At the end of March, the Fort McDermitt Paiute Shoshone tribal council voted to with the resource company Lithium Nevada to explore installing an open-pit mine near the reservation. Thacker Pass, near the Oregon border, is home to the largest deposit of lithium in the United States. Supporters of the mine say it could produce up to 66,000 tons per year of lithium carbonate, a component in rechargeable batteries, which car and truck manufacturers can use to build millions of solar-powered and electric cars over the next five decades, buttressing an essential component of President Biden’s plan to reverse the progress of climate change. And yet it poses plenty of its own risks: according to the EPA, waste tailings from the mine could leave traces of uranium, mercury, and arsenic in the local watershed, where they’d linger for the next three centuries. Regardless of whether a private, for-profit entity like Nevada Lithium is acting with the best of intentions, any attempt to dig lithium out of the ground is likely to make a mess.��

Such dilemmas are increasingly common, and they illustrate how even the most well-meaning attempt at environmental progress can lead to other forms of destruction or loss. Journalists who in the past might have sought to describe the scope and depth of humanity’s impact on the natural world are now focusing on the surreal or frightening consequences of human schemes to protect the earth from harm.��

The questions they ask are trickier than before��and less morally satisfying. Two of the best-known journalists looking at these problems are Elizabeth Kolbert, whose portrayed the most intense period of species erasure of the past 66 million years, and Nathaniel Rich, who wrote ,��an account of fossil-fuel companies suppressing evidence of the climate crisis in the 1980s. While those��books read like detective thrillers, with unmistakable victims and antagonists, the heroes and villains are harder to find in the authors’��latest works.

���DZ��������’s and Rich’s , both published this spring, cover similar ground, describing humanity’s present-day tinkerings with the natural world,��many of which are aimed at correcting tinkerings of the past. The writers bring plenty of skepticism to their subjects, but relatively little judgment, and by and large��the framing feels less like a courtroom than a museum or science fair. Neither Kolbert nor Rich can imagine a corner or aspect of life on this planet that might remain unaffected by human activity, benevolent or otherwise, and the individuals��they meet seem more or less ready to embrace the brave new world. “People grow up with this idea that the nature they see is ‘natural,’” one scientist tells Rich, “but there’s been no real ‘natural’ element to the earth the entire time human beings have been around.”

A few of the projects they write about are narrow in scope��or clearly just for fun. Kolbert tries an at-home Crispr��kit designed by Josiah Zayner, a garage biohacker, to engineer a batch of antibiotic E. coli. (Another project in the kit involves inserting a jellyfish gene into yeast so that it glows in the dark.) She also visits a 40-acre subsection of Death Valley National Park, where an extremely rare and fragile species of pupfish relies on an artificial habitat to survive, its population hovering in the low hundreds. Rich, meanwhile, talks to the investors and techno chefs involved in producing lab-grown meat, and he introduces readers to the work of , a Brazilian artist who altered the genetic code of an albino rabbit. Under ultraviolet light, the bunny—like the yeast—turns neon green.

Other efforts are more ambitious. To learn about the passenger pigeon, a North American bird that was hunted into extinction by European settlers in the 18th and 19th centuries, Rich interviews experts who intend to revive the species, Jurassic Park��style, using preserved samples of the pigeon’s genetic material. He also describes the terrifying ubiquity of PFOA—a chemical ingredient in detergents, floor sealants, adhesive tape, and nonstick frying pans—produced and released into the water supply near Parkersburg, West Virginia,��. It is the only chapter in the book with a obvious villain.��

Kolbert, similarly, mostly refrains from taking sides when she reports on some of the more avant-garde techniques being proposed to reverse the effects of climate change. These include the direct capture of emissions in basalt stones that can then be buried underground, and “solar geoengineering,” a theoretical method of spraying reflective particles into the air to scatter warmth and light from the sun back into space. For every expert who believes such technologies are a harmless waste of time, another will conclude that they are unforgivably stupid. A plan that some regard as “a broad highway to hell” is treated by others as “inevitable.”

Kac, the artist in Second Nature, appears to be��more intent on normalizing the uncanny edge of the sciences than on upsetting viewers with something weird. He seems to argue that this is simply the world we live in, and we might as well get used to it. David Keith, founder of ,��mentioned in Under a White Sky, cheerfully places his work in the centuries-long process of human governance over the planet’s flora and fauna. “People think of all the bad examples of environmental modification,” he tells Kolbert, undeterred by the range of mild criticism and death threats received by his university office. Many are worried about its unintended consequences��or the possibility that it could give fossil-fuel companies an excuse to continue doing harm. “To people who say most of our technological fixes go wrong, I say, ‘Okay, did agriculture go wrong?’”

As it happens, , a sparsely populated branch of southeastern Louisiana that��both authors spend more than a few pages exploring. Over the years, settlement and development have gradually threatened to convert the parish’s dry land into a salt marsh. In order to keep its 2,567 square miles on the Gulf of Mexico livable, Plaquemines has come to rely on a massive array of gates, levees, and reverse-irrigation systems that are constantly being broken down and revised. These systems are undeniably resource intensive, complex, and Sisyphean, yet��abandoning them is out of the question. More than three-fifths of the parish is currently underwater, and this figure��is all but guaranteed to increase as sea levels rise and the Mississippi River continues to be rerouted, mostly to accommodate the delta’s ample refineries and cargo traffic. (Since 2011, NOAA has delisted more than 40��place names from maps of the area, which Rich compares to “a maple leaf devoured to its veins by cankerworms.”)��

Any plan to protect the homes and livelihoods of local residents must also consider the effect that various rerouting schemes will have on wildlife. The results are impossible to untangle: in 2019, the local commercial oyster industry was devastated when the Army Corps of Engineers opened sections of a crucial flood-prevention mechanism that fed pulses of fresh water into Lake Pontchartrain. This simultaneously put at risk the habitats of pallid sturgeon and West Indian manatees. Virtually every stakeholder—from conservation groups to the Department of Commerce—was aggrieved enough to file a lawsuit. “A Mississippi that’s been harnessed, straightened, regularized, and shackled can still exert a godlike force,” Kolbert observes. “It’s hard to say who occupies Mount Olympus these days, if anyone.”

For every ecological conundrum they consider, Kolbert and Rich predict a future in which no one is in charge��and everyone is a potential litigant. But that’s about all they can say for sure, which may explain why passages in either book can feel sleepy, meandering, or lacking in revelatory bite. ���DZ��������’s description of Zayner’s at-home GMO kit offers plenty to enjoy��but not much to learn, and in Rich’s encounters with Shin Kubota—the world’s foremost expert on Turritopsis dohrnii, an “immortal” jellyfish with no fixed life span—he gives an account of the biologist’s singing career that is as touchingly long as it is pointless.��

The work these authors have put into describing the scale and pace of a crisis like global warming has got to be exhausting, and it’s hard to blame them for turning to subjects that are more playful and less consequential in order to take some kind of a break. But given the ever more dire developments of the climate crisis, we can only hope their break doesn’t last too long. Talents like ���DZ��������’s and Rich’s are still precious and badly needed—including in places like Thacker Pass, where the worst violations haven’t happened yet��and the hubris hasn’t fully played out.��

����

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Walking might be the . OK, it’s not as flashy as its cousins, running and hiking, but that a moderate walk is just as effective at battling high blood pressure, diabetes, and heart disease as a vigorous run or an uphill trek. And it does the job with a lower risk of injury. Some even suggests that walking can make you more creative. One of its��advantages��is that you can do it just about anywhere, but some routes��are more beautiful than others.��Here are ten��of the most scenic trails that��allow access greenery without leaving the��city.

Spanish Moss Trail
Beaufort, South Carolina��

Charleston gets all of the love, but the smaller coastal town of Beaufort, an hour and a half to the southwest, has just as much southern charm, with a fraction of the tourists. And it’s incredibly walkable, thanks in part to the , a ten-mile paved path that follows the former Magnolia rail line through the best of South Carolina’s Low Country��landscape. The trail starts in an old rail station near Depot Road and carries you over creeks, through expansive wetlands, and amid��stately neighborhoods shaded by live oaks thick with the iconic Spanish moss.

Jack A. Markell Trail
Wilmington, Delaware��

This paved path combines culture, history, and wildlife on its eight-mile journey from downtown Wilmington to the historic town of New Castle. Start��at , explore��open-air markets and seafood restaurants, and��finish��at New Castle’s , a sprawling green space on the Delaware River with a new pier that overlooks��a replica of a��Swedish merchant ship from the 1600s. In between, the trail dips into the , one of only a handful of urban wildlife sanctuaries��in the U.S., home to��a 212-acre marshy��preserve��for fish and other fauna��in the heart of the state’s largest city.

Boardwalk Trail at Lady Bird Lake
Austin, Texas��

The ��isn’t like anything else in Texas. It’s a 7,250-foot-long concrete pedestrian bridge hovering above the water on the edge of Lady Bird Lake. The views are stunning—you have the lake itself, full of people��in kayaks and on stand-up paddleboards, as well as Austin’s skyline just beyond the shoreline—but walking this��boardwalk is also a��deep dive into��an exploration of��Texan��culture. Keep an eye out for an installation of 36 bronze western-style belts integrated into railings etched with song lyrics from Texas artists.

The Scioto Trail
Columbus, Ohio

The first greenway to be built in Columbus, follows the river of the same name for more than 12 miles, connecting the city’s neighborhoods with its expansive park system. The most beloved stretch of the trail is the Scioto Mile, which cruises along the downtown waterfront through a series of green spaces and city landmarks. Keep walking��and you’ll hit , a wildlife sanctuary where thousands of migrating birds make a pit stop��on their way south. The 120-acre park, which has its own system of walking trails that pass beneath the tree canopy and through restored wetlands, features one of the largest free-climbing walls in the nation��a massive man-made arch covered with holds set against the��backdrop of the Columbus��skyline.

The California Coastal Trail
San Francisco, California

This is one of the most dramatic in the country, spanning 1,200 miles along the Pacific Ocean. For a shorter option, focus on the 2.4-mile section near the Presidio, in San Francisco, which hits a collection��of the city’s landmarks. Start on the south end of this segment, and you’ll pass the rocky bluffs of Baker Beach right out of the gate before hitting the Marin Headlands and ending at the Golden Gate Bridge. The��shoreline is a near constant companion and a number of connecting paths meander into the Presidio.

Bert Cooper Trail
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma��

Ten��miles north of downtown Oklahoma City,�� is a 2,500-acre reservoir with a yacht club and a lighthouse. The forms a 9.5-mile loop around the lake and offers lots of��water views. Birders in particular love this trail because Hefner marks��an important stopover for migratory species. Start at , at��the southern end of the reservoir, and amble��through forested areas and neighborhood streets. Be sure to walk the peninsula out to the lighthouse, which makes for the perfect picnic spot.

Lakefront Trail
Chicago, Illinois

On one side of the 18-mile-long , you have Lake Michigan, unfurling into the horizon like an inland sea,��and on the other, you have the city of Chicago and its towering skyscrapers. You could spend an entire day along this trail, bouncing from beaches to parks and back again. Just make sure you hit , with its��traditional Japanese garden and��a koi pond, as well as the , a 100-acre park full of prairie grass and trees.

Lafitte Greenway
New Orleans, Louisiana��

This 2.6-mile ��opened in 2015, and in just a few short years, it has become a��major artery for pedestrians and cyclists moving about New Orleans. The paved path runs from the French Quarter to the neighborhood of , offering a string of nature in the heart of one of the South’s most vibrant metro areas. Shaded by live oaks, bald cypress, and pecan trees, the route passes along the Saint��Louis Canal before crossing over Bayou Saint��John. From the northern trailhead terminus, it’s a quick walk to the 1,300-acre City Park itself, full of green space and wetlands, while the southern��terminus is��, on the edge of the French Quarter.

The East Coast Greenway
Washington, D.C.

When it’s eventually completed, the will run for 3,000 miles from Florida to Maine. More than 30 percent of this massive walking and biking trail is currently built, and some of that��passes through Washington, D.C. It cuts through��the National Mall and crosses the Memorial Bridge over the Potomac River into Virginia, where it connects with the . While the capital’s monuments��are big attractions, be sure to make stops along the trail at the ��and the , the oldest continuously operating public garden in the country,��with more than 65,000 tropical and subtropical plants.

The High Line
New York City, New York

If there’s such a thing as the most famous U.S. greenway, it’s . This elevated trail, a repurposed��abandoned freight line on��Manhattan’s West Side, is an infusion of nature in the most populated��city in the country. The 1.45-mile bridge is designed��with public art, interesting architecture, and edible gardens. Various overlooks give you a bird’s-eye view of some of the borough’s most iconic neighborhoods, while certain sections feature��a full canopy of trees, providing an escape from the cityscape. Hang out on lounge chairs on��the sundecks, enjoy views over the Hudson River, and catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.

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, from ,��is a docuseries that follows��five Louisiana residents as they battle to keep their industries alive amid��disappearing wetlands.

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On March 10, Waffle House cook and National Guard veteran Joey Camp arrived at Georgia’s Hard Labor Creek State Park. Camp had tested positive for COVID-19, but after four days in the hospital, his symptoms had abated, and he was relocated to a 26-foot RV trailer in the park for . Camp was the first beneficiary of a novel idea being tested in Louisiana and Georgia: state parks being turned into refuges��where infected patients can recover in peace.

Georgia governor Brian Kemp ��that a one-acre section of Hard Labor Creek State Park, which is about 45 minutes east of Atlanta, would be secured as a location for “the isolation and monitoring of patients.” Camp elected to be sent to the park, because he was worried about going home, where he might infect his roommate’s infant son. He spent the next five days alone in a Jayco fifth-wheel RV, watching movies on his cell phone and dining on local takeout that was��delivered to his door by state health officials. Camp was initially required to stay inside the RV, he told ���ϳԹ���, before being allowed to stand beneath its exterior awning. Once he was symptom-free for seven days, he was released.

“I enjoy the solitude and isolation,” Camp says. “It was just like an extended camping trip.” An avid outdoorsman, Camp says��he would have been just fine had he been told to pitch a tent and sleep on the ground.

Not everyone was so sanguine. The that local officials did not know about the quarantine zone until they saw the news on social media. One local circulated a petition demanding that the quarantine zone be closed so as not to expose the surrounding community to the virus. State officials emphasized the small size of the quarantine area—one acre amid a park of more than 5,800. The rest of the park remains open��and is safe to visit. (Currently, there are seven RVs on-site, and one patient has arrived since Camp’s release.)��

Amid an epidemic that demands six feet of distance from fellow humans, what role should parks play? While Illinois has and many states have closed campgrounds and lodges, ����are promoting themselves as the perfect place for social distancing. Brandon Burris, the director of Louisiana State Parks, says��that his agency’s mission—“to provide the people of the state of Louisiana opportunities to recreate in the outdoors, a place for them to go and forget about what’s going on,” as Burris paraphrased it—is more important now than it was ten days ago. “We’ve got tons of elbow room,” he says.��

Eighteen of Louisiana’s 21 parks remain open, including to campers. The other three, like Hard Labor Creek, have been designated as “”—a polite term��for quarantine zones. Two of the parks, one in central Louisiana��and another in the northwestern corner of the state, near Shreveport, are currently unoccupied. But at Bayou Segnette State Park, a strip of wetlands and RV sites��20��minutes from downtown New Orleans—a city that’s a hot spot for the virus—ten patients infected with COVID-19 are staying in cabins that float atop the park’s namesake waterway (this count was as of Wednesday, according to a press conference held by governor��John Bel Edwards that day).��

Nearly all of Bayou Segnette’s’s 16 cabins and 98 RV sites were occupied by vacationers��when employees began to knock on doors before sunrise on March 14 to notify everyone of the need to evacuate. Despite a line of more than 50 trailers waiting to discharge waste at the dump station, the park was cleared by midday. Burris says��that most campers understood the need, though not everyone was happy to leave. (The parks department has offered full refunds, among other compensatory options.) The first patients arrived the next morning.��

According to the the Louisiana Department of Children and Family Services, which is managing the site, the isolation area at Bayou Segnette is intended for those who are awaiting test results for COVID-19 and cannot be sent home—either because they have no home to go to or because they live alongside other individuals with high infection risks, such as in a nursing home. Patients will be released if they test negative��and,��if they test positive, will be��held until they are cleared by a medical professional. To secure the area, Governor Edwards said, 150 National Guardsmen have been deployed to the park.

These quarantines are, in some ways, a return to the original intent of state parks: promoting public health. Both ��and ��launched their park agencies in the 1930s, toward the end of the Great Depression, when there was a sudden wave of park-building across the country—the Civilian Conservation Corps, a federal work-relief agency established by Frankin D. Roosevelt in 1933, helped build 800 state parks from the ground up over nine years. “This work in nature was a way of rejuvenating these young men who had been really hurt by the Great Depression,” says��historian Neil Maher, who wrote , a book about the corps. The workers were often malnourished when they arrived. One worker at Hard Labor Creek wrote in his memoir that at his first meal at the work camp, he ate enough for three men.��

“The idea of public land has always evolved,” Maher notes. Once��it was just land the government was holding until it could be sold��to private owners. By the end of the 19th century, sites like Yellowstone were preserved as wild but hard-to-reach retreats, largely accessible only to people with the time and means to travel. State parks “put the public in public lands,” Maher says, by establishing recreational spaces that were situated, when possible, close to cities. There��the masses could escape the “grime and grit” of urban life and find a healthier space, he says. Now��that proximity is helping to spark the latest—and hopefully temporary—iteration of public lands.

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Living in a big city doesn’t��mean you don’t have��access to the wild outdoors. The , an initiative within the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, manages 567 national wildlife refuges, including��101 ��located within 25 miles of cities housing populations over 250,000—serving the 80 percent of Americans who live in and around metro areas.��We’re talking about massive plots of lands, immense networks of trails, and thriving biospheres��of animals and plants in 36 states, all within an hour of places��like Detroit or Birmingham, Alabama.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

John Heinz

11 miles from the Liberty Bell

,��located within Philadelphia’s city limits, was our country’s first urban refuge, established in 1972. Known for��its focus on education, it enlists community members to��convert unused lots into urban-pollinator gardens and hosts��local��students��for in-the-field environmental courses and summer internships. There’s incredible wildlife spotting along the 285-acre freshwater tidal marsh,��including bald eagles, beavers, and deer. (You can borrow binoculars from the visitor��center for free.)��Or opt to��paddle a canoe down the 4.5-mile tidal segment of Darby Creek��or hike 10 miles of trails that traverse the site.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Valle de Oro��

7 miles from the Albuquerque airport

Wildlife and habitat restoration are��priorities at��, set along the eastern banks of the Rio Grande just a few miles from downtown Albuquerque. Park staff are��currently teaching��the��ABQ Backyard Refuge Program, where people��learn how to rebuild habitats and garden to reintroduce��wildlife in their own backyards. The 570-acre swath��was created in 2012 on a former dairy farm, making it one of the country’s newest��urban wildlife sanctuaries and the first in the Southwest. Come for a visit and you’ll score views of migratory birds, like snow geese and sandhill cranes, with��the Sandia Mountains��as a backdrop. There are also��guided walking tours on newly built trails��and stargazing sessions.

New Orleans, Louisiana

Bayou Sauvage��

46 miles from the French Quarter

If you want to spot American alligators close to New Orleans, head to the marshes of��—Joe Madere Marsh is one of the best places for viewing this endemic species. You can learn about the importance of marshes and wetlands in protecting New Orleans from storm surges, fish for largemouth bass or catfish in its��freshwater lagoons and bayous,��or launch a canoe and��paddle the canals and small lakes that dot the property. Short boardwalk trails are also popular with hikers��and nature photographers. More recently, students from the University of New Orleans have been learning to plant trees and marsh grasses to help rebuild wetlands here.

San Diego, California

San Diego Bay��

13 miles from the San Diego Zoo

stretches over 12,300 acres, offering easy access to wilderness for the millions of residents in this��metropolitan area. The park has��trails for hiking and mountain biking, restored grasslands and oak woodlands that were once damaged by wildfire, and endangered butterflies and waterfowl that stop��over during their winter migrations. The ��facilitates��educational programs here, and the��San Diego��nonprofit organization , which connects local kids to outdoor activities, leads excursions��at the refuge like fishing, biking, and kayaking.

Portland, Oregon��

Tualatin River

15 miles from Powell’s City of Books

Just outside Portland, within the floodplain of the Tualatin River, you’ll find a peaceful sanctuary in an otherwise busy urban area. The , southwest of��downtown, is a stopover for migrating waterfowl and songbirds on the Pacific Flyway and home to a number of mammals, including coyote, deer, and bobcat. Several miles of trails are open to hikers. In the fall,��admire the��changing foliage and migrating geese and swans. The park hosts well-loved events, like the annual Tualatin Bird Festival in the spring or youth-oriented programs��through , an organization that encourages wilderness education and community involvement for local schoolchildren.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Minnesota Valley��

Less than 2 miles from the Mall of America

Smack in the middle of the Twin Cities, covers 14,000 lofty acres and 70 miles along the Minnesota River.��Paddle the waterway��in a canoe, or hike or run��46 miles of winding trails. The refuge hands out free loaner binoculars, fishing gear, and snowshoes at its��visitor��center,��and local kids can��borrow snow clothes and boots when they show up midwinter.��An on-site art gallery showcases nature-inspired work from hometown��and rotating artists.

Denver, Colorado

Rocky Mountain Arsenal��

14 miles from Mile High Stadium

Spot bison, deer, bald eagles, prairie dogs, songbirds, and endangered black-footed ferrets at the 15,000-acre, located between Denver International Airport and��downtown’s��skyscrapers, with views of the Rocky Mountains. Hike the ten��miles of trails or motor along Wildlife Drive, an 11-mile loop where you can see bison and deer. Fishing is big here: there’s bass in��Lake Mary or Lake Ladora, as well as and an for those with disabilities.

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When Will “Akuna” Robinson reached the northern terminus of the Continental Divide Trail in Glacier National Park on Sunday, September 15, he wasn’t thinking about race and gender or PTSD or ceiling-shattering accomplishments. Instead, his first thought was one of mild terror: What if he was dreaming the completion of this 3,100-mile trail? Already��there’d been high water to ford and nearly unprecedented snowpack. He’d strained his Achilles tendon, further complicating old injuries to his hips and knees. Maybe this moment, hugging the marker designating the U.S. border with Canada, was just a cruel figment of his imagination.

“I was literally thinking, God, what if this is a dream and I’m actually sleeping in a flooded tent back in Colorado?” he told me.

It took Robinson, who is 38 and a combat veteran, a few minutes to persuade himself he’d actually made it. And then, like any thru-hiker, his thoughts immediately turned to all the food he intended to eat: boiled shrimp, po’boys, sausage—real Louisiana fare.

When I caught up with him via��cell phone, he was actually sitting in the parking lot of one of his favorite New Orleans take-out places, ready to make up for months of living on energy bars and instant noodles. He’d have gotten there sooner, he said, but he needed to finish doing some filming for a new documentary about his experience and a couple of TV appearances, along with an appointment at a��Veterans Administration hospital.

And while all of this was preventing him from digging into classic Big Easy cuisine, it’s also what makes the completion of his hike so extraordinary. Robinson is the first recorded African American male to complete hiking’s triple crown—the Appalachian, Pacific Crest, and Continental Divide Scenic Trails (we say recorded because the , which maintains records of triple-crown recipients “on the honor system,” does not maintain records regarding race, gender, or other demographics). Fewer than 400 people have logged their completed triple crown on the ALDHA web page. Last year, became the first recorded African American woman to complete the same��feat.

“It’s pretty wild that it took until 2019 for this record to happen,” Robinson says. “But when you get out on the trail, you kind of understand why.”

Growing up in coastal Louisiana, Robinson saw his fair share of racism and discrimination. When he began his first long-distance hike, in 2016, he was hyperaware that he was a minority on the trail. And he was also more than a little wary of the prejudice he might experience there.

“I didn’t know if I’d be accepted on the trail,” he says. “So I tended to isolate myself—I’d camp alone, I never shared rooms with anyone. I was definitely on guard.”

Still, he knew he had to be there.

After graduating from��high school, he enlisted in the Army. In 2003, he was deployed to Iraq, where he was tasked with repairing the electronic systems on Apache helicopters. He spent his��downtime thumbing��through boxes of books sent by well-meaning civilians. In one��he found a discarded guide to the Pacific Crest Trail. He’d never heard of the PCT, but thumbing through that guidebook became his escape from the ugliness of war.

During his deployment, Robinson developed PTSD. He returned home physically wounded as well: a shattered right wrist required six surgeries to partially reconstruct, mostly out of metal. He walks with knee braces and a constant limp on account of a hip injury. And throughout all the surgeries and rehabilitation for his injuries, Robinson’s PTSD became worse. It was further complicated by intensifying anxiety and depression.

“I came back broken. I didn’t think I had a future at that point,” he says in a��short biopic documentary produced by Merrell, which sponsors Robinson.

Therapy wasn’t working, he says. Neither were medications prescribed for the mental trauma. Over the next decade, he began to isolate himself more and more, sometimes staying in his room for days on end. He says he self-medicated with alcohol and painkillers.

“Nothing made sense anymore,” says Robinson. “If I didn’t do something drastic, it wasn’t going to go much further.”

Then, one night in 2016, he was channel surfing on his TV and stumbled upon a rebroadcast of��Wild, the film based on Cheryl Strayed’s bestselling memoir. There was Reese Witherspoon, shouldering an oversize��backpack as she struggled down the trail. And as she passed a mile marker, Robinson had one thought,��I bet she’s on the PCT. He grabbed his phone and Googled the movie and the book. And sure enough: here was the trail that had kept him occupied in Iraq, now in living color in his bedroom.

“I had tried so many things by that point,” he says now. “I had gotten really good at hiding things, but I still hadn’t solved anything. And so I thought, Maybe this is what it’s going to take.”

Robinson admits he didn’t know a thing about hiking. He’d never heard of ,��a World War II vet and the first person to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail, who famously said he did so to “walk the Army out of my system.” Nor did he know about initiatives like��, a nonprofit organization that��helps other veterans��complete the big three scenic trails, along with other endurance opportunities (though he did contact the group��later for tips on gear that veterans could afford).

But he did know this was the only option left. And so he spent that entire night and much of the next morning ordering gear online and reading about��how to be a thru-hiker.

In the spring of 2016, three weeks after seeing the movie, Robinson��was at the southern terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail. His only experience with having a pack on his back were ruck marches in basic training.

“I literally had no idea what I was doing,” he says.

But as soon as he was on trail, he fell in love with the experience. A fellow hiker quickly dubbed him “Akuna,” a nod to the Swahili phrase Hakuna Matata meaning “no worries,” popularized by a song in The Lion King.

Still, the physical demands of the trail caught up with him. Recurring knee problems sabotaged that first PCT attempt, in 2016, but he returned and completed the trail��the trail the following year. Before he had even returned to Louisiana, he had committed to doing the other big two. Last year��he tackled the AT. About 40 miles in, he ran into Dawn “Undecided” Potts, another thru-hiker. They’d met for about five minutes on the PCT in 2017, and both remembered the encounter. They spent the rest of their hikes together and became romantic partners along the way (they also hiked the Continental Divide Trail together this year.)

Some 7,000 miles later, Robinson says he’s become accustomed to the stares and even eye rolls prompted by his being a hiker of color. And he thinks the lack of diversity still seen on our national trails can make being there a heavy burden for racial and ethnic minorities.

“I still encounter so many people who say they’ve never hiked with a person of color,” says Robinson. “And so I feel like I have to be an ambassador for my race. That can making hiking tough.��In addition to all the hiker logistics, I’m also always trying to make sure I’m on my very best behavior so that things are easier for the next African American on the trail. That can be super stressful.”

He says he’s heartened by some of the diversity initiatives launched by Merrell and other outdoor brands.

“If more people of color, more LGBTQ people, more veterans start seeing themselves represented outside, they’ll feel safer there. And then they’ll be more likely to get involved.”

Back in coastal Louisiana, Robinson has begun volunteering with��, a nonprofit organization dedicated to addressing the lack of outdoor opportunities for��kids in New Orleans. He’s been sharing his own trail experience in schools there, hoping he can inspire the next generation of hikers of color.

“Growing up, a lot of kids don’t get that experience. We’re told that we don’t belong outside or that’s not what we do. And so we decide that it’s altogether off limits for us.”

More than ever, Robinson wants to change that. He says there’s no doubt in his mind that hiking saved his life.

As he and Potts neared the end of the CDT last week, he decided to forego the fast-food-restaurant paper crowns that a lot of people wear when they complete their third big thru-hike. He wanted one that really reflected who he was—a legit crown, with some real bling, and a fleur-de-lis to pay tribute to his beloved New Orleans. He found the perfect one online and had it shipped to a resupply stop just outside Glacier National Park.

Donning it near then northern terminus, Robinson says he knew that crown was made for him. “I put it on, and all I could think was, I’m somebody in this moment. I’m actually, truly somebody.”

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

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

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

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

Cycle Zydeco

Where: Louisiana
When: April 24 to 28, 2019

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

Ride the Rockies��

Where: Colorado
When: June 8 to 15, 2019

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

Sierra to the Sea��

Where: California
When: June 15 to 22, 2019

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

RAGBRAI

Where: Iowa
When: July 21 to 27, 2019

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

Ultimate Cycling Vacation��

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

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

West Yellowstone Old Faithful Cycle Tour

Where: Wyoming
When: Fall��2019 (date not yet announced)

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

WACANID Ride��

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

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

Mountains to Coast Ride��

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

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

Big BAM on the Katy��

Where: Missouri
When: October 7 to 12, 2019

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

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Moat Mountain Smoke House

North Conway, New Hampshire

Occupying a big old yellow clapboard house, is the kind of place where locals keep their own mugs hanging above the bar. Drop in after climbing 6,288-foot Mount Washington—New England’s highest point—or scrambling up the Moat Range’s lesser known peaks to the west. You’ll recognize the place by the ski gondola sitting outside near the entrance. If there’s��a queue for a table, buy a Frisbee from the bar ($3) and toss it around in the yard while you wait. Then order an Iron Mike Pale Ale, brewed in a barn up the street, and pair it with a brisket sandwich and Cajun fries. On your way out, grab a growler or a four-pack of 16-ounce cans to go.

Tío Bob’s

(Seen Above)

Portillo, Chile

No trip to ski Portillo is complete without a leisurely afternoon at the iconic , an old stone refugio, or shepherd’s hut, halfway up the mountain. Named after Bob Purcell, who bought Portillo at auction from the Chilean government in 1961, the place has tableside views of Inca Lake and soaring 15,000-foot Andean peaks. Whether you’ve boot-packed up the out-of-bounds Super C Couloir or lapped untracked powder in El Estadio, you’ve earned a platter of barbecued steak and papas fritas topped with a fried egg. Watch your pisco sour intake, though: you still have to ski down.

Cardiff Beach Bar at Tower 13

Cardiff,��California

Returning from the reef break at Cardiff State Beach, locals stash their surfboards in front of this waterside spot on Highway 101, about 25 miles north of San Diego. Named for a nearby lifeguard station, calls itself a sports bar, but why watch a Padres game when you can check out the waves rolling in at sunset? Grab a seat on the dog-friendly patio or, on Wednesdays, head inside and catch a country music show while sipping a Mexican mai tai, made with pineapple-infused tequila. If you can, come in March, when mudbugs are flown in from Louisiana for a crawfish boil.

Moab Brewery

Moab, Utah

As if to assure you that your kind is welcome here, you’ll notice an array of bikes, rafts, and canoes hanging from the ceiling at the . This is the town’s lone microbrewery, and it’s the gathering spot for rafters getting off the Green River, hikers decamping from Porcupine Rim slickrock, or mountain bikers taking a break from the technical drops of the Captain Ahab trail. Ask for a Red Rye or Johnny’s American IPA in a can, the latter a full-volume favorite at 7 percent ABV. ��Match it with a massive chile verde burrito stuffed��with slow-cooked pulled pork. Or try the house spirit:��a distillery opened��in August and produces vodka.

Montauket Hotel

Montauk, New York

Montauk used to be the last uncrowded outpost on Long Island’s south shore. But even when city folk flood the area between June and September, the Montauket Hotel maintains a low-key, local vibe. Watch tangerine sunsets over Fort Pond Bay from the restaurant’s west-facing back lawn, preferably after surfing the popular longboard break at Ditch Plains a few miles away. Refuel with a lobster roll and a pint of ’s Summer Ale. In summer,��you can catch live bands Thursday and Saturday nights.

The Bavarian

Taos, New Mexico

Nobody would guess that a in New Mexico could be this good. But trust us, these folks have the best spätzle and Wiener schnitzel this side of the Alps. After schussing down from the base of Lift 4 at Taos Ski Valley, order a pint of hefeweizen and enjoy the views of 13,162-foot Wheeler Peak, New Mexico’s highest point. Strangers share communal tables on the sun-soaked deck, while friendly waitresses in dirndls deliver big, doughy pretzels and platters of brats and sauerkraut. It’s always fun to show up on skis, though the restaurant is also accessible via a rugged road. Open year-round for summer and fall post-hike chow.

Blackrocks Brewery

Marquette, Michigan

Even if you don’t have a mug in the mug club, you’ll still be treated like a regular at , arguably the coolest craft brewery in the Upper Peninsula. Founded in 2010 by two friends bored with their jobs in pharmaceutical sales, the onetime basement project now has a brewery in downtown Marquette where it makes 51K IPA, a tasty, hoppy ale named after a local 50K cross-country ski race that finishes a kilometer from the pub. In the long winter months, fat-bikers, nordic skiers, and college kids huddle here for warmth. During summer, mountain bikers linger on the front deck after rides on the Noquemanon trail network. There’s no kitchen, but you can bring your own picnic, or order from the rotating cast of food trucks parked out back.

Bearden Beer Market

Knoxville,��Tennessee

Open since 2010 in a converted flower shop, the is a regular meet-up spot for group fun runs. Walk in sweating and you’ll get a dollar off pints on Mondays. You don’t have to love beer to dig this place—lots of folks come for the bocce ball and outdoor bonfires. But it helps if you like obscure, regional craft brews: 13 or so varieties are on tap, and four-packs of Creekbank Blonde Ale, brewed a few hours away in Cottontown, are available for carryout. Bearden doesn’t serve food, but if you order a pizza from Sergeant Pepperoni’s a block away, delivery is on the house.

Spur Restaurant and Bar

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

is a relative newcomer to the village scene. Opened inside the Teton Mountain Lodge and Spa in 2012, it replaced Cascade, an old mainstay, and quickly became a front-runner for post-tram-lap beers on a powder day. Hang your wet coat by the fire and order a margarita. The bacon bloody mary, a longtime favorite at Cascade, is still available, and award-winning chef Kevin Humphreys now serves up more highbrow crowd-pleasers, like gingery tuna tartare tacos and fries doused with braised-elk gravy.

Chambre Neuf

Chamonix, France

There’s no such thing as an off night at , across the street from the famed Chamonix train station. Located��in the Hotel Gustavia, the bar is run by party-loving Swedes and hosts rowdy gatherings��with everyone from skiers to harness-clad guides drinking pitchers of Stella. A pop-rock cover band plays six nights��a week during the winter months, and unlike many spots in Cham, the drink prices won’t leave you broke. Stay at its 50-room hotel and you’ll enjoy views of Mont Blanc from your bed.

�Ұ��ܳ����’s

Ketchum, Idaho

At the Sun Valley��ski resort, you bump into movie stars in the lift line, and a burger at the mid-mountain lodge costs $16. But in nearby Ketchum, —a dimly lit dive bar off the main drag that’s revered by locals—is a welcome reminder that real people live in the area, too. The walls are plastered with beer cans, license plates, and framed photos ­of ­bearded guys catching giant trout, and the blue-collar vibe is given a considerable boost when Bruce Springsteen shows up for the annual New Year’s Day ­party, where locals are known to light their chest hair on fire atop the bar. Come after mountain-biking the area’s wildly underrated singletrack and order a schooner of beer, which is served in a massive 32-ounce glass goblet. A quarter-pound burger is just $5.75.

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With their��Dogumentaries��campaign,��Iams��is aiming to highlight the bond between humans and their dogs through powerful stories of recovery and friendship. In Episode 1, we meet Jody and his dog Levi. They've both survived major accidents, suffered from��extensive surgeries, and stuck by each other's side through everything. Their loyalty to one another is remarkable, and this “dogumentary” from Iams is as good as it gets. Find more from Iams 'Dogumentaries' here.

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Not long ago, the southern United States was an oyster wasteland. Chesapeake Bay populations had been so��overharvested that Maryland’s shucking houses were importing Louisiana oysters to stay in business. Then Louisiana’s reefs were killed off by fresh water released from the Mississippi River to push away oil from the 2010 Deepwater Horizon disaster. Meanwhile, years of drought in Florida led the federal government to declare Apalachicola Bay, once the source of 10 percent of the nation’s oysters, a fishery disaster in 2013. “It’s been hard for anyone to make a living oystering,” says , a professor at Auburn University who’s known as Doctor Oyster.��

But as wild reefs disappeared and prices skyrocketed, growers adopted the cutting-edge cultivation methods that turned the Pacific Northwest into an oyster power-house. Raised off the ocean floor, in mesh barrels that keep them from being eaten by predators or suffocating under sediment, the oysters flourished—with quality that caught everybody by surprise. “Perfect cups, full meat, nice and clean,” says Walton.��

Dozens of new varieties have since appeared. Some are sweet, some are salty, and most can be found only in the South’s oyster bars. (See below.) There are buttery Murder Points from Alabama, briny Phat Ladies from South Carolina, and decadent Caminada Bays raised in the rich waters of south Louisiana. Order up a dozen, wash them down with something cold, and send for more. There are plenty to go around.

Where to Slurp the Tastiest Oysters

, Decatur, Georgia

• The Variety: Murder Point
• The Chaser: Absinthe

​,��Charleston, South Carolina

• The Variety: Phat Lady
• The Chaser: Vermouth Spritz

,��New Orleans

• The Variety: Caminada Bay
• The Chaser:��Gentilly Shakedown

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