As my Chaco-clad feet sank ever deeper into soupy black mud, I thought briefly of the woolly mammoths, who perished in droves as they struggled to free themselves from quicksand. Like the mammoth, who no doubt once inhabited the same sort of glacier-carved landscape I was now thoroughly stuck in, I was fighting against my own weight, not to mention that of the 100-pound portage pack strapped inconveniently to my back Continue reading “List: Things that aren’t so bad about portaging a canoe through thigh-deep mud”
I have a small stack of journals sitting on my desk. I don’t write in them regularly; they’re mostly for keeping notes while I’m traveling. I’ll often go weeks or months between scrawled, barely-legible entries. In the back of each one, there is a tally of annual nights spent in a sleeping bag (tents, yurts, huts, cabins, hammocks, and truck beds all count). I’m usually in the thirties by mid-May, and, for the last few years, I’ve broken 100 nights by September or October. Continue reading “No goals allowed”
A few months ago, we bought a truck. Somehow—and I still believe with all my heart that this was because someone, somewhere wasn’t paying attention or doing their job—we walked into a dealership on a weekday afternoon and drove away in a brand-new Toyota Tacoma. Continue reading “The end of an era”
Each week, I sit down to write a post for this blog—usually a tongue-in-cheek list of something related to my (very privileged) outdoor-adjacent life. This week’s post was supposed to be about enjoying a quiet summer with fewer self-imposed goals, but in the wake of this weekend’s violent rallies by literal, actual Nazis, I can’t bring myself to publish it. Continue reading “Whatever you’re doing right now—that’s what you would’ve done.”
“Does having a sports injury mean I’m a legit ultra-runner?” I half-joked with my chiropractor last week.
“It means you need to stretch more,” he told me. Continue reading “I have a sports injury, which means I’ve really arrived”