The first I see of Faith Dickey is a headlamp beam floating in the driveway, her dark form loading two metal construction tripods from a storage shed into her pickup truck. It’s 4:30 A.M., and I’m about to hitch a ride to Day Canyon, an hour outside of Moab, Utah, to help her finish rigging and watch her lead a group of clients as they try highlining.

Highlining is slacklining, or walking across a springy inch-wide length of nylon webbing, but done between clifftops instead of low to the ground over grass or a mat. Once her paying guests have had their fill of the thrill, I’ll get to walk the line, too. I’ve never met Faith, 35, but I know her by reputation; she’s established highlines all around the globe, free-soloed (meaning she used no leash) some of them with aplomb, and—perhaps most memorably—walked some in high heels.

Her new company, , is the nation’s first highline guiding operation.

We say our headlamp-haloed hellos, heads tipped to shield the others’ eyes. Slacklining was historically a leisure occupation, invented by Yosemite climbers to while away the hours on rest days, but is now a known form of athleticism. There’s nothing idle about Faith. Her demeanor and build, as she efficiently loads her dark-blue pickup truck and double-checks the gear list, are those of a professional athlete. She’s a tight ball of focused energy, and a lot more awake than I am.

Soon we’re four-wheeling across a dry wash, and I’m holding my coffee out the window to keep it from sloshing all over the truck’s upholstery. Faith pilots us over boulders, not spilling a drop from her own mug.

“I guided for other companies, but I’d always wanted to start my own thing,” she says, casually gunning the truck up a sandy embankment. “The places I’d worked, they were fun, but I thought I could do it better myself.”

With the help of a couple classes from the Women’s Business Center of Utah aimed at supporting female entrepreneurs, she drafted a business plan, incorporated an LLC, built a website, and in 2023 began taking clients out.

We park in a sandy riverbed that spills into an expanse of red sandstone. Conifers and prickly pear cactus, surprisingly lush, burst out of the gullies between hillocks of slickrock. The amount of gear—three giant backpacks’ worth—is staggering for an adventure that revolves around one strip of webbing. Most burdensome are the two six-foot tripods that, I learn from Faith, were designed to lower sewer workers into manholes. At 50 pounds each, they can withstand 5,000 pounds of force. They’re the innovation that makes Faith’s business possible, because they allow her to set up a wire above the highline, keeping clients upright as they walk across it.

We each hoist a tripod onto our shoulders, and packs onto our backs and chests and for the next half hour we grunt our way across the slickrock. We’re on top of a huge plateau, and as we approach its edge, Day Canyon emerges below us. Beyond it are the sheer red cliffs that flank the snaky Colorado River, and the La Sal Mountains on the horizon with a dusting of snow.

In the foreground, strung loose between two thrusting promontories on the rim on this side of the canyon, is our highline, a blue and white ribbon stretched loosely across 60 or 70 feet and holding perfectly still in the windless air. Faith had hung the line last night, and now, reaching the rim, she springs into action, pulling dozens of straps, cables, and carabiners from the packs and directing me as we erect and level the tripods, finishing the setup.

“It’s quadruply redundant,” she says, meaning that three systems back up the first, or it would take four separate catastrophes, each annihilating various lines or anchors, for the system to fail. The phrase “quadruply redundant” will become a self-soothing mantra when it’s eventually my turn for a walk.

The key to her teaching setup is not the highline itself, but rather the second set of two cables stretched across the gap between the construction tripods like telephone wires. This system allows the highliner to hold onto a stabilizing tether, which hangs from the pair of upper cables, while walking along the webbing. Without this setup, which Faith calls the “toprope” after a term used in climbing, highlining would likely take months to master. With its aid, Faith says she’s never had a client, even a first-timer, fail to make it across the line.

A climber of 20-plus years, I am not sure what to expect out here. I tell Faith, “I’m used to trusting gear. When I’m climbing, at least. And I’m pretty good with exposure.”

I’ve taken roped falls on small pieces of protection, slept on a portaledge, climbed El Capitan, logged time in the “no-fall zone” on highball boulders, and even done a bunch of easy free soloing, where a slip, though unlikely, would be fatal. Walking horizontally while wearing a harness ought to be mellow, I think.

Faith nods and says, “Yeah, it’s hard to know how people will react to being on the line.”

“Has anyone you guided ever had a total meltdown?” I wonder.

“Not yet,” she says. “You could be my first!”

We spend several hours tying anchors of webbing and cordelette, tensioning cables, checking knots. In the late morning, a rig arrives carrying Faith’s client, who is a life coach; four of his acolytes; and a videographer. All are in Moab for a multi-day, multi-sport confidence-building retreat intended to amplify their boldness in their careers as CEOs and entrepreneurs.

When the life coach and his posse appear on the slickrock in clean outdoor attire and new trucker hats, Faith pivots from engineer mode into guide mode. She matches the newcomers’ energy, adopting a bit of girl-bro swagger as she meets the all-male group. Throughout the day I’d continue to be impressed by her people-skills, complex and subtle, in navigating the shifting dynamics of a group of strangers under recreational stress. As much as athletic prowess and mastery of safety systems, this social performance is central to the job of a guide.

She leads the men to the rim of the canyon, and they survey the line, tiptoe to the edge. It’s several hundred feet down to the canyon bottom, which is littered with boulders and threaded through by a corridor of bright green foliage that follows the trickle of a spring. The men absorb the height and exposure with furrowed brows and postures tilting away from the drop.

Even the leader coach looks nervous, and I realize he hasn’t done this before, either. He calls his group to circle up for private reflection and journaling, and when Faith returns to the circle with a clipboard, they sign their waivers.

Assuring everyone that what we’re about to do is going to be both completely terrifying and completely safe, Faith moves into her pep-talk. I’m surprised by how little she addresses the actual mechanics of highline-walking; on flat ground, she demonstrates the ideal posture with legs bent and shoulders upright, and the stride, taking small steps during which the moving foot stays close to the centerline.

But her advice is directed much more toward our minds than our bodies.

“Fear exists for a reason,” she says. “It’s here to protect us, to prevent us from experiencing pain, Faith says. “You have to approach your fear with a spirit of curiosity. Don’t try to beat it into submission, just see what it wants to teach you.”

In the 20-minute-long primer, she defines the technical difficulty of highlining as secondary to the mental component. Sure, she tells us to have soft knees, keep our trunks upright, and resist the temptation to lean forward. But the deeper task, at the very heart of highlining, is to learn to control the agitation of our minds.

“You can begin to notice the fear in your body, notice where it’s located,” she says. “Then you can breathe it out. You can breathe it out of your body and into the line.” There’s a pause and we all look over at the 60-foot gap between the sections of cliff, and the lines extended between them, imagining our own bodies suspended there.

“It’s fucking cool,” Faith declares matter-of-factly.

The cleverness of Faith’s rig becomes apparent as soon as people start out on the line. Without a toprope, a highliner has to maintain balance with slight adjustments of the upper body, hands held out to either side as counterweights. But the toprope lets clients hold onto a dangling rope with both hands, so that if they start to fall to one side or the other, they can correct and pull themselves upright.

The toprope is a useful training tool for learning to highline unassisted, but it also works like a summer-camp ropes course, in that it minimizes the required physical difficulty and skill, leaving primarily a psychological challenge to grapple with.

The clients are definitely grappling. One guy, halfway across the canyon, teeters to the side and then overcorrects, toppling over with a panicked yelp until his chest harness catches him. He dangles in space, panting and shaken, and then tries to climb hand-over-hand back up the tether onto the line.

Instead, Faith throws him a rope, and he clings to the end of it as she pulls him across the cables and back to solid ground. Another guy, a military vet, demonstrates his genuinely unflappable psyche by letting go of the hand-line and falling on purpose. The toprope catches him, and a moment later, with his hands and knees latched over the highline he shimmies back to the cliffside himself.

The Moab landscape is fabulously varied, each of its architectures is explored by different means: the river by watercraft, the cliffs by climbing, the slickrock by biking, the narrows by canyoneering. But I think the most striking part of this landscape is the contrast between the blue sky and the red rock, which are perfectly juxtaposed in the airspace of a canyon—and highlining inhabits that space.

The clients each get a turn on the line, break for lunch, and then do another lap. The videographer pulls the drone out and buzzes it around the canyon to capture long shots and close-ups of his subject.

As their allotted time draws to a close, the men persuade Faith to walk the line, too, which she does effortlessly, without the aid of the toprope. Her head and torso are perfectly motionless, all the wobble of the line disappearing into her feet. Whereas the other walkers hoved grossly right and left in a battle to stay standing, Faith seems to maintain her balance with nothing more than micro-adjustments of her fingertips, fanned out like wing feathers.

She has free-soloed this gap in the past—walked it without a harness or tether—and shows the requisite mastery for such a feat. She graciously accepts the group’s (and my) awestruck applause, and after another round of journaling and reflection, the clients amble back across the slickrock to return to town.

Now, it’s my turn. I pull on my harness, step out of my shoes, grip the hand-lines, and touch a toe to the nylon webbing. It’s exciting, but not especially frightening, to see the canyon open up underfoot as I step from the ledge, and I feel the reassuring spring of the line pressing up into the soles of my feet as I start to walk.

Calmly I look at the bottom of the canyon, the greenery, the play of light and shadow. I enjoy my own serenity, take a little pride in it. I’ve spent a decent amount of time slacklining in parks and campgrounds over the years, so the basic mechanics are familiar, and the hand-lines work just like training wheels on a bicycle, making it almost impossible to fall over. I walk across the line, turn around, walk back.

Faith asks, “Now do you want to try it for real?” This is what I’d been hoping-slash-fearing she’d ask.

“Heck, yeah.”

“OK, so we’re going to pretend the toprope isn’t here,” she says as she takes the dangling red rope from my hand. “You’re going to tie in exactly the same way I do. And you’re going to take your first whipper”—the climbing term for an uncontrolled fall.

She demonstrates how I should start by scooting across the highline: hook it under my thigh, place one hand on the line in front of me and one behind, and pull forward on my butt. I’ll use this method to get eight or ten feet out before I try to stand up, so that if—when—I fall, I won’t knock my head on the cliff. I nod and claim that this all makes sense.

But as soon as I wrap a leg around the fabric and push off from the ledge, my heart rate skyrockets. The sensation is nothing like my first stroll. The webbing skitters madly, and the more I fight its oscillations, the wilder they get. I raise one foot up to the line and attempt to pop to a standing position, but I categorically
can’t. It’s like my brain intercepts and deletes the command before it reaches my body.

In the truck this morning, Faith had related her experience of such a shutdown the first time she tried to highline. She’d already been a confident (low-height) slackliner when, over a decade ago, she attended a festival with a highline strung through the window of a building. Faith slid over the sill, tied in, butt-scooted a few feet over, and tried to stand. The motion was a well-worn motor pathway, but with the street far below and the sheer walls flanking her and the void swarming all sides of the line, her body simply refused.

She was “gripped,” in the parlance of climbers, but in a way deeper than that: a paralysis, one’s whole self a clenched fist. On that first highline, Faith found that her body’s refusal to behave was precisely what made highlining so compelling to her. I know I can do this, she thought, but my body won’t let me. Ever since, she’s been a student of fear, taking deliberate risks in order to understand body, mind, and the way knowledge passes between them.

Today my mutinous legs won’t pistol-squat, so Faith slides the knotted red top-rope across the cable to me, and I use the tethers to stand. “So now you’re going to take your first real whipper.”

“OK,” I lie.

“Put the red rope in your left hand.”

I clutch it hard. The line underfoot is a living thing. Space is everywhere, canyons and sky. Never in all my climbing have I been this terrified. I’m tied in, I’m safe, but my body simply doesn’t care.

“You’re doing great,” Faith says encouragingly, her tone gentle, even-keeled.

â€ÁèŸ±Č”łółÙ.”

“Now you’re going to let go with that left hand, and you’re going to try to walk.”

“I can’t,” I insist, near petulantly. “I’m gonna fall.”

“That’s the point.” I think Faith stifles a laugh. Her voice softens. “You can do this,” she says.

I count down to myself: Three, two, one, and tell my hand to open. It just
doesn’t.

“You’ve got this,” she says. Three, two, one, I count, my hand still inoperable. I stand in midair for 10 minutes, then 15, speaking to my body now, speaking to my fear. I stand still long enough that the angle of the sun seems to change.

“You got this,” Faith says. “Just let go.”

Three, two, one.

“Just let go.”

I let go.

I take one step and half of another. The line buckles and I pitch sideways and freefall, swallowed up by the maw of the canyon. When, with a spring and a jolt, my harness catches me, I have never been gladder to be alive. Faith is clapping. I’m verging on tears whose origin isn’t any specifiable emotion, just an absolute saturation of experience. This unnameable bubble bursts out of me as laughter, my limp body swinging below the line, as a new convert is born.

Not long after the outing with Faith, I try climbing the classic highball boulder “Airwolf” in Indian Creek. The boulder is 20 feet tall, and the moves feel like you’re clinging to the sides of a tilted-over refrigerator. Three times I get to the last move of the crux, only to bail and drop to the pads. My skin feels electric and my ears ring, my whole body too adrenalized to execute the last few moves. Usually on climbs like this I can take my fear, compress it into a ball, and bury it. But not this day.

So I try Faith’s tactic: I observe my fear with calm curiosity, rather than forcing it away. I understand my fear is insisting that if I fall onto the pads, I’ll get hurt. But I have just fallen to the pads and remained intact. As I sit on a flat slab of sandstone I visualize falling again, and being fine. Falling and laughing. Then I visualize, instead, sticking the move and sending the boulder, and I do.

Over time I make more attempts at highlining, too, visualizing my pistol squat, my steady first step. Then I get on the line, and once again I’m too gripped to move. My fear, it seems, still has more to teach me.

Brian Laidlaw is an author/songwriter and recipient of a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. He has a book of climbing and mountaineering essays forthcoming next year from Milkweed Editions. Brian lives in Moab, Utah, where he rock climbs competently, mountain bikes cautiously, and highlines poorly but with great enthusiasm.

The post How to Walk Across the Sky with Faith Dickey appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Base camp might be my favorite two words in the English language. Base camp is where you stage the next excursion, or refuel with a bowl of stew, or a beer. You rest and recover there. If you’re lucky, you can slip into a hot tub or cold spring, because base camps don’t always have to be a tent or in the back of your truck. Sometimes, base camp can be a lodge with soft sheets and a chef.

I’ve gathered a handful of my personal favorite adventure lodges and picked a few more destination hotels and chalets on my bucket list. Some of them are high-end andÌę worthy of a splurge, while others are downright affordable. All of them are chosen specifically for their locations and adventures they offer, putting visitors within reach of dramatic landscapes while providing gear, know-how, and sometimes in-house guides. Because occasionally it’s nice not to have to plan everything yourself.

The Gravel House Hotel, Patagonia, Arizona

You may not have heard of Patagonia, Arizona, a tiny town of 800-ish sitting at the base of the Patagonia Mountains, near the Mexico border. Much of the surrounding land is protected by the Coronado National Forest, which houses a chunk of the 700-mile Arizona Trail, while a lifetime of gravel rides begin and end in the two-block downtown.

is a collection of homes and a small hotel with nine rooms and a communal kitchen, all in the heart of town. The hotel is owned by cycling guide and chef Zander Ault, who you can hire to whip up regional delicacies like green chile stew and carne asada tacos. He and his team can also lead you on day rides through plains of shimmering grass flanked by the 7,000-foot Patagonias, which were capped with snow when I was there last spring. I loved the riding, which had me pedaling firm gravel through narrow canyons to historic ruins and across broad grasslands to the Mexican border before returning to town for a cold beer.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: You can hike or mountain bike a slice of the Arizona Trail, but the gravel is the magic here. I’ve stayed at The Gravel House, spending three days exploring the lonely roads of the area, and want to return to it and the landscape. Elevation gain is moderate, so you can cover a lot of ground exploring canyons and prairies that butt up against the border with Mexico, just 18 miles away. Check out the ride, which climbs to the ruins of a mining camp from 1933.

Logistics: Rooms start at $135 per night, with chef services and guiding extra. Guided day rides start at $295 per person and include high-end Pivot bike rentals.

Sol Mountain Lodge, Revelstoke, British Columbia, Canada

At 3.855 million square miles, Canada is a big place—among the world’s countries, only Russia is bigger—so no lodge can put you within striking distance of everything that our neighbors to the north offer. But , south of one of Canada’s great destination towns, Revelstoke, brings you into the thick of the Monashee Mountains, which are blanketed with powder in winter and host hundreds of miles of trails in summer. Sol Mountain provides backcountry skiers access to the Monashees’ alpine bowls and steep chutes during chilly months (the lodge is owned and operated by certified members of the Association of Canadian Mountain Guides), and the rest of the year mountain bikers and hikers can explore the high alpine singletrack.

The lodge is off-grid, with all of the power generated on-site by micro-hydro electricity, but sustainable doesn’t mean uncomfortable.The place has private rooms, a gear room, full kitchen, and a bar stocked with local craft beers. There’s also a small library with books and games as well as guitars, a box drum, and a mandolin, if you’re musically inclined. There’s even a wood-fired sauna.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: The lodge shares a border with Monashee Provincial Park, and the owner/operators have built a trail system that extends from the lodge into the park, with permits to lead ski, biking, and hiking trips throughout. Mountain bikers are going to want to ride loads of , but the five-mile Infinity and Beyond Loop is a must. The purpose-built trail has it all—ridgetop views of the Provincial Park and the Gold Range Mountains, lots of rock features, and a thrilling downhill back to the lodge. All rides end with a dip in Sol Lake, on Sol Lodge’s property, where the owners will stash a six pack by shore to keep it cold for you.

Logistics: In winter, you have to fly into the lodge (helicopter rides from Kelowna International Airport are included in the cost of a winter trip); stays require a five- or six-night trip (from $3250 Canadian per person) and include guides. But in the summer, you can make the 55-kilometer (34-mile) drive from Revelstoke on 4WD forest roads. Summer rates are per day, and catered trips (all meals included), start at $350 per person per night, two-night minimum.

Paradise Lodge, the Rogue River, Oregon

Once on site, you can enjoy hiking trails that start on the property, swimming holes, and paddling the class IV Rogue. The lodge sits on Paradise Bar, a long, unusually calm stretch of the Rogue that’s perfect for fishing for steelhead trout or salmon. In-house chefs create family-style meals served in a low-key dining room, while an expansive deck overlooks the river. There’s a disc-golf course, too.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Trails start on the grounds, following the Rogue River and exploring the smaller Paradise Creek. There’s an easy quarter-mile hike to Paradise Falls and back to get started, but you’re here for the Rogue. The classic adventure is a multi-day, 32-mile trip through the Rogue Canyon. runs a trip where guests camp riverside on the first night and spend the second in the lodge. The run is a mix of class III-IV drops and swimming holes, culminating with the class IV Blossom Bar, just a half-mile upstream from the lodge (trips from $1,225 per person, including lodging).

Logistics: Hike-in options start at $215 a night per person, including breakfast, dinner, and a sack lunch. You can also raft into the lodge for $205 per person per night, but must make your own arrangements, through local outfitters including and . To raft the Rogue on your own, you need permits from the BLM for any dates between May 15 to October 15. Most commercial trips run in July and August.

Gunflint Lodge, Grand Marais, Minnesota

Tucked onto the southern shore of Gunflint Lake, near the Canadian border, has been hosting adventurers since 1925. The property sits on the edge of the million-acre Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, allowing boaters to explore the myriad paddle trails by day and come home to hot meals and a sauna by night.

The lodge consists of 25 private cabins spread across the shore of Gunflint Lake, with a main lodge and dining area, two floating docks, and a shop for the in-house outfitters. Most of the cabins have stone fireplaces, saunas, and hot tubs. The night sky is vibrant with stars, as this is one of the largest Dark Sky Sanctuaries in the world, and the lodge is far enough north that you may even experience the northern lights. Hiking trails on the property lead to the top of cliffs with epic views of Gunflint Lake and the surrounding Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. The resort guides offer daily trips into the Boundary Waters on foot and canoe. In the winter, it’s all about ice fishing and cross-country skiing. Come summer, you’re hunting for smallmouth bass in Gunflint Lake and canoeing into the Boundary Waters on day trips.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Retrace the path of early fur traders by paddling a piece of the Voyageurs Route across Gunflint Lake through a narrow inlet into Magnetic Lake, crossing into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness proper. This mixed route of lake and river paddling, with a few short portages, has you tracing the edge of the United States as you travel north, seeing waterfalls, historic chalets, and maybe a moose from the hull of your boat. Guided trips for lodge guests are $125 per person.

Logistics: Gunflint Lodge is a six-hour drive north from Minneapolis. You can book a cabin (from $300 a night, two-night minimum) only, or an all-inclusive package that includes the cabin, all your meals, access to canoes, and one guided adventure per day (from $1279 per person for four nights).

Red Mountain Alpine Lodge, Red Mountain Pass, Colorado

Want a taste of the Alps right here in the U.S.? Book a couple of nights in , a luxurious A-Frame “hut” perched at 11,000 feet on Red Mountain Pass in the San Juan Mountains above Ouray, with gorgeous high-alpine hikes and backcountry skiing right out the door. A few winters ago, I spent some days skiing the terrain outside the lodge, and was just about as impressed with the digs inside the lodge as the powder.

The lodge has three private rooms and 10 semi-private loft spaces above the expansive living room, which is warmed by a wood-burning stove set in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. A shot ski hangs above the dining room for apres shenanigans. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs abound, from endless jeep roads to the via ferrata in Telluride in warmer months. But it’s mainly about backcountry skiing in the winter and high-alpine trekking in the summer.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: The skiing is epic, but I want to hit Red Mountain Alpine Lodge in the summer. The hut is a key component to the , a guided five-day hike that traverses the 10,000- to 13,000-foot-tall San Juans, hitting alpine lakes and with nights spent in three different huts along the way. Or you could just base at Red Alpine and do your own day hikes. The above-treeline, off-trail routes are endless and the lodge staff can point you in the direction of Red Mountain #3, a 12,877-foot peak with 360-degree views of the Red Group. Or you could bring a gravel bike and knock out the , which hits 12,000-foot peaks and backcountry waterfalls along a high-alpine dirt road.

Logistics: Loft spaces start at $289 per person, which includes breakfast, trail lunch, and dinner. Guided adventures are add ons, but the lodge is owned by , so the process is seamless.

Mulberry Gap, Ellijay, Georgia

Sitting 90 minutes north of Atlanta, in the heart of the Chattahoochee National Forest, was designed with mountain bikers in mind, giving front-door access to more than 150 miles of single track through the mountains of North Georgia. This rustic lodge offers a collection of cabins, from basic rooms with access to communal showers, to plush multi-bedroom buildings with private baths. There is also a communal barn with games and, last time I was there, a tricycle for silly races, plus a family-style restaurant, a small gear-and-beer shop, hot tubs, and an onsite pump track and jump line.

I’ve spent a few weekends riding bikes with Mulberry as my basecamp, and love the juxtaposition of a full day on hard, steep singletrack and a return to a smoked brisket in the restaurant, a cold beer and a hot tub. It hits just right.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Mulberry Gap sits next to the Pinhoti Trail, a long-distance mountain-bike trail that spans the length of Georgia. And there’s twice as much gravel if that’s what you’re into. If you’re only going to experience one ride, let it be the , which combines a piece of the Pinhoti Trail with Bear Creek. It’s a mix of gravel and single track, with lots of loose rock descents, waterfalls, creek crossings, and a little bit of flow.

Logistics: Cabins start at $140 a night, midweek; prices vary for size. Weekends are minimum two-night stays. Meals are extra, as are shuttles (from $12 per person).

Johnstone Wilderness Lodge, Seward, Alaska

Johnstone Bay is wild. The inlet sits on the southeast coast of the Kenai Peninsula, 30 miles south of Seward with the Church Mountains rising steeply from the edge of the water. This collection of gray, rocky beaches, steep green mountains, and blue/white glaciers and icefields is only accessible by air (you’ll have to get dropped off by helicopter or float plane) or sea. has three chalets that sit in the middle of all that action, with walk-out beach access, surf breaks galore (yes, Alaska has surfing, and it can be really good), and the massive Excelsior Glacier waiting for you to explore. The lodge itself is a collection of three chalets built by hand over three years. All are surrounded by dense forest and face the beach, where bonfires are the nightly entertainment.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: Jordan Pond, owner of the lodge, fell in love with Johnstone Bay because of the surfing, and if you’re hardy enough to handle the cold water, he can deliver you to the goods: a beach break along three miles of isolated beach. Swells can produce big, heavy waves. It’s also a deep bay, so you’ll occasionally see humpback whales hanging out beyond the breakers. Pond will also guide you in a Zodiac, navigating icebergs to Excelsior Glacier, which covers a broad valley as it flows from the Sargent Icefield down to the edge of the water.

Logistics: You can for summer (June 1 to October 30) starting at $1,575 per person (three-night minimum), which includes three meals a day plus snacks, use of kayaks, and guiding for the various adventures surrounding the lodge, from surfing to hiking and kayaking. You’ll have to from the Seward airport (prices depend on number of people and weight of gear). Boating to the place is possible, but helicopter access is much easier.

Field Station, Moab, Utah

You hardly need another reason to visit the historic desert town of Moab, but definitely sweetens the deal. The new hotel, which opened in April, 2023, sits at the bases of both Arches and Canyonlands national parks, which are full of sandstone rock formations and classic desert hikes, offering a mix of accommodations from van-life sites to spacious hotel rooms that sleep up to eight, all centered around communal spaces, such as a pool and hot tub, beer garden, and cafe.

Field Station’s a one-stop shop for exploring the surrounding landscape, with on-site equipment rentals and professional guiding partners, and , on hand to lead you on mountain biking, canyoneering, and climbing trips. The place often offers pop-up skills tutorials where you can learn things such as survivalist skills or how to patch a flat tire, and live music around the fire pits. I want to go here: Moab is great, but it would be even better with a pool.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: The problem with Field Station (and Moab in general) is choosing how to spend your time. Do you hike in Arches? Mountain bike on the area’s famous slickrock single track, which has been attracting fat-tire enthusiasts for decades? Climb desert towers and cliffs? Or raft the Colorado River? We say call in sick and extend your stay to do it all. But if you have to choose just one caper, sign up for a guided tour of the , which has 30 miles of dusty, sandstone-heavy single track with optional big descents and rock drops.

Logistics: Room rates start at $127. Van-life sites start at $29 and include access to all of the hotel’s amenities, including showers.

Surfhouse, Encinitas, California

California has no shortage of hotels with quick access to celebrated surf breaks, but makes your SoCal surf trip effortless with a combo of proximity and amenities. The eight-room motel is located in Encinitas, just a block from the beach and within a quick drive of dozens of world-class waves, including the iconic Swamis. Each room is crafted to represent a different local break. Small touches like an outdoor shower and in-house surf rentals go a long way, and the services include staff pros that can give lessons or even guide you through the local goods, helping you avoid any trouble (like upsetting crusty local surfers). You can even hire a photographer to hop in the water with you to document your trip.

The șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű: If you’re a beginner surfer, book a lesson with a Surfhouse pro and learn at a friendly beach break like Moonlight State Beach. If you have some experience, hire a (rates vary depending on break and number of surfers) who can tailor the experience to your skill level, putting you on the right wave that’s not only ideal for your ability, but is all-but-guaranteed to avoid the crowds. Or just pedal one of the hotel’s complimentary beach cruisers and roll from taco stand to beach to taco stand.

Logistics: Rooms start at $260 per night. Guides and lessons are extra. Surfhouse also has a rental van decked out with all of the amenities you need for the ultimate SoCal surf road trip (from $250 a day).

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Magazine’s national-parks columnist. He’s always loved the idea of a basecamp, but as he’s gotten older, he likes them to have swimming pools, saunas, and cocktail bars. Has he gotten soft? He prefers the term “wise.”

For more by this author:

The 9 Best Gateway Towns to U.S. National Parks

The 8 Most Adventurous States in America. Number 1 Is 


And the 11 Least Visited National Parks Are


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Ever come across an incredible hotel that stops you mid-scroll and makes you think, Wow, wouldn’t it be something to stay there?We do, too—all the time. Welcome to Friday Fantasy, where we highlight amazing hotels, lodges, cabins, tents, campsites, and other places perched in perfect outdoor settings. Read on for the intel you need to book an upcoming adventure here. Or at least dream about it.

In late November, I ran a 50K trail race in Moab, Utah. I planned to spend most of the week posted up with my family in a campsite on the outskirts of town, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I wanted a nice shower and a comfortable bed before and after the event.

Which is how I ended up staying the weekend at , the coolest new hotel in this popular adventure town. The property opened in April on a 2.6-acre lot just north of downtown with 139 rooms and seven sites for van campers who want access to amenities like Wi-Fi, showers, and the outdoor hot tub and pool. Owned by the same group that runs AutoCamp (a national chain of Airstream glamping resorts),ÌęField Station Moab was the perfect base camp for a tired runner like myself.

Completely redesigned with a minimalist, industrial feel, not to mention a welcoming, easygoing vibe, this is a place where you can walk through the bustling lobby and grab an espresso in muddy bike shorts without getting any stares. In fact, the lobby itself resembles more of a chic outdoor gear shop than a hotel, with local topo maps spread across tables, shelves stocked with guidebooks, and a store where you can pick up energy bars, a reusable water bottle, or a rain jacket in case you forgot your own.

When I checked in, the friendly woman behind the counter was wearing a name tag that read, “Ask me about skydiving,” and she immediately greeted my dog with a treat. We were able to bring our mountain bikes right into our room—a nice feature for security—and she pointed us toward the bike-tuning station out back if we needed it. A gear-rental closet has loaner daypacks, children’s backpacks, tents, and sleeping bags, as well as a luggage room to store your stay-put belongings if you’re headed into the backcountry for a few days.

Accommodations are simple but thoughtful, appointed with quiet nods to the outdoors, such as sporty coolers instead of fridges, bite-size energy bars left on your bedside table, and climbing rope looped through the roll of toilet paper. After running 30 miles, I soaked my sore legs in the hot tub and struck up a conservation with another guest, a woman who had spent the day mountain biking for the first time ever. In that moment, Field Station felt like exactly what an outdoorsy hotel should be: a community gathering place to swap stories about your adventures. Instead of hanging out in our room, I found myself drawn to the outdoor fire pit to enjoy a post-race beer, and the next morning, I lingered over coffee and a breakfast sandwich in the lobby’s comfy seating area. If you like the concept here, Field Station is scheduled to open a second outpost in Joshua Tree, California, in May.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel

Moab has an endless array of options for outdoor adventures, from canyoneering to rafting. It’s a mountain-biking and rock-climbing mecca and the gateway for exploring nearby Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. I came to Moab mostly to trail-run and mountain-bike, but I did spend time wandering around Arches with my kids.

“If you’re going to do one thing in Arches National Park, go to the ,” Stephen Wojciechowski, Field Station’s assistant general manager, told me. “Everyone who goes into Arches wants to go to Delicate Arch, the busiest spot in the park, but there’s a lot more to see.”

I took Wojciechowski’s advice and got a to visit the Fiery Furnace, a maze of deep canyons with steep walls and hidden arches, and it was my kids’ favorite activity of the week. (During the busier season, you can also reserve a two-hour ranger-led hike; both it and self-guided permits are available up to seven days in advance.)

Wojciechowski also recommended exploring Arches’ , at the end of the park road, walking the Primitive Trail in a clockwise loop. “You can do up to eight miles of hiking and see up to ten arches,” he says. “That gives you a perfect afternoon in the park.”

You can spot arches outside the national park, too. Wojciechowski likes the three-mile round-trip hike to , west of Moab, which we did. It was both dog- and family-friendly. My kids scrambled up a metal ladder while gawking at the amazing view of the arch.

Fascinated by ancient petroglyphs? For a history lesson, we headed up Kane Springs Road and stopped by what’s called the , an accessible boulder with petroglyphs on all sides that’s thought to be sketched by Ancestral Puebloans and Native Ute Tribes more than 800 years ago.

The mountain biking in Moab is incredible in its vastness, offering a wide range of technical rides and more flowy singletrack. I rode the relatively new Trail twice, and with my kids I pedaled a section of the and a loop of the . If you want a guide, Bighorn Mountain Biking leads private guided rides of varying lengths in Dead Horse State Park, or you can book a lift with Hazard County Shuttle to the start of downhill trails like the new or the classic .

Choice Room

At Field Station, my husband and I opted for a spacious group-friendly room with two queen beds and bunk beds for our two kids. If you don’t need much space, standard rooms with a queen bed or two are also available. And starting this fall, Field Station is debuting select rooms with king-size beds designed with built-in portaledges, so you can get a feel for how big-wall climbers sleep.

Eat and Drink

Field Station Moab has a convenient grab-and-go cafĂ© in the lobby, with breakfast pastries, coffee, smoothies, and snacks. Otherwise, is just up the road and offers an extensive burger menu, which is where we ate our first night in town. After the race, I refueled on tacos at the , and later in the week, we had lunch on the ’s outdoor patio. Sit-down breakfast at is hard to beat. Woody’s Tavern is a legendary dive bar with live music, and about once a month or so, local scientists show up to share their insight on anything from mosquitos to climate change during a series called .

When to Go

Spring and fall are busy in Moab, as visitors tend to avoid the scorching heat of midsummer. If you plan to visit Arches National Park during peak season, from April to October, you’ll need to reserve a time-stamped entry ahead of time. Better yet, come in the off-season, from November through March, and you’ll be treated to smaller crowds and more room to roam. Winters here are mild in terms of weather and snowfall, but temperatures can get chilly; expect averages in the forties in December and January.

How to Get There

Most travelers fly into Salt Lake City, then drive four hours south to Moab. Field Station is located a mile and a half north of downtown. Hotel staff can help book you a seat on one of the mountain-bike shuttles to the popular area trails, but most likely you’ll need a car to get around to various locales.

Don’t Miss

Watching the sun set at is a Moab highlight. This lesser-known state park has plenty of trails for hiking and mountain biking, and fewer visitors than the nearby national parks. Another worthy mention is Back of Beyond Books on Main Street; it’s just the place to pick up a travel-inspiring novel and browse its impressive collection devoted to local history and quirkier aspects of the outdoors.

Details

To Book:

Price: Rooms from $159; van sites $29

Address: 889 N Main St.
Moab, UT 84532

Megan Michelson is an șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű contributing editor and avid traveler who’s originally from a small town in Northern California. She loves visiting desert landscapes in the Southwest because they are so different than the environment she’s used to, and because the sunsets are so much more colorful.Ìę

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The Ford F-150 Lightning, the electric version of Ford’s super-popular pickup truck that came out last year, is my fantasy. I have a standard gas F-150 but with the Lightning, I could save hundreds of dollars’ worth of gas every month. The only thing holding me back from purchasing this particular electric vehicle? Something known as range anxiety. I travel a lot and I’m not sure the Lightning’s reported 320-mile battery range can handle the long miles I demand from my truck.

But the road-trip landscape is getting exponentially more EV-friendly every year. Several years ago, the average max range of an EV per charge was around 100 miles. Today that has more than doubled to 216 miles, according to the non-profit .

Even better news, the network of public charging stations is about to boom, with more than 51,000 already operating in the U.S., according to the Department of Energy. The federal government has allocated $7.5 billion to building more public EV chargers over the next several years to boost that number tenfold to 500,000 across the country by 2030.

In other words, it’s getting easier all the time to take an EV road trip. Just ask Liv and Patrick Leigh, veterans of multiple 1,000+ mile adventures in their Ford Mustang Mach-E, documented on their blog, “We had a lot of anxiety heading out on our first EV road trip,” Liv says. “But after several long trips and seeing friends crisscross the country in EVs, we know it can be done.”

The key to a successful EV road trip, according to the Leighs, is to plan ahead, using apps like or , which offer maps of every public charging station in the country and update you on their status, so you’ll know in advance if one is broken or busy. That advice is worth repeating: Download an app with real-time data.

There are plenty of EV-friendly road trip options out there, and most major car rental agencies now offer electric vehicles you can try out if you’re curious. In addition to gas savings and a lessened environmental impact, it’s possible that EVs actually make the Great American Road Trip even better than ever.

“We’ve learned to enjoy road trips even more now that we are taking an EV,” Patrick Leigh says. “Previously, in our gas car, road trips were all about getting to our destination as quickly as possible. 
 Now the EV gives us an excuse to stop, stretch our legs, talk to people, and enjoy the journey.”

I’ve mapped out seven scenic and adventurous road trips that you can pull off in an electric vehicle. Each starts from a large city, so you can rent an EV if you don’t have one, and all of them make the most of the burgeoning public charging network, which I’ve noted for each below. Maybe someday you’ll see me out there in that Lightning.

1. The Classic Desert Road Trip: Las Vegas to Grand Canyon National Park

Length: 350 miles

Driving from Vegas to the Grand Canyon is about as iconic a road trip as you can get. With copious DC Fast Chargers along the southern route, including a brand-new one installed by Electrify America near the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, this classic route is an ideal option for EVs.

Day 1: Las Vegas to Flagstaff, Arizona

253 miles

This is a big-mileage day to get you out of Vegas and closer to the Grand Canyon, but there are some potential adventure stops along the way. Las Vegas is loaded with DC fast chargers, so juice up here. Then head south on Highway 93, crossing over the Colorado River below Lake Mead and the Hoover Dam as you enter Arizona. If it’s hot and you feel like taking a dip, head to , on the Arizona side of Lake Mead. Or keep heading south and hike the easy trail to , which is just a quick detour away. There’s a fast charger at the Kroger grocery store in the town of Kingman, about 100 miles into the trip, if you want to top off.

Your destination for the night is Flagstaff, Arizona, where has a mix of inn rooms and cottages surrounding communal outdoor space with fire pits, tables, and lawn games, also a sauna and plunge pool (from $114 a night). You can charge your car at the DC Fast charger at the Walmart off Route 66.

Day 2: Flagstaff to Grand Canyon National Park

80 miles

Head north from Flagstaff for 80 miles on Highway 180 and Highway 64 to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. There’s a hyper fast DC charger at the Grand Canyon Visitor Center in the Grand Canyon Village. If it’s your first time visiting the Grand Canyon, you’re obligated to hike the , which descends from the lip of the canyon to the Colorado River in 9.5 miles of switchbacks, dropping 4,500 feet in elevation. Most people don’t hike the whole trail, though, so consider an 11-mile out-and-back to Plateau Point, passing through wild gardens and petroglyphs before ending at the outcropping that gives the hike its name, with impressive views of the Colorado River and sandstone canyon walls.

2. The Island-Hopping Road Trip: Miami to Key West

170 miles

Much of the South is an EV-charging-station desert, but Florida is an outlier, with more than 2,500 public charging stations, the third-most of any state in the country. A lot of those stations are located in South Florida, making this fun, beach-centric road trip from Miami to the southern tip of America an EV breeze.

Tesla drivers in particular will find plenty of super chargers throughout the islands, but there are Electrify America Fast Chargers in Miami, Key Largo, and Key West. Many of the hotels and resorts also have chargers for guests, so consider an overnight at EV-friendly lodging.

Day One: Miami to Key Largo

70 miles

While still in Miami, hop on the daily paddle of Jones Lagoon, inside Biscayne Bay National Park, with the . The half-day adventure has you paddling a SUP through narrow channels between mangroves looking for turtles and baby sharks in the shallow, clear water ($99 per person).

From the park, head south 70 miles on Highway 1 to Key Largo, where you can snorkel on Molasses Reef, inside the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. The live barrier reef is several miles off the coast, but sits in just 10 feet of water, making it an ideal spot for viewing. offers two afternoon trips to the reef daily ($70 per person).

Fuel up at the ElectrifyAmerica fast charging station at the Tradewinds shopping center in the middle of the island. has charging stations for guests, and its own private beach (from $412 a night).

Day Two: Key Largo to Key West

100 miles

Moving south through the Middle Keys, take time to kayak the half mile from Islamorada to an 11-acre island and park only accessible by small boat (entrance fee is $2.50 per person). Here you can hike through the ruins of a 19^th-century town that existed solely to salvage items from ships run aground on nearby reefs, or paddle the healthy seagrass that surrounds the island.

Returning to the road, you can visit the Monroe County Public Library on Marathon Key, which has a free public Level 2 charger. Your next destination is ($8 parking fee), which has one of the prettiest beaches in the entire country. Then continue south to Key West, where you can rent a bike to cruise the eight-square-mile island ( rents bikes of all kinds from $14 a day), and hit , a public beach lined with palm trees and easy, shallow-water snorkeling.

A number of hotels have slower Level 1 chargers that guests can plug into overnight, including the , which is located on the waterfront of Old Town Key West, putting you within walking distance of popular destinations like Mallory Square and Duval Street (from $360 a night). But there’s also an ElectrifyAmerica ultra-fast charger at the Bank of America on Key West, so you’ll be able to recharge wherever you stay.

3. The Perfect Western Road Trip: Denver to Moab

360 miles

This is one of my all-time favorite road trips. Even though the majority of this drive is on the much-maligned I-70, the pit stops along the way are bucket-list worthy, and the final destination is highlighted by two of the most stunning national parks in the West. The I-70 corridor, loaded with DC fast chargers established by a number of different companies, is one of the most EV-friendly roads in the Rockies.

Day One: Denver to Glenwood Springs

75 miles

Get your junk miles out of the way as you head west on I-70 for 75 miles to Frisco, where your detours will be determined by the season. If it’s winter, you’re skiing at Breckenridge or Keystone. If you’re here during summer or shoulder seasons, take your mountain bike for a spin in the , which is free and has dedicated uphill and downhill trails designated by difficulty. The place has dirt jumps and a massive pump track, but don’t overdo it: there’s more mountain biking ahead.

Refuel at the DC fast charger at the Frisco Walmart, and drive past Vail (potential for fly fishing in the summer and powder in the winter) as you make your way to Glenwood Springs, where relaxation will be your priority.

Check out the , which are essentially natural steam rooms, and consider getting a room at the , so you can have immediate access to their hot springs-fed pool (from $199 a night). You have two options for refueling in Glenwood Springs, a ChargePoint fast charger at Starbucks or an ElectrifyAmerica at Target.

Day Two: Glenwood Springs to Palisade

75 miles

There are enough charging stations to get you all the way to Moab, but please—spend a day or so in Palisade, one of Colorado’s hidden gems and one of my favorite towns. If you’re here in ski season, gets 250 inches of snow a year, on 600 acres. If it’s bike weather, get a shuttle from and ride the 32-mile Palisade Plunge, a pedal-heavy downhill trail with plenty of technical bits and cliffy exposure (shuttle rides from $34 a person, available seasonally).

Day Three: Palisade to Moab, Utah

124 miles

There’s a DC fast charger at the Stop n Save in Grand Junction, just west of Palisade that you should hit on your way out of town, but also a fast charger at the city offices in the town of Fruita, near the border of Utah. In the way that people have long known to fill up on gas here, charge up before heading out into the desert.

OK, now you’re taking I-70 west to Highway 191 south into Moab, where you can choose from hiking in Arches National Park or Canyonlands National Park, or mountain biking in Dead Horse Point State Park. If I had to choose just one adventure, it would be the 7.6-mile traverse of the area inside Arches, which also takes in the postcard-worthy Landscape Arch.

Get a room at , in Moab, which has a fast charger and an outdoor pool and hot tub. There’s another charger for Teslas on Main Street. Be sure you charge your vehicle fully in town if you plan on exploring the desert, and keep an eye on your battery life, as there are currently no public chargers in the outlying areas.

4. The Vermont Ski Road Trip: Burlington to Killington

200 miles

Cold will reduce your EV battery life by about 25 percent (in below-freezing temps), according to a study by . That jumps to 50 percent if you’re running the heater. The good news? This particular road trip is low on total mileage with super chargers along the way and chargers at each resort. Recharge while you ski!

Day One: Burlington to Jay Peak, 70 miles

The town of Burlington has 80 Level 2 chargers, including a handful of plugs at Burton Snowboards that are open to the public on weekends and weekday evenings. There’s also a ChargePoint fast charger at Burlington’s Electric Department. After fueling up, head north 70 miles to only five miles south of the Canadian border, which enjoys some of the best snow east of the Rockies (more than 300 inches most seasons) over its 385 acres of terrain (lift ticket prices still TBD). The glades hold the best snow on this windy mountain. You’ll find good tree runs off every lift, but Beaver Pond Glade has beautifully spaced trees with countless options for lines. Not into skiing? Jay Peak grooms more than 20 miles of fat-bike trails.

Jay Peak Resort has 14 Tesla chargers, and at the base of the resort has Level 2 chargers as well as Tesla connectors (average rate is $400 a night).

Day Two: Jay Peak to Stowe Mountain Resort

Wake early and head an hour south (60 miles) to , where almost 500 acres of skiable terrain is split across two mountains (lift tickets from $143 a day). The terrain is notoriously steep, with the famous Front Four trails (Goat, Liftline, National, and Starr) offering double-fall line, double-black pitches. For something less intimidating, check out Main Street, a long intermediate cruiser with views of the surrounding Green Mountains.

The has ski in/ski out digs (from $400 a night).

Stowe operates a handful of throughout the picturesque downtown, but you can also head straight to the and get some of the best IPAs in the Northeast while filling up at their DC Fast charger.

Day Three: Stowe to Killington

If you have an extra day, continue south for 85 miles to Killington Mountain Resort, but make sure you stop at the Ben and Jerry’s Factory, in Waterbury, where you can get a scoop from this iconic ice-cream brand and recharge at their DC fast charger. Killington Resort itself has a full assortment of chargers throughout the base area, so again you can As for the terrain, Killington, dubbed “the Beast of the East,” has 1,500 acres to choose from. The most iconic line on the mountain is Outer Limits, which offers 1,200 vertical feet of bumps. Park rats should check out The Stash, a hidden park developed in partnership with Burton with features scattered throughout the trees.

5. The Classic California Road Trip: Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Big Sur

150 miles

California has more than 73,000 public charging stations, roughly a third of all such stations in the country, so if you suffer from range anxiety, consider any road trip in the Golden State the perfect option. This particular route is a mega classic, following the Pacific Coast Highway from San Francisco to Big Sur, hitting state beaches and inland forests.

Day One: San Francisco to Santa Cruz

80 miles

As you head south from San Francisco, stop at Pacifica, a beachfront town with good surf, a walkable pier, and dramatic coastline. Get the lay of the land by exploring Mori Point, a 110-acre swath of beach and bluffs that is part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. You can peruse the black sand of Sharp Park Beach, or hike a through wildflower meadows that culminates with a bluff-top view of the Pacific.

Your next stop is the town of Half Moon Bay, where you can watch big wave legends surf Mavericks Beach, and top off at the DC fast charger at the Bank of America on Main Street. As you move below Half Moon Bay, you’ll pass a series of State Park-managed beaches, most with dramatic landscapes where the cliffs meet the water, so you can’t go wrong with any detour. But has a mile of soft sand, an ever-evolving collection of driftwood art, and a very cool rock bridge jutting out of the sand ($8 parking fee). If you want to spot some wildlife, Reserve has a large population of breeding elephant seals that lounge on the beach during the winter ($10 entrance fee).

Hole up for the night in Santa Cruz, at , a funky but upscale inn in the center of town (from $156 a night) with an outdoor pool and fire pits. Charge your vehicle at the DC Fast Charger at the Whole Foods in the center of town.

Day Two: Santa Cruz to Big Sur

60 miles

If you’re itching to surf, head to Cowell’s Beach, a mellow break that’s protected from big swells and has a laid-back vibe that makes it beginner friendly ( has rentals from $30 a day). After testing the waters, continue south on Highway 1, hugging the coast and, if you like, hitting , which protects 1,000 acres of high dunes and pristine beach.

There are a couple of DC fast chargers as you approach Monterey, and an ElectrifyAmerica DC fast charger at the Target in Monterey proper. Juice up if you need to, and keep heading south toward Big Sur, with its awesome juxtaposition of cliffs, forest, and waves. You could spend a week in this nook of California and never get bored. Still, make time to explore Pfeiffer Beach, a day-use area in ($15 entry fee) which has cliffs, natural bridges, and purple sand. No kidding.

There’s no shortage of upscale digs in this lush corner of California, but it’s hard to beat the location of , which has renovated motor lodge rooms or cabins (from $385 a night) and its own hiking trail through towering redwoods where you’ll find swimming holes on the Big Sur River. EV drivers can also refuel overnight at the Level 1 charger at the lodge.

DC fast chargers are scarce in Big Sur (so are cell and internet service), but Tesla drivers can juice up at the Ventana Supercharger on the south end. And as long as you topped off in Monterey, you should have plenty of juice for the return trip north.

Keep in mind that road closures do pop up on Highway 1 in Big Sur because of rock slides. Check page for current status.

6. A Stunning Pacific Coast Road Trip: The Southern Cascade Loop Scenic Highway

205 miles

We’ve called the 440-mile Cascade Loop, which travels from the coast of Washington into the mountains and back, one of the prettiest drives in the country. It’s also one of the most EV friendly, and has been for almost a decade, thanks to Washington State’s emphasis on adding charging stations to its scenic byways. The northern portion of the highway is closed in the winter, but the southern part is open and awesome. You can see one itinerary in the link above, but below, we’ve detailed a 200-mile option along the southern corridor with winter in mind. Think: Bavarian villages and endless cross-country ski trails.

Day One: Everett to Leavenworth, 100 miles

Pick up the southern leg of the Cascade Loop in Everett, just north of Seattle, and take Highway 2 east towards Leavenworth. Follow the Skykomish River and climb 4,000 vertical feet to , an 1,125-acre resort that sits at the top of the Cascade Range and pulls down more than 450 inches of snow a year (lift tickets from $100). Advanced skiers should head straight for the 7^th Heaven Chair and aim for the steep chutes that collect great powder and offer big bumps. Stevens Pass also offers the rare treat of night skiing.

Then head further east to the town of Leavenworth, a Bavarian-themed village that goes all out in the winter; the entire town is decked out with holiday lights from Thanksgiving to Valentine’s Day. The town also operates a small ski hill (named appropriately, “Ski Hill”) with a tow rope and sledding run. In other seasons it is a center for hiking, boating, mountain biking, and climbing and bouldering.

There are a few DC fast chargers in Leavenworth, including one at City Hall and another at the Safeway grocery store. Grab a room at , a budget-friendly adventure inn in the heart of downtown with its own beer garden (from $109 a night).

Day Two: Leavenworth to the Methow Valley

Head down the east side of Stevens Pass on Highway 2 and take Highway 97 north into the Lake Chelan Valley, where more than 30 wineries dot the shores of Lake Chelan. Drop into the family-owned , where rows of grapes overlook the blue water of the lake and the tasting room is open daily. Show up in November and you can experience harvest season and taste wine straight from the barrel at certain events.

Continue north, taking Highway 153 directly into the heart of the Methow Valley, which boasts the largest network of groomed cross-country ski trails in the country. You’ll have 130 miles of trails to choose from. Grab a day pass ($30, rentals ($30) and lessons (starting at $50) if you need them at .

, in Winthrop, offers direct access to the Methow Valley Ski Trails, as well as 20km of trails on the property, and a charging ports for guests (from $207 a night).

7. A Lake Michigan Road Trip: Traverse City to Manistee

150 miles

Michigan has one of the most robust charging infrastructures in the Midwest, increasing the number of chargers in the state by more than 200 percent in the last three years. Considering the car as we know it was born in Michigan, we appreciate seeing the state evolve with the tech. This road trip is short, but delivers, as it follows Highway 22 around Leelanau Peninsula, a skinny spit of land jutting out into Lake Michigan. There are cherries, lighthouses, beaches and dunes. Hit it now, before the snow hits, or wait until late spring. You’ll begin and end in towns with DC fast chargers and have plenty of Level 2 options along the way.

Day One: Traverse City to Leland

60 miles

Juice up at the Hall Street Public Parking charger and head north on Highway 22 as it hugs the Grand Traverse Bay, offering countless views of Lake Michigan. When you hit Northport, head north of town to the tip of the peninsula to hike on the edge of Cat Head Bay. One of the oldest lighthouses in the Great Lakes Area sits on the edge of the park, and you can hike the 4.6-mile which will lead you by a small, interior lake and a sandy beach on Lake Michigan.

Moving south, take a pitstop at Hallstedt Homestead Cherries, a u-pick farm.

You’ll pass which protects 1,700 acres of forest and sandy bluffs that’s popular with nesting eagles, aiming for the small town of Leland, which sits on an isthmus between Lake Michigan and Lake Leelanau, home to “Fishtown,” a collection of historic fishing shacks. It’s a supremely walkable town with easy access to public beaches and boat launches. puts you in the heart of the action, with rooms overlooking the Leland Dam (from $179 a night). You can walk to Van’s Beach to catch the sunset, then peruse town for some fish sausage. Yes, that’s a thing.

Day Two: Leland to Manistee

Continue south on Highway 22 and drive directly to ($25 entrance fee per car), home to massive sand dunes that rise 450 feet above Lake Michigan. Spend some time here climbing the dunes (yes, it’s allowed) and relaxing at the Platte River Point, where the river of the same name flows into the lake.

Heading further south, grab a beer at in Frankfort and end the day in Manistee, where you’ll want to catch another sunset at Fifth Avenue Beach, and stroll the pier to the Manistee North Pierhead Lighthouse. The , in Manistee, will put you on the water and it has a Level 2 charger for EVs (rooms from $171 a night). The Marathon Gas Station has a DC fast charger where you can refuel.

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national parks columnist. He’s been an avid road-tripper ever since becoming obsessed with the Beat poets as a teenager. An electric road trip is enticing to Graham because he likes the idea of taking a nap while his car charges mid-trip.

The post 7 Stunning Road Trips for Electric Vehicles appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Heavy rains and flash flooding in the Southwest this weekend prompted rescues at two national parks and left one tourist missing in Utah. The region is bracing for , which could bring additional damage.

On Friday, a flash flood at Utah’s Zion National Park in the Narrows, a popular slot canyon that cuts between 2,000-foot-high cliffs. At least one hiker sustained injuries and was carried several hundred yards downstream before being rescued by park rangers and transported to a local hospital. Others were able to wait out the flooding on high ground before being evacuated.

Later Friday evening, Jetal Agnihotri, 29, of Tucson, Arizona, was reported missing after she did not return from a trip in the Narrows. Agnihotri’s friend Mostafa that he and another friend were planning to hike the famous slot canyon with Agnihotri, but they decided against it due to the flash-flood warning, so Agnihotri headed out on her own. “She wanted to do the Narrows more than us,” said Mostafa, whose last name was not publicized by the news station. “Now I wish that I did ask her not to go.”

The Narrows and Riverside Walk, a 2.2-mile trail that follows the Virgin River, remain closed on Monday as officials continue looking for Agnihotri.

Scenes of the flooding captured by drones show the normally quiet Virgin River transformed into a muddy and raging torrent.

At Carlsbad Caverns National Park in southern New Mexico, nearly 200 people were stranded on Saturday after a flash flood washed away a main road. Tourists and park staff sheltered for nine hours before being evacuated just before midnight, .

Officials conducted multiple rescues during the downpour—they saved a family whose vehicle had turned on its side, as well as a couple who found themselves stranded on the roof of their car, . The park reopened to the public Monday morning.

On Saturday evening, heavy rainfall near Moab, Utah, generated what some are calling a “100-year flood,” . Between an inch to 1.5 inches of rain fell in the area that night, with most precipitation hitting the ground in a 20-minute period between 7:10 and 7:30 P.M. Videos on social media show cars floating down the small city’s main street, where the water was up to three feet deep, city spokesperson Lisa Church told the newspaper.

https://twitter.com/Neildos/status/1561199303128780802

As of Sunday morning, Moab’s Mill Creek Parkway trail system was closed, . Damages to waterline breaks have left many residents without potable water.

FLASH FLOOD right out of Saguaro National Park east side of Tucson 1230 pm

— Reed Timmer, PhD (@ReedTimmerUSA)

Parts of Arizona also saw excessive rainfall over the weekend. Flash floods closed roads in Tucson, as the National Weather Service measured on Saturday near the city. Mass evacuations are currently underway in , where the Gila River is overflowing.

Despite the deluge, much of the Southwest remains in an extreme 23-year drought driven by climate change, Jonathan Deason, an environmental engineering professor at George Washington University, . “It’s going to take about three years of above-average rainfall to have substantial recovery,” he said.

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In late April, former congressman and presidential candidate Rick Santorum : “We birthed a nation from nothing. I mean, there was nothing here. I mean, yes we have Native Americans, but candidly there isn’t much Native American culture in American culture.” His remarksÌę from many within the Native American community. Santorum’s speech came a week after a white climberÌębolted over a petroglyph panel on the Sunshine Wall Slabs north of Arches National Park, and a day before with white supremacist phrases.

As an Indigenous person living in this country, I see these events as directly connected. We have inherited an incomplete understanding of the history of the U.S., and that understanding allows for egregious acts of dehumanization of Indigenous peoples. I know because I received the same education as most of white America growing up in Kansas.

I vividly remember sitting on the floor, alongside my second-grade peers, while we listened to our teacher read from a book about westward expansion and how Kansas came to be. The storyline of the children’s book about Native people spoke broadly about the arrival of the settlers, how Native people taught them to grow corn, and as these settlements expanded, the Natives peacefully moved away to Indian reservations. As the book continued, it spoke about how Native people drank raw blood from buffalo—at which point my entire class turned their heads toward me and made exclamations of disgust. The flood of embarrassment and confusion of that moment still haunts me today; that was not how my Navajo family lived.Ìę

After the reading, we were prompted to write a few sentences answering: What kind of Indian would you like to be?ÌęBut the teacher told me that I couldn’t write about being Navajo because it would be an unfair advantage. I sat and cried, refusing to put pencil to paper in protest while the class moved on to other activities. The teacher assigned me to in-school suspension for the remainder of the day or until I finished the assignment. I sat in suspension for the rest of the day.

As I got older, this moment helped me realize how the larger American society relates to Indigenous peoples. The understanding that many of my peers left with was that Indigenous peoples were barbaric, if not subhuman, and that we willingly chose to relocate to reservations where we continue to live off of government subsidies. End of story. I saw how education can be used as a tool of oppression and to further societal beliefs about marginalized groups of people.Ìę

But I knew that the ancestral puebloan petroglyphs and structures that surrounded my grandparents’ home on the Navajo Nation held a much different story. I have seen some non-Native peers experience these sites, and walk away with a sense of confusion about the history they were taught versus what they experienced firsthand.Ìę

This continent has been a cradle of civilization for Indigenous peoples for millennia. But very few Americans learn about that history. From this cradle sprouted complex and sophisticated societies, which we walk through each day. Places like , located just east of St. Louis, Missouri, was the site of one of the largest urban settlements in the world. At its peak in 1100 C.E., Cahokia was likely larger than London, exceeding 20,000 inhabitants. Today this site sits right off I-70 between industrial and residential developments with little hint that it’s aÌęUunescoÌęWorld Heritage site. Until the early 1800s, most Indigenous peoples had a higher standard of living and life expectancy than surrounding white settler societies.

The history of desecration of Indigenous historic and sacred sites spans back over a century in the Southwest. The arrival of Mormon settler communities inÌęsoutheast Utah coincided with an increased demand for artifacts and human remains from museums and universities across the world. In the 1920s, the , for example,Ìępaid local Blanding residents $2 per piece of ancestral puebloan pottery. These economic forces combined with deeply held racist views toward Native people, allowed for pillaging of ancestral sites to the theft of bodies from graves. We live with these legacies today: there is still aÌę for stolen artifacts from public lands; plus, there’s under-resourcing of federal institutions entrusted to protect the artifacts.

We do not choose the history we are born into, nor which side of it we land on. But we do have a choice about our actions and beliefs after we hear the whole story. This history is one we have violently inherited as a country, and it is also one that has been shaped by settler colonialism and racism.Ìę

It was of no surprise to me, as a Native person, to see phrases like “WHITE POWER” scrawled over the petroglyphs in Moab. Part of me was actually happy to see it, because I knew it would help illustrate the tie between white supremacy and the dispossession of Native people to their connection to homeland.Ìę

Moments like the defacing of petroglyphs in southern Utah can provide the necessary fodder to make much-needed changes as a society to how we respect Indigenous peoples and their histories. The momentum for this change should come from the outdoor community supporting Native communities to ensure that they can both access and protect our ancestral homelands. This means fully enforcing existing federal laws protecting these resources on public lands and empowering tribes and other Native-led organizations, like the , to be the managers of our own homelands. The first step toward rectifying this history is collectively unlearning the history we have been taught.

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Giant’s Trance model has been the go-to trail bike in its lineup for well over a decade, and regular updates to both its Maestro suspension platform and accompanying geometry have kept it a competitive option in the broadly defined category. The Trance X versions, then, have always been for riders that appreciate the TranceÌębut wantÌęjust a bit more bike: a littleÌęmore travel here, a little slacker geometry there. After spending a few weeks riding the redesigned Trance X 29, we found that this X marks the spot for modern trail bikes.

The Builds

°Őłó±đÌę, released in August 2020, is available in five builds, with the least expensive of two aluminum-frame versions starting at $3,200. Pricing for the three complete carbon bikes starts at $4,300 and runs up to $8,500 for the top-tier bike we reviewed, the Advanced Pro 0. All versions feature 135 millimeters of Maestro dual-linkage rear travel matched with a 150-millimeter travel fork; they alsoÌęcome with new-to-Giant flip chips that letÌęriders quickly adjust the headtube angle, seat-tube angle, and bottom-bracket drop. These aren’t minor geometry adjustmentsÌęeither. With a 0.7-degree variation in angles and a ten-millimeterÌęchange in bottom-bracket height, the Trance X 29 offers one of the biggest geometry variations in the realm of bikes with flip chip designs.

The Trance Advanced Pro 29 frames are almost entirely carbon fiber composite, save an alloy lower link, and claim to weigh in at a mere 2,100 grams—shock included. Giant’s proprietary Advanced composite results in a durable, more compliant frame than the alloy version, with a weight savings of 25 percent. An integrated, rubberized chainstay and down-tube protection were added to reduce potential damage in these usual spots, and a clear 3M strip keeps the upper down tube safe from tailgate scuffs. Pricing throughout the Trance Advanced Pro 29 model range reflects the variation in components, but the frames are otherwise the same. (The Pro 0 is the only one to feature Fox’s Live Valve, which weÌędiscuss in detail below.)

The Ride

We spent several weeks aboardÌęthe Trance X on Colorado and Utah trails, gaining an instant appreciation for this well-rounded bike. In fact, its maiden voyage on familiar trails netted a series ofÌęboth uphill and downhillÌęPRs. This would turn out to be a trend throughout our testing. Climbing performance paralleled that of lighter, shorter-travel cross-countryÌębikes, thanks in part to Fox’s Live Valve system, which adjusts suspension performance automatically. Once atÌęthe top, there were no switches that needed to be toggled—the Trance X 29 was ready to drop. Those descents were met with a stable, predictable, and responsive ride, thanks to 150 millimeters of Fox Factory 36 suspension and Giant’s 135 millimeters of rear travel. The Trance X 29 got all the stars on fast, flowy trails. Relentless chunder and chunky technical sections? The bike generally fought above its weight classÌębut would occasionally pull a punch or two when it was thrown into fights more appropriate for enduro bikes.

The Trance X 29 displays two distinct sets of trail manners, courtesy of the flip chip swap, which takes roughly two minutes with one five-millimeter Allen wrench. The high setting gives steeper 66.2-degree headtube and 77.7-degree seat-tube angles, with 30 millimeters of bottom-bracket drop. This setting excelled on tighter, more technical trail, with the steeper headtube angle catering to lower-speed handling, while the higher bottom bracket provided more pedal clearance through rock gardens. In the low setting, the slacker 65.5-degree headtube angle and lower bottom bracket improved stability at higher speeds and down precipitous descents, but the 40-millimeter bottom-bracket drop did create a noticeable decrease in pedal clearance through rough sections. Our review bike settled into high mode, but if we had this bike for the summer, low mode would see plenty of use for long, speedy alpine rides.

The Advanced Pro 29 0 is the only bike in Giant’s lineup with Fox’s Live Valve. Basically, it’s an integrated suspension system consisting of two accelerometers telling a microprocessor what the bike is experiencing 1,000 times per secondÌęand adjusting the shocks’ magnet-actuated valves accordingly. The simplest example:Ìęwhen the fork hits a bump, the fork-mounted accelerometer tells the microprocessor in a mere three milliseconds to keep the valve open toÌęabsorb it. When the system detects that the bike is pointed uphillÌęor that the rider is pedaling, valving restricts oil flow independently in both the fork and shock to create a more stable pedaling platform. In the Trance X 29, Live Valve adds even more pedaling efficiency to an already efficient Maestro suspension platform. It also adds a noticeable improvement to ride height by drastically reducing wallowing, and makes jump or drop landings noticeably smoother. The only real trade-off, other than price and a negligible weight penalty of roughly 150 grams, is that Live Valve skims a bit of plushness out of the suspension.ÌęThe feel is racier and sometimes a bit firmer than desired through never-endingÌęrock gardens, but considering the fact that I was faster on more than a few favorite trails, these minor quibbles seem worth the performance benefits.

Furthermore, the Advanced ProÌę0’s build kit is impressive, leavingÌęlittle to be desired. Even Giant’s notoriously horrid saddles have been updated to a surprisingly tolerable Romero SL perch. Thirty-millimeter-wide Giant carbon rims took plenty of abuse in places like Moab, as did the Maxxis Minion DHF/Dissector tire combo. Shimano XT brakes affordedÌęexcellent modulation with only an occasional squeak when they got wet, and the XT/XTR drivetrain never faltered. Fox’s Transition dropper post, paired with a Shimano remote shifter, worked flawlessly, as did the aforementioned Live Valve system. As expensive as $8,500 is, the Trance X 29 Advanced Pro 0 is reasonably priced for how well it’s outfitted.

The Upshot

Put simply: the Trance X 29 was a pleasure to ride. Its adjustable geometry offers a better adaptation to various styles of riding and trails than most, and toggling between the two settings is about as simple as it gets. As with any trail bike with a 150-millimeter fork, it won’t be an ideal choice forÌęcross-country racer types, and the Trance X isn’t going to be appropriate for regular bike park use. But it lends itself nicely to almost everything in between. As a rider with a quiver of bikes spanning from lightweight carbon hardtails to enduro sleds, the Trance X was my choice for riding smooth and pedally trails with Lycra-clad friends, smashing through Moab rocks with former pro downhillers, and cruisingÌęthe trails out my back door.

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It was the middle of the day in the middle of July the first time I visited , and the foolish act of stepping outside my perfectly air-conditioned car was a bit like being body-slammed by Satan himself. Still, as an experienced desert hiker, I loaded up with several liters of water, spackled myself with sunscreen, and hoisted my reflective umbrella before setting off for Delicate Arch, the famedÌęfigureÌęof many a Utah license plate.

My sweat equity paid off, and for a few moments I had the place to myself—pretty amazing, considering this is one of the park’s most iconic stops. Maybe it was the heat, but at first glance, the arch, perched on the edge of heat-seared nothingness, seemed like some otherworldly desert portal to another dimension. Except if you stepped through, you might run the risk of slipping off into a whole different kind of space.

Of course it’s not alien magic that carved Delicate Arch or any of the park’s other stunning formations but the decidedly more terrestrial power of seismic activity from the nearby Moab Fault, coupled with weather-caused erosion that’s been working for millennia to split, buff, crack, and carve this sandstone sculpture garden of sunset-hued arches, fins, and domes.

Before earning its spot as one of Utah’s five national parks in 1971, this fantastical landscapeÌęspent over 40Ìęyears as a national monument. It was during this time that esteemedÌęwriter and environmentalist Edward Abbey worked at Arches as a seasonal ranger, documentingÌęboth his love for the areaÌęand his disdain for people’s poor treatment of it in the classic Desert Solitaire. Abbey, whose reputation in recent years has become controversial forÌęthe racist and sexist undertones in his writing,Ìęspent only two years at the park, however; its original caretakers were first the Fremont people, followed by Hopi, Navajo, Paiutes, and Ute, who are still connected to this enchanting place today.

What You Need to Know Before VisitingÌę

Watch the mercury (and your H20 intake). DuringÌęmyÌęfirst visit, I saw two people leave the trail on stretchers. Heat-related illness is a common affliction for thoseÌęwho fail to respect both the weather and their own bodily needs. Park guidelines suggest consumingÌęa gallon of water per day year-round to stay hydrated during your time at the park,Ìęand after I slurped down nearly three liters on a three-mile hike, I’d say that advice isÌępretty spot-on. You’ll find water at the and at the and trailhead. Shade is even harder to come by than water once you leave the car.

Enjoy—and respect—the power of wind and water. The park’s incredible formations wouldn’t exist if not for the heavy-duty scouring power of Mother Nature at her most intense. Of course, these same erosive forces continue to shape ArchesÌętoday. Visitors have been stranded on trails and roads when flash floods inundate low-lying areas, and others have been gripped by quicksand after heavy rains. Sandstone fins (narrow walls that remain after surrounding rock has been eroded away)Ìęare no place to be near during high windsÌęor when slicked with rain, snow, or ice. And sudden rockfall is more common than you’d think. doubled in size after dislodging a hefty boulder in 1940, belched up some of its innards in front of surprised onlookers in 1991, and disintegrated under the cloak of darkness in 2008.

The park feels crowded, but it actually isn’t. Relatively speaking, Arches is a fairly compact park (at roughly 76,000 acres), with very few named routes. This means that viewpoints and trails (not to mention front-gate traffic) can often feel jammed. You can still beat the crowds, however, by going the extra mile—literally and figuratively. Set the timer on your coffeepot and commit to arriving before dawn. Not only is it absolutely awe-inspiring to watch sunrise light up the sandstone (along with the La Sal Mountains to the southeast), but it’s also a smart way to sneak in some solitude on the park’s most popular trails. I also recommend going deep and striking out on Arches’ network of unpaved roads. Developed areas make up only a tiny portion of the park’s acreage, and there’s so much more to see once you leave the pavement behind.

How to Get There

Arches is located offÌęU.S. Route 191, just north of the adventure outpost of Moab, which is centrally situatedÌęnear Utah’s border with Colorado. Those who flyÌęcan land at tiny (about 15 minutes north of the park entrance), (about an hour and a half east), or the much bigger (three and a half hours northwest). Bus and train service will take you as far as Green River, a quiet burg known for its paddling access and tasty melons, someÌę45 minutes from Moab. No matter which option you choose, you’re still going to want a car, which you can rent in any of the places listed above. While you can pay for a to cart you around, there is no public transportation inside the park.

When Is the Best Time of Year to Visit Arches National Park?

Winter

Snow isn’t uncommon during the winter months when temperatures hover in the forties during the day and routinely dip below freezing at night. But if you’re prepared with the proper gear, it’s a real treat to see the vivid red-rock landscape all iced up like a somewhat psychedelic gingerbread cookie. Another upside for your efforts? This time of year is when the park experiences its lowest visitation and you’re most likely to snag a site at its sole campground.

Spring

Welcome back, humans! Between the thawed-out trails and crowd-drawing events like the , an annual off-roading get-together that involves four-wheelers tacklingÌęthe backcountry, prepare to jostle for space at popular viewpoints and on shorter trails, as well as for lodging and dining in town. Still, it’s hard to beat Arches this time of year—the mercury begins to rise, with daytime highs topping off in the sixtiesÌęand seventies, and tiny wildflowers start to sprout from the desert crust.

Summer

Despite my aforementioned Delicate Arch adventure, I maintain that the best way for most folks to experience Arches in the summertime is from inside an air-conditioned vehicle or towardÌęnightfall, when temperatures slide into the sixties. That said, I’ve seen just as many people crawling along its trails in July as I have in March—that is, a lot. I can’t say it enough: carry lots of water and drink said water, no matter what kind of activity you’re doing in the park. And come prepared for the monsoon season, which is marked by intense thunderstorms prone to causing flash floods; this seasonÌębegins in July and can last through September.

Fall

Sweet relief! Temperatures dip back down to mirror springtime conditions, and luckily, come November, the hordesÌębegin to do the same. Darkness arrives more quickly this time of year, but that just leaves more time for stargazing; consider signing up for a to maximize the experience.

Where to Stay in and near Arches National Park

Camping

The onlyÌęlodging option inside the park is the ($25), a slickrock-flanked oasis at the end of the park’s main road. Reservations are available and recommended via Recreation.gov March through October and are available up to six months in advance; its 51 sites are first come, first served for the rest of the year.

If you strike out, however, there are plenty of other options scattered around the greater Moab area, including an endless parade of stuffed with equally endless amenities. Feeling fancy? Ramp it up a notch (or several) with a glamping experience at Moab’s outpost (from $300), located about seven miles north of the park entrance.

For more rustic surrounds, bunk down at one of 26 different BLM camping areas dotted around the area, all of which are first come, first served (from $10), except for the reservoir-adjacent Ìę($20), which requires advance reservations from March through mid-November. While the picturesque sites dotting the Colorado River are always full, I’m partial to the ones scattered along the more remote Kane Creek Road, tucked beneath sheer walls of red rock. If you pitch a tentÌęat Ìę($20), it’s only a short walk to enter its namesake gorge, where idyllic swimming holes provide the perfect escape from summer heat (and Arches crowds).

Hotels

I’m not sure what the exact hotel-to-resident ratio is in Moab, but it’s gotta be pretty high. That said, it’s still competitive to snag any of the more “affordable” options in town, especially on a weekend, especially during high season, and especially if you’re coming through at the last minute. I once stayed at a cheap chain motel in Green Valley—a soul-draining 45 minutes away—after making such a poor planning decision myself.ÌęIn Moab, I have a certain affection for the (from $16), a sort of ramshackle collectionÌęof traditional bunkhouse dorms, private rooms, and extremely simple log cabins located on the south end of town. If someone else wanted to foot the bill, though, I’d happily shack up at the dreamy (from $780), an upscale resort nestled along the Colorado River about a half-hour east of the park. Families dig the (from $200), a roadside motel right in the heart of town that’s been jazzed up with retro decor, an arcade, and a waterslide. (from $153), a colorful selection of condo-like suites, is also centrally located (and generally quieter). Closer to the park entrance, theÌę (from $120) is a more traditional midrange hotel featuring a pool, playground, coffee bar, and surprisingly robust breakfast buffet.

What to Do

Sightseeing

Get the lay of the land by cruisingÌęthe park’s 18-mile , which rolls past a handful of pull-outs and overlooks that showcase the most fantastical examples of this wild landscape. A spur marked by signageÌęfor the park’s —so named for the portholes that have been gouged from the rock—is worth the tripÌęas well.

Day Hiking

Yes, it’s worth the hype—you really should see Delicate Arch while you’re at Arches. You don’t have to make the somewhat strenuous three-mile round-trip to do so (although it’s a great hike); instead, bypass the trailhead and drive a little farther down to a pair of viewpoints. The lower one is only 50 yards from the parking lot along an accessible path, while the upper one rewards a half-mile climb with a closer look.

Another accessible and very worthy stop is the gravity-defying , which can be seen from its parking lot or from a 0.3-mile loop, roughly half of which is paved. Nearby, the Windows Area is an extremely popular stop, especially at sunrise, when you can scamper around the back side of North Window to look through and spot Turret Arch bathed in alpenglow. The mile-long , which connects its namesake overlook with the , is a quieter option (though just as beautiful)Ìęat sunrise and sunset.

Deeper into the park, the impossibly thin (1.8 miles round-trip), the longest such span in North America at 306 feet, is a must-see. If you’re feeling adventurous (and aren’t afraid of heights), continue past this point to complete a 7.9-mile loop of the Devils Garden area; the routeÌętravels across vertigo-inducing sandstone fins and requires good navigation skills. My favorite bang-for-your-buck hike, however, is a deceptively diverse 2.6-mile loop that links together , . Depart from the trailhead located across from site 39 in the campground (limited parking is available) to enjoy relative solitude, along with some fun slickrock and canyon travel.

Backpacking

Between the sparse trail system, lack of natural water sources, and fragile terrain (more on this shortly), backpacking in Arches is not as common as it is in other marquee parks. That said, it is possible—although you’ll needÌęexcellent navigation and route-finding skills, the capacity to carry a lot of water (and carry out your waste), and a general air of self-sufficiency. Highly experienced hikers who are also comfortable with exposed scrambles, canyoneering techniques, and traditional map-and-compass navigation might consider hopping on what’s known as the , whose unmarked northern terminus is located in the park’s northwest corner on Salt Valley Road. Less an established path than a series of recommended routes, this 800-mile (give or take) adventure winds through some of Utah’s most stunning public lands and traverses the Grand Canyon before reaching its southern end point at Zion National Park’s Weeping Wall.

Climbing

The good news is that there is climbing in the park, most of it on trad routes with fairly easy approaches. The bad news is that nearly all of the established routes are closed from March through August to allow raptors to breed in peace. If you decide to rope up outside of that time frame, keep in mind that unlike the popular area about an hour south of Moab, the sandstone here is very crumbly; avoid climbing on wet rock.

Driving

While you can’t go off-roading (or use off-highway vehicles) anywhere in the park, you can get off the beaten path by tooling around its quiet interior via a somewhat slim network of unpaved roads, one of which—Salt Valley Road—is accessible to two-wheel-drive vehicles. This route travels between the Devils Garden area and the park’s northeast boundary; a 2.6-mile round-trip near the latter deposits you at , situatedÌęin the fantastically lumpy Klondike Bluffs. If you have four-wheel drive, make time to visit Herdina Park, an even more remote area home to several arches and zero crowds. Keep an eye on the weather no matter where you drive, and stay off backcountry roads right after a rain, when they turn into wheel-swallowing mush.

Cycling

Moab is arguably one of the best mountain-biking destinations in the U.S., but you can’t get your fix inside the park, where it isn’t allowed. That said, you can still cruise along any of its roads. Just know that you’re going to share space with a lot of cars if you stick to pavement; making the steep, narrow, winding climb from or descentÌęto the visitor center is not without its risks.

If you want to see at least some of Arches from your saddle, hit up the BLM’s area directly to the park’s west; itÌęoffers a nice variety of trails with great views into the park, including a portion of Courthouse Wash and the Klondike Bluffs. If you’re visiting without a rig, rent one from the knowledgeable folks at . During my most recent visit, I grabbed a full-suspension beauty from the shopÌęand joined an excellent guide from (from $85), who very (very) patiently helped me feel more confident navigating over rocks after I got a little too excited and suffered an epic wipeout atÌęthe beginning of our ride.

Canyoneering

While a handful of canyoneering routes exist in the park, the most popular by far is a journey through what’s known as the , an unmarked sandstone labyrinth that requires sticky-soled shoes, a good sense of balance, and an even better sense of direction. While it’s possible to for a self-guided trip ($3 to $6 via Recreation.gov), it’s better to buy a ticket for a ranger-led tour ($10 to $16) unless you have previous experience navigating the mazelike canyons or are traveling with someone who does. (Note: The Fiery Furnace has been closed throughout the COVID-19 pandemic.)

The Best Places to Eat and Drink Around Arches National Park

While the park itself doesn’t contain any type of food service, Moab offers a decent variety for its size. In addition to the much larger City Market, picnickers can stop by the to grab health-conscious goodies along with made-to-order deli items. Early risers should swing by to grab some solid coffee and a sandwich or burrito to go. (I’m partial to the green-chile-studded Wescial.)

Lunchtime throngsÌęgather in the center of town at , a bright yellow rig whose cheesy treats are on offer right next to a wider selection of wheeled delights at the . For something slightly heartier, grab a banh miÌęand a yuzu limeade at , or tuck into one of ’s drool-worthy crispy chicken sandwiches. Go ahead and scoop up a few of the bakeshop’s decadent pastries while you’re there; resistance is futile.

Dinner is, of course, prime time for carbo-loading. Join fellow adventure junkies at the family-friendly for some hearty calorie bombs, or loosen your wallet a hair and settle in a few blocks down at , a Neapolitan pizzeria whose sublime pistachio pie (complete with the most wonderfully chewy gluten-free crust I’ve ever had the pleasure to eat) will live rent-free in my mind for eternity. Not feeling like Italian cuisine? Get your noodle (or rice) fix at , where the chefs manage to elevate classics like pad thai and massaman curry.

If You Have Time for a Detour

Listen—it’s not if you have time for a detour, it’s that you’dÌębetter make time for a detour. Moab isÌęa fantastic base camp for enjoying all the region has to offer.

The most obvious side trip is one to neighboring Canyonlands National Park, about a half-hour southwest from Arches’Ìęvisitor center (although long lines might strand you on the entrance road for much longer). This section of the park rises like a wedge above the snaking Colorado and Green Rivers, whose tight bends carve striking canyons over 2,000 feet below. Cruise to to take in the stunning scenery. For a moreÌęilluminating perspective on the local landscape, set out at dawn for the short hike to cliffside , which absolutely glows at sunrise; just know that you won’t be the only person jockeying for the perfect photo.

The same road that leads to Canyonlands, State Route 313, will also steer you toward , whose namesake overlook is worth the price of admission (from $20). But you’d be remiss to simply gawk and go; instead, leash up Fido to enjoy the roughly seven miles of trail that trace the rim, or saddle up to pedal the park’s network of beginner-to-intermediate-level mountain-bike trails. More experienced riders should head farther north on State RouteÌę313 to the , a slickrock paradise best known for its namesake loop, a 17.5-mile, view-soaked roller coaster.

Although it’s incredible to scope the mighty Colorado River from high above its waters, make time to get down toÌęits level by driving all 44 eye-popping miles of State Route 128, most of which runs directly next to the iconic flow. Dip off the main drag for side trips to ogle—or even climb—the postcard spires of and ; a 4.5-mile trail weaves throughout the latter. If you want to get even closer to the river, consider launching your own craft or booking a guided rafting trip (the will steer you right).

If you’re short on time and can’t fit any of these lengthier options into your schedule, make tracks for , where a three-mile round-trip hike will deposit you on a slickrock slope beneath this gawk-worthy natural wonder.

How to Be a Conscious Visitor

No matter what you choose to do during your visit to Arches, tread lightly. Stick to the park’s established trails and roads.ÌęIf you do go off-trail, travel only on rock and soft sand surfaces to avoid damaging the plentiful cryptobiotic soil, a living crust that helps tiny desert plants stay rooted andÌęretains moisture in the parched ground. Rock art is found throughout the park; if you are lucky enough to encounter some, appreciate it from afar. Finally, resist the urge to turn the park’sÌęactual arches into your own personal jungle gym. As you’ve no doubt learned, Mother Nature doesn’t need any assistance on the erosion front.

The post The Ultimate Arches National Park Travel Guide appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

On Friday, April 9, climbing guide Darrin Reay and a few friends went to the remote Sunshine Wall Slabs north of Utah’s Arches National Park for a weekend of climbing. When they arrived, they came across three newly bolted sport routes.Ìę

Reay started up one of the new lines, an easy 5.3. About 30 feet off the ground, though, he came face to face with the image of a warrior holding a spear etched into the agate. Reay realized he was climbing through an entire 20-by-30-footÌępanel of a few dozen Native petroglyphs.

“The route went straight through the whole thing,” Reay told șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű. After downclimbing and determining that the two nearby routes were also bolted through the petroglyph panel, Reay and his friends spent the weekend removing the bolts and documenting the damage.

“I thought about leaving them up for the sake of reporting them,” Reay told friend and climber Stewart Green, who about the incident on Facebook. “But I just couldn’t leave them up. It was my duty.” The petroglyphs, Green thought, appeared to be from the Fremont people, a pre-Columbian Native American culture that inhabited Utah and parts of surrounding states between 2,000 and 700 years ago. It’s unclear whether or not Green is correct, but similar petroglyphs attributed to the Fremont people have been documented in other areas nearby.Ìę

It didn’t take long to figure out the bolts’ origin. Reay and his friendsÌęfound the routes posted on , a user-generated database of climbing routes, and traced the incident back to Richard Gilbert, a climber from Colorado Springs, Colorado.Ìę

Gilbert, a veteran of the Marines and a 15-year climber, has since come out publicly with an apology and a description of his actions, which he insists is “no excuse for the damage done.”Ìę

According to Gilbert, in late March he explored the unbolted wall in the Sunshine Slabs area and mistook a number of petroglyphs for graffiti, attributing what he assumed wasÌęvandalism to the wall’s proximity to aÌępublic campground. HeÌędecided it would be safe to develop routes up the wall.ÌęLater heÌęadded information about the new routes to Mountain Project, mentioning what he interpreted as graffiti in the description. (Those routes were eventually removed by an administrator to discourage climbing in the area.) It only took a few weeks for his mistake to catch the attention of the website’s dedicated community of climbers. Outrage quickly followed.

Gilbert’s story unfolded largely through conversations on Mountain Project’s forums, where he says he first realized his error. “On Sunday night, I saw a post on my route [at Sunshine Slabs] and it said, ‘Hey, this is not graffiti, these are petroglyphs.’ I was like, Oh my gosh, I completely messed this up, I’m going to fix it right now,” he said.ÌęHe changedÌęthe routeÌędescriptionsÌęon Mountain Project to steer climbers away from the area, droveÌęback to the wall to fill in the bolt holes, and leftÌęa sign to draw attention to the petroglyphs.

“It’s wrong. It shouldn’t have happened. It’s just poor education on my part, and I do take full responsibility,” Gilbert says.

He returned to the area on Monday, April 12, and met with authorities from the Moab Bureau of Land Management to report the incident in person. “I told him this was my mistake, and asked what do I have to do to make sure other people aren’t paying for my mistake,” he said. The BLM officeÌęopened an investigation after theÌęmeeting and previous calls to report the incident, Gilbert said. (The BLM office did not respond to requests for comment in time for publication.) According to , rock art like this is federally protected, and damaging acts can lead to felony and/or misdemeanor charges, with penalties that can includeÌęup to a ten-year prison sentence and $100,000 in fines.

Meanwhile, conversations online about the incident turned to death threats against Gilbert and expressed anger over his actions, including many public posts on Mountain Project’s forums and direct messages and phone calls to him.

Green posted about the incident on Facebook this week, advocating for more awareness in the climbing community around cultural resources and Leave No Trace policies. “The fact is that we just can’t do whatever we want as climbers anymore,” he wrote, “unlike the Wild West days when I was a young climber and anything went.”

Similar situations have played out in popular climbing areas across the United States, including , , and , where routes have been removed and areas nearÌęrock-art sites have been closed.

Along with the apology both online and in an , Gilbert has acknowledged the work required to not only repair the physical damageÌębut also the ties with Native communities after the damage. “I’m not the victim here,” he said. “I made a mistake, and I’ll pay for my mistake, but I think it’s also important to let the Native individuals have a voice and be heard now.”Ìę

Gilbert, Reay, and Green each expressed the importance this incident has had in teaching climbers the history of the sites they climb onÌęand the need to prevent these problems in the future. “I want this to educate people on the outdoors as much as possible,” Reay said. “It’s been a passion of mine for a long time, and I don’t want to see these places and our access to public lands jeopardized because of a few people’s actions.”

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In 1993, while squandering a perfectly good college degree, I washed up on the shores of the Colorado River in the sweltering hamlet of Moab, Utah, and found work as a river guide and dishwasher. I was 22. I’d left San Francisco, where, like other English majors, I had hoped to find the writer’s life but instead worked bad jobs to pay rent, which back then was $350. Exorbitant, I thought. In the desert, I fell in with a circle of rock climbers, Jack Mormons, Navy vets, survivalists, earthen-home builders, truant teenagers, cowboys, a Broadway dancer, a Bryn Mawr art history major, and a petite international relations Ph.D. rowing rafts for $50 a day. Most of the people I knew drifted in for a season, hustled tips on the river or in diners, shacked up in tents and buses, then drifted off again.

I’d been invited to dinner at the home of one of my fellow guides, and when I stepped onto the creaky floorboards of the old cottage, I discovered a woman in jeans and sandals and a sleeveless shirt stirring soup on the stove. Her shoulders and hair were bronzed by the sun. She was tall and lean, with chiseled cheekbones, a square jaw, and flinty green eyes. She offered me a bowl of miso soup, and though I’d been raised in Los Angeles—I was no rube—I didn’t know what it was.Ìę

“Fermented soybean paste,” she said with a kind of irony, perhaps embarrassed to possess this knowledge.

It was delicious. To this day, whenever I have a bowl, I think it was she who invented it.Ìę

Wendy was a decade older than me and, unlike the rest of us, presented as an actual adult. She owned a business and a Toyota 4Runner and had worked on fishing boats in Alaska. I, meanwhile, lived in my station wagon and dated a 17-year-old. For most of the year, she stayed a few hours away, near Telluride, Colorado, living with a full-grown man named Buck, who had a beard and a braid down his back. Buck was an artist. Together, they had opened a shop on Main Street in Moab to sell his screen-printed shirts.Ìę

Wendy and I took a walk together one afternoon, high on a windswept red mesa studded with piñon and juniper. With the given name of Frances Wendell, she had a pedigree particular to the American West, unlike anyone I’d met in the suburbs of L.A. Her mother was a Seven Sisters blue blood who’d gone to a Montana dude ranch one summer in the 1950s and fell in love with a strapping son of the owners. She married and stayed there on a ranch on Hanging Woman Creek, a name so arch-western that not only could I not make it up, but Louis L’Amour . Wendy and her brothers moved from ranch to ranch, and she came of age in a settlement called Emigrant, in Montana’s Paradise Valley, where she rode her horse to school and was crowned rodeo queen. After getting a college education nearby, she found herself engaged to the scion of a cattle empire who listened to Bach in his Mercedes. Wendy spent the engagement clinically inseminating prize heifers and anticipating an entire life of the same.Ìę

Then the rodeo came to town.

Wendy met a clown. She described him to me as the desert breeze blew in her hair, her eyes glossy. “He had a Fu Manchu mustache and an eight ball of coke. We took off in a Porsche,” she said. “The next day, we were in Canada.”

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