The Ford F-150 Lightning, the electric version of Ford’s super-popular pickup truck that came out last year, is my fantasy. I have a standard gas F-150 but with the Lightning, I could save hundreds of dollars’ worth of gas every month. The only thing holding me back from purchasing this particular electric vehicle? Something known as range anxiety. I travel a lot and I’m not sure the Lightning’s reported 320-mile battery range can handle the long miles I demand from my truck.

But the road-trip landscape is getting exponentially more EV-friendly every year. Several years ago, the average max range of an EV per charge was around 100 miles. Today that has more than doubled to 216 miles, according to the non-profit .

Even better news, the network of public charging stations is about to boom, with more than 51,000 already operating in the U.S., according to the Department of Energy. The federal government has allocated $7.5 billion to building more public EV chargers over the next several years to boost that number tenfold to 500,000 across the country by 2030.

In other words, it’s getting easier all the time to take an EV road trip. Just ask Liv and Patrick Leigh, veterans of multiple 1,000+ mile adventures in their Ford Mustang Mach-E, documented on their blog, “We had a lot of anxiety heading out on our first EV road trip,” Liv says. “But after several long trips and seeing friends crisscross the country in EVs, we know it can be done.”

The key to a successful EV road trip, according to the Leighs, is to plan ahead, using apps like or , which offer maps of every public charging station in the country and update you on their status, so you’ll know in advance if one is broken or busy. That advice is worth repeating: Download an app with real-time data.

There are plenty of EV-friendly road trip options out there, and most major car rental agencies now offer electric vehicles you can try out if you’re curious. In addition to gas savings and a lessened environmental impact, it’s possible that EVs actually make the Great American Road Trip even better than ever.

“We’ve learned to enjoy road trips even more now that we are taking an EV,” Patrick Leigh says. “Previously, in our gas car, road trips were all about getting to our destination as quickly as possible. 
 Now the EV gives us an excuse to stop, stretch our legs, talk to people, and enjoy the journey.”

I’ve mapped out seven scenic and adventurous road trips that you can pull off in an electric vehicle. Each starts from a large city, so you can rent an EV if you don’t have one, and all of them make the most of the burgeoning public charging network, which I’ve noted for each below. Maybe someday you’ll see me out there in that Lightning.

1. The Classic Desert Road Trip: Las Vegas to Grand Canyon National Park

Length: 350 miles

Driving from Vegas to the Grand Canyon is about as iconic a road trip as you can get. With copious DC Fast Chargers along the southern route, including a brand-new one installed by Electrify America near the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, this classic route is an ideal option for EVs.

Day 1: Las Vegas to Flagstaff, Arizona

253 miles

This is a big-mileage day to get you out of Vegas and closer to the Grand Canyon, but there are some potential adventure stops along the way. Las Vegas is loaded with DC fast chargers, so juice up here. Then head south on Highway 93, crossing over the Colorado River below Lake Mead and the Hoover Dam as you enter Arizona. If it’s hot and you feel like taking a dip, head to , on the Arizona side of Lake Mead. Or keep heading south and hike the easy trail to , which is just a quick detour away. There’s a fast charger at the Kroger grocery store in the town of Kingman, about 100 miles into the trip, if you want to top off.

Your destination for the night is Flagstaff, Arizona, where has a mix of inn rooms and cottages surrounding communal outdoor space with fire pits, tables, and lawn games, also a sauna and plunge pool (from $114 a night). You can charge your car at the DC Fast charger at the Walmart off Route 66.

Day 2: Flagstaff to Grand Canyon National Park

80 miles

Head north from Flagstaff for 80 miles on Highway 180 and Highway 64 to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. There’s a hyper fast DC charger at the Grand Canyon Visitor Center in the Grand Canyon Village. If it’s your first time visiting the Grand Canyon, you’re obligated to hike the , which descends from the lip of the canyon to the Colorado River in 9.5 miles of switchbacks, dropping 4,500 feet in elevation. Most people don’t hike the whole trail, though, so consider an 11-mile out-and-back to Plateau Point, passing through wild gardens and petroglyphs before ending at the outcropping that gives the hike its name, with impressive views of the Colorado River and sandstone canyon walls.

2. The Island-Hopping Road Trip: Miami to Key West

170 miles

Much of the South is an EV-charging-station desert, but Florida is an outlier, with more than 2,500 public charging stations, the third-most of any state in the country. A lot of those stations are located in South Florida, making this fun, beach-centric road trip from Miami to the southern tip of America an EV breeze.

Tesla drivers in particular will find plenty of super chargers throughout the islands, but there are Electrify America Fast Chargers in Miami, Key Largo, and Key West. Many of the hotels and resorts also have chargers for guests, so consider an overnight at EV-friendly lodging.

Day One: Miami to Key Largo

70 miles

While still in Miami, hop on the daily paddle of Jones Lagoon, inside Biscayne Bay National Park, with the . The half-day adventure has you paddling a SUP through narrow channels between mangroves looking for turtles and baby sharks in the shallow, clear water ($99 per person).

From the park, head south 70 miles on Highway 1 to Key Largo, where you can snorkel on Molasses Reef, inside the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. The live barrier reef is several miles off the coast, but sits in just 10 feet of water, making it an ideal spot for viewing. offers two afternoon trips to the reef daily ($70 per person).

Fuel up at the ElectrifyAmerica fast charging station at the Tradewinds shopping center in the middle of the island. has charging stations for guests, and its own private beach (from $412 a night).

Day Two: Key Largo to Key West

100 miles

Moving south through the Middle Keys, take time to kayak the half mile from Islamorada to an 11-acre island and park only accessible by small boat (entrance fee is $2.50 per person). Here you can hike through the ruins of a 19^th-century town that existed solely to salvage items from ships run aground on nearby reefs, or paddle the healthy seagrass that surrounds the island.

Returning to the road, you can visit the Monroe County Public Library on Marathon Key, which has a free public Level 2 charger. Your next destination is ($8 parking fee), which has one of the prettiest beaches in the entire country. Then continue south to Key West, where you can rent a bike to cruise the eight-square-mile island ( rents bikes of all kinds from $14 a day), and hit , a public beach lined with palm trees and easy, shallow-water snorkeling.

A number of hotels have slower Level 1 chargers that guests can plug into overnight, including the , which is located on the waterfront of Old Town Key West, putting you within walking distance of popular destinations like Mallory Square and Duval Street (from $360 a night). But there’s also an ElectrifyAmerica ultra-fast charger at the Bank of America on Key West, so you’ll be able to recharge wherever you stay.

3. The Perfect Western Road Trip: Denver to Moab

360 miles

This is one of my all-time favorite road trips. Even though the majority of this drive is on the much-maligned I-70, the pit stops along the way are bucket-list worthy, and the final destination is highlighted by two of the most stunning national parks in the West. The I-70 corridor, loaded with DC fast chargers established by a number of different companies, is one of the most EV-friendly roads in the Rockies.

Day One: Denver to Glenwood Springs

75 miles

Get your junk miles out of the way as you head west on I-70 for 75 miles to Frisco, where your detours will be determined by the season. If it’s winter, you’re skiing at Breckenridge or Keystone. If you’re here during summer or shoulder seasons, take your mountain bike for a spin in the , which is free and has dedicated uphill and downhill trails designated by difficulty. The place has dirt jumps and a massive pump track, but don’t overdo it: there’s more mountain biking ahead.

Refuel at the DC fast charger at the Frisco Walmart, and drive past Vail (potential for fly fishing in the summer and powder in the winter) as you make your way to Glenwood Springs, where relaxation will be your priority.

Check out the , which are essentially natural steam rooms, and consider getting a room at the , so you can have immediate access to their hot springs-fed pool (from $199 a night). You have two options for refueling in Glenwood Springs, a ChargePoint fast charger at Starbucks or an ElectrifyAmerica at Target.

Day Two: Glenwood Springs to Palisade

75 miles

There are enough charging stations to get you all the way to Moab, but please—spend a day or so in Palisade, one of Colorado’s hidden gems and one of my favorite towns. If you’re here in ski season, gets 250 inches of snow a year, on 600 acres. If it’s bike weather, get a shuttle from and ride the 32-mile Palisade Plunge, a pedal-heavy downhill trail with plenty of technical bits and cliffy exposure (shuttle rides from $34 a person, available seasonally).

Day Three: Palisade to Moab, Utah

124 miles

There’s a DC fast charger at the Stop n Save in Grand Junction, just west of Palisade that you should hit on your way out of town, but also a fast charger at the city offices in the town of Fruita, near the border of Utah. In the way that people have long known to fill up on gas here, charge up before heading out into the desert.

OK, now you’re taking I-70 west to Highway 191 south into Moab, where you can choose from hiking in Arches National Park or Canyonlands National Park, or mountain biking in Dead Horse Point State Park. If I had to choose just one adventure, it would be the 7.6-mile traverse of the area inside Arches, which also takes in the postcard-worthy Landscape Arch.

Get a room at , in Moab, which has a fast charger and an outdoor pool and hot tub. There’s another charger for Teslas on Main Street. Be sure you charge your vehicle fully in town if you plan on exploring the desert, and keep an eye on your battery life, as there are currently no public chargers in the outlying areas.

4. The Vermont Ski Road Trip: Burlington to Killington

200 miles

Cold will reduce your EV battery life by about 25 percent (in below-freezing temps), according to a study by . That jumps to 50 percent if you’re running the heater. The good news? This particular road trip is low on total mileage with super chargers along the way and chargers at each resort. Recharge while you ski!

Day One: Burlington to Jay Peak, 70 miles

The town of Burlington has 80 Level 2 chargers, including a handful of plugs at Burton Snowboards that are open to the public on weekends and weekday evenings. There’s also a ChargePoint fast charger at Burlington’s Electric Department. After fueling up, head north 70 miles to only five miles south of the Canadian border, which enjoys some of the best snow east of the Rockies (more than 300 inches most seasons) over its 385 acres of terrain (lift ticket prices still TBD). The glades hold the best snow on this windy mountain. You’ll find good tree runs off every lift, but Beaver Pond Glade has beautifully spaced trees with countless options for lines. Not into skiing? Jay Peak grooms more than 20 miles of fat-bike trails.

Jay Peak Resort has 14 Tesla chargers, and at the base of the resort has Level 2 chargers as well as Tesla connectors (average rate is $400 a night).

Day Two: Jay Peak to Stowe Mountain Resort

Wake early and head an hour south (60 miles) to , where almost 500 acres of skiable terrain is split across two mountains (lift tickets from $143 a day). The terrain is notoriously steep, with the famous Front Four trails (Goat, Liftline, National, and Starr) offering double-fall line, double-black pitches. For something less intimidating, check out Main Street, a long intermediate cruiser with views of the surrounding Green Mountains.

The has ski in/ski out digs (from $400 a night).

Stowe operates a handful of throughout the picturesque downtown, but you can also head straight to the and get some of the best IPAs in the Northeast while filling up at their DC Fast charger.

Day Three: Stowe to Killington

If you have an extra day, continue south for 85 miles to Killington Mountain Resort, but make sure you stop at the Ben and Jerry’s Factory, in Waterbury, where you can get a scoop from this iconic ice-cream brand and recharge at their DC fast charger. Killington Resort itself has a full assortment of chargers throughout the base area, so again you can As for the terrain, Killington, dubbed “the Beast of the East,” has 1,500 acres to choose from. The most iconic line on the mountain is Outer Limits, which offers 1,200 vertical feet of bumps. Park rats should check out The Stash, a hidden park developed in partnership with Burton with features scattered throughout the trees.

5. The Classic California Road Trip: Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Big Sur

150 miles

California has more than 73,000 public charging stations, roughly a third of all such stations in the country, so if you suffer from range anxiety, consider any road trip in the Golden State the perfect option. This particular route is a mega classic, following the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Big Sur, hitting state beaches and inland forests.

Day One: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

80 miles

As you head south from San Francisco, stop at Pacifica, a beachfront town with good surf, a walkable pier, and dramatic coastline. Get the lay of the land by exploring Mori Point, a 110-acre swath of beach and bluffs that is part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. You can peruse the black sand of Sharp Park Beach, or hike a through wildflower meadows that culminates with a bluff-top view of the Pacific.

Your next stop is the town of Half Moon Bay, where you can watch big wave legends surf Mavericks Beach, and top off at the DC fast charger at the Bank of America on Main Street. As you move below Half Moon Bay, you’ll pass a series of State Park-managed beaches, most with dramatic landscapes where the cliffs meet the water, so you can’t go wrong with any detour. But has a mile of soft sand, an ever-evolving collection of driftwood art, and a very cool rock bridge jutting out of the sand ($8 parking fee). If you want to spot some wildlife, Reserve has a large population of breeding elephant seals that lounge on the beach during the winter ($10 entrance fee).

Hole up for the night in Santa Cruz, at , a funky but upscale inn in the center of town (from $156 a night) with an outdoor pool and fire pits. Charge your vehicle at the DC Fast Charger at the Whole Foods in the center of town.

Day Two: Santa Cruz to Big Sur

60 miles

If you’re itching to surf, head to Cowell’s Beach, a mellow break that’s protected from big swells and has a laid-back vibe that makes it beginner friendly ( has rentals from $30 a day). After testing the waters, continue south on Highway 1, hugging the coast and, if you like, hitting , which protects 1,000 acres of high dunes and pristine beach.

There are a couple of DC fast chargers as you approach Monterey, and an ElectrifyAmerica DC fast charger at the Target in Monterey proper. Juice up if you need to, and keep heading south toward Big Sur, with its awesome juxtaposition of cliffs, forest, and waves. You could spend a week in this nook of California and never get bored. Still, make time to explore Pfeiffer Beach, a day-use area in ($15 entry fee) which has cliffs, natural bridges, and purple sand. No kidding.

There’s no shortage of upscale digs in this lush corner of California, but it’s hard to beat the location of , which has renovated motor lodge rooms or cabins (from $385 a night) and its own hiking trail through towering redwoods where you’ll find swimming holes on the Big Sur River. EV drivers can also refuel overnight at the Level 1 charger at the lodge.

DC fast chargers are scarce in Big Sur (so are cell and internet service), but Tesla drivers can juice up at the Ventana Supercharger on the south end. And as long as you topped off in Monterey, you should have plenty of juice for the return trip north.

Keep in mind that road closures do pop up on Highway 1 in Big Sur because of rock slides. Check page for current status.

6. A Stunning Pacific Coast Road Trip: The Southern Cascade Loop Scenic Highway

205 miles

We’ve called the 440-mile Cascade Loop, which travels from the coast of Washington into the mountains and back, one of the prettiest drives in the country. It’s also one of the most EV friendly, and has been for almost a decade, thanks to Washington State’s emphasis on adding charging stations to its scenic byways. The northern portion of the highway is closed in the winter, but the southern part is open and awesome. You can see one itinerary in the link above, but below, we’ve detailed a 200-mile option along the southern corridor with winter in mind. Think: Bavarian villages and endless cross-country ski trails.

Day One: Everett to Leavenworth, 100 miles

Pick up the southern leg of the Cascade Loop in Everett, just north of Seattle, and take Highway 2 east towards Leavenworth. Follow the Skykomish River and climb 4,000 vertical feet to , an 1,125-acre resort that sits at the top of the Cascade Range and pulls down more than 450 inches of snow a year (lift tickets from $100). Advanced skiers should head straight for the 7^th Heaven Chair and aim for the steep chutes that collect great powder and offer big bumps. Stevens Pass also offers the rare treat of night skiing.

Then head further east to the town of Leavenworth, a Bavarian-themed village that goes all out in the winter; the entire town is decked out with holiday lights from Thanksgiving to Valentine’s Day. The town also operates a small ski hill (named appropriately, “Ski Hill”) with a tow rope and sledding run. In other seasons it is a center for hiking, boating, mountain biking, and climbing and bouldering.

There are a few DC fast chargers in Leavenworth, including one at City Hall and another at the Safeway grocery store. Grab a room at , a budget-friendly adventure inn in the heart of downtown with its own beer garden (from $109 a night).

Day Two: Leavenworth to the Methow Valley

Head down the east side of Stevens Pass on Highway 2 and take Highway 97 north into the Lake Chelan Valley, where more than 30 wineries dot the shores of Lake Chelan. Drop into the family-owned , where rows of grapes overlook the blue water of the lake and the tasting room is open daily. Show up in November and you can experience harvest season and taste wine straight from the barrel at certain events.

Continue north, taking Highway 153 directly into the heart of the Methow Valley, which boasts the largest network of groomed cross-country ski trails in the country. You’ll have 130 miles of trails to choose from. Grab a day pass ($30, rentals ($30) and lessons (starting at $50) if you need them at .

, in Winthrop, offers direct access to the Methow Valley Ski Trails, as well as 20km of trails on the property, and a charging ports for guests (from $207 a night).

7. A Lake Michigan Road Trip: Traverse City to Manistee

150 miles

Michigan has one of the most robust charging infrastructures in the Midwest, increasing the number of chargers in the state by more than 200 percent in the last three years. Considering the car as we know it was born in Michigan, we appreciate seeing the state evolve with the tech. This road trip is short, but delivers, as it follows Highway 22 around Leelanau Peninsula, a skinny spit of land jutting out into Lake Michigan. There are cherries, lighthouses, beaches and dunes. Hit it now, before the snow hits, or wait until late spring. You’ll begin and end in towns with DC fast chargers and have plenty of Level 2 options along the way.

Day One: Traverse City to Leland

60 miles

Juice up at the Hall Street Public Parking charger and head north on Highway 22 as it hugs the Grand Traverse Bay, offering countless views of Lake Michigan. When you hit Northport, head north of town to the tip of the peninsula to hike on the edge of Cat Head Bay. One of the oldest lighthouses in the Great Lakes Area sits on the edge of the park, and you can hike the 4.6-mile which will lead you by a small, interior lake and a sandy beach on Lake Michigan.

Moving south, take a pitstop at Hallstedt Homestead Cherries, a u-pick farm.

You’ll pass which protects 1,700 acres of forest and sandy bluffs that’s popular with nesting eagles, aiming for the small town of Leland, which sits on an isthmus between Lake Michigan and Lake Leelanau, home to “Fishtown,” a collection of historic fishing shacks. It’s a supremely walkable town with easy access to public beaches and boat launches. puts you in the heart of the action, with rooms overlooking the Leland Dam (from $179 a night). You can walk to Van’s Beach to catch the sunset, then peruse town for some fish sausage. Yes, that’s a thing.

Day Two: Leland to Manistee

Continue south on Highway 22 and drive directly to ($25 entrance fee per car), home to massive sand dunes that rise 450 feet above Lake Michigan. Spend some time here climbing the dunes (yes, it’s allowed) and relaxing at the Platte River Point, where the river of the same name flows into the lake.

Heading further south, grab a beer at in Frankfort and end the day in Manistee, where you’ll want to catch another sunset at Fifth Avenue Beach, and stroll the pier to the Manistee North Pierhead Lighthouse. The , in Manistee, will put you on the water and it has a Level 2 charger for EVs (rooms from $171 a night). The Marathon Gas Station has a DC fast charger where you can refuel.

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national parks columnist. He’s been an avid road-tripper ever since becoming obsessed with the Beat poets as a teenager. An electric road trip is enticing to Graham because he likes the idea of taking a nap while his car charges mid-trip.

The post 7 Stunning Road Trips for Electric Vehicles appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On May 28, 2021, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Ten months earlier, my husband, Steve, and I had relocated to Flagstaff, Arizona, in the middle of the pandemic so he could attend grad school at Northern Arizona University. We hardly knew anyone there and were growing lonely, so we were thrilled when a new friend invited us to an event one evening called the Flagstaff Bike Party, a monthly group ride in celebration of bikes and community. It was our first opportunity to gather with new people since our move. When we arrived at a park outside the city’s library, nearly 100 people were there, mounting fixies, mountain bikes, and commuters. A little blond girl giggled on the handlebars of her dad’s bike as he did figure eights in the grass. Some riders wore construction vests and strapped fluorescent orange traffic cones to their helmets to signify the night’s theme: safety.

We were unmissable and buzzing with energy as we started riding around neighborhoods, in circles on the tennis courts, and through downtown. Pedestrians waved and cheered enthusiastically for the return of the beloved event after its COVID-19 hiatus. “Bike party!” we all howled into the cool summer air. An hour into the night, I knew that these were people I wanted to surround myself with. Maybe I’d even get to know some of them better over drinks once the ride ended.

A little after 7 P.M., we reached the intersection of Beaver Street and Butler Avenue, a highly trafficked stretch that separates downtown from the NAU campus. When our light switchedÌęfrom red to green, those of us in the middle of the pack inched forward as the front row slowly pushed into the intersection. I glanced down at my pedal to steady my foot and looked back up, ready to ride.

Then in a matter of seconds, moving into view from the left, a tow truck hauling a Budget box truck careened through its red light. Bicycle wheels rotated under the truck’s flatbed, and there was shouting and honking and someone’s bicycle bell dinging and metal dragging against the asphalt. It was hard to tell how many people had been struck, but I knew immediately it was going to be catastrophic.

About 50 feet away, I stood frozen on my bike with my hands clapped over my mouth in horror. Time seemed to slow. Riders around me ditched their bikes to rush to their friends in the road, but all I could do was full-body shake. Someone eventually shouted for us to get out of the way to allow emergency vehicles through. Sirens screamed. Cyclists panicked. That’s when I grabbed my husband and our friends into hugs. In a daze, we formed a huddle on the sidewalk one block away. We didn’t leave the scene for almost two hours, waiting for any news and wanting to be together. A 12-year-old boy with his new mountain bike joined us to wait for his mom to get him. In tears, he told us he didn’t feel safe to ride home and wasn’t sure if he ever would again.

In the months after, I watched and re-watched two videos from that night, trying to make sense of what happened, wishing I could rewind in real life. The first video, which I filmed at 6:23 P.M., is of riders on the tennis courts, people laughing, and hip-hop music playing from speakers mounted on a bike trailer. My friend is talking about Frisbee golf in the background. The second video is much harder to watch. A driver behind us in traffic had started filming us at 7:04 P.M.—he was in awe of the size of the Bike Party group and only happened to capture the moment of crash. He sent me the video to make sure the police collected it as evidence. It’s only two seconds long, but it shows me and Steve in a sea of other cyclists. It shows the green light and the tow truck. And then there’s the excruciating sound of us yelling “No!” in unison.

That night, . Her name was Joanna Wheaton. Joanna was 29 and a triplet. She went by Jo for short. She devoted her whole life to helping others, especially underrepresented and neglected people. She passed out warm coats to people experiencing homelessness when it was snowing. She served on the Flagstaff Housing Commission to advocate for housing fairness. She started , an independent, data-driven project analyzing social issues in Flagstaff. I could go on. “It’s really beautiful and inspiring to see how she chose to use her gifts,” Jenna Wheaton, the youngest of the triplets, told me months later. She said Joanna was bold in a way that was off-putting to some people, but her intentions were always rooted in empathy for humanity. “She created community wherever she went.”

I had never felt so heavy with grief before. At first, I thought it was weird for me to cry so much about someone I had never met. I couldn’t even mention her name without getting a lump in my throat. But the more I learned about Joanna from news articles and Jenna, the more I realized just how amazing she was. And I couldn’t help but think that we would’ve been friends. She grew up in San Diego, where I was born almost exactly two years after her. She loved the mountains and nature and biking too, and ended up in Flagstaff, just like I did. Why did it have to be her?

I used to work the crime beat at newspapers, so I’ve covered crashes, shootings, bomb threats, deaths, and gnarly court cases. I deal with anxiety and secondary trauma from some of those stories, and I’ve been going to therapy since 2018 to learn how to cope, heal, and regulate my emotions. But I didn’t know what witnessing something so violent would do to my mental health long-term; nor did I know how my body would process the trauma in the days that followed. Nothing I was going through could compare to the wounds suffered by the victims. I requested the investigation reports (which included Steve’s and my testimony and named us as witnesses) and learned the injuries of three of the five cyclists: one person suffered critical injuries to his right leg and pelvis, another person had numerous broken bones, and a third person was scraped and bruised. Yet for the sake of my own healing, I wanted to find out how best to navigate what I witnessed by talking to my therapist and other experts about the healthiest ways to recover and care for myself. I wanted to be OK again.

I didn’t have to look far. In the first few days after the crash, I scrolled through the almost hourly combing for information. I came across a comment from a trauma therapist and licensed counselor in Flagstaff named Dunya Cope. Not only does she have specific training in Somatic Experiencing—a therapy model that focuses on body sensations to relieve trauma—but she was also at the ride that night. “A moment of collective joy turned so quickly into collective horror,” she wrote, before sharing a long list of tips for taking care of ourselves. “Allow your body to find safety when it can, whether around friends and loved ones or just getting to notice your home or an outdoor space,” was one. “Let yourself be in the space with your senses, and check in to see if there is any way that your body notices safety.”

She added that if we’re in shock, there’s no need to try and push ourselves out of it. “Allow yourself to be safe, allow yourself to be held. If you notice any trembling, or any emotional or body impulses, allow yourself the safety to know that your body has wisdom to process and move through what is happening.” If any of us were still seeing horrific images—which I was, whether my eyes were open or closed—she suggested widening our frame to try to remember a tree, a friend, or something else that was neutral at the scene.

“There’s no wrong way to be with this,” Cope told me when we met up in September. We both brought tissues to the downtown coffee shop. “Just let what’s coming out come out. We don’t have to judge it. We don’t have to make it different.”

I tried not to. I cried alone and in front of people without holding back or feeling ashamed. I screamed into pillows until I lost my voice. I spent days curled up in bed in my dark apartment, and I cleared my schedule of plans and chores because it felt impossible to do simple things like eat and shower. While I experienced big emotions, Steve said he felt more numb, like moving through the motions as a zombie. Once we finally had the energy to run errands, we drove through the crash site on the way to the store. Being there again cued more hot, wet tears.

It also prompted outrage—at the tow-truck driver and at other careless drivers. I noticed myself yelling at cars more often and more aggressively. The other weekend on a ride back from the farmers’ market downtown, a 4Runner tried to cut in front of Steve and me as we entered the crosswalk. The driver had a green light, but the pedestrian walk signal was also blinking. Steve gave the driver a sarcastic thumbs up, while I screamed, “Are you fucking kidding me, bro?” Then I flashed him my tallest finger.

I mentioned these outbursts to my therapist when we met for the first time after the crash, and she was curious to know how it felt to yell. I told her it made me feel like I had a voice, like I could change someone’s behavior. If they recognized the close call, maybe they’d be more cautious the next time. My therapist told me that anger and yelling in the presence of threat or harm is an appropriate response. I plan to keep yelling.

When it came to writing this essay, I struggled. It felt uncomfortable to hurt so deeply every time I sat at my desk. I kept feeling like my pain didn’t matter or wasn’t important. I felt like, Who am I to write about suffering? To keep crying uncontrollably? I didn’t lose part of my leg or someone I loved. But Cope reminded me, “There’s no monopoly on stories. One person writing about their experience doesn’t take away from all the multiplicity of the other narratives and feelings.”

I keep thinking of Joanna. When I’m riding my bike. When I drive through the intersection. When I run through the sunflower fields at the park. Jenna, Joanna’s sister, told me that she sees her everywhere as long as her heart is open. A praying mantis landed on her neck during their shared birthday and stayed with her for seven hours throughout the day. She’s sure it was Joanna. “She’s always there,” she said. Jenna is a therapist and is working toward a specialization in grief and loss. Her knowledge was comforting. “I’ve been intentionally keeping death near, because to me, life and death are the same. So often, we turn our backs on death and don’t let it alchemize us and transform us.” It cracks you open, she says, but “we don’t need to be scared of what is in that crack because it can be unifying.”

Something profound that I’ve learned through this process is the power of the word “and.” It has changed how I view my own feelings and emotions. They don’t have to be either-or. You can feel many complex things all at once, like deep loss and immense gratitude. You can feel heartbroken and encouraged. Heartbroken over a world without Jo. Encouraged by the way people have comforted one another. “There is no expectation that we have to go back to some earlier version of ourselves before tragedy happens or before grief affects us,” Cope told me. “Is it ever going to be OK that Jo died? No, that’s never going to be OK. But what an amazing thing to expand our hearts and our capacities to bring in the resilience of community and the ways that we come together.”

I feel a stronger connection with Flagstaff now, partly because of having experienced a collective pain with so many others. And partly because of the way the community came together to grieve and show support. Several GoFundMe campaigns surpassed $100,000 goals to fund the victims’ medical expenses, time off work, bills, and whatever else they needed. Businesses created special menu items and donated proceeds from a day of sales to raise money for the fundraisers. People made “Flagstaff Strong” T-shirts and organized vigils for Jo and the other victims. And community members submitted a petition to the city council for more pedestrian and cyclist protections. I’m not sure whether more bike lanes or the newly painted green stripes would have prevented what happened, but it’s a start.

I’m still scared to bike alone and I worry constantly about Steve, who rides through the intersection every day on his way to school. I make him text me once he gets to campus. “Alive!” he writes every time. There’s still an immense amount of individual and collective healing that needs to happen. Then there’s the healing from the physical injuries. None of us are ever going to be the same. But maybe one day, once everyone feels ready, the Flagstaff Bike Party will meet again. If it does, I’ll be there.

The post I Witnessed a Fatal Bike Crash. It Changed Me Forever.Ìę appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

The pandemic has thrown us out of our regular routines — that’s for sure. The time we’ve spent in our houses instead of in our regular places of work, as well as all the other curveballs we’ve had to endure, has forced a new perspective on a lot of aspects of the lives we used to live.

article titled, “Welcome to the YOLO Economy” looked at how employees are not only taking advantage of working remotely, but some are changing careers completely. They’re leaving the corporate life and the metropolitan addresses that come with them and up and moving to small towns with high rankings in day-to-day quality of life.

If you fall into one of these camps, either having the luxury to work remotely from anywhere in the county, or are just looking (and able) to relocate yourself, why not shop for your next hometown with the filter of your number one pastime: Running. Where in the country has a fantastic running community, the types of terrain you want right out your front door, and multitudes of like-minded individuals (read: potential running partners)? Here are some ideas that might send you to rental or real estate searching websites.

1. If You Want Running Lore in Spades… Eugene, Oregon

Population: 176,464*

Elevation: 403 feet

Median home value: $398,682**

Median age: 34.7

Demographics: 83.26% White; 4.46% Asian; 6.23% two or more races; 3.31% Other; 1.56% Black or African American; .92% Native American; .26% Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander***

Eugene is hard to beat when it comes to running culture — it’s everywhere you turn. “Track Town U.S.A.,” as it’s known, is the birthplace of Nike, the home of historic Hayward Field, and the stomping grounds of past and present legendary runners, including Steve Prefontaine. The town celebrates its running heritage, from 43 vintage Nike shoes on display on the walls of The Graduate Hotel, to the bombardment of running posters at . Streetlights often bear flags of local running races and other running-related themes. In Eugene, there’s no shortage of inspiration to lace up.

Local elites and Olympians in town for events at Hayward Field run the same routes as mortal, everyday runners. Favorite paths include miles of soft, wood-chipped paths like the 4-mile Pre’s Trail, the Ruth Bascom Riverbank Path System along the Willamette River, to singletrack routes over bridges through old-growth forests on the south side of town. Numerous bike paths and running trails are meticulously maintained by the city. Then there’s the world-class track facility at the University of Oregon’s Hayward Field, which hosts the U.S. Olympic Track Trials, among other events.

Eugene sits between the McKenzie and Willamette Rivers and is a two-hour drive south of Portland and a 75-minute drive to the Oregon Coast.Ìę

Weather: Yes, it rains quite a bit in Eugene (this is Oregon, after all), with an average of 47 inches per year compared to a U.S. average of 38 inches. However, a high of 82℉ mid-July and a winter low of 34℉, plus plenty of cool, overcast days makes for fairly ideal running weather.Ìę

Local plug: “There are very few places in the world where the general knowledge of the members of the community understands and appreciates long-distance running. It’s a small town with a big running heritage,” says Bob Coll, co-owner of .

“When I first moved here in 1993 with my wife Laura, who was a professional runner at the time, we took an apartment right across from Pre’s Trail. I headed out on the soft bark, with the sun coming through the trees… the lights came on after dusk and I thought, ‘This is runner’s heaven.’”Ìę Ìę

2. If You Want A Small Town with Big Running Vibes… Boone, North Carolina

Population: 19,965

Elevation: 3,333 feet

Median home value: $353,000

Median Age: 21.2

Demographics: 93.45% White; 2.46% Black or African American; 1.34% two or more races; 1.25% Asian; .9% Other; .55% Native American; .04% Native Hawaiian or Pacific Islander

Situated in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, the towns of Boone and nearby Blowing Rock (population 1,163) serve as a somewhat tucked-away running mecca on the eastern seaboard. A number of races take advantage of the scenic, mountainous terrain of the area, including the Blue Ridge Conservancy 5K and High Country Triple Crown — a series of three races culminating in October’s High Country Half Marathon — and , a rugged 5-mile ascent that kicks off the area’s Highland Games Festival. (Fun fact: The course of “The Bear” runs a section of road run by Forrest Gump in the movie). The Grandfather Mountain Marathon and a track and field meet are also part of the Highland Games, and the New River Marathon and Half Marathon take place in the town of Todd, a short drive from both Boone and Blowing Rock.

Boone is home to Zap Endurance, a training center for post-collegiate elites that also holds resident running vacations for adults. Zap’s team of seven Olympic hopefuls, as well as Boone and Blowing Rock’s regular running community, can be spotted logging miles on the picturesque dirt carriage roads of the Moses Cone Memorial Park and around its two small lakes. Conveniently, the routes around Bass Lake and Trail Lake are 1500 meters and 2K, respectively. Other popular running locales include the 3.1-mile Boone Greenway, Watauga River road, and for the rugged, both the Mountains-to-Sea and Appalachian Trails can be accessed with a short drive. An 8-mile Middlefork Greenway is under construction and will soon connect Boone to Blowing Rock.Ìę

Weather: With a summer high of 79℉, Boone and Blowing Rock serve as a mountain escape for nearby Charlotte and Raleigh residents. Boone receives an average of 35 inches of snow per year, which has locals getting out on cross country skis.

Local love: “Before the pandemic and hopefully after, the East Boone Running Club met up at the Moonshine Brewery every Thursday, and our Zap Endurance runners would show up to group runs, give training tips, and join for a beer,” says Ryan Warrenburg, Zap Endurance’s Facilities Director and one of its coaches. “Historic downtown Boone has a neat vibe, with mom-and-pop shops and locally owned restaurants and bars, and Blowing Rock is more of a quaint resort town. One of the things I like personally is that Appalachian State University being here means more cultural offerings than a town this size would normally have. Plus, if you like being outdoors, this is a really great place to be.”Ìę

3. If you want a picturesque, runner-friendly Midwestern town… Stillwater, MinnesotaÌę

Population: 19,341

Elevation: 696 feet

Median home value: $366,491

Median age: 41.4Ìę

Demographics: 91.8% White; 2.62% Black or African American; 2.29% Other; 1.71% White (Hispanic); .649% Asian

Just a 30-minute drive from the Twin Cities of St. Paul and Minneapolis, Minnesota and just across from the Wisconsin border is the quaint, riverfront town of Stillwater. The town, which dates back to 1848 as the birthplace of Minnesota, is located on the National St. Croix Riverway and National St. Croix Scenic Byway, and its many paved and dirt running paths serve up views of the picturesque river valley. Five running races — the Stillwater Half Marathon, Lift Bridge Road Race, St. Croix Crossing Half Marathon, Gopher to Badger Half Marathon, and Stillwater Boom Site Log Run (many on hold due to the pandemic) — are put on by Run Stillwater and celebrate the local running scene.Ìę

The town has many running groups, including the St. Croix Valley Runners and Team World Vision. Popular routes include Brown’s Creek State Trail, a 5.9-mile route that connects the Gateway State Trail to the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway. The new (as of Spring 2020) 4.7-mile St. Croix Loop Trail gives recreationalists five miles of car-free path between the historic Stillwater Lift Bridge to the new St. Croix Crossing Bridge. A half-mile section climbs at an 8-percent grade, providing an optimal opportunity for in-town hill repeats. Another popular route is running up the town’s historic Main Street and continuing on to highway 95 that leads into the country, offering river views and rolling hills along the way. Trail runners frequent William Obrien State Park and Afton State Parks.

Weather: While temperatures max out around 85℉, and summers — and summer days — are long, winter can be downright burly; this is Minnesota, after all. Still, Minnesotans are hearty, and runners head out in all conditions.Ìę

Local Love: “The reason I moved to Stillwater was because of running!” says local real estate agent and runner, Carrie Killian. “I was living in Arizona but ran the Stillwater Marathon in ’09. I fell in love with the architecture, the views from the river, how nice the people were… I’ve now lived here for eight years. Stillwater is so close to the cities, but you can also get out easily and be in cow country, with beautiful views and rolling hills.”

4. If you want to see and train like elites…Flagstaff, Arizona

Population: 77,590

Elevation: 6,909 feet

Median sold home price: $469,543

Median Age: 25.2

Demographics: 73.4% White, 18.4% Hispanic or Latino, 1.9% Black or African American, 11.7% Native American, 1.9% Asian, .2% Pacific Islander, 7.3% Other, 3.6% two or more °ùČ賊±đČő.ÌęÌę

Sitting at almost 7,000 feet in elevation, Flagstaff has become a running mecca for its high-altitude training benefits, scenic routes on both roads and trails, and thriving running community. Multiple running groups, including the professional team of (“NAZ Elite”) — comprised of Aliphine Tuliamuk, Stephanie Bruce, Scott Fauble and more — can be spotted training around town. Other groups, like Team Run Flagstaff, the Northern Arizona Trail Runners, and the Flagstaff Ultra Running Club, the specialty running shop of Run Flagstaff, and events put on my Aravaipa Running and others add to the vibrant running scene in this beautiful town.

Runners frequent the mostly paved Flagstaff Urban Trail System (“FUTS”), with its 56 miles of shared use, non-motorized pathways winding through town and surrounding natural areas and with 75 additional miles of pathways in the works. Other popular running routes include the wide-shouldered Lake Mary Road that borders the scenic lake as it heads out of town, the rolling dirt of Woody Mountain Road, Schultz Creek’s singletrack, and the Buffalo Park’s 2-mile urban loop.

Flagstaff is also just 90 minutes from the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, within an hour’s drive of Sedona, and a 5-hour drive to Colorado’s San Juan Mountain Range.Ìę

Weather: Because of the altitude, summer temps rarely exceed 90℉. Winter sees an average snowfall of 108.8 inches, with spring wildflowers and fall’s changing colors rounding out the year.Ìę

Local love: “Flagstaff created my standard for what a town should be like that I want to live in,” says Amber Wilson, local runner who’s lived in Flagstaff off-and-on for seven years and is a member of Team Run Flagstaff. “We have such good trail systems in and around town, the elevation is great for training, and the running community is pretty tight knit. Even if you don’t know every single person, it’s just a supportive community.Ìę

The welcoming running community here is contagious. People take care of the trails — I don’t see a lot of wrappers or other trash. It’s great to live somewhere people take care of the land we run on.”

5. If you want singletrack for days… Boise, Idaho

Population: 226,115

Elevation: 2,730 feet

Median sold home price: $465,406

Median age: 36.6

Diversity: 89% white, 7.1% Hispanic or Latino, .7% Native American, 3.2% Asian, .2% Pacific Islander, 3% Other

There’s a reason the greater area of Boise is called “Treasure Valley;” it was dubbed such to reflect the area’s natural resources and opportunities. Ask any trail runner who calls Boise home: opportunities for epic running on those natural resources abound.Ìę

Unique to Boise, an organization called Ridge to Rivers maintains almost 200 miles of trails originating in town and winding through the area’s hills. Hopping on a singletrack trail right from downtown, particularly on the north end of town, makes access from a populated area hard to beat. And Bogus Basin, Boise’s ski area, sits a few thousand feet in elevation above downtown Boise, with trails connecting the two. Trails down low are mostly smooth, buffed-out singletrack lined with sagebrush, while the higher in elevation you run, the more trees and other flora you’ll enter… and the less people you’ll see.

Multiple specialty running stores, namely Bandana Running, The Pulse Running and Fitness, and Shu’s Running Company serve as hubs for trail runners in town. A thriving Facebook group — The Boise Trail Runners — keeps area runners connected. Races in the area take advantage of the runable trails, from the Dirty Dog Marathon and Half Marathon, to 50Ks and 50 Milers.

Weather: Being high desert, Boise can get pretty hot and dry in the summer, topping out with averages in the 90s. The average snowfall is 18 inches per year, with the national average being 28 inches.

Local Love: “I can’t imagine a better place,” says Joelle Vaught, who’s lived in Boise 25 years and competed in numerous ultramarathons. “You can run as far as you want and never hit the same trail twice. And you don’t have to drive anywhere, especially if you live anywhere in the northeast, north or northwest. And since all our trails head from the valley upward, you’re a pretty good climber if you live here. If you go for a 7-mile run, you’ll always climb over 1,000 or 1,500 feet. If you go for a longer run, you’ll easily get in 4,000 feet of climbing.

I also love how the majority of our trails are leash-free. It’s great for running with dogs.”

—

*Population and demographics taken from Worldpopulationreview.com

**Median home price data taken from Zillow.com

***Demographics taken from Datausa.io

The post Thinking of Moving? These Are the Best Places in the U.S. for Runners appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

“Why Cortez?”

This was the puzzled response I got from friends back in 2019, after I explained what must have sounded like a harebrained scheme to liberate myself from a mortgage and a full-time university teaching job. I was going to cash out my overpriced home in Flagstaff, Arizona, and buy a much cheaper one 260 miles away in Cortez, Colorado.

“But do you know anyone there?” came the inevitable follow-up question.

“No,” I replied. That seemed like a minor detail to be sorted out later.

Besides its affordability, what drew me to Cortez was the millions of acres of public lands surrounding a town of just 8,700 people. Tucked into the state’s remote southwestern corner, Cortez is flanked to the east and the north by the sprawling San Juan National Forest, to the west by the Canyons of the Ancients National Monument, and to the south by Mesa Verde National Park.

I sold my Flagstaff house in January 2020 and bought a place in Cortez in February. My plan was working out perfectly. And then, in March, the pandemic hit.

There would be no meeting new friends. I spent April isolated in my new house, unpacking and glued to Twitter. By May, I was in the grip of a suffocating panic about my decision. Perhaps I had made a terrible mistake? I ached for Flagstaff, a place I had lived for 25 years. I missed my friends and the familiar trails. I was lonelier than I had ever been in my life. So I headed into the wild, vowing to stop the digital bingeing and to make some non­human friends.

On my way out of town nearly every day last summer, I saw hordes of other people doing the same thing. Grocery store parking lots were full of out-of-state travelers. There were families in rented Cruise America RVs and young couples with back seats full of recently purchased camping gear. But we shared a common goal: to escape to the relative safety and comfort of nature. And we had more than 600 million acres of public lands to choose from, including over 24 million in Colorado, making it possible to do just that.

With a tattered road atlas in my truck, I ventured far up bumpy Forest Service roads to be clear of packed trails and campgrounds. I became fascinated with following the snowmelt as it transformed the San Juans into a summer paradise. I hiked ridgelines high above pulsing creeks, through wildflower-filled bogs, and in spruce fir forests where springs erupted over boulders. Scientists have shown that feeling awed by nature provides a juice-like cleanse for the brain, clearing the mind and improving our sense of well-being. The weight of loneliness started to lift. The land was proving to be a much better companion than my news feed.

As a survivor of childhood trauma, I have long been aware of how the wild calms the nervous system. But what I’ve learned during the pandemic is that extended time in nature also furnishes me with a sense of belonging.

“When you spend enough time outdoors, you feel socially connected to the earth,” says John Lynch, a guide for , who’s earning his doctorate in ecopsychology and has coached clients on how to form relationships with wild places. “Our country has been through great division, so bearing witness to the functional community in nature can be especially therapeutic.” It also allows for a reassuring reality check, according to Lynch, because “nature never lies.” And while the coronavirus has produced plenty of hardship, Lynch sees the rec­ord number of people hitting the trails as an opportunity for personal and cultural transformation if we apply what we learn there to our everyday lives (in other words, more rapt strolling and less doomscrolling).

In a more enlightened post-pandemic world, our public lands should be managed to protect these intangible yet vital benefits to America’s health and emotional well-being. And it should be done in cooperation with Native communities, the original and arguably most effective stewards of the land, among whom these benefits have always been valued. And as President Biden’s pick of Native American Deb Haaland for interior secretary indicates, the new administration is eager to shift management into better hands, with the promise of improved priorities.

By last fall, I’d made a few human friends in Cortez who joined me on socially distanced hikes. But I also craved time alone in my new favorite wilderness spots: a beaver pond, a sky-high mountain pass, a steep canyon. One warm October afternoon, I hiked along the rim of an oft-visited canyon, dazzled by the cascade of electric-yellow aspens on the opposite slope. I had developed a special camaraderie with some old-growth ponderosa pines lining the trail, and on this hike I felt compelled to sniff one. I pushed my face into the copper-colored bark to see if it smelled like vanilla or cinnamon. Vanilla. The intimacy inspired me to instinctively put my arms around the ancient tree. I hugged it for a while. And I’m pretty sure it hugged me back.

The post How Public Lands Healed Me During Difficult Times appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Lodging and campsites withinÌęGrand Canyon National Park book out months in advance, and you’re limited to often-crowded hotels and campgrounds. But if you don’t mind a short drive to the park, you can find an Airbnb with character and plenty of solitude not far from the canyon’s edge. Here are some of our favorites.

The Dome

The best part about sleeping inside a dome tent? A clear window on the roof lets you stargazeÌęfrom bed. ThisÌę (from $180), 35 minutes from the South Rim, sleeps up to four in a king bed and twin trundleÌęand has solar-powered outlets. You won’t be doing much cooking here, though it does come with a mini fridge and a propane grill. A separate bathhouse is located outside.Ìę

The Safari Tent

You’ll have views of Arizona’s San Francisco Peaks from this (from $130), 30 minutes from the Grand Canyon. There are outlets for charging your phone and a wood-burning stove, but there isn’t running water in the coldest winter months. If you’re traveling with friends, they can book a (from $120)Ìęa short distance away on the same property thatÌęcomes with its own wood-fired hot tub.

The Shipping Container

We get it:Ìęa windowless shipping container may not be ideal. But if you only need somewhere to sleep, thisÌę (from $78) is one of the closest Airbnbs to the Grand Canyon, at just 15 minutes from the south entrance. The amenities are minimal at best and the uninsulated container will be chilly on winter nights, but if close to the canyon is what you’re after, you’ve found it.

The A-Frame

This 1970s-eraÌę (from $183) outside of Flagstaff, Arizona, is small (just 755 square feet) but has plenty of open grounds and isÌęsurrounded by 1.5 acres that neighbor Coconino National Forest. The place comes with loaner mountain bikes and travel guidebooks; you’ll get cell service here but no Wi-Fi. The only downside: it’s a full 90 minutes to the Grand Canyon, but you’re close to all the amenities of Flagstaff.

The Tiny House

Cozy is the best way to describe this 100-square-footÌę (from $104), 30 minutes from the park’s gateway on an acre of private land filled with juniper bushes and views of the Milky Way. This little pad is best suited for one or two people max. You’ll spend most of your time around the outdoor fire pit, but there’s a wood-burning stove to keep the indoors warm.

The Earth Home

Called a hogan, a sacred home for the Navajo people made from mud and wood, this (from $150) is a truly unique sleeping experience. It’s 30 miles from the Grand Canyon on a plot of Navajo Nation land, where you’ll get a taste of traditional life. There's no running water or electricity—just you and the coyotes and antelopes. The hogan stays naturally cool in the summer and, thanks to a wood stove, warm enough in the winter.

The Log Cabin

You’ll reach thisÌę (from $215) by driving two miles down a secluded dirt road from Highway 64, the main road into the Grand Canyon’s south entrance. It’s about 45 minutes to the South Rim from the cabin and just 15 minutes to the town of Williams. The place is perfect for families—it comes stocked with kid-friendly plates and games—and small groups. Inside, you’ll get knotty pine walls and a renovated farm-style kitchen. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, you’ll be treated to a hot tub and fire pit.

The Yurt

As far as yurts go, thisÌę (from $269), 40 minutes from the Grand Canyon, is as stunning and enormous as they get. It’s 700 square feet and sleeps up to eight people. You’ll find a wood-burning stove, a camp-like kitchen, and total solitude, but don’t expect Wi-Fi or electricity. There’s no running water in winter, but you’ll love the outdoor shower in summer.

The Camper

This off-the-gridÌę (from $122), 30 minutes from the Grand Canyon down a bumpy dirt road, is essentially camping. While there’s no electricity, no running hot water, and a composting toilet, there are upgrades like cozy bedding, board games, and a wood-burning stove. The hosts provide breakfast fixings. Come prepared for a rustic camping experience and a million-star view from the palatial deck.

The Ranch House

Previous guests have called this one-bedroomÌę (from $125), 50 minutes from the South Rim, one of their favorite Airbnb experiences ever. Your hosts, Rob and Donna, live and work on the property and are happy to give you a tour of their ranch, where they raise alpaca and turn the animals’ fiber into yarn. Ask for fresh eggs for breakfast from the resident chickens.

The Farmhouse Loft

You’ll have the upstairs loft in this quaintÌę (from $149), located a half-hour from the canyon. The bedroom is separated from the main living area by, fittingly, sliding barn doors, and the loft comes stocked with Grand Canyon guidebooks to help steer you toward the right hike. The Grand Canyon Railway passes by the 12-acre property where the house is situated.

The post 11 Amazing Airbnbs Near the Grand Canyon appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

“I was afraid to leave him. He didn’t tell me, ‘I’m thinking about killing myself.’ But I didn’t want to leave him alone during a several-week patch.”

Christina Bauer sits with her hands clasped, and her posture is perfect. She’s worked all day in an office advising community-college students. It’s a job she never expected to love, but back when she was in college and having a hard time, she took a semester off to do , the outdoor-leadership program for youths. She learned how to read a map and navigate without trails, how to find water and leave no trace. There was something about doing hard stuff outside that changed how she saw herself. At first she thought she’d seek out a career in policy and protect the wild places she loved, but then she worked at a camp doing conflict resolution with troubled kids, and that was it. She’s been a counselor, in some capacity, her entire adult life.

She was the first person Rob Krar told. About going in the hole.

Krar is sitting next to his wife, and his shoulders are hunched forward. In the red metal chair around the small metal table on their impeccable garden patio, which is lined with flowers and herbs and vegetable plants, not a weed in sight, the man who has repeatedlyÌęÌęthe most competitive 100-mile trail races in the country looks small. As if his body is closing in on itself, compensating for how exposed his mind feels.

He is trying his best to explain the worst part of himself, but at times there is a heartbreaking absence of energy in his voice. Sometimes he gives a short laugh, like you do when you know that what someone is saying is exactly the truth. Or a short exhalation, like you do when you know—have known your entire adult life—that something is true and you still can’t quite believe it.

They are looking at each other. The sun is setting, and it’s getting cooler. There is a soft glow coming from inside the house. Occasionally, one of the cats meows, begging to be let out.

It had been the perfect storm: Issues in their marriage. The knee injury. The looming question of whether he’d run again, let alone compete. The worry about what might come next. The singular, circular devastation that comes when you’re most unkind to those you love and you hate yourself for it. He fell so far down the hole, there wasn’t a sliver of light.

She sits even straighter, her voice is stronger. “I was just really afraid.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Probably justifiably.”

Krar rarely goes into the hole during .

It’s the fifth year that he and Bauer, 40, have been hosting them in their adopted hometown of Flagstaff, Arizona: a seven-day summer experience, a five-day retreat in fall and winter, and now, in June 2019, .

During the weeks leading up to the camps, while they’re happening, and for a while after they’re over, Krar is focused. In the moment. Engaged. He’s not thinking about the powerlessness and the hopelessness and the despair. He’s not thinking about ending his life. He’s checking boxes. Swag: check. Maps: check. Foam rollers. Beer. Folding side tables for the beer, and for the plates loaded with Bauer’s “grains and greens” lunches, which taste straight off the menu of a farm-to-table restaurant. Check, check, check. His brain craves this kind of organization. It’s logical. It’s practical. It serves a greater end. And it helps keep the darkness away.

So when the campers, as Krar calls them, arrive at the June installment—the inaugural three-day All-Comers camp—the tables in the conference room, with the spectacular views of Arizona’s San Francisco Peaks, are all meticulously set. A bag of granola, a box of bars, a water bottle, and a lip balm are all precisely positioned around a branded swag bag at each place setting. Pens are offset just so from each arrangement, writing ends pointing to the left.

There are ten campers, four women and six men. They come from Kansas, California, Colorado, Canada. Four live in Arizona. One travels the world and lives out of her backpack. There is a firefighter, a nurse, and a Ph.D. student. Two have suffered traumatic brain injuries, one from a fall over a waterfall, another—the traveler—from a baseball line drive to the head.

Most of them are new to ultrarunning, but they all want to improve—to learn how to avoid bonking and how to pace themselves, to better negotiate tricky terrain and ascend monstrous climbs. They could learn all this at any number of training camps. They’re here because they want to learn it from Rob Krar.

Krar, 42, is slight and coursed with lean muscle. His otherwise closely shaved brown hair is peaked into a fauxhawk, his beard is trimmed short, and he has the kind of smile that feels rare and special, even if you don’t know his story.

Krar grew up in Hamilton, Ontario, and started running in sixth grade. He got good fast. He ran in high school and raced triathlon during the off-season; he was good at that, too, twice representing Canada as a teenager in the ITU Junior World Triathlon Championships. He was a quiet kid, but mostly he was a happy kid. He loved traveling to meets with his friends and really loved how running pushed both his body and his mind.

In 1996, he got an athletic scholarship to attend Butler University, a Division 1 school in Indianapolis, where he ran cross-country and the 800 and 1,500 meters. In his sophomore year, he was accepted into , and when he wasn’t running he was studying. The pressure mounted. He was soon overwhelmed with the demands and time commitments of his studies, and it was during that year when something inside him changed. Running wasn’t carefree and it wasn’t fun anymore, his course load was oppressive, and there was no time to be a college kid. He wasn’t happy, but it was more than that. Happiness began to feel like an elusive thing.

After his final track meet at Butler, he threw his spikes in a trash can, relieved that he wouldn’t have to run again. When he graduated one year later, in 2002, he moved to Phoenix to work as a pharmacist. But he hated the heat, customers’ tempers were short, there was always a line at the counter, and when you do the kind of job where a mistake could harm or even kill someone, the stress builds quickly. He started working the more relaxed flow of the graveyard shift—9 P.M. to 7 or 8 A.M., seven days on, seven days off. He had few friends in the area, a relationship that wasn’t working out, and a growing realization that he’d chosen the wrong career. So when the low-grade unhappiness that had started at Butler seemed to get worse, it was easy to rationalize. He rarely ran, and when he did think about running, he sometimes thought it might make him feel better. But it was just so hot.

When his three-year contract was up in 2005, he took a graveyard shift in the mountain town of Flagstaff, where he’d been a few times to ski and mountain bike. The cool air and tight, competitive endurance community got him excited about running again. Soon he was logging 80-mile training weeks around his 72-hour workweeks, and 100 miles on his off weeks. Eventually, at age 30, he ran the 2007 Boston Marathon, during a nor’easter, in 2 hours 25 minutes 44 seconds.

After that, Krar ramped up hard, training with guys who’d been running professionally for years. He was still working nights at Walgreens. “He’d come into the shop and be like, ‘Dude, my feet are killing me,’ ” says Vince Sherry, 39, Krar’s friend who worked at the running store Ìęand now owns it. “We would fit him with shoe after shoe, trying to figure out what he could wear during his shifts and still be able to go run with guys who literally run, nap, run, eat, go to the gym, then go to sleep.”

Sherry remembers Krar getting crushed in a local event after working all night, by a guy who had no business crushing him. “He was so bummed,” Sherry says. “I said, ‘Dude, you just worked ten hours with no sleep, then came out to run a 10K at nine in the morning.’ I’m thinking, How are you still standing?”

In 2009, Krar started preparing for the Trans­Rockies Run—a six-day, 120-mile partner stage race—with his friend and roommate Mike Smith. After years of pounding the roads, Krar loved how training in the mountains placed him in front of forever views that stopped him in his tracks; how sufferfests in the Grand CanyonÌęwere transcended by the sheer scope and beauty of the place, once bringing him so close to a soaring California condor that he swore he could hear the wind in its feathers. He and Smith , despite Krar’s near constant pain from Ìęin his heels. The visible bumps irritated his tendons and altered his stride so much that he developed sciatica. The race wrecked his body, but it introduced him to Christina Bauer.

Bauer was also racing the event, and he talked to her a few times after the stages. Krar learned that the tall, lean woman with the wide smile had through-hiked the AppalachianÌęand Pacific Crest TrailsÌęsolo, and that she had worked as a field counselor in Utah, sleeping in a tent for weeks in the wilderness, helping kids who were struggling with depression or drug use or self-harming behaviors. She is such a badass, he thought.

They e-mailed for a few weeks, then he drove nearly nine hours to Salt Lake City to see her, and shocked himself by telling her about the hole. The darkness that began at Butler and followed him to Phoenix hadn’t lifted, and he knew something was wrong. Because now he loved his town and had good friends and was running well, yet he struggled to feel joy. But there was joy on that drive back to Flagstaff.

“It sounds almost too corny to believe, but a part of me was like, Holy shit, I think this is the woman. I think I’m falling in love,” Krar says.

As Jill Wheatley crests the steep pitch, she takes one look at the panorama to the east and thinks, This is why I run in the mountains.

It’s day two of All-Comers, and the trail took the campers from beneath towering Ponderosa pines to this clearing at 8,500 feet, with its perfect view of snowcapped Mount Humphreys.

The faster runners have long since passed through, but Krar is waiting for Wheatley and the others in the rear. He likes to start at the front of a group and make his way back, spending time with each person.

When he first started his running camps, his main focus was the organizational component, making sure everything happened exactly as he planned it at exactly the right time. The camp and his role in them was simple: talk about training and nutrition and racing, and lead kickass runs. But then three men wept during a run at the very first summer camp in 2015, and Krar was completely taken by surprise. What’s going on here? he thought. He continued to market the events as running camps, but he began to realize that he was drawing runners who were coming for other reasons, too. That he was, however inadvertently, creating a safe place where people could open up.

Wheatley walks over to Krar, who turns to check out the view of Mount Humphreys with her. “We’re just so fortunate to be out here, in these magical places, doing what we’re doing,” he says. Then he turns to face her. “I just want to thank you for coming to camp, and for trusting me.”

Like Krar, Wheatley is also from Canada. Her long brown hair is in a ponytail, and her eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, as they almost always have been since she was struck with a baseball in 2014, when she was in her mid-thirties and working as a teacher. She spent two years in the hospital, recovering from a traumatic brain injury, and her right eye never reopened. Since getting out, she’s been running mountains around the world, immersing herself in nature to help her heal. Social anxiety made her hesitant about attending the camp, but she came in part ­because she wanted to learn how Krar navigates his own dark times.

Krar started talking publicly about those times in 2014. In Ìęhe runs through the Grand Canyon and talks about how the disease and running go hand in hand, and how the dark place he enters at the end of a race echoes the darkness of his depression. In 2018, he did Ìęwith , a charity devoted to preventing suicide and other mental and physical health issues among men. In it, Krar runs through a barren, otherworldly landscape outside Flagstaff. He reveals how he thought about ending his life after a devastating knee injury in 2017, and how opening up to Bauer about his struggle made him a better person, more true to himself.

For many of Krar’s campers, including Wheatley, those videos finally put words to how they felt. They know about overwhelming hopelessness. How it has a weight to it that’s so immense they feel rooted to the ground. How life feels like it’s happening in slow motion, and the simplest tasks—­sitting up in bed, emptying the dishwasher, putting one foot in front of the other—are overwhelming. They know after they finish a race, or anything they’ve worked hard for, that they should feel happiness, a sense of accomplishment. Relief. Joy. Something. But all they feel is emptiness. And often, if they do feel something, it’s anger. Or sadness. Or shame. There’s nothing to point to, no trauma to blame. And so it becomes this terrible additional burden of feeling awful about feeling awful.

Standing next to Krar, Wheatley feels none of the hopelessness that on her darkest days seems insurmountable. He reached out to her prior to camp, assuring her he could accommodate whatever she needed. Her anxiety subsided that first morning.

“From the moment I met Rob, then sharing time on the trail with him, I felt connected and comfortable,” she says.

The legendary runner standing next to her feels like a friend.

“Hey,” she says, “do you mind if I get a photo of us together?” Then she smiles mischievously. “Just a couple of Canadians getting high in Arizona.”

Before Krar could dominate the ultra scene, he had to quit running.

In 2010, at age 33, even walking hurt, and he finally had surgery on his heels. But he tried to come back too soon, and when the pain returned he figured the procedure had failed. So he stopped running. Bauer moved in with him that summer and taught him how to sport climb, and they both started ski mountaineering.

After all that time skiing up and down mountains, Krar got very fit, and his feet finally healed. In 2012, he dropped into a 33K just to see what would happen. He Ìęhe ran that year. That same year, in June, he and Bauer were married in a meadow. He kicked off 2013 by winning the Moab Red Hot 55K. “This guy was just prancing over the slickrock,” says John Trent, 56, a journalist who has covered the ultra scene since 1987. “He’s so light on his feet, and he’s got textbook running form. He gets his chest out in front of him, with his arms down low, and his legs just eat up ground, not overstriding, but just going incredibly fast. A lot of times you look at fast people and there’s not that nimbleness, that ability to shift with the terrain. Rob’s got that. I was like, Wow, he’s gifted.”

Just over two months later, Krar, then 36, lined up for the Leona Divide 50-miler in Santa Clarita, California, on the hottest day in the race’s history. It was 110 degrees, but Krar was so fast he reached one of the aid stations two hours earlier than volunteers anticipated, and all they had to offer was water.

“The volunteers were blown away, because all he did was thank them,” says Keira Henninger, 43, race director of the Leona Divide. “He’s just very humble and incredibly kind.”

Krar ran 5 hours 53 minutes 51 seconds, crushing the course record by nearly seven minutes and earning himself an entry into the Western States Endurance Run, the most competitive ultra in North America. In that race, his first 100-miler, he ran next to the guy whose record he’d destroyed at the Leona Divide.

Dylan BowmanÌęwas ten years younger than Krar but had been running ultras for several years. He’d raced Western States once before, and when he and Krar fell into a similar pace early on, he started giving Krar beta on what to expect from the course.

“I could sense he was the stronger runner,” says Bowman, 33, who like Krar is now . “He’s very efficient, and at the aid stations he’s incredibly methodical. He’s not coming in thinking, Maybe I should change my shoes and socks. He knows he’s going to change his shoes and socks, and he does it without wasting time or energy. And he’s got this silent intensity. We spent hours together, but I did 90 percent of the talking. He pulled away from me around mile 60, then absolutely kicked my ass and beat me by over an hour.”

Krar ran the race in 15 hours 22 minutes 5 seconds, finishing second, less than five minutes behind the winner.

Bowman’s part in his 100-mile debut convinced Krar that the ultrarunning community was unlike any other. “I was just overwhelmed with how kind my fellow competitors could be in a race,” says Krar. “All he wanted to do was help me.” That fall, Krar .

In 2014, he won three 100-milers (Western States, the Leadville Trail 100, and Run Rabbit Run) in less than three months. He was still alternating 72-hour workweeks on the graveyard shift. The following year, however, at the age of 38, he left Walgreens for good, won Western States again, and cemented his reputation as one of the best ultrarunners the sport has ever seen.

“He’s obviously very talented, but there are a lot of very talented people who don’t win Western States,” Bowman says. “You have to have the willingness to go to the deepest, darkest places in order to pull out victories in the most competitive races. Rob has been really open about his depression, so it could be that he’s just not afraid to put himself in a dark place. And when you pair that with a unique talent, you’ve got an absolute world-class athlete.”

That ability to push through the darkness led to Krar’s singular performance at Leadville in 2018. The previous year, a misstep during a race dislocated his kneecap and sheared the cartilage off the back of his kneecap and upper femur. It was a rare injury for a runner, and it required a novel surgery with no protocol for recovery—and no promise of a comeback. Unsure of whether his body could withstand 100 miles, Krar didn’t commit to starting the race until four days before it. Then he ran a stunning 15:51:57, less than ten minutes off the course record and more than 90 minutes ahead of second place.

“It’s one of the great performances in ultrarunning history,” says Trent.

The darkness Krar went through to get to that point, however, was profound. It was his knee injury that contributed to the perfect storm. The storm that plunged him so deep in the hole that one weekend, when Bauer went to visit her family and left him alone, after all the years of thinking about ending his life, he actually spent time Googling just how he might do it.

“When I’m having my worst episodes, it’s a very dark, dark place,” Krar says. “But I think a good way to describe my depression is an inability to feel happiness. It’s just this gray zone. I have this beautiful life that I can’t appreciate.”

He has his friends, who have crewed all his 100-milers. Who drive for hours to lay out everything he might need at each aid station per the photo references he sends them: gels, lube, bars, socks, shoes, water, wipes—all exactly positioned so he knows within an inch where everything will be. Who pace him and know exactly how much to talk and how much to push.

He has friends like Ryan Whited, Krar’s trainer, who went to every doctor’s meeting with him after that knee injury in 2017. Who knew Krar was slipping into depression again and wasn’t afraid to get up in his business. “I think a lot of people tend to leave him alone, which is what I used to do, because he’s so private and can look so brooding,” says Whited, 46, who also owns , a gym in Flagstaff. “But you need the annoying friend who cares about you and sends you annoying texts and ridiculous GIFs.”

He is still competitive. “Rob has had problems with injury, so he hasn’t raced a lot in the past couple of years,” Bowman says. “But if he shows up, he’s somebody you have to take very seriously as a contender.”

He has his sponsors, like the North Face and Gu, who enable him to travel the world. He has a beautiful home and three cherished rescue cats, Mo, Little Bit, and Bee. He loves fast cars—can in fact talk at length about IndyCar, Nascar, and Formula One. (“When you’ve got 30, 32 cars all flooring it, whew! It vibrates your body.”) He owns a superfast 2019 Mustang Bullitt. (“This is the funniest part—he just likes to accelerate quickly and then go the speed limit, because he’s Canadian,” Bauer says. “That’s not true!” Krar says. “There are spots where I’m very confident there are no cops and I drive extremely fast.”)

And most of all, he has her.

When Krar told Bauer about his depression in 2009, he couldn’t even say the word. It was the first night they’d ever hung out. He’d spent the day helping her move to a new place in Salt Lake City, and he’d been amazed at how disorganized she was. All she had were a few boxes that didn’t have flaps and couldn’t be stacked. It was hard to wrap his brain around how she operated. What was this woman doing? But he rolled with it, got her some proper boxes, then spilled worm juice all over himself trying to move her composter. It was a shit show, but it was fun. He felt comfortable with her. She had a big, joyful laugh and a quiet confidence.

They were sitting on her futon, and he had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled down low over his face. He felt sad, embarrassed, a little angry. “I go into the hole sometimes,” he said. He’d never told anyone that before, but she deserved to know what she might be getting into. She listened. It was all he wanted.

Things were mostly good until 2015, when he started talking about what it would be like to end his life. She knew he often thought about it, but now he was saying it out loud and in a way that worried her. He began talking about how they should pick a date to die.

“It started as a joke,” she says. “Because Rob is so logical and we were talking about retirement planning. He was like, ‘If we knew when we were going to leave, we’d know exactly how much we can spend”—she laughs—“every year.’ ”

“I said, ‘Then we can retire earlier,’ ” Krar recalls. He laughs softly. “It kind of makes sense.”

“It was a joke for a little while,” she says. She’s no longer laughing. “And then it just got this underbelly that wasn’t a joke.”

Something had to change. He was willing to try medication but not therapy. She got him an appointment with a psychiatrist, who diagnosed him with depression, and he’s been on meds ever since. He doesn’t have a great answer for why he doesn’t want to go to ­therapy. “I just don’t want to do that,” he says.

The refusal is tough on Bauer. “I still think it would be helpful, but I know I can’t push it,” she says.

She recognizes the signals well by now. There’s the bitter sarcasm. The shorter fuse. It’s a silly example, but she’s always putting the toilet-paper roll on wrong. (We all know it goes over the top.) When he’s in a good place, they can laugh about those things; when he’s not, they take on a harder edge.

“What’s tricky is, when he’s in a bad place, he’s sometimes not very nice. And I don’t know if that means he’s slipping into a place that’s not good, or if he’s just really fucking annoyed with me,” she says. “I try to stack up, How often has this happened lately?”

Mostly, though, she feels his darkness in her gut. Which was why, during that perfect storm in 2017, when the two of them were trying to work through stuff in their marriage, when recovery from his knee injury seemed uncertain, when he was getting stuck in what she calls the black-and-white thinking that goes something like, Well if I can’t run, I’ll have to go back to pharmacy, so what’s the point of being here?—she felt, in a visceral way, like she always does when he’s going through a hard time, that she shouldn’t leave him alone. And when she headed out that one weekend, she texted him repeatedly and insisted, like she often does, even though neither of them likes the phone, that they talk every evening.

She found out later, after , that while she’d been gone, he’d Googled how to kill himself with a gun.

Krar is frustrated now with how others have used that fact to characterize him. “This has been blown way out of proportion,” he says with impatience. “It’s not hard to look up on Google how to kill yourself with a gun. Sure, that was the first time I did it, but it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it before. I had a rough night. I don’t want it to be bigger than it was. I think a lot of people think about how to kill themselves. Every article since is like, ‘Rob, who suffers from suicidal tendencies
’ I don’t believe that I do. There needs to be an agreeable gray-zone definition of that thought process.”

Because of who she is, Bauer can understand his frustration. When she talks about mental health and suicidal ideation, she is firmly in her wheelhouse, and she is dispassionate. But she is also talking about the man she loves.

“But, like, I often—” she starts to say, then pauses. “Often, when I’m away, I feel a little bit worried, and I frequently send texts, and I often use a joking tone. But if I don’t receive a message back within an hour or two, I get concerned.”

She stops, and for a long moment looks at him. Before they got married, she came to terms with the fact that someday she might lose him. She chose to build this life with him. This beautiful, hard life.

“I’m afraid of heights,” says Kiley Reed. “And I don’t like to hike!”

Reed, 35, is bent over, hands on her knees, laughing at herself. She’s only 20 feet from the rim of the volcano, but for every two steps up through the ankle-deep cinders, she slides back a step. Krar told the campers earlier this morning that the stretch up the 800-foot SP (“Shit Pot”) Crater would be “the slowest 0.2 miles you’ve ever run.”

Krar knew the climb wasn’t easy for Reed, so when he passed her on the way up, he made sure he said something that wouldn’t require a response.

“Looking great!” he told her. “You’re almost there!”

Now Reed is nearly at the top, and the entire crew—campers, guides, Krar, and Bauer—are rallying for her. She straightens up and looks out over the treeless, undulating world of extinct volcanoes and jagged mountains. Above it all hovers the moon, a faint spot in a cloudless sky. This is amazing, she thinks.

Reed is an emergency-room nurse who recently moved to Flagstaff with her husband and three young kids. She has short, dark hair and blue-green eyes, and jokes about how she doesn’t like running (“I want to be a runner, but it hurts”). But since moving to Flagstaff, Reed has seen how connected her husband feels to the ultra scene, and she wants to be a part of it. “The whole community just draws you in,” she says.

She takes her final, plodding steps to the rim, and when she gets there everyone cheers and starts high-fiving each other. “We did it!”

Some of the recent arrivals wander off to stare into the 300-foot-deep crater at the center of the volcano. Others are engaged in the endlessly amusing (for runners, anyway) topic of GI issues—in this case, farts—and are laughing like crazy.

“Let’s get together for a group photo,” says Krar. As he waits for everyone to grab a spot on a boulder, Krar starts nerding out about the upcoming anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing.

“Do you know that every human who has ever set foot on the moon has trained in northern Arizona?” he says, delighted to share this bit of trivia. “It’s true! Just below Sunset Crater, right over there, because apparently the landscape is similar to the moon’s.” He pivots to point at the moon, then drops his arm and stares at the sky.

“Where the fuck did the moon go?”

Maybe it’s the heat. Or the exertion. But that line slays everyone in the same way. The moon that was there just minutes ago is gone, and nobody knows where the fuck it went, and for some reason that’s utterly hilarious.

It’s a moment that exemplifies what Krar delivers with his running camps—trails, community, and connection. Sometimes to profound effect.

“This camp literally saved my life,” says Jim Mollosky, 44, a massage therapist, trainer, and strength and conditioning specialist from Buffalo, New York. Mollosky wasn’t at the All-Comers event, but he’s been to four of Krar’s camps. He initially started coming simply to get better as a runner. He never discussed his depression until he met Krar.

“To see the openness and freedom that he lives with, even while struggling with depression, made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this,” he says.

After that first camp, Mollosky wrote a Facebook post, apologizing to his friends for times he’s been distant. He told them about his struggle, and about how much it meant to him knowing that he wasn’t alone. Some of them thanked him for sharing, he says, and the post has had a ripple effect. “They said they feel more comfortable dealing with issues themselves now.”

Mollosky now tries to stick around longer after races and socialize. He practices meditation and writes a lot. He runs, of course, because on the bad days that’s something he can accomplish. Most important, he allows himself to feel hopeful.

“Before that first camp, I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to live, to be blunt about it,” he says. “But after going and meeting everyone, I feel that even when I have rough days, I can make it through. I do see there’s hope. If I can just keep one foot in front of the other and keep moving.”

Krar’s biggest fear has long been that his depression will get worse. And it has.

The past 12 months or so were his darkest yet. He spent more time in the gray zone, more time in the hole, and about a month prior to this camp, he says, was his single worst week since the perfect storm of 2017. According to Strava, he ran only ten miles that week. Before it hit, he had traveled nearly seven weekends straight. Krar enjoys traveling, but it also wipes him out. He likes routine and loves being home, but being on the road for races and appearances is part of his job. When he returned to Flagstaff after those seven weekends away, he was exhausted and wanted to shut down and be alone. It made total sense to Bauer, but she’d missed him and wanted to talk. He’d missed her, too, but he just didn’t have the energy to engage, and that made him feel bad, and it all just sort of snowballed from there and dropped him in the hole.

A line Krar often repeats is, “I love running once in a while, I like it a lot of the time, I dislike it a lot.” Because it’s his livelihood, it’s a double-edged sword, he says.

“More commonly, when I’m running well, my mental health is better, and when I get injured, I’m more likely to go into it. But they’re not joined at the hip,” he says. “I can be having great times and still fall into the hole. That’s the pressure of being a professional athlete.”

But in running—specifically, running 100-milers—he also finds meaning. There are few other times when he can be in the moment, not thinking about the desperate, awful powerlessness. And when it gets emotionally dark and really starts to hurt late in a race, he chooses to stay with it. And he’s grateful for the ability to make that choice. Grateful that he’s able to work his ass off to get to that moment.

There will be more such moments. Krar says he plans to race a competitive 100-miler in 2020. “I’m also laying the groundwork for an attempt at a well-known fastest known time, which will push me well beyond anything I’ve attempted in the past,” he says.

It’s not always clear what pulls Krar out of the hole. But during this most recent descent, as is often the case, it was this camp. There was so much to organize. So many boxes to check. The momentum built and the focus sharpened and it carried him out of the darkness. He had to craft an experience—an experience, he has come to learn, that has layers of meaning for others, and for himself.

On the last night of All-Comers, the runners are sitting before a screen inside Paragon Athletics. Krar is barefoot and drinking a beer. Bauer sits on the floor near him, and she’s barefoot, too. For 45 minutes or so, he shows slides and tells his story. Then he plays the Movember video, the one featuring the same lonely landscape and volcanic crater they ran just hours earlier. When the video is over, Krar stands up.

He tells them he doesn’t have the answers. But he feels fortunate to have the platform that allows him to share and connect.

“There’s still a strong stigma around depression and mental health,” he says. There is not a sound in the room other than his voice.

“I think it’s OK to reach out to someone and have a conversation with them. Talking about it is going to make a difference in removing that stigma. The most important thing is letting people know they’re not alone.”

Krar thanks them all for coming. Then, as most of the campers start getting up, Krar walks over and sits next to Ben Kammin, who is trying hard to hold it together. Kammin, 45, is a Ph.D. student in ethnomusicology in Boulder, Colorado. He’s lean, with a bald head and a graying goatee. He’s thoughtful and not much of a talker, and right now, with Krar sitting quietly beside him, he can’t say a word. If he opens his mouth, he’ll lose it. And there’s so much he suddenly wants to say.

He wants to say he’s struggled with manic depression for around 15 years. That when he’s going into a bad place—“absolute hopelessness”—he can feel the darkness crawl down the back of his neck. That hardly anyone knows this about him, even friends he’s had for 25 years. That a year ago he started running, and while it’s not a cure or a substitute for his meds, he calls it his miracle drug, because it gives him hours of clarity and productivity. He wants to say that sometimes he weeps when he runs. That he just gets overwhelmed with gratitude for this thing that does so much for his body and mind. He wants to say that he thinks his illness is getting worse, but he’s doing everything he can to be healthy, because he knows his time is precious. He wants to tell Krar that after just three days, he feels like he found his people. That the runners he met are imperfect just like him, and that they are the most amazing, beautiful people because of those imperfections. And that soon he will start thinking of life before camp and after camp.

But he doesn’t have to say these things. Because Rob Krar gets it.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide or self-harm, call the toll-free from anywhere in the U.S. at 1-800-273-8255.

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Last weekend, one of the biggest chunks of public land in the Southwest closed to the public. Citing wildfire danger and the chance that people would ignore campfire bans, officials closed New Mexico’s Santa Fe National Forest—all 1.6 million acres of it—until further notice.

“Under current conditions, one abandoned campfire could cause a catastrophic wildfire,” supervisor James Melonas said in a statement, “and we are not willing to take that chance.”

Thanks to abysmal snowfall, nearly two-thirds of New Mexico is experiencing . It’s a similar story across the entire Southwest. As a result, forests across the region are being closed pending rain.

In Arizona, where of the state is under extreme drought conditions, Flagstaff residents are unable to bike the San Francisco peaks until lifts its closure; the Four Peaks Wilderness in needs precip before any hikers can explore it. Chunks of Prescott, Kaibab, and Apache-Sitgreaves forests are also off-limits. Stage two bans (no fires, fireworks, chainsaws, welding, and, for the love of God, explosives) are in effect across much of the Southwest, including forests in southern Utah and Colorado.

Drought wasn’t the lone impetus for closing the Santa Fe Forest, located near the state’s capital, in the northern part of New Mexico. There was a fire ban in the area for all of May, but despite this, Forest Service workers say they had to extinguish 83 unattended campfires.

The Forest Service doesn’t track closures nationally, so it’s hard to know how this year stands compared to past years. Arizona hasn’t had such widespread closures , when the public was shut out of the entire Coconino National Forest. The Santa Fe National Forest last closed in 2013, the year the Thompson Ridge and Tres Lagunas wildfires scorched 34,000 acres. This year’s closure is mostly preventative, say forest officials, but at the moment, nine wildfires are in New Mexico and Arizona, including the , which after five days had burned and forced the town of Cimarron, New Mexico, to evacuate.

Sadly, these closures will likely become more common. Climate change has dramatically increased the odds of conflagrations. According to the federal government’s , hot and dry conditions caused a sixfold increase in acres burned between 1970 and 2003. The warming climate—experts predict the Southwest could get ten degrees warmer by 2100—means less precipitation will fall as snow, and already fickle monsoons could become less reliable. When trees do burn, they might never return, replaced forever by shrubs.

The other major problem is that a century of fire suppression has loaded American forests with dense underbrush that stokes more intense fires. Ellis Margolis, a U.S. Geological Survey fire ecologist who lives in Santa Fe, says his tree-ring examinations show that fires used to burn local forests about once a decade—enough to clear out the forests but not enough to kill mature trees. “These places used to burn all the time, but they haven’t for a century or more,” Margolis says. “We can’t exclude fire anymore—we have to learn to live with it. Do we want to do it on our watch, with managed and prescribed fires, or do we want to have wildfires? I think the latter is not the ideal choice for society.”

Those needed changes may save us years or decades from now. But as for this summer and those in the near future? Get used to forests closing more often.

The post It’s So Dry, Forests Across the Southwest Are Closing appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

4:35 a.m.

The wind blows across the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, 20 mph constant. Mitsu and I hurriedly grab hats and gloves, pull on running vests and slam car doors in the dark in front of the Bright Angel Lodge. It’s 45 degrees as we quickly walk a couple hundred feet to the Bright Angel trailhead, where the lights of the South Rim disappear and a big black hole eats up the horizon.

My layering strategy—a pair of running shorts and a hooded wind jacket over a thin long-sleeve synthetic top—is basically me betting that today’s forecasted winds will disappear once we step below the rim. A hundred steps down the trail, it’s quiet again, and I’m relieved to cross “hypothermia” off my list of Things That Could Go Wrong During My Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim Run.

Items still remaining on that list:

• Blisters
• Chafing
• Dehydration
• Shitting my pants
• Spraining or breaking an ankle or other body part crucial to locomotion
• Tripping and falling off an exposed section of trail
• Finishing way too late to get to the Cornish Pasty place in Flagstaff
• Realizing that my entire life up until this point has been a lie
• Discovering that I’m not tough enough to do this after all
• Running out of food

Just kidding. I have literally never run out of food in the backcountry. I have 4,380 calories stuffed in my running vest:

• 10 single-serving packets of Skratch Labs Sport Hydration Drink Mix (800 calories)
• 3 small bags crushed Kettle Chips (660 calories)
• 8 chocolate Clif Shots (880 calories)
• 2 Vega One bars (540 calories)
• 2 Panda Raspberry Licorice bars (200 calories)
• 3 packages Black Cherry Clif Shot Bloks (600 calories)
• 5 Cinnamon Honey Stinger waffles (700 calories)

We run by headlamp, the canyon dark beyond our personal LED-lit bubbles. The stair-stepped trail makes it hard to establish a stride, so I intermittently walk and jog. After 15 minutes, I remove my wind layer.

5:57 a.m.

The canyon starts to light up in the pre-dawn minutes, and a few hundred feet above Indian Garden, we run into the first backpackers hiking up and out of the canyon. I was worried about being quiet as we ran past the campground so we didn’t wake anyone, but it looks like almost everyone is packed up already.

Mitsu stops at the restroom and I fill up my water bottles while I wait. Almost five miles down so far. We mostly run the rest of the descent to the Colorado River and meet more hikers on their way up from Phantom Ranch. We cross the river on the silver bridge, and pass Phantom Ranch at Mile 10ish at 7:15 a.m.

8:15 a.m.

Around Mile 15, Mitsu’s strained something-or-other has grown increasingly painful, and he decides to turn back. We make plans to meet back at Phantom Ranch when I come back through in a few hours. I tell him I’ll hustle so he won’t have to wait too long, and also so I can maybe get a coffee before the canteen closes for dinner. For a second, I consider bailing with him, because drinking lemonade at Phantom Ranch sounds way more fun than finishing the 5,800-foot climb up to the North Rim.

Here’s the great thing about the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim: it’s basically a semi-supported ultramarathon. There are water spigots in six places along the trail, and in season, seven others. You do have to carry all your own food (unless you time it right and can buy candy bars from the canteen at Phantom Ranch). There are no aid stations, no volunteers sweeping the course, almost no meeting places for anyone to “crew” you, and hopefully not that many other people. And if you snap your ankle, it’ll probably be a long time before you get rescued. I brought a space blanket and some water treatment tablets. My mother told me to be careful, so I did that too, for her, and also to avoid being a pain in the ass for the park service.

9:20 a.m.

I reach Manzanita, mile 17.5, after a bunch of power-hiking and jogging. The water, which has been turned off for a few months, has been temporarily and fortuitously turned on, so I fill my bottles. The wind is blowing steady and gusting up to about 30 mph, so I make a vow to only pee in pit toilets the rest of the day, in order to minimize stops and also to minimize accidentally spraying myself with my own urine. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve just had some windy restroom adventures out there and realized that peeing on my own face wasn’t really my thing.

A Brief History of the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim:

13.799 ± 0.021 billion years ago: Big Bang happens

5-6 million years ago: Grand Canyon is formed

Early 1900s: The Cameron Trail, which was originally built to Indian Garden by the Havasupai tribe and will later be known as the Bright Angel Trail, completes its route from the South Rim all the way to the Colorado River.

1925: The South Kaibab Trail, another trail from the South Rim to the Colorado River, is completed.

1928: The North Kaibab Trail, connecting the North Rim to the Colorado River, is finished, completing a rim-to-rim route.

Sometime after 1928: Somebody hikes the whole thing from rim to rim in a day

Also sometime after 1928: Somebody hikes the whole thing from rim to rim to rim in a day

2016: Jim Walmsley sets the Fastest Known Time for a Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim run, 5 hours, 55 minutes, 20 seconds*

2017: Cat Bradley sets the women’s FKT for the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim: 7 hours, 52 minutes, 20 seconds*

2018: I decide to run the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim*.

*There are two different routes to do a Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim. The one that utilizes the South Kaibab Trail is 42 miles total, and is a little steeper on the South Rim side. The one that uses the Bright Angel Trail is 48 miles total, and is less steep on the South Rim side. You can imagine if you were trying to set a record, you’d do the 42-mile version. I was not setting a record, so I chose the 48-mile route. Ìę

11:29 a.m.

After hiking nonstop up 3,600 feet in 5.5 miles from the Manzanita rest area, I pop out on the North Rim to an empty North Kaibab Trailhead parking lot. I feel like pig vomit but at least the next 14 miles are all downhill. The wind continues to blast and I’m now at 8,241 feet and getting chilled, so I quickly fill my water bottles, throw all my food wrappers in the trash can, and walk the first Âœ mile of the trail while pouring crushed salt and pepper Kettle Chips into my mouth.

What’s not really productive or nice to think about here is that if I were fast like Cat Bradley or Jim Walmsley, I’d be finished or nearly finished by now. Alas, I am not fast. Also, I like bread and sitting on my ass 40-50 hours a week for work. So here we are, headed back into the maw of the largest canyon in Coconino County, Arizona. My ears and nostrils are fully coated with blown dust. I run 90 percent of the next 5.5 miles back down to Manzanita.

12:57 p.m.

I have crossed the 50 km mark, and I’m starting to think it will actually feel good to stop running downhill and start hiking uphill around mile 39. I stop at Manzanita, where another guy is resting on his way up to the North Rim, and we chat a little bit but the wind is gusting up to 40 mph so I can barely hear anything he says.

There used to be a basketball hoop here, right at this ranger residence a few thousand feet below the North Rim. A ranger told me once that they used to play full-on pickup games here, and every once in a while, the ball would bounce into the creek and float eight miles all the way down to Phantom Ranch, and basketball would be over until someone hiked the ball back up to Manzanita. They got rid of the hoop sometime in 2010 or 2011, regrettably.

2:12 p.m.

I am officially eating shit. After moving as fast as I could for 9.5 hours, I hit the proverbial wall in the Box, the tight inner gorge of Vishnu Schist that winds along Bright Angel Creek for the final five miles to Phantom Ranch. This morning, the Box was almost completely shaded, and now it’s not. I start giving myself any excuse to walk: too rocky, slightly uphill, too hot. When I see hikers, I jog, not wanting to give a bad name to my fellow dipshits who come down here in running shorts and funny-looking vests and try to cross Grand Canyon National Park twice in a day. At one point, I lean into a tiny bit of shade to try to check the GPS on my phone, a desperate move. I’m close to Phantom Ranch and all the Lemmy Lemonade I can drink, or at least all the Lemmy Lemonade I can buy with the $11 cash I have in my running vest.

2:46 p.m.

I open the door of the Phantom Ranch canteen and see Mitsu at a table, the remnants of an Arnold Palmer in front of him. He asks if I want a coffee or lemonade, and suddenly for about two seconds I feel like I might vomit. In a flash of bravery/stupidity, I say it would probably be best if we just keep moving. We get up and walk. Between Phantom Ranch and filling my water bottles at the horse corral next to the river, somehow 30 minutes go by.

As we walk across the silver bridge, I watch the blue-green water of the Colorado roll by 30 feet below my feet. I decide that the Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim is a hell of a great experience, but also far from the best way to see the Grand Canyon. I think about the backpacking trips I’ve done here and the month-long raft trip, and watching the colors change, and this seems like trying to squeeze a marriage into a first date. But even if it’s too fast, it’s still pretty amazing.

I definitely have two huge blisters now, and some new pain in my heel that I hope isn’t some sort of stress fracture. We keep hiking, and about a quarter-mile from Pipe Creek, a three-foot long snake falls off the rock wall to our left and Mitsu barely avoids stepping on it as we both nearly piss our pants in simultaneous shock, and then we realize it’s not a rattlesnake as it slithers off the trail. First time I’ve seen the old snake-falling-out-of-the-sky trick. Mitsu, too.

5:40 p.m.

We’re only a few hundred feet from the 3-Mile Resthouse and I am pretty sure Mitsu has started hiking faster in an attempt to get us out of the canyon faster. I am filled with equal parts contempt and gratitude for this strategy but say nothing, choosing to instead think of something positive, like the fact that the next Clif Shot I eat might be the last one of the day, or maybe even the month, or that maybe after we top out on the South Rim after another 2,100 vertical feet, I’ll pull my head out of my ass and give up ultrarunning for something more enjoyable, like breaking rocks with a sledgehammer.

7:06 p.m.

We arrive at the Bright Angel Trailhead. It’s cold and windy. We get into the car, turn on the heat, drink canned coffee drinks, and drive straight to the Cornish Pasty place in Flagstaff.

The post The Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim: A Trail Diary appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

You’ve just scaled Half Dome, hiked deep into Grand Canyon, or climbed Grand Teton. You deserve a beer. Here’s where to get a pint of local brew after visiting some of America’s finest national parks.

South Gate Brewing Company

Oakhurst, California

, which opened in the Sierra foothills town of Oakhurst in 2013, is less than two hours on scenic roads from Yosemite Valley. If you leave Yosemite National Park via the south entrance on Highway 41, you’ll pass right through here. After climbing big walls or hiking to waterfalls, stop in for a pint of South Gate IPA or a Deadwood porter, named after the peak you can see from your table. Pair it with a brick-oven pizza or a plate of blonde ale beer-battered fish and chips.

Rock Cut Brewing Company

Estes Park, Colorado

There are 12 beers on tap at , which opened in 2015 at the foot of Prospect Mountain in the high-altitude town of Estes Park, the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. After summiting the 14,258-foot Longs Peak, try the East Portal IPA or the Altruism amber, for which $1 per pint is donated to a local charitable organization. Water for the brewing process comes from glacier-fed rivers that flow through Rocky Mountain National Park. You can bring food in from elsewhere or order chicken wings from the food truck parked out front.

Atlantic Brewing Company

Bar Harbor, Maine

has two locations in the sleepy coastal town of Bar Harbor, ten minutes from Acadia National Park. After biking the park’s Carriage Roads or catching the views atop Cadillac Mountain, the park’s high point, you can take a tour of the brewing facility, buy a growler of New Guy IPA to go, or dig into a platter of barbecued ribs at Mainely Meat at the Town Hill headquarters. At the new Midtown tasting room, which opened this summer, you can sample experimental small-batch beers and order a burger with goat cheese and kimchi from the new Midtown Burger.

Grand Teton Brewing

Victor, Idaho

, in Victor, Idaho, on the other side of Teton Pass from the town of Jackson, Wyoming, is less than 30 miles from Grand Teton National Park and about two hours from Yellowstone. Try the crisp, golden Old Faithful Ale, or order a pint of Bitch Creek for a sturdy brown ale. The tasting room and pub are part of an 11,000-square-foot facility that makes and ships beers to more than a dozen states. They don’t serve food on site, but the food truck that’s usually parked outside has good beer brats and fried pickles.

Nantahala Brewing Company

Bryson City, North Carolina

Four outdoor-loving friends opened in 2010, located just outside Great Smoky Mountains National Park in the town of Bryson City, North Carolina. You can tour the facility or listen to live music while drinking a pint of Noon Day IPA, the brewery’s flagship ale, in the taproom. Water for the beer comes straight from the untouched watersheds in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. There’s no food on site, so order a takeout pizza from next door and bring it over.

Mother Road Brewing Company

Flagstaff, Arizona

It’s an 80-minute drive from the rim of Grand Canyon to , but you’re probably driving through Flagstaff on the way back from your Grand Canyon adventure anyway, so you might as well stop in for a Tower Station IPA. The taproom, which opened in 2011, has board games and a rotating cast of about nine beers on tap. Order a banh mi, delivered from nearby . (There’s also excellent pizza from Pizzicletta, two doors down.) This winter, Mother Road is opening another 8,000-square-foot production facility and tasting room a mile away.

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Call your family and tell them you'll see them next month. You know what can't wait until the holidays? A total getaway, booked far from the in-laws and last-minute cranberry sauce-run traffic. Ditch the post-turkey nap (well, not completely—see choice number one) and treat yourself to a whirlwind weekend instead.

Hanalei, Kauai

Ìę

A photo posted by St. Regis Princeville (@stregiskauai) on Jan 29, 2015 at 8:03pm PST

Book a flight to Kauai and you’ll spend your holiday surfing, drinking fresh papaya juice, and hiking the trails along the rugged Na Pali Coast. Rent a surfboard at and hit the break at Hanalei Bay. Refuel afterward with acai bowls at the Aloha Juice Bar. The Ìęin nearby Princeville serves a proper Thanksgiving feast with a turkey carving station, sushi, and lobster ravioli.Ìę

Joshua Tree, California

Ìę

on Aug 14, 2015 at 5:04pm PDT

Joshua Tree National Park is scorching hot midsummer, but come November, temperatures dip to a more palatable 70 degrees. Pitch a tent and cook a Thanksgiving dinner over the campfire at Hidden Valley Campground, which has walk-to access to some of the park’s classic climbs. Or stay in a vintage Airstream just outside the park entrance at . Get climbing gear and guidebooks at the local climbing shop Ìęthen tackle routes like Double Cross or Sail Away for single-pitch cragging. Ìę

Bend, Oregon

Ìę

A photo posted by laura lisowski (@lauralisowski) on May 23, 2015 at 8:45pm PDT

If early-season storms nail Bend, Mount Bachelor may have a few trails for skiing and snowboarding by Thanksgiving. If not, the trail running, mountain biking, and climbing are all still good that time of year. Stay at , a former Catholic schoolhouse turned hip lodge with outdoor soaking pools, a movie theater, and on-site restaurant. After playing outside, grab a pint at , which has 19 taps and truffle mac and cheese on the menu.

San Pancho, Mexico

Ìę

A photo posted by Hotel Cielo Rojo (@hotelcielorojo) on Jul 3, 2015 at 4:45pm PDT

San Pancho is located just outside of the surfing hotspot of Sayulita. You’ll still have easy access to quality surf breaks, jungle treks, and sea kayaking but without the crowds. Plus, in November, cool ocean breezes replace summer humidity. Many of the restaurants in town serve Thanksgiving dinners (check out Maria’s Restaurant, La Ola Rica or Cielo Rojo Organic Bistro). Want to cook? The Mega, the main grocery store, sells turkeys this time of year. Stay at for your own palapa in the trees.Ìę

Tofino, British Columbia

Ìę

A photo posted by Long Beach Lodge Resort (@longbeachlodgeresort) on Nov 6, 2015 at 7:24am PST

Surfers love Tofino for its serene beauty and laid-back, northwestern feel, and November is as chill as it gets in Tofino. Rent a thick wetsuit and a board at Ìęand have the break at Cox Bay to yourself. Or get a water taxi to Meares Island and take a hike with views of the surrounding islands. Stay at the , which has an on-site surf school and aprĂšs-surf ceviche in their Great Room. Want to go shrimping? Hire , the best fishing guide in town, who offers discounted rates in the winter months.Ìę

Santa Barbara, California

Ìę

A photo posted by The Goodland – A Kimpton Hotel (@thegoodlandsb) on Nov 5, 2015 at 9:42am PST

Burn off that turkey dinner by signing up for the Ìę(they also have a trail marathon and half marathon) in Santa Barbara’s Santa Ynez Mountains, taking place the Sunday after Thanksgiving. You can camp at the start of the race at the or get a courtyard room downtown at , which has morning yoga classes and poolside sangria and DJs. Hit up the Santa Barbara farmers’ market for all your mashed potato and pumpkin pie needs.Ìę

New Orleans, Louisiana

Ìę

A photo posted by Dr W's Honey Island Swamp Tour (@drwagnerhoneyislandswamptours) on May 9, 2014 at 10:14am PDT

Spend Thanksgiving at opening day of the thoroughbred racing season at the track in New Orleans—it’s a citywide tradition (and don’t forget to wear a big hat). Sign up for a Ìęfor alligator sightings through swampy cypress trees or Ìęthrough Bayou St. John. The turducken originated in Louisiana—get yours for Thanksgiving dinner at the . Don’t miss fried oyster poor boys at .Ìę

Flagstaff, Arizona

Ìę

A photo posted by tara7326 (@tara7326) on Feb 22, 2015 at 7:05pm PST

By Thanksgiving, the Arizona Snowbowl will be open for early season riding and they’ll be making snow on about 60 percent of the mountain, plus Flagstaff still has hiking, trail running, and climbing in late November. Sleep in a yurt at the Ìęor get a room at the historic Ìęand don’t miss the holiday lights display at the Little America Hotel. Josephine’s Modern American Bistro serves Thanksgiving brunch or stock up on an Arizona-raised turkey for your own Thanksgiving meal at .

Frisco, Colorado

Ìę

A photo posted by Arapahoe Basin (@arapahoe_basin) on Nov 11, 2015 at 8:52am PST

Loveland and Arapahoe Basin are already open for skiing and riding, so you can bet on good snow conditions for Thanksgiving in Frisco, Colorado. Over Thanksgiving, the area has a Turkey Day 5K race, plus a rail jam and a Santa on a snowcat at Copper Mountain. Have dinner at the new Ìęfor locally sourced meats on a wood-fired grill. If you need to catch up on work for a day, head to , a new co-working space downtown.

Boca Raton, Florida

Ìę

A photo posted by Dan Ellithorpe (@baseballsizedhail) on Aug 6, 2015 at 8:27am PDT

You’ll come to Boca Raton, Florida, in November for the beach—surfing, stand-up paddleboarding, reading a book on a beach towel—and the pleasantly sunny weather this time of year, but there are plenty of other things to do. Like free yoga on Saturdays at Sanborn Square, a 5K Turkey Trot, trail running at Quiet Waters Park, or wildlife spotting at the Wakodahatchee Wetlands. The Ìęhas 6 a.m. group runs on Saturdays that end at the water.Ìę

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