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

Growing up, I couldn’t help but notice a stark absence of my ancestors’ presence in outdoor spaces. In Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming, there was no visible trace of the Eastern Shoshone, despite stories I’d heard about those mountains’ significance to my tribe. While there has been progress in recent years to better include Indigenous people in conservation and outdoor communities, we remain obscured and often misrepresented in North America, which is why when outdoor enthusiasts seek recommendations of where to stay, I advocate for tribal-owned properties.

Native guides and communities possess an unparalleled understanding of their natural landscapes, and visiting a tribal-owned lodge or hotel is an invitation to gain anÌęunderstanding of their wisdom and the ongoing cultural significance of their homelands inÌęan authentic way. It’s a holistic experience: you can enjoy locally sourced, traditional foods (like fresh sockeye salmon), wellness amenities that may incorporate traditional medicines and remedies (cedar salves), and art and architecture that reflect accurate depictions of their heritage (carvings and beadwork).

Additionally, many Native-owned properties stand out as the epitome of environmental sustainability, so by staying at them you’re making an eco-conscious choice. And not least, you canÌęfeel good about supporting Indigenous small businesses and tribal economies,Ìęwhich have historically been disenfranchisedÌęfrom large-scale development.

The following five tribal-owned properties are all excellent examples of unique stays in the western U.S. and Canada.

Klahoose Wilderness Resort, British Columbia
Owned by Klahoose First NationÌę

The four-lodge and two-cabin Klahoose Wilderness Resort, accessible only by boat or seaplane from the village of Lund (123 miles north of Vancouver), promises an off-grid experience from its island base on Desolation Sound, a place renowned for its stunning beauty—the emerald waters of the Homfray Channel are home to all kinds of marine creatures, and B.C.’s Coast Mountains rise up sharply to 13,000 feet.

Explore remote inlets by boat, passing cascading waterfalls from ancient glaciers and, if you’re lucky, witnessing the majesty of humpback whales, which have been spotted breaching and sleeping in the waters in front of the property. Knowledgeable Klahoose guides generously share their cultural heritage, stories, and language, weaving a rich tapestry of the land’s history and significance; a newer offering is a boat ride to a traditional village for a spiritual bathing experience and time spent in the rainforest. From May through June and again from August through October, you can sign up for guided grizzly bear–viewing tours; groups of no more than 12 are transported first over the water and then by bus to six riverside platforms for an intimate encounter with these powerful animals.

But bears aren’t the only wild things roaming these lands; you’ll likely spot orcas, dolphins, sea lions, and bald eagles during a trip here, even from the resort’s dock, where a sauna was recently added so guests can hop from the heated environs directly into the ocean. Book ahead for stays in 2025; the property will welcome guests between May 8 and October 23.

To book:

Price: From $2,564 per person for a three-night stay, including all meals, select tours, and boat transport to and from Lund

Salish Lodge and Spa, Washington
Owned by the Snoqualmie Tribe

Located 35 miles east of Seattle in the North Cascade Mountains, this 86-room lodge is perched on a hillside that overlooks the sacred 268-foot . The Snoqualmie believe its mist conveys prayers up to their ancestors, one of the reasons the tribe is trying to safeguard its protection in the face of the more than 1.5 million annual visitors. Known as an oasis of rejuvenation, guests tend to visit Salish for its restorative amenities, be it a few nights in mountainside or riverside rooms, each with its own gas fireplace, or spa treatments that use honey made from the on-site apiary and facials that incorporate locally sourced ingredients like snow mushrooms, birch water, and reishi mushrooms.

To learn about Snoqualmie culture, visit the newly renovated gift shop and visitor center, which features informational installations, art by Snoqualmie artists, and a video about the tribe’s history and ancestral land. If outdoor adventure is more your speed, I can recommend several hiking trails that wend along paths through Douglas firs and red cedars; the easiest is a 0.4-mile trail to the lower falls, but for something challenging, head about 20 minutes from the lodge to the for an approximately ten-mile out-and-back trek.

To book:

Price: From $350

Hotel Santa Fe, New Mexico
Owned by Picuris Pueblo

This is the only Native-owned hotel in New Mexico’s state capital. Guests are drawn to the 161-room property’s adobe architecture and central location, convenient to the burgeoning Railyards District, just a ten-minute walk from the downtown plaza, and minutes from all kinds of outdoor adventures in the area. Staff can book guided horseback rides through piñon trees and desert arroyos, winter transportation up to the 660-acre Ski Santa Fe, 16 miles away, and captivating tours of Picuris pueblo, 60 miles north of town in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Prefer to forge your own path but do so while learning about local Indigenous culture? Head to , 40 miles northwest, to explore the ancestral Pueblo village of Tsankawi; a 1.5-mile loop trail skirts past cave dwellings and petroglyphs, allowing you to walk the pathways shaped by Pueblo ancestors nearly a millennium ago. Although always popular, if you’re intent on coming for the Southwestern Association for Indian Arts’ Santa Fe Indian Market in August, secure your reservation well in advance.

To book:

Price: From $109

Nemiah Valley Lodge, British Columbia
Owned by Xeni Gwet’in, part of the Tsilhqot’in Nation

Immerse yourself in the culture of the Xeni Gwet’in, traditional stewards of the Nemiah Aboriginal Wilderness, a 4,944-square-mile area home to one of North America’s last remaining wild-horse preserves. Xeni ambassadors will lead you to see them (and explain how the Xeni Gwet’in have managed them for hundreds of years) as well to other special parts of their lands; you might opt for a road trip to Chilko Lake, Canada’s largest natural high-elevation freshwater lake, or a memorable paddle-and-hike excursion to explore a Gwet’in traditional village site.

Your journey here is a testament to preserving nature’s beauty—logging, mining, road construction, and dam development are all prohibited here—and honoring Indigenous heritage. Off-grid lodging is nestled within the wilderness and relies on solar energy to power its seven two-bedroom log cabins, each a unique showcase for art and photography thoughtfully curated from local Indigenous talents. Meals are created with ingredients sourced nearby and could include traditional foods like fire-cooked bannock, pine-bark-sugar-infused lake trout, and roasted root vegetables grown on the grounds. Nemiah is open from June to October and is located about 110 miles west of the town of Williams Lake.

To book:

Price: From $777 per person for three nights, all-inclusive

Kah-Nee-Ta Hot Springs Resort, Oregon
Owned by the Warm Springs Tribe

Set on the eastern edge of the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, 95 miles southeast of Portland, Kah-Nee-TaÌębasks in the sun’s glow for an impressive 300 days a year. Originally opened in 1962, tough economic times caused it to close in 2018, but after a major renovation it reopened in July with 70 RV spots, 20 tepees that can sleep up to ten people (including two designed to accommodate disabled guests),Ìę30 lodge rooms, and 30 pools (both hot springs and cold plunges).

The crown jewel of Kah-Nee-Ta is its outdoor mineral soaking pools, naturally sourced from hot springs with temperatures that range from 92 to 104 degrees and renowned for therapeutic properties. Its wellness pool has a ramp for wheelchairs to encourage differently abled to make the most of these soothing waters, which provide relief to tired joints and muscles or nurture sensitive skin. The property also offers guests access to a three-mile stretch of the Warm Springs River, where you can kayak, float, or enjoy a half- or full-day guided fishing tour or class. Summertime horseback rides through the reservation are also available ($79). For those seeking a deeper connection to the land and its Indigenous people, Kah-Nee-Ta welcomes guests with a cultural heritage center, village craft market, and traditional weekend salmon bakes.

To book:

Price:ÌęFrom $69

Savannah Romero is the director of communications at , a Native woman–owned firm focused on empowering Native communities. She is also a poet and an MFA creative-writing student at the Institute of American Indian Arts. She loves the Pacific Northwest and the Salish Sea, where she grew up, as well as the Wind River Mountain Range, which are her ancestral homelands.

The post 5 Stunning Native-Owned Resorts in the West appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

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

Why We Love KitFox

Set under the wide-open sky of northern New Mexico (just 20 minutes south of Santa Fe), between three ranges of the southern Rockies in the high-desert grasslands of the 10,000-acre Galisteo Basin Preserve, feels exquisitely remote and takes wild glamping to a new level. Owner Jenn Kolker grew up in New Mexico but moved away to work in fashion for several years before the magnetic pull of home called her back. With her local roots and sophisticated eye she’s created a safari-meets-the–American West experience. Coyotes howling in the distance at night complete the vibe.

Two other elements set KitFox apart: it’s completely solar powered, and it partners with , a bespoke catering company that specializes in off-the-grid, farm-to-table dining. The best cup of coffee I ever tasted was here—organic, locally roasted, and served by French press with a plunge that was timed to the second—on a frost-laced October morning while watching the sun rise over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Soon to follow was the heartiest egg-and-veggie skillet breakfast I’ve had the pleasure of eating.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel near KitFox

A few hundred steps from the private tents is a covered communal deck for yoga and meditation. Also on property are three miles of hiking trails that loop through arroyos, wind-eroded rock formations, and rolling hills filled with cholla and prickly pear cactus, juniper, and piñon. AnÌęarchery range can be set up for special programming, with an instructor and equipment. Within the surrounding preserve there are 40 miles (and growing) of well-marked hiking, mountain-biking, and equestrian trails that roll over the hills. (Bring your own bike or rent one from Mellow Velo or New Mexico Bike N Sport in Santa Fe.) The ever-changing 360-degree view of the sky is an adventure in itself, whether that means watching a summer monsoon sweep in, following a bloodred moon across the heavens, or standing in awe of the glittering Milky Way.

Choice Tent

Ten bell-shaped canvas tents are spaced about 25 yards apart in two rows. All are the same size, roomy enough to include a queen or two twin beds. The remaining interior decor is sparse yet luxurious: a jute rug, a sheepskin throw, a bench for sitting, a purified-water dispenser, and phone-charging cords. A small deck outside has two lounge chairs—ideal for spending an afternoon reading a book. One larger safari-style tent on a raised platform offers a king bed. Some tents are pet friendly, and all offer stellar sunrise views.

Eat and Drink

KitFox offers a weekend package that includes a Saturday camp-style dinner under the stars and a Sunday picnic-style breakfast with a choice of Iconoclast organic coffee from Iconik Coffee Roasters in Santa Fe or Teo.O.Graphy loose-leaf teas from Taos ($250 for two people). Meals are mostly plant based (and made with seasonal, locally sourced food, so the menu changes) and may include a rainbow-colored salad loaded with arugula, carrot, and purple daikon, chile-braised beef short rib that’s grilled outside, or a vegetarian option like seared trumpet mushrooms. Locally made sparkling beverages and herbal bitters are sold à la carte in KitFox’s small general store and are perfect for mixing your own mocktails or cocktails.

When to Go

KitFox is open Fridays to Mondays from May through October, and there’s no bad month as long as you pack plenty of layers. The elevation here is around 6,000 feet, and temperatures can dip below freezing, especially in the fall. A lot of visitors plan their trip around the sky—a full moon, an eclipse, or a meteor shower. Local astronomers claim that October is a particularly clear month to view stars in these parts.

How to Get There

The closest major airport is 75 miles south, in Albuquerque. Or the smaller Santa Fe Regional Airport is 25 miles northwest. The rural town of Lamy is close by, but KitFox prefers not to publish specific directions to keep traffic and nonguests from wandering the property. Make a reservation and they’ll send detailed driving instructions 48 hours prior to your stay.

Don’t Miss

Every summer at the in Santa Fe, folk artists from around the world gather to sell their one-of-a-kind wares; the four-day event draws everyone from Haitian metal sculptors to Peruvian retablo artists to Kazakh jewelers. (The Folk Art Market has already taken place this year, but look for 2024 dates soon.)

There’s also the , which will be held July 29 and 30 this year, showcasing beautiful work from local Hispanic artists, and the on August 19 and 20, an impressive gathering of Native artisans and performers. The Railyard is home to Santa Fe Farmers’ Market, one of the oldest, largest, and most successful growers’ markets in the country, every Tuesday and Saturday from 8 A.M. to 1 P.M.

Farther afield, roughly 50 miles northwest, is one of the most surreal sightseeing combinations: the peaceful canyons of , where the Ancestral Puebloans farmed corn and beans and lived in cliff dwellings thousands of years ago; nearby is the city of Los Alamos, home to the Bradbury Science Museum, which walks visitors through the history of the Manhattan Project. Exploring these two vastly different historical segments of what is now the United States will give you enough to noodle on for months.

Details

To Book:

Price: From $200 per night, not including meals

Check out This Gaia GPS Map of the Area: (Disclosure: Gaia GPS is owned by șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Inc., which also owns șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.)

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In the 15 years I’ve been publishing , a website about cycling, I’ve written in-depth reviews of more than 30 mountain bikes, including some of the best money can buy. So it may come as a surprise that my preferred style is the modest hardtail. I fell in love with the balance of simplicity and capability built into these bikes. Riding one gives me a sense of pride I haven’t experienced on any other bike.

That said, there are challenges to riding a hardtail. You can’t just point the bike and let it do its thing like you can with a full-suspension bike. You have to guide it through even the smoothest lines while enjoying a playful jib here and there. Speed is your friend in the rough stuff, but only if you remain engaged—with the ride, the terrain, and your body. There’s no lazy way to descend on a hardtail.

No other mountain machine climbs the steep and rocky trails of Santa Fe, where I live, like a hardtail. It’ll boogie efficiently up fire roads and pedal smoothly across town to the trailhead—you’ll suffer no pedal bob and very little energy loss, and there’s no rear shock to dial in. With a meaty tire, you’ve got all the traction you could ask for.

The experience is especially liberating when you find the perfect match between frame geometry and terrain. My own preference is a 140-millimeter-travel 29er with 2.6-inch tires, 820-millimeter handlebars, and a long-travel dropper post. I traverse ten miles of pavement to get to our most popular route, the Winsor Trail, without hesitation. Once I climb to the top, I don’t think twice about gunning it down some of the rockier descents, because I know my limitations along with my bike’s. And if I want to head even farther from home, a hardtail is great for that, too. Just last summer I pedaled 215 miles across the Uncompahgre Plateau from Telluride, Colorado, to Moab, Utah, hitting spicy trails along the way.

Hardtails aren’t just for seasoned riders. Over the years, I’ve helped many people get into mountain biking, and I often recommend one as an introduction to the sport. Hardtails tend to be more affordable than other styles. (You can get a good one for $2,000, whereas a decent full-suspension bike will run you at least $2,500.) And with a 120-to-140-millimeter-travel fork, just about any green or blue trail becomes immediately accessible. You can learn the skills required to properly steer a bike, fine-tune your suspension, and have fun exploring new lines.

Bikes should be simple. Lacking pivot points and linkage bearings, a hardtail requires much less maintenance than a full-squish ride. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had to do a major repair on mine.
Riding a hardtail is a very pure form of mountain biking that anyone can enjoy. It allows you to feel more connected to the terrain, makes you a better rider, requires minimal upkeep, and can be one of the most versatile bikes you own—or dare I say, the only bike you own.

The post Why the Humble Hardtail Is My Preferred Mountain Bike appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Dear Sundog: I love the desert. From my own muggy home, I try to make it to the Southwest every year: Tucson, Santa Fe, Joshua Tree, St. George. I’m considering moving there. But is it wrong to move to a place that doesn’t seem to have enough water to support the people already living there? —Dry Curious

Dear Dry:ÌęFirst we must consider that all desert towns are not equal. Many have managed to restrict their water use and growth to some semblance of balance with nature, while others— and —continue to expand, even as their current water supply dries up.

While of course water delivery to millions of people is complicated, in this region, the ecological culprit is obvious: grass.

Sundog loves to run his toes through verdant lawn as much as the next guy.ÌęBut the modern American lawn—the half-acre of Kentucky bluegrass sprinkled daily, mowed weekly, petro-fertilized seasonally—has no place in the desert, even as it’s become emblematic of a sort of golfy affluence in Sedona and St. George. The EPA says that in the Southwest, 60 percent of household water use irrigates the outdoors. Put another way, for every four gallons used for cooking, washing, and bathing, another six go for preparing the croquet course. Yet another way: a year’s water supply with a lawn would—without a lawn—last two and a half years.

Lawns are a European import, brought to the arid American desert first by settlers from places like the Scottish Highlands and southern Germany, where grass just naturally occurs, and second by the wave of 20th-century snowbirds from places like Virginia and Michigan where, also, grass just grows. Why must the white man turn Scottsdale into Scotland, even as it quickens the decline of his desert colony?

In , Jared Diamond relates a story about the first Europeans to occupy North America: the Vikings, who settled what is now Greenland, four centuries before Columbus arrived on the continent. They planted their European crops and brought cows, which didn’t fare well in the new terrain. In the harsh winters, food was scarce. The settlers observed the Inuit hunting seals and then heating their homes by burning blubber, eating the meat—surviving. But the Norse considered this slimy meat beneath their dignity and considered the Inuit to be wretches. They refused to consume it. As a result, they starved and fled back across the sea, ending their four-century stay in the Americas.

Mightn’t we say the same, Dry Curious, about the maladaptive desert grass farmers? They see the water bills. They witness the ongoing drought. They know that the artificial lifelines from Lake Powell and Lake Mead, which have existed for just a geological blink of an eye, are filling with silt and approaching dead pool. And still they sprinkle.

Even as the vast majority of these settlers were born right here in the USA, Sundog speculates that their attachment to turf is some sort of emotional inheritance from the Motherland of moors and meadows. Their colonies here are predicated on the notion that their forefathers discovered an unpeopled dry wilderness, which they irrigated into their own slice of Eden.

But it’s not true. Indigenous people built complex, irrigated, agricultural civilizations along the Salt River and the Rio Grande and the Colorado River that sustained them thousands of years longer than our current one. If you visit a reservation or a town settled by the Spanish before the Anglos arrived—think Santa Fe or Old Town Albuquerque or Barrio Viejo in Tucson—you won’t find many lawns. You’ll see cactus and piñons and junipers and native shrubs and rock work and sometimes just plain dirt: a kind of xeriscaping that predates the word xeriscaping.

Long before the advent of gringo water projects, these places were habitable due to natural factors: Santa Fe had a cool high elevation and a snow-fed river, Tucson had the lush summer monsoons and the perennial Santa Cruz River, Albuquerque had fertile soil along the Rio Grande. To be sure, Native people don’t dislike greenery; most of the green parts of the desert were taken from them, along with the water rights. And I should also clarify that modern Americans of all skin tones love themselves a moist lawn: it’s not just a white thing. The point is that the people who have inhabited the desert for centuries are still inhabiting it, and showing others how it can be done.

But for today’s turf warriors to acknowledge all of that would be to question the short-sighted premise of the American petro-state, an experiment that has lasted less than a century. And so instead of ripping up that sod and planting it with native shrubs and grasses, they clench that garden hose more tightly with their sunburned fists.

To continue the Collapse analogy: Anglos can see Natives eating the fish (conserving water) and have the capacity to eat fish themselves (to stop watering lawns), but they would rather go extinct than give up their lush leas that they once saw Mel Gibson charge across in Braveheart.Ìę

The next factor to consider in moving to the desert is your capacity for being hot. Along with cheap water, the modern Southwest was built with cheap electricity to run air conditioners. And it’s only getting hotter. A reports that six counties in Arizona—including Maricopa, home to 4.5 million people in and around Phoenix—are in danger of becoming uninhabitable in the next 30 years as the planet warms. Does that mean that people will flee? Of course not. They will just use more oil and electricity to cool their homes and cars. Let’s face it: there wasn’t some recent past where Phoenix was a sustainable oasis. ItsÌęcentury-long boom has been dependent on electricity produced by burning coal on Navajo land and a major nuclear power plant, as well as cheap gasoline for driving five miles to get a cup of coffee.

Sundog dreams of a future where all desert dwellers inhabit homes with foot-thick walls made of natural materials like straw bales and adobe, where they run swamp coolers from solar panels on the roof, and capture rainwater in barrels and irrigate native plants with drip lines. While that futureÌęhas arrived here and there, the vast majority of desert homes are poorly insulated mash-ups of drywall and fiberglass and pine sticks that dump precious water onto a square of sod and burn hot coal to blow cold air at the eternal sun. Warming the planet in order to chill our homes is madness.

In general, yes, it’s ethical to move to the desert, provided that you’re not intent on growing a green lawn and that you canÌęhack the 100-degree summers without cooling your home to 72. Remember that you’ll be moving to Indian Country; be an ally to tribes defending their land and water and sovereignty. Avoid Phoenix and Las Vegas and St. George, which have placed themselves on a one-way path to drought catastrophe. In the desert, small is beautiful, and there are still plenty of shaded creeks flowing through the canyons, providing life for small bands of humans, where you can build the future as you want it. Sundog won’t tell you where they are, but if you look hard enough you might yet find one.

The post Should I Move to the Southwest, Even Though There’s a Drought? appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

For a decade, Forrest Fenn had lived as creator, promoter, steward, and defender of perhaps the most extraordinary treasure hunt America had ever known. He lived to see its conclusion. And then, barely three months after the hunt he had brought into the world had ended, Fenn was gone.

On the morning of September 7, 2020, Fenn was found unconscious in his study, having fallen, according to the police report. He was taken to Christus St. Vincent Regional Medical Center, then released to the care of his family, who returned him to his home. There , never having regained consciousness. The first responders who arrived on the scene that morning were initially responding to a cardiac-arrest call, indicating Fenn may have had a heart attack that precipitated his fall.

His funeral arrangements were private, and searchers were kept at arm’s length. The family did eventually post a message on Fenn’s website, thanking the search community: “To the many searchers who joined us in the thrill of the chase over the last decade, your stories, emails, and tales of the hunt sparked joy in his life and we are forever grateful for your enthusiasm.”Ìę

The author Doug Preston hadn’t been able to be there for Fenn’s 90thÌębirthday in late August—due to COVID-19, the Fenn family held a car parade for friends to drive by and say hello—but Preston had called soon afterÌęand found his friend well.

“Whatever happened to him happened to him pretty quickly. I spoke to him ten days after his birthday, maybe a week,” Preston said. “He sounded great. He didn’t sound like he was in any kind of decline at all. Now, there may have been something going on that I didn’t know about. But his mind was there. He was cheerful. His vigor was still there, in terms of his intellectual capabilities. I did not notice any decline.”

Preston said he could sense a sadness in his friend—a melancholy that the treasure hunt that had defined the final stage of his life had ended.

“He just seemed disappointed that the treasure had been found. A little bit disappointed.”

After Fenn’s death, an outpouring of sadness, grief, and love came from the searcher community, with tributes to Fenn on all the prominent blogs and message boards. Many searchers told stories of their interactions with Fenn, or of what the hunt had meant to them, or just publicly thanked Fenn for what he had brought into their lives.

The hunt was over, and now its architect was gone. The anonymous finder was nowhere to be found, and while that left many—myself included—with countless questions, I thought perhaps this might bring the story of this treasure hunt to a close, at last.

I should have known better.

On September 23, just over two weeks after Fenn died, on the website Medium, a self-publishing platform that allows users to distribute essays and other written works anonymously if they choose. Titled “A Remembrance of Forrest Fenn,” it was written by The Finder,Ìęwho described himself thusly: “The author is the finder and owner of the Forrest Fenn treasure.”

In 3,000 well-crafted words, the finder penned an ode to Fenn, whoÌęhe described as his friend.

“I am the person who found Forrest’s famed treasure,” he wrote. “The moment it happened was not the triumphant Hollywood ending some surely envisioned; it just felt like I had just survived something and was fortunate to come out the other end.”

In his essay, the finder revealed a great deal about the circumstances under which he had found the treasure—but crucially, he would not divulge exactly where he had located it, and said he did not plan to. He was also careful not to let any details about his own identity slip, indicating only that he was a millennial and had student loans to pay off. Beyond that, he was an enigma.

After finishing the essay, I no longer had any doubt that there was a finder.

Much else, though, remained unresolved. The finder had teased so many things in his essay, left me and everyone else wanting more. He’d said he’d answer more questions at some point, but I didn’t particularly want to wait, or leave what he answered up to him alone.

So I contacted him.

Medium doesn’t generally allow readers to contact the author of a piece directly, which is one reason it’s good for anonymous posting. It does allow users to post public comments on a piece, and more than 100 people quickly had, most of them supportive, some of them skeptical, a few of them angry and aggressive. But I wasn’t going to just post my email in the comments where anyone could read it; that left me no guarantee that the person I might end up in contact with would be the finder.

I had one trick up my sleeve, though. There’s a little-known way to send a direct message to the author of a Medium piece: You have to flag a section of text, indicating that it contains an error or a typo. That notifies the author of the piece that something needs to be corrected in his or her work. The system doesn’t give you a lot of space, just enough to describe the problem. So I flagged a section of the essay, barely squeezed in who I was and how to contact me via email, and hoped for the best. I had no guarantee that the finder would look at the message, or that he would understand exactly why he should get in touch. But it was worth a shot.

Less than a day later, an email popped into my inbox. It was from an address whose name referred to Fenn’s treasure. The finder had replied.

He’d heard of my project, he said, and he might be willing to talk to me. But he insisted that we’d have to keep things off the record for now. And so began a month of back-and-forth correspondence, sometimes several emails a day, culminating in my revealing his identity to the world in an șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű article in early December 2020, identifying him as Jack Stuef, a 32-year-old medical student from Michigan.

Having written the șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű article, my inbox was suddenly flooded with searchers claiming this or that about Stuef or that his solve was fraudulent, and asking me to prove it or use my knowledge to validate their own competing solves. I still had no idea where the treasure was, and I truly didn’t want to know, but that didn’t stop searchers from claiming that I was somehow involved in some of these conspiracies. I know we live in a post-truth world now, but even as conspiracies around the 2020 election dominated life outside the hunt, the level of disbelief I encountered within the chase still shocked me. Should I have been so surprised? Conspiracy theories have plagued this hunt from the start. I’d fallen for them myself.

Still, even if there were some details I couldn’t quite square, I remained sure that Stuef was the finder, and that no grand conspiracy was at play here. How could I be so certain? Part of it was confidence in the facts we all did know. Part of it was, as had said in his fateful, final sermon, understanding that at a certain pointÌę“we have to trust.” And part of it was that I had experienced something the other searchers had not. A few months earlier, I had flown to Santa Fe one last timeÌęand opened Forrest Fenn’s treasure chest myself.

I tightened my mask as I stepped off the plane, out onto the tarmac at Santa Fe Regional AirportÌęand into the coolÌęair. This trip had come together quickly, out of nowhere, really. One day, back when I still didn’t know who the finder was, he’d sent me a particularly unexpected email, offering something I hadn’t really asked forÌębut had absolutely craved.

“Hey,” it read. “Do you want to come see the treasure?”

I pounced on the offer and got to Santa Fe as fast as I could, thrilled at the chance to be so close to something I’d dreamt about for so long.

As I left my hotel the morning after flying in and made my way toward the finder’s lawyer’s offices, the streets of Santa Fe were barren, devoid of the traffic that normally choked Cerrillos Road. It was October, usually one of the busiest times of the year in Santa Fe. In normal years, October brings , featuring hundreds of hot-air balloons and a carnival atmosphere, and enthusiasts come from around the world to experience it. My trips to see Fenn and the other searchers in 2017 and 2018 had overlapped with the festival, and so I can attest both that it’s great, and that it jams Albuquerque and Santa Fe with tourists.

Not this year, I thought as I cruised down the near empty road, my face mask sitting on the console between the two front seats. But it wasn’t just the pandemic that made Santa Fe feel strangely empty. For me, Fenn’s absence loomed larger than the lack of touristsÌęor people driving to work.

This was the first time since learning of this hunt that I had come to Santa Fe for a reason other than to see Fenn; I still had much I wanted to ask him, and now I’d never get the chance. It was impossible not to think of him as I drove along, passing a restaurant in the Santa Fe Railyard where we’d had lunch, going by the turnoff to get to his gallery. The reality was that I couldn’t imagine Santa Fe without him. For better or worse, he and the city he called home had become synonymous in my mind.

It had been a month now since his death. His wife, Peggy, had herself passed the week before I arrived, living just four weeks beyond her husband. Peggy and Forrest Fenn had been married almost 67Ìęyears.

How would Fenn be remembered? He had been so concerned that his father had left no mark, that Marvin Fenn had no imprint on history until his son brought him back via his words and books. Forrest Fenn clearly would not suffer that same fate. His treasure hunt had made a greater impact than Fenn could have ever imagined. Still, his passing so soon after the end of the hunt—a hunt that I believe he’d hoped would outlive him—did end the story of Fenn’s life in the eyes of the outside world. His chapter in history was interesting, compelling, complicated, flawed. A moment in time, an amazing tale. But now over. Fenn had wanted to live on through his treasure hunt, through his chest. With the chest found, I don’t know if he’ll truly do that.

The chest. Now that I was mere minutes away from actually holding it in my hands, I was brimming with anticipation, feeling that little tremble that comes from adrenaline coursing through my body. Was just seeing it as good as finding the treasure? Well, no, you’re a couple million dollars poorer, but in some ways, I don’t know, maybe it was better. A chance to experience and understand this treasure, without the burden of having to own it. At least that’s what I was telling myself.

What did I really know about it? It was small, deceptively so. Prominent searcher Cynthia Meachum had built a replica and placed it out in the wilderness to underscore how near impossible it would be to identify the chest at distance if you didn’t know precisely where it was. It was ten by ten by five inches, and that’s just not very big. And it was heavy. The chest itself weighed 20Ìępounds, the contents weighed 22Ìępounds, and Fenn had needed his famed two trips to get it all to his spot.

There had been a few attempts at chronicling what was in it—some of the best work done by Cynthia’s pal Matt DeMoss. DeMoss’s efforts had been aided by the release of both sets of conference-room pictures, which I now understood had been taken at the finder’s lawyer’s office, the one I was about to visit. Nobody except for Fenn and the finder, however, had been able to really go through the chest, pull everything out, and document the contents—until now. The actual chest, I knew, was the bronze Romanesque lockbox, dating from roughly 1150, with carvings along its sides and top depicting the Castle of Love,Ìę where maidens sit atop the castle, and knights at the base try to scale it and reach them. It was not locked, but it did include a key, and it was latched with a gargoyle of some sort. There was some type of wood, perhaps oak, serving as a lining.

Based on what he believed to be in the chest, DeMoss had compared each item to similar examples currently on saleÌęand guessed the low-end sale value of all the items inside at $555,487, with the high-end sale value at $1,327,450. Even if we split the difference, chances are it would sell for more than that, because these items are part of the Fenn Treasure, a factor DeMoss said he did not incorporate into his analysis.

Included in his estimates were the 265 gold coins of varying types, the gold nuggets and dust, the golden frogs, the golden mirrors, the gold nose rings, the gold necklace—gold, gold, gold. There was the ancient Tairona/Sinu necklace, the Chinese carved jade faces, the turquoise bracelet that Fenn had wanted to buy back, and Fenn’s 20,000-wordÌęautobiography, in addition to a few other, smaller items of note. Then there were the “emeralds, rubies, diamonds” that were often mentioned as being in the chest. Were those merely included in what was perhaps the chest’s most impressive single item, the golden dragon bracelet, which itself contained hundreds of precious stones? Or were there additional jewels to be found beyond that? Nobody knew, except for Fenn, the finder, and whoever had been there when the chest was examined. There could still be curiosities waiting, surprises to be found, answers to be had. Now I was going to be privy to them.

I’d agreed to a few conditions when the finder had offered to let me view the chest. First, we’d agreed that I would pay his attorneys’ hourly rates for their time, such that my seeing the chest wouldn’t actually cost the finder money—pretty standard journalistic practice. He’d also stipulated that he didn’t want me to identify his attorneys—there were three representing him, two men and a woman—in any meaningful way, so that they couldn’t be tracked down by overaggressive searchers. I agreed. And then one more: the finder wanted to make sure I didn’t open the vial containing Fenn’s autobiography, which remained sealed, and that if I could read any of what was inside through the glass, I wouldn’t relay any of that information. I agreed to thatÌęas well.

The conditions weren’t onerous, and I was eager to make this happen. As far as I knew, examining the chest was not a privilege that had been extended to anyone else—and in that, it was not lost on me that I was getting to do something that others might not like. I hadn’t searched for a few years now, and even if it hadn’t been found, I hadn’t planned on searching again. But still, there were people far more deserving than I who would have killed to see what I was about to see. Even if the finder managed to give the chest some sort of public exhibition at some point, I assumed no one would get to go through it, touch it, experience it the way I was about to. As I parked the car, I could feel a certain weight to what I was about to do, a responsibility to do it all right, whatever that meant. That, and maybe a few pangs of guilt, for getting to enjoy what other, better searchers couldn’t.

I parked near the offices, put on my mask, and walked along the sunny, empty streets toward the front door. There were COVID-related signs posted about not entering without an appointment. I was pretty sure I had one of those—though even at that late moment, there was still the tiniest sliver of doubt in my mind. At the time, I still didn’t know who the finder really was, and hence had flown out here on a tiny plane on the offer of someone whose name I didn’t know, based on a cold-call email and little more than that. I was pretty sure, as close to certain as I could be, that this was the finder and that everything was legit, but until I was actually opening that chest myself, nothing was truly guaranteed.

So it was heartening when I swung open the large, heavy door, went into what seemed to be an impressive professional suite of law offices, gave my name at the front desk, and waited only moments before the finder’s attorney came out and introduced herself.

“We’ll just go right in here,” she said, pointing to a set of doors leading into a conference room, “and then we’ll bring the chest right in.”

That simple, huh?

I pushed open the doors and entered a reasonably sized room with an oblong wooden conference table covered by glass. It was instantly familiar from the two sets of pictures posted to validate the find.

“Is this where you showed Fenn the chest?” I asked.

“It is,” she replied. “He sat right there.” She indicatedÌęa chair at one end of the table. “You can sit right where he sat if you want.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a little too fanboyish. But it seemed like a good place to sit anyway, so I threw my backpack down near where she’d gestured. This was perhaps the only time on the hunt when I was absolutely, definitely, unquestionably following in Fenn’s footsteps, instead of puttering around in the wilderness two states away from where he’d left his treasure. HereÌęI was really and truly doing just what he had done, only a few months before, when he’d gone through this chest for the first time in a decade.

From the moment I’d entered this chase, the chest had been the goal. In some ways, it was a MacGuffin, like the Maltese FalconÌęor the Death Star plans—it was what this chase was about, yes, but it wasn’t really what this chase was about, y’know? Still, it mattered. Up until this moment, the chest had been purely theoretical to me. I’d never expected to find it, so I wasn’t one of those searchers who had already spent the money in it ten times over. For meÌęit was more about figuring out the clues, getting the answer.

Yet now that I was going to be laying eyes on it, touching it, it moved from the realm of the theoretical to the actual in a hurry.

That understanding fundamentally altered my entire view of the chase. It meant that despite whatever else he’d done, Fenn had been telling the truth about this box and what was in it: that he had hidden it somewhere out there, and the finder really and truly had obtained itÌęand was now letting me see and touch it. That most basic set of facts was real, and that gave me a sense of certainty about this chase, of a kind I had never really had until now. Did that improve Fenn’s standing a bit in my mind? It was a complicated question. To this point, I’d managed somewhat to separate the man from the hunt, even though it was hard to do. And knowing that he was telling the truth did mean something for the man, somewhat. It didn’t mean he was without failings, his chase without its problems. But he had done this, just the way he’d said he had. And that, in my mind, counted for something.

I started to ask if they needed me to sign anything before we began, as I stretched on the latex gloves that I’d brought for the examination. Then, just like that, the conference-room door opened and a man walked in bearing a bronze box, ten by ten by five, worn and weathered and perfect. He hurried quickly over to my side of the table as I, in true surprise, stammered something out about not expecting it all to be quite so easy.

He chuckled in reply as he walked up and casually handed me Forrest Fenn’s treasure chest.

Excerpted from ,Ìęby Daniel Barbarisi. Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Barbarisi. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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A decade ago, Santa Fe art dealer Forrest Fenn filled a box with a box with treasure, placed it somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, then published a poem containing clues to its location.ÌęThousands of searchers would go looking for the loot, and five of them would die in the process before it was discovered last year. Nobody has followed this saga more closely than journalist Daniel Barbarisi, who broke the news of how the treasure was foundÌęand is now coming out with a book about the hunt, . In this episode, our former host, Peter Frick-Wright, who published his own feature about the chase in 2015, digs deep with Barbarisi on the story that captured the world.

This episode is brought to you by 303 protectants and cleaners, designed to take care of the vehicles you depend on for your adventures. șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Podcast listeners get 20 percent off of all 303 products for a limited time at Ìęwhen they use the promo code OUTSIDE2021.

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Despite still being able toÌęenjoy the outdoors this past year, many of us had to skip arguably the best part—havingÌęan aprĂšs-adventure cold one surrounded by others doing the same. From a local’s hangout near Santa Fe’s popular Windsor Trail to a stuck-in-time joint overlookingÌęa stellar surf spot on Cape Code National Seashore, these are the post-vaccine placesÌętoÌęcap off big days outside.Ìę

Mike Hess Brewing

Imperial Beach, CaliforniaÌę

Close to: Surfing

Ìęis a pillar of San Diego’s robust craft-beer scene, and the new outpost in the funky border town of Imperial Beach is heavy on post-surf vibes. Just north of the pier and steps from the Pacific Ocean, the open-air taproom gives way to a beer garden. While the region has a reputation for busy breaks and occasionally grumpy locals, Imperial Beach is low-key, with crowd-free lineups and shifting sandbars that keep the surf firing year-round. If you can’t find a decent swell near the pier, head south along Seacoast Drive, where breaks can be found at the end of every side street. San DiegoÌęis an IPA kind of town, but for your aprĂšs-surf meal, pair something light and crisp, like the excellent Claritas Kölsch, with a bite courtesy of the popular Mexican restaurant . Try the Mahi al Mango, or get weird with a Mexicali—a taco withÌęsteak and mashed potatoes.

The Nugget Mountain Bar

Durango, Colorado

Close to: Skiing

The Ìęis a lesson in reverse gentrification. The owner converted his former vacation cabin, located a half-mile south of Purgatory Resort, into a bar. It still has a ski-cabin vibe, with the requisite upstairs loft transformed into a lounge. But the action is at the U-shaped bar on the main floor, where there’s a solid chance that owner Kevin Wright will invite you to partake in a shot ski. You’re also guaranteed to get sucked into Klackers, a communal dice game. Order a burger from the food truck parked out front, and be prepared to make friends fast—the Nugget is a place where people aren’t tetchy that you’re skiing their mountain. It’s easily accessible by car, but if you know your way around Purgatory’s backcountry, you can ski in. Or call Wright for a ride. He’ll pick you up and take you home. Seriously.

The Hub and Pisgah Tavern

Pisgah Forest, North Carolina

Close to: Mountain bikingÌę

The idea behind the Ìęwas pretty simple: Sam and Jordan Salman, owners of the Hub bike shop, wanted customers to have a place to drink a beer while the mechanic worked on their ride. The tavern originally consisted of three keg taps and four barstools alongside the repair pit. The concept has since grown, and there are now eight local drafts, a beer garden, and food trucks that rotate casual fare. You can’t beat the location—rightÌęat the entrance of Pisgah National Forest, where you can rip world-class technical singletrack like the Black Mountain Trail and pedal straight into the Hub for a post-ride tune-up and a little hydration. If you’re looking for more flow and fewer roots, head ten miles southeast to DuPont State Recreational Forest, where the Ridgeline Trail offers three miles of roller-coaster speed.

Tesuque Village Market

Santa Fe, New Mexico

Close to: Hiking, skiing, mountain biking

After a day playing at Ìęor hiking or riding the nine-mile Winsor Trail, head to . Known by fans as TVM, this general store meets bakery meets restaurant and bar is located just a few miles north of Santa Fe, in the hamlet of Tesuque. Settle in with local artists and athletes on the covered porch and order from a long list of New Mexican food. The fajitas and enchiladas are tough to beat, and the green chile stew is a ­justifiable classic. (Heads up: the kitchen doesn’t turn down the heat for visitors.) Come early if you want the famous key lime pie, which sells out on most days. TVM is also home to arguably the best margaritas in Santa Fe. Try the jalapeño if you’re feeling brave; otherwise, be like a local and order the Reevarita, named after co-owner Reeve Stein and made with El Jimador reposado. —Abigail Wise

Miguels Pizza

Red River Gorge, Kentucky

Close to: Climbing

Red River GorgeÌęhas become the epicenterÌęof sport climbing in the U.S. Spend the day on sandstone in this remote corner of Kentucky and soon enough you’re going to get hungry. Since the mid-eighties, Ìęhas been at the heart of the Red’s vibrant scene. It’s where you go for breakfast and beta before trying the steep, bolted routes on Motherlode. It’s where you pick up a few more quickdraws (there’s a gear shop on-site) and maybe evenÌęspend the night (there’s a climbers-only campground, too). And yeah, it’s where you eat pizza, building your own pie from a stockpile of 50 ingredients, including unusual options like chickpeas and white beans. Miguels is beloved for its dirtbag vibe, but last year during the off-season—it’s closed from December to March—the joint got a new kitchen and an expanded dining room. It’s just like the old Miguels, but better.

Talon Beach Bar

Sitka, Alaska

Close to: Fishing

Alaska isn’t known for its beaches, but there is one spot that should be on your bucket list: a tiny sliver of sand on Big Apple Island. A private eight-acre key in Sitka Sound that’s home to the , this adventurous outpost in Southeast Alaska has a maximum capacity of 24 and specializes in guided boat, ATV, and floatplane fishing expeditions deep in Alaska’s salmon country. The lodge has an open-air kitchen and a bar with fire pits on the deck, which looks out on the sound. The island is surrounded by Tongass National Forest and is part of the Inside Passage, so there’s a good chance you’ll spot a whale or a bald eagle from your barstool. You have to be a guest at the lodge to drink here—packages start at $4,095 for four nights, all-inclusive, from mid-May through early September.

The Beachcomber

Cape Cod National Seashore, Massachusetts

Close to: Surfing, beach walks

A seaside hangout in the heart of Cape Cod National Seashore, the Ìęis frozen in time in all the right ways. The bar tookÌęover an old lifesaving service station in 1953, predating the national seashore that surrounds it by almost a decade. Fortunately, the establishment was grandfathered in and can still serve drinks. The building is set atop the 100-foot bluffs of Cahoon Hollow Beach and has a large patio overlooking the Atlantic’s surf. It’s the only oceanfront bar on the cape. The order? Wellfleet oysters and a Goombay Smash, made with apricot brandy, two rums, some fruit juice, and more rum on top. If there isn’t a Red Sox game on the TV, then there’s probably a DJ spinning. But don’t go looking for a drink after a chilly winter surf session—the Beachcomber is only open in summer.Ìę

Rikki Tiki Tavern

Cocoa Beach, Florida

Close to: Surfing

There’s no actual tavern here, just a thatch-roofed bar at the end of Cocoa Beach Pier. But that’s the charm of . While there are tourists to contend with, you can’t argue with the location—you’re sitting on a stool roughly 800 feet into the Atlantic, watching surfers jockey for waves. If you go out yourself, you’ll find that Cocoa Beach, around an hour by car from Orlando, has some of Florida’s most consistent surf. Low incoming tide tends to produce the longest rides, and with a relatively gentle beach break, year-round warm water, and plenty of local surf schools (Ron Jon is headquartered nearby), this is as beginner-friendly as the sport gets. For bigger waves, head to 2nd Light Beach, where a rock reef often serves up waist-high surf. At Rikki Tiki itself, embrace the tourism factor and order a Key Lime Pie—a mix of rum, ice cream, and fresh lime juice with a graham-cracker crust.

Pelican Brewing

Pacific City, Oregon

Close to: Hiking, surfing

, which is set on the beach near the dunes and bluffs of Cape Kiwanda State Natural Area, has an expansive deck with a stellar view of Haystack Rock, a large sea stack on Oregon’s jagged coast. The surf is just as good as the view, with a beach break for beginners and a more challenging right peak farther out. Or spend your day hiking Cape Kiwanda, a rugged park best known for the tall sandstone cliffs separating land from ocean. You can also drive your 4×4 on the beach here. Whatever you get up to, have a dense and creamy Tsunami Stout, spread a blanket in the sand just beyond Pelican Brewing’s patio, and watch the sun set over the cliffs and the Pacific.

čóŸ±łÙłúČ”±đ°ùČč±ô»ć’sÌę

Eagle River, Michigan

Close to: Mountain biking

The singletrack in the Keweenaw PeninsulaÌęis now a huge draw. Especially in Copper Harbor, where some 35 miles of purpose-built trails offer everything from flow to freeride. Spend the day knocking out shuttle laps of wooden features on Flying Squirrel, tabletops on Danimal, and grin-inducing berms on the Flow, then head straight for , a barbecue restaurant and bar within a hotel of the same name just 20 feet from the edge of Lake Superior. The interior is sea-captain chic, with dark wood paneling on the walls and ceiling. čóŸ±łÙłúČ”±đ°ùČč±ô»ć’s has the best whiskey list in the Upper Peninsula, in addition to a selection of beers that reads like a who’s-who of midwestern breweries. If you feel good about your Strava stats for the day, order the Pitmaster’s Pie (brisket and pork smothered in mashed potatoes) and any number of beers from Short’s Brewing. Grab a table on the porch overlooking the lake.

Starlight Theatre

Terlingua, Texas

Close to: Biking, hiking

Big Bend National Park, where the Rio Grande hooks a right as it divides the U.S. from Mexico, looks like something straight out of a western, with tall mesas, yuccas, and sand that melts into the sun-bleached horizon. The adobe-walled restaurant and saloon in the nearby ghost town of Terlingua fits the bill, too. It’s the perfect place for a bottle of Lone Star and some Texan food after a day riding singletrack in Big Bend Ranch State Park, exploring the endless canyons in the national park, or soaking in Boquillas hot springs, which bubble up at the confluence of the Rio Grande and Tornillo Creek. Knock out your adventure before the day gets too hot, take a dip in the river to cool off, then head straight to the Starlight. Live bands sometimes play on the stage, but the real show is on the front porch, where locals gather to jam and drink beer. After dark the sky fills with an impossible number of stars.

Vermilion Valley Resort

Mono Hot Springs, California

Close to: Hiking, fly-fishing

Perched on the shore of Lake Edison, deepÌęin the Sierra Nevada, Ìęis perfect for fans of remote destinations. Spend the day fishing for big brown trout and kayaking in the lake or trekking in the John Muir Wilderness. When you’ve exhaustedÌęyourself, head to the resort’s restaurant and store to pick out your craft beer. The food menu changes daily, and everything is made from scratch, including Saturday night’sÌębarbecue, a guest favorite. In June and early July, your company will be Pacific Crest TrailÌęhikers starving for their first real meal in a week and eagerly knocking back the free beer they get upon arrival. From then until September, the place is full of John Muir Trail hikers nursing blistered feet. All summer long, you’ll find anglers and mountain types who return every year to stay in the resort’s tent cabins (from $70) and yurts (from $110). On your way home, be sure to stop at Mono Hot Springs down the road for a soak. —Taylor Gee

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We made it into the new year, but life still feels hard. To cope, șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű staffers have been alternating between physical activities in the cold and cozying up at home. Here’s the gear we’ve been using to accomplish both.Ìę

Toyo Open Country WLT1 Tires ($120 and Up)

I finally removed the outdated set of winter-compound all-terrain tires fromÌęmy Ford Ranger and replaced them with these more snow-and-ice-specific . I’m glad I did. We’re having bizarrely mild weather here in Montana. While there’s virtually no snow anywhere, there’s sheet ice everywhere. The WLT1’s not only feature a tread pattern specifically designed to grip snow and iceÌębut also a rubber compound that remains pliable at low temperaturesÌęand wicks away meltwater created by the weight of a truck as it contacts ice—something no all-terrain tire is capable of. Equipped with a load rating appropriate for a fully laden pickup truckÌęand a reinforced carcass that strongly resists punctures, the WLT1’s let me keep using my truck just like normal, both on road and off, bare ice be damned. —Wes Siler, contributing editor

Mons Royale Olympus 3.0 Half-Zip Top ($150) and Legging ($120)

I just spent six straight days in the Mons Royale Olympus 3.0Ìę and , and I’ve probably worn these base layers 30Ìętimes already this season. The buttery, 250 merino-wool set has become my go-to for both touring and resort skiing, thanks to a weight that’s just right: light enough for long boot-packingÌęand uphill slogsÌębut warm enough to keep me cozyÌęon frigid before- and after-work skins or slow chairlifts. Elastane helps them keep their shape through multiple days of wear (many other wool options stretch and sag after a day). The wool resists odor, too—I have to wash my synthetic midlayer more frequently than I doÌęthese, which sit next to my skin. Plus, with flattering color blocking and saturated but somehow still neutral hues, they’re cute and look good with just about everything. —Abbie Barronian, associate editor

Outdoor Voices All Day Sweatpant ($88)Ìę

I’m not usually a sweatpantÌęperson, but almost a year into the pandemic, I’ve finally given in. from Outdoor Voices isÌęmade from an incredibly soft polyester-spandex blend that keeps me comfortable while I’m lounging around at home, and the fitted silhouette helps me feel put together on the rare occasions I actually leave the house. The sizable hip pockets are a nice bonus, too. —Sophie Murguia, assistant editor

Mountain Hardwear Southpass Fleece Hoody ($170)

I already wrote about the in our 2021 Winter Buyer’s Guide, but I will take any opportunity to sing its praises here because it remains the coziest, warmest, most comfortable fleece I have ever owned. It’s madeÌęof a thick, high-loft polyester, with a boxy cut and high collar, all of which means it feels more like a wearable blanket than a piece of clothing. I lovingly call it my teddy-bear suit. It’s the first thing I reach for when I get home from climbing or skiing—it’s even warm enough for a quick dash to the mailbox or to a local restaurant to pick up dinner. Come summer, I’ll be bringing it along on camping trips to keep me toastyÌęwhileÌęmaking early-morning coffee and hanging out by the fire. —Ariella Gintzler, associate editor

Outdoor Research Transcendent Down Pullover ($229)

I used to bribe myself to get up a ski hill or to a backcountry campsite with the promise of gummies or dried mango at the end. NowÌęI look forward to putting on this (andÌęlet’s be honest, sometimes still rewarding myself with those gummies, too). Stuffed with responsibly sourced 650-fill down, it’s super cozy and provides instant warmth when it’s five degrees on the side of a mountain. And while Outdoor Research also makes this jacket with a full zip, I prefer the pullover version: itsÌęside zipper makes it easy to pop over a helmet, and a fleece-lined kangaroo pocket warms up chilly fingers. While other jackets with this amount of poof turn me into the Michelin man’s younger sister, the cropped cut makes this jacket both flattering and cute. —Kelsey Lindsey, associate editor

Murad Essential-C Day Moisture Broad Spectrum SPF 30 PA++ ($65)

A part of me is still balking at the price of , but I’ve been applying it daily from a single tube for over six months and have seen a noticeable improvement in my acne-prone skin’s clarity and hydration—the latter of which is super important when living in a dry climate like Santa Fe, as most moisturizers are either not hydrating enoughÌęor leave my face oily after hours of wear. The Essential-C strikes the perfect balanceÌęand also contains that all-important desert ingredient: SPF 30. I’ve found that it provides enough everyday protection from sun damage, but if I’m doing any lengthy activities outside, I layer up with. —K.L.

The North Face Women’s Flight Futurelight Jacket ($280)

I’ve never been much of a runner, but a pandemic winter and a lackluster early-snow season drove me to the trails for some much needed cardio. The has been my partner on every run recently. The soft, stretchy, wind- and waterproof fabric keeps chill and flurries at bay, and even on freezing mornings, I was warm enough with just a base layer beneath it (good thing, too, as its sleek fit won’t accommodate much more). On a warmer afternoon jog, it was extremely breathable and comfortable over a tank. If I do get too hot, the jacket folds into its roomy back zip pocket, which has a shock-cord handle inside for easy carrying in your palm. —Maren Larsen, assistant editor

Leki MCT 12 Vario Poles ($250)

During this warm, dry winter, the ÌępolesÌęhave been my go-toÌęfor long, steep trail runs in variable conditions. Here in Santa Fe, my favorite running routes often have frozen northern aspects and completely dry southern ones. Micro spikes are great if most of the run will be icyÌębut are overkill if I’m just traversing the occasional slick patch. These poles give me peace of mind in those areas, thanks to the two other points of contact that keep me from falling. They’re extremely light (200 grams), easy to adjust, and feature Leki’s top-notch quick-release strap system for times when you need to set them down to get something out of your hydration vest. I’m training for a Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to-rim this year (COVID pending), and these poles will be my support on that journey. —Will Taylor, gear director

POC Essential Road Softshell Glove ($60)

These are the I grab most when I head out the door to exercise. They’re designed for cycling, and I use them for mountain or gravel riding when the temperatures drop down to about 45 degrees (they’re not insulated, so I wear something warmer when it gets colder than that). They’re also great for running in 20-degree weather,Ìęsince I’m creating more body heat. The soft-shell backing blocks chilly winds, silicone grips improveÌęcontrol ofÌęmyÌęhandlebars, and they work well with touchscreens. They’re also durable—I’ve been putting them through the wringer since last spring, and after a lot of sweat and abuse, they still look as good as new when they come out of the wash. —W.T.

Yeti Rambler 10-OunceÌęLowball Tumbler ($15)Ìę

I’ve had my for at least three years. For most of that time, it traveled around with my camping kitchenware in the back of my truck, but since the pandemic hit and I’ve been driving a lot less, it’s found its way indoors. The Lowball is now my preferred containerÌęfor morning coffee. In true Yeti fashion, its double-wall vacuum insulation keeps my drinks warmer than any mug I own. And the small size fits perfectly in my hand and helps me justify aÌęthird cup of coffee with zero guilt. —Abigail Wise, digital managing directorÌę

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It took two months of correspondenceÌębefore the man who found Forrest Fenn’s treasure toldÌęme his name.

We’d been emailing since September, and I honestly didn’t expect to ever know who he really was. I was fine with that; as a fellow treasure hunter, I completely understood his desire for anonymity.

Since 2017, I had been pursuing Fenn’s treasure, too, becoming a kinda-sorta searcher in order to tell the story of Fenn’s hunt in my upcoming book , to be published by Knopf in June. I’d been in the trenches, read Fenn’s over and over, ended up in places I probably shouldn’t have been, and gone to places where other people died trying to find it.

A decade ago, Fenn hid his treasure chest, containing gold and other valuables estimated to be worth at least a million dollars, somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. Not long after, he published a memoir called , which included a mysterious 24-line poem that, if solved, would lead searchers to the treasure. Fenn had suggested that the loot was secreted away at the place where he had envisioned lying down to die, back when he’d believed a 1988 cancer diagnosis was terminal. Since the hunt began in 2010, many thousands of searchers had gone out in pursuit——and the chase became an international story.

So many people had invested and sacrificed so much in pursuit of Fenn’s treasure that it was possible the finder would face threats, be they legal or physical, from people who resented them or wished them ill.

And that was exactly what was beginning to play out.

This past June, Fenn announced that the treasure had been found by a man from “back east” who wanted to remain anonymous—even, once we were in contact, to me. So despite exchanging dozens of emails with the finder, and discussing the details of the chest and what locating it meant to him, I never pressed him about who he was, and he never volunteered.

Last week, he told me the situation had changed. Fenn had been targeted by lawsuits both before and after the chest was found, by hunters claiming that the treasure was rightfully theirs. One of the lawsuits, filed immediately after Fenn announced the hunt was over, also targets the unknown finder as a defendant, claiming that he had stolen the plaintiff’s solve and used it to find the chest. That litigation had advanced to a procedural stage during which the finder expected his name would likely come out in court. So while he remained guarded about his solve and the location where he discovered the treasure, he now didn’t mind telling me who he really was.

And that’s when I learned that a 32-year-old Michigan native and medical student was the person who had finally solved Fenn’s poem. His name is Jack Stuef.

Stuef first heard about Fenn’s chase on Twitter in early 2018, and couldn’t believe it had escaped his notice for eight whole years. He was instantly hooked.

“I’ve probably thought about it for at least a couple hours a day, every day, since I learned about it,” Stuef says. “Every day.”

The treasure hunt immediately brought him back to his youth, when he was obsessed with a 2002 TV series called , which allowed viewers to try and solve a real-life mystery that carried a million-dollar prize. Stuef also got caught up in a book by magician David Blaine, , which combined autobiography with a treasure hunt and offered a $100,000 prize.

Over time, those teenage dreams of adventure receded, and Stuef went on to attend Georgetown University, where he served as editor in chief of the , a campus humor magazine. He graduated in December 2009 and began a career as a writer, both in humor—he worked for the Onion—and in more traditional media. He became embroiled in a few controversies early in his career, both at Wonkette, which he left after he made what Poynter describes as and while freelancing for Buzzfeed, which after an article Stuef wrote incorrectly painted a popular internet cartoonist as a hard-line Republican. He left the media business soon after.

“I don’t think those were giant incidents,” Stuef says. “I regret them, but I don’t think about them very often. It was a long time ago now.”

He soon entered a postbaccalaureate program, and then enrolled in medical school. But he disliked most everything about medicine beyond treating patients, he says, and something else captured his attention: Fenn’s chase. He was soon reading the hunter blogs to learn the basics, and he bought Fenn’s memoir, The Thrill of the Chase, before diving into as much primary source material as he could find. His method was to devour every Fenn interview, doing anything he could to hear and absorb his words directly, in an effort to better understand the man’s personality and motivations.

As the hunt took up more and more of his time, Stuef mostly kept the extent of his pursuit hidden from friends and family. He didn’t think they would understand.

“I think I got a little embarrassed by how obsessed I was with it,” Stuef says. “If I didn’t find it, I would look kind of like an idiot. And maybe I didn’t want to admit to myself what a hold it had on me.”

Two years later, he had achieved what so many other searchers could not, finding and claiming Fenn’s treasure. (Stuef’s status as the finder was independently verified with the Fenn family.)ÌęHe retrieved the chest on Saturday, June 6, 2020, in Wyoming, and began the long drive down to Santa Fe to deliver it to Fenn that same day. That evening, news of the find was already beginning to come out, as Fenn believed it must. “‘We should let [searchers] know as soon as you have it,’” Stuef says Fenn told him.

“His thought was that, as soon as it’s out of place, we need to let people know,” Stuef says. “People have died. There could be issues.”

Stuef asked Fenn, though, that he be allowed to remain anonymous, and they both seemed to agree that the location of the find should be kept secret.

But controversy quickly swirled, as many hunters, unsatisfied with the lack of disclosure, decided this meant that —that Fenn had never really hidden the treasure, or that he had unilaterally ended the hunt without a real finder. The backlash took Fenn by surprise, according to those around him. To address it, several weeks after the find, he released photos of the chest and of himself going through it after Stuef delivered it to Santa Fe, which provided enough confirmation for some. In July, Fenn suggested to Stuef that they also reveal the state where the treasure was found, in order to give further closure to some hunters. Stuef agreed.

Beyond that, though, he remained silent, and might have stayed that way for some time.

And then Forrest Fenn died.

On September 23, two weeks after Fenn passed away in his home at age 90, a post surfaced on Medium, a platform that allows users to self-publish essays and other writing, anonymously if they choose. Called “,” it carried the byline “The Finder,” along with a bio that declared: “The author is the finder and owner of the Forrest Fenn Treasure.”

In 3,000 well-crafted words, the finder penned an ode to Fenn, who he described as his friend, even though he’d only known him briefly.

“I am the person who found Forrest’s famed treasure,” he wrote. “The momentÌęit happened was not the triumphant Hollywood ending some surely envisioned; it just felt like I had just survived something and was fortunate to come out the other end.”

In his essay, the finder revealed a great deal about the circumstances under which he had discovered the treasure—but, crucially, he would not divulge exactly where he had located it, and said he didn’t plan to. He was also careful not to let any details about his own identity slip, indicating only that he was a millennial and had student loans to pay off. Beyond that, he was an enigma.

He explained that in 2018 he had figured out the location where the longtime Santa Fe art dealer and former fighter pilot wished to die, and then spent a combined 25 days over the next two years searching the general area until he finally located the treasure. He said that, to find the solution, he’d carefully listened to things Fenn had said in interviews, finding a few crucial crumbs.

“[Fenn] never made more than a couple of subtle slip-ups in front of all the dogged reporters who came to his house, and even those apparently haven’t been caught by anyone besides me,” the finder wrote.

He included pictures of the chest, some of them taken in the wilderness shortly after the treasure was found, others taken at what was assumed to be a lawyer’s office, showing Fenn examining the chest.

Still, there were doubters. Many searchers refused to believe that the Medium post was written by the true finder, and suggested it was fraudulent—perhaps written by Fenn’s grandson, Shiloh Old, or by his professional writer pal, , or even by Fenn himself before his death, intended to be released posthumously.

But I didn’t think any of that.ÌęIn fact, after finishing the essay, I was pretty certain it was all real. And although the finder wrote that he would eventually answer more questions, the journalist in me didn’t particularly want to wait, or to leave what he answered up to him alone.

So I reached out.

Medium doesn’t generally allow readers to directly contact the author of a piece, which is one reason it’s good for anonymous posting. It does allow users to post public comments, and more than 100 people quickly did that, most of them supportive, some skeptical, a few angry and aggressive. But I wasn’t going to just post my email address in the comments, where anyone could read it. Doing that left me no guarantee that the person I might end up in contact with would be the finder.

I had one trick up my sleeve, though. There’s a little-known way to send a direct message to the author of a Medium story: you flag a section of text, indicating that it contains an error or typo. This notifies the author that something needs to be corrected. The system doesn’t give you a lot of space, just enough to describe the problem. So I flagged a section, barely squeezed in who I was and my email address, and hoped for the best. I had no assurances that the finder would look at the message, or that he would understand exactly why he should get in touch. But it was worth a shot.

Less than a day later, an email popped into my in-box. The finder had replied. He’d heard of my book project, he said, and he might be willing to talk to me.

And so began months of back-and-forth, sometimes involving several emails a day. It didn’t really matter that I didn’t know who the finder was for most of that time. I hung on every detail, every minor revelation he offered up about the treasure that had occupied me for so long.

Last week, after a lull in our ongoing conversation, the finder emailed again, explaining that one of the court cases surrounding the find had taken an unexpected turn, and his name was likely to come out as part of the process. So he told me who he was, and gave me permission to tell the world.

The case that prompted him to step from behind the curtain was brought by a Chicago real estate attorney named Barbara Andersen, who of the treasure had located it by hacking her texts and emails and stealing her solve. She believed the treasure was in New Mexico.

Stuef says he never met nor heard of Andersen before the suit; he denies her charges and says the treasure was nowhere near New Mexico. That has not stopped a New Mexico federal court judge from allowing the suit to proceed. Last week, Stuef learned that, as a result of Fenn’s death, the subpoena against Fenn would be transferred to his heirs and estate, which is in possession of Stuef’s information. This should allow Andersen to refile her suit, naming Stuef as a defendant.

Stuef had expected that finding the chest would bring some level of blowback, that his possession of an item desired by so many makes him a target.

“I thought that whoever found the chest would be absolutely hated, because it ends everyone’s dream,” he says. “That’s something of a burden. I realize I put an end to something that meant so much to so many people.”

But even if he anticipated challenges to his find, being a subject of a lawsuit has been an unsettling experience.

“I always thought that, based on people suing Forrest in the past, it was something that could happen,” Stuef says.

This treasure hunt has never been easy on its participants; Fenn and his family experienced a great deal of harassment from searchers who went too far during the years the hunt was active—everything from stalking to threats to . This is why Stuef hoped to remain anonymous, and why, even now, with his name known, he won’t disclose where he’s living.

Many searchers I’ve talked to appreciate his desire for anonymity, and I understand it as well. But one thing many searchers have a harder time grasping is Stuef’s decision to withhold where he found the treasure, even though the chest has since been removed.

People have died looking for the chest. Others have gone bankrupt. Many more have spent countless hours in search of it, and they want some degree of resolution. On our various excursions out West, my search partner and I both found ourselves a little too obsessed at points, and it took its toll. There are real human costs to this search, and knowing the final location could offer the desired sense of closure so many are now seeking.

Stuef says he’s sympathetic to those feelings.

“This is the most difficult question to answer, because I know there’s so many people who just want to know. They worked on this for a long time. And they just want to be handed the answer. I totally understand that. But doing that, I think, is a death sentence to this special place.”

Stuef fears that Fenn’s spot, if revealed, will become a pilgrimage site for Fenn devotees.

“It’s not an appropriate place to become a tourist destination. It has huge meaning to Forrest, and I don’t want to see it destroyed,” Stuef says. “And as much as I tried not to develop an attachment to the place, eventually I did, as well. I had whole days out there looking, and I would take a nap in the afternoon every day, as I said on Medium, under the pine trees. It was very peaceful for me.”

Stuef is trying to find a balance between the various entities, because he feels responsible to all of them. To the search community and its desire to know the whole truth; to himself and his sense of what is right; to nature and this peaceful spot, which he does not want to see ruined; and to Fenn. Ultimately, Stuef believes he’s being consistent with what Fenn wanted when he was alive, and honoring his legacy.

“He didn’t want to see it turned into a tourist attraction,” Stuef says of the treasure site. “We thought it was not appropriate for that to happen. He was willing to go to great lengths, very great lengths, to avoid ever having to tell the location.”

Because of his stand, talking to Stuef can be maddening at times. For my book, I’ve interviewed him about his solve, discussed the process he used to come up with it, and chronicled the various searches he went on as he sought the exact spot, learning fascinating tidbits in the process. For example, he’s told me that one reason it took him two years to retrieve the treasure, even after figuring out the general area in 2018, was that the “blaze”—Fenn’s all-important final clue, found out in the wilderness,Ìęintended to let a searcher know they’re in the exact right spot—had been damaged. He doesn’t mind being open with all of that. And yet there are still things he holds back or talks around, in order to make sure, even now, that no one can figure out the precise location.

Still, listening to Stuef talk about it, he makes it seem so attainable, so simple: that the key was really just understanding Forrest Fenn. Stuef hunted solo, never discussed his search with others, stayed away from the blogs after his initial looks at them, and tried hard not to get caught up in any groupthink. He did his utmost just to focus on Fenn’s words and primary sources, and understand those as best he could.

“I don’t want to ruin this treasure hunt by saying it was made for an English major, but it’s based on a close read of a text,” Stuef says. “I mean, that’s what it is. It’s having the correct interpretation of a poem. I understood him by reading his words, and listening to him talk over and over and over and over again. And seeking out anything I could get my hands on that told me who he was.”

When asked if figuring out the puzzles required the use of anagrams, or GPS coordinates, or sophisticated codes of any sort, Stuef was clear in his response.

“No,” he says. “But I don’t want to say that people are stupid for thinking those things were valid, or that they were being irrational. I think Forrest designed this to be fun, and whatever people got out of it, that gave them fun, I think, to me, is rational. And they were doing it right, in that way.”

The solution, Stuef says, is tied far more to understanding Fenn’s emotions, and to a close examination of the poem itself, than to puzzle-solving skills. Fenn simply didn’t care about those kinds of things. He was more interested in adventure, legacy, history, narrative.

“There was no reason to think that those things would be something he was interested in, or had any experience in,” Stuef says. “I mean, he was coming to this not from the perspective of being a huge fan of puzzles or a puzzle master. He was not a fan of armchair treasure hunts. His point of reference was pirates! His purpose was not to create a great puzzle and show everyone how smart and slick he was. His purpose was this weird idea to entomb himself. And to create a historic legend. None of that supports armchair solutions. And he was open about that.”

So far, ownership of the chest has not made Stuef a rich man. He has not sold it yet, has not even had it appraised, but the expected windfall has allowed him to quit worrying about repaying his student loans for medical school. With that in mind, he has decided to leave the profession before becoming a practicing doctor, and may move into equities investing next.

“I was kind of in this sunk-cost-fallacy dead end with that, where I didn’t want to quit, because I didn’t know what else to do,” he says. “I didn’t know how to pay off my loans if I didn’t become a doctor. [The chest] was kind of my lifeline.”

Once the time is right, he still plans to sell the chest. When he does, he will try to honor a “final wish” of Fenn’s: to have the chest end up in a specific place where searchers can view it, though he declined to say exactly where.

“Before he died, he was going to try to help me with getting a certain party to buy it,” Stuef says. “And I think his hope was that it would be able to be displayed. 
 And so that’s my first step. After that, I think I would probably try and sell to the public.”

If it gets that far, he’s unsure whether it would be best to sell it as a complete package, or to break it up, allowing individual searchers to own a piece of Fenn’s treasure.

“I’d guess we kind of try and test the market in some way to see what it would sell for all together, because there’s a good chance it’s worth more all together, as the Fenn treasure,” Stuef says. “But, you know, it’s possible. There are a lot of searchers out there who would want maybe one item in there, they couldn’t afford the whole thing, but it would mean a lot to them to have one item. So it is still possible to break out.”

With the chest located, one part of the treasure hunt is finished now—the chase, the part that obsessed all of us and pushed us to places we maybe shouldn’t have been. But the story has not ended. So many people have a stake in this hunt, it means so much to so many, that the tale didn’t, and doesn’t, end with a man finding a treasure chest.

That, in so many ways, is just opening up the box.

The post The Man Who Found Forrest Fenn’s Treasure appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

I got my ($89) on a Monday. Within a week, I put over 60 miles on them—riding fast jump laps at a local Santa Fe trail system, putting inÌęa massive cross-country day on the Colorado Trail’s highest segment, and spinning through fields of Crayola-colored wildflowers off Durango’s Engineer Mountain. Within a month, I’d worn them pedalingÌęup many of Santa Fe’s relentless forest roads, down my favorite trails, andÌęon a backpacking trip. IÌęreceivedÌęmore compliments on them than I couldÌęcount. IÌęspelled out the brand’s Instagram handle a dozen times for friends and strangers alike. I also wore them on a first date and—duh—got asked on a second.

But before I pulled them on, I had my doubts. The only other time I’d tried to ride in denim cutoffs, my spandex-less Calvin Kleins soaked up sweat and left me with a brutal wedgie—far from the casual vibe I’d been aiming for. From the very first time I tried on Ripton andÌęCo.’s lightweight shorts, however, they felt as breezy as they looked.

You could argue that riding in jorts sends a certainÌęmessage: you’re so comfortable in what you’re doing thatÌęyou don’t need fancy gear to make you feel at home, that you have nothing to prove with a neatly coordinated kit. But honestly, you’d probably be overthinking it. These shorts simply rule—and just because they don’t look technical doesn’t mean they aren’t ready for whatever you can throw at them.

Thanks to a generous, five- to six-inch inseam (depending on the size) and super-stretchy denim, you could high-kick to your heart’s content and never bust a seam. They comfortably fit over a chamois and my quads, which can be notably difficult to get into other shorts. Though they were designed with bikes in mind, these areÌęclimbing-harness-, ski-tour-, ridge-traverse-, and beer-in-town-approved jorts, too. And they come in both men’s and women’s versions.

Despite theÌęname, Ripton andÌęCo. is actually just one guy: Elliot Wilkinson-Ray, a Vermont-bred skier and biker now based in Aspen, Colorado. After working in marketing in the cycling industry for years, and watching traditionally rebelliousÌęcounterculture companies grow into large brandsÌęhemmed in by slightly stricter rules and a bigger market, Wilkinson-Ray decided it was time to do his own thing. He cites California’s cycling culture as a big inspiration. “I started seeing high school kids in Santa Cruz on the latest mountain bikes riding in Hawaiian [shirts] and jorts, because they felt like the mountain-bike clothing options were really limited,” Wilkinson-Ray says. “When the outdoor industry saw stretch elastane and polyester come into classic cotton fabrics like denim, I realized something could look really timeless and retroÌębut be really comfortable.”

It’s still a small operation: the shorts drop in batches that routinely sell out. (You can currentlyÌę the brand’s new Black Acid jorts.) Wilkinson-Ray packages them by hand and delivers them to the post office viaÌębicycle. The product line will likely expand to include a few new silhouettes in the coming year, but for now, Ripton is focused on doing one thing really well. And itÌędoes.

When I first started trail riding, I felt like I was putting on a costume every time I went out; dressed in baggy clothes I would never wear off my bike, my roommates nicknamed my alter ego Tanner. Ripton is one of just two brands I’ve found creatingÌęanything outside the norm in bike apparel (the other is , which isÌęsuccessfully designingÌęfeminine silhouettes in technical fabrics). The jorts scratch a personal itch: they feel like my own clothes, something with characterÌęthat builds a personality over time,Ìęas Wilkinson-Ray explains.

“The outdoor enthusiast is counterculture in essence. It’s a group of people that are doing things a little differently,” he says. “Ripton is an ode to the past and to being a little bit more rebellious in how you think about the world and the powers that be.” For those who don’t feel like putting on the bike-bro uniform, he’s created an option with a classic, iconic look and legitimate functionality.

The post These Mountain-Bike-Ready Jorts Are Our New Obsession appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.