The big ones you already know: Great Smoky Mountains, Acadia, Yosemite. All of these national parks have well-documented fall-foliage displays. They’re stunning, but the crowds can be stunning, too.

So, let’s spread the love. Here are nine national parks that have managed to fly under the leaf-peeping radar while boasting an autumn display that rivals that of the big hitters.

1. Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is named for the “crooked river,” as it was known by the Lenape, the indigenous tribe that called the area home in the 1600s and 1700s. It may be the most amazing park you’ve never seen. Does it have towering peaks? No. But it protects a lush river valley between Cleveland and Akron that is loaded with waterfalls, mossy cliffs, historical sites, and a hardwood forest that absolutely pops come fall.

It’s also a comeback story I celebrate. In the mid-1900s, the Cuyahoga River was a cautionary tale, actually catching fire at least a dozen times from pollution. The last such fire, in 1969, was so devastating it sparked creation the next year of the first Earth Day and the Environmental Protection Agency. Today that once-abused waterway is part of a flourishing national park of over 33,000 acres of river valley, wetlands, farmland, and rolling hills.

Peak Color: Show up in the middle of October. You can expect the sugar and red maples to turn first, with displays of red, yellow, and orange, while the white oaks follow, turning a deep, rich brown. Bonus: in early October, the New England aster wildflower blooms purple along the towpath trail, where in the 1800s mules pulled boats up and down the Erie Canal.

The Best Way to See Foliage: , a 100-mile crushed-gravel trail that once carried goods and passengers between Lake Erie and the Eastern U.S., is now the playground of hikers, runners, and cyclists. Twenty miles of the towpath, between the Lock 39 and Botzum trailheads, reside inside the national park. Ride this section and you’ll pass through small towns and Beaver Marsh, a hotspot of wildlife viewing.

You can purchase a on the scenic railway to go out and return by bike on a 13-mile stretch of the towpath between the Akron North station and Peninsula Depot through October ($5 per person). has bike rentals (from $60 a day).

There are 125 miles of trail in Cuyahoga, but the 2.5-mile loop is a must-hike, as it follows a tall band of sandstone cliffs covered in moss. You’ll have the chance to scramble Ěýup and over boulders, but the trail also puts you deep into a forest alive with color. Look for the yellows of hazelnut trees.

2. Mount Rainier National Park, Washington

The 14,410-foot Mount Rainier, a volcano adorned with white glaciers, is the obvious focal point of this 236,000-acre national park. While every season offers a different reason to visit, I’d argue that fall is the best, or at least the most colorful. And it has nothing to do with the trees.

Sure, the deciduous forests change in September, but most of the color in Rainier comes from the shrubs and ground cover that blanket the vast meadows surrounding that famous three-summited mountain amid 26 glaciers. Mount Rainier is full of elderberry and huckleberry bushes, as well as vine maples, all of which turn different shades of yellow, orange, and red in autumn.

Peak Color: Aim for the beginning of October, as snow begins to descend on the park towards the end of the month.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Hike the around Reflection Lake, which is famous for holding the mirror image of Mount Rainier on calm, clear days. The two main tarns on this trail are flanked by subalpine meadows with a variety of shrubs and wildflowers that change colors in the fall. You’ll also see some mountain ash turning yellow within the dense evergreen forest on the edge of the water.

For bigger views and an abundance of color, the 5.5-mile has long-range vistas of the area’s most famous volcanoes, Mount St. Helens and Mount Adams, while also passing through expansive stretches of huckleberry and vine maple, which are turning red and orange.

3. Guadalupe Mountains National Park, Texas

I know what you’re thinking: West Texas is the desert, man. No trees. While it’s true that Guadalupe Mountains National Park occupies 86,000 acres of dusty, high-desert terrain best known for cactus and towering buttes, the place is also home to forests of deciduous trees that undergo the same transformation as the better-known hardwood forests of the East and Midwest.

The higher elevations in the park receive twice as much rain as the desert floor, creating a more diverse habitat that includes oaks, maples, and ash trees as well as a few aspens, all mixed in with ponderosa pines and Douglas firs.

Fall foliage is easy to find in a place like Vermont, where trees are literally everywhere, but you’ll have to work for it in Guadalupe Mountains; every foliage focal point requires at least a short hike, but the effort is part of the appeal as you move through dusty canyons into high alpine forests.

Peak Color: Fall comes surprisingly late in Guadalupe Mountains, with trees starting to change in mid October and hitting their peak towards the end of the month. The first week of November can also deliver bright hues.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Hike the 15.2-mile out-and-back (or a shorter variation) which has the greatest concentration of fall color in the entire park. The trail follows the canyon floor, tracing the edge of a small, clear creek for four miles before steepening to climb up and out of the canyon to McKittrick Ridge. You’ll gain 2,700 feet of elevation, most of which comes during that two-mile rise.

Make it to the dense forest of Pratt Canyon, 4.7 miles in, or hike all the way to McKittrick Ridge and a view of the canyon in its entirety, as it splays out in a mix of fall color and tan desert floor.

4. Zion National Park, Utah

Zion can hardly be considered an “underrated” park (as opposed to being one of the lesser-visited national parks, it was the third-most-so in 2023, with 4,623,238 visits), but the element of surprise is that few people think of this desert oasis as a hotbed of fall color. It is. I’ve visited the park in the spring and summer on a number of occasions, and really want to see it Ěýduring fall, when the oaks and maples scattered throughout various canyons turn shades of orange and red.

The Virgin River, which runs through Zion’s entrance and carves the iconic canyon at the heart of the park, is surrounded by cottonwoods that turn bright yellow. The crowds are typically thinner, too, as the summer-rush people are back to school and work.

Peak Color: Trees at higher elevations will start turning in September, but the best color in the park goes from late October into early November.

The Best Way to See Foliage: You’ll spot the cottonwoods along the Virgin River as you enter the park, but for a bird’s-eye view of the foliage, hike the mile-long on the east side of Zion, which traverses a relatively flat expanse of sandstone to an outcropping with an all-encompassing view. From your lofty perch, the main arm of Zion Canyon looks as if it’s carpeted by yellow cottonwoods.

5. Congaree National Park, South Carolina

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never explored Congaree National Park, even though it’s only a few hours from my home, in Asheville, North Carolina. But I need to rectify the omission, because by all accounts, Congaree is a one-of-a-kind landscape that is home to some of the most impressive trees in the country. The national park protects the largest intact old-growth bottomland hardwood forest in the Southeast, with stands of 500-year-old bald cypress trees, loblolly pines that stretch 165 feet in the air, and towering elm, oaks, tupelos, and sweet gums.

In the fall, most of those massive old trees put on a show, with the tupelos turning red and gold and oaks deepening into reds. Even the bald cypress get in on the action. The species is best known for its knobby “knees,” roots that rise above the dark water of Congaree’s Cedar Creek, but these giant trees are deciduous conifers with leaves that turn cinnamon and orange.

The park is small, just 26,000 acres, and best explored by canoe or paddleboard, as the Congaree and Water rivers merge here to create an extensive floodplain that dominates the terrain.

Peak Color: Fall hits late, beginning at about the end of October and running into November. This also happens to be the best time to visit Congaree, as temps are mild (up to the 70s), bugs scarce, and the water levels ideal for paddling.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Explore the Cedar Creek Canoe Trail from Bannister’s Bridge to the Congaree River. The current is essentially non-existent, so you can choose your own out-and-back adventure. If you want to go with a local, runs guided trips into Congaree ($100 per person). And while you’re here for the trees and color, keep an eye out for otters, turtles, and the occasional gator in the water too. Congaree is also a hotbed of woodpecker activity, with all eight southern species found in the park.

6. Voyageurs National Park, Minnesota

Named for the French-Canadian fur traders that used to travel through the area in birchbark canoes, the 218,000-acre Voyageurs National Park is comprised mostly of lakes: four big ones—Rainy, Kabetogama, Namakan, and Sandy Point—and 26 small ones. There are also 500 islands and 650 miles of shoreline ripe with fall color in September, as stands of aspen, basswood, oaks, maples, and birch trees shake up the green forest palate of spruce and fir. I like the idea of paddling a canoe surrounded by a forest canopy ablaze in red and orange.

Voyageurs is situated against the Canadian border at a high enough latitude for visitors occasionally to glimpse the aurora borealis. Your chances of seeing these mystical northern lights increases in the fall as nights grow longer and darker. The University of Alaska operates a service that the activity of the lights up to a month in advance.

Voyageurs is also an International Dark Sky Certified Park, so whether or not you can see the northern lights, clear nights reveal a cornucopia of stars above.

Peak Color: Aspens and birch trees begin to turn yellow in the middle of September, and the oaks and maples follow with reds and oranges as we move into October. Aim for the end of September or beginning of October for the most color. Keep in mind that while the park is open year round, the Rainy Lake Visitor Center is the only visitor center operating into October. The other two close at the end of September.

The Best Way to See Foliage: For a quick immersion in fall color, hike the 1.7-mile , which starts at the Rainy Lake Visitor Center and loops through a hardwood forest on mostly flat trail via double track and skinny boardwalk over marshy sections. You’ll also get views of marsh grass shimmering in the wind leading to Rainy Lake itself. If you want to go out on the water, the park service runs a 2.5-hour , which cruises the island-studded Rainy Lake seeking out wildlife and delivering postcard-worthy views ($50 per adult).

7. Lake Clark National Park and Preserve, Alaska

In a state that’s absolutely crammed with dramatic public landscapes, Lake Clark National Park and Preserve often gets overlooked. Its neighbor Katmai National Park, after all, is home to the cutest bears on the internet. But Lake Clark has much splendor of its own, from sheer granite-walled peaks to ice-blue glaciers and wildlife worthy of any safari. (Grizzlies! Moose! Caribou! Otters!)

Lake Clark is located just 100 miles southwest of Anchorage, but relative to other national parks, gets a scant 200,000 visitors a year. Credit the lack of roads; the only way to access the park is via aircraft or boat.

Peak Color: Fall is by far the best time to visit Lake Clark, and by fall, I mean September, as the snow typically begins in October here. Hit the park during the three- to four-week window, and you’ll see groves of birch trees turning gold amid their conifer neighbors, as lakeside lowland shrubs go orange and red. Fall is also berry season (look for cranberries and blueberries), and bears are particularly active, foraging for food in anticipation of hibernating through winter.

Lake Clark itself is 42 miles long and five miles wide. The tiny Port Alsworth (pop: 130) sits on the east side of the lake, serving as the gateway town to the park, and has its only visitor center. The National Park Service maintains of air taxis with permits to fly into the park if you want to venture deeper into the terrain.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Maintained day-hike trails are scarce in Lake Clark, but the four-mile out-and-back offers convenient access and a bevy of fall color. The hike begins on the edge of Port Alsworth and passes through stands of birch trees to Tanalian Falls, a 30-foot beauty that drops over lava rock, all surrounded by spruce and birch forest. Turn this hike into a loop by taking the Beaver Pond Trail back to the trailhead, hitting more golden-hued birches as you meander past a small beaver pond.

8. Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

I’m convinced Theodore Roosevelt National Park would be more appreciated if it were located closer to larger cities. The Dakotas are among the most interesting states in the Midwest, and this park is a highlight. The 70,000-acre park protects a landscape in transition, where the great plains meet the canyons of the badlands. It’s divided into three sections—South Unit, Elkhorn Ranch Unit, and the North Unit—stitched together by the Little Missouri River.

The North Unit has the deepest canyons and most remote trails, the Elkhorn Ranch Unit preserves Teddy Roosevelt’s hunting cabin, and the South Unit blends broad, grassy plains with wide river gorges. You’ll find beautiful foliage throughout the park, as the Little Missouri River is shrouded in a cottonwood forest. You’re also almost guaranteed to see some epic wildlife, too; big species like feral horses, elk, and bison roam free.

Peak Color: Shoot for mid-September to mid-October for the most vibrant colors. Trees in the North Unit tend to shift earlier, while the South Unit pulls up the rear in the middle of October.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Is it lame to recommend a scenic drive? Not when it’s the 28-mile Scenic Drive in the North Unit of Theodore Roosevelt National Park. The byway rambles through grassland and the tan-colored badlands, with pullouts that feature views of rock outcroppings and canyons and the Missouri River aglow with cottonwoods. Stretch your legs on the Achenbach Trail, a 2.4-mile out and back that leads through grassland (keep an eye out for bison) and ends at an overlook that takes in a bend in the Little Missouri.

9. Great Basin National Park, Nevada

Way out in eastern Nevada, close to Utah, Great Basin National Park protects 77,180 acres of scrubby desert, caves, and imposing peaks. It’s not the most obvious fall-foliage destination, but a legit one, and you’ll likely have it all to yourself: Great Basin only gets 140,000 visitors per year. Rest assured, that low attendance is strictly a factor of location (Great Basin is far from everything), because the landscape is destination-worthy, from the craggy 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak to the underground world of Lehman Cave. As for foliage, picture groves of aspens turning shining gold.

Peak Color: Great Basin is a higher-elevation park, so aspens begin to turn in the middle of September and are typically done by mid-October.

The Best Way to See Foliage: Cruise the 12-mile long Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, which gains 4,000 feet from the park entrance to the flank of the mountain it is named for. The way passes through a variety of different habitats, from sagebrush to evergreen conifers, and by the 10,000 feet, you’ll drive through so many colorful aspens you’d almost think you’re in the Rocky Mountains. At the end of the scenic drive, hike the 6.4-mile , which passes through a high-elevation meadow and delivers you into a dense grove of the aspens.

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national parks columnist. He lives in the Southern Appalachians, a hotbed of leaf-peeping activity. Fall is his favorite season for bike rides and trail runs, largely because of the technicolor backdrop in his backyard.Ěý

For more by this author:

9 Beautiful Mountain Towns in the Southeast

The 10 Best Bike Towns in America, Ranked

8 Surf Towns Where You Can Learn the Sport and the Culture

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Our national parks are awe-inspiring and family-friendly destinations. That said, some are cheaper to get to and stay in or near than others. I know: from 2020 to 2023, I visited all 63 U.S. national parks as a columnist for şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř, in a van and on a shoestring budget. Then I wrote a book about it, called .

To come up with a list of the most affordable parks, I looked at the primary costs that go into a national park trip—namely proximity to a major airport, transportation and accommodation, and the top activities there. The results reflect the cost of lodging for three nights for an average-priced hotel room or Airbnb in May; park entrance fees and other ancillary fees included in my suggested itinerary; and a rental car for four days. I have not factored in airfare, food, and gas, which will vary pending where you’re based and h how much you dine out and drive.

These are the 10 most affordable parks to visit based on my research.

1. Great Basin National Park, Nevada

Approximate total cost: From $204

• Average car rental for four days: $166
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $30 /Ěý$363
• Park entrance fee: Free
• Lehman Caves tour: $8

How I’d do it: The nearest airport—Cedar City, Utah—is 142 miles away, so gas will likely be your main expense when visiting Great Basin. If you’re camping, try to snag a coveted free site at ; otherwise, post up in Ely, 55 miles west, which has more hotel and food options than tiny Baker, just outside the park gates.

Spend your first day admiring the 3,000-year-old trees on the Bristlecone Trail and picnicking near the , which is offering first-come, first-served sites for the rest of 2024 ($20).

On day two, reserve tickets for a tour of the (from $8 per adult and $4 per child) and learn about the region’s rich Native history at the (free).

Make day three all about big-mile hikes, either summiting 13,063-foot Wheeler Peak (the second-highest in Nevada) or traversing fragrant sagebrush slopes on a ten-mile round-trip up to shimmering . Fuel your post-hike hunger at in Baker.

Best Time to Visit: June through September

2. Death Valley National Park, California and Nevada

Approximate total cost: From $235

• Average car rental for four days: $157
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $48 /Ěý$297
• Park entrance fee: $30

How I’d do it: Most commercial flights in this region go to Las Vegas. From there it’s a 125-mile drive north to the Wild West town of Beatty, which is funky and close to noteworthy ghost towns, like Rhyolite. Camping is available inside the park and options range from free primitive sites to the full-service (from $30).

Your first day in the park, check out the narrow, multicolored Mosaic Canyon on foot. During the cooler early-evening hours, take in the sunset hues while hiking or boogie-boarding at Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes (don’t forget your snowboard or boogie board, which Reddit readers have reported using on these slopes).

The next day, wake while it’s still dark so you can snap some sunrise pics at Zabriskie Point, then move on to marvel at the bizarre geological formations along Badwater Road, stopping at Devil’s Golf Course, Artists Palette, Golden Canyon, and Badwater Basin (the lowest point in North America) along the way.

If you’re a peak bagger, you could spend your third day summiting 11,049-foot Telescope Peak, but for anyone less ambitious, I’d recommend a stroll around both and the free next door. Reminisce that night over a pint and a pizza at Beatty’s Sourdough Saloon.

Best Time to Visit: November through April

3. Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve, Colorado

Approximate total cost: From $244

• Average car rental for four days: $139
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $60 / $492
• Park entrance fee: $25
• Board rental: $20 per day

How I’d do it: A visit to Great Sand Dunes is really a visit to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the southernmost Rockies. You could fly into Denver and drive the 250 miles south, but flights into Alamosa, just 30 miles from the park, are relatively affordable.

Book a hotel or an Airbnb in quaint Crestone (or book a inside the park), rent a sand board at (four miles from the park entrance), then drive into the park and spend your first day amid the massive dune field—the tallest in North America—making a point to top out on the and surf down the steep slopes. Afterwards, cool off in Medano Creek if the water is flowing steadily.

Day two, explore the woodlands and admire the incredible views of the imposing peaks along the 7.5-mile .

For your final full day, I’d opt for a visit to or a challenging hike to .

Best Time to Visit: May through October

4. Cuyahoga Valley National Park, Ohio

Approximate total cost: From $246

• Average car rental for four days: $147
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $66 / $360
• Park entrance fee: Free
• Bike rental: From $15
• Railroad tour: From $18

How I’d do it: Look for an affordable vacation rental in Akron, which is 38 miles south of Cleveland and slightly closer to this 33,000-acre park’s top sites. Or check out ($22 for anyone not from the town of Stow), 15 minutes from the park.

Spend your first day trekking from the 19th-century Stanford House to the roaring Brandywine Falls, a 4.8-mile meander (see the Gaia GPS map of this route below). Before the sun sets, make your way to viewpoints along the .

Learn more about the Cuyahoga’s history of locks and canals on day two by renting a bicycle from and spinning your wheels along a stretch of the riverside Towpath Trail.

Take a chill pill on your last day and ride the from Akron to Peninsula, with the option of an elegant multi-course meal aboard a vintage car. Visiting in October? Good choice; that’s when a Technicolor display of epic fall foliage is everywhere you look.

Best Time to Visit: April through June and September through October

5. Carlsbad Caverns + Guadalupe Mountains National Parks, New Mexico and Texas

Approximate total cost: From $255

• Average car rental for four days: $150
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $60 / $441
• Park entrance fees: $15 and $10, respectively
• Lower Cave tour: $20

How I’d do it: Hit two national parks in one trip, flying into El Paso, Texas, and then basing yourself in the affordable hamlet of Carlsbad, New Mexico. Both Carlsbad Caverns and Guadalupe Mountains are economical parks and amazing in their own way, and the latter is home to an excellent .

Book a and spend your first day strolling Carlsbad, heading into its depths via its natural entrance (as opposed to an elevator down from the visitor center). If you’re visiting late May through October, stay after hours and take advantage of the free , led by a park ranger; this blew my mind as a nine-year-old.

Wake up early the next day, drive to Guadalupe Mountains National Park, and summit the “Top of Texas” on an 4.1-mile ascent of for jaw-dropping views of the vast Chihuahuan Desert.

Take it easy on day three and return to Carlsbad Caverns for the three-hour, ranger-guided Lower Cave tour ($20 per adult and $10 per child).

Best Time to Visit: March to June, September to November

6. Mount Rainier National Park, Washington

Approximate total cost: From $262

• Average car rental for four days: $172
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $60 / $465
• Park entrance fee: $30

How I’d do it: Fly into Seattle-Tacoma International Airport and then plan to stay in Tacoma, an hour north of the park. Though it’s not as woodsy as Rainier’s gateway town of Ashford, Tacoma has loads of affordable motels and vacation rentals for park-goers who’d rather not in the wet Washington weather.

If you’ve secured a timed-entry permit, spend your first day exploring the iconic of the park, hiking to the perfect photo op at Myrtle Falls or breaking a sweat on the 5.5-mile . Pop in and marvel at the fabulous architecture of the historic Paradise Inn, while you’re at it.

On day two, circumnavigate the glacier-capped peak by car, stopping at Martha Falls, Reflection Lake, and the adorable town of Enumclaw, making a pit stop at along the way.

On your last full day, get off the beaten path and brave the bumpy road up to sapphire . Picnic in a designated area near the lake, take a dip in the alpine tarn, or challenge yourself on the 7.5-mile hike (one-way) to the .

Best Time to Visit: June through September

7. Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota

Approximate total cost: From $276

• Average car rental for four days: $151
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $42 / $282
• Park entrance fee: $30
• Trail ride: From $53

How I’d do it: Though it’s out of the way from a major airport—the nearest is in Bismarck, 135 miles east—Theodore Roosevelt is fantastic for hiking and wildlife viewing. Plus, it boasts an uber-affordable ($14).

Savor the prairie- and badlands-filled drive to the park’s South Unit on your first day, then spend the remaining hours scouting for wild horses, herds of bison, and playful prairie dogs on the area’s 48-mile . Stop at the Maltese Cross Cabin, a former home of Theodore Roosevelt himself, before taking in the sunset from the one-mile Painted Canyon Nature Trail.

If you’re not camping at the park, spend the night in Watford City, which is cheaper and only slightly farther away than the gateway town of Medora.

On day two, splurge on a morning through the colorful badlands, and check out the longer in the afternoon.

Reserve day three for the park’s , home to a 14-mile scenic drive where you might spy bison, coyotes, and longhorn cattle. But you don’t want to be driving around all day. I suggest a trail run along the easy, four-mile , which overlooks the Little Missouri River.

Best Time to Visit: May through September

8. Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, Colorado

Approximate total cost: From $279

• Average car rental for four days: $189
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $60 / $396
• Park entrance fee: $30

How I’d do it: Fly into Montrose Airport (with daily service from four major U.S. airports) and pick up your rental car; from there it’s a mere 15 miles to the park’s south entrance. You’ll be basing out of Montrose, which has affordable hotels and Airbnbs, but for even more of a savings, nab a site at the park’s ($20 per night).

On your first day in the park, stop at Tomichi Point for jaw-dropping views of the canyon’s dark gneiss before hitting up the South Rim Visitor Center, which has plenty of parking and is the starting point for the and the connecting Gunnison Route, together offering an easy few miles of wandering below the canyon’s steep rim. Motor along exploring the south rim’s seven-mile scenic drive, pausing at the Painted Wall Overlook and, if you’re up for it, another hike, this time out to .

On your second day, head to the less touristed north rim and enjoy equally less crowded viewpoints (the aptly named Exclamation Point is a must). Stretch your legs on a 7.2-mile trek up Green Mountain before exiting the park, making a beeline for Colorado Boy Pizzeria in Montrose and rewarding yourself with a slice and a cold one.

Maximize your trip by tacking on a detour to Mesa Verde National Park (142 miles from Montrose) on your final day, or go fishing for trout in the Gunnison River.

Best Time to Visit: May through October

9. Crater Lake National Park, Oregon

Approximate total cost: From $290

• Average car rental for four days: $169
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $63 / $435
• Park entrance fee in summer: $30
• Boat ride: $28

How I’d do it: Major airlines service Medford, 63 miles southwest of the national park, and accommodations in southern Oregon are relatively cheap, so I suggest basing yourself in Medford itself or in Klamath Falls, 45 miles southeast of the park. Itching to camp? Book early and grab a site in the park at ($21).

Go big on your first day and hike to the Watchman Peak fire lookout (see Gaia GPS map below) for second-to-none views of Crater Lake’s otherworldly deep blue. I also like the hike down to the lake’s chilly fresh water via the steep .

If you’re not interested in backpacking a segment of the Pacific Crest Trail—33 miles of it run through the park—utilize day two to explore Wizard Island, near the lake’s western edge ( cost $28 per adult and $18 per child). The thrill of standing atop the lake’s only major island will wow you.

On day three, soak it all in on a scenic drive around the entirety of Crater Lake—a 33-mile route—stopping for snapshots at the park’s 30 .

Best Time to Visit: July through September

10. Saguaro National Park, Arizona

Approximate total cost: From $338

• Average car rental for four days: $184
• Average campground site / hotel for three nights: $75 / $339
• Park entrance fee: $25
• Museum fee: $30
• Colossal Cave tour: $24

How I’d do it: Saguaro straddles Tucson, an affordable and road-trip-friendly destination for desert lovers. Its eastern Rincon Mountain District is a mere 25-minute drive from the local airport, so drop your bags at your Tucson motel or a campsite in nearby (from $25), and then spend your first few hours craning your neck up at century-old cacti along . Next, get your heart rate going on the , either just a portion of it or the full eight miles one-way.

On day two, learn about the area’s flora and fauna at the before setting out for the Scenic Bajada Loop Drive in the park’s western Tucson Mountain District.

On day three, summit 4,688-foot Wasson Peak, and picnic at Mam-A-Gah, or branch out for a little something different: a tour of the nearby .

Best Time to Visit: October through April

Honorable Mentions

There were a handful of affordable national parks that scored just shy of making my list. But if you’re hungry for more budget-friendly park ideas, I recommend checking out Redwood National Park, in California; Congaree, in South Carolina; White Sands, in New Mexico; North Cascades, in Washington; and Gateway Arch, in Missouri.

Emily Pennington is a regular contributor to şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř and continues to travel far and wide. This year she’s returning to Great Sand Dunes and looks forward to exploring every corner of her new home state, Colorado.

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There are 193 million acres of national-forest land in this country, with at least one national forest or national grassland unit in all but eight states. And yet the vast majority of us tend to overlook our national forests, focusing on national parks instead.

“Our national forests are definitely less well-known,” says Mary Mitsos, president of the , a non-profit that helps lead restoration efforts and responsible recreation. “When we started national parks, we started marketing those parks. We built railroads and highways to them. We talked about their beauty. National forests have never been marketed. They’re the unknown lands.”

The national-forest system was originally established in 1891 to supply timber and drinking water for the country, and now includesĚý preserving fish and wildlife and providing sustainable recreation. “Land of many uses” is not the most inspiring slogan, but our national forests hold some of the most beautiful landscapes in the U.S.

I do most of my camping, hiking and fishing on national forest land in Asheville, North Carolina, where I live. I’m surrounded by Pisgah and Nantahala National Forests, both protected landscapes that are just as stunning as what I can find inside the closest national park, and often less crowded.

Here I’ve compiled a list of the greatest hikes I have found in national forests across the country.

Fifth Water Hot Springs

Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest, Utah

The Forest: The Uinta-Wasatch-Cache covers 2.2 million acres in Northern Utah and the southwestern corner of Wyoming, bordering some of the fastest-growing cities in the West (we’re looking at you, Park City and Salt Lake City). It’s a mix of pristine backcountry, including seven different federally designated Wilderness areas, and frontcountry, with ski resorts that operate on forest land and mountain-bike trails that drop right into Park City.

The Hike: Fifth Water Creek is a tributary to the larger Diamond Fork River, about an hour outside of Salt Lake City, which has a trio of waterfalls that alone would make this five-mile out and back a worthy adventure. But the real draw is the series of thermal hot springs, separated into distinct soaking pools, along this creek.

The largest pool sits at the base of the lower waterfall, attracting the majority of visitors because it’s so damn picture perfect, but you can head upstream to the top waterfall and find more and quieter pools. Each typically measures at a different temperature (111 is the hottest), with the pools getting cooler as you move downstream. You can even sit under a piping-hot waterfall. Start the hike at the Three Forks Trailhead in Diamond Fork Canyon, and follow , gaining 700 feet in 2.5 miles while following Sixth Water Creek and then Fifth Water Creek. You’ll smell the sulfur as you approach the pools.

Where to Stay: There are dispersed backpacking sites (no reservation needed) on Fifth Water Creek Trail that you can reach by continuing past the waterfalls. You can also grab a site at , off Diamond Fork Road near the Fifth Water Creek trailhead, which has 60 tent-only sites, half of which are first-come, first-served (from $24).

Franconia Ridge Loop

White Mountain National Forest, New HampshireĚý

The Forest: New England has few national parks, so White Mountain National Forest gets its share of attention, seeing nearly 6 million visitors every year.Ěý The 800,000 acres, which span sections of New Hampshire and Maine, protect the tallest peaks in the Northeast, amid a network of backcountry lakes and streams.

The Hike: If you’re only going to do one hike in all of New England, consider the 8.3-mile , which traverses three looming peaks (Mount Lafayette, Mount Lincoln, and Little Haystack), with more than a mile of exposed ridgeline trail offering breathtaking views. You can do the loop in either direction, but most people hike counterclockwise, taking the Old Bridle Path to the Greenleaf Trail and summiting Mount Lafayette. This way is hard, gaining 3,566 feet, most of which comes at you in the final two miles of the ascent, but you can get snacks and fresh water at the Greenleaf Hut, maintained and staffed by the Appalachian Mountain Club, when nearing the top.

The summit of Mount Lafayette offers a 360-degree view of the White Mountains, all the way to Mount Washington on a clear day. From Lafayette, 1.7 miles of knife-edge ridgeline connects to Mount Lincoln and Little Haystack. The fun isn’t over, even after you’ve reached the final summit, as the tail end of the loop takes you past several waterfalls, including the 80-foot Cloudland Falls.

Where to Stay: with 97 tent sites in Franconia Ridge State Park, is located across the street from the Old Bridle Path Trailhead. Make reservations up to 11 months in advance,or try to snag one of the seven first-come, first-served sites before your hike.

Double Arch Loop

Daniel Boone National Forest, Kentucky

The Forest: The Daniel Boone is rugged country, encompassing 708,000 acres of gorges and steep slopes in mountainous eastern Kentucky. The Red River Gorge Geological Area within it is a National Natural Landmark known for its spectacular sandstone rock features and natural arches.

The Hike: The six-mile takes in the best of the Red River Gorge Geological Area, tracing the bottom of a tall sandstone cliff through a lush forest and passing three of the area’s most prominent rock features. The hiking is a mix of easy gravel-road walking and steep, singletrack climbs. Start at Auxier Ridge Trailhead and hike counter-clockwise, combining Auxier Ridge Trail with Courthouse Rock Trail, passing the eponymous outcropping that looks like a courthouse, and Haystack Rock, a freestanding pinnacle popular with rock climbers. After Haystack Rock, take Auxier Branch Trail to Double Arch Trail to the arch it is named for, which is actually two stone expanses stacked on top of each other. Steps lead to the edge of Double Arch, and it’s wide enough for you to climb if you promise to be careful.

The view looking through to the other side takes in a wide expanse of Daniel Boone Forest, including Courthouse and Haystack rocks. This loop is really just the beginning, though. A number of interesting outcroppings aren’t on marked trails—like smaller arches and even a steep rock face where Native Americans carved foot and hand holds into the stone for climbing. It’s super cool and pretty steep: I got spooked and turned around halfway up.

Where to Stay: There are plenty of primitive backpacking sites along this loop (no fee or reservation required), or you can pitch a tent at , which has 54 first- come, first-served tent sites.

Gray’s Peak Loop

Arapaho National Forest, Colorado

The Forest: Tucked into the Rocky Mountains, west of Denver, the Arapaho National Forest straddles the Continental Divide with just over 700,000 acres of peaks and valleys adjacent to Rocky Mountain National Park. It’s managed in conjunction with Roosevelt National Forest and Pawnee National Grassland for a combined 1.7 million acres of protected land. The Arapaho is home to some of the state’s tallest mountains, as well as pristine stretches of the Colorado and South Platte Rivers.

The Hike: Colorado is known for its collection of 14,000-foot peaks, affectionately dubbed 14ers, and this hike takes you up two of them, both with grand views, in just over eight miles. Start at the , which will give you a jump on the elevation you have to tackle, as it begins at 11,280 feet, and venture onto Grays Peak across Stevens Gulch for a view of the towering, completely tree-less mountains ahead. Grays is on the left and Torreys is to the right. The route is tough, climbing 3,000 feet in just 3.5 miles to the summit of the 14,278-foot Grays Peak, where a path traces a line across the ridgeline between Yeti-cooler-sized rocks.

The views from the top stretch way into Rocky Mountain National Park. But you’re not done; head north along the ridge to the saddle between Grays and Torreys and start climbing the southeast flank to the summit of the latter, at 14,267 feet. To descend, head back to the saddle and take the trail that drops down the flank to the east, creating a small loop to rejoin Grays Trail back to Stevens Gulch.

Where to Stay: You’ll find dispersed camping throughout the hike. There are even several sites near the trailhead for a primitive car-camping experience. No fee or reservation required.

Little Green Mountain Loop

Nantahala National Forest, North Carolina Ěý

The Forest: The 531,000-acre Nantahala National Forest protects some of the most remote terrain of mountainous Western North Carolina. The forest has outstanding features and recreation areas, from the tallest waterfall east of the Mississippi (Whitewater Falls) to the largest old-growth forest (Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest).

The Hike: Panthertown Valley, an isolated region within Nantahala National Forest, has been dubbed the Yosemite of the South for its prevalence of granite domes and waterfalls. The six-mile takes in the best view of the valley, hitting tall waterfalls, sandy riverside beaches, and dramatic mountaintop overlooks. From the Salt Rock Trailhead, hike clockwise, combining Mac’s Gap Trail with Little Green Trail through a pine forest to steep steps up Little Green Mountain, a 4,040-foot peak with an exposed granite slope overlooking the lush valley below.

Drop down the other side of Little Green to find Schoolhouse Falls, a 20-foot waterfall that drops into a crystal-clear swimming hole, before connecting with Panthertown Valley Trail back to Salt Rock Trailhead. Stop at Sand Beach along Panthertown Creek.

Where to Stay: You’ll have your choice of primo backcountry sites once you’re inside Panthertown Valley. There are spots on top of Little Green Mountain as well as options near Panthertown Creek. No fees or reservations required.

Upper Lewis Lake and Granite Dome

Stanislaus National Forest, California

The Forest: Stanislaus National Forest offers nearly 1 million acres (898,000 to be exact) of rivers, mountains, and backcountry lakes, encompassing similar topography as its super-famous neighbor, Yosemite National Park. The forest occupies the choice space between Yosemite and Lake Tahoe, protecting quintessential alpine terrain in the Sierra Nevada.

The Hike: the 113,000-acre Emigrant Wilderness butts right up against Yosemite National Park, and 10,322-foot sits squarely in its heart. There’s no official trail up the monolith, but on all sides are easy scrambles that require no technical climbing. From the Kennedy Meadows Trailhead, take the Huckleberry Trail, which follows Summit Creek before climbing steeply past a series of backcountry lakes and high alpine meadows, full of wildflowers in the summer.

Then ditch the established Huckleberry Trail for a non-marked side trail between Summit Creek and Lewis Lakes Creek, roughly seven miles from the Kennedy Meadows Trailhead. Follow cairns to Sardella Lake and then Upper Lewis Lake, at the base of Granite Dome, a nine-mile hike from Kennedy Meadows. From here take an easy class II scramble up the north side of Granite Dome. From the top, you can see several backcountry lakes, as well as the volcanic ridges of Leavitt and Grizzly Peak, and as far as the northern peaks of Yosemite National Park.

Where to Stay: operates a set of cabins and campsites (starting at $25 for campsites) at the Kennedy Meadow trailhead. There are beautiful backcountry sites at both Lewis Lakes, but you’ll need to get a (free) wilderness permit in person from the Summit Ranger Station.

Iron Creek to Sawtooth Lake

Sawtooth National Forest, Idaho

The Forest: Sawtooth National Forest is a large reason why the state of Idaho is so awesome. The 2-million-acre forest protects 10 different mountain ranges, more than 1,000 lakes, and over 1,000 miles of trails. The 43-mile long Sawtooth Range, with its imposing, jagged peaks towering above the expansive Sawtooth Valley, is the forest’s trademark.

The Hike: A from the Iron Creek Trailhead to the edge of the serene Sawtooth Lake will take you into the heart of the Sawtooth Range. From the trailhead, the Iron Creek Trail crosses the river of the same name and delivers you quickly into Sawtooth Wilderness as you skip through meadows with big views of the cliffs of the range ahead.

It’s an easy-going route, gaining just 1,700 feet in five miles before reaching Sawtooth Lake, the largest backcountry lake in the forest, nestled at the bottom of 10,190-foot Mount Regan. On the way back to the trailhead, take a quick side trip to the much smaller Alpine Lake, which sits at 8,337 feet in elevation and sometimes stays frozen well into summer.

Where to Stay: There are great campsites near Sawtooth Lake, and Alpine Lake for that matter (no reservations or fees, but you do need a. The has nine first-come, first-served sites (no fees) along Iron Creek near the trailhead.

Yant Flat to Candy Cliffs

Dixie National Forest, Utah

The Forest: Dixie National Forest has diversity in spades, protecting everything from high alpine lakes and mountain forests to red rock canyons on the desert floor. It’s the largest national forest in Utah, protecting almost 2 million acres between the Great Basin and the Colorado River in the southern portion of the state. Zion National Park is close, acting like a magnet to the majority of travelers, so you’ll likely have Dixie to yourself.

The Hike: Utah is known for its arid desert landscape (hello Arches and Zion), and this hike delivers you to Yant Flat, where dirt gives way to an expansive plateau of rolling sandstone hills that look as if they have been painted with stripes and patches of pink, red, and white. The hike is easy; from the Yant Flat Trailhead, follow for 1.3 miles through a scrubby forest at the base of Pine Valley Mountain before hitting the edge of the Flat. Now choose your own adventure as you explore the mounds of sandstone off trail.

Where to Stay: The access road, FR-032, has a variety of established campsites as you approach the trailhead. No reservations needed.

Bear Creek Trail

Bitterroot National Forest, Montana

The Forest: Protecting 1.6 million acres of Montana and Idaho’s most dramatic mountains and rivers, the Bitterroot has recreation to spare. The Bitterroot Valley is one of the most cherished fly-fishing destinations in the world, while the heavily glaciated peaks of the Bitterroot Range serve as a beacon for climbers, hikers, and skiers.

The Trail: is an easy three-mile out and back, climbing gently along the side of Bear Creek to Bear Creek Falls, which tumble through a granite gorge in two different channels of whitewater, creating an island of rock and trees in the middle. You’ll have plenty of pools to swim in as you hike, and the large granite boulders in and around the creek make for good scrambling and sunning spots. You’re hiking inside a narrow, forested canyon, with rocky peaks rising in the distance on either side.

It’s a family-friendly trek to the falls, but you have options from there to extend the mileage. Keep hiking past the falls and you’ll enter the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, one of the largest federally designated wilderness areas in the country. Continue deeper into the wilderness on the North Fork Trail and you’ll hit Bear Lake, and eventually, Bear Creek Pass on the Idaho/Montana border.

Where to Stay: There are several small campgrounds along Highway 93, which provides access to Bitterroot National Forest and the Bear Creek Trailhead. Check out the quiet which has 15 sites tucked into the ponderosa pines. Get reservations up to six months in advance ($15 a night).

North Country National Scenic Trail

Sheyenne National Grassland, North Dakota

The Forest: OK, Sheyenne National Grassland isn’t a “forest” per say, but our collection of national grasslands are managed by the National Forest Service, and the Sheyenne is a standout by any standard. The 135,000-acre parcel in southeastern North Dakota is a mix of public and private land comprised of sand dunes and tallgrass prairie. This is quintessential Wild West: plains and vast open space as far as the eye can see.

The Hike: The North Country National Scenic Trail runs from New York to North Dakota, but a 30-mile section crosses the Sheyenne National Grassland. It’s an easy gravel path with minimal elevation gain, and a broad expanse of tall grass and wildflowers surrounding you. Pick your distance, but we like a that uses an unnamed side trail to access Mirror Pool, a swimming hole near the Sheyenne River.

Where to Stay: The Sheyenne National Grassland has two established campgrounds. has 14 tent sites inside an oak-savanna forest, providing shade and putting you within quick striking distance of the North Country National Scenic Trail. All sites are first come, first-served, $10 per night.

Graham Averill is şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř magazine’s national parks columnist, but he spends the majority of his outdoor time in Pisgah National Forest, which is close to his home in Asheville, North Carolina. All of Graham’s outdoor firsts have happened in national forests; first camping trip (Chattahoochee National Forest), first rock-climbing trip (Pisgah National Forest), first mountain-bike accident (Arapaho National Forest)…all ending in smiles and with no emergency-room visits.

If you liked this story by Graham Averill, check out these others from him on hiking and camping:

The 18 Best State Parks in the U.S.

The 11 Most Beautiful Hikes in U.S. National Parks

The 8 Least-Visited National Parks in the U.S.

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Once, years ago, I tried to report a story about a girl who’d gone missing on the outskirts of a small town located in the wilderness of British Columbia. I hiked a footpath a quarter-mile from where she was last seen, then peered down the long gravel driveway where she vanished. I remember feeling chilled. My notes say things like: “Tree trunks wearing mossy fur coats.” “Fireweed in the ditch.” “Lonely.” I never wrote that story, but I never forgot the girl. There’s something especially haunting about people who disappear in the outdoors or are found dead there from unnatural causes. These tales get under our skin.Ěý

What frightens and rivets us, I think, is the apparent randomness: What are the odds of a person crossing paths with a killer on an empty trail? City dwellers are inured to the violence on the evening news, but an unexplained disappearance in a place that’s supposed to be a safe retreat? It can feel like a lightning strike.

Two new books tell the stories of people who, each for their own reasons, couldn’t let go of someone killed in a wild or forgotten place. In ($28, Random House), out February 25, journalist and first-time author Sierra Crane Murdoch follows an Arikara woman named Lissa Yellow Bird who is determined to solve the mystery of a missing white oil worker on the North Dakota reservation where her family lives. The book offers a gripping narrative of Yellow Bird’s obsession with the case, but it’s also about the harsh history of the land where the man vanished, how it was flooded and remade, first by an uncaring federal government and then again by industry. Yellow Bird teaches us that some things aren’t random at all—that a crime, and its resolution, can be a product of a time and a place, and a history bringing together the people involved.Ěý

Philadelphia-based writer Emma Copley Eisenberg’s ($27, Hachette), released on January 21, is also deeply rooted in time and place. It looks back at the so-called Rainbow Murders: two young women shot to death in West Virginia in 1980 while hitchhiking to the Rainbow Gathering, an annual counterculture festival held in national forests across the country. Nearly three decades later, Eisenberg moved to the area to work for a youth organization and became fascinated by the killings. Her book vividly recounts the lives of the two murdered women, what’s known of their last days, and the twists and turns of the police investigation as it unfolded over many years. But it also describes her own time in mountainous Pocahontas County, her immersion in the community, and her experiences there with men and women and sex and consent. Young women aren’t murdered in a vacuum, she reminds us—and the stories we tell about their deaths grow out of our culture, too.

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For nine years, a small army of Nebraska landowners has defended its homeland against TransCanada, the Calgary-based company intent on running its $8 billion Keystone XL oil pipeline through Nebraska so it can deliver oil from northern Alberta to refineries along the Gulf Coast of Texas. At times, KXL has been the national environmental issue; other times, like now, it’s lucky to make the local news, a worry only for those whose land might soon be interrupted by a 36-inch pipeline carrying heavy, viscous tar sands oil (mixed with undisclosed chemical diluents) just beneath the surface and directly atop their primary water source: the Ogallala Aquifer.

Landowners and other opposition groups have quietly gathered in courthouses and prairie churches, protested on capitol grounds and on cable TV. They’ve memorized the fact sheets: the mileage (1,179); the barrels per day (); the likely number of full-time jobs in Nebraska (); the fact that TransCanada has spent more money lobbying for this pipeline than any other utility company in Nebraska’s history (). Some landowners have given up retirement plans to fight the pipeline full-time. More than a few have lost friends along the way.

From a national perspective, President Donald Trump’s pro-industry stance has drastically changed the optics on the pipeline battle. Barack Obama twice rejected the pipeline, while Trump campaigned on a pledge to approve it, along with the similarly controversial Dakota Access pipeline in North Dakota. Opponents nationwide considered both projects a bellwether for the next era of America’s environmental policy: if approved, they would signal a renewed commitment to fossil fuels and a direct threat to one of the world’s largest underground freshwater sources. So when Trump approved the Keystone XL last March, claiming it would be “,” the battle seemed to be over.

But for pipeline opponents in the Cornhusker State, the view from the ground is far from hopeless. Last November, , the Nebraska Public Service Commission (NPSC) rejected TransCanada’s preferred route. Instead the commission okayed the company’s alternate choice, a path that differs from the original 63 miles in northeast Nebraska. Those 63 miles could make all the difference: a new route means new easements and likely a host of pricey new lawsuits.

The decision was such a blow that the company requested the NPSC modify the wording of its decision. But the commission unanimously rejected the motion, a ruling that landowner attorney Brian Jorde called the “worst decision possible for TransCanada.”

What this means is that the Keystone XL—after nine years and two presidents—might finally be felled by legal technicalities and groups of well-organized farmers. To gauge the project’s momentum, I attended landowner meetings hosted by both TransCanada and the Nebraska Easement Action Team, a legal defense nonprofit representing landowners affected by the pipeline. Or rather, I tried to.

Despite the legal ambiguities, TransCanada continues to push forward. In early December, the company announced a slew of landowner meet-and-greets at what it called Landowner Engagement Centers in communities along the new alternate route. One was held in a small conference room at the Cobblestone Hotel in Seward, Nebraska, a county seat of 7,200 people surrounded by the stubble of empty cornfields.

When I arrived at the hotel, hoping to meet some landowners and gauge their feelings on the risks and rewards of the pipeline, the ice machine gurgled and the Weather Channel was playing on mute in an empty lobby. A large welcome sign stood next to the conference room door, which TransCanada spokesperson Robynn Tysver immediately closed when I introduced myself as a journalist.

“Seriously, they deserve privacy,” she said.

Less than a minute later, as I waited in the lobby, jotting a few useless notes about the Weather Channel and the ice machine, Tysver returned.

“You know, I have to tell you, I’m uncomfortable having you even here.”

I turned to the receptionist.

“Do you mind me sitting in your lobby?”

“Nope,” she said.

During the 2.5 hours I sat there, fewer than ten people entered the room, and those who did were hardly willing to talk. Each time I stood from the table to follow them out, another TransCanada representative rose and followed close behind. Tysver had never heard of şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř, so perhaps I sounded fishy. Tysver had a hunch.

“You’re not here on behalf of ?” Tysver asked, referring to a nonprofit environmental advocacy group that has dogged TransCanada from the start.

I left soon after, but not before catching a pair on their way out who agreed to answer a few questions. Both Sam Ferguson and his mother live in Seward, though they don’t own land in the path of the alternate route. As they talked to me, neither smiled.

“Whether or not I’m a landowner, this does affect me,” Linda said. “A pipeline does affect me and my children and his children.”

“I don’t even have an opinion on this thing yet,” Sam added. “I don’t know shit about the pipeline. My concern was if there’s a danger of it leaking, that trumps anything positive.”

There’s plenty of reason to be concerned about leaks. Just weeks before, the existing Keystone pipeline had spilled more than 210,000 gallons near Amherst, South Dakota, and barely a fifth was recovered. This was TransCanada’s third major spill in the Dakotas since the pipeline began operation in 2010.

The original Keystone was installed just west of Seward, and the newer, larger XL pipeline would also run west of town, though residents here negotiated to steer it away from the local reservoir. Save for this notch around the town, the southern half of the alternate route in Nebraska would run parallel to the existing Keystone pipeline, all the way to its southern terminus in Steele City.

It’s this slight deviation that could ruin the pipeline’s future, because while TransCanada insists that the Keystone XL “remains a viable project with strong commercial support,” some energy analysts say it’s become a risky gamble.

requires mining and separation, a much more complex and costly process than extraction from conventional oil shales, where bitumen can be pumped in its natural state directly from the ground. In other words, the profit margin is inherently lower. But TransCanada first conceptualized the pipeline about a decade ago, when oil prices peaked at nearly $150 per barrel and producers rushed to siphon every last drop. Since then, prices have crashed.

The pipeline faces another problem: oil companies are selling off their Canadian assets, signaling a shift to less expensive and cleaner products. This math gets worse for TransCanada the longer the fight drags out.

In September 2014, after six years in regulatory limbo, TransCanada acknowledged that legal delays had already driven up the cost of the pipeline by nearly half, . Had the NPSC approved the preferred route, TransCanada could have started construction immediately. But now it has two options: build along the alternate route and face what is likely to be an onslaught of new lawsuits from previously unaffected and unnotified landowners, or fight the commission’s decision in the Nebraska Court of Appeals, a process that would likely take years and add millions, if not billions, to the tab.

One night after the Cobblestone event, the (NEAT)—a legal defense nonprofit representing landowners affected by the pipeline—hosted a gathering of its own, the first of several up and down the length of the alternate route. Unlike TransCanada’s Landowner Engagement Centers, the NEAT meetings functioned as de facto public events. This one was held in the Olde Glory Theatre, a repurposed church just a few blocks off the town square, and the seats were filled with about 75 area residents, some of whom, presumably, recently learned that the pipeline’s new path would now cross their land.

NEAT was established by Brian Jorde and Dave Domina, the same attorneys currently fighting TransCanada. Weeks before, Domina had told the NPSC that if it accepted TransCanada’s request to amend its application, it would destroy the commission’s reputation. “That would make a mockery of you,” he’d said. “It would make a mockery of the judiciary.” Though an outgrowth of Bold Nebraska, NEAT emphasizes that it is not an anti-pipeline group, but rather a pro-landowner group, and the landowners were finally enjoying the upper hand.

Landowners who currently welcome the pipeline are lured either by the money—which includes a signing bonus as high as $80,000, NEAT says, in addition to a one-time easement payment—or the politics. In a deeply conservative state, claims of American energy independence have convinced many that supporting the pipeline is an act of patriotism. On the other hand, those who oppose the project see a loss of private property rights and an environmental cancer: not just increased greenhouse gases and a threat to the aquifer, but also soils compacted beneath heavy machinery, reduced crop yields, and negative impacts on surrounding wildlife. Nevertheless, should TransCanada clear the remaining legal hurdles, landowners of every political stripe will share at least one desire: to have the upper hand in negotiating with a multibillion-dollar corporation.

“Imagine if Ted Turner, one landowner, happened to have all the holdings that stretched 280 miles along the length of this pipeline,” Jorde told the crowd in the theater, employing an oft-used analogy. “Do you think one person with all that land would have more leverage than one of you, who might just have a small piece? So how can we empower each of you to be Ted Turner? By grouping together.”

Most landowners at the meeting seemed to oppose the pipeline, asking questions about tar sands oil, the county’s responsibility in the event of a spill, and whether or not TransCanada can sell the easement to a third party. (It can.) One woman, clutching a newspaper clipping with a map of the alternate route, stood and said simply, “I cannot tell exactly where the route is,” to which the majority of the room laughed and nodded in agreement.

At least one man stood to support Keystone XL and said he owned land already crossed by TransCanada’s first pipeline. His name was Roy Cast, and he argued that extracting oil “is in fact cleaning up the environment in Canada” and that opponents should remember that American blood has been spilled “to protect our right to have oil shipped into this country.” He spoke forcefully while those around him shook their heads or stared at the table.

In the foyer after the meeting ended, I spoke with Tad Warm, a farmer who lives ten miles northwest in the small town of Staplehurst. Not long ago, Warm received a letter from TransCanada, but he already knew his land would be crossed. When the alternate route was first published, he dove into the plat maps. The pipeline would pass within 100 yards of the house he lives in with his wife and two kids and would cross farmland that’s been in his family for nearly 70 years. He told me he’d been at the TransCanada meeting in the Cobblestone Hotel the day before and was frustrated with the way TransCanada sidestepped his concern.

“I brought up the South Dakota spill, and they said, �Oh, we’ll replace the land,’ and I’m like, �Yeah, how long? And will you replace it like it used to be?’ They didn’t answer the question.”

I asked him about the money, the signing bonuses.

“It could never be enough.”

After watching the pipeline battle rage on for nearly nine years, those who left the Olde Glory Theatre and shuffled out into the night already held a better hand. The last time TransCanada barreled through, some had been wooed by big checks. But they were wiser this time, their questions were more specific, their rebuttals more pointed, their concerns hardened by what they’d already seen.

This time, they were ready for a fight.

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Baja to the Future

Distance: 226 miles
Days: Five
Playlist:ĚýCalexico, Y LaĚýBamba, Whitney

The only reason to get off the road after dusk in this part of Baja is the presence of wandering cows. From Los Cabos International Airport, head 43 miles north to , a beach village on the Sea of Cortez, where kite- and windsurfing are powered by El Norte winds from November to March. Suss out the scene at , a colorful beachfront hotel (from $100) adjacent to , a one-stop shop for guides and gear rental. On the 65-mile drive to La Paz, stop in El Triunfo (population 321) for a mango smoothie on the palm-shaded outdoor patio of . In La Paz, settle in at (from $55), a perfect jumping-off point for trips with , which include watching whales, snorkeling among sea lions, or kayaking around Isla Espíritu Santo, a Unesco Biosphere Reserve. On your way to the Pacific, stop at in Todos Santos to stock up on wax or to buy a board. Then head to (from $254), on San Pe­drito beach, where you can indulge in surf lessons, yoga, ceviche, and a mix­ology class. After the final 65 miles to San José del Cabo, stop in at (from $312), an austere hotel that serves ocean-fresh sushi. —Stephanie Pearson

Tennessee Waltz

Distance:Ěý330 miles
Days:ĚýThree
Playlist:ĚýThe Black Keys, Valerie June, Jason Isbell

In Nashville, grab a plate of spicy fried chicken at , then drive 150 miles on I-40 to the Big South Fork, a national recreation area surrounding 80 miles of the Cumberland River and its tributaries, as well as a 600-foot gorge in the Cumberland Plateau. The brave among your group will have Class IV whitewater and steep sport and trad climbing to choose from, but everyone will dig the 4.6-mile Twin Arches Loop, which passes by a 100-foot-high sandstone arch. Stay a night or two at the Bandy Creek Campground. From there, it’s 127 miles southeast to the, near the top of 6,594-foot Mount LeConte, inside Great Smoky Mountains National Park (from $145, meals included), which is best accessed via the long, flowy 6.5-mile Trillium Gap Trail. Don’t plan on electricity, but do plan on eating well, with family-style breakfast and dinner. —Graham Averill

The Greatest Plains

Distance:Ěý900 miles
Days:ĚýFive
Playlist:ĚýColter Wall, Bruce Springsteen, Nathaniel Rateliff

This journey through grasslands, river drainages, mountains, and iconic rock features still offers plenty of space for buffalo—and humans—to roam. Start in the Badlands of North Dakota, at the Maah Daah Hey Trail, featuring 144 miles of singletrack that climbs up to 12,000 feet above the Little Missouri River. Walk, bike, or ride horseback as much as you like; campsites are spaced every 20 or so miles along the trail. Then drive 206 miles south into South Dakota, to the pioneer-style downtown of Spearfish and fuel up on an egg and cheese pastry at before riding six miles to Crow Peak, catching breathtaking views of the Black Hills at the summit. Spend the night at the , once owned by wild man (from $219). The next day, it’s an 80-mile drive to Wyoming’s Bighorn National Forest to check out the 11-mile trail to Bucking Mule Falls, where you’ll find a 400-foot cascade surrounded by fields of Indian paintbrush, lupine, shooting stars, and forget-me-nots. Your next stop, the American Prairie Reserve, is over 300 miles north of Bighorn, but it’s worth the trip: the 353,000-acre area outside Malta, Montana, is the largest-scale conservation project in North America, home to resurgent populations of bison, swift foxes, and cougars. For lodging, treat yourself to a two-night stay in a safari-chic yurt at (from $2,000). —S.P.

Florida Coast-to-Coast

Distance:Ěý484 miles
Days:ĚýFour
Playlist:ĚýJimmy Buffett, Flo Rida, The Revivalists

Heading south from Tallahassee, kick things off with a night camping at St. Joseph Peninsula State Park, on the Gulf of Mex­ico. Opt for an ($100), or snag a primitive paddle-in site in the park’s Wilderness Preserve ($5 per person). Rent a kayak from and explore the stunningly clear waters around the Cape San Blas peninsula (from $35). On your way east, make a stop near Eastpoint for provisions in Apa­lachicola Bay. These 30 miles of shallow, oyster-breeding waters produce some of the best bivalves in the state. Harvest your own, or drop by , which has a raw bar on a deck overlooking the bay. Escape the heat in the middle of the state by tubing , a natural spring that creates a crystal clear, mile-long creek. Once you hit Cocoa Beach on the Atlantic side, set up base camp in an oceanfront suite at the low-key (from $135). The area has some of the best surfing in Florida—Kelly Slater learned here—and the whole family can learn to shred with lessons from ($65 per hour). —G.A.

Surf ’n’ Turf New England

Distance:Ěý399
Days:ĚýFive
Playlist:ĚýPixies, Vampire Weekend, Neko Case

The beaches around Newport, Rhode Island, offer surprisingly consistent swells from late summer through fall. Get a private lesson from (from $95), or pick up a board and head to Second Beach, a sandy-bottom break flanked by cliffs and stunning 19th-­century estates. After a couple of days, drive 273 miles north to East Burke, Vermont, to mountain-bike the , a pri­vately run cross-country system with more than 100 miles of the finest singletrack. If you need to rent a bike, grab a Santa Cruz Tallboy from ($90). Work the Jaw trail into your ride if you like bridgework ($15), and finish up at downtown. Next? Head 140 miles south on I-93 to Portland, Maine, for a guided, three-mile ($40) before exploring Casco Bay (from $65). Stay the night in the Press, located in the newly renovated ($399), feasting on salmon char siu at Union, around the corner. —G.A.

Scratch Alaska’s Surface

Distance:Ěý387 miles
Days:ĚýFive
Playlist:ĚýJohn Luther Adams, Sigur RĂłs, Explosions in the Sky

One road trip is nowhere near enough to capture the vastness of the Last Frontier, but if you act boldly, you can pull off a decent intro. Start at Anchorage’s (from $310), a block from , where the kitchen’s Kodiak Benedict pairs poached eggs with fresh Alaskan king crab cakes. Afterward, grab a mountain bike from Downtown Bicycle Rental and rack it on the Flattop Mountain Shuttle. You’ll get a ride to the Glen Alps Trailhead, near the summit, before saddling up for the 16 miles back to town. Next stop: a 113-mile drive north to Talkeetna, the perfect base from which to connect with and stalk sockeye, pink, and king salmon along the Susitna River (from $190). In Talkeetna, grab a reindeer-sausage slice at before getting back on Highway 3 toward Healy, on the eastern end of Denali National Park and Preserve. It’s easy to reserve a spot at the , but bring netting: it’s mosquito season ($22). Your last stop is Fairbanks, where Arctic Outfitters offers a of Gates of the Arctic National Park (from $5,600). —Will Egensteiner

Olympic Gold

Distance:Ěý205 miles
Days:ĚýThree
Playlist:ĚýM. Ward, Fleet Foxes, Death Cab for Cutie

The 3,600-square-foot Olympic Peninsula is full of old-growth forests, rugged coastline, and jagged peaks. Start exploring it by boarding the Bainbridge Island ferry from downtown Seattle, then head north via Highway 101. In Port Angeles, a gateway town to the 876,669-acre Olympic National Park, grab coffee and a growler to go at , and break out the wet-weather gear—the region’s rainforests average 150 inches per year. No roads cut across the peninsula, but if you continue west on the highway, you can make a full loop around it. At mile marker 240, pull over to take in the Elwha River, now thriving after the 2014 decommissioning of the massive Glines Canyon Dam—part of the largest such removal in U.S. history. Anglers can fish the steelhead runs on the Sol Duc River, then warm up with a dip in the hot springs before pitching a tent at the Sol Duc Campground. After hiking temperate rainforest and alpine meadows to the Blue Glacier on 7,979-foot Mount Olympus, sleep in one of the oceanside cabins at (from $246). —Anna Callaghan

Colorado’s Fourteener Challenge

Distance:Ěý355 miles
Days:ĚýSeven
Playlist:ĚýBowerbirds, the Lumineers, Sylvan Esso

Conquering a fourteener is a Colorado rite of passage, and this weeklong trip allows you to check off five easy-to-moderate peaks, no climbing equipment or special permits required. Set out from Denver before dawn and you can summit Mount ­Bierstadt (14,060 feet) by early afternoon, allowing for a few daylight hours afterward to enjoy the stunning scenery along U.S. 285 while driving to your next stop. Grab a burger at in Fairplay, then head for Mount Princeton Campground, a perfect home base for tackling its namesake peak (14,197 feet) the next morning. Afterward, drive an hour north to Elbert Creek Camp­ground, which is located at the trailhead for Mount Elbert (14,433 feet), the highest peak in the Rockies. You can bag it the next morning, taking in the necessary calories at High Mountain Pies in nearby Leadville. Then scoot 30 miles to a reserved bed at the , a hostel in the small town of Minturn (from $25). Congratulations: it’s time for a rest day. Make the 15-minute drive to Vail village and let loose on the summer tubing hill. Your final peaks, Grays and Torreys (14,270 and 14,267 feet, respectively), loom on the road back to Denver. Connected by a saddle, they offer a single-day, two-for-one deal. An hour outside the city, raise a glass (or several small ones) to your feats with a whiskey flight at the recently opened in Idaho Springs. —Daliah Singer

The post The Summer’s Best Road Trips appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

The fight for took the media by storm in the fall ofĚý2016. Images of protestĚýand unrest surfaced on every major media outlet. Filmmaker Ěýfelt there was more of aĚýstory to be told, and he focused his film on a small group of who protested in prayer; the battle they fought was in solidarity, peace, and faith. This film, set to ‘s song “Hope Inside the Fire,” delivers the message that this event had many stories go untold.

The post A Side of Standing Rock You’ve Never Seen appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

On Friday, December 2, Bobby Robedeaux and seven other members of the Pawnee Nation left Pawnee, Oklahoma, hauling a trailer full of firewood 900 miles north to the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota. From the highway, Adrian SpottedHorseChief posted on Facebook: “Pawnee war party on the move.”

The weekend promised drama. After a four-month standoff between Native American protesters and law enforcement over the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline, both the governor of North Dakota and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers ordered the “water protectors,” as the protesters call themselves, to evacuate their camp by Monday, December 5. Meanwhile, thousands of U.S. armed forces veterans were slated to arrive on Sunday to serve as “human shields” for the Native Americans.

The Pawnees were not a literal war party. Although they were prepared to march the barricades, they were unarmed. Their primary mission was to pray. In early September, Robedeaux and SpottedHorseChief made their first journey to the Oceti Sakowin camp on the banks of the Cannonball River to hold a traditional all-night ceremony.

That was when I met them. Robedeaux is a former wildland firefighter with scarred fists and knuckles that hint of rough years behind him. Now 35, he has settled down, raising two children with his fiancée in a Tulsa suburb while studying pre-law. He is over six feet tall, a block of muscle with hair pulled back in a ponytail. He is quick to laugh, quick to tears, and a complete ham. I once saw him walk up to a satellite news truck, take his place uninvited in front of the camera, and proceed to address the folks back home in his hill-country drawl: “Hi, I’m Bobby Robedeaux of the Pawnee Nation in Pawnee, Oklahoma…”

SpottedHorseChief, 41, is a former high-school football player who wears a mohawk and served as an adviser during the making of the film The Revenant. He sits on the Pawnee Business Council, the tribe’s governing body. He was raised by his grandparents, who taught him traditional ways, and he now lives in the same small house on a dirt lane that he grew up in.

That day in September, I helped them set up the teepee that would house the ceremony, a process that began with a blessing of the poles in both English and Pawnee. When it was up, they looked for a stepladder so someone could fasten the flap above the door. A young Pawnee turned to me and said, “I’ll have to climb on your shoulders.”

I thought he was kidding. But he wasn’t.

I squatted, he mounted my shoulders, and I straightened my legs, quivering a bit beneath the weight. He was the lightest of the group, and the older guys thought the sight of him sitting on this 45-year-old white dude was pretty funny. I soon learned that this was his first time performing the task of threading the dowel rods through the holes. It took some coaching from down below, and some practice.

One of the guys said, “Turn around.”

“Yeah, turn around,” another said. “Mark, stay how you are.”

That cracked them all up.

We prayed all night, sitting cross-legged in a circle in the teepee, burning oak and walnut wood they’d hauled from Oklahoma. We prayed generally for family members and for cures to illnesses, and specifically that the creator and the Army Corps of Engineers would stop the Black Snake that might destroy the drinking water on what remained of the Great Sioux Nation, which had been drastically chipped away at since the treaties of the 19th century. At dawn, we ate corn paste and pinto beans and oranges and candy bars. The mood was festive. That day, the local Lakota Sioux held two feasts for their ancient enemy, the Pawnee, in gratitude for the prayers.

But even then, signs were ominous. The same day of the ceremony, September 3, dogs attacked protesters as they tried to block bulldozers from destroying sacred burial sites. And back home in Pawnee, a 5.8-magnitude earthquake rattled the reservation, destroying historic sandstone buildings built in the early 20th century. The earthquake epidemic in Oklahoma is thought to be linked to the proliferation of fracking, when wastewater is injected deep underground. Some fracking occurs on the Pawnee reservation, both on land owned by the tribe and land owned by individual members—all of which is administered by the federal Bureau of Indian Affairs. Seeing the mass resistance flowering in North Dakota, the Pawnee wanted to right the wrongs in their own home.

Traveling with the Pawnee party last weekend were two tribal elders. Andrew KnifeChief, a Marine Corps veteran, is the executive director of the Pawnee Nation. For three months, he had been approving expenditures and supplies to support the Pawnee camp in Standing Rock. Now he wanted to see it with his own eyes. Morgan LittleSun, a welder and truck driver and teepee maker—one of the tribal chiefs—was making his fourth visit to Standing Rock. In August, he set up a teepee at Pawnee camp on the banks of the river. In October, he brought and pitched the 20-by-40-foot canvas army tent, and in November, he outfitted it with a wood-burning stove and a chimney.

Morgan LittleSun’s comings and goings were typical of many I met at Standing Rock. They established their camps, but then made trips home to tend jobs and families. The Pawnee camp had been established in August by Marcus Frejo, an Oklahoma hip-hop artist who performs under the name Quese IMC. Frejo, 38, had been coming to Standing Rock for many years, serving as something like a motivational speaker to teenagers during an epidemic of youth suicide. Last summer, after a contingent of young Lakota ran all the way from Standing Rock to Washington, D.C., to protest the pipeline, Frejo arrived at Sacred Stone Camp, which sat on private land on the reservation on the south bank of the Cannonball River. In August, when Dave Archambault, chairman of Standing Rock, was arrested for blocking construction crews, thousands of allies began to stream in, quickly overflowing Sacred Stone. The tribe established an overflow camp, Oceti Sakowin, on the north side of the river on Army Corps land. Frejo wanted a place for his relatives to stay, and he told me that after praying, he was led to the riverbank within Oceti Sakowin, where he pitched his tent. Four months later, it has been home to dozens of Pawnee—and thousands of others—as they made the pilgrimage to North Dakota. I had made four trips and spent nearly five weeks in Pawnee camp.

This December, the Pawnees arrived late Friday night. On Saturday morning, they attended the Oceti Sakowin camp’s daily meeting inside a vast white geodesic dome. Although the Standing Rock Tribe is nominally in charge of camp, it doesn’t manage the overwhelming day-to-day tasks of feeding, housing, and providing medical care for thousands of visitors. Those tasks were left to a loose coalition of facilitators and volunteers—some native, some white—and it was often unclear who was leading.

As they looked around, the Pawnees realized that Oceti Sakowin had changed. To begin with, despite the snowstorms and cold snap, the number of people in camp had substantially increased. In August, there were fewer than 5,000 people. Now, according to Desiree Kane, a volunteer media coordinator since July, the weekend crowd had swelled to about 11,000, including 4,000 veterans. Snow-covered yurts and wall tents and motorhomes and tipis and vehicles were packed across the bottomland as tightly as they would fit.

Next, the water protectors were no longer free to come and go north to Bismarck on Highway 1806, which was now blocked by armored military vehicles and spirals of razor wire to keep them off the construction site. On the bluffs above camp, pipeline workers had erected a row of stadium-style floodlights that shone down on camp all through the night to prevent anyone from climbing the hill to the drill pad. A helicopter and an airplane circled the camp at all hours. It felt like a prison or a demilitarized zone, especially after the summer’s peace met autumn’s pepper spray, batons, fire hoses, and rubber bullets, not to mention the nearly 600 arrests. The images of armored light-skinned police inflicting pain on unarmed dark-skinned citizens brought uncomfortable echoes of the Jim Crow South.

But what the Pawnee noticed most, inside the dome, were the white people. In a crowd of 200 attending the morning meeting, the Pawnee were among fewer than a dozen natives. In August, natives comprised about 80 percent of the camp, but now it seemed like it was closer to 20 percent. Natives still led the movement, but in calling for allies from around the world to join them, they had changed the makeup of camp. For the most part, the alliance was harmonious, with nonnatives assuming important roles, from building to cooking to getting arrested on the front lines. But some racial tensions had flared up, and on social media, natives accused whites of ignoring tribal protocols, disrespecting elders, treating the experience like Burning Man or some other way station on their own “spiritual journey,” or even “colonizing” camp by helping themselves to space, food, and firewood without giving back.

I had witnessed the full spectrum. One white friend arrived with a four-wheel-drive truck and chainsaws and expertise and was essential to keeping things running. On the other hand, I’d picked up a white couple who’d hitchhiked from California with ten cardboard boxes of acorns and leather, intending to teach the natives to make flour and moccasins. Just last weekend, I rescued a white guy who was sitting on the snow in a blizzard, too tired and hypothermic to keep walking. As the Pawnee fed him soup and warmed him by the fire in their tent, he lectured us about the philosophy of anarchism.

LittleSun, Robedeaux, and KnifeChief volunteered to help around camp. They spent the morning unloading a trailer of lumber that was used to build winter structures. It wasn’t clear who was in charge. Then they were asked to haul 40 bags of clothing to the thrift store in Bismarck. Normally this would be a 40-mile drive, but because of the road closure, it was 70. They were also handed $2,100 to buy supplies. The men completed the tasks but not without qualms. Robedeaux couldn’t help but notice that all these clothes donated to Standing Rock protesters would now be given to a community that has been hostile to Native Americans. He voiced this to the people giving orders but was informed that the camp had received more donations than it could possibly use. By the time the Pawnees returned to camp, it was dusk, and they had trouble finding someone to give the change and receipts. As they unloaded supplies, someone barked at them to move their truck.

When the men finally pushed through the canvas doors of their tent, where I was sitting, they were frustrated. They pulled up chairs to the woodstove to warm themselves. The green canvas roof was dry above the fire but frosted everywhere else. Battery-powered lanterns swung overhead. An entire wall was stacked with shelves of food, propane stoves, pots, and pans. Cots and air mattresses covered most of the floor, which was lined with plastic tarps. A small summer tent in the corner provided one private bedroom. Mounted on a propane tank was a rickety device called Mr. Heater that looked capable of emitting a fatal dose of carbon monoxide.

Just then, a bearded guy with long blond hair poked his head in and said that so-and-so had a question about the receipts and wanted them to come back and discuss. Bobby told him to send so-and-so over here if they wanted to talk, that he was done running errands for the day.

Andrew KnifeChief called a meeting of his relatives. (Pawnees consider all members of the tribe relative, even if they are not closely related by blood.) He described what he’d seen as a circus. Standing Rock wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Instead of a well-run native organization, he’d seen a chaotic festival run by hippies. They’d heard more talk about yoga and meditation and the wellness tent than they had about stopping the pipeline. KnifeChief was worried that if police were to raid the camp, neither the unarmed band of volunteer camp security forces nor these well-meaning white folks could ensure the safety of the Pawnee. What’s more, he said, the Pawnee needed to concentrate their efforts on the fight at home. Just a week earlier, the tribe had filed a lawsuit against the BIA and the Bureau of Land Management, alleging that the fracking leases on Pawnee soil were illegal. While Standing Rock had emboldened them to fight their own battle, maybe it was time to return home.

Just then, the flaps of the tent parted. Buoyed by an icy wind, two people pushed through: the blond dude and a stylish young white woman in a scarf and wool hat and designer eyeglasses.

“I have serious issues,” said the woman.

She marched toward the woodstove where we were huddled and pulled an envelope from her parka, revealing a pile of cash and a stack of receipts.

“We gave youĚýover $2,100,” she said. “But there’s more than one thousand missing.”

The men jumped to their feet in protest.

“We spent $1,700,” said Bobby. “And we brought back $400.”

“You only spent $800,” said the woman.

Howls of anger rose up. Bobby demanded to see the receipts. Rifling through them, he said, “See? Here. We spent $1,253 and 74 cents at Home Depot!”

But the woman didn’t believe it. “I just had three other people look these over. We’re missing more than $1,000.”

“It says so right here.”

The woman peered at the receipts. Someone jeered, “Maybe your glasses are foggy.”

The woman saw that she’d make a mistake.

“How dare you come in here and accuse us of stealing,” said Robedeaux, his voice rising.

“I didn’t accuse,” she insisted. “I said it’s a serious matter—“

“It’s serious now!” bellowed Chief LittleSun. “Count that money in front of us! You’re about to get me riled up.”

Andrew KnifeChief stepped in and extended his business card. “I’m the executive director of the Pawnee Nation.”

“Do I get to speak?” she said.

“No, not right now,” said KnifeChief. “We’re all tired. We didn’t expect to spend nine hours today delivering stuff. I am the guy in charge of our nation’s government. We don’t steal from people. Especially not on my watch. So, now you can speak.”

“Thanks.” The defiance was gone. “I didn’t actually accuse anyone of anything. And I have been working 16 hours a day for the past three months. A whole bunch of stuff actually did get stolen from us, like, within the past two hours. So I am very stressed out because I’m working on a very serious thing right now, a number of very serious things that involve people’s lives.”

“Can we shake hands?” said KnifeChief.

“Yeah, I got no beef with you. But I also feel a lot of anger and accusation that I’ve accused you of something, which is not what I was doing.”

Robedeaux said, “What angers me is that we have ways of doing things. These Sioux people have ways. So you guys need to learn these ways. Because this is their ±ô˛ą˛Ô»ĺ.”

“Respect Indian ways,” said SpottedHorseChief, jabbing the air with a finger, “of how to treat and talk to people. It’s respect.”

“Yeah, you’re working 16 hours,” said Marcus Frejo. “I’ve been here since day one. I got a felony. I’ve been through the hardships of all these battles. Now I see all these white people all around us. And as Indian people, we’re thinking about heading out because it’s been taken over. And then you come in. All my relatives here. We have chiefs here. Elders, veterans here. It hurts my heart. Because this is what this camp has become.”

“When your stuff gets stolen,” said Robedeaux, “know this: when it was all natives, nothing got stolen. Now, things being stolen: look at your ±č±đ´Ç±č±ô±đ.”

“I apologize to come into you guys in what felt like a bad way,” she said.

She asked to shake Robedeaux’s hand. He refused. And with that she left. Robedeaux found himself weeping. The chief threw his arms around him.

To heal the bad energy, Chief LittleSun pulled a pile of embers from the stove with a shovel, then sprinkled on sprigs of cedar. They blessed themselves in the fragrant smoke. Many of the men here had, in middle age, begun taking classes to learn their language, and they prayed in Pawnee. They decided that the incident was part of the creator’s plan. It had happened for a reason. They hoped the woman had learned something from it. For them, it confirmed their fears about what the camp had become. They decided to go home.

“We came in a good way, and we’ll leave in a good way,” said LittleSun.

In the 19th century, as many as 45,000 Pawnee peopled the Great Plains along the Missouri River. But by the time of their forced removal from Nebraska to Oklahoma in 1875, there were fewer than 1,000. Today, the tribe’s numbers have rebounded to more than 3,000. They couldn’t afford to lose any up here in North Dakota if a police confrontation grew violent. So Andrew KnifeChief finalized the decision to head home. He shook his head gravely. “There’s just so few of us.”

This sacred camp, a beacon for tribal sovereignty, had eroded into a place where Indians were bossed by whites and presumed to be criminals. It had become like the rest of America.

Bobby Robedeaux felt moved to speak. Not just to his relatives. He wanted to address the entire camp. His elders granted permission. About an hour after the confrontation, he wrapped himself in a Pendleton blanket that showed the Pawnee flag: a red wolf’s head on a blue background. He removed a fan of eagle feathers from a case. Then he and LittleSun set out into the snowy night.

Instead of following the well-traveled paths, Robedeaux picked a route between tents and cars. I asked why. “People been walking these same paths, but they been in the wrong,” he said. “I don’t want to follow them.”

When we arrived at the sacred fire in the heart of camp, we found a large crowd around a circle of drummers and singers. A few people were dancing. But what struck me was that there was hardly a Native American face in the crowd. Robedeaux asked around but could not find out who was in charge. He convinced one of the drummers to give him the microphone. The music stopped. The crowd looked on at Robedeaux in his wolf blanket, mic in one hand, eagle feathers in the other.

“I’m looking for a Lakota elder,” he said.

No response.

“I need to speak with an elder from this camp, a Lakota or Nakota or Dakota.”

After what seemed like a long time, a small gray-haired woman approached. He bent down and consulted with her, the microphone not capturing their words. It lasted a few minutes. Still the crowd looked on curiously.

The woman took the mic. She greeted us in the Lakota language, and then spoke Lakota for five minutes. Then she translated, saying that it was important that the camp respect native ways, and that the Pawnee people had been treated unfairly. She wanted them to speak. She invited the whole Pawnee delegation to the front, and as snowflakes fluttered in the night sky, the eight men and one woman lined up alongside Robedeaux.

A lot was riding on this. After all, the Lakota Sioux and the Pawnee have been enemies for centuries, and the unity at Standing Rock to fight the Black Snake brought a historic truce. The Lakota didn’t want their guests mistreated, and the Pawnee were careful not to come across as ungrateful.

Bobby took the mic and, holding the eagle plume, began to speak. He said that back in September, a stream of native people would walk past camp and introduce themselves, but now white people didn’t even say hello. He spoke of how powerful it had been, and how it now seemed fractured. He kept his words gentle, though, never mentioning the alleged theft. He announced that the Pawnee would be breaking camp and heading back to Oklahoma. Then Adrian SpottedHorseChief took the mic and recounted the accusation by the white woman. I looked behind me and saw that dozens of Native Americans had moved to the front. “Don’t come here and try to change things,” he said. “If you come here, join in and learn from us.”

Marcus Frejo took the mic, and after praising the white allies he’d met, he spoke bluntly. “Some of you white folks don’t even acknowledge us here. So why did you come? If all you ever said was I’m here to stop a pipeline and not once said I’m here to pray with this water, acknowledging the power and spirit of the water, then you have no right coming to stop the Black Snake, because you are the Black Snake.”

When they were done, the Lakota elder asked everyone in the crowd to shake their hands. A long line formed, and we approached and shook each hand. A lot of people—both white and native—thanked Bobby for what he said. These kinds of things had been going on for weeks, they said, and it was time someone finally brought it up.

That night, the cold front arrived. I slept in the back of my car in heavy down sleeping bags. Bobby hardly slept. He spent most of the night wandering camp, waking the chief to pray and smoke tobacco on the riverbank before dawn. I asked what he’d seen in the night. “A lot of teepees with no fire in them,” he said. “A lot of people who didn’t know why they were here.”

As the morning sun emerged clear and cold, we walked to the sacred fire. Thousands of veterans were streaming into camp, a line of traffic backed up a mile, as far as we could see. We walked to the front line, the barricade across Backwater Bridge that for the past six weeks prevented protesters from marching to the construction site. Earlier that morning, U.S. Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard, a Democrat from Hawaii, walked to the barricade. The police agreed to remove their armored vehicles and personnel from the bridge as long as the protesters agreed to stay off it. Something like a deescalation had occurred.

Nonetheless, the vets—and the water protectors—were fired up. With their numbers higher than ever, many wanted to overrun the hated barricade and the cops once and for all. But the Standing Rock elders had other ideas. They gave orders for camp security to send all marchers back from the bridge to camp. When we arrived back at the fire, the plan was announced. We were going to pray. We were going to form a circle, hands held, around the entire camp, and we would pray. I heard at least one groan, and one guy wrapped in camo fatigues muttered, “You mean we’re not going to stop the pipeline?”

A team of riders was dispatched to circle the camp on horseback and spread the word. Robedeaux, with his Pawnee flag, joined the procession. An hour later, the circle was not quite complete. Many in camp either didn’t get the memo or didn’t care and just went about their business. Chief LittleSun and I headed for the mess hall to get some lunch. We could see the prayer circle forming all around us. Just as we reached the buffet, I heard two reporters behind me in line: they’d heard word that the Army Corps had denied the easement.

The United States had blocked the pipeline.

With my plate of stir-fry, I hurried to the sacred fire, arriving just in time to hear whoops from the crowd. The prayer circle was disbanding as everyone rushed to the fire. Standing Rock Chairman Dave Archambault was jubilant. “We won!” he said. “You can go home and spend the winter with your families!” Drums pounded, and the high wails of a victory song rang into the cold sunshine. Hundreds stomped their feet in a victory dance. Another elder, Phyllis Young, announced, “We are making peace with the United States of America!” LittleSun and I pushed to the front, where we saw the blue and red Pawnee flag bouncing at the center of the circle. There were SpottedHorseChief and Robedeaux, tear-stained cheeks, crying with joy.

That night, the Pawnees tied a traditional drum by spreading rawhide across a ceramic bowl filled with water. They burned sage and cedar and sang songs of thanks—victory songs. By the next morning, they’d be on the highway to Oklahoma, where they’d get the news that yet another earthquake had shaken their homeland. I stuck around another day, only to find that the celebration was short-lived.

Even as the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe asked all protesters to leave the camp and go home, a white guy wearing a serape walked through camp with a bullhorn, entreating people to stay, claiming that DAPL planned to continue drilling despite the Army decision. This could not be confirmed, partly because the drill pad is closed to reporters. But that same day, its parent company, Energy Transfer Partners, to reverse the decision and issue the easement. A spokesperson for President-Elect Trump said that he supports the pipeline—indeed, Trump owns stocks in several of the parent companies, and Kelcy Warren, the CEO of ETP, to the Trump Victory Fund. It’s unclear if a president can legally overrule a decision by the Army Corps of Engineers.

Meanwhile, a blizzard tore through with 50 mile-per-hourĚýwinds and subzero temperatures. On the morning I left, the last holdouts in the Pawnee tent awakened to find a thin layer of snow had whipped inside a gap in the flap. As roads iced and visibility dropped to zero, dozens of vehicles slid into ditches, and thousands of vets and water protectors were stranded, either bracing against the bitter cold in camp or taking refuge on the floor of the nearby casino. Leaders from Sacred Stone Camp and several other native-run activist groups ended the call for new recruits to join the camps.

In the end, the Pawnee went home satisfied. They had traveled north to pray. And their prayers—at least for the moment—had been answered.

The post The Last Days at Standing Rock appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

On Thursday, hundreds of riot police in North Dakota used pepper spray, batons, helicopters, mine-resistant armored vehicles, and a sound cannon to uproot Native American demonstrators occupying the construction route of the $3.8 billion Dakota Access Pipeline. They arrested 141 people who say the pipelineĚýhas destroyed sacred sites and in the event of a spill would contaminate drinking water on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation.

Also on Thursday, an Oregon jury acquitted Ammon Bundy and six other “Patriots” of felony conspiracy charges stemming from their occupation earlier this year of the Malheur Wildlife Refuge in Southern Oregon. The Bundy crew, which included dozens of other armed protestors, opposed what it considers unlawful ownershipĚýof federal lands. Occupiers barricaded themselves inside federal buildings for six weeks, swaggering in front of news cameras with pistols strapped to their hips and rifles slung over their shoulders, before finally being evicted by law enforcement officials.

At first blush, the scenarios seem similar: a group of passionate activists commit civil disobedience in the hinterlands to protest issues that seem beyond their control. But the particulars are quite different, and understanding them illuminates how America’s centuries-old myth of the noble cowboy and savage Indian has taken contemporary form in white privilege and institutional racism. The simplest evidence of the disparities between the protestors at Standing Rock and the ones at Malheur can be found by looking at how each group has been portrayed in the media and treated by law enforcement.

There are three key differences between these two groups: the Bundy militia was white, armed, and staged inside a federal compound on public land; the Standing Rock demonstrators are mostly Native American, they have enforced a “no-guns” rule at their camp, which, until three days ago, was also pitched on public land. The clashes with police occurred when protestors moved onto private property recently purchased from a rancherĚýby Dakota Access, LLC, a subsidiary of Texas-based Energy Transfer, builder of the 1,172-mile oil pipeline from the Bakken to a refinery in Illinois.

Upon moving camp, Standing Rock protestors opened themselves up to charges to trespassing, a crime that provided police with clear justification to disperse them. The Bundy clan, on the other hand, was charged with the murkier count of conspiracy to prevent federal employees—that is, refuge workers—from doing their jobs.

When the Bundys made their stand, news networks arrived immediately, beaming footage of Ammon Bundy and LaVoy Finicum fieldingĚýquestions in camouflage jackets and cowboy hats. In one , a reporter describes the Bundy camp as “peaceful,” claiming “we saw no guns,” even as guns appear in the footage.

By contrast, Standing Rock protestors, whoĚýnumberĚýin the thousands, have been largely ignored by national television news. Many of the reports that have trickled out relied heavily on statements from North Dakota officials, who often portray the Native Americans as dangerous. On August 17, for example, Morton County Sheriff Kyle Kirchmeier said protesters “were preparing to throw pipe bombs at our line.” Although he did not provide evidence of the explosives, the claim found its way into the Ěýand . Tribal officials speculated that he mistook their public invitation to visitors to “pack their pipes”—a reference to peace pipes, filled with tobacco.

“The state of North Dakota is doing everything to paint Native Americans as the aggressors,” said tribal attorney Tara Zhaabowekwe Houska, campaign director for the nonprofit Honor the Earth, who has attended several demonstrations. “They use stereotypes that we are savage and uncivilized.”

Beyond the contrast in rhetoric, there are also discrepancies between how each group has been treated by authorities. For the first several weeks of the Malheur occupation, armed protestors could travel to and from the refuge for grocery runs. Ammon BundyĚýwent to local towns for meetings and to negotiate with the FBI. It wasn’t until the twenty-fourth day of the occupation that he and others were arrested, during one such outing. (Finicum was shot and killed by federal agents when he attempted to avoid a roadblock and, having crashed his truck into a snowbank, reached for a pistol under his coat.)

At Standing Rock, Sheriff Kirchmeier quickly established a roadblock on the state highway just north of camp: anyone trying to enter the reservation was sent on a long detour over dirt roads. As of Thursday, more than 400 protestors have been arrested.Ěý

According to Sheriff Kirchmeier, those arrests were made in response to aggression from the protestors. On September 3, they clashed with Dakota Access’s private guards, in what Kirchmeier described as “more like a riot than a protest.”Ěý

Several participants and witnesses I interviewed confirmed that protestors on Dakota Access land fought with security officers. But a video of the event shows that the first physical contact occurred when a guard tackled a protestor who had blocked the path of a bulldozer. It also shows guards urging their dogs to attack protestors, six of whom were bitten.

Paradoxically, these unarmed protestors received much harsher treatment from law enforcement than the armed Patriots in Oregon. (Rob Keller, spokesman for theĚýMorton County Sheriff, confirmed to me that no pipe bombs were ever found at Standing Rock and that,Ěýas of last week,Ěýhis officers had not seen any protestors armed with guns.) The Bundy group frequently made the point that, without guns, they would simply have been crushed by police, and this seems to be true. Wanting to avoid a repeat of Waco or Ruby Ridge, federal agents took great pains to avoid a gunĚýbattle.

It’s impossible not to ask: Did the two groups of demonstrators receive such vastly disparate treatment in part because one is primarily white and the other primarily Native American?

Racism among law enforcement agencies has been well documented: in the wake of police killings of African Americans in Ferguson and Baltimore, the Department of Justice found both departments mired in racial bias. In 2013 in Phoenix, Arizona, Justice sued Sheriff Joe Arpaio for systematic infringement of the rights of Latinos.

Thursday’s raid is the latest in a series of actions by North Dakota officials that raise questions about whether Native Americans are getting fair treatment before the law. There was already evidence that they were being treated unfairly: aĚý2016 state studyĚýshowed that minorities were underrepresented in trial juries in Morton county—whose population in 2010 was 94 percent white and four percent Native American. A 2012 study showed that statewide, people of color were arrested and jailed at disproportionate rates.

It’s hard not to cry injustice when the Bundy crew is found not guilty, despite the other factors at play. Ultimately, having spent three weeks inside the Oceti Sakoni camp on the banks of the Cannonball River, for me, the events at Standing Rock shine a harsh light on a culture that celebrates and appropriates the historical Indian as a symbol of our nation’s brave and free spirit, while at the same time ignoring or criminalizing modern-day Native peoples when they demonstrate bravery in fighting for their freedom. In the context of history, yesterday’s clashes are not an aberration but a continuation of 500 years of brutal relations between the colonizer and the colonized.

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