I’ve tackled sections of the Pacific Crest Trail—backpacking, day hiking, and trail running—but to think of taking months off to complete all 2,650 miles of this trail, which climbs mountain passes and traverses remote California, Oregon, and Washington, feels overwhelming. A long-distance walk, on the other hand, feels more manageable, like something any of us could pull off, given some time. They mostly involve days and weeks rather than many months, and are at more consistent elevations.

I’m not talking about a mountainous thru-hike where you plan out food caches and sleep on the ground. I’m talking about a meandering or purposeful walk that goes on for days, weeks, or maybe months. A big commitment, yes. A physical feat for sure. A mental and emotional pilgrimage of sorts. But not so strenuous that most people couldn’t do it, building up their mileage.

These long walks, on byways and moderate terrain, are more like scenic tours of spectacular landscapes, or adventurous journeys through cities and forests. They are not so much to be completed as experienced.

And I think they’re the most beautiful in the world.

1. Best Urban Trail

Empire State Trail, New York

It took four years to link up and complete the entire , one of the longest multi-sport pathways in the United States, officially finished in late 2020. The route runs 750 miles across the state of New York, from New York City north to the Canadian border and from Albany west to Buffalo. Three quarters of the trail is on off-road pathways. You can walk on converted rail trails through the Hudson River Valley, stroll beside the historic Erie Canal, or move through wetlands and fields along Adirondack Park and Lake Champlain. Eventually the trail will include a 200-mile greenway across Long Island; construction of the first 25 miles of that section begins this year.

Pick a section of this largely urban route, which is also popular with bicyclists, and walk it one direction, then hop on a train back to where you started—Amtrak stations are located in 20 towns and cities along the way. Find community with others traveling the trail or seek tips on good trailside lodging or camping from .

Don’t Miss:Ěý ĚýMore than 200 craft breweries dot the Empire State Trail, in an aggregate known as the . Get a brewery passport and pick up stamps at the places along the way to earn rewards like a T-shirt or cooler bag. In the Hudson Valley, spend a night at (from $195), which has cabins, canvas tents, and a cedar sauna just a short walk from the trail.

ĚýĚý

2. Best Pilgrimage

El Camino de Santiago, Spain

Each year, over 300,000 people embark upon sections of this legendary pilgrimage, on a network of trails dating back to pre-medieval times and roadways that vary from cobbled to paved. The most popular route is the Camino Frances, a 500-mile pathway that starts in St. Jean Pied de Port, France, and takes travelers about four to five weeks to walk, passing through the Pyrenees mountains and La Rioja wine region, La Meseta arid range, and through eucalyptus forests into Galicia and Santiago itself. The Camino Portugues, heading up the northern coast of Portugal is another top choice, stretching between 140 and 380 miles depending on your starting point, and crossing through fishing villages such as the UNESCO Heritage Listed cities of Lisbon and Porto. No matter which route you choose, all roadsĚýon the Camino lead to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain, where the remains of the Apostle Saint James the Great are allegedly buried.

You can walk the Camino year-round—the most popular season is mid-summer—but aim for spring or fall for mild temperatures and fewer crowds, and be aware that many lodges and albergues close in winter ). offers guided walks on the Camino through Portugal and Spain lasting from a week up to 22 days (from $1,436), or, if you’d rather go on your own, has self-guided options (from $718).

Don’t Miss: Once you reach Santiago de Compostela, head to the Pilgrim’s Office for your official stamp of completion, having received a pilgrim’s passport from your entry point to be stamped along the way. Bagpipes will be playing nearby as you enter the gates of the holy Santiago de Compostela.ĚýThe cathedral has a Pilgrim’s Mass at noon and 7:30 p.m. daily; go early if you want a seat. On , await the ancient ritual of the swinging brass Botafumeiro, or cauldron, which is filled with incense and coal and so heavy eight men are required to move it.

3. Best Waterfront Route

Stockholm Archipelago Trail, Sweden

Opening in October 2023, the 167-mile connects new and existing pathways across 20 islands in the Stockholm Archipelago, the largest archipelago in Sweden and home to over 30,000 islands. To walk the whole thing, you’ll need to use a series of public ferries and private boat taxis. You can also pick a section and just walk a few islands at a time; each has an average of about nine miles of trails. You’ll travel along gravel roads, forest paths, and beaches, and through remote fishing and farming communities.

Along the way, camp or stay in hotels or B&Bs. offers a seven-day, self-guided journey on the trail (from $1,095) in spring, summer, or fall that includes lodging in locally owned hotels, luggage transfer, and daily routes that max out at about nine miles.

Don’t Miss: On the island of Tranholmen, a celebrated chef named David Enmark opens up his home to diners every Friday night—. Or visit the island of Furusund, which contains about five miles of trail and is site of a famed 19^th-century summer resort, now a 16-room boutique hotel: the (rooms from $121), which welcomes guests who arrive by boat or on foot.

4. Best for History Buffs

Lycian Way, Turkey

Traversing the rocky Mediterranean coast of southwestern Turkey, the 472-mile Lycian Way winds through the ancient maritime republic known as Lycia. Mountains rise from the turquoise sea as the route follows old roads, footpaths, and mule trails through long-gone civilizations. You’ll pass by lighthouses, beaches, historic sites like Roman amphitheaters and rock tombs, and lagoons over underwater ruins of sunken cities that can be toured by boat.

Most people take on just a section of the Lycian Way. has five- to 14-day guided tours (from $1,187) that include lodging and luggage transfer, or leads seven-day treks (from $995) with an English-speaking guide. Best to do this historical walk in spring or fall, from February to May or from September to November to avoid the high heat of summer.

Don’t Miss: °ŐłÜ°ů°ě±đ˛â’s illuminates Lycia’s ancient capital city of Patara after dusk, making it a magical place to explore by night. Best lodging on the trail: the (from $240), built in 2005 on a hillside, has glass windows, viewing hammocks, and saunas overlooking the Aegean Sea.

5. Best for Conservationists

John Muir Way, Scotland

Not to be confused with California’s more demanding John Muir Trail, the is a relatively new route (established around 10 years ago) that stretches coast to coast across Muir’s home country of Scotland. This 134-mile walk begins in the western waterfront town of Helensburgh, where quotes from the famed Scottish-American environmentalist mark a commemorative stone bench. The trek ends around 10 days later in the eastern seaside town of Dunbar, where Muir was born in 1838.

On the way, you’ll walk through the cobbled streets of the capital city of Edinburgh, along the shores of , and by the Falkirk Wheel, a rotating boat lift in central Scotland. has self-guided itineraries (from $1,827) for the entire route, including accommodations.

Don’t Miss: Stay in (from $417), a restored 16th-century castleĚýjust off the trail 20 miles east of Edinburgh. The trail’s eastern terminus is at Muir’s birthplace, a humble three-story home in Dunbar that’s now a historic and free to visit.

6. Best for Self-Reflection

Shikoku Pilgrimage, Japan

This circular walk across the Japanese island of Shikoku visits 88 temples and sacred sites where the Buddhist saint known as Kūkai is thought to have trained in the 9^th century. The entire route is about 745 miles—mostly using roads, but also on select mountain trails—and takes around six weeks to walk. Or you can choose just a section.

The traditional approach starts at the first temple, Ryōzenji, in Tokushima prefecture and proceeds clockwise until you reach the last temple, Ōkuboji, in Kagawa prefecture. Many pilgrims dress in traditional attire, including a white cotton robe, scarf, and straw hat, and carrying a walking stick; they also carry pilgrims’ books, to be stamped after worshipping at each temple. leads an eight-day tour of the pilgrimage (from $2,303), where you’ll walk up to eight miles daily with an English-speaking guide, staying at guesthouses and temple lodging.

Don’t Miss: One of the hardest temples to reach is number 21, Tairyuji, or Temple of the Great Dragon. You can ride the tram to reach this mountaintop temple or hike to the site on a steep three-mile trail through limestone rocks and an ancient cedar forest. There you’ll climb a marble staircase leading into the temple gates and visit a bronze statue of Kūkai meditating.

7. Best for Wildlife Spotting

Yuraygir Coastal Walk, Australia

The 42-mile point-to-point leads through the beaches and bluffs of Yuraygir National Park in New South Wales. You’ll start in the village of Angourie and follow the sign-posted track, as trails are called in Australia and New Zealand, south to the red-tinted cliffs of Red Rock. Most people take four to five days to do the whole route. Along the way, you’ll spot turtles and whales, swim in the Pacific Ocean, and walk through coastal headlands and the biodiverse Solitary Islands Marine Park.

Spend your first night on the trail camping at the , which is only accessible on foot. Or if you’d prefer sleeping in a bed, book a guided walk that includes shuttles to trailside properties like (from $234) or (from $125). leads a guided five-day walk of the trail (prices vary according to group size and season) for private groups from November to April that includes luggage delivery, boat and bus transfers, national-park fees, and accommodations. If you’d rather go it on your own, you can base out of the family-owned in Wooli, and the owners will arrange for lifts to the trail each day (from $499, including lodging and hiker shuttles).

Don’t Miss: Stop into the beachfront , about halfway through your route, for a sausage roll or pizza. Spend some time at the and estuary, a breeding site for endangered shorebirds including the pied oystercatcher and beach stone-curlew. The trail along the Station Creek estuary is lined with scribbly gum and corkwood trees, and if you’re lucky, you’ll spot an Australian crane or coastal emu.

8. Most Adventurous

Te Araroa, New Zealand

New Zealand is known for its stellar tracks, and , also called the Long Pathway, is the country’s most ambitious trail project yet. It’s a 1,900-mile journey crossing the length of New Zealand’s North and South Islands, from Cape Reinga at the north end to Bluff at the southern tip. The trail itself climbs mountain passes, crosses verdant plains, and travels through small cities and remote villages. Roughly 2,000 people walk the whole trail each year, taking between three and six months. Most hikers go north to south, starting around October, which is springtime in New Zealand. If you don’t have that kind of time, pick a section or a single island; the South Island is considered the more challenging of the two due to its more mountainous terrain.

While this video shows a Te Araroa thru-hike, some choose a section or decide to hike either the North Island or South Island. The South Island is more remote and considered more difficult, the North Island route longer but with more road walking. (Video: şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř TV) Ěý

Before you go, ($34) to receive the latest maps and a Te Araroa walker-information packet. Buy a (from $110) for access to over 70 Department of Conservation-managed backcountry huts and campsites along Te Araroa. The trail also has Ěýto help you plan and navigate, and the trail notes for each section give details on the route and where to stay and resupply. Or you can book a guided 12-day trip with (from $8,595) and let the outfit take care of the logistics, including hotel bookings.

Don’t Miss: On the North Island, you’ll climb the extinct volcano of Mount Pirongia and descend to the valley below, where you’ll walk by the glowworm-studded , which are worth a stop; you can see the illuminating glowworms in their grottos by boat. On the South Island, spend a night at the 12-bunk, first-come, first-served near Wanaka, which has stunning views from the porch overlooking the Motatapu Valley and a nice swimming hole in the adjacent creek.

9. Best Way to Explore Indigenous Cultures

Vancouver Island Trail, Canada

Vancouver Island, British Columbia, is a rugged and densely forested place, and the 500-mile is among the most challenging routes on this list. The trail goes from the capital city of Victoria on the southern end of the island to Cape Scott on the northern tip, crossing rocky beaches and through lush rainforests and territories sacred to First Nations tribes, including the Songhees in the south and the Tlatlasikwala to the north. The trail is broken up into seven distinct sections, from paved pathways through urban areas to logging roads, hiking trails, and rail trails. Each section takes around five to 10 days to walk—or you can spend two months doing a complete thru-hike. Some sections of the trail are still being completed and not well marked, so plan on some skilled route finding or that’s better delineated. If you’re walking the trail northbound, you’ll end in , where the Cape Scott Lighthouse has been shining light for mariners since 1960.ĚýĚý

Don’t Miss: Book a cabin or pitch a tent at the First Nations-owned , between the northern towns of Port McNeill and Port Hardy. At the center of Vancouver Island, you’ll walk through Strathcona Provincial Park, British Columbia’s oldest park, dotted with high-alpine lakes and jagged snow-capped peaks. The , on the outskirts of the park, has eight seasonal campsites and a sauna.

10. Best New Trail

Camino de Costa Rica, Costa Rica

You’ll walk from the shores of the Atlantic Ocean to the beaches of the Pacific Ocean on the 174-mile-long , or the Costa Rican Way, which was inspired by Spain’s El Camino de Santiago. This relatively new trail—established in 2018 by the nonprofit Asociación Mar a Mar—travels through coffee plantations and rainforests, over the Continental Divide, and among tiny villages that rarely see tourists. Plan on around 16 days to hike the whole thing.

The trip starts on the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica, in the town of Barra de Parismina, at the base of Tortuguero National Park, known as a nesting ground for leatherback turtles. It ends in Quepos near Manuel Antonio National Park, filled with coral reefs and white-sand beaches. Stay in guesthouses, campsites, and hotels along the way. You will want to hire a guide, as much of the trail is sparsely marked. leads guided hikes ranging from eight to 16 days (from $1,675) that include meals and stays at local homes and guesthouses.

Don’t Miss: In the Orosi Valley, stay at the (from $59), which has private casitas and rooms close to the trail. In the town of Orosi, you can visit Iglesia de San José Orosi, the oldest church in Costa Rica, dating back to 1743, and its Religious Art Museum, and the .

11. Best Paved Trail

Paul Bunyan State Trail, Minnesota

Most popular with cyclists, the Paul Bunyan State Trail is still a great long walk for those who want a paved, accessible pathway. The route begins at in Brainerd and ends 115 miles later at in Bemidji, home to a famous giant statue of Paul Bunyan and his Blue Ox, Babe. This is the longest continuously paved rail-trail in the country, moderate in grade throughout as it follows the former Burlington Northern Railroad, abandoned in 1983. You can camp at and Lake , or stay in hotels in the various trail towns along the way.

Don’t Miss: You’ll walk through the town of Hackensack, where every September chainsaw carvers turn hunks of wood into art in the annual Chainsaw Event. The (from $89) in the town of Nisswa has rooms and lakefront cottages steps from the trail on Lower Cullen Lake. In Pequot Lakes, stop into the trailside for a scoop of ice cream.

12. Best for Foodies

Cinque Terra, Italy

Cinque Terre or “Five Lands” refers to five coastal towns—Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore—over the the Ligurian Sea, all linked by about 75 miles of hiking trails. The most popular route is the Sentiero Azzurro, known as the Blue Trail, which is less than 10 miles and can be done in a day. You can start in Monterosso or Riomaggiore and work your way in either direction, passing through lemon groves and walking staircases directly down to the sea.

For a more expanded tour, consider five- or eight-day self-guided hiking trips in Cinque Terre, where you’ll stay in curated hotels, dine on pizza and gelato from locals’ favorite spots, and ride trains to reach new trails each day. If you’re hiking on your own, be sure to check the for updates on closures (landslides have closed sections of the trail), and grab a (from $7 a day) for access to the two paid hiking trails—from Monterosso to Vernazza and from Vernazza to Corniglia—and for use of the bus lines within Cinque Terre National Park.

Don’t Miss: Climb the stairs to Doria Castle, a medieval fortress near the village of Vernazza, to see the remains of one of the oldest surviving towers on the Liguria coast. The five-room guesthouse (from $208) in the Unesco World Heritage Site of Vernazza makes for a good midway stop on your hike.

13. Most Accessible

Cotswold Way, England

The is a quintessentially English experience, where you’ll walk from the historic market town of Chipping Campden, once a busy center for traders, to the steps of the Late Medieval church of Bath Abbey, crossing through farmlands, country parks, and beech woodlands. Stop and admire fields full of sculptures or study English Civil War sites. This well-marked 102-mile trail can be traveled in either direction, taking between seven and 10 days. has both guided and self-guided walks (from $1,154) ranging from between seven and 12 nights, where you’ll sleep in limestone cottages and guesthouses.

Don’t Miss: Climb the hill to the Broadway Tower, an 18th century tower within a 200-acre estate of parkland offering expansive views across the valley; enjoy afternoon tea at the Tower Barn Café afterward. The trail also passes by , home to some 30 species of endangered butterflies, and , a historic garden filled with seasonal flowers and a lavish mix of Classical, Gothic, and other architecture.

Megan Michelson is an şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř contributing editor and avid traveler who once lived in England for a year and went on a lot of long rambles through the countryside. She recently wrote about trips that may help you live longer and her favorite new backcountry hut in Colorado.

The post The 13 Most Magical Long Walks In the World appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

In my book, there are two types of people: those who do turkey trots, and those who vehemently do not.Ěý

Turkey trots, annual races (generally 5K to 10K) that most commonly take place in the United States on Thanksgiving morning, have been a well-kept tradition since 1896. The very first trot was held in Buffalo, New York, and only six runners participated in the five miles along downtown Buffalo’s dirt roads. Since then, the tradition has skyrocketed in popularity. from 2022 reported that 756,894 people ran or walked in 730 turkey trots across the country.Ěý

Trotting a Fine Line with Food Anxiety

Much like any race, there are plenty of good reasons why people run on Thanksgiving morning. But one not-so-good reason? Running a turkey trot because you feel like you need to “justify” the Thanksgiving feast you’ll eat later. A of 2,000 Americans found that 88 percent feel anxious around the holidays, with 85 percent reporting that they overeat to the point of being uncomfortable.Ěý

Thus, the idea of “punishing” yourself with a run before you enjoy pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, and mom’s famous jello pudding can seem like a good way to balance the scales. However, not only is this not effective nutritionally-speaking, but it’s damaging to your mental and emotional health. Mental endurance and life coach says that, though this way of coping with Thanksgiving is harmful, she’s not surprised people do so.Ěý

“It’s all centered around these narratives about diet culture in our marketing,” she says. “Half of the time the holidays are shown to us as a time to indulge and cook all these delicious things, and the other half is marketed to us as a time to watch our weight and be thinking about races coming up in 2024.”

The Problem with “Earning” Your Meal

Just as it has been that using food as a reward in a child’s adolescence often leads to overeating, unhealthy relationships to food, and lost hunger cues, adults can also feel the negative implications of “earning” your food with exercise.Ěý

“Food is a basic human need, not a reward,” says professor of sport and exercise psychology, . “In general, people feel better about their bodies and eating when they consider food to be necessary fuel rather than a reward.”Ěý

Even avid runners may use the turkey trot as an excuse to eat more than usual—that’s the “reward.” You might not even sign up with the intention of using it to burn calories before your feast, but subconsciously, you might already feel guilty about what’s to come and are trying to get ahead of it by overcorrecting.Ěý

“If exercise is viewed as a means to an end or as something one must do to earn food, feelings of guilt, pressure, or even punishment begin to be associated with exercise,” says Arthur-Cameselle.Ěý

If runners have this mindset, they should really question if this is the relationship they want to have with food and exercise.Ěý

“When you are willing to question the narratives fed to you and decide whether or not they serve you and your goals, it gives you ownership of the mental space you want to be in around the holidays,” Foerster says.

So if you feel like you might be running for the wrong reasons, is it better to avoid a turkey trot altogether? Not necessarily.Ěý

Know Your Why

“It depends on the person, but most of the time, it’s worth the effort to manage your perspective and mindset so you’re not missing out on an experience,” Foerster says. “If you avoid it this year, you’re not really coming up against the problem of your mindset—you’re just avoiding it.”

She suggests coming up with better reasons to run the turkey trot, like having it be a tradition to do with your family members or using it as time for yourself before all the holiday hecticness.Ěý

“My overall suggestion is to run the turkey trot if you enjoy running, if you like the social aspect of the race, or if you notice positive mental benefits like improved mood after you’re done,” Arthur-Cameselle says. “If you don’t enjoy any of those aspects or gain that type of experience from running, find a different form or exercise or sport that makes you feel how you want to feel. If exercise feels like play, you are more likely to stick with it.”Ěý

Though changing your mindset around the turkey trot is healthy, it might not help your unhealthy relationship with Thanksgiving dinner. For that, Foerster recommends mindfulness.Ěý

“All that stress, guilt, and shame you might feel around a holiday meal actually have a more negative effect than the food would,” she says. “So you might as well eat the food and actually enjoy it and be present, and then move on. Sort of like failing a workout. You experience it that day, and you’re not going to carry it with you moving forward. Your goals aren’t ruined because of it.”

You heard her, folks. Run Thanksgiving morning because you’re hot for the trot, not because you feel bad about eating a lot.

The post You Don’t Need to Earn Your Thanksgiving Feast with Exercise appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

As if vomiting blood wasn’t bad enough, imagine doing it while stuck in a 3,000-foot deep cave on the other side of the world.

That’s what happened to American researcher Mark Dickey during an expedition to explore the Morca cave in Turkey. After spending nearly two weeks underground with severe stomach problems, the 40-year-old was pulled to safety on a stretcher shortly after midnight on Tuesday, September 12, .

“It is amazing to be above ground again,” Dickey told reporters on Tuesday. “I was underground for far longer than ever expected…It’s been one hell of a crazy, crazy adventure, but I’m on the surface safely. I’m still alive.”

The complicated rescue mission involved around 190 experts from across Europe, including doctors, paramedics, and cavers, . Many of the rescuers camped near the cave’s opening in southern °ŐłÜ°ů°ě±đ˛â’s Taurus mountains.

The race to save Dickey also generated headlines across the globe. TV crews caught images of him emerging from the cave.

An experienced caver himself, Dickey was on an expedition mapping the 4,186-foot deep Morca cave system for the Anatolian Speleology Group Association when he became ill on August 31. He was unable to leave the cave on his own, according to a New Jersey-based cave rescue group he is affiliated with.

“Only the most experienced of cavers are capable of reaching him to render aid,” the said in a statement last week. “The location is very remote and the local water resources are limited.”

Starting on Sunday, September 3, doctors began administering IV fluids and blood to Dickey inside the chilly cavern, where the temperature hovered between 39 and 42 degrees Fahrenheit. A team including a doctor and three or four other rescuers took turns staying by Dickey’s side. It’s unclear what caused Dickey’s illness.

After Dickey was medically stabilized, authorities began attempting to extract him on Saturday, September 9.

In order to evacuate Dickey, rescuers had to widen some of the caves’ narrow passages, install ropes to hoist him up vertical shafts, and set up camps to rest along the way, the Associated Press reported. The Morca cave is °ŐłÜ°ů°ě±đ˛â’s third-deepest, reaching nearly .8 miles below ground.

shows him strapped tightly to a litter, as rescuers slowly maneuver him around cramped corners. After he emerged, members of his rescue crew celebrated, and some shared their stories with reporters. Zsofia Zador, a Hungarian anesthesiologist, it was her first “big rescue for me as a doctor.”

“This is quite a difficult cave because there are some small narrow passages and the shafts are quite muddy so it is not the easiest cave to traverse,” Zador said.

from his hospital bed on Tuesday, Dickey thanked people for “the outpouring of support and well wishes.”

“It has been a scary experience and the closest to death I’ve been yet,” Dickey said. “I truly appreciate all the people involved in both saving my life and helping me escape from so deep inside a cave.”

The post American Caver Mark Dickey Calls His Rescue a “Crazy şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř” appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

During a trip to Nicaragua in September of 2019, I saw the words “Pray for Surfers” graffitied across a boarded-up restaurant like a desperate plea. The year before that, I’d shared the waves with crowds of adventure tourists from around the world. Now I paddled out with just a couple of locals. The message was clear: Nicaraguans needed foreign surfers—and their tourism dollars—to return.

During the previous decade, the country had pushed aside its war-torn reputation, acquired in the 1970s and ’80s, and was touted as the next “it” destination for adventure travelers. Then, in April 2018, president Daniel Ortega ordered police to silence peaceful urban protests over social-security cuts. Reports of deaths and violence made international headlines, and Nicaragua’s tourism boom went bust almost overnight.

By early 2019, the U.S. State Department was urging Americans not to head there, “due to civil unrest and arbitrary enforcement of laws.” As a travel writer who frequently explores far corners of the world, I chose to go anyway. I knew from speaking to my contacts on the ground that the political violence wasn’t aimed at visitors, nor was it taking place in every part of the country. Friends and family, however, questioned my decision. “What’s wrong with the waves in Costa Rica?” asked my mom. Scolded a friend: “Your travel dollars are supporting an unjust dictatorship.”

But it’s my belief that, at the time, local businesses in Nicaragua—surf instructors, taco shops, and small hotels, among others—needed my tourism dollars more than others elsewhere did. Writing about travel provides me access to a global community of guides and outfitters, and I’m aware just how much tourism can positively impact destinations that have weathered political unrest or natural disasters. Tourism dollars really do improve the lives of locals.

This assertion starkly contrasts with conventional thought, which is to steer clear of such places. Tourists often fear that visiting an afflicted area will impede recovery efforts and further burden resources and infrastructure. (This may be true in some cases, like immediately after a natural disaster, so doing the research before traveling to such areas is crucial. More on this later.) There is also the ethical quandary of sitting on a beach enjoying yourself while locals rebuild their lives. But Jack Ezon, founder of the travel agency Embark Beyond, told me that the period following a calamitous event is often when local communities need tourism dollars most.

“By visiting, you are literally keeping food on people’s table. You are giving them the dignity of having a job and helping them get back on their feet,” says Ezon, a 20-year veteran of the adventure-travel industry.

The closure devastated area businesses. Enrique Umbert, CEO of the outfitter Mountain Lodges of Peru, estimates that thousands of tourism professionals were put out of work in a single month. “It feels like COVID again,” he says. “We lost two months of our key booking season. We typically project $1 million of bookings in a month, and as of mid-February we’re only selling $100,000.” Umbert had to furlough employees and temporarily reduce salaries—up to 50 percent for some of his workers. He also deferred his own paycheck. “My heart goes out to our indirect staff, like our guides, drivers, and community partners,” he says. “They’re really struggling.”

Prior to the unrest, longtime backpacker Jamie Thomas booked a trip to Peru through Condor Travel. In the months leading up to her February departure, she read that more than 50 people had died in battles with police. She also scanned Peruvian-travel Facebook groups and learned that visitors weren’t being targeted by cops or protestors. Thomas, who lives in Omaha, Nebraska, decided to go ahead with her trip, even though the country’s main attraction was closed. Her tour operator learned that there was a chance Machu Picchu would reopen February 15, the day Thomas and the rest of her group were scheduled to fly home. Everyone voted to extend the trip.

The decision paid off. The group was one of the first to climb the citadel’s magnificent stone terraces once it reopened. Thomas admits that the large police and army presence in the streets of Lima and Cuzco could be unnerving, but she never felt unsafe. Her group arrived by train in Aguas Calientes, Machu Picchu’s typically overrun gateway town, and found it deserted. “To take in those landscapes and ruins without the selfie sticks and other tour groups is a memory that lasts forever,” she says.

Perhaps even more memorable was the welcome Thomas and her group received from locals in Aguas Calientes. Owners of the eco-tourism company Inkaterra gave them a special deal at their top hotel, and staff seemed overjoyed to have visitors—and revenue. “Their gratefulness is something I’ll never forget,” Thomas says. “The media scared off so many travelers. It felt good to take a chance and know we were helping show the world Peru was ready to welcome back tourists.”

Of course, journeying to unstable regions can invite danger, and travelers should educate themselves and prepare prior to leaving. Melissa Biggs Bradley, founder of the tourism firm Indagare, extensively researches destinations in advance, digging into matters such as: How did local governments and services prioritize traveler safety during past major events, like the pandemic? Are groups targeting tourists? Is the disaster or unrest happening in the region she plans to travel to, or is it in a different part of the country? Biggs Bradley also recommends investing in a membership with Global Rescue or Global Guardian—companies that provide up-to-date alerts and evacuation services during natural disasters and civil unrest.

The media’s portrayal of destinations affected by hurricanes, earthquakes, political unrest, war, and other hardship is often what deters tourists from visiting. But Biggs Bradley knows that news reports don’t always provide the whole picture.

There’s another benefit of traveling to crisis areas: human-to-human exchanges can lead to a better understanding of locals and a more thoughtful perspective on other countries. “Travel gives us the power to make up our own mind about a situation,” says Biggs Bradley. While she doesn’t support the government policies in Iran, Cuba, or Zimbabwe, she believes that it’s important to visit those countries. “People are not their government,” she says. “I’m glad people don’t judge me based on America’s politics. I think it’s important to have an open dialogue with vulnerable communities.”

Then, in 2017, the şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Travel Trade Association invited me to join other journalists on a trek in Jordan, from the city of Dana to the archeological site of Petra along a portion of the new 420-mile Jordan Trail. Prior to accepting, I reached out to Shannon Stowell, the organization’s CEO, for reassurance. During the 2011 uprising, Stowell was in Egypt, one of the two countries whose governments were toppled in the wave of protest. He told me that the Western perception of Egypt’s safety didn’t jibe with reality.

Stowell says he toured Tahrir Square the same day CNN published a story on Egypt featuring years-old images of tanks and soldiers. “I remember thinking, You’ve got to be kidding me. This just set the country back again,” Stowell told me. He saw no violence or weapons of war in Egypt; instead, he toured the pyramids with dozens, rather than thousands, of visitors and never once felt a sense of threat. During a meeting with Margaret Scobey, the U.S. ambassador to Egypt at the time, Stowell urged her to ask the State Department to downgrade its current level-four travel advisory (the most severe). “It wasn’t even on her radar,” he says. “It was adjusted within a month. That one change can have a very direct impact on a region.” (While travelers should check State Department levels, keep in mind that the agency is overly cautious and broad when issuing travel advisories.)

Stowell told me that Jordan—which had been mostly peaceful—was enduring a halo effect from years of violence in surrounding countries. He explained that journalists like me had the power to pierce the veil of misconception. I agreed to join the trip. Weeks later I met a Bedouin staffer at an eco-lodge in Dana. We climbed up to the hotel’s roof to view the full moon, and he hesitantly asked: “Are you scared of me? Americans see the news and so they are afraid.”

I’m not alone in having written off an entire region of the world because of isolated events. If you’re on the fence about traveling to or near a destination that has been plagued by crisis, I urge you to look closely at a map and investigate the proximity of the conflict or disaster in relation to where you plan to go. News coverage of Australia’s apocalyptic bushfires in 2019 and 2020 created a perception that the entire continent had burned to the ground. Scores of international tourists canceled their trips. In reality, the blazes affected an area the size of Wisconsin. (Australia is approximately the same size as the contiguous United States.)

Turkey is currently experiencing a precipitous drop in tourism following catastrophic earthquakes in February. Earlier this year the country’s president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, announced a three-month state of emergency in ten provinces. After the quake, images of crumbling cities and bodies immersed in rubble circulated the globe. The quakes did devastate huge swaths of southeast Turkey, but most of the rest of the country received little or no damage.

In 2022, 51.4 million tourists visited Turkey, pumping $46.3 billion into the economy, according to tourism board estimates. The country is likely to take a financial hit in 2023 as more travelers decide to stay away. Biggs Bradley told me that she’s encouraging travelers not to abandon their plans to visit, because it needs that income more than ever. “Turkey is a huge country,” she says. “You can still visit many beautiful parts—Istanbul, Bodrum, Cappadocia—that were unaffected, and support the rebuilding efforts.”

She also believes that visitors should seek out area charities. You can give at local donation spots, such as mosques, nonprofits, or clinics across the country. Ask tourism operators whether communities are in need of specific goods that you can bring from the U.S., or which organizations are doing work that you can support. As the country continues to recover, even small gestures from visitors can have positive ripple effects.

My advice is to do your homework before canceling a trip to a troubled region. Talk to the person who manages the hotel where you’re scheduled to stay. Ask local guides or other connections you have in a country to advise you on what the situation is like. Reach out to locals via Twitter or other social media. Plan your trip with reputable outfitter, since it will track safety information constantly. Weigh all that beta in light of State Department warnings and news headlines. There may be times when it’s necessary to postpone. But if you decide that it’s OK to go, your tourism dollars can provide a huge benefit, and the trip may be even more meaningful as a result.

The post Your Travel Destination Has Suffered a Disaster. Should You Still Go? appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

My shadow resembled a silhouette painted against an old Appalachian road. It became my companion as I struggled up a solitary mountain incline between the Pennsylvania towns of Bedford and Greensburg.

The mountain didn’t relent. Each turn revealed another punishing stretch to ascend. IĚýshifted my gaze between the road before me andĚýdown at my shaking legs as I strained to put one foot in front of the other. Sweat slid down my forehead. The sun intensified the humid air.

It was the summer of 2006. I was cycling from Maryland to California to raise money for cancer patients, caregivers, and survivors, with a student-led group called Hopkins . Our team had 27 riders—mostly students who attended college in Baltimore, like I did. My Armenian parents had immigrated there from Beirut, Lebanon, in the 1970s. My father worked in the city, and I had a comfortable childhood in the suburbs. During vacations, we often visited our relatives in Lebanon, which was just emerging from 15 years of civil war.Ěý

As I climbed farther up the mountain, I thought about my grandmotherĚýKnarig, a breast cancer survivor who had lived through years of war; I thought about Nayiri, an Armenian family friend from Egypt who had battled ovarian cancer. If our loved ones could endure years of illness, chemotherapy, and social upheaval, what was a steep ride up a mountain?Ěý

Crickets creaked from the roadside pines. Then, a leafy patch of green was interrupted by a blue sign: LOOKOUT POINT MOUNT ARARAT, ALLEGHENY MOUNTAINS, ELEVATION 2,464 FT.

Mount Ararat was not a name I had expected to see in Appalachia. I was familiar with the original: a dormant volcano located in what is now eastern Turkey. The mountain . It represents our connection to Christianity (Armenians formed the first Christian nation in 301 CE) and the indigenous region where we lived for millennia. According to the Book of Genesis, after the Great Flood.Ěý

Seeing a familiar name energized my aching legs, propelling me through the final part of the climb. At the summit, I sat on a mound of dirt and caught my breath, awaiting the other riders. I wondered if the sign had grabbed anyone else’s attention, especially a Turkish-American on the team named Ersin.Ěý

For an Armenian like me, encountering Turkishness—the language, the idea, the people—is fraught. Between 1915 and 1923, the Ottoman Empire (now the Republic of Turkey) , my ancestors among them, in a sustained and brutal genocide. Afterward, °ŐłÜ°ů°ě±đ˛â’s government , and there areĚýTurkish people who still believe that it never happened,Ěýeven though it is recognized internationally as historical fact.Ěý

Nearly a century later, as our team rode bicycles across a different continent, that history—and the way it had affected and uprooted generations of my family—made me wary of Ersin. When he reached the summit of this American Mount Ararat, I did not ask if he had seen the sign, though I knew the name would have been significant to him, too.

But I was still thinking about it that evening when our team reached Greensburg, Pennsylvania, where a community group was hosting us for the night in a gymnasium. Sleeping bags littered the floor, and the stench of sweaty socks wafted through the air. Some of my teammates sat in the nearby parking lot running their bike chains through rags to clean the grease. Others played cardsĚýunder a basketball hoop. I strolled along the gym’s sideline when, in the distance, I heard a familiar word: “Baba.”Ěý

“Baba” is what I call my father. I had only ever heard Armenians use the term, but as I looked over toward Ersin, holding a bricklike cellphone in his hand (this was 2006, after all), I realized it must also be used in Turkish. He began to speak other familiar words: janim (my dear), chojookh (child), and fasoolya (beans). I hadĚýnot realized until that moment that our Armenian dialect contained TurkishĚýphrases.ĚýĚýĚý

Turkish was the language of the Ottoman Empire. It was spoken by the government and troops who committed the Armenian Genocide. For my anscestors, the Turkish language was omnipresent throughout that dark time, and it triggered bitter memories. During that period, my great-grandfather Mardiros survived four years of enslavement. In his memoir, in 1978, he wrote of a Turkish teenager brandishing a blade while searching for gyavoors (animals), a derogatory term used to refer to Armenians. My grandparents, Vartan and Yersapet, were among the proud but oppressed Armenian minorities in the Ottoman province of Adana. Like Armenians of that generation, they spoke Turkish and lacked the incentive or security to preserve their mother tongue.

Eventually they moved toĚýLebanon, which gaveĚýArmenian Genocide survivors the chance at a new life and community. A generation later, as a way to retain their native language,Ěýmy father and his classmates in Beirut were told to always speak Armenian, even as they were surrounded by Lebanon’s multilingual world that blended Arabic, French, English, Armenian, and Turkish.Ěý

As I learned this history from my family and in Armenian Sunday school, the narrative slipped into a binary: Turkish perpetrators, Armenian victims. Turkey was guilty, Armenia was innocent. Turks were bad, Armenians were good. I seldom heard a more nuanced perspective. If I had, I’m not sure I would have had the maturity to grasp it.Ěý

But at the time of the cycling trip, I had completed two years of college and grown more open to the world’s complexities. Maybe it was the mindfulness I learned about in a class on BuddhismĚýor the courage I cultivated as a student of theater and writing. More and more, I trusted that questioning assumptions and stepping beyond my comfort zone would spark valuable growth.Ěý

So,Ěýin that American gymnasium, hearing Ersin utter familiar words made me decide to seek our common ground.

During the next day of riding, our team faced a 103-mile haul through the Rust Belt, from Greensburg, Pennsylvania, to Youngstown, Ohio, featuringĚýa strenuous set of rolling hills. We found respite on flat roads separating cornfields, which we shared with Amish horse-drawn buggies. The Appalachians had tested our spirits. On the first day, a teammate had broken her wrist, and on the second day, another teammate’s collarbone suffered a similar fate. At that early stage of the trip, success meant avoiding major injuries and making it to the evenings, when the stories and encouragement of our hosts recharged our spirits. Since our ride had begun in northern Maryland, Pennsylvania was the first full state we crossed. It took three days, and with the Ohio border approaching, the reality of our long adventure was finally setting in. I felt invigorated by how far we had comeĚýand was eager to continue conquering challenges.Ěý

I decided during lunch to broach “the subject” with Ersin. “The subject” was the Armenian Genocide. My stomach tensed as I worried about how he would respond to the topic. Would he scoff? Would he walk away? Would he charm me into believing a lie?Ěý

Until that moment, our conversations had been brief, but aside from his Turkishness, Ersin’s sense of humor and joie de vivre had piqued my curiosity. Once I had resolved to ask him about the genocide, I suddenly became afraid of missing my chance. What if one of us crashed and had to go home? What if our relationship was characterized by superficial banter? I worried about squandering an opportunity to unpack something I’d only read about in booksĚýor heard about through traumatic stories.Ěý

I waited for the final moments of lunch that day before approaching him. Much of the team had dozed off for a quick nap or busied themselves tuning up their bicycles. Ersin sat alone on a shady patch of grass under an oak tree. I joined him and, after some pleasantries, raised the subject.

“Listen, man,” I said, trying to establish a casual tone for an uncomfortable topic. “I, uh, wanted to ask you. You know. Um, your thoughts about the Armenian Genocide. Like, I’m just curious, is it something you’ve heard of? Have you learned about it? I’m just wondering because, you know, I’m Armenian.”

The silence stretched between us, until Ersin started laughing. I joined him. Levity would soon become our way of navigating awkwardness.

“It’s complicated,” Ersin admitted. “You know I’m not even fully Turkish, right? My grandparents are Georgian and Circassian and other stuff, too. That’s common in Turkey. A bunch of people run around pretending they’re full-blooded Turks, when, in truth, most are mixed.”

“I had no idea,” I answered.

“°ŐłÜ°ů°ě±đ˛â’s government?” Ersin said, shaking his head. “If they say something’s true, then it’s probably false,Ěýor if they say something’s false, then it’s probably true, unless they’re playing a mind game, which happens often.”

“So what about the genocide?” I pushed.

“Man, I don’t know,” he said, with a tone of exasperation much larger than our conversation. “There’s no doubt that hundreds of thousands of Armenians were murdered during wartime chaos.”Ěý

I had heard that line before. It sounded like the Turkish government’s denialist , a series of whataboutisms that disputed factual evidence.

“Was it genocide?” he continued. “Was it organized from the highest levels of government and carried out by local officials and soldiers? Or was it another act of barbarity in a violent time? I just don’t know. I haven’t seen any evidence that resolves the question.”

I asked Ersin if he had read Peter Balakian’s 2003 book,Ěý. The landmark bestseller used primary sources from Ottoman and American officials to show that the Ottoman Empire’s campaign against Armenians met the of genocide that the United Nations adopted after World War II. Ersin had only heard of the book.

“Maybe after the ride is over, I can send you a copy,” I said.

“I would love that,” Ersin answered. I found myself encouraged by his openness to new ideasĚýand willingness to buck assumptions. My glimpses into Ersin’s personality—curious, creative, compassionate—were confirmed. I began to see his Turkishness the way I saw my Armenianness: not as a total definition, but as an aspect of our identities that we could help one another understand.

In the weeks that followed, our team crossed the Midwest, where the undulating Ozarks gave way to fields of wheat, soy, and livestock. Our anticipation grew as we prepared to climb the mighty Rocky Mountains. In Yuma, Colorado, we caught our first glance of their palatial, snowcapped peaks. At first, I thought they were clouds.

Ersin and I spent more and more time together, exploring the cultural space that we shared: one where Armenia and Turkey intersected in America. In Chicago, we woke up early, gathered trays of extra food donations, and ventured through the neighborhood where our team was staying. On a quiet street lined with elm trees and walk-ups, we gave the food to an unhoused man. We couldn’t fix the traumas and tensions we inherited from our ancestors, but at least we could do something in the moment to make the world just a little less dark.Ěý

We also found relief in humor. In a Nebraska gym, we lobbed basketballs across the court, shouting more common words we shared in Turkish and Armenian: lebleboo! (roasted chickpeas), bashkebozuk! (crazy head), diskotek! During lunch breaks, we sometimes paced around our teammates, pretending to be Old World villagers,Ěýhands tucked behind our backs as we chided everyone in sight.Ěý

“These Americans,” Ersin scoffed with his thickest Turkish villager accent. “Freak dancing and bicycle riding and fundraising. What is this, eh?”

I pretended to be an Armenian American from the mid-Atlantic named JĂ­ro, speaking in gravelly sotto voce and spritzing invisible cologne. Imitating his Turkish father, Ersin scolded JĂ­ro: “You should do something more professional with your summer, like an internship. Where will you get in life spraying cologne and riding a bicycle?”Ěý

“San Francisco!” I answered.

By mid-July, our team reached the deserts of Utah. Red columns of sandstone and massive white domes loomed over us as we emerged from Capitol Reef NationalĚýPark, pedaling through hellish heat toward Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. As we rode through the barren, rugged terrain, I tried not to think about the fact that the beauty of the open country also meant a scarcity of resources.Ěý

We spotted a convenience store on a desolate stretch of road and stopped to get provisions. Passing a newspaper stand, I noticed a photograph of a cloud of smoke hanging above a familiar city: Beirut, my parents’ hometown where many of my relatices still lived.

“Israel Bombs Lebanon,” the headline read. As I learned about , and the Hezbollah-led border raid that precipitated it, my stomach turned. I imagined my grandmother sitting in her apartment, knitting a sweater, asĚýher home suddenly flooded with shrapnel and smoke.Ěý

I tried calling my family in Maryland for updates, but there was no stable signal in the desert. I would have to hope for the best until I could speak to someone. During a water stop, my teammates saw that I was upset. I shared the news. In the sweltering heat, few had the bandwidth to commiserate about a conflict half a world away. One American teammate suggested Lebanon asked for it by not properly dealing with Hezbollah. Ersin and I looked at each other. I shook my head. He snickered at how outrageous the comment was.Ěý

Standing there in Utah, I experienced for the first time the visceral disorientation caused by violence impacting my loved ones. But what I felt—separation, confusion, concern—was a sliver of what my family had endured for generations. The safety of my upbringing in Maryland protected me from events that I thought were things of the past, the stuff of family stories: the stray bullet that claimed my uncle’s life during ; my mother watching blood flow down her neighborhood street after a nearby bomb detonated; my great-grandfather surviving a Turkish firing squad that killed 1,000 Armenians in minutes. Looking at that newspaper in the middle of the American desert, I wondered whether it was now my turn to know familial loss and feel helpless. Was this some cruel right of passage that would truly link me to that part of the world, or to my inheritance?

The next day, we rode past the , which featured the 3,000-year-old remnants of an Indigenous community. Though we lacked the time for a proper visit, it reminded me that the land we were crossing, and the country we called America, was, like the land where my ancestors had lived, stolen. The genocide and marginalization of Indigenous people in the Southwest was as brutal and undeniable as the desert sun pounding on our backs.Ěý

But in those arid valleys stretching to the horizon, I noticed no flags, skyscrapers, or placards of national possession. Out there, the ownership of land seemed like a myth used to tame an unconquerable planet with its imposing mountains, endless forests, and hypnotic deserts. We did not own or control the land. We were at its mercy.

The distinguished Armenian American writerĚýĚýhad similar insights while examining the statelessness that Armenians had endured in the wake of genocide and Soviet occupation. “There are only Armenians, and they inhabit the earth, not Armenia, since there is no Armenia,” Saroyan wrote in 1935, decades before Armenia became an independent republic in 1991.Ěý“Since there is no Armenia, gentlemen, there is no America and there is no England, and no France, and no Italy, there is only the earth.” Saroyan was describingĚýthe Armenian experience, but his words had broader implications: If there are no nations, then what do we have? We have our planet. We have ourselves. We have each other. We have a choice: to embrace our common creed as humansĚýor to lose ourselves in the fog of hatred and greed.

Ten days later, a “Welcome to California” sign shook me from the trance of those thoughts. We had almost arrived. The towering Sierra Nevada reminded me that no amount of pontificating in my head would help propel one foot in front of the other. The air thinned. The inclines steepened. It was just me, the mountain, and my shadow, that rocking companion, as we crossed the final mountain range.

Five days after that, from a hill in Marin County, I gazed at San Francisco in the distance. I noticed Victorian homes, Spanish mission–style churches, and the way land and water interlocked. The small building lights twinkling on rolling hills felt familiar, like the view from my grandmother’s fifth-story apartment in Beirut, another city where mountains slope into the sea. The news from Lebanon was that our family emerged unscathed from Israel’s initial bombardments. They were safe, for now.

On the final day, we rode through the neat streets of Sausalito and over the Golden Gate Bridge. Charged with excitement, Ersin and I revisited the characters we inhabited: an Armenian grandmother, a Turkish merchant, a New York loudmouth, a Chicago Casanova, and many others. We had traversed 13 states in two months. I had a new family of fellow cyclists. And in Ersin, I had a brother. Without our ride across America, the generosity of our hosts, the spirit of our teammates, the tenacity of those for whom we rode, and the teachings of nature in every landscape we biked through, I might never have discovered Ersin’s joyful and rich humanity.ĚýOur friendship helped me grasp my inheritance—as an Armenian, as an American, as a human—and to begin the journey of processing it on my own terms. No conflict, division, or border could eclipse the lessons found in friendship, harmony, and nature.ĚýĚý

“I’ll send you that Balakian book in a few weeks,” I said.

Ersin patted me on the shoulder. “Please do.”

The post How Biking Across America Formed an Unlikely Friendship appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

A recent report from , a UK-based market-research group, revealed the 100 most visited cities in the world last year.ĚýMajor Asian hubsĚýsuch as Hong Kong, Bangkok, Macau, and Singapore dominated the list, taking seven of the top-tenĚýspots, while European and Middle Eastern metro areasĚýfollowed. Many travelers have used these cities as stopovers en route toĚýmore adventure-filled final destinations, but we’re here to tell you that you don’t need to make onward connections to find what you’re looking for—these bustling urban centers have plenty of action-packed detours within an hour or two of downtown. Here’s a guide to extending that layover, packing in some time outdoors between major cultural sites, or simply making the most of these dynamic places.Ěý

Hong Kong

Visitor count: 26.7 millionĚý

Hong Kong has been the most visited city in the world since 2010. The ongoing anti-government protestsĚýresulted inĚý2.5 million fewer visitors compared to 2018, but they haven’tĚýstopped most peopleĚýfrom going. U.S.ĚýĚýhave recommended extra caution but haven’t discouraged taking trips there, and reports on the ground point to . However,ĚýtoĚýminimizeĚýrisk,Ěýkeep an eye on localĚýmedia reports to gauge which areas are most .

What many visitors don’t realize is that close to has been designated as parks or protected lands. A fifth of the city is also covered with steep slopes, making forĚýsome of the best granite crags in Asia. Within an hour from the airport, you can go on a moderate canyoneeringĚýday trip along the Ping Nam stream.ĚýOr head 40 minutes south toĚýhit crags like Lion Rock and Beacon HillĚýin Lion Rock Country Park; theyĚýoffer a variety of single- and multi-pitch climbs, from 5.6 to 5.13, and there’s nothing like the payoff—the skyline views from the top are some of the best in the city. For details on hiking trails in Hong Kong’s 24 nationalĚýparks and itsĚý140 miles of cycling tracks, the Ěýis a good resource.

Bangkok

Visitor count: 25.8 million

ThisĚýcapital cityĚýhas madeĚýthe list’s top fiveĚýfor several years, securing second place in 2017 and 2018. Most visitors spend a few days in theĚýcenter, stopping by its decorated Buddhist temples and bustling street markets, before heading off to Thailand’s more than 1,000Ěýislands, includingĚýPhuket and KoĚýChang.

But Bangkok is surrounded by river- and lake-based adventures that make adding an extra day or two in the area worth it. Head 50Ěýminutes east to , a wake park where water-skiers and wakeboarders hold ontoĚýhandle attached toa rope that’s pulled along by overhead cables nearĚýthe periphery of the lake, or use the park’sĚýramps to practice your turnovers and other tricks (from $13).

Macau

Visitor count: 20.6 million

Macau, anĚýautonomous region on the south coast of China,Ěýis known among globe-trotters as the Las Vegas of Asia,Ěýdue its giant casinos (gambling is illegal in Hong Kong and China) and malls along the Cotai Strip. But the former Portuguese colony is more than just roulettes and slot machines.

For extreme urban adventure, team up with guiding companyĚýĚýto scale 1,100-foot Macau Tower (from $299), where you can walk along the building’s outer rim for sight lines that reach as far as Hong Kong and the Pearl River Delta inĚýChina on a clear day. Half an hour south ofĚýdowntown, or 20 minutes from the airport, is Coloane Island, which has a ten-mile trail system that’s a go-to spot for local hikers and trail runners. Don’t miss the 1.3-mile , with views ofĚýthe azure South China Sea.

Singapore

Visitor count: 19.8 million

To escape the hustle and bustle of this tiny, dynamic city, go toĚý, an island justĚý12 miles from the downtown. ItĚýcan be reached in less than an hour viaĚýa free bus from Changi International Airport and then a short ferry ride (from $3).

Hop on tandem kayaks from (from $58) and paddle around the mangrove, with hornbills and herons flying above. On the western edge of the island, Ketam Mountain Bike Park has a world-class ten-mile trail system thatĚýhostsĚýthe city’s major biking events.

You’re also likely to bump into wildlife photographers and birdersĚýwho come to catch sight of more than 200 species of birds, 700 types of plants, and 40 varieties of reptiles.

London

Visitor count: 19.6 million

Green spaces in LondonĚýare a dime a dozen,ĚýbutĚýthe adventure offerings indoors and just beyond the city limits and are as innovative as they are varied.

A ten-minute drive from Big Ben is , an ice-climbing gym. The facilityĚýkeeps its internal temperature between 10 and 23 degrees year-round to maintain its 26-foot-tall ice wall, which features beginner slabs, dramatic overhangs, and everything in between (from $33).

OrĚýhead an hour north of downtown to Waltham Cross, Hertfordshire, and theĚý, a rafting and canoeing destination used in the 2012 Olympics. The venue hosts two options for rafting—a 1,000-foot Olympic course with a stunning 19-footĚýdrop, and a 525-foot loop with a milder five-footĚýdrop—andĚýoffers Class II-IV whitewaterĚý(from $65). New to the sport? You can also take kayaking Ěýthere (from $78).

Paris

Visitor count: 19.1 million

An hour north ofĚýthe Eiffel Tower, or 40 minutes from Charles de Gaulle International Airport, is theĚý. The area has over 870 miles of trails that take hikers through 2,000 years of history.ĚýChâteaus, churches, castles, old towns, and megalithic sites dating back to the Roman era dot routes linedĚýby chestnut trees.

If you don’t have time to leave the city, explore itsĚýurban runningĚýand biking opportunities.ĚýLocated along the western outskirts Paris,ĚýĚý(where the French Open is played every May) has two lakes,Ěýnine miles of cycling routes, and countless trails in its 2,100 acres, which is more than twice the size of Central Park. And don’t forget about , with itsĚýfour-mile waterfront walkway from Pont d’Austerlitz to Pont d’IĂ©na, which passes the Louvre Museum, the MusĂ©e d’Orsay, Palais Bourbon, and the Eiffel Tower.

Dubai

Visitor count: 16.3 million

Hotel-bar hopping by luxury limo and extravagant desert safaris may overshadow the city’s biking and surfing scenes, but there’s plenty of ways to play outside if you know where to look.ĚýIn the cooler months, check out , a 50-mile loop that stretches from the southeast tip of downtown into the desert, where you’ll catch sightings of local wildlife such as oryx and ride alongside training athletes from the United Arab Emirates national team. Rent your ride at Ěý(from $15) off of the main highway, Sheikh Zayed Road.

If you prefer the water, you’reĚýnot alone in a city home to . , just east of the iconic Burj Al Arab hotel, is your spot for kitesurfing, wakeboarding, and surfing. It’s known as the last bastionĚýfor natural waves, as more man-made islands dot the coast and interrupt western swells. Or head to theĚý (from $18) in Al Ain, a 90-minuteĚýdrive south of Dubai, which creates an 11-footĚýwave—the largest artificial breakĚýin the world—every 90 seconds.

Delhi

Visitor count: 15.2 million

Due to rapid development of its tourism infrastructure, Delhi witnessed a 20 percent visitor jump from 2018. This increase is only set to grow, as Indira Gandhi International Airport is set toĚýĚýby June 2022, enablingĚýthe hub to handle 100 million passengers every year. New direct routes to Delhi include Air India’s flight fromĚýTorontoĚýand United Airlines’ flight from San Francisco. Its connectivity to locations across northern India, such as Kashmir and the foothills of the Himalayas, has also boosted inbound arrivals.

With wellness tourism on the rise globally, the cityĚýhas attracted visitorsĚýwho come for its yoga and meditation training institutes.Ěý,Ěý,ĚýandĚýĚýare good places to start. If you’reĚýa birder, a wildlife photographer, or just looking for some nature, head 18 miles south of the city center to , whichĚýhas close to 200 types of birds, more than 80 species of butterflies, and populations of nilgai, the largest Asian antelope that’s native to the Indian subcontinent. The , nearĚýthe entrance, organizes wildlifeĚý (from $2).

Visa restrictions: ForĚýstays shorter than 60 days, U.S. visitors can apply for an at least four days prior to their arrival in lieu of applying for a tourist visa at an Indian embassy or consulate.

Istanbul

Visitor count: 14.7 million

After political and security issues in 2016 caused a drop in visitors, IstanbulĚýhas rebounded. Its downtown sites are enough to fill a weeklong itinerary (navigating the Grand Bazaar will take at least a day), but it’s worth doing as the Turks do and taking a day or two to escape the city’s crowds and congestion.

Head over to Belgrad Forest, just tenĚýmiles north of Istanbul. In an area encompassing more than 13,000 acres of oak, beech, and chestnut trees, runners can choose from plenty of unmarked trails. One of the most popular is a four-mile loop around the southern lake of Neset Suyu. For mountain bikers, there’s Ěýthat spans from the south to the center of the forest.

Visa restrictions:ĚýU.S. citizens who plan to stayĚýless than 90 days can obtain an .

Kuala Lumpur

Visitor count: 14.1 million

One of şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř’s 20 most affordable places to go in 2020, the Malaysian capital is no longer a stopover for visitors on the wayĚýto its surrounding islands.

For serious rock climbers, Batu Caves, a 90-minuteĚýdrive north ofĚýthe city, has more than 170 routes across eight limestone crags. If you left your gear at home, offers half- and full-day tours with equipment rental (from $51). For hikers,Ěýthe 8.7-mile-long, 660-foot-wide , the longest quartz formation in the world, is a challenging trail just 12 miles north of the city. Trek up through muddy jungle terrain from either of the two trailheads, . You’ll need the help of a wire rope to get to the very top, where Kuala Lumpur’s famous skyline is visible on one side and a reservoir on the other. Looking for something less rigorous? Drive 25 miles south from downtown to for an hourlong hike with scenic jungle views. Go early in the morning or at dusk to catch the sunrise or sunset views over the city.

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For athletes with specific training and nutritional needs, the holiday season can be tricky to navigate. Do you channel your inner bon vivant and have a third helping of pecan pie, or do you take care to avoid piling your plate with foods that might make tomorrow’sĚýtraining run a little harder? Ultimately, the best defense is a good offense: if you bring a homemadeĚýdish to every party, you ensure that you have something hearty and healthy(ish) to eat.

Sports nutrition expert and author Allen LimĚýexplains that when it comes toĚýeating rich, delicious food, context is key:Ěý“What you eatĚýin celebration will have little bearing on the big picture. It’s not what you eat on one day—it’s what you consistently eat every other dayĚýthat really matters.ĚýBut with classic holiday favorites, almost every recipe could be toned down slightly, so that we can still enjoy a good portion without it being so sweet, fatty, or calorically dense. It’s a balance.”

So, don’t stress out about that third piece of pie, but check out these athlete favorites for some potluck inspiration.

Italian Arancini with Red Pepper Oil

These rice balls are the perfect fare for a large gathering, Lim says. Arancini is a holiday party classic, and Lim and fellow chef Biju Thomas’ recipe calls for fresh, whole-food ingredients. They’re traditionally served on their own, but Lim also likes to use them as salad toppers. BringĚýthese to a party on a big bed of mixed greens, and use the red pepper oil as a dressing.

Ingredients

• 2 cups uncooked short-grain rice (Short-grain brown rice works well.)
• 1 red bell pepper
• Coarse salt, to taste
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• 1 cup ricotta
• 1 tablespoon freshly grated Parmesan
• 2 eggs, lightly beaten
• 1/4Ěýcup chopped fresh Italian herbs of your choice, like basil, tarragon, thyme, or parsley
• Zest from half a lemon
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 egg plus 1 tablespoon water, lightly beaten
• 1 cup gluten-free panko or breadcrumbs
• 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• Freshly grated Parmesan

Directions

Heat the oven to 250 degrees Fahrenheit. Prepare the rice in a rice cooker or on the stovetop, following the instructions on the package. While the rice is cooking, blanch the bell pepper in salted boiling water for no more than oneĚýminute. (The skin shouldĚýbe wrinkled.) Run the pepper under cold water, then peel off the skin and remove the stem and seeds. Place the pepper in a blender with the olive oil and purĂ©e. Season to taste with coarse salt and set aside.

Once the cooked rice is cool enough to handle, transfer it into a large bowl and add the ricotta, Parmesan, eggs, herbs, lemon zest, and salt. Mix together with a wooden spoon. (It will be sticky.) Shape into large, firm balls, about twoĚýinches in diameter (the size of a golf ball). This recipe makes about 32 rice balls. Brush egg-and-water mixture onto each rice ball, then roll in the breadcrumbs.

In large sautĂ© pan or skillet over medium-high heat, heat the olive oil, then add the rice balls in batches. Don’t crowd the pan. Turn frequently until golden brown on all sides. Each batch will take aboutĚýeightĚýto tenĚýminutes to cook.

Transfer to a baking sheet and keep warm in the oven while you finish making the remaining rice balls. Pile the rice balls on a serving platter and top with freshly grated Parmesan. Serve with red pepper oil, pesto, or your favorite marinara.

This recipe was republished with permission of VeloPress from by chef Biju Thomas and Dr. Allen Lim.

Sriracha Honey Turkey Meatballs

Cyclocross racer and Red Bull athlete Ěýhas been racing since she was seven years old, and she hasĚýlearned to dial in optimal nutrition without sacrificing taste. These sweet-and-savory meatballs are her go-to holiday party treat, whether they’re served with toothpicks as an appetizer or as part of the main course—and the leftovers make for a great post-workout protein boost. They keep well in the freezer, so prep ahead if youĚýknow party season will be hectic.

Ingredients

• 2 pounds ground turkey
• 1 cup panko or breadcrumbs
• 2 large eggs
• Garlic powder and salt to tasteĚý
• 1/4 cup sriracha
• 3 tablespoons soy sauce
• 3 tablespoons rice vinegar
• 3 tablespoonsĚýhoney
• Fresh ginger and garlic, finely chopped,Ěýto taste
• Splash of sesame oil
• Sesame seeds

Directions

Preheat ovenĚýto 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Mix ground turkey, panko or breadcrumbs, eggs, garlic powder,Ěýand salt. Roll into one-inch round balls. Place on baking sheet and cook until browned and cooked through (about 22 minutes).

While they’re baking, make the sauce.ĚýIn a medium saucepan, mix sriracha, soy sauce, rice vinegar, honey, ginger and garlic, and sesame oil. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until it comes to a boil. Then, reduce heat and let simmer for eight to ten minuteĚýor until theĚýsauce thickens.

Coat meatballs and top with sesame seeds to serve. If freezing, freeze meatballs and sauce separately.

Mushroom Duxelles

Break up the sea of charcuterie and cheese platesĚýwith this vegan mushroom spread from chef and yoga instructor Stepfanie Romine.ĚýIt’s a great way to offer people with common dietary restrictions, like lactose intolerance, a chance to enjoy more than just veggies and hummusĚýat a cocktail party. “Duxelles is a classic French recipe base that infuses flavor into any dish,” Romine explains. “You can change it up based on the mushrooms, alcohol, and fats you have on hand.” It’s great served onĚýtoasted baguette slices or crackers as an hors d’oeuvre, and it works wonderfully as a stuffing or topping for eggs, meats, and other dishes.

Ingredients

• 1/4 cup safflower or olive oil
• 1 pound tender mushrooms, any variety, caps only, finely chopped
• 2 tablespoons minced garlic
• 1/4 cup minced shallots or 1/2Ěýcup finely diced yellow onion
• 1/2 cup dry red orĚýwhite wineĚýor 1/4Ěýcup dry sherry
• Sea salt
• Pepper

Directions

Place a saucepan over medium-high heat, then add twoĚýtablespoons of oil. Once hot, add the mushrooms, garlic, shallots or onions, and a pinch of salt and pepper. Cook for five minutes, stirring often, until the mixture is dry and starting to get some color. Add about half of the wine, stirring and scraping to remove any cooked-on bits.ĚýOnce evaporated, add the remaining oil and another generous pinch of salt and pepper. Continue cooking, stirring often, for another five minutes. If the shallots are in danger of burning, reduce heat to medium. Add the remaining wine, scraping the bottom as before, and cook until completely evaporated.

Let cool, then season to taste with salt and pepper.ĚýServe alongside toasted baguette slices or crackers.

Recipe reprinted with permission from Ěý(Ulysses Press, July 2018) by Stepfanie Romine.Ěý

Hearty Beef Chili

Professional cyclist is one of the Rally HealthĚýteam’s top ridersĚýand top chefs. His personal favorite meal when temperatures drop is a hearty beef chili seasoned with unique flavors like coffee and molasses. The best part about chili is that it’s easy to prep in advance: you canĚýsimmer it in a slow cooker all day or cook it in advance and freeze it. Serve as an appetizer at a cocktail party with sturdyĚýtortilla chips for scooping,Ěýin bowls over rice as an entree, or with a side of sourdough bread.

Ingredients

• 1 cup hot coffee
• 2 dried chiles (ancho, poblano or chipotle)
• Olive oil
• 1 diced red onion
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1 teaspoon chili powder
• 1 bay leaf
• 5 diced garlic cloves
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• Salt and pepper
• 2 28-ounce cansĚýpeeled whole tomatoes
• 2 pounds beef (brisket or another pot roast–style cut), cut into 2-centimeterĚýcubes
• 2 tablespoons molasses
• 2 bell peppers, chopped (not green)
• 1 28-ounce canĚýkidney beans
• Optional toppings: Greek yogurt, sour cream, chopped avocado, chopped cilantro,Ěýhot sauce

Directions

Before you start frying and prepping anything else, soak the dried chiles in the hot coffee. In a pot, Dutch oven, or slow cooker, heat the olive oil over medium and sautĂ©Ěýthe onions, cumin, paprika, oregano, chili powder, and bay leaf for ten minutes.

Chop the now partially rehydrated chiles. Add the garlic, bay leaf, cinnamon, and both types of chiles to the pan. SautĂ©Ěýfor one to two minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Add the rest of the ingredients, except the bell peppers and beans, including the coffee you soaked the chiles in. Smash the tomatoes with your spoon after you add them to the pot. Add more salt and pepper to taste.

Cover and simmer for three hours on the stovetop,ĚýorĚýfive hours on high in a slow cooker. Add the bell peppers and beans. Taste and add salt and pepper, if necessary. Simmer another 45 minutes.

Top with Greek yogurt, sour cream, chopped avocado, chopped cilantro, and hot sauce.ĚýServe alongside tortilla chips, rice, or sourdough bread.

White Chocolate Coconut Bars

“These may sound decadent, but they offer decent protein levels from the nuts, protein powder, and nut butter,” says Alan Murchison, author of Ěýcookbook. “Lee, a training buddy of mine, asked me to make a protein bar recipe that actually works, after having countless disasters trying to make his own. The aim was to create that sweet-and-salty combo thatĚýwe crave after hard training sessions or long rides, to restock those glycogen and electrolyte stores, and to help repair tired muscles.” Chunk the bars into smaller pieces for a sweet party treat with a nutritious kick.

Ingredients

• 1 cup oats
• 1/4 cup sweetened dried coconut
• 1 teaspoon Himalayan salt
• 2 tablespoons goji berries
• 1/2 cup dried mango, chopped
• 1/2 cup dried cherries, chopped
• 1/2 cup cashew nuts
• 1 tablespoon chia seeds
• 1/2 cupĚýmilk
• 1/3 cup vanilla protein powder
• 2 tablespoons runny honey
• 1/3 cup white chocolate chips
• 1/4 cup plus 1 tablespoonĚýcoconut oil
• 1/3 cup peanut butter

Directions

In a bowl, mix together all the dry ingredients and set aside. In another bowl, whisk together the milk, vanilla protein powder, and runny honey until you have a smooth paste.

In a saucepan over low heat, melt the white chocolate chips and coconut oil, then stir in the peanut butter. In a large mixing bowl, combine the milk mix with the white chocolate mix, then stir in the dry ingredients. Line a shallow 9×9-inchĚýbaking tin with greaseproof paper and spray with olive oil, then press the mixture into the tin.

Place in the fridge for 60 to 90 minutes to firm up before slicing into approximately 15 bars.

Easy Chocolate Protein Mousse

Short on time but promised to bring something sweet to the party? Try Murchison’s ultra-simple chocolate protein mousse—it combines ingredients that many athletes already have at home, like banana, coconut milk, and protein powder. A single serving packs in 26 grams of protein, so save leftovers for a post-workout treat.

Ingredients

• 2 1/2Ěýcups coconut milk
• 5 tablespoon honey
• 1 1/2Ěýcups chocolate protein powder
• 1 2/3Ěýtablespoons cocoa nibs
• 1/3 cup cocoa powder
• 1/3 cup finely shredded coconut
• 1 2/3Ěýtablespoons chia seeds
• Optional topping: Chopped cashews, chopped banana, fresh cherries

Directions

In a food processor, blend the coconut milk, honey, protein powder, cocoa nibs, and cocoa powder. Stir in the coconut, chia seeds, and cashews. Spoon the mixture into ten ramekins and place in the fridge for 30 minutesĚýor until firm. Serve with chopped cashews, banana, or fresh cherries on the side.

Reprinted from Ěýby Alan Murchison with permission by Bloomsbury Sport, Bloomsbury Publishing, Plc.

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Home of Turquoise, from filmmaker ,Ěýchronicles an unnamed kiteboarder's search for the clearest water around Turkey's southwestern shores.

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The months apart were not kind.

When we finally track down our motorcycle on the outskirts of Erbil, the capital of Iraq’s semiautonomous Kurdish region, the engine is dead and all three tires are flat. The sidecar has become a trash can, strewed with empty beer bottles, newspapers, and a splash of motor oil. “Sorry, old girl,” sighs Carmen Gentile, my traveling companion and the bike’s owner. He slumps in the saddle for a while, head bowed, a little heartbroken. “I’m sad, dude,” he says. “This bike deserves so much better.”

In the summer of 2017, while reporting on a campaign by Iraqi forces to purge the Islamic State from the city of Mosul, Carmen had found the bike—a Russian-made Ural—buried under the rubble of a mortar strike, its gas tank crushed, its fenders shot through with bullet holes. An incurable moto enthusiast, he launched a salvage mission that involved jury-rigging parts and schmoozing his way through countless checkpoints on the 50-mile drive east to Erbil. The bike was then left with a friend of a friend, who apparently didn’t share Carmen’s affections.

Nearly a year later, with the jihadists on the run, we’re back to explore Iraqi Kurdistan’s potential as the Middle East’s next great adventure destination. Our plan is to dust off the Ural and ride with photographer Balazs Gardi, who’ll rent a car, traveling from the sunbaked plains up to the mountains that flare along the Iranian border—an alpine wilderness that’s home to virgin peaks, raging whitewater, and the region’s first national park. It’s not far from where a group of American hikers were taken prisoner nine years ago by Iranian border guards, an incident that muted the media hype that Kurdistan was the next big thing. But I’m in contact with a guide who knows the terrain well, and several high-octane travel dispatches I’ve seen online (“Taking on Kurdistan’s Wildest Mountain River,” “Iraqi Kurdistan: Intrepid Skiers Break New Ground”) suggest that a serious outdoor scene is emerging in the high country. We want to check it out.

The Ural won’t get us there, obviously, so we head to a bustling moto market in a different part of town. Rows of cheap Iranian 125cc four-speeds fail to rouse our spirits, but we have no choice. We settle on a pair of Honda knockoffs, slap on some stickers of Che Guevara for good luck, and ride down to the old city center to buy last-minute provisions.

I’ve been here before. On my first visit to Kurdistan, in 2007, the Iraq War was raging full tilt. It was the deadliest year yet for U.S. troops. Sections of Baghdad and the southern cities were no-go zones, terrorized by suicide car bombs and sectarian death squads. In contrast, Erbil, a city of around one million, was a bastion of calm guarded by the fearsome Peshmerga (“those who face death”), the Kurds’ national fighting force.

Having a U.S. passport in Kurdistan was a bonus. Soon after the end of the 1991 Gulf War, the U.S. enforced a no-fly zone over the region that helped stop Saddam Hussein’s brutal counteroffensive against the Kurdish rebellion, and Kurds have never forgotten that. I was invited to a wedding, ate free meals, and celebrated the Muslim New Year with friends and fireworks beneath the towering walls of the ancient citadel of Erbil, one of the oldest continuously occupied settlements in the world. It’s hard to believe that two wars have happened since my last visit.

Carmen and I park next to a glitzy new plaza that fronts the citadel and hike up to the viewing platform. The skyline bristles with shopping malls, cranes, and half-built condominium complexes thrown up by developers from Turkey and Dubai. Swarms of package tourists from Baghdad shamelessly snap selfies around us, but I don’t see any Westerners.

Kurdish authorities have tried hard to promote Kurdistan as “the other Iraq,” but to most foreigners it’s still a land synonymous with the bloodshed and beheadings that have stigmatized the rest of the country. In September 2017, flush from victory in their three-year battle against Islamic State militants, Kurdish leaders made matters worse by holding an independence referendum, in defiance of Iraq’s central government. It backfired catastrophically. Iraqi forces retaliated by seizing swaths of oil-rich Kurdish lands and banning international flights to the region’s airports. We arrived just weeks after the embargo was lifted.

Following a stroll through another market for supplies, we return to our bikes. This time mine won’t fire up. I stomp the kick-starter again and again, issuing a flurry of f-bombs and drawing a small crowd.

“Engine too much gas,” a mustached man says when I stop to catch my breath.

I grunt out a yes. Inevitably, he asks me where I’m from.

“Ah, Amreekah friend,” he says when I tell him. “Rambo number one! Bush good also.”

Another man squats down to my right and starts stripping the plastic off my ignition cable with his teeth. He pulls out a knife to finish the job, twists the bare copper threads into a braid, and taps the spark plug. On his cue, I give the bike a sharp kick, and it starts with a whimper, then revs to life. The group erupts into trilling, high-pitched ululations that send us off.

Kurdish hospitality is as robust as ever, but the early signals are clear. Nothing will come easy on this trip.

In the morning, we ride northeast up Hamilton Road, an old British-built highway that snakes some 110 miles from Erbil to the Iranian frontier. Near the city limits, a series of Peshmerga checkpoints give way to rolling hills dotted with farmhouses and stone fortresses dating back to the tenth century. Balazs is following us in a chase car, but it’s not long before we’re chasing him.

Just as the landscape opens up, my bike starts to flag. I pin the throttle, to no effect. A cling-clang of loose metal rattles around in my engine. “Man, this is not good!” I shout to Carmen, who’s having gear problems of his own. The predicament is made worse by Kurdish motorists who seem hell-bent on running us off the road. We sputter on, past a billboard honoring the “immaculate precious bodies” of all the Peshmerga martyrs who’ve fought and died to defend this terrain.

Kurdish history is a catalog of tragedy. Blessed with natural beauty and cursed by location, the ancestral heartland straddles a tangle of ethnic, religious, and geopolitical fault lines where conflict has ebbed and flowed for centuries. During the breakup of the Ottoman Empire after World War I, when Allied powers divvied up the region, plans to create an independent Kurdish state never came to fruition. Today some 30 million stateless Kurds are spread across four countries—Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria. In Iraq, decades of ruthless government persecution have hardened the Kurds’ drive to carve out a homeland of their own.

Two hours, many stops, and maybe 35 miles up the road, we pause to rest at the edge of a sprawling farm valley outside the town of Shaqlawa. A pair of aging freedom fighters in traditional Kurdish costume—baggy pantaloons, vest, cummerbund, head wrap—are thumbing prayer beads in the dusky light. They say as-salaamu alaikum (peace be upon you) and touch their hearts. I introduce myself and say what a beautiful place it is.

“You should have been here in ’74,” says Qasim Abdullah, the taller one, warming up to tell a story. “Saddam’s fighters were up there and we were over there, firing artillery back and forth.” He points across the valley to where he was. “At night we sometimes had to cross minefields between us. Too many men died here.”

In the 1970s and 1980s, Saddam tried to Arabize Iraq’s estimated six million Kurds. More than 4,000 Kurdish villages were razed and entire communities forcibly relocated. When Iraqi Kurdish fighters sided with Iran during the Iran-Iraq War, which lasted from 1980 to 1988, Saddam launched a scorched-earth campaign of bombing and chemical attacks that claimed at least 50,000 lives. Ahmad Mustafa, the shorter, stouter man, says that 20 of his neighbors were rounded up and executed. An additional 120 were taken from the next village. “No one knows what happened to them,” he says.

Like most able-bodied Kurdish men, Qasim and Ahmad fought with the guerrillas for several years. But with families to look after, they eventually fled to Iran, part of the more than one million Kurds who left the country in waves that lasted into the early 1990s. A 1991 uprising ultimately evicted Iraqi forces from the north and led to de facto self-rule, thanks largely to the U.S.-enforced no-fly zone that targeted Iraqi jets flying over Kurdish airspace, but not before a bloody crackdown by Saddam. Rival Kurdish factions then turned against each other in a civil war that ended in 1998, splitting the government in two. The groups did not merge again until after Saddam’s ouster and the drafting of the 2005 constitution.

As Iraq plunged into chaos, Kurdistan became the paradigm of peace and prosperity that American leaders had envisioned for the entire country. Qasim and Ahmad came home to try and realize the dream of a free and independent state. But that dream is fading. Clashes with the Iraqi army following the hasty independence referendum saw the vaunted Peshmerga concede to Iraq a reported 40 percent of the disputed territory they had controlled since the 2014 fight against the Islamic State. This area includes the city of Kirkuk, whose oil fields drive the Kurdish economy and would be the lifeblood of a state. Turkey is launching cross-­border attacks against Kurdish rebels and talking about a ground invasion, while Iran is targeting Iranian Kurdish opposition bases inside Kurdistan. “We’ve never been comfortable in our lives,” says Qasim. “This peace won’t last.”

Back on the highway, the knocking in my engine seems to be amplified by the darkness, and the bike stalls out on a steep, potholed descent. My rear wheel slides, and I almost crash before skidding to a stop. Balazs is somewhere up ahead in the car, so I wait for Carmen. A half hour passes before I walk back down the road and find him talking with a Peshmerga officer at a checkpoint. Turns out his front tire went flat and I’d left him behind. “Nearly lost it,” he says. “What happened to you?” He bursts into lunatic laughter when I tell him I’ve stalled.

The motorcycle trip is becoming a fiasco. Waiting for a flatbed trailer to haul our broken bikes back to Erbil, Carmen decides to fold and go home to Croatia early. He has just published a war memoir about getting shot in the face with a rocket-propelled grenade in Afghanistan, and he needs to prepare for a book tour in the U.S. Balazs and I will head deeper into the backcountry in pursuit of wild mountains and rivers. But first we need to find our guide.

“Man, we're gonna do some crazy shit together,” Nabil Musa told me the first time we connected on the phone. Nabil was recommended by an American friend who used to live in Kurdistan, with the caveat that he’s an environmentalist, not a backcountry guide. I took his gonzo talk as just that: talk.

As Iraq’s lone representative for Waterkeeper Alliance, a global advocacy group based in New York City, Nabil is tasked with protecting waterways that flow through Kurdistan. This involves a mix of protest stunts and derring-do: multi-day swims across freshwater lakes that are being poisoned by industrial pollution, kayak trips to highlight the threat of multiplying Turkish dams, and so forth. More recently, an antidumping campaign had him doing headstands by the oil pools outside Sulaymaniyah, his birthplace and Kurdistan’s second-largest city. Balazs and I detour to meet him there.

Nabil is 41 but appears a decade older, with the road-worn look of a chain-smoker who’s spent his life on the move. Wearing sandals, shorts, and a tank top that reveals a strong build, he cooks us dinner at his apartment and riffs rapid-fire about his plans to raft and trek in the mountains around Choman, a gateway town near the Iran-Iraq border. He’s been stuck in Sulaymaniyah for more than a month, and his restlessness verges on manic. “I just need to get out,” he says in a faint British accent picked up abroad. “I go mad if I don’t get outside enough.”

In the morning, we load his pickup from a garage full of kayaking and rafting gear, and soon we’re back on the road, climbing past sawtooth ridges and burned limestone canyons, with “Guantanamera” blasting out of his speakers. In a cloud of smoke, Nabil recalls how, back in the mid-1990s, during the civil war, the two main Kurdish political factions—the Kurdistan Democratic Party (KDP), led by Masoud Barzani, and Jalal Talabani’s Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK)—exchanged mortar and artillery fire on the strategic heights above us. Thousands died in the fighting, and Kurdish hopes for self-determination nearly perished with them.

Like most Kurds of his generation, Nabil has seen violence. As a teenager during the 1991 uprising against Saddam, he witnessed the death of his two best friends during a battle for the Iraqi Intelligence Service’s Sulaymaniyah headquarters, a former torture chamber that’s now a bullet-pocked museum. In 1996, during the civil war, he fled overland to Turkey, then to Europe. He spent several years busking on the streets and joined a traveling theater group in the UK before returning home permanently in 2011 to take the Waterkeeper job.

In the time Nabil had been away, a population boom and rapid development had taken a toll. Trash and toxic runoff choked the river he grew up fishing. Nabil had dreamed of this river while in exile, and he was angry that no one seemed to care. “Everyone here is obsessed with security and making money,” he says. “The environment didn’t have many defenders.” A friend told him about the Waterkeeper gig, and he decided to become “a voice for the rivers.” He has tattoos of the organization’s logo, a sturgeon mosaic, on his calf and shoulder.

About 20 miles past the resort town of Rawanduz, Nabil pulls over near a bridge spanning the Azadi River, one of Kurdistan’s fastest. Or so he says, and I’m taking his word for it. My online searches yield no details on the waterway, and there are no legitimate outfitters in the area for us to consult. Nabil figures that the stretch of rapids we’re sizing up are Class IV-plus, though he admits he can’t be sure. To his knowledge, no one has ever run them. He wants to be the first.

A stocky fire-brigade rescue swimmer named Khalil Mahmoud walks over and asks what we’re up to. When we tell him, he says, “You are not right in the head. It’s full of trash, and there are hidden currents—this is a death river.” Every year, 15 to 20 people drown, he says, adding, “Four days ago I pulled out another man.” A government placard behind him states the obvious: SWIMMING HERE IS DANGEROUS.

Nabil starts pacing back and forth, taking long pulls on his cigarette. “Fuck it,” he finally says. “Let’s do this.”

I like Nabil's can-do attitude, but our combined experience running hardcore rapids is limited. On the drive up, he told us about the last time he paddled a portion of the Azadi, in 2014, as part of an anti-dam campaign. One of the men in his group had his hand cut open by underwater debris. My whitewater experience includes a few Class IV rafting trips in the Himalayas, all with internationally recognized outfitters.

“You’re free to do whatever you want—I just have to warn you,” Khalil says. But he’s also a little excited by the turn of events and offers to stand at the water’s edge to save us if we flip. He points to the opposite bank, where a nasty concrete shelf juts out beyond the crux of the whitewater, bristling with shafts of rebar. “If you make it through, you must avoid that!” he says.

Balazs hangs back with Khalil to photograph our passage through the crux. Nabil and I drive a few miles upriver, inflate a big raft, and don helmets and vests. “Just follow my lead,” he says, “and when I say paddle, give it everything you got.” We push off, me in the front, him driving at the rear, easy drifting. The cliff to our left soars more than 300 feet and, at intervals, hangs over the river like a roof, lined with tumbledown vines that glisten from the last rainfall. On a day like today, it’s hard to believe that there’s no one else out here.

Suddenly, Nabil shouts “Hard right!” We’re too late. An eddy catches the edge of the boat and we whipsaw around, bouncing backward off the rocks. I turn to look at Nabil, alarmed.

“OK, that was my bad,” he says. “I fucked that one up.”

We shake it off and keep drifting. The next rapids are slippery smooth. Rounding a wide bend, the flow starts to surge, the roar of the water becomes more deafening. I thought I had a good read on the rapid from above, but at this level, the line through the boulders is invisible.“Which way?” I shout back. “Which way? Nabil?”

The current has a grip on us, and all I hear is “±Ę˛ą»ĺ»ĺ±ô±đ!” In an instant, we smash straight into a rock and spin sideways into an adjoining chute of whitewater that almost throws me from the raft.

As we slide deeper into the churn, I see Khalil, poised in a wrestler’s crouch, ready to jump in to save us. Balazs is right behind him, tracking us with his lens. At that moment we’re swept left and shot into the bank of broken concrete. The side of the raft shrieks against the metal spikes. Somehow it doesn’t burst. We spend the last leg of the trip gliding in silence, soaked and shaken.

“If this raft were Chinese, we’d be dead,” Nabil says as we step onto the riverbank. My jaws are clenched.

With no footpath to speak of, Khalil and another man help us scrape the raft up the canyon face. Down the road, a flatbed truck is backing up to the river’s edge to dump a load of rubble. “Look at this bastard,” says Nabil. He jogs over and turns on his camera to shame the driver. The driver stares back at him, confused. Tons of rocks go crashing down the bank, adding new complications to the rapid we just passed through.

Night is fallingĚýwhen we pull into Choman. Erbil, around 100 miles west of here, seems a world away. The main street is empty and quiet, except for the patter of yellow and green political banners that flap in a crisp breeze. Up ahead, Mount Halgurd—at 11,831 feet, the highest peak situated entirely inside Iraq—is socked in by clouds.

During the drive, I asked Nabil if it would be possible for us to climb Halgurd. Ever the optimist, he said we’d have to speak to his friend Bakhtyar Bahjat, acting director of Halgurd-Sakran, the first national park in Iraqi Kurdistan. I’d been told that the roughly 460-square-mile park—set high in the border triangle of Iraq, Iran, and Turkey—contains unclimbed peaks and dense forests prowled by bears, wolves, and Persian leopards. It’s also home to armed guerrillas whose presence both protects an extraordinary natural bounty and keeps part of the park off-limits.

The next morning, Bakhtyar meets us at the visitor center. He’s a hale man with a buzz cut and the earnest gusto of a schoolteacher (his day job). His crisp suit and upbeat attitude are at odds with the dereliction around us. The park’s carved entrance sign has been pulled from the ground and leans sideways against a wall. The courtyard fountain is dry, and the faux-log-cabin-style offices—crammed with topographical maps, pastoral nature paintings, and creepy taxidermy—are covered by a sheet of dust, remnants of a grand dream now forsaken. “Unfortunately, we are facing some challenges at the moment,” Bakhtyar says.

Background information on the park is scarce, but some articles about it say that the vision for a national park came to Choman’s former mayor Abdulwahid Gwani after a 2010 trip to Austria. Gwani mobilized a team of international experts to draw up boundaries and a multiyear growth plan to transform one of the most land-mine-

ridden areas in the world into a nature reserve. Backed by a million-dollar grant from the Kurdish government, he expanded the park to include Mount Halgurd and other peaks, brought in teams of designers, and hired dozens of rangers, mostly Peshmerga veterans, to crack down on illicit hunting and tree felling. With time, Bakhtyar says, many locals began to “see tourism as a future.”

And then came the Islamic State.

In June 2014, the jihadists stormed across the Nineveh Plains and eventually made it to within 20 miles of Erbil. Every one of the park’s rangers dashed to the front lines. Islamic State bombs and booby traps stymied their counteroffensive, and demining teams working around the park were called in to help. Globally, oil prices crashed, slashing the salaries of park employees. Bakhtyar went back to working full-time as a teacher. His codirector left for a job in Erbil. Poaching resumed, and locals hacked trees to replace winter fuel they could no longer afford. Worse, in mid-2015, a three-decade-old conflict reignited between Turkey and the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), leftist militants whose territory overlaps with the park, bringing regular air strikes and artillery barrages that reportedly have killed civilians. A final blow came last year when Gwani died.

“Right now, Halgurd-Sakran is just a name on paper,” says Bakhtyar.

With park visits down about 80 percent in 2018 compared with the year before, Bakhtyar is in an accommodating mood. No matter that we want to climb Iraq’s tallest mountain on a day’s notice and don’t have any gear. We stop by the local mountaineering club and enter a dank basement, where Bakhtyar starts digging through milk crates. In short order, I’m equipped with a yard sale’s worth of secondhand climbing gear from Eastern Europe: a neon snowsuit, trekking poles, gloves, and bent crampons. Balazs, who stands a brooding six foot five, is issued black pleather gaiters that rise to his knees and might have seen previous action in an S&M club.

Up on the mountain the next day, a drift of leaden clouds obscure the summit, dimming our chances of reaching it. But I’m more concerned about what’s underfoot. Mount Halgurd’s flanks are littered with land mines and unexploded munitions from conflicts that date back four decades. Kurdish fighters based in these mountains have alternately faced off against Iranian attackers, Iraqi jets armed with Saddam Hussein’s chemical weapons, Turkish commandos, and each other during civil war.

Scanning the wind-raked slope we’re crossing, I see bits of shrapnel, mortar shells blasted into rusty flower shapes, Soviet anti­personnel mines, and the melted husks of American-made “toe poppers.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been up here too many times,” Bakhtyar says, reading our minds. He assures us that the route we’re on has been cleared by experts, though we don’t see any sign of a trail and demining efforts around here seem to be scattershot at best.

Earlier that morning, on the drive up the Iraqi-army-built supply road, we passed a government warning sign about land mines that had been bulldozed by locals. Bakhtyar explained that land appropriation is on the rise, but there’s nothing he can do since the park has no rangers left to enforce the rules. Farther along, red metal posts topped with white skull-and-bones symbols line the road. These indicate mines still to be removed. But it appears that rockslides have shifted the positions of some of the posts.

Less than 30 minutes into our trek, we see other posts higher up the slope, which we’re traversing single file. Several feet to my right, I spot a beige plastic disc in the gravel.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Bakhtyar is in front listening to music on his phone. He turns and squints at the mine, a bit confused.

“Hmm… Someone must have thrown it,” he says.

“So this is not a minefield, but there are mines everywhere,” Balazs deadpans.

Bakhtyar is already walking again, lost in thought or pretending not to hear us. Nabil looks unsure.

Balazs and I exchange a glance. Both of us spent many years covering the war in Afghanistan, often hitched to U.S. combat units in the badlands of Helmand province, a Taliban hellscape. Firefights in 100-degree heat were bad, but nothing was worse than the improvised explosive devices that routinely took lives and limbs. After starting a family, Balazs had sworn off war zones. I’d done the same, but it took a couple of years before I could stroll through a park without reflexively appraising the ground.

Now I’m trying to walk in Bakhtyar’s footsteps, to minimize contact with uncertain terrain. My legs feel sluggish, the trekking poles an added liability.

I tell myself that I’m being melodramatic. But a familiar low-grade dread is setting in. As we pick our way through the final stretch of rocky dirt, heading for the snow line, Kurdistan is starting to feel a lot like Iraq.

It's well past noon when we reach the shoulder; clouds sheath the entire peak, which is under a fresh layer of snow. We pull out our crampons and lace up. Bakhtyar reckons that it will take at least another four hours to reach the summit, maybe more. Given our late start, we were kidding ourselves that we could reach the top and get down in a day.

I hand out energy bars, and Nabil shares a story about the last time he tried to climb Halgurd. A macho American guy in his group insisted that he knew a better route up the south side. Soon the climbers found themselves wandering lost through waist-deep snow, with mine posts sticking up now and then. After telling us this, Nabil says his foot hurts, so he’s going to head back to the truck, taking a roundabout route to avoid encounters with unexploded ordnance. “You guys enjoy,” he says.

Balazs and I follow Bakhtyar up a steep bowl toward the base of the rock face. The going is slow. For the next hour we crunch and stumble, the warped crampons sliding off my feet. We eventually stop at the edge of a couloir scattered with ice fragments. The passage is technical; thick snowfall dims visibility. Go any farther and we’re pushing our luck for no good reason. It’s time to turn back.

“We have a saying,” says Bakhtyar, trying to lighten the mood. “Touching the top is not like touching the stone of Kaaba,” a reference to a sacred shrine in Mecca. I catch my breath. Balazs tightens his gaiters while Bakhtyar takes selfies. Then we turn and start down.

The going is smooth until the ice runs out and we’re on rock and scree. Bakhtyar decides we’ll follow a different route down, one that leads us through an alley of loose, rain-slicked rock. Clumsy steps send a jackrabbit scrambling up the opposite side of the ravine, giving me a jolt. To keep my mind occupied, I take a cue from Bakhtyar and look for wild mushrooms, which are plentiful this time of year.

And then I spot another mine. I warn Balazs to give it a wide berth. We shuffle down the scree with active feet, nervous and hyperalert, studying the ground obsessively. Bakhtyar is way ahead of us, singing along to folk songs about PKK martyrs. He has supreme confidence in his memory—or a cool fatalism I don’t share.

Nabil is sucking on a cigarette when we reach the truck. Butts dot the ground. Apparently he strayed from the “safe route” he intended to follow, an error he realized only when he looked up and saw skull-and-bones markers staring back at him. “Man, I nearly shit myself,” he says. He swipes his phone to show us the highlights, including an unexploded 82-millimeter mortar round.

The sun dips behind us on our drive back to Choman, casting shadows on Mount Sakran, across the valley. Beyond it lies the Iranian frontier, where in 2009 three young American hikers were arrested by border guards and imprisoned—one for 14 months, the others for more than two years. This foreboding stretch of land is seeded with land mines and the bones of countless Iranian troops who parachuted into paradise during the war. To this day, snipers stationed at the high army posts take potshots at Kurdish shepherds who wander too close. At night their floodlights glare down like menacing eyes.

Near the bottom of the mountain, we pass a scruffy Western backpacker on foot. Nabil throws the truck in reverse and we greet him. He says his name is Kaspars, that he’s from Latvia, and that he plans to climb Halgurd at dawn. “Some locals are going to meet me at the top,” he says. “They told me it’s easy. Just follow the path.”

“Who told you that?” Bakhtyar says, scowling.

The kid can’t remember their names but assures us: “They are nice guys.”

“You know, there are mine fields up there,” I say. “No joke—we just walked out of one.” Everyone chimes in, and the Latvian seems to reconsider. We wish him luck. For the rest of the drive, Bakhtyar grumbles about who Kaspars might have talked to, the dangerous ignorance of some people in Choman, and the general lack of order since the park project fell apart.

By definition, war is the enemy of development and tourism. Sometimes, though, it’s nature’s friend. According to Bakhtyar, the only part of Halgurd-Sakran National Park where poachers and tree cutters don’t operate with impunity is the roughly 20 percent under the control of the PKK, which is considered a terrorist organization by the U.S. government. “They are hardcore fighters, but they also care a lot about nature,” he says. “It’s at the heart of their philosophy.”

I want to meet these conservationist rebels. Their stronghold is just a short drive from Choman, one valley over, in the Qan­dil Mountains. Trouble is, since fighting resumed with Turkey three years ago, air strikes and shelling attacks there have escalated. And with the presidential elections coming up in Turkey, the military has been ratcheting up bombardments to please its Islamist nationalist base.

My first e-mail query to the PKK came back negative. Near the end of our stay in Choman, I follow up. We don’t need a formal reception, I write—we just want to make a quick stop at a martyrs’ museum and cemetery that Nabil visited several years earlier, to take pictures and learn more about how the PKK is protecting its homeland from pollution, poaching, and overdevelopment. This time the guerrillas’ contact, nom de guerre Zagros, agrees.

“You can visit the Museum,” he writes. “You can also visit the site of the Zargali massacre. As I told you, the guerrillas cannot accompany you. Better not to stay in the area for too long. Because both of the sites have been bombarded before.”

Twenty minutes south of Choman, we reach the turn to the Qandil Mountains. The sign at the junction gives no indication of where we are, as though the valley road does not exist. Nabil gets out at the KDP checkpoint to register our names with local authorities, who tell us we’re on our own. We wrap around a ridge and a lush green vista unfurls in front of us. A couple of miles on, two PKK guerrillas emerge from the trees in traditional Kurdish shawls, Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, their vests sagging with the weight of hand grenades. They wave us on.

We’re waiting by a destroyed hillside portrait of Abdullah Ocalan, the group’s founder, when Zagros pulls up and extends a hand. “You are most welcome in Qandil,” he says. I thank him and ask about the drones from Turkey. “They are not here at the moment, but when they see guerrilla clothes, armed men, they call in jets, which arrive in less than 15 minutes. The past few months have been especially bad—they hit this road three days ago.” Zagros suggests we head toward the museum. “Also bombed,” he adds with an apologetic smile.

I’m eager to move. Balazs and I join Zag­ros in his truck, and it dawns on me that we’re going to be driving 30 miles on a road that is regularly targeted by air strikes. With Nabil trailing us, we’re in what amounts to a convoy. In his blunt, Hungarian manner, Balazs voices what I’m thinking: “There are no other cars on the road.” Farther along, the charred wreckage of a family vehicle destroyed by a Turkish strike offers a visual we would rather not see.

Zagros drives with the beatific expression of a man who has surrendered to his fate. Handsome, with a strong, dimpled chin and a brushy black mustache, he says he used to be a high school teacher in western Iran, living a comfortable middle-class life. But he was haunted by the persecution of his people. When Ocalan was captured during a joint U.S.-Turkish operation in Kenya in 1999 and placed in solitary confinement in Turkey, Zagros came to view him as something like a Kurdish Nelson Mandela.

“Through him, I felt the isolation of the Kurds, that the Kurds have no friends in the world,” he says. He left Iran for the mountains, later joined by five students—two of whom have since been killed. “My concern is not for myself but for my people,” Zagros says. “PKK is not only a party, it’s a new way of life, a new world vision.”

He ticks off the movement’s basic goals: the right to self-determination, the liberation of women, and the protection of the environment. He says that respect for the land and ethnic diversity were destroyed by modern nation-states like Turkey, the militants’ archnemesis, which has tried to erase the identity of its 15 million Kurds, in part by repressing the Kurdish language. “If real democracy is achieved in these countries, the Kurdish question will be resolved,” he says. “Until then we will fight, as long as it takes.”

Women make up more than 45 percent of the PKK’s ranks, from foot soldiers to commanders. Cruising along, we pass giant billboards that show photographs of female guerrillas who were killed in battle against the Islamic State, draped in ammo belts and thick hair braids. Some are buried in the martyrs’ cemetery, where the rows of gravestones are lined with roses and grouped according to the battles they were in: Sinjar, Al Hasakah, Kobani. The museum that stood here at the time of Nabil’s last visit is now just a hole in the ground. An unexploded bomb rests in the adjacent crater.

Near the end of the valley, Zagros stops at a Kurdish nomad camp. We spread out on a tattered kilim in the shade of a tree, and a woman with facial tattoos brings us a pot of hot tea and sugar cubes. Her sons are out grazing their flocks on meadows that run up the valley’s ridges. Moving with the seasons, living off the land, they are the embodiment of an ideal Zagros is ready to die for. For now the air trills with birdsong, rent by the barks of fighting mastiffs. The mountains brim with life.

They also take it.

The explosion echoes across the valley late in the afternoon, when demining teams around Choman are no longer working. Bakhtyar, Nabil, Balazs, and I are on a ridge outside of town, photographing the mountains, and it’s close enough to startle us. Bakhtyar texts around and learns that a local man named Haidar Shwan accidentally set off a mine near the Grmandil Mountains, one of the bloodiest battlefields of the Iran-Iraq War. He was blown to pieces.

Under a full moon, we drive up to a cemetery overlooking town. A single streetlamp lights a backhoe digging Haidar’s grave, a reminder that nighttime burials are not uncommon. I meet the victim’s brother, who shows me a picture of Haidar: soldier, father of four, and the sixth member of his family killed by a land mine. He suspects Haidar was taking the mine apart for the gunpowder, which sells for $45 a pound on the black market. “It was one of his hobbies,” the brother says.

Packs of men file in from the darkness and gather around the grave, murmuring, until the crowd numbers more than 400. A few shed tears, but most remain stoic, partaking in a ritual of shared grief that has affected families in Choman as far back as they can remember. They’ve all been here before, and they will be here again.

The casket is lowered and spades are handed out. Young men take turns furiously shoveling dirt into the hole, as though Haidar’s safe passage to heaven depended on their speed. Five hours after he was killed, he’s underground. The imam offers a prayer, and everyone goes home.

Our last day in the mountains is May Day, and for Kurds that means picnics. Nabil, Balazs, and I take the valley road out of Choman toward the Iranian border, until the pavement ends. We park by a stream too fast to ford, and a group of friends from Erbil wave us over to their fire for chicken skewers and fermented goat’s milk. We eat our fill and talk about why the U.S., staunch ally of the Kurds since the Saddam era, didn’t back last year’s ill-fated independence bid, considering all the social and economic progress and stability that Iraqi Kurdistan has achieved compared with the rest of Iraq. I don’t have a good answer.

As we get up to leave, one man warns half-jokingly: “Don’t walk too close to Iran.” We hike across a moraine and crest a small ridge to find a potbellied man in pantaloons bent over, staring at the ground, an AK-47 strapped to his back. Kayvan Ezzat, a 37-year-old policeman, is mushroom hunting and invites us to tag along. “I’m fat, but I can climb the mountains all day,” he says with a toothy grin. “Walking out here will make all your troubles go away.” Though with wild animals around and hostile Iranian soldiers within firing range, he always brings the gun. “It’s like having 50 men with you,” he explains.

I ask how he knows where to step. “I know because I’ve been walking in these hills since I was a boy,” he says. “Here is OK, but there and there,” he adds, tracing lines with his hand that I can’t begin to see, “are not OK.”

The mind starts to play its games. My time in Kurdistan has shown me that even confident, in-the-know locals have their blind spots, and missteps can be fatal. I’ve also come to understand that the Kurds’ nature-loving ways are inseparable from the threats that seed and surround their homeland. Living at danger’s edge has a way of magnifying the essential. And in the moment, these haunted mountains sharpen my senses, quicken my pulse, and whisper vast possibilities to be explored. The old expression “Kurds have no friends but the mountains” has a new layer of meaning.

I take in the breeze and exhale. I’ll just follow the policeman’s tracks. And try to think of mushrooms.

Jason Motlagh () wrote about the Afghan sport of buzkashi in November 2017.

The post My Crazy Kurdistan Road Trip appeared first on şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř Online.

If the current news cycle makes you want to run screaming into the woods for Thanksgiving, we understand. The upshot? If you know what you’re doing, you can cook a turkey over a campfire.

Especially if you follow Steven Rinella’s advice. An expert outdoorsman and hunter, Rinella is also a damn good cook. He’s the author of six game and wildlife cookbooks. His newest, , comes out November 20.

But first, a caveat: Rinella doesn’t actually eat turkey on Turkey Day. “The first Thanksgiving was described as an impromptu affair,” says Rinella, who is based in Bozeman, Montana. “They would have eaten whatever they had on hand.” The time to hunt wild turkeys—the only kind of turkey Rinella eats—is in the spring. Freezing a bird for six months seems silly, especially when there’s so much else to be harvested in the fall. Take, for example, venison, “which was surely on the original Thanksgiving menus,” Rinella says.

“But I’ve cooked a boatload of turkeys,” he assures us, adding that his new book has a flock of great wild turkey recipes. And you can use the recipes below on domesticated birds—just increase the cooking time, since farmed turkeys are almost always larger than wild.

Before diving in, consider this advice from Rinella. Lose any notion of cooking the bird à la Rockwell—that is, intact. “I would compare that to flying a helicopter,” he says, explaining that you’d work so hard to keep the turkey cooking evenly on all sides that it would stress you out. “Lower your expectations.”

Here is Rinella’s step-by-step guide.

1) Brine, Baby, Brine

“Some people say brining doesn’t make a difference, but screw those guys,” Rinella says. Soaking your turkey for at least a few hours in a salt, water, and sugar bath makes “the impossible possible.” Meaning? It adds a ton of flavor and helps keep the bird from drying out as it cooks. (See Rinella’s turkey brine recipe below.)

2) Choose Your şÚÁĎłÔąĎÍř

There are two ways to cook a bird over a fire. The first is to spatchcock it. To the uninitiated, spatchcocking means butchering a bird so it lays flat. Basically, you cut down the backbone with kitchen shears, then either break or remove the breastbone. “Spatchcocking takes a 3D thing and turns it into 2D,” which makes it much easier to cook evenly, Rinella says. If you want to serve your Thanksgiving meal as One Big Bird, choose this route. The other option is to cut your bird into pieces. Rinella likes to butcher a raw turkey into two breasts, two bone-in thighs and drumsticks, and two wings. The benefit here is that you can cook each piece for exactly as long as needed.

3) Build Your Fire

You’ll need a good, mature burn with plenty of hot embers. The cooking doesn’t happen over the flame part of the fire, Rinella says. “If your fire is like a house, you’re going to cook over where the garage would be,” he says. So pull a few embers slightly aside but still adjacent to the fire. This is what you’ll cook over, and you can replenish the embers as needed.

4) Put Your Grate Over the Hot Embers

If you’re going with the small-pieces method, the grill should be about three inches over the embers. If you’re spatchcocking, put the grate about five inches above the embers. “When the embers are too hot to hold your hand over them for a count of three, you’re ready to go,” Rinella says.

5) Begin Cooking

If your turkey has been brining (it has, right?), pull it out of the brine and pat it dry before putting it over the fire (see next instructions).

For a Spatchcocked Bird

Place it over the grate, skin side down. (Don’t remove the skin before cooking for either of these methods. Skin keeps the bird moist, and it’s delicious.) After about four minutes, give the turkey a light baste with clarified butter, then turn it over. You’ll keep basting and turning every four minutes or so as it cooks. Your turkey will not cook evenly, no matter what you do. “So you’re going to eat in stages,” Rinella says. You know how in old cowboy movies they cut off a bit of meat at a time and eat it as the giant hunk-o-meat keeps cooking? That’s precisely what you’ll do with this method, basting and turning as you eat. If you have plenty of wine on hand, snacking on the bird bits at a time feels festive and communal, and you won’t regret not having a finished, sit-down meal. Depending on the size of your bird, it may be 40 minutes or an hour before you can start digging in. (It's done when a meat thermometer reaches 160 degrees and the juices run clear.)

For a Precarved Bird

Once your grate is piping hot, place your turkey over the grate, skin side down. Baste the bird with clarified butter, but you need to be more careful in this setup, because the meat is closer to the embers. “Over-basting will result in flare-ups,” says Rinella, adding that you’ll get this gross ashy/burned flavor from the singed butter. Get the skin nice and crispy, then flip. FYI, the pieces may cook at different rates. The boneless breasts will likely be done before the legs, with the wings falling somewhere in the middle.

Serve your bird with Rinella’s brandied cherries, a nice change from traditional cranberry sauce. “Cooking brandied cherries as a side is easy, fun, delicious, and allows you to stay focused on the real job, which is cooking the turkey,” he says. The cherries cook in just a few minutes.

Steve’s Brandied Cherries Recipe

• 3/4 cups water
• 3/4 cups granulated sugar
• 2 juniper berries, lightly crushed (optional)
• 1 cinnamon stick
• Pinch of kosher salt
• 1 cup brandy
• 1 pound cherries, stemmed and pitted

In a medium saucepan, combine the water, sugar, juniper berries (if using), cinnamon, and salt. Over medium-high heat, bring to a simmer, stirring until the sugar dissolves, about five minutes. Add the brandy and cherries; stir to combine. Remove from heat and set aside to cool.

Steve’s Brine Recipe

• 1 gallon water
• 1 cup kosher salt
• 1 cup packed brown sugar
• 10 black peppercorns
• 3 bay leaves

Bring all the ingredients to a boil to dissolve everything, then chill before adding the turkey. Let the meat brine for 12 to 24 hours. Double the recipe for a bigger bird.

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