Around 3:00 A.M. on a Sunday morning in eastern Iowa, I am behind the steering wheel of a van pulled over to the side of a county highway, eating from a bag of Fritos Honey BBQ Flavor Twists and drinking a can of Starbucks DoubleShot. A man I just met a couple days ago is running toward the van alone on the shoulder of the road, illuminated by a headlamp and a lighted vest. In a few seconds, he will reach us, and another man I just met will hop out, bump fists with him, and run down the road, and I will move the van one mile ahead in the same direction and pull over. Then I will stop eating Fritos Flavor Twists, turn on my headlamp, and wait on the shoulder of the road for my fist bump.

When it’s my turn, I run away down the shoulder, shoes slapping the asphalt next to the painted white line. I will see one other car come down the road for the entire eight and a half minutes I’m running.

Josh told me yesterday morning that one of the fun things about running by yourself out in the country during Relay Iowa is that you can turn your headlamp off, and there’s usually enough light from the stars and moon that you can see where you’re running. I said, “Yeah, I used to flip off the headlights in my piece-of-shit S10 pickup while I was driving Iowa county roads at night when I was younger, which was 
 20-plus years ago now?”

Josh is running in Luna sandals, with toe socks underneath. But one night during an earlier Relay Iowa year, he was wearing sandals with no socks, and running alongside a friend. They clicked off their headlamps to run in the dark.

“I definitely grazed a dead raccoon with my bare toes,” Josh said.

Another question: You left the Mountain West just when the weather was just starting to get really nice at the beginning of June, to travel to Iowa to run a relay across the state on county highways?

There was absolutely no reason to run fast. Relay Iowa is not a race. Nobody “wins.” This year, 21 teams started the relay in Sioux City, Iowa, on a hill overlooking the Missouri River, Iowa’s western border, on Friday morning. We’d all finish sometime on Sunday. Nobody on our team was concerned with running particularly fast, because surviving to complete all (or at least the majority of) your allotted miles was more important—i.e., if you took off fast and pulled a muscle or wrenched an ankle on your first (or second or third or fourth) mile of your roughly 35 assigned miles for the weekend, the rest of the team would have to pick up your miles. If one team member gets injured, not a big deal, but if two or three or four people get injured, then it starts to be a big lift for everyone else. Again, no reason to run fast.

I ran fast. My mile was pretty flat, it was on asphalt, I was wearing cushy road running shoes, maybe I was just a little excited to run very short distances (something I never do). But I ran a fast-for-me 7:45 down the Moville Blacktop, turned left onto County Road D38 toward the Woodbury County Waste Transfer Station, a semi passed me, the 96 percent humidity hung on me like an old sweatsuit, and very quickly, I saw our van, hazard lights flashing, and Greg, standing across the road from it, waiting for me to give him the baton. I jumped in the drivers’ seat of the van and started driving.

As it turns out, Josh is very talented at creating community around running, or getting people on board with his ideas that involve running. This is not his day job, but rather a hobby/side gig he is very passionate about, in a very laid-back way. Some of the things he has brought to life, as a race director and/or Friend Who Has A Fun Idea:

• The Mines of Spain 100, a 100K and 100-mile race in Dubuque’s Mines of Spain Recreation Area, which has only 21 total miles of maintained trails
• The , a 50K and 100K race around the streets of Davenport, Iowa, in which convenience stores serve as checkpoints/aid stations
• The Schuetzen NEIN! Hour Endurance Run, a nine-hour race that takes place entirely on a 0.85-mile loop with 125-150 feet of elevation gain per loop, and is a nine-hour race instead of the more common 12-hour race because the park was founded by German immigrants and “it’s fun to yell ‘nein!’”
• The Quad Cities Trail and Ultra Runners group, aka the QC-TUR(d)s, which, among other things, celebrates “TUR(d)smas,” a challenge in which participants compete to attain 25,000 feet of elevation gain in the shortest horizontal distance, during the first 25 days of December—in the Quad Cities, a region at the intersection of Iowa and Illinois, an area that is not exactly flat, but also not mountainous

QC-TUR(d)s was also our Relay Iowa team name, which means it was printed on the back of not just our t-shirts, but the t-shirts of everyone who participated in Relay Iowa:

We didn’t interact that much with other teams, besides a few honks, waves, and brief words of encouragement to other runners, so I would go the entire weekend without anyone asking, “Hey, are you a TUR(d)?” something that would have worked really well when writing a story about something like this. I mean, in a sense, aren’t we all? Sometimes.

Our team’s average age is 39.5. Josh is 37 years old, Parker is 17, Steve (Parker’s dad) is 37, Drew is 32, Brian P. is 44, Brian B. is 48, Andy is 40, Mitch is 38, Greg is 58, and I’m 44. Collectively, the TUR(d)s have dozens of ultramarathon finishes, including 100-milers. Which is not saying we are qualified to do something like Relay Iowa, but it doesn’t hurt.

So then I thought, “Oh, OK, looks like I run 3.9 miles, then rest, then run 7.1 miles, then rest 
” Which was also not the case.

Josh has doneÌę Relay Iowa every year for more than a decade, and has developed a system that is kind of complex, but also genius. For the bulk of the weekend, the team splits into two groups: One van of six runners who are running, and the other van with four runners resting (or taking showers, eating gas station pizza, etc.).

Van No. 1, the one with six people in it, is further split into two groups of three people. Three runners who rotate through the front seat of the van, alternating driving and running, and three runners who are sitting in the back eating snacks, cracking jokes, napping, and/or reading Internets on their phones.

What I think is the smartest thing about this system: When you’re tired, like I’ve-had-three-hours-of-sleep-in-the-past-40-hours tired, you still have to drive. BUT: You’ve just run a mile before you jump behind the wheel, so your heart rate is still quite high, and you don’t have to chug Monster energy drinks or whatever to stay awake behind the wheel. Also, you’re only driving one mile at a time. Slowly. On pretty empty roads.

We passed the baton between runners for a while, which was kind of fun, since I haven’t run with a baton since my last high school track season, but also kind of gross when you’re handing it between ten people who are essentially living out of vans for two and a half days and who have limited handwashing opportunities.

When the baton got to Steve, he said something like, “I’m not running with a fucking baton,” and that was that for a while. We bumped fists or high-fived when switching runners, and that worked just as well (and might be more sanitary). The baton popped back in for a few hours, some runners using it for a while, and then somebody left it in the van, and it just kind of rolled around the back seats for the rest of the trip.

There’s no requirement for teams to carry a baton—Josh just thought it would be fun. The relay organizers have given each team a tracking device to carry, but we’re not required to carry it in our hands when we’re actually running. It’s more for them to keep track of where we are, and for the tracking website, in case any of our friends and family are keeping tabs on us from home. We keep ours in the van, so it’s always one mile or less from our actual runner.

There are relay rules, of course, but it’s not a race, so you can’t really “cheat.” If your team is struggling and falling behind significantly, the relay allows something called “double running,” in which, say, Steve and I would run five miles together, totaling 10 miles, and then we could both hop in the van and ride ahead five miles, in order to gain some time. We don’t end up needing to do this at all, and just keep running, one person at a time, mostly one mile at a time.

My fifth mile of running, Mile 36 of the Relay, ended just as the course switched to gravel roads for a few miles. My sixth mile was also on gravel, and Josh says I was lucky it was overcast, as the gravel is usually way hotter than the asphalt when it’s sunny outside.

My Mile 7 (Mile 41) started on a Level B dirt road, which in Iowa means it’s not maintained, and is probably too rough for a rented Dodge Caravan. So I got to run two miles, to the next spot the van could meet me. The road is essentially a two-track dirt road between farm fields, a straight shot west to east, but it’s bermed in spots and trees crop up on each side from time to time, a little respite of wild in a landscape almost completely tamed by agriculture in all directions to the horizons. Two miles felt surprisingly long (I haven’t run this far at one shot since Tuesday!), and I hopped back in the van, sweaty, for a five-hour break while another crew of our guys took on the next chunk of 30 miles.

We stopped for a spaghetti dinner at the elementary school in Ida Grove (pop. 2,051, aka “Castletown USA” due to the many built by farm and marine equipment magnate Byron Godbersen in the 1970s and 80s. For ten minutes, we sat at cafeteria tables in the school hallway to efficiently take down some pasta prepared by lovely volunteers, before heading back out onto the road. We continued progressing at approximately 6.5 mph across the state of Iowa in the late-afternoon sun, one guy running, handing off to another guy, some other guys watching from the van, which moved down the road every seven or eight minutes as necessary. It went on like this for some time.

Is it boring? Yeah, I mean, sitting in a van, looking at corn and soybean fields, nowhere to go, it is a little boring. But so is mountaineering, slogging up a steep snow slope in crampons. I guess the view is better, according to most people. But no gas station pizza on the side of Mt. Rainier, unless you bring your own, in which case it wouldn’t be as fresh.

Mitch and Greg and I rotated through miles 76 to 96, the sun setting in the middle of our leg. We put on reflective vests and headlamps so cars could see us on the left-hand side of the road, but when I ran and heard a car approaching, I jumped onto the gravel shoulder just in case. The front passenger seat of the van had become saturated with a cocktail of six different people’s sweat, which is just the way it is here when temps are in the 70s and 80s and humidity is, well, I guess it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.

I got the last one-mile leg into Lake City, ending literally in the parking lot of a Casey’s convenience store, the Iowa-born chain that is a) the fifth-largest pizza retailer in the United States and b) closed, as of four minutes before I shuffled into the parking lot, in case I wanted to eat a pizza at the end of my running shift. Which I did, but it was not an option.

We met our other van and the rest of the guys at the Lake City town square, where they had sprawled out in the grass for the past few hours trying to sleep amongst a few dozen other Relay team members, as Friday night traffic—just one guy on his loud motorcycle doing laps—continued on as usual.

We shuffled people and gear in and out of vans, and even though it was almost summer in Iowa, I realized I should have asked a couple more questions before packing for this trip, namely: “should I bring a sleeping bag?”

I put on every article of clothing I had with me, which included many thin, breathable running layers, but no pants. I shoved my legs into my empty backpack, and tried to get comfortable under the glow of streetlights, the occasional vroom of Motorcycle Guy or someone else, and the headlights of other Relay support vehicles pulling in and out of parking spots at the perimeter of the park. I think I caught maybe two 30-minute naps. And then my alarm went off at 2:30 A.M. and we were due to meet the rest of the team down the road about 30 miles, at about mile 131.

I volunteered to drive, and from behind the wheel, moving along at 55 mph in the dark, the spectacle of the whole thing crystallized for me: the long blinks of the red lights on the army of wind turbines spreading across the horizon, slowly getting closer as we rolled through the blackness; the reflective vest and red light of a runner shuffling along the left side of the highway, then a minute or two later the flashing hazard lights of a vehicle pulled over on the shoulder waiting for the runner, then another runner, another vehicle, a group of vehicles, another runner, another runner—all these weird people forming a loose caravan along a county highway that would otherwise be almost empty at this hour of a weekend morning.

I started my next shift at 3:50 A.M., a slightly downhill mile in the dark, then handed off to Josh, who handed off to Andy, who handed back to me, repeat, repeat, repeat, and the sun started coming up slowly, and I finished my shift at 5:27 A.M. A few hours later, we pulled into the town of Jewell, where a church had a pancake breakfast, which I partook in, and the high school had showers, which I did not partake in, and we rolled on. I had a seven-hour break between running, and I tried to sleep a little bit at a park in Eldora, but had no luck.

As we passed the halfway mark of the 339-mile relay course, I started to feel that in ultramarathon terms, the experience was half that of a runner and half crew member. As a member of our team, I ran about one-tenth of the miles, which means I spent about five and a half hours running, and about 47 hours waiting, driving, eating pancakes, pooping in the roadside ditch when it was our only option, retrieving complimentary single-serving ice creams for the entire team at Hansen Dairy in Hudson, and telling the story of how my friend Tony’s dad, Randy, punched our other friend, Nick, in the face, knocking him and his beer out of a lawn chair, when they were full-grown men riding RAGBRAI together for the second or third time, an event I did not see firsthand, but heard about later, and only thought of as a few of us on the Relay Team were splitting a Casey’s pizza in the parking lot of Independence High School, which was where Nick played basketball in high school and was quite good if I remember correctly. (Nick was just fine after the punch, if a little surprised, and I bet with a couple decades of retrospect, would probably say he might have had that one coming after all)

I drank a can of warm iced coffee during my break, watched the sun come up from the back seats of the van, and then ran a couple miles leaving the town of Dyersville. If you’ve heard of any place in Iowa, you may have heard of the Field of Dreams, an actual baseball field constructed near Dyersville for the making of the 1989 Kevin Costner movie Field of Dreams (and as of a few years ago, home to an additional, functioning baseball stadium next door, where my dad likes to tell people, the New York Yankees in 2021 became the only team to lose a Major League Baseball game in Iowa, to the Chicago White Sox, in the MLB at Field of Dreams game).

The Field of Dreams is, of course, on the relay route (mile 304), and Josh, Andy, and I ran the bases. I was disappointed to learn that the route around the bases at the Field of Dreams, of course only being 360 feet, is much too short to be a Strava segment. .

I wasn’t looking for a transformative experience, or some allegorical story about coming back to where I grew up and having an epiphany. I just thought it sounded fun, and it was fun. I got to do it with nine guys who were friendly, funny, interesting, came to run 339 miles together without complaining or much sleep, really, and they let me tag along.

I ran 34 segments total, each one of them a separate experience, but knowing how memory fades, I won’t remember all of them, or even most of them. But I think I’ll remember the feeling of running down a county highway in the middle of the night, headlamp illuminating the ten feet in front of me, my shoes slapping the wet asphalt next to the white paint, only hearing my own breathing for eight minutes, until I catch up to the van, fist-bump Mitch, hop into the driver’s seat and put the van in gear, as I wonder where Brian P. found these club mashups that are blasting over the speakers as Drew, Brian B., and Parker sleep in the back seats. I mean, what a fucking weird way to spend a weekend.

The post Running 339 Miles Through Rural Iowa Is More Fun than You’d Expect appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

To mark the unofficial start of summer over Memorial Day weekend, my partner and I went hiking at Geode State Park near our home in rural southeast Iowa. As we walked around the lake, we came across two towheaded boys no older than ten. “My brother keeps losing his lure,” the older one told us, shaking his head, as the younger boy waded knee-deep into the water. On the grass behind them lay an open fishing tackle box, as well as two iPhones—those necessary evils for today’s unsupervised children—that appeared to have been mindlessly tossed aside. For anyone worried about kids wasting their lives in front of screens, this would be a heartening sight. But as we made our way around the lake, we noticed patches of toxic blue-green algae blooming on the water’s surface.

As the nation’s top pork producer, outnumber its three million people by more than seven-to-one. Every year, millions of pounds of raw hog waste are applied to the state’s corn and soybean fields. Nutrients from fertilizer wash into lakes and streams, poisoning water that flows into the Missouri and Mississippi river basins, which provide drinking water to a combined 28 million Americans. The state’s tributaries to the Mississippi have played an outsized role in creating Ìęan oxygen-depleted area of the ocean.

Iowa’s answer to this colossal problem is its nutrient reduction strategy, a $5 billion effort which, since 2013, has encouraged farmers to voluntarily adopt more sustainable practices. According to environmental scientist Chris Jones, it hasn’t worked. For eight years, Jones sounded the alarm on Iowa’s worsening water quality as a research engineer at the University of Iowa. In blog posts published on the school’s website, he wrote provocatively about the agricultural lobby’s castigating industry and political leaders for .

His outspokenness has made him a thorn in the side of agribusiness and its beneficiaries. , he calculated that manure from Iowa’s livestock and poultry generates the human waste equivalent of a whopping 168 million people. The Iowa Farm Bureau fired back criticizing Jones’ “poop blog.” In 2021, when Jones pointed out the plain fact that poor people and people of color are more likely to have their drinking water , a state representative accused him of

Jones decided to retire this spring, after he says state senators Tom Shipley and Dan Zumbach approached a university lobbyist with printouts of his blog posts, insinuating that school funding would be cut if the blog was allowed to continue. Shipley told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű the allegation was “absolutely false.” Zumbach could not be reached for comment, but he in May that Jones’ claim is “reckless and potentially defamatory.”

Also last month, the Iowa House passed a bill that would eliminate funding for the state’s network of , a project once managed by Jones that provides Iowans with real-time data on dozens of lakes and streams. Ìę

To say the least, the future of Iowa’s waterways looks bleak. But as Jones writes in his new book, , remaining hopeful is a moral imperative. The book includesÌęa collection of essays from Jones’ blog, as well as some new material. I spoke with Jones about the forces driving Iowa’s water crisis, and what everyday people can do to improve water quality in their own communities.

OUTSIDE: There’s a common expression that manure is “the smell of money.” In some circles, it feels like the only socially acceptable way you can acknowledge the stench. The idea is if you complain, you’re disrespecting farmers. How does this attitude keep us from having tough conversations about the agricultural industry?

That saying goes way back. But manure doesn’t quite smell the way it used to, since we have such a large number of hogs concentrated in small areas. We used to have 60,000 farmers in Iowa raising hogs, and now we’re down to maybe 5,000 or so. I don’t think people give that saying as much consideration as they used to.

We treat farmers like royalty here—at least, some of us do. When politicians film TV commercials in Iowa, they want to go out and stand on a farm. And so, we’re willing to cut farmers some slack on the environmental consequences of their work. That is certainly an obstacle to solving our pollution problem. Now, I’m not saying farmers are bad. They’re human beings. Like the rest of us, they make decisions in their own self-interest. If we want to improve the conditions here, we need to change the framework in which they make their decisions.

Earlier this year, the state released revealing that Iowa has the second-highest cancer rate in the country (behind Kentucky), and is the only state with a rising rate of cancer. Nitrate in drinking water can increase the risks of colon, kidney, and stomach cancers, but the word “nitrate” is nowhere to be found in the report. What’s your assessment of how the state has addressed water quality as a public health issue?

When the Safe Drinking Water Act was passed in 1974, the maximum contaminant level for nitrate was set at ten milligrams per liter, or ten parts per million. That was intended to protect infants, who developed blue baby syndrome after drinking formula prepared with nitrate-laden well water. Now, we know that drinking water with high levels of nitrate , even at levels below the U.S. legal standard. It’s not too difficult to believe that nitrate in our drinking water is driving higher cancer rates. Many people across Iowa never drink water with nitrate levels below five parts per million, and that’s considerably above the levels associated with increased cancer risk in the recent literature. Our state agencies aren’t talking about the dangers of consuming nitrate at lower levels.

One of your essays is titled, “Middle of Nowhere Is Downstream from Somewhere.” The essay is about hog waste in the Iowa River. But it reminded me of how water pollution in this state doesn’t only affect Iowans. Can you explain how our agricultural practices impact people and wildlife beyond Iowa?

We’re polluting water at a continental scale. Iowa occupies 4.5 percent of land area in the Mississippi Basin, but contributes to 29 percent of the nitrate and 15 percent of the phosphorus polluting the Gulf of Mexico. What we do here is impacting water quality 1,500 miles away.

The dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico is created by algae blooms, which thrive on high-nutrient water. When the algae dies, it sucks oxygen out of the water and kills off fish, shrimp, and other desirable species. The algae also produces toxins that are harmful to your liver and neural system. Those toxins can be very difficult to remove during the water treatment process, so people end up drinking them.

One-fifth of Iowa’s land area is used to grow corn for fuel ethanol, and more than half of our corn is used for this purpose. How is ethanol production connected to Iowa’s poor water quality?Ìę

Corn is one of the most environmentally intensive crops you can grow. It requires a large amount of chemicals and fertilizer, as well as diesel fuel to plant and harvest it. Many farmers also believe corn requires aggressive tillage, so we have soil erosion associated with that which leads to water pollution. The conventional wisdom is that ethanol fuel produces less carbon emissions than regular petroleum. But recent research shows that’s not true. found that greenhouse gas emissions increased 24 percent with ethanol versus gasoline.

There are crops we could grow on those acres that would produce better environmental outcomes. Iowa used to be the biggest apple producer in the country. We also used to be the nation’s leading oats producer. Now, we hardly grow anything except corn and soybeans.

All of the infrastructure we have here is aligned with those crops. And that includes the transportation system, the crop insurance industry, the fertilizer manufacturers, and all the agricultural retailers across Iowa—there are 1,100 of them. If we’re going to do something different, we need market development and policies that would enable that transition.

Last summer, had advisories against swimming due to high levels of bacteria or toxins. As climate change causes temperatures to soar, access to water recreation is increasingly important. What are your thoughts on that?

This is a quality of life issue. Iowa has three million people, and we’ve had around three million people for decades. If we want people to move here, and if we want to retain young people, we need clean water and places where you can enjoy the outdoors. You’re not going to select Iowa on that basis if you have other choices on where to live.

Iowa’s percentage of public land (2.8 percent) ranks 48th in the country, only beating Kansas, another agricultural state, and Rhode Island. Only seven percent of that land is within state park boundaries. How does this lack of green space connect to our water quality issues? Ìę

Only about one percent of the state’s land area is really usable from a recreational standpoint. Natural areas tend to buffer what’s happening on working lands by reducing flooding and storing carbon. Minnesota is a farming state, but there’s also a lot of parks, which mitigates the environmental consequences of agriculture. Here, we don’t have that. Everything that can be farmed in Iowa is farmed.

When you’ve talked with other Iowans about our lack of outdoor recreation space, is that something that people are aware of? I feel like if you grew up here, you don’t really know anything else.

I think that’s right. Iowans have vacationed to Minnesota and Wisconsin for generations. We could have those types of experiences here—fishing, paddling, canoeing. We could have some really remarkable rivers if we wanted to. But I think people are accustomed to the current condition. There’s fatigue on this. They see that it isn’t changing, and so they’ll just spend the extra money to drive 500 miles to do what they want to do. Do we really want to be known as a state where you can’t do much in the outdoors?

You write about a number of policy changes that you believe would improve Iowa’s water quality—banning the application of manure to frozen ground, limiting livestock’s access to streams, and diversifying farm operations, to name a few. But there’s very little political will at the state level to take action. What can ordinary Iowans do to enact change?

Just because the legislature doesn’t want to do these things, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about them. The fact that we have a state where agriculture dominates 85 percent of our land area and it basically goes unregulated—that’s got to be a discussion topic. To eventually make these taboo solutions acceptable, you need to talk about these things. It’s not that regulation won’t work. They’re afraid that if we had regulations, they would work, and people would want more.

If people want change, it’s got to happen at the grassroots level. You have to engage your local officials. That’s how I see change happening. I don’t see it happening from above.

Go out and look at a lake or stream by your house. Does it look the way you think it should look? And does it smell the way you think it should smell? Water in nature shouldn’t smell. I’m standing in front of a river right now, and it smells. I always tell people, ‘You don’t need to believe me. Just go out and look for yourself.’

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

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Prologue

When I heard the snap of branches coming from the darkness surrounding our camp, my hand tightened around the hilt of my sword. My eyes scanned for the source of the noiseÌębut saw nothing.

Could it have been a bear? Or even a troll looking for a meal? I prayed it wasÌęnot a band of cutthroat goblins seeking to plunder our hard-earned treasures.

That’s when I spotted it: a wolflike creature stalking towardÌęme in darkness. I turned to Tanner the ranger, my traveling companion, to warn him. But I discovered to my horror that a large dark shadow had appeared right next to him. Before I could draw my sword, the wolf creature was already upon me. It was too late.

Chapter 1: The BeginningÌę

I love Dungeons & Dragons—probably too much.

When the pandemic started, I, along with millions of others, turned to D&D for fun and socializing. After all, the real world really sucks right now. Some people escape by learning a new language or reading. We escape by pretending to be elves. Don’t judge.

Over the past year,Ìęmany of the physical activities I used to do, like going to the gym, fell by the wayside. It’s had an acute impact on my physical and mental well-being—and . Even as we emerge from the worst of the pandemic,Ìęsocial isolation hasÌęcreated a lasting crisis of anxiety, stress, and depression for many across the world.

These thoughts culminated one day while I was huffing home with a backpack filled with groceries, when IÌęwondered, How the hell does my D&D character carry their things while slaying orcs and exploring dungeons?

With more time on my hands than I knew what to do with, I figured now was the perfect opportunityÌęto answer that question.

My quest was simple: I’d go hiking and camping for two days carrying all the equipment my character carries. It would give me the chance to marry my love for D&D with my old love of doingÌęanything physical—anÌęimprovement over my current exercise ofÌęonlyÌęgetting up from my couch to grabÌęanother beer from the fridge.

Of course, every adventure needs an adventuring party,ÌęsoÌęI recruited my college buddy Tanner. He’s an outdoorsman of the highest caliber, having hiked everywhere from the treacherous trails of eastern Iowa to the exotic locales of central Iowa.

I sent him a missive, imploring him to brave this perilous journey with me.Ìę“Wanna go camping with me in a month?” I texted. Not long after, he responded,Ìę“Yeah, sure.”

NowÌęI was ready to answer a question that philosophers, artists, poets, and scholars have ruminated on since time immemorial: What happens when a somewhat-out-of-shape writer tries to surviveÌęin the wilderness using only the gearÌęavailable to his D&D character?

I was about to find out—or die trying.

Chapter 2: The Preparation

My character is Zaddy D. Vito,ÌęhalflingÌębard and adventurer extraordinaire.

He and I are a little different. For one, I am a six-foot-one-inch human man, not a portly hobbit the size of . But Zaddy has panache and always makes things work with his cleverness—so I would, too.

In hisÌęExplorer’s Pack, according toÌęthe D&D player’s manual,ÌęZaddy carriesÌęthe following:

• A backpack
• A bedroll
• A mess kit
• A tinderbox
• Ten torches
• Ten days’ worth of rations
• A waterskin
• 50 feet of hempen rope

I already had some of these things: aÌębackpack, a bedroll, and a wineskin I gotÌęas a souvenir from a trip to Spain. Through the magic of fate (read: Facebook Marketplace), I acquired a Boy Scouts mess kit, a survival tinderbox, and 50 feet of cotton rope. I also created tenÌętorches by combining free paint stirrers from Home Depot with a few ripped-up T-shirts.

That left rations, which the player’s manual says “consist of dry foods suitable for extended travel, including jerky, dried fruit, hardtack, and nuts.” After a bafflingly expensive trip to the grocery store, I hadÌęeverything but the hardtack (a simple dry bread that sailors used to carry on long voyages), which I ended up baking on my own. True to its name, the batch I made was virtually inedible and could have doubledÌęas sidewalk chalk. I plan on sending future samples to NASA in case they want to use it to line space shuttles.

Zaddy also carries a rapier and a lute. My substitutes:Ìęa fake sword from Craigslist and my girlfriend’s ukulele. All told, the equipment weighed just 25 pounds—a far cry from the 59 pounds that the player’s manual estimates he totes. I wasn’t about to complain,Ìęthough. With my setupÌęmustered, it was time to set off on my quest.

Chapter 3: The Quest

Tanner and I decided to camp at Lake Macbride State Park, north of Iowa City, Iowa,Ìęfor our adventure. The player’s manual doesn’t mention a tent, so we needed to build shelter for the night. Luckily, Tanner took a survivalist camping class once. With his guidance, we created a somewhat structurally sound shelter out of branches and leaves.

As we worked, a ferocious-looking dog barked at us from a nearby campsite. Its owner eyed us suspiciously. I made aÌęmental note to keep my sword close.

Once finished, I donned my equipment and we set out. In D&D, players accept quests given by NPCs (non-playable characters). I figured we could do the same by soliciting quests from strangers in the park.

To our surprise, folksÌędidn’t immediately call the cops on us when we approached. In fact, we ended up completing quests and getting rewards like real D&D characters. Our quest-givers included:

• A group of students from the University of Iowa. Their quest: for us to drink a shooter of Fireball. Their reward: two hard seltzers.
• A lovely older couple traveling around the Midwest. Their quest: for me to play them a song on the ukulele. Their reward: aÌęhandful of Dove dark chocolates.
• A young couple with excitable dogs. Their quest: forÌęme to play them a song on my ukulele (I was afraid everyone else would want this, too, but luckily they didn’t). Their reward: a can of light beer.

For our last quest, we came upon a large family, whose dad told us, “Find a morel mushroom. We’re making pizzas, so we can use it as a topping. We’ll make you one, too… if you find it.”

Tanner smiled. He was a mushroom-hunting veteran and knew exactly how to locate them. We took off into the woods, confident that we’d come acrossÌęa morel soon enough. Alas, after an hour, we were tired, hungry, and mushroom-less. Defeated, we headed back to the family to report our failure.

Yet won over by the sheer silliness of what we were doing, they decided to make us a pizza anyway. So we drank our beers and ate pizza while reflecting on a hard day of adventuring.

Darkness had fallen by the time we made it back to our campsite. I fumbled through my backpack, looking for the tinderbox to light a fire. That’s when I heard the snapping of branches.

I looked up and noticed a dark shape walking toward me. In my mind, I saw a wolf ready to pounce. In a panic, I grabbed the hilt of my sword, ready to cut down my foe. But before I could do anything, it was already at my feet
 sniffing. It was theÌędog from the camp nearby.

Relieved, I looked at Tanner to tell him about it—and saw the silhouette of a man next to him. I could imagineÌęthe headlines already: “Man with Sword and Inedible Bread Found Murdered.”

“You boys have any cigarettes?” he asked. Tanner shook his head. I fished out a pack from my pocket and gave him one. The man lit it and stood there for a moment before walking away.

“That was weird,” Tanner said. We laughed. Soon after,ÌęI found my tinderbox. Tanner made a small pile of leaves and twigs in the camp’s fire pit—but I realized we had forgotten to grab firewood.

As I was about to search forÌęsome, three logs fell on the ground next to me with a thud, as if gifted from the gods. I glancedÌęup and saw it was none other than the stranger who had bummed cigarettes from us.

“Thought you boys could use some,” he said before quickly disappearing into the darkness. Tanner and I exchanged looks.

Quest and reward—just like D&D.

Chapter 4: The End

We decided to go hiking the next day, though we were both exhausted (surprisingly, our shelter was not the most comfortable place to sleep).

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as we trekkedÌędown the trail. To their credit, I don’t think any of them expected to see a man with a ukulele and a sword hiking alongside them that Sunday.

The hike was a lot tougher than I anticipated. Though my pack was lighter than the one Zaddy uses, it felt like a hundredÌępounds by the end. Eventually, we stopped near a lake, and I fell asleep as soon as I lay down.

After I awoke, we headed back to the campsite. Each step was harder than the last, and I took many opportunities to rest and “admire the scenery.” If Tanner knew I was tired, he didn’t let on. He’s that kind of guy.

We made it back to the campsite in time for lunch, and attempted to eat a few bites of hardtack but gave up before we chipped a tooth.

By this point, I had a fairly good idea of what Zaddy endures, and I told Tanner that our quest was a success. He nodded and agreed. As is bro custom, before going our separate ways,Ìęwe made our requisite vague promises to hang out again.

As I cleaned up the campground, I reflected on what I’d learned. For one, I’ll be sure to opt in for my workplace’s dental plan if I plan beforeÌęeating hardtack again. Also, hiking isn’t as fun when you’re carrying 25 pounds of equipment, a sword, and a ukulele.

But I also learned that even in the height of a pandemic, plenty of peopleÌęwere still willing to lend a hand and share some pizza with complete strangers—even two men armed with swords.

The biggest lesson for me, though, is that your adventures are only as good as your adventuring party. Fortunately, I had a great partner: Tanner the ranger, builder of shelters, veteran morel hunter, and good friend.

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In my memoriesÌęof theÌęhouse,Ìęthe retaining wall is always around three feet high. But after three decadesÌęand a little Googling, I now realize there’s no way it was taller than 21 inches. Still, when I was seven and a half years old, it was a big deal.

I had a black and gold Huffy Thunder 50 dirt bikeÌęthat, in retrospect, I realizeÌęwas a vehicle for many life lessons, not the least of which was learning how to get up a hill, courtesy of my mom, who would not let me stop pedaling and walk my bike up it on the way back to our house after Little League practice; instead,Ìęwe’d just ride circles around a flat spot until my legs stopped screaming, and then we’d finish pedaling up the last two blocks to the house. That was a noble lesson in persistence, which continued to pay dividendsÌęin many areas of my life in theÌędecades afterward.

The other lesson learned onÌęmy Thunder 50Ìęwas about physics. Mostly gravity. ThatÌęretaining wall along the driveway of our house—three railroad ties stacked on top of each other—kept the neighbors’ front yard from rolling into our driveway, which was just wide enough for two cars. If you were playing basketball, the wallÌęwas almost enough for a high school regulation three-point line: 19 feetÌę9 inches from the hoop, or just past the edge of the driveway and in the dirt of the front yard, under the branches of the big sugar maple tree. You could get off a shot without hitting the branchesÌęif you stood right in front of where the three-point line would be.Ìę

I had seen my brother Chad, who is a year and a half older than me and naturally more relaxed and athletic in everyÌęsportÌęwe tried as kids,Ìęride his BMX bike off the retaining wall with no hesitation or real effort, landing on both wheels in the driveway and then steering out to the right onto Cherry Street. I’m sure I assumed I would try it someday myself—it was just a matter of working up the nerve. I have since wondered why I chose the night before my first day of third grade, and I haveÌęno explanationÌęother than kids who are seven are kind of dumb shits. (We continue to be dumb shits in many ways throughout lifeÌębut hopefully recognize this fact early on and spend significant effort trying to become less of a dumb shit every year we are alive.ÌęOf course there are pivotal moments, and this wasÌęone of mine.)

I pedaled around the driveway, then up the neighbors’ driveway, checking out the launch point but chickening out several times. I probably spent a few thousand hours in the driveway of that house, mostly playing basketball by myself, andÌęin my memory, the scene of this particular August dayÌęis always lit with the golden light just before dusk, when I finally got together the nerve for my attempt. Nobody else was around, no friends peer-pressuring me into it, no one wanting me to hurry up so they could take a turn. It was just me, trying stuff by myself.

Biking through the grass and up to the top of the retaining wall, IÌęexpected I would just float off as I had seen my brother do, landing on the pavement and rolling away, a small triumph. Instead: I didn’t pull up on the handlebars hard enough (or at all?), I might have been going too slowly, and I rolled off the retaining wall, plummetingÌędown ontoÌęmy front wheel, toppling over the handlebars, and catching most of the brunt of the fall with my face. It had less the grace of a bicycle stunt a third-grader imagines andÌęmore the grace of a load of dirt sliding from the back of a dump truck as the driver tilts the bed up and back and the tailgate swings open.Ìę

My family moved from that house in southwest Iowa across the state a few years later, so I haven’t been back to the scene of the crash since I was 13, but thanks to Google Street View, I can revisit it online and see where it happened. The house has been painted a different color, andÌęthe basketball hoop has changed, but everything else looks the same.

And like a lot of things from my earlier years, including not getting sent to detention in high school (just keep your mouth shut about 75 percent more often) and dating (also keep your mouth shut about 75 percent more often), doing it better seems so simple in retrospect: pedal hard, pull up. As the saying goes: Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from poor judgment.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t pedal harder or pull up, so after I peeled myself and my bicycle off the pavement, I went into the house with blood starting to trickle downÌęmy face and my upper lip starting to swell. The first day of school started in about 13 hours, and I don’t remember exactly what I woreÌęthat next day, but when I was growing up, you wore nice clothes the first day of school, so I probably did, maybe even a new shirt. But also: two giant scabs on my face.

Eight years later, I went to high school on the opposite side of the stateÌęand befriended a classmate named Dan, who had a smile that took up half his face. He loved to laugh, and so did I, but his laugh was so loud and bright that whenever I made him laugh in class, or in the hallway, or anywhere, I felt like I was doing everyone else a favor. And at some point, I told Dan the story of riding my bike off the edge of the retaining wall, landing on my face like a pile of dirt falling out of the back of a dump truck, and heÌęloved the story. Specifically when I remembered that there were two women walking down the street at the time, who had probably seen the whole thing from about 150 feet away, which struck Dan as probably the funniest part, and once he started laughing at it, I agreed with him. Dan probably made me retell him that story seven or eight times in high school, in the lunchroom, in the football locker room, in the back of someone’s car when we were drinking Busch Light driving down a gravel road somewhere in Chickasaw County.

When you’re really young, you get ideas from some rather ridiculous places about what you want to be when you grow up. You want to play in the NBA, be a rapper, or have a job that literally only exists in movies, like a hero cop who doesn’t play by the rules but always saves the day, or a writer who can afford to live in Manhattan. Lots of us, at one point or another, want to be good at flying off things on skateboards, skis, and/or bikes, and some people do become good at it and maybe make a living at it. I didn’t give up riding my bike off things that day in the driveway—I learned to ride wheelies, went off a few small trailside ski jumps, andÌęlaterÌęmountain biked proficiently enough to enjoy both of my tires leaving the ground for up to three-quarters of a second at a time. But I’m sure somewhere in my seven-and-a-half-year-old brain, I started to think maybe big air wasn’t going to be a thing for me.Ìę

By the time I turned 25, I really wanted to be an adventure writer, following in the footsteps of climbing writers like Mark Jenkins, Jon Krakauer, and Daniel Duane. For a long time,ÌęI felt like I should write stories about strong, courageous deeds, survival in near impossible situations, the sort of heroism we find in classic adventure tales. Thankfully, there’s room for other types of tales, not just the capital-A șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű stuff I was first inspired by, and I’veÌębeen able to make somewhat of a living from telling stories about the outdoors. Every once in a while, someone will ask me how I got started doing what I do, writing about the human-powered things we do for fun, and funÌęin the mountains and on trails. Usually I tell them about the first mountain-climbing story I ever had published, for $40 back in 2004. But now that I think about it, that’s not true at all. It was probably dumping my bike off a knee-high jump in a driveway in a small town in southwest Iowa, landing on my face, and practicing telling and retelling that story to my giggling friend Dan, hoping to get it just right so everyone would hear him laughing three rows of lockers away.

Brendan Leonard’s new book, Bears Don’t Care About Your Problems: More Funny Shit in the Woods fromÌę, isÌę.

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I looked at the menu at a booth in Morg’s, a diner in Waterloo, Iowa, on a cold morning in January, sure of one thing: the joke I was going to lob at my friend Dave near the end of breakfast. I was not sure the joke would actually be funny, but I was definitely going to say it.Ìę

Dave and I get together almost every time I’m back in Iowa visiting my parents. He was my last roommate while living in the state, before I left to move westÌęin 2002, a shift of geography that rerouted my life completely. We’ve stayed in touch since then, some years the thread of communicationÌęthinner than othersÌębut still there. Most of the time, when I come back, one or both of us has to drive more than an hour to make a meeting happen, just like this time.Ìę

Dave walked in, sat down, and said, “I think the last time we were here, I had just bailed you out of jail, a few blocks from here.” I said I was 100 percent sure that was correct, and I don’t remember if I even ate anything that morning in March 2002Ìęor just sat across from him and smoked Camel Lights, which you could do indoors in Iowa then. The night in jail followed what would be my last night ever drinking alcohol, which is a separate, long story. In my fuzzy memory, I’d called Dave from the jail phoneÌęand told him I was stuck there until I could raise $3,000 in bail. I’m certain I called him instead of my parents because I had disappointed them enough over the past few years, and Dave would be less disappointed in meÌębut hopefully still understand.Ìę

Dave showed up at a bail-bond place with the title to his car and $300 I might or might not be able to pay him back at the time, and I got to go home that morning instead of sitting in jail with a headache and the gut-punched feeling of what recovering addicts call rock bottom.ÌęBut firstÌęwe went to Morg’s for breakfast. Dave paid the bill, and before he headed to his shift waiting tables at a restaurant, he dropped me off back at the house we shared with our friend Nick. Over the next few months, and then years, my appreciation for what Dave did for me began to multiply.Ìę

The simplest way to explain it is: atÌęthat time in my life, I was an irresponsible person who was good at getting in trouble. I asked Dave for help, and he made a bet on me: his car. In order for him to keep his car, I had to change. Which was a big gamble at the time. As has since been pointed out to me, there’s a time and a place to cut someone off with tough loveÌęinstead of potentially enabling them to wreak further havoc. I don’t know exactly what Dave was thinking then, but I’m glad he bet on me that one last time.Ìę

Over the years since, I started to see Dave’s gamble as a symbol, or more accurately, the defining act of what constitutes friendship: showing up. I would argue it’s the most important element of a friendship. If your friend needs a groomsman or a bridesmaid, help moving a couch, someone to talk to about something difficult they’re going through, a ride home from the airport, you show up for them.Ìę

A few months after Dave bailed me out, I moved to MontanaÌęand eventually Colorado. Every yearÌęI tried to remember to text Dave and say, “Thanks for bailing me out in March 2002,” just so he knew I never forgot itÌęand still appreciated it. The more I got into the mountains, the more I valued the people who showed up, whether it was on the belaying end of a climbing rope, a promise to switch their beacon to search mode and dig like a motherfucker in the event of an avalanche, or just arrive ready at the trailhead at the time we agreed upon, even if it was fourÌęin the morning.Ìę

Dave and I both eventually found our way to a common sport:Ìętrail running. I casually mentioned getting together forÌęa week in Rocky Mountain National Park lastÌęsummer.ÌęI was working on a guidebook and thought thatÌęmaybe he could come out for a few days and join me for some hiking and trail running. He decided to join me for ten days, and to my great joy, we got Dave up his first fourteener, Longs Peak, which is no walk in the park when you’re coming from the flatlands and you’veÌęspent almost zero time navigating talus andÌęscramblingÌęin thin air 13,500 feet higher than the house you live in.Ìę

When I was back in Iowa over the holidays, when Dave texted about getting together, I suggested Morg’s. As we sat in the booth catching up, I tried to remember what it had looked like in 2002, the last time we were there together. I thought maybe it had been more dimly lit, but I wasn’t sure. I remembered the pancakes, which almost hung off the edges of large plates. The server dropped off the check, and I snatched it from the table before Dave could even get a finger on it. He made the face you make when your friend insists on buying breakfast, and then I said a line I had been thinking about for days, or maybe 17-plus years:

“I’ll get it. You got it last time.”Ìę

We both laughed, more than was actually appropriate for the quality of the joke, and then I went on to say something like, “Come on, you bailed me out of jail, risked losing your car, changed the course of my life, taught me one of the most important lessons about friendship, etc., etc., etc., so the least I can do is pay for your breakfast,”Ìęwhich is, I believe, an advanced-level sarcastic-midwesterner way of saying to another midwesterner, genuinely but packaged inside a joke,Ìęthanks for being there for me.

Brendan Leonard’s new book,ÌęBears Don’t Care About Your Problems: More Funny Shit in the Woods from , isÌę

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Let’s say you’ve done the typical triathlon—swim, bike, run—and now you’re looking for something different: a high-endurance race that crosses diverseÌęterrainÌęor a less rigorous event in which you can include family and friends of different skill levels. Or maybe you want to tryÌęa multisport event, but the thought ofÌęswimming in open water is more of a challenge than you’d like. Across the country, organizers have taken note, creating annual eventsÌęthat combine all of a locale’s adventure offerings into one race. We’ve rounded up some of our favorites (many of which don’t require donning a Speedo), and some are right around the corner this fall, so you can still sign up.

Cumberland, British Columbia

Mind Over Mountain șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Race

TheÌę, which happens everyÌęSeptember in the historic mining town of Cumberland, onÌęVancouver Island, combines endurance sports with navigation skills. Known for its world-class singletrack trails, the contestÌęcenters on mountain bikingÌębut also includes kayaking, hiking through the wilderness, and finding checkpointsÌęusing a map. CompeteÌęsolo or join a teamÌęof two or four people, pick betweenÌęa 30K sport course or a 50K enduro course, and be sure to spend the night at MountÌęWashington Alpine Resort (from $50)—itsÌępostrace party is a good time. Interested in fine-tuning your map and compass skills?ÌęThe event’s organizersÌęofferÌęnavigation clinics prior to race day.

Raton, New Mexico

Master of the Mountains

In earlyÌęSeptember, racers at congregate at the starting line in northeasternÌęNew Mexico’s Sugarite Canyon State Park, a three-hour drive from Albuquerque. From there it’s a six-mile trail run around Little Horse Mesa, a three-mile paddle across Lake Maloya in kayaks, a 22-mile bike ride on dirt and pavement, and a final shooting course at Raton Trap Club. (Make sure you know how to use a shotgun first.)ÌęDo it on your own or as part of a two-to-four-person relay team.

Iowa and Colorado

Running Rivers Flyathlon

A triathlon where the third leg involves craft beer? Sign us up! , which takes place in August and September in various locations around these two states, includes trail running, fly-fishing, and, yep, beer drinking. You’ll run out to a creek (there are courses ranging from five to twelveÌęmiles); catch and release a brook, rainbow, brown, or cutthroat trout (take a picture of your catch atopÌęyour race bib—extra points for cutthroat trout); run back; and end the race with a catered meal and an IPA. Times matter, but this race is more fun than competitive. Money raised from these events benefits native trout andÌęriver-Ìęand trail-improvement projects, including a greenback trout restoration project at Colorado’s George Creek.Ìę

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Rendezvous River Sports Karen Oatey Pole Pedal Paddle

Every April, Ìęis held in memory of the late skier, raising money for a scholarship fund for young athletes in her name. While the five-leg race is demanding—starting with a downhill ski or snowboard run on the slopes of Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, followed by a series of running, cross-country skiing, biking, and boating legs—competitors have fun with itÌęand often show up in costume.ÌęThe event ends at Astoria Hot Springs, in Snake River Canyon, where anÌęaprĂšs party usually ensues.Ìę

Bend, Oregon

SelcoÌęPole Pedal Paddle

, which takes place in May, has been a local tradition since 1976 and is a great way to experience all of Bend’s adventure activities in one fell swoop. The seven-leg relayÌękicks off on MountÌęBachelor, with a 200-foot sprintÌęuphill, followed by a downhill ski or snowboard on the slopes, and then an 8K nordic-ski race. Next up is a 22-mile scenicÌębike ride, a five-mile run, a 1.5-mile paddle, kayak, or canoe down the Deschutes River, and a half-mile sprint to the finish line downtown. Do it all yourself, or join a team to break up the legs. The event benefits the MountÌęBachelor Sports Education Foundation, which supports junior athletics in the area.

Nashua, New Hampshire

Millyard Bike Paddle RunÌę

Picture a triathlon where the swimming portion is replaced by paddleboarding or kayaking: that’s theÌę, which happens in early June. Begin with a 14.5-mile, parade-likeÌębike ride through downtown Nashua, then transition to a 2.5-mile canal paddle down the Nashua River, before finishingÌęwith a 5K trail run in Mine Falls Park along the New Hampshire Heritage Trail.

South Berwick, Maine

Sea to Summit

Ìęis stouter than your average triathlon, combining the standard format with the elements of an adventure race, so expect fewer amenities and less infrastructure (limited buoys,Ìęunmarked bike paths). Starting at the historic Hamilton House in South Berwick, you’ll swim 1.5 miles inÌęa tidal river connected to the Atlantic, ride a bike over 92 miles with 6,000 feet of elevation gain from Maine into New Hampshire, then climb five miles to the top ofÌę6,288-foot Mount Washington, the tallest peak in the Northeast. You canÌęparticipate solo or as a team, but both require some prerequisites—you’ll need to have completed a half Ironman in recent years under a designated time limit or a similar long-distance race. Only 100 people are allowed entry into this event, scheduled in July, so plan on signing up a year in advance or sitting on the wait list.

Whitefish, Montana

The Glacier Challenge

AnotherÌęJuly race, theÌęÌębegins in Whitefish,ÌęaÌętown in the Rocky Mountains of northwestern Montana. ItÌęincludes six legs across 47 miles of varied landscape: an eight-mile run, a four-mile kayak or paddleboard, a 12-mile road bike, an eight-mile mountain bike, a 3.7-mile canoe, and an ending three-mile run. The event is family friendly and open to all levels, with aÌępick-and-choose setup: competitors can opt for a 5K or an 8K run, to do a triathlon, or to complete the circuit, with the optionÌęof doing itÌęalone or with a team of up to seven. All proceeds go toward aÌęprogram that helps local youth in crisis.

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Everything’s still wet with dew in late August when nearly 400 riders mount their bikes, preparing for another 70-mile day through central Michigan. They’ve gathered here for the (DALMAC), now in its 49th year. The marked route through undulating, rustic farmland seems like a perfect way to end the summer—on a bike, with a hint of fall in the air whooshing by.

I’m tagging along in a camper van with a friend who is riding, rubbing elbows with people from around the country—the participants total more than 1,000. At night, high schools are converted to campgrounds for us, complete with showers, green space for tentsÌęand a movie projected on a big screen, and calorie-dense meals, like tacos and hamburgers. All of this is courtesy of the ride’s organizers—made possible with a $300 entry fee—who also carry cyclists’ gear in moving trucks and have hired bike mechanics to help with any bike repairs.

Supported bike tours can now be found in almost every state and can draw anywhere from a couple hundred riders to more than 10,000. Cyclists typically have the essentials provided for them, but some tours offer luxuries like post-ride massages or yoga. Entry fees range from free to under $1,000. Most rides take place in spring and summer, with a few in fall or winter in the South.

Here’s a list of the best supported rides around.

Cycle Zydeco

Where: Louisiana
When: April 24 to 28, 2019

No one throws a party quite like the folks in southern Louisiana’s Acadiana region, whose local laissez les bons temps rouler attitude makes for one hell of a bike ride. What organizers call a festival on wheels, traverses bayou country for four days, typically 40 miles a day along flat blacktop, with local festivities peppered along the way. In 2019, the ride will share a weekend with —the largest international music festival in the country—with the New OrleansÌęJazz and Heritage Festival commencing the next week. Expect pleasant spring weather and a lesson in how to peel crawfish.

Ride the RockiesÌę

Where: Colorado
When: June 8 to 15, 2019

On this six-day , be prepared for tough climbs—last year’s riders experienced more than 25,000 feet of elevation change over the course of 418 miles. But you’ll be rewarded with some of the best views Colorado has to offer, traversing this year through scenic mountain towns like Crested Butte, Snowmass, and Gunnison. (Routes and towns vary by year.) “You really get to see quintessential Colorado,” says tour directorÌęDeirdre Moynihan. “You get it all—the mountain passes, and you get to stay overnight in these great mountain communities.”

Sierra to the SeaÌę

Where: California
When: June 15 to 22, 2019

Designed for experienced cyclists, this eight-day route before snaking down to the CaliforniaÌęcoast. The route wends 420 miles, with an average day topping out at 60 miles. Other mileage options are available for those who want an easier or more difficult ride. Along the way, riders travel through some of the state’s best-known locales, includingÌęLake Tahoe and Napa Valley, finishing with a jaunt across the Golden Gate Bridge. The tour is limited to 130 people, giving youÌęa more intimate experience with fellow riders.

RAGBRAI

Where: Iowa
When: July 21 to 27, 2019

In 1973, two Des Moines Register columnists—John Karras and Don Kaul—gathered some friends for a ride across Iowa, eventually drawing a few hundred people to bike across the state. Today, the is one of the biggest cycling events in the country. Last year, the 46th annual event drew 10,000 riders and thousands of other revelers from around the world, who rode nearly 500 miles over seven days. “When the ride started, people were stopping at farms for a slice of watermelon, and now it’s morphed into this street party in small-town America,” says director T.J. Juskiewicz. While the route changes every year, it normally begins near Iowa’s western border on the Missouri River and endsÌęat the Mississippi RiverÌęacross the state. Don’t expect too tough a ride or much elevation change, but what the ride lacks in vistas, it makes up for with its party atmosphere and welcoming locals.

Ultimate Cycling VacationÌę

Where: New York
When: August 17 to 23, 2019

Created by the Cycle Adirondacks organization, this provides cyclists with a taste of the region, from local craft brews and food to insights into the mountain communities around the wilderness. When you’re not riding, there are plenty of hiking trails and swimming holes to explore—there’s even a yoga class included in the ride package. Organizers hope that folks who participate will take away an appreciation for the 6.1 million–acre Adirondack Park and its mountains, wetlands, and old-growth forests, all unique in size and biodiversity for the Northeast. Through a partnership with the Adirondack Mountain Club, part of the ride’s proceeds go toward education and conservation efforts in the region.

West Yellowstone Old Faithful Cycle Tour

Where: Wyoming
When: FallÌę2019 (date not yet announced)

Fall is one of the best times to explore Yellowstone National Park, as the summer crowds die down. You’ll have the golden aspens, bugling elk, and Old Faithful almost to yourself on this 300-person, daylong tour, says Moira Dow, the ride’s cycle coordinator. TheÌę snakes around a loop, starting in West Yellowstone and heading south past some of the park’s most famous geysers. After the ride, check out other classic attractions, like the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone or Hayden Valley, where you might see elk, bison, grizzlies, and wolves. Then, trek down to nearby Snake River in Grand Teton National Park to catch a glimpse of the cottonwoods, willows, and other deciduous trees turning red and orange.

WACANID RideÌę

Where: Washington-Idaho-British Columbia
When: September 10 to 15, 2019

This tour , a range that sprawls across the Idaho Panhandle, eastern Washington, and parts of southern British Columbia. For 370 miles over six days, cyclists ride on secondary highways, off the beaten path through breathtaking scenery. There are some pretty tough climbs on certain stretches, but a rest day in the middle allows you a day off from the 70-mile rides. If you have the energy, there’s plenty of hiking around and small communities that offer local food and beer. In September, the nights and mornings are crisp, while the days are warm and sunny. Keep an eye out for mountainside aspens transitioning to gold.

Mountains to Coast RideÌę

Where: North Carolina
When: September 29 to October 6, 2019

Roughly 1,000 people gather each year to from the Blue Ridge Mountains to North Carolina’s coast through high-country forests, pine woods, and wetlands. This year’s route will start in Blowing Rock, a village named after a rock formation that overlooks the best of southern Appalachia’s mountainous topography. After more than 400 miles, the ride ends at Atlantic Beach, one of several communities along the Bogue Banks barrier island, whichÌęboasts 21 miles of beachfront. Expect some elevation changes in the first half of the ride until leveling out and then coasting downhill until you reach the sea.

Big BAM on the KatyÌę

Where: Missouri
When: October 7 to 12, 2019

This year marks the second installment of the Big BAM on the Katy, the fall version of the , or Bike Across Missouri. The is nearly 240 miles and the longest rails-to-trails project in the United States. It’s off-road riding within Katy Trail State Park, closely following the Missouri River. The route passes through the state’s wine country—near the town of Hermann, German settlers have been growing grapes since the 1830s. “You’ll find great bratwurst and beer, plus there are a dozen wineries in the region,” says Greg Wood, the ride’s executive director. Daily mileageÌęranges from 40 to 60 miles, but with easy grades and no cars to contend with, it’ll make for an easy ride that’sÌęperfect for beginners and younger cyclists.

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Last Wednesday, around the ninth switchback in the M Trail at the University of Montana, my legs and lungs screamed at me to stop, or at least walk instead of run. I wheezed, my chest heaved, but I kept running. Mostly I was trying to get to the top of the trail, but part of me was trying to run back in time.

I moved to Missoula almost 16 years ago, and in a little less than two years, the town gently grabbed the proverbial steering wheel of my life and turned it down a completely different road. So now, every time I’ve visited, it fucks me up just being there. Maybe you have a place like this, too.

The spring after my 23rd birthday, my dad and I flew from Iowa to Missoula for a visit to check out the journalism school at the University of Montana. Dad hadn’t been in the mountains for about a decade and his face lit up as we flew in over the southeast side of the valley. One of our afternoons there, we heard about the M Trail, the steep path that climbs to the big white “M” on the side of Mt. Sentinel above campus.

If you hike the M Trail, you might find it a stout exercise, and you might be thankful that there are benches at a couple of the switchbacks. Sixty-five stories up from where you started, you arrive at the bottom of the M, and the view of campus and the town below either makes you fall in love with the whole place, or 
 well, I don’t know what happens if you don’t fall in love with it, because I did.

When I first moved to Missoula to start classes the following fall, I was scared shitless for a number of reasons: I was far from anyone I knew, I was newly sober, and I had no idea who I was, as I . My first year in Montana was probably one of the toughest years of my life, and definitely one of the loneliest and saddest. I spent almost every weekend night smoking cigarettes on the front porch of my apartment, watching as my neighbors came and went from parties and bars. But I discovered mountains, gradually hiking deeper and higher into them, and I absorbed all I could about writing, lit with a dim hope that I had it in me—whatever it was that it took to be a writer.

In 2004, I shot out of Montana in a crappy car on my way to Phoenix for a lady and hopefully a job, not particularly sad to be leaving Missoula behind. Most people who have lived there will tell you that this isn’t a common sentiment. Like my friend Alex, who said his first time in town, he knew that if he ever moved away, he’d always be thinking about it. But I was done with school, and I figured it was time to move on.

I didn’t go back for almost eight years. And when I did in 2011, I had changed. I had gotten some writing published in magazines, learned to climb, learned to ski in the backcountry, and was on the cusp of being able to go full-time as a freelance writer. Missoula had changed a bit too, but not as much. A couple coffee shops had closed, some businesses had moved, and the journalism school had gotten a new building, giving my old haunt to the forestry school. But the town felt the same to me: a meeting point of the Pacific Northwest and the Rocky Mountains, mountain-town but cosmopolitan, isolated but cultured and academic. I walked around campus, trying to remember what it felt like in 2002, trying to recreate some of the feelings I had back then—because they were big, dense feelings. Compared to other chunks of my life after I left UM, like my first newspaper job in Arizona and my second newspaper job in Denver, my time in Missoula just felt so important, like something was happening. And of course, something was happening.

When they say you can’t go back, I think they mean because you can go back to a place, but you can’t go back to a feeling, or back to the person you were. Which is maybe why nostalgia is such a strange, heavy, sad, and happy feeling—sad that something is gone, happy that it happened, and sad you can’t manage to get there again, no matter how hard you try.

When I visited UM back in 2011, I decided to run to the top of the M Trail for no real reason. I made it, barely, sure I was going to throw up at the top—but throw up out of my lungs, not my stomach. Maybe I was trying to prove that I was an improved version of the person who went to grad school in Missoula a few years ago. After all, I had never run up the M Trail when I lived there—I was still smoking a pack a day back then.

Last week in Missoula, I had just turned 39 1/2. I’m not feeling that young, noticing wrinkles, gray hairs, and definitely taking note that my hairline is no longer at high tide. I’ve been a full-time writer and filmmaker for six years, and gotten to spend way more time in the outdoors than I ever dreamed would be possible. Since I graduated from UM, I’ve spent less than two weeks total in Missoula, or under one day per year.

But when I roll back into town and see Mount Jumbo and Mount Sentinel from the Higgins Street Bridge, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel like home. I joked to my friend Forest that Missoula is like Boulder but for more normal people, or in my case, Chamonix for Iowans. I walked across campus and texted my girlfriend that an older, happy man was trying to reconnect with a younger, sad man.

Grad school, for me, was a place full of possibility and promise at a time when the world hadn’t kicked my ass too much yet. Going back to visit—and maybe we all feel this in the places where we really grew up—makes me wonder if I actually want to live there, or if I just want to be young again. It’s like seeing an old flame after 10 years and irrationally thinking, “I wonder if we could make it work this time.”

In the hot mid-July sun, almost-40-year-old me kept “running” to the top of the M Trail, gulping air, ignoring the screams of my quads, and not wanting to admit that I took off a little fast at the start. If I hadn’t proved I was still young, at least I was still dumb. Forest and I posed for a quick photo at the top, and I didn’t even vomit. I looked down at Missoula, and my heart didn’t explode, but I wondered if I actually left a big chunk of it down there in 2004.

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Hunting and outfitting stores are plentiful in Iowa as are independently-owned gear shops. But Iowa City’s Fin & Feather is one of the few local retailers that embodies both, catering to seasoned hunters, anglers, and sport shooters, as well as backpackers, boaters, and general outdoor enthusiasts. It’s all under one roof at Fin & Feather, and if you ask anyone on the sales floor, they’ll say that’s exactly where it belongs.

“It’s one of the things that I like best about working here,” said Brian Mildenstein, general manager of the store founded by his father. “It’s for outdoor enthusiasts—all kinds of outdoor enthusiasts.”

From the front of the shop to the back, customers can find everything from technical backpacks to muzzleloader rifles, including a vast selection of fishing and camping gear, and outdoor and lifestyle apparel. This is how it’s always been at Fin & Feather, for over 50 years now, ever since Roger and Linda Mildenstein opened their original shop on Riverside Drive in 1967.

Under the Same Roof, in the Same Wilderness

Upon founding, the store catered to what the senior Mildenstein knew best—hunting and fishing. But within the first few years of opening, Roger Mildenstein quickly incorporated new camping and outdoor brands emerging onto the market in the late 1960s. Alongside high-end tents and camping gear, hunting, fishing, and shooting sports have remained at the store’s core.

“I’m proud of the efforts that our customers put into maintaining quality hunting grounds, and creating quality habitats for tons of other animals,” said Brian Mildenstein, adding that property owners who improve habitat on their properties for sustained wildlife harvest can make a big difference. “In a state like Iowa, where it’s something like 98.5 percent private land, to have private citizens engaged and wanting to better their property for habitat, I think it makes it better for everyone, and it makes enjoying the outdoors better for me.”

When asked if the store has ever received any pushback, especially in light of swirling gun debates, Brian Mildenstein said, “Why ignore people who want to protect the environment and who want to be a good conservationist? We are all under the same roof here just like we share the same wilderness out there.”

More Business on the Lakefront

An even more tangible representation of Fin & Feather’s connection to the outdoorsy Midwest community can be found just two miles down the road, near the shore of Sand Lake at the city-owned Terry Trueblood Recreation Area.

A satellite rental shop, Fin & Feather H20, is now entering its sixth season of renting boats in the summer and ice skates in the winter at the popular day-use destination with a 90-acre lake. The collaboration between the city, the store, and the community, is fruitful in many ways.

“For me, the benefit is seeing all those kids that might go their whole life without paddling have a paddling experience, and not only have that experience, but also look forward to having it again,” said Brian Mildenstein. His ultimate goal is to have patrons who rent a boat at Fin & Feather H2O eventually buy their own at the store.

The city benefits by having a knowledgeable concessionaire who can oversee the boat rentals. And locals get outside all summer on the water, or come winter, on the ice. The ice skating rentals came alongside Brian Mildenstein wanting to offer cross-country ski rentals. But inconsistent snow and dependable cold temperatures left one viable option: ice skating.

“I thought it would be easy,” Brian Mildenstein said while laughing about his ice skating ambitions. “But to have good skateable ice is different than just having ice
It’s somewhat fickle because if it’s too cold, it’s too cold, so we need weekend days that are between 15 and 31 degrees, and that’s a small window.”

Avoiding Internet Sales (For Now)

By offering rentals where the community recreates at Terry Trueblood, Fin & Feather lures prospective customers into the main store, and therefore, doesn’t see a need for internet sales. That doesn’t mean an online platform hasn’t been considered.

“I don’t want to be naïve about it,” said Brian Mildenstein. “To do online sales right and to feel good about it, I would have to do it in a way where I felt we were giving a similar service to what we give in the store. I’d say for right now, we’ve intentionally chosen to focus on what we do well, and that’s having the customer in front of us and solving the problem together.”

Online sales may become part of the future Fin & Feather sales experience, but right now, they are prioritizing the expansion of their brick-and-mortar store.

To celebrate the store’s 50 birthday in 2017, the Mildensteins purchased the suite above the shop and now utilize the space as an archery range, boat showroom, and event venue. With this extra space, Brian Mildenstein hopes to encourage more customers through the door, and in turn, build a stronger community of overlapping interest and an Iowa outdoors that everyone can enjoy.

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A solid outfitter is the lifeblood of an adventure mecca. It probably won’t come as any surprise that each of our sixteen Best Towns finalists has an awesome place to get geared up.Ìę

Chattanooga, Tennessee:ÌęRock/Creek Outfitters

has been the epicenter of adventure in Chattanooga for more than 25 years, growing from a single shop to five distinct stores throughout the city. Climbing is king in Chattanooga (Rock Creek is a big sponsor of the Triple Crown Bouldering Series), and Rock Creek carries a big selection of climbing gear from Black Diamond and Patagonia, as well as favoriteÌęlocal company Granola.Ìę

Port Angeles, Washington:ÌęBrown’s OutdoorÌę

started as a consignment shop almost 100 years ago. Four generations later, it’s still owned by the same founding family, who giveÌęlocals a well-curated selection of hiking and backpacking gear so they can hit Olympic National Park. The rain jackets from Outdoor Research are obviously popular because, you know, it’s Washington, so there’s rain.Ìę

Pagosa Springs, Colorado:ÌęSki and Bow Rack

There isn’t much that you can’t get for the outdoors at , which has been keeping Pagosa Springs geared up since ‘85. MSR tent for exploring the San Juans? Check. Fat skis for a powder day? Check. Custom cut arrows from Beman? Check. It makes sense considering you can pretty much do anything you want in the mountains of Southwest Colorado.Ìę

Middlebury, Vermont:ÌęMiddlebury Mountaineer

Long-time anglers and skiers Steve and Marion Atocha run out of a primo location in historic downtown Middlebury. From the shop, you can hire a guide to take you climbing, backcountry skiing, or fishing. In the summer, you can rent a Wilderness Systems kayak decked out for hunting pike. In the winter, geek out on the massive selection of cross-country and backcountry ski gear.Ìę

Lake Placid, New York:ÌęLake Placid Ski and Board

Everything you need to know about Lake Placid is in the name of , which is located in downtown across the street from Mirror Lake. Ski or board? Those are your options, regardless of the season. The shop has been offering locals and tourists killer ski service and gear since ’84 (it was called Maui North back then) and is best known for its massive ski selection, but in the summer, it’s all about hitting the lake. The shop has you covered there too with water skis, tubes, and a huge fleet of SUPs.Ìę

Annapolis, Maryland:ÌęAnnapolis Canoe and Kayak

If you’re in Annapolis, you better be on the water—and you better check in with first. The store has been serving watermen (and women) since ’90, and has a primo spot on the edge of Spa Creek and the Annapolis Harbor (check out the weekly shop paddles). Peruse the huge selection of touring and recreational kayaks and SUPS, as well as all of the accessories you’ll need to make a paddle happen, whether it’s a short cruise around Spa Creek and Ego Alley or a massive tour of Assateague. Their sea kayak specialist even builds his own “skin on frame” kayaks. Now that’s legit.Ìę

Bar Harbor, Maine:ÌęCadillac Mountain Sports

Named for the towering pillar inside Acadia National Park that rises more than 1,500 feet from the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, has become an adventure pillar in its own right, serving Bar Harbor since 1980. Locals dig the shop’s selection of cross-country skis from Fischer and Salomon in the winter, and the broad range of kayaks during summer.Ìę

Spearfish, South Dakota:ÌęRushmore Mountain Sports

started as a bike touring company in the back of another outfitter in 1999, and grew into a full-service shop of its own, then grew into a full fledged outdoor shop after the companyÌętook over an old gas station on Main Street in downtown Spearfish. The shopÌęstill stocks plenty of bikes, but also snow gear and climbing equipment, because that’s what you do in Spearfish. You ski, bike and climb.Ìę

Iowa City, Iowa:ÌęFin and Feather

The was founded in 1967 by Roger and Linda Mildenstein as a family-run fishing and hunting shop (all of the Mildenstein kids held jobs counting night crawlers at the store when they were young). The store still has a robust hunting department (complete with an archery range), but it’s expanded into a complete adventure outfitter, with a killer selection of backpacking gear and everything you need to paddle local lakes.Ìę

Eau Claire, Wisconsin:ÌęRiverside Bike and Skate

was established in 1972 as a hockey gear store (it doesn’t get much more “Wisconsin” than that), and you can still get your hockey blades repaired at the shop. But you can also get your bike tuned up and throw down your hard-earned cash for that Mad River Canoe you’ve been drooling over.Ìę

Rochester, Minnesota:ÌęTyrol Ski and Sport

You might think is only about winter sports, but the shop makes the most of Minnesota’s short summers, carrying a massive selection of kayaks, canoes and standup paddleboards from Wilderness Systems, Dagger, and BIC (among others) and holding regular demo days. In the winter, take your pick of downhill and touring gear from everyone from Blizzard to Volkl.Ìę

Beaufort, South Carolina:ÌęHigher Ground Outfitters

Helping to anchor Beaufort’s Town Center, is all about the water, with a huge selection of KC kayaks and Odyssey SUPs (among other brands). There’s plenty of camping gear too, in case you’re considering an overnight on Hunting Island State Park, but be sure to dress like a local and pick up a pair of Southern Marsh Dockside fishing shorts, because they look cool, and they’re made in the Low Country.Ìę

Boone, North Carolina:ÌęMast General Store

started as a general store for the small town of Valle Crucis in 1883—a place where you could get nails, cheese, and your mail. The original location is still there, and still the place where locals can get their mail, but Mast has grown into a comprehensive outdoor outfitter with several locations throughout North Carolina. At the shop in downtown Boone, you can still get overalls and candy from a barrel, but you can also find wicking layers and the latest hiking boots and water shoes.Ìę

Athens, Georgia:ÌęHalf-Moon Outfitters

has been supplying the Southeast with gear since 1993, starting with a single location in downtown Charleston before quickly expanding throughout the state of South Carolina with multiple locations. The shopÌęmoved into Georgia in 2008, opening this location in downtown Athens, which is dangerously close to Mexican-food standby Taqueira Del Sol. Peruse the huge selection of hiking boots from Keen and Merrell, but definitely pick up something from Half-Moon’s own line of preppy Oxford shirts.Ìę

Glenwood Springs, Colorado:ÌęTreadzÌę

Are mountain athletes stylish? Probably, if they shop at , which started as a shoe store in 1993 but has grown into a head to toe style monger for the mountain athlete. Timberland, Lucky jeans, Icebreaker and Nau
if it’s hot, it’s at Treadz, which makes sense considering the shop’s proximity to Aspen and Vail.Ìę

Flagstaff, Arizona:ÌęPeace Surplus

In 1973, when was founded by the Chatinsky family, it was the place to go for military surplus like parachutes and ammo cans. Today, Peace Surplus is Flagstaff’s comprehensive gear shop with everything a skier, hiker, climber, or paddler could need. TheÌęshopÌęalso hasÌęa killer rental program, where you can pick up big-ticket items for backpacking trips during the summer and ski sessions during the winter.Ìę

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