Planning spring break is high pressure. You only get a one-week respite from school or work, and the timing, late March or early April, makes it tough to find a location with consistently good weather. Those months could offer spring ski conditions or prime surf weather—or not.

More than a few times, I’ve had to pivot at the last minute, having thought it would be warm enough for family surfing on the Outer Banks for spring break and then found temperatures in the low 50s. We moved our vacation further south.

Yes, south is the operative word. So relax, because I’ve found seven national-park units in the Southeast and Southwest that offer gorgeous landscapes, many days’ worth of adventures, and just-about-guaranteed warm weather for the perfect spring break trip.

1. Cumberland Island National Seashore, Georgia

Best for: Swimming, Camping, and Contemplating History

Average Temperatures in March and April: Highs from mid 70s to mid 80s

Cumberland Island is wild. The largest barrier island off the coast of Georgia, Cumberland is a 17-mile-long, 36,000-acre swath of pristine beaches, tall dunes, maritime forests, fresh lakes, and marshy canals. Even though the Carnegie family once owned the island, and descendants still have some private property, Cumberland protects almost 10,000 acres of federally designated wilderness. The only way to reach the island is by a 45-minute ($20 one way) or private boat, and once you’re there the only way to get around is by foot or bike on hiking trails and 50 miles of sandy roads.

The island has no stores, so bring everything you’ll need, and be prepared to pack it all back out. You’ll see some ruins from a Victorian-era mansion built in 1884 as a winter home for Thomas Carnegie, as well as the remnants of a freedmen’s community of former slaves. You may spot members of the colony of feral horses that still roam the island, which are likely descendants of the horses brought over by the British during the War of 1812.

As for beaches, Cumberland offers 15 miles of undeveloped sand and dunes facing the Atlantic. For solitude, keep heading north away from the docks until you reach a patch of sand that’s too far for day-trippers to claim. It’s tough to find this much raw beach on the East Coast, so soak it in. The Atlantic is rough, but fine for swimming. Stay out of the marshes on the west side of the island, as they’re popular hangouts for alligators.

Where to Stay: is an all-inclusive hotel operating in one of the Carnegies’ former vacation homes (from $895 a night), but most visitors . Sea Camp has bathrooms and showers and allows fires (from $22 a night). Stafford Beach is more remote, requiring a three-mile hike from the docks, and it, too, has bathrooms with showers (from $12 a night). Book your spot early, up to six months in advance.

2. Big Bend National Park, Texas

Best for: Hiking, Biking, Climbing, Canoeing, Stargazing

Average Temperatures in March and April: Low to high 70s

The 800,000-acre Big Bend National Park has been a spring-break destination for decades. My mother-in-law still talks fondly about spending college spring breaks camping there during the 1960s.

Late March and early April are the busiest times to visit the park. But “crowded” is a relative term; I hit the place a few years ago at the end of March and never felt overwhelmed or discouraged by other visitors, mainly because the park and its neighboring Big Bend Ranch State Park are so large. I hiked, rode my bike, camped, and enjoyed the “Far West Texas” vibe of it all.

The Big Bend landscape is straight out of a Western, with its vistas of canyons, the towering Chisos Mountains, and big stretches of rocky desert. It’s a great place to explore by boot, bike, or boat, an ideal multi-sport national-park trip.

Hikers should tackle the 5.5-mile out and back Window Trail, which descends 1,000 feet from the Chisos Trailhead, at 5,400 feet elevation, through Oak Creek Canyon to a sheer drop-off framed by towering cliffs. Be prepared (and take water) for the steady climb back to the trailhead. Depending on recent storms, there could be a small stream in the center of the canyon, but the trail is still navigable. Subject to changes in the water level, you can paddle a 20-mile section of the Rio Grande through Santa Elena Canyon, which narrows to 100 feet wide, with limestone cliffs blotting out the sun. The area has been in a drought for the last couple of years, so spring trips aren’t guaranteed, but check with for water levels and trip options (from $160 per person).

Rio Grande Angell Expeditions video by Taylor Reilly

Just outside the national park is , with its bounty of mountain biking, where you can pedal to a backcountry oasis and through a slope filled with sparkling gemstones. Regardless of what you do, at the end of the day you must soak in the historic hot springs that are carved out of the Rio Grande.

Where to Stay: Chisos Mountain Lodge inside the park has 72 rooms, a restaurant, and a general store (from $170 a night). has 60 sites up almost a mile high in elevation; make reservations up to six months in advance ($16 a night).

3. Death Valley National Park, California

Best for Cycling, Hiking, Stargazing

Average Temps in March and April: Highs from 65 to 75

It would be borderline crazy to visit Death Valley National Park in the summertime, but in early spring, the temperatures are chef’s-kiss perfect. Visitors in spring may also have the huge bonus of seeing the wildflowers pop off, particularly in the lower elevations, in fields of desert gold, poppies, and verbena. If you’re really into hitting the park during peak flower power, watch the rangers’ on which wildflowers are blooming throughout spring and summer.

Also cool: the park is home to one of the world’s rarest fish, the Devils Hole pupfish, an endangered species found only in a water cavern in Devils Hole here. The pupfish are visible during the annual spring migration as they move within the hole seeking warmth from direct sunlight. Scientists counted 191 of them last April, the highest count in 25 years.

You don’t need to be a cyclist to enjoy Death Valley—there are plenty of hiking trails—but two wheels is a hell of a way to explore this landscape, with 785 miles of roads open to bikes. Cruise through otherworldly terrain like salt flats, expansive sand dunes, and red-rock formations, before climbing into mountains of up to 11,000 feet.

Artist’s Drive, a paved nine-mile one-way loop, is the park’s signature ride. It climbs from below sea level to 880 feet above it, offering views of the surrounding moon-like white sands and mountains on the horizon. At the crest, you’ll be surrounded by pink and tan hills, which narrow to canyon-like proportions on the fun downhill to finish the loop. To give you a sense of the terrain, parts of the Star Wars franchise were filmed off this road.

Where to Stay: If you’re looking for nice digs, will put you in the heart of the action, and with a pool (from $507 a night). is the best developed campground in the park, with 136 sites on the valley floor and mountain views. Book up to six months in advance (from $30 a night).

4. White Sands National Park, New Mexico

Best for Hiking and Sand Sledding

Average Temperatures in March and April: 70 to 80

One of the newest national parks (established in 2019), White Sands isn’t huge, just 175,000 acres, but it protects half of the world’s largest gypsum-crystal field. The dunes roll through the Tularosa Basin like bright white waves, creating a landscape unlike anything else on this planet. You can see the San Andres Mountains on the horizon beyond the park, but it’s the sloping dunes that will mesmerize you.

The eight-mile Dunes Drive scenic road delivers you into the center of the dunes from the comfort of an air-conditioned vehicle, and the road also accesses the park’s five different hiking trails. The Dune Life Nature Trail is an easy one-mile loop that serves as a good intro to the landscape. But if you really want to dig into the dunes, hike the five-mile , which traces the edge of an ancient lake that has been replaced by the waves of dunes. You’ll climb and descend 60-foot sandy mounds throughout.

If you can time it right, hit the park on a , when White Sands is open into the night, and ranger-led programs include guided hikes. And definitely bring a sled (or buy one in the park gift shop). The dunes at the are open to sledding, and the gypsum hills behave exactly like snow slopes.

Where to Stay: There is currently no camping inside the park: its backcountry campsites are closed for rehabilitation, with no timeline as to when they will be in service. The town of Alamogordo, 15 miles east of the park, has a variety of chain hotels.

5. Gulf Islands National Seashore, Florida and Mississippi

Best for Island Hopping, Swimming, Surfing, Fishing, Birdwatching

Average Temperatures in March and April: Low to mid 70s

A lot of people have discovered the Gulf Islands National Seashore. In 2023, visitation jumped 40 percent, from 5.7 million to 8.2 million people, making this unit the fifth-most-visited in the park service. People are showing up for the white-sand beaches on the mainland and for barrier islands that you can only reach by boat. The national seashore is made up of a series of parks, beaches, and islands, split between Florida and Mississippi, and all surrounded by clear, aqua-blue waters that are home to gopher tortoises, bottlenose dolphins, starfish, crabs
and the 300 species of birds that migrate through the area.

The easiest island to reach is Ship, 12 miles off the coast and accessible by regular from Gulfport and Biloxi ($44 per person, round trip). Once you’re on the island, you can explore the historic fort, lounge on the beaches, or swim in the Gulf. The recreation area is fully developed with concessions and restrooms, so it’s a convenient getaway.

If you’re looking for something wilder, consider venturing to , an eight-mile-long barrier island protected as a federally designated Wilderness area, so there are no commercial ferries to the island and no facilities on the ground. But if you have your own boat or want to hire a charter (from $675 at ), you’ll find an island ringed with sugar-white sand beaches and grassy dunes, while pine trees and lagoons pack the interior. Mind the occasional alligator.

Where to Stay: The campground, on the mainland near the town of Ocean Springs, sits inside a maritime forest, with marshes and fishing docks ($25 a night, book six months in advance). You’re also allowed to on the beach on a few of the barrier islands (Petit Bois, West Petit Bois, and Horn Island) inside the park, but stay off the dunes and any vegetation, don’t bring any mechanical devices (ie, no coolers with wheels), and be prepared for a true wilderness experience, as there are no facilities.

6. Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, Utah and Arizona

Best for Boating, Swimming, Hiking

Average Temperatures in March and April: Highs from 60 to 69

Glen Canyon protects the incredible 1.25 million acres of land and water where the Colorado River pours into Lake Powell. The blue water of the lake contrasts sharply with the red and pink sandstone walls that rise directly from the edge, and the lake has countless fingers and canyons to explore by boat.

The water levels of Powell are constantly shifting, and have generally been in decline the last 20 years. Check the park site’s to make sure the boat ramp or launch you have in mind is operational. The lake was low when I visited a few years ago on a biking and paddle trip, and we had to contend with some mud on the banks, but the place was no less stunning.

The Antelope Point ramp typically has the least boat traffic, so it’s conducive to use of kayaks or canoes. From there, you can head south on the lake for a mile and paddle into Antelope Canyon, a narrow slot canyon that’s also a no-wake (no motorboating) zone. Under normal water levels, you can follow the creek upstream for about a mile. offers rental kayaks (from $75 a day). You can also launch directly from the beaches at Lone Rock Beach and Stanton Creek and explore the lake surrounding those alcoves.

Off the water, an easy 1.25-mile hike leads to one of the overlooks at , where the Colorado River takes a drastic turn around a massive sandstone escarpment.

Where to Stay: All inside the recreation area are first-come, first-served. Lees Ferry Campground has 54 sites, potable water, and restrooms ($26 a night). Lone Rock Beach has primitive sites on a sandy beach right next to the water ($14 per night).

7. Grand Canyon Parashant National Monument, Arizona

Best for Overlanding, Hiking, and Seeking Solitude

Average Temperatures in March and April: High 50s to mid 60s

The Grand Canyon-Parashant National Monument is primitive. This Northern Arizona park has no facilities, no campgrounds, and no paved roads. Instead, visitors are treated to the sights of 1 million acres of expansive plateaus, rugged canyons, and Mojave Desert, all traversed by a series of unimproved dirt roads and hiking trails. In other words, this monument is ideal for self-contained overlanding. I spent three days cruising Grand Canyon-Parashant in a side-by-side with a rooftop tent, while hiking and biking at various spots throughout, and was as mesmerized by the solitude as the grandeur of the landscape.

If you have a high-clearance 4WD vehicle, the monument is yours to explore. The park service details an 80-mile adventure to that cruises through a variety of terrain, from cattle fields to ponderosa forests, and ends on the north rim of the Grand Canyon. If you choose this route, you’ll also have the chance to get out and stretch your legs on the Burnt Canyon Trail, an easy three-mile out-and-back on a grassy road bed that leads to a big view of the western edge of the Grand Canyon. On a clear day, you can see all the way to Mount Charleston, just outside of Las Vegas.

I took a roundabout, multi-day route to reach , with its long view into the Canyon, and an optional side hike down to the water. The last seven miles to Whitmore Point drop 1,500 feet over rocky, rutted terrain that was super fun to bomb on a mountain bike. The fastest way to this perch is a 50-mile traverse from Mount Trumbull Schoolhouse.

Where to Stay: Primitive camping is allowed throughout the monument, but if you’re looking for a bit of refinement in the midst of all this rugged adventure, the has hotel rooms and covered wagons on an inholding close to the northern rim of the Grand Canyon. It’s only accessible by a 70-mile dirt-road drive through the national monument or an airplane (the place has its own landing strip), but once you’re there, you’ll be able to refuel your vehicle and have a damn fine dinner (starting at $172 a night).

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national-parks columnist. Every year, he agonizes over how to maximize his kids’ spring break, dragging them to campsites in Florida, beaches in South Carolina, and lakes all over the Southeast. He recently wrote about hiking in Joshua Tree National Park and his absolute favorite mountain town on the East Coast. His latest article is all about visiting national parks for free.

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In 2021, Scott Miller, a 47-year-old nurse from Minneapolis, made his first attempt to break the record for paddling the entire 2,350-mile length of the Mississippi River. At the time, the fastest known time for completing the journey was 18 days, 4 hours and 51 minutes. But on May 21 of that year, near mile 2,200, after 16 days of paddling for 24 hours a day, his team’s boat sank in heavy waves just north of New Orleans. They’d come so far, and been so close to the finish line, only to fail. The result left a bitter taste in Miller’s mouth.

Two weeks later, Miller sat down with his crew chief, Michael “Moose” Dougherty, at an Irish bar in St. Paul, Minnesota. Over Guinnesses, Miller made his pitch: “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he said. “I’m going again, and I need you to be crew chief.”

Dougherty suspected this was coming. Before driving to the bar he had planned to say no, and he even told his wife there was no way he could do another attempt. A Mississippi River paddle is a huge project, with many risks. And yet, Dougherty heard the words come out of his mouth like someone else was saying them: “Okay,” he told Miller. “I’ll do it.” They decided to plan for the spring of 2023.

The project pitted Miller against his rival, K.J. Millhone, 65, an executive coach and longtime paddler. Millhone and his paddling team, called Mile Marker Zero, had broken the record in 2021, completing the trip in 17 days, 19 hours, and 46 minutes, and he had also set a previous record in 1980. Miller and Millhouse had planned to team up for a 2020 attempt, but the crew had fractured and the attempt was scuttled. Instead, they each had organized separate teams for dueling 2021 attempts.

After his 2021 failure, Miller thought about everything that had gone right—teamwork, planning, organization—and what went wrong, namely the weather. He knew he could improve the journey. He would modify his boat, bring on different paddlers, simplify their nutrition, and streamline their gear. The only thing remaining from his 2021 voyage was Dougherty, a retired corporate PR flack with a love of endurance sports.

Miller, the founder and leader, called his new team Mississippi Speed Record. He recruited a squad of expert paddlers, first bringing on Paul Cox, a digital media editor who was a two-time winner—and current record holder—of the . Next to join was Wally Werderich, a Chicago public defender who’d placed second and third in the Missouri River 340 and had won two national titles. There was Judson Steinback, the 2022 Masters national champion for men’s and mixed canoes. And waiting in the wings as a backup paddler was Joe Mann, also a winner of the Alabama 650.

The team had plenty of paddling power. Miller thought that with good weather, good water, and good luck, they could beat the record. And if they couldn’t, maybeÌęnobody could.

Miller planned to launch on May 3, 2023. But the long winter with heavy snow meant that Minnesota’s Lake Winnibigoshish, a huge shallow lake near the start of the route, was still choked with ice. They would need to cross its 16 miles in their first 24 hours. Even without ice, Winnibigoshish is one of the most dangerous places on the river, because even a slight wind can produce huge waves.

They pushed the launch back to May 7, gathered at Dougherty’s cabin in northern Minnesota, and waited for the ice to melt. Every day, someone went to check the frozen lake. With each new report, the initial excitement waned, and a restlessness grew. The paddlers had hard deadlines, jobs, and lives to return to. If they couldn’t go by May 11, Werdrich, for one, was out. Other team members had similar deadlines.

Finally, on May 9, the paddlers found the lake largely clear, save for about a mile of candle ice, which crumbles and can be plowed through if necessary. The choice seemed to be: Go now, or don’t go at all. They decided to launch.

That afternoon, some members of Miller’s 20-plus person support crewÌędrove to Lake Itasca, the river’s official starting point. The supporters set up camp, while the four paddlers attempted to get one last night of sleep. At 3:30 A.M., the support crew woke up in their tents and began readying the canoe.

The boat was a 23-foot Wenonah Minnesota Four—the same model used on Miller’s previous attempt—only with several modifications. Like the previous boat, the new one had bulkheads installed to help keep water out of the middle two seats. For much of the journey three of the men would paddle while the fourth slept in the boat. New to this boat was a battery system to power lights, an iPad for navigation, and GPS trackers.

Early light began to filter through the trees. Once the canoe was ready, support crew members wheeled it down to the water, where the paddlers were waiting. The four men got in and paddled across Lake Itasca to the row of large stones where the water spills over and the Mississippi River begins. Then at 6 A.M., the paddlers walked the canoe over the rocks and past a small footbridge, and set off down the river.

The water was high and fast. The canoe wound through the marshes, following the river. Almost immediately, they started picking up time. After the first morning, they were ahead of 2021 record pace by an hour.

By evening they arrived in the city of Bemidji, where the support crew passed the team spray skirts to protect them from the icy water, and switched out the battery powering the iPad, Garmin tracker, lights, and the bailer.

Around 5 P.M., they set off across Lake Bemidji. The ice had just melted there too, and the water temperature was 46 degrees—deadly cold if the canoe flipped and they couldn’t get back in. By 1:30 A.M., they arrived at Lake Winnibigoshish, and saw that the ice was gone. After crossing the lake’s glassy surface for the first half of the 16-mile journey, the paddlers encountered winds and high waves, and water pounded the canoe. Still, when they completed the crossing, they were 4 hours and 20 minutes ahead of record pace.

The river turned south. The water was still dangerously high, and it was raging over dams in some sections. In some places, the paddlers simply cut straight through flooded areas of forest. Their lead grew to five hours, then six, then seven. By the time they reached Minneapolis in the middle of the night, they were 12 hours ahead of record pace.

But the river gives, and the river withholds. Miller knew the lead couldn’t be taken for granted,Ìęand that a 12-hour advantage could disappear amid bad weather or a stop to repair the canoe. In St. Paul, the team picked up two support boats, which would follow them all the way to then end, if they made it that far.

The next day they reached Lake Pepin, another shallow, dangerous lake. For five hours, they paddled into a headwind, battling four-foot waves for the lake’s entire 22-mile length.

In 2021, both Millhone’s and Miller’s teams encountered huge storms and high winds. But in 2023, the weather was calmer overall. The paddlers endured one night of cold soaking rain, but as they moved south, the sky cleared and the river remained glassy. Favorable conditions, combined with the high water up north and the strong paddlers, added to the team’s lead.ÌęBy the time they reached Iowa they were 20 hours ahead.

The physical effort, however, was the same for every inch of voyage: one stroke after another—more than a million, by my estimate—down all 2,350 miles of the Mississippi. Eat, drink, sleep, excrete (don’t ask), and paddle. With four guys living together in such close quarters, the canoe was like a soggy bachelor pad. A slurry of liquid collected in the bottom that the paddlers called “people soup,” which the motorized bailer simply could not expel. Instead, the support crew would occasionally clean out the boat, and try to reestablish a modicum of hygiene for the team.

On most days, the heavy current was a blessing. But one night, at Lock & Dam 15 in Iowa, the river’s power nearly ended their journey as they were waiting to pass through the lock. TheÌęlock master told them to paddle to river right, which was above the dam. They followed the order, but once they reached the sheer concrete wall on that side of the lock, the current was so strong it started pulling them toward the dam.

They navigated the boat upstream, but the boat continued moving toward the dam. Cox and Werderich were sleeping in the bottom of the boat as the team neared calamity. They woke up to Steinback yelling, “Get up, now!”

“It was like a 1,000-percent sprint,” says Steinback. “It was one of the most harrowing moments of my entire life.”

Even with the added muscle, their boat continued its backward drift. They radioed the support boat, which came alongside, and the men held onto it as it motored them away from disaster. It was a close call, but Mississippi River record attempts are full of near misses.

“I woke up like every night to—I don’t want to say screams from above,” says Cox, “but let’s say, urgent commands.”

Below the dam, the team decided to rest, sleeping for three hours before paddling on. In the ensuing days they gained back the lost time and added ten more hours to their advantage. For several days, their lead over the 2021 record hovered at 30 hours. But as they got closer to the Gulf of Mexico, the team encountered barge traffic and ocean-going ships. On several occasions, they had to stop to let the massive boats pass.

“When you get down to Baton Rouge,” says Cox, “It’s like you’re playing Frogger trying to get across. You’re a tiny little blip on the radar screen.”

The team decided that it was okay to sacrifice an hour here and there to avoid the barges and ships. As a result, their lead dropped from 31 hours, to 28, to 25, as they got closer to Louisiana. North of Baton Rouge, the margin fell to 22:47, even though they were paddling up to 170 miles a day.

With around 200 miles left, they sped up, pushing the lead back up to 23 hours. They passed the place where Miller sank in 2021 and sped through New Orleans, then through the bends further south. They paddled down the last stretch of the Mississippi as night fell on Friday, May 26.

Around 2 A.M. on Saturday, they came into the area known as the “Head of Passes,” where the river splits into three channels. There sits a rickety wooden structure called Mile Marker Zero which marks the official end of the Mississippi River.

The team paddled toward the area with several boats alongside them; one was loaded with cheering family and support crew. But even though the team was nearing the end, Miller refused to allow himself to celebrate until they had reached the official finish line, which was marked by a shining light against the dark river.

“There are so many things that can happen at any moment,” Miller said. “Even at the very end, we didn’t know exactly where we were going, and everybody was screaming and yelling which light to aim for. I was like, ‘Oh my God, we’re going to hit a buoy!’”

Finally someone found the right light, and they headed for it. At 2:15 A.M., they finally arrived at Mile Marker Zero. They tied up the boat, then the four paddlers—Cox, Werderich, Steinback, and Miller—climbed on the platform.

“I was crying because there were so many emotions,” Steinbeck says. “It was all adrenaline, euphoria, gratitude, and just immense fatigue. But when I climbed up on Mile Marker Zero, I felt weightless. Like there was no effort at all.”

The air was filled with the cheers and airhorns—celebration and victory. They had beaten the 2021 record by 23 hours and 30 minutes, setting a new standard of 16 days, 20 hours and 16 minutes.

On top of Mile Marker Zero, in a small waterproof box, there’s a log book that anyone who reaches the end of the river can sign. The paddlers opened it and signed their names.

“It felt like we just won the Super Bowl or something,” Miller says. “It was just so much more amazing of an ending than I ever could have imagined.”

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When W. Ralph Eubanks began exploring his family’s homeland, he fell in love with it—and came to understand how this troubled part of the state gave birth to the blues. Eubanks had grown up in another part of MississippiÌębefore journeyingÌęto the Northeast U.S. to pursue life as a writer and scholar. But when fate brought him back, he was drawn to the Delta’s topography, realizing that the only way to understand the region’s history—and his own—was to walk the land.

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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 that’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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The flat fields of the Mississippi Delta seem endless, and they can magically transport a traveler into the past. Sometimes when I’m driving through a stretch of this crescent-shaped part of northwest Mississippi—not to be confused with the region hundreds of miles south of here where the Mississippi River flows into the Gulf of Mexico—I look at the landscape and feel like I’m in one of those classic shots taken by a Depression-era photographer like . I know those photos intimately from the pages of books, but when I’m here, I’m also wandering through the early pages of my life.

My family once lived in the Delta, and I’ve been visiting it since I was a child. But if I’m being honest, I didn’t fully appreciate the richness of this place until I was well into middle age, when I came back to Mississippi to teach after decades of living in the Northeast.

I’ve always been fascinated by the dramatic you experience just north of Yazoo City—near the southern end of the Delta—when your car goes down a hill and, suddenly, the land looks tabletop flat for as far as you can see. In my mid-forties, to connect with the memory of my younger self, I began driving Delta roads as a pastime. Later I began to wander from them and ramble through towns with a litany of colorful names—Midnight, Alligator, Panther Burn, Egypt—unsure what I was searching for. Now, at age 65, I’m still driving around, with a new and profound sense of wonder.

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In the late 1970s, my parents took my brother and me to a cabin on Little Cobb Island, an uninhabited dollop of beach and seashells on the Atlantic side of Virginia’s Eastern Shore. The cabin was only accessible by boat, and things could get sketchy if the fog rolled in and you drifted too close to the surf. It was November, and the lodge was cold and drafty, so all four of us slept that first night stacked like cordwood in a single musty bed.

I was only four or five years old, but four decades later I can still recall with full clarity the smell when I woke up the next morning. Bud Taylor, a local roofer who doubled as the cabin’s caretaker, was cooking sausage in a cast-iron pan atop a stove fired by driftwood. “Here, boy,” my father said, handing me a link. It was small and gray and wet with fat. Every bite sent delicious bolts of grease sizzling around my scrawny body. “Everything tastes better when you’re roughing it,” my father said, sensing my astonishment and handing me another link. “Don’t eat ’em all.”

There was nothing even remotely special about that sausage. It was just a pack of Jimmy Dean that Bud had picked up at the local Meatland market before we launched from the town of Oyster. But consuming those lumpy treasures out there, with the wind bullying the windows and the tide marching in, had transformed every single bite into a culinary masterpiece.

That’s the beauty of food and adventure, that something as simple as saucy grits can be downright magical on Oregon’s John Day River. Lentils at home are just wrong—convince me otherwise—but when spooned over rice in a remote Nepalese teahouse, with the Himalayas shimmering in the purple moonlight, you’ll be crying for more, too.

Food has given me so many great reasons to travel, to be curious, to try something new. I spent the bulk of a Swiss vacation hunting for a particular cheese, learned to make pickles from an Estonian lady who exacted her payment in kisses, delighted a friend by picking her pomegranates while hiking in Albania, and gave my tongue a fungus eating so many fermented things on a ski trip to South Korea. One great bite can change your entire perception of a place. If you want to fall in love with North Dakota, go run through the grasslands with a bag of Dot’s pretzel sticks.

That’s what I did. And of course I ate ’em all. Here are some of my other favorite meals from around the world.

Brats and Bikes: Hermann, Missouri

Back in the early 19th century, German immigrants left their homes in Philadelphia and set out west looking for land to build their own community. They settled along the Missouri River, where the hills and sunshine reminded them of the Rhineland, and the town of Hermann was born. Today you’ll still find families named Oelschaelger, streets like Goethe and Gutenberg, and, of course, heaps of wunderbar food and drink. Biking is one of the best ways to experience that legacy, too. The Katy Trail runs for 240 carless miles over rolling hills between Clinton and Machens and is the country’s longest rail-to-trail path. You will spin over mostly limestone gravel through farmland and along the Missouri River, then past wineries and into small towns like Rocheport, where the welcomes diners and riders alike with a fleet of rentals, and Hermann, a town worthy of a layover. Start things off at the on East First Street, where wurstmeister Mike Sloan peddles classics like knockwurst, weisswurst, and bockwurst, as well as creative, American-influenced versions like the Bloody Mary brat, a hickory-smoked iteration with celery, tomato, and horseradish. You won’t go thirsty, either. The whole riverfront region between Saint Louis and Jefferson City is known as the Missouri Rhineland for its scores of wineries. Hermann’s own Stone Hill is also home to the restaurant Vintage 1847, serving various wursts, krauts, and kartoffelpuffer, a potato pancake that’s a delight to say as well as eat. Forty miles east, the area around Augusta became America’s first federally recognized wine region in 1980, beating California’s Napa Valley by eight months. At the end of the line—or anywhere along it, for that matter—getting back is easy. Amtrak trains zip along the opposite bank, with special cars that can accommodate your bike.

Fondue Redux: Obwalden, Switzerland

It doesn’t take a culinary Sherlock to figure out what happens when a country famous for cheese shares a border with one famous for pasta—you get world-beating mac and cheese. And the Swiss version is excuse enough for an ocean crossing. Called Ă€±ô±è±ô±đ°ùłŸČčČ”°ùŽÇČÔ±đČÔ, or herdsman macaroni, it’s richer and smokier than the American stuff, made with bacon, butter, wine, and supremely stinky cheese melted in pools of heavy cream in a cast-iron cauldron over an open fire. Pour it over macaroni or penne and the result is exactly what you want after a long day in the Alps. You can find this dish throughout the country, but for the most authentic experience head to the central canton of Obwalden, where several small mountain farms double as restaurants come summer. Once, while cycling over the 5,285-foot Glaubenbielen Pass, I happened upon one where the matriarch, a boisterous woman named Rita Enz, served me a mound with a side of applesauce and stiff stone-fruit brandy. The Enzes have since retired, but their farm was located along the Älplermagronen Trail, which lives on today. Its little-known network of well-marked footpaths and dirt roads lead to a handful of farms that create the namesake dish using ingredients produced on-site. To explore, keep your objective simple, with a two-mile out-and-back hike along the Obwaldner Höhenweg Trail, starting from a parking area just west of Glaubenbielen Pass; you can stop at the Glaubenbielen Alpine Farm, near the 5,860-foot Rotspitz, or wander a few miles west to the Alp Arni-Schwand farm. For an overnight trip, hike about 4.5 miles one way south on the BĂ€rgmandlipfad Giswil Trail, also called Trail 576, to reach the Fluonalp farm, where the dairy cranks out 29,000 pounds of cheese each summer, some of which ends up in Ă€±ô±è±ô±đ°ùłŸČčČ”°ùŽÇČÔ±đČÔ. You can stay there, too (from $70).

Food Finds

Camp Chef

Three outdoor schools take backcountry cooking to a whole new level

Want to blow your friends away with a hearty stew or a freshly baked pie on your next river trip? The near Philipsburg, Montana, offers a four-day class that will see you mastering the art of Dutch-oven cooking (from $800). Or learn to barbecue better with four-time world-champion pitmaster and bestselling cookbook author Myron Mixon, whose in Unadilla, Georgia, will bolster your confidence preparing everything from pork butts and shoulders to chicken, beef, and ribs (you know, all the food groups) during a three-day course at his home (from $895). And if you’ve simply got to perfect pasta, Italy’s Emilia-Romagna region is the premier place to start. Make it a weeklong adventure with a van-supported, 156-mile bike tour from Parma to Bologna with (from $1,500). You’ll stop in towns along the way for tutorials on balsamic vinegar, gelato, and, naturalmente, handmade pasta.

Breakfast Club: Lone Pine, California

Last summer, photographers Dan and Janine Patitucci spent months mapping remote trails in California’s Sierra Nevada, looking for the best 36 paths to highlight in a new trail-running guidebook, to be published later this year. Their most rewarding discovery? Breakfast at the . And by breakfast we mean pie. The diner has perfected the art of the light, flaky crust, and it loads them up with the freshest fruit available. The triple-berry pie sells out fast, but the Patituccis also recommend the peach and blackberry, which you can order in a six-inch round just for yourself. The cafĂ© is located just 12 miles from Whitney Portal, the jumping-off point for climbing (or running) 14,494-foot Mount Whitney, the highest point in the lower 48. It’s also about 120 miles from Badwater Basin in Death Valley National Park, at 282 feet below sea level the country’s lowest point. Summiting Whitney is a big day by any measure, with about 21 miles and 6,600 vertical feet to cover. If that’s your goal, order the Iron Man Scramble—an eggy hodgepodge of spinach, avocado, mushrooms, and tomato slathered in hollandaise sauce—and get your pie to go. If you’re spending the night, grab a slice in the morning.

First-Reds Frenzy: Cordova, Alaska

Each spring, a craze begins to cloud the minds of Alaskans, and it has nothing to do with the approach of summer and, with it, of long stretches of actual daylight. Spring is when the first Copper River reds, a highly coveted and especially tasty sockeye salmon, begin arriving on the docks of Cordova, located at the mouth of the river, about 145 miles southeast of Anchorage. The fish, which can easily go for $50 a pound, are prized by chefs for the additional fat they pack on to complete their 300-mile journey, which makes for richer and more decadent eating. While you could order a fillet from Sarah Ecolano, a commercial fisherwoman and founder of the sustainable , why not head deep into the Last Frontier to witness the madness firsthand? First book a room in Cordova at the (from $140) overlooking the inlet, then set out on any of the 40 streams and rivers guides have access to. You can sportfish for salmon in the salt water, or head up to the Eyak River to throw big streamer flies at reds and Dolly Varden trout. At the end of your trip, the lodge will process up to 50 pounds of fish per person per day at no additional charge, flash freeze it, and store it for you until you’re ready to head home.

Food Finds

Hunt, Gather, Eat

A series of courses teach the value—and ethics—of holistic harvesting

You’ve probably heard that one of the best things you can do for the planet is give up meat, but that kind of misses the point. It’s not the burger that’s the bogeyman but the industrial, methane-spewing, water-polluting complex behind mass-produced meat. Enter Bruce McGlenn and his . Based in Kettle Falls, Washington, McGlenn teaches students who have never held a rifle or harvested a wild oyster how to hunt and gather. “Hunting is really about strengthening our connection to nature so that we feel we’re a part of it,” he says. “It’s about being human.” From May through June, McGlenn holds a series of four-day Awaken the Hunter courses, designed to brief you on how to prepare for and carry out a “holistic, ethical hunt.” It covers everything from regulations and strategy to choosing the right rifle or bow. In the field, you’ll learn how to dress and butcher your kill, as well as proper ways to cook it. McGlenn also offers half-day shellfish-foraging lessons on Hood Canal, where you’ll learn how to identify Manila clams and shuck a wild oyster. The session ends with a three-course feast right on the beach. Foraging from $195; hunting from $2,400 for four days

Eater on Belay: Kalymnos, Greece

The Greek island of Kalymnos sits just off the coast of Turkey, about 150 miles southeast of Athens, and counts as the closest thing to Elysium on earth. Whitewashed villages ring a ragged coast of limestone cliffs facing the Sea of Crete. While climbers know this 42-square-mile paradise for its thousands of sport routes, which ascend spectacular sun-fired arches and walls, you should come to meet George Pizanias, quite possibly the island’s best cook, judging by the crowds that flock to his restaurant, the , in the town of Massouri. Pizanias runs the establishment with his wife and three daughters, and prepares traditional Greek recipes with “an extra touch,” as he says, like adding homemade fruit chutneys that set the meal apart. Grab a table on the patio that overlooks the island of Telendos and let gluttony rule. Should you start with the stuffed grape leaves or the “ancient” salad? (The latter is a mix of wild vegetables the islanders have been eating for millennia, something Pizanias’s culinary research uncovered.) The whole leg of lamb, roasted to perfection, is hard to pass up, but it’s the tuna that’s exceptional; caught that day, it’s pan-seared with sesame seeds and served with marinated beets, red cabbage, olive oil, lemon, and fig chutney. If that doesn’t seal the deal, dessert probably will. Pizanias makes his own ice cream and serves it atop little fried dough balls called loukoumades, which he then drizzles with Kalymnos’s most famous ingredient: a golden, naturally herbal-tasting honey made by bees drawn to the island’s large swaths of wild thyme and oregano. Try not to think about that when it’s your turn to belay.

The Meat and Three: From Oxford to Hattiesburg, Mississippi

Chef Robert St. John knows a thing or two about awesome southern food. As the author of 11 cookbooks, the owner of seven restaurants, and the producer of the foodie show , the 60-year-old from Mississippi has spent a lifetime refining family recipes that have defined the region for centuries: Fried chicken. Dumplings. Black-eyed peas. For him, the greatest way to experience the South is to taste it, and to do that, he suggests a 250-mile road trip from Oxford in the north down to Hattiesburg via the capital city of Jackson. The itinerary links some of the most memorable community cafĂ©s in the state offering the traditional “meat and three” lunch special: a choice of protein with three sides, like collard greens, butter beans, and rice with gravy. The main at in Oxford is southern-fried catfish, while Bully’s in Jackson does everything from pigs’ feet to beef tips, all served on a wonderfully lowbrow cafeteria tray. The highlight might be the in Hattiesburg, run by St. John. “Best fried chicken of your life,” he says. Bring a paddleboard or a kayak to explore the northern recreational playgrounds of Grenada Lake and Sardis Lake, the latter also popular with mountain bikers, who enjoy 13.5 miles of singletrack at Clear Creek. End your trip in the Gulf town of Biloxi; from there you can quickly paddle to Deer Island Coastal Preserve, a four-mile undeveloped stretch of white sand where you can pitch a tent for free.

Food Finds

Back to Their Roots

A new Minneapolis restaurant is serving up gourmet Native American cuisine

There’s a growing movement of Native American chefs exploring their traditional food cultures, and it’s only getting tastier. In July, Sean Sherman, better known as the and lauded for his bestselling cookbooks, and Dana Thompson, executive director of the , opened , a restaurant in downtown Minneapolis on the banks of the Haha Wakpa, or Mississippi River, that’s dedicated to Native cuisine. You’ll find no dairy, chicken, or pork on the menu—or any other ingredients that aren’t indigenous to North America. Instead, chefs whip up delectables like native-corn tacos with grilled mushrooms, bowls of tepary beans with wild rice and wojape (a chokecherry sauce), and plates of braised bison. Even the cricket salad looks irresistible.

Big Sky, Big Steak: Hatch, Utah

If you could survey the legions of visitors who come to southern Utah every year to explore the national parks and monuments that pepper this beautiful part of the country, chances are good they would say these three things impressed them most: the rocks, the sky, and the steak in Hatch. Tucked in a rather boring brown building in this dusty hamlet, a mere 15 miles from the gates of Bryce Canyon, the on Main Street is an institution worthy of your attention. It’s a classic western joint, with a taxidermied bear on its stage and a bar where passersby can belly up for a spiked sarsaparilla on an actual saddle for a seat. But it’s the giant, open-flame grill in the room that makes this place unique. That’s where you go to cook your own steak. This is cattle country, and the beef is as good as you’d expect—local, grass-fed, mouthwatering cuts. Most folks aren’t from around these parts, so they opt for something hard to mess up like a New York strip. The more dedicated, however, should set their sights on the Tomahawk, a 24-ounce rib eye that covers the entire plate. The grill has meat probes to help you get that perfectly pink middle, or you can spend an extra three dollars to have the staff grill it up for you. If steak isn’t your thing, the chef smokes a batch of baby back ribs daily with hickory and other hardwoods until the meat falls off the bone. Also, sorry, families; no one under 21 is allowed inside, because Utah. As for working all those calories off, it just so happens that the nation’s newest long-distance hut-to-hut mountain-bike route runs right past the saloon. The Aquarius Trail stretches for 190 miles from Brian Head to Escalante and includes rollicking descents on solid singletrack like the 12-mile Bunker Creek Trail, which you’ll ride on day one into Hatch; from there, the first hut is just a few merciful miles away.

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Over the course of my professional life, I’ve heard the maxim “Success happens when preparation and opportunity collide” more than a couple of times. It usually accompanies a big-hearted “Congrats!” when I leave one job for the next “adventure,” as we pretend jobs are on LinkedIn. A motivational-speaker guy named popularized that nugget, the live-laugh-love of the corporate world, although the internet tells me it was derived from something that Seneca, the Roman Stoic philosopher, once said.

Anyway, Zig, bless his soul, seemed like a nice fella. And I do agree with him to an extent, as a forty-something father now, with my own troops to rally. Plus, like me, he grew up in Mississippi, and we mostly stick up for each other here—outside of . I don’t mean to besmirch Zig’s legacy of motivational books and whatnot. But for the sake of this story, I’ll instead say that “Tree riding happens when boredom and booze collide.” Or maybe just “Tree riding happens when boredom and boys collide.”

We’ll get to tree riding. But first we’re going to , Mississippi, a small, postcard-pretty town along the Gulf of Mexico. Ocean Springs is best known as the laid-back home of the late watercolorist and naturalist , an eccentric who would row his skiff to uninhabited Horn Island, a dozen miles offshore, to paint landscapes and wildlife. Before Ocean Springs became a destination for artsy types and vacationers staying at casinos on the other side of Biloxi Bay—all drawn by a downtown lined with shops and bars and restaurants—it was a quiet place intermittently interrupted by kids like me and my friends on skateboards and BMX bikes.

Faced with a lack of real oppression in our own Mayberry, we excelled at creative recreation in our teenage years. Occasionally that meant flouting authority by leaping off bridges, jumping out of speeding boats, maybe knocking down mailboxes, if the statute of limitations on that has passed—you know, gingerly riding the line between mischief and delinquency but mostly staying out of trouble. We were feral nineties kids, the last generation to roam neighborhood streets and wooded lots until the streetlights came on, and we have the scars to prove it.

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In March, when Italy had the world’s highest rate of coronavirus infection and all of us watched with growing disbelief as the death toll grew at a devastating rate, a note of hope floated above the shuttered cafĂ©s and empty streets: Italians had thrown open their windows and were singing. They sang songs everyone knew, their voices rising in harmony from individual homes. WithÌęeach note, people who were isolated felt , and those who were grieving or afraid felt their moods lift for a while. The gesture has since been replicated in cities around the world.

It was in that spirit that childhood friends Joe Mailander and Justin Lansing, who form the Grammy-winning Okee Dokee Brothers, decided to release their new album two months early. The family-friendly folk duo wanted to help people get through the coronavirus pandemic by singing, and theirÌęalbumÌęÌębecame available on May 1.ÌęIt consistsÌęof 27 tracks that are simple, hopeful,Ìęand unifying. These are songs in the style of Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger that you can learn quickly and sing around a campfire, in your living room, or even over a Zoom gathering. To make singalongs easier, the album even includes an illustrated book of lyrics and chords.

“When we were writing this, obviously before the pandemic, we had in mind that clearly we’re living in some pretty divisive times, politically and socially, and that singing could be a way of finding common ground,” Mailander says. Now that a global pandemic is sowing a different kind of divisiveness, by forcing people to be physically apart from friends and family, nurturing the musical threads that connect us feels even more important.

Listening to an Okee Dokee Brothers album feels like stumbling out of the woods and finding some old friends strumming instruments around a campfire. This isn’t an accident. The band’s were written during outdoor expeditions—one on a monthlong canoe trip down the Mississippi River, another while horsepacking the Continental Divide, another while hiking the Appalachian Trail, and one during a winter dogsledding trip.ÌęThe albums loosely follow these outdoor adventures: there are songs about camping (“Thousand Star Hotel”), running rivers (“Can You Canoe?”), and wandering through the forest (“Through the Woods”). Each album—including the new one—has at least one song that makes me cryÌęand another that makes me laugh out loud.

I’ve been an Okee Dokee Brothers fan since a friend introduced me to them around the time of my daughter Josephine’sÌęfirst birthday. Until then, listening to music as a family had involved Jo begging to hear “Wheels on the Bus” 40 times in a row until I lost my mind and put on something like Bon Iver that bored her to literal tears.

As the father of a three-year-old, Mailander can empathize with intergeneration music crises. “We have this tendency as Americans to divide things up and label them,” he says. In other words, there’s music for kids,Ìęand music for adults, and not much recognition that kids and adults often listen to music at the same time. It doesn’t have to be that way. With the Okee Dokee Brothers, Jo and I found music we enjoyed equally.

I can say the same about Songs for Singin’, which I’ve been listening toÌęfor weeks. While the Okee Dokee Brothers usually inspire me to plan an adventure, this album is almost eerily pertinent to this moment in time. In a break from the band’s usual form, Songs for Singin’ is about the mini-adventuresÌęthat unfold during a typical day at home, like jumping out of bed in the morning or wasting time on a lazy afternoon. It feels fitting, sinceÌęlots of outdoor families are currently spending an unprecedented amount of time indoors.Ìę

Lansing notes that one of the core ideas for the album was that it would flow “from morning all the way through the end of the day, capturing the rhythms in between, the ups and downs and the different moods and colors and temperatures of a day,” Lansing says. It turns out that singing certain songs at certain times can add routine and structureÌęto days at home.ÌęThe album’s first track, “Hope Machine,” starts with jumping out of bed, putting on some plaid, and opening up to whatever the day brings. There’s another song, “Wastin’ÌęTime,” about slow afternoons, and a song of gratitude, “Thank You,” to sing at the day’s end. There are weightier songs for more reflective momentsÌęand rowdy songs for stomping and dancing and shouting.Ìę

And while Songs for Singin’ doesn’t reflect a specific place or season like the band’s other albums, it’s nonetheless rooted in nature. My favorite track, “Church of the Woods,” goes like this: “May you lose yourself in the woods/To find yourself again/May you keep on singin’/And dancin’ ’til the end/May your dark turn to light/And your death into birth/May your spirit be wild/And may your heaven be on earth.”

It’s hard to imagine Americans throwing open our windows and singing the national anthem or an operatic chorus, the way the Italians did. (We have, however, proven enthusiastic about Ìęto support our frontline medical workers.) But I can picture neighbors of all ages standing outside with a ukulele or a pot and spoonÌęand belting out a Woody Guthrie–inspired tune from a safe social distance. In fact, as the weather gets warmer and the pandemic stretches on, I sincerely hope that becomes a thing. We could all use a little more harmony in our lives right now.

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If you are drinking water, taking showers, and washing your hands with any kind of frequency right now, you’re probably relying on the health and proper management of rivers. As many of us focus on staying healthy, solvent, and sane in these times, it can be easy to forget how much we depend on river management.Ìę

Every year since 1984, the nonprofit American Rivers has released a list of the country’s most endangered rivers: waterways that are under threat from human and natural causes. The list helps identify which areas are most at riskÌęand informs advocates and policymakers as they shape their agendas. As the result of devastating floods in 2019, which submerged homes, farms, and roads for more than 100 days in some areas,Ìęthis year’s Ìęare the Upper Mississippi and Lower Missouri, whose combined basins span nine states across the Midwest.

Nearly 15 million people for drinking water. Its basin produces 92 percent of the nation’s agricultural exports, and the river is home to 25 percent of American fish species. Last year water overtopped levees , and Missouri, rushing into floodplains that had been converted to neighborhoods and farms built into designated floodplains. Similar devastation basin, which encompasses a quarter of the country’s agricultural land. An astonishing 850 miles of levees were damaged. According to NOAA, repair costs in the Midwest .Ìę

These massive management systems, built early in the 20th century, were designed to shape waterways to benefit human beings in the short term. From diversion to dams, nearly every river in the U.S. is under some kind of human control, and most of that infrastructure is aging, even as it comes under increased pressure from climate change.Ìę

The bones of the two rivers’ aging management systems, especially levees, are poking out in a way that clearly threatens homes, agriculture, and water access across the region. There are 29 locks and dams on the Upper Mississippi alone, and many of them were built in the 1930s, with an estimated . The Lower Missouri is fed by massive dams upstream that continually release water in order not to blow; meanwhile, its downstream levees are and built to differing standards, leaving towns and farms routinely at risk of flooding out.Ìę

It’s time to give them a reboot—because healthy rivers are also one of the few ways we might, in an ideal world, recover from the current crises in the long term.Ìę

The endangered-rivers list was releasedÌęon April 14, as the United States continues to battle both a raging pandemic and an economic meltdown. Along the Lower Missouri and Upper Mississippi, residents faceÌę and a potentially unproductive, economically devastating farming season due to stay-at-home orders, lost income, and inability to work—problems that any severe flooding this year would only exacerbate. “Coronavirus exposes so many of our vulnerabilities and shows how outdated infrastructure is a recipe for disaster for communities,” says Amy Kober, American Rivers’ vice president for communication.

“We need to step back and take a more watershed approach to manage flooding,Ìęreconnecting rivers with floodplainsÌęand setting levees back to give rivers room to spread out,” Kober says. “It’s good for health and habitatÌęand good for communities if we do it in a strategic, managed wayÌęand use climate-change projections as part of our planning.”

Concerted government action is necessary, both to ease the burden of immediate concerns and to plan for a more sustainable future in the Lower Missouri and Upper Mississippi basinsÌęand across the U.S.ÌęAmerican Rivers is currently calling on Congress to end water shutoffs for people who can’t pay their bills for the duration of the coronavirus crisis (as 90 cities ). Advocates are also eyeing the next round ofÌę, which is shaping up to be a New Deal–style investment in jobs and infrastructure. “There are huge opportunities for some smart investment [in rivers],” Kober says.

As for mitigating the long-term risk to the Upper Mississippi, Kober points toward an , which her advocacy group considersÌęan example for other river projects. It aims to build natural barriers to better absorb floodwaterÌęand develop new scientific tools to better manage the river and its tributaries and floodplains. A philosophical shift, it would also redefine how a river is perceived—as a living variable entity instead of a water pipeline. “Adequately funded and supported by the public and Congress, the study would transform how the United States manages its rivers and floodplains,” the American Rivers report reads.Ìę

Rethinking river management could be especially transformative right now. In the face of record-high joblessness, we could use river projects to help pull us back from the brink of an economic recession. That’s happened before: much of the country’s existing water infrastructure was constructed in the wake of the Great Depression. Rivers helped steer the country out of the economic crisis by creating massive public-works projects—the Tennessee Valley Authority and the Grand Coulee Dam, for example, were major parts of the New Deal.

These daysÌęwe know more about how to sustainably manage rivers and our public infrastructure, from wastewater systems to those big river levees. “The way they thought about it during the New Deal was, We need to harm and harness our rivers for economic gain,” Kober says. “Now we can protect our rivers for economic gain with the same can-do spirit.”Ìę

Long-term climate threats to rivers like the Upper Mississippi and Lower Missouri aren’t going away, but we can mitigate the immediate human ones. Policy changes like the Army Corps’ Upper Mississippi study would create jobs, shore up our food system, hold on to habitat, and make sure everyone has access to clean water. Rivers, managed right, can do all of that. If we’re going to be throwing a ton of taxpayer money around, how can we stretch it farthest andÌęto the benefit of the most people?Ìę

Taking the long view would require that policymakers step back and try to see the big picture, even while managing a crisis. That’s difficult to accomplish with a gridlocked Congress, an ineffective White House, and the immediate, short-term crises at hand. But that’s where the American Rivers list comes in: it’s an outline for where to focus, showing us the places exhibiting the most need and that have the most to gain. Ideally—and maybe unrealistically, but hey, I’m trying to manifest positivity here—we would adopt policies that do the most long-term good in response to so many pressing challenges.

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In 1986, Bob McCain thought Jackson, Mississippi, ought to have its own outdoor equipment shop. His home state might not have massive mountains, but trails, waterways, hill, and views are plentiful. Buffalo Peak Outfitters is now in its 33rd year, as a Grassroots Outdoor Alliance member and a hidden gem in a city not usually described as “outdoorsy.”

The store has benefitted from steady growth, knowing when to pivot and capitalize on trends. It hasÌę to fill a 9,000-square-foot space today in the same shopping center it started in. Two big, nautical doors with round windows open up to an outdoor adventurer’s paradise of packs, jackets, Yeti coolers, and more.

McCain and his wife still work in the shop almost every day, and now their son Cody McCain serves as the store’s brand manager. He shared more about how the business has survived and thrived through the decades.

On being the first outdoor store in Jackson, Mississippi: “One thing that sets us apart is being the first in town carrying this type of product. We were founded in 1986. Our long history has given us the reputation of having quality items. Customers trust us.”

On things to do outside in Jackson: “There’s not a whole lot of outdoor stuff, so people travel to other places like New Zealand and the Appalachian Trail. But here, we have a parkway, Barnett Reservoir, and LeFleur’s Bluff State Park. People hike and run the trails and kayak and canoe in the water. We used to do a bunch of gear demos at the state park when we sold kayaks.”

On adapting over the years: “We started out mainly selling hiking equipment, backpacks, and trekking poles. But my dad quickly realized that if we wanted to survive and succeed, we needed to focus on men’s and women’s clothing. It became fashionable to wear that type of clothing, so most of the business is there now. We focus on around-town and travel, along with southern lifestyle brands like Southern Marsh.”

On partnering with big brands and local companies: “We love working with brands and as many local people as we can. Last May, we celebrated Keen’s birthday. We’ve got a craft popsicle shop in our shopping center and we collaborated on a specialty popsicle promoting their Uneek shoe. I think those types of partnerships help people locally connect to the worldwide brands that we carry.”

On being an environmentally conscious store in Mississippi: “We support brands like Patagonia that care about the environment. We definitely have a mix of customers that either want to support those efforts or don’t care that much. The rural communities are more conservative, so there’s not a whole lot of environmentally focused people. But I think people in Mississippi are catching onto being more conscious and it’s getting more and more popular.”

On selling online: “We sell about 50 to 75 percent of product online. All of our inventory is listed through Locally. You can buy it online, but you have to come pick it up in the store still. We love making face to face contact with people. I think that ultimately we will put everything online. We’re currently trying to figure out what that looks like and how expensive it is. We have a good thing going, so we don’t want to make that jump and not be ready for it.”

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