is a professional climber. Last November, he free climbed Golden Gate on El Capitan in 20 hours and 26 minutes, just a few days after Emily Harrington’s historic one-day ascent of the route. He decided he wanted to come out publicly, and he reached out to us to help him do it.Ìę

Here’s Jordan’s story, as told to Maren Larsen.

Every year, I give myself a birthday challenge—some kind of arbitrary climbing goal—to celebrate and push myself. Each year I try to up the ante a little bit, and for this, my 27th birthday, the best challenge I could think of for myself was to come out publicly. So here it is: I’m gay.

Recently, my sexuality has felt like a distraction from what I want all my focus to be on: climbing. I’ve been climbing for eight years, and for most of that time, my sexual orientation and identity didn’t affect me at all—partially because I never really gave those parts of me much room to breathe. But over the past two years, I’ve begun telling close friends. And recently I realized that I’ve been carrying this weight on my shoulders a little too long.

I moved around a lot when I was a kid, mostly in the southeast. My family and the people around me were very religious and conservative—like, reading-Harry Potter-is-a-sinÌęreligious. People made gay jokes all the time, used faggotÌęas an insult. It was a really fearful place for me, because from the time I was four, I knew I was different. When I was inadvertently outed to my parents late in high school, they reacted in the extreme. My dad sat me down and told me that I was giving into the lies of the devil and needed to return to God. They have apologized now, and we’re on good terms. But that experience definitely inhibited my progress toward accepting who I am.

My upbringing made it really hard for me to form long-lasting relationships. But when I moved to California after high school, I started living on my own and found the climbing community. I had this realization that this is my place, these are my people, and this is the thing I want to do for the rest of my life. And given all that, these friends that I have now are probably going to be my friends forever, and I should start treating them as such and opening up to them.Ìę

Around the same time, I felt that I had been too selfish in my climbing. I had prioritized my own goals over the people that got me there. I wanted to refocus on partnerships because, at the end of the day, that’s the thing that makes this sport so meaningful to me.

That’s when I met , my climbing partner and personal hero. Mark is like a father figure, and it may seem strange to say, but my friendship with him was really the first serious relationship I’d ever had. He showed me true love and acceptance in a way that I never had before.Ìę

That safety allowed me to pay attention to my sexuality and try to unpack it for the first time. It felt daunting and scary. That process started to take a lot of my energy and focus away from my climbing. In some ways, that was a good thing: I had been hiding this part of me from everyone, including myself, for my whole life. But as I started to open up with all of my friends, yet still try to hide this part of myself publicly, IÌęstarted to feel like I was being inauthentic. Seeing what’s going on in the outdoor industry and in the climbing community with people demanding more diversity and representation, I began to ask myself if I wanted to participate in that conversation.

The first person I came out to was Samuel Crossley, who directed Free As Can Be, a documentary about my partnership with Mark. Sam is an out gay filmmaker and photographer and very visible in the climbing world. He was so excited for me. He was like, Oh my gosh, we have to put this in the film. And I was like, No way, dude. I wasn’t ready yet. But from the very beginning, he was very encouraging about me sharing my story publicly.

And then earlier this year, I signed with Scarpa. They have an Ìęwhere their pro athletes mentor members of the community. I outed myself to my manager by asking that they send any gay applicants my way. I ended up being paired with Patrick Dunn, who runs , a queer climbing community and guidingÌęservice in Bend, Oregon. On the application, they asked him which professional athletes heÌęlooked up to and identified with. None, he said. I don’t relate to any of them.Ìę

And I thought, man, that’s such a bummer. For me, sexuality didn’t play a part in who I thought of as a role model. But people in the climbing community have been speaking up lately about representation—asking ourselves, for instance, how we can expect a Black person to feel welcomeÌęif they don’t see any Black climbers. That made me start to think about my impact, because as far as I know there aren’t any out gay men who are professional climbers.Ìę

When I came out to Patrick, it seemed to have a big impact on him. It made me understand the value that action could have for the community as a whole. If me displaying a little bit of courage and coming out and being visible helps climbers like Patrick or those in the new generation see themselves in the sport, it’s worth it.Ìę

Climbing can be a pretty macho sport. But I have had zero experiences with homophobia as I’ve come out to other climbers, even those from the older generation. I think that’s partially because climbing has always been a place for outsiders and misfits and people who want to live an alternative lifestyle. But oftentimes it’s just that people don’t really give a shit. At the end of the day, most of us just care about climbing, first and foremost. If you’re a good climber and a good human being, people are going to respect you for that, regardless of your sexual identity.Ìę

One of my biggest fears when I started to consider coming out was that people were going to assume that my primary career from now on would be as a gay activist, and that this would be seen as the majority of my identity. I want to show up for the LGBTQ+ community. But I’m also doing this to free myself so that I can focus all my energy where I want it to be, on my climbing. Maybe one day I’ll be more comfortable playing an activist role, but for now the best I can do is focus on climbing and try to set an example for others to be themselves.

To be honest, I just want to move on with my life. To do so, it’s unfortunately still necessary to come out. I hope that one day, we will be past the point where people generally assume everybody around them is straight, and I hope that me coming out is a step in that direction. Because for me, the climbing community was not a barrier to coming out. That community is what made it possible. This is the takeaway I want not just those with a similar struggle, but anyone reading this to have: the outdoors and the outdoor community can be a great catalyst for recovery from trauma. Moving out west and becoming part of the climbing community gave me the tools and the confidence I need to be able to accept myself and come out publicly.Ìę

Next week, I’m headed to Yosemite Valley. Spring in Yosemite is the most important part of the climbing season for me. I don’t want to get into specifics, but I have big plans. Now I’m out of the closet, and my business is taken care of. I can focus all my energy on what matters most to me right now: climbing big walls.Ìę

The post Climber Jordan Cannon Shares His Coming-Out Story appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In March 2015, then 19-year-old Ed Pratt left his home in Somerset, England, on a mission to become the first person to circle the globe on a unicycle. Three years and 21,000 miles later—after crossing Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and the U.S.—he rolled back to his starting point and a cheering 500-personÌęcrowd, successful in both his final dismount (he was worried about that) and a new record.Ìę

https://www.youtube.com/embed/fJTwj0T4Ee8
Check out anÌęepisode of Unicycling Across America.

Along the way, Pratt fought fought crosswinds through Australian deserts, almost got hit by a car that wasÌęspinning on ice in Kyrgyzstan, and performed karaoke to Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” at a Tibetan New Year party. He documented hisÌęadventures and misadventuresÌęin his entertaining YouTube seriesÌęÌęand is still dropping new episodes of his travels across the U.S. Pratt also raised close to $400,000 for , a UK-based charity that provides school supplies for underprivileged kids around the globe.

Before he set out, Pratt said he was confident he could ride up to 40 or 50 miles a day. The main challenge was finding a way to carry all his gear, and—as he quickly discovered—replacing all the stuff that broke or wore down over time. He shared his 12 gear essentials with șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.

Bike

“Unicycles are all fixed gear, so the biggest variation is wheel size. The largest you can get is 36 inches, which is better for long rides because you’re not pedaling as much to go the same distance. I chose the Ìęunicycle,Ìębecause it’s one of the lightest and most durable on the market. Unicycles are pretty unstable things—I probably dropped it at least once or twice a week.”Ìę

Tire

“There are only about three or four tires to choose from in this wheel size. I went with , a typical mountain-bike width, which was the best-of-both-worlds option between a road slick and a tire with a lot more grip. The Nightrider has tread but also works well on roads. I used five tires over the course of the trip—each one lasted about 5,000 miles.”Ìę

Frame Bags

“You can’t just go out and buy unicycle panniers, so I turned to the man who once held the record for longest unicycle trip, , to make them. They’re not great, because they’re not waterproof and not particularly durable—I had to do a lot of maintenance on themÌęand even get them completely remade midtrip. But the front and back bag were the right size and shape. They didn’t rub my knees and made use of the limited space I had.”Ìę

Frame Rack

“The challenge was figuring out how to actually attach the panniers to the unicycle. My granddad created an aluminum frame for attachment. He’s built everything from a grandfather clock to a scale model of a fire engine, so if anyone was going to create a custom unicycle luggage rack, it was him. He came up with a very good design—I could even break it apart if I needed to fly.”

Sleeping Bag

“I went through three sleeping bags. The first was a , which was a three-season down bag. Down is light and warm, but it always eventually clumps up and then isn’t as effective in the cold. So I replaced it with another down bag from a Chinese brand, a , and then later got a Ìęin the U.S., which I still use.”Ìę

Sleeping Pad

“My sleeping pad was a , my fourth of the trip. They’re really lightweight and comfortable, but the seams fatigueÌęafter about six months, and you have to start patching them.”Ìę

Tent

“My first tent, the , did alright. The poles were thin, and the pegs were like toothpicks, but it was nice having something so lightweight. Eventually, the fabric started to break, and a dog ripped into it in Turkey. Then it got blown over on top of a sand dune in China and was never the same. So after a year and a half, I bought an , which held me the rest of the trip. It’s a good tent with a reasonable amount of space.”Ìę

Shoes

“I only used one type of shoe for the entire trip: Ìęmountain-bike shoes. I went through four pairs. They’re a bit heavy, and your feet getÌęa little warm, but they’re good at gripping the pedals, andÌęthe high cuffsÌęgive you that confidence that you won’t turn an ankle when you come off the bike.”Ìę

Camera

“I started my journey with a , which was alright for photos and a little bit of video. I went through two and then broke another one in Kyrgyzstan. I was just using the stuff too hard. Dust would get in and break the lenses. I was also doing a lot of time-lapse videos, which puts a lot of strain on the motor of the camera.”Ìę

Mapping App

“I used an app on my phone called , which creates open-source maps that are completely free and downloadable. I never used it to route from A to B, I’d just look at a map and figure out a route as I went so I could make choices when the road split.”Ìę

Inflatable Globe

“I couldn’t carry many extras, because I wanted to stay as light as possible, but I did carry . It was good to bring out around kidsÌęor just to show people where I came from and where I was going, which was useful in places where I couldn’t speak the language.”ÌęÌę

Stove

“My stove system lasted the whole trip! It’s a , and you can do anything with it—attach gas bottlesÌęor use diesel or petrol [gasoline]. I ran it on petrolÌęthe whole trip, because it was the cheapest and most reliable to get ahold of. The stove was built to be lightweight and modular, so you can easily take it apart and clean it. I’m sure it’ll last another tenÌęyears.”

The post In Case You Ever Want to Unicycle 21,000 Miles… appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Outdoor cultureÌęcan be hard to define, and we wouldn’t have it any other way: it’s as diverse as those who work, play, and fight for justiceÌęoutside. This year, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű’s culture writers delved into countless subjects, includingÌęfat bears, the Camber Outdoors equity fiasco, Pattie Gonia, and more. The common thread? People connecting deeply with the outdoors—and each other—in both new and old ways.

Here are all of our favoriteÌęstories from 2019:Ìępersonal essays, profiles, plus explorations ofÌęthe events and discussions that shaped the outdoor world.

“Pattie Gonia Is Shaking Up the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű World”

Wyn Wiley, creator of the drag-queen Instagram star, explains that it all started when he grabbed some six-inch heels buried in his closet and decided to take a risk.Ìę

“Life Lessons from a 97-Year-Old Lobsterman”

Lobsterman John OlsonÌęhas been on the water for nine decades, and he’sÌęstill working. ThisÌęstoryÌęexplores Maine’s iconic industryÌęthrough Olson’s eyes.

“How Shelton Johnson Became a Yosemite Legend”

The longtime ranger has spent decades sharing stories of Ìęand advocating for diversity in the national parks. But his journeyÌęstarted on the edge of a cliff in Germany.

“It’s Fat Bear Week, Motherf*ckers”

Revisit the best week of the year.

“Meet the Volunteers Behind Our Favorite Fat Bears”

Every year, ExploreÌęcalls on its A-team to capture the rotund glory of the brown bears in Alaska’s Katmai National Park.

“A New șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Guide for People with Disabilities”

The founder of the organization Disabled HikersÌęis making the outdoor industry more accessible, one trail guide at a time.

“Heather Anderson Found Healing on Her Historic PCT Hike”

In her new memoir Thirst,Ìęthe celebrated thru-hikerÌędelves into the physical and mental struggles and the triumphs she experienced on the trail.

“A Muralist Paints the Camp Fire’sÌęWreckage”

Shane Grammer’sÌęimagesÌębrought hope to his friends and family in the wake of California’sÌęmost destructive fire. Now he’sÌęreturning to the region to reveal new work, including a major art installation.

“How Instagram Became Divisive for Female Fly-Fishers”

Some believe the platform has made the sport more accessible and lucrative for female anglers. But not everyone sees it that way.

“What We Can Learn from the Camber Outdoors Fiasco”

The organization’s equity pledgeÌęignored the work of Teresa Baker and many others already striving to make the outdoor industry more inclusive. So we asked a dozen leaders in industry equityÌęhow to move forward.

“What Happened at the SHIFT Festival?”

A public condemnation of the 2019 SHIFT Festival’sÌęattempts to promote diversity, equity, and inclusion revealedÌębroader issues in the outdoor industry.

“Where Were the Women in Matchstick’s New Ski Film?”

After making some headway on gender inclusion, the on-screen slopes went back to a bro fest with Return to Send’er. The internet was furious.

“The Instagram Account Calling Out Harassers in Climbing”

New accounts sharing bad behavior, plus public stands from notable climbers, are bringing gross online interactions into the spotlight.

“BeyoncĂ© Films at Havasu Falls. The Internet Reacts.”

The famous waterfalls appeared in about ten seconds’Ìęworth of Lady Bey’sÌęnew music video, and some people were angry about it.

“‘Any One of Us’ÌęIs More than an Inspirational Film”

Last spring, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű features editor Gloria Liu watched professional mountain biker Paul Basagoitia’sÌędocumentaryÌęabout the spinal-cord injury he sustained at Red Bull Rampage. Ahead of its HBO releaseÌęin October, she and her partner viewed it again after their own life-altering experience.

“șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs of an Openly Gay Outdoorsman”

The wilderness firefighter and author reflects on the risks and rewardsÌęof being out in the wilderness, literally and figuratively.

“Miscarriage on a Mountain”

SometimesÌęthe path to parenthoodÌęis an uncertain trek.

“Inside the Mind of a Very Good Boy”

What is a good boy anyway? How do you become one? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

The post Our Favorite Culture Stories of 2019 appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Behind every successful mountain athlete is a team of supportive parents, friends, coaches, orÌępartners.ÌęWe see the end results as a lifetime of first ascents and descents, medals and awards, but rarely do we get a glimpse at their mentors, who helped blaze the trail.

For theseÌęeight climbers and skiers, the most powerful and lasting lessons are rarelyÌęabout technical skillsÌębut those less tangible things, like how to learn from failure,Ìęfind intrinsic motivation, and make decisions in the mountains. What it seems to boil down to isn’t a transfer of knowledge soÌęmuch as validation—having someone in your corner, as professional rock climber Kai Lightner puts it, who unconditionally believes in you.

Here’s what theseÌęsuccessful outdoor athletes toldÌęus about the mentors who shaped their lives.

Angel Collinson, 29, big-mountain skier

Lesson: Don’t be afraid to say no.ÌęÌę

“Włó±đČÔ first asked me to go film in Alaska, which was the big-dog trip, I was like, ‘Are you guys sure? I’ve never film-skied before, I don’t know what I’m doing, you’ve never met me.’ÌęIt was an intense situation as a rookie, but Sage Cattabriga-Alosa and Ian McIntosh, pro big-mountainÌęskiers, met me with such patience. Feeling like you’re a part of the teamÌęand not a burden is the greatest gift you could ask for when you’re entering something new.”

“First and foremost, the biggest lesson they taught me was:Ìęnever be afraid to say noÌęand step away. When you’ve been studying a line for weeks, and the film crew is ready, it’s hard not to have tunnel visionÌęand miss the signs. But if it doesn’t feel right—whether it’s in skiing or anything else in life—I’m comfortable saying no, because I’ve seen those guys do it. They’ll be up there, and they’ll be like, ‘You know, I don’t like the way this looks.ÌęCan I get plucked?’”

“It’s really powerful when you see your mentors walking the walk.”

Steve House, 49, alpinist, author, and cofounder ofÌę

Lesson: Understand your decisions.

“The most impactful mentor I’ve had was Ljubo, a guy I met during the year I spent abroad in Slovenia. He was in his late twenties, about tenÌęyears older than I was, and the only person I met there who spoke English. I climbed with Ljubo maybe 100Ìędays that year.”

“I didn’t realize he was a mentor at the time. He was vastly more experienced than I was, but he didn’t talk down to me or treat me like a student. I knew I didn’t know that much, and that he knew more than I did, but he treated me as a partnerÌęand would explain his decision-making, thought processes, and reasoning.”

“Alpinism is a continuous series of life-and-death decisions that begin with planning and end when you step off the mountain. We tend to focus on technical skills, but it’s errors in decision-making that typically kill people. The problem is, judgment is virtually impossible to teach, and I think the way you teach it is how Ljubo taught it,Ìęby vocalizing his entire thought process. If you can’t explain why you came to a certain conclusion, then you don’t know enough. You’re just guessing, and you can’t be guessing in the mountains.”

, 28, cross-country skier,ÌęOlympic gold medalist

Lesson: Be your own judge.

“I’ve had so many mentors in different areas of life, including my parents, who taught me how to ski, but my high school coach, Kris Hanson, left the greatestÌęimpression on me. She cared about my teammates and meÌęas complete people, not just machines to create results.”

“Kris recognized I was very type AÌęand someone who put a lot of pressure on myself. SoÌęshe would tell me, ‘After every race, before you look at the results, I want you to think of three things you did wellÌęand three things you could improve on.’ÌęBecause no matter how wellÌęa race went, you’re always going to have room for improvement. And no matter how poorly you think you did, you’re still going to have at least three things where you can say to yourself, ‘You know what?ÌęI did this well.’ÌęShe taught me how to be the judge of my own performance—not the results, not the newspapers, not my name on some piece of paper—and at the end of the day, I have to be satisfied with the effort I put forth. I think that was key to me being here almost tenÌęyears later, just loving what I’m doing.”

Kitty Calhoun, 59, alpinist, guide, co-owner ofÌę

Lesson: Keep plugging away.

“I’m from South CarolinaÌęand got into ice climbing when I went to the University of Vermont. An epic on [New Hampshire’s]ÌęMount Washington got me interested in alpine climbing, but I didn’t know any alpinists. I didn’t have heroes, because I didn’t like reading about climbing—I just wanted to go climbing. SoÌęI went out west.”

“In Wyoming, I met Lyle Dean, and he became my first and biggest mentor. Since we were both interested in winter ascents, we jumped right in and tried a bunch of routes in the Tetons, Cascades, and Palisades. He was a few years younger than meÌębut a more experienced climber, so he took the harder leads, and I observed. I watched how he solved problems, and I think that’s beenÌęmy biggest takeaway from him. He’s methodical, well prepared, and takes his time to make sure he does things right. He’s also sharp, doesn’t give up easily, and has a minimalist approach to climbing.”

“I saw how these traits worked and were effective, and I guess I subconsciously copied him. I’m not a gifted athlete, but I had a drive to learnÌęand kept plugging away at it. I’ve definitely made mistakes, but fortunately, I’m still here. The more you can learn from others that have been there, done that, the better off you are. I feel pretty fortunate that he happened to be in the right place at the right time in my life.”

Kai Lightner, 20, rock climber, 12-time national champion

Lesson: Know how to fail.

“Włó±đČÔ I started climbing, it was a super weird sport for my community, especially growing up in a predominately black area in the South. SoÌęwhen I went intoÌę for the first time, when I was six years old, my mom begged the man at the front desk to teach me, so I could burn some energy. That man wasÌę, and he’s been my coach ever since.”

“Shane’s not only been an essential part of my climbingÌębut also my life. He taught me how to conduct myself in public settings and in competitions. He taught me how to fail, assess those failures, then turn them into learning experiences. He taught me how to turn hard work into results, knowing it’s not about the short-termÌębut the long-term goals. Coaches are life teachers, too.”

“And of course, my mom is superwoman, obviously. She would come from her nine-to-five job to pick me up, bring me to the gym, and belay me for another four hours, then take me home to feed me and help me with my homework. She’s my accountant, my chauffeur, my belayer, my therapist, my everything, honestly. My mother taught me resilience and perseveranceÌęand how to put up a strong front, because she is the strongest person I know. I don’t know what I’d be if I didn’t have her in my corner.”

Andres Marin, 36, climber, guide,Ìę recipient

Lesson: Be good, be kind, be happy.

“Back in the late nineties, Colombia was going through a crazy political situation—pretty much a civil war—and the outdoors wasn’t something we had the opportunity to enjoy. People didn’t really go to the mountains, because that’s where the war was taking place. When I moved to the United States in 2002, I was able to experience the full power of the outdoors. You can go to the mountains, the rivers, the woods whenever you wantÌęand never really worry about something happening to you. SoÌęI started climbing as much as I could. In my journeys, I’ve had the opportunity to run across people who have created a huge impact on who I am now.”

“ and I took a guide course together, and then she offered me a job afterward, helping withÌęclimbing comps.Ìę was working for her as well, so I had the opportunity to climb with him in Indian Creek [in Utah]Ìęand learn from one of the best off-width climbers in the world. When I started moving toward Ouray [in Colorado], where I wanted to live, I had the opportunity to climb with , one of the best ice climbers and soloists in the world.”

“These encounters were totally by chance, and I feel so lucky to have learned from some of the best people on the planet. I also realized they’re humans, just like myself, who focused on something until they became really good. What I have learned through them all is not so much the climbing skillsÌębut the more personal side of things, like who we are as humans, our interactionsÌęwith other people and nature, and how to create a legacy for future generations. I learned a mantra from Conrad Anker: be good, be kind, be happy.”

Conrad Anker, 56, alpinist, father, first to ascendÌęMeru’s Shark’s Fin

Lesson: Find validation.

“The first time I met [Terrance]Ìę‘Mugs’ Stump was in the parking lot of the Gate Buttress, a climbing area near Salt Lake City, following my after-the-rainstorm solo circuit. I’d try to do all the 5.7’s, 5.9’s looking for booty—gear other climbers left behind to bail. And Mugs was down in the parking lot. It was like, Whoa, there’s the man. He’s six foot tall, walking on water.ÌęHe was 14 years older than meÌęand the first person I had as a mentor.”

“We started climbing together that summer, but he said, ‘I’m not going to do the big mountains with you until you’ve climbed Denali and El Cap.’ÌęIf you’re going to be a mountain climber, those are the two. You learn winter camping on Denali, and on El Cap, you get all the skills needed for technical big walls. He would push me to climb harderÌęand would be like, ‘Well, we both know I can lead this.ÌęCan you?’ÌęSoÌęI would cinch up my harness and go for it. He handed the sharp end over to me. That someone of his caliber gave me the stamp of approval was pretty key. It validated who I was as a young climber.”

“I was 29 when Mugs died. When you’re that age and you lose someone, it places aÌęburden on you.ÌęIn my journal, there areÌę32 people that have gone before their time. A lot of falling, a lot of moving snow. I see the burden now with the youngsters when they’re going through it. I have a friend, Timothy Tate, who’s 71, and he’s a mentorÌęfor sure. He’s a philosopher, a thinker, an intellectual, so to say, and he’s helping me become who I am in reaching out to young people with loss and grief, which is something we’re not collectively talking much about.”

Kit DesLauriers, 49, ski mountaineer, mother, first person to ski the Seven Summits

Lesson: Believe in yourself.

“My mom wanted to be a sports-news broadcaster when she was young, and that was just not acceptable at the time. SoÌęwhen I was growing up, she would say to me, ‘Don’t ever let anybody tell you there’s something you can’t do, especially because you’re a woman.’ÌęThat set the bar for me.”

“In 2004, I won the Freeskiing World Championship. The next season, I was riding a chairlift at Jackson [in Wyoming] with somebody I had just met, and he asked me if I was going to compete again. I said, ‘I don’t know.ÌęWhat for? You don’t make any money, and I already proved to myself that I could do it.’ÌęAnd he said, ‘You’ve got to. I’ve never seen another woman ski like you. I’d like to sponsor you.’ÌęHe literally wrote me a checkÌęand said to spend it on skiing. I said to him, ‘What do you want me to do in exchange?’ÌęAnd he said, ‘Just pay it forward. For instance, if a girls’ after-school program wants you to come speak to them, I hope you would.’ÌęHe taught me how to give back, and his financial support enabled me to continue to pursue skiing. ButÌęmore importantly, what that really meant was he believed in me.”

“As a kid, I asked my dad, ‘How come you’re not giving me a dollar for every AÌęI get in school?’ÌęAnd he said, ‘Because you should want to do well for yourself.’ÌęHe was who I calledÌęafter solo climbing and skiing the Grand [Teton] or winning the world championships. When I’d call to tell him the news, he would respond,Ìę‘Course you did,ÌęKit. You’re the only one who wasn’t sure.’”

“We often hold ourselves back, but through the kindness and compassion of others, anything is possible.”

The post Outdoor Athletes on the Mentors Who Changed Their Lives appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The morning of May 21 was cold and clear in central Colorado’s Maroon Bells–Snowmass Wilderness, just east of Aspen. Around 9 a.m., ex-Navy SEAL Josh Jespersen summited the jagged, exposed 14,130-foot Capitol Peak. Having set out on a splitboard six hours earlier, Jespersen was tired, hungry, and ready to ride down. But he paused for a moment and smiled. ”I was exhausted. But I was so pumped,”Ìęhe says.
Ìę
While summiting any one ofÌęColorado’s peaksÌęthat top out at over 14,000 feetÌęin winter is anÌęaccomplishment in and of itself, Jespersen’s tag of Capitol was more momentous: it was the culmination of an 138-day effort to skinÌęup and snowboardÌędown all 54Ìęin the state.*ÌęAnd to do it faster than anyone in history. In doing so, the unimposing 30-year-old contract security worker snagged the fastest known time record from big-mountain skier Chris Davenport. When Davenport completed the same journey in 2007, in 362 days,Ìęhe commemorated the accomplishment with a and .ÌęJespersen took a photo, , boarded down, drove to Denver, and hopped on a plane to the Philippines for work less than 12 hours later.Ìę
Ìę
”[The route down Capitol] was so, so steep, but it was awesome,” he says. “Once we got back to the car, I just ate whatever candy I had, and headed back to Denver. I wish I had some whiskey.”
Ìę
Jespersen—who after high school joined the Navy, eventually becomingÌęa Navy SEAL—moved to Colorado in 2011 to make snow atÌęEldoraÌęmountain, 20 miles west of Boulder. It was during that winter that he discoveredÌęsplitboarding. “I went full into it—I just loved it,” he says.ÌęSix years later, he prepared for the record attempt with the singular focus that one could expect from a former SEAL (his six years with the Navy included tours in Afghanistan and Iraq). Here he tells us how he pulled the feat off, hisÌęscariest moments, and the conversation he had with Dav after breaking theÌęrecord.

Doing Something Notable

Jespersen does contract security work overseas during the summer, which pays him enough to support his habit of skiing full time in the winter, something he has done for the past three years.Ìę“Rather than just skiing for fun this year,” he says, “I thought I should give myself a goal to achieve. I wanted to do something noteable.”

Jespersen had only skied three 14ers before this year. “Włó±đČÔ I told all my friends out here in Colorado, they just laughed at me,” he says. “And most of my family lives on the east coast, so when I told them about my project over the holidays, they were like, ‘Oh, cool
’ They had no idea what it really meant.”

Becoming a Lonely Storm ChaserÌę

While Jespersen’s main goal was, of course, to skin and ski all the 14ers in one season, he had an another mission: to hit each peak in prime conditions. “It isn’t possible to hit powder or corn on all of them, but I tried my best,” Jespersen says. “If I wasn’t skiing, I was scouring the weather, looking at reports.”

When he first moved to Colorado, Jespersen made snow at Eldora for two years and became a self-proclaimed “snow geek.” He checks Colorado’s avalanche website—which he calls “amazing”—several times a day, and is .

“I would check the weather and see, ‘OK, it’s snowing on this mountain today,’ I’m going to go ski it tomorrow or the next day. There was a lot of driving all over the state.” His sporadic schedule meant that most of his summits were done solo. “I have tons of good ski buddies, but not everyone was interested in dropping everything to go out for super long days,” says Jespersen. “I skied 27 of the peaks solo, and there were eight to 10 times that people came with me but didn’t summit. So I summited and skied about 35 of them by myself.”

No Average Day

While Jespersen says that most summits took about six to eight hours car-to-car, there really was no typical day. Some summits, like El Diente, required knife-edge ridge scrambling, others necessitated a full day, like Crestone and Crestone Needle, which Jespersen linked together over 17 hours.

“No matter the conditions, I always made sure that I felt like I had a good grasp on things,” he says. “I didn’t push my luck that much, and if there was any doubt or worry in the back of my head, I turned around.”

Training on the Indian Ocean

How does one train to skin up and ski down 54Ìęof the country’s largest mountains when you spend the whole summer working on a merchant vessel off the horn of Africa? For Jespersen,Ìętraining consisted of lunges, squats, and step ups for hours at a time in, as he say, “a boiling metal box.”

“Rob Shaul at came up with a blaster of a training program for me,” says Jespersen. “All said it was about three months, and my knees felt like they were breaking halfway though. But it was exactly what I needed to get into shape for this.”

During one training run on the ship’s treadmill, he was sweating so much that his shoes started foaming. “It was miserable,” he says, “but all winter long there was never any point where my legs got tired. A lot of people who skied with me would be fine on the way up, but not the down. My legs were solid the whole time.”

Ice Cream, Candy, and Tang

Jespersen, who’s six feet tallÌęand typically weighs 180, says he ate anything and everything he could. “I would get off the mountain, go to Whole Foods or McDonalds, and do a calorie-to-penny comparison. I was looking for the highest ratio,” he says.

But one month into his attempt, after bagging nine 14ers, he had lost 15 pounds. “I was eating 3,000 calories per day at that point, and bumped it up to 4,000, but was still losing weight.” Jespersen emailed Shaul, who recommended that he up his dairy intake. Jespersen’s interpretation: ice cream. “I ate so much,” he says with a laugh. “I would normally get vanilla and put chocolate, honey, and peanut butter on it.”

On the mountain, Jespersen says he avoided “that fancy endurance fuel stuff.” Instead, he relied on the fruity drink mix Tang, blocks of cheese, and Mounds bars. “They’re the best to take out in the mountains—they don’t freeze,” says Jespersen of the coconut-chocolate candy. “My aunt works for Hershey's and sent me 100 of them.”

Calm, Cool, Collected

Did Jespersen have any doubt that he could pull this off? “No, not really,” he says. “I wasn’t really broadcasting my attempt—I just made a point to get out every day. There wasn’t any point when I thought I wasn’t going to make it.”

Despite witnessing a slide at 13,500 feet on the side of South Maroon and getting caught in such a bad storm on Tabeguache Peak that he has to re-break trail on the way out, when I ask him about what element of his journey has stuck with him the most, his answer is simple: the awe of Colorado. “I’ve been skiing here for a while, but I’ve never been able to see how beautiful the state truly is until this winter,” he says. “I could ski every day all winter and not come close to hitting all the lines I wanted.”

Chris Davenport, a New Friend

Jespersen says that a few days after he submitted Capitol, he emailed Chris Davenport to let him know. “He’s been super cool,” Jespersen says. “I sent him a long thank you email for paving the way and providing trip reports that people like me can look at.”Ìę

“I honestly thought it would be some random dudes on skinny gear and tights who would beat the record, not a split-boarder,” says Davenport. “He played it very low-key, which I respect in this day and age. Good on him.”

Bridging the Gap Between Military and Mountains

Jespersen’s main objective of his record attempt was to raise awareness for his non-profit, , which he says tries to “take back the true meaning of Memorial Day” by taking veterans on an expedition that honors fallen soldiers every year.

Military members and mountaineers might appear to have a lot in common—stubborn determination, a knack for ignoring pain, the ability to thrive in extreme conditions, a passion for exercise—however, Jespersen says that mountaineering, in general, is not a part of the military culture. “There are only a few of us who enjoy climbing and that type of stuff. Most veterans do not recognize outdoor recreation as something that they can dive into,” he says. “The mountains are such a greatÌęplace for vets to go when they come back from overseas. I wantÌęmore guysÌęto know that mountaineering is a wonderful outlet.”Ìę

*Note:Ìęthe exactÌęnumber ofÌę14ersÌęin the state of Colorado isÌęcontentious. Most recognize between 52 and 57 peaks. , or the difference in height between a peak and its closest saddle. In terms of setting speed records on Colorado'sÌę14ers, the number depends on theÌętime of year and activity. For example, summer hikersÌęoften recognize 57 peaks, while winter hikers attempt to tackleÌę59. Winter skiers, however, consider the total to be 54, a precedent set by Chris Davenport and, before him, Lou Dawson,Ìę.

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After nearly 70 years of publishing, Skiing magazine printed its final issue this winter—ultimately consumed by its milquetoast longtime sister title, the bigger and marginally more profitable SKI magazine.

If you’re confused about the difference between and magazines and why a series of publishing houses would have bothered carrying both titles for the past 20-plus years, you’re not alone. I was the editor of Skiing magazine for six years, in the early 2000s, and even I was never clear on the reasoning. But for most of its long history, Skiing offered a unique and, at times, vital take on the sport.

Like many vertical titles, Skiing started out as a glorified regional newsletter for skiing purists interested less in the pomp and luxuries of the early days of the sport than in just getting out and ripping around in wool pants and leather boots. The magazine was big on instruction (the sport was young), gear, and new places to ski, of which there were legion in the years after World War II, as 10th Mountain Division troops returned from Europe and pioneered the West and hundreds of local hills sprang back to life in the Northeast.

In the winters that followed, SKI (still a separately owned rival at that time) focused on already stodgy ski racing and stuffy resorts, while Skiing focused on everyday skiers. The positioning nicely set up Skiing as a mouthpiece for what came next: the sport’s first truly American movement (as opposed to European-influenced racing), the Hot Dog era of the late 1960s and early 1970s.

As hair got longer in the Age of Aquarius, skis got shorter and the sport got fun. My all-time favorite Skiing cover was a shot of a soaring hippie in skin-tight stretch pants splayed out against a cobalt sky in a joyous backscratcher. We made a T-shirt out of it. The pages were filled with images of beautiful women in braids snaking down mogul fields or basking in the sun in bikini tops. The ads featured western-looking dudes wearing nonironic mustaches, leaning against Chevrolet Impalas with their skis or enjoying peppermint schnapps from bota bags. General advertisers wanted to be affiliated with the sensual, vibrant, rebellious, athletic-for-athleticism’s-sake movement as seen through the pages of Skiing. The sport, and the magazine, boomed. I still see one of Skiing’s ad reps from that golden era—he retired to Baja off the ad revenues he made, but he summers in Colorado. He and his mustache drive around Baja in a golf cart packed with ice-cold beers.

My favorite Skiing story from the early 1970s was written by Bob Jamieson. Neither flowery nor tension-riddled, the narrative simply Me & TruckÌęsimplyÌędocumented Jamieson'sÌęextended road trip as a penniless ski bum wandering from resort to resort, sleeping in his truck, discovering new places to ski, and meeting kindred spirits. That story, and the magazine, captured what it was to be a skier in that moment in time. That’s not easy to do.

But skiing trends come and go, and the Hot Dog movement faded like your grandfather’s padded sweater. Powder skiing was the next craze, captured almost spiritually by Powder magazine in its early years. Blissfully, that subset never died. The extreme skiing of the 1980s followed, but the films of Greg Stump captured that movement better than any one print title. Then snowboarding came along, and the New York Times went so far as to say the sport of skiing was dead. (Yeah, and the Gray Lady also predicted Hillary would trounce the Mango-in-Chief.) For a time, Freeskier magazine rode a youthful wave of park and pipe skiers borne out of the demise of mogul skiing, but freeskiing is now a niche of a niche sport. Skiing participation has flatlined for 20 years. Snowboarding, sadly, is in decline. Backcountry skiing has the energy now, but its high cost of entry—dying in an avalanche—will meter participation as the larger sport awaits the next revolution.

Over the decades, Skiing’s relevance rose and fell with the trends and the times, but what ultimately killed it was its own success. As the sport of skiing lost its appeal to general advertisers in the late 1980s and skiing participation fell in the early 1990s, the gravy days ended, but the corporations that owned SKI and Skiing couldn’t let go. In their attempt to regain those car and booze ad buyers, they did what most mainstream magazines do: artificially inflated their circulations. Sign up for a coin-operated ski race or buy a ski pass to Vail, and you wouldn’t get charged for Skiing magazine again. Paid subscribers left, the general ads never came back, and now Facebook’s easily quantifiable ROI (return on investment) is taking a mortal swipe at what remains of the sort of brand building that magazines of all types were built on. It didn’t help that Bonnier Corporation, the multinational prior owner of Skiing before current owner AIM Media, stopped printing Skiing for a season in some reckless experiment in so-called desktop publishing.

But Skiing’s deathblow was even dumber than that. When independent agencies survey consumers to determine who is reading what magazine, the title SKI shows up before the title Skiing. Confused, readers pick the first one. Skiing’s numbers suffered tremendously. Subsequently, the ad sales team tasked with selling it treated the title as an afterthought. And now it’s gone. Killed by a gerund.

I, for one, will miss it. Whether it’s the Atlantic Monthly or șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, the New Yorker or the oft-overlooked vertical Skiing, magazines, by the very nature of their slower production schedules, produce richer narratives than newspapers and websites. Skiing owns its share of great reads from the past 70 years, but from my short tenure there, I think back to Kevin Fedarko’s, to profile two indefatigable optimists running a ski rental shop in the prettiest war zone on earth. That story won a Henry R. Luce Award from Time Inc. (Skiing’s owner at the time) and inclusion in the Best American Travel Writing compilation. We also sent an Idaho woman, writer Tracy Ross, ; hired a female war photographer to accompany writer Rob Story—dressed in a gorilla suit—to stage a “guerilla” attack on the private ski area called the Yellowstone Club; profiled a (seriously); and debated important stories like which is more vital to the sport of skiing, nachos or wings? And we did all this while admitting that climate change was an existential threat to our raison d’ĂȘtre. A tradition, I should say, that was carried on by subsequent Skiing editors Sam Bass and Kim Beekman.

But perhaps my fondest story was written by Jon Billman. It was about two brothers I’d met many years before in Montana. They were skiers, of course, but for work they were long-haul truckers prone to stopping their rigs on mountain passes and next to resorts whenever a storm whipped up enough powder for a few stolen turns. “,” we titled the story. It wasn’t a flowery or tense narrative—it simply captured what it meant to be a skier in that time and place.

The magazine had a voice, but more important, it gave a voice to skiers. And that’s all anyone ever asked of Skiing.

Marc Peruzzi is a contributing editor to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű and the editorial director of Mountain magazine.

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When camping alone, I have a ritual that spans two or three nights. On the first evening, I stay up late with a novel, then half-sleep until sunrise, turning my ear toward every snapping twig. If one sleepless night doesn’t exhaust me, a second is sure to do the trick. By my third solo night in the forest, I could sleep through a horror film marathon.

I’ve hiked and camped alone for 15 years, and my love of solitude balances out the stress of waiting for the dawn. A few seasons back, I began to talk with other adventurous ladies about my fear of sleeping outdoors by myself, and to my surprise, I heard similar stories from some of the toughest women I know.

Writer Kirsten Koza told me (between mountain biking Mongolia and leading trips to Transylvania) that she experiences a “nighttime head trip while alone in a tent,” circling through memories of grisly newspaper headlines and horror movies until she’s paralyzed with fear. Shey Kiester, a rock climber, adventurer, and undisputed badass, says fear of the dark infuses every camping trip she takes, a limitation she challenges so she won’t miss out on the places she loves. “I’m a strong, independent woman, but I know that there’s a certain point in my fear where I’m so scared that I can’t talk myself out of it and there’s no reasoning with my brain,” she says.

It’s difficult to unwind the tangle of fear we share about sleeping alone in the wilderness: a snapping twig could be a curious bear, a stranger, or an early warning that a tree is going to squish your tent. I’ve talked to both men and women about sleeping in the woods, and we have plenty of overlap in the things that keep us jumpy. Bears and trees aren’t picky about who they maul. ButÌęlike the other women I spoke with, my fears circle around people and contain an unmistakable sexual tinge.

If worrying about sexual assault and violence is what separates nervous female campers from the guys, it’s not without reason. Growing up female means endless warnings about going out alone, and many women experience more sexual harassment as they begin to explore their outdoor interests, catching catcalls as they run, walk, or bike by themselves. The combination of those warnings and guys’ creepy behavior sends a clear message: our society views solo women as sexually vulnerable and that going it alone is tempting fate.

You can’t get much more alone than in the wilderness. Backpacking solo flouts all the usual precautions that women are told to adopt in order to protect themselves, like going out in numbers, staying close to home, and always keeping a cellphone within reach. When I share stories about hiking and camping by myself, I watch eyebrows go up and hear well-intentioned advice that I find a friend to keep me safe.

When people say a woman choosing to venture alone in the wilderness is reckless, it’s very possibly due to a lack of understanding about the realities of sexual assault. Women are most likely to be assaulted in their own homes or in a private space, according to Jennifer Wesely, who studies violence against women at the University of North Florida. Fear of strangers seems like a misconception, too, considering that more than three-quarters of women who are sexually assaulted know their attackers.

Meanwhile, the woods turn out to be remarkably safe. The National Park Service 83 rapes (one in 3,527,951 visitors) on its public lands in 2014, compared with reported rapes (one in 3,794 people) in the rest of the country. In the same year, there were 16 murders on Park Service land and murders nationwide. Those numbers tell a very different story than my fears suggest. Like a person who fears airplanes and sharks over highways and heart disease, my nervous nights in the woods just don’t reflect the world’s real dangers. Knowing that makes me determined to take on the things that scare me.

A few years ago, I was backpacking alone on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia when a couple stopped me at a shelter and asked if I was by myself. “You better be carrying a gun,” the woman said, then popped open her pack to show me a hefty-looking pistol. I don’t carry a gun in the woods or anywhere else, but I (and the women I know) have found other ways through our fears. Shey uses her headlamp to keep her mind focused on the scene in front of her, attempting to switch off her imagination. Kirsten noted that she sleeps best when she spikes her hot chocolate with a bit of rum, and, like me, she appreciates the insulating, isolating feeling of a storm, when rain seems to shut out the world.

If I can’t be wrapped up in howling wind, I’d just as soon sleep outside of the tent, where I can look around and match the rustling noises I hear to chipmunks or falling leaves. I picture the ludicrous, would-be attacker who would need to pack dehydrated meals and moisture-wicking clothing, then head into the forest to stalk unwashed hikers. And if all else fails, I just watch the stars tick by overhead on their way toward dawn. I do my best to enjoy the view, and the peace, and the quiet. It’s why I’m there in the first place, after all. And it’s why I won’t stop sleeping in the woods by myself, even when my nights are sleepless.

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There is more to what makes me feel like a good skier than how fast I can ski. Part of it is how fast I look.Ìę

I have been racing for eight years, competing internationally for the last three, and I am a new member of the U.S. Cross Country Development Ski Team. Although being a cross country skier has been one of the best experiences of my life, the sport has always had body image issues.ÌęEven in middle school, I was aware that nordic skiers are supposed to be lean and light. I always thought I was too strong for a skier, and that it made me too heavy to be fast.

I had been concerned about the way nordic skiers talk about our bodiesÌęfor the past couple of years,Ìęand I'd started asking girls at training and race trips around the world for theirÌęperspectivesÌęon the issue. ThisÌęprompted me to createÌęa short video in October called “,” in which female skiers of all levels from around the world talk about how they have felt its pressure. I believe the issues raised by my fellow nordic skiersÌęinÌęthe video also applyÌęto all kinds of endurance athletes.

The primary thing a skier battles out on the course is his or her own gravity. It doesn’t matter how big your muscles are compared to your competitors’ as long as they are big enough to move your own body from point A to point B the fastest. All of this boils down to skiers being hyper-aware of what is known as the power-to-weight ratio, which is exactly what it sounds like: how much power one can produce relative to his or her body weight.Ìę

https://youtube.com/watch?v=dAhCeUMJtbA

This concept has become more than just a matter of physics to many athletes. As Annika Taylor, a member of the British national ski team, explained in my video, “skiers feel they need to fit a certain mold to be fast or to be desirable in the ski community.” Coaches and athletes consistently talk about how the leaner kids have an advantage with power-to-weight ratio.ÌęAnd although it's never happened to me, I have heard stories from others who have either experiencedÌęoffhand comments or were directly told to lose weight to be a better skier. Sometimes it even comes from coaches orÌęparents.Ìę

We overemphasize the power-to-weight issue while neglecting to talk about the body image problems it creates.Ìę

Nordic skiers tend to be self disciplined and hardworking, which can actually be a disadvantage alongside the risk of the eating disorders. Someone who is tough enough to commit to 500-1,000 hours of training a year and can constantly push their physical limitsÌęis often the same person who can starve himself or herselfÌęto be thinner. Eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia have varying levels of severity, and it’s important to realize that many athletes can suffer from an eating disorder that may not be physically severe or diagnosed as clinical, but can still have problematic symptoms and effects. There are physical risks such as osteoporosis, kidney failure, and heart failure. There are symptoms like muscle loss, dehydration, fainting, fatigue, hair loss, and overall weakness. There are also the mental effects—self loathing and loss of identity that can lead to anxiety and depression.Ìę

Instead of talking about these serious issues, though, body image is more often given a joking treatment in the nordic skiing community. Many assume that skinny people aren’t sensitive to comments about size or weight, soÌęI frequently hear skiers sarcastically call each other “huge,” “yolked,” or “jacked.” My least favorite by far is when someone sarcastically says to the skinniest kid on the team, “You’re so fat!” I used to feel that if body image jokes weren'tÌęaimed at people who are actually fat, then they’re okay. But I've realized it amplifies many athletes’ perceptions that some people are skinny while others aren’t. And the problem is that many believe a good skier must be skinny.Ìę

I have struggled with my body image in the past, and again, no one ever called me fat. It was more that no one ever called me skinny, which made we wonder: Was I fat, or not as good an athlete? When I heard remarks like, “She’s light, so she will be a great distance skier,” or “He’s small, so he will be great on the hills,” ÌęI thought, “Does this mean I’m not good at distance skiing or hills?”Ìę

The irony of this issue becomes clear when powerful skiers don’t feel lean or light enough, while smaller skiers don’t feel big or powerful enough. So I don’t believe we’re doing enough if we just avoid calling anyone “fat” or “big” directly to their face.

One day my strength coach told me, “You’re a power athlete. That’s your strength. That’s what makes you fast.” It was an amazing moment to realize that my body type, exactly as it was, made me fast in my own way. For many skiers, loving their body is not easy, but realizing that different body types have different strengths is a start, and this is something many professional skiers in my video tried to highlight. As Jessie Diggins, a member of the U.S. Ski Team, said, “You see all kinds of body types on the World Cup succeeding, and winning.”ÌęIt’s time to create a community where skiers can appreciate that there is a vast variety of bodies with a variety of strengths, and any of them can be fast.

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