If it weren’t for travel, Margie Goldsmith, age 80, says she would have died at least three times by now. Ten years ago, the globe-trotting author and travel writer endured a risky surgery for pancreatic cancer. Two years later, the cancer returned. A few years after that, Goldsmith was diagnosed with lung cancer. She survived it all, she is sure, because she’s been a world traveler for 50 years.

You’ll be forgiven if you’re a little skeptical. After all, globetrotting isn’t often a prescription for the ill or infirm. But recent research suggests that travel and tourism could have powerful impacts on your health and even longevity.

How Travel Helps to Slow Aging

According to a this fall by Fengli Hu, a PhD candidate at Edith Cowen University in Perth, Australia, travel could be a powerful tool for slowing down the aging process. Hu’s main theory is fairly straightforward: Many of the lifestyle practices medical and mental-health experts endorse—like social engagement, appreciating nature, walking, and learning new things—are intrinsic to travel.

But the novelty of Hu’s research is that it creates a foundation for thinking about travel in terms of entropy. Travel, she writes, is a way to maintain a “low-entropy state”—in other words, a state of optimal health and efficient bodily function. Since she published the paper, dozens of media outlets have covered her work.

In a video call with șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, Hu says she didn’t expect so much attention, especially given that the research is only theoretical at this point. She’s just begun to set up the related experiments, which will be completed in 2025. But the interest makes sense.

She says, “Many people are looking for a way to keep young and healthy, and travel can be a cost-effective way to improve their physical and mental health and slow down the aging process.” It’s cost effective, she says, because folks don’t necessarily have to travel to pricey, far-flung locations to experience the benefits.

The theory of entropy comes from physics; it refers to the natural tendency of systems to move from a state of organization and order to one of chaos and disorder. Entropy has also been used as a framework for thinking about aging and disease. When you’re young and healthy, your internal systems run smoothly. That’s order. As you age, cellular mutations and dysfunctions proliferate. That’s disorder—a high-entropy state.

Entropy almost always moves in one direction, Hu says, “but can be mitigated or slowed down with certain measures.” Being a tourist, she says, may be one.

Travel—that is, relaxing, leisure-focused travel—has the power to reduce stress, it encourages exercise, and it forces you to meet and socialize with new people. All of that keeps you sharp and optimizes your body’s performance and efficiency. As a result, Hu says, it could help you stave off physical and mental decline and potentially live longer.

How Travel Relieves Stress

Goldsmith started traveling when she was 32, in the wake of a nasty divorce. She needed something to pull her out of depression, and she’d always wanted to go to the Galapagos. So, she went.

“They say you can move a muscle, change a thought,” Goldsmith says. “Well, it turns out you can also move your location and change a thought.”

The change was exhilarating. Since then, Goldsmith has traveled to 149 countries. Travel has made her a more generous, compassionate person, she says. It’s also made her more resilient.

“I look at people my age, and they look like my grandmother,” she says. “They’re bent over with arthritis and they’re not moving. That will never be me. Travel gives you a more active life, a bigger life. It will keep you young.”

So far, experimental studies seem to support both Goldsmith’s experience and Hu’s research. One of the best-known is the Helsinki Businessman Study, a 50-year experiment involving more than 1,200 Finnish participants who filled out lifestyle and habit questionnaires between the 1960s and 2010s. In a , Timo Strandberg, MD, PhD, found a strong correlation between vacation time and longevity.

Participants in the intervention group—600-plus men who were given a strict health-and-nutrition regimen during the early years of the study—had a 37 percent higher chance of dying before their mid-70s, if they took fewer than three weeks of vacation per year. Those who took more than three weeks of vacation per year lived longer. Why?

“These men who had less vacation were more psychologically vulnerable to stress,” Strandberg said in a video call with șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. That stress included participants’ family and work obligations, as well as the added pressure to stick to a structured health-and-fitness regime. Taking more vacation seemed to benefit participants in the intervention group, likely by keeping their stress in check, Strandberg says.

Surprisingly, the amount of vacation time participants took seemed to have no correlation to longevity in the control group—those who weren’t given a health and fitness routine to stick to. The upshot? Giving yourself extra rules and routines can be stressful, no matter the intention. And the more stress, obligations, and prescribed regimens you have in your life, the more critical vacations may be. (Fitness fanatics, we’re looking at you.)

The Case for More Frequent VacationsÌę

Stress of any kind can have cumulative negative effects.

“One theory is that your acute stress—which can be good and healthy and help you avoid danger and so on—can turn into chronic stress,” Strandberg said. “Then that will show up in biological terms and in different markers in the body.” A vacation has the potential to act as a reset, chipping away at your total stress load and bringing it back down to healthy levels.

Strandberg adds that while the health benefits of a vacation include stress relief and lower cortisol levels, the effects are only temporary. As a result, he recommends taking several four- to five-day vacations throughout the year rather than a single three-week vacation. That way you’re continually keeping your stress in check rather than saving it all up for a single blow-out.

Kiki Keating, a travel curator and trip guide based in New Hampshire, is a firm believer in frequent travel. Keating, who identifies as “a very young 62,” just hiked 90 miles along the Portuguese coast and has a handful of other trips—including an overseas tour she does every year with her 86-year-old mother—on the docket for the coming year. The travel keeps both active, and it gives them something to look forward to. That sense of purpose, she says, is key to both living long and facing setbacks with determination. She’s watched many people use an upcoming trip as a life ring to pull out of depression or weather an injury or illness.

Goldsmith is one. Her first pancreatic surgery was extremely dangerous, a six-hour operation that only 25 percent of patients survive. But she felt she would make it; she had places yet to see.

As she recovered, dreams of travel motivated her to keep moving. “As soon as I got out of the hospital, the first thing I did was travel,” she says. Likewise, when facing a knee-replacement surgery earlier this year, she booked trips to Ireland and Scottsdale to give her something to look forward to—and motivate her to do everything she could to recover faster.

Travel Keeps Your Mind Sharp

But you don’t have to be in advanced years to benefit from frequent travel. Keating has also seen it impact how her adult children face challenges and deal with stress.

“Travel helps you to be more relaxed when you’re adapting to something new,” Keating says. “When you go to a place with a new culture and a language you don’t speak, it can feel hard at first. Then, after a day or two you’re like, ‘Oh, I take this metro and follow this red line and go to the blue line, and I know how to say hello, and this is where I like to eat.’ You remind yourself you can learn new things and adapt, and that gives you confidence.” Today, she says, her kids—all of whom traveled with her when they were younger—are good at taking adversity in stride. That’s a tool they’ll use for the rest of their lives to minimize stress, and it could pay big dividends in terms of wellness.

It’s not just about stress, either. A small 2018 study by Craig Anderson, a UC Berkeley postdoctoral fellow, shows that experiencing awe can help . Other research, including a that followed more than 6,700 older adults, indicates that travel could also ameliorate cognitive decline. Mental stimulation—including learning new languages and visiting museums—has been shown to help by up to 47 percent.

It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that challenging yourself to navigate a new place or learn new customs would have some of the same benefits.

“Travel is sort of like riding your mountain bike on a technical trail,” says Stephanie Pearson, 54, a professional travel writer who’s been globetrotting for more than 30 years. “You have to be in a similar flow space to navigate foreign languages, customs, and travel logistics. So I really think it does something cognitively to your brain. It also helps you reset and focus and see the world in a different way.”

Pearson adds that she’s felt a similar level of focus and challenge on trips near home as to far-flung places like Bhutan and New Zealand. As long as there’s an element of awe, discovery, and getting out of your comfort zone, she says, your mind and body stand to benefit.

“You don’t have to fling yourself across the world to have an awesome adventure. You can drive to a nearby park or city that you’ve never visited and have a rewarding experience,” Pearson says. “The benefit lies in having that curiosity.”

Corey Buhay is a freelance writer and editor based in Boulder, Colorado. She is a member of the U.S. Ice Climbing Team, which takes her to Korea, Switzerland, Czech, and Slovakia each winter. She dreams of one day being able to travel when the weather is actually warm. Her recent stories for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű range from mountaineering bromance, with “After 50 Years of Friendship, These Alpinists Just Bagged (Another) Unclimbed Peak,” to trail-running records in “Forget Pumpkin Spice Lattes, It’s FKT Season,” to loss in the mountains, with “Years After My Mentor Died in the Backcountry, I Retraced His Final Footsteps.”

The post Can Travel Make You Live Longer? These Scientists Think So.Ìę appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Welcome to Tough Love. We’re answering your questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Our advice giver is Blair Braverman, dogsled racer and author of and . Have a question of your own? Write to us at toughlove@outsideinc.com.

After my dad died, I heard “Southern Cross” by Crosby, Stills, and Nash on the radio, which is about making a big sailing trip after a divorce. And I thought, that’s what I should do! I feel like in times of grief, it’s natural to want a big project. And so I bought books about young and inexperienced sailors making solo trips around the world.

I thought I should sail from Portland, Oregon, where I live, to New Zealand, where my dad’s from. It would be a journey to try to understand someone who’s not around for me to try to understand anymore.

When I told my friend about my idea, she said, “I really support you, but I think you’re going to die if you do that. Please don’t die alone on the ocean on a boat.” She may have had a point—I haven’t sailed since I took a sailing class in sixth grade, and I didn’t like it.

Now it’s been two years. The trip remains an idea and I still have all those books, but I’m more focused on other parts of my life, like my work and my garden. When I drive over bridges in Portland and see ships on the river, I wish I could be on one of them. Because it’s easier to think about taking a grand journey than it is to take a sailing class. How do I honor the impulse to do something big even though, when it comes down to it, I don’t actually want to do it?

It took me a long time to get pregnant, and when I finally did, it didn’t stick. I told myself: this loss is okay, because I’ll get pregnant right away after this, right? I have to. That’s how stories work. Things get hard, and they get harder—but then there’s a crack of hope, just when the protagonist needs it most.

But it didn’t happen. The journey to parenthood felt random and unfair, with brave hopes that didn’t pan out and sorrows with no resolution. With each setback, I thought: this must be the moment that things turn around.ÌęNow, I thought. Now comes the happy ending.

But it didn’t come yet.

Wait—that means it must be coming now.

Nope.

I tried stuff. Is this a story about wilderness? OK: I’ll go alone to the woods, plunge into a river, come back cleansed and ready to bring life into the world.

Nope.

Is this a story about God? I’ll pray.

Is this a story about art? I’ll throw myself into work. I’ll write another book.

But none of those stories played out. At least, not in the ways that I planned them. And that made me feel more helpless than ever.

Eventually, I did have a happy ending, or at least a happy middle. But there was no clear, straightforward story I could tell myself that explained the difficulties along the way. By the time the good news came, I was so weary of hope that I didn’t let myself trust it for a long time.

The process showed me how much I’ve leaned on storytelling in my own life, and how much that instinct can backfire. Stories are, after all, threads of meaning in a chaotic world—and if finding them gives us comfort and control, losing them does the opposite.

I tell you this because you sound like a storyteller, too. And it sounds like you’re looking for a story to tell yourself about grief. A story in which you cross the wild sea and come out the other side healed.

There’s an easy answer here, which is that you should take a sailing class, or buy a ticket for a boat ride, or rent a kayak for the day. It might be fun. You might hate it, which is OK, too. That said, I don’t think the sailing class will fix you, because I don’t think you’re actually looking for a trip across the sea. I think you’re looking for a story with an ending that finds you far from where you started.

I’m hesitant, now, to use stories to predict what’s next in my life, but there’s incredible power in identifying them in retrospect. And I think that by writing your letter, you’re already a good chunk of the way there. You’re figuring out your story, even though you’re still home in Portland. You’re moving forward with it every day. So what’s the story that feels true to you, now? What’s the story that helps you live with your grief?

I’ll try writing one for you. If it feels wrong, change it. If it feels right, take it. Use it to launch your ship.

After my dad died, I became obsessed with sailing.
I dreamed of sailing to New Zealand, where he was born.
I wanted answers in the sea.
I looked at the water every time I crossed a bridge.
But instead, I found myself planting vegetables.
Seed by seed.
In my mind, I sailed. I caught the wind.
It rained.
The seeds sprouted.
I think, in a way, I’m already on the journey.
Not to find home, but to make it.
Not to seek answers, but to grow them.

The post Why an Outdoor șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű May Not Be the Best Way to Grieve appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Sliding my head through the bright orange life vest, I listen to the expedition leader walk us through emergency evacuation protocols. Almost 100 of us are gathered in the lounge toward the bow of the , an expedition ship scheduled for a five-day journey to the Channel Islands.

“In the unlikely event” of our ship sinking, he says, we need to know how to put these vests on—and how to buckle them properly to keep our heads out of the water if we get knocked out. It’s standard safety speak, but hardly settles my anxiety.

I don’t like boats. I’ve never liked boats. There’s the bit about sinking, sure, but mostly, boats make me sick. The nausea starts as soon as I step aboard and continues until several hours after disembarking. Honestly, most forms of transportation make me sick. Planes, cars, trains, buses, roller coasters 
 I even avoid rocking chairs.

I’ve developed a scientific method, which is to drink a beer or two during a train ride or boat ride to help relax my inner ear and manage my nausea. This sounds horrible to most people but works for me. However, I’ll be on this boat for five days. My liver can’t handle that much science.

Though a travel writer, I’ve turned down every opportunity for a cruise or even a day sail. But the idea of an expedition cruise to a place I’ve always wanted to see intrigued me. Two months ago I set aside my irrational fears and my practical concerns and decided to go.

As the cruise date approached, I wondered in irritation, Why did I say I’d do this? But I’m committed to hop aboard the Quest, and I have my reasons. Part of me is curious whether I can even survive so many days on a boat, but mostly, I want to see what an expedition cruise is like. And I have always wanted to explore the Channel Islands.

This isn’t your traditional cruise. Instead of an oversized, floating party bus hitting busy tourist ports, an expedition cruise uses state-of-the-art small ships as traveling basecamps to explore hard-to-reach locales, like the fjords of Greenland, the glaciated coast of Alaska, and the Antarctic Ice Sheet. This particular opportunity was aboard a National Geographic-branded ship, operated by .

With room for 100 guests and 60 crew, the Quest to me—someone who is used to kayaks and river rafts—looks like a miniature version of the Titanic, not a great reminder for someone afraid of boats. Still, it is taking us to the Channel Islands, a small archipelago 40 miles off the coast of Southern California, and will provide a base of operations for bouncing around these mountainous cays in the Pacific.

A few hours after the safety talk, we push off across the channel, and the nausea kicks in. I don’t throw up, I just want to. It’s even worse the next morning, and I skip breakfast because lying down is the only thing that keeps me from chumming the waters.

I decide I was right all along; boats are stupid, and I count the days until I can get off the ship. But after breakfast (a nibble of a granola bar, for me), we load into Zodiacs for our first taste of adventure, and my attitude changes entirely.

What to Do on Catalina Island

There are eight Channel Islands, five of which are designated as Channel Islands National Park. The first on our agenda, Catalina, sits outside of the park, but 88 percent of it is protected as a preserve by the . Catalina Island has one small town, Avalon, with a permanent population of 3,000, while the rest is wild, with nothing but dirt roads and hiking trails for infrastructure.

The paddleboard adventure I originally signed up for is canceled because of an increasing swell, so I join a moderate, three-mile hike on a mix of dirt roads, game trails, and a small piece of the 40-mile , which cuts a line along the mountains of the island, to traverse the bluffs surrounding Little Harbor, a rocky cove with a small campground.

I’m a sucker for a craggy coastline, and the views stack up: the 50-foot-tall bluffs that outline the coast are occasionally interrupted by golden beaches, while the endless blue of the Pacific Ocean melts into the horizon. From a high perch on the edge of the island, I get a kick out of seeing the Quest slowly bobbing in the swell off the coast. I really like boats when I’m standing on land. They’re pretty, and I don’t worry about them sinking at all.

The Channel Islands have been dubbed North America’s Galapagos because they’ve evolved in relative isolation, never connected to the mainland. There are more than 150 endemic species on the islands, the terrain of which is a mixture of desert scrub brush, lush grass prairies, and steep cliffs.

On Catalina are bison, introduced in the 1920s during a film shoot (there’s debate as to which film), as well as a troublesome population of feral cats. Seeing bison is always a treat—we see one later on this hike, munching grass on a distant hillside—whether it’s supposed to be there or not, and I’ve always thought populations of cats turning feral was weird.

But the native species throughout the island chain are even more interesting, like the ginormous squirrels, which are roughly 25 percent larger than those on the mainland. In a phenomenon known as “island gigantism,” a species thrives because of a lack of competition for resources. But the native fox on the islands has evolved in the other direction and are tiny, usually between five and seven pounds. (Adult foxes in North America typically weigh seven to 15 pounds.)

The Quest was built with a shallow draft, which means it can venture into waters close to land, and on its stern are twin boarding platforms where guests can load into Zodiacs to go ashore. Aft in the ship is a large dining room, up forward is a sizable lounge, and both are loaded with windows to maximize the views. It’s all very civilized, with a small library of wildlife and geography books in the lounge, a well-equipped gym and a massage room, yoga on the top deck in the morning, and charcuterie and cocktails before dinner.

The idea behind any expedition cruise is that passengers should spend as much time off the boat as on, hiking, paddling, and cruising the coast in zippy little boats. The National Geographic expeditions are staffed with professional naturalists who give the whole experience a “semester at sea” vibe. There are the expedition leader, who adjusts plans based on conditions; a birding expert; a pro photographer to teach us how to take better photos; marine biologists, who dive and film the thriving kelp forests beneath the surface to show us slide shows during cocktail hour; and ornithologists who give talks and lead excursions.

National Geographic also puts a resident National Geographic Explorer onboard for each trip. I’m cruising with Greg Marshall, a biologist and filmmaker who invented the CritterCam, changing the way wildlife research is collected—imagine a GoPro designed for animals. Marshall has an Emmy, and he’s hiking with us, giving talks, and teaching me how to keep my shoes dry during a beach landing in our Zodiac.

Ship life is completely new to me. The crew uses terms like “disembark” and “doff,” the specific verbiage providing a certain gravitas to the situation.

As for the guests, at 47, I’m on the younger end of the spectrum. A few people in their 20s, including some young women van lifers, are scattered around, but the boat is mostly full of retirees, the adventurous kind. I strike up a friendship with a fit 65-year-old guy from Boise, Idaho, with decades of backcountry skiing experience.

I meet a nice grandmother who is a passionate birder, traveling the world to see different species. I have a wonderful conversation with Bernie and Maryanne, a retired couple who’ve been to 59 national parks. They’re ticking off their 60th park with this cruise and plan to hit Katmai in Alaska later this summer. “We hike,” Maryanne tells me. “We don’t just drive through them.”

An expedition cruise has a rhythm. The ship travels at night, anchoring offshore at different islands as we progress through the journey, and we embark on various activities between meals during the day. The bartender usually meets us with a tray of fresh cocktails in the mudroom after each adventure.

I spend every meal at a different table meeting new people. Afternoons feature presentations about endemic birds or photography techniques while the passengers munch on hors d’oeuvres. At lunch one day, one of the naturalists runs into the dining room shouting, “Dolphins, dolphins!” and we all rush to the window to look.

The adventures are mild—mostly hiking and Zodiac tours of the coast—but the terrain is stunning. The Channel Islands are full of wildflowers, like native hyacinth and buckwheat; wild creatures, like the pretty blue island scrub jay and the surprisingly cute spotted skunk; and dramatic cliffs. I give into the rhythm, and the nausea fades. This could be due to the steady ingestion of Dramamine, which I’ve also brought along, or maybe I’m just getting used to life at sea.

What to Do on Santa Rosa Island

For me, the highlight of the trip is an 8.5-mile hike around Santa Rosa Island, which some would argue is the jewel of the park, because of its tall cliffs, sand dunes, and grove of Torrey Pines. That particular species of evergreen is only found on this island and on one cliff in La Jolla, California.

My small hiking group sees a tiny fox meandering around the shade of the Torrey Pines, but I’m most impressed with the expansive, waist-high grassy meadows that roll all the way down to the edge of the island, where 100-foot vertical cliffs drop straight to the Pacific.

Two of America’s most iconic landscapes—prairie and the craggy coast—blend into one.

What to Do on Anacapa Island

On our last full day, I wake up before the sun rises and see the moon casting shadows through a 40-foot-tall rock arch just off the coast of Anacapa Island. Sea lions, the Pacific Ocean’s answer to the rooster, bark as the sun comes up. The joy of an expedition cruise is that you close your eyes to one view and wake up to another.

Choppy conditions keep us from making it ashore, so we take a Zodiac cruise, getting a close up view of the famed Arch Rock, a 40-foot-tall upside-down horseshoe of a rock that protrudes from the ocean, and seeing colonies of sea lions lounging on the black, rocky beaches.

I wonder if the sea lions have to jockey for the best spots on the beach, or if some sort of social hierarchy determines their positioning. The naturalist at the helm of our Zodiac says it’s very cordial, telling us that sea lions are “positively thigmotactic,” which in layman’s terms means they’re prone to snuggle.

It hits me that I haven’t been anxious since that first day. Somewhere between the post-Zodiac-cruise hot toddies and a presentation about the indigenous Chumash, I forgot all about the ship potentially sinking. The sickness comes and goes, but I don’t let it bother me. Nothing I was originally worried about troubles me anymore. If we sink, I know how to put on the life vest. If I get sick, I get sick.

But I’m onshore a lot hiking. I’m convinced that the expedition cruise is a hell of a way to travel. Imagine a high-end hotel staffed with expert guides, only the hotel moves to a different badass location every night while you sleep. And did I mention the bartender meeting us with trays of cocktails?

Four Small Expedition Cruises Worth Taking

National Geographic Lindblad Expeditions

Lindblad has 17 ships venturing into seas and bays all over the world. The is a great option if you’re curious about this style of travel, and it’s less expensive and shorter than some other options (five days, from $3,310 per person). But their trip, in October 2024, is a potential banger full of penguins and ice formations, with a visit to the gravesite of Sir Ernest Shackleton. Peter Hillary, a mountaineer and the son of Sir Edmund Hillary, who in 1953 with Tenzing Norgay first climbed Everest, is the onboard Nat Geo Explorer (22 days, from $28,304 per person).

Quark Expeditions

Quark specializes in arctic exploration, with ships traversing the coldest seas across the globe. Their 12-day expedition, with a boat capacity of 128 passengers, takes in the sights of Iceland and Greenland, allowing you to experience fjords, hike in the tundra, and visit Inuit communities (from $8,396 per person).

Viking Cruises

Viking operates a variety of cruises in different locations, but their 10-day trip, boat capacity of 378 passengers, gives you a chance to see the wilder side of North America’s inland sea. You’ll kayak among pink-granite islands in Canada and hike to waterfalls along Wisconsin’s Door Peninsula (from $7,995 per person). Ìę

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Smith Explorations

Alaska is the number-one destination for expedition cruises, and operates an eight-day journey that includes two full days within Glacier Bay National Park. Capacity is 76 and 84 passengers on two different ships respectively. Daily adventures revolve around kayaking and hiking,with the chance to see puffins, whales, and bears (from $4,300 per person). Ìę

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national-parks columnist. He is amazed to have survived five days on a boat and even more amazed to want to do it again.

For more by this author, Graham Averill, see:

Put These Beautiful National Monuments on Your Must-See List

The 5 Best National Park Road Trips in the U.S.

The 9 Most Fun șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Lodges in North America

and

The 9 Best Gateway Towns to U.S. National Parks

The post Boating Turns Me Green. But I Couldn’t Miss a Chance to See the Channel Islands. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On a cloudy, moonless night in Port-Gentil, Gabon, on Africa’s west coast, Peter Hammarstedt watched as the red and green running lights on a pair of motorboats slid across a mangrove-fringed estuary. He clicked his two-way radio. “Keep coming,” he said, guiding the rigid-hulled inflatable boats, or RHIBs, to the dock. Huddled in the dark behind the 38-year-old director of campaigns for the ocean conservation group were three Gabonese fisheries officers, six Gabonese marines with AK-47’s slung over their shoulders, two academic researchers, and me. After we’d all climbed in, the pilots switched off the running lights, pointed their bows west, and gunned the twin 200-horsepower engines straight into the dark.

Somewhere ahead of us drifted the Bob Barker, a 171-foot Sea Shepherd ship named after the late Price Is Right host, who’d donated $5 million a dozen years ago to purchase the vessel. The Bob was scheduled to run a monthslong patrol in partnership with the Gabonese government to combat illegal, unreported, and unregulated fishing, or IUU fishing for short. To do this effectively, the ship’s presence had to be kept secret, so the Bob was dark—waiting for us more than ten miles from shore with its deck lights switched off and its portholes covered. The ship’s automatic identification system was off, and its crew maintained radio silence. Although we didn’t see them, we’d motored past several Chinese and African fishing trawlers whose crews would have spread the word had they seen the Bob. Informers for the pirate networks that prowled these waters would also have relayed the ”țŽÇČú’s location. (The day before, Hammarstedt received a navy communiquĂ© about pirate sightings to the north, off the coast of Libreville, the nation’s capital.)

“It’s nice to be in the boat with the guys with guns for once,” Hammarstedt joked as the RHIB bounced along, its wake glowing with blue bioluminescence and Port-Gentil’s lights slimming to a thin bright line off the stern. After 20 minutes speeding into the darkness, the boats slowed, and suddenly the Bob emerged from the gloom. Aided by headlamps, we climbed rope ladders to the darkened deck as the RHIBs were winched aboard with our gear. Hammarstedt quietly walked to the bow, patted the rust-pitted steel stanchion of the 72-year-old ship, and muttered, “Good to see you, old girl.”

Hammarstedt had a long history with the Bob; for 11 years, he’d captained it across four oceans in pursuit of whaling boats and illegal fishing operations. But the vessel was old, and upkeep was expensive. In the end, Hammarstedt’s was the lone no vote when Sea Shepherd Global’s four-member board voted to scrap it in 2021. This would be its final patrol. In a few months, the crew would motor to Turkey; Hammarstedt had arranged to be there when the ship was dismantled piece by piece. A replacement had already been bought with the help of a donor. So Hammarstedt stood in the bow and let the nostalgia flow. Behind him hung the ship’s brass bell, which he planned to make a keepsake of when the cutting started. Then, with a shrug, he turned and headed back. He needed his rest. There was work to be done, and it was late.

The post Sea Shepherd’s Sea Change appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I visited Alaska last summer. Lucky me, right? Only, I was on the kind of massive tour boat that provides grand views of the backcountry, but frustratingly little time to do anything aside from just gawp at it. When my ship pulled into Skagway Harbor, I looked longingly at the high peaks and forests, and thought: “I shall return.”

But on an Alaska State Ferry, next time. It provides no-crowd, low-cost (once you reach Alaska, that is) access to some of the most remote, beautiful trailheads, beaches, streams, and lakes in the land. It suffers all the vagaries of local transit, with service interruptions and cancellations. But if you have the time and patience to go slow, there’s no better way to see Alaska.

My ship—Holland America’s Nieuw Amsterdam—had a population of 3,000, while Skagway is inhabited by only 1,100 people. We overwhelmed them. But after a few hours pawing the knickknacks in town, we were herded back on board, the captain blew our big horn, and we sailed away.Ìę

“For a lot of Backpacker readers, that will be a great moment,” says Jennie Flaming, an and voice of the podcast. “When the cruise ships leave, the locals take over, and you can learn what Alaska is all about.”Ìę

Flaming is all about local flavor and color, and you can’t get more local or flavorful than the .ÌęÌę

The Alaska State Ferry—as it is also known—is as different from the Nieuw Amsterdam as Campbell’s Soup is from vichyssoise. And that’s a good thing. It’s the ferry of the people, connecting 3,500 miles of rugged coastline, 30 rugged towns, and the rugged people who live in them. According to the AMHS website, it’s the only marine route recognized as National Scenic Byway and All-American Road.

Ready to hop aboard? Flaming, who loves the ferry system, advises a bit of caution.Ìę

“Compared with a cruise ship, this is a Greyhound bus,” she says. “It’s transportation for people who don’t need a lot of amenities. There’s no cell service or wifi. It’s Backpacker, not Conde Nast Traveler.”Ìę

Sounds perfect, if you ask me. Imagine a from Bellingham, Washington, to Juneau, Alaska—a great jumping off point for further ferry or foot exploration.ÌęÌę

Long-haul Alaska ferries have a designated area where you can and while away your chug from here to there. You use a towel to dry your tent’s footprint, duct-tape it to the deck, and then toss all your gear inside so your tent doesn’t blow away in the 35-knot winds that will rake the boat when you’re underway. Long-haul ferries are equipped with showers, coin-op laundries, and—on the bigger ships—cafeterias where you can buy a beer and salmon burger, and meet the locals.Ìę

Here’s the guarantee: The views will be sublime, and you’ll have plenty of time to admire them when the summer sun shines for eighteen hours. And that also means oceans of opportunity to download town and trail beta from your neighbors on the tent deck.Ìę

But where will the ferry take you? It’s a big state, and the possibilities are nearly endless.ÌęÌę

For Dayhikers

You don’t usually depend on the D.O.T. for trail intel, but then, Alaska is no ordinary place. Sam Dapcevich, an information officer for the State Ferry, has plenty of ideas where you should take your warmup hikes.Ìę

If you don’t have time for the ferry ride from Bellingham, you might fly into Juneau, with its international airport and . It’s a good place to stock up on food and bear spray for your adventure, and it has good access to the ferry system when you’re ready for more.

For an initial leg stretcher, head for the Mt. Roberts trailhead at the end of Basin Road, a mile walk from downtown, and you won’t even need to rent a car.Ìę

“A good short loop is the East Glacier Trail, 5 miles from the airport in Juneau,” says Dapcevich. “It’s about 3.5 miles and has beautiful vistas and forest scenery. There’s some history from mining in the area too.”Ìę

Flaming recommends taking the tram from downtown Juneau to the top of Mt. Roberts, which has incredible views on a clear day. Then hike from the top of the tram to Gastineau Peak for the views and wildflowers, which bloom from June to August. Ready for more? Now hop the ferry for the six-hour scenic route from Juneau to Gustavus, the diminutive capital of

For Glacier Hounds and Kayak Trekkers

If you’ve traveled the tourist circuit, your mental image of Alaska may be of enormous cruise ships and clueless flatlanders, and they are in fact like fleas on dogs near the ferry docks. But if you manage to escape those jumpoff points, you’ll escape the crowds too.Ìę

“Ninety-six percent of the people who visit Glacier Bay National Park are on a cruise ship,” says Flaming. “It’s a fantastic destination for independent travelers by ferry.”

The Bartlett Cove campground is never full, according to Flaming, and the 4.5-mile Bartlett River Trail is one of her “must-dos.” If you really want to experience Glacier Bay, join a guided kayak tour, or plan your own. You can rent sea kayaks or join a tour offered by , , or . If you want to get up close and personal with bergy bits and growlers (the bushel-basket-sized ice boulders that cascade off of glaciers), this is the place for you.Ìę

For Angler-Hikers

Ditch the freeze-dried dinners and catch your own on a visit to Sitka. If you hop on a ferry in Juneau, you’ll be there in a mere nine hours. Dapcevich notes that there are plenty of trails that lead out of town, and good trout fishing from the lakes that you’ll find along them. In the summer, you can make like a brown bear and fish for salmon from the beaches. If you’re after altitude, he cites Gavan Hill and Harbor Mountains as a great 12-mile round trip up to the high peaks inland, with spectacular views of the Alexander Archipelago to the south. Camp at and use it as your jumping off point for exploring the , the nation’s largest.Ìę

Flaming recommends these hikes in Sitka, for the non-anglers among you: First, check in with the , to learn about the extensive trail system they’re creating and for local intel. On a clear day, head 2 miles up to , with views of downtown Sitka and the pyramidal peak of Mt. Verstovia, a perilous scramble for sure-footed hikers. In the rain (likely), take the 4.5 miles to a no-doubt gushing waterfall.

For the Trip of a Lifetime

Flaming doesn’t hesitate: “It’s the Chilkoot Trail,” she raves. “I can’t imagine too many more spectacular backpacking experiences.” You’ll catch a six-hour ferry north from Juneau to Skagway, and hitch a ride out to the trailhead near Dyea Campground. It’s a 33 mile hike to Lake Bennett, in Canada, gaining about 4,000 feet of elevation and moving through eight distinct climate zones.Ìę

“It’s like a wilderness-gold rush museum,” says Flaming. “It’s a national historic park run by the U.S. National Park Service and Parks Canada, so you’ll find interpretive signs along the way, and a cast iron stove from the 1890s, abandoned by a gold miner.”Ìę

, you can hop on the White Pass Yukon Railroad to return to Skagway. Not up for the five-day trip? You can book whistle-stops on the Yukon Railroad, and ride to a dayhike destination. The 6-mile will take you through hemlock forest, past Glacier Lake, all the way to the hanging blue ice of Denver Glacier. Book an overnight in the , and take turns playing conductor when you’re not soaking up the glacier views.Ìę

More Ports, More Hikes

Headed elsewhere on the Alaska State ferry? Here are :Ìę

Ketchikan: The 2-mile Rainbird Trail, through towering forests, or the 10-mile traverse between Carlana and Persevereance lakes, which climbs over Juno and Ward mountains.Ìę

Haines: Take the 6-mile round trip to Battery Point for water views, or Mt. Riley, a 5-mile out-and-back with the big views you came to Alaska for.

Seward: For dreamers and trail activists, consider the , which exists in bits and pieces on the 167-mile trip from Seward up to Eagle River, and then on to Denali National Park. all the way up to Fairbanks, for a total of 500 miles.Ìę

Safety

This wouldn’t be an article about Outdoor Alaska without some timely warnings, and Flaming offers them. and stay vigilant for the big wildlife (bears, wolves, moose) and the tiny predators as well: mosquitos.Ìę

You’ll need another sort of protection on an Alaska trip, as well: Travel insurance.Ìę

“It’s super important,” she warns, “if your ferry is canceled, or if you’re stuck somewhere you don’t want to be. It’s confusing, and the schedule is weird.” Flaming shops the insurance marketplace before she boards a vessel for the unpredictable Great North.

Another must: Ìę

“Test the rainfly on your tent in the shower before you go, buy waterproof footwear, and lay out for a new rain jacket and pants,” says Flaming. “Mentally prepare yourself for being a little damp, even on sunny days. The coast is a rainforest, so the woods will be soaking.”Ìę

Hey, if you launch your adventure by ferry, you’ve got to expect water, water, everywhere—flowing, falling, tidal, and frozen. But wet is wild, and Alaska’s hiking trails are as wild as they come.

The post Looking to Hike in Alaska? Try Embarking by Ferry. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In 2021, Scott Miller, a 47-year-old nurse from Minneapolis, made his first attempt to break the record for paddling the entire 2,350-mile length of the Mississippi River. At the time, the fastest known time for completing the journey was 18 days, 4 hours and 51 minutes. But on May 21 of that year, near mile 2,200, after 16 days of paddling for 24 hours a day, his team’s boat sank in heavy waves just north of New Orleans. They’d come so far, and been so close to the finish line, only to fail. The result left a bitter taste in Miller’s mouth.

Two weeks later, Miller sat down with his crew chief, Michael “Moose” Dougherty, at an Irish bar in St. Paul, Minnesota. Over Guinnesses, Miller made his pitch: “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said. “I’m going again, and I need you to be crew chief.”

Dougherty suspected this was coming. Before driving to the bar he had planned to say no, and he even told his wife there was no way he could do another attempt. A Mississippi River paddle is a huge project, with many risks. And yet, Dougherty heard the words come out of his mouth like someone else was saying them: “Okay,” he told Miller. “I’ll do it.” They decided to plan for the spring of 2023.

The project pitted Miller against his rival, K.J. Millhone, 65, an executive coach and longtime paddler. Millhone and his paddling team, called Mile Marker Zero, had broken the record in 2021, completing the trip in 17 days, 19 hours, and 46 minutes, and he had also set a previous record in 1980. Miller and Millhouse had planned to team up for a 2020 attempt, but the crew had fractured and the attempt was scuttled. Instead, they each had organized separate teams for dueling 2021 attempts.

After his 2021 failure, Miller thought about everything that had gone right—teamwork, planning, organization—and what went wrong, namely the weather. He knew he could improve the journey. He would modify his boat, bring on different paddlers, simplify their nutrition, and streamline their gear. The only thing remaining from his 2021 voyage was Dougherty, a retired corporate PR flack with a love of endurance sports.

Miller, the founder and leader, called his new team Mississippi Speed Record. He recruited a squad of expert paddlers, first bringing on Paul Cox, a digital media editor who was a two-time winner—and current record holder—of the . Next to join was Wally Werderich, a Chicago public defender who’d placed second and third in the Missouri River 340 and had won two national titles. There was Judson Steinback, the 2022 Masters national champion for men’s and mixed canoes. And waiting in the wings as a backup paddler was Joe Mann, also a winner of the Alabama 650.

The team had plenty of paddling power. Miller thought that with good weather, good water, and good luck, they could beat the record. And if they couldn’t, maybeÌęnobody could.

Miller planned to launch on May 3, 2023. But the long winter with heavy snow meant that Minnesota’s Lake Winnibigoshish, a huge shallow lake near the start of the route, was still choked with ice. They would need to cross its 16 miles in their first 24 hours. Even without ice, Winnibigoshish is one of the most dangerous places on the river, because even a slight wind can produce huge waves.

They pushed the launch back to May 7, gathered at Dougherty’s cabin in northern Minnesota, and waited for the ice to melt. Every day, someone went to check the frozen lake. With each new report, the initial excitement waned, and a restlessness grew. The paddlers had hard deadlines, jobs, and lives to return to. If they couldn’t go by May 11, Werdrich, for one, was out. Other team members had similar deadlines.

Finally, on May 9, the paddlers found the lake largely clear, save for about a mile of candle ice, which crumbles and can be plowed through if necessary. The choice seemed to be: Go now, or don’t go at all. They decided to launch.

That afternoon, some members of Miller’s 20-plus person support crewÌędrove to Lake Itasca, the river’s official starting point. The supporters set up camp, while the four paddlers attempted to get one last night of sleep. At 3:30 A.M., the support crew woke up in their tents and began readying the canoe.

The boat was a 23-foot Wenonah Minnesota Four—the same model used on Miller’s previous attempt—only with several modifications. Like the previous boat, the new one had bulkheads installed to help keep water out of the middle two seats. For much of the journey three of the men would paddle while the fourth slept in the boat. New to this boat was a battery system to power lights, an iPad for navigation, and GPS trackers.

Early light began to filter through the trees. Once the canoe was ready, support crew members wheeled it down to the water, where the paddlers were waiting. The four men got in and paddled across Lake Itasca to the row of large stones where the water spills over and the Mississippi River begins. Then at 6 A.M., the paddlers walked the canoe over the rocks and past a small footbridge, and set off down the river.

The water was high and fast. The canoe wound through the marshes, following the river. Almost immediately, they started picking up time. After the first morning, they were ahead of 2021 record pace by an hour.

By evening they arrived in the city of Bemidji, where the support crew passed the team spray skirts to protect them from the icy water, and switched out the battery powering the iPad, Garmin tracker, lights, and the bailer.

Around 5 P.M., they set off across Lake Bemidji. The ice had just melted there too, and the water temperature was 46 degrees—deadly cold if the canoe flipped and they couldn’t get back in. By 1:30 A.M., they arrived at Lake Winnibigoshish, and saw that the ice was gone. After crossing the lake’s glassy surface for the first half of the 16-mile journey, the paddlers encountered winds and high waves, and water pounded the canoe. Still, when they completed the crossing, they were 4 hours and 20 minutes ahead of record pace.

The river turned south. The water was still dangerously high, and it was raging over dams in some sections. In some places, the paddlers simply cut straight through flooded areas of forest. Their lead grew to five hours, then six, then seven. By the time they reached Minneapolis in the middle of the night, they were 12 hours ahead of record pace.

But the river gives, and the river withholds. Miller knew the lead couldn’t be taken for granted,Ìęand that a 12-hour advantage could disappear amid bad weather or a stop to repair the canoe. In St. Paul, the team picked up two support boats, which would follow them all the way to then end, if they made it that far.

The next day they reached Lake Pepin, another shallow, dangerous lake. For five hours, they paddled into a headwind, battling four-foot waves for the lake’s entire 22-mile length.

In 2021, both Millhone’s and Miller’s teams encountered huge storms and high winds. But in 2023, the weather was calmer overall. The paddlers endured one night of cold soaking rain, but as they moved south, the sky cleared and the river remained glassy. Favorable conditions, combined with the high water up north and the strong paddlers, added to the team’s lead.ÌęBy the time they reached Iowa they were 20 hours ahead.

The physical effort, however, was the same for every inch of voyage: one stroke after another—more than a million, by my estimate—down all 2,350 miles of the Mississippi. Eat, drink, sleep, excrete (don’t ask), and paddle. With four guys living together in such close quarters, the canoe was like a soggy bachelor pad. A slurry of liquid collected in the bottom that the paddlers called “people soup,” which the motorized bailer simply could not expel. Instead, the support crew would occasionally clean out the boat, and try to reestablish a modicum of hygiene for the team.

On most days, the heavy current was a blessing. But one night, at Lock & Dam 15 in Iowa, the river’s power nearly ended their journey as they were waiting to pass through the lock. TheÌęlock master told them to paddle to river right, which was above the dam. They followed the order, but once they reached the sheer concrete wall on that side of the lock, the current was so strong it started pulling them toward the dam.

They navigated the boat upstream, but the boat continued moving toward the dam. Cox and Werderich were sleeping in the bottom of the boat as the team neared calamity. They woke up to Steinback yelling, “Get up, now!”

“It was like a 1,000-percent sprint,” says Steinback. “It was one of the most harrowing moments of my entire life.”

Even with the added muscle, their boat continued its backward drift. They radioed the support boat, which came alongside, and the men held onto it as it motored them away from disaster. It was a close call, but Mississippi River record attempts are full of near misses.

“I woke up like every night to—I don’t want to say screams from above,” says Cox, “but let’s say, urgent commands.”

Below the dam, the team decided to rest, sleeping for three hours before paddling on. In the ensuing days they gained back the lost time and added ten more hours to their advantage. For several days, their lead over the 2021 record hovered at 30 hours. But as they got closer to the Gulf of Mexico, the team encountered barge traffic and ocean-going ships. On several occasions, they had to stop to let the massive boats pass.

“When you get down to Baton Rouge,” says Cox, “It’s like you’re playing Frogger trying to get across. You’re a tiny little blip on the radar screen.”

The team decided that it was okay to sacrifice an hour here and there to avoid the barges and ships. As a result, their lead dropped from 31 hours, to 28, to 25, as they got closer to Louisiana. North of Baton Rouge, the margin fell to 22:47, even though they were paddling up to 170 miles a day.

With around 200 miles left, they sped up, pushing the lead back up to 23 hours. They passed the place where Miller sank in 2021 and sped through New Orleans, then through the bends further south. They paddled down the last stretch of the Mississippi as night fell on Friday, May 26.

Around 2 A.M. on Saturday, they came into the area known as the “Head of Passes,” where the river splits into three channels. There sits a rickety wooden structure called Mile Marker Zero which marks the official end of the Mississippi River.

The team paddled toward the area with several boats alongside them; one was loaded with cheering family and support crew. But even though the team was nearing the end, Miller refused to allow himself to celebrate until they had reached the official finish line, which was marked by a shining light against the dark river.

“There are so many things that can happen at any moment,” Miller said. “Even at the very end, we didn’t know exactly where we were going, and everybody was screaming and yelling which light to aim for. I was like, ‘Oh my God, we’re going to hit a buoy!’”

Finally someone found the right light, and they headed for it. At 2:15 A.M., they finally arrived at Mile Marker Zero. They tied up the boat, then the four paddlers—Cox, Werderich, Steinback, and Miller—climbed on the platform.

“I was crying because there were so many emotions,” Steinbeck says. “It was all adrenaline, euphoria, gratitude, and just immense fatigue. But when I climbed up on Mile Marker Zero, I felt weightless. Like there was no effort at all.”

The air was filled with the cheers and airhorns—celebration and victory. They had beaten the 2021 record by 23 hours and 30 minutes, setting a new standard of 16 days, 20 hours and 16 minutes.

On top of Mile Marker Zero, in a small waterproof box, there’s a log book that anyone who reaches the end of the river can sign. The paddlers opened it and signed their names.

“It felt like we just won the Super Bowl or something,” Miller says. “It was just so much more amazing of an ending than I ever could have imagined.”

The post A Record-Breaking Paddle Down the Mississippi River appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The Western States Endurance Run is billed as the world’s oldest “official” 100-mile trail race. And to put such an event on, year after year, takes a lot of people and a lot of attention to detail. One of the most popular spots on the epic run from Olympic Valley, California, to Auburn’s Placer High School stadium, is the Rucky Chucky checkpoint, at mile 78, where the trail crosses the American River just below .

After a season with low snow, water flow rates can be controlled through retention at an upstream dam. When the water levels can be lowered, runners cross the river on foot, with cables and volunteers to help. But for years like 2023, after epic snow in the Sierra Nevada mountains, flow goes over the dam and cannot be controlled.

This year, like other big snowmelt-induced, high river flow years on the American, rafts were required to transport runners across. Chris Thornley, the younger brother of race director Craig Thornley, is in charge of all things that have to do with the river crossing.

“Since Craig took over 10 or so years ago, he put me in charge of river crossing safety,” Chris says. On race weekend, Chris uses his own personal raft, and then they rent additional rafts and hire guides from a local commercial rafting company to float runners across the river.

Craig and Chris might know the course and the area better than anyone else. In 1978, when they were 14 and 8, the two boys set out on a solo camping trip along the American River. That year they woke to runners shuffling by on their way to the mile 85 aid station. “We saw this guy come up running, he was super dirty, and he was asking if we knew how close the aid station was. We had no idea what he was talking about,” Chris said. But the moment stuck with both brothers as a kind of magical thing.

“Craig and I didn’t talk about that experience until much later,” Chris said. “We both remember it being an important moment—witnessing the headspace that someone was in after running more than 80 miles. We both felt the same way.” Chris and Craig’s family went on to volunteer at aid stations for years. Both brothers experienced every inch of the course and have since understood what those first runners they saw as kids were going through.

Besides running, Chris has also been rafting and boating his whole life. He now has an expert level of water rescue experience. “[For Western States 100] we run four rafts at the peak times, starting at about 10 P.M. through about 4 A.M. And we’re just running four rafts in an egg beater fashion so we have a constant flow.”

Chris ran Western States in 2006, and recalls that being a raft year as well. “I had to wait 40 minutes or more for a raft, and I was at the back of the pack so it wasn’t really about racing, but I was thinking, I have to get in under 30,” he says, referencing the 30-hour cutoff time for the race. When runners exit the water they have 22 miles left to the finish.

“So when I became responsible for the river crossing, I told Craig it’s really worth the extra money to have more rafts. This year the longest anyone had to wait to get in a raft was maybe one minute.” The whole raft crossing only takes two minutes, so it’s very efficient these days.

What’s More Popular: Raft or Rope?

The first time a boat was used to cross the river was in 1980. “It was an old aluminum fishing boat,” Chris said. “The captain of the boat in 1980 was Bob Suter. And since then we’ve used boats about 12 times.”

After his many years stationed at the river, Chris thinks there’s a pretty even split among runners who would rather cross the river on their own versus being in a raft, and it usually has a lot to do with the weather and the time that they’re crossing. During a hot year, the leaders might prefer to cool their core down and fully immerse in the river. But if you’re crossing in the dark, when things have cooled down significantly, being completely wet even for a few minutes might take a lot of energy and leave you chilled during the ensuing miles.

RELATED: This Packraft Weighs Less than a Pineapple and Is Perfect for Summer șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs

Athletes also have to think about chafing—if they get completely wet, they often lose all of the benefits of their lube. In addition to being a raft and water safety guy, Chris Thornley and his wife Stacy are the founders of Squirrel’s Nut Butter, an anti-chafing and skin restoration salve company.

“For the leaders, in general, they don’t really care about being sopping wet or having wet shoes,” Chris said. “It’s more those later in the day and further back in the pack that are kind of happy to keep their feet dry.” Regardless of whether it’s a raft year or an in-the-water year, Chris always has a stash of Nut Butter on both sides of the river.

Enjoying the Ride

During this year’s race on June 24-25, Chris noticed that many athletes seemed happy about the raft ride. “It was a cooler weather year, and I had a bucket in the raft full of river water, so they could cool down with that. For a lot of runners, I think they felt like it was very cool that a boat took them across the river.”

Chris usually films his raft action with a GoPro, which he did this year as well, but he was also featured in the first ever live-feed of the race on YouTube. Although in previous years he’s seen some athletes in dark places by the time they reach the river, this year seemed generally very positive, with runners in good spirits and happy to be there. Thornley forgot to wear his GPS watch to track how many trips he made, but says it seems like at least 100 crossings.

Chris says. “A lot of times, especially with the leaders, they’re grinding so hard. But Courtney stood out. She was obviously in the zone but so able to show her appreciation. And not just for the cameras. It’s a genuine appreciation. And it is magic. Everybody can see it.”

RELATED: Courtney Dauwalter Sets Back-to-Back Course Records at Hardrock and Western States

When Things Go Wrong

In 2016, Jim Walmsley notoriously “took a swim” while crossing the river. When he arrived at the river it was impossible to keep feet on the rocks, so he opted to swim without the aid of the cable. And he ended up being swept a short distance downstream and exited on his own. At the time, there was some discussion as to whether Walmsley would be disqualified if he had been helped out of the water. (He would not have been.)

But that was a rare and never repeated instance, partly due to how fast Walmsley arrived at the river. Two years ago the race signed an agreement with the state that the water would be lowered early enough so that runners would all have the same experience. Previously, the water flow had been left high enough for recreational users to have a full day on the river, and then the water would be lowered in the evening, around the time that most runners arrived. But Walmsley ran so fast that when he arrived in 2016, the water was still raging.

“We signed a 40-year agreement that says lowering the base flow will happen way earlier [in the day] to allow those 14-hour folks that are crossing at four o’clock in the afternoon to have a much safer crossing,” Chris said. And in years when the flow can’t be controlled, Chris is on raft duty.

The Future of the Crossing

While this was a record-breaking year for California snowpack, could an even bigger snow year change the river crossing entirely? What happens if the river flow is so heavy that Chris and the other rafters can’t possibly row across?

“​​If we had needed to do the crossing in conditions like they were on our Memorial Day training weekend, that would be very difficult,” he says. “The flow was significantly higher—for sure double if not triple what it was for the race—and that actually would have been very challenging.”

In such a situation, Chris says they would have to come up with a new system for getting across the river. “We most likely would have to go to some sort of tethered highline system, with a tether on the raft, because otherwise you’d be pushed downstream.” Chris said that because the race is well into the season he’s not worried about that kind of thing happening. “This was a record-breaking snow year, so it would take something even beyond that.”

Climate change is prompting more and more intense versions of all different kinds of weather, so big snow seasons probably won’t be rare, but for now, the runners at Western States are lucky to have Chris Thornley making sure they make it to the other side.

The post Meet the Rucky Chucky Raft Crew of Western States 100 appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I’ve never been much of a water person. More a terrestrial type, really. Once I nearly drowned getting caught in a frothy rip at Newport Beach, California, along with two kids who, terrified, tried using my flailing body as a life raft and almost took me down with them. Luckily, we all survived. Barely.Ìę

So when I finally mustered up the courage to YouTube how to inflate my new 2.25-pound and give it a whirl, my palms grew clammy. Blood pressure rose a few points, even though the seven-point plan I’d outlined was embarrassingly safe:

1. Squish the boat into my Ultimate Direction 25L fastpack.
2. Run seven miles of trail up Missoula, Montana’s Clark Fork River.
3. Find a convenient put-in and inflate the thing.
4. Float downriver back to where I’d begun.
5. Deflate and stuff it in my pack.
6. Run home.
7. Eat a cheeseburger.

This would be a front country microadventure—within cellphone range and never more than 20 minutes from a coffee shop. It was also something I’d dreamt about doing for years: watershed travel! ToÌęcombine elements of running trails with running water. After all, it’s water that carves the very mountains that we run, right?

Introducing: The Ghost Packraft

A ghost is something you cannot quite see. An apparition. Near-to-weightless. At 2.25 pounds (1kg), Alpacka’s Ghost fits this criteria.

Other things that weigh 2.25 pounds include a bag of apples, seven raw chicken legs, a toaster, or a pineapple.

The Ghost is Alpacka Raft’s lightest craft offering. According to the website, the boat is designed “for those looking to sacrifice durability for weight—ultrarunning, exploratory canyoneering, and unexpected water crossings.”ÌęThe boat measures two inches shorter than the (their next lightest boat in the fleet), with a 70d ripstop nylon hull (d is for “denier,” the official unit of density for fabric or yarn), a 200d nylon floor, and single seamtape construction. Because of its hyper-minimal build, the Ghost does not come with any spray deck or cargo fly add-ons.

RELATED: What Do I Pack for River Rafting?

Thor Tingey is the co-founder of Alpacka Raft, along with his mother, Sheri. As an outdoor-loving family who cut their expeditionary teeth in the Alaskan wilderness, the Tingey’s are enthusiastic about these new ultralight boats. Thor has completed some difficult overland trips, including a 180-mile crossing in the Alaska range, and another in the Brooks Range that was over 800 miles. But his mother is the mountain matriarch and visionary, expressed most recently in a new film on her life and work, premiering later this fall at the Mountainfilm Festival.

Admittedly, the Tingey’s are not a family of runners. “I’m content to hike all day through rough terrain,” says Thor. “But if I have to run like 50 yards or something, I collapse and think I’m going to die.”

Fortunately, one of Alpacka Raft’s lead designers, Dustin Partridge, is an accomplished mountain runner and advocate for getting run-compatible boats into the lineup, as he works from the company’s headquarters in Mancos, near Durango, Colorado.

Origins of Alpacka Packraft

Thor Tingey started Alpacka Raft with his mother in 2000, after being introduced to the sport by Roman Dial, the “Father of Packrafting,” who himself learned from one the earliest packrafting pioneers, Dick Griffith, known in the 1950s for taking World War Two life rafts to explore the Grand Canyon. Thor was moved by Dial’s many adventures, including one expedition where Dial used only bicycles and early packraft prototypes to complete a 700-mile traverse of the Alaska Range in 1996.

Thor eventually left the business (“I was just not ready to work with Mom full-time at age 25!”), only to return 12 years later. At 76, Sheri is still the company’s lead designer for all the boats. The team has now expanded, and others have more sway in the direction of the company, but she remains the final word for every boat.

The Alpacka Ghost Packraft: First Impressions

After running a trail several miles upriver, putting in, and taking the Ghost successfully down Missoula’s Clark Fork river (rewarding myself with that cheeseburger), I can say with confidence that, as a novice, the boat felt easy to use and is an exceptional entry-level craft. Its weight-to-durability index is freakishly strong, and it took me only three minutes and twenty-three seconds (I timed myself) to inflate the boat using the included air bag.

Comfort levels on the water were divine, too, as osprey and bald eagles passed overhead, and I was able to navigate just fine without paddles. (I used my hands.) The boat did get a touch squirrely on a babbling rapid—whitewater is discouraged in the Ghost, tsk tsk—but I did not capsize or take on much water. No clammy palms, either. The pack set between my legs got wet, sure, but that didn’t matter—the fun factor was through the roof.

As a featherweight boat, the Ghost is not the first of its kind. Seattle-based Curtis Designs once manufactured a 2.5-pound boat of lightweight nylon, designed for enjoying Washington State’s high mountain lakes. Another company, FlyWeight Designs, made similar models, while Supai further evolved the ultralight class using upgraded quality materials. With boats that you could stuff in a Nalgene bottle, these have become popular with canyoneers.

“Originally, we didn’t want to make a super light mountain lake boat because there were other companies already offering that,” says Thor. “And it didn’t really fit with our brand,” which was their burlier, Alaska-strong boats to get through the toughest conditions.

Starting in the mid-2000s, trail running was gaining in popularity and people kept requesting lighter boats. In 2013, Alpacka Raft launched its very first Ghost, at under two pounds. But with 30d material they were far too delicate and expensive, and didn’t sell well, so they pumped the brakes.

Nowadays, people are buying boats for all types of travel, not just niche Alaska wilderness travel, and many mountain runners became interested in packrafts. “We thought, maybe if we go back and look at this Ghost idea again, we could make something more practical—like we have the 70d material and put a slightly more durable floor on it,” says Thor. “It’s still a really lightweight, delicate boat, but it’s practical.”

Choosing the Right Packraft and Paddle

If you’re considering picking up a packraft but don’t know if the Ghost, the Scout, or some other model is right for you, it all comes down to comfort levels and what activities you’re interested in.

“The Scout is a big step up in fabric and durability,” says Thor. “It’s in our lightweight class but can handle tons of stuff, like normal everyday paddling. The Ghost is a more specialized craft, designed more for runners who need to cut every ounce.”

Perhaps more than the ounce-for-ounce difference is the bulk difference—the packing size. The Ghost is small enough to potentially haul in a waist pack, whereas the Scout requires a backpack. As mentioned, I carried the Ghost in my fastpack, which offered more than enough capacity. I worried mostly about rolling the Ghost too tight or messing up the seams, to which Thor laughed (lovingly) at me. “No, you can crush them super tight,” he said. “Roll it up as much as you want. They’re tough.”

As for paddles, well, I didn’t have a paddle for my first outings, but this didn’t seem to be an issue. In fact, many ultralight packrafters opt out of paddles and use hand paddles instead. Alpacka did come out with a 15-ounce “Ninja” paddle, but it’s being discontinued due to supply issues and quality concerns. Thor recommends the . At 24 ounces, with a carbon option, these are the best paddles for keeping things light and strong.

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How to Pick the Perfect Packrafting Route

So what’s the optimal use for a trail runner interested in taking a packrafting adventure?

“High mountain lakes,” Thor recommends. “Exploring areas like Colorado’s Weminuche Wilderness, Wyoming’s Wind Rivers, or the Cascade Mountains.” Point-to-point routes are particularly exciting for him, too, like alternatives to the Grand Canyon’s popular Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim. “There are some amazing mixed running canyon routes through the Grand Canyon. If you were interested in exploring crossings that weren’t on the main Bright Angel Trail, you need to be able to cross the river. The Ghost is perfect for that.”

Ultrarunners have certainly taken packrafts on previous adventures, including Salomon athlete Rickey Gates’s , and his trip with Dakota Jones, where in 2016, . Flagstaff, Arizona’s Rob Krar dabbles into packrafting and is .

Boating Newbie? Not a Problem.

Sure, the Ghost may be a specialized craft at a committed price point ($745), but it does make for a wonderful entry point into water sports if you’re anything like me: far more comfortable on terra firma than water.

“For a substantial number of our customers, packrafting is their first experience with a paddle sport,” says Thor. “Unlike kayaking—heavier boats, special skills—to pick up a packraft and have an adventure is pretty easy. I think that’s one of its biggest appeals.” He likens packrafting to the gravel bike craze, where you can just go out and have fun on a wide variety of surfaces, thanks to their versatility.

“Even in big cities, there’s really cool urban adventures you can do,” says Thor. He recalls a trip where he took his packraft to New York City, rented a bike from Times Square, crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, inflated his raft, and paddled all the way to East River, past Harlem, then got a taxi back. “Please don’t do this on your first float!” Thor cautions, laughing nervously, due to its tricky slosh of currents and boats.

If you do end up falling in love with packrafting and wish to take your relationship to the next level—and perhaps a few levels after that—here are two packrafting events to consider checking out, at your own risk:

– Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic: First held in 1982, this event is considered integral to the development of packrafting itself. Some argue it’s the hardest adventure race in the world, with 150- to 250-mile routes through formidable terrain. No organizing body. No aid. No race, really.

– McCarthy Whitewater Festival and Packrafting Race. Every July in McCarthy, Alaska, the finishing times at this event are getting terrifyingly fast, won by local runners like Nordic skier Galen Johnson. “The Mountain Marathon is like a training race for him,” says Thor. “McCarthy is what he’s most proud of.”

I, for one, will not be competing in either of these events any time soon. I did, however, take Thor’s advice and follow wilderness trails up into Montana’s Bitterroot Mountains, to test the Ghost out on some high alpine lakes.

First, I found that moving along trails with the Ghost was a nonissue. Negligibly small and light. Second, once inflated and out on the lake, the Ghost was in its element. So was I. After hugging the shoreline, I eventually paddled toward the middle of the lake, where I gained a stunning view of the range’s highest summits. And finally, after paddling to lake’s deepest point, I laid back into the boat and decided to conduct the most hardcore endurance activity of them all: I took a nap.

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Best. Winter. Ever.

That’s what skiers in the western U.S. have been saying, thanks to record snowfall throughout the Sierra Nevada and much of the Rockies. As of mid-April, California’s statewide snowpack is 237 percent of its average level. Utah recorded 201 percent—more snow this winter than it has seen in 40 years. Colorado can’t claim the season that Utah and California have had, but the powder is still piling up (and coming down), with a snow stash of 132 percent of its average. There’s been so much snow that some resorts around the country plan to stay open until July 4.

And it’s not just skiers who are enjoying a banner year: 2023 promises to be one of the most memorable rafting seasons in recent history.

According to Steve Markle, vice president of Communications for , one of the largest rafting outfitters in the U.S., “All the rivers are gonna be moving. Each watershed is a little different, but in general, we’re talking about bigger, faster water with fewer eddies.

“To see [the snow] stacked up across the entire West like this,” he says, “is unprecedented.”

Not only does the deep snowpack mean grander rapids on some of the most coveted whitewater, but that boating companies can run trips for weeks longer. Take the Yampa River, a Class IV trip through Utah’s Dinosaur National Monument. A typical rafting season there begins when the snow starts melting, in early May, and ends by mid-June, but this year OARS expects to run trips on the river well into July.

Yet bigger water also means bigger risk, so this is no season to paddle solo without substantial training. Hire a guide service to lead you down one of these waterways. Not sure about which guide service to trust? If a river passes through a national park, call or email the park for a list of trusted guide services with permits to run trips there. Ask a guide service about their safety practices. The best operators are increasing safety measures this spring, such as raising the minimum age for certain trips, paying their guides to take extra training, and, in some cases, running motorized support rafts to be on hand for rescues. Remember, too, that the water is cold, so plan ahead and use caution.

Here are five western rivers you can be stoked to raft this spring.

The Yampa in Colorado/Utah

Beginning in northern Colorado’s Flat Tops, a mountain range within Routt and White River National Forest, the Yampa runs for almost 250 miles before joining Utah’s Green River. The best section awaiting rafters is inside Dinosaur National Monument, on the state border: 47 miles of fast, Class III-IV waves and drops between the walls of sandstone canyons. If you have the skills and gear, you can apply for a via a lottery system from December 1 to January 31 each year—but know they’re limited and hard to come by. You can also book a , choosing between single- or multiday options. Peak Yampa season will run from May into July this season.

The Merced in Central California

The Merced flows out of Yosemite National Park, in central California, and typically has a short window for being navigable by raft, often ending by Memorial Day. This year outfitters expect to be able to run the river into August. During low snowmelt seasons, the Merced is a relatively tame, 16-mile-long Class III experience; this year, however, the record snowpack promises an extravaganza of Class IV roller-coaster wave trains. No permit is required to raft the Merced, but guided options are available and can be found .

Cataract Canyon in Utah

Cataract Canyon, southwest of Moab, Utah, might be the most iconic stretch of river rafting in the West. The canyon begins at the confluence of the Colorado and Green Rivers, doubling in force before carving through the red sandstone cliffs of Canyonlands National Park and Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. Most guided trips down this 100-mile-long gorge last four days, are packed with Class III-V rapids, and include beach camping and hikes through side canyons. Find permits for individual trips , or skip the red tape and go with a . This year the season will begin in May and run into October.

The Owyhee in Idaho and Oregon

The National Wild and Scenic Owyhee, which wends through Idaho and Oregon, doesn’t actually run that often. In fact, due to lesser snowpack, most guides haven’t run trips on the Owyhee since 2019. This year, however, snow levels in the Pacific Northwest are over 250 percent of their annual average, promising rafting on the Owyhee through mid-May. The Lower Owyhee, which travels through Oregon’s high desert terrain, is the most coveted adventure; expect a mix of flat water peppered with Class III-IV rapids through 2,000-foot-tall canyons. The 55-mile multiday trip passes through desert badlands full of sandstone formations, tall sagebrush, and landscapes home to big game like antelope and bighorn sheep. Pull off to soak in a hot spring tucked into the grass on the river’s edge. See info on permits and guides . Owyhee season has already begun and is expected to wrap up in mid-May, so act fast.

The South Fork of the American in California

Another watershed benefitting from the Sierra’s massive snowpack is the South Fork American, just an hour east of Sacramento. It’s actually a dam-release river, with recreational flows allotted each year. During years of drought, such releases are typically only guaranteed on weekends. But this year rafters began running the rapids of the South Fork in late March—and expect to go clear into October Most people opt for the family-friendly day trip, with Class II-III rapids shooting through the foothills of the Sierra, but there’s also a popular overnight option that covers 21 miles. For more information, including how to apply for a permit, check out details .

Graham Averill is °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’s national parks columnist. During the summer, he spends most of his time in a raft on dam-released rivers in the Southeast, but dreams of taking his family on a big, multi-day Western river trip.

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Top Chef alum is a trailblazer, developing out-of-the-box dishes like toasted sage matcha and goat milk custard, tagliatelle and champignon sauce (dubbed an homage to hamburger helper, which Kish loved growing up), and even a gourmet spin on the McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish.Ìę

But even as Kish’s culinary comfort zone has always been expansive, her new National Geographic show has her pushing the boundaries of what she knows. Over the course of four episodes, Kish visits restaurants in far-flung spots like Boquete, Panama;, Svalbard, Norway; and Paraty, Brazil, in order to learn about tradition, culture, and cuisine.Ìę

Kish, already well-traveled and adventure-hungry, jumped at the opportunity to make the show when Nat Geo brought the pitch to her. “I’ve definitely traveled before, but this was one of the first times I actually went outside of major cities,” Kish says. “In the show, I was tasked with a whole different space than I was used to. It was so exciting going off the beaten path.”

An experienced, talented, and exquisitely creative chef, there’s not a ton Kish hasn’t seen in the kitchen. But some of the most challenging culinary experiences on the show weren’t exactly in a kitchen.Ìę

Sem Pressa, a restaurant on one of the world’s largest tropical fjords in Paraty, Brazil, is actually a floating dining experience on a beautiful boat. According to Kish, it was a little tricky to learn new skills on the fly while working on the water.

“I filleted a belt fish, which I’ve never personally done before,” Kish says. “It’s incredibly thin and I was using, to be frank, a very dull knife on the boat. I think it was the most panicked I’d been on my journeys.”

Testing out a new skill in the moment made Kish a little anxious, especially since she was in the spotlight. “The fish was splitting in all these weird places,” she says, laughing. “But being around the co-owner and chef Gisela Schmitt calmed me down a little bit and the guests were super relaxed.”

But new culinary experiences weren’t the only heart-racing adventures. In Svalbard, Norway, Kish and the crew were set to dive in the freezing Arctic Ocean for sea urchins, mussels, and clams for dinner service. However, when they arrived at the destination, the crew spotted a polar bear on the coast and had to rethink things.

“Production said, ‘Well, this isn’t going to happen!’ and we had to find a new place on the fly,” Kish says. “If we had jumped into the water and gotten too close to the polar bear, it theoretically could have mistaken us for a seal. But I was surrounded by people who knew their stuff, so I put all my trust in them.”

Remote Restaurateurs

Though quite literally on opposite sides of the world, Kish noticed that the remote restaurateurs shared something in common: the ability to roll with the punches. “It’s one of the characteristics they all share that I found inspiring and admirable,” Kish says. “They have this sense of what’s going to happen is going to happen and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll figure it out.”

As much as Kish tells herself ‘It’s going to be fine!’ when things go awry, she can’t deny the nerves that overcome her when she loses control of a situation.

“These people are pretty much giving it up to mother nature, which is incredibly unpredictable,” she says. “But they were all very much thriving with that idea and possessed the quality to do that.”

While learning the ins and outs of skewering grouse organs and harvesting wild watercress while rappelling down a rushing waterfall, Kish was reminded to embrace the moment. So much so that she brought home a new goal after all her travels.

“I need to play a bit more in the kitchen, not just playing for the idea of working through a dish to put on the menu, but to actually play,” she says. “To get into the kitchen and play like I used to when I was a kid is something I need to be better at. It sparks curiosity and creativity and childlike play that many adults, regardless if you cook or not, let fall to the wayside.”

The Most Daring Desserts

Case in point, in Norway, Kish was stunned when Rogier Janesn, chef at Isfjord Radio, uttered the words kimchi juice and sorbet in the same sentence. The experiential dessert was a passion fruit-kimchi sorbet with a white chocolate custard served with parsnip chips dusted in lingonberry powder.Ìę

“I was like you are out of your mind!” Kish says, laughing. “I had a lot of skepticism about it, but when I actually ate it, everything made so much sense. It was delicious and incredibly balanced, so I was taken off guard.”Ìę

While visiting Brazil, Kish fell in love with passion fruit, so she incorporated it into a fresh vanilla bean rice pudding with cream at Sem Pressa. She looks forward to playing with the fruit—and many other ingredients and flavors—when she returns stateside.Ìę

“It’s about rethinking the way you think about food,” she says.Ìę “It’s balancing in all the right ways, but you’re expanding your horizons.”

Where You Can Watch Restaurants at the End of the World

Restaurants at the End of the World premieres on March 21 on Disney+ and National Geographic. Kish hopes the show resonates with viewers and that another season will lead to more exploration. “We’re just getting our feet wet,” she says. “I just hope we can continue on and tell even bigger stories.”

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