From strong northern lights to a historic total solar eclipse, 2024 has been quite a year for sky watchers—and it’s not over. Starting Friday evening, a bright comet predicted to be visible to the naked eye will treat stargazers across the northern hemisphere. It was last seen 80,000 years ago, during the time of Neanderthals, and it likely won’t swing by earth again for another�� 80,000 years.

According to space scientists, Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS, or Comet C/2023 A3, is the most impressive space sight of its kind to dazzle our skies since comet Neowise in 2020. That it also might be visible to the naked eye is “quite rare,” says Matt Hjelle, spokesperson for the stargazing app . “On average, you get a comet of this brightness roughly once in a decade.”

I’ve already scouted numerous viewpoints to watch and capture this spectacle with friends when it reaches its brightest point in the U.S. this weekend. Since it should remain easily visible through mid-October—and even later into the month with a telescope or binoculars—I’m hoping to admire it from multiple vantage points over the next few weeks. Read on for tips on how and when to find comet A3 in your part of the country, plus picturesque perches to admire it.

When to See Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS, or C/2023 A3, from the U.S.

This massive heap of dust, frozen gases, and rock, which calls a “cosmic snowball,” is blasting toward earth from the edge of our solar system, and on October 11 it will reappear in the early-evening sky. It will be closest to earth—passing by our planet at a distance of some 44 million miles—on October 12. So on Saturday, look to the western horizon right after sunset to spot it. Don’t dilly-dally: because the comet’s location is so low, it will “set” about 30 minutes after the sun.

Fortunately, A3 will continue to climb in the sky throughout the month and into early November, setting around 20 minutes later each night, according to . From October 13 to 19, A3 is expected to remain brilliant, resulting in optimal viewing if clear-weather conditions hold where you are. In the days that follow, it will increasingly fade and you’ll need binoculars or a telescope to best admire it.

Comets are tough to predict—they’re light-years away, and therefore we know little about their composition, which affects brightness— so we won’t know exactly how intense A3 will be until it reappears in our sky. Optimistic astronomy buffs it could be as luminous as Jupiter. Others its radiance will be more in line with 2020’s comet Neowise, which was also visible to the naked eye and had a glow similar to the North Star. One feature to look for is its sweeping dust tail.

But even by modest predictions, signs look promising for A3 to become the comet of the year, if not decade. In fact, you likely won’t need to travel far, if at all, from a city to see it, says Hjelle. “Light pollution will play a factor, but if the brightness estimates play out, even many light-polluted areas are going to get a reasonably good view.”

Incredibly, on September 27, astronomers in Hawaii discovered that another comet, known as Comet C/2024 S1 (ATLAS), could be visible to northern-hemisphere stargazers at the end of October—and it may outshine A3 if it survives its passage by the sun. “If all goes as well as the most optimistic estimates, this comet could be visible to the naked eye during the daytime around [October] 28th,” Hjelle says. That’s big news, because only nine comets have been bright enough for daytime visibility in the past 300 years.

For now, let’s keep our sights on A3. Here’s where I suggest viewing it from the various regions of the U.S.

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The Best Places to Watch Comet A3 in Your Region

First and foremost: find a lookout with clear, unobstructed views of the western horizon, particularly during the comet’s initial streak across our sky this weekend, when A3 will be hovering just above it.

I spent hours scouting Google Earth and thinking about my favorite sunset viewpoints from my own past travels to find the most scenic, geographically dispersed, unobstructed west-facing comet A3 viewpoints in every region to ensure you don’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime show.

New England

Head Here: The Colchester Causeway near Burlington, Vermont

The 2.5-mile crosses Lake Champlain to link Causeway Park (nine miles north of Burlington) to the town of South Hero. The gravel route, enjoyed via bike or on foot, offers sweeping panoramas, including near perfect west-facing views with only distant Adirondack peaks on the horizon. The farther north you head on the causeway, the better and more unobstructed the west-facing scenery. Note that the route terminates just before South Hero, and the seasonal across the water and into town is only available in the daytime, so you’ll have to head back the way you came.

Or Here: Cape Cod National Seashore in Provincetown, Massachusetts

The western stretch of , a 40-mile swath of sandy beaches, heather-dotted dunes, and quiet marshes will also offer fantastic views of the comet. Try Duck Harbor Beach in Wellfleet or Herring Cove Beach near Provincetown’s West End. Since October is outside of high season, parking and entry to most national seashore beaches is free. Even better: the national seashore’s beaches are open from 6 A.M. to midnight, which means you can catch the comet, then peer southwest into the Milky Way’s vibrant core, also best viewed in .

Mid-Atlantic

Head Here: West Cape May in Cape May, New Jersey

New Jersey’s southernmost tip allures summer shore-goers with its rainbow of colorful Victorian homes and powdery sands. This month, its western side will offer some of the region’s best comet views, too. Try Pearl Beach or Sunset Beach for unobstructed western-horizon overlooks. During the day, don’t miss the —the return of the migrating raptors—which runs through November 30. It’s best enjoyed at Hawk Watch Observation Platform. Entrance is free.

Or Here: The Edge in New York City

The majority of west-facing waterfront parks and perches in New York State close at sunset, but in city that never sleeps, sky watchers will have excellent views from on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan, especially if brightness predictions hold. Located on the 100th floor of 30 Hudson Yards, The Edge is the western hemisphere’s highest outdoor observation deck, with glass-walled 360-degree views of the metro area. It’s open daily until 9 P.M. Imagine watching A3 soar above the Hudson River and New Jersey. I suggest getting there with enough time to watch the sun set and the comet appear; since golden hour is prime visiting time, get your tickets in advance. From $40

The South

Head Here: Mount Magazine State Park in Paris, Arkansas

Western Arkansas’s is a popular rock-climbing destination. And this month, the soaring crag delivers top-notch comet watching, too. Vistas atop 2,753-foot Mount Magazine, the state’s highest point, may be obstructed by trees, but its Cameron Bluff Amphitheater offers a clear western-horizon vantage point, as do a few portions of the Cameron Bluff Recreation Area. Drive up solely for sunset and comet watching—the park closes at 10 P.M.—or make an evening of it with an early feast of Southern fare at , which overlooks the Petit Jean River Valley. It’s part of the Mount Magazine Lodge and just a mile stroll from the amphitheater (from $153). Entrance to the state park is free.

Or Here: Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans

If you’re headed here Saturday, why not spend the entire day outdoors making the most of Lake Pontchartrain, perhaps fishing for bass and catfish (both a basic and saltwater fishing license are required) or watching for larger wildlife, such as sharks and manatees. When dusk descends, head to the 2,800-acre , which remains open to the public until 9 P.M. Or elevate your interstellar fun with a stay in the park’s lakefront cabins; the west-facing abodes reopened this fall after years of repairs following Hurricane Ida (from $150). is also available less than a mile from the waterfront (from $18). And if you’re planning on ending the day with stargazing before heading home, your best bet might be at , 28 miles south, where you can admire the cosmos until 11 P.M.

The Midwest

Head Here: Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore in Glen Arbor and Empire, Michigan

Unobstructed west-facing comet views abound along the world’s largest freshwater dune system, . The national lakeshore boasts 65 shorefront miles, with , dune climbs, and scenic drives—and it’s all open well past dark. (In fact, the park starlit visits.) Try the 1.5-mile round-trip for pristine Lake Michigan lookout points, or make a workout out of it with the 3.5-mile round-trip , which climbs up and over the steep sand mounds to reach another waterfront comet vista. is a more accessible option, with numerous scenic stop-offs. While the comet is the main act, keep your eyes peeled north for a glimpse of lower 48 northern lights, which could make a surprise appearance. Park entrance is $25, or use your America the Beautiful Pass.

Or Here: Badlands National Park in Wall, South Dakota

View this month’s magical space sighting from a lookout that’s equally otherworldly: Badlands National Park. A handful of its west-facing vantage points provide the chance to watch the comet above a patchwork of surreal buttes, spires, and pinnacles. Try the sweeping , where the striated rhyolite sprawls to the western horizon. Just south of that is the , where you can gaze across a patchwork of yellow and blush-tinged badlands. The park is open 24 hours. Admission starts at $15 or use your America the Beautiful Pass.

The Southwest

Head Here: Antelope Island State Park in Layton, Utah

wows by day with hundreds of free-ranging bison, millions of birds, and that take in the Great Salt Lake. Nighttime turns the 28,240-acre island—a DarkSky International–certified park—into a starry oasis, with a host of west-looking posts to admire the comet of the year. the half-mile out-and-back Lady Finger Point Trail for quick access to a lovely viewpoint, or meander along the largely west-facing and six-mile-roundt-rip Lakeside Trail. You can also catch A3 with the experts during the with the Ogden Astronomical Society, which begins at 6 P.M. at the White Rock Bay event area. The state park is open from 6 A.M. to 10 P.M. daily, with multiple (from $20). Admission from $15

Or Here: Monahans Sandhills State Park in Monahans, Texas

Enjoy a sea of sand dunes, and some of Texas’s least obstructed west-facing lookouts, at , not far from the Texas–New Mexico border. The park sprawls across 3,840 acres, with dunes soaring up to 70 feet and no marked trails. To see the comet, climb up a tall dune and look west as the sun paints the expanse sherbet-like shades of pink and peach—a gorgeous opening act for the luminous comet. The park remains open until 10 P.M., but given its popularity, are recommended (from $4). are available near the park entrance from $15 per night.

The West

Head Here: Newport Beach, California

If you live on the Pacific coast, you’ve got the pick of the litter when it comes to west-facing views. The only issue could be the coast’s signature clouds and fog. So try sunny Newport Beach, in Orange County, which enjoys some of SoCal’s clearest skies, plus shorelines and piers that stay . The city’s namesake beach, for example, offers west-facing lookouts with a waterfront open until 10 P.M. The piers that bookend the shore, Newport Beach Pier and Balboa Pier, both look straight toward the comet and remain open until midnight. Another option is the 30-acre Corona del mar State Beach Park, which is free and open until 10 P.M.

Or Here: Lake Butte Overlook in Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

It’s trickier to find unobstructed views for comet watching in the country’s peak-laden Mountain West—but not impossible. Try the in less-trodden eastern Yellowstone, 70 miles west of Cody. Set above the enormous Yellowstone Lake, you’ll have open views toward the direction of the comet, with the distant Teton peaks to the southwest. Yellowstone welcomes guests around the clock, and the east entrance from Cody is scheduled to remain until October 31. Admission starts at $20 or use your America the Beautiful Pass.

���ϳԹ��� and astrotourism writer Stephanie Vermillion chased 2020’s comet Neowise in Voyageurs National Park, and hopes to get another national-park sighting under her belt by catching comet A3 in Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio, this month. Her upcoming book will be out December 3.

The post You Can See the Comet of the Year Starting Friday Night appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.

Prologue

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

Could it have been a bear? Or even a troll looking for a meal? I prayed it was��not a band of cutthroat goblins seeking to plunder our hard-earned treasures.

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

Chapter 1: The Beginning��

I love Dungeons & Dragons—probably too much.

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

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

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

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

My quest was simple: I’d go hiking and camping for two days carrying all the equipment my character carries. It would give me the chance to marry my love for D&D with my old love of doing��anything physical—an��improvement over my current exercise of��only��getting up from my couch to grab��another beer from the fridge.

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

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

Now��I was ready to answer a question that philosophers, artists, poets, and scholars have ruminated on since time immemorial: What happens when a somewhat-out-of-shape writer tries to survive��in the wilderness using only the gear��available to his D&D character?

I was about to find out—or die trying.

Chapter 2: The Preparation

My character is Zaddy D. Vito,��halfling��bard and adventurer extraordinaire.

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

In his��Explorer’s Pack, according to��the D&D player’s manual,��Zaddy carries��the following:

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3: The Quest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quest and reward—just like D&D.

Chapter 4: The End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post I Went Camping as My Dungeons & Dragons Character appeared first on ���ϳԹ��� Online.

For my 40th birthday, in December, I asked my wife, Virginia, for something special. I wanted her to take advantage of the hunter-education classes that had moved online due to the pandemic��to obtain her first hunting license��so she could��join me in the field.��

Hunting is a passion of mine. It’s fun,��it puts��healthy��meat on our table, and I enjoy the challenge and tradition. But most of all, I love wild animals, and participating in the sport is the most meaningful way to save them.��

Because individual hunters contribute significantly to conservation, the most powerful thing any of us can do for the cause is��recruit additional hunters. And the most��effective way you can instill future commitment from a first-timer is to ensure that their first hunt is a success.��But my birthday falls on December 15—well after the end of��general hunting seasons. And since we weren’t yet vaccinated, I needed to find a hunt with plenty of animals and opportunities, yet��one that was safe��and responsible for us to participate in.��

A friend recommended��, a ranch in Seneca, South Dakota,��650 miles away from our home in Bozeman, Montana. Due to the pandemic, we opted to drive, and the owner assured me his property was��following Centers for Disease Control and Prevention guidelines. Plus,��there��had been so many cancellations over the past season that��the preserve’s pen-raised birds were still plentiful. More importantly, R&R is a prime example of the successful partnership between private landowners, taxpayers, hunters, and nonprofit organizations that uses pheasant hunting to restore wildlife habitat across the country. Not only would Virginia and I have ample opportunities to find the birds, but it would be a perfect chance for her to��get her hands dirty in the pursuit of wildlife conservation.

Where Are Pheasants From?

Pheasants are native to China��but were introduced to Europe by the Romans. It’s thought that pheasants may have arrived in England , where they decorated the gardens of the wealthy. The advent of firearms��and��the economic means for leisure time popularized bird hunting in England during the 1700s, so��gamekeepers began breeding the birds. Today, bird hunting in England is synonymous with the pheasant, and��around of them are released there each year.��

Americans who hunted pheasants in the United Kingdom sought to . But it wasn’t until the American consul general in Shanghai, Owen Denny, shipped 38 pheasants to his brother’s farm in Oregon’s Willamette Valley in 1881 that the breeding of pheasants��began in America. Ten years later, on the opening day of America’s first-ever pheasant season, hunters shot 50,000 birds. That success prompted would-be pheasant hunters to introduce them��across much of the rest of the country.��

A prey species, pheasants try to stick to cover��and will run away from threats through that cover��unless startled. When they can be convinced to take off, they fly at speeds of up to 60 miles per hour. The challenge those speeds represent explain the popularity of pheasant hunting.��

Pheasants, which are about the size and shape of a chicken,��eat insects��and seeds��and live in mixed habitats like brushy meadows, hedgerows, marshes, and areas where woods��and fields meet. In other words, they prefer places that look like much of the agricultural Midwest. The first pheasants were introduced to South Dakota in 1908, and by 1936, the state had an estimated��population of 12 million of them.��

One of the reasons for the bird’s success is that , even in seasons where the take exceeds one��million birds in a single state. In fact, hunters could harvest as much as 93 percent of pre-hunt roosters��without hurting the population as a whole,��according to��, a nonprofit dedicated to conserving��wildlife habitat.��

That’s because hunters only��shoot roosters, not hens—in flight, it’s easy to distinguish the brightly colored, long-tailed roosters from the drab, short-tailed females—and each male impregnates an entire harem of females before hunting season begins. In turn, each of those hens lays seven to fifteen��eggs.

Even without hunting, pheasants don’t live long. Predators like foxes, raccoons, skunks, feral cats, hawks, and owls all feed on them. But��the biggest source of pheasant mortality isn’t humans or natural predators, it’s simply winter weather. According to Pheasants Forever, with mild weather and good habitat, winter survival rates can be as high as 95 percent. In a worst-case scenario, with severe weather and poor habitat, survival rates can fall to 20 percent.��

Which brings us to��why shooting an introduced, pen-raised, non-native species helps save American wildlife.��

Farming and Habitat

Farming is a fickle, challenging business that is often��highly dependent on��weather, so farmers are incentivized to maximize profits in good years by chasing the highest yields per acre of land possible.��In 2019, a crop like corn could, in a best-case scenario on a high-yield farm, be expected to pay��$738 per acre, with an additional $80 per acre��added by federal aid programs, for a total possible revenue of . Farmers can’t add growing seasons, and the price of their crops is out of their control. So the best way for farmers to increase revenue is to plant as much of their lands with a��crop that produces the highest yields.��

That’s what’s led to modern, monolithic farming practices, where entire regions are turned over to a single crop. If corn grows best in a given region, then to maximize revenue, every inch of every��acre of every farm in that region—and in a place like Seneca, South Dakota, nearly every acre is a farm acre—needs to be planted with corn. Factors like interest rates, commodities prices, and trade policies make the picture I’m painting here much more complicated in the real world, but you get the idea: generally speaking, what’s good for farming��is bad for wildlife.��

Turning every square inch of land over to a single crop decimated wildlife habitat across the Midwest. And wildlife, including the pheasant, began to disappear. From a high of 16 million birds in 1945, South Dakota’s pheasant population fell to a low of in 1976. And with the pheasant, other wildlife disappeared, too. The population of deer in the state fell from in the 1930s to around 200,000 in the 1980s.��

It also turns out that factors outside a farmer’s control—those pesky interest rates and commodities prices—can swing fortunes against them, especially when they’re invested so heavily in producing a single one of those commodities. That’s what led to of the 1980s, which for a time threatened the future of independent farming in this country.��

One of the ways the Reagan administration tackled the��crisis was with something called the ��(CRP). First authorized by the Food Security Act of 1985, it uses taxpayer dollars to pay farmers not to farm certain parts of their land, attempting to address problems like wildlife habitat, erosion, and even surplus commodity stocks in one fell swoop.��

Today��the CRP program protects . Rates vary��from $10 to $300 per acre, depending on the location and ecological importance of that acre, with the average payment coming in at .��That’s been enough to convince a lot of farmers not to develop marginal croplands, but it only amounts to about 10 percent of the per-acre revenue that’s possible with high-yield practices.��

The CRP budgets have also become a political football over the years. As farmland slowly returned to natural habitat after��1985, pheasant numbers slowly rebounded. By 2007, the CRP program covered 1.5 million acres of land in South Dakota, and the wild-pheasant population reached . As CRP rates fell, though,��some farmers were forced to start farming land formerly protected under the program. In 2019, only were enrolled in the CRP program, and pheasant numbers in the state fell to��7.7 million wild birds.��

On the Ground

“CRP doesn’t pay for trees,” says Sal Roseland, who started converting his multigenerational��family farm��into a pheasant preserve in 2002. R&R, the South Dakota ranch that Virginia and I visited in��December,��is now one of the most successful operations in the state. Roseland��guided us on a two-day hunt across his 18,000-acre property.��

Pointing out the various features that make up good pheasant habitat, he explained that while pheasants nest in dense grass and crops,��and use places like cattail sloughs for cover, much of that can become inaccessible to the birds in winter��if the land��gets blanketed and flattened by heavy snowfall. In addition to reduced CRP acreage, several severe winters since 2007 have contributed to the decline in South Dakota pheasant populations.��

The Roselands run cattle, which eat grass and grain. To develop good pheasant habitat, Roseland��converted much of his ranch into wild grassland (that the cows are kept off of), left tree belts intact and��marshes undrained, and planted crops like , which is one of the grains found in commercial birdseed. Not only does that provide a high-energy food source for the birds, but milo’s thick, corn-like stalks are able to stand up to heavier weather than grass alone can, making it valuable cover��for pheasants��and other wild animals.��

Walking the R&R ranch, it’s rare not to see a hawk, an eagle, or an owl flying somewhere in your field of vision. Head into heavier cover, and Roseland’s dogs kick up nearly as many deer as they do birds. The marshland is dotted by muskrat nests. This��natural ideal stands in contrast to most other farmland on the Great Plains, where rows of crops stretch from one horizon to the other, choking out any other form of life.��

The Roselands care about wildlife, but what enabled��them to create this haven��wasn’t just good intentions, it was��good income. A two-day hunt at the ranch costs $1,500 per hunter, and Roseland��says that he and his wife, Kelly, host about 800 hunters a season. On top of the CRP payments, that amounts to��an additional $66 per��acre, which is still not enough to offset the money that could be made from just plowing everything under.��

Fortunately, additional help is available. Seeds for Roseland’s milo are donated by a local supplier, who works with . Since 1982, that organization has created or enhanced 15.8 million acres of wildlife habitat across North America. Made up of local chapters, the organization funds thousands of annual projects, each responding��uniquely to local��needs. On Roseland’s ranch, that might mean milo seeds; elsewhere, it might be the outright acquisition of property��for the purpose of rehabilitation��and public access. Pheasants Forever has worked with public-land-management agencies to set aside 187,000 acres of protected land for public access, and 138,000 people��pay annual membership fees in the organization that start at $35 per year. of those members are hunters. Because good pheasant habitat is a healthy, natural ecosystem, Pheasants Forever has��also invested in programs like ��and across the Midwest, a crucial��monarch-butterfly migration region.��

None of that money would exist if there weren’t birds to shoot.

Wild Versus��Raised Birds

Every pheasant on this continent is a result of human introduction. The initial push in the late 19th and early 20th centuries resulted in populations that now propagate in the wild. But��as the numbers of those��birds collapsed in the 1960s and 1970s, state governments sought to sustain hunting activity, and��notably��the economic boon it��brings to wildlife conservation, by raising and releasing large quantities of pheasants��before each hunting season.��

Those early programs fostered hunting opportunities, but raising birds in covered pens where they were safe from predation��and fattened up��on easy, rich food sources didn’t exactly produce good fliers. Hunters dubbed the penned birds “ditch chickens,” and complained they��just weren’t any fun to chase.��

That changed in the 1980s, when private breeders began experimenting by��crossbreeding different varieties of pheasants and improving the conditions in which they were raised. One of the largest pheasant breeders, Bill MacFarlane, calls his birds��“” and says they’re��“full of pep and a sense of urgency.”

What Roseland’s customers pay for when they visit R&R is opportunity. While��finding a pheasant on public land can take a considerable amount of��hiking and involves no sure outcomes��(not to mention a daily limit of three birds if you are lucky),��hunters walking Roseland’s ranch will have plenty of chances to take a shot��and no limit on the number of birds they can bag.��

That is a perfect formula for a successful first hunt. When Virginia and I visited R&R in December, temperatures were hovering in the single digits, and high winds combined with light precipitation to blow ice crystals at our exposed faces. That late in the year, the remaining birds were the wariest ones, flying away well outside of shooting distances. Working with Roseland, we eventually developed a strategy: Virginia and I would walk far ahead��of Roseland and his dogs, hopefully surprising the birds into flight as they ran away from the dogs��and into us. ��That worked. We drove home after the second day with 30 birds in our cooler—more than enough to keep making meals of��them three months later.��

Is that too easy? ,��and there are more folks hunting��on public land��in South Dakota than��on private land. But��across the state, there are a couple hundred other preserves. And��just like Roseland’s, those preserves are providing wild habitat on private land, while the hunters on them are helping��pay for conservation on the state’s public land. ��in South Dakota, hunters on private land��shot 283,254 birds, while 828,700 pheasants were shot on public land.��

Three Billion Birds Gone

Are pheasants invasive? that they create competition for native species, but they do fill a valuable role in our ecosystems as a prey species. More importantly, the money they bring in from hunters is being used to fight widespread habitat loss.��In the past 50 years, 25 percent of America’s native birds have disappeared. Since 2009, some 53 million acres of native grasslands—equivalent to the size of Kansas—have vanished from the Great Plains.��

In response, Pheasants Forever has kicked off to create nine��million acres of new wildlife habitat across the country��and to acquire 75,000 acres for permanent protection and public access. How? The organization is trying to create 1.5 million new hunters.

One of those new hunters is my wife. Before visiting the Roselands’ ranch, Virginia was squeamish about the idea of shooting an animal, and nervous that her experience at gun ranges wouldn’t translate to safety in the field. But after just two days chasing birds, she’s hooked. We’re already making plans to hunt public-land birds here in Montana together this fall, and are hoping we can make the trip to R&R an annual birthday tradition. And all the additional license fees, hunting-equipment sales, organization memberships, and private-land revenues Virginia will generate across her lifetime will fund habitat restoration and protection, as well as��help protect the avian species that live across our country. Not bad for one birthday.��

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“Just trust me” book recommendations are great: you already know that a friend or another��reader with good taste loved it, and it’s best to dive in without knowing a lot of details. I’d guess that translated books have among the highest “just trust me” hit rates. Publishers usually decide to release a work in additional languages only when it’s gotten an amazing response in its original language��or when the author has already gained plenty of praise and fans. These three newly translated titles seem to prove the point. They and their writers are already beloved, and now it’s English-speaking��readers’ turn to get on board. These three books—two novels and one nonfiction travelogue—each take a very different approach to exploring the natural world, but all happen to be as playful as they are philosophical. Bonus points if you can read any in their original Chinese, Spanish, or French—or set it as your aspiration for knocking out those Duolingo sessions.

‘American Delirium,’��by Betina González, translated by Heather Cleary

In the middle of Argentine writer Betina González’s , a wry older narrator named Beryl Hope reflects on death: “In that final moment, most people look around and are certain they’ve forgotten something. Hard to put into words. I’d say it’s life itself.” Part of regaining that feeling of a life well lived, to Beryl, would appear to be training fellow senior citizens to hunt down murderous deer.����

Beryl lives in a fictional midwestern city��where killer bucks have been terrorizing the populace��and a lot of people have started dropping out of society and heading to the woods. A��much more complicated story is gradually revealed through three alternating narratives. In addition to Beryl, there’s a taxidermist named Vik, who’s dealing with a home intruder and chronic pain, and a girl named Berenice, whose florist mother has suddenly abandoned her. It turns out that the deer have been consuming a fictional drug called albaria, which comes to play a crucial role in the plot—we learn that people have also been taking it in what may best be described as an attempt at psychological rewilding.��

As loony as it is, American Delirium’s funniest moments are its most commonplace. Protests form after a woman kills a suspicious deer in her garden: “Groups of young people marched in front of the Fish and Wildlife offices with signs demanding the maximum sentence (a fine and two months of community service).” The novel is fast-paced, but González is fastidious in tying together every character and almost-missable detail by the end. It manages to be an ode to taxidermy and botany, a meditation on aging, a tongue-in-cheek look at how we romanticize the wilderness, and, as the title suggests, a reflection on the delusions of modern life.

‘Winter Pasture,’ by Li Juan, translated by Jack Hargreaves and Yan Yan

Chinese journalist Li Juan lives in the Xinjiang region of China in the Altay prefecture, a mountainous, arid landscape that shares a border with Mongolia, Russia, and Kazakhstan. Her writing, which has been popular in the country��for years, often focuses on the plains and the lives of nomadic people who reside��there.�� has been out in Chinese��since 2012, but it’s Li’s first book to be released in the United States.��In it, Li recounts months spent traveling with a man named Cuma and his family, who are Kazakh nomadic herders, to their winter grazing lands. Li knows the family because they often pass through the town and owe her family money; if they let her come along, she’ll cancel their debt and help out with the hard work. She gradually learns how to wrangle camels and clean out sheep pens��but generally positions herself as an almost slapstick-level klutz of an outsider. “A herder typically chooses a pair [of boots] two sizes larger than usual to allow room for two extra pairs of socks,” she says, before admitting that she inexplicably chose to pack a pair of boots eight sizes too big. “As a result, I had to wear more socks than anyone had ever worn.” Li tends to swing from witty self-deprecation to solemn wonder at her companions’ know-how and their dramatic, bleak surroundings. “Before the sun emerges, the whole world is a dream, the only real thing is the moon,” she writes of early mornings spent traveling toward the next camp on the way to the pasture. “After the sun emerges, the whole world is real, only the moon fades into a dream.”

There’s subtext to keep in mind. For years, the Chinese government has been persecuting predominantly Muslim minority groups in Xinjiang, including Uighurs and Kazakhs, sending an estimated 1 million people to . Though she was traveling with a Muslim Kazakh family, Li never addresses these dynamics explicitly. But she often mentions that she may be witnessing the last years of this nomadic lifestyle: government officials have put pressure on the herders to stop “overgrazing,” a development��that Li guesses is related to recent grassland restoration policies. She never says as much, but many of those policies aimed at displacing nomadic herding families from their land. Li hints often at disagreeing with the establishment: “Balancing the livestock with the grass had long been a basic principle of pastoralists, their age-old creed,” she writes. Later, she wonders, “Wouldn’t such an abrupt end be traumatizing and disorienting to these people’s souls?” It’s clear that Li holds deep admiration for her travel companions and a helpful awareness of her outsider status. Her travelogue isn’t some astonished, anthropological view of a vanishing way of life; it’s a raucous and thoughtful adventure that she knows she is lucky to have been on.

‘The Ardent Swarm,’ by Yamen Manai, translated by Lara Vergnaud

Yamen Manai’s third novel,��and his first to be��translated into English, could stand on its own for its immersive descriptions of animal life. Protagonist Sidi is a beekeeper in the fictional North��African village of Nawa, and it’s clear that Manai spared no effort to depict bees in the most affectionate, lush, and well-researched terms possible. “Villagers often found themselves nose to nose with a forager bee that, after writhing haphazardly among the flower pistils, had ended up swathed in various pollens: apricot yellow, apple-tree white, cherry-tree green, and rosemary pinkbeige,” he writes. One day, Sidi finds that��thousands of his bees have fallen victim to a violent death at the hands (tarsal claws?) of non-native wasps. Around the same time, strangers visit the village, calling themselves the “Party of God” and bribing residents for votes in the country’s first democratic election. Sidi has had more exposure than his neighbors to the corrupting power of money��and soon becomes a vigilante in both political and apiary terms, journeying to a nearby city to find answers about what’s going on with his hives and his village.��

Manai is originally from Tunisia, which is where the first Arab Spring protests started��in late 2010��and was the only country that started a transition to a democratic government afterward. He leans into the obvious parallels between the inner workings of a bee colony and human power struggles��in order to grapple with globalization, colonialism, and the possibilities of collective action. And he pulls it off without making the premise feel contrived, offering deep observations that you’d never know were really about bees. At one point, making a horrified connection between the Party of God and the killer wasps, Sidi thinks,��“Once again, man, in search of land, gave the plague to his fellow man in the folds of his offerings.”

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Across the country, camping and RV rentals are soaring as Americans heed the words of COVID-19 health experts: it’s safer to be outdoors than indoors. Rather than use your campground as a base camp, why not treat it as destination in and of itself?��These sites offer plenty of adventure right from your tent and breathtaking views to enjoy during your downtime. Be sure to��check individual websites for COVID-19 guidelines or restrictions before you head out.��

West

Cape Lookout State Park Campground, Oregon��

Located 80 miles from Portland, this��park has ten miles of hiking trails and more than 170 beachfront ��(from $21) along a two-mile peninsula. Hike the 2.6-mile trail to the tip of the cape for views of migrating whales in fall.

Southwest

Mogollon Campground, Arizona

The Mogollon Rim is a 200-mile-long��limestone and granite cliff located two hours northeast of Phoenix. After hiking along the 4.2-mile ��or kayaking on secluded , pitch your tent or park your RV at the ��(from $18). A short walk will take you to the rim’s edge for sunset views over .

Midwest

Old Man’s Cave Campground, Ohio

Two hours east of Cincinnati, is teeming with impressive forest��and waterfalls. This ��(from $23) offers the easiest access to picturesque Old Man’s Cave via the two-mile Rim Trail. Mountain bikers will enjoy the park’s shady trails.

Northeast

Hither Hills State Park Campground, New York

While you might not expect such an expanse of wildnerness right next to the Hamptons, Hither Hills has 190����(from $7) tucked away in bluffs that border the Atlantic Ocean, a 40-acre freshwater lake, and lush woodlands. Wake up to waves crashing along the shoreline, then explore the dunes at Napeague Harbor, take a hike through Russian olive and pine trees, and surf or kayak in the ocean.

Southeast

DeSoto State Park Campground, Alabama��

Located 100 miles northeast of Birmingham, this park is situated��on 2,392-foot Lookout Mountain, which is coated with vibrant foliage every fall. Its 3,502 acres include��94 ��(from $15),��half a dozen waterfalls, and nearby��Little River Canyon, which has some of the toughest rock climbing in the state.

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As we navigate the new travel normal, making decisions about where to go—or whether to go at all—during a pandemic requires flexibility and informed planning. By the time this issue reaches you, the COVID-19 news will likely have shifted again. We hope it’s for the better. As some Americans have decided to venture out, a road trip close to home is one of the safest and most popular options. That’s why we put together our favorite in-state itineraries in every region of the country, to make it easy for you to explore your own backyard—think uncrowded spaces, camping, and lots of fresh air. We also gathered expert advice and resources on how to plan effectively, stay up-to-date about changing conditions, and ensure your safety and that of the communities you travel through. Whether your state has reopened and you can go now, or you save these itineraries for more opportune times, you’ll be amazed at the adventures right outside your door.

The Northeast

Hit the Range: Branbury State Park to Burlington, Vermont

, at the foot of Vermont’s Green Mountains, has over 40 family-friendly campsites and lean-tos that are a quick walk from the beachfront of Lake Dunmore. After a day of hiking and swimming, head north on Route 116 along the western edge of the Greens. Follow the highway east into the mountains and to the idyllic town of Bristol for a maple soft-serve at the . Continue east through Lincoln along River/Lincoln Gap Road, then pull over where the Long Trail—the oldest through-hiking route in the U.S., and part of the Appalachian Trail—­intersects with the road. Hike it to the top of Mount Abe, one of the state’s five 4,000-foot peaks; the rocky summit pokes above the timberline and offers stunning 360-degree views that span from the Adirondacks in the west to New Hampshire’s White Mountains in the east. Spend the night at the Battell Shelter, a first-come, first-served lean-to maintained by the . Post-hike, drive to the quaint town of Warren, order the Number Six sandwich to go at the , and eat it on the banks of the Mad River. Your final stop? Vermont’s largest city, Burlington. Bike along the shore of Lake Champlain before popping in for a dry-ale-style cider at . 80 miles one-way—Luke Whelan

The Southwest

New Mexico, Three Ways

Santa Fe is the perfect place to base out of for road trips, with dramatically different landscapes in every direction. Here are a few of our favorites.��—Mary Turner

The High and Low Roads to Taos

The High Road (Highway 76 to 75 to 518) goes through scenic alpine villages, including the weaving town of Chimayo, where the�� is famous for its healing dirt. Be sure to pick up baked goods at in Peñasco on the way up. The Low Road home (Highway 68) hugs the Rio Grande. 150 miles round-trip

White Sands National Park

If you can’t make it to the Sahara, is your next best bet. Take a few hours to hike the surreal gypsum dunes that stretch on forever. The park’s camping sites are currently closed, so head to (from $7) at the base of the Organ Mountains, 40 miles southwest. 575 miles round-trip

��������ܾ�ú

This is Georgia O’Keeffe country, an otherworldly landscape of stark red and white cliffs, and the lush Chama River Valley. The artist spent decades painting in the town of ��������ܾ�ú and at nearby , where you can hike the spectacular Chimney Rock Trail. 122 miles round-trip

Get Your Mineral Fix: Fish Lake Valley Hot Springs to Soldier Meadows Hot Springs, Nevada��

Four of the Silver State’s most scenic hot springs reside on remote public lands that offer free dispersed camping and skies brilliant with stars. (Pitch your tent at least 300 feet from any water source.) Start at��, 60 miles southwest of the town of Tonopah. The concrete tub is surrounded by marshlands, ponds big enough for paddleboarding, and 13,140-foot Boundary Peak, Nevada’s highest point, summited via a challenging five-mile hike. Three hours northeast, you’ll share with a resident herd of wild burros. Quench your thirst with a beer on ’s porch in nearby Kingston. Some 260 miles northwest, at the Black Rock Desert playa, head out with Gerlach local Philippe Steinmann for an e-bike tour of the area (from $36) that finishes at . Backtrack 40 miles to High Rock Canyon—a sanctuary for peregrine falcons and great horned owls—followed by a soak at nearby . An adjacent BLM cabin is first come, first served. For more creature comforts, detour to the ghost town of Vya and the (from $45). 534 miles one-way—Tasha Zemke

The West

Lose the Crowds:��Denver to Snowmass, Colorado

This part of south-central Colorado is rich in public lands, dramatic 14,000-foot peaks, and picturesque mountain towns. Set out from Denver and drive about 140 miles south to one of the state’s most unusual man-made landmarks: . Its namesake architect, Jim Bishop, started building the three-story stone fortress—with its winding staircases, wrought-iron causeways, and enormous dragon’s head—in 1969, and is still working on it. Stay the night ten minutes away at Lake Isabel, where you’ll find a quiet body of water, easy trails to explore, and designated Forest Service (from $20). Start day two off with a 100-mile scenic drive to the stunning Arkansas River Valley and the town of Buena Vista, the gateway to the Collegiate Peaks, including eight fourteeners. Day hikes abound, and you can decompress afterward at the . If you want to go big, get an early start on the 8.6-mile hike up 14,440-foot Mount Elbert— the highest point in the state—by securing a spot at (from $15). If water is more your element, book a trip on the Arkansas with (from $71). Next up? A two-hour drive to , a small ski town just north of Aspen with 3,342 acres of premium winter terrain that’s just as beautiful and adventure packed in fall. Hike, raft, fish, bag another fourteener, but beware: the technical, exposed route to Capitol Peak isn’t for the inexperienced. Be sure to catch the striped peaks of the Maroon Bells before ­taking I-70 back to the Front Range. 387 miles one-way—Maren Larsen

The Other��Side of��Oregon: John Day to Eagle Cap Wilderness��

Start your tour in the city of John Day, five hours east of Portland, where you can search for fossils at the nearby . Grab a fly rod and head southeast to the alpine lakes teeming with trout in the , then spend the night at its (from $8). Backtrack via Prairie City, then on to Bates, and turn north onto Highway 7, a scenic byway that meanders through the southern Blue Mountains. Finally, head north on I-84 before taking Highway 82 all the way to Joseph, a charming artist town at the base of the Wallowa Mountains. Pitch a tent at (from $20), the perfect base camp for forays into the nearby , where you’ll find 534 miles of trails for hiking and horseback riding. 292 miles one-way—Chris Keyes

The��Southeast

Circuit Train: Harpers Ferry to Pipestem Resort State Park, West Virginia

Pack up your bike, hiking boots, and swimsuit for this spin through the state’s rugged Appalachian Mountains. Start in historic , at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers, where hikes include the 4.5-mile , with its bird’s-eye view of the peak-cradled town. Then drive about an hour up Route 9 to Berkeley Springs; 16 miles east, a scenic offshoot of the 250-mile ��wanders up to Devil’s Nose, a large rock surrounded by splendid autumn plumage. From here, head about 110 miles southwest to , at the Canaan Valley’s northern tip, where a boardwalk descends to a front-row view of the falls and backwoods trails wind through towering hardwoods. Mountain biking has long reigned supreme in the valley, with popular rides like the technical, nine-mile and the 3.8-mile legendary Moon HooDoo Rocks Trail. Hiking, fishing, and cross-country-skiing options are abundant in the park as well. The tiny nearby towns of Davis and Thomas serve as hubs for outfitters and eateries, and both (from $18) and (from $27) have cabins and campsites. Then head south through , one of the nation’s most biologically diverse landscapes. You’ll pass by , famous for hardcore hiking and epic vistas. Check out the mountain-biking trails around Slatyfork, or explore farther south, where boardwalks hover above bogs that are similar to those found in the Arctic tundra. Campsites and cabins abound in the national forest, including along the Williams River (from $8). Wind up your trip about 95 miles south at , where the adventure smorgasbord includes hiking, mountain biking, trout fishing, kayaking, tubing, and rock climbing. 403 miles one-way—Barbara Noe Kennedy

Escape Bourbon Street:��Fontainebleau State Park to New Orleans, Louisiana

This three-day circuit offers everything from hiking to history. From the city, head 40 miles north along the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway to , on the northern edge of the lake, where you’ll find sandy beaches and miles of hiking trails. Take a free guided tour from the visitor center to learn about the park, a former sugar plantation, and its ignominious slavery-era past. A converted railroad track, part of the 31-mile trail that runs from downtown Covington to Slidell through five communities, offers cycling and ­hiking, and stops along historical sites and breweries. Spend the night at one of the park’s more than 140 campsites (from $18) and lakefront cabins (from $150). The next day, drive 50 minutes north to and hike the 5.7-mile loop trail, which offers prime birdwatching. In the afternoon, rent a kayak to paddle the namesake river, then stay at one of the park’s cabins ($150) or campgrounds (from $25). On day three, head back to New Orleans, and embark on the guided African Life in the French Quarter walking itinerary (from $17) with . 140 miles one-way—Dodie Arnold

The��Midwest

Explore the LP Route: Traverse City to Mackinac Island, Michigan��

Michigan’s Lower Peninsula makes it possible to pack the best of the Midwest—pristine coastline, good seafood, and charming beach towns—into a long weekend. From Traverse City, head 40 minutes west to hike ’ 3.5-mile Dunes Trail, which takes you over rolling sand hills to a beach on Lake Michigan. Afterward, pick up cherry lime soda at in nearby Glen Arbor, then detour to the town of Leland for a loaded sandwich from and enjoy it on wooden docks of its historic Fishtown. Next up, drive 75 miles east to rent a kayak at ��(from $28), then paddle the South Arm of Lake Charlevoix, followed by a meal of soft pretzels and beer at in the town of Bellaire. Set up camp at , just east of downtown (from $15). From there, it’s a 45-mile drive to the town of Petoskey, your departure point for a scenic bike ride down Highway 119 with stunning views of Lake Michigan. Another 35 miles north brings you to Mackinaw City. Board the ferry to and step back in time; there are no cars allowed, so horses, pedestrians, and bikes rule the streets. Bring your bike on the ferry and cruise around the island on 8.2-mile Lake Shore Drive, making pit stops at , , and one of the many fudge shops in town. There’s no camping on the island, but there are plenty of options back on the mainland, including cabin rentals and lakefront RV sites at (from $13). 220 miles one-way—Kelsey Lindsey

Local Intel: Minneapolis to Ely, Minnesota

From Minneapolis, it’s a little over two hours north to Duluth, home to Lake Superior, the world’s largest freshwater lake by surface area. Set up your base at (from $40), where you can fish on the Saint Louis River, rent canoes and ­kayaks from the camp’s hosts, and access a network of mountain-bike trails right across the street. Swing by ��for alfresco cocktail hour before heading to to grab wings to go. In the morning, take a 54-mile detour to and hike to the namesake falls. Finally, continue 80 miles north to the city of Ely to rent a canoe from (from $35), and paddle out to explore some of the 1,175 lakes in the remote wilderness area, which has more than 2,000 designated (from $16). 278 miles one-way —Abigail Wise

Play Geologist: Badlands National Park to Custer State Park, South Dakota

The theme of this trip: rocks. Western South Dakota has some of the finest hunks of sandstone, mica schist, granite, and phonolite porphyry in the American West. Kick off your trip at , a maze of bizarre and beautiful canyons and spires you can explore from a handful of easy to moderate trails. A campground (from $23) and 26 cabin rentals at (from $182) make this a great place to bunk down on your first night—seeing the sun rise on these formations is worth it. On day two stop by , perhaps the most widely advertised tourist trap in the world, with billboards from Minnesota to Amsterdam; the interconnected shops sell everything from jewelry to jackalopes. Grab a hot beef sandwich and doughnuts to go from the . Ninety miles west is Sylvan Lake in��, a wildlife reserve home to 1,300 bison. The surrounding area offers some of the best roped climbing in the state. You’ll also find a via-ferrata-esque hiking experience at the park’s����and, just two miles east, a scenic drive that takes you through the Needles Eye Tunnel, a narrow path through granite rock pinnacles. Stay at one of the state park’s nine (from $7). 119 miles one-way���.��.

Ride it Out: Hartford to Pere Marquette State Park, Illinois��

According Shawn Fechter, of motorcycle-adventure outfitter , one of the best riding��routes is the Great Rivers Byway, starting where the Mississippi, Missouri, and Illinois Rivers converge.

“Some of the most scenic pockets of the 2,552-mile�� which follows the Mississippi River from Minnesota to Louisiana, are found in Illinois. Start in the small town of Hartford, where the Meeting of the Great Rivers Byway begins. The 22 miles between Hartford and Grafton offer spectacular views of the rivers to one side and limestone bluffs to the other, and are filled with stops to take in the area’s diverse flora and fauna, like the 300-acre , home to more than 150 species of birds. Farther west, at the , you can catch the great southerly bird ­migration in fall. The trip can be completed in a day, but if you want to take your time, spend a night in a riverside shelter at (from $25), which has plenty of hiking, fishing, and rock climbing.” 67 miles one-way

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In 1846, Henry David Thoreau ascended Maine’s Mount��Katahdin��and shouted, in a fit of exuberance, “Who are we? Where are we?”��

Author Donovan Hohn, in his new collection of essays,��,��writes that, for Thoreau,��those two questions are inseparable.��We can’t truly know ourselves without knowing the world around us, and vice versa.��

These interlocked��questions, which animate much of Thoreau’s work, echo throughout The Inner Coast, Hohn’s second book of nonfiction.��His��method in these essays is to look outward and then inward, and��his��conclusion is that we’re mistaken when we see ourselves as separate from nature. When I called Hohn at his home in Ann Arbor, Michigan, he reflected on the human tendency��“to pretend that we aren’t, in some extremely vulnerable and permeable way, profoundly connected to the natural world.” Hohn, who writes in a voice reminiscent of Annie Dillard or John McPhee, returns to this subject again and again��as he dives deep into topics ranging from the forgotten thrill of piloting an ice canoe to the long-standing cultural significance of mammoths.

A former editor at Harper’s and GQ,��Hohn��now teaches��creative writing at Wayne State University in Detroit. In one piece, he describes a��kind of��cartography��project��he assigns to his students that��asks them to map both physical and emotional space. Like explorers venturing into an unknown land, the students��walk Detroit and take detailed notes on what they see. “From those notes they are to��re-create their walks for readers, the sights and sounds, but also their own reaction to the sights and sounds, their unbidden memories and thoughts,” he writes. By exploring where they are, the students are expected to discover something about who they are.��

Like his students, Hohn traverses local geographies and comes to see familiar places with fresh eyes. In a far-reaching essay called “Watermarks,” he explores the way water moves through the world, especially in his home state of Michigan, drawing on insights from philosophy and literature. “Whenever I visit a river, I have the urge to follow it,” he writes. Part of what motivates Hohn’s search is the notion that water, perhaps the fundamental element of life,��has become something we take for granted. We can turn a valve when we need it, but otherwise we don’t think much about it. “Living in the age of indoor plumbing is a bit like living beside a stream whose headwaters and mouth are distant rumors,” he writes. Though most of this country was initially navigated by waterways, Hohn notes, “in the 21st��century, it’s not easy to follow the water.” Nonetheless, we find him��following��rivers and canals all over the Midwest, ultimately plunging into the depths of Lake Michigan with a team of commercial divers searching for a lost shipwreck. He joined the divers, he writes, “because I’d imagined that descending the water column would be like time travel, like flippering into the past, as if fathoms were centuries.” He is diving into physical space, yes, but he’s hoping to find something else, too.��

While Hohn offers personal reflections throughout the book, his focus never strays far from the subject at hand. In��“Falling,”��however, he turns the magnifying glass on himself, beautifully describing��his childhood years living on Mount Davidson in��San Francisco. “This may be my oldest preoccupation,” he told me “the relationship between memory and place.” As a boy, Hohn had a religious devotion to the natural world around him. He memorized��the names of butterflies and spent��full days wandering the hillside with his��net or searching for creatures in tide pools. But these��experiences were��interwoven inextricably with his parents’ troubled relationship, his mother’s bouts of depression, his brother’s acting out, and a tragic accident that left Hohn himself in a body cast. The reader gets the sense that, instead of serving��as merely the backdrop, the landscape of Hohn’s childhood home is a character as real and prominent as any of the humans in the story. Compared with��family, he writes, “trees make few demands, and you can hear whatever your heart desires in the lyrical soughing of their branches.” Nature was��an ally��and a source of refuge and comfort.��

Of course, humans don’t always treat the natural world as an ally—when we pollute and destroy it, the effects can be brutal.��In “The Zealot,” an essay��on the water crisis in Flint, Michigan, Hohn follows Marc Edwards, a civil and environmental engineer at Virginia Tech University, whose research into contaminated��drinking water across��the U.S. has turned him from a dispassionate scientific observer into a kind of activist. This is a tension familiar to medical professionals amid our current pandemic��and climate scientists whose dire warnings about a warming planet seem to fall on deaf ears. Edwards’s role in Flint was complicated: residents welcomed him as someone who could bring attention to their cause, but when his tests said the water was once again safe to drink, many who had grown rightfully suspicious of the water weren’t ready to accept his findings. Others criticized him for seeking the spotlight instead of standing behind city��residents, who, critics thought, should have been the focus. In this essay, Hohn demonstrates how humans’ vulnerability in the natural world is almost always felt most acutely by marginalized communities, and the tension he��illustrates is one��we’ll continue to grapple��with as��events like climate change exacerbate existing inequalities.����

For Hohn, “at a time of bewildering and accelerating changes to habitats and geographies,” Thoreau’s questions—Who are we? Where are we?—“continue to invite new answers.” And because those changes have only further accelerated��in the months��since The Inner Coast went to print, the reader will discover��answers that Hohn himself couldn’t have foreseen��while��writing these essays.��

The coronavirus, too, is of the natural world. Like us, it’s naturally occurring��and composed of genetic code. Hohn told me that one unanticipated effect of the virus might be to “disillusion some of us who have mostly joyous experiences with the natural world.” We may see nature as something beautiful to escape to—but��also something brutal that can upend our lives at a moment’s notice.��

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When Erik Wilkie��tosses his surfboard on the roof rack of his Volkswagen bus, he knows he’s on his way to ride the best landlocked waves in the United States. A Surfer’s Search, from filmmaker , features Wilkie riding the nearly frozen��waters of Lake Superior during Winter Storm Wesley in 2019.

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For eight years, Joe Anderson drove by McDoel Baptist Church on his commute from the center of Bloomington, Indiana, to the bland exurban warehouse that housed Hoosier Heights, one of several climbing gyms he owns across the Midwest. He’d always admired the old church—its limestone exterior, its historic charm. When he saw it was for sale in 2016, he had a crazy thought: Business was growing at the Bloomington gym, and he wanted to move it to a more central spot. Why not turn the church into ?

McDoel’s congregation hated to lose its��building, which had anchored McDoel Gardens, a neighborhood of blue-collar bungalows, since it opened in 1925. In the 1960s, the church added a second sanctuary with a capacity of around 250. “We would fill the whole place,” remembers longtime parishioner Pat Suits, 83, who still lives one house down from the old building. “We had so many kids going there, a new youth group.”

But like so many churches across the country, McDoel’s membership declined in the following decades as the congregation aged and shrank. According to the , conducted by the nonpartisan research organization NORC at the University of Chicago, 2018 when Americans who didn’t attend church outnumbered those who go every week or nearly every week. At McDoel, instead of a new generation of kids, the regulars consisted of elderly people like Suits, and their historic building was now causing them headaches—the only bathrooms, for example, were down a long flight of stairs. Eventually, the congregation decided to sell the��church and move into a smaller space nearby.

A climbing gym might seem like a weird and worldly replacement, but a few have popped up in churches across the Rust Belt, including , and . It’s a match that makes sense (sanctuaries have high ceilings) but often brings distinct difficulties (sanctuaries can be too narrow for belaying). “I’ve looked at quite a few churches,” says Adam Koberna, president of U.S. operations for Walltopia, one of the world’s leading climbing-wall companies. “And they rarely work out.”

The physical structure is only part of the problem. In Cleveland, Chick Holtkamp and Niki Zmij tried to convert that was built in 1885. “It was a big space,” Holtkamp says, “but more than that, it was an interesting space.” They toured dozens of gyms, hired architects, gave enthusiastic interviews—only to watch the church they’d hoped to save . In the end, residents were too worried about the extra traffic that a commercial property would bring. “Honestly, it was politics,” Holtkamp says. “The people who didn’t want it had a more powerful voice.”

There can also be issues with historical-preservation requirements��and with securing the financing required to rehab a quirky old building. In Cincinnati, Chris Wiedeman and his brother, Joe, have put tens of thousands of dollars over the past year��into stabilizing a beautiful, abandoned 1870s church that they hope to turn into a gym called . “The church has been exceedingly neglected,” Chris says. “There were holes in the floor.” The construction of the ambitious design, which highlights��the building’s arched windows and architectural details, is proving tricky enough, though it’s made more feasible by the fact that Chris himself works as a general contractor. The fundraising is even trickier. “That’s where we’re running into the most trouble,” he says.

In Bloomington, Joe Anderson understood the potential problems��but decided to give the renovation a shot anyway. “Doing a gym like this is a labor of love,” he says. “It was not a purely economic decision.” And it did not go smoothly at first. “There were literally bats in our belfry,” he says, and that wasn’t the only hiccup. Working with Walltopia to design and build the gym, he had to consider the limitations of the old structure while finding a way to support enormous freestanding climbing walls.

To pull it off, he wound up adding a second building for top roping. But, Anderson says, “It was important to me that you still walk in and say, Whoa, this feels like a church.”��So pews became seats for changing into climbing shoes. Carabiners clipped the sanctuary’s vintage pendant lights to the sloped ceiling, creating more clearance for the bouldering wall. The church’s kitchen became the spot to clean the holds, with its giant hood sucking up the vinegary smells. And the choir loft morphed into a secluded spot for advanced climbers to train on MoonBoards.

In 2018, after more than a year of construction, the facility opened with 16,000 square feet of climbing. The location, just off Bloomington’s popular , allows many climbers to walk or bike to the gym. That’s been especially helpful in luring students from the city’s Indiana University; for the first time in a while, young people are filling up McDoel.

As for the McDoel congregation, it��still gathers on Sunday��in a rented office building in the same neighborhood. The��service��usually draws about 20 worshippers, and Pat Suits notes how thankful everyone is that the bathrooms are located on the main level. “It’s all just right there,” she says.

Two blocks away, Hoosier Heights opens on Sundays at 9 A.M. Anderson is happy that the gym has boosted the neighborhood and that saving an old building has proven economically and environmentally sustainable. But most of all, he’s thrilled to see so many people using the space, whether it’s the neighborhood association hosting its annual Christmas cookie swap, just like it did at the church, or climbers reaching for their next hold as sunlight filters through the stained glass. The gym captures the sense of community��and wonder��that has defined the��building for close to a century. “We took over a place designed for positive community gatherings,” says Anderson, “and we’re trying to still be that.”

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