Since the shift to remote work that started during the COVID-19 pandemic, a growing percentage of employees are in the position to work and live wherever they want. For some, that has meant relocating to a place with better outdoor access. Hordes of geographically-liberated professionals have made their way to mountain townsÌęacross the country, exacerbating pre-existing issues of housing affordability, cost of living, and overcrowding in popular wilderness areas.

Some towns and counties, on the other hand, found themselves with a dearth of younger adult residents, and are offering incentives to remote workers willing to relocate. Many of these under-the-radar communities have ample trails, mountains, and waterways for active people to explore. In all of these cases, another benefit is the offer of cold hard cash if you move. Who would say no to that?

I selected the states listed below for their outdoor access. And new places are offering incentives all the time. Rochester, New York and the surrounding county, in the state’s beautiful Finger Lakes region, is definitely on my radar. They recently suspended their popular , which offered remote workers cash to move to the area and an extra bonus to buy a home. But they’re planning on relaunching it sometime this year with revised incentives.

West Virginia

The initiative pays remote workers to move to one of five participating communities, with some extra perks aimed at attracting outdoor enthusiasts in particular. Over 100 people have taken advantage of the program, which started in 2022, and the goal is to bring 1,000 remote workers to the state in the next several years.

The Deal: $10,000 received in your first year, paid in monthly installments, and an additional $2,000 at the end of your second consecutive year. Plus, a one-year outdoor recreation package valued at $2,500 that includes guided outings and free gear rentals.

How to Enter: Interested parties can . Promising applicants—showing a love of the outdoors and a desire to be a part of new community helps—continue on to an interview.

Why Move: The aptly-named Mountain State is home to some of the best whitewater and rock climbing in the Eastern U.S., and plenty of opportunities for a wide range of outdoor sports. In winter, skiers and snowboarders get in turns on the slopes of . In New River Gorge, the newest national park in the U.S., there’s camping, hiking, fishing, and whitewater rafting. There’s even lift-served downhill mountain biking on the Snowshoe resort’s ski trails. And in August 2023, Governor Justice signed a bill to designate the first new state park in West Virginia in 30 years—. It sits on the northern shore of the state’s largest lake and has hiking and biking trails, climbing access, and climbing education programs as well.

Owensboro, Kentucky

The Bluegrass State isn’t offering as large of a cash incentive for remote workers to relocate to counties in the eastern part of the state in the Appalachian foothills as others on this list. But some of the small-dollar add-ons are quite charming. Over 1,000 for the program, known as (Shaping Our Appalachian Region), and stipend since it was launched in 2022.

The Deal: A $5,000 cash stipend paid in two installments plus a few other perks, like concert tickets, a health and fitness club membership, free banjo, fiddle, or mandolin lessons with a local instructor, and a year of free donuts and coffee from a local coffee shop. Only remote workers who earn at least $60,000 a year, are U.S. citizens, and are moving to Owensboro or surrounding counties from outside the state are eligible.

How to Apply: There’s currently a waitlist to apply for the incentive, which you .

Why Move: Owensboro is in Western Kentucky, not quite in the heart of the Bluegrass State’s best-known outdoor recreation areas. The , a world-famous sport climbing destination, is four hours away—within reach for a weekend trip, if not a quick one-day outing. Closer to home: Mammoth Cave National Park, containing over 400 mapped miles of (kinda spooky caves), plus singletrack mountain biking trails and access to the Green River.

Topeka, Kansas

Unlike some of the other options on this list, the Choose Topeka relocation incentive, which started in 2019, is geared towards incentivizing people to move to the city to accept jobs with local employers.

The Deal: Up to $10,000 for rent in the first year, or up to $15,000 towards buying a house.

How to Enter: The has information about participating employers—once you have the job, you can apply through them.

Why Move: Skiers and downhill mountain bikers might not want to live in the middle of the Great Plains, but other outdoor athletes and nature lovers will find plenty to do in and around Kansas’ capital city. Several large parks and a lake with boating, fishing, and swimming are within city limits. The state is known for cycling, particularly gravel biking—, the sport’s premier event, is held in Emporia. And there’s unique, beautiful nature right in Topeka’s backyard, like the 40 miles of hiking trails through some of the last remaining old-growth grassland at the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve.

Alaska

Ìęis actually more of a universal basic income than a relocation incentive. Oil and mining revenues go into the state-run fund, which distributes an annual sum (usually between $1,000 and $1,500) to all Alaska residents. It’s a smaller check than the others on this list, but you’ll continue to receive it for as long as you live in the state.

The Deal: The exact dollar amount varies year-to-year. In 2023, Alaskans received $1,312.

How to Enter: After living in Alaska for one year, full-time permanent residents are eligible to .

Why Move: Where to start? Alaska’s not called the last frontier for nothing—there’s over 322 million acres of public lands in the state, full of bucket list destinations and adventures Ìęfor mountaineers, skiers, hikers, hunters, anglers, and kayakers. If it’s wild and rugged, Alaska’s probably got it. The tallest mountain in North America? Check. Denali stands at 20,310 feet. Massive glaciers? Sure, right outside of many towns. National parks? Undeveloped wilderness? You bet. The on the continent? That’d be , an hour from Anchorage with an average snowfall of 669 inches. Absolutely gigantic wildlife? Look no further.

Miyo McGinn is an assistant editor atÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű.ÌęShe’s happily living in Bozeman, Montana, but is seriously considering Alaska for her next move—for the wilderness, of course, but the annual cash payments do sweeten the deal.

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Cemeteries are spooky. Cemeteries tucked into the woods miles from anywhere, like the one I stumbled into one night deep in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, are downright spine-chilling. My headlamp cast uneasy shadows in every direction.

I was backpacking in the Smokies to experience some of the history that the park encapsulates. When it was established in 1940, GSMNP swallowed up several communities, and the ruins of tiny timber towns can still be found. There are at least 150 cemeteries inside the park, according to the book Cemeteries of the Smokies. Some are still kept up by family members, and others are slowly being swallowed up by the forest.

Did I actually see a ghost that night? I sure thought I did, given all of the shadows and the noises coming from the woods around me. I set up my tent a quarter-mile away and barely slept, waking at the faintest sound. No wonder Great Smoky Mountains are littered with ghost stories: tales of witches who snatch children or glowing orbs that appear before the eyes of lost hikers.

As co-host of the podcast, Cassie Yahian often looks into such tales. She’s unsurprised that a number of people report supernatural events inside our parks.

“‘National park’ is a relatively new label placed on locations that have largely been around for time immemorial,” Yahian told me in an email. “The locations protected under that banner have historied pasts that include indigenous peoples, European settlers, pioneers, and beyond. The land remembers,” she said, “and shares those stories 
 sometimes through an icy chill or a disembodied whisper.”

Here are six of my favorite ghost stories from our national parks. Happy Halloween.

Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

The Wailing Woman and John Wesley Powell

Roughly 900 people have died within Grand Canyon’s boundaries since the 1800s, including those in the tragic 1956 plane crash that killed 128. So you can imagine a ghost or two milling around here. Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff is a naturalist who has been hiking in the canyon for 50 years and knows all such stories. She’s even had a couple of experiences that she’s not sure have logical explanations.

Once, while backpacking deep in the backcountry inside the park, she and a friend heard footsteps outside their tent, even though there were no other hikers around. Another time, after joining a gathering inside the Shrine of the Ages multi-purpose building on the rim, she and a ranger, hanging out alone, heard music playing in another room. But when they looked, they found no one.

“We got out of there,” Woodruff says. “I wasn’t going to check it out any further.”

The most prevalent ghost story in the Grand Canyon, according to is that of a young woman who traveled there with her husband and son shortly after the Grand Canyon Lodge was built in 1928. The husband and son went for a hike on the Transept Trail, which travels from the lodge to the North Rim Campground, while the mother stayed behind. The father and son were caught in a storm, lost their footing, and fell to their deaths along the trail. The mother, dressed in a white dress with blue flowers, searched the trail when they didn’t return to the lodge, and eventually, upon learning that her son and husband had perished, ended her own life in the lodge.

Some visitors have reported hearing the sounds of a crying woman along the Transept Trail, while others say they’ve actually seen her ghost, dressed in a white dress with blue flowers. The Grand Canyon Lodge burned to the ground in 1932, and some witnesses reported seeing a woman’s face in the flames, according to Haunted Hikes: Spine Tingling Tales from North America’s National Parks.

Some science-minded folks are quick to point out that mountain lions make noises that sound like a woman screaming, but these people are no fun and shouldn’t be invited to your campfire.

Grand Canyon Spooky Hike: Phantom Ranch

You could hunt for the weeping woman along the Transept Trail, a three-mile jaunt between the Grand Canyon Lodge and the North Rim Campground. Or consider something more adventurous, like looking for the ghost of John Wesley Powell deep in the belly of the canyon at Phantom Ranch. The 101-year-old ranch, built on a plateau just above the river, consists of a handful of cabins and bunkhouses surrounding a larger lodge. Stones from Bright Angel Creek were used as pillars for the buildings, which blend in with the surrounding cottonwoods, and are classic “parkitecture.”

But people gathered on this plateau for centuries before the park was established. When John Wesley Powell voyaged through the Grand Canyon by boat in 1869, his expedition rested in this very spot, at the base of stone huts built by ancient Puebloans. Powell was a one-armed Civil War hero whose Grand Canyon expeditions helped fill in the last unknown swaths of the American West. He did not meet his end there, but supposedly his ghost still haunts the Phantom Ranch and nearby Phantom Creek.

Woodruff knows another ghost story surrounding Phantom Ranch: “Apparently, there’s a red-headed woman who comes up to people near the ranch and says, ‘I don’t know how to get out of here!’ and then she vanishes,” Woodruff says.

Hike the 7.5-mile descent from the South Rim on the to Phantom Ranch, passing some big overlooks (Ooh Aah Point and Skeleton Point). The dorm rooms at Phantom Ranch are closed through 2023, but the Phantom Ranch Canteen is open from 8 A.M. to 8 P.M. for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. You can’t camp at Phantom Ranch, but is .5 miles away.

Great Smoky Mountains, North Carolina and Tennessee

Floating Orbs

ÌęThe 500,000-acre Great Smoky Mountains National Park was established in 1940, protecting one of the most biodiverse landscapes in the world. The mountains inside the park had been inhabited for centuries, by the native Cherokee and later by farmers and families who lived and worked in small mill towns tucked into the valleys. Thousands of people had to leave their homes when the park was created. The remnants of those communities, from churches to homesites to family cemeteries, can still be found inside the boundaries of the park. And whenever human history intersects with remote wilderness, you have a recipe for scaring
well, me, at least.

One of the coolest phenomenons—lights that defy a definitive scientific explanation—predate the park designation. The are bright, flashing lights that emanate from the undeveloped ridges of the Thomas Divide Ridge, deep inside the park. You can see them to this day from the Thomas Divide Overlook, at mile marker 464 on the Blue Ridge Parkway, while centuries ago the Cherokee saw the lights and considered them to be spirits of their ancestors.

Scientists have researched the phenomenon, guessing that they’re electric charges from the granite deposits in the mountains, or perhaps some sort of biogas release, but there’s no definitive answer. Similar mysterious lights can be seen in other spots throughout the world, including the Brown Mountain Lights in nearby Pisgah National Forest.

Steven Reinhold, owner of the guiding service , remembers seeing the lights when he was growing up near the Thomas Divide Ridge. “The lights would appear, and sometimes they’d float up into the air, sometimes they’d sink to the valley, sometimes they’d flash
they didn’t seem to have any rhyme or reason,” Reinhold says. “But there are quite a few different lights in this area. Maybe it’s balls of methane gas, or maybe it’s ball lightning, or maybe there’s something supernatural. Some people believe this whole area’s mystical.”

The park is also supposedly home to a friendly ghost. Legend has it that before the park was established, a young girl from a local settlement got lost in the woods in the area that later, when dammed, became Lake Fontana. Her father went looking for his daughter but died during the search. According to lore, his spirit appears in the form of a glowing light along the north shore of Lake Fontana, guiding lost hikers back to safety.

That section of the park is home to a number of abandoned communities and cemeteries. I explored it on my visit 15 years ago, even camping near one of the cemeteries and exploring some of the buildings that still stand deep inside the park. I never saw any floating lights, thankfully—given, already, the juxtaposition of historic ruins with gravesites and thick, overgrown forest.

Great Smoky Mountains Spooky Hike: The Noland Creek Trail

You can try to see the ghost of the settler yourself by hiking the Noland Creek Trail, where hikers have reported seeing a floating light as held by the long-ago father. Pick up the trail on the north shore of Lake Fontana, at the end of Lakeview Drive, and hike six miles into the park on an old road bed. Up the ante by spending the night at one of the located off the trail near the abandoned communities and cemeteries ($8 per night, reservations required).

Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky

Underground Ghosts

Mammoth Cave is the largest known cave system in the world, with 426 miles of mapped terrain. Artifacts found inside the cave suggest people have been exploring Mammoth for thousands of years, and yet scientists are still discovering new passageways and underground rooms. The cave became a national park in 1941. Before that it was a saltpeter mine during the War of 1812; then it was a privately owned tourist attraction; and it even served a brief stint as a tuberculosis clinic, with patients living underground for months at a time. A couple of the tuberculosis-patients’ cabins still stand inside the cave.

Cavers exploring the underground channels in the 1800s and early 1900s found mummified remains of Native Americans that dated back to 445 B.C. Also in the early 1800s, Stephen Bishop, an enslaved guide and explorer, discovered a species of blind albino fish inside the cave. Other scientists have found shark-teeth fossils.

Throughout modern history, visitors have reported ghostly apparitions according to Scary Stories of Mammoth Cave. Some have described the ghost of Floyd Collins, a caver who discovered many of the rooms that visitors now explore, but was trapped by a rock inside the cave in 1925. Collins died after two weeks stuck while other cavers mounted unsuccessful rescue attempts. Some say his ghost keeps cavers from getting lost or injured in the system.

Other visitors have reported hearing coughing from the TB cabins, or being shoved even though no one was near. One ranger wrote in the same book that several people say they have seen a ghostly figure standing on a rock in a room called Chief City, and that the man wore a distinctive hat with a drooping brim that was common among early guides and explorers.

“Other guides have mentioned seeing things, but it’s not something we talk about because we like to stick to facts,” says Autumn Bennett, who has been guiding tours throughout Mammoth Cave since 2003. She’s never experienced anything supernatural herself, but understands how people’s imaginations might get the best of them: “Mammoth Cave has been described as grand, gloomy, and peculiar. It’s dark and unfamiliar.”

Mammoth Cave Spooky Hike: Violet City Lantern Tour

More than a dozen different ranger-led tours will take you into the belly of the cave, but the ($25 per person) is the spookiest because it travels exclusively by lantern light.

“It’s a dynamic light,” Bennett says. “It moves, follows you, and gives you way more shadows. You really get to understand how easy it is to get carried away with just a lantern light and darkness around you.” Not only is the light spooky, but the three-hour tour traverses large rooms where the tuberculosis clinic was housed. You’ll even see the two remaining stone huts.

Death Valley National Park, California

Mystery Stones and a Ghost Who Was Hanged Twice

Death Valley is weird. Never mind its name, extreme temperatures, and vast expanses of desert—there are also stones that move on their own. At the , a dry lake bed between the Cottonwood and Last Chance ranges, stones large and small slide across the valley floor, leaving trails in the sand. Scientists researched the phenomenon for decades without finding a logical explanation. Ten years ago, while using GPS and weather-monitoring equipment, researchers developed a theory that a combination of ice, sunlight, rain, and high winds creates a scenario where the stones could feasibly be pushed across the firm but muddy surface of the former lake.

Beyond that, the park and surrounding area have more than their share of ghost towns. One is Panamint, which was founded by outlaws who struck silver while hiding out from law enforcement. They gave up their criminal ways, mined silver, and established the town, though it was eventually destroyed by a flash flood in 1876. Ruins of some buildings and mines still stand in the hills.

Another is Skidoo, where in 1908 “Hooch” Simpson was hanged twice—once for killing a banker, and a second time, in a staged event after he died, so that newspaper photographers could document it. According to , the townspeople actually dug Hooch up for the second hanging. By most accounts, Hooch was a fairly respectable businessman, but he was convicted of murder after shooting the popular banker and stealing $20.

After the second hanging, the town doctor cut Hooch’s head off, apparently looking for signs of syphilis (brain involvement is often an indicator), which might seem to explain his erratic behavior. The headless ghost of Hooch Simpson supposedly still wanders the area that was once Skidoo, looking for his noggin.

Just outside of the park, on BLM land, are the ruins of the town of Rhyolite, which was home to 10,000 people in its heyday in the early 1900s. You can wander the streets where several buildings still stand. The Goldwell Open Air Museum, next to the skeletal buildings of Rhyolite Ghost Town, is a large-scale sculpture installation created by a group of Belgian artists that’s complete with ghostly figures wearing white cloaks.

Not creepy enough? How about the town of , where the historic cemetery is filled with victims of a local fire from 1911 and a pneumonia outbreak from 1905, their graves marked with weathered wooden tombstones? Or consider that the ghost of George “Devil” Davis, owner of the local saloon and popular local character who was shot by his wife while he was playing craps, still haunts Tonopah, playing pranks on visitors.

Death Valley Spooky Hike: The Ghost Town of Skidoo

OK, this isn’t actually a hike; it’s a scenic drive on the well-graded gravel that you can pick up off the paved Emigrant Canyon Road. But after driving or mountain-biking the eight miles to the town site, you can hike around the area, finding remnants of the town such as broken bottles and tin cans. The remains of the old stamp mill, where ore was crushed to extract gold, stick up on the hillside. There are roughly 1,000 mines in the hills surrounding the ghost town. (Don’t go in the mines, and as a matter of practice leave everything as you find it, even if you think it’s trash.)

Indiana Dunes National Park, Indiana

Diana of the Dunes

One of the newest units in the national park system, protects 15 miles of coastline butting up against Lake Michigan’s icy waters. It’s a landscape full of beaches, tall dunes, and sandy hiking trails
with a woman ghost who stalks the dunes at night. The place being a Midwestern park, the ghost is by all accounts pretty damn polite.

Alice Mabel Gray, aka Diana of the Dunes, lived by herself in a shack for almost a decade in the early 1900s in the area that is now the national park. Gray had studied at the nearby University of Chicago and worked for the U.S. Naval Observatory after graduating, but chose to eschew modern life for a solitary existence in the dunes, hunting: When she moved to the dunes, she only brought a blanket, cup, knife, and gun. She was also fond of swimming naked in Lake Michigan.

Word got out, and journalists began documenting Gray’s alternative lifestyle, dubbing her “Diana of the Dunes,” after the Roman goddess of the hunt. Gray was an advocate for protecting the dunes, even writing op-eds in local newspapers. She lived in the dunes throughout her adult life, pairing with a man named Paul Wilson (who by most accounts was a violent individual suspected of murder at one point) and having two children. According to the park service, Gray died in her home within the dunes after giving birth to her second child.

Diana’s ghost is less frightening than peculiar; hikers and beachgoers have reported seeing a nude woman running along the sands disappearing into the frothy waters of Lake Michigan. She doesn’t bother anyone. She minds her own business, frolicking and enjoying her natural surroundings, much like Gray did.

“This is my favorite ghost story from a national park,” says Cassie Yahian, of National Parks After Dark. “So often haunted locations are that way because of traumatic, violent events, but Diana’s story is quite the opposite. The way she lived her life inspired so many and cemented her place in local legend. Her spirit is said to still roam the dunes that she so cherished in life.”

Indiana Dunes Spooky Hike: Diana’s Dare

The park has embraced the legend of Alice Mabel Gray and even named a hiking loop after her. ,1.5 miles, takes you from West Beach, on the edge of Lake Michigan, up a series of steps through sandy pine forest to the top of Diana’s Dune. From it you can see downtown Chicago, more than 30 miles away. If you want to have the best chance of seeing the ghost of Diana running for the water, I’d say hike the trail at night.

Chickamauga and Chattanooga National Military Park, Tennessee

Civil War Ghosts

The American South is fraught with historic battlefields from the Civil War. I grew up at the base of Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park and as a kid would find bullets while digging around in my backyard. protects the battlefields surrounding the city of Chattanooga, where one of the war’s last key battles was fought, over possession of the city, seen by Abraham Lincoln as the gateway to the deep South. Bloody battles raged throughout the fall of 1863 along the banks of the Tennessee River, in pastoral valleys, and on the flanks of Lookout Mountain, a long, craggy ridge overlooking the city.

As you might imagine with that sort of tumultuous history, Chattanooga and the surrounding landscape are full of ghost stories. Amy Petula, owner of , knows them all.

“I didn’t believe in ghosts when I started these tours,” Petula says. “I just thought the stories were a fun way to teach people history. But we’ve had so many things happen on our tours, I definitely think there’s something to the stories now.”

Petula says she’s personally experienced something inexplicable while touring the Raccoon Mountain Caverns, a 5.5-mile-long cave system at the base of Lookout Mountain. “It was just a few of us, 200 feet underground, in complete darkness, and I saw this faint glowing light behind a girl in our group. It got brighter and started flashing, and then that girl felt something touch her,” Petula says. “It wasn’t a flashlight. It wasn’t another member of our group. Maybe it was a weird cave gas, or something else. I don’t know.”

Petula says there are stories about a mythical cat that stalks the woods near the battlefields at night, and tales of entire battalions of Confederate soldier ghosts roaming the military park. There’s the “Lady in White,” a specter wearing a white dress searching for her fiancĂ©, a soldier who died in the battle. The stories have gotten so prevalent that park management discourages people from exploring the park after dark in an attempt to dissuade ghost hunters from damaging the historic sites.

The best-known ghost story is about “Old Green Eyes,” a pair of glowing green eyes that harass travelers making their way through the park at night. Sightings date back at least to the Civil War, according to the . Some say the glowing eyes belong to the ghost of a soldier who lost his head to cannon fire during the battle of Chickamauga. Other people insist it’s a mythical cryptid creature similar to Bigfoot. Or maybe Old Green Eyes is also the ghost cat that stalks the woods. Or maybe he or she is a deer standing in the woods whose eyes only look like they’re glowing. Most of the sightings occur near Snodgrass Hill, where some of the most deadly fighting occurred.

Chickamauga Spooky Hike: Snodgrass Cabin

The battlefield has 50 miles of hiking trails to explore, including 30 miles of mountainous terrain on Lookout Mountain. If you want to walk through history, hike through the heart of , piecing together a series of short trails to form a big, 14-mile loop around the entire area that takes in gravesites, monuments, old farms, and historic cabins, including Snodgrass Cabin, which was used as a battlefield hospital for both Union and Confederate soldiers. If you’re not up for the full 14 miles, you can put together a shorter, two-mile loop around the cabin.The Snodgrass homesite is where the majority of Old Green Eyes sightings occur.

Looking over your shoulder yet?

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national parks columnist. He loves stories of ghosts and goblins and has even spent a couple of nights in the woods looking for Bigfoot. He’ll continue to believe all of these stories are real because life is more fun that way.

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There’s nothing better than rolling up to an incredible panorama in one of our storied national parks. The following views, of high-desert mesas, moss-cloaked redwoods, vast mountain ranges, and more, have something to stoke the inner wonder of just about everyone.

I’ve visited every national park in America, and some the most awe-inspiring experiences in each are the stunning overlooks. So I’ve selected a list of my favorite vistas in all 63 parks, with a keen eye for easy access and geological diversity. Of course, I threw in a couple of leg-busting treks and arm-churning paddles for those among us who like to sweat to earn their views, too.

Acadia National Park, Maine

Cadillac Mountain Summit

When a national park institutes a vehicle-reservation system, it can feel like a giant red flag to head elsewhere in search of solitude. Not so with Acadia’s famed Cadillac Mountain, which can get quite crowded. From October through early March, this granite dome receives the first rays of sun in the continental U.S., and view-seeking visitors can gaze out at a smattering of wooded islets dotting Frenchman Bay as the sky lights up in hues of rose and coral.

Best Way to Reach This View: Don a headlamp for the predawn pedal 3.5 miles up to the 1,530-foot summit. Or hike the 2.2-mile (one-way) Cadillac North Ridge Trail, with an elevation gain of approximately 1,100 feet. For a hiking route up the North Ridge Trail, check out .

Arches National Park, Utah

Fiery Furnace Overlook

The next time you’re in Arches National Park, skip the masses at Delicate Arch and instead drive west to the labyrinth of striated red-rock pinnacles at Fiery Furnace, a scenic pullout that overlooks Utah’s La Sal Mountains. Serious hikers who want to get up close and personal with this vermillion jumble of rock need to nab a day-hiking permit ($10), or vie for the very popular ranger-guided tour ($16), bookable a week in advance.

Best Way to Reach This View: Motor the 14 miles north from the entrance station and follow the signs to the viewpoint. For a hiking route of the Fiery Furnace Loop—a valuable resource, as the Park Service warns visitors of the dangers of getting lost in the landscape—check out .

Badlands National Park, South Dakota

Big Badlands Overlook

Take a morning to enjoy a drive on Badlands Loop Road via the park’s northeast entrance and pull off at the first signed viewpoint, Big Badlands Overlook, for a sweeping panorama of the eastern portion of the park’s Wall Formation. Geology enthusiasts will marvel at the clay-colored stripes of the Oligocene-era Brule Formation and the charcoal gray of the Eocene-era Chadron Formation.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the town of Wall, take Highway 90 southeast for 20 miles, then turn south on Route 240 and continue for another five miles. The overlook is located just past the northeast entrance station.

Big Bend National Park, Texas

South Rim Viewpoint

Big Bend is a park that defies Texas landscape conventions, encompassing the verdant Chisos Mountains as they rise over 7,000 feet from the Chihuahuan Desert below, and the South Rim Trail is the best way to experience the majestic scenery. The southern tip of this 12.9-mile loop is where the viewpoint lies, with a vista of sprawling arid hilltops that spill into northern Mexico.

Best Way to Reach This View: Start at the Chisos Basin Visitor Center. At the fork, head either southwest toward Laguna Meadows or southeast toward the Pinnacles (the steeper pick). Expect an elevation gain of 3,500 feet and about six and a half hours to finish the entire thing. For a hiking route of the South Rim Trail, check out .

Biscayne Bay National Park, Florida

Boca Chita Key Lighthouse

One of the most scenic keys, Boca Chita is also one of the most interesting, home to a fascinating history of lavish parties thrown by wealthy entrepreneurs in the early 1900s. Legend has it that an elephant was once brought to the island for a wild soiree. These days the raucous festivities have died down, but the 65-foot lighthouse and its observation deck still offer a pretty swell view of shimmering Biscayne Bay, mangrove-lined lagoons, and the hazy Miami skyline.

Best Way to Reach This View: Book a guided boat trip with the Biscayne National Park Institute for an expert-led journey through the keys, with a stop at Boca Chita. Call in advance to find out whether a Park Service employee will be around to open the observation deck.

Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, Colorado

Painted Wall Overlook

If you make it to Black Canyon and don’t want to dirty your hands on the 1,800-foot scramble down into the maw of its craggy cliffs, make a beeline for Painted Wall Overlook, which peers out at the tallest cliff in the state (a whopping 2,250 feet from river to rim). If you’re lucky, you might even spot a few intrepid climbers scaling the face of dark gneiss and rose-tinted pegmatite.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the South Rim Campground, drive or bike five miles north on Rim Drive Road (closed November through April) until you reach the parking lot for the overlook; from there it’s a five-minute walk.

Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah

Sunrise Point

With its many-layered view of crumbling Technicolor hoodoos and a singular limber pine tree with roots akimbo, Sunrise Point is a fantastic place to start a day in Bryce Canyon. From here, you’re at a fantastic jumping-off point for exploring the rust-colored sandstone of Bryce’s namesake amphitheater via the Queen’s Garden Trail.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the park’s visitor center, it’s just 1.2 miles to the Sunrise Point parking lot. The walk to the lookout is another half-mile farther and is both pet- and wheelchair-friendly.

Canyonlands National Park, Utah

Grand View Point

There’s a little something for everyone in this area of the park (Island in the Sky), whether you’re simply craving thoughtful moments gazing at the panorama at Grand View Point, or want to immerse yourself even more amid the natural surrounds with a mile-long cliffside stroll to a second viewpoint (Grand View Point Overlook) with even more jaw-dropping scenery, followed by class-two scramble if you’re so inclined. Whichever you choose, you’ll be wowed by the amber and crimson mesa tops of the Canyonlands as you gaze down at White Rim Road and the churning Colorado River.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the Island in the Sky Visitor Center, head 12 miles to the end of Grand View Point Road for the initial viewpoint. It’s an easy amble to the second viewpoint, though unpaved.

Capitol Reef National Park, Utah

Panorama Point Overlook

Easily overlooked in favor of crowd-pleasing hikes to Chimney Rock and Cassidy Arch, Panorama Point is at its viewpoint best when the sun starts to set and the stars twinkle into being. The highlight is the cathedral-like red-rock towers that comprise the park’s famous Waterpocket Fold Formation, a 100-mile-long wrinkle in the earth’s crust.

Best Way to Reach This View: Panorama Point is a mere 2.5 miles west of the Capitol Reef Visitor Center. From its parking lot, it’s just 0.1 mile to the viewing area.

Carlsbad Caverns National Park, New Mexico

Temple of the Sun

It’s tough to pick the most notable view in a cave-centric park that actor Will Rogers once called “the Grand Canyon with a roof over it,” but Carlsbad Cavern’s Temple of the Sun, with its mushroom-like stalagmite surrounded by thousands of spindly stalactites, takes the cake. Accessible via a ranger-led tour or a self-guided jaunt along the wheelchair-friendly Big Room Trail, these miraculous natural limestone sculptures are a bucket-list-worthy detour on any road trip.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the natural entrance, it’s 1.25 descent to the Big Room via a paved pathway. Alternatively, you can drop deep into the cavern via an elevator, and then make our way to the Temple of the Sun.

Channel Islands National Park, California

Inspiration Point

In spring, tiny Anacapa Island bursts into bloom, and Inspiration Point is the best place for photographers and flower aficionados to admire the display of brilliant orange poppies, pale island morning glories, and canary-yellow sunflowers. Because the point faces west, head up to see the sun dip into the Pacific.

Best Way to Reach This View: Book a day trip to the islands with Island Packers, keeping an eye out for migrating gray whales en route. Inspiration Point is located at the halfway point of its namesake 1.5 mile loop, a flat route that begins at the Anacapa Visitor Center.

Congaree National Park, South Carolina

Weston Lake Overlook

Years ago, we named Congaree’s Boardwalk Loop Trail one of the best wheelchair-accessible hikes in America, and Weston Lake Overlook is a phenomenal place to soak up the park’s shady expanse of old-growth hardwood forest. It’s also a great spot to birdwatch–keep your eyes peeled for the prothonotary warbler, American woodcock, and red-headed woodpecker.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the Sims Trail, branch off on the 4.4-mile Weston Lake Trail (marked by yellow blazes) and continue 2.4 miles along the wooden planks to the lookout.

Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

Watchman Overlook

Featuring one of the most spectacular views of Wizard Island, a volcanic cinder cone at the western end of Crater Lake, Watchman Overlook and its eponymous observation station are must-see sites on any trip to this southern Oregon park. Look out for lilac-tinted phlox and delicate yellow buckwheat blossoms in the summertime. When you reach the summit, it’s everything you’d hope for: a 360-degree view of the deep sapphire tarn.

Best Way to Reach This View: Head out from the Watchman Overlook parking lot. You’ll ascend 413 feet to the observation station and encounter a series of switchbacks near the top. The 1.6-mile out-and-back takes about an hour to complete.

Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

Brandywine Falls

Tucked away between the urban centers of Cleveland and Akron, Cuyahoga Valley is a locally renowned national park full of lichen-splotched sandstone ledges, riverside biking paths, and picturesque waterfalls, of which Brandywine Falls is the most famous. Fall is a spectacular time to visit, when the 60-foot-tall cascade is surrounded by a fiery collage of foliage. Hikers who want more of an outing can stretch their legs on the 1.5-mile Brandywine Gorge Loop to take in bright red sugar maples against the smoke-hued ravine.

Best Way to Reach This View: Though there is a designated parking lot for the falls, it’s often full, so plan to arrive before 10 A.M. or after 4 P.M. for a spot. From there, the upper viewing point is just a few hundred feet away via a boardwalk trail.

Death Valley National Park, California and Nevada

Zabriskie Point

Catching the sunrise at Zabriskie Point is the stuff of photographers’ dreams. Undulating ripples of golden and umber badlands stretch out all the way to Badwater Basin, a staggering 282 feet below sea level. In the distance, 11,049-foot Telescope Peak (the highest in the park) rises like an apparition as the morning’s first rays paint the summit of Manly Beacon in honeyed tones.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the Furnace Creek Visitor Center, within the park, drive five miles south on Highway 190 to the viewpoint.

Denali National Park and Preserve, Alaska

Wonder Lake

With only one byway through its 4,740,091-acre wilderness, Denali is a place where it pays to spend a little extra time exploring. Wonder Lake is about as close as you can get to the High One (as Native tribes refer to North America’s tallest peak) without donning a pack and making that arduous trek, and it’s the best spot to nab a photo of Denali reflected in a pool of mirror-clear water. Pro tip: Plan ahead and book a campsite at Wonder Lake Campground to enjoy dreamy morning vistas and evening ranger programs.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the park entrance, drive 85 miles west along the 92.5-mile-long Park Road.

Dry Tortugas National Park, Florida

Fort Jefferson Rooftop View

An enormous structure built with 16 million bricks, Fort Jefferson was a key defensive structure during the Civil War, used to protect Union shipments heading to and from the Mississippi River. Nowadays it’s the defining feature of Dry Tortugas National Park. From its cannon-dotted rooftop, you can spot shallow reef systems and admire the sandy beaches and endless aquamarine ocean.

Best Way to Reach This View: Take the daily from Key West to Garden Key, home to Fort Jefferson; entrance to the fort is included in the price of your ferry ticket (from $200). Head up to the uppermost tier during a guided ranger tour or on your own.

Everglades National Park, Florida

Anhinga Trail Covered Observation Deck

In a mostly flat park full of sawgrass slough, slow-moving brackish water, and tangles of mangrove trees, choosing a memorable view in the Everglades is a tricky task. Wildlife is the real showstopper, and along the Anhinga Trail, animal-savvy guests have a high chance of spotting purple gallinules, great blue herons, nesting anhingas, and the park’s most notorious resident—the alligator. Take a break in the shaded observation deck (and don’t forget the binoculars).

Best Way to Reach This View: The 0.8-mile (round trip) paved Anhinga Trail starts and ends at the Royal Palm Visitor Center. It is wheelchair accessible.

Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, Alaska

Aquarius Lake 1, Arrigetch Valley

Rising out of the treeless tundra, the towering granite fins of the Arrigetch Peaks, in northern Alaska, look more like gods than monoliths. It’s a view worthy of the arduous journey to get to these reaches of the park, an area sometimes called the Yosemite of Alaska. The experts at Alaska Alpine șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs offer guided trips (from $6,000), or if you’re fine seeing the razor-sharp summits from a plane window, Brooks Range Aviation (from $785) can arrange flightseeing tours.

Best Way to Reach This View: Visitors headed to the Arrigetch Peaks will do so via bush plane, landing on a gravel riverbank. Then it’s an eight-mile hike to set up camp in the valley below the peaks.

Gateway Arch National Park, Missouri

Luther Ely Smith Square

Gateway Arch is a park rife with human history, from the once massive Native city of Cahokia to the famed Dred Scott court case, which hastened the Civil War when the Supreme Court judged that no Black people were entitled to citizenship. The best vantage point from which to take it all in is Luther Ely Smith Square, which, in addition to boasting a sky-high view of the iconic chrome arch, overlooks the historic Old Courthouse.

Best Way to Reach This View: The square, a downtown St. Louis greenspace, is located between the Old Courthouse and the Mississippi River.

Glacier Bay National Park, Alaska

Margerie Glacier

Flip through any traveler’s photos from Glacier Bay, and you’re likely to see snaps of the icy, serrated teeth of the Margerie Glacier, dramatically calving into the Tarr Inlet from the Fairweather Mountain Range. Stay on the lookout for harbor seals and playful sea otters on recently separated icebergs.

Best Way to Reach This View: Book a ($262.44) for the best access to this rapidly changing river of ice.

Glacier National Park, Montana

Swiftcurrent Lake

The Many Glacier area of Glacier National Park is such a coveted road-trip stop that the Park Service instituted a new vehicle-reservation system for it this year. The most striking panorama of Grinnell Point, Mount Wilbur, and Angel Wing—all visible from the —is worth any extra entry-permit effort.

Best Way to Reach This View: Lace up your boots for an easy 2.7-mile hike that circumnavigates the lake. Better yet, book a room at Many Glacier Hotel so you’ll have the view all to yourself when the day crowds disperse.

Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona

Desert View Point

Sure, Mather Point steals most of the attention when it comes to the Grand Canyon’s South Rim, but I prefer Desert View, near the park’s eastern boundary, for its peaceful campground and dearth of visitors. Plus, the site’s famous watchtower, designed by Parkitecture maven Mary Colter, was inspired by the Ancestral Puebloan peoples of the Colorado Plateau, and it makes a fantastic focal point when snapping photos of “the big ditch.”

Best Way to Reach This View: For the most scenic route, head 23 miles east along Desert View Drive from Grand Canyon Village.

Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Jenny Lake Overlook

Go early to skip the Grand Teton’s throngs and park at Jenny Lake Overlook to admire second-to-none views of craggy Cascade Canyon and the razor-like protrusions of igneous granite that rise sharply from its depths. From here, visitors can take in the sheer enormity of the Teton Crest, with outstanding photo ops of Mount Moran and Teewinot Mountain. If you’re up for a hike, try the seven-mile Jenny Lake Loop, which offers even more epic lake scenery, as well as potential sightings of moose and bald eagles.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the town of Moose, within the park, head nine miles north on Teton Park Road to the lake.

Great Basin National Park, Nevada

Mather Overlook

Nearly every national park has a Mather Overlook, named after the first director of the National Park Service, and at Great Basin, in eastern Nevada, his namesake viewpoint offers a grand perspective of 13,000-foot Wheeler Peak, the second highest in the state. Flanked by ancient bristlecone pines, which can live up to 5,000 years, the mountain is split dramatically in two, with the breathtaking Wheeler Cirque crumbling into a sepia-stained bowl beneath the prominent summit.

Best Way to Reach This View: This is an overlook that can only be accessed between June and late October due to hazardous conditions that close roads in winter. From the eastern park entrance, head west along the 12-mile Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive. A pullout for the overlook is about halfway.

Great Sand Dunes National Park, Colorado

High Dune on First Ridge

Though it’s the most popular day-hiking objective at Great Sand Dunes, in southeastern Colorado, the trek up to High Dune is sure to leave even the most seasoned hiker huffing and puffing. With a lofty elevation of over 8,000 feet, and the effort required to plod uphill against the drag of sand, be prepared for burning calves and bring plenty of water for the 2.5-mile slog to the summit. The view from the top is truly spectacular, however, with awesome sights to theÌę towering Sangre de Cristo Mountains–home to ten fourteeners.

Best Way to Reach This View: There are no trails in the entire park, but you’ll see the High Dune from the main parking lot. Cross Medano Creek and then start making your way up to the top, logging an elevation gain of 700 feet. For most hikers, getting up and back takes two to four hours.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina and Tennessee

Charlies Bunion

The four-mile (one way) hike to Charlies Bunion is one of the most thrilling in Great Smoky Mountains, due to the sheer number of iconic sights along the way. You’ll be wowed by rolling, verdant mountains and wend through northern hardwood forests and past rhododendron shrubs before topping out at 5,565 feet.

Best Way to Reach This View: Park at Newfound Gap, on the Tennessee–North Carolina state line, then hitch a left onto the Appalachian Trail and proceed to the summit. For a hiking route up Charlies Bunion, check out .

Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Texas

Salt Basin Dunes

Ask any ranger in Guadalupe Mountains National Park where to watch the sun set over the “Top of Texas,” and they’ll tell you the remote Salt Basin Dunes, in the park’s northwestern corner. Made of bright white gypsum, this sandy expanse showcases the unbelievable prominence of conifer-topped Guadalupe Peak, once a sprawling coral reef when the Delaware Sea covered a large swath of America roughly 275 million years ago.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the Pine Springs Visitor Center, it’s a 47-mile drive to the Salt Basin Dunes parking area; from here, hike a mile and a half to reach the actual dunes.

Haleakala National Park, Hawaii

Puu Ula Ula Summit

Much like Acadia’s Cadillac Mountain, you’ll need a special timed reservation to take in the sunrise atop Haleakala’s 10,023-foot summit (reservable up to 60 days in advance), but after 7 A.M., day-use visitors can enjoy the show as well. From this incredible vantage point—the highest on Maui—you can enjoy top-down views of the huge, richly colored crater, as well as the Big Island if the weather’s clear.

Best Way to Reach This View: The drive to the top from the Summit District entrance takes up to three hours and sees a change in elevation of 3,000 feet, so get ready to rise early and be fully awake before you attempt the narrow, winding road.

Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, Hawaii

Kilauea Overlook

If you’re in Hawaii and eager to see some lava, head for this park’s Kilauea Overlook, located near the southern end of the Big Island. A hike will allow you to take in the dramatic aftermath of the site’s 2018 eruption and subsequent summit collapse, but if you’d rather not work up a sweat, park at the viewpoint’s lot at sunset and stand in awe of the otherworldly pink glow emanating from the bowels of the earth.

Best Way to Reach This View: Trek the flat, 2.5-mile (one way) Crater Rim Trail, which can be accessed from a handful of popular tourist spots along Crater Rim Drive.

Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas

Hot Springs Mountain Pavilion

Much of the joy of a visit to this national park is relaxing in the town’s historic Bathhouse Row. If, however, you’re willing to get in a bit of exercise on your spa-cation, there are some sincerely stellar views to be had of this quaint Ouachita Mountains community—and the hike to this pavilion is at the top of my list. (Many also buy a ticket and ride a 216-foot elevator to the top of Hot Springs Tower for expansive vistas of the surrounding Diamond Lakes area after reaching the initial viewpoint.)

Best Way to Reach This View: Take in the stately architecture of thermal-bath palaces on the Grand Promenade, then ascend the 0.6-mile Peak Trail, just off the promenade, until you reach the pavilion, which faces south.

Indiana Dunes National Park, Indiana

Lake View Beach

Right next to the park’s Century of Progress Homes, a gaggle of experimental houses left over from the 1933 World’s Fair in Chicago, is Lake View Beach, which gazes out from the southern tip of Lake Michigan. On a fair-weather day, visitors can make out the right angles of the Windy City’s high-rises, but at sunset, the sky turns to breathtaking shades of fuchsia and the waves crashing along the sandy shore feel more like an ocean than a Great Lake.

Best Way to Reach This View: It’s 55 miles from the center of Chicago to the town of Beverly Shores. Look for the parking area dedicated to the beach.

Isle Royale National Park, Michigan

Scoville Point

Named some of the best 100 miles of trail in the entire national park system by , the day hike to Scoville Point showcases this region’s boreal forest at its best. Not only does the path run parallel to the shoreline for near constant views of Lake Superior, it also boasts some striking scenery. Hunt for moose munching among stands of balsam fir, and at the end of the trek, feast your eyes on rocky islets dotted with conifers, a trademark of Isle Royale’s archipelago.

Best Way to Reach This View: Though there’s more than one way to arrive at the point via the Stoll Memorial Trail and then the Scoville Point Trail, the easier (and shaded) way is to amble adjacent to Tobin Harbor to the tip of the peninsula.

Joshua Tree National Park, California

Keys View

Named after the Keys family, who built and maintained one of the most successful homesteads in Southern California’s arid Joshua Tree desert, Keys View is a thrilling destination for road-tripping travelers who want to feel as though they’re standing at the edge of the known universe. A 500-foot, fully paved loop allows guests to savor a vista of the Little San Bernardino Mountains, Coachella Valley, and Salton Sea.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the Joshua Tree National Park Visitor Center, drive 21 miles south to the terminus of Keys View Road.

Katmai National Park, Alaska

Brooks Falls

Most travelers to Katmai National Park are there for one thing and one thing only—grizzly bear viewing—and the boardwalk overlook at Brooks Falls is perhaps the best spot in the U.S. to watch these 700-pound mammals fish. You won’t be disappointed.

Best Way to Reach This View: Following a brief, ranger-led bear orientation, take the 1.2-mile (round trip) Brooks Falls Trail to a wooden platform overlooking a roaring waterfall, which, if you’re lucky, will give you the experience you came for—ursine creatures hungrily snatching salmon from the air. For a hiking route to Brooks Falls, check out .

Kenai Fjords National Park, Alaska

Aialik Glacier

It takes effort to get out to Aialik Glacier (typically a two-hour boat ride, followed by three miles of kayaking), but along the way, you can search for wriggling sea otters, playful Dall’s porpoises, spouting humpback whales, and soaring bald eagles. Once face to face with this moving sheet of ice, the most rapidly calving in Kenai Fjords, paddlers have the opportunity to watch and listen for “white thunder,” the sound huge hunks of ice make when they crash into the sea.

Best Way to Reach This View: I used Kayak șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs Worldwide for my adventure to Aialik Glacier (from $489; trips available mid-May through early September), based in Seward. You’ll first take a water-taxi trip south to Aialik Bay, a fantastic way to spot all kinds of wildlife, before suiting up at a beach and sliding into your kayak. Expect to paddle for three hours.

Kings Canyon National Park, California

Evolution Lake

This one’s for all my backpacking brethren. As a predominately wilderness-designated area (meaning that trails can only be used for hiking and horseback riding, and human development is extremely minimal), Kings Canyon is a mecca for trekkers who’d rather don a pack for dozens of miles than motor around to car-friendly overlooks. The lake is a sparkling cobalt gem flanked by glacier-polished granite peaks. One thing’s for certain–you’ll find pristine solitude when you arrive.

Best Way to Reach This View: The lake can be accessed via the 211-mile John Muir Trail, a 36-mile loop departing from Bishop, or a pack-animal trip out of Muir Trail Ranch.

Kobuk Valley National Park, Alaska

Great Kobuk Sand Dunes

Kobuk Valley often rounds out the list of least-visited national parks, but there’s a small landing strip situated at the edge of its most noteworthy geological feature, the Great Kobuk Sand Dunes, that makes this far-out park accessible for anyone who can tolerate bush planes.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the small town of Kotzebue, hop onto a flightseeing day tour with Golden Eagle Outfitters, or splurge on a 12-day hiking and packrafting trip with Alaska Alpine șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs that starts and finishes in Fairbanks.

Lake Clark National Park, Alaska

Turquoise Lake

Flanked by 8,000-foot peaks and a colorful array of tundra plants like crowberry and reindeer lichen, Turquoise Lake is a quintessential example of an outrageously teal, glacially fed tarn. It’ll take a bit of extra effort to get there (compared to commercial-flight-accessible Port Alsworth), but expert guiding services offering kayaking and hiking trips will handle all the logistics for you, so you can relish the extraordinary ridges and ravines of the Alaska Range.

Best Way to Reach This View: There are no roads in the park. You’ll have to take a small plane in to reach the lake. We suggest going on an outfitted trip, again with .

Lassen Volcanic National Park, California

Cinder Cone Summit

After a hamstring-busting two-mile ascent to the top of Cinder Cone, in Northern California’s often overlooked Lassen Volcanic National Park, hikers have a chance to view one of the most eye-catching geological features in the entire park system. The aptly named Fantastic Lava Beds surround the park’s incredible painted dunes, a series of warm-toned hills of oxidized volcanic ash. Grab a site at Butte Lake Campground to revel in marvelous night skies, just a short jaunt from the trailhead.

Best Way to Reach This View: Take Highway 44 about 24 miles from the park’s northwest entrance to a six-mile dirt road that leads to the Butte Lake Day Use Area. Cinder Cone Trailhead is located near the boat ramp.

Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky

Drapery Room

Home to the longest known cave system in the world, Mammoth Cave, in central Kentucky, is not a park that’s typically recognized for its naturally sculpted cave formations (like those found in Carlsbad Caverns). However, guests who embark on the ranger-led Domes and Dripstones tour can witness remarkable stalactites and stalagmites, plus wavy drapery-style limestone formations that look like a canopy on a princess’s four-poster bed.

Best Way to Reach This View: You’ll have to sign up for a tour at the visitor center and be able to descend and climb back up a series of stairs.

Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado

Cliff Palace Overlook

No visit to Mesa Verde is complete without a trip to Cliff Palace Overlook, which offers a majestic view of the largest Ancestral Puebloan dwelling in the park. With over 150 rooms and 21 kivas (ceremonial spaces), this site was thought to be a vibrant gathering place with a population of roughly 100 people. You’ll see and learn about 800-year-old stone structures. Ranger-guided tours are also available for a closer glimpse of Ancestral Puebloan architecture.

Best Way to Reach This View: Head down Chapin Mesa to the six-mile Cliff Palace Loop and pull off at the designated parking area.

Mount Rainier National Park, Washington

Myrtle Falls

The imposing face of 14,410-foot Mount Rainier, the most glaciated peak in the lower 48, looms perfectly above the idyllic cascade of Myrtle Falls, creating a postcard-worthy photo op for passing hikers. Along the hike in, learn about the park’s remarkable wildflower displays and try to spot purple penstemon, crimson paintbrush, and porcelain bear grass from the path.

Best Way to Reach This View: Take a 0.8-mile stroll (round trip) along the Skyline Trail, located in the park’s popular Paradise area.

National Park of American Samoa, American Samoa

Pola Island Trail

Near the tiny village of Vatia, on the northern shore of Tutuila Island, the forested 0.1-mile Pola Island Trail boasts a jaw-dropping view with minimal effort. Park in the shade near a sign marking the well-worn, easy path, then hop over a boulder-strewn beach to soak up incomparable views of ragged Pacific coastline, swaying palm trees, and the craggy cliffs of Pola Island, one of the park’s most important nesting sites for seabirds like boobies and frigates.

Best Way to Reach This View: To reach the trailhead, drive past the last house at the end of the road in Vatia. The road then turns to dirt, and you’ll come upon a small parking area. You’ll see a sign for the short trail leading to the beach.

New River Gorge National Park, West Virginia

Long Point

Yes, you could drive up to New River Gorge’s namesake bridge for kickass views, but my favorite photo op of the famous roadway lies at the end of the 1.6-mile (one way) trail to Long Point. Not only will visitors here get to meander through a forest of hemlock, beech, and white oak, but they’ll also glean outstanding glimpses of rafters floating down the New if they time their outing just right.

Best Way to Reach This View: The Long Point Trailhead is off of Gateway Road, about two miles from the town of Fayetteville.

North Cascades National Park, Washington

Sahale Glacier Camp

One of the most memorable things about North Cascades (apart from its generally crowd-free hiking trails) is its plethora of hanging glaciers, strung between high alpine summits. The moderate 3.7-mile (one way) trek to Cascade Pass will wow you with sensational panoramas of granitic cliffs plunging into Pelton Basin, but for a real showstopper, plan an overnight backpacking trip and continue up the broad shoulder of Sahale Mountain, pitching a tent at Sahale Glacier Camp and enjoying its bird’s-eye view of the Triplets, Mount Baker, and Mount Shuksan.

Best Way to Reach This View: You’ll reach the starting point for the Cascade Pass Trailhead at the end of Cascade Pass Road. For a hiking route to Sahale Glacier Camp, check out .

Olympic National Park, Washington

Rialto Beach

Consult a tide chart before heading out, then motor over to Rialto Beach, on the northwestern shoreline of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. There you’ll find enormous driftwood logs, rocky sea stacks, and bold surfers braving the chilly Pacific Ocean. If you feel like stretching your legs, an easy three-mile (round trip) walk along the coast will bring you past tidepools crawling with life to Hole in the Wall, a volcanic outcropping with a natural arch that’s perfect for pictures.

Best Way to Reach This View: The beach is about 75 miles from Port Angeles. Once you reach Olympic, you’ll be on Highway 101, the road that goes around the park. Exit onto La Push Road and drive eight miles. Then turn onto Mora Road, and after about five miles you’ll find the parking lot for the beach.

Petrified Forest National Park, Arizona

Kachina Point

Though the park is best known for its logs of crystallized conifers, Petrified Forest is also home to some seriously colorful painted-desert hills. At Kachina Point, located just outside the 1930s-era Painted Desert Inn, the rich reds and tangerines of these undulating knolls are on full display. After a quick photo break, be sure to check out Hopi artist Fred Kabotie’s gorgeous murals on display inside the inn.

Best Way to Reach This View: The point is located about two miles from the north entrance of the park. Stroll on the accessible trail behind the Painted Desert Inn National Historic Landmark to the overlook.

Pinnacles National Park, California

Condor Gulch Overlook

Pinnacles is a funny little sleeper park that’s often overshadowed by California’s celebrity public lands like Joshua Tree and Yosemite, but anyone who’s ventured into the park’s golden breccia spires knows that they’re a worthy road-trip destination. Condor Gulch Overlook gives guests a chance to enjoy an up-close view of the park’s famous pinnacles on a well-worn, family-friendly path. Bring your binoculars and try to spot an endangered California condor.

Best Way to Reach This View: The overlook is one mile from the Bear Gulch Nature Center.

Redwood National Park, California

Tall Trees Grove

When in Redwoods, it’s necessary to make a pilgrimage to Tall Trees Grove, a stand of old-growth sempervirens that protect the tallest trees on earth. Don your hiking shoes for a 4.5-mile (round trip) moderate hike around a lush forest of mossy coastal redwoods that’ll have even the grinchiest people believing in fairies. The whole hike takes around four hours.

Best Way to Reach This View: First reserve a free for an access code to the area’s restricted road to the Tall Trees Trail. It’s an hour drive, parts of which are on a narrow and winding dirt road, from the park visitor center to the trailhead.

Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado

Mills Lake

On my first-ever trip to this national park, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű writer Brendan Leonard told me that if I only made it to one lake inside the park, it had to be Mills Lake, and boy, was he right. Start at the Glacier Gorge Trailhead and hike 2.6 miles—past rushing waterfalls and huge granite boulders—before dipping your toes into the frigid snowmelt of Mills Lake, which overlooks the dramatic northern crags of Longs Peak.

Best Way to Reach This View: Head south on Bear Lake Road for about eight miles and park at the Glacier Gorge Trailhead. Ascend the trail from there to Mills Lake. Arrange a vehicle reservation (or free park shuttle) if you’re traveling between May and October. For a hiking route to Mills Lake, check out .

Saguaro National Park, Arizona

Wasson Peak

When you’ve had enough of Saguaro’s thorny, many-armed cacti from the vantage point of your car window and you’re ready to get your heart rate up, head to the commanding summit of 4,688-foot Wasson Peak, the tallest in the park’s western section. Keep your eyes peeled for petroglyphs as you ascend past saguaro, ocotillo, and prickly pear cactus. Once you reach the top, give yourself a high five and look out across the urban breadth of Tucson all the way to the park’s eastern Rincon Mountain District.

Best Way to Reach This View: Park at the Kings Canyon Trailhead and then expect a strenuous four-mile hike (and nearly 2,000 feet of elevation gain) to the summit.

Sequoia National Park, California

Bearpaw Meadow

Bearpaw Meadow is one of those miraculous, only-in-the-parks vistas that dreams are made of, and getting there is an adventure all its own. You’ll be treated to soul-stirring views of the imposing granite domes and summits of the remote Sierra Nevada. Set up your tent at Bearpaw Meadow’s backcountry campground, or, if you’re feeling spendy, get a glamping tent and dinner at High Sierra Camp.

Best Way to Reach This View: From the park’s iconic Crescent Meadow area, which hosts a grove of towering old-growth sequoias, hike for 11.4 miles to Bearpaw Meadow along the High Sierra Trail, taking in inspiring views of Moro Rock, the powerful Kaweah River, and the Great Western Divide.

Shenandoah National Park, Virginia

Hazel Mountain Overlook

Rise before dawn and cruise along Shenandoah’s winding, 105-mile Skyline Drive to admire profound sunrise views from this east-facing overlook. An unusual outcropping of ancient granite makes the perfect ledge from which to enjoy Virginia’s rolling pastoral hillsides as the sky turns from apricot to bright blue.

Best Way to Reach This View: Enter the park at the Thornton Gap Entrance Station. The overlook is at mile 33 on Skyline Drive.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

River Bend Overlook

The large stone shelter at River Bend Overlook, in eastern North Dakota, makes for a picturesque family portrait, with a backdrop of shrub-speckled badlands and a U-shaped swerve in the serpentine Little Missouri River. It’s a vast and gorgeous view out onto the river valley.

Best Way to Reach This View: Enter the north unit of the park on Scenic Drive. The overlook is about eight miles in. Park and walk up a short trail to the viewing deck. For a closer look at the park’s iron-impregnated sandstone and wavering grasslands, hop onto the 0.8-mile Caprock Coulee Trail and saunter away from the automobile crowds.

Virgin Islands National Park, Virgin Islands

Cruz Bay Overlook

So much of Virgin Islands National Park, on the island of St. John, is about appreciating the scenery beneath the waves. But the Cruz Bay Overlook, on the moderate Lind Point Trail, is a great stopover between snorkeling trips. Pull off at the signed viewpoint for a commanding look at the boat traffic sailing to and from gorgeous Cruz Bay, the island’s main port. If you’re looking for a little more exercise, continue on to Solomon Beach for a secluded white-sand oasis.

Best Way to Reach This View: The Lind Point Trail starts just behind the park visitor center and ends at Honeymoon Bay or Solomon Bay. A spur off the trail leads to the Cruz Bay Overlook.

Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

Kabetogama Lake Overlook

Whether you’re just driving through Voyageurs or you’re renting a houseboat for the entire family, this wheelchair-accessible overlook on the edge of enormous Lake Kabetogama will provide a fantastic cross section of the area’s natural wonders. Tiny islets are freckled with boreal forest. White and red pines intersperse with fir and spruce trees. And the distant, mournful call of a loon can often be heard at dusk.

Best Way to Reach This View: It’s an easy 0.4-mile trail to reach the overlook. The trailhead is at the third parking area on Meadowood Drive near the Ash River Visitor Center.

White Sands National Park, New Mexico

Roadrunner Picnic Area

In the heart of White Sands, the Roadrunner Picnic Area offers guests a cozy resting place, surrounded by a vast expanse of glowing white gypsum dune fields. The site’s futuristic picnic tables, complete with corrugated metal awnings to protect against ferocious wind and sun, are a fabulous spot from which to enjoy and explore this New Mexico park as the sun sets beyond the Organ Mountains.

Best Way to Reach This View: The picnic area is located about six to seven miles on the main road from the fee station.

Wind Cave National Park, South Dakota

Rankin Ridge

The historic fire tower atop Rankin Ridge dates back to 1956, and though visitors are not permitted to climb it, it sits on the highest point in Wind Cave (5,013 feet) and makes for an excellent photo backdrop. You’ll look down at the park, which is home to some of the last preserved mixed-grass prairie in the country.

Best Way to Reach This View: From Custer, take Route 16A East for 6.5 miles and turn south on Highway 87. After 13 miles, look for an access road leading to the trailhead. It’s a short and easy half-mile hike through fragrant ponderosa pines to the top.

Wrangell–St. Elias National Park, Alaska

Root Glacier Trail

Brave the bumpy, winding McCarthy Road all the way to the once thriving mining community of McCarthy and cross the footbridge to get to Kennecott, a historic town that serves as the center for all things Wrangell–St. Elias, including the majestic trail along the colossal Root Glacier. Bring your bear spray and go it alone, or hire a guide to learn more about the site’s copper-mining past. Spoiler alert–you can also book a crunchy crampon trek atop the glacier. Either way, you’ll be treated to awesome views of Mount Donoho and the 6,000-foot-tall Stairway Icefall.

Best Way to Reach This View: The Root Glacier Trail starts in Kennecott, and about 1.5 miles in you’ll reach the glacier. If you plan to walk on the glacier, hire an experienced guide and wear crampons.

Yellowstone National Park, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming

Artist Point

Named for its proximity to a famous oil painting by 19th-century painter Thomas Moran, Artist Point is the most stunning place from which to gaze at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone and its mighty waterfall. That being said, it does get crowded in summer months. If you fancy a short hike with similarly epic vistas, amble along the signed trail to Point Sublime (2.6 miles round trip) for an even better glimpse of the canyon’s multicolored walls.

Best Way to Reach This View: For a hiking route to Artist Point, check out .

Yosemite National Park, California

Glacier Point

After a yearlong closure in 2022 for road rehabilitation, travelers can once again drive to Glacier Point and see the broad panoramas of Half Dome, Nevada Fall, and Mount Hoffman. Wander around the accessible, paved pathways near the gift shop or hitch a ride onto a portion of the Panorama Trail for a similar view, sans the crowds at this very popular park.

Best Way to Reach This View: Drive 13 miles on Wawona Road from Yosemite Valley, then turn onto Glacier Point Road at the Chinquapin intersection. Hikers: Start at the Four Mile Trailhead in Yosemite Valley. It’s a strenuous 9.6 mile (round trip) hike to the point.

Zion National Park, Utah

Canyon Overlook

Canyon Overlook, in Zion’s eastern section, is one of the most impressive low-effort, high-reward hikes in the country. The reward is a breathtaking view of the cathedral-like golden spires of Towers of the Virgin, in the park’s main canyon.

Best Way to Reach This View: Park near the tunnel on the eastern side of the Zion–Mount Carmel Highway, then take a series of stairs and sandstone slabs for a mere 0.5-miles (one way) until you reach the lookout on the edge of the cliffs.

As our 63 Parks columnist, Emily Pennington, visited and wrote about every single national park in the U.S. She’s also the author of the recent book Feral: Losing Myself and Finding My Way in America’s National Parks.

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This is The Offerman Files, where actor, humorist, , and Nick Offerman shares tales of wild creatures, gassy adventures, and hitting his brother in the face with a fish.

I recently recorded the of , the latest work of nonfiction by Wendell Berry, the 88-year-old farmer from Henry County, Kentucky, and acclaimed essayist, poet, and novelist. If you don’t know Berry, some of the central themes in his decades of writing—he has published fifty-odd books—are an awareness of the sanctity of manual labor, and a reverence for the land and the small farmers who are its best stewards. Reading him has long offered me a therapeutic shortcut past a lot of wasteful, distracting consumerism, and to the wisdom of agrarianism, as well as the importance of fidelity to one’s household and community.

Then came The Need to Be Whole, which, in purely technical terms, rocked my fucking socks off. Berry examines our nation’s foundational race problem, which led Americans to increasingly view farming as beneath them—the labor of enslaved people. That persistent ethos, that we should strive to avoid the “dirty” work, has destroyed rural culture, fueled industrial farms, and divided the country.

At this point, you might be thinking: Where’s my Offerman column? Didn’t he write about farting last time? Yes, but you don’t get farting without food, and you don’t get food without farming, and so it naturally follows that I tell you about Berry, whose writing has undoubtedly been the greatest influence on my own small life. When I was given a book of his short stories in my twenties, I was dumbstruck by the weight he placed on the simple values of work ethic, kindness, and humility. His characters felt one step removed from my own staunch family of farmers and public servants. I was so powerfully gripped, I wrote him a letter asking him to let me adapt one (or more) of his stories for the stage or screen. To my delight, he typed out a congenial reply: “I like you, and I like your letter, but I consider the whole of my writing to be an ongoing project, and, as such, I’m not interested in seeing anybody else’s take on it.” I kept trying, and he always replied the same way, expressing friendship first, then issuing an avuncular denial.

Meanwhile, I consumed damn near every word he wrote. One direct, positive effect was a shift in my approach to Hollywood. I gave up the gambling lifestyle of auditioning for commercials in the slim hope of scoring a windfall paycheck, and instead embraced the steadiness of carpentry so I could pay my rent while waiting to audition for actual acting roles. For a while, I laid off the adaptation idea, though I continued to write Berry, offering the service of my back and arms, my spade, and my hammer in exchange for some face time with the wizard on the farm where he’d lived and worked since giving up his professorship at the University of Kentucky in 1977. I was like an obsessed fan, really. But if he didn’t want me pursuing him, then he shouldn’t have worn those fetching overalls and carried around that cute hoe.

Twenty years went by without much forward movement beyond our occasional letters, when, in 2015, out of the blue, I was put in touch with the filmmaker Laura Dunn, who was directing a documentary about Berry. She was game to let me help out as a producer, which finally got me in touch with the Berry family—by telephone. This was monumental.

I daresay I persuaded Mary Berry, executive director of the Berry Center and gatekeeper to her parents, Wendell and Tanya, to conditionally approve of me and nominate me for a coveted talk-to-Daddy-on-a-Sunday-afternoon slot, so I could interview him for my 2016 book, Gumption. I had made it.

Or so I thought, because the man himself was apparently still ambivalent about an actor who was interested in promoting Wendell Berry books (good), yet who also worked in television (bad). But as has happened so many times in my life, carpentry came to the rescue. The Berrys’ son, Den, happened to be familiar with issue number 222 of Fine Woodworking magazine, which featured me and my slab-leveling router jig on the cover. He piped up to Dad that I was fair to middling with a chisel, which was all Dad needed to hear. And so I finally spent a Sunday with Wendell and Tanya on their porch, admiring a few lambs and engaging in some (mostly) wholesome chin-wagging, culminating in Wendell walking me down to the barn, and that is not a euphemism.

Since then I have participated in a couple of projects with the Berrys, including my fulsome support of , a Henry County–based business that distributes grass-fed beef from local farmers to regional suppliers. They even trusted me enough to record audiobook versions of two Berry essay collections: 2017’s and, arguably his greatest hit, 1977’s , which basically means that I did in fact realize my longtime dream of sharing his writing with a wider audience.

But as I sat to record the 500-plus pages of The Need to Be Whole—20 hours of narration in all—I soon became aware that I was not up to this new task. The book is lousy with patient thought, common sense, and fair reasoning, all the things that have made me such a devoted student of Berry’s work. And I’m just not good enough. The sentences are scholarly, and with many, it took me a couple of tries (or more) before I felt that I’d clearly conveyed their meaning. But even then I never felt like I delivered any of them perfectly. Son of a bitch. I’m a heavily experienced actor, versed in all sorts of comedy and drama, not to mention assorted audiobooks and other narration and voice-over challenges, but performing this particular material had me feeling defeated.

Still I carried on, because I knew that Berry would say writing makes him feel the same. A book necessarily contains flaws. As he has taught me, all we can do is step up to the plate and take our best swings, remaining open to the world and the puzzles it brings our way.

That’s certainly how he lives, as I witnessed firsthand in March 2016, when I was asked to give a speech introducing Berry on the occasion of his receiving the Ivan Sandrof Lifetime Achievement Award from the National Book Critics Circle in New York. I spoke a little too long, they gave him the thing, he offered some sagacious words of gratitude, and then we were a bit thronged for handshakes and photos, since there was nobody to whisk us away backstage. He lasted about five minutes before he leaned over and said, “You wanna get out of here and get some grub?” Somebody heroic got us a table down around Bleecker Street at a place called Hundred Acres.

It was maybe 10 P.M. as we strode toward the West Village. It was also Saint Patrick’s Day, so I was worried about my octogenarian companion, what with the uneven sidewalks and helter-skelter atmosphere that nightlife around Washington Square Park can give off. But of course it was thrilling to walk amid the cool evening with Berry, chatting and taking in the multicolored revelry. At the intersection of MacDougal and Third, we saw a tall, lanky person wearing only denim cutoffs, a rainbow wig, inline skates, and several strands of Christmas lights draped about their framework as they spun slow, rangy pirouettes from a distance, then rolled right past us. It was a pretty puckish performance, and as the faerie-like vision whirled by, Berry said, dreamily, “That was beautiful.”

The repast was similarly such a dream: pork chops and bourbon with Berry! He asked the young waitress, as she cleared our plates, what flavors of ice cream they had. She shone as she proudly recited that they had lavender plum and cucumber basil. He smiled at her generously and said, “Can I please have some vanilla?”

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Sometime around one in the morning on July 28, Matthew Parsons, poet and musician, arrived at the door in a rain jacket, cargo shorts, and crocs. Drenched and wild-eyed, he looked like a fisherman who’d survived a storm out at sea. He told those of us still awake that Troublesome Creek was rising, and the cars parked under the bridge were in danger of washing away; his own was flooded up to the headlights, unreachable. Thunder echoed through the hills, lightning flashed and lit up the black sky.

I was with a group of writers hanging out at one of the cottages on the Hindman Settlement School campus, celebrating the fourth evening of the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop, the premier literary gathering in Appalachia.

It had been raining for two days, and everyone in Eastern Kentucky was aware of the storm. But the water rose so suddenly that our festivities quickly changed. That night, flash floods swept away entire homes and destroyed communities in Breathitt, Letcher, and Knox counties. Since then, 38 bodies have been found, and still more people are feared dead.

Floods in this corner of Appalachia are not new. But the frequency of the flooding in the last couple years, and the intensity of the storms, is unprecedented. That night, rainfall rates reached four inches per hour.

Troublesome Creek twists through three counties in Eastern Kentucky and runs right through the small town of Hindman, the county seat of Knott County. It winds across the grounds of the Hindman Settlement School, the first rural social settlement school established in America. Hindman is still active: it provides educational and service programs for the region and hosts the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop, an annual literary gathering now in its 45th year.

On a typical spring day, the section of Troublesome that crosses campus is a picturesque Appalachian creek, no more than six inches to a foot deep and about an average of six feet wide. Troublesome and the bridge that runs over it is a touchstone for many who love Hindman and the writers’ workshop.

Four days before the flash floods, I drove from Cincinnati to Hindman on a humid Sunday afternoon. For the week, I would be teaching at the writers’ workshop, which draws emerging and established writers, most of whom have a connection to Appalachia or the South. For many, including me, traveling to Hindman feels like coming home.

When I turned onto KY-80 east, I rolled down my windows to take in the verdant summer green folds of mountains and wooded hillsides, threaded by creeks and streams. People here live in hollers and bottom land, close to rivers and creeks, because the hillsides are too steep for homes. The Appalachian mountains are some of the oldest in the world, rich with deciduous hardwoods, medicinal plants, and edible delicacies like morels and ramps. But the land has been decimated by decades of coal mining, specifically the destructive removal of mountaintops that escalated in the early 2000s and still occurs. Mining companies rip away forests and trees, and blow up the mountaintops, removing up to 800 feet worth of rocks and soil from peaks to access coal seams. The earthmoving buries headwaters under rubble, poisons the ground and water, and strips hillsides of trees and vegetation, their natural defenses against flooding. Because of , rain across the southeastern United States, including Kentucky, has increased by almost a third, and and flooding are more frequent. -damaged regions are especially vulnerable to hazardous .

I’ve taught at the workshop since 2016, and I feel a profound connection to the place and the community of writers, musicians, and activists who attend. I grew up in central Ohio, but my grandparents and much of my extended family lived in Appalachia Ohio. My memories of that area, where I also spent my college years, run deep. Both of my novels are set in Appalachia. In my debut novel The Evening Hour, a deadly flood, caused by a coal slurry dam breaking, hits a community in West Virginia. I read and watched everything I could about floods in Appalachia. But I never witnessed one. Until recently, I don’t think I fully grasped the urgency of the phrases “higher ground” or “come hell or high water.”

On the evening of the flash flooding, there was a faculty reading, with about 80 attendants in the audience. Later in the night, a group of us headed over to one of the cottages on the hill to listen to music and talk, as we had every night. The rain was steady, and I’d noticed earlier that afternoon that Troublesome was higher than normal, but still below its banks. I could have waded through it without much trouble.

I sat outside on the covered patio for a while, listening to guitar, fiddle, and collective voices lighting up the dark. We drank bourbon and munched on Grippo’s potato chips, talking and laughing, and as we say in Appalachia, having a “big time.” Through all of this, the rain came down.

What we couldn’t see in the darkness was that Troublesome was swelling. After Matthew Parsons came to the door, a few of us tramped through the heavy rain to the main building on campus. The creek had spilled over the banks and into the lowest section of the parking lot, where two cars were about a third of the way underwater. My car was parked on the higher side of the parking lot and I assumed it would be safe, but at the suggestion of the others, I moved it. Though Troublesome was rising, it was still difficult to imagine it climbing over the slope to flood the entire parking lot or the building where I was staying.

I went back to the cottage where we’d all been hanging out, and about a half hour later, we lost electricity. Emergency lights flickered on, and an explosion echoed down the hill—a transmitter just blew, someone said. I looked out the front porch window and breathed in the distinct, unnerving stench of propane. All I could see was darkness.

My friends and I walked back down to the main building, but could no longer get around to a spot where we’d been standing less than an hour before. The parking lot was now submerged. A white pickup bobbed in the swift-moving water, nose first. The alarm in the main building steadily shrieked. The lower apartments, where I’d had a room, had completely flooded, with sewage bubbling up from the drains and water rapidly rising from ankle-high to waist-deep. The three women who had also been staying in the apartments had made it out safely, and had generously gathered up all my belongings.

I helped carry up musical instruments from the storage closet. About six or seven of us moved quickly, quietly, and carefully, guided by the flashlights on our phones and the dim emergency lights. The first floor was dry and safe, but we didn’t know if that would change. Two Hindman staff members waded into the office trying to save what they could, but the water was already too fast and strong—while they were there, the water burst through the doors and shattered windows, quickly rising to chest level.

There were about 50 people staying on the campus. People woke up those who were still sleeping, moved cars to higher ground, and filled up jugs and bottles with potable water. A woman I’d sat with at dinner asked me to shine a light over the lot where her car was partly submerged. She wanted to try to get it out, but the lot had transformed into a sea of black water, with eddies swirling. I said, “You can’t walk through there, you have to let it go.” She burst into tears and I held her. It was harrowing how quickly the situation had changed.

At one of the cottages up on the hill where many of us had relocated, we gathered on the big front porch and stared anxiously into the black night. There were quiet conversations, and occasional sparks of humor or sudden hugs.

Other than rumors and speculation, we had no idea how high Troublesome had risen or how far the flooding had spread. We had no cell service or internet. The rain pounded the hills and we worried about mudslides speeding down the steep slopes. We wondered what would happen if the main bridge washed out. Many communities and homes in the mountains only have one road in and out—once the bridges go, it’s impossible to leave, to find higher ground.

The night was a strange blur, both chaotic and calm. I didn’t sleep. Time passed slowly, and we waited like children for morning to break through the darkness.

The light finally appeared from behind the ridge. The morning was disorienting, as we tried to grasp what we were seeing, how geography had shifted overnight. I followed a couple of others to a clearing to see the town. A picture on my phone taken the day before from this same spot captured Hindman’s downtown, the quaint Main Street with its two- and four-story brick buildings, including the Appalachian Artisan center and a music shop specializing in handmade banjos and dulcimers. Now, the shops were half-submerged, the green spaces and parking lots looked like lakes, the cars turned into boats that could not float.

Troublesome had turned into a mighty river over night. Tops of tall trees still rooted in the ground rose up like gigantic lily pads, their trunks deep underwater. I watched the creek carry away a shed, an empty kayak, and gigantic branches. Busted boards, shattered pieces of buildings, and unrecognizable plastic wrapped around telephone poles and the iron bridge on campus. We didn’t know if the roads were drivable. We waited, tried our phones. A few thoughtful people scrounged around in the kitchen and set out food, including a leftover Butterfinger cake and biscuits. The flood alarm that had been going off all night continued to beep incessantly, but, exhausted and heartbroken, we ignored it. Down by the main building, a strange flutter of white came into focus: four big ducks waddled back and forth, squawking and distressed.

Around nine that morning, the rain slowed, then stopped. We heard that the road through town was opened to one lane. We packed up our cars, and rides were arranged for the ten or 12 people who’d lost their cars to the flood. We quickly, sadly said our good-byes. Most of us live elsewhere: Lexington, Asheville, Brooklyn. It felt hard to drive away—from my students, the staff, and the people who lived there, facing such immense loss.

Back at my home in Cincinnati, I learned, along with the rest of the country, the scale of the catastrophe. Four days after the flood, 37 bodies were recovered, including four young children from the same family. Governor Andy Beshear announced that others were still missing. All over the mountains, terrified people perched on rooftops and waited to be rescued by helicopters. Creeks, streams, and the North Fork of the Kentucky River had risen up to 25 feet in some places and ripped a path across eastern Kentucky, swallowing homes and devastating little towns. Over in Whitesburg, Appalshop, an arts and culture center and hub for filmmakers and musicians, stood under six feet of water, archives soggy and mud-drenched. Six buildings at the Hindman Settlement School were severely flooded and damaged, including historical buildings and the office that housed archives, precious letters, photographs, and works by authors and musicians. They lost computers and desks from the learning center, and all the produce in the greenhouses was destroyed. But the footbridge over Troublesome remained intact.

Ten days after the flood, I went back to Hindman to bring supplies and donations I’d collected. It was raining yet again. In town, piles of debris sat outside ruined shops, the stench of mildew thick in the air. The power was still out. But the school, like other community centers across the region, had become an emergency outpost, providing hot meals, water, and supplies. The rooms where we’d had readings and lectures were filled with tables of non-perishable foods, cleaning supplies, dog food, toiletries, extension cords and batteries, all free for the community. I saw staff and volunteers, including FEMA workers, busily working. Pallets of bottled water sat in front of the main building. Two older women pulled up in a pickup, and loaded one case of bottled water in the back. The women asked how many cases they could have. As many as you need, the volunteers told them. They took only two more.

Appalachia has suffered from years of neglect by national and state politicians, with decaying infrastructure, few job opportunities, and scarce educational resources and healthcare. Decades of coal mining have left communities exposed, without natural defenses against future storms and floods. Nearly two weeks after the floods—after voting against legislation that will invest billions to fight climate change—Kentucky Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell and Senator Rand Paul finally visited the region.

I am writing this as a witness to climate change and corporate greed, but also to the resilient people all across Eastern Kentucky who are helping their neighbors. Community members, activists, and volunteers are working long, exhausting days to salvage what was lost, to provide food, water, and shelter. I feel buoyed by the love and care I see in the community. I want to say that this can’t happen again, but a declaration of that sort would have had to happen years ago, by those with the political power to alter years of ecological neglect and economic greed. The flood came at night, forcefully and quickly, destroying so many lives in its wake. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it will happen again and again.

To find more information about Hindman and how to donate to Eastern Kentucky, please click and.

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63 Parks Traveler started with a simple goal: to visit every U.S. national park. Avid backpacker and public-lands nerd saved up, built out a tiny van to travel and live in, and hit the road, practicing COVID-19 best safety protocols along the way. The parks as we know them are rapidly changing, and she wanted to see them before it’s too late. Mammoth Cave is her 51st park visit.

A small, gentle waterfall dripped into the gaping mouth of the cavern as I made my way down the stairs on a self-guided tour of the park’s most famous rooms. In no time at all, it was eerily black. The occasional amber tinge emitted by the cave’s illuminated craggy walls striped with ancient water marks, and a tiny bat slept upside down to my right as I moved through a narrow passageway and felt my knees buckle when I arrived at the next chamber.

The is one of the largest in the cave, and as I stared up, slack-jawed, at its enormous domed ceiling, I overheard a ranger whisper that it’s big enough to hold a 737 aircraft. The park was certainly living up to its name.

In spite of its lavish opera-house good looks, the room was once used for quite another industry, one that contributed to uncountable deaths. Thanks to bats that had inhabited the cave for thousands of years, the dirt floor was once covered in guano, a substance rich in calcium nitrate, making the site ripe for the extraction of —one of the primary ingredients used to make black gunpowder, and throughout the War of 1812, a profitable mining operation had sprung up inside Mammoth Cave to keep up with demand.

I walked silently through the colossal passageway, a blown-out mining site wrecked and vacant on my left. Rubble and ruin, I thought to myself, the spoils of war.

Though the cave itself was truly massive, it didn’t have the same drippy, psychedelic rock formations I’d seen in Carlsbad Caverns months earlier. With a bedrock of sandstone and shale, two minerals less water soluble than limestone, the area didn’t lend itself to the familiar stalactites and stalagmites of other subterranean tunnels. Instead, Mammoth Cave was mostly formed by a large, underground river that slowly carved out over 420 miles of halls and rooms, with more still being formed each day as new waters erode the hidden depths.

As if spending my morning underground wasn’t spooky enough, I soon passed a series of roofless stone buildings, evidence of an abandoned that once operated in the large tunnel. Believing the steady temperature and humidity to have curative properties, Dr. John Croghan brought a company of 16 withering patients into the caverns to see if his theory held. Five of them died inside the cave.

When the rain abated, I ditched the netherworld and set off for a short hike along the , shuffling my feet along the forest floor to a deep depression in the earth where part of the ancient cave had collapsed. A small brook churned out from below the mossy coliseum of rock, and a groundhog rustled nearby in the grass. I gazed up at the clouds and smiled in perfectly gloomy reverie.

63 Parks Traveler Mammoth Cave Info

Size: 52,830 acres

Location: Central Kentucky, northeast of Bowling Green

Created In: 1941 (national park)

Best For: History buffs, short hikes, cave tours, paddling

When to Go: Spring (39 to 81 degrees) and fall (40 to 85 degrees) afford the most temperate weather for hiking and paddling aboveground, while summer (64 to 91 degrees) is hot and humid, and winter (29 to 53 degrees) brings fewer crowds. The cave’s temperature remains a constant 54 degrees, though, and the park’s most popular tours run year-round.

Mini șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Take a of the caverns. For visitors who don’t like narrow passageways or are short on time, this DIY stroll through some of the park’s most famous limestone formations and passageways will take you past historic saltpeter mines, archeological sites, and the 19th-century tuberculosis ward.

Mega șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Spend a solid day on the guided . This four-hour ranger-led walk combines the Frozen Niagara and Domes and Dripstones Tours for a comprehensive showcase of Mammoth Cave’s geologic diversity. Squeeze through slot canyons, marvel at sparkling walls coated with gypsum, and meander through immense underground tunnels.

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Earth, water, fire, and air: the four elements essential to life in Western philosophy, each functioning in unison with one another. But there’s a final element that is throwing the others perilously out of whack, one that the Greeks failed to account for.

, a documentary from filmmaker Matthew Testa and photographer-cum-environmental-activist James Balog (the lens behind the 2012 documentary ), adds humanity to the equation. “We’re a force of nature, too. People are changing the elements, and the elements are changing us,” Balog says in the film, while snapping stills of a dilapidated seaside home likely fallen victim to rising seas.ÌęBy appealing to both emotion and rationality, Balog hopes to paint “human tectonics” as the most important of them all,Ìęshowing that climate change isn’t some pie-in-the-sky problem for future generations, but is affecting real people, right now.

The film, which streams on platforms likeÌęiTunes and Amazon starting January 29, follows Balog on a years-long traverse of the country looking for characters through which to tell the climate story, from hurricane refugees fleeing rising waters to a family in Denver whose breakfast of potatoes and eggs comes with a side of asthma medication. It’s a departure from An Inconvenient Truth-esqe portrayals of doom and gloom that have defined most climate documentaries of the past decade or so. Rather than featuring primarly scientists preaching to the enviro choir, it focuses on relatable everyday people being affected by the changing planet: firefighters, fishermen, coal miners.

The concept was born partly from the acerbic atmosphere that arose during the 2016 election. “We were looking at a very divided country,” Testa says. “A country with a lot of people whose voices matter, whose votes matter, who didn’t seem to be getting the message about environmental issues.” Underscoring his point is last year’s from the , stating that while 70 percent of Americans believe global warming is happening, only 39 think it’s harming people in the U.S. right now. For this reason, Testa felt it was imperative to tell a story that showed how climate was impacting working Americans, and “speak to a crowd that hadn’t been spoken to yet when it came to this issue.”

The film’s most memorableÌęsubject is James “Ooker” Eskridge, the mayor of Tangier Island, a sliver of sand and peat nestled inÌęChesapeake Bay, Virginia. Like most of the island’s male inhabitants, Eskridge is a commercial fisherman. But the same waters that give the place life are swallowing it whole. Thanks to rising seas, in 25 to 50 yearsÌęTangier will become the next Atlantis. Eskridge, shadowed by a gaggle of cats heÌęnamedÌęafter conservative heroes (John Roberts, Ann Coulter) recognizes his home’s situation is dire, and calls for an estimated $100 million sea wall to encircle the entire island of 700 or soÌępeople. “We don’t have years to wait,” Eskridge says. “We need the help and we need it pretty quick.”

The film presents the people of Tangier as what a resident Army Corps of Engineers scientist callsÌęthe canary in the coal mineÌęfor what will happen to other low-lying coastalÌęcities as sea-level rise continues, which will come with much higher price tags. (The movie estimates Miami will need $413 billion to adapt to rising waters.)

Tangier represents the water element. Balog goes on to tellÌęthe story of the other three elements through the lens of the fifth, using personal stories to illustrate overarching themes: the asthmatic Denver family for air quality, wildland firefighters in California for rising temperatures, and Appalachian coal miners for fossil fuels.

The final human element of Balog’s countrywide tour is the most poignant. He returns to Vintondale, Pennsylvania, where his coal-miner grandfather was killed in a rockfall in 1946. While snapping photos of his father holding old family portraits and visiting a memorial to people killed in the mine, Balog wrestles with the irony that his career as an environmentalist was built in part on the shoulders of the fossil-fuel industry. “There was always somewhere deep in my heart where I felt like I was somehow tainted because my grandparents were coal miners.
 You grow up to be an environmentalist and you go, Coal is a dirty thing,” Balog says in the film. “But there is a nobility in the hard work and courage and the sacrifice of these people doing what they had to do.”

With this, the filmÌędisplays its strongest message: there’s nobody holier-than-thou in the climate equation. “None of us stand outside this hydrocarbon economy,” BalogÌętold me. “Certainly none of us who dress in Gore-Tex, have fancyÌęexpensive backpacks, and jump in our beautiful all-wheel-drive vehicles at a moment’s notice to go run off and chase another outdoor sport. And the sooner we get our shit together and we recognize that, then there might be a chance to fix this.”

Almost as if to provide that chance, theÌęmovie endsÌęonÌęanÌęupswing, following a coal executive in Pikeville, Kentucky, who hopes to revive the area’s economy by building a solar farm atop a reclaimed mine. It hammers home the point that in a crusade to save the other four elements, the fifth can’t be left behind. “Regardless of your [environmental] stance, as Americans we want everyone in the country to be prosperous,” Testa says. “So we have to find a way through that secures a future for people. And I think that’s a message maybe the environmental community would be wise to embrace.”

TestaÌęand Balog’s goals go far beyond just spreading awareness. They’re hoping for what’s known in the environmental filmmaking world as the BlackfishÌęeffect,Ìęreferring to the documentary about captive killer whales that was it created a literal sea change. SoÌęBalog, Testa, and the crew are embarking on an outreach tour that will head toÌęplaces often neglected by the environmental movement—places like Louisville, Kentucky. At a screening there for coal executives, the film received a standing ovation.Ìę“[A coal executive] actually came up to me and said ‘I liked 90 percent of your film 
 I think you guys did an amazing job,’”ÌęBalog says.

While I don’t know which 10 percent the coal exec didn’t like, I have a hunch that it’s the same thing the film leaves unaddressed. Throughout, none of the main subjects are asked directlyÌęwhether they believe climate change is the root cause of their strife—and, importantly, whether it’s the result of human activity. Most people on Tangier, according to Testa, don’t believe in climate change and think the island is disappearing as a result of erosion. It seems unlikely their concerns would translate into votes for climate policy.ÌęThis is problematic. AÌęrecent from the suggests that far-reaching policy changes must occur over the next two decades to limit the negative effects ofÌęglobal warming. Bringing the film to these kinds of audiences is a step in moving the needle, but it’s uncertain whether this will translate into actionable change.

Where The Human Element could be most effective, however, is in mobilizing the green community. By humanizing climate changeÌęit could provide that extra push needed for on-the-fencers or the eco-minded but idle (looking at you, ) to make their voices count. “What I want is not necessarily to have people come away with a bunch of facts at their fingertips that they can bring to the Thanksgiving table for an argument with their angry uncle, but to look inward and say, ‘How am I being impacted?’” Testa says. Balog is more blunt.Ìę“I want people to look in the mirror and wake up.”

Will The Human Element convince hard-scrabble coal miners to hold hands and sing Kumbaya with Gaia-loving Boulderites? No guarantees. But it tells a powerful story that puts the focus on climate change where it should be: not as a political or environmental issue, but a human one.

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From the filmmakers atÌę, this film tells the story of Kentucky native Joe Bowen, and hisÌęchange of heart regarding the protection of the Red River Gorge. It is part of the series, a campaign aimed at conserving nationalÌęforests.

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You’ve spotted geysers in Yellowstone, hiked to waterfalls in Yosemite, and pedaled the Cades Cove Loop in the Smoky Mountains. Good for you. That means it’s time to visit some of America’s lesser-known national parks—places that draw smaller crowds but are equally astounding. At these hidden gems, from Alaska to South Carolina, you’ll hike through watery caves, examine ancient cliff dwellings, and ride a bush plane to Arctic sand dunes.

Mammoth Cave National Park, Kentucky

The longest-known cave system in the world isn’t located is some far-flung, exotic locale. It’s in south-central Kentucky. At , more than 400 miles of caverns have been mapped—with more on the way. Sign up for an underground ranger-led hike, mountain bike more than 20 miles of trails, or float the Green River in a kayak. The park features three developed campgrounds, but we suggest the in nearby Bowling Green for its historic rooms, free breakfast, and new speakeasy-style bar in the lobby (from $259). The , a short walk away, has chicken and waffles and good microbrew.

Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado

History buffs will love , located in southwestern Colorado, a 90-minute drive from Durango, where you can visit some 5,000 archeological sites once home to the Ancestral Pueblo people. Take a self-guided tour of the famous cliff dwellings, and don’t miss the panoramic views from Park Point Lookout, a functioning historicÌęfire lookout tower. Thanks to the park’s low-key vibe, you won’t have any trouble getting a last-minute campsite at (from $30), four miles inside the park’s entrance. Fuel up with the all-you-can eat pancake breakfast at Knife Edge CafĂ©Ìęin Morefield'sÌęvillage.

Congaree National Park, South Carolina

Located 30 minutes outside Columbia, South Carolina, Congaree is home to the country’s largest swath of old-growth bottomland hardwood forest. Take in some of the park’s tallest trees by foot from the seven-mile round-trip Oakridge Trail or by canoe on Cedar Creek. The more adventurous can commit to a multiday backpacking trip into the park’s 21,000 acres of wilderness. Go in early summer to catch the exceptional synchronous fireflies that light up the night sky for a week or two each year. The park has two campgrounds, or you can book a stay in a rustic log cabin at , 45 minutes away. in Columbia is well worth a visit afterward.

Big Bend National Park, Texas

Who knew hiking in remote West Texas could be this diverse? At, you can stroll through cacti and limestone canyons in the Chihuahuan Desert, walk along the edge of the Rio Grande, or climb the 7,825-foot Emory Peak in the Chisos Mountains. Bring your passport—the park straddles the border, and you can ferry over to Mexico for a short international trip. The (from $147), located within the park, has stone cottages,ÌęRV sites,ÌęandÌęoverlanding tours. Drop by theÌę, in nearby Terlingua, for massive burgers and nightly live music.

Great Basin National Park, Nevada

There’s not much near , in eastern Nevada. It’s nearly four hours from bothÌęLas Vegas andÌęSalt Lake City, which makes it the perfect place to get away and stargaze. Reserve a ranger-led tour of Lehman Caves, summit the 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak, and hike 60 miles of trail through bristlecone pine forests. The park has five campgrounds (from $15), and , five miles away in Baker, has ten rooms (from $75) and an accompanying restaurant called Kerouac’s, which opened in 2017 as a welcome pit stop for weary travelers.

Kobuk Valley National Park, Alaska

Getting to is no easy feat. You’ll fly from Anchorage to Kotzebue (population: 3,266), then hop a chartered air taxi into the roadless Kobuk Valley, where fog, wind, and heavy rain often delay flights. But once you’re there, you’ll have the Great Kobuk Sand Dunes—towering, 100-foot drifts that look more like the Sahara than Alaska—practically to yourself. Bring a pack raft to float the Kobuk River, or venture to Onion Portage, a National Historic Landmark where indigenous people have gathered for 9,000 years to harvest caribou. The has three guest rooms (from $175), serves three meals a day, and offers guided fishing packages and a hike-and-boat tour of the dunes.

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These Ìę($40) are handmade in KentuckyÌęfrom sections of decommissioned fire hoses. The interior is lined with full-grain leather and accommodates 12 cards, while aÌęmilitary-spec elastic strap secures money to theÌęoutside.Ìę

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