You can save hundreds—if not thousands—of dollars on technical outdoor gear if you master just one simple aspect of gear maintenance: zipper care. Even just doing the bare minimum to maintain your zippers can add five or more years of life to backpacks, fancy Gore-Tex jackets, and pricey tents. And the longer you can go without having to replace these things, the more cash you’ll have in your pocket for more important things—like gas money, plane tickets, and breakfast burritos.

Over the years, I’ve interviewed hundreds of gear experts for this column, and zippers have come up dozens of times—particularly when speaking with repair specialists—as the most important individual detail on the pieces of gear they live on. It makes sense: Zippers are a major point of weakness on most gear, and they can break easily if they’re not used correctly. Repairing them is difficult to do at home and expensive to outsource. If an ember flies onto my rain jacket and burns a hole in the shoulder, I can repair it in minutes with some and/or one of my beloved . If I break a zipper, I usually just panic.

But while it’s important to respect zippers, it’s also important not to fear them. After all, they’re simple machines that have barely changed over the past 120 years. To help demystify them, I called three of the most reputable materials and components experts I know, and asked them to share their secrets.

Here’s what you need to know about zipper care, use, and maintenance to keep your gear going year after year.

The Experts

is currently the director of research development and design for BioSkin, which makes medical braces. Before that, he spent 20 years designing gear for the likes of Cascade Designs, REI, and military uniform company Massif, where he specifically focused on trims and zippers.

has been one of my most trusted—and refreshingly candid—materials sources for a decade now. He’s served as global director of product merchandising and design for Mountain Hardwear, and as a senior product manager for brands like The North Face and Simms. He is currently the Global Chief of Outdoor Product at global clothing sourcing company Asmara Group.

has been a lecturer at the Royal College of Art in London—specializing in performance sportswear and design—for nearly 13 years. Ross is an academic through and through and knows an astonishing amount about the history and functionality of zippers.

A Brief Glossary

Tape: The cloth on either side of a zipper

Teeth: The rows of little knobs that come together to create the zipper chain

Pin: The pointy piece of metal or plastic at the bottom of one side of your zipper. This is the piece you have to slot into the little box at the bottom and line up to start the zip.

±ÊłÜ±ô±ô:ÌęThe floppy metal or plastic tab you grab with your fingers to slide your zipper up and down

Slider: The chunky piece of metal or plastic the zipper pull is attached to. The slider goes up and down along zipper tape. Its job is to connect or disconnect the teeth as you zip and unzip.

Pin box: The pin box is the little square at the bottom of the zipper that keeps the slider from falling off. You have to insert one side of the zipper tape (the side with the pin) into this box in order to start the zipper.

Zipper Buying Tips

Look for a “YKK” on the zipper

All three of my experts specifically—and sometimes begrudgingly—agreed that YKK makes a fantastic zipper. This is a brand that can be trusted for quality.

“You’re going to mitigate 80 percent of your headaches by going with YKK because they’ve just got it dialed,” Fry said. “It’s high quality. The execution is the same almost everywhere in the world. So whether you get a jacket that’s made in Indonesia, China, or Canada, it’s going to have the same quality of feel and behavior.” Fry said. Put simply: If you buy a jacket with a generic zip rather than YKK brand, your chances of failure are higher.

Test the zipper before you buyÌę

If you can, get the garment in hand and get a feel for the zipper before you pull the trigger on a purchase. The zipper action should be smooth. “It should feel like liquid,” said Fry. And if it feels like it’s catching or halting? “Then it’s probably non-branded and it’s going to break,” he said.

Bigger is better

If you’re looking at two competing products and one has a larger main zipper, it will probably last longer. “Bigger is always better, always, every time,” Fry said. Every time you use a zipper, it wears off little bits of material. Smaller teeth fail faster because they have less material to spare, and the teeth deform or round off—and stop catching—after fewer uses.

The difference in the weight between a #5 zipper (a zipper with teeth that measure a five millimeters in diameter when closed—the kind you might expect to see on a lightweight rain jacket) and a #10 (the kind of zipper you’re probably used to seeing on your carry-on luggage) is remarkably insignificant. But that #10 zipper is going to last a great deal longer.

Best Zipping Practices

The best way to keep your zippers in good working order is to treat them with respect. Here are our experts’ tips.

Don’t use zippers to force something shut

One of the greatest sources of user error, particularly on luggage and backpacks, is trying to use the zipper itself to leverage a piece of gear closed. “They’re not meant to be the closure device,” Fry said. Pulling a stubborn bag shut puts a lot of force on the slider and teeth. Zippers weren’t designed to withstand that force.

“Zips work really well going one-dimensionally, so straight up and down,” Ross explains. Any amount of curvature introduced into the system is going to make the zipper significantly more likely to fail. A light curve, like when I zip a sweatshirt over my tummy after I have joyfully eaten an entire large pizza, is going to make it about five percent more likely to fail. If I were to put a basketball under my sweatshirt and zip it closed, the zipper is much more likely to bust. So, if you spot a bulge in your pack, fix it before trying to zip it shut to help mitigate this problem.

Brute force will only make a stuck zipper worse

“If you’re feeling resistance [in your zip], the number one thing to do is to stop and examine it,” Ross said. Zippers should run smoothly, so any type of resistance at all—even just light sluggishness as you pull up or down—is worth looking at. While this sounds very straightforward, I have to admit it’s hard to follow. In my haste, I have injured many a zipper. Ross has, too. “I’m a bloke,” Ross laughs. “If I get resistance, I pull harder.” But in this case, he recommends you do as he says—not as he does. Yanking a zipper shut is more likely to break teeth or jerk the slider off the track. And just as getting stopped for a speeding ticket makes your commute a whole lot longer, breaking your zipper is going to add more to your packing time. Slow down, and do it right the first time.

Fry also highlighted the importance of using a soft hand when zipping. “Really make sure you take the pressure off of the zipper so that the zipper slides easily,” Fry said. “If you’re struggling with the zipper, it’s probably going to break—either that time or the next time you use it.”

Take extra time to seat your zipper

Munter takes extra care to properly seat the pin of his zipper into the box every time he zips up a jacket. If you rush the seating or don’t get the pin in all the way, it significantly increases the chances that the teeth won’t come together in a uniform manner. That makes them more likely to warp. Little micro-warpings in the teeth often lead to unfixable problems in a zipper over time.

This extra thoughtfulness around engagement in the beginning of the zipping process goes for the slider, too. Munter likes to pinch the slider against the pin box and bring it below the pin before slotting the pin into place. This creates compression that will set the start of the zip up perfectly. “If you start all good, then you’ll function well,” Munter said.

Easy Maintenance Tricks to Make Your Zippers Last

Slowing down and respecting your zips isn’t the only way to keep them going strong. They also need a little TLC every once and a while. Here’s how to keep your zippers running smoothly for years to come.

Clean your zippers

“Gunk gets in the way [of the teeth] and wears your zipper down,” Munter said. Over time, dirt and grit gets clogs the spaces between the teeth, preventing them from sliding together. Dirt can also create abrasion, which chips away at your zipper teeth. The answer? Regular cleaning.

According to Munter, washing your zippers with water alone isn’t enough; to really get dirt and grime out of the tiny crevices, you’ll need an emusifier, like a soap or detergent. While running a jacket through the wash after using it will take care of most of the grime, it is worth getting in there with a brush and soap if you absolutely hammer a jacket with dirt on, say, a climbing trip. If the zipper you want to clean is on a tent or large bag that you wouldn’t want to run through a washing machine, Munter recommends scrubbing your tent or pack with a brush and soapy water.

Size up (or pack less)

We’ve already established that zippers are terrible compression devices. The best way to remedy this is by sizing up. For jackets, think about purchasing a size big enough to comfortably pile on layers underneath it, Ross said. As for packs and suitcases? If you find yourself aggressively zipping it closed, it’s not big enough. Pack less, or buy a bigger bag.

Wax your zippers

Fry learned an invaluable zipper care lesson when he worked at Simms and watched them wax the waterproof zips on waders.

“Seems silly, but anytime you’ve got a big chunky zipper, a little bit of wax can go a long way,” Fry said. “You don’t need to have liquid lubricant stain your fabric, but a hard block of a candle wax [does the trick]. As you move the zipper slider up and down, it heats up and melts the wax into the base the teeth.”

You don’t need much: A single swipe along your zipper has the dual benefit of seriously lubricating the zipping process as well as keeping out sand and grit. Both will improve your zipper’s longevity for years to come.

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Some pieces of gear are just controversial. Trekking poles, camp shoes, and even have their haters and die-hards. As it turns out, so do pee cloths. While legions of women have hailed the pee cloth—a reusable square of fabric used to dab drippy nethers—as a great equalizer in the backcountry, others have rolled their eyes at the excess. For years, the debate has raged on: is the pee cloth an absolute necessity, or just an unnecessary accessory? Here’s our editors’ take.

Pee Cloths Rule

My is a treasured staple in my backpacking kit. Sure, sticks and leaves can keep me dry-ish in a pinch—but why would I settle for subpar and scratchy and flirt with when I can invest just half an ounce of weight and zero pack space into being dry and clean?

Air drying is OK in a pinch, and snow works where I can find it (brrr!), but my pee cloth keeps me feeling as fresh as I do at home, and it has a cool design that adds some razzle dazzle when hanging on the outside of my pack. If I’m going to spend a week being grimy, I’ll take the small comforts where I can get them. That includes extending the use of my underwear before I’m dying for a fresh pair. I can wear a sweat-stained t-shirt for days, but dry underwear makes all the difference for my enjoyment on trail.

Smell isn’t an issue, either: My Kula dries in a flash in the sun and washes easily in the laundry when I get home. It’s odor-resistant and antimicrobial, so I can feel good about my hygiene. Nothing against smooth rocks and vegetation, but I’d rather keep the dirt on the outside of my hiking pants).

Sure, I could spend a laborious extra minute in a deep squat, trying to shake off the drops, but I’d rather do my business, pat dry, and be back on the trail in a heartbeat. I’d prefer to save my quads for that next climb, anyway.

—Zoe Gates, Senior Editor

Pee Cloths SuckÌę

Christ on a bike. You wipe with the wrong leaf one time.ÌęWe all make mistakes in our youth, OK, Zoe?

Still, I confess that after the aforementioned incident, I did try the pee rag method for a while. It seemed like such a good idea for all the reasons you lay out. But in reality, it’s just more trouble than it’s worth.

One of the best things about hiking is that you have the freedom to drop trou at a moment’s notice, whenever the mood or scenery strikes you. But if you have a pee rag to worry about, you can’t just kick into a wide stance and let loose. Instead, you have to remove your pack (delicately, to avoid tossing your pee cloth in the dirt), unfasten the rag, and then discreetly carry it into the woods with you. Once you’ve done your business, you must then carry it, dripping, back to the trail, refasten it, and hoist a backpack covered in moist pee. If your bag is heavy, you must sling it onto your shoulder carefully to avoid whipping your partner in the face with your urine-soaked pennant. Not ideal.

While some backpackers don’t mind the junk show look, I prefer to . I want my pack neat and tidy, without any danglers to snag on overhung branches or get caught in thorns during sections of bushwhacking. Then there’s the matter of (literally) airing your dirty laundry on the trail. I wouldn’t want a pair of panties dangling off the back of my pack. So why would I want the world to watch my pee flag fluttering in the wind?

Even during the days when I carried a pee cloth with me, I still found myself shaking dry the majority of the time just to avoid the hassle. It’s so easy to do a little wiggle and then use a smooth stick or stone to flick off extra drops. That way, you leave your urine where it ought to be: in the ground, not all over your pack.

In my mind, the pee cloth craze is just another way to get you to spend $20 on a piece of gear you don’t really need. I’ll keep my money—and continue peeing the way nature intended.

—Corey Buhay, Interim Managing Editor

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About a decade ago, when I first learned about risk management in my college outdoors club, I was taught that assuming the “lightning position” was the best way to protect yourself in a thunderstorm (spoiler alert: it does bugger-all). If you managed to avoid this particular tidbit of backcountry lore, allow me to provide a refresher: the lightning position involves crouching down on a sleeping pad with your heels touching, your chest pressed against your knees, and your hands clamped over your ears. It’s supposed to limit your likelihood of getting electrocuted.

Over the last few years, many outdoor education groups have , now saying the lightning position can only slightly mitigate risk and should only be used as a last resort. But many, including the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS), as a way to help insulate your body from ground strikes (it doesn’t). And others, including the Boy Scouts, say can increase your risk of getting struck (another myth).

Few hikers take the time to regularly upgrade their knowledge. That’s because safety research is a total pain. It’s much more fun to authoritatively parrot decades-old adages back to our friends and family (guilty). So, allow me to provide our overdue update. Here’s what’s actually true about lightning safety in the backcountry.Ìę

The lightning position is actually bogus.

NOLS teaches that the lightning position is a good option if you find yourself trapped in the open with nowhere else to go. But according to Dr. Ron Holle, a meteorologist and safety specialist for the Lightning Safety Council, that’s not necessarily the case.

“The lightning position is useless,” he says. “There’s a lot of speculative, ‘I suppose this could work,’ sort of advice out there. But I have a file cabinet with about 5,000 cases of people being killed or injured by lightning, and none of those ‘I suppose’ methods work.”

Dr. Kristin Calhoun, a research scientist with the , is inclined to agree.

“If I was in an open field, I wouldn’t assume that position,” she says. “I would run.” Finding lower ground and getting under uniform tree cover are some of the few things that can measurably decrease your lightning risk, she says. She adds that standing or sitting on a sleeping pad “makes no difference” that she’s aware of. Better to leave the pad in your pack and focus on moving to a safer location.

You can get struck by a storm that’s up to 10 miles away.

Many of us have stood on a ridge or mountaintop, seen a storm building in the distance, and told ourselves we still had time. That’s a dangerous misconception, says Calhoun.

“People often don’t worry about a storm until it’s actively raining over them,” she explains. “But it’s often the first flash of lightning that’s the most deadly because people haven’t taken protective action yet.”ÌęÌę

Standing under a tree can sometimes be worse than standing out in the open.

Lightning tends to strike the tallest object on a landscape. So, if you’re standing on a tall ridge, your head is that high point (not ideal). But standing under a tall or solitary tree can sometimes be worse. That’s because direct strikes—instances where people get hit directly by a bolt—only account for 3 to 5 percent of all lightning-related injuries. But ground strikes—instances where people are shocked by electricity traveling through the ground—account for up to 50 percent of injuries.

If you’re standing under a tree, you could be at potentially greater risk than if you were standing out in the open. That’s because lightning is more likely to hit a 100-foot-tall tree than a 5-foot-tall person. And if it does, the hiker beneath it is first in line for the aftershock.

“If lightning hits the tree, the ground current will go down through the tree and then back up through the ground,” Calhoun explains. If you’re far from the trunk, the electricity may have time to disperse before it gets to you. But if you’re right next to it, you’ll get the brunt of the shock. Calhoun’s recommendation: find a large patch of shorter trees of uniform height to stand under instead.

Metal doesn’t actually attract lightning.

“Lightning is not attracted to metal,” Holle says. “It travels through metal, but it’s not attracted to it.” Lightning is only attracted to three things, he says: tall structures, isolated structures, and pointed structures. “It doesn’t matter if those structures are made of metal or wood.”

That said, if lightning hits a structure because it’s tall, the metal material may conduct the lightning to the ground more quickly and therefore more powerfully than if it were wood or plastic. So, if you’re at a campsite with a bear-hang pole, try not to pitch your tent near it.

“The metal can conduct electricity, which can jump to a tent 10 to 20 feet away,” Calhoun says.Ìę

Crouching can help—but lying down makes things worse.

Crouching reduces your likelihood of being the tallest point on a landscape. But, paradoxically, lying down puts you in even more danger than standing up. That’s because when you’re lying down, you maximize your contact with the ground. That makes ground strikes more likely to affect you. It also makes it more likely that a ground strike could enter your body through a foot and exit through your arm or neck—arcing through your heart along the way.

A tent provides no shelter from lightning.

“There are only two real places you’re safe from lightning: in a real building with wiring or plumbing, which creates a effect, or in a metal-topped vehicle,” says Ron Holle, a meteorologist. A tent, however, provides no shelter.

“Since 2006, more people have died [from lightning strikes] while camping in tents than while hiking by themselves,” Calhoun says. “You also see these horrific accidents where numerous people are injured at once because they’re in a confined area that gets struck.”

So, if you’re pitching a tent, put it somewhere you wouldn’t mind standing in a storm: below treeline, away from tall ridges, and ideally between stands of uniformly tall trees.

Hiding in a cave is a bad idea.

If you’re caught in a storm and encounter a dry cave or rocky overhang, you might think it a gift. Think again, Calhoun says.

If the electrical strike is traveling along the edge of a cliff and encounters the mouth of a cave, it’s not going to take the trouble to travel around the roof of the cave to the floor. Instead, it’s going to jump to you, and use your body as a shortcut. Sheltering from the rain might sound nice, but it’s better to keep moving.Ìę

There’s no such thing as getting “accidentally” caught in a storm.Ìę

“You weren’t ‘caught’ in a storm,” Holle says. ‘There was some error in your decision making.”

Modern weather forecasting is extremely accurate, he explains—as long as you check the weather for your trail or peak, not for the nearest town. If the forecast calls for some chance of a storm, there’s no excuse not to heed it. “But over and over again, I see people plan for a specific hike or fourteener or whatever, and they feel like they have to go on the day they’ve set aside,” he says. Summit fever is a big problem. And Holle suspects that people on average have less respect for lightning now than they did 10 or 20 years ago.

“There are so many more people doing these activities,” he said. “There’s a new generation coming up that needs to be reminded of the risks.”

Bonus: Lightning Fun Facts

Lighting may be dangerous, but it’s also one of nature’s greatest wonders. Once you get to safety, feel free to sit back and marvel.Ìę

• Lightning always causes thunder—even if you don’t hear it. When lightning strikes, the air around the bolt heats up and expands so fast that it sends air molecules shooting outward in every direction. This heat-induced shockwave creates the sound we know as thunder. And it’s there even if you don’t hear it. “Heat lightning,” for example, isn’t silent or special—it’s just .
• Different types of lightning sound different. A short, quick bang means a fast, cloud-to-ground flash happened nearby, says Calhoun. But a long, continuous rumble means lightning is arcing more horizontally. Each beat of the rumble is the sound of a leader breaking off from the main streamer and forking away from you through the sky.
• A single bolt of lightning can cover a whole state. Geostationary satellites often measure bolts that are hundreds of miles long. In 2021, researchers recorded one that was and stretched across parts of Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi.
• Volcanoes can also cause lighting. Clouds of exploding volcanic dust can also build up electric charge. (So can tornado and hurricane clouds.) Often, the charge is sufficient to over an erupting volcano.
• Lightning helps fertilize the soil. Lightning tears through the air with enough force to . That leaves nitrogen atoms free to combine with oxygen, creating molecules called “nitrates” that are essential for soil and plant health.

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Dear Gear, I’ve been a confident skier, mountain biker, and climber for over three decades. I’m also a woman. For some reason, most of the guys in my life seem to think it’s OK to mansplain how to use my gear to me, and it makes me want to scream. What’s the best way to handle this situation so I don’t blow a gasket? —Frustrated Feminist

Dear Frustrated,

First of all, do you know what blowing a gasket actually means? I’d be happy to explain it to you—I’m kidding! All of us gals have been in your shoes at one time or another. And while the outdoors are far less biased than they used to be, there’s work to be done when it comes to educating menfolk on how not to “educate” women. Unfortunately, as I’ve discovered, an explosive, curse-filled rant isn’t the most effective route to enlightenment (although it’s plenty cathartic). Usually, the dude just ends up getting defensive. For me, two strategies have brought the most success.

Option one: Play dumb. Now, your first reaction might be, “Isn’t that exactly what the mansplainer wants me to do?” But I’m talking so dumb that you cause utter confusion, until the mansplainer finally sees how ridiculous he’s being. For example, if a man were to tell me, a ski-gear editor, that the skis I’m on are known for being playful, I’d ask, “What does that mean?” And when he says something like “There’s a lot of rocker in them, so it’s easier to ski switch and jib around the mountain,” I’d respond with “What’s switch?” And so on. It’s super fun; you get to pretend you’re a two-year-old for a few minutes! But fear not: with practice, your reward will be an extremely docile lift partner with a better understanding of the value of unsolicited advice.

Option two: Call him out, Rebecca Solnit style. Before the term mansplaining was even born, the writer-activist’s famous 2014 essay, offered several examples of “Mr. Important” men narrating her area of expertise back to her (in one case even referencing a book he didn’t realize she’d written). “Dude, if you’re reading this, you’re a carbuncle on the face of humanity and an obstacle to civilization. Feel the shame,” she wrote about another man. Next time you’re getting mansplained to on the chairlift or at the crag, tell him he’s being a carbuncle, and let me know how it goes.

No matter which route you choose, the key is to address their arrogance posthaste. Because once you let a few patronizing micro-mansplains slide, that’s when the fury builds. And once the vitriol comes to a boil, that explosive, curse-filled rant is likely to follow. Although, if you truly can’t hold it in any longer, it might be exactly what the mansplainer needs, goddammit!

Have a question of your own? Send it to us at deargear@outsideinc.com.

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The family that plays together grows together. But it’s not always easy finding something that pleases adults and kids alike. So we asked our travel experts to give us fresh ideas for unique trips at home and abroad that will have everyone too enthralled to check their phones—and that also promise an engagement with nature in new, wild ways.

Best Place to See Wildlife

Domestic: American Prairie, Montana

Spying the magnificent bison roaming the Great Plains might be the quintessential American wildlife experience. This is the largest mammal in North America, with males standing up to six feet tall and weighing as much as 2,000 pounds, and their numbers are rebounding on land managed by , a public-private conservation partnership that plans to connect 3.2 million acres. Some 800 buffalo call these ranges home, along with growing populations of elk, deer, and pronghorn.

The 1.1-million-acre , which straddles the Missouri River in the state’s northeast, is the system’s anchor, with all manner of outdoor activities, from hunting and hiking to birding and boating. But for some of the best wildlife viewing, head to private Mars Vista, 75 miles north of Lewistown, off Highway 191, where you can take the kids on a two-mile nature trail and install yourselves at Antelope Creek Campground (from $18). For a legitimate safari, check out the more remote Sun Prairie property, pitch a tent at Buffalo Camp ($12), and cruise 50 miles of gravel and dirt roads looking for the resident bison herd. Remember to keep a safe distance from the animals, which can run as fast as 35 miles per hour. How distant is safe? Use the (literal) rule of thumb: Extend your arm and stick out your opposable digit. If the entire bison is covered up, you’re good. Bison calves are born in May and June, and adults go into rut—when males fight for the attention of females—in July and August. The elk usually follow suit, with their mating season in September and October. —Graham Averill

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It wasn’t crossing over into my forties that felt so unsettling,Ìęit was the physical signs—subtle as they were—that made aging bloom into something real and looming.

After my fortieth birthday, over the course of two years, my periods became heavier and more painful. Now, at 42, I sometimes spot between cycles. Sometimes my period comes early. Every month, days before I begin to bleed, my left breast becomes tender in one spot like the knotted growth of a burl budding from the trunk of a tree. When I asked the doctor if all of these things could be due to hormonal shifts that come with perimenopause, she shook her head. “Forty-two? You’re too young for that.” But I wasn’t convinced. I feel my seasons changing, gray hairs streaking across my head and eyebrows like leaves surrendering to their fall colors.

This uneasiness around aging and my body changing settled within me, a low rumbling that I tried to ignore. I have two young kids to distract me, but the shifts whispered premonitions of what the near future brought—increasing signs of perimenopause, menopause, more folds of skin around my shoulder blades, more lines across my forehead and around my eyes like new grooves in the ground after heavy rains.

Both my husband and I were becoming increasingly aware of the passage of time. So when we saw the listing for a 1786 farmhouse in dire condition in Bridgewater, Vermont—a two and a half hour drive from our Boston home—we took a leap of faith. It wasn’t only the old house and its potential that made me fall in love. It was the land. The more I read about the natural world and edible plants, like wild raspberries and ramps, that surely thrived there, the more eager I became to get out into the wilderness and explore.

We closed on the house in December 2022, with plans to rehabilitate it over the next few years so that we could make an official move. At the first evidence of snow melt and new green, I set out on my mission. In the woods, my body seemingly betraying me with its own autumn during Vermont’s spring, I was eager to see what the land could offer. It was my first year of foraging. I came prepared, and maybe a bit overconfident. I had read the books, I had watched the YouTube videos. In unusual optimism, I bought a mesh bag and slung it over my shoulder to carry my bounty. In my coat pocket, a pocket knife was ready to assist in any find.

It was here in the Vermont wilderness, away from my role of mother, housewife, ringleader—whatever you want to call it—that I tried to find myself again. I walked the woods, searching for wild treasures in order to stop myself from imagining I could walk backwards over the divide of 40. I knew that I had to stop focusing on what was behind me—my younger self—or I’d forget where I belonged, both in time and in my body.

And so, I turned my attention toÌę what I could find in the newness of spring—specifically, ramps, that wild allium with a pungent onion and garlic flavor. Every few minutes I stopped, listened to the sounds of water dripping from bare branches, and scanned the land around me for anything green coming up from the ground. Every now and then my heart skipped at the sight of something that could be the new delicate growth of an Allium tricoccum. Falling to my knees, not caring whether my pants got brown and wet, I ripped a leaf and sniffed, desperate to smell onion and garlic. Each time I got excited, I found that I was putting all my hopes into lily-of-the-valley. Hours passed, days passed, my legs burned from the hills I climbed. Still, no ramps. There were only lookalikes, those lily-of-the-valley and then the abundant false hellebore that sat deceivingly beside streams.

Here I was, 42, cheeks red from the still-cold air, frustrated now with both my body and the land.

I’d like to say that days after my sense of defeat I found a patch of ramps, foraged them sustainably, brought them home, and cooked them for my husband and kids. But I never found the ramps. Instead, days later, I came across a large patch of fiddleheads. It wasn’t what I originally set out for, but I couldn’t help but grin as I cut them at their base and stuffed them into my pockets. Back home, I fried them in butter and salt and let my kids crunch curiously. Summer was fast approaching, and I began to research what I could find next.

Summer was full of its own surprises. The small three-leaved plants that I’d always thought were clovers turned out to be the heart-shaped wood sorrel that gifted us a tingle of lemon flavor. The hill that our farmhouse sits on bloomed with small, tart wild strawberries. My daughter and I found a large patch of chanterelles along a trail in the nearby woods. A surprise sprinkling of hedgehog mushrooms taught me that they are one of the better-tasting edible fungi. I enjoyed these finds, but carried with me the dread of autumn and winter. This, I believed, was when the bounty would diminish and I would need to prepare myself for the wait for spring. I expected the wilderness to act as our bodies do—spring and summer (youth) would provide, late autumn and winter (middle age and beyond) would deplete.

Soon I could feel the shift in the air and the plants around me. Again, the seasons changed, and I prepared for disappointment, waiting for the woods to offer only silence and snow in the late autumn freeze. On a farewell walk in the woods, the first flakes dusting the dirt and patches of moss, I found thick oyster mushrooms blooming at eye level from the side of a maple tree. I removed them, to make sure they smelled of licorice, and smiled at the surprise offering from the woods.

Shortly after my oyster mushroom discovery, I listened to a Vermont Public Radio interview with Bob Popp, Vermont’s newly retired state botanist of 33 years. Part of his job was to monitor the population growth or decline of Vermont’s plants. The interviewer asked him why people should care about the plants he often visits for these wellness checks.ÌęHe admits that he never really figured out how to get everyone interested in the natural world. “When you’re driving down the highway going 70, you’re not really noticing anything.” Paying attention to the plants around us requires slowing down. Popp adds that knowing how to identify plants can help people know where they are in the world. Foraging has certainly helped me find my place in my own seasons, my place in time.

Foraging with the ebb and flow of nature has helped me accept the ebb and flow of aging. Each month there are new things to look for in the woods; from ramps to wild strawberries in the spring and summer, to oyster mushrooms in the colder months. Sometimes there is abundance, and sometimes we have to accept the quiet lacking. Sometimes we look ahead and anticipate scarcity, emptiness, the loss of vitality. Aging, like those late autumn days in the woods, isn’t darkening and emptiness—it’s expansive and full of surprises. I finally feel grounded where I am.

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This story update is part of theÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűÌę°ä±ôČčČőČőŸ±łŠČő, a series highlighting the best writing we’ve ever published, along with author interviews and other exclusive bonus materials. Read “We Dressed a Modern Man Like an Outdoor Dude from the 1970s and Set Him Loose in the Wild,” by Eric Hansen here.

But we did anyway. For the magazine’s 30th anniversary, celebrated in 2007, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű sent Eric Hansen on simulated time travel to 1976, the year the magazine was founded, by having him dress like a dorky outdoorsman from that era and do his wild and crazy things in the modern world of Boulder, Colorado. Hansen was the perfect choice for this embarrassing assignment. Having started as an intern in 1999, he’d proven his mettle with his inaugural feature story: poaching a first descent of Kilimanjaro on a pair of Big Feet, the short little skis you see on bunny hills. Sadly, Guinness did not recognize the achievement.

Starting in late 2006, Hansen became °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’s Out of Bounds columnist for more than three years, memorably writing in the gonzo adventure style of prior greats like Tim Cahill and Randy Wayne White. Among other feats, he ran a marathon above the Arctic Circle while smoking a pack a day and captained °żłÜłÙČőŸ±»ć±đ’s Partially Icelandic Quidditch World Cup Team, which ended with him getting carried off the field. He could be serious too, and in 2010 wrote “Amateurs Without Borders,” an account of delivering aid to Haiti by sailboat after that year’s catastrophic earthquake.

In time, Hansen’s humanitarian interests led to a career change: he now writes and runs PR for , the international organization founded by the late . Hansen’s former editor, Elizabeth Hightower Allen, talked to him at his home in New Mexico, where he wore business casual instead of the preferred style of That ’70s Guy: a star-spangled backpack and denim short-shorts.

OUTSIDE: So the concept was to dress you up like an outdoorsy 1970s love machine, send you out into the world, and watch people’s jaws drop, right?
HANSEN: Yes. The editors wanted to see if seventies style still had the power to frighten. And I think they looked around and were like, Do we have a goofball stuntman in the vicinity? Yes, we do. One thing I loved about this story is that there’s virtually no news value. So long as you really got into it, you couldn’t screw it up.

You had to round up some vintage gear, including a T-shirt that said: LOVE MEANS NOTHING TO A TENNIS PLAYER.

Unlike most stories I wrote, I actually did a lot of prep: going to thrift shops, calling gear companies, and rummaging through yard sales. It was a dissociative experience. On the one hand you’re like, This is so fun. On the other hand, it’s deeply humiliating. It’s one thing to paw through the racks, and another to go to a real club in Denver dressed like you just came out of the Hot Tub Time Machine.

How does one prepare to become an adult who does, well, things like this?
I was pretty adventurous, even as a teenager. Growing up in Seattle, there’s so much to do. When we were 15 years old, four buddies and I took the ferry to Vancouver Island and went sea-kayaking for six days. We had no business doing this. I can’t even believe my parents allowed it.

At șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű, a process of elimination came into play. I looked around, saw so many great literary writers, and quickly realized: I can’t write like that, so what’s left? Well, go do something the bookworms wouldn’t, and try to be a little bolder or less prepared or more naive.

Your assignments often required serious athleticism and involved similarly serious risk. In the ’70s Guy piece, you’re doing endoes in kayaks, and you complete a race on a very heavy bike. In other articles you wrote, you skied clear-cuts in southeastern Alaska’s Tongass National Forest and hitchhiked to a remote bar in Colombia. Did you ever worry about the danger?
At the time, I didn’t think there was anything weird about it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, these days I wear a helmet to bike to the grocery store.

Tim Cahill pretty much invented the kind of șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű story that combines far-flung adventure with bad decision-making. What did you learn about writing from predecessors like him?
Tim gave me some great advice once. I had a column due, and I had nothing on the page. I just couldn’t get started. This happened to me every couple of years—once, I had Chris Solomon, my roommate at the time and a fellow șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű writer, literally duct-tape me to a chair.

Anyway, I was freaking out, so I drank two beers, thinking that would loosen me up to write. Instead it loosened me up to find Cahill’s phone number on the Web. I left him a message that went something like: “Tim, my name’s Eric. You probably don’t know me, but I write for șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű and I’m a huge fan. I have a story due tomorrow and I have nothing. Can you help?“

I woke up at probably 6:30 to a phone call. It was Tim, and he did help. He said to just start writing the part you like. Write that, and then write the next part you like. Sure enough, a week later I had a story.

One of my favorites is “Out of My Way, Pumpkin,” about an entirely made-up condition called Skills Deficit Syndrome (SDS) that affects mountain-town relationships. Your girlfriend dusts you at every sport and then dumps you because you can’t keep up.
Well, she dumped me because of other things too, I’m sure!

ÌęBut beneath all the high jinks, you often explored substantive issues. You worked for a week as a trekking porter in Nepal and outlined the indignities Western trekkers impose on porters. And you sailed to Haiti after the 2010 earthquake.

I certainly didn’t go into those stories with an agenda, but I always liked serious takes on comical subjects, and vice versa. One of the things șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű taught me is to meet the reader where they are, and then take them someplace new. I was very aware that it’s an absolute honor to have people read what you’re writing. And so you really are obliged to entertain while you maintain fidelity to what’s actually happening.

As for Haiti, I’d seen poverty like that before, but it blew my mind that it was so close—the fact that you could get in a little boat and sail to that place. The juxtaposition of Haiti’s deep poverty with its proximity to the U.S. really struck me. That and how disorganized the international aid apparatus was. It was like a crash course in global health. And it got me interested in it as a career.

What do you think ’70s Guy knew that 2020s Guy does not?
First, that you just have to get out there. Most of the gear in your bedroom is good enough for just about any adventure. The important thing is to find the time and go do it. Second, approach it all with love and curiosity.

The post That ’70s Guy appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Anyone who has thru-hiked with a partner knows you won’t always be thriving at the same time as one another. It would be nice if your low-energy miles lined up with your partner’s, so you could agree to cut the day short, collapse into your tent, and whine about or a squeaky pack. But in my experience, my cranky days are the days when my partner feels the best, leaving them to cruise up switchbacks while I could swear my legs have been replaced with lead balloons. Communicating during this time is challenging for both people, and I’d never encountered it more than on a trip this past spring.Ìę

We started the route on an , and I immediately found myself struggling with the sun exposure. Conversely, my partner seemed to be having an extremely easy time, and I tried to be happy for him as he casually crushed the climbs regardless of the heat. He was kind and accommodating, but I knew he could have been doing bigger miles if I hadn’t been there. The more I got into my head, the more my mood began to spiral. If I was struggling this much at the start, what would happen when the route got harder?

I caught up to my partner at the top of a long climb one morning, collapsing in a scant patch of shade and trying to quell my anxiety as the day’s miles loomed over my head.Ìę

“I’m having a really hard time with the heat today,” I told him as I gulped water, feeling a twinge of panic at how early in the day it was. “I’m exhausted.”

“Oh really?” He said, looking concerned. “Today is the easiest day we’ll have all week.”

The prickle of resentment I’d felt watching him disappear around a switchback flared. All at once, I felt physically uncomfortable, inadequate, and scared to hear that I had been right and it was only going to get tougher. I burst into tears.Ìę

We went back and forth like this for a few days. I was increasingly frustrated at my body’s struggles, and while my partner’s responses weren’t unkind, they didn’t do my fragile mental state any favors. When I was wilting from the heat, he said that it was only going to get hotter. When I said I was tired, he pointed out correctly that we had just started the day’s miles.ÌęÌę

Our communication, while normally strong, was entirely misaligned during this time. He couldn’t figure out why I was having a hard time, and I needed him to acknowledge that the route conditions were hard, not tell me that they were about to get harder.Ìę

“A response like this, though attempting to give context and not untrue, is likely to amplify the partner’s feelings of overwhelm rather than their feelings of competence,” Dr. , a clinical psychologist with a background in outdoor sports, said when I told him about my trip.Ìę

While this kind of communication can be helpful for some people—it reminds them to keep pushing—Reeves says it can also feel shaming, shutting them down instead of making them feel better.Ìę

Neither my partner nor I was really at fault, but a combination of my physical struggles and subsequent shame combined with his casual ease made everything seem more dire. I was panicking that my fears about my abilities were true, and because I was embarrassed, I felt unable to ask for a different style of communication.Ìę

When I asked what would have been a better communication strategy, Dr. Reeves broke it down into three parts: The stronger partner , reassure them that they are there for them, and find a way to work together to get to the end. This three-part response was tailored to my backcountry situation, but it can also be a blueprint for healthy communication between people experiencing different challenges while they pursue a common goal on the trail.Ìę

With the benefit of hindsight, I can understand now that the hike wasn’t easy on my partner either. While he never expressed impatience, I imagine it must have felt frustrating to be held up during the day and to stop earlier in the evenings.Ìę

“A challenge of the better-faring partner feeling frustrated is they are forced to reckon with their priorities,” says Dr. Reeves. “Is the objective more important, or something else? If you and your partner are both equally able, you can and have a great time simultaneously. It’s when one of you doesn’t align that you have to face what you really care about.”Ìę

Shame and feelings of weakness are powerful emotions, especially for thru-hikers or backcountry athletes who thrive on feeling strong and empowered. Struggling on a route others are finding easy can compound shame with the notion that you’re letting your partner down. Left unchecked, those feelings can pull you into an emotional downward spiral.

To counter this, Dr. Reeves suggests breaking the entire route into management chunks. This allows the partner who is struggling to feel accomplished reaching smaller goals, and to feel good that their partner is working with them.

“Often those who aren’t struggling want to hurry their partners through their trouble,” Dr. Reeves says, “but taking a few beats to create space for [your partner] being afraid, overwhelmed, or angry usually pays dividends when the struggling partner can work through their emotions.”Ìę

Pushing through challenging emotions often does little more than exacerbate the feelings or create tension that can explode later on. While we never exploded, I spent the entire trip stressed. When I was reflecting on the experience a few months later, I knew that if it had felt more manageable, or we acknowledged that the route was indeed hard, my morale would have been higher and I wouldn’t have experienced the mounting dread that I was having a hard time during an “easy section.”Ìę

Navigating communication barriers doesn’t have to lead to fighting, and like I said, we never actually argued. In my shame and anxiety, I didn’t communicate my own needs, neglecting to tell him that his responses were less than helpful. But when we talked about it later—removing elements of fatigue, , body aches, and heat exhaustion—we had a productive conversation where I could step away from feelings of inadequacy and communicate more rationally.Ìę

So how will my experience change how I communicate on upcoming trips? I know that my partner and I will both need to anticipate problems and acknowledge that one or both of us may struggle—often with different aspects of the trip. Preparing for these scenarios and working out what type of communication feels encouraging is critical.Ìę

“Shame is a killer in these situations, so establishing that tempers may flare ahead of time and planning to deal with it is useful,” Dr. Reeves says. “Often these feelings are more about fatigue, hunger, or some other discomfort, and talking about this ahead of time can alleviate some of the hurt feelings.”

The inherent challenges and needs of thru-hiking throw a wrench even in the best communicators. The partner who is struggling can feel both overwhelmed by the situation and guilty for holding the other person back, and the person who is doing better might inadvertently say exactly the wrong thing.Ìę

“Try to establish ahead of time that being tired or ,” Dr. Reeves says, “It’s part of maintaining health and safety. There is no shame if they are necessary.”

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This isÌęThe Offerman Files, where actor, humorist, , and Nick Offerman shares tales ofÌęwild creatures,Ìęgassy adventures, and hitting his brother in the faceÌęwith a fish.

CRUNNNNCH!

SKKKZZRRRR!

JJJUUUGGGGLLLLZZZZZ!

In my balls, I could feel the violent vibrations as layers of Epifanes spar varnish, quite dear in both price and labor, were mercilessly toothed from the hull of my canoe by river rocks. To be fair, I could also feel the scraping tremors in my feet, legs, and buttocks as we banged along the river bottom in yet another stretch of shallow water. But it was my familial plums that spoke with the most immediacy, because there was something existential going on that afternoon in L.A.

In the 25 years I’ve called the city my home, I’ve done a great many things that I would categorize as fun. I have, of course, worked as an actor. But I’ve also been paid to build various decks and cabins as a carpenter, plus one exquisite post-and-beam yoga studio. I worked as a production assistant on a few music videos, trained by a tall, handsome, surfing porn actor who taught me to get up and stay up (but only in the surf). I constructed an octagon-style wrestling cage for an episode of Friends. I’ve hiked hundreds of miles’ worth of trails in Los Angeles County, some while hallucinating, but mostly sober and high on the views from Griffith Park, the San Gabriels, and the Santa Monica Mountains. Yes, this has become a paragraph of bragging. The point is, the one thing I never dreamed I would do is launch my beloved handmade cedar-strip canoe, Huckleberry, into the concrete-clad L.A. River, just a few miles north of the location of the drag-race scene in Grease.

If you can recall that iconic moment, in which Cha Cha DiGregorio orgasmically whips her silk scarf off to begin the race between Danny Zuko in Greased Lightnin’ and the jerk whose jalopy was so lame it didn’t even have a cool name, then you might be thinking: Where the hell does a canoe fit into that expanse of concrete?

I put in at the outfit’s headquarters an hour ago with my bowman, Morgan, and since then Steve and Grove have nimbly paddled along with us in kayaks, flitting about alternately fore and aft, scared shitless at the idea of me dragging Huckleberry across the many shallow stretches in the several miles of river we hoped to complete.

Their concern was amplified by the fact that Morgan and I were now soaking wet. After launching, we had remained upright through a couple of wobble sessions in the river, in that way you do when first setting off in a canoe. As a team, you discover the limits of how far you both can lean while paddling, sightseeing, ass scratching, or snagging a beer (if the sun has traveled far enough into its morning’s arc, of course, depending upon the traditions of comportment in your particular barque). We were busy spotting herons (great blue and green) and egrets (great and snowy) while zipping past lush foliage, luxuriating in a smooth 50 yards of gushing creek before bumping back into the intermittent rocks and shallow water, when, some five minutes after first dipping our paddles—whup! shit!—we suddenly found ourselves T-boned against a boulder by a waist-deep current.

Huckleberry neatly flipped us out, and we immediately set to righting it and dumping out the many gallons of river that had filled its rounded hull. Steve paddled over to lend a hand, as it was both arduous and somewhat dangerous work, in the way any task can be when requiring the exertion of strength on slippery rocks in the face of rushing water. When we succeeded in once again taking our seats, it became apparent that in our swift blunder and its subsequent correction, Morgan and I had established a few things for our gentle guides: (1) we were suitably tough and skilled to be trusted on the day’s outing; (2) I was enough of a dipshit to willingly bang around my pristinely refinished canoe; and (3) we were dumb enough that this might just turn out to be fun.

But now, as I sat in Huckleberry with my love marbles buzzing after maybe the 50th crunching encounter with river rocks, my three compatriots asked me once again, as they did throughout the day’s adventure, “Are you sure you want to keep going? That canoe’s taking a beating.”

I learned to build canoes from the seminal 2007 instruction book , written by Ted Moores of Bear Mountain Boats up in Peterborough, Ontario. Ted and his partner, Joan, were pioneers in the development of cedar-strip canoe and kayak construction, utilizing fiberglass and epoxy finishing, though they would be quick to point out that their designs are but the current progeny of a long lineage of hulls, dating back centuries to the ingenuity of the Indigenous peoples of eastern and northern Canada. In 2008, I arrived in Manhattan with a bag of hand tools, at a time when my legendary bride, Megan Mullally, was cast by Mel Brooks in his musical version of Young Frankenstein.

The vacation from and furniture clients meant that I could fulfill my dream and build my first wooden canoe. Being all too aware of the old chestnut about the basement-built boat failing to fit out of the house, I secured a shop in the Red Hook area of Brooklyn, on the third floor of a Civil War–era stone warehouse perched on a pier and complete with a huge freight elevator. Crisis foreseen and averted.

The most important lesson in Ted’s patient lesson book comes at the beginning. He says that when you consider the whole canoe, it can seem impossible to build without years of training, but if you take it one step at a time—trace a shape, cut it out with a jigsaw, glue a couple pieces together, and so on—then before you know it the boat will emerge as though you just spun a chrysalis.

If it hadn’t been for Megan’s timely turn burning up the Broadway stage, I would likely have continued on in California, building ever more substantial homages to the table stylings of George Nakashima, Sam Maloof, and Gustav Stickley. But since the East Coast diversion had pulled me out of that potential rut, I experienced a powerful epiphany: shaping curved pieces freehand—with spokeshave, card scraper, chisel, and rasp—was to become like a god.

You see, most woodshop operations are set up to work on rectilinear forms, creating and cutting and joining square and plumb surfaces and corners to make many variations on the box, usually featuring 45- and 90-degree angles. But a canoe has exactly zero straight lines on it, so one sculpts its gunwales (“gunnels”) and thwarts and shapely bottom until one’s eye and caress pronounce its lines to be “fair,” thus creating an affection for the final product that transcends the love one might feel toward, say, a three-legged stool. Throw in a couple of custom, hand-carved paddles and I had fully reawakened that part of my youthful fancy determined to find a way to Narnia. Imagine the faerie magic in my every dainty step as I hoisted the completed Huckleberry upside down onto my shoulders for its inaugural portage to the freight elevator. Victory was upon me—shit.

As I said, the elevator was huge, but my canoe was 18 feet long. She would not come close to fitting, even on a diagonal. The small stairways were obviously not an option either, so my pal Jimmy DiResta and I rigged a block and tackle from an old freight hook on the roof and gamely hoisted it out the window and down to the pier.

Ted and Joan had traveled down from Bear Mountain Boats to see the launch, and Ted (generously) said that my work was exquisite, which made me cry, but only a medium amount. We were all on eggshells watching Huckleberry descend from a third-story window, but Ted said that he’d seen these canoes survive worse falls than that. The engineering of the form, plus the makeup of the shell, make them tough enough to survive even the dumbest of actors.

Over many creeks and rivers over many years, I have learned the hard way that Huckleberry can gamely scrape across a lot of rocks and gravel while suffering only minimal cosmetic damage. Still, do I wish that I had run the L.A. River before applying three brand-new coats of varnish to it only weeks earlier? Yes, I do wish that. I wish that so very much. But you can only strategize and try to account for every potentiality up to a point. When finally you are faced with the choice between the comfy living room and the unpredictable outdoor jaunt, there is but one clear answer: Do the goddamn thing. Drop to your knees in the mud. Get your hands dirty, wipe ’em on your shirt. Paddle your canoe down a fun expanse of weird urban river that might scratch it up. Why did I spend so much time and care building this watercraft if I don’t intend to get some thrills out of it?

Onward we went. The route through the Elysian Valley has a delightful mix of fast-moving chutes, medium twists and turns, a four-foot waterfall, a couple of brief portages (for canoeists), and two pond sections where the flow slows into a laconic, deep-water float, perfect for taking stock, bird peeping, and, well, ass scratching and beer snagging.

One true surprise was how clean the water was. Steve and Grove founded LARKS in 2013, partly as a way to support conservation efforts for the river. (Grove left the organization seven years ago but remains a close ally.) Today LARKS has a healthy relationship with a bunch of nonprofits and government agencies like , , the , and the .

But the focus on water quality dates back more than 20 years, when Steve, who is a sculptor by day, crafted a waterwheel that he placed in the river, plumbing it to an experiential artwork that collected and filtered the (then filthy) river water to make it, he says, “clean enough to drink.” This led him into a close working relationship with the City of Los Angeles Bureau of Sanitation, which maintains so-called water-quality beacons that serve as stop and go lights for L.A. River recreation. Of the 108 tests done in the Elysian Valley during the 2023 paddling season, 92 percent met EPA requirements for safe swimming. The nine exceptions (measurements usually taken after a storm flushed in dirt and waste) met a slightly lower standard that is still perfectly fine for canoeing and kayaking.

All I can say is that Morgan and I were impressed (and relieved) that the river smelled 
 perfectly fine. The water was also visibly clean, which added to the surreal quality of paddling through an industrial corridor between the 5 Freeway and a main train artery for both freight and passengers. In the section they call the Secret Pond, the water was over ten feet deep, and things got downright otherworldly as we calmly floated, chatting in a quiet reverie about the American coots swimming near the shore and then walking up the concrete bank with their strange, big-toed feet. A minor bloop caught my ear—a pair of double-crested cormorants surfacing right next to us, then diving back down into the depths of this unlikely fishing hole.

As our venture drifted to completion, we were left wanting more, which is utterly preferable to that feeling every paddler has known: Ugh, this is too long! When are we getting there?! I’m always a little melancholy when the hull runs lightly aground for the last time and we have to climb out of the cedar escape pod and step back into the reality of life on terra firma.

We flipped Huckleberry over to reveal a cluster of battle scars: a web of bright white abrasions against the golden honey brown of the varnished cedar. My compatriots lightly gasped and made noises like those prompted by minor stomach pain, but I shook my head and said: No, boys, don’t be sad. Those gouges are just telling us that we spent the day correctly. I’ve mended them before, and I’ll do it again.

Nick Offerman’s column forÌęșÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine has him regularly repairing gear, washing cow butts, and getting outsmarted by raccoons. He’s fine with that. He also just won his first Emmy Award for Outstanding Guest Actor in a Drama Series for an episode of The Last of Us.

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Off the coast of Rhode Island, a ten-square-mile speck in the Atlantic hosts an annual treasure hunt. Each year hundreds of handblown glass fishing floats—clear balls the size of oranges—are hidden across Block Island’s picturesque beaches and walking trails. Since Eben Horton started the in 2012, the art installation has gained worldwide recognition. He and his wife, Jennifer Nauck, make the orbs at their studio in the nearby coastal town of Wakefield. Then, from June to October, a top-secret group of hiders stash the spheres. “For a long time, he was hiding them on his own. But then people became familiar with him, and they would follow him around,” says New England photographer . Keith traveled to Block Island by ferry six times this summer, tagging along with avid “orbivores” as they scoured the island for the curios. Many visitors go home empty-handed after hours of searching, but that level of sustained attention to one’s surroundings isn’t wasted, he says. The hunt encourages people to appreciate nature’s understated splendor. “It’s easy to get lost in the island’s sweeping views. The orbs pull your attention away from that,” Keith says. “You’re spending just as much time looking at the trunk of a tree as you are looking out over the ocean bluffs.”

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