In celebration of Father’s Day, here are some of our favorite memories of biking, hiking, and getting lost with dad.

Dads Can Teach Us (Almost) Anything

I had just turned eight years old, which meant I finally got to go on the annual Barronian backpacking trip with my dad, uncle, and cool older brothers and cousin. I’d wanted to join them for several years but was: (1) a brat and (2) too small. After promising that I wouldn’t complain, I packed my little clothes in a JanSport backpack. Then we set off for a lake in the Cascades. We got to camp, I had to pee, and my dad realized I’d yet to learn the backcountry squat. He poorly mimicked the action, told me to pull my sweats all the way to my ankles, and sent me on my way. I dropped trou, did a tiny squat directly over them, and peed squarely into my sweats. After hearing my yells for help, Dad extricated me from my mess and strung up some paracord to hang the pants dry. Once I was comfortably zipped into a pair of dry jeans, I thought my embarrassment was behind me. That ended when a few friendly deer wandered into camp and started treating the sweats like a salt lick. Some advice to the outdoor parents: ask mom to teach your daughters backcountry bathroom technique. —Abigail Barronian, senior editor

A Day on the Water

My father was a minister and a schoolteacher, but he had a lifelong fascination with traditional wooden boats—so much so that he often considered setting up his own construction shop. One summer when I was a young teen, he took me and my older brother on road trips up and down the Maine coast, where we lived, to visit various boatbuilders. These craftspeople welcomed us graciously and talked trade and business openly, happy to have someone interested in joining the small pool of skilled individuals keeping the profession alive.

One drizzly Saturday, we drove down the west side of Penobscot Bay to Christmas Cove, where a group of boatbuilders had gathered. Tied up to the docks was a remarkable collection of handcrafted boats of every shape and style. We were free to take any of them out, on our own, for as long as we liked. At first my father went with us as we sailed around the cove in a sleek 16-foot sloop, but soon he spent his time mingling with the builders while my brother and I took out boat after boat: skiffs and punts, canoes and kayaks. My brother fell in love with a well-balanced peapod that leapt forward in the water with every stroke of his oars, while I kept coming back to a sturdy working dory that glided across the cove as I stood and skulled the long oar off the stern in a soothing figure eight. Years later I still recall the lustrous colors of the hardwoods, the music of the waves flowing past the hull, the thrill of moving across the water on my own power, and the lovely exhaustion when we called it a day and my father drove us home while we slept in the car. —Jonathan Beverly, senior running editor

C’est La Vie on Class III Rapids

They say that when something bad happens, we block out the details, so I am guessing many of the specifics in my anecdote are just plain wrong. That said, this adventure had too few details to begin with. My dad took me (age ten) and my brother (age eight) down a river in the South of France. We were both mediocre swimmers, and the three of us were in our swimsuits on blow-up floaties. We hadn’t scouted the river or even looked at a map beforehand. Instead, we’d bought the rafts, hopped on them in a fast-moving river we knew nothing about, and then allowed the universe take care of the rest. We came across a pond filled with chicken heads—it was bait used by a nearby restaurant to catch eels. We also saw hundreds of bemused and horrified French onlookers, who gazed at us from the quickly passing shore. We suffered multiple skinned knees and shins, and our mattresses were punctured. And the whole time, we did not see one other floater or swimmer or human of any kind on the river. Finally, we encountered one very large waterfall and managed to surviveĚýby an extremely gracious miracle—well, I suppose it was three miracles. —Hannah McCaughey, creative director

Dad Jokes on the Misery Trail

There are two things in this world that, without question, will make my dad smile: Monty Python’s “The Argument” sketch, and mountain biking or skiing in terrible conditions. And there’s nothing he loves more than his children suffering along with him on outdoor misadventures. I have never been more furious at him than during the countless rides we’ve gone on together. There’s a nice little montage running through my head of the times I ignored his friendly questions on brutal climbs or asked him (not so politely) to stop circling me at the top of a hill while I was struggling to regain my breath. A few years ago in California, my dad suggested we try one of the longest, hardest rides I’d attempted to date. (I do take full responsibility for accepting.) We were hit with an extremely rare thunderstorm, and I fell at least five times on the slippery rocks and lost feeling in my toes and hands about an hour in to the ride, so when he jokingly told me that that the hot-water heater at home was broken on the miserably soggy last stretch back to the car, IĚýyelled, “It’s not funny!” This either makes me a bad biking partner or makes him slightly annoying. But although he gets giddier and I get grumpier as conditions worsen, he’s somehow still my favorite person to bike with. —Kelly Klein, associate gear editor

Big Fish, Little Fishing Pole

When I was seven years old, my favorite outdoor activity was fishing alongside my dad. My prized possession was a two-foot-long fishing pole emblazoned with pictures of Snoopy from the Peanuts cartoon. Most weekends, my father would drive me out to some lake or river along Colorado’s Front Range, and I would cast a lure or some greasy salmon eggs into the water and wait for the magical tug of a trout. Usually, my catches were mere minnows, since that’s all my child arms and toy fishing pole were able to reel ashore. My Dad was always impressed and enthusiastic, no matter if my fish was just a few inches long. In the summer of 1988, we took a family road trip from Denver up through Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks, and on to Missoula, Montana to visit family friends. The trip culminated with both families sharing a cabin along the banks of Big Sky Lake. No sooner had we arrived than I ran down to the docks, threaded a worm onto a hook, and zinged a cast into the lake with my Snoopy pole. The bait had barely hit the water when I felt a violent tug, and I began to pull the fish to shore. My dad abandoned unpacking the car and grabbed a net and ran down to the dock. Somehow, some way, I managed to reel in a true lake monster—a gorgeous rainbow trout that today, 33 years later, still feels like it was ten feet long. I still remember the flabbergasted look on my dad’s face when he netted the huge fish and hauled it ashore. He was truly, astonished that his son, wielding a toy fishing pole, and caught a fish that could feed six people. —Fred Dreier, articles editor

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When I moved back in with my parents after college, my dad’s hearing was waning. My folks, Don and Lynn, lived in Alexandria, Virginia, south of Washington, D.C., on the Potomac River. It was 2003, and I’d relocated to the area to race bikes for a local elite team and compete in the summerlong calendar of national-level events held up and down the East Coast.

At the time, it was hard to tell whether my dad was in denial about his hearing loss—he was only 60—or just figured it was your problem, not his. You’d say something in a completely normal tone of voice, and seemingly frustrated, he’d snap back with a variety of responses: “What?” “Speak up!“ “Stop mumbling!” or “Enunciate,” emphasizing nun, in case you didn’t get it.

“Dad!” I’d yell at him. “You’re literally a caricature of an old man losing his hearing.”

He seemed more proud of that fact than embarrassed by it, and besides, in the basement he’d devised a solution: a cutting-edge home-theater system, complete with a projector TV and a closet full of warm, humming electronics. He’d come back from a long day in D.C., where he worked as an assistant to the inspector general in the Department of Health and Human Services, take off his suit, enjoy dinner and a couple glasses of wine, then unwind on the sectional couch and crank whatever he was watching to eleven.

Be damned his twentysomething bike-bum son who was in the room down the hall, trying to get to bed so he could wake up and ride five hours before working a shift at the bike shop. I’d try to ignore the wall-vibrating bass, put on a pair of headphones, or squish a pillow over my head. But inevitably, the best option was just to go out and join him. In the summer, when the Tour de France was on, I was happy to.

This was near the height of Armstrong hysteria, after all. A small cable channel called Outdoor Life Network had bought the rights to broadcast the Tour in the U.S., and for the first time we could watch the race in its entirety, all 21 stages. Prior to that, my family, along with every other American bike-racing fan, had consumed video coverage of the Tour via a Sunday afternoon special or a daily 30-minute highlight reel on ESPN.

That year, Lance was chasing his fifth Tour win. Each stage went live with the sunrise every morning and was then repackaged into a two-hour prime-time show. My dad appreciated the commentary and analysis from °żł˘±·â€™s polished British announcers, Paul Sherwen and Phil Liggett. But he would laugh out loud at the hijinks of Bob “Bobke” Roll, the quirky former pro with thinning hair and imperfect teeth who brought a distinctly American flair to the Tour coverage, in particular, an inability to correctly pronounce the event. His version: “Tour day ąó°ů˛ą˛Ôł¦±đ.”

For three generations, cycling had swirled around my family. My dad inherited a passion for the sport from his uncle, then passed it down to my brother and me. My parents fell in love on a bike ride across the Golden Gate Bridge. My brother competed in his first mountain-bike race in the eighth grade, and I followed not long after. We were exposed to classic road races like and via weather-beaten magazines and grainy VHS tapes. In college, when I became obsessed with road racing myself, I read rider diaries from the Tour on burgeoning cycling websites like . It seemed somewhat surreal to my dad and me that we could now watch the Tour live from thousands of miles away.

Bike racing is unlike any other sport I know of. It’s an endurance sport on vehicles. A vehicle sport on open roads. A team sport with an individual winner. Life’s metaphors, its various struggles and successes, seem to play out in a more dramatic fashion in a bike race. At least they did for me and my dad. Riders conquer mountains and succumb to crashes on the way back down. They surge ahead of the group with a violent effort called an attack, form temporary allegiances to share the draft and break the wind, and then try to dispatch each other in the closing kilometers. A rider will lead the race alone for a hundred-some-odd kilometers and then get gobbled up by the charging peloton just meters from the finish.

For my dad and me, watching the Tour became akin to an annual fishing trip or a multi-day hike. Growing up, I spent countless hours pedaling behind him on a shiny aluminum tandem, exploring rural North Texas roads, where we lived in the nineties, and tackling the rocky singletrack overlooking Lake Grapevine. When my dad moved to D.C. in the 2000s, he lost his tight-knit group of bike-club friends, and also his impetus to ride. I was too strong, or too cool, to get out with him then. We didn’t bond on our bikes anymore, but watching the Tour, we came to know each other as adults.

My dad gave me his hearty laugh and his boyish eyes, but he could also be stoic, gruff, and comically reserved with his emotions. He’d ask how my car was running, and I understood that he loved me. Watching the Tour together, I cherished that,Ěýthough my dad had never competed, he understood the sport, and through it, he seemed to understand me. Despite its impracticality, he supported my decision to pursue bike racing professionally. He was good at asking questions, and he didn’t fully fall for Lance’s fairy tale. Over the years, we watched heroic performances with a healthy amount of skepticism but also shared an appreciation for underdogs. An unlikely hero would emerge, and we’d root for him to beat the odds.

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When our fathers tell us tales of their wild youth, we usually listen closely. This is partly because hearing about pop’s bolder, bearded past is entertaining. But more importantly, when your dad shares an experience from his younger days, you learn something about who he is—which gives you a glimpse into your own origins. This week, in the run-up to Father’s Day, we bring you the story of a family that wanted to better understand the meaningĚýbehind dad’s crazy stories. What they discovered is that his pursuit of adventure was all about transforming himself into the best kind of man and parent he could be.

This episode is brought to you by , a one-of-a-kind destination nestled in the Ozark Mountains of northwest Arkansas. People say the most curious things when they visit Eureka Springs. Come for yourself and find out why. Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Curious, indeed.

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I’ll tell you a secret: The dad in your life doesn’t want things for Father’s Day. Yes, golf clubs are nice, and if you’re thinking of getting him a new mountain bike, you should definitely do that. But what he really wants is a little bit of order in his life. Because fatherhood is chaos. There are shoes everywhere. My basement is basically just a sea of Legos,Ěýstuffed animals, and Nerf guns. For some reason, someone put a hairbrush and scrunchies in the fridge. And don’t get me started on the car, which isĚýa superfund site. My family consists ofĚýtwo kids, a dog, a geriatric cat, a wife with an affinity for kitchen gadgets, and we’re all crammed inside a house that’s roughly the size of a cubicle in corporate America. That’s why I dream about books arranged alphabetically on shelves and a robot butler that follows my children around picking up all of the half-eaten sandwiches and dirty glasses they set down throughout the day. Bringing order to parental chaos is an uphill battle, but there are a handful of products that can help organize certain aspects of a dad’s life, from the garage to the campsite.

Organization for the Car: Decked D-Bag ($175)Ěý

Don’t think of the as an expensive duffel bag. Think of it as a go-bag for the most fun aspects of your life. This expandable hardshell/softshell haulerĚýwas designed to be packed full of gear, with a 42-liter outer bag that’s loaded with interior organizational features, like a tool roll that has slots for wrenches and screw drivers, and two zippered bags for loose items like batteries or snacks. The tool roll snaps onto the hardshell panel, but can snap out and roll up to be carried separately. There’s also a smaller duffel that snaps in and out of the bag too, likeĚýRussian nesting dolls of organization. The D-Bag is designed forĚýjobs thatĚýrequire tools, but I’ve found it’s perfect for holding all of my mountain bike gear (helmet, shoes, gloves, extra layers, snacks, tools, pump, and tubes).ĚýThe flat, hard-shell shape of the bag makes it easy to pack in your truck or trunk, so it can live inside your car.

Organization for the Garage: Front Runner Wolf Pack ($40)Ěý

People have been using the “bin system” for garage organization since caveman times, so the concept at play here isn’t groundbreaking, but the Ěýby overlanding brand Front RunnerĚýis a superior bin. It’s made from plastic that’s tough enough to stand on with lids that lock tight. The bins stack on top of each other like Legos, which makes storing and packing more orderly. At 31 liters, I think it’s the perfect size—big enough to fit an entire camp kitchen set up, but not too big that you start overstuffing it with crap you don’t need. I have two of these: oneĚýto hold all of my camp kitchen supplies, and the other holds my fire kit, kindling, matches, a small axe, and work gloves. If I could, I’d have a dozen of these stacked in my garage, each neatly containing a different aspect of my outdoorsy life.

Organization for the Backpack: Peak DesignĚýPacking Cubes ($30 and up)

Not all packing cubes are created equal. Peak Design’s are loaded with smart features andĚýare made from super-light recycled weatherproof and abrasion-resistant nylon. It has the typical main compartment for stuffing shirts or socks, but the back of the cube has a second expandable compartment that separates dirty clothes from clean pieces.ĚýIt also has an expansion zipper that doubles the size of the cube, but then zips back down to compress the contents inside. The small version fits nine liters of clothes (about 10 shirts) and the medium is twice as big. There’s also a shoe-specific pouch that rolls up tight when you’re not using it. When I travel again, I will organize my pack or roller luggage with these nifty cubes. (I can say nifty because I’m a dad.)

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Organization for the Campsite: NiteIze Gear Line ($20)

My family brings a lot of stuff to camp. I can somehow manage to wear the same shirt and pair of shorts for six days in a row, but my son burnsĚýthrough an entire wardrobe before breakfast. For a semblance of organization, we hang dirty clothes on the tent poles outside of the tent—not a good look. And then there are water bottles,Ěýlanterns,Ěýmugs, toys,Ěýand other random items tossed around camp. Enter the , a four-foot long ribbon of order with D-ring webbing and built-in carabiners. It lets me hang clothes, hats, and all of the little things that clutter a campsite. I wish the Gear Line was twice as long, but as is, it’s the perfect length to hang inside your tent or between two trees.

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FilmmakerĚý thought that he needed to be risk averse to raise children appropriately. In reality,Ěýthe lessons that arose in his family’s adventuresĚýmolded his and his partner’sĚýchildrenĚýinto strong and determinedĚýcritical thinkers, which he believesĚýwill help them succeed in adulthood.Ěý

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A lot of my time—especially these days—is spent with my kids. It’s been hard, yes, but also a blessing, because I might never get to enjoyĚýso much uninterrupted time with them again. To keep myself productive and the kids entertained over the past coupleĚýmonths, I’ve come to rely on some specific gear. These items make greatĚýgifts for the dads in your life, during the quarantine and not.

Yeti Rambler 26-Ounce Vacuum Bottle with Chug Cap ($40)

At about 10 A.M., my kids go crazy. They’ve done a little homework, watched TV, and need to run around. As we head out to the local park or hiking trails, I always pack this bottle. It’s my favorite because it’s not only indestructible,Ěýbut it also keeps my water cold and comes with Yeti’s Chug cap. Its durability is important because my kids always find clever ways to beat it up. And the proprietary cap is handyĚýbecause my four-year-old can drink from the bottle without making a total mess, even in the car.

Ursa Major Sublime Sage Spray Deodorant ($18)

Thanks to the spray design, this deodorant goes on quicker and cleaner than any gel I’ve ever used. AndĚýwhen we’re ready to leave the house, every secondĚýcounts when dealingĚýwith whiny, grumpy kids. I also love the scent and the fact that it’s made from natural ingredients. I’m not that worried about my deodorant choice, but my daughter is: it gives her peace of mind that I’m not rubbing unnecessary chemicals all over my body.

Chrome Urban Ex RolltopĚý28L Backpack ($140)

“Dad, can I have some water?” “Dad, can I have a snack?” “Dad, can I have my jacket?” I probably hear similar questions 25 times a day, and all of them prompt me to dig through my backpack. That’s why I’ve come to love the rolltop Urban Ex, which has a single cavernous chute that allows for quick access to whatever my kids are requesting. In fact, if we’re just at the park, I don’t even shut the rolltop, so that the bag becomes a sort of largeĚýtote with shoulder straps. Bonus points for the fully waterproof design: the pack is easy to wash out if I forget a banana at the bottom of the bag and it gets smashed.

All Good SPF 30 Kid’s Mineral Sunscreen Spray Six Ounce ($22)

My kids hate sunscreen that burns their eyes and strings when it’s sprayed on skinned knees. That’s why we turned to this version from All Good; itĚýuses zinc oxide and is much easier on their skin. Like all mineral sunscreens, it has to be rubbed in a little more, but my kids feel that’s a fair trade-off—plus, they like the smell. I like it because it comes in a spray bottle for easy application, and it’s not horrible for the environment (coral reefs specifically). I happily use the kid’s version on myself, but the company makes an , too.

Poc Will Sunglasses ($130)

These shades are survivors because they’re built out of Grilamid—the same stuff high-end ski boots are made from—not to mention they’ve lived through constant wrestling matches with my rambunctious kids. Thanks to a special coating, the lenses are easy to clean of tiny fingerprints. When I get sweaty, hydrophilic rubber grippers on the nose and temples keep the glasses from slipping off. I also like the style. The nose bridge and unique shape of the lenses make them stand out in a sea of similar-looking dad-approved sunglasses.

Apple AirPods Pro ($235)

Sometimes I need to hide from my kids—either to get work done orĚýtake a break—and these headphones let me do it. With their built-in noise-canceling feature, I can work on the laptop for a couple of hours and not be distracted by shouting or whining. The high-quality speaker components create incredible fidelity, so I can appreciate whatever I’m listening to. Unlike over-the-ear sound-canceling headphones, theseĚýare also great for workouts: I can use them on a solo run or ride when some alone time to refresh is called for.

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I’m always sore. I blame my high school buddies, who challenged me to a daily push-up competition during our pandemic stay-at-home orders.ĚýMy running mileage has also increased significantly with all this time on my hands. Combine all that activity with the fact that I am solidly in my 40s, and yeah, my muscles hurt all the time. I’m not alone; based on some informal polling, I’d say that roughly 100 percent of the dads reading this article right now are at least a little sore from trying to pretend they’re not as old as their age implies. It’s time to take a serious look at those high-end massage guns that are probably blowing up your social media feed.

You know what I’m talking about. They look like Black & Decker power tools and have become indispensable accessories for seemingly all pro athletes in recent years. I used one of the high-end models at a running camp last fall and spent most of my downtime torturing my quads. I immediately understood all the hype. If you’ve never used one, imagine a tinyĚýbut very strong man punching the muscle of your choice 2,000 times a minute. It’s like a deep tissue massage with the push of a button—not that there’s any conclusive science to suggest these toolsĚýwill actually help you recover from that hard workout any faster. The brands behind these devices say they increase blood flow while reducing inflammation and tension, all of which might be true, but the jury’s still out on that research. You don’t need studies to tell you a massage feels great, and these guns give you that feeling with the push of a button.

The technology has gotten better over the years. Therabody (formerly known as Theragun), the leader in the massage gun space, has released a new model that’s outrageously powerful, quieter, and easier to use than its previous products. Meanwhile, devices in the budget category have improved and are finally worthy of your attention. I spent the past three weeks testing three popular models from different price ranges. All three had their benefits, although I don’t think just one is the silver bullet for muscle pain. I’ll always foam roll and use pressure-point devices, but these guns are a powerful addition to my recovery routine.

Theragun ProĚýGen 4 ($599)

Best For: Replacing your massage therapist

Here it is, the Cadillac of massage guns. The darling of social media and sponsored athletes. You could argue that the Ěýis overpriced, but you can’t argue with the results:ĚýthisĚýnew Pro G4 delivers a superior massage. The key is the QuietForce brushless motor that has five different speeds, from 1,700 to 2,400 percussions per minute. And it has power in the metric that truly counts: 60 pounds of stall force, which is an estimate of how much force each percussion delivers to your body. This is a commercial-grade machine, and it feels like it, from the hefty build to the wallop itĚýputs into your muscles. The Gen 4 has a new motor that’s supposedly half as loud as the Gen 3 version, but it’s still the loudest of the three I tested. I’m guessing that the trade-off for all that power is a bit of background noise. So, you have to ask yourself: do you want a quiet, relaxing massage, or do you want to suffer in the best way possible? If you have trouble with big, hard-to-penetrate muscles like your glutes, the Pro is your jam. It’s not light—2.9 pounds—but it has an adjustable arm that lets you use itĚýto work a variety of areas without fatiguing your hands. It comes with a number of attachments, a carrying case, and an extra battery, so you can always have one charged and ready to rock. But do you need a recoveryĚýtool this powerful? It depends. Do weekend warriors need carbon fiber mountain bikes? If you want a gun that might eliminate the need to get that weekly massage, don’t bother with anything else.

Trigger Point Impact ($199)

Best For: The everyday athlete

sits in a weird limbo world:Ěýmuch cheaper than the industry leaders in the spaceĚýbut still too expensive (at least to me) to be considered a “budget” choice. The gun also performs in that middle ground: better than cheaper tools but not as powerful as the top-tier guns. It has four speeds—from 2,100 to 3,300 percussions per minute—which sounds like a lot, but remember: stall force is the number you’re looking for when comparing these guns. Trigger Point doesn’t advertise the stall force on its website or packaging, and when I reached out to the brand, it couldn’t give me any specifics. Judging by how the gun feels, I’m guessing the stall force is somewhere in the middle between the Sportneer and the Theragun. It’s plenty powerful, and the unique design lets you use two hands at once to drive the head into your muscle. The battery is designed to shut down after tenĚýminutes of use, which is annoying butĚýprobably for the best—I imagine you could overdo it with these guns and walk out of a session like a wet noodle. The Impact doesn’t deliver the thumping of the Theragun, but it is significantly quieter and weighs half a pound less. It doesn’t come with a lot of frills—there is no carrying case and no extra attachments—but it is a solid piece of machinery that can give you a relatively deep massage without forcing you to dip into your kid’s college fund. For the majority of people, the Impact is likely as much of a gun as they’ll ever need.

Ěý

Sportneer Percussion ($140)

Best For: Quiet massages on sensitive muscles

This little gun gets crazy-good reviews on Amazon and is considered to be one of the best budget options on the market. It’s so inexpensive that it had me wondering if it would offer anything beyond one of those handheld massagers they sell at Bed Bath and Beyond. Ěýis definitely the least powerful model I reviewed, with 20 pounds of stall force, compared to 60 in the Theragun. And you can feel the difference, not just in the thump to your muscles but in the gun’s weight and build. It’s lightweightĚýwhere the Theragun is meaty. But a beefy motor and more power don’t always mean better performance. It depends on what you’re looking for. This toolĚýisn’t going to give you the same deep-tissue beating that the Theragun gives you, but 20 pounds of stall force is still significant.ĚýThis is a legitimate recovery toolĚýand happens to be way quieter than the other two on this list. On the lowest setting, you can barely hear it. It offers five different percussion-per-minute rates—from 1,200 to 3,200—and comes with a handful of attachment heads so you can fine-tune the pressure. The Sportneer ended up being my wife’s favorite of the three I reviewed. (She said the Theragun was too intense.) I liked it for sensitive areas like my calves and triceps. If you want a massage gun to add to your recovery routine and budget is your top concern, the Sportneer is the gun for you.

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It’s a fact: dads are opinionated. And there are a lot of opinions to be had when it comes to outdoor gear. For Father’s Day, we wanted to know what products our gear team’s dads are obsessed with. After a few phone calls and paragraph-long texts, we rounded up the tools and apparel they swear by.

Yeti Rambler 20-Ounce Tumbler with Magslider Lid ($30)

My father speaks about his and my mother’s as if they are part of the family. Judging from how much time they spend together these days, a sensitive son such as myself might feel like he’s been replaced by a vacuum-insulated beverage holder. He purchased their beloveds in 2015, and they haven’t gone anywhere without them since. He and my mother spend three months a year chartering sailboats around the world and so bring two humongous rolling duffels filled with safety equipment, fishing gear, and navigation aids on every trip. I suspect they would be mightily disappointed if they lost either of these very important duffels and their costly contents, but it would be an all-out catastrophe if they lost their Yeti tumblersĚý(which they carryĚýon the plane, obviously). Without them, there would be no perfectly chilled, questionably sizedĚýgin and tonics on anchor in the British Virgin Islands or piping-hot French-press coffee while behind the helm just after sunrise in Tahiti. When I texted my father for this write-up, he sent me five messages in a row—the fastest consecutive repliesĚýI’ve ever received from him. “I use it almost every night,”Ěýhe wrote. “Keeps my beverage just right and my hands from getting too cold or hot!!” He added one more note, which might be a statement or a warning: “Don’t leave home without them!” —Will Taylor, gear director

ScotteVestĚýQuest Vest ($199)

My dad’s favorite movie is The Bourne Identity. Nothing excites him more than a Sunday-evening TNT airing of any film in the Bourne series. I think he secretly moonlights as an international spy and studies the movies for espionage tactics. HeĚýdidn’t even provide a photo for this article (Maybe because he doesn’tĚýwant to be identified by international intelligence agencies.) So it’s fitting that every Christmas he talks my family’s ear off about his , a travel vest with a whopping . But they’re not immediately noticeable, unlike a cargo version. This sleekness is what he loves about the brand (which also makes shirts, pants, and jackets). “It can hold a lot!”ĚýheĚýpreaches, flashing the insides of the vest like a guy in a trench coat selling watches. (He does this presentation for my family eachĚýyear.) He especially likes the ScotteVestĚýfor breezing through airport security: “All I have to do is take off the whole vest and put it in the bin.” I’m not really sure why he needs all of those pockets, though; one dad can only carry so many tools. But I don’t ask. His reasoning is probably top secret. —Jeremy Rellosa, reviews editor

Arc’teryx Atom LT Hoody ($259)

My dad is more obsessed with gear than anyone else I know, which says a lot given what I do for a living. No trip home is complete without our own personal gear show-and-tell. He grills me with questions about the new backpack or running shoes I’m testing and then brings outĚýwhatever new hiking boots or gloves he’s discovered at the local shop. Inevitably, all roads lead back to the one item he prizes above all others: his . ThisĚýaerobic midlayer, which pairs synthetic insulation with a breathable, stretchy, DWR-coated exterior, is one of Arc’teryx’s most enduringly popular pieces. It was around before Polartec Alpha and “active insulation”Ěýbecame industry buzzwords. What does my dad love about it? “In a nutshell,”Ěýhe says,Ěý“everything.”ĚýThough ultimatelyĚýhe’ll tell you that there actually isĚýone feature thatĚýsealed the deal for him. “It’s the best hood I’ve ever used,”Ěýhe says. “Hoods can be kind of restricting. But this one, often I don’t even realize I’m wearing it.” —Ariella Gintzler, associate editor

Adidas Solar BoostĚýShoes ($160)

For the past 16 years, my stepdad, Vic, has started every day the same way: he wakes up at six, laces up his kicks, and runs. He’s not trying to beat the world record for most consecutive daily five-mile jogs in a row; he just likes to stick to a routine. He first tried the four years ago and hasn’t looked back since. Once he logs 450 miles on a pair of Solar Boosts, he buys another. (Vic keeps a calendar by the treadmill to mark each day he wears the sneakers.) He loves them because the plush sole minimizes impact on his knees. They always come along when he travelsĚýand offer just as much support on jaunts around a new city as they do on the treadmill at home. Vic is so passionate about these shoes that every time I visit, he offers to get me a pair of my own. I remind him that my day starts at a significantly later time and daily mile-long jogs are still aspirational to me. —Claire Hyman, gear columnist

Specialized Roubaix Elite Road Bike ($2,800)

My dad’s a quiet guy, so there’s not really anything he won’t stop talking about. His love for his road bike is more of a show-don’t-tell affair—he uses it to commute to work a few days a week and to ride loops in the mountains nearly every weekend. When I asked what he liked so much about it, he responded in his trademark understated fashion: “It feels fast.” After his last bike, which was a too-big hand-me-down from his brother, he decided it was time to sink some real money into a well-fitting, carbon-fiber model with nice Shimano 105 components. He doesn’t race and averages 25- to 40-mile days, so “it’s plenty bike for me,” he says. He also sprung for some nice ($170), which he says have been worth every dollar, though my mom “continues to give [him] shit” for them. —Maren Larsen, assistant editor

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