korbulic and I are here to document it however we can. Since my first trip above the Arctic Circle in 1983, I have seen extraordinary changes in the landscape. Only three days underway and we’ve already flown over a wildfire to access our Walker Lake drop-off point. And yesterday we trudged underneath several bizarre, tear-drop-shaped landslide thaw slumps—a.k.a. thermokarsts—caused by the permafrost thaw.

In much of Alaska, the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme (AMAP) says that permafrost thaw from 2005 to 2010 has caused the ground to sink more than four inches, and in places to the north of us, twice that. The land collapses as the permafrost below it thaws, like logs pulled out from beneath a woodpile. AMAP believes this will amount to a “large-scale degradation of near-surface permafrost by the end of the twenty-first century.” Roads and buildings and pipelines—along with hillsides, Iñupiat homes, forests, and even lakes—will fall crazily aslant, or get sucked into the ground as if taken by an earthquake.

On this remote wilderness trip, we don’t expect a picnic—known as Type 1 Fun to modern-day adventurers. A journey across the thaw on foot and by packraft for 500-plus miles won’t resemble a backcountry ski trip or a long weekend backpack on Lower 48 trails. We have planned for Type 2 Fun: an ambitious expedition that will make us suffer and give us the potential to extend ourselves just enough that there will be hours, or even days, that won’t seem like fun until much later when we’re back home. Then our short-circuited memories will allow us to plan the next trip as if nothing went wrong on this one. An important part of wilderness mastery is to avoid Type 3 Fun: a wreckage of accidents, injuries, near-starvation, or rescue. We’ve both been on Type 3 Fun trips that we’d rather forget.

Today, to get Chris, a caffeine connoisseur, to stop, I simply utter, “Coffee?” His face lights up as he throws off his pack and pulls out the stove. I pull out the fuel bottle. Since Chris isn’t a conversational bon vivant, I’ve learned not to ask too many questions, but a cup of coffee might stimulate a considerate comment or two about the weather. As I fire up the trusty MSR stove with a lighter, we crowd around and toast our hands over the hot windscreen as if it’s our humble campfire. We’re cold and wet with sweat and we shiver in the wind. But at least we’re out of the forest-fire smoke—this summer more than two million acres have burned in dried-out Alaska.

Today, with the all-day uphill climb and inevitable back-and-forth route decisions through the gorge ahead, we’ll be lucky to trudge even five miles to the lake below the pass. Why, I ask myself, as Chris puts on his pack and shifts into high gear, could we not have simply flown into the headwaters of the Noatak River instead of crossing the Brooks Range to get here? I heave on my pack and wonder how I’ll catch Chris, already far ahead.

Shards of caribou bones and antlers lie on the tundra as ghostly business cards of a bygone migration, greened with mold, and minutely chiseled and mined for calcium by tiny vole teeth. We kick steps across a snowfield, then work our way down a steep, multicolored boulderfield, whorled red and peppered with white quartz unlike any rocks I’ve seen before. As rain shakes out of the sky like Parmesan cheese from a can, we weave in and out of leafy alder thickets while I examine yet another fresh pile of grizzly feces. I stop to pick apart the scat and thumb through stems and leaves and root pieces. This griz appears to be on a vegetarian diet.

“Hey, bear!” We yell the old cautionary refrain again and again until we’re hoarse. I hold tight to the pepper spray looped over my shoulder to keep it from grabby alder branches.

A half mile farther the route dead-ends so we’re forced to descend into the gorge again. With Chris 20 yards behind, I plunge step down through a near-vertical slope of alders and play Tarzan for my descent as I hang onto a flexible yet stout branch, and swing down a short cliff into another alder thicket. A branch whacks me in the chest and knocks off the pepper-spray safety plug. When I swing onto the ground, I get caught on another branch that depresses the trigger in an abrupt explosion that shoots straight out from my chest in a surreal orange cloud. Instinctively I hold my breath and close my eyes and continue to shimmy downward, but I know I’m covered in red-hot pepper spray.

When I run out of breath, I squint, keep my mouth closed, breathe carefully through my nose, and scurry out of the orange capsaicin cloud. Down in a boulderfield that pulses with a stream, I open my mouth, take a deep breath, and yell to Chris that I’m O.K. as I strip off my shirt and try to wring it out in the stream. I tie the contaminated shirt on the outside of my pack and put on a sweater. My hands prickle with pepper.

Then we’re off again. As we clamber up steep scree to exit the gorge, my lips, nasal passages, forehead, and thighs burn from the pepper. The pepper spray spreads from my thighs to my crotch like a troop of red ants, but I can hardly remove my pants amid the incoming storm clouds and wind. With the last of the alders below us, we enter the alpine world above the tree line. By the time we reach the lake, the drizzle has become a steady rain. I’m nauseous and overheated underneath my rain jacket with the red pepper spray that I wish I had saved for an aggressive bear instead of a self-douche. Atop wet tundra that feels like a sponge underfoot, we pitch the Megamid tent with a paddle lashed to a ski pole and guy out the corners with four of the several million surrounding boulders left by the reduction of tectonic litter.

I fire up the stove and boil the water, and we inhale four portions of freeze-dried pasta inside the tent. We depart from wilderness bear decorum to cook outside and away from the tent because it’s cold and we’re tired. Chris immediately heads out with his camera. His eyes are watery from just being within several feet of me.

I’ve been reduced like this before—wounded and exhausted and temporarily knocked off my game. So, I tell myself that this too will pass, that I’ll get in gear and regain my mojo. That maybe, I can eventually get my shy partner to loosen up and talk. That we will discover an extraordinary new world—the headwaters of the Noatak River—from up on the pass in the morning. And that I will find a way to withstand my transformation into a spicy human burrito.

Snow feels likely tonight. It’s mid-July, yet winter has slid in like a glacier over the Kalulutok Valley.

I am too brain-dead to write in my journal, too physically wiped out and overheated in the wrong places to even think of a simple jaunt through the flowers to see the view that awaits us. I pull down my orange-stained pants and red underwear, grab a cup filled with ice water. I try not to moan as I put in my extra-hot penis and let it go numb.

Type 2 Fun for sure.

Jon Waterman lives in Carbondale, Colorado. An all-round adventurer, he has climbed the famous Cassin Ridge on Denali in winter; soloed the Northwest Passage; sailed to Hawaii picking up microplastics; dogsledded into and up Canada’s Mount Logan; and run the Colorado River 1,450 miles from source to sea. He is a recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship and three grants from the National Geographic Society Expeditions Council. Into the Thaw is available to purchase from Patagonia Books and for pre-order on Amazon for November 19.

For more by this author:

A Former National Park Ranger Reveals His Favorite Wild Places in the U.S.

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Muhammad Ali, Dale Earnhardt, Florence Griffith Joyner: Even the most high-flying heroes eventually fall to Earth, weighed down by time, accident, and the vagaries of biology. To that pantheon, add the King of Fat Bear Week, 480 Otis.

Otis, a roughly 28-year-old Alaskan brown bear who made his home in Katmai National Park and Preserve, drew the kind of lasting fandom that few Internet-famous animals enjoy. In 2014, he won the inaugural Fat Bear Tuesday contest put on by the park and Explore.org. He would go on to capture a record three more titles, most recently in 2021, in the process becoming an unofficial symbol for as it went from a park service in-joke to an online phenomenon that now counts more than a million votes every year.

Anthropomorphizing wild animals can be a dangerous game, but if viewers on Explore.org saw a little bit of their aspirational selves in the aging bear, it’s hard to blame them. Even as his teeth wore down to stubs and , 480 Otis would return to his habitual fishing grounds on the Brooks River year after year. He was a model of mature patience, sometimes dozing off in the river as he methodically scooped out a winter’s worth of salmon. In recent years, his late arrivals to the river had occasionally left fans worried that Otis had passed away; sooner or later, though, he would show up, perhaps emaciated, but alive and ready to eat.

But even the greatest eventually give in. With Fat Bear Week just days away and Otis nowhere to be seen, it doesn’t seem like the GOAT is coming back. We’ll likely never know Otis’s ultimate fate; as Explore.org noted in a video, Katmai is a big place. It’s possible he decided to switch up his feeding grounds after more than two decades; maybe he just wanted to live out his remaining days far from the cameras. But wild bears live hard lives, and it’s probable that he succumbed to age (at nearly 30 years old, he was pushing the limits of a brown bear’s typical lifespan), injury, or starvation somewhere in the park’s vast forests or tundra.

Every year we ask where Otis is, but this year he hasn’t answered that call. We can’t say for sure where he’s gone, but either way we hope it’s close Music by @S Y M L

Wherever he’s gone, Otis, the Fattest of the Fat Bears, will continue to be a super-size inspiration to his fans, us included. So goodnight, sweet prince. We’ll go have a snack and take a nap by the river somewhere in your honor.

Read our 2021 tribute:

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The big ones you already know: Great Smoky Mountains, Acadia, Yosemite. All of these national parks have well-documented fall-foliage displays. They’re stunning, but the crowds can be stunning, too.

So, let’s spread the love. Here are nine national parks that have managed to fly under the leaf-peeping radar while boasting an autumn display that rivals that of the big hitters.

1. Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is named for the “crooked river,” as it was known by the Lenape, the indigenous tribe that called the area home in the 1600s and 1700s. It may be the most amazing park you’ve never seen. Does it have towering peaks? No. But it protects a lush river valley between Cleveland and Akron that is loaded with waterfalls, mossy cliffs, historical sites, and a hardwood forest that absolutely pops come fall.

It’s also a comeback story I celebrate. In the mid-1900s, the Cuyahoga River was a cautionary tale, actually catching fire at least a dozen times from pollution. The last such fire, in 1969, was so devastating it sparked creation the next year of the first Earth Day and the Environmental Protection Agency. Today that once-abused waterway is part of a flourishing national park of over 33,000 acres of river valley, wetlands, farmland, and rolling hills.

Peak Color: Show up in the middle of October. You can expect the sugar and red maples to turn first, with displays of red, yellow, and orange, while the white oaks follow, turning a deep, rich brown. Bonus: in early October, the New England aster wildflower blooms purple along the towpath trail, where in the 1800s mules pulled boats up and down the Erie Canal.

The Best Way to See Foliage: , a 100-mile crushed-gravel trail that once carried goods and passengers between Lake Erie and the Eastern U.S., is now the playground of hikers, runners, and cyclists. Twenty miles of the towpath, between the Lock 39 and Botzum trailheads, reside inside the national park. Ride this section and you’ll pass through small towns and Beaver Marsh, a hotspot of wildlife viewing.

You can purchase a on the scenic railway to go out and return by bike on a 13-mile stretch of the towpath between the Akron North station and Peninsula Depot through October ($5 per person). has bike rentals (from $60 a day).

There are 125 miles of trail in Cuyahoga, but the 2.5-mile loop is a must-hike, as it follows a tall band of sandstone cliffs covered in moss. You’ll have the chance to scramble Ěýup and over boulders, but the trail also puts you deep into a forest alive with color. Look for the yellows of hazelnut trees.

2. Mount Rainier National Park, Washington

The 14,410-foot Mount Rainier, a volcano adorned with white glaciers, is the obvious focal point of this 236,000-acre national park. While every season offers a different reason to visit, I’d argue that fall is the best, or at least the most colorful. And it has nothing to do with the trees.

Sure, the deciduous forests change in September, but most of the color in Rainier comes from the shrubs and ground cover that blanket the vast meadows surrounding that famous three-summited mountain amid 26 glaciers. Mount Rainier is full of elderberry and huckleberry bushes, as well as vine maples, all of which turn different shades of yellow, orange, and red in autumn.

Peak Color: Aim for the beginning of October, as snow begins to descend on the park towards the end of the month.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Hike the around Reflection Lake, which is famous for holding the mirror image of Mount Rainier on calm, clear days. The two main tarns on this trail are flanked by subalpine meadows with a variety of shrubs and wildflowers that change colors in the fall. You’ll also see some mountain ash turning yellow within the dense evergreen forest on the edge of the water.

For bigger views and an abundance of color, the 5.5-mile has long-range vistas of the area’s most famous volcanoes, Mount St. Helens and Mount Adams, while also passing through expansive stretches of huckleberry and vine maple, which are turning red and orange.

3. Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Texas

I know what you’re thinking: West Texas is the desert, man. No trees. While it’s true that Guadalupe Mountains National Park occupies 86,000 acres of dusty, high-desert terrain best known for cactus and towering buttes, the place is also home to forests of deciduous trees that undergo the same transformation as the better-known hardwood forests of the East and Midwest.

The higher elevations in the park receive twice as much rain as the desert floor, creating a more diverse habitat that includes oaks, maples, and ash trees as well as a few aspens, all mixed in with ponderosa pines and Douglas firs.

Fall foliage is easy to find in a place like Vermont, where trees are literally everywhere, but you’ll have to work for it in Guadalupe Mountains; every foliage focal point requires at least a short hike, but the effort is part of the appeal as you move through dusty canyons into high alpine forests.

Peak Color: Fall comes surprisingly late in Guadalupe Mountains, with trees starting to change in mid October and hitting their peak towards the end of the month. The first week of November can also deliver bright hues.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Hike the 15.2-mile out-and-back (or a shorter variation) which has the greatest concentration of fall color in the entire park. The trail follows the canyon floor, tracing the edge of a small, clear creek for four miles before steepening to climb up and out of the canyon to McKittrick Ridge. You’ll gain 2,700 feet of elevation, most of which comes during that two-mile rise.

Make it to the dense forest of Pratt Canyon, 4.7 miles in, or hike all the way to McKittrick Ridge and a view of the canyon in its entirety, as it splays out in a mix of fall color and tan desert floor.

4. Zion National Park, Utah

Zion can hardly be considered an “underrated” park (as opposed to being one of the lesser-visited national parks, it was the third-most-so in 2023, with 4,623,238 visits), but the element of surprise is that few people think of this desert oasis as a hotbed of fall color. It is. I’ve visited the park in the spring and summer on a number of occasions, and really want to see it Ěýduring fall, when the oaks and maples scattered throughout various canyons turn shades of orange and red.

The Virgin River, which runs through Zion’s entrance and carves the iconic canyon at the heart of the park, is surrounded by cottonwoods that turn bright yellow. The crowds are typically thinner, too, as the summer-rush people are back to school and work.

Peak Color: Trees at higher elevations will start turning in September, but the best color in the park goes from late October into early November.

The Best Way to See Foliage: You’ll spot the cottonwoods along the Virgin River as you enter the park, but for a bird’s-eye view of the foliage, hike the mile-long on the east side of Zion, which traverses a relatively flat expanse of sandstone to an outcropping with an all-encompassing view. From your lofty perch, the main arm of Zion Canyon looks as if it’s carpeted by yellow cottonwoods.

5. Congaree National Park, South Carolina

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never explored Congaree National Park, even though it’s only a few hours from my home, in Asheville, North Carolina. But I need to rectify the omission, because by all accounts, Congaree is a one-of-a-kind landscape that is home to some of the most impressive trees in the country. The national park protects the largest intact old-growth bottomland hardwood forest in the Southeast, with stands of 500-year-old bald cypress trees, loblolly pines that stretch 165 feet in the air, and towering elm, oaks, tupelos, and sweet gums.

In the fall, most of those massive old trees put on a show, with the tupelos turning red and gold and oaks deepening into reds. Even the bald cypress get in on the action. The species is best known for its knobby “knees,” roots that rise above the dark water of Congaree’s Cedar Creek, but these giant trees are deciduous conifers with leaves that turn cinnamon and orange.

The park is small, just 26,000 acres, and best explored by canoe or paddleboard, as the Congaree and Water rivers merge here to create an extensive floodplain that dominates the terrain.

Peak Color: Fall hits late, beginning at about the end of October and running into November. This also happens to be the best time to visit Congaree, as temps are mild (up to the 70s), bugs scarce, and the water levels ideal for paddling.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Explore the Cedar Creek Canoe Trail from Bannister’s Bridge to the Congaree River. The current is essentially non-existent, so you can choose your own out-and-back adventure. If you want to go with a local, runs guided trips into Congaree ($100 per person). And while you’re here for the trees and color, keep an eye out for otters, turtles, and the occasional gator in the water too. Congaree is also a hotbed of woodpecker activity, with all eight southern species found in the park.

6. Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

Named for the French-Canadian fur traders that used to travel through the area in birchbark canoes, the 218,000-acre Voyageurs National Park is comprised mostly of lakes: four big ones—Rainy, Kabetogama, Namakan, and Sandy Point—and 26 small ones. There are also 500 islands and 650 miles of shoreline ripe with fall color in September, as stands of aspen, basswood, oaks, maples, and birch trees shake up the green forest palate of spruce and fir. I like the idea of paddling a canoe surrounded by a forest canopy ablaze in red and orange.

Voyageurs is situated against the Canadian border at a high enough latitude for visitors occasionally to glimpse the aurora borealis. Your chances of seeing these mystical northern lights increases in the fall as nights grow longer and darker. The University of Alaska operates a service that the activity of the lights up to a month in advance.

Voyageurs is also an International Dark Sky Certified Park, so whether or not you can see the northern lights, clear nights reveal a cornucopia of stars above.

Peak Color: Aspens and birch trees begin to turn yellow in the middle of September, and the oaks and maples follow with reds and oranges as we move into October. Aim for the end of September or beginning of October for the most color. Keep in mind that while the park is open year round, the Rainy Lake Visitor Center is the only visitor center operating into October. The other two close at the end of September.

The Best Way to See Foliage: For a quick immersion in fall color, hike the 1.7-mile , which starts at the Rainy Lake Visitor Center and loops through a hardwood forest on mostly flat trail via double track and skinny boardwalk over marshy sections. You’ll also get views of marsh grass shimmering in the wind leading to Rainy Lake itself. If you want to go out on the water, the park service runs a 2.5-hour , which cruises the island-studded Rainy Lake seeking out wildlife and delivering postcard-worthy views ($50 per adult).

7. Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska

In a state that’s absolutely crammed with dramatic public landscapes, Lake Clark National Park and Preserve often gets overlooked. Its neighbor Katmai National Park, after all, is home to the cutest bears on the internet. But Lake Clark has much splendor of its own, from sheer granite-walled peaks to ice-blue glaciers and wildlife worthy of any safari. (Grizzlies! Moose! Caribou! Otters!)

Lake Clark is located just 100 miles southwest of Anchorage, but relative to other national parks, gets a scant 200,000 visitors a year. Credit the lack of roads; the only way to access the park is via aircraft or boat.

Peak Color: Fall is by far the best time to visit Lake Clark, and by fall, I mean September, as the snow typically begins in October here. Hit the park during the three- to four-week window, and you’ll see groves of birch trees turning gold amid their conifer neighbors, as lakeside lowland shrubs go orange and red. Fall is also berry season (look for cranberries and blueberries), and bears are particularly active, foraging for food in anticipation of hibernating through winter.

Lake Clark itself is 42 miles long and five miles wide. The tiny Port Alsworth (pop: 130) sits on the east side of the lake, serving as the gateway town to the park, and has its only visitor center. The National Park Service maintains of air taxis with permits to fly into the park if you want to venture deeper into the terrain.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Maintained day-hike trails are scarce in Lake Clark, but the four-mile out-and-back offers convenient access and a bevy of fall color. The hike begins on the edge of Port Alsworth and passes through stands of birch trees to Tanalian Falls, a 30-foot beauty that drops over lava rock, all surrounded by spruce and birch forest. Turn this hike into a loop by taking the Beaver Pond Trail back to the trailhead, hitting more golden-hued birches as you meander past a small beaver pond.

8. Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

I’m convinced Theodore Roosevelt National Park would be more appreciated if it were located closer to larger cities. The Dakotas are among the most interesting states in the Midwest, and this park is a highlight. The 70,000-acre park protects a landscape in transition, where the great plains meet the canyons of the badlands. It’s divided into three sections—South Unit, Elkhorn Ranch Unit, and the North Unit—stitched together by the Little Missouri River.

The North Unit has the deepest canyons and most remote trails, the Elkhorn Ranch Unit preserves Teddy Roosevelt’s hunting cabin, and the South Unit blends broad, grassy plains with wide river gorges. You’ll find beautiful foliage throughout the park, as the Little Missouri River is shrouded in a cottonwood forest. You’re also almost guaranteed to see some epic wildlife, too; big species like feral horses, elk, and bison roam free.

Peak Color: Shoot for mid-September to mid-October for the most vibrant colors. Trees in the North Unit tend to shift earlier, while the South Unit pulls up the rear in the middle of October.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Is it lame to recommend a scenic drive? Not when it’s the 28-mile Scenic Drive in the North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. The byway rambles through grassland and the tan-colored badlands, with pullouts that feature views of rock outcroppings and canyons and the Missouri River aglow with cottonwoods. Stretch your legs on the Achenbach Trail, a 2.4-mile out and back that leads through grassland (keep an eye out for bison) and ends at an overlook that takes in a bend in the Little Missouri.

9. Great Basin National Park, Nevada

Way out in eastern Nevada, close to Utah, Great Basin National Park protects 77,180 acres of scrubby desert, caves, and imposing peaks. It’s not the most obvious fall-foliage destination, but a legit one, and you’ll likely have it all to yourself: Great Basin only gets 140,000 visitors per year. Rest assured, that low attendance is strictly a factor of location (Great Basin is far from everything), because the landscape is destination-worthy, from the craggy 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak to the underground world of Lehman Cave. As for foliage, picture groves of aspens turning shining gold.

Peak Color: Great Basin is a higher-elevation park, so aspens begin to turn in the middle of September and are typically done by mid-October.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Cruise the 12-mile long Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, which gains 4,000 feet from the park entrance to the flank of the mountain it is named for. The way passes through a variety of different habitats, from sagebrush to evergreen conifers, and by the 10,000 feet, you’ll drive through so many colorful aspens you’d almost think you’re in the Rocky Mountains. At the end of the scenic drive, hike the 6.4-mile , which passes through a high-elevation meadow and delivers you into a dense grove of the aspens.

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national parks columnist. He lives in the Southern Appalachians, a hotbed of leaf-peeping activity. Fall is his favorite season for bike rides and trail runs, largely because of the technicolor backdrop in his backyard.Ěý

For more by this author:

9 Beautiful Mountain Towns in the Southeast

The 10 Best Bike Towns in America, Ranked

8 Surf Towns Where You Can Learn the Sport and the Culture

The post 9 Most Underrated National Parks for Incredible Fall Foliage appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

There’s no perfect trip. Despite the best planning, the unexpected happens, like the ferry service doesn’t run the only day you need it, or you didn’t know that there are two German towns named Frankfurt.

We asked our longtime travel writers and editors to tell us about their most memorable travel mistakes, the ones that taught them a significant lesson or two. Some of their stories made us chuckle, and most were relatable. If you’ve ever been seriously sick while abroad, frustrated with others on a group trip, or ignorant of the rules of the road in some foreign locale, you’ll appreciate these sticky situations.

1. Desperately Seeking Arctic Apparel

While on my first and only small-ship cruise along the southeast Alaskan coastline one September, I was so excited for the adventures ahead that I mistakenly left my luggage on the airport conveyor belt. The shuttle picking me up transported my group directly to the Mendenhall Glacier for an initial hike before dropping us off at the dock for departure. The boat had set sail before I realized that I had nothing more than the clothes on my back for a chilly seven-day itinerary. I was mortified.

Thankfully, the ship captain and company owner raided the vessel’s supply closet and were able to deck me out with a staff T-shirt and sweatshirt. An angel fellow passenger loaned me an extra puffy and a few essential layers. Disaster averted, with the help of a few kind people. —Stephanie PearsonĚý

2. Double-Check That Google Maps Route

After skiing powder all day in the Alpine mecca of Chamonix, France, my husband and I grabbed a baguette and a hunk of cheese and hit the road in our rental Peugeot bound for Tignes, France, the next stop on our winter European road trip.

Still giddy from our time at the iconic resort, we didn’t consult Google Maps as closely as we should have. It navigated us east through the Mont Blanc Tunnel—a seven-mile-long feat of engineering that cuts through the massif and connects Chamonix to the neighboring ski town of Courmayeur on the Italian side. The one-way toll costs about $55. Baffled but believing in Google Maps, we continued to follow the directions and enjoyed the finest of scenic drives for another 30 minutes. Then the cobbled streets turned into a one-lane dirt road that soon dead-ended at a snowbank, with skiers cruising atop it.

There was nothing to do but turn around and try a different route, which, of course, directed us back through the tunnel (forcing us to pay again) and added several hours to a long day. But it made for a good story afterward. —Megan Michelson

3. Pack Back-Up Meds in Case You Get Sick

I habitually get sick in foreign countries. I’ve suffered numerous bouts of strep throat while visiting family in Sweden, food poisoning on a rural train in northern India, and came down with scarlet fever on a five-day backpacking trip in the remote Alaskan bush. That last trip was a turning point for me. I now always carry antibiotics with me when I travel. —Emily Pennington

4. Why Overpreparing Isn’t a Bad Idea

I was invited to Nepal in 2003 to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the first ascent of Mount Everest. I signed up for a 30-day trip with an outfitter that took the scenic route from the steamy jungle up over a series of very high passes, including 19,100-foot Amphu Labtsa La, and back down into Tengboche, the original base camp for the 1953 climb, which was hosting a big celebration.

The trek was absolutely stunning and supremely remote. It was also nerve-wracking. Every day we had reports that Maoists were going to intercept us. That never happened, but incompetence among some in our own group proved to be far more dangerous.

The crux of the trip was an almost impossible ask: we had to summit a “minor” 17,000-foot pass, cross an ice field, and then get both up and down Amphu Labsta La— all in a day.

I was toward the front of the group when I reached the top of Amphu Labsta La in the afternoon and took a gander at the descent. What I saw terrified me: a 50-degree slope of solid blue ice running at least 400 feet. Getting everyone down was going to be a huge ordeal, since not everyone could rappel on their own.

We ended up having to sleep atop the pass for two nights. Because much of the clients’ gear had been lowered with the porters after the initial night (everyone thought the full group would have rappelled down that day), we found ourselves stranded atop the peak with insufficient equipment. A quick tally revealed we had just three tents, three sleeping bags, and two sleeping pads for 11 people. Four of us piled into my three-person tent, and I spread my sleeping bag as best as I could over us. I didn’t sleep at all, just shivered and prayed a storm wouldn’t roll in. At first light, exhausted and pissed off at how miserable I’d been, I packed up, clipped into the rope down the pass, and rappelled myself, not waiting for anyone to lower me. You can bet I partied my ass off when we finally got to Tengboche. —Tim Neville

6. Bugged Out

Failing to zip my backpack after sleeping outside in the jungle of Panama had me toting not one, not two, but three massive (and I mean massive) cockroaches with me back to the Panama City hotel where I stayed the night at before my flight home. Between the surprise discovery and the aftermath of dealing with them, I got zero sleep and am still haunted to this day. —Stephanie Vermillion

7. Renting a Car in a Foreign Country Can Come with Pricey Curveballs

In 2019, my wife and I bought cheap tickets to Milan, rented a Fiat, and road-tripped through northern Italy. It was thrilling to speed on the mountainous highways and cruise through quaint villages via winding roads that topped out on ridgelines with views of the Mediterranean below. Because it was spring, there were few tourists, so we’d simply park, walk around visiting a plaza or ancient buildings and churches, and continue on. It was all perfect—until we got home.

On a monthly basis, I started getting fines in the mail—for improper parking, speeding, and driving in restricted residential areas without the requisite permit. At first I thought this was a mistake. Then I realized that every fine was in the place we’d visited that day.

After paying hundreds of Euros in penalties, I swore off ever traveling to Italy again. I took to retelling the story of my travails to any Italian who would listen, only to discover this is a common occurrence. One Italian told me that when he returns home, he borrows his mom’s car, breaks countless rules, and racks up ticket after ticket.

My stance on Italy has since softened, but I still get occasional fines in the mail. I refuse to pay them and try to view them as mementos of one of the best trips of my life. —Ryan Krogh

8. Start Earlier than You Think You Need To

Lesson one: Don’t underestimate the approach to a backcountry cabin. My friends and I had booked the Eiseman, a popular Tenth Mountain Division hut in the Gore Range outside Vail, Colorado, and getting there required a six-mile ski tour with nearly 3,000 feet of elevation gain. No problem, we thought. We were a hardy crew of experienced backcountry skiers.

What we didn’t consider was that April’s warming temperatures had turned the snowpack to mush. Combined with a later than expected afternoon departure, the soft, sticky snow glommed to our skins, making travel considerably slow and challenging.

Lesson two: Less is more in the backcountry. We naively stuffed our packs with margarita fixings, avocados, jars of salsa, a foam roller. Needless to say, the ski in took twice as long as expected—we didn’t get to the hut until after dark—and half our crew ended up dropping gear there and returning to lighten the load of the slower folks. We were a total junk show. That said, the taco party sure was fun. â€Äâ.˛Ń.

9. The Pitfalls of an Undocumented Pilgrim

When I thru-hiked Spain’s Camino de Santiago, I carried the obligatory pilgrim’s passport—a thin leaflet littered with official stamps, tucked in a protective plastic bag. It proved I’d walked what amounted to nearly a marathon a day, and it was also my ticket into cheap albergues: glorified hostels reserved solely for pilgrims, where I could soak my feet, thread blisters, rinse my clothes, and crash hard before rising to repeat it all again.

But one day near the end of the trek, in Galicia, a massive storm rolled in while I was eating a sandwich on the side of the road. I hastily repacked my gear and booked the remaining four miles to the nearest town. When I arrived at the albergue that evening, soaking wet and exhausted, I couldn’t find my pilgrim’s passport, and no pleading with the check-in lady in Spanish would persuade her to give me a bunk without it.

So I retraced my steps, blisters bursting, leg muscles screaming, my head hammered by hail, until I found it blown up against a fence near where I’d stopped for lunch. I never misplaced that passport again. —Patty Hodapp

10. A Different Kind of Wildlife-Watching

Last year on an off-trail backpacking trip to Wrangell–St. Elias National Park, I learned the importance of carrying two to three days of extra food in Alaska. My group was dropped off by a bush plane for a five-day expedition and halfway through the trip, an adolescent grizzly bear ran off with one of our bear cans packed with food. We had to ration supplies for our remaining time, but fortunately, our resourceful guide cobbled together some pretty creative and delicious meals for the final two days. â€Ě§.±Ę.

11. A Case for the Carry-on

At the check-in counter for my flight to Germany, where I’d be joining friends to climb in the , I noticed that airline personnel were chatting as they tagged bags. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: Always look at the tag before your bag sails away. But I didn’t.

I arrived in Nuremberg to watch an unfamiliar duffle bag circle around on the carousel, while someone in Newfoundland was looking at mine. I was in northern Bavaria in late autumn, with no sleeping bag, tent, or puffy jacket. I did have my climbing shoes and harness in my carry-on, so I went on to a house in nearby Erlangen owned by extremely generous German climbers, who were letting some of our group occupy their basement.

When I explained my dilemma to the leading free climber (RIP and bless him forever), he shrugged, waved me toward his closet, and told me to take any of his clothes. There was only one problem: I’m five foot seven, while he was easily six foot one. I wore his stuff for two days. —Alison Osius

12. Frostbite Has Never Felt So Imminent

When I camped on the Greenland Ice Sheet two years ago, I learned the hard way to test my gear before bringing it on a trip. I brought “waterproof gloves” that actually weren’t waterproof at all. My hands were soaked and freezing within minutes of pitching my tent in a very wet, cold snowstorm. It was 14 degrees out. The next morning I had to thaw the gloves over the mess-tent cookstove. —S.V.

13. Tetotaling at Elevation

Alcohol and altitude don’t mix, a rule of thumb that took me two notable times in my life to learn. Once I flew from New York City (sea level) to Vail, Colorado, (8,239 feet) for a fun trip with a friend who was writing a story about a professional skier. The skier was going to take us all around the mountain to his favorite spots. The night before, I enjoyed two large glasses of red wine at dinner but had failed to drink much water that day. I woke up nauseous at 2 A.M., threw up for the next three hours, and missed the ski tour.

The second time I was in Chile’s Atacama Desert, located at 8,200 feet. I was staying at a gorgeous lodge with fantastic food and wine. This was a few years after Vail, and I had long forgotten that incident. So when the beautiful Chilean cabernet was served at dinner, I drank it, but I was hugging the porcelain again early the next morning. I missed an amazing hike up a volcano. Suffice it to say I now don’t drink at altitude and focus on hydrating instead. —Mary Turner

14. Tiny Things That Bite When You Least Expect It

I was working for the student newspaper at Montana State University when I got a fax announcing ridiculously low airfare to Costa Rica for spring break, so my brother, girlfriend, and I all went down there to dirtbag it for a week. We were poor, so we packed hammocks, intending to string them between trees on the beach and sleep there.

We made our way to Montezuma, on the Nicoya Peninsula, which back then had one restaurant and a few houses on sandy “streets.” It was pitch-black when we arrived at the beach, and none of us had a headlamp. My feet felt wet as we crossed what must have been a small stream slipping out of the jungle through leaves. But then the sensation changed and my legs and feet exploded in what felt like fire.

“Ants!” my brother yelled. We’d stumbled right into either a nest or a train of fire ants that proceeded to bite the piss out of our legs. There was nothing to do but strip down and race for the ocean, which we also couldn’t see. Waking up to howler monkeys and swimming the next morning made everything right. —T.±·.

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In January of 2020, I packed my entire life into an old Ford Transit minivan, kissed my partner goodbye, and set off to visit every national park in the United States. Along the way, I penned a series of dispatches for şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř and about all my wild experiences.

Like the time an enormous black bear approached my picnic table in Kings Canyon, California; panicked, I waved my arms overhead like a lunatic and tap-danced on the wooden surface until it finally turned and sauntered into the woods. Or the time I came down with scarlet fever in the Alaskan bush and lolled around in my tent with a high fever for two days, until my bush plane’s return. Or the four days I spent trapped in a Tacoma motel room, waiting out the smoke of the worst wildfire season in U.S. history, before visiting North Cascades.

My year exploring the parks was never boring. In fact, it’s been the biggest adventure of my life.

America’s national parks have some of the most jaw-dropping scenery on the planet. In addition to the iconic topography—hoodoos and canyons in the Southwest, massive trees in California, and geysers that shoot water up hundreds of feet—I’ve also been awed by the green-black waters of Congaree; the magnificence of Denali, North America’s highest peak; and fall foliage in Acadia.

But my absolute favorite park? I get that question a lot, and the answer often surprises people.

My Favorite National Park Is Big Bend, in Texas

I grew up in the suburbs of Houston—in a region I best remember as flat and swampy—and then moved to Los Angeles for college. Because my family wasn’t very outdoorsy, I had no idea that an extraordinary expanse of conifer-topped peaks and narrow river canyons was a day’s drive away. In L.A., IĚý could easily go for a day hike in the Hollywood Hills or spend the weekend exploring San Gabriel Mountains National Monument. The topography, and its proximity to it, started to change me.

Fast-forward 15 years and picture me rolling into Big Bend National Park, delighted and surprised. The pine-freckled Chisos Mountains towered before me. I spent four days roaming the park, canoeing the Rio Grande, soaking in natural hot springs, and trekking ridgelines that afforded panoramic views of the Chihuahuan Desert.

Although Big Bend happened less than two months into my transition to full-time vanlife, the impression it had on me lasted the duration of my trip. Unlike the most popular parks like Rocky Mountain, Big Bend’s natural attractions were unexpected. It was so off the beaten path. But there were many other reasons I fell in love with this West Texas gem. Here are a handful.

You Feel Like You Have Big Bend National Park to Yourself

Relative to its size—it’s the 15th-largest unit in the Park System—and variety of outdoor activities, Big Bend is one of our least-crowded parks outside of Alaska. In 2023, it welcomed just over 500,000 visitors to its 801,163 acres. Yosemite, in comparison, had 3.9 million visitors exploring just 747,956 acres. While visiting Yosemite Valley can feel like Disneyland, Big Bend felt like a serene desert refuge—which can actually be quite colorful and filled with animals:

Big Bend Is a Haven for Backcountry Campers

Want to hike in and pitch your tent at a dispersed site in the Chisos Mountains? Raft a portion of the Rio Grande to a solitary camping zone? Take your four-wheel-drive vehicle down a dirt lane to a with no one else around? There are even a few rugged off-trail wilderness areas where experienced backpackers can trek in and stay the night. The park makes it easy to for any of these, and they’re inexpensive (around $10 per night).

You Can Stargaze Like a Pro in Big Bend

Big Bend International Dark Sky Reserve is the largest Dark Sky-certified place in the world. Nearby offer observatory access, and the park hosts throughout the year. While I visited at the end of winter, I was still dazzled by the twinkling Milky Way above my campsite one clear night.

The Canyons in Big Bend Are Totally Impressive

I was utterly wowed by the majestic canyons in Big Bend—and that’s saying something, given how many national-park canyons I enjoyed in the Southwest. I can recommend two short, easy hikes that take in some of the park’s canyon highlights:

• : To get to the trailhead, which is located on the western side of the park, drive the length of the view-studded Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, passing rock formations that resemble mules ears and the lumpy, volcanic Tuff Canyon, and parking at the lot at the end of the road. I spent an evening strolling this 1.4-mile out-and-back trail, which winds along the bottom of 1,500-foot-tall canyon walls (a nesting site for many birds) bordering the Rio Grande.
• : On the eastern side of the park, this impressive 1.3-mile round-trip jaunt takes you near the Boquillas Del Carmen border crossing into Mexico. Go in the morning, as I did, for the best light on the caramel-colored limestone walls.

It’s worth noting that you can explore both of these canyons via boat. I signed up for a guided excursion with Ěý(from $82) and can recommend this local outfitter. It offers a range of options, from half-day to multiday trips.

There’s a Great Hot Springs Site in Big Bend for Post-Trek Soaking

After three days of nonstop park exploration, my muscles were sore, so I was happy to hear about a two-wheel-drive-accessibleĚýhot spring inside Big Bend: Boquillas Hot Springs.

The stone ruins of an early-1900s resort surround this naturally fed soaking pool, tucked against the cool water of the Rio Grande. From the Chisos Basin Visitor Center, head east for 28 miles; the last two miles are down the bumpy, dirt Hot Springs Road, which ends at a parking lot. From there it’s an easy half-mile hike to the springs, where 105-degree pools and great views across the river into Mexico await.

Big Bend’s Gateway Town Is Weird, Wonderful, and Definitely Worth a Stop

Big Bend boasts one of the coolest gateway towns of any national park. From its sincerely sweet (from $249) and curious ghost town to some of the finest smoked meats I’ve ever eaten, found at DB’s Rustic Iron BBQ, and splurge-worthy post-hike massages at Desert Lotus Healing Arts, tiny Terlingua offers loads to do when you’re not exploring the park.

My Runner-Up: Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, Alaska

With so many wildly different U.S. national parks, it’s nearly impossible to choose just one favorite. Though Gates of the Arctic is exceedingly tough to get to for most travelers, that remoteness allows for incredible magic. Here’s why I loved it.

Gates of the Arctic National Park Is Massive

Boasting nearly 8.5 million acres, Gates of the Arctic is the second-largest national park in the country. That’s really hard to fathom. It’s larger than ten Yosemites or eight Glaciers. Mountains and rivers seem to spill out forever here, and I felt like I had a gigantic playground all to myself.

A Trip to Gates of the Arctic Is a True şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

No roads or trails cut through Gates of the Arctic, so plan on hiking, boating, or flying in by bush plane. This remoteness means that solitude is easy to find and wildlife live in a setting largely removed from human contact, giving travelers a true wilderness experience. I sincerely relished those aspects after having to deal with the bus schedules of Denali.

I signed up for a guided group expedition with , which is based in Anchorage and offers all kinds of epic hiking and rafting trips into the park (from $6,195)

Gates of the Arctic Is an Incredible Place for Wildlife-Watching

Loads of charismatic megafauna, like grizzly bears, caribou, musk oxen, and Dall’s sheep, call Gates of the Arctic home. Many of the area’s 500,000-member Western Arctic caribou herd migrates through the park each fall.

To Say the Gates of the Arctic Scenery Is Spectacular Is an Understatement

The Arrigetch Peaks are, hands down, one of the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever laid eyes on. A bush plane dropped my guide and I off near the Arrigetch Valley, on the banks of the Alatna River, and we set off on a 12-mile off-trail hike to these jagged pinnacles, which are part of the central Brooks Range. We slept in tents and spent days exploring the granite slopes and aquamarine alpine lakes in the area. While this experience might not be for everyone, anyone willing to put in the miles will experience sublime natural beauty.

Frequent şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř contributor Emily Pennington wrote a book about her experience of visiting all 63 national parks: , published in 2023. Next year she plans on returning to Gates of the Arctic to raft the Noatak River.

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Some people book hotels for high-quality gyms; others prioritize al fresco bathtubs. For me, an astrophotographer, accommodation selection comes down to one thing: stargazing potential.

With the recent astrotourism boom, due in part to the amazing northern-lights viewing in the U.S. this year, many lodges have bolstered their night-sky offerings. But not all dark-sky retreats are created equally. Simply having a view of constellations or being located near a low-light-pollution park doesn’t necessarily make for a stellar stargazing hotel.

A true dark-sky retreat makes the nightscape a main attraction. I’ve traveled to my fair share of properties that fit this bill, and others I can’t wait to check into for a night of cosmos-watching. Here are the ones I recommend in the U.S., Canada, and Mexico.

Sky Village at Canyon of the Ancients Guest Ranch

Cortez, Colorado

Hidden among the mesas and grassy valleys of the arid Colorado Plateau lies one of my favorite Milky Way–watching lookouts on the continent: . The southwestern Colorado getaway, bookended between its namesake monument and the Ute Mountain Reserve, enjoys pristine night views best enjoyed from the new Star Tower, a two-story structure with views of Sleeping Ute Mountain that opened in 2023.

Its architecture is reminiscent of the Ancestral Puebloan cliff dwellings found at nearby Mesa Verde National Park, located 30 miles east. You can spend days here bouncing between parks, hiking the nearby trails, and meeting the ranch’s farm animals. Come nightfall, all eyes are on the sky—particularly if you’re relaxing on the tower’s star-view deck. From $515

oTentik

Grasslands National Park, Saskatchewan

As our northern neighbor’s inkiest dark-sky preserve, certified by the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada, nightscapes are about as star-speckled as they were when the dinosaurs tromped here—a history that draws fossil hunters and astrotourists alike.

Few accommodations exist in this 280-square-mile swath of mixed-grass prairie, but you can book Parks Canada’s , a collection of 12 cozy safari-style accommodations in the Frenchman Valley and Rock Creek campgrounds, designed with both sleeping and living-room spaces for up to six people. Based here, you can scour for fossils and admire the resident buffalo by day and gaze across 360 degrees of starry skies from your tent perch come dusk.

It’s worth mentioning that the park is ideally situated near the remote Saskatchewan-Montana border, a spot known for aurora sightings. Like many of our favorite contiguous U.S. aurora-hunting spots, lights viewing can occur here year-round. From $115

Under Canvas Bryce Canyon

Widtsoe, Utah

, lauded for its upscale, national-park-adjacent glamp sites, made an astrotourism splash in 2023 when it partnered with global light-pollution authority DarkSky International to turn a into the first DarkSky-certified resorts. At this especially incredible 50-tent outpost, located just 15 miles north of Bryce Canyon, an International DarkSky Park, the skies turn particularly dusky each night.

According to the nine-level Bortle Scale of , the property’s skies have the darkest rating: Class 1. Admire constellations from your private porch, join guided stargazing sessions, try meditative star bathing, or get hands on with community telescopes. The crème de la crème for space enthusiasts is the Stargazer tent, which features a large skylight to admire starry skies as as you doze off.

Under Canvas Bryce Canyon, is open from May through September. From $472

Fresh Coast Cabins

Eagle Harbor, Michigan

While I’ve enjoyed northern lights sightings around the world, few places have been as lucky for me as , ten trendy, family-owned cabins on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. It ticks every box on my lower 48 aurora-hunting checklist: a clear, north-facing view across Lake Superior—essential for catching the swirls since they appear closer to the horizon in lower latitudes—and virtually no light pollution.

Its spacious campfire-gathering space draws guests outdoors at night for a few hours of star- and aurora-gazing, but I recommend that avid sky-watchers book Cabin Nine or the slightly pricier Aurora Major Suite. Both boast private porches with sweeping lake views. After a dose of astronomical awe, pop into the property’s new , a traditional Finnish construction, then trot the path down to the lake for a reinvigorating dip in its waters. Repeat as needed. From $300

Four Seasons Resort Lanai

Lanai City, Hawaii

The 213-room may be a five-star splurge, but for night-sky buffs interested in stargazing as well as authentic Native culture, it’s worth it. The resort, set on this small, palm-fringed island roughly an hour via ferry from Maui, runs that spotlights both the stars and the stories of the Indigenous Hawaiians and Pacific Islanders that long relied on them for navigation. The observatory is also open to residents during special community events and for STEM internship programs for local students.

Expert-led star talks delve into celestial navigation history, and you can peer through a 3.2-foot telescope for a closer look at the skies. Other evening activities at the resort include full-moon themed dinners and guided starlit meditations overlooking Holopoe Bay, where the crashing waves add a splash of sound therapy. From $1,500

Pleasant Acres Reindeer Ranch

Pleasant Valley, Alaska

Aurora hunting from , a new getaway some 30 miles east of Fairbanks, is like sky-watching from a holiday snow globe. The 18-acre property is about as North Pole as U.S. travel gets. There are four igloo-style domes, named after caribou herds in Alaska, and each with a private deck positioned just above a bustling reindeer hangout. That means endless nights of watching for the northern lights with Santa’s helpers lazing nearby. Another thoughtful perk is a kitchenette equipped with a microwave—perfect for warming cocoa during long nights awake.

Worried about dozing through the show? Sign up for the ranch’s complimentary aurora alerts so you don’t miss a second of the colorful swirls. Daytime adventures include reindeer hikes and dogsled rides. And if you visit during the summer, the ranch has room-darkening shades for snoozing despite the all-hours midnight sun. From $280

The Oasis at Death Valley

Death Valley National Park, California

There’s a reason stargazers flock to this national park. Its remote and arid landscape, named a Gold Tier Dark Sky Park by DarkSky International, delights with obsidian skies across its 3.4 million acres of salt flats, sand dunes, and rainbow-hued hills. Even on bright-moon nights at the , I could spy countless stars. That said, it’s best to visit around a new moon, particularly in the less toasty months of October to February, for after-dark festivities that spotlight the park’s spellbinding skies.

The Oasis, included in DarkSky International’s certification of the park in 2013, offers two hotels: the higher-end , with 66 rooms and 22 casitas, and the , with 275 rooms. You’ll enjoy the park’s signature nightscapes from either landing pad, particularly during the annual in early March. Another great post-sunset adventure is the s offered by Furnace Creek Stables ($120 for one hour). Ranch rooms from $170; inn rooms from $356

Rancho La ConcepciĂłn

Los Manzanos, Mexico

A heaven full of stars awaits travelers willing to go off-grid to this small, sustainable, and Wi-Fi-free ranch in the wilderness of Baja California, some 115 miles southeast of Ensenada. offers three rustic-chic cabins near the mountainous Parque Nacional Sierra de San Pedro Mártir, an area so dark that astronomers decided to situate the country’s second-largest telescope here. You can visit , a 23-mile drive east, during select public events, including presentations the first Friday of each month.

That said, Rancho La Concepción’s Bortle Class 1 skies make it hard to leave—particularly when the owners run space-sighting sessions with hot chocolate on hand. If there’s just one or two of you, book to watch the sparkly skies from bed. From $130

Thorny Mountain Fire Tower

Seneca State Forest, West Virginia

On the eastern side of West Virginia, a half-day’s drive from Washington, D.C., Seneca State Forest draws anglers and hikers eager to trek the area’s strech of the 330-mile Allegheny Trail. Come nightfall, there’s no better vantage point than the forest’s 65-foot-highĚý, a refurbished accommodation and picturesque dark-sky retreat that juts well above the pines.

The two-bed tower can sleep up to four people and retains the rustic, low-frills aesthetic of its 1935 beginnings, with 360-degree windows and a wrap-around balcony that lets Mother Nature do the decorating. The digs, reached via 69 steps, are only available from April through October and get scooped up almost a year in advance. Once you’re there, staring up in wonder at the bright cosmos, it’s not hard to see why it’s so special. From $150

Compass Rose Lodge

Huntsville, Utah

The Ogden Valley isn’t solely for ski buffs. The eclectic 15-room illustrates the region’s astrotourism allure, starting with the on-site . The stargazing haven, roughly 45 miles north of Salt Lake City, is open to guests and the local community, with telescopes to peer into space and nightly guided observations.

Also worthy of your time is the , just 2.5 miles north of the Compass Rose.Ěý A 13-mile-long model of our solar system, the project includes sculptures and artistic renderings of the planets, best enjoyed on a ride along the (bike rentals are available at the lodge). From $279

Summit at Big Bend

Terlingua, Texas

At nine million acres, southern Texas’s Greater Big Bend International Dark Sky Reserve is the largest dark sky reserve in the world. It encompasses not only Big Bend National Park but the ghost town of Terlingua and its nearby astro hub, the . Its glamping accommodations, from domes to cave dwellings, offer jet-black Bortle Class 1 nightscapes across 1,000 private desert acres.

For astronomy fans, it’s tough to beat—or catch any shut-eye in—the property’s stargazing domes, where clear ceilings and front walls are optimal for watching the shrub-dotted desert transition from blue-sky day to shimmery polka-dotted twilight. Catch the cosmos from your dome or your ownĚý fire pit, or enjoy the reserve’s numerous other , including astro programming in nearby —its Maverick Junction entrance is 17 miles to the east. From $159

şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř and astrotourism writer Stephanie Vermillion travels the globe in search of the best night-sky views, from stargazing-themed hotels to aurora-hunting campsites. Her upcoming book 100 Nights of a Lifetime: The World’s Ultimate şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍřs After Dark will be out December 3.

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