Over the centuries, people have pressed all sorts of creatures, from cows to frogs to crickets, into the service of meteorological forecasting. Some instances of animal-aided forecasting are truly bizarre: In the 1800s, two British meteorologists created a complex instrument called a Tempest Prognosticator, which relied on .

Thankfully, much of that folklore and leech-keeping has given way to modern forecasting algorithms, radar, and satellite imagery over time—but not everyone is willing to leave the old methods behind. Here are a few of the strangest ways in which people still forecast long-term weather—ranked from least to most weird.

10. The Tanana River

The tiny town of Nenana, Alaska, is home to one of the longest-running gambling events in the United States. The game? Watching ice melt. Every year since 1903, locals have placed a wooden tripod in the center of the frozen Tanana River. A cable affixed to the tripod runs across the surface to a clock on the bank. When the river ice breaks up enough for the tripod to fall in, the cable yanks on the clock, stopping it. People from around the world place bets on when this will occur, and the jackpot often surpasses $300,000. The time of breakup is considered the end of winter and the beginning of spring, and avid bettors use all kinds of homespun algorithms to predict the time of breakup, incorporating such data as annual snowfall, temperature patterns, and even train schedules.

Our take: This is the least-weird method, since melting ice definitely means warm weather. Hard to argue with that.

9. Sunspots

The Old Farmer’s Almanac has been one of America’s most trusted sources of long-term forecasting for decades. Since the 1700s, it has predicted the weather by . As the theory goes, more sunspots are correlated with more solar activity and stronger magnetic storms, which could in turn affect the temperatures here on earth. For a long time, this seemed pretty out there. But more recently, research has started to back it up. As it turns out, , albeit mostly in northern Europe and in parts of the northern U.S. In years where solar activity is calmer, pockets of cold air form high in the atmosphere, which results in colder winters and stronger easterly winds over northern Europe and the northern U.S.. When solar activity is high, those areas see milder winters.

Our take: It’s unique, but there’s some scientific backing. Not that weird.

8. Foggy Days in August

Appalachian Folklore suggests the more foggy mornings you see in August, the more days of snow you’ll have over the winter. The traditional way to keep track is to put . End your August with ten beans, and you’re likely to see an identical numbre of days of deep snow over the winter. Unfortunately, there’s suggesting any truth to this. Though, it’s nice to have an excuse to keep your beans organized.

Our take: There’s no science behind it, but at least it doesn’t involve a captive live animal. Only a little weird.

7. Live Groundhogs

Puxatawny Phil is only one of dozens of groundhogs around the world that are kept under close watch in early February. If the groundhog sees its shadow, six more weeks of winter are said to follow. Of course, all the groundhogs have different predictions, and their rates of accuracy are . The idea of Groundhog Day came from a German custom, which had to do with a badger seeing his shadow. We think that swapping in the ferocious and unpredictable carnivore would liven up what’s become a somewhat sedate tradition.

Our take: We love to hate on beloved family pastimes. As popular as this method is, it’s still pretty weird.

6. Dead Groundhogs

In researching this story, we discovered that not only are there dozens of live forecasting groundhogs, but .ÌęExample A: a stuffed groundhog in Pennsylvania named Uni. Every year, Uni is lashed to a tiny raft and floated down Tulpehocken Creek for a while before he’s fished out. An official interpreter leans down to listen to Uni’s supposed prediction, and delivers the prediction in Pennsylvania Dutch. A second interpreter stands by to translate this prediction into modern English.

Our take: Uh huh. Weird.

5. Persimmon Seeds

Another gem from the American South: If you cut open a persimmon seed in the fall and find a spoon shape inside, expect snow. If you see a knife shape, the winter will be bitter cold. And if you see a fork shape, . While the seeds do contain shapes that resemble these three utensils, there’s no scientific basis for their correlation to weather conditions. But the fruit is still delicious, so we can’t not recommend trying.

Our take: It’s cute, but what do fruits know about weather? We’ve never met a persimmon that passed a third-grade science class. For sure weird.

4. A Desert Tortoise

No weather-telling groundhogs live in Palm Springs, California. There is, however, a highly respected tortoise. Every year, Mojave Maxine emerges from her burrow sometime in February, and her sighting heralds warmer weather to come. Like the Nenana Ice Classic, this one , though the gamblers are mainly children, and there’s no money involved.

Our take: She’s cute, but, like the persimmon, not likely to possess knowledge of basic math. Plus, she’s been asleep all winter. What could she possibly know? Real weird.

3. Wooly Worm Caterpillars

In the town of Banner Elk, North Carolina, thousands of people gather every year to . The strongest, fastest caterpillar is used to predict the weather. As the legend goes, each segment of the caterpillar corresponds to a different week of winter. The color of that segment tells you what the weather will be for that week. Every year, the festival’s official worm reader (which has, for years, been ex-NBA basketball player Tommy Burleson) hands down the forecast. He claims his predictions are up to 90-percent accurate.

Our take: We admire the organizers’ ability to get thousands of people excited about keeping worms as pets. But still pretty dang weird.

2. Pig Spleens

For decades, a family in Saskatchewan, Canada, has butchered a pig every six months and . The organ is split into six different segments, and sections of thickened tissue are said to correlate to spells of colder weather. Some years, Jeff Woodward, the current “pig spleen prognosticator,” analyzes several spleens and . He’s not the only such prognosticator in Canada, but he has among the largest followings.

Our take: The amount of training this requires is admirable. But the amount of dead animal handling is significantly more than that of the stuffed groundhog phenomenon. And again, there’s no scientific basis. We’re calling this one pretty out-there.

1. A 93-Year-Old AlligatorÌę

In Texas there lives a named Al. Every spring, handlers offer Al a large piece of chicken. If Al swallows the chicken, spring has arrived. If Al refuses the chicken or spits it out, six more weeks of winter are to follow. Al has now clocked about 18 years of service in his current role, but there’s no evidence that he has any idea what he’s doing.

Our take: No big decisions should be based upon a geriatric gator’s indigestion. Most weird.

The post 8 Weird Things We’re Still Using to Predict the Weather—Including Some That Actually Work appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

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

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

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

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

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Camping in 120 degree heat can be deadly. But can it also be beautiful? What started as a lark—a road trip in search of very, very hot weather—became an exercise in humility for writer Leath Tonino and his buddy Sean when they spent a night out in the desert. Their mission was to find the hottest patch of sand they could drive to, camp out, and survive. But as the mercury climbed and the sun obliterated their minds, their Mad Max adventure started to look more and more like a window into something amazing—and terrifying.

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The Storm Hits Ìę

I wake up at dawn on Friday, September 27, because the wind is howling around my house and trees are snapping at their trunks and being pulled out of the ground by their roots. From the window I watch the treetops sway and listen for the crack of wood. I hope I can echo-locate the snap so I know where the giant timber is going to fall. At every sound, I worry something will land on my house.

Two large white oaks, one of which is at least a hundred years old (I count the rings later) are pushed over by a massive gust and careen towards my neighbor’s house, where three little girls under the age of 10 live. As one barely misses the walls and crushes a trampoline outside, I slump in relief.

Rain is coming down in a steady stream. The power goes off a few minutes after I wake up. Water is the next to vanish, an hour later. Cell service disappears in the early afternoon. Asheville has wind gusts of 46 miles per hour.

Nobody expected a storm like this in western North Carolina. Hurricanes usually hit the state’s coastal regions, not the mountains. We knew there would be rain and flooding, but nothing at all as catastrophic as what came. My wife and I lived through Asheville’s last hurricane flood, in 2004, when the French Broad River surged into low-lying parts of town. Meteorologists called that event a one-in-100-year flood. They’re saying this storm is a one-in-1,000 year event. I don’t know a single person who evacuated, nor did I ever hear any calls from officials to do so.

When the worst of the storm abates, around noon, I walk into the street and gather with neighbors to make sure everyone is O.K. Kids are crying. People have huddled in their basements. A neighbor who’s a doctor walks up saying a woman at the bottom of our hill has a gash in her neck that won’t stop bleeding because the roof of her house fell on her in bed. Trees are down all over and there’s no clear path to get the woman to a hospital, so I run around looking for a way that a vehicle could get through the carnage. So many power lines are down, so many cars are smashed, so many trees are leaning on homes, and stunned people are standing in their yards. My neighborhood of 19 years feels foreign.

I find the safest way to walk the woman with the neck wound to a point where I think a car could meet us, and I reach a friend who’s headed into my neighborhood with a chainsaw, already out trying to cut through the madness, and have just enough service to tell him where to go before my phone dies. I walk the woman up a hill, with the doctor who’s telling her not to remove the bandage from her neck because you don’t mess with neck wounds, and the woman is crying. She’s afraid of the wind and the trees—after the roof of her house just fell on her.

My friend with the truck and the chainsaw is there, exactly where I told him to meet us, and the woman enters the vehicle and they head towards the hospital. I don’t hear how she is for another three days because there’s no cell service, and nobody hears from anyone unless in a face-to-face conversation.

I go back to my own house to assess the damage and hug my wife and children.

By the end of the day, a crew of men in a truck I’ve never seen before have chainsawed their way through half of the downed trees in the neighborhood. These aren’t city crews or electric-company employees. These are dudes in trucks doing what they can to help.

This is just day one.

The Aftermath of the Storm

Hurricane Helene hit western North Carolina, turning the city of Asheville, the South’s greatest outdoor-adventure town where I have lived for 20 years, and the surrounding mountain communities into a federal disaster zone. The French Broad River crested at more than 24 feet, wiping out the entire River Arts District, a collection of restaurants, breweries, hotels, and art studios a mile west of downtown. Biltmore Village, a hub of higher-end hotels and restaurants and shops, is similarly trashed, whole buildings gutted by the force of the river. Entire neighborhoods have been washed away, with houses and trailers floating downstream and piles of broken lumber everywhere.

I’m incredibly fortunate. Our basement flooded, but no trees hit our house. Nobody in my family was hurt. We live in higher terrain and not along the river corridor, where the worst flooding occurred. So many people are in far worse shape. As I write, 71 people have been confirmed dead across the county. Search and rescue helicopters and ATVs are still looking for missing people every day.

The first few days after the storm were isolating. Navigating the roads was tough because of the downed trees. Nobody had cell or internet service, so we couldn’t check the news or message anyone. I didn’t know the extent of the destruction beyond my own neighborhood. Eventually, we learned to get in the car and listen to the city’s press conferences at 10 A.M. and 4 P.M. every day to grasp the context of the storm. I worked on cleaning up my neighbors’ yards and some trees in the road.

I was lucky in another way, too. We have an old hot tub in our backyard that became our sole source of gray water, and remains so. I used five-gallon buckets to move water from it to our bathtub so we could flush toilets. I cooked meals on our propane grill, pulling food from the fridge before it went bad.

At some point, I learned that the Chamber of Commerce a mile up the street had power and their WiFi was radiating into the parking lot, so twice a day I walked up there to send messages and check the news. I started a fire in the wood stove in our basement to try to dry the water out. Of all the damage Hurricane Helene caused, this is as minor as it gets.

In talking with neighbors, we heard there was no gas for cars because the stations had no power, and that none of the interstates or highways were letting vehicles in or out. We heard other towns—Chimney Rock, Burnsville, Spruce Pine, more—deeper in the mountains fared even worse than Asheville. We learned that the city had organized points of distribution for water and food.

Besides the destruction, mostly what I saw is people taking care of each other. The guy who owns the trendy cafe on the corner a few blocks from my house cranked up his giant pizza oven and served free burgers and chicken sandwiches, feeding 1,500 people. Other neighbors chipped in, setting up stands with free stew and hot dogs.

We were all walking all over the neighborhood and town, asking people we didn’t know if they needed anything.

Almost two weeks after the storm, we still have no power, internet, or running water. I’m still moving water to flush toilets, getting drinking water from distribution points, trying to keep a fire in the basement stove. Cell service came back about six days after the storm.

Every state and federal agency is on the ground. Cops, firefighters, and search-and-rescue teams have come from Indiana, New York, Ohio. There are well-organized official disaster-relief stations and smaller stations set up by civilians. There’s a hard 7:30 P.M. curfew. I’ve heard isolated events of attempted muggings, but mostly it’s peaceful.

Unable to work as a writer without internet or power, I spend my days volunteering. One day I’m cooking burgers at a community center, the next, knocking on doors around Buncombe County doing wellness checks. If you can’t reach a cousin or aunt or spouse in Asheville, you call and ask for someone to check on the person. Volunteers go out to people’s last known addresses and see if they’re OK.

Most of the people I check on are OK. I work on developing the friendliest of door knocks,Ìę something that says, “I’m here to help.” Only one person answered the door with a gun in a holster.

I’m having a hard time putting this into words, but in the midst of all of the destruction and despair that I’ve seen, I’ve also been overwhelmed by a sense of hope and gratitude. Is it cheesy to say this disaster has renewed my faith in humankind? Probably. But that’s fine.

Without water and power, schools are closed, so my kids spend their days volunteering or helping friends clean up their yards. They have sleepovers and walk a mile into town together, just for some semblance of normalcy.

Grocery stores opened on a limited basis a day or so after the storm. One person in, one person out, long lines. Cash only because there was no internet. Now the stores are taking cards again, and you can get much of what you need or want. Most gas stations are open again. The two coolers on my back porch are full of food, and I am still cooking all meals on the propane grill. I’ll need to find more propane soon.

Downtown is a ghost town. Asheville is a tourist draw and obviously there are no tourists right now. A lot of people have left town temporarily as well. Some businesses have boarded up, and only a few shops are open.

My hot tub is almost empty, which means I’ll have to figure out another source soon for non-potable water. I saw the destruction to the reservoir system. It’s extensive; the transmission lines, which carry the water out of the reservoir, were washed out after more than 30 inches of rain fell. The bypass line, which was built as a redundancy measure, also washed out. That particular line was buried 25 feet deep, but the land eroded so much that the pipe was carried away. Crews are working on rebuilding that pipe right now.

The Outdoor Community Steps Up

The day before the storm, I went to to drop off a couple of things for resale. Second Gear is a consignment outdoor-gear shop that gives gently loved items like camp stoves and fleece and tents a second life, an effort in sustainability and in making things affordable to people who want to go outdoors and may lack good gear and equipment. It has a great location in the River Arts District, about 100 yards from the French Broad River.

The next time I saw Second Gear, it was in a video on social media, being swept away by the river. The entire building.

A number of guide services, like paddle-board rental shops and shuttle operators like French Broad Outfitters and Zen Tubing, that were located on the river suffered similar fates. Wrong Way Campground saw massive damage, the river breaching several of their cabins.

The local climbing gym, Cultivate Climbing, closed their flood doors, which would typically keep water out of the building. The river level was so high the waters crested the flood doors, poured in, and turned the building into a swimming pool.

Pisgah and Nantahala National Forests are closed. There’s no telling what sort of damage those mountains have suffered, because all resources right now are still dedicated to helping people in need. I’ve heard of groups of mountain bikers from the local bike club, called SORBA (for the Southern Off-Road Bicycle Association), hiking into small, isolated communities and chainsawing a path for those residents to get out to the nearest fire station.

I’ve heard of fly-fishing guides leading search-and-rescue efforts in the steep mountain hollers where they typically head up fishing adventures.

Several small towns, such as Barnardsville and Spruce Pine, in western North Carolina are isolated, the roads covered in mud and a tangle of pines and hardwoods. Nonprofits and small-town fire departments have been organizing groups of hikers to take supplies into people deep in the mountains who are cut off from the outside world. Volunteers with ATVs are incredibly sought after because they can get into remote places that normal vehicles can’t access.

The French Broad River Keeper, Hartwell Carson, who spearheads stewardship when he’s not assessing storm damage and reports of toxic sludge, mobilizes a crew of volunteers to cook burgers and hot dogs for various communities throughout the region. He’s lobbying for millions of dollars to be allocated to the area specifically to put out-of-work river guides on the job of cleaning up the French Broad.

Astral, an Asheville-based shoe brand that makes popular water shoes and hiking boots, is focusing on supporting remote mountain communities that saw severe hurricane damage. This week, Astral will take a van load of six generators to the tiny town of Buladean, which sits below Roan Mountain in North Carolina’s High Country.

The director of North Carolina Outdoor Economy, Amy Allison, is trying to coordinate coat donations from gear companies outside of the region. It’s warm today, but the temperatures are dropping next week. Many families here don’t have adequate winter gear, and will need coats, hats, and gloves as they navigate the new reality of going to distribution points for drinking water and moving flush water into their homes.

What’s Next for Western North CarolinaÌę

Almost two weeks later, I still try to turn the light on when I walk into a room. According to local press conferences, we’ll probably get power back some time this week, which is great. I’ve heard that the city is sending trucks to take out household trash. There’s no timetable as to when water will be restored. It could be weeks.

Living without running water for a couple of months is hard to fathom, largely because our kids can’t go back to school without it. Schools must have working sprinkler systems in case of fire.

Several families we know have already moved temporarily to other cities and enrolled their kids in schools. My wife is looking into home-school scenarios.

For a couple of days right after the storm there was a constant stream of sirens and chainsaws, but that stopped. Now it’s silent at night. It’s the kind of quiet you get camping in the middle of the woods, but I live on the edge of downtown Asheville. With no lights in my neighborhood, I can see the stars at night. I don’t think any of us will begin to understand the impact of what’s happened for months, when it’s safer and the destruction and loss of lives isn’t so palpable.

In the meantime, we carry on. I have a wood stove. I’ve hooked up a solar shower. I’m trying to work again. Tomorrow I’m cooking burgers for the small town of Barnardsville, 45 minutes north of Asheville. After that I’ll help a friend salvage the fence on his farm, then later in the week help another friend repair his campground. I think I’ve come up with a solution for water to flush my toilets, too. There’s a creek at the bottom of my neighborhood. I’ll put my cold plunge tub in the back of the truck and fill it from the creek with five-gallon buckets, then drive back up to my house and put the water in the hot tub.

It feels good to have a plan.

Graham Averill is șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű magazine’s national-parks columnist. He’s lived in Asheville for more than 20 years. If you want to help locals, lost its warehouse in the flood, and is still distributing food to those in need.

For more by this author, see:

9 Beautiful Mountain Towns in the Southeast

9 Most Underrated National Parks for Incredible Fall Foliage

The post This Is What It’s Like to Live in Asheville After Hurricane Helene appeared first on șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Online.

Brad Smith hiked into Damascus, Virginia, on the Appalachian Trail just as the rain from Hurricane Helene thickened into a torrent.

“The last 6 miles was the worst weather I’ve been outside in, and I’m 49
I could have kayaked off the mountain if I had one,” he wrote in a message. “The trail was a small river. Guessing I was one of the last customers at the Damascus Diner before Laurel Creek took it and the street over.”

More than are dead and many more are missing after Helene carved a 500-mile-long path of devastation through the southeastern United States with 30 people losing their lives in North Carolina’s Buncombe County alone. Among the hardest-hit communities were trail towns in Tennessee, North Carolina, and Virginia that some of the AT’s best-known businesses and trail angels call home.

Drew “Birdman” Glines, an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, rafting guide, and North Carolina local told Backpacker that the “devastation” inflicted on riverside communities was hard to describe.

“Roads and bridges have been completely destroyed, making some areas still completely inaccessible to even emergency vehicles,” he wrote in an email.

While destinations like the Nantahala Outdoor Center, the Western Smokies, Gatlinburg, and Pigeon Ford escaped major harm from the hurricane, other areas were not so lucky. Glines rattled off a list of landmarks affected by the hurricane.

“ in Roan was flooded. Hot Springs was hard hit
as was Hartford,” he wrote. “ is devastated.” The majority of western North Carolina is out of cell service, water, and power, although ‘disaster roaming’ has allowed locals to connect to any functioning network in the wake of the tragedy. The town of Asheville is still largely isolated due to infrastructure damage and washed-out roads.

On Trail When the Hurricane Hit

Smith wasn’t the only hiker caught in the weather. Lisa Woodward was hiking through Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee when the hurricane struck.

“[We] experienced torrential downpours and wind gusts of up to 80 miles per hour or so at almost 6,000 feet elevation,” she wrote in a message. “Had to take a zero on Fri. at TriCorner Knob Shelter to wait out the worst of it. Made it out on Sunday via the Low Gap Trail to Cosby CampGround, where Ken from Discerning Hiker Hostel ‘rescued’ us.”

Mollie Dembek was on trail near Hot Springs when the weather turned.

“I was at Flint Mountain Shelter, north of Hot Springs, NC when it started raining HARD on Tuesday,” she wrote. “I decided to hike the next day to Hemlock Hollow Hostel and Campground in Greeneville, TN the next day to get out of the rain. I am SO GLAD I did. I stayed the night there, warm and dry, but was watching the weather and news the entire time growing more and more anxious,” she said.

Dembek was able to make it to Asheville to stay with a friend. On Saturday, they decided to leave the area. Strangers lent her gas money at a station in Weaverville that was only accepting cash. (“They said it was ‘trail magic,” she recalls. “I absolutely started crying.”)

“They ended up following us over the mountains because we were able to get turn by turn directions from my friend using my Garmin InReach,” she wrote. “I was able to communicate with friends and family using my Garmin and got seven people to safety because of the technology. I was never so grateful to get to Maryville, TN and get a cell signal.”

Hot Springs, North Carolina. My grandfather’s summer mountain pasture was over on Spring Creek, near this lovely little town.

— Anne Margaret Daniel (@venetianblonde)

While locals are still fighting for their lives, other members of the trail community are rallying to support them. Trail Angels like “” Hensley of Erwin, Tennessee are scrambling to support flooded communities in the wake of the tragedy. Matthew “Odie” Norman, a thru-hiker, trail angel, and former owner of the Hiker Yearbook, was in New Jersey for the hurricane but is preparing to drive south to support local trail communities.

Trail Organizations Warn Hikers to Stay Away for Now

Determining when hiking should resume in the southern part of the Appalachian Trail is a sensitive topic. Norman said that “most hikers should not attempt to hike in the south at this time.”

In a statement, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) warned visitors to stay off trail between Springer Mountain (NOBO Mile 0) and Rockfish Gap (NOBO Mile 864.6).

“Over the coming weeks and months, the ATC will be working with the National Park Service, U.S. Forest Service, and state and local partners to inventory the damage to the treadway, trailheads, bridges, overnight sites, privies and other A.T. features,” the organization said. “Landslides and falling trees could continue for some time, so we ask volunteers and trail crews to pause work on this section of the Trail and to coordinate closely with regional ATC teams.”

Hensley said that the devastation in trail communities like Damascus and Hot Springs is “dire.”

“These communities are asking us to please stay away
They cannot handle the infrastructure or any people walking into town,” she said. In the event that hikers choose to continue hiking through southern Appalachia and they get into trouble, she adds, emergency services are unlikely to be able to help in a timely fashion.

Hensley said that hikers should stay informed and start making plans once they reach Virginia.

“When people come through the Shenandoah they need to be deciding what they’re going to do,” she said. “But hiking through this area would be ridiculous and it’s going to put lives on the line.”

Norman said he recognizes that as the weeks stretch on, deciding when it’s the right time to hit the trail again could pose a difficult question—and that different hikers could have different answers.

“The hiking community will be walking a tightrope in the next few months. Should hikers continue their hike? Would it be detrimental to the trail towns? What if there’s an emergency and emergency services are already stretched thin?” he said. “But there are other questions: what if hikers have nowhere to go? What if they’re hiking off war, drug addiction, any number of traumatic events? What if they’re hiking to help?”

One thing Norman is certain of: When hikers are able to come and help, they will.

“I can tell you for a fact that I watched hikers assist trail towns in 2020 and they will do it again in 2024,” he said. “It will not be publicized on Facebook, it will not be filmed, it is not done for recognition, it is done because that’s what hikers do.”

Readers looking for guidance and direction around post-hurricane support can find more information from the . Official trail closures are available on the .Ìę

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“More than a third” of the Appalachian Trail is currently inaccessible to hikers as the southeastern United States recovers from the devastation of Hurricane Helene, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) said in a statement on Saturday evening.

In a , ATC Executive Director Sandi Marra said that the organization believed some sections of the trail could be closed for an extended period of time “because of bridges that have washed away and downed trees and mudslides obstructing the treadway”

“A.T. Communities such as Damascus, VA; Erwin, TN; and Hot Springs, N.C. have been devastated,” Marra wrote. “All national forests in Georgia and North Carolina are closed as is Great Smoky Mountains National Park. And access to and from Asheville, home to ATC’s Southern Regional Office, is extremely limited due to the destruction. Needless to say, it will be weeks, months, and even years to see recovery from this event.

In an update on Saturday morning, Great Smoky Mountains National Park said that while a handful of roads had reopened, Newfound Gap Road remained closed from Gatlinburg and Cherokee, as did Balsam Mountain, Cataloochee, Roaring Fork, Greenbrier, Foothills Parkway East, and Rich Mountain Road. The park received heavy rain, measuring 9 inches at Newfound Gap, while Cataloochee flooded to 9.5 feet, breaking a record set in 1963.

The also remains closed as the National Park Service (NPS) assesses storm damage and conducts cleanup.

Some state-managed lands along the trail have announced their own closures. In a post on Friday, in Virginia said that there was no access to the park “due to road closures from downed trees, mudslides, and significant flooding,” and that campgrounds in the park would remain closed until at least Monday, September 30.

Helene’s impact on trail communities and their residents has been equally devastating. The Virginia Department of Emergency Management told , that Damascus, the home of Appalachian Trail Days, was the most-damaged town in the state. So far, officials have confirmed 60 deaths across the hurricanes path.

How Hikers Can Help

Towns along the Appalachian Trail host thousands of hikers a year; the worst-affected trail towns will need our support for months or even years to come as cleanup and rebuilding efforts progress. Here are a few ways to give back to the region’s recovery post-Hurricane Helene.

provides direct cash grants to individuals and groups affected by U.S. domestic hurricanes.

Donations to the fund its relief efforts across the area impacted by Helene and beyond.

feeds survivors of disaster and conflict around the world. The organization was on the ground distributing food and water in affected communities within 12 hours post-Helene.

is a grassroots initiative that leverages its network of volunteers to give directly to survivors of climate-change-driven and -worsened disasters.

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1. Yosemite, California

Why Now: Summer’s sweltering temps turn blissfully mild here in October, or “Rocktober,” as climbers sometimes refer to it. The cooler, dry conditions are just right for scaling the park’s world-famous granite walls. Warm days (which can see temperatures from the high sixties to the low eighties) also make hiking idyllic, and crisp nights (from the fifties to the low thirties) allow for comfortable camping.

Fall is a photographer’s dream as well. Yes, most of the trees are evergreens, but the aspens in the high country on Tioga Road and across Tuolumne Meadows turn golden, and the maples in the Valley and around Yosemite Chapel glow a brilliant red. Cloud formations soften the light for optimal shooting at midday, not just twilight. The waterfalls will be trickling rather than gushing the way they do in spring, but you still have a strong chance of spotting the park’s iconic black bears—and even better hopes of seeing mule deer, coyotes, and bighorn sheep.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: has been operating since the 1960s. Climbing lessons (from $205) cater to all levels, and guided climbs (from $400) include various options, among them ascending El Capitan (from $7,000). The outfit ends its climbing season October 27. runs half- and full-day rock-climbing outings on Fresno Dome through October 1 (from $425).

Anglers can fish the park’s trout-rich lakes, rivers, and streams through November 15. The pros at Yosemite Fly Fishing Guide can help you hook a brownie in the Merced River (half-day from $500; ). Get a California fishing license first ($62, ).

Pro Tip: Foresta Road, which leads into Yosemite from the west, is the favorite e-bike ride of Chris Van Leuven, founder of Yosemite E-Biking. “It’s also amazing hiking for families who want to see Foresta Falls and dip into swimming holes,” he says.

Where to Stay: Your chances of scoring a site in one of the park’s 13 campgrounds dramatically increase in fall, but you’ll still need to make a at least a week in advance. Camp 4 is coveted by climbers for its history and proximity to El Capitan, and for bouldering routes like world-renowned Midnight Lightning and nearby Bachar Cracker. The new glamping retreat Wildhaven Yosemite (from $139) is located in the charming town of Mariposa, 34 miles from the Arch Rock entrance to the park, and offers safari-style tents and cabins, live music, and yoga classes.

2. Puglia, Italy

Why Now: My first trip to Puglia, which forms Italy’s boot heel, was in early November, and in packing I made two mistakes: I left out a bathing suit and bike shoes. I didn’t anticipate that the southern latitude would bring late-summer temperatures. I arrived to see umbrellas shading folks on the rocky beaches and bicycles outnumbering cars. I chose the region hoping it would deliver the food, wine, and culture of Tuscany, but with fewer crowds and better prices. So it did, and also surprised me with a bounty of outdoor playgrounds, including two national parks, 16 state reserves, three marine protected areas, many fantastic cycling routes, and an incredible network of limestone caves.

In early autumn, Susumaniello grapes are plucked from the vines; toward the end, olives get harvested from ancient, gnarled trees. Attractions, like the whitewashed city of Ostuni, are quiet, and there’s rarely a wait at popular restaurants like Il Cortiletto this time of year. Be warned, though: after trying the region’s famed burrata cheese, you’ll never settle for mozzarella again.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: rents out carbon-fiber road bikes (from $38) and e-bikes (from $49), and offers one- and seven-day guided trips (from $429) and five- and ten-day self-guided trips (from $1,169). During a of the Caves of Castellana ($27), you’ll don a helmet and headlamp to visit parts of the grotto system that are off-limits during the day.

Pro Tip: Antonello Losito, founder of local tour operator Southern Visions, says that “one of the most exciting ways to view Alberobello, home to 1,500-plus Unesco-listed trulli, is via a tandem paraglide flight with Aeroclub FlyWay.” The 15-minute excursion costs $130.

Where to Stay: Tucked away in the hamlet of Pezze di Greco, less than ten minutes from Torre Canne beach, is an ancient cave settlement turned 15-room, family-run eco-hotel (from $235). At , just outside the village of Locorotondo, you can sleep in the trulli the resort is named for, 18th-century conical-roofed stone huts (from $249).

3. Mad River Valley, Vermont

Why Now: Vermont lives up to its reputation as the quintessence of fall-foliage perfection. The state’s diverse hardwoods create a dazzling autumnal palette. Leaf peepers from Boston, New York, and elsewhere rubberneck on the easily accessible roads to the south, but Mad River Valley, in the heart of the Green Mountains, is worth the travel time. The 36.5-mile Mad River Byway, a Norman Rockwell–worthy section of various state routes, winds past showy maple, ash, and birch trees, as well as covered bridges, country stores, and storybook towns like Warren and Waitsfield.

I prefer to ditch the car and cycle for stretches, or take in the colors while hiking or running the trails. The valley is nirvana for mountain bikers, who can ride singletrack at Sugarbush Resort or trail systems like the . Need a down day? The Mad River Glen ski area’s famed single chair is open for foliage rides three weekends in September and October, or grab a sandwich at the historic Warren Store and visit the region’s celebrated microbreweries.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: Hikers after a rewarding challenge should trek the , an 11.6-mile slice of the from Lincoln Gap to Appalachian Gap with 8,000 feet of ups and downs.

Pro Tip: Sean Lawson, founder of Lawson’s Finest Liquids, a brewery in Waitsfield, recommends exploring the trails of Stark Mountain. From the Mad River Glen base area, a 2.5-mile work road climbs 2,036 feet to the summit. Back at the base you can enjoy a good meal and frosty beer at Stark’s Pub, open Wednesday through Sunday in the fall.

Where to Stay: , a new 24-room base camp with a flow trail off its doorstep, has a bike shop for mountain and gravel rentals and repairs, and sauna huts to soothe weary legs. Creekside tents are available through October. (Rooms from $139 and tents from $99.)

4. Northern Michigan

Why Now: Michigan has the longest freshwater shoreline in the world, and its beaches are prized summer destinations. When the water gets chilly, vacationers leave, but the cool months are a local secret: prime time to hike, pedal, and paddle in Petoskey State Park and Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. With the leaves ablaze, the 20.3-mile Tunnel of Trees Scenic Heritage Route, from Harbor Springs to Cross Village, is at its most spectacular, and best appreciated by bike.

Harvest season in the region’s bucolic interior means pumpkin patches, , and corn mazes at family-run spots like Friske Farm Market. Time your visit during Traverse City Beer Week, typically early November, or register for the Iceman Cometh Challenge, a 30-mile cross-country mountain-bike race through Pere Marquette State Forest, held the first Saturday of November.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: in Glen Arbor rents bikes (from $32), kayaks (from $68), and paddleboards (from $76), and will deliver equipment for $20.

Pro Tip: From downtown Traverse City, bike seven flat miles along the paved to Farm Club, a massive, cedar-clad barn housing a bakery, market, restaurant, and brewery that pours excellent lagers.

Where to Stay: Located along the Tunnel of Trees, on a hillside above the waters of Lake Michigan, the recently renovated (from $275) has 31 mid-century-modern rooms and a general store stocked with picnic supplies. The rustic , in the northern district of Sleeping Bear Dunes, has 23 tent sites available until the last Sunday in November; reservations are required until October 15 (from $10; park fee also required).

5. Hokkaido, Japan

Why Now: Most people associate Hokkaido, the northernmost of Japan’s main islands, with the mythic dry, deep snow known as Japow. While skiing and snowboarding still reign supreme here, cycling is fast catching on. Spring through fall, resort towns like Niseko open their trails and lifts to mountain bikers. The region’s roads, which have wide shoulders for all the great snow, make for roomy road riding once it melts. And Japanese drivers are remarkably courteous to cyclists, giving them a wide berth and passing slowly with a wave.

Routes wind through a changing landscape of sparkling lakes, fertile farmland, rugged coastline, and high mountain passes. Hokkaido’s six national parks are laced with trails, and I submit that the amber gingkoes and crimson maples are just as pretty as Japan’s famed cherry blossoms. Steamy onsens abound for soaking sore muscles, and local kaiseki meals and savory bowls of ramen feature seasonal ingredients like salmon, long yams, and pumpkin.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: runs six-, seven-, and nine-day hiking trips among caldera lakes, alpine wetlands, and the dramatic peaks of Daisetsuzan National Park (from $2,197). Last year I joined Cycling Japan guides on a four-day tour from Lake Toya to the Sea of Japan (from $1,130) that was just as delicious as it was scenic, with stops at out-of-the-way restaurants like Udon Nonosan that I’d never have found on my own.

Pro Tip: All cyclists must stop at intersections with stop signs, and before any designating lines there, notes Ayaka Yoshikawa, cofounder of șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Hokkaido. According to police, penalties range from up to 50,000 yen ($320) to a three-month prison sentence.

Where to Stay: Set at the foot of Mount Yotei (Hokkaido’s Mount Fuji), 24-room (from $210) has both Western- and Japanese-style accommodations, some with private saunas and tubs that feed from hot springs. There are also communal soaking baths, a terrace with a foot bath, and multiple dining options, including a teppanyaki counter.

6. Churchill, Canada

Why Now: Known as the polar bear capital of the world, this northern Manitoba port town attracts earth’s largest concentration of the massive white bruins each fall. From mid-October through November, an estimated 1,000 bears congregate along Hudson Bay, waiting for the ice to form so they can use it as a platform for seal hunting. The tundra takes on vibrant crimson and golden hues—a striking backdrop for photographing the majestic mammals, along with Arctic foxes and snowy owls.

You also have a strong chance of catching the natural world’s best light show: Churchill averages more than 300 nights of auroral activity throughout the year.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: The carbon-neutral travel company has been running polar-bear-viewing tours here since 1989. Groups of up to 16 visitors join biologists, climatologists, and other experts in custom Polar Rover vehicles to explore the full range of the Churchill Wildlife Management Area (six-day trips, from $7,795). Seeking something slightly less involved? offers day tours in 40-seat Tundra Buggies ($400).

Pro Tip: While onshore, “the bears are really active, as they know it’s not much longer before they return to the sea ice,” says Court Whelan, chief sustainability officer of Natural Habitat șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍűs. “They prowl and interact with one another—a rare occurrence anywhere else.”

Where to Stay: For a DIY trip, the simple, 31-room (from $349) is conveniently set in the heart of Churchill, and its pub has a sensational menu; try the veggie burger with yam fries.

7. Grand Valley, Colorado

Why Now: Located on the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains, around 230 miles west of Denver, the Grand Valley is the ultimate autumn playground. Both an agricultural haven and a geological anomaly, it has vineyards and farmland reminiscent of those in Sonoma, California; storied singletrack to rival Moab, Utah’s; and the second-largest concentration of natural arches in the world, behind that of Arches National Park. Moreover, it’s home to Colorado National Monument, often heralded as a mini Grand Canyon.

In fall, the vistas glow with gold, the broiling summer heat (average daytime temperatures in July and August are in the nineties) subsides, and with school back in session, you might not pass another hiker or biker on the trail. After a full day outdoors, I like to hit the funky towns of Fruita, Palisade, and Grand Junction for a delicious meal at locavore-focused spots like Tacoparty and Cruise Control.

I was once skeptical of the Colorado wine scene, but it’s legit, and this area is the epicenter. Harvest gets underway in September and coincides with the Colorado Mountain Winefest, a one-day event (this year on the 21st) that will school you in high-elevation varietals like viognier, Riesling, and mourvùdre.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: One of the country’s longest and gnarliest singletrack trails for downhillers is the . The route, considered challenging, starts at the top of Grand Mesa and descends 32 miles and over 6,000 feet. offers drop-offs through October 8 ($38) and rents mountain bikes (from $90).

For something mellower, the East Orchard Mesa Loop between Grand Junction and Palisade is a 25-mile cycling path that passes a dozen wineries (like Colorado Cellars) and farm stands while offering views of the Grand Mesa, the world’s largest flat-top mountain. (Located within 60 miles of Grand Junction, it has great hiking.)

Pro Tip: Patric Matysiewski, winemaker at Sauvage Spectrum Estate Winery and Vineyard, loves the carrot margarita at Fidel’s Cocina and Bar in downtown Palisade. “It’s the best way to end your day,” he says.

Where to Stay: The biking- and food-obsessed owners of the 17-room in Palisade (from $144) are happy to recommend their favorite singletrack trails, tasting rooms, and restaurants. In Grand Junction, ’s tiny homes, Airstreams, and RV hookups are steps from the Colorado River within Las Colonias Park (from $35).

8. Costa Rica’s Southern Caribbean Coast

Why Now: Fall is widely considered the rainy season in Costa Rica. Don’t be put off. These are the greenest months, when the jungle is lush (in the dry season, from December to April, it can look withered and brown), the rains (heaviest from May to November) fade, and travelers can score serious deals on hotels. On the Caribbean coast, which is less trodden than the Pacific side, September and October are the driest months.

Head to the province of Limón to discover the region’s rich Afro-Caribbean culture and protected natural areas—including Gandoca-Manzanillo Wildlife Refuge, a rainforest-meets-beach setting with rare mangrove oyster beds and endangered manatees and ocelots. The nearby Cahuita National Park is home to the largest coral-reef system in the country, and in autumn the waters are calm and clear for diving and snorkeling. By November the surf picks up, and Salsa Brava, arguably Costa Rica’s biggest barreling wave, becomes a proving ground for skilled wave riders.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: In addition to offering surf lessons and hosting surf camps, guides SUP and kayak trips on the Punta Uva River (from $65 for 2.5 hours) and boat trips to snorkel the reef of Cahuita National Park ($90 for three hours).

Pro Tip: Spend some time at the in Puerto Viejo; it offers classes in numerous styles, and has a vegetarian restaurant with jackfruit tostadas and beetroot-hummus toast.

Where to Stay: The mother-and-daughter-owned has 15 boho-chic rooms nestled on a forest-fringed beach in Puerto Viejo (from $287). I’m a fan of the free bikes and snorkel gear, and applaud the property’s commitment to hiring and sourcing locally.

9. Tasmania, Australia

Why Now: About half of this island province is reserved land, including national parks and a Unesco World Heritage wilderness, rich with distinctive flora and fauna and webbed with more than 1,700 miles of trails. Down Under, September ushers in spring, which means Tassie’s daffodils, cherry blossoms, and tulips are popping, and wombats and pademelons may be active.

Longer daylight hours combine with milder temperatures to provide optimal conditions for hiking the many coastal trails, such as the Bay of Fires, a 31-mile, multiday route in the northeast that runs from Binalong Bay to Eddystone Point. And austral spring marks the annual and biannual migration of southern right and humpback whales, respectively, so keep an eye out for spouts and breaches.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: Tasmania has 19 national parks and countless bushwalking options. Off the east coast, Maria Island is nicknamed Tasmania’s Noah’s Ark, due to its astounding diversity of wildlife. On a four-day trek with , I ticked off sightings of kangaroos, Tasmanian devils, wallabies, and wombats, and stayed in the company’s private bush camps just steps from the beach (from $1,940).

Pro Tip: Hobart’s Sunday Farm Gate Market is a must. At its center, you’ll find a collection of street vendors serving everything from Chinese bao to Sri Lankan curries.

Where to Stay: , one of Australia’s most famous bush treks, finishes on the doorstep of , a 1930s hydroelectricity station turned adventure base at the southern end of Cradle Mountain–Lake St. Clair National Park (from $402). Choose from stylish bell tents or bunk rooms at , which is minutes from surf breaks and mountain-bike trails (from $150).

10. The Scottish Highlands

Why Now: Tourist season here ends with summer, and in the fall you’ll find solitude on the trails and stellar lodging deals. In September, the hillsides are still carpeted in lilac-hued heather, and the pesky midges are withdrawing. By October, the deer grass on the moors turns a moody russet, and the glens echo with stag calls and the clatter of antlers amid the annual rut. The Cairngorms, which make up the UK’s largest national park, are similar in latitude to Alaska and Norway.

In late September and October, reduced daylight combined with the park’s clear skies increase the chances that the aurora will be visible. In the pubs, menus showcase the seasonal bounty: lamb, beef, and venison, damsons (plums), and native Scottish oysters. Fall’s best pairing, however, is a roaring fire and a dram of local whisky.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: Offered in September and early October, ’s ten-day Highlights of the Highlands group hiking trip averages two to four hours of hill walking per day around Glencoe’s glacier-scoured peaks and the silvery moors of Cairngorms National Park (from $7,335). Guests stay in cushy accommodations, like lochside Monachyle Mhor, and a boat trip up the west coast promises minke whale and porpoise sightings. October is prone to cold spells and rain, so pack layers and rain gear.

Pro Tip: In Cairngorms National Park, indulge at a locals’ favorite: Nethy House CafĂ©, with its locally sourced seasonal menu and homestyle baking.

Where to Stay: The maintains a network of these traditional bare-bones lodgings for adventurous hikers. Check for closures in hunting season, much of which typically wraps up in mid-October.

11. Shenandoah Valley, Virginia

Why Now: Once the summer humidity subsides, Shenandoah National Park becomes a paradise for hikers, who have more than 500 miles of trails—including 100 miles on the Appalachian Trail—to explore. The fall colors are truly mesmerizing. Most leaf peepers ogle the views along Skyline Drive. This sole road through the park can be driven or biked, and spans 105 miles from Front Royal in the north to Waynesboro in the south, with 75 overlooks along the way. Fair warning, traffic can be bumper-to-bumper, so hit the road early.

Some of the best treetop panoramas are found along gravel-bike-friendly fire roads in the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests on the sides of the valley and on farm roads heading out of the towns of Luray and Stanley. The farms sprout pumpkin patches and corn mazes, and orchards sell freshly pressed apple cider.

șÚÁÏłÔčÏÍű Intel: ’s five-day gravel tour of the valley bases out of the hip in downtown Harrisonburg. On day four, you’ll climb nearly 4,000 feet in 23 miles to reach Reddish Knob, one of the highest peaks along the Virginia–West Virginia border. From the summit you’ll enjoy 360-degree vistas of foliage (from $1,999).

, founded over 30 years ago, takes newbies up climbs on crags set 3,000 feet above the valley floor (from $140).

Pro Tip: “The park’s best-kept secret is its South District,” says Andy Nichols, director of programs at Shenandoah Mountain Guides and School. “The mile-loop is one of the best sunset hikes in all of the East.”

Where to Stay: Page Valley is nicknamed the “cabin capital of Virginia.” Some gems on Airbnb include three-bedroom Whispering Woods (from $328) near Luray, just a half-hour from Skyline Drive, and Bearloga, a four-bedroom cabin with a sauna and hot tub set on 75 acres in Stanley (from $400).

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Let me acknowledge, right up front, that in this ghastly era of anthropogenic global warming I combusted a whole bunch of fossil fuel in order to descend from the cool green sanctuary of the Colorado Rockies, where I’m blessed to reside, and cross the hot, dry, fiercely sunburned interior West. My destination was the kiln of the Mojave Desert and, sequestered within that immensity of thirst, a line on the thermometer: 120 degrees Fahrenheit.

Or perhaps worse. It depended on where my best friend Sean suggested we camp.

Was this a vacation? A gross display of privilege? According to the CDC, extreme heat waves cause . Granted, I do not belong to the especially endangered demographic groups: infant, senior, unhoused, impoverished, employed outdoors. The list is tragic and long. But trust me, the trip wasn’t idle amusement. I felt compelled to make raw somatic contact with our new and thoroughly dismaying climate regime, to face the faceless temperatures of the 21st century.

Sean is a social-studies teacher in Las Vegas who spends much of his summer break driving random dirt roads, exploring the desiccated, dust-choked hinterlands of Nevada and California. His style is the opposite of athletic, unless geography paired with existential contemplation constitutes a sport. He pokes around, parks the Hyundai, plants a parasol, eats and drinks, hikes a mile or three at dusk, counts shooting stars, sleeps, moves on. The very emptiness and quiet are his activity, the elemental place—overwhelming in a dozen different ways—his passion.

Chatting on the phone in early July, he informed me that the mercury in his apartment in North Vegas was registering 120 degrees, a record for the city. “A/C shut off yesterday,” he said. “Kicked back on this morning. The grid
a surge
my unit
I dunno. In any case, I’m heading out for 24 hours.” Air temps at Furnace Creek, in Death Valley National Park, were approaching the world’s highest reliable measurement of 130 degrees, made there in 2021. “I bet it’ll only be teens in the Mojave Preserve,” he continued. “And single digits or lower at night.”

This omission of the “hundred” prior to “teens” and “single digits” reminded me of how folks at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, where I once worked, eschew the phrase “below zero” because, quite simply, “above zero” doesn’t occur in that part of Antarctica. I’d confronted (negative) 80 degrees during my stint on The Ice and handled it pretty well. In fact, I’d relished the challenge of strenuous labor, the steady, drudging effort that pumps blood to fingers and toes, lungs and brain. Our apocalyptic present is another matter. Strenuous labor is potentially lethal and the steady, drudging effort is that of patience: hunkering in the shade, trying your damnedest not to budge.

Sean isn’t exactly a fan of the heat, but he accepts its authority, and this allows him to briefly sneak outside even when doing so is deemed reckless, or at least exceedingly unpleasant. We decided I should visit him ASAP to join one of his 24-hour excursions into the reality that almost nobody is eager to embrace—call it our current and future home.

I wrote an email to my parents in Vermont after hanging up the phone, explaining the plan, tacking on a paragraph about anxiety and electrolytes. My dad replied: “Do be careful as we bubble at 108 degrees.” I was unfamiliar with the verb “to bubble” in the context of human physiology, but caught his drift. My mom, whose hairdresser claims I am responsible for the grays she is paid to dye blond, cut to the chase with her usual no-nonsense wisdom: “You’ve never experienced that kind of heat. I don’t think we are meant to experience that kind of heat. I’ll just say this—show it the utmost respect.”

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It seems like every summer brings a fresh hell—literally—of , record-breaking temperatures, and meteorological anomalies you’ve never heard of before (what the heck is a ?). But try telling experienced backpackers and hikers not to hit the trails when the mercury is popping and see what happens; a little thing like a heat index over 110°F won’t keep some of us inside.

Unfortunately, that can, and sometimes does, result in dangerous situations such as heat illness, which can be uncomfortable at best and . So what’s a hiker to do when the summer sun turns their playground into something that resembles the surface of Mercury? Acclimatize.

Your body can and will acclimate to hotter temperatures, says David Fifer, associate professor of emergency medical care at Eastern Kentucky University and wilderness paramedic and coordinator of RedSTAR Wilderness EMS in Powell County, Kentucky. It just takes time. After some heat training, you’ll feel less miserable out there, you’ll perform better, your heart will beat more efficiently, and your risk of heat illness will decrease. In some states, temperatures will stay high for the next several months, so if you start heat training now, you’ll be able to comfortably hike through some late-summer heat.

What Is Heat Acclimatization?

By , you’re encouraging your body to produce more , which kick into high gear to protect your cells—including those in your heart and muscles—from damage under stress (such as conditions during brutally hot days).

As this happens, a few things occur. First, you’ll sweat more efficiently. You’ll start sweating faster and also produce more sweat, explains Seth Collings Hawkins, associate professor of emergency medicine at Wake Forest University and a master fellow of the Academy of Wilderness Medicine. This helps you cool down faster; your body gets rid of excess body heat as it vaporizes the sweat.

Circulation also stabilizes the more you acclimatize your body to heat. This means your heart won’t have to work as hard, your core temperature and heart rate won’t be as high, plus blood gets pumped to your muscles more efficiently.

How Do You Acclimatize?

, suggests Fifer. Start with easy, 20-minute walks outside in the heat, then every day (or every other day), increase that time by 20 minutes for a week or two. After that time, your body will start to get used to the new strain on your system. You don’t have to work hard to acclimatize: Your body adapts to the heat if you regularly spend time in a sauna or a hot bath, too.

How long it actually takes to fully acclimatize depends on you and your body. “Your baseline fitness is going to be a big factor in your acclimatization plan, and the more fit you are, the easier it’s going to be,” Fifer says. If you’re at peak physical fitness, some studies suggest your body may adapt to heat training faster.

But if you’re out of shape, suffer from heart issues, or are overweight, heat illness can strike more rapidly, acclimatized or not. And if you’ve been skipping a lot of gym sessions or have spent your whole summer so far indoors, planning a backpacking trip on the hottest weekend of the year isn’t a good idea.

Either way, if you’re planning any extreme activities, like a mid-summer thru-hike in the desert, Fifer says it’s wise to consult with a physician or knowledgeable athletic trainer first. Especially because a wide variety of medications—including SSRIs for depression and stimulant supplements for weight loss—can interfere with your body’s ability to process heat.

Are There Limits to Acclimatization?

Acclimatizing your body doesn’t necessarily make it invincible. Hawkins cites studies that suggest that, no matter how acclimatized you are, your body can’t sustain a healthy core temperature when you’re in an environment hotter than 88°F and at 100 percent humidity. In 50 percent humidity, the limit is closer to 122°F, though the combination of temperature and exposure duration can both affect how well your body can acclimatize.

Speaking of humidity, heat adaptation in dry climates doesn’t tend to translate to adaptation in humid climates and vice versa. So if you can, train in weather you’re expecting to experience on the trail.

Don’t bail on time outside when it’s hot. Some studies suggest that spending a week or more away from the heat can be enough to set progress back at least a bit, meaning you’ll have to spend a few days re-adapting. On the upside, according to the CDC, kicking it in your air conditioned living room or at the movie theater doesn’t seem to affect acclimatization, so soak it up when you can.

Then, when you do head outdoors this summer, don’t forget to stay hydrated and pack .

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“What you do not want is a paywall system of weather where only paying customers can find out if they’re about to drive into a tornado.”

That’s a quote from comedian John Oliver, who in 2020 presented a segment on his popular Max show, Last Week Tonight about AccuWeather’s attempts to take over weather forecasting services from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. AccuWeather is a private, for-profit company that sells weather forecasts to corporations. NOAA is a government agency that studies weather, climate and environmental conditions, and provides weather data and forecasts for free.

Oliver also unearthed a 2018 interview with AccuWeather’s Founder and Executive Chairman Joel Myers, describing what he felt was a success story for privatized-weather forecasting, but which actually stands as a cautionary tale:

“Union Pacific: We told them that a tornado was heading to a spot. Two trains stopped two miles apart, they watched the tornado go between. Then unfortunately it went into a town that didn’t have our service and a couple dozen people were killed. But the railroad did not lose anything,” Myers said.

Now, former members of the first Trump administration are proposing putting the privatization of NOAA’s weather data and forecasts into law should the former President be re-elected this November. They’re also suggesting that AccuWeather should take over many of NOAA’s functions. If this happens, Americans may have to start paying for the daily weather reports we rely on to live our lives safely.

This plan is just one proposal contained in , an effort led by former Director of the White House Presidential Personnel office and founder of The Right Stuff dating app , to prepare for an entire remake of the federal government should Trump achieve another term. Project 2025 also contains plans to destroy the National Monument system, and , among many other radical measures.

Amid negative press around Project 2025—many of its policies are proving controversial even with Republican voters—. But CNN reports that the staff of Project 2025 , including six of his cabinet members and four of his appointed ambassadors.

But enough about politics, let’s get into the reason you’re here: weather forecasts. In 1807, President Thomas Jefferson for the purpose of creating nautical charts so commercial shipping traffic could safely navigate into and out of the country’s ports. In 1849, the ÌęSmithsonian Institution “for the benefit of commerce,” in an effort that would eventually morph into the National Weather Service (NWS).

In 1871, the U.S. Commission of Fish and Fisheries was created to protect an important source of the nation’s food. These were the first scientific agencies ever established by the federal government, and in 1970, they were combined to form the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration or NOAA.

NOAA’s weather stations, satellites, aircraft, and meteorologists collect weather data and provide weather forecasts. You probably looked at one of those when you decided what to wear today. NOAA’s Climate Prediction Center provides forecasts and historic data for time periods beyond seven days. If you’re planning a summer vacation, you’re probably using that information to decide what to pack and where to go. In the event of a hurricane, tornado, blizzard, or similar, NOAA’s severe weather alerts appear on the radio and television, or on your phone.

We outdoor enthusiasts are more reliant on NOAA’s weather data and forecasts than most. Every day we check weather data that the NWS collects and analyzes. If you ski, you’re using NOAA information to learn about snow conditions, and potential avalanche hazards. NWS forecasts wildfire weather, and issues the watches, warnings, and advisories campers and hikers use to plan their outings. If you surf or swim in the ocean, you rely on NWS’s Surf Zone Forecasts to learn about riptides and currents. If you’re into 4x4s, you use NWS flash flood warnings to plan safe routes.

NOAA also provides much of the raw data that private, for-profit forecasters like AccuWeather use to advise their corporate clients and subscribers. In some cases, combining NWS forecasts and data with information from private satellites and weather forecasts can enable private weather forecasters to provide higher resolution looks at smaller areas, like sports stadiums, or those narrow rail lines that AccuWeather’s Myers mentions above. But the public .

“The National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) should be dismantled and many of its functions eliminated,” reads the introduction to chapter on proposals for the Department of Commerce (of which NOAA is an agency). It goes on to simply say “Break up NOAA” as the first sentence in the section covering that agency.

Project 2025 calls NOAA and the National Weather Service “one of the main drivers of the climate change alarm industry,” and “harmful to future U.S. prosperity.”

The chapter is written by , the former Chrysler executive who Trump installed as chief financial officer and assistant secretary for administration at the Department of Commerce in 2019.

Gilman then breaks down the functions of NOAA that he thinks a future Trump administration should privatize or eliminate.

1. “Focus the NWS on Commercial Operations.”

Gilman proposes that the National Weather Service (which is part of NOAA) should focus on selling its data to private companies only, rather than making it available for free to everyone. He then suggests that those private companies—he only mentions AccuWeather by name—should be the sole source of weather forecasts for the public, a service for which they charge.

2. “Review the Work of the National Hurricane Center and the National Environmental Satellite Service.”

Gilman wants data around hurricanes and tropical storms to be distributed “without adjustments intended to support any one side in the climate debate.”

3. “Transfer National Ocean Service Survey Functions to the U.S. Coast Guard and the U.S. Geological Survey.”

The National Ocean Service may not generate many headlines, but the agency does work that impacts millions of Americans. It provides “science-based environmental services” to the 168 million Americans who live along the country’s coastlines and the innumerable commercial interests who operate there, too.

Those services include everything from mapping water levels, tides, and currents to coordinating emergency responses to disasters to managing river estuaries. It creates the charts mariners use to navigate coastal waters, manages our nation’s 15 National Marine Sanctuaries, and helps forecast evolving coastal conditions that can impact infrastructure, homes and businesses.

Its annual budget is only (something is “not enough
costing the U.S. billions of dollars). While Gilman proposes transferring these functions to the Coast Guard or USGS, Project 2025 contains no suggestions of increased budget for either of those entities.

4. “Downsize the Office of Oceanic and Atmospheric Research.”

The Office of Oceanic and Atmospheric Research works to provide the scientific research that supports NOAA’s understanding of tornadoes, hurricanes, climate change, the ozone layer, ecosystem health, and other vital areas. Gilman calls it, “The source of much of NOAA’s climate alarmism,” and proposes reducing budgets and staffing, but provides no specifics on how that would look.

5. “Break Up the Office of Marine and Aviation Operations and Reassign its Assets to Other Agencies During this Process.”

You know those brave aviators who risk their lives flying into hurricanes to collect data that then informs forecasts, saving lives and protecting property? Gilman wants to get rid of them.

6. “Ensure Appointees Agree with Administration Aims.”

Project 2025 proposes replacing appointed roles at NOAA and the National Weather Service with Trump loyalists. “Particular attention must be paid to appointments in this area,” Gilman writes.

Should these policies be enacted, they would reduce the public’s access to potentially life-saving weather forecasts; make residential, commercial, and public infrastructure and activities more susceptible to damage from extreme weather; reduce our ability to understand and accurately forecast severe weather like tornadoes and hurricanes; and eliminate our government’s ability to understand or respond to climate change.

None of that is a coincidence. As John Oliver highlighted four years ago, it’s the culmination of a decades-long effort by private corporations to turn a public resource into a profit center. Should Trump return to the White House, Project 2025 says he should give the keys to the nation’s weather services to AccuWeather.

If McEntee, Gilman, and the other former Trump staffers who wrote Project 2025 get their way, you may have to pony up cash to find out if a tornado is headed toward your home or business. There will also be no way to know if that forecast you’re paying for was put together by scientists at all.

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