I have run and bicycled a certain one-mile section of the paved riverfront multi-use path in my hometown probably at least 200 or 300 times. A handful of times, I have thought to myself, “I should really stop and read some of these historical plaques along the trail.” I believed there to be two or three of them, and in four years, I never made the minuscule effort to pull off the trail even once for the 60 to 90 seconds required to read them.

A few weeks ago, though, I finished reading what I think is now one of my favorite adventure books, and I got inspired. Because books can do that.

Dean Karnazes’s Ultramarathon Man inspired hundreds or thousands of people to try ultrarunning, Colin Fletcher’s books inspired probably thousands of people to take up backpacking, and Cheryl Strayed’s Wild inspired a generation of thru-hikers. My friend Alastair Humphreys’ new-ish book was the catalyst for one of the least epic, but most satisfying adventures of my recent life.

The book is called Local: A Search for Nearby Nature and Wildness, and the concept is this: A guy who lives in the suburbs of London looks for adventure on the 400-square-kilometer map with his house in the center. This particular guy has bicycled 46,000 miles around the world for four years, rowed a boat across the Atlantic Ocean, and walked across the Empty Quarter Desert towing a giant homemade cart. It’s no Into Thin Air, or story of survival in Antarctica, or tale of the first human forays into some unexplored corner of Earth. But Al got this map, decided to spend a year essentially “staying home,” exploring one randomly-selected square kilometer per week, whether or not it looked interesting on the map.

Here is one of my favorite paragraphs in the book, on page nine:

“What if where I live, this bog-standard corner of England, which had held no surprises for me, was actually full of them, if I only bothered to go out and find them? Not known, because not looked for. This was an opportunity to get to know my place for the first time and to search closer to home than ever before for things I’ve chased around the globe: adventure, nature, wildness, surprises, silence and perspective.”

I imagine having to write a book about the experience pushed Al to try to dig up interesting things about each grid square he explored—which, in my reading, often resulted in me looking up from the book and saying to Hilary, “Did you know 
” And it reminded me of some of the best tour guides I’ve met on trips, who remain enthusiastic after repeating the same facts and figures hundreds of times—or my sister-in-law’s father, John, who has lived in the same town in Wisconsin for almost his entire life and seems to have a million pieces of local trivia ready at all times. And how last year I traveled to a spot very close to my hometown’s , but still hadn’t read the goddamn signs on the riverfront path I’m on five times a week.

So Tuesday morning, after riding my bike to drop off our little guy at daycare, I pedaled down the section of path I’ve traversed so many times on foot and on skinny tires, and I stopped at every single plaque. There are 10 of them in the span of that one mile, detailing the human and geologic history of the valley here dating back 16,000 years: the lumber baron who built a mansion near the mouth of the creek (and whose widow, more notably, donated the land for the city’s first park), the bridges that washed away in floods, the glacial lake that flooded and carved out the valley several times in “one of the most significant geological events in the history of the world,” and did you know we used to have a streetcar here? I mean, I guess not really “we,” but the people who lived here a century ago.

Several years ago, at an American adventure film festival, I saw a film of an expedition to climb a mountain in a country halfway around the world. In one scene, as the team of climbers slogged onward and upward through the jungle under ridiculously heavy backpacks, they passed through a village and a few local children and adults watched them. The characters in the film were of course far from home, very “out there” in many ways, and struggling against great odds for a goal and a story about trying to reach that goal. But to the people who lived in the village, it was just Wednesday. Maybe a notable Wednesday, since these weird people with colorful clothing and backpacks were passing through, and that didn’t happen every Wednesday. But I found myself thinking more of the contrast: Eight people having a capital-A adventure within ten feet of other people sitting in their front yards. Which is something that never happens in my neighborhood, because people don’t fly halfway around the world to climb the mountains near my house.

But should you have to spend several days and thousands of dollars traveling to have an interesting experience? Seems a little elitist, doesn’t it?

My friend Forest and I have spent time together in many beautiful places, usually as photographer (him) and writer (me). I have picked up a handful of camera tricks from him over the years, but have no illusions about switching careers to photography. I asked him one time to tell me how I could improve my photography, based on what he’d seen, and he gently suggested that I should try to get closer. Of course he was right—I always default to the “tiny person in huge landscape” shot, which is easy for me to see and feel (we’re so small out there!), but hard to replicate without a long lens. Being able to look closer, to zoom in, is something I still struggle with, literally in photography and metaphorically in life. Isn’t it harder to experience wonder the closer you are to where you live and work and get stuck in traffic and take out the trash, or is that just me? I aspire to be someone who can find wonder anywhere.

I’m not saying that reading a handful of plaques has now made me some sort of expert. But it did send me to the library, and to Google some things—which I wouldn’t have Googled without having my interest piqued by what was on those plaques (the environmental disaster behind the old dam) and what was not on those plaques. (Okay, but what about the history of indigenous people in this area?) Which is something we are lucky to have the ability to do nowadays, to follow up on our interest(s) .

Another paragraph from the introduction of Local:

“I’d imagined this would be a year of poking around rabbit holes in the countryside, but it became a year of falling down internet rabbit holes about hundreds of obscure topics, as well as reading dozens of books about history, nature, farming, and the climate emergency. Anything clever you read in the following pages, and almost every fact and figure, was new to me when I began this book. Do not make the mistake of thinking I’m a clever person who can stand in an empty field and see biology, geology, and every other ’ology, while you merely see a field. I, too, saw only the fields before I started, but paying close attention unveiled so much.”

Of course I love to travel, and some of my favorite places in the world are special because the first time I visited, a friend who lived there showed me around. And tour guides are great, but nothing beats someone who is enthusiastic about where they live, because they’ve paid attention to it and don’t mind sharing it with someone else. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to do some research on this streetcar we used to have here in the early 1900s, so I can tell visiting friends about it for the next decade.

If you’d like to read Local (which has been longlisted for the Wainwright Prize!), here’s where you can find it:

ÌęÌęÌę

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In the summer of 1991, Mical Garcia was 19 years old, taking classes at a cosmetology school in the farm town of Manteca, California, when she got an alarming call from her stepdad in Las Vegas. Her mother had run off. He came home from work to find her possessions gone, and a note explaining that she’d been leading a double life and did not want to be contacted.

Mical, who helps people pronounce her name by saying “like ‘me call you,’” was surprised but not overly concerned at the time. Her mother, Linda Sue Anderson, was carefree and a bit wild. “We’d play that song ‘Delta Dawn’ really loud, sing at the top of our lungs even though we didn’t have great voices, and dance,” Mical told me recently. Her mom once took her to see the Vegas crooner Engelbert Humperdinck in concert. Linda was beautiful, always had her long blond hair done, her nails and makeup just so. “She was never a Betty Crocker stay-at-home mom.”

The flip side was mood swings, which Mical, who is now a nurse, thinks could have been diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Linda would lock herself in her room, leaving Mical to babysit her sister, Dulcenea, and her brother, Ethan, who everyone called Petey. “I was in first or second grade, and I was cooking for them. My dad was traveling. She wouldn’t open the door.” Other times Linda, who worked as a travel agent, would disappear for days.

The family moved around a lot. When their parents divorced, they were living near Lake Tahoe. Their father won full custody and took the family to Manteca. Linda remarried and settled in Nevada. Her new husband was a pit boss at Caesars Palace with a degree from Stanford University. “He worshipped the ground she walked on,” Mical said. “I never heard they were having problems.”

So when Linda ran off, the Garcia children figured she’d come back eventually—just like she always had.

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Joe Buffalo Child grew up beneath the northern lights, but one starry winter night in particular remains etched in his memory. He was six years old and camping with his grandparents to monitor the family trapline, a 50-mile stretch of snares set for rabbits and muskrats in the snowy boreal forest outside Yellowknife, the capital of Canada’s Northwest Territories. Slipping out of the cozy tent, his breath fogging as he gazed skyward, it wasn’t long before Buffalo Child found what he was seeking: “It was stars, stars, stars, then—boom! The aurora’s there,” he told me, his eyes sparkling at the flashback.

On trapline trips like these, learned about the many ways nature was tied to the traditions of his people, the , who have inhabited central and northwest Canada for over 30,000 years. By day, his grandfather took him hunting or fishing—outings that came with important lessons, like how to predict an approaching storm by studying the movement of the clouds or the height of a seagull’s flight. Come dusk, bathed in the gas lamp’s honey glow, his grandmother shared spiritual beliefs, like how Buffalo Child’s beloved tie-dyed sky dance, known in the Denesuline language as ya’ke ngas (“the sky is stirring”), carried messages from his ancestors.

“I was on the land under the aurora even as a baby,” he said. “The aurora’s always been part of our life.”

This deep knowledge of nature and cultural connection to the night sky were foundational to his future as a professional northern-lights chaser and guide for his company . Now 60 years old, Buffalo Child has spent nearly two decades sharing his aurora-tracking abilities with those willing to make the journey up to Yellowknife. He is considered one of the most well-known aurora hunters in North America.

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Josh Drinkard always wanted to build his own cabin. Growing up in suburban New Jersey, he’d wander to a small strip of woods near his childhood home and spend hours constructing forts and treehouses. When he moved to New Mexico as an adult, Drinkard, the IT Operations Manager at șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Inc., bought 2.5 acres of land in the mountain village of Truchas, about 30 miles north of Santa Fe. There, he took on his first effort at building a very simple cabin with the help of a friend who was an unlicensed contractor and taught Drinkard framing and building basics.

In 2021, Drinkard and his wife, Saraswati Khalsa, started looking at New England as a place to move once their three children were grown. After scouting around, they settled on 25 terraced, hardwood-filled acres near Halifax, Vermont, not far from the Massachusetts border.

Over the past three years, Drinkard has spent vacations building a cabin near Halifax, with the help of his wife, teenage son, and one of his daughters. After a cumulative seven weeks of effort, they can now stay there for long periods, although it still lacks internet service, a shower, and a toilet.

Learning the ins and outs of building a small log cabin in the woods is no small feat. We asked Drinkard to talk about what the project entailed and what skills are required to turn a cabin-building dream into a reality. This is what he learned.

How Big Is the Cabin?

It’s still a work in progress, but right now it’s a one-room cabin with a loft. Two people can sleep up there comfortably. The interior is just 12 feet squared. We use the lower room as the living room and kitchen. Another two people could sleep there with a foldable futon.

Why Did You Choose Vermont?

We bought this property without any services or electricity, so the price was below the national average per acre (which was about $3,000 at the time, according to Drinkard). I love the location and especially the lush green forests. We also love skiing and whitewater rafting and can do both near here; the closest mountain is Mount Snow, 18 miles north, and the closest flowing river is the Deerfield, to the west.

We liked that it’s not far from a town with big-box stores—Greenfield, Massachusetts—and that you can catch a train from Brattleboro, Vermont, to New York City. We thought that if the kids are in college, or after, if they wanted to take a train up, that would be convenient.

And I like Vermont in general. Everything has a small-town feel. There are no billboards. And it’s similar to northern New Mexico in that it’s rural and very liberal.

How Did You Get Started With the Build?

We found a spot that was flat and open. There was a little meadow on the property just big enough for a cabin, so we didn’t have to clear it. We knew we’d use the hemlock trees from the surrounding forest. I was told hemlock resists rot pretty well.

I knew I’d have to find a cheap 4×4 vehicle to leave out there, and we only had a few thousand dollars to work with. In Vermont, good pickups in that price range were all rotted out, so I settled on an old Lincoln Navigator in New Mexico that had been stolen and recovered; its interior was beat to shit. I welded a receiver hitch in front, to use as a winch and a pushbar, and I also fabricated a roof rack big enough to haul 16-foot-long lumber and plywood sheets. Then I drove it out to Vermont.

We decided to use a to build the cabin after a lot of time looking at YouTube videos. Butt-and-pass cabins go up quickly, but the drawback is you need a ton of expensive lags to connect the walls to each other and each log to the ones below.

We used logs for the whole first level of the cabin. The first year, the family came out for four days and we felled trees and placed and leveled the bottom four logs. After they left, I stayed another six days on my own and threw up the first 12 rows of logs—they weren’t that heavy—plus the floor and a temporary roof to keep the snow out.

The next year, we got the structure height to about eight feet. At this point, we started using two-by-fours for the loft level. I traded an old laptop of mine for a bunch of small windows and a door.

After the entire structure dried, we hung shingles on the front. I installed a water-catchment system and solar panels—both are sustainable. We built the loft platform inside and scraped and sealed all of the logs. And I built a small shed with scrap materials and installed more windows on the first floor.

What Was the Hardest Part?

Felling trees for the logs and dragging them around 100 yards to the build site was exhausting. And I’m not in awful shape.

Using a , we took down 30 to 40 relatively straight, light trees on the first trip out, but they kept getting hung up in the tight forest canopy. Then we cut these to 12 and 16 feet and dragged them to the site. It took a few days. The next time we were there, the following July, we cut another 30 or 40 trees.

Does the Cabin Have Plumbing and Electricity?

One of the last things I did when I was there was put in a . The rainwater goes from the roof to a gutter and through a small-screen filter to a 300-gallon IBC (intermediate builk container) tank. The tank was repurposed—it used to hold soy sauce—and someone sold it to me. I’m gonna have to plumb from that tank to a sink and an outside shower. There’s no toilet—we probably will get an outhouse but right now we’re using a bucket with a toilet seat on top.

For electricity, I have a small solar setup: two 100-watt panels and a solar battery that’s good enough to charge things and for basic lighting. The great thing about these is they’re upgradable; I just need to get more batteries and panels to turn it into something more robust that could handle, like, a fridge.

What About Heat?

I brought out a woodstove from New Mexico but decided it’s too big and that it would heat us out—that’s a mistake I made with the cabin in Truchas, too—so I’ll probably buy a small one.

Did You Have to Troubleshoot Any Unforeseen Issues?

It rained a lot one trip, in July, and the road, which is unmaintained, was turning into a rutted off-camber mess. I was having to winch up in several places, and I blew out the Navigator’s 4×4 low. So we found a local heavy-equipment operator and hired him to take down some trees and smooth out the road.ÌęBut this is an investment for us. Having a small functional cabin with a roughed-in road will increase the property value by more than what we’ve spent.

Also, except for the initial time I drove the navigator out, we’ve flown. And every time, we fly with the power tools. I check the chainsaw, the circular saw. You can’t check the batteries, so I have to carry those on.

How Did You Cut Costs?

One of our challenges was thinking up a good chinking method that wouldn’t take an entire month. There are maybe 80 trees in the structure—because they were smaller in diameter, we needed more, which also meant 80 gaps to fill. Concrete mortar was out, because we didn’t want to haul water up from the stream and mix cement. was out, because it’s too expensive. So we used a product called . This is a spray foam with a component that tastes sour, so bugs and rats don’t want to chew through it.

Pestblock worked better than I imagined, but it’s gonna yellow real bad and I’ll likely have to paint it. I tried putting floor polish over it, to keep the gray color, but it didn’t work.

Also, we didn’t strip the bark off the logs. It looks cool, but bark holds moisture and the logs can rot. After we completed the first floor, they sat for a year, and I thought that if we wire-brushed the logs after a year or so, we could then use floor polish to seal them. So far that’s been working great, but only time will tell if we have any rot. I might know in a few years.

We also stayed in a nearby campground much of the time when we were working on the cabin.

Did Your Family Like Being Involved?

We just gave my son, Mason, a nice RAV4, so we forced him to come out and be our indentured servant. After the second trip, he told me I’d worked him pretty hard but that he had a great time. He can do most jobs independently after a little training. One of our daughters also did a lot of work the first visit, carrying logs.

Saraswati, my wife, is really good at certain things like angles or eyeballing whether something is level. My eyes are awful. Also, I can have a short fuse. At the beginning, I’m fine, but after a week, it grows shorter. And Saraswati will really push to get things done when I’m ready to quit, so we get a lot more done when she’s around.

On the flip side, I have to bring her back down to earth on structural realities. She’s always form over function, and I’m the opposite. For example, we had a full-size door, but I realized that fitting it would cut too many logs on one side and compromise the structure. So we had a bit of a fight about that, because I wanted to cut the door and make it shorter. That’s what we ended up doing.

What Are You Proudest Of About the Cabin?

We did this on the cheap and haven’t splurged on anything so far—though having internet out there will be a splurge. The cabin’s a pretty basic structure, but I’m OK with that. And except for needing help fixing the road, we were able to do everything on our own. There’s no cell-phone access out there, so if you run into a jam, you just have to figure it out.

Estimated Costs for the Cabin

Land and Annual Taxes: $78,000

Building Supplies: $8,000

Driveway: $7,000

Eventual Internet Setup: $700

Flights, food, fees to stay in the nearby campground before the cabin was ready: $5,000

Total: $98,700

Tasha Zemke is °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’s managing editor and a member of șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online’s travel team. She appreciates beautiful, and especially ancient, architecture but can’t imagine building a structure of any kind, given her loathing of giant home-improvement stores.

The post How I Built a Log Cabin in 7 Weeks for Under $100K appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

When Rick Bass first found himself in the area referred to as Unit 72 by the United States Forest Service, he felt desperate and unanchored.

He was walking up what was once an overgrown logging road but had recently been clear-cut into a 200-foot-wide strip of barren land. Roughly one million board feet of sellable timber had been removed, and only a few of the largest larch remained. The Forest Service had cleared the area as a firebreak in response to the Davis fire, ignited by lightning in July 2018 in the remote, rugged Yaak Valley, which is situated within the Kootenai National Forest in northwest Montana.

Blowdown lined the edges of the firebreak. Trees once insulated from the elements were newly exposed and didn’t have the roots to sustain full-force winds.

Bass, a 66-year-old writer and conservationist, crossed a thick section of fallen old spruce, balancing himself on the larger trunks. After living in the Yaak Valley for nearly four decades, he’s sturdy, and no stranger to bushwhacking. Finally, he stepped out of the hot, dry clear-cut and through a cool, emerald-green portal. As far as recorded history could reveal, the forest he was entering—Unit 72—had never been logged.

Blanketed with ferns and dripping with moss, the forest looked like it was plucked from the Pacific Northwest and moved 350 miles inland. It’s one of the few remaining echoes of an ancient rainforest that tens of millions of years ago spread from the Washington coast into Montana. Grizzlies, lynx, and wolverines sniff and scratch through 800-year-old larch and some of the largest western hemlock, western red cedar, and Engelmann spruce in the valley. The area is one of only six habitats in the lower 48 states considered large and intact enough to support a grizzly bear population.

Relief washed over Bass. Then he saw long strips of flagging, and blue and orange paint slathered across some of the larger tree trunks. The Forest Service, it seemed, planned to log here too, in the old growth.

His first reaction was rage, but he had learned over the years that wrath was not an effective tool in the fight to protect these trees, which were too important to risk. They had survived centuries of wildfire, drought, pests, and logging that decimated other forests in the region.

Now they’re engulfed in discord, their fate to be decided by humans who can’t agree whether to actively manage the area through clear-cutting or to leave it alone.

In 2017, the USFS staff responsible for the Kootenai National Forest (KNF) proposed a sweeping 95,000-acre forest-management plan, called the Black Ram project, to “improve resilience and resistance to insects, disease, and fire.” Unit 72 would be effectively clear-cut. In the words of the KNF supervisors, they would “restart the stand” to improve the forest’s “ability to adjust to climate change.” This sparked an impassioned battle—on the ground and in federal court—between environmental advocates, local and federal governments, and other stakeholders. After seven years of disagreements, Unit 72 has yet to be logged, but it hasn’t been permanently protected, either.

With wildfire season becoming longer and more intense across the U.S. and Canada, people are desperate for answers, and the debate of how best to mitigate such fires rages on. Many at the Forest Service and in the timber industry argue that forest-clearing projects similar to the Black Ram are the answer. But it’s unclear whether these measures, which have gained popularity in the past decade, are always undertaken with the sincere goal of mitigating wildfire. Many conservationists believe that the Forest Service and the timber industry are capitalizing on the public’s fear, and that painting these projects—many of which include cutting down old growth—as restorative is merely a convenient way to justify logging.

A hefty volume could be filled with the years’ worth of court documents, scientific studies, and letters to the editor generated by the different sides of the Black Ram dispute. But let’s begin with the one thing everyone agreed on—that the Forest Service has mismanaged public forests for more than a century. A hundred years of fire suppression and immense amounts of logging have left our forests vulnerable to wildfire, insect infestation, and disease, all of which are compounded by a changing climate.

There’s good research—and people—on both sides of the Black Ram debate. The more important question is, who and what are we protecting these forests for?

The post In Montana, a Threatened Swath of Old Growth Fuels a Longstanding Debate appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

At the end of August I get the call. “The apricots are ready,” my mom says excitedly. I grab a few buckets, jump in my car, and drive the 100 or so miles from my home in Dillon, Colorado, to her place in Carbondale. We pile into her Subaru and wind a bit higher into the slopes above the Roaring Fork Valley. We wave as we pass our friends’ house, then park below their orchard, a century-old stand of apricot trees that sits at 6,500 feet.

The 50 trees here are old, and time has gnarled their branches. A weathered wooden ladder reaches into the canopy; the perfumed air reminds us of the jam making and baking that will (happily) occupy our time in the week ahead.

These days, grocery stores sell firm apricots the size of golf balls, but the soft, ripe fruit in these trees are the diameter of a quarter. It takes a while to fill a bucket, but the intense flavors are worth it. Other scavengers are around—birds, deer, even bears—and we give them plenty of space.

This orchard, which contains several apricot varieties, is believed to date back to 1915, and being here makes me think about the people who planted it, and what the trees have endured. Surely, there have been periods of extended drought and extreme cold, and yet, year after year, they continue to bring forth treasures.

“Fruit trees watch several generations go by,” says Michael Thompson, who, along with Jerome Osentowski, cofounded an organization called the , a nonprofit that maps and catalogs ancient specimens like these all over the valley.

Great old trees are not unique to Colorado or the West, of course. They dot the nation, languishing in plain sight in forgotten corners of cities and towns, and across rolling farmland. But in recent years—spurred by a renewed interest in things with rich stories and heritage behind them—there’s been a movement not just to save old trees but to propagate them for the future.

In New York City, Sam Van Aken, an artist turned farmer, planted a permanent heirloom “exhibition” on Governors Island called . The public site opened in 2022; the 102 specimens it comprises are grafted from trees—apricots, apples, pears, persimmons, cherries, and others—that once thrived across the city’s five boroughs. In total, they represent about 400 years of local agriculture.

Although most Americans get by with the fruit they find piled in grocery bins, that represents only the tiniest slice of what once freely bloomed. Take the apple. Our commercial, homogenized food system promotes varieties like the crisp but boring Fuji and Granny Smith because they are easily grown, universally accepted, and hardy enough to transport and store.

“There were once thousands of cultivated apple varieties, and now we’re down to hundreds,” says Vanessa Harmony, a tree propagator and the owner of Colorado Edible Forest in Glenwood Springs, which works in tandem with the Heritage Fruit Tree Project. “There are so many delicious fruits that could be lost if they’re not found,” she says.

That’s the role of organizations like ; Washington State University’s MyFruitTree, which works only with apples; and regional entities like Thompson’s Heritage Fruit Tree Project. Indexing each heirloom’s type, location, approximate age, fruit characteristics, and site history culminates in a written log and map of agricultural diversity. This information helps when experts are grafting clones to ensure that varieties aren’t lost to time.

Like Open Orchard in New York, Harmony, Thompson, and Osentowski have had a hand in creating a research site filled with fruit trees. The parcel, established in 2020, sits within an old orchard in Emma, Colorado, outside Basalt. It’s open to the public and will eventually feature informational placards, so visitors know what they’re looking at. Harmony helps maintain the old trees and the newly planted clones gathered from around the valley. “It’s become a living library for me,” she says.

Observing the trees through the seasons means Harmony can identify desired qualities—whether it’s the best-tasting fruit, tree hardiness, or something else. She can also send leaf samples out for genetic testing to determine exactly what kind of tree she’s dealing with. Sometimes that information yields an entirely new variety—or, rather, one so old that no one around today knew about it.

Thompson enlisted Harmony’s help with his favorite: a grand old apple tree he affectionately calls Mo. It was planted in 1910 and produces what Thompson considers the best apple he’s ever found for pie making. In recent years, this magnificent tree has suffered from blight, and even with thoughtful pruning its future is in question. Harmony has already grafted multiple clones from healthy parts of the tree. Those “Mini Mos”—two of which are planted in Thompson’s daughter’s backyard in Oregon, and two of which are doing well at Harmony’s nursery—are the next generation. “The tree will live on,” he says.

As for the apricots that leave my mom’s and my hands sticky with juice, our friends have largely let nature take its course. In the thirtyish years they have owned the property, Susy Ellison says they’ve had the orchard pruned only a couple of times. The trees, she tells me, seem to like being left alone. “You don’t want to fuss with them too much,” she explains, adding that they’ve been cataloged by the Heritage Fruit Tree Project.

We gather our buckets and load them into the car. As soon as we close the doors, we’re enveloped by the thick and heady scent of apricots. We wave again as we pass the house and drive straight to my mom’s. There’s jam to be made.

Fruit Forward: Interest in Heritage Fruit Has Blossomed

Although the Heritage Fruit Tree Project is specific to Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley, there are other organizations doing similar work around the country.

The biggest among these is the Historic Fruit Tree Working Group of North America. The serves as a national database and registry of historic trees and orchards.

Anyone interested in heirloom fruit, especially apples, should sign up for the University of Idaho Heritage Orchard Conference. The free monthly webinars are packed with info on subjects ranging from cider making to tree propagation.

New Yorkers (and those just visiting) can check out Open Orchard on Governors Island, where approximately 100 trees represent the bounty that once grew in the city’s five boroughs.

The and the are based in southwestern and western Colorado, respectively, and focus almost exclusively on apples. Both are intent on saving orchard culture as well as legacy genetics.

Apricot Snack Bars

There are a million and one jam-bar recipes out there, and this is mine—except that I use fresh fruit instead of preserves. The recipe works equally well with fresh and frozen apricots; you can also swap in seasonal berries or peaches and plums. What makes the treats so irresistible is the sweet-tart play of crust and fruit.

Makes about 12 bars

For the Filling:

• 3 cups apricots, halved or
  quartered, depending on size
• ÂŒ cup sugar
• Âœ lemon, juiced
• 2 tsp cornstarch

For the Crust:

• 1Âœ cups flour
• Âœ cup old-fashioned oats
• Âœ cup sugar
• Âœ tsp baking powder
• Âœ tsp salt
• Âœ cup unsalted butter, chilled
• ⅓ cup full-fat plain yogurt

Prepare the filling by combining apricots, sugar, and lemon juice in a medium bowl. Set aside and allow to macerate at room temperature. (This step can be done in advance.) If fruit is frozen, allow it to thaw before macerating.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Butter an eight-inch square baking pan.

Prepare the crust by stirring together flour, oats, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl. Cube butter and add to flour mixture. Use your fingers to smear and incorporate the butter into the flour mixture. Add yogurt and stir. The mixture should be dry.

Add about 1œ cups of this crust mixture to the prepared pan, or enough to cover the bottom evenly. Press mixture down with fingers or use the base of a measuring cup until firm. Press a square of parchment paper onto the surface of the crust and then add pie weights (you can also use dried beans or rice). Par-bake for 12 minutes, until set but still soft. Carefully remove parchment and weights.

Stir cornstarch into the apricots. Pour apricot mixture over crust. Sprinkle with remaining crust mixture. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes, or until top is golden brown and fruit is bubbling. Remove from the oven, allow to cool, then cut into squares.

Amanda M. Faison, a writer and editor based in Colorado, is working on her first cookbook.

The post If You’re Not Picking Heritage Fruit, You Should Be appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

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.

From my perch on the pine-covered grounds at the , I was staring down at Tomales Bay, an hour north of San Francisco, trying to make out what was splashing in the water. My mind went to the most obvious place: sharks.

In late summer, the white shark is known to frequent northern Tomales Point, on the Pacific. I calmed down, then reasoned: Maybe bat rays. The shape billowed and shrunk and appeared to be made up of separate pieces. It had to be a school of fish. Beautiful. I’d never seen anything quite like it.

Access to nature on this gorgeous, quiet stretch of Northern Cal abounds at Marconi. The newly remodeled, 45-room property feels like a sophisticated, laid-back, improved version of summer camp. But one with a sauna to shake off the coastal fog after a day of adventuring, a bar serving harder-to-find regional wines, a massive central fire pit for evening gatherings in the woods, and an ideal position on Highway 1 for quick foodie field trips or wildlife-watching.

In the span of a few hours, I observed a great blue heron stalk a gopher, a bugling bull elk with five-point antlers court a handful of females, and a wild turkey sprint across the road.

The Lodge

The setting is a hilly 62-acre , with a curious recent past that still resonates with the Bay Area’s present. In the early 1900s, Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi used the site as a receiving station to test long-distance radio signals—a precursor to today’s Wi-Fi and the Bay Area tech community. In the sixties, the property changed hands from innovative to more eccentric owners: the founders of Synanon, which began as a therapeutic drug-rehabilitation center but was eventually called out as and closed.

Today the Lodge at Marconi is all good vibes. The September weekend I visited, I shared the property with a large wedding party, young couples carrying toddlers and strolling trails with the family pup in tow (dogs are welcome overnight), and day-trippers picnicking at tables shaded by oaks and surrounded by pink lilies, with postcard views of moored fishing boats bobbing at high tide.

Marconi is on the verge of attracting considerable attention from Bay Area city-dwellers seeking a rural, comfortable hideout they can head to with family and friends. An on-site indoor-outdoor restaurant will open at the end of September with dinner service and a small bar. A day spa is in the works, as is a vegetable garden and farm-style cottages.

Eight miles south, the town of Point Reyes Station has a burgeoning artist and music scene, says Leah Fritts Vitali, Marconi’s general manager, who has resided down the road for 12 years.

“There’s an energy shift happening,” she told me, one that seems to reflect the interests and values of more visitors. Marconi appeals to those who want to learn about and buy food grown locally, eat meals made from scratch, and spend time exploring protected lands, notably Point Reyes National Seashore, across the bay. “Here you have the wilderness and a luxury lodge at a state park, and then this great community. Is this the benchmark of what’s to come elsewhere?”

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel

The state park is crisscrossed by 3.5 miles of gently graded hiking trails. On an afternoon stroll, I topped out at the knoll called Tower Hill and looked toward the mouth of the narrow bay and across the water to the Point Reyes peninsula. Coastal clouds slid lazily over the low hills.

When the weather holds, the lodge offers free outdoor yoga on Sunday mornings, an ideal way to take in the eucalyptus- and pine-scented air. There are horseshoes and cornhole and volleyball and basketball courts. And whether you intend to or not, you’ll be birding; I saw turkey vultures, red-tailed hawks, and woodpeckers during my stay. If you’re looking for something rare, keep your binocs trained to the shoreline at the base of the property for , a threatened species.

Trips afield should definitely be part of your stay at Marconi. Reception staff can book horseback riding, photography safaris, and kayak rentals or guided tours of the bay—if your stay coincides with a new moon, be sure to get out on the water one night to paddle through the .

Before check-in, I spent the morning hiking the 9.7-mile (round-trip) at the northern tip of Point Reyes in search of the resident Tule elk herd. I came upon a half dozen after a mile, practically right next to me, and another handful ambling up steep bluffs through the mist about a mile later. The park has countless possibilities for recreation, is a quick and beautiful 11-mile drive from the lodge, and admission is free.

Choice Rooms

Marconi’s midcentury-modernistic buildings blend into the forested surrounds, with the fire pit as focal point. The popular spot is ringed with Adirondack chairs and just a quick trot to the lobby’s grab-and-go store, stocked with snacks and drinks. I loved how the main cluster of rooms so thoughtfully brought folks together.

If you’re a family, request one of the room configurations with a central downstairs bed and a loft with a second bed. I heard the mom in the room next to mine use that as an enthusiastic pitch to her youngster: “Look, your own space!” If your group is looking to sleep up to six, book rooms 304 and 305, which connect.

If you’re a couple here for a secluded getaway for two, the homey, singular A-frame is the best nest. The newlyweds who were married at the property holed up there, canoodling on the sunset-facing deck that overlooked the bay and eastern shores of Point Reyes. It provides a full kitchen, a huge, handsomely tiled bathroom with a tub, a spacious living room, and a king bedroom at the structure’s apex.

Eat and Drink

Starting September 30, you can amble the short distance from your accommodation to a brand-new 63-seat restaurant and bar called Mable’s (a loose acronym for the marine atmospheric boundary layer—the air that cools the Northern California coast in summer). The Mediterranean menu and wine and cocktails will draw largely from local ingredients, and by the end of 2025, Mable’s is expected to offer breakfast and bag lunches that you can stick in your daypack.

If you’re like most foodies, though, you already have a list of places nearby you intend to check out. One of those is probably the famous . Breakfast pastries from its downtown Tomales location are delivered to the lodge for guests to purchase, but you should go for yourself to indulge in the mouth-watering scents and test your power of restraint in the face of so many variations of warm bread. The waterfront Marshall Store, just a mile from the lodge, has all kinds of homemade sandwiches, soups, and goodies to satiate you during Ìęyour stay or bring home to gift.

I like to have lunch in Point Reyes Station at the , a micro food hall. Pony up to The Farmer’s Wife for some gooey goodness—one of its signature seasonal melts. The menu boasts 18 of these sandwiches, and the Belly and Jelly—with bacon, apricot conserve, and aged Cheddar and blue cheese—is a customer favorite. What I’m suggesting next could be dairy overdose, but you absolutely can’t leave town without trying Double 8 Dairy’s buffalo-milk soft serve paired with whichever daily fermented fruit soda Wild West Ferments has on tap. The combo is a one-of-a-kind . I’ll say no more.

When to Go

Fall is the heralded season in West Marin, when the marine layer gives way to more frequent sunny days; that said, you should always pack a puffy and expect evenings that drop to the fifties this season. Elk rutting happens from August through October, when males are their most vocal.

Fritts Vitali likes the “drama of the weather” in winter. December is when elephant seals begin to appear on beaches at Point Reyes National Seashore, where they remain generally until March.

The spring months are the greenest of the year. Wildflowers are in full bloom mid-April through mid-June, and the spring bird migration is celebrated with a three-day in April.

Four species of whales can be spotted off the Pacific in the summer months. August through November, Tomales Bay tends to have more nights of bioluminescence, because the water is warmer and calmer—especially enjoyable conditions for night kayakers.

How to Get There

You’ll want a car to reach the Lodge at Marconi and make the most of your time in the area. The closest airport is in Santa Rosa, 40 miles northeast, but if you’re coming from farther afield, fly into the international airports in San Francisco and Oakland, both some 60 miles south.

One word of advice: If you’re headed up from San Francisco and prone to carsickness or vertigo, avoid Highway 1. The more streamlined route to Marconi is via Highway 101, turning west in Novato and continuing to Point Reyes Station.

Don’t Miss

Although there are a handful of farms that harvest oysters in Tomales Bay, is my favorite, and here’s why: not only is it the most convenient to the Lodge at Marconi, but it’s sustainable, founded by two marine biologists devoted to responsible practices, and the only such local farm to offer regular educational tours to the public ($48).

Marconi staff can secure you a spot here—the 75-minute tours book up in advance, so it helps to have an in. You won’t go out on the water but you will have a chance to see the construction of the oyster beds, understand the whole process from seed to table, and end your schooling with a primer on how to properly shuck the bivalves and a tasting.

Stick around for a fantastic brunch at its simple and scenic bayfront Boat Oyster Bar. The ripe tomato, peach, and apple salad I ordered (above left) was just as bright as the sweetwater oysters in mignonette sauce, and all of it washed down nicely with one of the best sake Bloody Marys of my life. Tops.

Details

Price: From $299

Address: 18500 Highway 1
Marshall, CA 94940

To book: Click to get a 15 percent discount when making your reservation orÌę (If you buy through our links, we may earn an affiliate commission. This supports our mission to get more people active and outside. Learn more.)

Tasha Zemke is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s managing editor and a member of its online travel team. She thinks the greater Tomales Bay area is one of the best places in the world to work up an appetite outdoors and reward yourself with amazing locally sourced food and drinks.

The post The Lodge at Marconi Opens the Door to Gorgeous Nature and an Incredible Local Food Scene appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

In my early twenties, I worked briefly as a snorkel assistant on a tourist boat in Maui. I helped guests defog their mask and get their fins on and off, but mostly my job entailed making sure everyone had a good time.

On my first day, the captain gave me some sage advice: “Sometimes the best response to a guest is to simply smile and nod.” I did a lot of smiling and nodding that summer, to questions like “Has the ocean been sprayed for sharks?” and “Does the water go all the way around the island?” Maybe the sun was getting to people, I thought. Maybe it was vacation brain, which we all lapse into on occasion. I laughed these off amiably.

Fielding such nonsensical queries gave me a whole new appreciation for wilderness guides. We pepper them with endless curiosities, and they respond with infinite patience and kindness. They educate millions of people largely disconnected from nature and some who think caribou magically turn into elk at a certain elevation. (Apparently, this a very popular misconception.)

I asked my guide friends in the travel industry to tell me the funniest questions they’ve gotten from clients over the years. Here are some of the most hilarious.

Lessons in World Geography

“Can’t I just hop a bus from Quito to the łÒČč±ôĂĄ±èČčČ”ŽÇČő? How long would that take?” —an American client on a łÒČč±ôĂĄ±èČčČ”ŽÇČő Islands trip with Rebecca șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Travel. Staffer Katie Beckwith explained that the islands lie about 600 miles off the Ecuadorean coast, and that a plane was the best way to travel there from the nation’s landlocked capital city.

“What is the primary language taught in schools here?” —a guest on a Natural Habitat șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs trip in Alaska. “In a way, this is a testament to how exotic and remote Alaska can feel at times—like another country,” the guide I spoke with told me. “However, they still teach English in schools here, just like they do in Minnesota.”

Coming to Terms with the Concept of Sea Level

“What elevation are we at?” —a client kayaking in Antarctica with G șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs, in addition to a client standing on Pfeiffer Beach in Big Sur, California, during a Backroads trip. More than a few wilderness newbies are still sorting out what sea level means.

Swell Times and Teachings

“Do I need to know how to swim in order to snorkel?” —a traveler on an excursion specifically catered to snorkelers. Andy McComb, founder of Redline Rafting in Maui, said his team fields this question almost daily. Their response: “Well, it’s a great day for a boat ride.” I would have added gently that a snorkel is not considered a floatation device.

“Where are the waves? I paid for the waves!” —a Stoked Surf School client during a lesson on a sunny, wind-free, small-swell day off the South African coast. As surf-school owner Michelle Smith points out, any wave is good when you’re a beginner riding a nine-foot soft top. “I replied very diplomatically that I have no control over the weather, but I could assist in making the most of the conditions,” she said.

The Wilderness Really Is Wild

“Don’t be ridiculous! They wouldn’t put wild animals inside a national park.” —a client visiting Alaska’s Denali National Park and Preserve. Naturalist guide Brooke Edwards of Alaska Wildland șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs was surprised to hear this comment while explaining to her group that food should not be left out in the open in Denali National Park because animals like bear and marmots would make a grab for it.

Natural Habitat șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs specializes in eco-conscious wildlife trips. Over the years, company guides have learned how to wittingly respond to naive animal questions such as: “Polar bears look so cuddly. Don’t you think it’s OK to just pet them once, really quickly?” To which guides have replied: “Yes, you can pet them. Once. And you’ll never get to pet anything ever again.”

“Is there any way to call the butterflies closer to us?” To which guides have said. “I left my butterfly whistle at home—sorry!”

And some questions are best left unanswered, like these two:

“How many birds does a giraffe eat in a day?”

“At what age does a rhino turn into a hippo?”

There’s No Remote Control in Nature

“What time do they turn off the waterfalls?” —a frequent question fielded by the staff of Basecamp Ouray in Colorado when guiding summer hikes. Logan Tyler, founder of the outfit, said that after about 30 seconds of awkward silence, he usually just moves on, leaving the question lingering.

You Can’t Have Fries with That

“Do you think McDonald’s would pay to rebuild the Darwin Arch as fiberglass golden arches?” —a client in łÒČč±ôĂĄ±èČčČ”ŽÇČő National Park on a trip with Latin Travel Collection. Company founder David Torres explained that the famous lava arch of Darwin, which collapsed due to erosion in 2021, is a 14-hour boat ride from the closest inhabited island, so McDonald’s would likely have no interest in such advertising in the middle of the Pacific.

“Can you helicopter in Thai food, burgers, and pizza?” —a Seven Summits client at Everest Base Camp. These guides have had similar requests before, and in this instance they actually coordinated delivery from Kathmandu.

The Wilderness Is Not a Movie Set Staged for Your Pleasure

“Who paints the aspens?” —a client on a snowmobile tour to Colorado’s Maroon Bells. Guide Sam Terlingo explained that the aspens’ “paint” is natural.

“You’ve gone to so much trouble lighting the trees for Christmas.” —a camper with Tribal șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs, a tour operator specializing in remote adventures in the Philippines, pointing to the acacias along the shore. At this particular off-grid camp, those “lights” were courtesy of fireflies. Staffer Greg Hutchinson said his team just smiled and nodded.

“Is that island always there?” —a client on an Alaska Sea Kayakers trip to Prince William Sound. This was another question the guide just let go.

“Bringing all this sand and creating this lovely campsite is such a great idea. How did you do it? Must’ve taken a lot of effort.” —a guest at Aquaterra șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs’ Camp Silver Sands site on the India’s Ganga River. Founder Vaibhav Kala jokingly replied to the client, it was even more difficult to build the roads to truck all of the sand there.

“Do you mind calling park management and asking if they can release more of the blue coloring in the water? My photos are just not blue enough!” —a guest in Croatia’s Plitvice Lakes National Park, known for its 16 mesmerizingly blue waterfalls . “After a few moments, when I realized that that his question was not a joke, I explained that the colors of the lakes are all natural and changed hue through the day, depending on the sun,” shared Tihomir Jambrovic, cofounder of the operator Terra Magica șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs. “I’m still not convinced that he believed me completely.”

Finally, Keep Your Hands Off the Guides

“Is it true the guides aren’t allowed to sleep with guests?” —a woman on a Zion National Park trip with Black Sheep șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs, Inc. The tour operator’s founder, Fred Ackerman, affirmed that this was indeed his company’s policy. To which the client replied: “That’s too bad. Your tips would be higher.”

Jen Murphy is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online’s travel advice columnist. She has the utmost admiration for wilderness guides and has to regularly bite her tongue when she hears clients ask ridiculous questions.

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“Scarcity fosters creativity,” said chef Aaron Lopez as he placed a small woven basket on my plate. He removed the lid to reveal two amaranth-leaf-topped squares that looked like artisanal chocolates. I lifted one and took a bite. The crĂšme-brĂ»lĂ©e-like shell shattered, releasing a sweet, fibrous, squash-filled interior laced with subtle heat.

It was late June and Lopez, 38, had invited me to his hometown, the inland Southern California city of El Centro, to preview the menu of his ambitious new restaurant, , which pays homage to the deserts of the American Southwest.

The freshly limewashed walls of the dining room were decorated with tumbleweeds gathered from his mom’s backyard and lined with cacti growing in clay pots. In the kitchen, his fridge and pantry were stocked with esoteric ingredients: a cactus glaze, cold pickled desert mallow shrub, prickly pear sambal, bee pollen shoyu, mesquite sap.

Lopez is on a mission to reimagine forgotten desert foods and ignite a sense of pride and possibility around a cuisine largely defined by chiles. Those bite-size squash snacks were created by borrowing from the Indigenous technique of nixtamalization. Traditionally, the process involves steeping and cooking corn in an alkaline solution, which makes it easier to grind into masa for tortillas. Lopez applies a similar method to this dish, soaking the mixture in the solution for two days before cooking it in agave syrup. He then shapes it into squares that are lightly fried to create a paper-thin, sugary crust, and then tops the whole thing with a sticky, fudge-like sauce made from fermented Hatch chiles and squash-seed shio koji, a Japanese marinade. The result was a perfect combination of sweet and savory.

“What drew me to cooking wasn’t a desire to nourish people,” Lopez told me over kombucha he ages in Sonoran clay pots. “I was fascinated with manipulating ingredients, turning something unexpected or unappetizing into something delicious.”

Before he embarked on a career in the kitchen, he was a sculptor and played bass in a punk band. Perhaps it takes the eyes of an artist to see a landscape of sun-scorched earth, spiky plants, petrified forests, and stinging critters as bountiful.

Since leasing the 43-seat restaurant space in January, Lopez and his wife, June Chee, have been hiking, foraging, and camping across the Southwest, including Joshua Tree National Park, 95 miles north. On his journey, Lopez has learned how Native people thrived in these harsh landscapes, relying on drought- and heat-tolerant crops such as chia, with its fiber-rich seeds, and tepary beans, small brown legumes with a chestnut flavor. “I bring foraging guides on what the Pueblo ate and a point-and-shoot camera, and we pull into secluded areas, pluck some ingredients to taste, and scribble field notes,” he said.

The desert is often a punishing place to harvest from. “It can feel like you’re foraging on the sun,” said Lopez. In summer, it’s not unusual for the couple to head out as early as 3:30 in the morning to beat the heat. They bring along their dogs, Lola and Jupiter, to warn of rattlesnakes and chase away tarantulas. Thick gloves are essential; Lopez estimates that he owns two dozen pairs. “I’m constantly shopping for ones that won’t puncture when I’m de-thorning things like prickly pear,” he said. “I’ve almost become immune to the cuts and stab wounds.”

Lopez never imagined he’d return home. As a teenager, he didn’t see a future in El Centro, a gritty city just over two hours east of San Diego in California’s Imperial Valley and 15 miles north of the Mexican border town of Mexicali. “I ran away from the desert as soon as I could,” he said. After graduating from Le Cordon Bleu culinary school in Los Angeles in 2012, he spent four years cutting his teeth at some of the city’s top restaurants, notably the Michelin-starred Orsa and Winston, where he helped craft the 25-course tasting menu nightly. He then decamped to Honolulu for six years and made a name for himself pushing flavor boundaries at the now shuttered Heiho House, a high-end gastropub.

But it was during his time in the tropics that Lopez started to feel the tug of the desert. “I’d come back to visit and look at the landscape with a different perspective,” he said. On these trips, he’d speak with foragers and members of local Indigenous communities, and those conversations turned him in a new direction. “I realized my heart was in the desert. I want to show the culinary community that our products can compete with those grown in a more hospitable climate.”

Lopez isn’t the only one exploring the potential of resilient desert flora as ingredients. Scientists think that wild desert plants, such as nitrogen-fixing tree legumes and water-efficient succulents, could be critical to sustainable farming in a hotter, more arid world. Ahead of my trip to Ursa, I called Erin Riordan, a conservation research scientist at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum outside Tucson. She told me that many crops grown in the nation’s deserts—wheat and barley, to name two—aren’t naturally designed to survive in xeric climates, because they didn’t originate there. As weather becomes more extreme, such crops will require more water, chemicals, and electricity to grow.

This is of particular concern in Imperial County, which is the state’s driest and only receives two to three inches of rain each year. The county is allocated the single largest share of water from the Colorado River. But that waterway continues to dry up, forcing the valley’s 400-some farmers to drastically reduce their usage for crops like broccoli, lettuce, and wheat.

In 2020, Riordan coauthored a University of Arizona study that evaluated plants traditionally eaten by the Sonoran Desert’s Indigenous cultures, such as cacti and agaves. “These species are already adapted to arid weather, require less water and energy, and produce more reliable yields,” she told me. “They’re also rich in nutrients and antioxidants.”

Like Lopez, Riordan sees deserts not as wastelands but as laboratories for food. She’s involved in a three-year project funded by the USDA that’s working with Arizona farmers to identify hardy, desert-adapted crops, promote climate-smart farming practices, and raise consumer awareness. She believes that chefs like Lopez can help influence the appeal of these foods. “Farmers are wary of switching to desert crops, because they don’t know if they’ll be able to move the product,” she said. “We have to expand the palate of the general public to build a market.”

Back at Ursa, named for the constellation, Lopez excitedly showed me a space he’s building as a kind of lab dedicated to exploring the terroir of the Great Basin and the Mojave, Chihuahuan, and Sonoran Deserts. His inspirations: star Nordic chef RenĂ© Redzepi’s forthcoming Copenhagen food lab and acclaimed Peruvian chef Virgilio Martinez’s research center in Lima, which employs a team of sociologists, botanists, and anthropologists to study native ingredients.

Lopez is in the process of hiring a director to research recipes and techniques used by Indigenous communities. When the lab is completed early next year, the two of them will meet with the restaurant’s network of foragers, then test ingredients and develop recipes that address culinary questions like: What happens when you dehydrate lamb’s-quarters (an edible weed)? Can you age, brine, and lightly cold-smoke barrel cactus seeds to emulate caviar?

Lopez has also sought out wisdom from Indigenous communities. On a series of R&D trips, he met with members of Arizona’s Tohono O’odham Nation, who introduced him to the prized buds of the cholla cactus, which bloom each spring. Lopez cooks the buds sous vide in a mushroom brine, dries them, and then shaves them like truffles to add an earthy punch to dishes.

Ramona Button, the proprietor of Ramona Farms on the Gila River Indian Reservation in Arizona, has become Lopez’s fixer for a finely stone-ground, cob-roasted Pima corn known as Č”Čč’i±čČőČč, a dying ingredient he hopes to revitalize. For my meal, he turned it into comforting, nutty grits, topped with sour corn, corn pudding, and fall-off-your-fork corned antelope, his twist on corned beef.

Lopez has adopted the zero-waste mentality long embraced by Native communities, too. He steeps the pods of the ironwood tree, for example, to make tea, and he turns scraps of wild boar into an umami-rich fermented garum, a riff on fish sauce. My favorite example of whole-ingredient cooking was a flan-like dessert crafted from all four parts of mesquite, a food so important to the Tohono O’odham that they once had a lunar-calendar month dedicated to it.

My meal complete, we walked outside to Main Street, where the temperature had soared to a withering 114 degrees. Lopez wanted to show me downtown, although, he admitted, “There isn’t much to see.” (The man at the rental-car counter in San Diego concurred. When I told him I was driving to El Centro, he incredulously asked, “Why?”)

I asked Lopez if he thought his hometown—where one-fifth of the population lives in poverty—is ready for a fine-dining concept. He scratched his scraggly brown beard as his pale blue eyes gazed toward a dilapidated storefront. “We have to be accessible for the locals to trust us,” he replied, and acknowledged that he’s abandoned his original tasting-menu concept. Instead, the restaurant offers a menu of 15 sharable items priced between $6 and $22 per dish, served to a funky soundtrack of disco, hip-hop, and soul.

“Do I have dreams of Michelin coming to our town one day? Sure,” he admitted. “But I care more about making our community—and all desert people—proud of the foods that shape our identity. That’s how I define success. And like most things in the desert, you just need to work a little harder for it.”

The post Would You Like to Look at the Desert Menu? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

When Ada Limon, America’s first Latina poet laureate, was tasked with bringing poetry to people who otherwise might not be exposed to it, she knew just where to put it: National Parks. The celebrated poet talks to șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű about her inspirations for the You Are Here project, and how nature and poetry can help us rethink wild places, and our place in them.

You can find a list of National Parks for the You Are Here project .

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