I don’t remember thinking Bozeman was particularly trendy when I moved here in 2012. I was drawn to the place because rent was cheap, it was located near my seasonal guiding gig, and the peaks were bigger than the ones in the northeast, where I’d come from. We stuffed three people into a cramped two-bedroom apartment, and I paid my $265 portion of the rent entirely from barista tips.

As far as I knew, any notable money in the area was channeled to Big Sky and the ghastly specter of the Yellowstone Club—in the real world, Bozeman was plenty affordable for someone living off coffee shop wages and the occasional dog-sitting gig. The town felt compact but never claustrophobic: Montana State University and local businesses were bordered by expansive pastures that swept into foothills before rising into mountains visible from downtown. Hit TV shows about the region didn’t exist yet, and no one could have predicted that a global pandemic the bloated expansion of a town I’d somewhat accidentally landed in.

I felt like a harmless cog in a community of aspirational college graduates looking for accessible climbing, biking, and hiking. What I didn’t think about was how our seemingly modest presence was changing the culture and landscape, transforming Bozeman from a town of ranches, dirt roads, and classic diners to a hot destination with a sprawling REI, multiple sushi restaurants, and nearly a dozen local breweries.

Now, it’s changing again. A new wave of remote workers, wealthy second-home owners, and urban dwellers looking to escape claustrophobic city life during the COVID-19 years have swarmed the valley, snapping up homes above asking price and waiving the inspections.

These days, within five minutes of my house, I can get a CBD smoothie, Botox, and an $18 cocktail. There’s a Lululemon on Main Street, and it seems like every new restaurant name has a vendetta against vowels. McMansions dot the foothills with man-made ponds dug into acres of non-native grasses—a cruel jab to a drought-stricken landscape. Rents for two-bedroom “luxury” apartments in Bozeman now range from $1,400 to $2,400, and the is $800,000. Core members of the community have left, because of the cultural changes, or being priced out, or both.

My instinct is to bash this newest generation of transplants—abundantly wealthy and full of media-fueled romanticization of Montana—but my aversion comes with an asterisk. I’m a transplant, too, and no matter how long I’ve been here, I will never be from Montana. How many years do I have to live in a place before I can mourn the cultural shift and the heartbreaking rate of development? Can I answer the question of who deserves to live in the West? Being a resident and watching these changes happen in real time make the answer even less clear.

I’m far from the only one thinking about this. In fact, is about similar tensions playing out in a fictional version of the region surrounding Bozeman. The Paramount Network show takes a preservationist stance on the influx of wealthy, coastal transplants to Montana. In the show, the Duttons, a legacy ranching family, fight to protect their land from soulless developers. Granted, the Duttons’ situation—owning the largest ranch in the U.S. and feeling threatened by a developer wanting pieces of it—is very different from the standard Bozeman resident getting priced out of two bedroom apartments. But the show’s tension is relatable.

Everyone wants a piece of this majestic scenery, and in visually stunning episodes, the Duttons prevail in narrative arcs that wrap up neatly by the end of each season. In this simplified, digestible manner, the show gets it right. If the area was facing a caricature of a developer bulldozing hundreds of acres of the valley, I might feel hopeful that the rapid development could be slowed. But if you side with the Duttons, you have to be ready to answer the question: OK, who does deserves to be here?

The popularity of the show has generated even more interest in southwest Montana, and has helped launch a thousand takes on the area’s spiraling cost of living. Perhaps the most widely talked about was a by columnist Ross Douthat, which caused a stir on social media, where Westerners heckled Douthat for trying to diagnose Montana’s woes after watching Yellowstone and taking a brief road trip to the region.

It also didn’t help, in these parts at least, that he tried to make a case for settlement by smitten newcomers. “As an Easterner accustomed to big cities and dense suburbs, to experience the West’s mixture of majesty and emptiness is to feel more intensely what John Dutton’s various foils and rivals feel,” he writes. “That something extraordinary is being effectively hoarded here, with whatever admirable intentions, and that more Americans should be able to live in the shadow of such beauty.” Douthat argues that everyone deserves a piece of western heaven, and that Montantans have no right to hog their wide-open spaces. He doesn’t think a little more population density in such a massive state would necessarily be a bad thing, and that no one truly owns the rights to these places.

While I can’t argue directly with any of those points, I feel strongly that this is the opinion of someone not embedded in the culture and community. While Douthat acknowledges the “coastal gentrification,” and mentions Bozeman as a case against expansion, he understates the insidious, irreversible cultural shift that accompanies rapid population increase. It’s true that longterm residents live here for reasons that may entice others: the lack of population density, the open spaces. But if this growth explosion continues, those reasons vanish, and what will we be left with?

Here’s where it’s hard to make an argument on either side. If I refuse to accept change and growth, I’m taking the stance that certain people don’t belong. If I pretend that nothing is wrong with the current development, I’m putting my head in the sand and ignoring the heartbreaking rate of expansion. This whiplash leaves me stranded in the middle of the argument, my head spinning as I witness the unchecked growth of a town that no longer feels familiar. One part of me wants to frantically build blockades to preserve what’s left of the humble mountain-town culture; the other part knows I can’t. I moved here, too, and the newcomers who see what I saw in 2012 also deserve to follow their desires.

If something doesn’t give, I’m left with the question of who this place will be for once all the land has been developed, the ranches have been subdivided, and everyone under a certain income bracket has been priced out. I wonder what will be left of the town we moved to, and where we’ll all end up.

The post In ‘Yellowstone,’ Transplants to the West Are the Enemy. Is the Hit Show Right? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

It’s no surprise that mountain towns across the West have a problem. The pandemic-fueled real estate boom has priced out locals from Bozeman, Montana, to Bend, Oregon. In the Colorado towns of Ouray and Telluride, housing shortages have led to worker shortages, forcing businesses to operate at reduced capacity. And in Crested Butte, Colorado, the 2021 school year beganÌęwithout school buses, because the district can’t find anyone in the area to hire to drive them.

But for some mountain-town residents, this problem is nothing new.

Karla Garcia Gonzales moved from Peru to Telluride in 2004, where she began working as a cultural outreach coordinator and organizing for immigrants’ rights. For more than a decade she tried to bridge the Latino community with the wealth and opportunity that exist in Telluride. But she could never reconcile the fact that she could casually talk to a billionaire at the coffee shop and then walk down the block to help a single mother with multiple jobs figure out how to make rent.

San Miguel County, where Telluride is located, ranked eighth in the nation in highest income inequality, according to a . And it isn’t exactly the most racially equitable either. The Latino population there makes up a significant percentage of the local workforce but until recently not have access to federally funded affordable housing because many of them are undocumented, leaving few options in an already limited workforce-housing market. Many are forced to commute long distances or share housing. Meanwhile, Black residents make up less than 1 percent of the population.

Eventually, for Gonzalez, the wealth inequality was “too much in her face.” She worked tirelessly for her community but couldn’t afford to buy a home. In 2011, she moved to Denver, away from the friends and landscape she loved.

“The joys of skiing and small-mountain-town living have disproportionately been conferred to wealthy white people,” says Willa Williford, an affordable-housing consultant for mountain communities across Colorado.

Many of these mountain towns began to address racial and social inequities more seriously in response to the Black Lives Matter groundswell in 2020. Now they are struggling to house even the longtime locals (who are largely white and middle class). Yet what feels like two separate losing battles actually creates one collective opportunity. If these places can find a way to stop catering to the ultrarich and instead create more accessible, just, and equitable atmospheres for BIPOC residents and visitors, they may have a chance to save what is left of their middle-class souls.

In Williford’s opinion, the first thing to address is affordable housing. In Telluride, where the median household income is $66,000 and the average residential property sells for $2.1 million (not to mention the many houses listed in the area at $36 million), the pain of inequality is felt by nearly all of the full-time residents making local wages.

Williford says that many mountain communities where she works are keenly aware of the ways that state and federal resources don’t adequately address housing needs; as a result, local leaders are innovating solutions that could be applied elsewhere. In Steamboat Springs, is working on housing-advocacy programs for itsÌęLatino community. In Leadville, are negotiating with a mining company to donate land for a project aimed at increasing the rental pool. In Crested Butte, is exploring ideas to provide housing specifically to attract BIPOC folks. And in Bozeman, creators of an innovative, are hoping to further prove that smart, equitable growth is possible.

“I think we need to do a white paper on the cost to these places of keeping people out,” says Christine Walker, former director of the Jackson/Teton County Housing Authority, in Wyoming, and now a workforce-housing consultant. She notes that to be inclusive, you must increase density, a concept that most mountain communities fiercely resist to such an extent that residents have often relocated in an effort to escape crowds. In the end, though, this exclusivity hurts all members of the community.

Low-density zoning policies in many mountain-resort towns favor large, expensive single-family homes that are often used as second homes and vacation rentals. (Generally one- to two-thirds of housing stock in ski-resort communities aren’t occupied year-round, according to a conducted by the Colorado Association of Ski Towns and the Northwest Colorado Council of Governments.) The simple equation of finite land and increased demand for housing means that a local wage is not enough to buy a home, and workers are forced downvalley. Small-town perks like biking to work or living next to friends are lost. Business owners struggle to find employees. Water and energy are used inefficiently, traffic increases, carbon dioxide emissions rise, and wildlife collisions increase.

When a community has to import its workforce, it leaves residents, commuters, and visitors exposed. For example, when a massive storm is expected to roll through the Tetons, emergency responders employed in Jackson—many of whom live outside Teton County—have to decide whether they will go home for the night and risk sketchy or closed roads in the morning, or stay somewhere in town (local hotels offer discounted rates for these occasions). One such storm could prohibit 20 percent of teachers from getting to school, 18 of 21ÌęTeton County patrol officers from reporting for duty, and almost half of its hospital employees and critical workers, like snowplow drivers and mechanics, from getting to their jobs.

In San Francisco, a city notorious for its absurd housing prices and the resulting gentrification, a 2018 report showed that an average teacher could afford just 0.7 percent of the available housing, and first responders could afford 2.4 percent of the currently listed housing. To help solve their housing crises, voters a ballot measure that increased taxes on property sales worth over $10 million. This revenue will help fund rent relief and affordable housing for low- and middle-income residents. Seattle passed in July, imposing an additional tax on high-income earners that will then go toward community development, local business assistance, and workforce housing. Vancouver, British Columbia, Oakland, California, and Washington, D.C., have implemented taxes on homes that remain vacant a majority of the year. Mountain towns need to follow suit.

Fortunately, some are. A Teton County legislator is proposing a second-home fee, and Breckenridge, Colorado, is buying houses in town and converting them to deed-restricted dwellings to increase the number of diverse inhabitants year-round. Other places, including Summit County, Colorado, Truckee, California, and Steamboat Springs and Crested Butte, have all elected to tax themselves and/or visitors to create dedicated local funding sources for housing.

An increasing amount of demonstrate that individuals who interact with different socioeconomic and demographic backgrounds, whether at school, work, or in neighborhoods, fare better in mental health, personal finances, academics, and employment rates. There’s evidence that corporations with better gender and racial representation have higher profits and are more , that children who attend more integrated schools develop more , and that diversity fosters more and consensus building.

Inclusivity is also good for business. Even Rob Katz, the CEO of Vail Resorts, admitsÌęthat the ski industry has waited far too long to invest in communities of color. Katz wrote an to his employees, acknowledging that the lack of diversity in the ski industry is “not only a moral and societal issue, but a business issue.” The U.S. Census Bureau projects that more than half of the country will be non-white by 2044, and according to a report by the National Ski Areas Association, visits by people of color have remained fairly stagnant in the past decade and are not tracking with the growth of minority populations in the U.S. Katz recognizes that the ski industry must broaden its base to more skiers of color if it wants to survive. Similarly, the mountain-biking, climbing, hunting, and fishing industries, all of which feed mountain towns’ tourism economies, have remained mostly white while the face of America becomes increasingly diverse.

Geographically isolated mountain communities once thought exclusionary practices could insulate them from modern and urban hardships—this is clearly no longer the case. Safety nets that previously held communities together are being stretched thin and tearing as wealth pours in and inequitable practices endure. Gonzales stresses that we cannot use old solutions for new problems, and that these communities have the power to level the playing field. She believes that bringing people to the table “not because they think like you or look like you, but because they are different” is key to the survival of mountain towns. “We are in this mess together,” she says. “Let’s work together, so we can learn and build together.”

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Most lightweight technical backpacks compensate for the different shapes ofÌęvarious human torsos by incorporating a degree of flexibility into their frames. That works fine if you’re only asking that pack to carry a couple dozen pounds. ButÌęthe flexibility that makes them broadly comfortable also places a hard limit on the amount of weight they’re able to carry. If you need a pack capable of hauling 100 pounds or more,Ìęyou need a frame that won’tÌęflex under that load but will carryÌęweightÌęas close to your back as possible. And that’s a problem, because humans do not come in a uniform shape or size.

How Backpacks Work

I have a curved back. If I stand against a wall,Ìęwith my heels and shoulders pressed against it, I can fit my hand between my lower back and the wall.ÌęMost of my friends have straighter backs. But if we want to go backpacking together, I can loan them one of my Osprey packs ($155 and up), safe in the knowledge that they’ll be comfortable withÌęit, too. Ìęcomfort for most people by using a mesh suspension system that holds the pack away from the wearer’s body, along with a metal wire frame that can support anywhere from 25 to 85 pounds, depending on the model. ItÌęwill start to flex if the wearer really cranks down on the adjustment strapsÌęor if the pack is loaded beyond its weight rating. This works really well.

A single backpackÌęis able to fit most people comfortably, while hauling as much weight as they likely need to to enjoy a simple camping trip. It doesn’t matter if one person’s shoulder blades poke out more than another’s, the taut mesh will simply adapt to either person’s contours, and the wire frame will compensate for any dramatic differences. But not all outdoor activities can be accomplished with a 25-to-85-pound load. The point of a backpack frame is to transfer weight vertically into the hipbelt. If that frame flexes, it begins to pull at the wearer’s shoulders, becoming uncomfortableÌęand imbalanced. SoÌęif you need to carry a lot of weight, you need a pack frame that can support that weight without flexing at all.

This is actually something that old-school, external-frame packs excel at. A big rectangle made from tubular steel is very strong. ButÌęold external-frameÌępacks have two inherent design flaws: (1) a big metal rectangle can’t conform to the shape of a human body, soÌęit needs to be separated from the wearer’s back, and (2) that space means the wearer ends up carryingÌęa hanging load several inches behind their back, pulling at their shoulders.

To really carry weight comfortably, a pack frame needs to sit flush with your back, while also being utterly inflexible. Consider the varied shapes humans come in, and I’m sure you can see the problem. Wearing weight-hauling packs designed for flatter backsÌęthan my own doesn’t just create discomfort, it also pulls my torso into an unnatural position, which can make it it difficult to breathe on steep uphills. That’s been a major issue for me, especially when I’mÌęcarrying a hundred pounds or more of meat out of the woods.

Enter , a small company based in Bozeman, Montana,Ìęthat’s been making packs and other high-performance hunting gear since 2012.

High-Tech Materials

By drawing resin-coated carbon fibers through a heated dieÌęunder pressure, the company is able to manufactureÌęa solid carbon-fiber stay that matches the contours of a human back. Stone Glacier employs four of those stays toÌęinÌęits ($365), whichÌęfits curvedÌębacks like mine. (The brand’s ,Ìę$365,Ìęis designed for people with straight backs.)ÌęWe all know that carbon fiber is light, but few companies go through the effort of producing productsÌęfrom it that also take full advantage of the material’s strength.ÌęStone Glacier has tested its backpack frames to 340 pounds with no cracking or deflection in the stays. The only thing stopping the company from finding the failure point for its packs has beenÌęthe inability ofÌęa human tester to lift a heavier load onto their back. The X-Curve weighs three pounds.

Like the other, straighterÌęframes in Stone Glacier’s lineup, the X-Curve incorporates a load shelf made from X-Pac, an extremely strong butÌęvery light laminated composite fabric. Two of the carbon stays are arranged vertically, with the other two forming an X between them; this not only facilitates proper distribution of weight vertically, down into the hipbelt, but it also prevents sideways distortion, as the load shelf carries all that weight. That shelf attaches to the frame with one-inch webbing at 12 points. It enables Stone Glacier’s frames to be used on their own, without a pack body, with any of the packs in the brand’s range, or with one of those bodiesÌęand a drybag, enabling you to move gear or meat around in a variety of ways.

I’ve been running an X-Curve paired with Stone Glacier’s ($219). That packÌęonly provides 31 liters of interior volume (along with a six-liter external pocket designedÌęto accept a spotting scope). That’s not enough volume for even a quick overnighter, much less a multi-day backcountry trip, so I add Ìęto the load shelfÌębetween the pack body and frame. The pack itself stowsÌęa couple layersÌęand the other equipment I need during the day, while all my camping gear and food fits in the drybag. Arranged like that, I can hang the drybag in a tree at a campsite, then spend the day chasing animals aroundÌęwithout being encumbered by an unnecessarily large or heavy pack body. Switching between the two setups takes mere seconds. Made from very strong, extremely water-repellant 500-denier Cordura, the Approach 1800 weighs 1.1 pounds.

A Custom Fit

Stone Glacier’s frames incorporate three customization features that massively aid comfort. The first are the hook-and-loop panels used to attach the shoulder straps to the frame. Seventeen percent stronger than Velcro, the material spans 24 square inches of contact area between each strap and the frame, granting each strap the ability to resist up to 400 pounds of shearing forces (which is a complicated way of saying it’s not going to come loose). It also gives you near infinite levels of adjustability when it comes toÌęstrap length and angle. In addition to my curved back, I also have a shoulder that sits lower than the other one, thanks to a motorcycle crash. The hook-and-loop connection allows me to compensate for that.

The other customization features are on the hipbelt. The lumbar pad is filled with several pieces of foam, which you can remove, reorganize, or relocate, allowing you to adjust its thickness, shape, and height. As you’d expect on a pack designedÌęto carry an immense amount of weight, the hipbelt is also extremely burly. Two one-inch webbing straps run along each side of the belt, so it sitsÌęjust above and below your pelvis’sÌęiliac crest. The strapsÌęalso allow you to adjust each side of the hipbelt individually, top and bottom, creatingÌęa perfect cradle for that protrusion’s unique shape and location on your body.

In the Mountains

During the fall, IÌęcarried this pack on two weeklong backcountry huntsÌęand probably a dozen daylong excursions. It’s been up and down the same mountain at least 20 timesÌęand supported my load over 20 trail milesÌęin a day inÌęthe mountains of southwest Montana. The only big game I’ve shot so far ended up being about a mile from my truck, so I just bear-hugged that mule deer for the slog out. But while I have no doubts that the X-Curve will haul an elk quarter just fine, the surprising conclusion after all that use is that I don’t think I’m going back to wearing lighter packs once hunting season is over. Stone Glacier’s packÌęisn’t just better at hauling loads than ultralight alternatives; that curved frameÌęand its customization features make it more comfortable, too, even with only a couple pounds onboard.

Is this pack right for you? Unless you’re also participating in an activity like huntingÌęthat necessitates the ability to carry a hundred pounds or more, you probably don’t need to spend over $600 to achieve a setup like the one I’ve detailed here. My recommendation for Osprey’s range of packs remains unaltered, and you’ll find them plenty comfortableÌęno matter your shape or size. ButÌęif you are a hunter, I can help you justify that expense. Not only will a secure-fittingÌęStone Glacier packÌęwork during the fall, but you’ll also end up carrying it the rest of the year and for many years to come.

The post Have a Curved Back? You Need This Pack. appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In the early hours of June 11, Ezra SmithÌęwas sleeping in a tent a short ways from the Beehive Basin Trailhead in Big Sky, Montana. Smith, a 20-year-old junior atÌęthe University of Colorado Boulder, was camping with a friend, but they soon realized they weren’t alone.Ìę

Here’s her story, as told to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.

Around 3 A.M., I woke up to my friend Leah screaming. I was confused. Just six hours earlier, we’d settled into our sleeping bags inside our tent. I’d been sleeping soundly, but even before I could get my bearings, I realized what she was yelling about—the topÌęof our tent had fully collapsed onto our legs, and we were being crushed by something.

I’ve spent the past couple summers in Montana cross-countryÌęski training with the CUÌęBoulder ski team. The winter season starts in November, but we begin training in May. Each morningÌęthe team drives from Bozeman to Big Sky, where we ski during the day before returning to Bozeman in the evenings. The night before our first day in Big Sky, though, my teammate Leah and I wanted to do something different. Instead of driving out with the team the next day, we thought a night camping at Beehive BasinÌęwould be fun.

The drive was short—just an hour—with a few stops along the way to pick up some gear, a canister of bear spray included. We parked off the Beehive Basin Trailhead and walked about 500 feet to set up our tent along a pine tree–wooded ridge. By 9 P.M., after eating some tofu stir-fry for dinner, changing into clean clothes to sleep in, and stuffing awayÌęleftover food inside the Subaru, we were ready to sleep. I usually bring a snack inside the tent with me, but tonight I didn’t.ÌęI’d recently heard stories about bear attacks and sightings in .

Before tucking in, we thought aboutÌęhow exactly we should sleep—a decision all campers have to make once they realize they set up the tent on an incline—and ultimately decided it would be better to have our feet facing downslope. We zipped in and chatted about our plans for the next day before drifting off.

When I heard the animal’s heavy breathing, I knew immediately that it was a bear. There was so muchÌępressure growing in my left leg, like nothing I’d ever felt before, but I figured it was from the bear’s weight. At that moment, all I could think about was grabbing the bear spray. But it was useless to us now, located at the bottom of the tent—under the bear. I don’t know how long Leah and I screamed, but we must have disturbed the bear enough. The animal climbed off our tent and was gone. We never saw it.

Leah and I sat in our tentÌęcrying and shaking. I didn’t know much about bears, but I was worried it would come back to fight if it felt provoked, so I began searching for the bear spray. We didn’t want to be caught dashing uphill to the car if the bear was hanging around outsideÌęthe tent. AfterÌęan hour, we decided to move to the car. No bear in sight, we ran. Upon making it to the car, we headed to the trailhead—Leah driving, me in the passenger seat—to wait for our teammates.

As we drove down the mountain, I was reminded of my leg, which hurt when I ran from the tent to the car, though I was still too worked up to think about much pain. Pulling off my pants, I gasped. My entire left leg was swollen, and on my thigh were four perfectly placed punctures. But oddly enough, my pants weren’t ripped at all. I assumed the bear must have stepped on me. A couple hours later, my coach and teammates arrived, and my coach had the same suspicion: I was stepped on. We figured that, if I felt up to it, I might as well ski. So I did, for three and a half hours. I felt all right, though by the end of my cross-country runs, I was in severe pain as my leg continued to swell.

We drove to a hospital in Bozeman, where I was sure the doctor would tell me what I already knew: that I’d been stepped on by a bear. My doctor couldn’t be certain, so he conferred with a wildlife specialist from Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks. The specialist, on the other hand, was confident: these were bite marks, likely from an adult bear, though it was hard to know whetherÌęit was a grizzly or black bear. The wildlife specialist estimated that the bite wasn’tÌęaggressive, and that the bear probablyÌęgot caught up in our tent while sniffing around it. “Initial details of the incident indicate the bear’s behavior was likely investigative, not predatory, and that the bite was defensive,” the FWP later said in a . If it were a real bite, they told me, my leg would have been completely ruined.

I was given some antibiotics and instructed to wrap and ice my leg. Though the muscle and tissue in my thigh quickly turned squishy with damage, and I wasn’t able to do physical activity for a week, less than a month later I was back out skiing. The FWP patrolled the area where Leah and I campedÌębut unfortunately wasn’t able to track the bear. It rained that week, so they couldn’t find the bear’s tracks, which was a bummer.

A couple things stand out to me as I look back on the experience. The summer before, I was warned repeatedly to buy bear spray before going to Montana, but I didn’t.ÌęEven though we didn’t end up using the spray this year, the reminders to buy the stuff felt like a foreboding of what was to come. I also shudder to think about what would have happened if Leah and I had slept with our heads at the other end of the tent, whichÌęwe considered. Leah could have suffocated, and I might have been bitten on my face.

Two months later, I’m now back in Boulder for my third year of college. Though we’re not sure there will be a regular ski season due to the pandemic, I’m still training, grateful to have recovered so quicklyÌęexcept for a couple lasting marks on my leg. I was luckyÌębut still feel traumatized by the experience. I don’t plan to camp again anytime soon—if I do, it’ll be in the desert. I know bear attacks are rare, but the fear of waking up at 3 A.M.Ìęto another one at my mountain campsite may keep me away for just a while longer.

The post The Time I Was Bitten by a Bear and Didn’t Know It appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

One of my biggest fears when I was pregnantÌęwas that motherhood would dampen my desire for adventure. I worried that toting a diaper-wearing little person into the wilderness would be a hassleÌęand that having a baby would limit my ability to throw camping gear into the truck on a Friday and wake up in some remote canyon on Saturday. But I was pregnant in the winter, and if there’s anything I like more than being outside, it’s curling up by the woodstove with a book. So I picked up Mardy Murie’s memoir, , and settled in.Ìę

In theÌębook, Murie recounts taking her nine-month-old on an Arctic river expedition with her biologist husband in 1926. Partway through the trip, their motorboat breaksÌędown, and they areÌęforced to pole more than 200 miles upriver in a scow. There were no disposable diapers or Gore-Tex. The mosquitos were “a buzzing inferno.” And yet the whole family was unceasingly cheerful. They’d stop for lunch on a sandy island, tie the baby to a leash so that he could explore his surroundings without falling into the current, and feed him bear or goose or caribou pureed with a hand-crank grinder. “The baby would sit happily on the sand, eagerly accepting food as I knelt before him,” Murie wrote. “At times he would lie on his stomach very quietly, and run handfuls of pebbles through his fingers.”Ìę

Reading Murie’s tales not only allayed my fears about getting outside with a new baby, theyÌęgot me positively stoked for all the things we could do together.ÌęI began plotting our first family river trip; I researched toddler-friendly bikepacking routes. That’s the power of a good book—it changes how you see the worldÌęand how you move through it.Ìę

Since it’s again prime book-reading, adventure-planning, curling-up-by-the-fire season, I asked an assortment of book lovers (big thanks to theÌę in Seattle; in Bozeman, Montana; in Durango, Colorado; and a slew of friends and colleagues) to recommend other titles that make getting outside with kids less daunting. I hope one will inspire you to gear up for an afternoon in the snow, or start to scheme aboutÌęyour next big trip.

‘Let Them Paddle: Coming of Age on the Water,’ by Alan S. Kesselheim

When each of paddler Alan Kesselheim’s three kids were still in the womb, they inadvertently joined their parents on canoe trips. Later, as Kesselheim’s first son approached his 13th birthday, Kesselheim came up with the idea of taking each child back to their natal river as a coming-of-age journey. Fair warning: might make you drop everything and beeline it toÌęthe nearest waterway.

‘Small Feet, Big Land,’ by Erin McKittrick

include taking an eight-month-old and a two-year-old on a two-month, self-supported, off-trail expeditionÌęin the Alaskan bush with hand-sewn gear. That’s more extreme than anything I’d attempt, and she doesn’t sugarcoat the challenges. But reading her honest account will put your own kid-related outdoor struggles in perspective and may inspire you to push beyond your comfort zone.

‘Closer to the Ground,’ by Dylan Tomine

The Tomines aren’t hardcore survivalistsÌębut aÌęself-described “regular suburban family” that connects outdoor recreation with daily sustenance. If you’ve ever dreamed of living off the land without dropping everything and moving to the bush, you’ll love this memoir about the Tomines’ mini adventures “fishing and foraging and gardening and cooking and eating” in the Pacific Northwest.

‘Wilderness: A Journal of Quiet șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű in Alaska,’ by Rockwell Kent

If, on the other hand, you do dream of dropping everything and moving to the bush with your kid, this book will stoke your fire. It recounts the seven months that graphic artist Rockwell Kent spent living in an off-grid Alaskan cabin with his nine-year-old son in 1918. It’s a testament to how wilderness can strengthen the bond between a parent and child.

‘Children and Other Wild Animals,’ by Brian Doyle

While this isn’t an adventure book per se, nobody captures the magic that happens when children and nature come together better than the late Brian Doyle. This collection of essays will poignantly remind you of the brilliant wonder of being a kid outside.

‘Monkey Dancing,’ by Daniel Glick

In the summer of 2001, newly divorced environmental journalist Daniel Glick and his two kids took off on a six-month journey to see some of the earth’s most endangered habitats. Glick’s account of their travels (from Borneo to Nepal to Australia and beyond) not only provides motivation for anyone who longs to travelÌęwith kids, it also reflects deeply on change—both personal and planetary.

‘The Curve of Time,’ by M. Wylie Blanchet

Widowed in 1927 while living on a remote island, M. Wylie Blanchet packed her five kids onto a boat and set off to explore coastal British Columbia. SheÌęwas an astonishingly courageous and capable boat captain, mother, and chronicler of the region’s human and natural history. This classic but obscure memoir of her family’s adventures is sure to inspire.

‘The Bar Mitzvah and the Beast,’ by Matt Biers-Ariel

When 13-year-old Yonah refusedÌęto have a traditional bar mitzvah, Matt Biers-Ariel and his wife decided to celebrate their son’s coming of age by having the whole family (two kids and two adults) ride their bikes 3,804 miles across America instead. Make no mistake—the Biers-Ariels are not hardcore cyclists, which means this book serves up plenty of encouragement for other ordinary families dreaming of extraordinary journeys.

‘Forget Me Not,’ by Jennifer Lowe-Anker

This book’s premise is sobering: the author is the widow of mountaineer Alex Lowe, who died in an avalanche in 1999, and the narrative follows Lowe-Anker’s continent-spanning relationship with him, her grief, her own search for adventure, and the solace she found in raising three boys and falling in love again. It is a powerful depiction of how one woman balances being a mother, wife, and climber.Ìę

‘Raising Wild: Dispatches from a Home in the Wilderness,’ by Michael P. Branch

Branch is a lyrical, perceptive,Ìęand often hilarious writer. This book of essays about raising two daughters in Nevada’s arid Great Basin desert is both funny and moving. It’s full of relatable moments—even for those of us who don’t live in a place where “mountain lions and ground squirrels can threaten in equal measure.”Ìę

‘There’s No Such Thing as Bad Weather,’ by Linda Akeson McGurk

A Swede who spent 15 years in Indiana before taking her daughters back to Sweden, McGurk wrote this memoir and manifesto about the benefits of giving kids ample outdoor time, no matter the weather. If you want to stop making excuses about why it’s easier to stay inside, her mix of research and personal anecdotes will be just the ticket.

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Two years ago, the released a report estimatingÌęthe national economic impact of the outdoor industry at $887 billion a year. That number has sinceÌębecome a sort of gospel for people looking to push pro-public lands policies across the finish line and invest in recreation economies at a local level around the country.

But what that number didn’t capture was the direct impact recreation has on the local growth of mountain towns and similar outdoor-oriented communities. A newÌę from Headwaters Economics, a , does just that. The report found that a county with recreation attracts more new residents, higher incomes, and faster earnings growth than a county without recreation, particularly for areas designated as rural (less than 10,000 residents) and micropolitan (less than 50,000 residents).

“We already knew that having outdoor recreation nearby brings tourists to your community,” says Megan Lawson, an economist at Headwaters andÌęauthor of the study. “But what we didn’t have great information on was whether that tourist and those amenities translate into people actually wanting to move to and live in these communities.”

Lawson looked at each county in the U.S. that the Department of Agriculture’s Economic Research Service designated as a “recreation county”—meaning that the local economy is primarily dependent on entertainment and recreation, as well as the associated hospitality industry—and found that while many tourism-dependent communities are known for their low-paying service jobs, the people moving there tend to be wealthier. And thoughÌęrecreation county wages are lower on average, they are growing at a pace that will soon meet or exceed the wages of non-recreation counties. Places with recreation are seeing a steady trickle of people moving in rather than moving away—something particularly significant for rural America, which is losing more residents than it is gaining.

“Outdoor recreation is being seen as a legitimate economic development strategy,” says Lawson. “It’s not just ski bums and dirt bags any more that are the face of an outdoor recreation economy. It’s the entrepreneurs that are moving to a community, bringing their families and their businesses.”

But this influx of higher incomes and wealthier residents is not without its challenges, as any member of the workforce in Bozeman, Truckee, Jackson, Crested Butte, or any other mountain town could tell you.

Rapid growth in many recreation communities means a higher cost of living, affordable housing challenges, and development encroaching into wildfire-prone and other vulnerable landscapes. If we aren’t careful, the report warns, these risks could outstrip the benefits of a growing recreation-based economy.

“The local government has to play an active role in countering that. It’s not something that will just fix itself,” saysÌęStacy Corless, commissioner for California's Mono County, home to Mammoth.

That can take many forms—from paying for basic needs and services to making high speed internet available to accelerating innovative housing solutions for a town’s workforce. And on top of all that, local governments in outdoor destinations are often the ones who step in to invest in recreation infrastructure when no one else can.

“What we’ve come to recognize is that we need the recreational amenities of our public lands to be in good shape, for our own quality of life, for our communities, but also for our recreation and tourism-based economies,” says Corless. This includes “really basic things like making sure bathrooms get opened in time for the annual fishing season opener. The Forest Service is only budgeted to start doing that stuff on Memorial Day, so we cover the cost and we have our contractor go in and open the bathrooms, clean the bathrooms, and empty trash dumpsters. And I think things like that happen all over the west in rural counties.”

Despite the tradeoffs and active role local governments would have to play to both support and grow and then ultimately deal with the cons associated with recreation economies, the findings from Headwaters Economics show that investing in this kind of recreation infrastructure could be a game changer for many communities.

“There are definitely communities that are looking at recreation, and they want to have those problems associated with too many people moving to town,” says Lawson. “It’s important to recognize that recreation is not a silver bullet for every place. It’s not the case where you build a trail, people will come, the rivers will flow with milk and honey and all of our problems will be solved. It’s one option in the toolbox. But for some places, it might be a good fit.”

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We all know that it’s experiences, not material things, that make us happy. This week, it’s probably also a good thing that experiences don’t need to be shipped. Here are three legitimately amazing outdoor experiences you can give anyone, regardless of their experience level.

A Backpacking Trip

Backpacking is the fundamental outdoor adventure and the one with the lowest barrier to entry. But if you don’t already have all of it, obtaining the gear you need all at once get’s really expensive, really fast. Adding to the challenge, the quality of that gear is hugely important to your overall experience—take stuff that’s too heavy or isn’t comfortable, and the trip will turn into a sufferfest. And light, comfortable gear tends to be pricey.

If you’re an experienced backpacker and want to give someone the ability to join you on a trip, or if both of you are going for the first time (or for the first time in a long time), then renting gear is probably the easiest and cheapest solution. can ship you a comprehensive kit containing every single thing you need (tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, backpack, camping stove, water filter, headlamp), or whichever item from that list you might need to fill in a gap in your gear collection. I’ve used these kits to outfit some of my group trips and can report that the gear arrives in good condition and is well-chosen. It’s the stuff I’d recommend you’d buy.

If it really is your first time, then Camp Crate can help even moreÌęby delivering , including food, permits, local transportation, and maps, and can even reserve your backcountry campsites for you. They offer this service at destinations across the country, from Yosemite to the Smokey Mountains. If you’ve ever wanted to enjoy a true wilderness experience, these trips will be the easiest way to get there.

How toÌęMake It Special: Hiking up a mountain with weight on your back can be hard. Aside from using quality gear, the secret for making the experience enjoyable is to bring the right attitude. Be a good backpacking buddy by remaining positive and encouraging, even if it rains.

A Summit

Standing atop a challenging peak is the ultimate outdoor achievement. Climbing big mountains is challenging—and can be dangerous—but the reward matches the effort. Climbing big mountains canÌęalso expensive, so a guided trip to a new peak is something even very experienced outdoorsy types will appreciate.

Is there a mountain looming above your hometown? One you’ve heard someone talk about forever or just a summit you know they haven’t climbed?ÌęWashington offers two incredible—and also incredibly accessible—peaks. MountÌęBaker is a great choice for beginners or those with limited time, while Rainier can be as challenging as you want to make it, depending on the route you chose, but it takes at least another day to climb. Start with one of those.

How toÌęMake It Special: Guided trips are all about the quality of the guides. Legendary mountaineer can take you up anything from Baker ($800) to Everest ($70,000) and anything in between. And he’ll keep you safe and entertained throughout. Just getting to climb with him should be considered an achievement.

A Fishing Trip

Need something with a little lower barrier to entry, for someone a little older, your entire family, or just someone who likes being more mellow? Well, you don’t need to make that any less epic. Bring them to Montana and take them on a multi-day river trip in paradise.

You can make that literal. Floating the Yellowstone River through Paradise Valley or hitting any of the other rivers in southwest Montana is the trip of a lifetime for anyone who enjoys fly fishing. And it’s a trip you can do self-guided and at a reasonable price.

will rent you a camper-equipped Jeep Wrangler or Toyota Tacoma for $95 perÌęday, and a four-person fishing raft you tow behind it for $165 perÌęday. Split that cost four ways, and a three-day weekend comes out toÌęless than $200 a person. Flying into Bozeman is cheap and easy, and you won’t be paying for accommodations, since you can either camp in the vehicle, or on river islands you use the raft to access. Non-resident fishing license are $25 a day.

How toÌęMake It Special: Hatch șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs can help you plan routes and destinations. Call them up, describe the type of trip you’d like to have, and listen to their advice. Camping out of a raft is as easy as camping out of a truck and you’ll have both. So bring good food, some booze, and just enjoy yourself. Download before you visit, as it’ll help you navigate the borders between public and private land so you canÌęfind those good campsites.

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Is your Instagram feed frustratingly full of other people’s envy-inducing hunting photos right now? Well, here’s a chance to roll your own incredible hunt in Montana, fill your freezer with delicious meat, and do it allÌęon a budget.

Why Montana?

Well, it’s incredible here. We’ve got wolves, grizzly bears, elk, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, two kinds of deer, and all the wild it takes to support that many animals. We’re also (by density), but unlike Alaska, it’s cheap and quick to fly here.

There’s just one big caveat: Out-of-state tags here can be really expensive and very restrictive on which areas you can hunt. Worse, the drawings for all the good stuff take place in the spring, so if you’re just now planning something, the state can seem virtually off-limits for visiting hunters. That’s the trouble I’m facing too; Montana imposes a 180-day waiting period before recent transplants can buy in-state tags, so I’m stuck chasing bargains and leftovers until next year.

Hunting Here, Affordably

My solution to the out-of-state tag problem? I’m hunting doesÌęall fall and making that a challenge by using my bow. By hunting anterless deer, you can harvest a good amount of meat, without the expense or tag hassle. In Montana, an out-of-state regional anterless whitetail tag will only set you back $75 and is . If that’s your first hunt here this year, then you’ll also need to buy a $15 base hunting license. Like anywhere else, you’ll need to show proof of completing a Hunter’s Education course, and if you want an archery license, a previous-year bowhunting license from any other state.

I bought a anterless whitetail tag, which enabled me to hunt across southwest Montana. That season is also exceptionally long if you’re using a bow, running from September 1 through November 25. Using a bow also gives you access to areas where you can’t use a firearm, which is where I’m going next.

Hunting on the Water

One of the reasons to hunt with a bow is that, because arrows don’t travel nearly as far as bullets, you can access slices of public land that are off-limits to firearms. And those slices are often some of the most fertile ground, particularly for animals like deerÌęthat thrive on the outskirts of human civilization.

Here in Montana, that means public river islands can be hunted with archery equipment. And that creates a really neat hunt.

Last Saturday morning, another couple, my fiancee, and I threw a couple of bow cases and some fishing rods in a raft, and slid it into the Yellowstone River, then spent a lazy day floating, trying to catch fish, and exploring the small islands. On one of them, ample tracks in the muddy banks indicated the presence of deer, so I un-cased my bow, and started fitting broadheads to a couple of my arrows while one of the women went into the bushes for a bathroom break. Almost immediately, she bumped a big doe out of the brush, so I stalked it down through the cottonwoods. I put an arrow through both of its lungs, it ran 30 yards, and collapsed. Forty-five minutes later, its heart and liver were on ice in my Ìęand the gutted deer was wrapped in a tarp in the bow of the raft.

It was a unique hunt, not only because we got to look for deer while fishing, but because we also got to spend the whole day with new friends—hunting is more typically a solo affair. A couple days later, we enjoyed the doe’s backstrap for dinner.

Do It Yourself

Fall is the cheapest time to fly into Bozeman. I see plenty of roundtrip weekend tickets from LAX, for example, for about $280 right now.

Skip the hotel, and head straight for camp by renting a Toyota Tacoma fitted with a Go Fast Camper from (). That same company will put a trailer with a four-person raft on it behind the truck for another , and can help arrange shuttles from a take-out, back to your put-in, or advise on conditions and suggest good spots. Invite friends, split the cost four ways, and even with hunting licenses, this is a cheap destination hunting adventure.

Pack your bow, your rods, and some warm layers. Camo is not necessary, but could help you stalk a little closer on the small islands. Make sure you have installed on your smartphone, and have downloaded the maps for Montana. Refer to it island-by-island, to make sure you’re both allowed to hunt, and allowed to camp. Bring some lightweight, packable camping gear, and plan to spend a night one of the islands. There’s no grizzlies there, but there are black bears. If you bring a big Yeti or similar to carry home your meat, that can double as your bear canister. Dry ice is available at Albertson’s in Bozeman.

You can do the float as a one-nighter, flying in and out on consecutive days. Or, add a night, enjoy another night in camp, and give yourself more time to process the meat, catch fish, and just enjoy the area.

The best part of all this is that you don’t need a guide, it’s affordable, and there’s still plenty of time to fly up here and do this hunt this season. You’ll be doing that in one of the most picturesque parts of the country, so it’ll be your Instagram feed that’s making everyone jealous for a change.

Eat the Heart

It might surprise you to learn that the heart is one of the tastiest parts of the animal. But, like other organs, it needs to be served fresh, so I like to make a meal of it immediately following one of my kills. As a bonus, it’s easy and simple to prep and cook, so you can totally just sear thin slices of it on the coals of a campfire, and serve unadorned on the end of a stick. Or, you can do what I do, and make a little more of it.

First, clean the heart thoroughly, running water through all of the chambers to rinse any remaining blood out. Then, start slicing the heart into quarter-inch-thick strips. Starting at the top, you’ll initially be removing a bunch of connective tissue, but will quickly get to portions that just contain tender meat. Feed the stuff that doesn’t turn out well to your dog, while cleaning up the remainder for good presentation.

Marinate the good slices in a bowl with mustard, red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt, pepper, garlic and some herbs. When you’re ready, get a cast iron as hot as you can, and sear the slices for 30 to 60 seconds a side, just until they brown. You don’t want to cook heart past rare. Throw slices of bell pepper into the pan to sear once you pull the heart out.

Serve the seared heart strips on slices of toasted baguette, spread with goat cheese. Garnish with sautéed shallots, a slice of seared pepper, a little arugula, and drizzle some balsamic vinegar on top.

Everyone who’s ever tried my heart bruschetta has come into it skeptical. Everyone who’s ever tried it, without exception, has also asked for thirds.

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With most visitors flocking to Montana to , ski, backpack, or ride horses, Big Sky Country’s hot springs largely fall under the radar. Which is a shame, because with , from high-end resorts to natural pools deep in the wilderness, the state is home to one of the highest concentrations of these geothermic wonders in the United States. With most of the springs clustered around the of the state, they’re begging for a mini road trip this fall. We rounded up our favorites, so grab a swimsuit and fill up your tank.

Bozeman Hot Springs

Bozeman

One of the few hot springs on our list near an urban center, , eight miles west of Bozeman, is a popular hangout for everyone from local high school kids to the occasional visiting celeb, including Justin Bieber and Arnold Schwarzenegger. With eight indoor pools, four new outdoor pools, and a full fitness facility, the 128-year-old resort is perfect for socializing or working out. On Thursdays and Fridays, you can enjoy live music on the outdoor stage from the comfort of your deck chair. This is a dry facility, so you have the perfect excuse to visit the other kind of watering hole in downtown Bozeman afterward. Our favorites? and the .

The Boiling River

Yellowstone National Park

If you’d rather skip the resorts, head into to take a dip in a section of the Gardner River that’s heated by overflow from a natural hot spring known as the . Located just a few minutes from the park’s northern entrance, near the town of Gardiner, this is one of the few places you can actually enjoy a thermal soak inside Yellowstone. It’s open year-round except during spring and early summer, when high water from snowmelt makes it too dangerous. You likely won’t have the river to yourself, but in fallÌęthe crowds are smaller and it’s easier to enjoy the rushing water and steam clouds that rise from the rocky shores. While in the area, be sure to check out the bison in , or head deeper into the park to snap some pics of the stunning Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.

Norris Hot Springs

Norris

Once known for its crazy party scene, this located 35 miles west of in the Madison River Valley now attracts a laid-back and eclectic crowd looking for an off-the-beaten-path experience. You’ll spot everyone from families to leather-clad bikers enjoying the 30-by-40-foot woodÌępool, which was built in the 1880s. The geodesic “music dome” hosts live bands on weekends, and the adjacent grill pairs wine and Montana microbrews with everything from burgers and burritos to rainbow trout and lamb kebabs. Most of the grub at Norris Hot Springs is locally sourced; the veggies are even grown on-site by the owner, who lives next door. Pitch a tent in the on-site campground and you’ll have the perfect base camp for rock climbing , floating or fishing the Madison River, or grabbing a pint at in the nearby town of Pony, which looks like it’s straight out of your favorite Western film.

Chico Hot Springs

Pray

This , located 35 miles north of Yellowstone National Park, may be the state’s most famous hot spring. Centered around two shimmering outdoor pools with views of the surrounding Absaroka Mountains, Chico Hot Springs has an 18-hole disc golf course, a private wine cellar with a chef’s tasting menu, horseback riding, covered-wagon glamping, and a range of cabins and lodge rooms. For a true Montana experience, fly-fish for trout on the Yellowstone River, then drop by the in nearby Emigrant for a drink and live country bands rocking a large outdoor stage as the glowing Montana sun sets in the background.

Quinn’s Hot Springs Resort

Paradise

Nestled in the national forest about 90 miles northwest of Missoula, originally opened in 1885. Today, it’s a favorite getaway for local couples, thanks to adults-only cabins tucked along the banks of the Clark Fork River, where you can relax on your porch swing after a soak and listen to the water while stars wink into existence. The resort’s out-of-the-way wilderness location encourages exploration. Scout for buffalo at the nearby , hike the 734 miles of trail at two hours to the north, or paddle Flathead Lake, the largest natural freshwater lake west of the Mississippi.

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Bear spray is only going to work if you have it with you, and if you can deploy it quickly and surely. But carrying a big, awkward can of pressurized capsaicin can prove challenging, particularly if you’re wearing lighter clothing during the summer. Enter the , whichÌęsolves this problem elegantly.

My girlfriend, Virginia,Ìęand I have spent plenty of time in bear country. On camping trips, I’d strap a can to my belt, opposite my handgun, and she’d throw a can of the stuff in one of her pack’s water-bottle pouches. But that meant she always had to carry the pack.

Thing is, the holster I carry isÌępretty terrible, too, allowing the can to bounce around on myÌęhip as I move and catching brush in tight quarters.

Enter the . It’s a simple product—just a stretchy neoprene sleeve sewn to what looks like the waist belt off a light technical pack. That puts breathable mesh against your body, while the outside is an abrasion-resistant nylon. It secures at the front with a quick-release buckle. AndÌęthere’s a Velcro tab that stretches over the top of the can to add security. Just flip the belt over depending on which side you want to be able to draw the spray from.

There’s also the , which includes pockets for your phone and keys. But to keep those pockets upright, you can only draw the can with your left hand.

Virginia reports that the belt fits comfortably and rides securely, without any bouncing around. I’ve watched her use it on the trail, and have never once seen her fiddling with it. It’s just there, out of the way, in case sheÌęever needs it. Test draws have proven it’s fast and easy to get the can out.

The Scat Belt is a simple, cheap product. But also one that now adds an immense amount of safety and peace of mind to our everyday lives. If you live in or plan on visiting bear country, you should get one.

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