You like to travel but you love history. Why not combine the two? We’ve rounded up unique, off-the-radar destinations, both within the U.S. and abroad, that will appeal to history buffs who want to take a more active approach to discovery. Would you ski to a silver mine, or scuba dive to a shipwreck? Or how about walk the length of a half marathon to visit literary sites? From geologic to architectural history, we’ve got some great ideas for getaways that will spark your thirst for knowledge and satiate your adventurous spirit.

If You’re Eager to Explore Old Shipwrecks

Hamilton, Bermuda

Named after Spanish explorer Juan de BermĂșdez, this archipelago was colonized by pirates and its waters are home to more than 300 shipwrecks. Book an underwater excursion with one of the three outposts of to scuba dive or snorkel among various wreckage sites. The capital city of Hamilton boasts the oldest church in the New World and the oldest parliament in the British Commonwealth. Take a self-guided for a few hours of outdoor exploration, including a quad workout up to the tower of the Cathedral of the Most Holy Trinity, which dates back to 1905. Stay at the Hamilton Princess Hotel and Beach Club, a convenient base for all points on the island.

If You’re into Architecture

MazatlĂĄn, Mexico

You should also pack your best road-running shoes for long strolls around this historic city center, famous for Neoclassical and French Baroque architecture, colorful houses, and charming old churches. Catch a play at the newly restored Angela Peralta Theater, which first opened in 1874, and walk through the stunning cathedral of Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Mazatlán’s 12 miles of beaches are also a main attraction, and those in the know climb the series of steep switchbacks (followed by more than 300 paved steps) to the top of Cerro Creston, mostly for the incredible 360-degree views but also to check out El Faro (the lighthouse), built in 1890. To round out your time here, stay at the nine-room , a midcentury property decorated with quirky antiques and designed with a pool overlooking the Pacific.

If You Want to Ski to Silver-Rush Sites

Park City, Utah

At Park City Mountain Resort, you can learn about the mountain town’s silver-mining past on a to historic mining structures. Post-slopes, hop a free city bus to the Park City Museum, whose exhibits and special lectures bring the stories of early settlers and prospecters to life. Come dusk, takes groups to the streets with animated tales of local murder and intrigue. Listed on the National Historic Register and built just five years after Park City was incorporated in 1884, the is now a lavish 12-room hotel popular with VIPs at the annual Sundance Festival. If łÙłóČčłÙ’s too pricey, consider downtown’s Blue Church Lodge, a seven-condo vacation-rental complex in what was Park City’s first Mormon church, also listed on the National Historic Register.

If You’re Captivated by the Geologic Complexity of the West

Gateway, Colorado

In the high desert of western Colorado, you can search for preserved dinosaur tracks, take guided hikes through 300-million-year-old red-rock canyons, and enjoy 26 miles of beginner-to-intermediate just outside this small town. Stay in a lodge room or a casita at the , where you can sign up for an excursion to Dolores River Canyon to study Native rock art, sit in on a lecture about how ancient astronomy was used by the Ancestral Puebloans, and spend a few hours climbing or bouldering the granite walls of Unaweep Canyon.

If You’re Fascinated by the Timeline of Women’s Rights

Rochester, New York

A little more than 100 years ago, women were given the right to vote across the U.S. Rochester hosted several early women’s rights conventions and was home to the legendary suffragist Susan B. Anthony. Visit the National Susan B. Anthony Museum and House, where Anthony met with leaders of the civil rights movement and was arrested for voting illegally in 1872, then paddle the Genesee River, ride a bike along the Erie Canal, or enjoy a beer with a view of High Falls at the Genesee Brewhouse, which is also more than 100 years old. From there it’s just two miles to the Neighborhood of the Arts and the, at the center of stores and eateries.

If You’re an Oenology Buff Who Likes to Bike

Healdsburg, California

Sure, Northern California’s oenological history doesn’t date as far back as some other regions of the world, but its vineyards have a fascinating past nonetheless, one that started with prune farming in the 1920s and ended with winemaking. Stay at the 39-room , named after Healdsburg founder Harmon Heald, an Ohio businessman who left the mining industry for the agricultural bounty of these Sonoma County hills. The hotel has paired up with pro cyclist Peter Stetina to offer , and its sister property, , has a new “Wildflower Walks” package that gets guests outdoors for a scenic trail hike with a local health coach.ÌęIf floating is more your thing, book a guided paddle trip of the Russian River via kayak or SUP with (dogs are welcome along). Or spend your idle hours birding within the 155-acre Healdsburg Ridge Open Space Preserve, home to more than 40 species, including turkey vultures, buffleheads, and cedar waxwings.

If You Classic American Literature

Baltimore, Maryland

Many of our country’s literary greats once called Baltimore home, including F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Frederick Douglass, and Edgar Allen Poe. Take a to see landmarks around the city referenced in historic books—you’ll log a respectable 12.4 miles—or stop into Edgar Allen Poe’s house or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s favorite bar, . Other worthy walkable attractions include the pedestrian-only brick Waterfront Promenade that stretches from Fort McHenry, past the Visionary Arts Museum’s sculpture garden, and around the Inner Harbor. , in the historic Mount Vernon neighborhood, opened in 2018 in a site that was once a private mansion.

Megan Michelson is an șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű contributing editor and a fan of historical nonfiction, art and science museums, and any spot listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

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Mike Spinnler cries nearly every time he recounts memories as a runner and long-time race director of the , the oldest continuously run ultra in the country.

Such memories include the time he first ran the iconic Maryland race when he was 12 years old, or the year he cheered on his 60-year-old wife as she crossed the finish, or memories of watching his two sons racing. For him, this race is a member of the family.

In 1993, five years after his tenth JFK finish, Spinnler became the race’s second race director, where he’s been ever since. By then, he’d set the course record (5:53:05) in 1982, and added another win in 1983, for a total of five top-five and six top-ten finishes.

Thirty years later, it’s still his pride and joy. He’ll immerse in the magic of the event again on Saturday, November 18, as more than 1,000 runners take the journey through the historic route łÙłóČčłÙ’s so dear to his heart.

“It just keeps growing in its prestige,” he says.

A Race and a Pledge

The JFK 50 started in 1963, the same year President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. The president had instituted a public health program to improve the nation’s fitness, supporting the launch of a series of 50-mile races around the country. But as years went on, the only one that stuck around was the JFK 50.

“Kennedy’s mission was this: Improve your physical fitness, improve your lifestyle, improve your country,” says Spinnler. “We heeded his call and have been doing it for 60-plus years.”

The JFK 50 course is located about an hour northwest of Washington D.C., covering traditional lands of the Indigenous Massawomek and Shawandassee Tule (Shawanaki/Shawnee). One of the race’s primary appeals is that it’s a horseshoe-shaped, point-to-point course with three distinct sections: The Appalachian Trail (miles 0-15), the Canal/Tow Path (miles 15-42), and the rolling finish (miles 42-50).

The race starts in Boonsboro, Maryland, follows a few miles of paved roads before connecting with the Appalachian Trail (AT), where the course climbs more than 1,000 vertical feet in five miles, crests to the high point, and follows rocky singletrack before dropping 1,000 vertical feet halfway into the race (mile 14.5), to connect with a flat marathon distance along the C&O Canal Tow Path. The last several miles are rolling country roads, where it finishes at Springfield Middle School in Williamsport.

Ruhling Aims for the Win

In 2019, Seth Ruhling, an unsponsored athlete, showed up to the JFK 50, slept in his car the night before, and won the race in a blistering 5:38:11, his debut 50-miler. Within hours of winning, he sealed a sponsorship with The North Face.

Ruhling, 29, now lives and trains in Boulder, Colorado, and he’ll be returning for his second JFK 50. Since Ruhling’s 2019 win, he has made a name for himself with a sixth place finish at the Pikes Peak Marathon in 2021, second place at Montana’s Rut 50K, first place at the Broken Arrow Skyrace 46K, and most recently, .

In 2020, JFK 50 was one of the only races in the country that didn’t shut down with the pandemic. Ruhling had planned on racing, but got injured. “I always wanted to go back,” he says.

Ruhling was particularly drawn into this year’s race because of its deep field of registered elites, which had at one point included 2023 Western States winner Tom Evans, Matt Daniels, Adam Merry, and Sean Van Horn—all of whom have since dropped.

His strategy for the mixed course, which requires technical trail chops as well as fast road turnover, is to attack every single section. He says that, while the JFK 50 is known more as a “track race,” it’s a mistake to discount the early trail miles. “The record is going to happen on the towpath, sure, but only if it’s set up with efficient running on the AT section,” he says.

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Speaking of records, when asked about his goals for the race, Ruhling did not mince words. “I definitely want to win,” he says. “I’m going to go for the course record. I’m going to send it.” He also showed deep respect for Hayden Hawks’s stout course record of 5:18:40, set in 2020. “Really, I just want to go run fast and see what I can do.”

The JFK 50 may be a forgiving course, and a great first race to consider for the ultra-curious. “If you’re coming from a road background, JFK 50 is the best intro to trail running and ultra,” Ruhling says. “There are people all over the towpath cheering for you. It’s so fun. Such a good community event.”

‘This Race Is Going to Be a Celebration’

, 27, is a professional athlete for The North Face living in Missoula, Montana, and she too will be gunning for the win at this year’s JFK 50 Mile.

Lichter is a three-time winner of the Rut 50K, two-time winner of the Lake Sonoma Marathon, the Broken Arrow 50K course record holder, and she recently represented the USA at the World Mountain Running Championships 46K, in Innsbruck, Austria, where she placed fourth, and first American.

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This April, after winning the Lake Sonoma marathon for the second time (second overall), North Face colleagues Zach Miller and Ruhling both encouraged Lichter to sign up for the JFK 50. With a background in collegiate track and cross-country and, more recently, a strong mountain running resume, this varied skill set will suit her well for JFK 50 success.

“I’m ready for a new challenge,” she says. “I love mountainous runs, but I also like grinding out controlled long efforts.” Her normal training incorporates a lot of speed and road running, anyway, so it wasn’t an entirely new approach for this build. According to Strava, she’s been putting in heavy miles. “Not gonna lie, this has been the best training block in 2023,” she says.

After an injury last winter, she approached this year with intention and strategic rest. For example, after winning the Rut 50K in September, she took a full week off before easing back into training for for JFK 50. This will be Lichter’s first 50-mile race, and she’s on the hunt for the win and course record set in 2022 by Sarah Biehl (6:05:42). Biehl broke the ten-year-old course record (6:12:00) set by Ellie Greenwood in 2012.

“This race is going to be a celebration of everything I’ve been through physically and mentally this year,” she says. “I’m just excited to support that race community and tradition. I’m all about that.”

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Pushing Edges, Changing Lives

“We love to look back with great pride about this race,” says Spinnler. “But we’re also constantly looking forward, always wanting to make it better.” He thanks his predecessor, William “Buzz” Sawyer, the original JFK 50 race director (1963–1992), who really instilled that outlook into the event team.

Spinnler likes to summon JFK for inspiration, too. “President Kennedy would be pleased to know that this race is still going on,” says Spinnler. “He was trying to get people to live a life of vigor, to use their bodies. I just want to really revel in the positivity of the event. People come out for the JFK 50 and—I know this is clichĂ©, but it’s true—it changes their lives.”

Perhaps Spinnler’s favorite JFK 50 memory of all was when, in 1983, he glimpsed his mother and father at the finish line right before winning the race. “There’s a photo floating around of my mother grabbing my hand to celebrate as I won. I still look at that photo and tear up, and that was 40 years ago,” he says.

“When all the runners are there, lined up at the start, at downtown Boonsboro, I’m telling you, I get goosebumps just thinking about it. What’s going to unfold? Race day always has this ‘Christmas morning’ effect, and Christmas morning never gets old.”

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The beach was disorienting. There was just so much of it, spreading north and south as far as I could see: only sand, dunes, and ocean. No high-rise condos. No putt-putt courses. No boardwalk crammed with souvenir shops. It was just raw.

It was my first time in North Carolina’s Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and I was in awe over the wild nature of the land and seascape—the exact emotion that our national park system is supposed to induce.

The park system protects many pristine beaches, long stretches of sand or secluded rocky coves just as awesome as a 14,000-foot mountain peak or 5,000-foot-deep canyon. And it’s summer, the perfect time to go to the beach. There’s no better place to do that than in a wild national park. Here are my top ten to visit.

1. Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, Wisconsin

The sea caves of are truly stunning. Dozens of them, where Lake Superior has eaten holes in the orange and red sandstone cliffs, are scattered along the mainland of Wisconsin and the 21 islands that comprise this national lakeshore. But don’t ignore the beaches between these cliffs, which are just as spectacular. The great Meyers Beach, which is on the mainland strip of this park unit and accessible by car, is the easiest choice. But if you truly want wild sand, strike out for one of the isles that sit deeper in Lake Superior.

Several of those islands have beaches you can only reach by boat, and most are beautiful. But Lake Superior’s water temperature is notoriously cold, so my advice is to head to Julian Bay, on Stockton Island, where on sunny days a protected, shallow bay offers water temps in the 70s. The 1.5-mile-long beach wraps around the bay, giving you plenty of opportunity to find your own patch of sand with views that stretch across Lake Superior. Better yet, especially for kids, the sand “sings” when you brush it with your hand, because of the shape of the grains. It actually sounds like a seal barking.

Though you can kayak to some of the islands in this park, Stockton is 14 miles from the mainland, so consider taking a water taxi or hopping on the from Bayfield, Wisconsin ($52). The boat will dock at Presque Isle Bay. Walk the .4-mile Julian Bay Trail to Julian Bay Beach and relax. You can bring camping gear, but the ferry runs morning and afternoon service so you could just spend the day.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park. Getting around requires aquatic transportation, though.

Stay the night: Stockton has a waterfront campground with 21 sites tucked into the pines of Presque Isle Bay. ($15 a night.) Make reservations at .

2. Cumberland Island National Seashore, Georgia

There’s a lot of human history to be discovered on , a 36,415-acre barrier island near the Georgia-Florida border that has been both the home of a freed-slave settlement and the resort mansions of the Carnegie family. Those slaves earned their freedom by fighting for the British in the War of 1812. Meanwhile, descendants of the Carnegies still retain rights to live on the island.

The natural beauty is a mix of marsh channels, live oak forest, and wide-open beaches. There are castle-like ruins to explore andÌę also plenty of wildlife to keep an eye out for—alligators dominate the interior marshes, and a herd of feral horses, descendants of a pack left behind in the late 1800s, roam the island. Almost 10,000 acres of Cumberland is federally designated wilderness. The beach is extensive, running for 17 miles along the eastern edge of the island.

Crowds are scarce because the ferry from St. Marys can only bring a maximum of 300 people over on any given day, so it’s easy to find a slice of sand to yourself if you’re willing to hike. The majority of day trippers stick to Sea Camp Beach, on the southern end of the island, less than half a mile from the ferry drop. You can rent a bike ($16 a day) and ride Grand Avenue north, or hike along the beach until you find a spot with the right amount of solitude. The waves are generally too little to surf, but perfect for swimming, reading trashy novels, and taking naps.

Logistics: Catch a from St. Marys ($40 per person). Entrance fee is $15 per person.

Stay the Night: Cumberland Island has . Sea Camp is the most developed and easiest to reach, just a half mile from the ferry dock. It has 18 sites situated in a live oak forest with plenty of shade a quarter mile from Sea Camp Beach ($22 a night). Stafford Beach is your other developed option, with 10 sites and cold showers (which is fine—it’s hot here, so you wouldn’t want a warm shower), flush toilets, and potable water. It’s a 3.5-mile hike from the ferry dock, but puts you in the middle of the island with fewer crowds and quick access to the north side of Cumberland. ($12 a night.)

3. Olympic National Park, Washington

Olympic National Park encompasses some of the most diverse terrain of any park in the country. Protecting nearly a million acres, the terrain varies from glaciated peaks to rocky beaches. There are 73 miles of coastline within the park’s boundaries, including the popular and picture-perfect Rialto and Kalaloch beaches.

But if you want a wilder experience, hike beyond these vehicle-accessed destinations and deeper into the Olympic National Park’s Wilderness Coast. Just be prepared for an arduous hike: a mix of forested paths, boulder hopping, and steep, rope-assisted trails that climb and descend tall headlands. You also have to pay attention to the tides; high tides can close out the beach.

Ozette Ranger Station, in the middle of the Wilderness Coast, is the perfect starting point. From there, you can do short, three-mile boardwalk hikes to Cape Alava or Sand Point, or begin multi-day treks 20 miles south to Rialto Beach or . If you head north,Ìę you’ll be inundated with tidepools full of starfish, tall cliffs with sweeping views, and more sea stacks rising from the surf than you can count.

Shi Shi itself offers two miles of hard-packed sand bookended by tall cliffs and sea stacks. It’s a popular spot, so don’t expect to have it to yourself, but you won’t find a better sunset on the West Coast. The waves are good too, and people surf here, but that means lugging your board on the hike.

Logistics: There’s a $30 entrance fee to enter Olympic. If you plan to hike the Wilderness Coast, you can arrange for a shuttle with .

Stay the Night: Get a wilderness ($8 per person per night) and you can camp in one of the traditional forested campsites adjacent to the beach or pitch a tent on the sand itself. You can build a fire on the beach below the high-tide line, but may only gather driftwood, not wood from the forest. Shi Shi Beach, 15 miles from the Ozette Ranger Station, is a popular destination for backpackers.

4. Virgin Islands National Park, Virgin Islands

The U.S. Virgin Islands are a collection of three tropical keys in the Caribbean that range from the touristy (St. Thomas) to the culturally significant (St. Croix). Virgin Islands National Park protects more than 7,000 acres of the decidedly more rustic St. Johns, comprising roughly half of the island’s total footprint and offering a mix of lush, forested hiking trails and picture-perfect beaches.

Trunk Bay is the most famous, largely because of its natural beauty; the white sand forms a horseshoe around light blue water, islands rise from the sea just off the beach, and mountains frame the horizon. Yes, it’s crowded, but it’s worth it. The Underwater Snorkel Trail is also a great way to get acquainted with the unofficial sport of the Virgin Islands—staring at fish through goggles.

But don’t spend all your time at Trunk Bay. Hit a few of the park’s beaches to get a taste of the variety of terrain. Brown Bay has a small spit of flat sand łÙłóČčłÙ’s only accessible by boat or trail, offering more solitude than Trunk Bay. Maho Bay is known for an abundance of sea turtles thanks to its healthy seagrass beds, and Honeymoon Bay has two beaches split by a rocky point where several species of coral offer habitat for colonies of colorful fish. I recommend visiting as many beaches as you can while you’re on the island, and bring goggles and a snorkel. The park protects roughly 5,000 acres of coral reefs and seagrass beds beneath the surface of the clear water.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park, but Trunk Bay charges a $5 amenity fee.

Stay the Night: The privately run operates within the national-park boundaries, complete with its own beach. You can bring your own tent, but we say opt for one of the campground’s eco-tents, which have queen beds, fans, and shaded decks. (Two-night minimum; $165 per night.)

5. Assateague Island National Seashore, Maryland

is a 32-mile-long barrier island that splits its zip codes between Maryland and Virginia, though most of the national seashore is located in Maryland. It is a wild expanse of land known for its maritime forests, salt marshes, and mellow interior bays.

The Atlantic side of the island is dominated by a primitive beach that stretches for miles between choppy surf and tall dunes. Oh, and Assateague also has a population of magnificent wild ponies. Legend has it that the equine are descendants of ponies that swam to shore from a sunken Spanish ship in the 1500s.

The national seashore is just a couple hundred miles from Washington, D.C., so it can be crowded, but the beach is gorgeous, and there’s a good chance you’ll build a sand castle a couple hundred yards from a pony.

Take a break from the beach and paddle the Sinepuxent Bay, a shallow sound on the inland side of the island, where you’ll have a good chance of seeing the wild ponies as they graze on the tall grass that borders the water. has boat rentals and tours (rentals start at $20, tours start at $50). is a thing on the island. In Maryland, crabbing season runs from April 1 to December 31. Only keep crabs you’re planning to eat, and only if they’re at least five inches across.

Logistics: Entrance fee is $25. Get a to explore the Over Sand Vehicle (OSV) zone ($110, valid for one year), which is 11 miles long and offers your best chance of avoiding the crowds.

Stay the night: The many camping options here range from the developed campground of —an 800-acre state park on the same island as the national seashore with 350 campsites ($27.50 a night)—to the primitive beach camping within the Bullpen area of the OSV zone ($200 for a year). Note that you must camp in a hard-sided vehicle with an approved waste-management system. Campfires are allowed on the beach below the high-tide line.

6. Redwood National Park, California

Redwood National Park is best known for protecting some of the world’s largest trees, which can rise to more than 350 feet tall. The park also encompasses 40 miles of northern California’s coast, where sandy beaches hide beneath bluffs holding old-growth spruce forest.

Gold Bluffs Beach makes for a good introduction to the coast, with miles of gray sand flanked by orange-colored cliffs. It’s a popular beach with easy road access, so you’ll need to apply for a if you’re visiting between May 15 and Sept. 15, and pay a $12 day-use fee.

Gold Bluffs isn’t your only destination in Redwood National Park. The California Coastal Trail stretches for 70 miles through the national park and adjacent public lands, connecting a number of less crowded beaches. You can visit a few gems by hiking an portion of the CCT from False Klamath Cove south to the Klamath River. The trail mostly traverses the wooded hillside above the ocean, but short side spurs lead to secluded beaches without any road access.

One of the best is Hidden Beach, where a gray-sand cove is flanked by grass-covered hills, and massive rocks jut out of the Pacific surf. A pile of driftwood has collected at the high-water mark of the beach, and small boulders are sunk into the sand. The whole scene has a misty, moody vibe that feels more Pacific Northwest than California.

Logistics: No entrance fee required, but the parking lot at Gold Bluffs has a $12 day use fee.

Stay the Night: Grab a site at which sits within Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, and has 26 sites you can reserve up to six months in advance ($35 a night) with quick access to the beach below and the California Coastal Trail.

7. Cape Cod National Seashore, Massachusetts

protects 40 miles of the coast where Massachusetts meets the Atlantic, defining the edge of New England, and is so beautiful that in the 1800s Henry David Thoreau wrote about this place: “A man may stand there and put all America behind him.” The seashore has no shortage of beaches, but Race Point, in Provincetown, offers an idyllic slice of the region.

This expanse isn’t rugged and dramatic like some of the West Coast’s beaches. Instead of tall cliffs and jagged sea stacks, you have soft sand and rolling sand dunes speckled with wispy grass. The beach itself is mellow, conducive to relaxation and the occasional nap. The sand next to the parking lot ($25 fee) in Provincetown can get crowded, but Race Point stretches for several miles around the tip of the Cape, so if you have the legs for it, keep walking until you find a quiet spot.

The thick grassland that separates the beach from the road and parking facilities gives you a more rustic vibe than a lot of more overdeveloped East Coast beaches. Spring is whale-migration season, so bring some binoculars and look for right and humpback whales cruising the channels off the coast.

Logistics: $25 entrance fee.

Stay the Night: There’s no camping within Cape Cod National Seashore, but the park has a that put you close to the park’s beaches (from $170 a night).

8. Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida and Mississippi

The beaches along the Gulf of Mexico are known for their sugar-white sand, like those found on , which protects pieces of the coast of Mississippi and Florida and islands within the Gulf. The national seashore hosts a mix of historic military forts, coastal forest, and pristine beaches.

The best sand of the lot is on Horn Island, an 8-mile-long, 1-mile-wide barrier island off the coast of Mississippi, protected as a federally-designated wilderness, and only accessible by boat. Horn is located seven miles off the coast of Mississippi, sitting in the Mississippi Sound of the Gulf of Mexico. No commercial ferries service the island, so you’ll need your own boat (or to hire a private charter) to reach it.

A sandy path connects the two sides of the island. The beach on the south side, facing the Gulf, features soft sand flanked by small, grassy dunes. The interior of the island has warm lagoons and tall pine trees with tufts of green nettles at their tips, looking like giant bonsai trees. You’ll find the occasional alligator on Horn, as well as nesting ospreys. Anglers wade into the shallow waters of the Gulf and cast for speckled trout and redfish, but mostly, you just soak in the deserted-island vibes.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to visit Horn Island, and you don’t need reservations to camp. But you do need a boat. There’s no regular ferry service to Horn, but you can find .

Stay the night: You’re allowed to on the beach here, as long as you stay off the dunes and any vegetation. There are no facilities and no drinking water, so bring everything you need on the boat. You can have a campfire below the high-tide line. No permits or reservations needed, but there is a 14-day maximum stay.

9. Channel Islands National Park, California

If you ever wondered what California was like before all the people showed up, take a 20-mile boat ride out to Channel Islands National Park, a five-island archipelago with craggy coastlines, rugged mountains, and remote coves where you’ll find more sea lions and seals than suntanned bodies. Santa Cruz Island is the largest within the national park, with a total of 77 miles of shoreline, and has regular ferry service. It also has the best beaches.

Start by exploring and snorkeling in Scorpion Beach, a rocky patch of land between two cliffs with clear water and underwater kelp forests. If you want a more adventurous beach, hike four miles across the island from Scorpion Beach to Smuggler’s Cove Beach, a mix of dark sand and rock tucked into a protected cove surrounded by steep headlands. You might see some sailboats anchored off the beach, but probably won’t have to share the sand with anyone.

Regardless of the beach you choose, keep an eye out for gray, blue, and humpback whales frolicking in the water near the islands in the summer and fall. You can also sign up for a to explore the sea caves that punctuate the rocky coast ($186 per person).

Logistics: Entrance to the park is free. If you don’t have a boat, from Ventura, California. It’s a 20-mile cruise to Santa Cruz. (From $31)

Stay the Night: Santa Cruz has one developed campground, , with 31 sites and fresh water. It’s just a half-mile walk from the boat landing. You can make reservations six months in advance. ($15 per night.)

10. Cape Hatteras National Seashore, North Carolina

stretches for 70 miles, protecting a string of barrier islands off the coast of North Carolina. The park is a mix of dune-flanked beaches, meandering channels, historic lighthouses, and small, thriving towns. This is the wild Outer Banks that has attracted visitors from the pirate Blackbeard, looking to lay low from the law in the 1700s, to surfers today seeking consistent East Coast barrels.

A single highway connects most of the Outer Banks with a series of bridges, with quality beaches along the entire length of this park. But Ocracoke Beach, on Ocracoke Island, is your destination, because it’s largely undeveloped, and it’s less crowded than most other beaches in the area; the island is isolated on the southern end of the national seashore. To reach it, you need your own boat or to catch a ferry ride from the mainland.

Development is centered around the harbor on the southern end of the island, complete with a lighthouse, while the rest of the spit is left mostly untouched. Ocracoke Beach is 16 miles of sand, tall dunes, and relentless surf. Bring a board, or ($25 a day), some fishing gear, and a 4WD vehicle; sections of the beach are open to offroad vehicles with a permit.

Logistics: There’s no entrance fee to the park, but you need to catch a from either Cedar Island or Hatteras Island to reach Ocracoke ($15 one way). You can get an to drive on sections of Ocracoke Beach ($50 for a 10-day permit).

Stay the Night: Ocracoke Island has a (136 sites) with gravel tent pads situated just behind the dunes, so you can hear the waves crash as you drift to sleep in your tent. ($28 per night.)

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national-parks columnist. He is constantly having an internal debate about whether it’s better to live at the beach or in the mountains. Right now, because it’s summer, the beach is winning.

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Summer is on. And this is the summer to beat all summers, as millions of American travelers attested over Memorial Day weekend, taking to the roads and skies to kick off the season in record numbers. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű staffers have plenty of their own exciting getaways planned, including hiking from mountain town to mountain town in Colorado, pedaling and cork-popping in Provence, road-tripping to visit wolves and see iconic high-desert scenery in the American Southwest, and more. You, too, can goÌębig.

Reveling in Rocky Mountain Highs and Pies

I take full advantage of my birthday each year by forcing my friends—a group not quite as adventurous asÌęme—to come along for activities they’d usually roll their eyes at. This year we’re hiking in Colorado from Aspen to Crested Butte, an 11-mile day trip over 12,500-foot , with some 3,000 feet of elevation gain. (My friends must truly love me.) We’ve tapped one friend,Ìęwho I couldn’t convince to trek with us, to drop the rest of us off and pick us up,Ìęthough that service is also offered locallyÌęby Dolly’s Mountain Shuttle and Alpine Express. While I’m most looking forward to gorgeous lakes, vibrant wildflowers, and expansive views of the Elk Range, my pals are excited to spend a night in the towns on each end. We’ll be fueling up on caffeine and pastries at Local Coffee House in Aspen on the front end and celebrating our accomplishment with pizza and beer at Secret Stash,Ìęmy favorite spot in Crested Butte. The decor feels like an Indian restaurant and a Red Robin collided, with a distinctly ski-town vibe, and the weird and wonderful pizzas are to die for. —Mikaela Ruland, associate content director at National Park Trips

Recreating on the Jersey Shore

I’ll always be a defender of the Jersey Shore, particularly Stone Harbor, located on Seven Mile Island. This East Coast beach town is home to tons of wildlife, soft sand, and the best seafood. It’s the perfect spot for large families to gather. I’m looking forward to my seaside runs and bike rides along the path that extends the entirety of the island. It’s also fun to kayak the marsh along the bay side or head just over Gull Island Thorofare Bridge to check out the Wetlands Institute. When you’re looking for a respite from the bustle, stroll down Second AvenueÌęto the Stone Harbor Bird Sanctuary. I’ve never considered myself much of a birder, yet I always love walking the sanctuary’sÌętrails. A mile north is Springer’s, which makes the best homemade ice cream in the world. On summer nights, the line for a cone can wrap around the block. Other can’t-miss establishments include Quahog’s Seafood Shack and Bar for dinner, and Coffee Talk for your morning caffeine fix (it’s the famed establishment where Taylor Swift once performed acoustic shows). —Ellen O’Brien, digital editor

Wheeling About Provence

At some point in planning this summer’s adventure, I recalled a favorite saying from Oscar Wilde: “It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.” How true. Every morning I open to peruse the latest highlights from the European cycling scene, and most evenings I consult The New York Times’ cooking section for an interesting recipe. Blend those reading habits, add a dash of Francophilia, and—voilà—I find myself heading to Provence. For cool temperatures, zero crowds, and the glorious light of autumn in the Luberon Valley, my wife and I will spend a week exploring back roads and high peaks by bike in the department of Vaucluse. Each morning we’ll stock up at a local patisserie before rolling out of the tiny medieval town of Venasque, whose untouched Gallo-Roman architecture and clifftop views earned it the designation of one of the 126 most beautiful villages in France. We’ll pedal until hunger or a vineyard beckon, with an ascent of Mont Ventoux (an iconic Tour de France climb) as the week’s big goal. Come evening we’ll meander alongwinding country roads in search of a quiet bistro, perhaps in another village, like Carpentras orÌęRoussillon, for a Provençal feast of bouillabaisse or black truffle omelet, paired with a bottle of the rosĂ© for which this region is famous. For dessert we’ll hope for a slice of clafoutis, a traditional flan-like tart loaded with plump apricots or black cherries sourced from a nearby orchard. All of which merits another maxim, this one fromÌętheÌęlegendary 19th-century gourmand Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin. “Dis-moi ce que tu manges, je te dirai ce que tu es,” he said, which translates to “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.” Would it come as any surprise that Brillat-Savarin was French, born just a few hours up the RhĂŽne River from Venasque? —Jonathan Dorn, senior vice president of strategy and studios

Rafting Down the Rogue

Every summer my family and I go on vacation where I grew up, on the southern coast of Oregon. Gold Beach, a town of some 2,000 people, is nestled between timber-covered mountains and the mighty Pacific, with the mouth of the Rogue River serving as its northern edge. As an outdoorsman, I’ve always loved going back, but I appreciate it more and more each time I return. There are three amazing ways to experience the Rogue. One is rafting the 32.4-mile Wild Rogue section of Class III–IV rapids, a trip that can be tackled in three or four days; it requires a hard-to-get permit or a guide setup, but you’ll never forget floating through this remote section of canyon. The second way to see it is with , a jet-boat operator whose charming staff grew up in the area and are super knowledgeable about the flora and fauna you’re likely to see, including river otters, black bears, bald eagles, and ospreys. If you have the time, take the company’s Wilderness Whitewater Tour, which stops at Cougar Lane Lodge, famous for its BBQ. The third option, if the bite is on, is to go Chinook salmon fishing in the mouth of the river, preferably with local legend and guide Helen Burns. If you’re staying in town and want to be close to the beach and amenities, book the Beach Pea Suite at the new —it has a glorious soaking tub. Good eats are plentiful in the area, and some of my favorite places are the Barnacle Bistro, Tu Tu Tun Lodge, and the award-winning Redfish Restaurant in Port Orford. For beer, you can’t go wrong with anything from Arch Rock Brewing Company, but the Pistol River Pale is outstanding. You also shouldn’t miss the short hike down Cape Sebastian: It starts from an overlook about 800 feet above the ocean, giving you views for miles in any direction; from there you’ll descend just shy of two miles through Sitka spruce, salmonberry bushes, and ferns to the beach, where waves break powerfully against sandstone cliffs, even during the summer. Check out the tide pools before the climb back out. And finally, if you have kids, don’t miss Prehistoric Gardens in Port Orford, where 23 life-size dinosaur replicas are hidden in the old-growth forest. The quiet and solitude of this moss-covered grove is spectacular. —Will Taylor, group gear director

Roaming Around Historic Annapolis

Annapolis, Maryland, on the Chesapeake Bay, is where I come from and where I return every year. For one thing, they have flowers—bursting tulip magnolias in rows, and lilacs—in spring when scraps of snow still cover my hillside in Colorado, and now the hydrangeas, snapdragons, magnolias, and peonies should be out, with the locust blooms just finishing. In my friend Molly’s family, the locust blooms are a sign that soft crabs are running. The best time to go is summer, because there are so many things to do. We kids grew up swimming, sailing, windsurfing, and water-skiing. We went crabbing in dinghies with trotlines or by roaming around docks and pilings with crab nets in hand. The historic town (Annapolis was the nation’s capital from 1783 to 1784) is built around two brick-paved circles; the State House, where the Maryland legislature meets, and St. Anne’s Church are set in, respectively, State Circle and Church Circle, to symbolize separation of church and state. Near both is the harbor, where the oyster boats used to dock, and the Market House, housing many concessions, where my siblings and I worked. (I scooped ice cream, gaining a mean right arm.) You can buy crab cakes, oysters, soups, cheese, and fruit there, and walk across the street to a statue of Alex Haley, the author of Roots, reading a book to children; it commemorates the shameful fact that his forebear Kunte Kinte was sold here at the City Dock. You might also visit St. John’s College (established in 1696) and the adjacent Naval Academy. Don’t miss the clam chowder at Middleton’s CafĂ© (which dates back to 1750) or the fun scene at McGarvey’s, a tavern where my grown sons now go get beers. On a beautiful day, hike (it is intermittently closed, but you can still walk around the area), looking out at the Chesapeake and the four-mile Bay Bridge, or take the loop trail in Quiet Waters Park on the South River. —Alison Osius, senior editor

Off-Roading in Iceland

My husband and I are beyond stoked: we’re headed to Ireland and Iceland for a two-week adventure. He hasn’t been to Ireland, but I lived there as a kid, so I’ve got that country dialed. It’ll be a whirlwind coastal tour, with a climb up Croagh Patrick, near my old cottage on the west coast. Iceland, however, remains untapped for us both. We love a thermal-springs soak after hard hikes and trail runs, and prefer to dodge crowds and drive less, so this smallish outdoor mecca was a no-brainer addition. We’ll play it fast and loose, but here’s how I think our trip will go down: After we fly into ReykjavĂ­k, the capital, we’ll pick up our rented Dacia Duster 4X4 camper van with a rooftop tent ($900 for five days, it’s tricked out with sleeping and cooking essentials and a hot spot for GPS; for more information, visit ). We’ll hit the BĂłnus grocery store—it’s the cheapest option on the pricey island, according to a seasoned buddy—to stock up on supplies, and then we’ll head northeast on the Ring Road, a.k.a. Route 1, to the fjords, vales, and 4,000-foot summits of the Tröllaskagi Peninsula. Along the way, we’ll take offshoot F-roads (F for ŽÚÂáĂ€±ô±ô, which means “mountain” in Icelandic), summer-only gravel tracks restricted to four-wheel-drive vehicles. By crisscrossing over central peaks, we’ll access remote terrain rich with waterfalls, lava fields, alpine valleys, and camping spots that most of Iceland’s seven million annual tourists don’t explore. We’ll circle back south to scrub away our dirt and sweat at the geothermal Blue Lagoon ($64 for day tickets) beforeÌędeparting. All told, it’ll be an unscripted, abbreviated blast, and I consider this a reconnaissance mission for next time. —Patty Hodapp, interim digital director

Road-Tripping Through the Native Southwest

This summer I’m focusing on road trips, and luckily I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a good place to launch from. I’ve been so dismayed by recent delays and cancellations from plane travel that I don’t feel like spending any more time than I have to in airports. Which is fine, because I’ve had a Southwest bucket list that I’m excited to finally make a dent in. Near the top of my list is a guided tour of the Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary in western New Mexico, near El Morro National Monument. The sanctuary takes in both wild and domesticated wolves and protects them for the rest of their lives. Rumor has it that author George R.R. Martin, also a Santa Fe resident, has supported the sanctuary, and some of the wolves are named after his Game of Thrones characters. From there I plan to head west to visit some important Native sites. I want to go to Canyon de Chelly, in northeastern Arizona, and take a Navajo-led horseback tour. Canyon de Chelly, often called a mini Grand Canyon, is part of the Navajo Nation. Evidence of human occupation there dates back 4,000 years. It’s also the tragic spot where Kit Carson forced out the Navajo in 1863. Then I’m going to head to Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park, on the Utah border. Also a part of the Navajo Nation, this stunning landscape and its spectacular sandstone buttes show up on my Instagram feedÌęevery so often, and I want to learn about the history on a Navajo-guided tour and experience the awe and grandeur. —Mary Turner, deputy editor and travel director

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Add Maryland to the growing list of states with an office of outdoor recreation.

Last Friday, the state’s Republican governor, Larry Hogan, announced the creation of the office within the Maryland Department of Natural Resources (DNR). He also announced that J. Daryl Anthony will serve as its first executive director.

That makes 18 states with an office of outdoor recreation (OREC) following such recent additions as Nevada, New Mexico, Wisconsin, Michigan, Virginia, and New Hampshire—all of which launched in 2019. Maryland did have an outdoor recreation task force before establishing an OREC office.

“One of our state’s hallmarks is the stewardship of our lands and waters by the Marylanders who love them,” Hogan said. “Our sportsmen and women were among the first conservationists to support efforts to protect fish, wildlife, and their habitat. Today we are honoring this partnership for the outdoors while assuring that it continues to grow with the establishment of Maryland’s first Office of Outdoor Recreation.”

The state said Anthony will work with DNR, the Maryland Department of Commerce, and other agencies and stakeholders to “support and enhance outdoor recreation opportunities and the economic benefits they produce.” This includes implementation of the recommendations of the Maryland Outdoor Recreation Economic Commission (MOREC), which Hogan established by executive order in 2017.

Anthony has 35 years’ experience with DNR, most recently as assistant secretary for land resources. He joined DNR in 1983 as a park ranger at Patapsco Valley State Park in Howard County. Anthony also served as regional manager for the Maryland Park Service’s southern, central, and western regions until his assistant secretary appointment in 2015.

“I am honored and pleased to help lead the effort to enhance outdoor recreation in Maryland,” said Anthony. “With the leadership of Gov. Hogan, Lt. Gov. Rutherford, Secretary Riccio, and Secretary Schulz, I believe this is an exciting time to build and grow upon Maryland’s world-class outdoor recreation capabilities.”

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Long before I found my place in the West, I grew up in , a town so perfectly boring and flat that a highway overpass near Bubba’s Breakaway offered the airiest views around. (Bubba’s, now sadly gone, served excellent tacos.) Salisbury had maybe 17,000 people when I lived there in the 1980s; it sat at the junction of U.S. Route 13 and U.S. Route 50, about two and a half hours southeast of Washington, D.C., on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

Salisbury was and still is a largely rural place, ringed by fields and poultry farms that feed a processing plant run by the town’s most famous celebrity: the late , the “tough man, tender chicken” king. His downtown operation, a hulking leaden-blue building with giant fans, could be so exquisitely stinky that we kids would hold our breath and pray that the stoplight stayed green whenever we had to pass it.

To us, being at the junction of these highways made Salisbury something like the fluttering heart of Delmarva, the tri-state peninsula where “slower, lower” southern Delaware and the eastern portions of Maryland and Virginia bunch together in a critter-shaped landmass that divides the Chesapeake Bay from the Atlantic Ocean and its barrier islands, with the skinny Virginia part forming the tail. To most outsiders, Delmarva was little more than a place you suffered through on your way to the beach in Ocean City, dismissed by most as a 170-by-70-mile swamp of speed traps and Shore StopsÌęand very old hamlets with names like Wetipquin, Pocomoke, and Onancock.

Compared with those settlements, Salisbury was cosmopolitan. We had a hospital, a small college, and a mall with an Orange Julius—later there was a second, newer mall that even had a Chick-fil-A—but outside of roller skating at Skateland or pounding ill-gotten Boone’s Farm in the woods off Fooks Road, there wasn’t much for guys like me to see or do. We joked that a sign at the western city limits should read, “Welcome to Salisbury! Only 30 minutes from the beach!”

For most of the 20 years I lived on Delmarva—first in the Del, then the Va, and lastly the Mar—my life revolved around those highways. On 13, as we’d say in the accent that Delmarvans often pick up, we would drive “down the rewd” to Cape Charles, Virginia, which was too small to offer any fast food at all. Or we’d go “up the rewd” to Laurel, Delaware, home to theÌęhuge, tax-free Bargain Bill flea market, where people sold awesome pizza and muscle shirts. On 50, you could go “across the bay” to Baltimore to watch Eddie Murray and the Orioles, or east to the beach, which could easily become “down to the beach” once you were actually there. As in: “He ain’t home t’day. He’s down to the beach.”

Christine Mallinson, a linguist at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County who studies the way Marylanders speak, says the origins of these sounds and phrases have to do with Delmarva’s English settlers, its historic isolation and identity, and the fact that Maryland sits just south of the , which led to a blend of both northern and southern dialects. This is not the white, working-class Baltimore accent sometimes called Bawlmerese. Never, ever—and I mean ever—would a beach-bound Delmarvan say, “Let’s go downy ocean,” as a “Baltimoron” famously would.

Delmarva is a presidential retreat now, what with Joe Biden having long owned a summer home there: a six-bed, 5.5-bath Cape Cod with a two-story deck and an elevator. This breezy retreat sits outside , Delaware, a small resort town just 25 miles from where I was born. In Rehoboth, an upscale place łÙłóČčłÙ’s popular with the region’s gay community, the president can ride his bike along near Cape Henlopen State Park, or he can walk the boardwalk to buy taffy—or perhaps a tiny hermit crab skittering around inside a little wire cage.

Does Biden’s presence mean Delmarva is about to get a huge boost in cachet, like Kennebunkport, Maine? I don’t think so. For one thing, despite the generally warm welcome Biden receives in Rehoboth—a blue spot in a very red part of the East Coast—no one will mistake him for a true Delmarvan. He’s spent too many years wheeling and dealing in Washington, or in Wilmington, Delaware, which is north of the Chesapeake & DelawareÌęCanal, the de facto northern boundary between Delmarva and the Rest of the Planet. Can he explain what you do with “the specials” when picking a crab? (You eat them.) Does he know the plural of bunk, a word we use for friend? (It’s bunkies.) Has he ever tasted Delmarva’s most lovingly stewed spirit animal, the ? (No. But, well
 neither have I.)

Even so, I’d also bet that 46 knows, as all Delmarvans of a certain age do, how to recite the Bargain Bill flea-market slogan from local TV ads in the 1980s. In fact, I demand that someone in the White House press corps test him on this.

Fox News correspondent: “Mr. President, where would you go if it’s bargains you be seekin’?”

Biden: “I’d visit my daddy’s flea market, this weeken’.”

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Blessed with rich soil, abundant rain, and a long growing season, the Delmarva peninsula—a tri-state area sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and Chesapeake Bay—was known as the breadbasket of the American Revolution. Later it rapidly grew into one of the wealthiest agricultural areas in the country, as farmers and watermen discovered that they could not ship their goods fast enough to cities like Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia, and New York. Modern refrigeration and transportation have greatly extended that range, and you can now get fresh Chesapeake Bay soft-shell crabs in Nevada if you want. Here are a few favorite dishes from longtime Delmarva families.

Mom-Mom Lena’s Wet Corn Bread

It took 30 years for Cindy Beauchamp to get the details of her in-laws’ corn bread recipe, a Delmarva staple that draws on northern, southern, and Algonquin traditions and is denser and sweeter than most southern corn breads. The original formula, which was handed down through the generations to Mom-Mom Lena—the mother of Cindy’s husband, Gilbert—included a measurement based on the size of a so-called banty egg. “I laughed and said I did not know what that was,” Cindy recalls. Bantam is a term used for many kinds of small fowl; a banty egg weighs roughly an ounce.

• 2 cups white cornmeal
• 3 cups cold water
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 2 tablespoons flour
• 1 cup milk
• 1/2 cup butter

Whisk the cornmeal and water in a pot and cook over medium-high heat until thick. Let cool. Mix the sugar, eggs, salt, baking powder, flour, and milk, and add this to the cooled cornmeal mixture. Stir until smooth. Place a stick of butter in a 9-by-13-inch baking dish, then put the dish in a 400-degree oven. Coat the pan’s bottom and sides; pour off and save any excess butter. Pour the cornmeal mixture into the pan, and bake for 45 minutes. Drip the remaining melted butter over the top and finish baking until brown, about five to ten minutes.

Carrie Samis’s Crab Cakes

Delmarva is an unusual and endearing place, and few have embraced its quirks the way Carrie Samis has. A lifelong resident who works in Princess Anne, Maryland, she once persuaded the chef at the Washington Inn and Tavern—a famous old restaurant in town—to make muskrat stew, a humble dish served at plenty of church dinners but not many fine-dining establishments. Here Carrie offers a Chesapeake Bay classic: crab cakes. If you’d like to buy premade crab cakes, Smith Island’s ships anywhere in the country.

• 1 pound blue crab meat
• 1 egg
• 1 tablespoon mayonnaise
• 1 squirt tangy mustard
• 2 dashes Worcestershire sauce
• Dashes of red-pepper flakes, salt, pepper, and Old Bay seasoning
• 4 teaspoons chopped parsley
• Panko breadcrumbs or crushed saltines—just enough to bind the other ingredients

Mix everything in a bowl. Pat the crab mixture into cakes, and toss them into a frying pan that contains a small amount of hot olive oil. SautĂ© until they’re crispy around the edges. Best served with no condiments—although a spicy tartar sauce is OK—and a Bloody Mary rimmed with Old Bay.

Karen Brimer’s Duck and Dumplings

Karen’s husband, Eddie, spent his life as a commercial waterman and hunter who prowled the areas around Chesapeake Bay’s Deal Island and beyond looking for wild game. The trick is to brine the duck for 24 hours before cooking, swapping out the water every three to four hours, and never lifting the lid while the dumplings are cooking, which causes them to collapse. “Eddie did that once,” Karen says, “and he was sorry.”

• 1 duck, wild or farm raised, about two pounds
• Brine: 1/2 cup salt mixed with 1/2 gallon water
• 2 to 3 tablespoons bacon grease
• 1 apple, chopped
• 1 onion, chopped
• 3 or 4 potatoes, peeled and chopped
• 1 rutabaga, peeled and chopped
• Splash of white wine

For the dumplings:

• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon vegetable shortening

Place your duck in a pot, then cover it with brine, changing it every three to four hours for 24 hours. Rinse the duck, pat it dry, and sprinkle it with salt and pepper. Melt a dollop of bacon grease in a large, heavy pot, cooking over medium-high heat. Brown each side of the duck until the skin has a dark caramel color. Discard the grease, then deglaze the pot with a cup of water or chicken broth—scraping up and saving any brown bits. Stuff the duck’s body cavity with the apples and onions. Put it in the pot, along with the chopped potatoes and rutabaga, and add broth or water until the duck is submerged. Cover with a lid, bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer on low for two to three hours until the broth is reduced by half.

To make the dumplings, mix the dry ingredients, and work in the shortening with a fork until pea-size balls of floury dough start to form. Add between a third cup and a half cup of ice-cold water, and gently bring the dough together. It should not be tacky.

On a floured surface, shape the dough into a rectangle łÙłóČčłÙ’s a half-inch thick. Cut it into eight pieces, each about two square inches. When the broth is ready, remove the pot from the heat and lay the dumplings atop the duck and vegetables. Cover, bring to a medium boil, and cook for about 15 minutes. Do not lift the lid. Your dumplings should be puffy when done.

To make a gravy for all this, put salt, pepper, and 2 to 3 tablespoons of flour in a Ball jar with a lid. Adding water one tablespoon at a time, shake the jar until the flour is dissolved and no lumps remain. Gradually add this to the juices in the pot and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Pour over duck, dumplings, and vegetables.

English’s Sweet Potato Biscuits

With so many chicken farms around, Delmarvans got very good at frying the birds, and many people say that a small local chain called English’s did it best. The last of its restaurants closed in 2015, but Don Herman, who ran English’s for 23 years, publicly shared the eatery’s beloved recipe for sweet potato biscuits. Wendy Robertson of Somerset County sent me a copy of an old newspaper clipping that explains it all.

• 3 1/2 cups mashed sweet potatoes
• 1 1/2 cups sugar
• 1 1/4 cups margarine at room temperature
• 2 cups cake flour
• 1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 3 tablespoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda

Cook the sweet potatoes, rinse with cold water, peel, and drain. Refrigerate until cold. Mash with a fork. Combine the potatoes with the sugar and margarine in a mixer set on low. Add the cake flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, and baking soda, then mix well. Knead the dough by hand in a large bowl, then chill. Roll on a floured surface to a thickness of a quarter-inch; cut with a biscuit tool. Coat a cookie sheet with cooking spray, and bake at 350 degrees for 15 to 18 minutes.

Smith Island Cake

Ten miles offshore, Smith Island was settled by the British in the early 17th century, when Captain John Smith explored Chesapeake Bay. Today it remains Maryland’s only inhabited island with no bridge to the mainland. Stories say island women would bake cakes to send off with husbands who worked the oyster beds, and over the years the cakes took on more and more layers. Anywhere from seven to ten is considered right. “More than that and it don’t look like a cake—it looks like the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” says Mary Ada Marshall, whose family arrived on Smith in 1608. Here’s her recipe for the multilayered wonder łÙłóČčłÙ’s now the state dessert. Use a boxed cake mix or your favorite sponge recipe, and bake the layers in batches.

For the cake:

• 4 eggs
• 1/2 cup evaporated milk
• 1 cup water
• 1/3 cup vegetable oil
• 1/2 stick butter
• 1 box Duncan Hines classic yellow cake mix

Mix ingredients in a bowl. Use the back of a spoon to gently and evenly spread the batter to cover the bottom of each cake pan. (If you don’t have multiple pans, do this in stages.) Bake at 350 degrees for eight to ten minutes. The batter should yield seven layers.

For the icing:

• 1 pound powdered sugar
• 3 heaping tablespoons cocoa
• 1/2 cup evaporated milk
• 1 stick cold butter

Put the powdered sugar, cocoa, and evaporated milk in a saucepan and mix. Add the cold butter. Place over high heat, stirring constantly, until the ingredients are combined and the butter melts. Remove from heat, and whip the icing a few times. It should have a glossy appearance.

Assembling the cake:

Add a dollop of icing in the middle of a cake plate, and put the first layer in place. Add a large spoonful of icing to the top of the layer, then spread the icing to the edges of the cake. Place the second layer, and repeat the process until you’ve done seven layers. Once you add the top layer, spread icing on the sides first, then frost the top of the cake.

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As of press time, some trails, campsites, and businesses are closed due to Covid-19 precautions. To check for safety protocols and potential closures, visit the individual websites before you go.

Summer road trips to national parks feel like an American rite of passage. But in winter? That’s when the hardiest travel to our country’s wildest places for snow-covered volcanic landscapes, cool desert vibes, and empty beaches. We’ve put together regional road trip suggestions in various parts of the country to help you explore some of your area’s lesser-known national parks during the least busy time of the year.

Southern California

On the southern border of California’s Sierra Nevada, two stunning national parks sit side by side:Ìę. It’s worth visiting both of them. To get here, it’s a five-hour drive from Los Angeles or four hours from San Francisco. In winter, you’ll find ranger-guided snowshoe hikes, cross-country skiing, and the world’s largest tree—General Sherman, a towering sequoia that weighs more than 2.7 million pounds—covered in snow. Book a room or cabin at theÌę (from $129), just outside the Sequoia National Park entrance in the town of Three Rivers.

From there, it’s four hours toÌęDeath Valley National Park, where you’ll appreciate the contrast from snowy peaks to rolling sand dunes in a below-sea-level basin. The climate in Death Valley is ideal during the winter months. Hike the trail along the southwest rim of a dormant volcano at Death Valley’s Ubehebe Crater, and meander along Artist’s Drive, a nine-mile road that passes through hillsides colorfully tinted with volcanic sediment.Ìę (from $22) is open year-round and is the only campground in the park that accepts reservations.

Eastern Seaboard

Just 90 minutes from Washington, D.C., you’ll find the forested hills ofÌę, a small but scenic national park in Maryland with 25 miles of hiking trails and the presidential retreat of Camp David in a top-secret locale. If you’re a rock climber, there’s bouldering throughout the park year-round and sport climbing at Wolf Rock, a short hike from the park’s visitor’s center. For non-climbers, the four-mile round-trip hike toÌęÌępromises panoramic views. The park hasÌę year-round in rustic backcountry shelters (from $10) accessed via a three-mile trek.

A visit toÌę is just 23 miles west. The C&O Canal, which has a multiuse dirt-and-stone walking path, stretches for 185 miles from Washington, D.C., along the Potomac River into Cumberland, Maryland. Driving along the C&O Canal Scenic Byway makes for a great road trip.

Next, head to the beaches ofÌę, a 40-mile stretch of coastline across Maryland and Virginia. The beach camping (from $30) fills up months in advance during summer, but from November to March, campsites are first come, first served and far less busy. You’ll pitch a tent on the sand of this barrier island amidÌęherds of wild horses.

To add one more stop, enjoy a half-dayÌędrive to West Virginia’sÌęNew River Gorge National Park, where the famed New River Gorge Bridge spans over the water and rock climbers flock to the sandstone walls along the gorge. The park has more than 100 miles of hiking trails. Sleep nearby in aÌę (from $201; via Airbnb) suspended in an old-growth forest.

Desert Southwest

While crowds converge on southern Utah’s well-known national parks like Arches and Zion even in the winter months, New Mexico’s parks remain off the radar. From Denver, it’s an eight-hour drive toÌę, a remote archaeological site in northern New Mexico łÙłóČčłÙ’s designated an International Dark Sky Park for its stellar stargazing. The trails here are covered in snow in winter, but you can still study the architectural feats of the Ancestral Puebloans and gaze through a telescope to a clear night sky. DriveÌęthreeÌęhours east to visit the historic pueblo of Taos andÌęstay in a vintage trailer across from ČčłÙÌę (from $95).

Head six hours south to hitÌę, where its stunning dunes look white as snow and are just as much fun as snow to sled down. Winter is a great time to visit while avoiding summer’s scorching temperatures. Hike the dunes along five designated trails, or continue your road trip along the Dunes Drive, an eight-mile roadway that takes you into the heart of the dunes. ThisÌę (from $75; via Airbnb) in a historic adobe home in San Miguel is about an hour from the dunes and has its own hot tub.

It’s another three hours toward the Texas border to reach New Mexico’s , where you can tour several of the underground caves on your own, along withÌęmiles of above-ground hiking trails across the Chihuahuan Desert. You’ll find plenty of inns at the park’s gateway town, White’s City.

Rocky Mountains

In summer and fall, rock climbers go toÌę in southern Idaho—about three hours north of Salt Lake City or ten-plus hours from Seattle—to scaleÌęthe granite faces the park is known for. But the place is practically empty in winter. You’ll find ice climbing for the well-initiated, or you can cross-country ski on the unplowed roads throughout the park. Stay at the 11-roomÌę (from $120) in the nearby town of Almo.

It’s worth the extended detour into the city of Boise, Idaho, where skiing ČčłÙÌę is less than an hour from downtown. You can make a reservation for a hot springs soak, or book a private tub (from $20) ČčłÙÌę in nearby Idaho City. TheÌę (from $116) has sleek rooms and an attached bar (currently closed due to COVID-19) in Boise’s artsy Linen District.

ŽĄłÙÌę, about three hours from Boise outside the town of Arco, Idaho, you can explore lava tubes via snowshoes or cross-country skis along the park’s often-groomed Craters’ Loop Road, which is closed to cars from November to April.

Want more? It’s a half-dayÌędrive from Craters of the Moon to reach the iconic scenery ofÌę and, which are far less crowded during winter and just as stunning covered in snow.

The post 4 Awesome Winter Road Trips to National Parks appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

My shadow resembled a silhouette painted against an old Appalachian road. It became my companion as I struggled up a solitary mountain incline between the Pennsylvania towns of Bedford and Greensburg.

The mountain didn’t relent. Each turn revealed another punishing stretch to ascend. IÌęshifted my gaze between the road before me andÌędown at my shaking legs as I strained to put one foot in front of the other. Sweat slid down my forehead. The sun intensified the humid air.

It was the summer of 2006. I was cycling from Maryland to California to raise money for cancer patients, caregivers, and survivors, with a student-led group called Hopkins . Our team had 27 riders—mostly students who attended college in Baltimore, like I did. My Armenian parents had immigrated there from Beirut, Lebanon, in the 1970s. My father worked in the city, and I had a comfortable childhood in the suburbs. During vacations, we often visited our relatives in Lebanon, which was just emerging from 15 years of civil war.Ìę

As I climbed farther up the mountain, I thought about my grandmotherÌęKnarig, a breast cancer survivor who had lived through years of war; I thought about Nayiri, an Armenian family friend from Egypt who had battled ovarian cancer. If our loved ones could endure years of illness, chemotherapy, and social upheaval, what was a steep ride up a mountain?Ìę

Crickets creaked from the roadside pines. Then, a leafy patch of green was interrupted by a blue sign: LOOKOUT POINT MOUNT ARARAT, ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS, ELEVATION 2,464 FT.

Mount Ararat was not a name I had expected to see in Appalachia. I was familiar with the original: a dormant volcano located in what is now eastern Turkey. The mountain . It represents our connection to Christianity (Armenians formed the first Christian nation in 301 CE) and the indigenous region where we lived for millennia. According to the Book of Genesis, after the Great Flood.Ìę

Seeing a familiar name energized my aching legs, propelling me through the final part of the climb. At the summit, I sat on a mound of dirt and caught my breath, awaiting the other riders. I wondered if the sign had grabbed anyone else’s attention, especially a Turkish-American on the team named Ersin.Ìę

For an Armenian like me, encountering Turkishness—the language, the idea, the people—is fraught. Between 1915 and 1923, the Ottoman Empire (now the Republic of Turkey) , my ancestors among them, in a sustained and brutal genocide. Afterward, Turkey’s government , and there areÌęTurkish people who still believe that it never happened,Ìęeven though it is recognized internationally as historical fact.Ìę

Nearly a century later, as our team rode bicycles across a different continent, that history—and the way it had affected and uprooted generations of my family—made me wary of Ersin. When he reached the summit of this American Mount Ararat, I did not ask if he had seen the sign, though I knew the name would have been significant to him, too.

But I was still thinking about it that evening when our team reached Greensburg, Pennsylvania, where a community group was hosting us for the night in a gymnasium. Sleeping bags littered the floor, and the stench of sweaty socks wafted through the air. Some of my teammates sat in the nearby parking lot running their bike chains through rags to clean the grease. Others played cardsÌęunder a basketball hoop. I strolled along the gym’s sideline when, in the distance, I heard a familiar word: “Baba.”Ìę

“Baba” is what I call my father. I had only ever heard Armenians use the term, but as I looked over toward Ersin, holding a bricklike cellphone in his hand (this was 2006, after all), I realized it must also be used in Turkish. He began to speak other familiar words: janim (my dear), chojookh (child), and fasoolya (beans). I hadÌęnot realized until that moment that our Armenian dialect contained TurkishÌęphrases.ÌęÌęÌę

Turkish was the language of the Ottoman Empire. It was spoken by the government and troops who committed the Armenian Genocide. For my anscestors, the Turkish language was omnipresent throughout that dark time, and it triggered bitter memories. During that period, my great-grandfather Mardiros survived four years of enslavement. In his memoir, in 1978, he wrote of a Turkish teenager brandishing a blade while searching for gyavoors (animals), a derogatory term used to refer to Armenians. My grandparents, Vartan and Yersapet, were among the proud but oppressed Armenian minorities in the Ottoman province of Adana. Like Armenians of that generation, they spoke Turkish and lacked the incentive or security to preserve their mother tongue.

Eventually they moved toÌęLebanon, which gaveÌęArmenian Genocide survivors the chance at a new life and community. A generation later, as a way to retain their native language,Ìęmy father and his classmates in Beirut were told to always speak Armenian, even as they were surrounded by Lebanon’s multilingual world that blended Arabic, French, English, Armenian, and Turkish.Ìę

As I learned this history from my family and in Armenian Sunday school, the narrative slipped into a binary: Turkish perpetrators, Armenian victims. Turkey was guilty, Armenia was innocent. Turks were bad, Armenians were good. I seldom heard a more nuanced perspective. If I had, I’m not sure I would have had the maturity to grasp it.Ìę

But at the time of the cycling trip, I had completed two years of college and grown more open to the world’s complexities. Maybe it was the mindfulness I learned about in a class on BuddhismÌęor the courage I cultivated as a student of theater and writing. More and more, I trusted that questioning assumptions and stepping beyond my comfort zone would spark valuable growth.Ìę

So,Ìęin that American gymnasium, hearing Ersin utter familiar words made me decide to seek our common ground.

During the next day of riding, our team faced a 103-mile haul through the Rust Belt, from Greensburg, Pennsylvania, to Youngstown, Ohio, featuringÌęa strenuous set of rolling hills. We found respite on flat roads separating cornfields, which we shared with Amish horse-drawn buggies. The Appalachians had tested our spirits. On the first day, a teammate had broken her wrist, and on the second day, another teammate’s collarbone suffered a similar fate. At that early stage of the trip, success meant avoiding major injuries and making it to the evenings, when the stories and encouragement of our hosts recharged our spirits. Since our ride had begun in northern Maryland, Pennsylvania was the first full state we crossed. It took three days, and with the Ohio border approaching, the reality of our long adventure was finally setting in. I felt invigorated by how far we had comeÌęand was eager to continue conquering challenges.Ìę

I decided during lunch to broach “the subject” with Ersin. “The subject” was the Armenian Genocide. My stomach tensed as I worried about how he would respond to the topic. Would he scoff? Would he walk away? Would he charm me into believing a lie?Ìę

Until that moment, our conversations had been brief, but aside from his Turkishness, Ersin’s sense of humor and joie de vivre had piqued my curiosity. Once I had resolved to ask him about the genocide, I suddenly became afraid of missing my chance. What if one of us crashed and had to go home? What if our relationship was characterized by superficial banter? I worried about squandering an opportunity to unpack something I’d only read about in booksÌęor heard about through traumatic stories.Ìę

I waited for the final moments of lunch that day before approaching him. Much of the team had dozed off for a quick nap or busied themselves tuning up their bicycles. Ersin sat alone on a shady patch of grass under an oak tree. I joined him and, after some pleasantries, raised the subject.

“Listen, man,” I said, trying to establish a casual tone for an uncomfortable topic. “I, uh, wanted to ask you. You know. Um, your thoughts about the Armenian Genocide. Like, I’m just curious, is it something you’ve heard of? Have you learned about it? I’m just wondering because, you know, I’m Armenian.”

The silence stretched between us, until Ersin started laughing. I joined him. Levity would soon become our way of navigating awkwardness.

“It’s complicated,” Ersin admitted. “You know I’m not even fully Turkish, right? My grandparents are Georgian and Circassian and other stuff, too. That’s common in Turkey. A bunch of people run around pretending they’re full-blooded Turks, when, in truth, most are mixed.”

“I had no idea,” I answered.

“Turkey’s government?” Ersin said, shaking his head. “If they say something’s true, then it’s probably false,Ìęor if they say something’s false, then it’s probably true, unless they’re playing a mind game, which happens often.”

“So what about the genocide?” I pushed.

“Man, I don’t know,” he said, with a tone of exasperation much larger than our conversation. “There’s no doubt that hundreds of thousands of Armenians were murdered during wartime chaos.”Ìę

I had heard that line before. It sounded like the Turkish government’s denialist , a series of whataboutisms that disputed factual evidence.

“Was it genocide?” he continued. “Was it organized from the highest levels of government and carried out by local officials and soldiers? Or was it another act of barbarity in a violent time? I just don’t know. I haven’t seen any evidence that resolves the question.”

I asked Ersin if he had read Peter Balakian’s 2003 book,Ìę. The landmark bestseller used primary sources from Ottoman and American officials to show that the Ottoman Empire’s campaign against Armenians met the of genocide that the United Nations adopted after World War II. Ersin had only heard of the book.

“Maybe after the ride is over, I can send you a copy,” I said.

“I would love that,” Ersin answered. I found myself encouraged by his openness to new ideasÌęand willingness to buck assumptions. My glimpses into Ersin’s personality—curious, creative, compassionate—were confirmed. I began to see his Turkishness the way I saw my Armenianness: not as a total definition, but as an aspect of our identities that we could help one another understand.

In the weeks that followed, our team crossed the Midwest, where the undulating Ozarks gave way to fields of wheat, soy, and livestock. Our anticipation grew as we prepared to climb the mighty Rocky Mountains. In Yuma, Colorado, we caught our first glance of their palatial, snowcapped peaks. At first, I thought they were clouds.

Ersin and I spent more and more time together, exploring the cultural space that we shared: one where Armenia and Turkey intersected in America. In Chicago, we woke up early, gathered trays of extra food donations, and ventured through the neighborhood where our team was staying. On a quiet street lined with elm trees and walk-ups, we gave the food to an unhoused man. We couldn’t fix the traumas and tensions we inherited from our ancestors, but at least we could do something in the moment to make the world just a little less dark.Ìę

We also found relief in humor. In a Nebraska gym, we lobbed basketballs across the court, shouting more common words we shared in Turkish and Armenian: lebleboo! (roasted chickpeas), bashkebozuk! (crazy head), diskotek! During lunch breaks, we sometimes paced around our teammates, pretending to be Old World villagers,Ìęhands tucked behind our backs as we chided everyone in sight.Ìę

“These Americans,” Ersin scoffed with his thickest Turkish villager accent. “Freak dancing and bicycle riding and fundraising. What is this, eh?”

I pretended to be an Armenian American from the mid-Atlantic named JĂ­ro, speaking in gravelly sotto voce and spritzing invisible cologne. Imitating his Turkish father, Ersin scolded JĂ­ro: “You should do something more professional with your summer, like an internship. Where will you get in life spraying cologne and riding a bicycle?”Ìę

“San Francisco!” I answered.

By mid-July, our team reached the deserts of Utah. Red columns of sandstone and massive white domes loomed over us as we emerged from Capitol Reef NationalÌęPark, pedaling through hellish heat toward Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. As we rode through the barren, rugged terrain, I tried not to think about the fact that the beauty of the open country also meant a scarcity of resources.Ìę

We spotted a convenience store on a desolate stretch of road and stopped to get provisions. Passing a newspaper stand, I noticed a photograph of a cloud of smoke hanging above a familiar city: Beirut, my parents’ hometown where many of my relatices still lived.

“Israel Bombs Lebanon,” the headline read. As I learned about , and the Hezbollah-led border raid that precipitated it, my stomach turned. I imagined my grandmother sitting in her apartment, knitting a sweater, asÌęher home suddenly flooded with shrapnel and smoke.Ìę

I tried calling my family in Maryland for updates, but there was no stable signal in the desert. I would have to hope for the best until I could speak to someone. During a water stop, my teammates saw that I was upset. I shared the news. In the sweltering heat, few had the bandwidth to commiserate about a conflict half a world away. One American teammate suggested Lebanon asked for it by not properly dealing with Hezbollah. Ersin and I looked at each other. I shook my head. He snickered at how outrageous the comment was.Ìę

Standing there in Utah, I experienced for the first time the visceral disorientation caused by violence impacting my loved ones. But what I felt—separation, confusion, concern—was a sliver of what my family had endured for generations. The safety of my upbringing in Maryland protected me from events that I thought were things of the past, the stuff of family stories: the stray bullet that claimed my uncle’s life during ; my mother watching blood flow down her neighborhood street after a nearby bomb detonated; my great-grandfather surviving a Turkish firing squad that killed 1,000 Armenians in minutes. Looking at that newspaper in the middle of the American desert, I wondered whether it was now my turn to know familial loss and feel helpless. Was this some cruel right of passage that would truly link me to that part of the world, or to my inheritance?

The next day, we rode past the , which featured the 3,000-year-old remnants of an Indigenous community. Though we lacked the time for a proper visit, it reminded me that the land we were crossing, and the country we called America, was, like the land where my ancestors had lived, stolen. The genocide and marginalization of Indigenous people in the Southwest was as brutal and undeniable as the desert sun pounding on our backs.Ìę

But in those arid valleys stretching to the horizon, I noticed no flags, skyscrapers, or placards of national possession. Out there, the ownership of land seemed like a myth used to tame an unconquerable planet with its imposing mountains, endless forests, and hypnotic deserts. We did not own or control the land. We were at its mercy.

The distinguished Armenian American writerÌęÌęhad similar insights while examining the statelessness that Armenians had endured in the wake of genocide and Soviet occupation. “There are only Armenians, and they inhabit the earth, not Armenia, since there is no Armenia,” Saroyan wrote in 1935, decades before Armenia became an independent republic in 1991.Ìę“Since there is no Armenia, gentlemen, there is no America and there is no England, and no France, and no Italy, there is only the earth.” Saroyan was describingÌęthe Armenian experience, but his words had broader implications: If there are no nations, then what do we have? We have our planet. We have ourselves. We have each other. We have a choice: to embrace our common creed as humansÌęor to lose ourselves in the fog of hatred and greed.

Ten days later, a “Welcome to California” sign shook me from the trance of those thoughts. We had almost arrived. The towering Sierra Nevada reminded me that no amount of pontificating in my head would help propel one foot in front of the other. The air thinned. The inclines steepened. It was just me, the mountain, and my shadow, that rocking companion, as we crossed the final mountain range.

Five days after that, from a hill in Marin County, I gazed at San Francisco in the distance. I noticed Victorian homes, Spanish mission–style churches, and the way land and water interlocked. The small building lights twinkling on rolling hills felt familiar, like the view from my grandmother’s fifth-story apartment in Beirut, another city where mountains slope into the sea. The news from Lebanon was that our family emerged unscathed from Israel’s initial bombardments. They were safe, for now.

On the final day, we rode through the neat streets of Sausalito and over the Golden Gate Bridge. Charged with excitement, Ersin and I revisited the characters we inhabited: an Armenian grandmother, a Turkish merchant, a New York loudmouth, a Chicago Casanova, and many others. We had traversed 13 states in two months. I had a new family of fellow cyclists. And in Ersin, I had a brother. Without our ride across America, the generosity of our hosts, the spirit of our teammates, the tenacity of those for whom we rode, and the teachings of nature in every landscape we biked through, I might never have discovered Ersin’s joyful and rich humanity.ÌęOur friendship helped me grasp my inheritance—as an Armenian, as an American, as a human—and to begin the journey of processing it on my own terms. No conflict, division, or border could eclipse the lessons found in friendship, harmony, and nature.ÌęÌę

“I’ll send you that Balakian book in a few weeks,” I said.

Ersin patted me on the shoulder. “Please do.”

The post How Biking Across America Formed an Unlikely Friendship appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Grassroots Outdoor Alliance dropped some big news this week. The specialty retailer advocacy group added ten new member companies to its nationwide roster in a single stroke, one of the biggest spikes since the organization’s founding in 1994.

According to the association’s leadership, the move was not a concerted push to add numbers, but rather the natural result of a new system implemented to make onboarding faster and less labor-intensive.

“Last year, Dana Howe, our director of retail membership and education, put a goal in place to update the process of applying for membership status,” Grassroots president Rich Hill told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Business Journal this week. “We’re not changing the requirements or metrics needed to become a member. But from now on, the process will be much easier.”

The new onboarding process handles membership verification through Grassroots’ main office on a rolling basis, rather than at board meetings, as in years past.

Grassroots Outdoor Alliance added 10 new members in one fell swoop this month.

“Going to the board [to verify members] used to be a super slow process,” said Hill. “Over the past few years, the board has been deliberate about putting in place strict metrics required for membership so that new requests can be handled by the office, which works much faster.”

Hill joked that in recent years, the path to membership with Grassroots has been “somewhat mystical” and convoluted. Board meetings would occasionally devolve into what he called “new member exhaustion” after hours of vetting applicants.

No more, he said. “As an organization, we want to get to the size where our advocacy power is on par with anyone in the industry. Smoothing out the member onboarding process will help with that goal.”

The ultimate plan, Hill says, is to widen Grassroots’ reach until 100 percent of attendees at the Grassroots Connect show—cancelled this year due to the pandemic—are Grassroots members. Last year’s attendance was made up of 65 percent members and 35 percent non-members.

Until that goal is reached, Grassroots plans to continue refining processes that make onboarding and serving members as scalable as possible. “We seem to have crossed some invisible threshold in terms of size,” Hill said of the recent additions. “This latest round of additions is getting a lot of attention, but we can feel it inside the organization, too. Everyone is hopeful that we’ll speed up even more.”

The new Grassroots members include D.D. Bullwinkel’s of Brevard, North Carolina; Earth’s Edge of Grand Haven, Michigan; Gear for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű of Hamburg, New York; Great Miami Outfitters of Centerville, Ohio; High Mountain Sports of Oakland, Maryland; Nugget Alaskan Outfitter of Juneau, Alaska; Pine Needle Mountaineering & Pine Needle Dry Goods of Durango, Colorado; Rutabaga Paddlesports of Madison, Wisconsin; Walkabout Paddle & Apparel of Eagle River, Wisconsin; and Wanderlust Outfitters of St. Joseph, Michigan.

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