Anyone who has thru-hiked with a partner knows you won’t always be thriving at the same time as one another. It would be nice if your low-energy miles lined up with your partner’s, so you could agree to cut the day short, collapse into your tent, and whine about or a squeaky pack. But in my experience, my cranky days are the days when my partner feels the best, leaving them to cruise up switchbacks while I could swear my legs have been replaced with lead balloons. Communicating during this time is challenging for both people, and I’d never encountered it more than on a trip this past spring.Ìę

We started the route on an , and I immediately found myself struggling with the sun exposure. Conversely, my partner seemed to be having an extremely easy time, and I tried to be happy for him as he casually crushed the climbs regardless of the heat. He was kind and accommodating, but I knew he could have been doing bigger miles if I hadn’t been there. The more I got into my head, the more my mood began to spiral. If I was struggling this much at the start, what would happen when the route got harder?

I caught up to my partner at the top of a long climb one morning, collapsing in a scant patch of shade and trying to quell my anxiety as the day’s miles loomed over my head.Ìę

“I’m having a really hard time with the heat today,” I told him as I gulped water, feeling a twinge of panic at how early in the day it was. “I’m exhausted.”

“Oh really?” He said, looking concerned. “Today is the easiest day we’ll have all week.”

The prickle of resentment I’d felt watching him disappear around a switchback flared. All at once, I felt physically uncomfortable, inadequate, and scared to hear that I had been right and it was only going to get tougher. I burst into tears.Ìę

We went back and forth like this for a few days. I was increasingly frustrated at my body’s struggles, and while my partner’s responses weren’t unkind, they didn’t do my fragile mental state any favors. When I was wilting from the heat, he said that it was only going to get hotter. When I said I was tired, he pointed out correctly that we had just started the day’s miles.ÌęÌę

Our communication, while normally strong, was entirely misaligned during this time. He couldn’t figure out why I was having a hard time, and I needed him to acknowledge that the route conditions were hard, not tell me that they were about to get harder.Ìę

“A response like this, though attempting to give context and not untrue, is likely to amplify the partner’s feelings of overwhelm rather than their feelings of competence,” Dr. , a clinical psychologist with a background in outdoor sports, said when I told him about my trip.Ìę

While this kind of communication can be helpful for some people—it reminds them to keep pushing—Reeves says it can also feel shaming, shutting them down instead of making them feel better.Ìę

Neither my partner nor I was really at fault, but a combination of my physical struggles and subsequent shame combined with his casual ease made everything seem more dire. I was panicking that my fears about my abilities were true, and because I was embarrassed, I felt unable to ask for a different style of communication.Ìę

When I asked what would have been a better communication strategy, Dr. Reeves broke it down into three parts: The stronger partner , reassure them that they are there for them, and find a way to work together to get to the end. This three-part response was tailored to my backcountry situation, but it can also be a blueprint for healthy communication between people experiencing different challenges while they pursue a common goal on the trail.Ìę

With the benefit of hindsight, I can understand now that the hike wasn’t easy on my partner either. While he never expressed impatience, I imagine it must have felt frustrating to be held up during the day and to stop earlier in the evenings.Ìę

“A challenge of the better-faring partner feeling frustrated is they are forced to reckon with their priorities,” says Dr. Reeves. “Is the objective more important, or something else? If you and your partner are both equally able, you can and have a great time simultaneously. It’s when one of you doesn’t align that you have to face what you really care about.”Ìę

Shame and feelings of weakness are powerful emotions, especially for thru-hikers or backcountry athletes who thrive on feeling strong and empowered. Struggling on a route others are finding easy can compound shame with the notion that you’re letting your partner down. Left unchecked, those feelings can pull you into an emotional downward spiral.

To counter this, Dr. Reeves suggests breaking the entire route into management chunks. This allows the partner who is struggling to feel accomplished reaching smaller goals, and to feel good that their partner is working with them.

“Often those who aren’t struggling want to hurry their partners through their trouble,” Dr. Reeves says, “but taking a few beats to create space for [your partner] being afraid, overwhelmed, or angry usually pays dividends when the struggling partner can work through their emotions.”Ìę

Pushing through challenging emotions often does little more than exacerbate the feelings or create tension that can explode later on. While we never exploded, I spent the entire trip stressed. When I was reflecting on the experience a few months later, I knew that if it had felt more manageable, or we acknowledged that the route was indeed hard, my morale would have been higher and I wouldn’t have experienced the mounting dread that I was having a hard time during an “easy section.”Ìę

Navigating communication barriers doesn’t have to lead to fighting, and like I said, we never actually argued. In my shame and anxiety, I didn’t communicate my own needs, neglecting to tell him that his responses were less than helpful. But when we talked about it later—removing elements of fatigue, , body aches, and heat exhaustion—we had a productive conversation where I could step away from feelings of inadequacy and communicate more rationally.Ìę

So how will my experience change how I communicate on upcoming trips? I know that my partner and I will both need to anticipate problems and acknowledge that one or both of us may struggle—often with different aspects of the trip. Preparing for these scenarios and working out what type of communication feels encouraging is critical.Ìę

“Shame is a killer in these situations, so establishing that tempers may flare ahead of time and planning to deal with it is useful,” Dr. Reeves says. “Often these feelings are more about fatigue, hunger, or some other discomfort, and talking about this ahead of time can alleviate some of the hurt feelings.”

The inherent challenges and needs of thru-hiking throw a wrench even in the best communicators. The partner who is struggling can feel both overwhelmed by the situation and guilty for holding the other person back, and the person who is doing better might inadvertently say exactly the wrong thing.Ìę

“Try to establish ahead of time that being tired or ,” Dr. Reeves says, “It’s part of maintaining health and safety. There is no shame if they are necessary.”

The post Improve Your Backpacking Experience with Better Communication appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Whether you’re beyond cell range for a day hike or a backcountry expedition, you can still send an urgent SOS or that thoughtful goodnight message to someone special. has led the charge on innovative technologies that put safety and connection in the hands of outdoor enthusiasts (like you). Here’s what you need to know.

How does ZOLEO work?

The provides seamless global messaging that follows you in and out of cell coverage—plus added safety features you can count on worldwide, including industry-leading progressive SOS alerting. When you’re beyond cell coverage, ZOLEO connects with a free app on your phone so you can send and receive messages anywhere on the planet via the Iridium¼ satellite network, the only network with no coverage gaps. When you’re back within cell coverage, the ZOLEO app seamlessly routes messages over cellular and Wi-Fi via the lowest-cost network available.

Why is ZOLEO essential for off-grid travel?

ZOLEO offers unparalleled peace of mind for those who venture into the backcountry beyond the reach of mobile coverage—and for family and friends waiting for them to return. While smartphone technology is beginning to dabble in satellite communications, there are countless benefits to carrying a separate, purpose-built device. In addition to its rugged design and long-lasting battery, ZOLEO provides two-way satellite messaging, accurate hyperlocal weather forecasts, and free unlimited check-in messages, which include your GPS coordinates. Its industry-leading comes with 24/7 expert monitoring with step-by-step updates. And when it comes to those times when help is needed in an emergency, speak for themselves.

Who should add this system to their adventure kit?

ZOLEO is ideal for anyone who lives on the fringe or travels outside mobile coverage but values having a connection wherever they go. With the low cost of the device and that include more messages than alternatives, ZOLEO has been embraced by more and more year-round and seasonal hikers, backpackers, campers, overlanders, cyclists, hunters, anglers, snowmobilers, and skiers around the globe. Whether you depend on ZOLEO for work or play, you can count on the small-yet-mighty device for truly seamless global messaging and SOS alerting whenever you go.

What sets ZOLEO apart from other satellite communicators?

Several factors enable ZOLEO to provide a better messaging and safety experience, and better value for your money, including:

>A dedicated SMS number that doesn’t change, making it easy for folks to reach you

>Industry-leading SOS alerting with 24/7 monitoring and progressive updates throughout an emergency

>Long messages of 900+ characters for better communication, versus standard 160-character messages

>IP68 water and dust resistance, shock resistance, and a two-year warranty

>The ability to easily lend your device to others who have downloaded the free ZOLEO app

>A configurable message-check interval that lets you control your messaging experience

>A better value for your dollar, with the lowest-cost device and affordable plans with more messages included

How does ZOLEO enhance the outdoor experience?

ZOLEO provides a reliable means of communication in remote areas, ensuring safety and peace of mind for outdoor enthusiasts. It can be particularly useful for activities such as backcountry hiking, camping, paddling, skiing, and overlanding, when traditional cell phone coverage is limited or unavailable. Here are just a few ways ZOLEO enhances the outdoor experience:

Backcountry Hiking and Skiing

ZOLEO can keep you in touch with members of your group, share location breadcrumbs on a map, coordinate routes, check in with folks back home, and trigger an SOS alert if you become ill or injured. Plus, with ZOLEO you can easily share your device with friends: after downloading the free mobile app, they can use the device to check in with their contacts as well.

Camping in a National Park

With ZOLEO, you can use the messaging feature to stay in touch with family and friends and share updates on your trip when you’re camping in an area with limited cell phone coverage. The weather forecast feature keeps you informed about changing weather conditions in the area so you can plan your activities accordingly.

Overlanding and Off-Roading

ZOLEO can also be useful during road trips where you drive in and out of cell phone coverage. It can keep you in contact with other members of your group, let you check in with folks back at home, track your location to coordinate meetups, coordinate help if you have a breakdown, and send emergency alerts if needed.

The award-winning satellite communicator is ideal for anyone who ventures beyond mobile coverage. ZOLEO has been embraced by more and more travelers and adventurers around the world, who can depend on it for truly seamless global messaging and SOS alerting wherever they work or play.

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Staying connected anywhere, even without cellphone reception, has been one of the greatest technology advances for adventurers in recent decades. The revolution started nearly 30 years ago, when Motorola brought the to market. Since then, satellite technology has evolved to . Now Iridium is taking remote communications even further by making C-suite-level connectivity possible on the road, in the backcountry, and everywhere in between. Here’s how.

Meet the Iridium GO! exec

There’s a big difference between staying connected (SMS, voice calling, basic upload/download speeds, etc.) and having the connectivity needed to keep a business running day to day. is the first portable, battery-powered, touchscreen-enabled satellite access device for your smartphone, laptop, or tablet. Enhanced upload and download speeds (22 Kbps and 88 Kbps, respectively, compared to 2.4 Kbps for recreational satellite connectivity) make real-time connectivity possible even on your most remote adventures. Quickly set-up a secure Wi-Fi connection for real-time messaging, email, and social media updates. You can utilize many of the apps you rely on daily, including chat and email apps such as WhatsApp, Twitter, Venmo, FaceTime, iMessage, Outlook, Gmail, and more.

When multitasking is a must, Iridium GO! exec connects up to two voice lines using the built-in speaker and microphone or a smartphone using the Iridium GO! exec app within a 100-foot radius. The Iridium GO! exec connects multiple nearby devices using Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, or Ethernet to simplify your access to Iridium’s global satellite network. The Iridium GO! exec can even be used as a power bank to charge a smartphone or tablet using the USB-C power output to keep you connected even longer when needed. Ìę

Work from Anywhere, Truly

Whether you’re working from a dispersed campsite in your van, a ski-in backcountry hut, or a far-flung remote wilderness, the powerful yet portable Iridium GO! exec is your mobile office solution. The compact device measures about 8 x 8 x 1 inches (smaller than most tablets) and weighs a little more than 2.5 pounds. Plus, it’s built with military-grade ruggedness to withstand the elements and can operate in temperatures from minus 4 to 122 degrees Fahrenheit. The battery life stretches for up to six hours using talk or data and 24 hours on standby.Ìę

Get set up anywhere in minutes—no pointing your phone at the sky is required. Simply turn on the Iridium GO! exec, raise the antenna with a direct view to the sky, and connect your smart device. With an external antenna, you can also connect indoors or on a plane or boat. Keep track of your data usage with the Iridium Connection Manager app.

What Makes the Iridium Network Different?

Wait, doesn’t every satellite network technically provide global connectivity? So glad you asked! Not every satellite network does. Iridium is the only satellite network that connects the entire planet. That means no matter where your personal or professional off-the-grid ventures take you, Iridium can keep you connected.

Iridium operates a that circle the Earth from pole to pole in low earth orbit (about 485 miles from the plant’s surface). The result: Users get weather-resilient, reliable connections using smaller antennas with lower power requirements. Plus, Iridium’s unique crosslinked satellite network architecture provides coverage where other networks can’t—creating truly global connectivity.

is the only mobile voice and data satellite communications network that spans the entire globe, enabling connections between people, organizations and assets to and from anywhere, in real time. Together with its ecosystem of partners, Iridium delivers an innovative portfolio of reliable solutions for markets that require truly global communications.

The post Yes, You Really Can Run a Business from the Backcountry appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Backcountry adventurers shopping for a reliable satellite communication tool will now find the market more crowded and harder to pick through with the release of Garmin’s new inReach Messenger. This new device is the cheapest and smallest of Garmin’s line, but strikingly similar to their own inReach Mini 2.

I already have a Mini 2 and I initially couldn’t get my head around why they would launch a whole new satellite communication platform. To be honest, I was so overwhelmed when Garmin sent me the Messenger that I actually let it sit in the box in my garage for over a week.

However, after I opened the box and tested it for a week, I finally understood where the Messenger fits in the larger communication sphere and why you might want to buy one.

Who Is the Messenger For?

Both the Messenger and the Mini 2 are two-way satellite communication devices. They both have an SOS button for calling in the cavalry in an emergency, but more often, they’re used to send and receive messages with family and friends when you’re out of cell service. The inReach Mini 2 is designed for the more dedicated backcountry adventurer, whereas the inReach Messenger is more suitable for the average consumer, the weekend warrior, and anyone who doesn’t think they need or want to figure out how to use a satellite communicator.

The Messenger will appeal to this audience because using it is more intuitive than using other satellite communication tools. But Garmin actually buried the lead with this launch because it isn’t the Messenger itself that’s simpler; texting is made much easier by the introduction of the new free Garmin Messenger app.

Neither the Messenger or the Mini 2 comes with a keyboard so typing a message on the device is a tedious process that involves scrolling through the alphabet or selecting a preset message created earlier online. As a result, Garmin encourages you to use their phone apps as an interface. The older Garmin Explore app is what people typically used for the Mini 2, but the new Messenger app is significantly easier to navigate.

The apps’ stand-out feature is that it allows you to text your contacts using either a cell/WiFi signal or by using a satellite network. This makes a lot of sense for trips that include traveling to and then disappearing into the backcountry.

Scenarios in Which the Messenger Shines

A couple of weekends ago, for example, a buddy and I hiked the entire length of the Sandia Mountains outside Albuquerque, New Mexico where I live. The trail was 23 miles long and it took us nearly 12 hours to complete. I had cell service driving to the trail, and for parts of the hike, but for parts of the hike I didn’t. I was trying to stay in touch with my wife about when I’d be home (dinner plans with her family) so I had to wait to update her until we found a spot with service.

With the Messenger and Messenger app, this communication would have been simpler and more seamless. I could have started texting my wife using the Messenger app with cell service and then continued texting via satellite when I was on the more remote parts of the hike, without any interruption. On her phone, the Messenger texts (both the ones sent via cell towers and satellite) would have appeared under my name but in a new thread, outside my regular iPhone messages. They also would have taken longer to load, but we would have had consistent communication.

In full transparency, I carried my Garmin Mini 2 during the hike but didn’t want to pull it out, connect it to the Explore app, and go through the trouble of creating a whole new communication line with my wife. I only brought it along for an emergency.

While thinking about that hike, I started to wonder what other outdoor communities might benefit from this seamless change. Overlanders immediately came to mind. That community is constantly traveling in and out of service and instead of switching between apps to stay in touch, folks in their truck could just stay in the Messenger feed. The Messenger app also enables group texts so multiple trucks can be on the same thread. Overlanders are also going to like the Messenger because it has a flat bottom and can rest on the dash of their truck or easily be mounted to the dash with some third-party part that a company like will likely create.

Garmin isn’t advertising this very much, but people will soon realize that the Messenger app also works with the Mini 2. That means anyone who already owns that device will have very little incentive to buy the Messenger, in my opinion. Those who already own a Mini 2 will likely prefer its slightly larger screen that delivers more information at once, displays a map, and makes features like TracBack (which will map you back to your car) easier to use. The Mini 2 is much easier to strap to your backpack when you’re out hiking or skiing, but it does not sit well on a dash or slide as smoothly into a pocket.

The Messenger has a significantly longer battery life—nearly double in some circumstances—but the Mini 2’s battery is already plenty robust for multi-day adventures. Additionally, the Messenger can be used to charge your phone, but a longer battery life and charging aren’t going to be worth the $300 it will cost Mini 2 owners to switch to the Messenger.

The Messenger Vs. Apple’s Emergency SOS

Apple’s Emergency SOS feature launched this week, adding yet another option to the emergency market. It comes free on any iPhone 14 for the next two years and allows iPhone users to contact emergency responders when they don’t have cell service. Time will tell, but many people are already predicting that this SOS service will be popular with weekend warriors and consumers who’ve traditionally shied away from a device like the Mini 2. It will undoubtedly help save many lives and help thousands of people who find themselves in trouble in the backcountry.

But it’s important to point out that Apple’s SOS service is not designed for two-way messaging like the Messenger or Mini 2. It’s only designed for a rescue. I couldn’t have used my iPhone to stay in touch on my recent hike when I was out of cell service, or to stay in touch with my wife on a recent hunt when I was gone for four days in the remote wilderness. Plus, Apple’s SOS service is only available in the United States and Canada for now, but you can use a Garmin Messenger or Mini 2 anywhere in the world.

Which One Should You Buy?

The easy answer to this question is this: If you play in the backcountry a fair amount and spend time out of cell service and want a truly reliable way to put out an SOS and stay in touch with your family and friends, buy a Garmin Messenger. If you want those same features and also want to use your device for navigation, spring the extra dollars to buy a Mini 2.

Size and shape are also a consideration. If you spend more time in your car, . If you spend more time with a pack on, . Either way, the first thing you should do when you buy a Messenger or Mini 2 is to download the Messenger app and use that as the main way to control your device. With the app, plus your choice of satellite communicator, you’ll have a powerful tool that can do everything from negotiating dinner plans from the top of a 10,000-foot mountain to calling for a rescue if you find yourself in a truly scary situation.

The post Why Should You Choose Garmin’s inReach Messenger Over the Mini 2? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On a grayÌęFriday afternoon last spring, Steve Galchutt sat high atop Chief Mountain, an 11,700-foot peak along Colorado’s Front Range. An epic panorama of pristine alpine landscape stretched in almost every direction, with Pikes Peak standing off to the southÌęand MountÌęEvanÌętowering just to the west.ÌęÌę

It was an arresting view, and the perfect backdrop for a summit selfie.ÌęBut instead of reaching for his smartphone, Galchutt was absorbed by another device: a portable transceiver. Sitting on a small patch of rock and snow, his head bent down and cocked to one side, he listened as it sent out a steady stream of staticky beeps: dah-dah-di-dah dah di-di-di-dit. “This is Scotty in Philadelphia,” Galchutt said, translating the Morse code.ÌęThen, tapping at two silver paddles attached to the side of the radio, he sent his own message,Ìęfirst with some details about his location, then his call sign, WG0AT.

At this point, a prying hiker could have been forgiven for wondering what, exactly, Galchutt was doing. But his answer—an enthusiastic “amateur radio, of course!”—would likely only have further compounded their confusion. After all, the popular image of anÌęamateur-radio enthusiast is an aging, armchair-bound recluse, not some crampon-clad adventurer. And their natural habitat is usually a basement, or “ham shack,” not a windswept peak in the middle of the Rockies.Ìę

Galchutt fits part of this stereotype—he’s 75—but the similarities end there. An avid hiker and camper, his preferred shack is atop a mountain, and the higher the summit, the better.Ìę

Another rapid-fire burst of dits and dahs sprung from the radio. “Wow!” Galchutt said, “Spain!”

Nearby satÌęBrad BylundÌę(call sign WA6MM)Ìęand Bob and Joyce WitteÌę(K0NR and K0JJW, respectively). Together, the four are part of a groupÌęcalled Summits on the Air (SOTA), an international, radio version of high pointing.Ìę

“I’ve had a woman come up to me and wonder what I’m doing,” Bylund said. “And she pointed out to me, ‘You know your cell phone works up here, don’t you?’ They totally miss the whole thing.”

“Bob and I call those bubble people,” Joyce added with a smirk.

Amateur-radio enthusiasts are used to being maligned as defenders of some anachronistic pastime, a retro social network for retired vets and lo-fi tech buffs. The ridicule goes back to the very origins of the word , a pejorative that professional radio operators at the beginning of the 20th century used to single out amateurs with “ham-fisted” Morse-code skills.Ìę

But the reality is that amateur radio, full of cutting-edge technology and involving a high level of expertise, has always been ahead of its time. “There is a tendency to think that it’s one of these quaint, old-fashioned hobbies, like people who still make buggy whips,” said Paula Uscian (), a retired lawyer and ham based in Illinois. “But I can’t think of many old-fashioned hobbies that allow you to talk with a space stationÌęor bounce signals off the moon.”Ìę

Radio has long served as a critical resource in emergency situations, and amateur-radio clubs are routinely found on the scene when natural or man-made disasters strike—in 2018, for example, local hams helped coordinate communications during the in Northern California. Bob and Joyce, who volunteer as administrators of the Federal Communications Commission licensing exam, back this up, saying that most new sign-ups are interested in wilderness preparedness and disaster relief. But increasingly,Ìęthey also hear from people who are coming forÌęoutdoor radio’s more recreational pursuits. (Ham activity Ìęin the past several months, with hobbyists turning to their radios as a safe social-distancing activity during the coronavirus pandemic; there are nowÌę licensed amateur operators in the United States, according toÌę.)ÌęThese include programsÌęthat essentially gamify outdoor radio, incentivizing participants through points and awards. For island-hopping hams, there’s , founded in 1964. For national-park hams, there’s , founded in 2010. For urban hams itching to get out of their shacks, there’s even a .

And then there’s SOTA. Founded in 2002 by a Brit named John Linford, the program involves activators, like Galchutt, who climb recognized summits with the goal of contacting other on-the-ground operators, called chasers. Each peak is worth a certain number of points. Activators who reach 1,000 points achieve the status of Mountain Goat,Ìęthe highest and most coveted award in the program. (Chasers get their own trophy: the Shack Sloth.)Ìę

“I was always impressed by the number of good, long-distance contacts I could make from the mountaintops,” Linford said, explaining how he’d spent years hauling his radio equipment up and down hills around his native Scotland before deciding to launch the club, first in the UK. Since then, SOTA has grown into one of the most popular amateur-radio clubs in the world, with almost 8,000 registered activators across 180 countries. The program recognizes over 140,000 summits, each valued based on its location and height. Chief Mountain is worth six points, for example, while Argentina’s Aconcagua—a 22,841-foot peak that became the —is worth ten. All of this information is collected on SOTA’s , which includes forums, maps, and honor rolls.Ìę

“A lot of the stuff in ham radio is about getting brownie points,” says Mike Walsh (KE5AKL). But another draw is its choose-your-own-adventure nature, allowing participants to tailor their approach to their own goals and abilities. A New Mexico ham and the number-one SOTA activator in the U.S., Walsh has racked up hundreds of first-ascent and unique summits, reflecting his passion for mountaineering.

On the other hand, some activators prefer to treat their outings like marathons, trying to cram as many small peaks as possible into a single trip. “To me it’s similar to the Olympic sport of biathlon,” saidÌęUscian, whoÌęrecently returned from a whirlwind tour of Arkansas, where she activated 12 peaks over the course of four days, resulting in her first-ever Mountain Goat. “So I started calling it a biathlon for geeks.”

Of course, it helps to live in a place like Colorado, a veritable SOTA paradise home to someÌę1,800 qualifying summits. One of them is Chief Mountain, which Galchutt, who lives just a couple hours south in Monument, suggested we climb together. He called it a “classic” SOTA peak: it’s close to a major metro area, only takes about an hour to hike, and from the top yields an expansive and unobstructed horizon, the kind perfect for radio broadcasting.

Galchutt got his first radio as a kidÌęand still talks about the experience with the same childlike awe that most hams do. “I was just enamored with the fact that you can’t see these radio waves, but you can pull them out of the air and decode them with some electronics and hear music, hear people talking,” he told me as we hiked up the trail.Ìę

Like many SOTA participants, however, Galchutt wasn’t always interested in the ham community at large. After moving to Colorado two decades ago, he recalled going to an amateur-radio-club meeting with a friend and finding it full of “old, fat white guys, sitting around eating doughnuts and smoking cigarettes,” a scene that “just wasn’t my thing,” he said. So instead, he signed up as a volunteer with his local search and rescue team, “and the next thing I know, I’m hanging off a 200-foot cliff, jumaringÌęmy way up a rope, and learning how to use climbing gear.” In addition to being a better fit, Galchutt’s search and rescue experience reinforced the importance of radio in backcountry communications, where it can serve as a layer of security beyond cell phones, GPS navigators, and even personal locator beacons.Ìę

It’s a lesson that SOTA itself can teach, participants say. “We’re fully contained—we don’t rely on infrastructure, we’re battery operated, we put up our own antenna,” said Bylund, who got a crash course in emergency communications several years ago while trying to activate 13,164-foot MountÌęFlora in the Berthoud Pass area near Winter Park, Colorado. After wandering off a cornice in a whiteout and finding himself stranded, Bylund was forced to use his radio to call for help. “I couldn’t use my cell phone, so I used ham radio,” he said. HisÌęordeal . “It probably saved my life,” he said.

Today, Galchutt is SOTA’s de facto brand ambassador. Though he may not be the most accomplished of activators—he ranks only 22nd in the U.S.—he’s a minor celebrity on and , where he’s constantly posting high-contrast photos of himself on outings (often they are up on MountÌęHerman,Ìęa 9,000-foot peak near his home that he climbs almost weekly). A former graphic designer, he adorns his clothes and equipment with SOTA decals and patches of his own making.

Oh, and Glachutt’s vanity call sign—WG0AT—isn’t just a reference to his favorite hobby. It’s alsoÌęa love letter to his actual pack goat, Boo, who can sometimes be found chugging alongside him on the trail. On the air, Galchutt’s reputation precedes him. Galchutt and Bylund are dedicated CW operators (CW stands for continuous wave, which is how Morse code is often transmitted), butÌęhe eventually switched over to voice-based, 20-meter, single-side band, a transmittingÌęmethod preferred by Bob and JoyceÌęWitte. “Hello, CQ.ÌęCQ, this is Whiskey, Golf, Zero, Alpha, Tango,” Galchutt said. “This is a portable station on a mountaintop, looking for a signal report from anyone, anywhere.”Ìę

Several seconds of static ensued. Then the band crackled to life, a voice riding a high-frequency wave out of the ether.Ìę

“Are you the famous, uh, goat activator?” the voice asked. It was Bruce Montgomery (WA7BAM) in Olympia, Washington.Ìę

“Yeah,” Galchutt responded. “I guess that’s me.”

The post Inside the Summit-Obsessed World of Ham Radio appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

It was late on a Thursday when my boss sent me a text message—a first. Panicked, I fired off a quick response. His message back: “That was a test. And you failed!”

The week prior, I’d embarked on a mission for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű to overhaul my digital habits. On a normal day I text as many as 60 people, a completely impractical number of human beings to thoughtfully engage with. I become distracted and overwhelmed, and I leave people hanging.

So I decided to stop. I was tired of ­deliberating over texts, keeping a dozen conversations going at once, and failing to nail down plans for days. Instead, for a two-week period, I wouldn’t send a single text, Slack, or DM. I could read them, but I had to call people to respond. I figured that any good message would make a better conversation; on the other hand, if something didn’t merit a call, maybe I didn’t need to bother with it in the first place. Wheat from chaff and all that.

There was many a confused “hello?” A hapless Tinder match texted me about getting coffee; his voice mail box was full when I called, so I couldn’t explain my experiment. Instead, a day later, a text:

“Did you
 call me?” I gave up on that one—I’d exhausted whatever gumption I had the first time. Eventually, I became comfortable enough making impromptu calls. In my former life, I avoided dialing old friends until I had enough time to catch up, but with the new rules I learned to be efficient, establishing boundaries—“I only have five minutes.” I experienced genuine joy upon hearing a friend’s voice and in being present while we spoke.

Text messages fragment attention: anyone, at any time, can beep a notification into your consciousness and open a conversational tab. Phone calls don’t lend themselves to half-measures; you either answer or you don’t, and eventually you hang up. But they require more commitment in the moment. Perhaps that’s what makes them feel more rewarding.

At the outset of the second week, I got some tough family news. In its wake, I let dozens of texts go unanswered, powerless to send a “Hey, catch up later,” but too drained to have a conversation. In the end, I realized that a text’s ability to dampen emotion can actually be a blessing.

Research bears this out. At first I presumed psychologists would argue that text­ing makes us feel distant and disconnected. But in the journal CyberPsychology and Behavior in 2007—the early days of the smartphone—presented a more nuanced picture. Researchers interviewed 158 subjects and found that those with social anxiety got satisfaction from text messaging, while those who felt lonely preferred making calls. The researchers concluded that texts and calls were equally valuable options for “ex­pressive and inti­mate contact”—it just depends on your emotional state.

Now I’m less shy about picking up the phone, and less frustrated when my ability to stay on top of digital conversations wanes. I thought that I’d wind up among the “enlightened,” a digital ascetic who prioritized attentiveness above all else. Instead, I’m grateful for the many avenues of connection out there. Sometimes the facelessness of a text can be a balm, just like the connectedness of a call.

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Having a device like a Garmin InReach is great, but only if you know how to use it. To find out what to do when things go sideways, we talked to Wyoming-based Nadia Kimmel, founder of , who has been teaching wilderness medicine for 25 years.

“When I’m no longer able to self-rescue, and if there’s no other way to get out, then I’m pressing SOS,” Kimmel says. “Don’t wait until someone is on the verge of not making it, because they may not make it.”Ìę

Avoid Rookie Mistakes

“So many people get lost,” Kimmel says. “Knowing how to stay found is important.” And that begins at home. Have a navigational tool, such as Gaia, and know how to use it. Leave a trip plan (the backcountry mapping app is a great resource) with a friend who knows when to sound the alarm if you’re not back, or leave your plans in the console or glove box in your car. SAR will likely break in to look for information if you’re reported overdue.Ìę

Bring what you need. Be sure to carry a battery pack in the backcountry—a lot of these safety tools, like phones, headlamps, and satellite devices, need to stay powered on to be helpful. An insulated pouch with a hand warmer inside can help keep your phone warm in winter.Ìę

And make sure you have the training to help yourself. Many backcountry skiers have an Avalanche Level 1 courseÌębut no . “So they unbury someone, and then what?” Kimmel asks. “They’re not breathing, but they have a pulse—now what do they do? Or the person is violently shivering. What do you do with the injured person? You need to know how to deal with that.”

Bring the Right Tool

It’s best to have a satellite device with two-way communicationÌęso you can talk with someone about your situation. If you have a one-way device, all you can do is press a button and wait. Search and rescue has no idea what they’re in for, and you don’t know when—or if—someone is coming to help. “If you have a two-way device and have any doubt about whether to call, you should just call,” Kimmel says.Ìę

Whatever device you have, know what happens when you activate it. Two-way satellite messengers like a Garmin InReach or SPOTÌęX device require a subscription. They communicate through a private communications company, and a Texas-based search-and-rescue center coordinates the rescue. Other personal locator beacons use military satellites. For these, you don’t need a subscription, but they’re only for SOS signals and must be registered with NOAA. Pressing the button on those devices alerts the military, but can come with a penalty. “Do some research and figure out what’s best for you,” Kimmel says. “But know that a two-way communication device makes rescues much easier.”

A one-way communication device sends out an SOS signal with your GPS coordinates. But you should only press the button when you know you’re in a situation you can’t get out of. Before you activate it, check to see if you have cell service. If so, calling 911 is the better bet. “The most important information to give,” Kimmel says, “is your name, your organizationÌę(if you’re working commercially), the GPS coordinates of your location (or miles from a trailhead or mile marker on a river), what your emergency is (for example,Ìęa broken femur), and that you need a rescue. If your phone dies, at least they know who you are, where you are, what’s going on, and that you need help.” Using a cellphone to find your coordinates is simple. You can download or , which gives you coordinates when you open itÌęand facilitates texting with 911 in some 1,500 U.S. counties.Ìę

“If you have one bar of service and can’t make a call, you can text 911 and include those five pieces of information,” Kimmel says. If you don’t have a signal at all, keep your phone onÌęand try to call 911. A cellphone is always trying to ping a tower. If you’re lost and someone reports that you’re overdue, SAR can start triangulating your location. This, of course, could take days, but it’s something.Ìę

Call for Help the Right Way

Once you decide you need a rescue, the two most common mistakes are waiting to call until it’s too lateÌęand moving once you do call. Don’t get yourself into a worse situation than you already are. Every year on Colorado’s 14,000-foot Maroon Bells, for example, people decide toÌętake shortcuts and get cliffed out or die from rockfall. “Maybe they’re off-route on a mountain,” Kimmel says, “and they think, ‘I can’t stay on this tiny ledge,’ and then they move to a more precarious place and get into deeper trouble.”Ìę

Once you initiate a rescue, stay put. “Make sure you’re in a safe place where you can hunker down before you hit the button,” Kimmel says. “It’s hard to find a moving target. Don’t move unless search and rescue asks you to.”Ìę

Visibility is also important. If you’re in a forest, perhaps someone can walk to a nearby clearing and hang up some colorful clothing. After dark, a rescue pilot’s night-vision goggles will be able to pick up any kind of light source (headlamp, lighter, phone), which can help rescuers find you. “If a helicopter flies past you and leaves, don’t panic—they’re likely scouting a landing—but if you think it hasn’t seen you, you should try and be more visible.” she says. This, of course, is where two-way communicationÌęalso comes in handy. You can simply call and say they flew right over you, and they’ll double back.Ìę

Finally, expect a long wait. The average rescue takes two to eight hours, but that varies in inclement weather or complex terrain. “When rescuers do get to you,” Kimmel says, “give them all the information they need to do their job, and then let them do it. They’re risking their lives for you.”

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About two years ago, Charles Merritt and Jay Paul, both singletrack cyclists, river runners, skiers, snowboarders, and adventure racers who live in Richmond, Virginia, noticed a problem amongÌętheir friends and other sports enthusiasts: high deductibles and limiting health-insurance policies meant that a broken bone often broke the bank.

“We have dozens of stories about ourselves, friends, and others who’ve been injured pursuing their outdoor passions,” says Paul, 58, who has worked in the insurance industry for more than 25 years. “I personally have been to the emergency room four times through the years for everything from broken ribs and a broken shoulder to lacerations.”

Then Paul and Merritt started seeing GoFundMe campaigns for injured active friends who couldn’t pay their medical bills. “After contributing to GoFundMe after GoFundMe for friends, we decided that we could do something about it,”Ìęsays Merritt,Ìę34, a financial technology marketing specialist who started his career at Kayak, helped launch Jetsetter, and later consulted for insurance giant Allianz Global Assistance.Ìę

The last ten years of health care and health-insurance policies have opened up huge financial risk for outdoor enthusiasts. “In general, insurance is opaque,”ÌęMerritt says. “The cost of care is always increasing, and the 2010 Affordable Care Act has caused health insurers to shift more of it to the individual.”

SoÌęPaul and Merritt teamed up with computer-programming expert David Vogeleer, 39, to developÌęa radical new concept for people with an active life: on-demand accident insuranceÌęthat is efficient, affordable, and user-friendly, rebooting the insurance process much the way Uber rebooted taxis. In October 2018, they launched their company and named it Buddy.

“Just as breakthroughs in materials science have enabled us to have faster, lighter gear, the revolution in insurance technology allows for us to create new types of coverage to better protect adventurous lives,” says Merritt, Buddy’s CEO. “We’re starting to see the first wave of how risk will be managed in the era of on-demand everything, and getting what you need when you need it will enable adventurers and active people to choose when and where they add a layer of protection.”Ìę

Buddy’s coverage is episodic, and you can tailor it to your needs. You can buy it on your phone or laptop 24/7 at in as little as 90 seconds, from virtually anywhere with cell service, including the base of the mountain you’re about to climb or the bank of a river you’re about to run. The policy, backed by Lloyd’s of London and others, is e-mailed to you instantaneously. It costsÌęless than $10 for a day (slightly more if you need the competition rider). Or you can scale it up. A week costs $21, a month $50. You can also buy a family policy. Buddy covers most adventure sports—from climbing and skiing to road and mountain biking—and it doesn’t ask what sport you plan to do. (While Buddy hopes to expand what activities and adventures it covers, it does exclude a number of more extreme sports, which Merritt describes as activities where you are “not attached to the earth and falling from high heights,” like BASE jumping, big-wave surfing, parachuting, free soloing, wingsuit jumping, and a few others.)

Buddy covers you for the amount of time you sign up for, no matter how many activities you engage in during that time (as long as they aren’t on the excluded list), whether you’reÌętaking part in the sport or heading home and slip on a patch of ice. And you don’t have to worry about being rejected: with Buddy, you areÌę“guaranteed issue,” which in insurance lingo means there’s no underwriting and there are no tests, so you can’t be denied coverage.

Buddy’s benefit payouts include cash for ambulance rides—up to $5,000 for an airlift or $250 for the road—as well as $500 for an urgent-care visit and $1,000 for the ER (for injuriesÌęlike sprains and minor broken bones),Ìę$1,000 a day for a hospital stay (for up to tenÌędays),Ìę$5,000 for a break or an ACL tear requiring surgery,Ìęand $10,000 for serious burns or a dislocated or broken hip. A more gruesome list of injury awards ranges from $25,000 for the loss of a hand or foot or eyesight in one eye to $50,000 for quadriplegia, severe brain damage, or death. Physical therapy is compensated at $75 a day for up to tenÌęvisits.Ìę

The company’s business model relies on frequent usage. The average person Buddy targets takes 77 outings a year.

Meanwhile, other companies with similar approaches are hitting the market. There’s , which currently offers life insurance geared to the adventurous starting at $7 a day for a policyÌęand is expanding to offer accident insurance in July, and , which covers gear, like bikes and skis, on a sliding scale that starts at less than $1 a day.Ìę

“If you engage in many outdoor pursuits, bad things can happen, and it can be expensive,” says Paul, Buddy’s head of business development, who in 2013 was named Insurance Marketing Innovator of the Year by National Underwriter Magazine for pioneering another bold accident insurance: , which pays lump sums to cyclists injured while riding. “Balance was my first effort at creating new innovative insurance coverages,” he says. “After we built that, I knew we could design one for all outdoor enthusiasts, not just cyclists.”

Buddy’s coverage is not coordinated with health insurance, and you can do whatever you want with the money, which you receive regardless of other coverage you may have. That means your benefits can be used for any out-of-pocket expenses you’ve incurred, like replacing damaged gear, changing travel plans, covering missed work or your health-insurance deductible, or helping with childcare.

“I do a lot of solo bikepacking,” says Bill Wright, a retired financial professionalÌęwho lives in Buena Vista, Colorado. “I like to have insurance. On my most recent use of Buddy, I was going on an all-day, 50-mile ride up into the mountains. My insurance isn’t that great. Buddy fills in the gaps and gives me peace of mind when I’m out in the middle of nowhere. When I was younger, I didn’t think of it, but now I wear a Road ID bracelet with emergency contact information and carry a Garmin inReach. Insurance like Buddy is the perfect complement to all that.”

From the start, Buddy has won insurance and tech-world kudos, incubator awards, and partnerships. It was accepted into the two most prestigious insurance-tech accelerator programs in the country. The only bump in the road has been how slow the insurance industry and its regulators can be.

Each of the 50 states has its own insurance standards, so Buddy has to apply separately to regulators in each one. Fortunately, Buddy’s paperwork is solid, with pricing and benefits based on sports-injury data from the CDC andÌęreports fromÌęinstitutions like the Outdoor Foundation, and it’s crunched by actuaries in the U.S. and at Lloyd’s of London.

So far, Arizona, Colorado, Kentucky, North Carolina, Ohio, Tennessee, and Texas have given the thumbs-upÌęand are the only states in which you can currently purchase a Buddy policy if you’re a resident. Once purchased, the policy covers you wherever you plan to adventure, whether it’s your backyard, across the U.S., or internationally. Buddy expects to be available to purchase in at least 45 states by fall.

In the states where it’s approved, Buddy has partnered with regional and national outdoor associations, event promoters, and sports organizations. The American Canoe Association, the Mountain Bike Association of Arizona, Bicycle Colorado, the Colorado Mountain Bike Association, the Colorado Mountain Club, and Xterra adventure racesÌęare all early adopters.

“Our mission at Bicycle Colorado is to get more people riding bikes,” says Jack Todd, the organization’s communications and policy manager. “Buddy helps by making people feel safe while riding. Our missions are mutually beneficial. Buddy will help us get some more of those people who aren’t riding today, riding tomorrow.”

It seems to be catching on. Since launching, Buddy has covered more than 8,000 days of adventure.

“Our goal is to help outdoor enthusiasts live their lives more fearlessly,” says Paul.

“Our on-demand accident insurance does that by giving people a fast and light way to protect from the maybes,” adds Merritt. “We all know the feeling of maybe or what-if when we’re about to take on something big. Those doubts can cause us to second-guess the commitment to a jump or take our minds off our foot placement just long enough to cause a mishap.”

UserÌętestimonialsÌęon Buddy’s website validate this. “I definitely felt more free to send it!” Noah Moore, an Air Force master sergeant, wrote after a ride on the trails of Mingus Mountain, in the Black Hills of central Arizona. “I knew it was going to be gnarly; it was the next level of awesome I was looking for.” Worried about his carbon bike, Moore signed up for a day of Buddy coverageÌębut still rode cautiously on the first runÌę“to protect my investment.”

On the second run, his crew wanted to go faster. “I was, like, ‘Hell, yeah.’ There were features I avoided the first time that I really wanted to do. The second time I hit them. I don’t think I would have if I didn’t have the insurance. I don’t think I’ll ever ride a serious downhill again without it.”

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Sarah Shimazaki, a 27-year-old communications strategist from Oakland, California, first heard about the Emerging Leaders Program (ELP) on Instagram. The program, which trainsÌęa culturally diverse group of young outdoor leaders, isÌęrun by theÌę, a nonprofitÌęcommonly known as SHIFT after its conference, the SHIFT Festival. Founded in 2013, SHIFTÌęaims to bolster the coalition of stakeholders working to protect public lands. It names fragmentation and lack of diversity as major threats to the movement’s success. Through the annual SHIFT Festival and the ELP, three days of preparatory activities before the event, the organization aims to advance and revitalize the conservation movement and elevate underrepresented voices to join the conversation.

On SHIFT’s website, Shimazaki saw photos of people of color,Ìęread that cultural relevance was one of the organization’s main pillars, and that it was committed to diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) in the outdoor industry. SheÌęthought the ELP would be a great opportunity to be recognized for her work and meet others who understood the importance of including race, gender, and sexual orientation in conversations about the outdoors. She applied and was accepted.Ìę(Afterwards, the Center for JacksonÌęHole also contracted Shimazaki to lead a storytelling workshop during the ELP, for which she was paid.)

Yet when she arrived in Jackson, Wyoming,Ìęin October 2018, Shimazaki found an environment that was less than welcoming. She expected her fellow ELP cohort members and SHIFT staff to have a baseline understanding of DEI issues. Instead, she says that people of color, who made up more thanÌęhalf of the cohort,Ìęwere asked to educate white participants about race. She remembers being asked continually by other participants why race was included in conversations about public lands. “It felt like we had to justify our existence in that space,” she says.

She and other people of colorÌęalso experienced microaggressions and, in some cases, open hostility.ÌęShe felt her voice was silenced, except when her stories could be used to benefit the organization, such as speaking on panels in front of conference-goers and donors.ÌęFor example, during what Shimazaki describes asÌęa trust-building activity during ELP programming,Ìęparticipants were asked to discuss the questionÌę“What do you need to feel seen, heard, and validated?” Shimazaki recalls being in a group with another woman of color, two white men, and a white woman. As they discussed the question, she noticed that the men, who were charged with taking notes, didn’t write down her contributions or the contributions of the other women in the group. YetÌęwhen it came time to choose a representative to present the group’s findings, they nominated Shimazaki.Ìę“Looking back, it was a clear example of what we went through, where it felt like people weren’t hearing us and we were being silenced,” she says. “When it came time to actually put someone in front to represent the group, you point to the people of color to be tokens, the face of your project, campaign, or organization, but that person did not have an equal say in the final product,” she says.Ìę

Shimazaki wasn’t alone in herÌęexperience. Jasmine Stammes, who works for a national environmental nonprofit,Ìęwas one of two black womenÌęin the 2018 ELP program. In twoÌę, she described experiencing her first panic attack when Christian Beckwith, SHIFT’s executive director, who was then in charge of the ELP, mentioned he had no formal DEI training when participants asked him about it during the program. She saysÌęthe panic attackÌęwas the result of days of repeated negative experiences—participants’ offhand commentsÌęquestioning the inclusion of race in conversations andÌęthe event proceedings, unanticipated requests for emotional laborÌęby people of color,Ìęan unfair share of leading panels, and the misgendering of individuals.

On November 5, 2018,Ìę17 people—12 of that year’sÌęELP participants, one 2017 ELP alum, two former SHIFT employees, and two 2017 SHIFT attendees—sent aÌę to the organization’s board of directors recounting the unsafe environment and theÌęharm they experienced as a result of their participation in Center for Jackson HoleÌęprogramsÌęand calledÌęfor Beckwith’s resignation. ThisÌęgroupÌębelieves that the organization’s pattern of structural and leadership shortcomings can be traced back to Beckwith.ÌęIn their letter they wrote: “ELP is in its third year and Mr. Beckwith has failed repeatedly to make the necessary changes to meet the goals of the program, despite generous feedback from both previous and current participants.”

The Center for Jackson Hole’s board confirmed receipt of the letter on November 6 and sent anÌę on December 21 that acknowledged the serious nature of the group’sÌęexperiences and outlined a series of planned changes, such as requiring DEI training for all staff and board members, including Beckwith, restructuring the program’s leadership and curriculum, and placing Beckwith on a performance-improvement plan. The board also noted thatÌęit stood by Beckwith, saying that the ELP exists thanks to Beckwith’s “vision, tenacity and passion,” and addingÌęthat it isÌęone of the few programs to bring togetherÌęleaders from various industriesÌęto influence conservation and outdoor-industry conversations. The boardÌęsaidÌęthat itÌęhad received a number of letters in support of Beckwith. (Full disclosure:ÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűÌęcontributor Frederick Reimers is a board member.)ÌęThe letter was the last communication between the board and the group of 17.

While Beckwith remains executive director, he no longer oversees the ELP. In February, the board appointedÌę, an Oakland-based pediatrician and 2018 ELP participant, asÌęthe new ELP director.ÌęGreen says the hostility during the ELP and SHIFT FestivalÌęwent both ways, and that there were many opportunities for participants to speak up and voice frustrations in a constructive manner. In March, he created an advisory council comprised of ELP alumni to incorporate their feedback into future programming. But the group ofÌędetractorsÌędidn’t feel the response was adequate.

Then, in early April, as the application period for the 2019 ELP closed, the dispute went public. The group of 17 launched a campaign—Ìę(WTSA)—and began sharing itsÌęstories on Instagram. The groupÌęfelt a responsibility to inform future participants and ensure they didn’t “inherit the same systems of oppression,” says Bam Mendiola, one of the co-organizers, who uses gender-neutral pronouns. “We know we’re not the first and we won’t be the last to be tokenized in the name of DEI,” they say.

SHIFT addressed the controversy in an April 12 newsletterÌęand published anÌę and aÌę, sharing the organization’s side of the events. In June, they also published an on theirÌęsite, outlining their perspective on what happened.

The dispute has rippled through the broader outdoor community. In April, theÌę, a nonprofit education organization that helps facilitate the ELP, decided not to renew its contract with SHIFT. It concluded that its relationship with the Center for Jackson HoleÌę“does not support an inclusive and productive learning environment for participants.” Three ELP alums who had been appointed to SHIFT’s board of directors in the springÌęresigned in April.ÌęNot long after,Ìęthe coalition also sent a letter to the Jackson Hole Travel and Tourism Board, a major sponsor of the SHIFT Festival, urging it to stop funding from the conference. In May, the Travel and Tourism Board reiterated itsÌęfull support of SHIFT.Ìę

As the conversation has spread, accusations have flown in both directions. Both sides have accused the other of bullying and “weaponizing”Ìętheir words.

The Center for Jackson HoleÌęsays that, in hindsight, there were things itÌęcould have been done betterÌębut participants were prepped with pre-SHIFT conference calls and given ample opportunities during the program to voice frustrations and opt out of activities such as panels.ÌęThe boardÌęsays there were also “factors out of our control” for why the program went awry. Specifically, itÌęclaims thatÌęcertain participants arrived in Jackson with an agenda to disrupt the program and the SHIFT Festival. Board chairÌęLen Necefer, who’s a member of the Navajo Nation, said he did his best to triage the situation, along with other board and staff members.

Necefer also says that attempts to reach out to some members of the WTSA coalition were rebuffed. HeÌęand fellow board members were told they weren’t capable of holding a safe space or moving the conversation forward. Some asked not to be contacted, so the board chose to respect their privacy, except whenÌęcalled out directly on social media. (Mendiola denies this, saying that board members did not follow up with them as promised.)

Some members of the WTSAÌęcoalitionÌęfelt their complaints fell on deaf ears. “We were hoping that as victims of racial violence, we would be believed and protected,” says Mendiola. Some felt the board’s response left no avenue for further communication or any mechanism to hold SHIFT accountable for the promised changes, and that SHIFT was painting the coalition as a group of angry disrupters in its public statements. For example, in aÌęstatement published on SHIFT’s blog, the board wrote:Ìę“We feel it’s critical to establish an important precedent for others who might contemplate similar work, but who, upon learning of our experiences, are dissuaded from doing so for fear that their actions could be framed, out of the larger context, in a way that is fundamentally wrong.”

For people in the outdoor industry, the dispute has raised concerns.Ìę, an assistant professor of environmental studies at the State University of New York at Potsdam,Ìęwhere she teaches aboutÌęequity in the outdoors, wroteÌęa letter in support of the WTSA group in April. She sees a fundamental conflict at play. “Beckwith’s foremost concern is the conservation movement,” she says. “If you are concerned with DEI, you have to prioritize the lived experiences of individuals from vulnerable communities. The framework he’s set up isn’t compatible with that.”

At the center of an increasingly complicated debate is the question: DidÌęSHIFT misrepresent its commitment to DEI?

In theÌę, SHIFT states: “DEI is not a tangential issue we address. It’s part of our perspective, and fundamental component of how we approach our work.”ÌęYetÌęin the recent rush to embrace DEI, organizations like SHIFT have stumbled as they navigate this new terrain without a map or framework in place.

“When you ask, ‘Are you doing DEI work?’ they say, ‘Yes, we’re doing it. We don’t think that anyone should be left out. We care about black and brown people. We care about immigrants.’ But they don’t realize how far they have to go to do this work effectively,” saysÌę, a DEI consultant not involved in the SHIFT dispute.

Earlier this year,ÌęCamber Outdoors stirred up a similar debate when itsÌęequity pledge co-opted the work of , founder of the African American Nature and Parks Experience, and others who have laid the groundwork for a more inclusive outdoor industry. Camber’s missteps and the current SHIFT standoff intensified long-standing divisions in the outdoor industry and questions about how to approach DEI work. “This SHIFT experience ignited these things. ButÌęhaving worked as a Native American in the outdoor industry, these fault lines have been there for quite a while. It’s not like they just appeared,” saysÌęNecefer.

Part of the challenge of DEI work stems from the fact that there’s no standardized curriculum or one-size-fits-all approach, nor should there be,ÌęThompson says. Many organizations and leaders embrace diversity first, especially those just getting started. It’s a visible and tangible concept. They may recruit people of color to join theirÌęboard of directors, speak on panels, or join the staff to change the physical makeup of who’s represented.

But gathering a diverse group of people in a room isn’t enough. Leaders need to change the organizational culture to support marginalized voices and curb underlying injustices that may continue to occur. “If you still have a place that’s really upholding white,Ìęcis,ÌęheteronormativeÌęculture, and then you have a bunch of people now immersed in that toxicity but don’t have the power yet to institutionally change the environment,” it can cause harm, Thompson says. “I think that might be what we’re seeing at SHIFT.”

Thompson says there’s no universalÌęapproach to DEI, but there are key foundational frameworks, and it’s essential to focus on the equity part of the equation. It focuses on “trying to undo the effects of oppression, bias,Ìębigotry, and discrimination onÌęmarginalized people,” he says.Ìę“It’s the practice and result of fairness.” However, he notes that most organizations aren’t yet ready to center on equity.

Organizations need to examine how they present themselves and the impact of their actions, regardless of the intent, says Thompson. If organizations continually lean on people of color to teach and share their stories, they may be exploiting those individuals’ trauma for educational purposes. If people of color and those from other marginalized identities enter an environment they believe is safe, there’s a potential for significant damage when the organization doesn’t protect them. “The harm can be greater if you’re not prepared for it,” says Thompson.Ìę

NeceferÌęsays SHIFT is a conservation organization. “DEI has been an important piece of all the work we do, but it’s not our expertise,” he says. Still, he acknowledges that SHIFT needs to discuss how it approaches DEI. SHIFT hired a DEI consultant for a one-day training session for all staff and board members in April. Beckwith began ongoingÌęformal DEI training inÌęDecember.

SHIFT is moving forward with preparations for the 2019 ELP program and conference, which will take place in October. Green plans to conduct more formal conversations with applicants so both parties can determine if the program is a good fit. He’s standardizing interview questions, sticking with questions about work, and steering clear of anything that’s too personal (like a family member’s battle with a terminal illness) or could be perceived as extractive (like a person’s specific experience based on their race or gender identity). He’s revamping the ELP curriculum and building in structured tools and opportunities to allow people to opt in or out of conversations.Ìę

Yet, with the dispute stalled, it’s not clear what’s next for the WTSA coalition.

Shimazaki says she’d like to see SHIFT take a year off from the ELP and investigate all the factors that caused harm to her cohort. She’d like to see SHIFT engage an outside mediator to broker communications. Necefer hopes “the individuals that feel harmed by the situation are able to have dialogue.” He also sees a broader discussion on how people and organizations in the industry engage in and resolve conflict.

Thompson thinks this is a learning opportunity, albeit one at the expense of marginalized people. “How do we call people in versus call people out is one of the big questions,” he says. And when harm is done, organizations mustÌęconsider restorative justice, practices that resolve conflict in a cooperative and constructive way, where those harmed feel justice has been served and offenders take responsibility for their actions.

He says that organizations need to build a culture where critical feedback is welcomed, even craved, rather than seen as a punishment, and where people actively seek mentorship and equity coaching—before conflicts arise.

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Somewear Global Hotspot ($350)

Turn your smartphone into a satellite communications device with this wallet-size hotspot. As long as you’re outside with an unobstructed view of the sky, you can send and receive texts, and if necessary an emergency SOS, without cell service. Choose from four data plans (starting at $15 per month) and hit any trail with peace of mind.

LifeStraw Universal Filter ($35)

If finding clean water could be challenging where you’re headed, pack this clever filter. It’s compatible with narrow and widemouthed bottles and protects against bacteria, parasites, microplastics, and chemicals. That filtration helps improve flavor, too.

Quip Toothbrush ($40)

Once you go sonic, you never go back. This slim electric toothbrush is the most travel-ready on the market. Because it runs on a single AAA battery, there’s no bulky charging stand to pack. Adhesive on the case lets you stick it to your hotel mirror.

Skyhour Mile Money ($60 per hour)

This app allows you to buy hours of flight time, trade them with fellow Skyhour users, and use them to book travel on more than 350 airlines. As with a crowdfunding campaign, you can set a trip goal and share it, so friends and family can chip in.

Away the Bigger Suitcase ($245)

Four-wheel rollers are good. One that charges your phone is even better. This piece has an armored shell, interior compression straps, and a TSA-approved combination lock. Plan to check it? The battery pops out to comply with safety regulations.

Tile Pro Tracker ($35)

Place this powerful Bluetooth chip on your key ring, in your pack or purse, or on anything (or anyone) you need to keep track of. If you’re within 300 feet of the Tile, you can see its location on the phone app and make it chime, so you can zero in on it.

SealLine Blocker Compression Drybag ($36)

Is cargo space tight? After closing the roll top, use the Blocker’s waterproof valve to vent trapped air. The ten-liter nylon sack will keep your gear safe and moisture-free in crowded overhead bins and boat holds.

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