This Is How You Win the Time War

Released on March 2, 2023

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke Audio Collective.

WILLOW BELDEN: Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

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Today’s episode is about time. How we lose it and how we gain it.

And that might be on your mind right now, because here in the U.S., we’re about to switch from Standard Time to Daylight Savings Time. Our clocks will spring forward by an hour. Which means it’ll stay light later — but we also lose an hour of sleep.

The story we’re going to share comes from producer Wade Roush. Wade is one of the founders of Hub & Spoke, which is the collective that Out There joined last year. And he runs a wonderful podcast called Soonish. In fact, this story first aired on Soonish, back in 2021. 

So Wade, what is Soonish all about?

WADE ROUSH: That is a good question. You know, it’s really a kind of a bucket, a container. The name is really intentionally vague. When people hear it, I think they think, ‘Hey, I bet it’s about time or the future or things to come.’ And that’s basically what it is. 

I’ve always been interested in the future, and how technology shapes the future. As a technology journalist, that’s kind of my job is to write about that stuff. And so, the title “Soonish” is meant to evoke kind of a broad spectrum of stories and topics and people who are helping to shape the future by inventing new technology or trying to figure out where technology is taking us, and how we can get smarter about shaping that process.

WILLOW: And so this particular episode that people are about to hear is all about time, and sort of how we’ve standardized it in a way that should benefit us, but that actually comes with a lot of problems. 

And one of those problems, which we’ll hear about in the story in just a moment, has to do with time changes — so, going back and forth between Daylight Time and Standard Time, which of course we are about to do. 

So bring us up to speed. This story first aired back in 2021, and since then, there’s actually been quite a lot of talk about possibly doing away with time changes here in the US. So, whatever happened with all that.

WADE: That’s right. So, I think of time as a technology. And just like every other technology, it’s something that we design and implement. And so we can also change it. 

And there has been an ongoing conversation for years about whether the process of switching from Standard Time to Daylight Time every spring and then from Daylight Time back to Standard Time every fall is really worth the trouble. 

I mean, there’s an obvious reason to do it. It’s so that we can have the later sunsets in the summer and all kind of enjoy being outdoors, which is part of what the piece is about. 

But doctors and public health experts know at this point that the switch itself is unhealthy. Around those times of year, twice a year, there’s an increase in car accidents, there’s an increase in heart attacks, and there’s even an increase in suicides, especially in the spring, because that’s the one where we lose an hour of sleep. And it turns out that the human brain is incredibly sensitive to very small changes in the amount of sleep we get. 

So these biannual switches between Daylight Time and Standard Time are a serious health problem, and there’s a proposal on the table to stick with Daylight Time year round. It’s called the Sunshine Protection Act. It was introduced by Marco Rubio and a bipartisan group of other senators in 2018, again in 2020. And it did pass the Senate in 2021, but then the House never took it up. So that particular bill died in the 117th congress. And now that we’re into the 118th congress, we’ll see whether Rubio reintroduces the bill and whether it becomes a new discussion in Washington. 

At the moment, it looks like that idea is on hold. But there are still forces on either side of the question who would like to see us stick with either Standard Time or Daylight Time, one or the other, and just be done with these stupid switches.

WILLOW: So anything else you’d like to say before we dive into the story?

WADE: Well, yeah, of course, Willow. I would like to say that we are really excited that Out There is part of Hub & Spoke. So, Soonish is one of the podcasts in this amazing little audio collective called Hub & Spoke. And you and your team joined Hub & Spoke last year, and this episode swap is an example of how we’re working together. There’s other great stuff like this to come in the future, and we just could not be happier to have you in the collective.

WILLOW: Aw, well thanks, Wade. Likewise. We are so happy to be a part of Hub & Spoke. So it is very much mutual.

WADE: You’re listening to Season 5 of Soonish. I’m Wade Roush.

I grew up in central Michigan in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

And every summer I’d spend a few weeks visiting my grandparents’ cottage on a lake in western Michigan.

And I remember how, in the summer my brother and I would be able to stay out swimming in the lake and goofing around until incredibly late in the evening.

From late June into early July the sun wouldn’t go down until 9:30 pm, and the twilight would last until well past 10:00.

I loved those long summer evenings. And I’d never lived or vacationed anywhere else, so I kind of thought they were normal.

But they definitely weren’t.

I found that out the hard way when I turned 18 and went off to college in the Boston area, where I still live today.

What I noticed, that very first semester of college, was that the sun goes down here in Boston about an hour earlier than it does in Michigan.

Which was annoying enough. Because who likes to get out of class or get out of work and realize it’s already dark outside?

But things got even worse in late October, which is when the nation used to switch from Daylight Saving Time back to Standard Time. So on Saturday, October 26, 1985, the sun went down at 5:45 pm. And on Sunday, October 27, it went down at 4:45 pm.

It’s hard to explain how much this bummed me out. I mean, as a college freshman it’s not like I was getting up super early. And then the sun would suddenly go down.

I was living most of my life in the dark. And that darkness kept eating into the day, because as we got into November and December, of course, the sun would go down earlier each day, until the winter solstice, when sun set at an absurdly early 4:15 pm.

I felt like I’d been kidnapped by aliens and forced to live on a planet where the days had been chopped in half.

So, what was really going on here? Why did 18-year-old me feel like it was ridiculous that sun goes down so early in Boston in the winter?

Well, I’m going to give away the answer right at the top. Because I still feel like it’s ridiculous today, and I want people to know that we could end the insanity.

The reason I felt so out of place here in Massachusetts is that I grew up in a different state that had long ago decided to give itself more daylight.

And if such a thing is possible -- if you can just vote to give yourself more daylight – then we could do it here in Boston too. We could start to see clock time for what it is: an artificial construct that we humans designed and that we can also change.

That’s the message of today’s episode.

I’ll start with a little more  Michigan history. 

But first we’ve got to zoom out and talk about the big stuff. Why is it that the clock time here in Massachusetts is the same as it is in Detroit or Lansing or Grand Rapids? Well, it’s because Massachusetts and Michigan are both in the Eastern Standard Time zone of North America.

Time zones have been a thing ever since the 1880s, when the railroad companies got tired of the old patchwork system where every city observed its own local time based on solar noon, the moment the sun reaches its highest point in the sky.

Solar time had kind of worked in the era of horse and stagecoach era, when nobody ever moved faster than about 20 miles per hour and you couldn’t travel far enough east or west in one day for the difference in solar noon to be a huge bother.

But in the steam age, locomotives could cover hundreds of miles in a day. And it didn’t make sense for long-distance passengers to have to adjust their pocket watches every time they pulled into a new station.

Also, the crazy quilt of different solar times was an obvious safety nightmare for railroad engineers. Because how could you know the tracks ahead would be clear if you weren’t sure all the other trains were observing the same time as you?

So in October of 1883, a bunch of railroad executives met in Chicago and decided to carve up the continental United States into four standard time zones, each separated by exactly one hour.

They imagined that the rest of the world would follow suit and create another 20 time zones circling the whole globe. Which is exactly what happened about a year later at a meeting in Washington DC called the International Meridian Conference.

That’s the same conference where everyone agreed, once and for all, that the prime meridian, zero degrees of longitude, should be the line that runs through the Greenwich Observatory outside London.  

And here’s a quick side note. Like I said before, solar noon is the time when the sun is directly overhead at your line of longitude. So in a way time and longitude are just two ways of talking about the same thing.

And if you’re interested in the history of that connection, and how it turned out to be impossible to measure longitude until we knew how to accurately measure time, then I highly recommend you listen to an epic three-part podcast episode that my friend Mark Chrisler just published over at The Constant. It’s one of the other podcasts here at Hub & Spoke. The series you want to look for is called Long Story Short and you can find it at constantpodcast.com.

Now, when you divide 360 degrees of longitude into 24 slices, one for each hour, then in theory each time zone winds up being 15 degrees wide.

The Eastern time zone is five time zones west of the prime meridian in Greenwich, England. That means Eastern time is centered on 75 degrees west longitude, a line that runs roughly through Philadelphia. So in theory, Eastern Time should mean the slice of the earth’s surface all the way from 67.5 degrees west to 82.5 degrees west.

But wait! Almost the entire state of Michigan lies west of 82.5 degrees longitude.

Which means that by all rights the state should be in the Central Time zone.

And in fact, when the railroads drew the boundaries between time zones in 1883, Michigan was in Central Time. And it stayed there until 1915.

But here’s the remarkable part of the story.

Michigan might still be on Central time today if it weren’t for a man who lived in Detroit named Dr. George Renaud.

Dr. Renaud was the founder of the More Daylight Club, which at its outset in 1907 had a grand total of two members.

So what was the purpose of the More Daylight Club? Well, it was right there in the name. Dr. Renaud didn’t like it when the sun went down before 5 pm in the winter and before 9 pm in the summer. He figured that if Detroit could just observe Eastern Standard Time, like its sister city of Windsor Ontario right across the river, then everybody would get to enjoy more daylight hours in the evening.

Keep in mind, this was before the invention of Daylight Saving Time, which is a whole different kettle of fish. Renaud had his own charming name for the concept. He called it “Fast Time.”

Here’s how Renaud described it later, in an article that appeared in 1916 in The American Review of Reviews.

VOICE OF GEORGE RENAUD: The agitation for Eastern Standard Time was an effort to recover several hundred hours yearly of daylight that were lost in the early morning hours, before arising, and utilizing them at the end of the day for purposes of recreation, outdoor living, health, et cetera. The scheme is based upon the fact that our habits are regulated largely by the clock. Under Central Standard Time, during nine or ten months of the year the sun was shining from one to several hours each morning while we were asleep, while darkness rapidly approached soon after the end of the day’s work. If the advantages of recovering much of this waste of daylight, there can be no argument. As to the method of doing so, the adoption of a fast time offers the only logical, feasible, and practical method for a community.

WADE: At first everybody thought the More Daylight Club’s idea was…pretty dimwitted. When Renaud organized a city-wide ballot initiative in 1908, he lost in all 150 precincts.

But the club gradually found more supporters, including downtown retailers, who had visions of consumers strolling and shopping for an extra hour.

By 1915 Renaud was able to convince a majority of the Detroit City Council to defect from Central time and join Eastern Time.

Later, other Michigan  cities like Lansing and Grand Rapids followed Detroit’s lead.

And in 1931 the state legislature moved the whole state into Eastern time, except for a few counties of the Upper Peninsula that really ought to be part of Wisconsin anyway.

So, to bring this all home: The reason I grew up thinking that gloriously late sunsets were normal was that I was born in a state that had been on the eastern edge of the Central time zone, but then decided to be on the western edge of the Eastern time zone.

And I didn’t know it then, but I had Dr. Renaud and the More Daylight Club to thank for it.

And I also didn’t know it then, but when I moved from Michigan to Massachusetts, it was like giving away that gift from Dr. Renaud.

Now I live in a place that’s close to the eastern edge of its time zone.

Which means we Bostonians give up a lot of daylight. If you live in Philadelphia, at the center of the Eastern time zone, you get an extra 20 minutes of daylight compared to Boston.

Now, if Michigan could transplant itself from Central Time into Eastern Time back in the nineteen-teens, couldn’t Boston defect from Eastern time today and join the next time zone over?

The answer is yes, it absolutely could.

In fact, there’s a bill pending in the state legislature right now  that would do exactly that. In coordination with similar legislation  in Maine, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island, it would put most of New England into Atlantic Standard Time, where we’d join the Maritime Provinces of Canada .

And now I want you to meet the man behind that bill. I think of him as the Dr. George Renaud of our time.

TOM EMSWILER: So my name is Tom Emswiler. I live in Quincy, Massachusetts, where I've lived for the last 10 years. I'm originally from Virginia.

WADE: Specifically, Tom grew up in the DC suburbs in northern Virginia. He went to James Madison University in the Shenandoah Valley. After college he worked for a while as a legislative aide to a member of Congress. And then he got a graduate degree in health administration.

TOM: And then I moved up to the Boston area in 2011 to do health care stuff.…I knew that I was moving north, but I had no idea how far I was moving east. So you can imagine my horror, my first December in New England, and I had the Sun setting at 4:11 p.m., which I consider the daytime, not the nighttime. And I thought to myself, there has to be a better way.

WADE: As a legislative aide Emswiler learned the art of writing op-eds, mostly about health care and the federal budget. But one summer night in 2014, after he’d put his kids to bed, he sat down at the computer and wrote a very different kind of piece.

TOM: This thing poured out of me this idea that, gosh, maybe we're in the wrong time zone altogether, because we're hanging out in the ocean. Meanwhile, you have like, you know, … Pennsylvania kind of in the middle of the Eastern Time zone. So I thought to myself, what if we really should be in the Atlantic time zone?

WADE: Emswiler submitted his argument to the Boston Globe. And he was pretty sure they’d say no thanks, that’s a dimwitted idea. But the paper actually published it, in the Sunday edition no less.

TOM: It was on page K5 or whatever. And then something funny happened, which is people actually read it, which was a fun surprise. And it was, you know, it was like the top two or three read story up through, like Wednesday of that week. So it was it was lots of views, which was awesome.

WADE: Readers of the Globe got into flame wars over Emswiler’s idea in the paper’s comment section. And he even got asked to do a TV interview with the local meteorologist on Boston’s Channel 4.

After that 15 minutes of fame, most people would just go back to their normal lives. But Emswiler’s op-ed had struck a nerve.

Emswiler saw a chance to convert his idea into action. And he happened to know that in Massachusetts there’s a thing called a Bill By Request, where any constituent can submit a bill for the consideration of legislators. So he wrote up a bill describing this idea for transplanting Massachusetts into Atlantic Standard Time and calling for an official study of the idea.

And lo and behold, two state senators, including the senate president, liked Emswiler’s bill by request. They  picked it up and inserted it into a larger economic development bill.

TOM: [And so this is 2016, summer 2016, and it made it through. The governor has the governor has line item veto for spending, but also for like non-spending. So the governor could have taken it out and I think chose to just leave it alone. And so my little bill that could became law,   only a year or so after I filed it.

WADE: The new study commission had 11 people on it, including Emswiler. And he says they spent most of 2017 holding public hearings and writing up their findings.

TOM: And so November 1st, 2017, we produced our report and that report endorsed by the committee on a vote of nine to one with one absent. We endorsed…moving thoughtfully as a region…to year-round Atlantic Time.

WADE: Now, this shift isn’t as radical as it might sound. After all, from mid-March to early November, when most of the United States is on Daylight Saving Time, the East Coast is already on the same time as Atlantic Standard Time.

TOM: So it's the same time we have now, except instead of eight months a year, it'd be 12 months a year. And so then after that, I had to wait for the next legislative session to start. But in, I guess, January 2019, we submitted a bill to actually make the move and said if. If this bill passes, this means Massachusetts wants to make the move, and once we have. Maine, New Hampshire and Rhode Island together, the four of us will go to the US Department of Transportation, who handles time zones and say, we want to have this. We want to move time zones, so we're in the same time year-round. So in in 2019, I believe, a similar bill passed both houses of the Maine Legislature and it passed the New Hampshire House.

WADE: And that, unfortunately, was where Emswiler’s luck ran out.

TOM: It did have a hearing in Massachusetts. And by hearing. They do these smaller, less important bills en masse, and so there was a bunch of people lined up to testify about a bunch of different bills. And I was there, I think, by myself and I read my little statement. They have a Death Star clock counting down your three minutes. And so I had practiced and so I read my script. There were no questions. My bill was not acted on. And you know, that's how a bill does not become a law.

WADE: Emswiler and his supporters refiled the bill at the start of the following legislative session in January of 2021.

TOM: And so I have not heard anything. I imagine they will have some sort of hearing this fall. So that's where we are.

WADE: Emswiler isn’t sure why the bill seems to be stalled in the State House right now. He says almost everybody he talks to seems to like the idea.

The only group that’s ever raised serious objections to the plan is the radio and TV broadcasting industry. Their problem with it  is that they have to work around the live network feeds out of New York, which means that for four months out of the year, when Atlantic Standard Time and Eastern Standard Time are actually an hour apart, the morning news shows and the late-night talk shows would air an hour later, and people might decide not to watch them.

TOM: I think a lot of people base their sleep schedule on what they want to watch on television at night…Now I'll give you one guess who doesn't want people to go to bed an hour early and stop watching television? Can you tell me who you think it is?

WADE: Gee, could it possibly be The National Association of Broadcasters?

TOM: Right. They want eyeballs on their advertisements for 409 and Cheerios.

WADE: So that’s a battle of the TV schedules is one that Emswiler hasn’t figured out how to fight. But he is encouraged by the fact that Massachusetts Senator Ed Markey is part of a bipartisan group of senators who’ve introduced a related proposal called the Sunshine Protection Act.

If that act became law, it would make Daylight Saving Time permanent across the nation. We’d stop switching our clocks back and forth. It would be like moving the entire country one time zone to the east. So in that sense, it would do exactly the same thing as Emswiler’s proposal.

WADE: Would you be equally happy with both of those alternatives? Because they accomplish the same thing, It's just a different way of framing it, right? So do you think the framing matters?

TOM: I mean, it doesn't matter to me. I just want the outcome. I think when you're talking about a local move, you have to think about moving time zones. What has more momentum over the last two years or so is a national conversation to stay on Daylight Time year round… And that would be  fine with me too.

WADE: That would amount to an admission that we misplaced all of the time zones, basically that we're agreeing as a country that we're going to shift the whole country one time zone to the East because the ones that the railroads created in the 1880s just don't work for us anymore, right?

TOM: I mean, ideally, yeah, that's the thing, because before the railroads, everyone just would look up and say, Is it noon yet? Right? …Solar noon is different at every point on the globe, right? So you could either have one time zone like China, but that I don't think it's popular. So then you could have time zones. And if you're going to have time zones, what makes the most sense for how we live now? And most people, for better or for worse, summer time fits more with their work, sleep, entertainment, family schedules.

WADE: Ok. I'd like to do a little game show here. I went through all of the comments that people left on your Globe article, and there are 164 of them. And I tried to boil them down into categories and kind of combine comments together that that were similar to each other. So I have a list of summary objections to your idea, and I wondered if it might be fun to kind of run through them and ask you to respond quickly, sort of in a lightning round style. We don’t need to spend an hour on this, but I’d love to hear your quick answers.

TOM: Sure.

WADE: Ok, so the first one and really the most common one was…if the sunrise was later, kids would be going to school in the dark, in the middle of the winter. What's your reaction to that?

TOM: As someone with two small children, nothing is more important to me than the safety of our kids. The American Academy of Pediatrics came out with a study a few years ago called Let Them Sleep, saying that no school should start before 8:30. 8:30 is well after a late Atlantic Time sunrise, which would be about 8:14.

WADE: Ok, that's a good answer. Some people just genuinely seem to prefer sunshine in the morning to sunshine in the evening.

TOM: Yep, it's personal preference. Some people like to jog. Some people like to take walks after dinner. I guess there's two different types of folks. Totally personal preference. I'd rather not lose the first 45 minutes of daylight while I'm sleeping, as opposed to being raking leaves in the dark at 4:55.

WADE: A couple of people said that the surrounding states would never go along, that it would be too hard to get New Hampshire and Maine and Rhode Island and Massachusetts to act together on anything, and therefore the idea is a non-starter.

TOM: Those other states are waiting for us.

WADE: Ok, cool. A more cynical person said politicians in general will never be able to get their act together since they live on a different planet and they can't do anything useful. That's a somewhat jaded response, I guess, right?

TOM: Yeah, I mean, I think that's an argument for…a ballot initiative, right? Where we check the box, yes or no. Yeah, I think that would be great. I think if we had a ballot initiative, it would pass and it would be a done deal, at least the Massachusetts part….But I think it's right that the Legislature is very cautious and it's going to need to be overwhelming to get them to move.

WADE: Ok. Here's another con. It would be too disruptive to business if Boston were on a different time zone from New York…I guess that that's the argument that goes all the way back to the 1880s that New York is sort of the financial heart of the eastern seaboard. And therefore we should all be on New York time. Which, Eastern time basically is New York time.

TOM: Sure, yeah. That is a valid point. It doesn’t affect Boston. I think the  Providence, Boston, Manchester, Portland mega metro area doesn't need to worry about New York. I think folks in Connecticut might want to make their own decision. There's a bill in the Connecticut Legislature to join us. Most people I talked to in Connecticut hate the shift and would be happy to come along. But I take the point that people who, you know, get on at the Stamford station and take the train down, you know, to New York City might want to be on the same time as New York, but that's a conversation for Connecticut.

WADE: Ok. There was another group of commenters who felt that if you're going to mess with time, the only acceptable change would be to abolish summer time and go back to Standard Time year round so that we could quote, “Experience time as our forefathers did.”

TOM: Sure. Again, right now in summer, the sun rises at five o'clock on Standard Time, the sun will rise at four a.m., which means it would get light at 3:30 a.m I think that is too early. People are binging Netflix past 8 o’clokc. So no one wants to get up at 3:30. Almost no one.

WADE: Yeah, yeah, it's a good point. Ok, and finally, this whole question about time zones is really unimportant, and people who think about it aren't being very serious and should just find something more important to worry about and/or just get it over with and move to their time zone of choice if it's so important to them.

TOM: Let's do it.

WADE: I mean, you know, you want all of us to move to our time zone of choice.

TOM: Right.

WADE: But you're not moving to Newfoundland, right?

TOM: Right. I’m very popular with the Canadian Maritime press, by the way. I’ve done several interviews with their radio stations.

WADE: Now if we really want more choice in how we relate to time and how we adapt to the movements of the sun, there’s something else we could do that would be even more radical than switching time zones.

And that would be to abolish time zones altogether and live according to whatever schedule suits us .

And next I’m gonna introduce you to two scholars at Johns Hopkins University who think we should do exactly that.

DICK HENRY: I was born 81 years ago in Toronto, Canada.

WADE: That’s Professor Richard Henry.

DICK: Growing up, I was a junior astronomer and I managed to get into the University of Toronto and got my degree in astronomy, actually. And then I came to the United States, to Princeton to get my  Ph.D. and then subsequently I was at the U.S. Naval Research Laboratory. And I've spent the bulk of my career here at the wonderful Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, Maryland.

WADE: Professor Henry and a colleague of his from Johns Hopkins have a big idea about how we should manage clock time. But to get there, first we need to talk about calendars.

Every summer Professor Henry used to teach a four-week course about stars, for astronomy beginners.

DICK: And it was basically the same every time. It's an elementary astronomy course, what's what's going to change? I kept it up to date, of course, but it was so annoying to me that the handout that I gave to the kids had to be changed each year simply because the stupid calendar changed from year to year.

WADE: Say the course started on the third Monday in June. The problem was that every year the third Monday would fall on a different date, so Professor Henry would have to reprint the syllabus.

DICK: And I said to myself at one point, I'm a scientist, can I not possibly figure out a way we can avoid this? And I quickly discovered that it had been considered before, and it would be easy to avoid it. And the answer was there. A n intercalary. Instead of February 29, have an extra week every five or six years.

WADE: So to reiterate , what Professor Henry is saying is that it would be easy to create a permanent calendar where every year is the same. January 1st would always be a Monday, and August 1st would always be a Wednesday, and so forth.

To make it work we’d have to declare that a calendar year is 364 days long, or exactly 52 weeks of 7 days each.

But of course an astronomical year isn’t 364 days, it’s 365.24 days. That’s why we insert a leap day, February 29, every four years, to keep the calendar from drifting too far away from the seasons. Except in years divisible by 100, in which case we don’t insert a leap day. Unless those century years are divisible by 400, in which case we do insert a leap day. It’s all very very confusing.

Henry’s proposal is that we get rid of leap days and leap years entirely. In their place, every five or six years we would insert a mini-month that’s exactly 7 days long.

This intercalary month would fall after December 31st and before January 1st. Henry proposes that we call the mini-month Xtra or just X.

So far, so good. Though exactly how you’d get everybody on board with that kind of change is beyond me.

But Professor Henry’s next thought was, if you’re going to create this beautiful permanent calendar, why not fix the clock too, so that the time and the date a re always the same everywhere on Earth.

In our current system it can be two different days at the same time, which is just…weird. Say you’re in Los Angeles and it’s 3 in the afternoon on Friday November 5th. Well, in Sydney, Australia, it’s already 9 in the morning on Saturday November 6th.

Or say you’re on a boat in the Pacific and you sail west across the International Date Line. Suddenly it’s one day later. It’s goofy and it gives you a headache just thinking about it. But it’s the only way to run things when you have a system of 24 time zones.

The obvious way to end the headache would be to get rid of time zones altogether and instead declare that there’s only one global time.

That time would be Coordinated Universal Time or UTC. Also known as Greenwich Mean Time. Also known as Zulu time.

So, Professor Henry started talking up his idea. But like Dr. George Renaud back in the early days of the More Daylight Club, he didn’t make much progress at first.

DICK: And so I started laboring away on that and I getting nowhere. And I happened to mention it to a great economist at lunch, Steve Hanke. And he said, Dick, this is a revolutionary idea. It would make all the difference to the profits of corporations and blah blah blah blah blah. And I said, Well, that's great, Steve. But I've been totally unable to implement it. And so he said, What did you say, Steve? I'll implement it. Well, anyway, we've been working on it ever since….And the 24- hour time is just part of the whole thing. It's one package…It all make sense and call us globalists. All right. Some people call that a pejorative term. I think it's a wonderful term. I'm a globalist.

WADE: Dick Henry’s fellow globalist is Steve Hanke, a professor of applied economics at Johns Hopkins. He’s a world expert on currency reform, and he’s helped a bunch of countries to relaunch their own currencies, including Argentina, Estonia, Bulgaria, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Ecuador, Lithuania, and Montenegro. And you know how the old saying goes: time is money.

STEVE HANKE: Dick, once he did introduce me to his thinking about the permanent calendar and then we got into Universal Time, we actually taught a joint seminar together on the calendar and time and had a group of Hopkins undergraduates working on these problems….They were focused mainly on the economic costs of these ad hoc, really arbitrary aspects, particularly of time. I mean, as you mentioned, Wade, we didn't even have time zones one hundred and fifty years ago, this is a completely arbitrary thing. And you would think logically, well, OK, if you wanted an artificial time zones, you'd have 24, you know, one per hour. Well, no, we have 39 and they are a hodgepodge. They don't even click at the hour, all of them. Some  click at the 30-minute point. North Korea and Nepal clicks at the 45-minute point. And then summer time, that oddity crept in…around a hundred years ago. The Germans, of course, put that in.  Thanks to Daylight Savings Time, we get a we get a dose of jetlag without even going any place…And Dick and I have argued that Coordinated Universal Time or UTC or Greenwich mean time, Zulu Time, whatever you want to call it, should be every place…

WADE: A quick side note: since Universal time is built around the zero hour in Greenwich, or Z, it’s also known as by the NATO phonetic alphabet word for Z, which is Zulu. 

STEVE: I think, Dick, the best thing—you mentioned globalists. We should just call this Earth Time. Because Dick likes to point out as an astrophysicist that the time is literally the same every place on Earth.   The thing that's artificial is the fact that we've got these damn watches and clocks in which somebody imposes an artificial setting on us. Instead of all being set at the same time, they're set at a variety of times. Thirty nine, to be exact.

WADE: Professor Henry and Professor Hanke call their package of calendar and time reforms the Hanke-Henry Permanent Calendar. You can read all the details at hankehenryontime.com.

Now, historically it’s really hard to get everyone to change their calendars, as evidenced by the fact that we haven’t done it since 1582, when Pope Gregory XIII abolished the old Julian calendar.

Our current Gregorian calendar isn’t perfect. But speaking for myself, I’m not sure that the confusion over which day of the week falls on which day of the year is bad enough to motivate the world to switch to a different system.

But the tangle of time zones is a completely   different matter. To Professor Hanke, the economist, that system has real costs that we have to deal with every day.

One of the reasons Hanke thinks civilians will eventually switch to a single worldwide time zone is that in sectors of the economy where everyone needs to agree what time it is, they’ve already done it.

STEVE: You had pilots going to Zulu time in the mid-70s. It's a matter of time and distance. The faster things go, that is when the logic of time zones gets destroyed.

WADE: You can think about it this way. Once railroad locomotives could go faster than horses, we had to let go of solar time.

Now a Boeing 787 can travel from Tahiti to Paris in 16 hours and cross 12 time zones along the way.

A digital packet on the Internet can travel all the way around the world in under one second.

So maybe we need to put aside the idea of local time altogether.

STEVE: All economic transactions have to be done in Universal Time, otherwise it gets very confusing. When did I buy gold in Mumbai? What time zone was the time stamp in?...Can you imagine, if you weren't using Universal Time? There'd be so many lawsuits about when you actually bought something and what the price actually was supposed to be. And then you've got computers, of course, and GPS and all these things. Everything is on Universal Time. So this is happening spontaneously without  Hanke and Henry uttering a word about the thing. We are winning that battle without even doing anything. So…we think Universal Time, it really is right around the corner.

WADE: Okay, so far I’ve been talking about the logic behind a permanent calendar with only one global time zone. But I haven’t asked how it would feel to actually live that way.

And I haven’t talked about how it would help solve the pet peeve that got me started on all this, which is that here in Boston we’re stuck with ridiculously early sunsets.

So here’s how it all ties together.

In a world where everyone observes the same time, everybody can  go back to running their lives around local daylight hours.

So, for example, on October 30, the day I’m recording these words, the sun would rise here in Boston at about 12:15 Universal time. I’d probably get up a little before that, at 11:30. I’d walk the dog and have breakfast and sit down to work around 13:00.

I’d break for lunch around 16:30. The sun would set about six hours later, at 22:40. I’d quit work around that time and then I’d have dinner at Zero hundred hours, at which point the calendar would flip over to the next day. And I’d go to bed around 04:00.

People in San Francisco would do all the same things, but about three hours later. They’d get up around 14:30, they’d eat lunch around 19:30, the sun would go down for them at 02:12, and they’d go to bed around 07:00.

But their actual routines would be up to them. The point is, people in every part of the world would be free to adopt a schedule that makes the best use of the sunlight available in their location.

No more raking leaves in the dark. No more switching back and forth between Standard Time and Daylight Saving Time. No more little pocket time zones where the clocks are 15 minutes off or 30 minutes off the rest of the world.

Before we finish talking about Universal time, I want to mention one more benefit to getting rid of time zones.

So remember how I started this podcast about 20 hours ago talking about those late summer sunsets I loved so much when as a kid? Well, it seems that life on the outer rim of a time zone may be hazardous for your health.

STEVE: There are huge health costs associated with…being at the border of a time zone like you were out in Michigan, going to bed too late. People are overweight. More people have diabetes. There are all kinds of health problems associated with that.

WADE: What Professor Hanke is referring to is a study that came out in 2019 by a pair of health economists named Osea Giuntella and Fabrizio Mazzonna.

It was a brilliant paper in that it used the existence of boundaries between time zones as the basis for a kind of natural experiment.

If you control for everything else, do people living on the right side of the boundary have better or worse health and economic outcomes than people on the left side?

The hypothesis Giuntella and Mazzonna went in with was that people on the right side of a boundary – in other words, people who live on the far western edge of their time zones — end up getting less sleep.

That’s because they stay up later to enjoy those late sunsets, but they don’t make up for it the next morning by sleeping longer, because they’re still on the same work and social schedules as everyone else in their time zone.

And the hypothesis turned out to be true, with some pretty devastating consequences.

People on the western edge of a time zone get 19 minutes less sleep on average and have significantly higher rates of obesity, diabetes, heart disease, and breast cancer. They even have lower per capita income, thanks to lost productivity.

STEVE: If you look at the peer reviewed journals in health, there is a lot of economic evidence that the cost of having time zones is very significant now. So it's better to use the Universal Time and do what we've done for millennia. And that is, just follow the sun.

WADE: At this point I need to acknowledge that there is one place in the world that has already abolished time zones. And it’s not working out so great for everyone.

WADE: I wanted to ask you about China, where even though the country is about four time zones wide…The central government wants everyone to regulate their businesses and their schools and their activities according to Beijing time, which means a lot of people on the western side of the country wind up getting up super early, way before the sun comes up. And that seems like a counterexample. I mean, that's a case where you've got this this national time, but you don't have the flexibility to go along with it that that would allow people to regulate their lives according to their…natural solar rhythms. So how do you think about the China example?

DICK: I consider it an example of the worst features of both.…it's grotesque, and I'm very confident that in fact, the people on the extreme east and west of the whole thing simply readjust themselves regardless. Of course, when Beijing is speaking, they're speaking on their time.

WADE: I've read as well that there is an unofficial sort of Muslim time or Uighur time among people on the far western side of China. But that if you overtly sort of go about your life, you know, or if you're watch, you know, is set to Uighur time, you could actually get penalized for that.

DICK: Yeah, I suppose I n England, for example, there are still people who are going to a pub in order a pint, right?

WADE: Right. You don't get arrested for that, but you might be arrested in China for having some time other than Beijing time on your watch.

DICK: It's very possible. And it's disgusting.

STEVE: I think if you had freedom, if you weren't in China with an authoritarian regime, I think things would naturally evolve as they were over a hundred and fifty years ago. It would be more much more oriented towards solar.

WADE: So you think there would be more room for variety, flexibility and local choice?

STEVE: Yes.

WADE: I did ask Tom Emswiler about Hanke and Henry’s solution to the whole problem of time zones.

TOM: It's an interesting idea, and I was aware that air traffic control uses UTC. I don't know that people would go for it. I think it would be weird to have dinner tomorrow. You know, I think that might be too much for people to adjust to…I mean, the change I have proposed is so mild and it's about to turn 10 years old and…it's not moving anywhere…I proposed doing nothing eight months of the year. It’s so incredibly minor compared to the Hopkins idea . I mean, it seems like 80 percent of the people in Massachusetts are behind my idea, and that still doesn't. Still, not not good enough. And I think that this idea would probably get less support than that.

WADE: I wanted to end with a couple more kind of personal questions, I guess, or philosophical questions. So. So one is like, how do you imagine…it would affect you and your family if this if this goal were accomplished, if we did switch to Atlantic time or year-round daylight time? How would your life be better?

TOM: Well, how would it be different? It'd be very minimal. It'd be like walking into a room and saying to yourself, …this temperature in this room is great. You know, you don't notice that, you know, you only notice if it's if it's too hot or too cold. If it's the right temperature, you don't, you don't remark it to yourself, right? So I think instead of looking up at the December sky and saying, Oh, I can't believe it's three and I can't even see the sun that's behind the trees already. You know, we would end our day and not really notice anything. We'd notice very gradual change in the Sun setting earlier, but … it wouldn't be so stark and dark.  rI do think it'd be a minimal change. I think it would be better if we didn't have spring forward. When everyone gets jet lag, I think we'd get we wouldn't lose any sleep in the spring and we wouldn't have the stark change in the fall. But I do think it'd be something that we wouldn't really notice too much.

WADE: You've been working on this and thinking about this and writing about this for almost a decade. Have you developed kind of a philosophy about the human relationship to time? And maybe I should give you some context.  I mean, my own point of view from having thought about this…. you know, I was I wrote a research paper when I was an undergrad about the invention of Standard Time. And so I had to kind of dig out the whole history of the railroads and why it was important to them to get on a coordinated time system. And it was really important because you couldn't have trains running on the same tracks. At the same time, you needed to know what time it was right. But you know, that was one hundred and fifty years ago, and I feel like clock time is supposed to be a convenience. It's supposed to be a tool. It's not supposed to be a straitjacket. And it shouldn't be a big surprise if a system we created in the 1880s, you know, doesn't serve us well anymore, and we should be ready and willing and able to alter it to suit modern needs if that's the right thing to do, since time is fundamentally arbitrary to begin with .

TOM: Yeah, it's an interesting thought. I do think having some guideposts is good, but we shouldn't let time boss us around. You know what I mean? We should be in charge of it, not our television shows or anything else. It's never a bad idea to take a step back and think to yourself, is this is how I want to live my life? Especially as you have life changes, you know, if you have small children, you might want to do one thing. If you're an empty nester, you might want to do something else. Or if you don't have children, you might want to do something different. So it's always a good idea to step back and reflect.

WADE: Out of all the time and calendar reforms we’ve been talking about, I think the one that’s most likely to come to pass here in the U.S. is the Sunshine Protection Act, which would make Daylight Saving Time permanent.

I’d be happy with that, because it would make those winter months a little less dark and gloomy here in New England.

But in the end I think there are some other shifts happening in the way we relate to time that may end up being just as important.

One is the mobile device revolution. Now we all have supercomputers in our pockets or on our wrists that stay synchronized to the microsecond because they’re all tied into government-run atomic clocks. On top of that our phones and watches can show us at a glance what time it is in Boulder Bangalore or Beijing and whether it’s daylight or nighttime in those places. So in effect we’re able to stop thinking about time so much and leave it to our devices.

That’s bolstered by a second change, which is the Zoom revolution. Every day we’re having fewer spontaneous phone calls and more appointment-based video conferences with people in other cities or countries or continents. Zoom bridges distance and gives us a little window into one another’s lives, as if we were all living in different rooms inside one giant house. In reality some of those rooms are in different time zones. But at least we don’t have to figure out the time differences, because Zoom knows where everybody lives and it can put the correct appointments straight into our calendars.

And then there’s the even bigger change that Zoom enabled, which is the whole work-from-home revolution. It started out during the pandemic as a public health necessity. But then we realized that working from home pries us all loose from all the office and commuting routines that we never really liked anyway. When you manage your own schedule, you can use the daylight hours anyway you want.

I guess I think Steve Hanke is right. We’re winning the time war without even doing anything, because even 200 years after the invention of the steam locomotive, speed and connectivity keep erasing distance.

When many minds meet up in virtual places, it doesn’t matter where anybody’s physical body happens to be located. We’re all living in the infinite present of cyber time.

And then when we turn off our gadgets, we’re back on our own time. We can go outside and greet the sun and ride it all the way to the late summer twilight.

WILLOW: That story was produced by Wade Roush. It first aired on his podcast, Soonish, in 2021. 

Wade is an independent journalist and audio producer based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He’s been reporting on science and technology full-time since 1995.

You can learn more about him and his work at waderoush.com. And you can find Soonish at soonishpodcast.org.

And - just to give you an update - The legislation in Massachusetts that Tom Emswiler was promoting, to move Massachusetts into the Atlantic Standard Time zone if the other New England states did the same, never made it out of committee. 

So, I have a very exciting announcement. We recently launched a new podcast for kids. It’s called Once Upon a Meadow. Here’s a sneak peak.

Once upon a time, there lived a community who shared a meadow, with a stream running through it. There was Bear…

BEAR: Grrrrr

WILLOW: Crow…

CROW: Caw, caw

WILLOW: Honey Bee

HONEY BEE: Zzzzzz

WILLOW: And many, many others. The critters in this meadow were friends. And most of the time, they lived together happily. But sometimes there were problems.

SQUIRREL: People leave behind their trash, and I’m not very good at resisting their discarded food.

BEAVER: Everyone goes down into the stream to drink in the morning, and then pees into the water!

RABBIT: Yuck (spitting sounds)

WILLOW: We all know how hard it can be to solve problems. Especially when you’re upset. But the plants and animals in this meadow always find a way to work together.

BEAVER: I gathered these saplings from along the stream. Now, I’m going to plant them where I cut down too many aspens and willows.

TURTLE: I will work with you.

RABBIT: Me too!

ANIMALS (singing, together): 

Plant, plant, plant your tree

Gently by the pond

Merrily merrily merrily merrily

Nature will respond

WILLOW: Each week on Once Upon a Meadow, we share a story. And we talk with kids about the story’s message. 

Plus, we have coloring pages, scavenger hunts, and other activities that young listeners can do.

You can find Once Upon a Meadow wherever you get your podcasts, and at onceuponameadow.com.

Hey everyone, I just wanted to remind you that our virtual happy hour is March 10. If you’re not already supporting Out There on Patreon, sign up by March 5 to get an invitation. Just click the link in the episode description.

The story you heard today is from Soonish, and was produced by Wade Roush.

Graham Gordon Ramsay wrote the intro theme for Soonish, and Titlecard Music and Sound provided all of the additional music in Wade’s story. Mark Chrisler from The Constant played the voice of Dr. George Renaud.

Out There and Soonish are both members of Hub & Spoke, a collective of idea-driven independent podcasts. Check it out at hubspokeaudio.com.

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Heeg. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

I’d like to give a big thankyou to everyone who is supporting Out There financially, including Doug Frick, Eric Biederman, Tara Joslin, Phil Timm, Deb and Vince Garcia, and the family of Mike Ludders. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you soon!

Fallen Sky

By Tamar Avishai, published by Out There Podcast

Released on Jan. 12, 2023

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke Audio Collective.

WILLOW BELDEN: Happy New Year, everyone! I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

We are hard at work producing our next season, which is set to launch this spring. Until then, we’re bringing you bonus episodes from time to time. And today is one of those times.

This story is about art. One specific sculpture, to be precise. And it’s about how that sculpture helps us pay attention — how it helps us see the earth around us in a new way.

The story is a guest episode from The Lonely Palette, a podcast that returns art history to the masses, one object at a time. Host Tamar Avishai has the story.

Oh, and - make sure you stick around at the end of the episode. I have some exciting news!

TAMAR AVISHAI: So even just to to start at our our most basic, you know, Panofskyan descriptions of what we're looking at - and I never actually get the chance to do this, so I'm going to take a crack at it...

NORA LAWRENCE: Do it!

TAMAR: So it's a large circle. It has a kind of surface-of-the-moon sense to it, where it's very organically a relief from the earth of stone that is covered in a reflective surface, kind of at the top of the stone, like where you would sit, like if it's.. if you could.  You know, but it's flat and and it looks almost like a stamp that didn't get quite enough ink, or that got pushed down on one side more so that you pick it up and it, it...yeah, it has that kind of semi-relief look to it, but it's still very natural looking. It doesn't like... Even though it's not entirely filled-in with the polished surface, it's, it doesn't look like it's missing anything. It looks like it's just adding some shade and some volume.

NORA: I apologize if I say...this was a little mistake that I actually love, was that you called the size of its stone when they're steel also.

TAMAR: Oh, really?

NORA: Yeah. And what's great about that is that it looks like stone and, you know, it looks like a ruin from the very moment it went in. Is this a meteor that hit the Earth? You know, is this, um, something that is from the future or the past? But, um, we really want it to feel like something that's completely integrated, and I think that idea of it possibly being stone gets to that, right? That it's, it's part of the landscape.

TAMAR: A man just walked by and said that it looked like an amphitheater.

NORA: Love it.

TAMAR: Something else that you don't notice from a distance, and that you only notice when you get closer, is that the entire thing isn't flat. And I think that that kind of lends itself to the amphitheater feel, is that the sides are a little higher and that the entire thing kind of comes in a little bit in the center and raises on the sides, which you notice more when the clouds are not reflecting in it. So, I mean, like any reflection of nature, it's constantly changing.  The reflective material also looks watery like it has, it has a surface of the water, kind of blurry fluidity to it.

NORA: I was here once, we had an evening event and so it seemed like it was dark out, but Fallen Sky was still quite bright. And I realized, you know, it is dark out, but when you actually look up at the sky, it's still really light. And it made me think of looking at a lake or an ocean at that kind of, you know, post sundown, but not quite fully, fully dark. And that body of water is lighter than everything else around it. And it's because of that. And it was kind of this interesting way of me kind of rethinking what I knew about nature through an artwork, which was fun as a Storm King curator to be able to do.

Anyone who has known me since I was 12 can tell you that my favorite all-time movie was, and still is, Apollo 13.  Maybe that will surprise you – I’m obviously pretty artsy fartsy and had terrible grades in math and science in school – but maybe you just haven’t seen the movie.  It’s got everything: adventure, historical accuracy, potent cinematic suspense even though everyone watching knows how it ends, and, of course, mid-90s Kevin Bacon in a towel.  And it also taps into something very real, and very primal, that lives in the heart of every kid: a morbid fascination with space, its unimaginable size and age and elusive materiality, a land before time, before dinosaurs roamed the earth: moon rocks, craters, desolation, nothingness, and no matter how many times I see it, and for all of the film’s drama, the most heartbreaking scene to me is when the astronauts have realized they won’t be landing on the moon after all, but still need to circle it to come back home.  And as they come as close to the moon as any of them ever will, these usually stoic right-stuffers with haircuts you could set your watch to are clamoring for window space, excited as little boys to be so close to those mountains and craters and bright putty-colored moon dirt, hanging in an endless black sky of stars.  There’s nothing on the moon, literally nothing, and yet it’s sublime.  Buzz Aldrin’s second man on the moon words will always live in the shadow of Neil’s steps and leaps, but they were so much more authentic to the romance of the moment, when he dreamily remarked on the moon’s “magnificent desolation.”  There’s a such a sincere romance for that pre-time nothingness, the contradiction inherent in something as tangible as moon rocks yet always just beyond our grasp.  Because really, how many of us will ever walk on the moon?  Even those of us who were supposed to couldn’t.  And so, because we can’t experience it, the world that existed before us, its ruins and romance, all craters, clouds, and sky, we have to dream it.  And some of us attempt to recreate it.

Sarah Sze’s “Fallen Sky,” the first permanent artwork installed at Storm King Art Center in twelve years, is this attempt.  It’s sublime nothingness in steel.  It simultaneously evokes the imprint of an asteroid that’s cratered into the earth and the remains of something that has been long abandoned, eroded by time and the elements.  It’s 36 feet in diameter, an enormous circular weathered bowl, like a map of the moon, comprised of 132 steel pillars polished to a mirror shine; it’s like pools of molten silver on top of what looks like old stone boulders.  It should feel ancient and inert, except for the fact that each steel mirror looks as though it’s craning its neck, reflecting the sky, which, you begin to realize, is incredibly alive and present and uncapturable, clouds and sunbeams moving at a frantic clip. You can almost imagine how much time it would have saved Monet in episode 7, trying as he was to paint the atmospheric course of the sun through the day and over countless canvases, to just install this sculpture.  And the overall result is an installation that is steeped in exhilarating contradictions.  It is always, in Sze’s words, teetering between two extremes, wonderous and futile, where the negative space is just as important as the positive space.  It’s an artwork about destruction, an active smash and imprint into the earth, that then slowly and intentionally evolves with it.  It’s about the presence of absence, remnants of something whole that is now half gone, but reflecting the living world, feeling both permanent and ephemeral, inanimate and alive, abandoned old ruins that are still disrupting their space, and yours.

Disruption is everywhere at Storm King.  Storm King is essentially an enormous sculpture park, a 500-acre outdoor museum in New York’s Hudson Valley, an area already indebted to its mountainous vistas and endless sky.  And the artworks are meant to interrupt this, what would otherwise be acres upon acres of open, cultivated land.  And when you walk around Storm King, you realize that there are a lot of different ways to be interrupted.  Sometimes it’s by altering the expected landscape beneath your feet, like in Maya Lin’s “Wave Field,” which undulates the ground like ocean waves, fluid and disorienting, like the Berlin Holocaust Memorial we looked at in episode 56.  But more often, your experience at Storm King is disrupted by a thing, that is, a giant, site-specific sculpture.  Some are rust-colored and weathered with patina, they echo natural forms, they’re spindly as spiders, they’re completely, organically at home in the landscape.  Others are freshly painted, brightly colored, like an enormous distracted toddler has dropped their toy from above.  But what these artworks all share the fact that they’re always unexpected.  They surprise you.  And not just because their forms are unexpected, but because their context is.  We’re used to seeing sculptures in a very specific context: a museum, surrounded by white walls and those little text boxes and the implied expectation that the goal is to understand what we’re looking at, or at least try to.  But when we’re outside, in the elements, out on a walk, on our own time, we don’t expect to be confronted with…expectation.  It’s just not the headspace we’re in.  We’re not as worried that we’re doing it wrong; we have more agency to walk around a sculpture, to experience it from all sides, to breath the same air as it.  And with every lungful, we realize that nature itself has been folded into the experience of appreciating this art.  We look up at the industrial pillars hammered into organic shapes, the studs and rebar that seem so out of place on a breezy hillside, and we begin to notice the environment itself, the way our bodies move in it, the way the sunlight streams through the clouds onto the metal, which is different than onto tree trunks, and then the gentle smell of sweat on a heavy hot summer day and the fresh cut grass and the buzzing of insects flying in plumes around clover.  And, you start to realize, this is the magic of environmental art, and land art, and art that’s just outside, really: when you’re interrupted by a sculpture in the middle of a landscape, it’s not really the sculpture you notice but the landscape itself.  And suddenly you find yourself seeing it again as though for the first time.

And this is what Fallen Sky, and any artwork by Sarah Sze, is really about: paying attention.  It’s an installation that is both of its environment and observing it, just like you are.  The polished surfaces themselves noticing a different piece of sky or tree branch or fast-moving cloud from moment to moment.  And just like Storm King shows us how many ways there are to be disrupted, Fallen Sky shows us how many ways there are to pay attention.  It asks us to pay attention to the otherwise unremarkable patch of land where it’s located, an area chosen specifically by Sze because it had been neglected, the basin of a large tree that had died and was removed, leaving an armpit-like crater on the path from one artwork to another; without Fallen Sky, it would just be some more twiggy, leafy land, although, to be fair, so would anywhere at Storm King.  But then, the ruins and reflections take our attention one layer deeper, drawing our awareness to the nature beyond the elements we can feel to the ones we can’t, to something far more primal: the slow machinery of the natural world that undergirds everything, the speed of the earth spinning, the movement of tectonic plates beneath our feet.  We know these things exist, we know they affect us, but we can’t feel them with our bodies, or truly grasp them with our minds.

This depth, these layers, this sense of slow, subtle environmental awareness, is what distinguishes Fallen Sky from so many other sculptures at Storm King.  From Fallen Sky, you can look out at the colorful amalgamations of Mark Di Suvero, that rise up from the land, visible from every vista.  You can see the Richard Serra, whose entire goal, as we discussed in episode 8, is to get all up in your space, to manspread, to compress you.  It’s the job of these sculptures to get in your way of your gentle nature walk.  But Fallen Sky is different.  Because it’s not about disrupting nature.  It is nature.  From the moment of its installation, Fallen Sky feels like it’s always been there, eroding, deteriorating, which is even reflected in the landscaping around it – Sze wanted grass planted to look scruffy and scrubby, like it grew up around something abandoned, always threatening to overgrow it.  And it calls to mind other works that attempt to do this, to defer to nature, to speak the language of their natural surroundings: for example, the Yucatan Mirror Displacements from 1969 by Land Artist Robert Smithson, who chose sites on the Yucatan Peninsula to simply place mirrors that reflect the sky.  Or Yoko Ono’s Sky TV from 1966, a live video feed of the sky above as transmitted into the gallery.  Fallen Sky almost feels like the child of these two artworks, and their logical next step.  Because while both Smithson and Ono’s works were created to be temporary, Fallen Sky is meant to be permanent, to appear perpetually eroding – not marking or reflecting or harmonizing with the landscape, but instead, becoming it.

This effect, both so gentle and so monumental, wouldn’t have been possible without two fundamental elements of Sarah Sze’s art, and process: materials and time.  Her work has always been an exploration of these ideas, the way they intertwine with and disrupt one another, and ultimately encourage us to again, pay attention, to make meaning of our world.  She was born in Boston in 1969, the daughter of an American school teacher mother and a Chinese architect father, and grew up surrounded by blueprints and models, erector sets and tinker toys.  She was originally trained as a painter – and she describes how learning to paint a figure quickly as though it wasn’t art but an athletic skill – she talks about how difficult it became to draw the distinction between painting, sculpture, and installation, especially as it relates to how the viewer experiences the work; none of these terms matter, she argues, when you’re out there in the real world, interacting with them.  Her art lies in always making things, paintings that become sculpture, sculpture that becomes installation, installations comprised of wholly unexpected materials.  And she is always, always exploring materials: how they can be manipulated, and how they can be stretched beyond their universal, utilitarian functions into something more profound.  She loves changing our perceptions of what materials are, or should be used for – she makes sculpture with the rubbery squish of dried paint, she processes stainless steel to appear as something else entirely: rock, stone, the mirror of Fallen Sky.  But then she takes it further, making us again pay attention to ourselves, to how we respond to these subverted expectations of what materials are supposed to do, to the way we use materials to make meaning of the world.  I mean, as we explored with Anselm Kiefer in episode 48, we infuse inanimate objects with life all the time.  The shirt I’m currently wearing could be worn, even as I speak, by a million other people.  What makes it special?  What makes it mine?

And this is where she introduces the element of time in her work.  Time is in a few different places: it takes time to walk around her installations, which can be carefully arranged, immersive jumbles of mass-produced objects that have no intrinsic aesthetic value, toothpicks and toilet paper and birthday candles and thumbtacks and aspirin tablets.  And it takes time to recognize this or that bit of bric-a-brac that evokes something in you, either because you appreciate it for its aesthetics – I mean, stare at a Q tip long enough and you can begin to notice and kind of like its clean white symmetry, its distinctive textures – and for what it might make you like of: I for one discovered Q tips when I was ten, rifling through the medicine cabinet, my bare feet on the cool patterned tile of my bathroom floor, looking at how my eyes seemed distorted in the silver fixtures on the sink, and whoa, suddenly I’m time traveling, I’m swimming in memory.  All because of a Q tip.  Picked out of a mess of stuff, it becomes my Q tip.  This is exactly what Sze hopes to evoke in us when we walk around her large, chaotic, extraordinary installations, which also feel like the natural next generation of Duchamp from episode 17, of Oldenburg from episode 49.  This is sculpture that has leapt off its pedestal, painting that’s poured out of its frame, into our space, blurring art and life, fine art and everyday crap, and give us the opportunity to stand with it and discover its value, with all the breeziness of a nature walk, in our own time.

And I’ll be the first to admit, this process isn’t easy, or obvious.  Granted, I’m the kind of person who watches Sleeping with the Enemy and secretly doesn’t think that the kitchen organizational styles of the abusive husband were all that bad, but even so, Sze’s installations to the average person can feel incredibly cluttered and unruly, like a giant’s junk drawer has finally exploded.  I walked around The Fifth Season, an installation in the interior museum at Storm King that temporarily accompanied the installation of Fallen Sky, and tried to find some purchase.  And I ended up finding it in the video projection of a bird flapping its wings over a photograph of a bird.  It was so simple, and so lovely, and in the midst of the mess, I was so gently disarmed, thinking about flapping wings in wide open sky and looking up from a beach and the wet sand between my toes.  All of this, Sze says, these installations, these materials, are in the service of experiences like that, of memory, and I’ll even concede that our brains, and our memories, don’t ever line up like cans of peas with the label facing out.  They are, quite literally, a junk drawer, a muddle of associations and triggers, colors and objects, scraps and emotions.  It’s wild what our brains do: we look at images and we recognize how our memories are compressed into single, photographic moments, what Sze calls “interior images,” that then expand to fill the space again, to fill whole years of our lives – in other words, all of being ten years old becomes just a handful of memories, triggered by a Q tip, or single frozen photograph, which is supposed to stand in for our memory.  But of course, the photograph itself is never enough.  It could never capture everything it evokes. 

And this is why Sze is so compelled to smear the boundaries between the inanimate and the alive, the past and present, and does this, specifically, by breaking down the relationship between the real and the represented in her own materials.    

What do I mean by this?  It’s conceptual, but bear with me.  Remember when we looked at Magritte’s impish pipe in episode 22 and we first confronted the idea that there’s a difference between a thing, an object, and the representation of a thing, a painting of an object.  Like a pipe isn’t the same thing as a painting of a pipe.  But we kind of ignore this in terms of our understanding of the world; I mean, even my toddler knows an apple in a picture book is the same as his crunchy snack.  And Sze, like Magritte, wants to break this relationship apart, point out that there is a difference, and make us pay attention to how readily we allow them to be one and the same, especially in the 21st century, bombarded as we are with images.  And while Magritte was admittedly trying to mess with us, Sze is genuinely trying to understand how we think, how we process a world of materials, of photographs, to evoke entire universes of memory and associations inside our heads. 

And so in her work, we always have real, and we have represented.  In the Fifth Season, for example, she used her iPhone to record a video of the rays of light that enter into the space and then projected that video onto the real light itself as it moves across the room, phasing the two, like a visual example of how the Edge plays off of his own guitar’s delay to create the melodic rhythm in U2’s Where The Streets Have No Name.  The real and the represented, in productive conversation.  The exhilarating contradiction of a frozen moment that once existed, and the perpetual dynamic present.  Like the ruins of the past, come alive in this moment, reflecting the clouds.

Which brings us back to Fallen Sky.  Blurring the boundaries between image and object, mirroring the clouds while itself so inert.  And standing at its base, you almost feel like you’re watching the earth think, imagine, remember, make associations.  You see it conversing with the sunlight as it moves across the sky, with the magnificent desolation of the moon, reflecting a landscape forever in flux, teetering between extremes, tangible as moon rocks and always beyond our grasp.  It’s a fragile pursuit, Sze says, paying attention to the world like this, to the world paying attention to itself.  And it’s also what makes living under this sky, with the ground beneath our feet, so wondrous, so futile, so utterly sublime.

WILLOW: That was Tamar Avishai, host of The Lonely Palette. This story was produced FOR the Lonely Palette, back in 2021. A big thank you to Tamar for letting us share it with all of you.

If you liked what you heard, check out all of the other episodes on the Lonely Palette. You can find it at thelonelypalette.com or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now for some very exciting news. For over two years now, I’ve been working on developing a new podcast for kids. And it’s going to launch very soon. So I wanted to give you a sneak peek. Here goes…

Once upon a time, there lived a community who shared a meadow, with a stream running through it. There was Bear…

BEAR: Grrrrr!

WILLOW: Crow…

CROW: Caw, caw!

WILLOW: Honey Bee

HONEY BEE: Zzzzzz…

WILLOW: And many, many others.

The critters in this meadow were friends. And most of the time, they lived together happily. But sometimes there were problems.

SQUIRREL: People leave behind their trash, and I’m not very good at resisting their discarded food.

BEAVER: Everyone goes down into the stream to drink in the morning, and then pees into the water!

RABBIT: Yuck! (spitting sounds)

WILLOW: We all know how hard it can be to solve problems. Especially when you’re upset. But the plants and animals in this meadow always find a way to work together.

BEAVER: I gathered these saplings from along the stream. Now, I’m going to plant them where I cut down too many aspens and willows.

TURTLE: I will work with you.

RABBIT: Me too!

ANIMALS (singing): 

Plant, plant, plant your tree

Gently by the pond

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Nature will respond

WILLOW: The new podcast is called Once Upon a Meadow. It’s designed for kids ages four to nine, and it’s set to launch next month. You can find out more at onceuponameadow.com, and I have a link to that in the episode description as well.

A big thank you to everyone who is providing financial support to Out There, including Laurie Richardson, Diane Pinkers, Tom Reynolds, Doug Frick, Eric Biederman, Tara Joslin, Phil Timm, Deb and Vince Garcia, and the family of Mike Ludders. 

In 2022, listener support made up two-thirds of Out There’s revenue. Two thirds! So I mean it when we say we couldn’t produce this show without you all. 

If you’re not yet a supporter but you’d like to get in on the fun and help pay for our next season, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. Patreon is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about. Like this podcast. Again, that’s patreon.com/outtherepodcast. Or you can click the link in the episode description.

The story you heard today is from The Lonely Palette, and was produced by Tamar Avishai.

Out There and The Lonely Palette are both members of Hub & Spoke, a collective of idea-driven independent podcasts. Check it out at hubspokeaudio.com.

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Heeg. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Happy New Year, and we’ll see you soon!

Fear is the Thing With Fins

By Matt Frassica, published by Out There Podcast

Released on Dec. 1, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke Audio Collective.

WILLOW BELDEN:  Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

We are hard at work planning out our next season, which is set to launch in the spring. Until then, we’re bringing you bonus episodes from time to time. And today is one of those times.

This story is about fear.

When you fear something, what do you do? Do you avoid it? Do you find ways to manage the fear? 

Producer Matt Frassica brings us the story of a marathon swimmer who has to overcome a fear of deep water every time she competes. It’s a fear that’s rooted in an experience she had as a teenager.

This story first aired on Matt’s podcast, The Briny, in 2021.

PAT GALLANT-CHARETTE: When I arrive at the ocean I will stand on the beach, and I’ll scan the water. I will look to see if there is any diving birds, and if I see any seabirds diving, that means there is a school of fish there. So I remove my wedding band, earrings, necklace and I do not wear tinted goggles. They’re plain goggles. Because anything that’s shiny, it’ll you know resemble fish scales, and so if a bigger fish, if something catches their eye, they’ll come in to investigate. And I don’t want to be investigated. (laughs) You know? So.

MATT FRASSICA: One day a couple of months ago, I called up Pat Gallant-Charette, who lives outside Portland, Maine. 

PAT: I am almost 70, I’ll be 70 in a few months. I’m a retired registered nurse. I’m in the International Marathon Swim Hall of Fame. And I hold six Guinness World Records for various swims. 

MATT: The title she’s most proud of is her record as the oldest person to complete what’s called the Triple Crown of open water swimming.

PAT: Which is around Manhattan Island, English Channel, and the Catalina Channel in California. 

MATT: Open-water swimmers like Pat aren’t allowed to wear wetsuits, even when they’re swimming in really cold water. But there is one piece of equipment Pat always swims with.

PAT: I bring a shark shield with me. It’s an electrical, invisible fence that sends an impulse, that if a shark gets near a person, it tickles their snout and they turn around.

MATT: This is The Briny, a podcast about the way we’re changing the sea, and the way the sea changes us. 

I live in Maine, and last summer, a woman was killed by a great white shark while she was swimming with her daughter off the coast. 

NEWSCASTER 1: Maine Marine Patrol says it is investigating the death of a swimming in possible shark attack off the coast of …

NEWSCASTER 2: If officials confirm this was indeed a fatal shark attack, it will be the first in Maine’s history.

NEWSCASTER 3: You can only go in up to your ankles at Popham Beach, a restriction added for swimmers, following Monday’s deadly shark attack at nearby Bailey Island…

MATT: There was a full-on shark panic, in the middle of a pandemic summer when it seemed like going to the beach was one of the few safe things to do.

Never mind that the experts said that great white sharks had always cruised the Gulf of Maine. And that this attack was the first fatality in the state since anyone had kept records. Or that the sharks were only interested in eating seals, not humans. 

Still, they put restrictions on how deep you could go at the state beaches. They said it was important to stay in shallow water because great whites are ambush predators — meaning they approach their prey from below. 

When I went back in the water, in the weeks after the attack, every time I put my head under, my heart started racing. I imagined seeing something coming up from the darkness. And two words kept repeating in my head: ambush predator, ambush predator.

That’s when I heard about Pat. When she’s training for a marathon swim, Pat always stays in shallow water.

PAT: I never, ever go deep unless it’s the day of the event. That’s the only time I go in deep water. 

MATT: And that’s because of something that happened to Pat decades ago.

PAT: When I was 13, my brothers and I went clam digging. My mother, before we left, she says, “You be careful of that incoming tide.” So of course, being teenagers, we didn’t listen to her. And we were clamming, and all of a sudden we had our baskets filled, and we turned around to head back to land which was only like 300 yards, and all of a sudden there was water surrounding us. 

So we had to abandon our clam baskets and our picks, and we had to swim for it. I mean I was only 13, and I had no fear. It was just like, ‘Oh, we have to swim a short distance.’ We were down by the jetty. 

So anyway we started swimming and all of a sudden, my brother screamed, “Shark.” And when he screamed “shark,” I could tell he was not kidding. The tone of his voice frightened me. And I turned around, and there was something right behind me that went down. And I really thought that was a shark.

And I panicked. I couldn’t swim. And I thought I was gonna drown.

 And I remember just flailing in the water, thinking this is it. And suddenly, maybe about 10 feet in front of me, a seal pops its head up. And it was a seal the whole time. It was not a shark. And I just couldn’t get over that I thought I was going to drown, and it was all from fear.

And I just can remember that fright that I had. And from that day forward, whenever I went back into the ocean, I never went deeper than my waist. Even when my children were youngerm we’d go to the ocean, it was always shallow water. 

Just that thought, that they might be out there, and having that fear instilled in me at such a young age, I mean it just carried with me. 

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first, Out There is supported by About the Journey, an original podcast from Marriott Bonvoy Traveler.

From a Black-owned bookstore in Washington, D.C. to the birthplace of the largest queer film festival, travel journalist Oneika Raymond connects with locals who speak to the heart of the dynamic places she visits. The people she interviews will tell you where to go, what to do and how to see the world in more sustainable and meaningful ways.

I checked out an episode about Dallas, TX, where Oneika visits the Texas Black Invitational Rodeo.

So - in case you didn’t know this - a large percentage of cowboys, historically, were Black. Oneika shares their story, and she takes us into the thick of the action at this legendary rodeo event, where hundreds of Black cowboys and cowgirls compete.

Search for About the Journey in your podcast player. We’ll also include a link in the show notes.

And now, back to the story.

MATT: You might think marathon swimmer would be an odd career path for someone like Pat. But something happened in her late 40s that changed her outlook.

PAT: My youngest brother, Robbie, at the age of 34, died suddenly of a heart attack. 

MATT: Her brother Robbie was a serious swimmer. And he had competed in this race called the Peaks to Portland, which is a 2.4 mile swim from Peaks Island in Casco Bay to a beach near downtown Portland, Maine.

PAT: And Robbie had won the Peaks to Portland twice. My son Tom was 16 years old, and he was swimming on a local high school swim team. And he said he wanted to swim the Peaks to Portland as a tribute to his uncle Robbie. And I remember saying to him, “That’s so sweet, I wish I could do the same.” And he said, “Ma, you can if you try.” And I thought, you know, why not? I’ll give it a try. And I started training. 

It took me over a year before I even qualified. But I remember that very first day, just standing there with all these young, slender athletes, and here I was, gray hair, overweight. And I remember just thinking to myself, ‘What the heck did I get myself into?’ And then I started to think, ‘You know Pat, who cares if you come in last? Who cares?’

So anyway, I started swimming, and at the halfway mark, I was at Fort Gorges, in Casco Bay, and something clicked. I just, there was something about the tranquility of being in the ocean. I remember seagulls were squawking above, and I remember seeing a couple lobster boats going by. And it was just so tranquil. And I said, ‘Wow, I really really like this.’ 

And any fear, I mean, I didn’t have any at that time, and I was just focused now on getting to the finish line.

MATT: Pat liked being out on the water so much that she decided to keep swimming. At age 59, she swam across the Strait of Gibraltar. A year later, she swam the English Channel for the first time. 

All through her sixties, Pat kept swimming, and breaking records. But every time she got in the water, fear came with her.

PAT: When I was swimming Northern Ireland to Scotland, that’s a tough swim. But I was probably a half a mile out. The sun was just coming up, and I see something bigger than me circling me. But I couldn’t make out what it was. But all I could see was something going around and around, and it was following me. And I was thinking, ‘What the heck is that?’ 

And about 5 minutes later it was still with me. And all of a sudden, it went vertical, and I said, ‘Oh my word, this thing is getting in position to come at me.’ It did come at me. But what it was was this sea lion. 

And we came face to face — coulda touched it.

MATT: Pat has had a bunch of scares like this. And she has seen sharks. But she remembers how panicking almost made her drown when she was 13. So she talks to herself to calm down.

PAT: I’ll say, ‘OK Pat, you have a shark shield. You have your crew that is watching for your safety.  You also hired a boat crew that has the pilot and his crew watching for safety. Don’t go to the negative thoughts. Just stay focused and swim.’

Like, swimming Catalina Island, that’s off the California coast, it’s a 21 mile swim. The start of it is at midnight. And when we arrived, they had to shine a spotlight on the water. And here it is, pitch black out. Well, when they put the spotlight on, all of a sudden, we could see all these shimmery fish. And I’m thinking, ‘Hm, I wonder what’s going to be following them.’ You know, that’s the first thing that I thought of, because great whites are known in that area. 

And then all of a sudden, we hear this sound behind the boat. It was a whale that was spouting through its blow hole. 

So I jumped in the water, and then I started my swim. And probably 70 percent of that swim, I felt as though I was in this like sound proof room listening to the sounds of whales communicate. That’s all I could hear. It was like music. 

One mile out, I had something go underneath me that was bigger than me, and I could’ve touched it’s dorsal fin. I let out this bloodcurdling scream. And my crew, they were laughing. I was like, “What the heck?” And they said, “Pat, Pat, those are dolphins. Look around you!” And there was about 100 dolphins that all congregated around me. So that was pretty cool.

But as far as the fear, I always try to put it on the back burner. I figure, I get in the car every day, and I could get in a car accident, but I don’t stop driving because I’m fearful of getting in a car accident. You know, life is a risk. And I’m not about to stop because there are some fears.

MATT: I’ve been thinking about fear, and caution, and when one or the other of those things is justified. Pat’s story is a reminder. On the other side of fear, sometimes there’s a pod of dolphins swimming with you.

WILLOW: That story was produced by Matt Frassica for his podcast, The Briny. 

The Briny tells stories about how we’re changing the sea, and how the sea changes us. If you enjoyed this story, check out all the other episodes. Just go to thebriny.net, or wherever you get your podcasts.

So, one of the things I’ve been doing lately is selecting stories for the next season of Out There. 

And the way this works is that we put out a call for pitches, and then freelance producers from all over the world get in touch and send us their story ideas. We pick the ones that are most promising, and then we work with the freelancers to develop their stories. 

This process takes months. Like, a lot of months. Each story is carefully mapped out. Meticulously scripted. We go through umpteen rounds of edits. And that’s before we even get started on sound design.

I love this process. It’s collaborative and creative, and it enables a really wide array of individuals to tell meaningful stories in their own words.

But it’s also expensive. Those freelancers who produce stories for us? They spend a lot of time on their pieces. And we have to pay them.

That’s why I come to you so often, asking for support. 

Listener contributions make up about half of our operating budget. YOU make this podcast possible. And the more of you who contribute, the more stories we can produce, and the better they’ll be.

To everyone who is already supporting Out There — thank you, thank you, thank you! Current supporters include Dani Flores, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia.

To everyone else who is listening, thank you for being a part of the Out There community. It’s important to me that this show be available to everyone, regardless of whether you have the money to help support it.

But if you do have the means to make a contribution, consider becoming a patron. Patrons make monthly contributions to the show, through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. You decide how much to give, and we take care of the rest.

Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to get started, or click the link in the episode description.

The story you heard today is from The Briny, which is produced by Matt Frassica. Special thanks to Pat Gallant-Charette. 

Out There is a proud member of Hub & Spoke, a collective of wonderful independent podcasts. The Briny is also a member of Hub & Spoke. And you can check all of that at hubspokeaudio.com.

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in 2023.

High on Failure

By Jordan Wirfs-Brock, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On November 10, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Bicycle bell rings twice)

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke, audio collective. 

(Bicycle wheel spinning and bells ringing)

WILLOW BELDEN: To start out today, I want to give a big shout-out to PeakVisor. PeakVisor has sponsored this entire season of Out There. And beyond that, they’ve supported the podcast for years. 

Having that kind of dedication from a sponsor is a big deal for a little show like us. It gives us a certain amount of stability, which means we can put our time and energy into things that matter — like creating thoughtful, introspective stories.

In case you’re not familiar with it, PeakVisor is an app that helps you make the most of your time in the mountains.

They have maps, information on trailheads, details on elevation gain, and much more. 

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This is the last episode of our current season. I’ll talk about what’s next for Out There at the end of the episode. But for now, let’s dive right in.

Today’s story is an award-winning narrative. It won a gold medal for best independent podcast from the Public Media Journalists’ Association (formerly known as PRNDI). The story first aired in 2016. And just so you know, there is some adult language in this episode.

(Theme music fades out) 

JORDAN WIRFS-BROCK: Ok, I want to know – what did you think when you first heard about what I was planning on doing? Be completely honest.

WILLOW: Well, on the one hand I was totally in awe. And actually kind of jealous of what you were doing, I kind of wanted to do it too. But on the other hand, I also thought you were insane. Like, completely and utterly insane.

JORDAN: Yeah, I get that a lot, and to be honest I actually agree with you, part of the time. I think I’m insane, a bit. So, fair enough. 

(Music fades in, piano groove, drums)

WILLOW: This is Jordan Wirfs-Brock. She’s a journalist in Colorado, and when she’s not reporting, she’s also a runner. A really hardcore runner. Today, she’s going to share the story of a race she did last spring. It takes place in the mountains of Vermont, and it’s one of the most challenging trail running races that’s ever been put on: 888 kilometers. That’s 550 miles, if you’re rusty on the metric system.

JORDAN: The race is called Infinitus. But in my head I call it Infin-EYE-tus, like an inflammation in your infinity gland. 

WILLOW: (laughing) OK, so, before we hear your story. A race this long is so far outside of the realm of comprehension for most of us. How does this even work? I mean, do you just start running, and then stop 550 miles later?

JORDAN: Pretty much yeah. It’s on a 26-mile course that’s shaped like a figure eight. So you run the loop over and over, and over. Basically, you’re doing a bunch of laps.

WILLOW: And, to put this in perspective, each lap is the length of a whole marathon.

JORDAN: Yeah, that's right.

WILLOW: So is there a time limit? I mean, I’ve never run 550 miles. How long does that take?

JORDAN: Once the race starts, you have 10 days to finish the full 888 km. You can take a break and sleep or eat whenever you need to, but the clock never stops.

WILLOW: Stop to sleep and eat — how does that work? Do you camp out?

JORDAN: Not exactly. There’s a ski lodge where people could go in and sleep. People als had RVs and trailers that they could sleep in. And you’re typically sleeping somewhere between four and six hours a night. 

WILLOW: So how did you train for this? I mean, for shorter races, you can run the distance that the race is going to be, ahead of time. But for something like this, how do you prepare?

JORDAN: Yeah, so, I had a training plan I didn’t always follow, but basically it included a lot of long and lonely runs. Like, there was one time I got home from work on a Friday night, and I started running at 7 pm, and didn’t stop until 7 pm the next day. Here's a clip from my audio diary. 

JORDAN (field recording): Ok, so I am about to start my 24-hour training run. Actually what I am doing at this very instant is putting something called, Anti Monkey Butt? Yeah, Anti Monkey Butt Powder, into my shoes, I’ve never used (coughs). Ugh, I just put it down on the ground and it splooshed up at me. I’ve never used powders like this. 

JORDAN (interview recording): You have to experiment a lot, with everything: food, shoes, other products. It’s the only way to find out what works. Anyway, later that night…

JORDAN (field recording): (Wind howling, crackling microphone) The wind right now is absolutely ridiculous. It is just whipping past me, taking all my heat away, sucking a lot of energy. It’s not very fun. But, other than the wind, things are great! 

JORDAN (interview recording): I sounded a lot worse by the end, but that was kind of the point, to get used to being miserable, and lonely. But really though, Infinitus is so different than anything I’ve ever done. It was a step into the unknown. Not just for me, but for all of the racers doing it. This was the first time this race had been held. And there had been things that were similar, but there was never anything quite like this. For example, there are six-day races, but you're running around a track, a quarter-mile or a one-mile loop, not out in the woods, out on trails. So really we were all kind of making it up as we went along.

WILLOW: So, one more question. And, this goes back to the part about you possibly being insane. Why? Why did you decide to do this race?

JORDAN: Yeah, I get that question a lot. And I’ll talk about it more in a minute, but I did this race because I was searching for my breaking point.

(Music plays, rhythmic strumming and melodic guitars)

WILLOW: So, spoiler alert, Jordan DID find her breaking point. She failed. Didn’t manage to finish the race. But unlike so many failures, which leave us feeling defeated, Jordan’s failure actually ended up being a good thing. In fact, she says it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to her. 

I’ll let her take it from here.

(Music swells, then fades)

JORDAN: My journey to Infinitus began where most idiotic-slash-brilliant ideas do: over beers with friends. I had just returned from what seemed the pinnacle of insanity: a race called Fat Dog, 120 miles and 29,000 vertical feet of gain in the mountains of Canada. After running for 34 hours straight, I crossed the finish line with a big stupid grin on my face. I felt great. I felt like I was just getting started.

I’d done a few other 100-milers, but they were different. In those other races, the last few miles, it was like I was dragging my own carcass. I typically finished on the verge of tears. There’s a lot of crying in ultra-running.

But after Fat Dog, I felt like I was finally getting the hang of this ultra-long-distance thing. Like my body and brain were adapting to this crazy sport. And I was curious: how far could I go?

See, for me running has always been this way to turn the impossible into the possible. It’s thrilling to complete the longest run of your life. The first time I ran nine miles, I was still in high school. It was in the Columbia River Gorge, at sunset. And I felt like a superhero. I wanted that feeling again, so I chased it, through a half-marathon, a full marathon, 50 miles, 100. Each time, it’s terrifying. You don’t know whether you can do it. But when you do succeed, something that used to be scary, unattainable, downright bananas,becomes real. Even becomes normal.

So when my friend Greg suggested a 500-plus-mile mountain trail race, I knew I was in.

Besides, it’s easy to say yes to something that’s nearly nine months away.

(Music plays, joyful strings)

From the moment I decided to run Infinitus, I knew I wanted to document it. So in my head, I wrote and re-wrote the script of how it would end. 

I pictured three scenarios. First, a triumphant victory. Not only would I finish the full 888k, but I would win. And I’d show the world that if the distance is long enough, the challenge tough enough, a woman can and will best the men. 

Or, I would make a heartbreaking departure from the race via ambulance, rushed off to the ER for kidney failure or flesh-eating bacteria or some other life-threatening injury.

Or, and here’s what I thought was most likely, after all chances of completing the full 888k had slipped away, I’d slog on to the last second, fighting to the end even when all hope is lost.

(Music ends)

None of these things happened. The real end is weirder, and better. I failed. On day seven out of 10, mile 377 out of 551, I broke. 

But let’s go back to the beginning.

The race was late May. When my mom and I drove up from Boston, Vermont’s rolling green hills seemed gentle, inviting. The trunk of our rental car was full of yogurt, baby wipes, chocolate, ibuprofen, six pairs of running shoes and too many socks to count.

I unpacked my stuff in a cross-country ski lodge that was our home base. And when I say “lodge,” it’s really more of a barn with a loft and old wooden skis and snowshoes hanging on the walls. And plumbing that only works for part of the year. It was there, the night before the race, that I first met race director Andy Weinberg.

ANDY WEINBERG: Yes, I think you’re crazy, I have to be honest with you. We were kind of kidding. We didn’t really think you would show up.

JORDAN: Andy is the grand architect of the pain and glory behind Infinitus. And it’s not just me he’s calling crazy, it’s all 10 of us who showed up to compete. Andy is known for putting on events that push people to their limits. And he designed this race to be next to impossible. 

JORDAN (field recording): So, you want to break us?

ANDY: Not necessarily, I actually want you to succeed. I’m sure you’ll be broken a number of times throughout the event, but that’s part of the fun for us. 

JORDAN (narration): He explained that our world was about to shrink down to a 26-mile stretch of trail that would be my home for the next 240 hours.

ANDY: We’re going to start at 8:08 in the morning, and you are going to run for 10 days. And Sunday morning, not this sunday but the following sunday, at 8:08 the race is over. 

JORDAN: Andy had sent us all an email two days before the race saying that the course had changed. Rumor had it that a deranged moose with a brain parasite was terrorizing part of the original trail. So he described the new route, a smushed, lopsided figure eight, with the lodge at the center. We were going to run this course 20 and a half times. 

ANDY: You’re gonna be on a dirt road, you’re gonna drop down to Silver Lake, also beautiful. You’ll take the Leicester Hollow trail, about four and a half miles, flat and runnable. Then you’ll climb Chandler ridge, and you'll come back around Silver Lake and do the three miles back…

JORDAN: We’d be running on snow-mobile trails, narrow foot paths, and some short stretches of dirt roads. He told us about a big black dog who lives on the course who might follow us. Andy assured us the dog was friendly.

And then we were off.

VOICE ON LOUDSPEAKER: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 (sound of bullhorn siren) 

UNIDENTIFIED VOICES: Yay, alright! (Sound of people running through grass) 

(Music plays, classical strings) 

JORDAN: My plan was to go out easier than easy. Walk as much as I wanted, stay relaxed. And I did. We started out on the upper portion of the figure eight. This 10-mile loop had a steep climb up Mt. Romance, then a sweet downhill cruise back to the lodge.

When I came through basecamp, I felt great. I was in and out, onto the lower part of the figure eight. I kept feeling good, even as the trail got tougher. 

This 16-mile section included a slog through a marsh with shoe-sucking mud, and a winding ridge-top trail that felt like going around and around in circles. I have to hand it to Vermont — I live in Colorado, where I’m used to running on rugged, high altitude trails in the Rocky Mountains. So I didn’t expect the trails to be that hard. 

But they were gnarly: rocks, roots, mud, logs to climb over, ankle-deep fallen leaves on the ground so you can’t see your footing.

I got lost on my way back and ran a bonus mile or two, but even that didn’t dampen my mood. One marathon down, 19 and a half more to go. 

(Music swells) 

Every time I came past the ski lodge, I had this system where my crew would check in with me. My crew included my mom of course, and a bunch of friends who later came to help out. They asked me to rank how I was feeling, physically and emotionally, on a scale of one to ten.

(Music fades)

JORDAN’S MOM: I’m gonna do a quick survey here. 

JORDAN (field recording): Pain is one, just my hip is a little tight.

JORDAN’S MOM: OK.

JORDAN: Mood is good.

JORDAN’S MOM: What’s that, eight or nine?

JORDAN (narration): They also wrote down how much I ate, drank, and peed.

JORDAN’S MOM: So are you going to take sandwiches? Or are you gonna take your…

JORDAN (field recording): (indiscernible) 

JORDAN’S MOM: You need to get more calories, I think. So you don’t get tired. 

JORDAN: I have plenty.

JORDAN (narration): Did you hear that? How I ignored my mom when she tried to get me to eat? Obviously a bad idea, but I was caught up in the rhythm of the race. 

Things went like clockwork for the first day. My pace was great, I was clicking loops off.

We recorded our progress on this big cardboard sign in the ski lodge. It had the names of the 10 racers and row of boxes. Every time we got back from a loop, we’d take a black sharpie and draw a circle next to our name in a box. Two circles per box, one for the top of the figure eight, one for the bottom. Fill 20 and a half boxes, and we’d be done. Simple.

(Music plays, somber piano) 

Around one am, after 17 hours and two and a half marathons, I stopped to sleep. My legs felt like lead. My body obviously needed a rest. And yet, I couldn’t really sleep. I’d doze for a few minutes then wake up sweating and feverish.

Reality set in after that first sleepless night. The next morning, back on the trail, my mom met me at the top of the swamp, which I’d come to call the Swamp of Misery. She brought me a pair of dry shoes and asked me how things were going.

JORDAN’S MOM: How ya doing Jordan?

JORDAN (field recording): Not good. Pretty much can only walk. 

(sound of footsteps on gravel, heavy walking pace)

JORDAN’S MOM: You’re doing, uh, you look pretty strong coming up here. Walking is fine. 

JORDAN: No, I have to maintain a certain pace or I’m not going to finish in time.

JORDAN (narration): My quads were totally useless, and I was pissed off. How, after all my training, was I bonking this early? I felt awful, but I didn’t want to get off schedule, so I just kept forcing myself to move. And for a while, it worked. I started to feel better. 

(sound of footsteps on gravel, running pace. Water bottle sloshing) 

JORDAN (field recording): Now that is a beautiful noise.

JORDAN (narration): The pack I carried has these water bottles. They slosh around and make a lot of noise, but only when I run, not when I walk. Usually I find it really annoying but, this time it was a welcome noise to hear. 

(Sloshing and running continue)

JORDAN (field recording): And just a few hours ago, I thought I was not going to run again for the next eight days. My quads were totally dead, and I had to walk for the last 17 miles or so. But, whether it’s ibuprofen, the walk break, who knows, but here I am running again. And a real run, not just the ultra shuffle. 

There’s a light drizzle right now. But it’s sunny on the mountains on the horizon. Gorgeous.

(Music fades in, upbeat classical)

JORDAN (narration): Things were going pretty well by day three. Even though I wasn’t eating enough, I was ahead of pace, had earned myself a bit of a buffer. Sure, things were hard, but at this point I was feeling optimistic, in control. 

(Music fades out)

Unfortunately that nice confident feeling didn’t last long. My mom drove out to meet me at the top of the swamp, at five am, with a dry pair of dry shoes and socks, like she always did. But this time, she brought something else, too. News. Bad news.

JORDAN’S MOM: So, you now know there are 21 laps required, not 20 and a half.

JORDAN (field recording): What?!

JORDAN’S MOM: He didn’t tell you, but…

JORDAN: What the fuck.

JORDAN’S MOM: I need to tell you that.

JORDAN: No I did not know that.

JORDAN (narration): You heard that right. They added an extra 16 miles to the race. This seems like a minor thing in a race this long. And if my head had been in the right place, I would have seen that. But I was stressed about every little thing. So I freaked.

I was also really mad that Andy didn’t tell me himself, that I had to hear it second hand. But I had no choice. I just carried on. 

JORDAN’S MOM: Do you want a sip of coffee? (Sound of metal mug clanging). You are doing great. Bye. 

(Music plays, piano)

JORDAN: When people hear about Infinitus, they often remark how boring it must be to travel the same trail over and over, day after day. But it’s not boredom that’s tough, it’s loneliness. Later that night…

JORDAN (field recording): It’s not even that anything is like hurting, or I’m that tired. It’s just like…

JORDAN’S MOM: It’s your mental head, yeah, so…

JORDAN:  (crying) I’m just not looking forward to being alone for the next four and a half hours. In the dark.

JORDAN (narration): I wasn’t joking about there being a lot of crying in this sport. 

My friend Greg, the one who got me into this mess — his dad Doug, was helping out at the race. And Doug was at the top of the swamp as I passed by.

DOUG: If you go slow enough I’ll walk with you.

JORDAN (field recording): Seriously?

DOUG: But you gotta go slow enough.

JORDAN: How slow? I’m walking pretty slow.

DOUG: Okay, okay.

JORDAN (narration): Nicest guy ever, right? I perked up instantly. I felt this surge of energy.

DOUG: And are you a talker?

JORDAN (field recording): Normally.

DOUG: That’s good, because I’m more of a listener than a talker. (Laughter)

JORDAN (narration): And we set off together into the dark woods. Not being alone made me feel excited, suddenly capable again.

The next day, some friends arrived to join my crew. My friend Vicky even ran with me. And as we ran, we chatted about ex-boyfriends and plotted future running adventures. When I hit rough patches, Vicky blasted 90s music from her phone to distract me. We also discussed, at length, who would play us in the film adaptation of Infinitus. 

(Music plays, playful brass)

I definitely call dibs on Jennifer Lawrence. My mom is definitely Sigourney Weaver. We couldn’t decide whether Andy, the race director, would be a sinister Brad Pitt or an Ed Harris-type.

(Music swells, then fades)

Joking aside, I had a problem. A big problem. I was basically starving. I had miscalculated how many calories were in my powdered drink mix. Once I was in the hole, calorie-wise, it just kept getting worse. 

Remember how my mom kept trying to get me to eat, and all I did was ignore her and nibble? Oddly, that’s what happens when you’re accidentally starving yourself. Food becomes really, really unappetizing. Normally, I love to eat. But now, everything turned my stomach, and chewing was this huge chore.

I should have been eating eight to 10,000 calories a day, but was probably only getting 3,000. In other words, even though I was running more than 50 miles a day, I wasn’t eating much more than I would need on a sedentary day at work. As a result, my muscles felt lifeless, and empty. Even a slow pace made me run out of steam. 

Yeah I know. Clueless. But that’s what stress does. It gives you blinders. 

(Music plays, guitar, intensity building)  

We did finally solve the problem. After several days of struggling to choke down solid food, my crew gave me something I could stomach. Ensure and other nutrient-dense meals in a can. Or, as my friend Vicky called them…

VICKY: Power shake!

JORDAN: Another thing that worked, my friend Sarah bummed a stick of butter off another runner, melted it into a bowl of lentil soup, and added some peanut butter. I finished the whole bowl off and immediately asked for more.

SARAH: Jordan would like you to buy…

JORDAN: My boyfriend, Ben, was on his way to Infinitus, and Sarah was writing him an email asking him to pick up groceries.

SARAH: …butter… olive oil … V8 juice, orange juice…Maybe more protein shakes?

JORDAN (field recording): Oh yeah, that goes on the list. Like, so many protein shakes.

SARAH: I am writing literally that, “So many protein shakes.”

JORDAN (narration): We also made sure to stock up on things that are full of fat.

SARAH: How do you feel about cheese?

JORDAN (field recording): I feel great. Vicky and I had a whole plan, we talked about all the stuff we’re gonna do. We are just gonna like, ask Ben to buy sticks of butter, and just like melt it over everything. Because I need more calories.

JORDAN (narration): Just so you know, in regular life I don’t just sit around eating giant bowls of butter and cheese. But you absolutely need to eat fat, sugar, and salt during a race like this. Lots of it. So, butter and cheese it was. 

(Music plays, cheerful violin)

By this point, I knew the course turn for turn, even in the dark. I was starting to recognize individual rocks and trees, even giving them names in my head. But every day, the course changed. 

JORDAN (field recording): The swamp of misery was extra miserable this morning.

JORDAN (narration): And yet, I actually learned to love that swamp, and the rest of the course, too. After a rainstorm, hundreds of tiny orange salamanders appeared on the trail. Stinging nettles sprang up overnight, and I met two guys with buckets heading down to harvest them to make salad.

And then, the not so natural wonders started appearing.

I think first I noticed the doll heads, stuck inside Mason jars on the side of the trail. Yeah, doll heads, the size of apples, severed from baby dolls. Eight of them, all in a row.

(Music fades)

And then there were toy hand-cuffs, also eight of them, on a bridge. They kept popping up, eight rubber duckies and eight squirt guns. Eight pairs of tighty-whities. And a life-size stuffed clown, dangling by its foot from a branch at the top of Mt Romance. It was creepy, but at least it meant you were done with the climb. Well, until the next time, of course.

I later found out the co-race director, Jack, was responsible, although at the time he staunchly denied it.

(Music plays, cheerful ukulele strumming, fades)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

This episode is supported by About the Journey, an original podcast from Marriott Bonvoy Traveler.

What does it  mean to travel better? In Season 2 of About the Journey, travel journalist Oneika Raymond takes us on a journey around North America to find out. 

I checked out one of their episodes, which was about Dallas, Texas. In it, Oneika visits the Texas Black Invitational Rodeo.

So, lets back up. When I think of cowboys, I usually picture a white dude. Or at least, I used to. But Oneika dismantles that impression. Turns out, a really large percentage of cowboys, historically, were Black, and Oneika shares their history. She also takes us into the thick of the action at this legendary rodeo event, where 300 Black cowboys and cowgirls compete in all your typical rodeo stuff: barrel racing, bull riding, steer roping, etc.

Search for About the Journey in your podcast player of choice. We’ll also include a link in the show notes.

Support for Out There also comes from Athletic Greens.

Athletic Greens is on a mission to help you take ownership of your health. 

Their signature product, which is called AG1, is a blend of 75 vitamins, minerals, whole-food sourced ingredients, probiotics, and more. AG1 can help with everything from better sleep quality, to recovery, to gut health.

My colleague Jessica swears by it. Plus, she says, it’s a nice treat every morning.

JESSICA TAYLOR: I was very surprised on how good it tastes. It’s definitely like a green taste, but it’s got like a sweet flavor to it.

WILLOW: AG1 is a small micro-habit with big benefits: it’s one thing you can do every day to take great care of yourself.

To make it easy, Athletic Greens is going to give you a free one-year supply of immune-supporting Vitamin D, and 5 free travel packs with your first purchase. All you have to do is visit athleticgreens.com/outthere, to take ownership over your health and pick up the ultimate daily nutritional insurance! Again, that is athleticgreens.com/outthere.

And now, back to the story.

(Music plays, cheerful ukulele strumming resumes)


JORDAN: The days, and loops, piled up. I ran through snow. I ran through 88-degree heat, which made my heart race like a gerbil’s and wreaked havoc on my GI tract. When I was feeling particularly awful, I listened to some audio messages my friends had sent me, like this one…

HELEN: Hey future Jordan, it’s past Helen. Yeah, I have no idea how fucking long you’ve been running at this point, and I have no idea how much you have left to do, or how you feel. But it’s actually just really inspirational to me that you decided to do this in the first place. Seeing you do these ultra marathons, it’s a reminder that we can do stuff that our body maybe doesn’t always want to do. And I feel like it’s really helped me do more hiking and also, totally separately from that, you’re fucking running so far, it’s completely insane, and, um, yeah, just the fact that your mind, that you decided to do that, is really cool. I feel like I know somebody who’s in the Olympics, but it’s way cooler, it’s actually way cooler than that.

JORDAN: Another friend told me that I was like an astronaut, experiencing something few people ever will and putting untapped human potential to good use. Running can feel solitary, even selfish. So hearing that what I was doing inspired people, got them to go outside, gave them strength when they were having a rough time, it felt like I was running for something bigger than myself. It felt like they were there with me. These messages really helped get me back out on the trail again, and, of course, they made me cry.

(Ukulele music swells, concludes)

Finally, nearly a week in, I was starting to get this race under control.

I started to eat, really eat. 10,000 calories a day, like I was supposed to. When your body is working properly in a race like this, you can return from running a marathon, house a giant burrito or entire pizza in a few minutes, and just keep running, no sloshy stomach or burping, or anything. It felt like I had a brand new body. I felt great, like the race had started over.

Of course, there’s always another problem to solve. Like my feet got bruised, and then so swollen they wouldn’t even fit into my shoes. So I borrowed a larger pair and padded them with rolled up socks. The pain made me feel lightheaded, but I kept moving. Even if sometimes moving meant sitting on a rock every 50 feet to cry, or fix my shoes, or both.

On day six, Ben, my boyfriend, was with me on the 16-mile loop. We were almost back, three miles from the ski lodge at the top of the Swamp of Misery, when…

(Sound of heavy rainfall)

I can’t really call it rain because it didn’t come down in drops, just waves of water. The trail turned into a river. It was so dark some of the other runners had their head lamps on, in the middle of the afternoon. 

Lightning was crashing all around us, so close it felt like we were in one of those Faraday cages. I was screaming. Lightning is one of my biggest fears, right behind mountain lions, and failure. Ben pulled me to the side of the trail, and we squatted under a tree as he told me to slow down, to breathe.

You know what I yelled back? “I. Am. Calm!”

Then something snapped. I stopped screaming and started singing instead, making up lyrics about whatever I saw: logs, ferns, the rusty oil drum by the side of the trail. And sorry, you don’t get to hear my improv solo, I didn’t have my recorder with me. I sang right up to the door of the ski lodge, where Vicky met me with the most delicious lukewarm cup of coffee ever.

(Sound of rain fades out. Sound of frogs chirping fades in)

The next morning, day seven, I was up before the sun. My feet looked like feet again, and I was wearing shoes that actually fit. Here I was, kind of in a routine. I’d run head-on into a problem: not eating, not sleeping, my swollen feet, the crazy weather, cramped muscles. And then, with the help of my crew, the other racers, the race staff, we’d figure out how to solve it.

(Music fades in, guitar riff)

Riding out problem after problem wasn’t smooth or easy, but it was forward progress. I was feeling tentatively optimistic, like I was actually going to pull this crazy thing off.

(Music swells, then fades out)

Then, something happened that I couldn’t bounce back from. On lap 14 and a half, I was by myself in the dark, running down the backside of Mt. Romance. My Achilles tendon had been nagging me since day two, but we taped it and got on with it. Now, all at once, it flared up. Bad. 

It was like someone was grabbing me by the ankle with vice grips and jabbing a knife into the back of my leg, dull and sharp at the same time. Every step made me gasp. I should have slowed down, walked, stretched. But I stubbornly kept running, maybe in a desperate attempt to prove to myself that I was okay. 

I wasn’t. I limped into the ski lodge like a wounded animal, stoically marked that loop on the cardboard chart, walked over to my crew. And then… 

JORDAN (field recording): (crying heavily) I pushed through so much, (indiscernible) I know, but I just want to be done. (crying)

JORDAN (narration): I fell apart.

JORDAN (field recording): Why is my nose bleeding? Like, what? I can’t believe that my nose is bleeding. Like, what?

JORDAN (narration): At this point I was lying on the floor, my foot in a bucket of ice, a wad of tissue shoved up my nose.

I’d been through a string of painful, ridiculous things. But this was different. It was clear, in that moment, that I wasn’t going to finish the race. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t run, I couldn’t walk either. I felt everything all at once: frustrated, helpless, angry, confused, and yeah, part of me was even relieved. 

Mostly, though, I was overwhelmed. I didn’t quite know how to process it yet. Every time I saw someone head out the door to run, I felt a twinge of jealousy. Because I didn’t know my last loop was going to be my last loop, it was like I didn’t get a chance to properly say goodbye to the trail. I had this silly hope that maybe I’d be able to keep walking, could crutch my way around the course or something. 

The next day, I iced and taped my foot. But my ankles looked like puffy pink logs and I could barely put any weight on my Achilles. It was clear I wasn’t going to be logging any more miles. It felt like my body and brain had conspired against me, teamed up to take the decision to quit out of my control.

If you’d asked me before Infinitus what I would have done in this situation, I would have told you that I’d leave. Just pack up and go home. That I’d be too upset, that it would hurt too much to see other people keep going when I couldn’t. But that’s not what happened. I stayed. After all I’d been through, that ski lodge, that trail, they had become my home. And the other amazing, brilliant idiots who started this journey with me became my weird, crazy running family. Leaving before the end of the race was out of the question. 

The evening of my injury, new runners were arriving at our tiny village of running lunatics. You know how marathons often have 10Ks or 5Ks so that more people can participate? Well Infinitus had shorter races too. A 72-hour, a 48-hour, and a 24-hour race. Even an 8k. People started flooding the ski lodge for those shorter races. And when they began running, they faced problems, just like I had.

I was in the ski lodge icing my ankle, when I saw this woman sitting with her head in her hands. So I went over and talked to her. Brought her a cookie. Gave her a hug. I was moved by her determination, and I wanted to see her, and all the other runners succeed.

Over the next three days, I helped them. I heated up frozen lasagna for them, popped their blisters, lent them my shoes and my rain coat. 

After being on the receiving end of kindness from my mom, my friends, and people I had just met, I got to pay it back. I got to see what it’s like on the other end of a crazy race. 

And I got to watch my mom start the 8k race. There was a much bigger crowd there than at the start of the 888k. And instead of the silly little air horn they had for us, the 8K runners got… 

(Sound of a cannon blast, pleased crowd)

Yes, a cannon. And I got to give my mom a muddy, sweaty hug when she finished.

(Crowd cheering)

I also got to watch my buddy Greg set off on his final lap, sparkler in hand. Out of the 10 of us who started the 888k, he’s the only one who finished, in an uncanny 8.88 days.

(Music plays, thoughtful piano)

Being on the other side, cheering and helping racers, was fulfilling. But Infinitus left with me something even better. Before the race, failure seemed like the worst thing in the world, worse than lightning. But when I failed, spectacularly, publicly, it was actually not so bad. It was like I had been building up this hard, heavy, shell of stress, and when my body broke, the stress broke away, too. 

(Music fades)

Some of my friends told me that right after Infinitus, I sounded like I was on drugs. Little things, like wiggling my toes and walking in a light breeze, these felt like new experiences. I started having more conversations with strangers. Things that otherwise would have stressed me out, like losing my wallet, seemed manageable, almost fun. I was kind of high on failing. 

Here’s why. I had been approaching Infinitus, and everything really, like this fly caught in a jar. In running, and in work, relationships, life, I’d seek out the hardest path, then try to brute force my way through. When problems came up, like my calorie deficiency in Infinitus, instead of stopping to figure them out, I’d muscle on. I’d slam myself against the glass, head down, full speed, again and again and again. 

I thought that was the only way to get out, to break the glass. And getting that injury sent me tumbling to the bottom of the jar. Now, lying flat on my back, I could finally look up and see that the lid wasn’t even screwed on. All I had to do was slow down and climb right out. 

(Music plays, piano and drums rock melody)

WILLOW: That was Jordan Wirfs-Brock. Since that first time at Infinitus, she’s been back every year (except for 2020, when there was no race because of COVID).

If you’re wondering what happened at all of those subsequent Infinitus races, you’re in luck. I’m doing a follow-up interview with Jordan soon. We’re going to talk about how being a part of Infinitus has redefined the way she thinks about herself as a runner. And, we’ll talk about how becoming a parent has played into her ultrarunning career.

That interview is going to be available soon as an exclusive perk for all of our Patreon patrons. So if you’re not already a patron, make sure you sign up so you don’t miss out.

Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast, or click the link in the episode description.

Speaking of Patreon, a big thank you to everyone who is currently supporting out there, including Doug Frick, Eric Biederman, Tara Joslin, Phil Timm, Deb and Vince Garcia, and the family of Mike Ludders. Listener support makes up about half of our operating budget, and I am so grateful for your generosity.

(Music fades)

As I mentioned earlier, this is the last episode of our current season. We’re planning to launch a new season in spring, and we’re already hard at work planning that out. Until then, we’ll be releasing periodic bonus episodes, to keep you company over the winter.

Out There is a proud member of Hub & Spoke. Hub & Spoke is a collective of smart, idea-driven independent podcasts.

I’m excited to introduce you to all the shows in the collective over the coming months. And today, I want to tell you about Mementos.

Mementos is a podcast where everyday people talk about a special item that they just can’t part with. They tell the story behind that item. And they explore why they’re so attached to it, and what it says about them.

You can find Mementos wherever you listen to podcasts, or at mementospodcast.com.

(Out There Theme music plays, guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Today’s story was produced by Jordan Wirfs-Brock. Story editing by me, Willow Belden. A big thank you to Jordan’s crew at that first Infinitus. They not only helped her through the dark moments of the race, but they also recorded a lot of the audio you heard in her story. Her crew included Rebecca Wirfs-Brock, Sarah Newman, Lukasz Fidowski, Ben Zeiger and Vicky Petryshyn. Also, thank you to Dan Boyce and Caitlin Peirce for production help and feedback.

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you soon.

(Theme music concludes)

Thank you to PeakVisor for supporting this entire season of Out There. 

PeakVisor is an app that can help you plan out hikes, navigate trails, and keep track of your accomplishments in the mountains.

And it’s not just for summer! I don’t know about you, but where I live, it’s already started snowing. And PeakVisor is good for winter sports too.

When you use the app in winter mode, you can see ski lift schedules at all the major resorts, as well as status updates in real time. They’ve even got backcountry skiing itineraries.

Whatever the season, if you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

Pedaling and Paddling

By Willow Belden, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On October 20, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Bicycle bell rings twice)

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke, audio collective. 

(Bicycle wheel spinning and bells ringing)

WILLOW BELDEN: So, I have a tradition I want to tell you about. 

My mom passed away in 2009, and since then, her birthday has always been really hard for me. So a while back, I decided to do something nice to mark the occasion. I went for a hike. And now, it’s become an annual tradition.

This year, her birthday hike took me up a mountain near my home in Wyoming. And from the top, I could see this beautiful panorama of mountains and plains, stretching way off into the distance. And I found myself wondering about all the far-off peaks.

So I pulled out my phone and opened up an app called PeakVisor.

WILLOW (tape): OK, here we go. Alright, so Elk Mountain we know. And then we have Pennock Mountain, which looks like it’s probably got beautiful aspens on it right now. It looks all golden…

WILLOW (narration): PeakVisor one of our sponsors. Their app is kind of like your own personal mountain guide.

Check it out in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This season is called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re sharing award-winning stories and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There.

Today’s episode is about love. Love between two people who bonded over their passion for the outdoors, but who eventually realized that the thing they had in common was also one of their biggest differences. 

Their story takes us from the mountains of Wyoming, to rivers of Arizona. And it shows us how hard it can be to share the thing you love most, with the person you love most.

The story first aired in 2015.

(Theme music concludes)

(Music plays, upbeat guitar strumming) 

Dewey Gallegos started feeling a fiery passion at age three or four. Not about his future wife, Jessica, though. That comes later. The love affair at this point was with a bicycle. His earliest memory is of the first time he tried to ride.

(Music fades)

DEWEY GALLEGOS: And my uncle was supposed to be running behind me, helping me, because I didn’t have training wheels on the bicycle. And when he let go of the bicycle, I kept going and took off. 

WILLOW: So you didn’t have to learn how to ride a bike? You just rode a bike.

DEWEY: I’m just a natural, you know. (laughs)

WILLOW: Well, sort of a natural.

DEWEY: It didn’t end well, I’ll tell you that. I didn’t know how to brake as well as I should have yet. But I was able to pedal and go and get moving. And that’s my first memory and it’s a really happy memory I have.

(Music begins, upbeat guitar strumming, whistling)

WILLOW: From that moment, Dewey was hooked. He loved the freedom he felt on the bike, and the intense rush of adrenaline.

DEWEY: I’ve just really enjoyed that feeling of “Oh my God, I’m going to die,” and then, pulling off a move you didn’t think you could do. And then just the relief that you lived through it. It was a sheer terror that I’ve tried to recreate every time I’m on the bicycle now.

(Music swells, fades)

WILLOW: Unlike Dewey, Jessica Flock was a river person. She preferred raging rapids to rugged bike trails. As a kid, she’d go on rafting trips with her family. Eventually, her parents let her row her own boat. She loved every minute of it – loved being out on the water, loved how capable she felt at the helm, loved the exhilaration she’d feel when she managed to navigate a particularly difficult section of whitewater. 

Sounds a lot like Dewey’s love of biking, only minus the bike.

(Music plays, clean, melodic electric guitar)

After high school, Jessica borrowed her parents’ truck and went rafting for an entire month. In college, she pushed aside classwork to make time for paddling. She rafted the Grand Canyon 15 times in nine years. 

JESSICA FLOCK:  It became a huge part of my life. There were a few years there where I got to get down to the Grand Canyon two times a year and then still do, you know some shorter three or four-day trips as well.

(Music swells)

WILLOW: Growing up in southeastern Wyoming, near the Colorado border, Dewey and Jessica were friends. But it wasn’t until years later, after Dewey returned from the Marine Corps, that they finally went on their first date. And this may sound cheesy, but both of them felt they were meant to be together. 

(Music fades)

DEWEY: We both had a real strong desire to have dogs instead of kids.  Which is huge for me, huge. 

WILLOW: Jokes aside, they shared a deep connection: they both had this intense love of the outdoors. They felt their best, their freest, their most capable when they were out in nature. 

But Jessica wasn’t a biker. And Dewey wasn’t a rafter. The things they were most passionate about, things that had become etched into their very identities, these things, they did not share. 

DEWEY: And when I saw what Jessica did, like when she showed me a video of what rafting was, the very first time, when she was getting ready to go to the Grand Canyon, I just remember thinking she was insane. Like, completely and utterly insane.

WILLOW: Dewey was bewildered by Jessica’s love of water sports. And frankly, a little scared. That’s because he grew up in a Mexican household, and was haunted by the chilling legend of the Llorna. 

DEWEY: I don’t know if a lot of people are familiar with who the llorona is. But she’s a crying woman who essentially is a spirit that travels the river, searching for the souls of boys and males. 

WILLOW: DEAD boys, that is. Boys who this spirit drowned. And the legend creeped Dewey out. A lot.

DEWEY: It affected how much I am terrified of water. 

WILLOW: Of course, Jessica didn’t know this about Dewey, didn’t know he had this visceral fear.

DEWEY: And I remember the first time she invited me to go rafting with her, I was like, “Yeah, that’d be great.” You know, just trying to keep it together. But I was afraid. I was really afraid of what she did.

WILLOW: But he didn’t want to let on how scared he was. And besides, he figured it wouldn’t be raging whitewater the whole time. 

DEWEY: Jessica assured me, “Yeah, that’s about two percent of the river.” The rest of it is sitting back and getting sun and drinking beer.

WILLOW: Sun and beer sounded pretty good. So Dewey agreed to go. 

(Sound of moving water) 

They set out for the Salt River in Arizona, with three boats and several other friends. The first day went fine. But once they’d gotten to their campsite that night, it started to rain. Hard.

JESSICA: And it rained for about 24 hours straight. And so by the time we actually decided to go, the river had grown in cubic feet per second, movement of the water, right, from 3,000 cfs to 30,000 cfs. 

WILLOW: That basically means the river was TEN TIMES as wild as it normally is. 

JESSICA: It’s pretty epic. 

DEWEY: I was terrified.

JESSICA: I was scared too. It was dangerous.

WILLOW: So dangerous, in fact, that no one else was even allowed to attempt the river that day. But Dewey and Jessica were already partway down, and there was no way to get off the river. 

JESSICA: I mean the hills are covered in saguaro cactus. And you’re already there; you’re going.

(Sound of water grows louder, faster) 

WILLOW: So down they went. The river was raging. A class III rapid had turned into a 14-foot waterfall. Side streams had become violent waterways. One of their friends’ boats capsized. 

And then, all of a sudden, something horrible floated by.

(Music plays, suspenseful bass chords)

DEWEY: There’s a dead cow right there. That’s like a dead floating cow coming down the river, and it’s dead. 

I remember it was rolling. Like, the cow rolled over and over, and we were just like dumbfounded, quiet, watching this cow float by us. And it was bloated and huge. And here we are going, “Alright, now let’s put these rafts out in the same water that cow died in and go vacation.” 

WILLOW: Dewey was horrified. But he knew there was no way off the river at this point. So he steeled himself, and kept going. 

(Suspenseful music and river sounds fade)

Needless to say, Dewey was not sold on rafting. To him, mountain biking was way more fun. And he wanted to share his passion with Jessica. So he bought her a nice bike. And they started riding together. 

(Music plays, bluesy steel string guitar)

But Dewey didn’t go easy on her. His idea of a good ride was a trail called Death Crotch, the toughest, most technical trail in the area. And he got her a set of clipless pedals. They clip into your shoes, so your feet stay attached to the bike. They’re supposed to make you ride more efficiently. But when Dewey took Jessica out with her new gear, it didn’t go well. 

(Music ends. Sound of bicycle riding on a trail, wind)

She fought her way to the top of a hill, slowed down, tried to get her foot unclipped from the pedal, and found that it was stuck. She teetered on her bike, and grabbed for a little aspen tree, but it bent.

JESSICA: And so I fell over, because I just couldn’t get unclipped before I fell over. You know, went down kind of slow, but hard.

DEWEY: So we rode on, and the second place, just another little uphill with a tree root. The tree root slipped and she fell down. And I watched that one happen; I was right behind her. And I remember there were some explicitives. And that was the moment I thought, ‘I’ve ruined this for Jessica. She will never be a mountain biker.’

(Music plays, slower melodic guitar plucking)

WILLOW: We’ll hear the rest of the story after the break. But first… 

(Music fades) 

Support for Out There comes from Athletic Greens. They make a blend of vitamins, probiotics, and more, which is designed to keep you healthy and active.

Out There’s advertising manager, Jessica Taylor, has been using AG1 for months now, and she loves it.

JESSICA TAYLOR: I like that I don’t have to take any additional vitamins. Like, it covers the vitamins I would take specifically for like immunity. It covers vitamins that would cover for like my hair and nails. And then for like my gut and my stomach. It feels really good to know, ‘OK, my body is getting everything it needs.’

WILLOW: AG1 is lifestyle-friendly, whether you eat keto, paleo, vegan, dairy-free or gluten-free. And it costs less than $3 a day.

To make it easy, Athletic Greens is going to give you a free one-year supply of immune-supporting Vitamin D, and five free travel packs with your first purchase. All you have to do is visit athleticgreens.com/outthere, to take ownership over your health and pick up the ultimate daily nutritional insurance! Again, that is athleticgreens.com/outthere.

Support for Out There also comes from About the Journey, an original podcast from Marriott Bonvoy Traveler.

What does it mean to travel better? In Season 2 of About the Journey, travel journalist Oneika Raymond takes us on a journey around North America to find out.

JESSICA: I checked out the episode “Denver Colorado: Hit the Inclusive Hiking Scene at Genessee Park.”

WILLOW: That’s my colleague Jessica again.

JESSICA: It’s a story about Beth Bradley. Beth is a plus-sized hiker whose relationship with her body and her hometown were transformed forever when she went for her first hike. She talks about learning to hike and be in the outdoors in the same way that we can think about sewing. When you want to learn how to sew, you’re not going to start with sewing an entire ball gown. You’re going to start with something really small. In the same way, she shares about how getting out in the outdoors can start with something really small. And then from there, you can grow with your experience. And I just really loved that.

WILLOW:To hear that episode and all the others, search for About the Journey in your podcast player. I’ll also include a link in the show notes.

And now, back to our story about Dewey the mountain biker and Jessica the whitewater rafter.

(Music plays, melodic classical guitar)

WILLOW: Over the years, they both kept trying, really hard, to like each other’s sports. But Jessica never felt truly at home on a mountain bike. And the next two times that Dewey went rafting, there were more floods, and more whitewater. It was clear they were not converting each other.

(Music swells)

WILLOW: Then, one day, they went to the mountains together. Dewey wanted to go for a ride, Jessica insisted on hiking. So they split up. When they got home, Dewey’s frustration boiled over.

(Music fades)

DEWEY: I guess the only way you can explain it is I was throwing a tantrum about her not riding this really nice bicycle I had for her. And it wasn’t that big of a deal, really, but  I was kind of like, “You know, it’s a really nice bike and it’s just sitting there.” And she was like, “Yeah, but we just got back from the mountains” — and you know she was hiking, and I was riding — “and we seemed to have a really good time doing that.”

(Music plays, peaceful piano)

WILLOW: All of a sudden, something clicked for Dewey. He realized she was right.

DEWEY: Yeah, we did. We had a really good time.

WILLOW: And so he backed off. He stopped pressuring her to ride with him. And she didn’t push him to go rafting, either. 

DEWEY: She’s not going to be the cyclist that I’m going to be, and I’m not going to be the rafter that she’s going to be. And there’s a nice happy medium.

WILLOW: The nice happy medium is a compromise. Dewey goes along on the more “tame” river trips – the ones where there’s lots of flat water, and hopefully some sun and beer. And he enjoys it. Jessica has a beautiful cruiser bike, and takes pleasure in commuting calmly around town, without clipless pedals.

JESSICA: Each of us found a way to be at least a little bit happy within the other one’s world.

WILLOW: And in fact, more than a little bit happy. They own a bike shop together now. 

(Music fades)

Still, most of the time, they pursue their passions independently. And they’re ok with that. In fact, they say it’s better that way.

DEWEY: Now, I think we both have an understanding that if we were to share everything about the sport that we love, it probably wouldn’t be the same for us. It wouldn’t be that thing that we can use to escape. It is our place to be ourselves, for ourselves.

WILLOW: And he says having that makes their marriage stronger. 

(Music plays, guitar strumming, happy chords)

Most of us want to share our greatest passions with our soul mates. But relationships are all about compromise, striking a balance. And as Dewey and Jessica found, sometimes you have to preserve your independence in order to grow together.

(Music swells) 

This story first aired in 2015. In fact, it was one of the first stories we ever ran on Out There.

Dewey and Jessica still live in Laramie, Wyoming. You can find Dewey at the Pedal House bike shop. And not too long ago, Jessica opened a store of her own, focused on water sports. I have links to where you can find both of them in the show notes.

(Music fades)

Coming up next time on Out There, we get up close and personal with one of the gnarliest ultra-running races ever put on.

(Wind blowing)

JORDAN WIRFS-BROCK: The wind right now is absolutely ridiculous. It is just whipping past me, taking all my heat away. It’s not very fun. But, other than the wind, things are great!

(Wind fades out)

WILLOW: Tune in on November 10 for a story about failure — and how reaching your breaking point might actually be the best thing that could happen to you. 

(Music plays, ambling guitar)

So, I’d like to give you a quick update.

Our current season will be ending soon, and we’re getting started working on a new season. Which means we’re taking story pitches. If you have a story that you think would be a good fit for us, click the link in the episode description. I have all the details on the season theme, and what we’re looking for in stories there.

Speaking of our next season, it will likely launch in the spring of 2023. And, in the meantime, I’ll be releasing bonus episodes from time to time. So don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of good material to listen to as we head into winter.

(Music fades) 

If you heard our last episode, you know that Out There is now a member of Hub & Spoke. 

Hub & Spoke is a collective of smart, independent podcasts.

Their shows are an eclectic mix, they focus on everything from science to history to language, but they’re all driven by big ideas, and they all place an emphasis on truly excellent storytelling.

I’m looking forward to introducing you to all of the shows over the coming months. And today, I wanted to start with Ministry of Ideas.

Ministry of Ideas is a small show about the big ideas that shape our world. And they’re about to launch a new limited series called “Illuminations.”

(Ambient sound, angelic ringing)

VOICE 1: Science, like religion, was conceptualized as a quality of the individual. Its intention is to perfect our inherent drive towards truth and knowledge.

VOICE 2: The religious impulse in humans is deep seated. So religion and science have to live together, and they have in fact lived together, and often very productively. These worlds do operate differently, and yet it's hard to completely keep them separate, because we also typically seek some sort of coherence. 

VOICE 3: Science doesn’t have instantly, ready-made answers to every question. What we know about the natural world is the result of 400 years of enormous labor, intellectual labor. It’s the same in theology. 

VOICE 4: I was thinking about how the devotees of the temples spoke about technology, and about divinity. And that there seemed to be a technological sublime at home. So there was a sense of mapping divinity onto technology, and technology onto divinity. And so these worlds seem very, seemed very easily transposable. 

VOICE 5: The same is true for the natural sciences, in biology and in physics, trying to figure out what the truth is about organisms, or what the truth is about the structure of the world. And the same is true in religion: where did we come from, where are we going, what’s our destiny? 

VOICE 6: Two paths toward truth. Centuries of unexpected entanglements. “Illuminations” is a new limited series from Ministry of Ideas, exploring the surprising and complex relationship between religion and science. Launching October 24. 

(Ambient music fades)

WILLOW: You can listen to Ministry of Ideas wherever you get your podcasts, or at ministryofideas.org.

I’d like to give a big shout-out to Wade Roush, Jacob Yancey, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, Deb and Vince Garcia, and the family of Mike Ludders.

These folks are all patrons of Out There, which means they make monthly contributions to the podcast. It’s that support from listeners that makes it possible to produce Out There.

If you’d like to get in on the fun and become a patron, click the link in the episode description or go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time, and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website - outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was reported and produced by me, Willow Belden. Story editing by Leigh Paterson. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(Theme music swells, concludes)

So, remember at the top of the show, where I was talking about going for a hike on my mom’s birthday?

The app I was using while I was out on that hike is called PeakVisor. If you’re interested in making the most of your adventures in the mountains, check them out. 

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app has super detailed 3D maps, which you can use to plan out hikes. They have peak-bagging challenges to keep you motivated. And they’ll help you figure out what you’re looking at when you’re gazing off into beautiful mountain vistas.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

The Instinct to Kill

By Sam Anderson, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On September 29, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: It’s officially autumn now. And for me, that means hiking. I love hiking in the fall. The crisp, cool air, the colorful leaves, that inkling that snow is coming soon — I love all of it.

And I especially love exploring new trails.

When you explore new trails, you need maps. And that’s where something called PeakVisor can come in handy.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. They make an app that has high-res 3D maps of mountains all over the world.

The app gives you info on everything from trailheads to mileage to elevation gain. And their maps are so detailed that you can see down to individual trees.

If you’re planning to explore new trails this fall, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

First of all, I have some big news. It’s something I’m really excited about. And it’s something that I hope will help this podcast flourish for years to come.

But let me back up.

(Theme music ends)

When I started Out There, it was a giant leap of faith. I had recently quit my job at Wyoming Public Radio. Which was kind of a big deal for me. Working in public radio had been my dream for a long time. And the job at WPR was really good in so many ways.

But I didn’t love it enough. It wasn’t the kind of job where I got out of bed every morning excited to go to work. The joy didn’t balance out the stress.

(Music plays, melancholy guitar)

I wanted a job that would truly light me up inside.

And I sensed that in order to find that kind of work, I needed some space. I needed to leave my current work environment, and get away from everything for a while. 

So I quit my job, and I went hiking.

(Music fades)

Seriously — I left WPR and thru-hiked the Colorado Trail, which is this 500-mile wilderness trail that goes from Denver to Durango. 

(Music plays, upbeat)

To this day, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done for myself.

I mean, let’s be clear - the trail was really hard, and a lot of the time, it was actually kind of miserable.

But the journey gave me two really important things. 

One - it gave me confidence.

And two - it gave me the inspiration for Out There.

I knew I didn’t want to go back to news reporting. But I did want to keep telling stories with sound.

I love audio. I love its intimacy. I love its honesty. I love how it can sweep you up in its magic and show you new ways of seeing the world.

And I wanted to lean into that magic.

I wanted to go deep — get up close and personal. I wanted to explore how our minds work, how we find strength and healing, how we learn to flourish in a difficult world. And I wanted to use nature as a lens to answer those questions. After all, the Colorado Trail had shown me firsthand how the outdoors can help us make sense out of our lives.

(Music fades out)

So I took a deep breath, and I launched Out There.

That was seven and a half years ago.

(Music plays, piano)

Since then, the show has blossomed in so many ways. We’ve grown from a one-woman show to a team of three. We work with freelance producers all over the globe. We’ve won twelve national and regional awards, and we’ve just been short-listed for our first international award. 

And most importantly, we’ve worked hard to become a space where everyone can feel welcome.

(Music fades)

Mainstream media often portrays the outdoors as kind of a playground for rich white people. You hear story after story about conquering summits, or setting speed records — proving your superiority over the natural world and the people around you. 

At Out There, we have a different vision. We believe the outdoors is for everyone, regardless of where you were raised, the color of your skin or anything else about you. If you've stepped outside for any reason, you have a connection to nature. And on this podcast, we celebrate those connections and try to amplify voices that are often sidelined.

(Music plays, intimate piano)

Creating a safe space for people of all backgrounds to share their stories is by far my proudest accomplishment. And our work in this realm is just beginning. There is so much more we want to do.

But — and this is where I’m going to be really honest and vulnerable with you — for a lot of this year, I wasn’t sure we were going to be able to continue in that mission. I wasn’t sure Out There was going to survive.

For all our creative successes, the podcast was not on stable financial footing. We are an independent production, which means we don’t have a network or any kind of corporate backing. And we just weren’t bringing in enough money to support the work we were doing.

And, I should say - it wasn’t just us. It’s really hard to be an independent podcaster, and financial stability is elusive for most of us. But still, that was our reality. And so, earlier this year, I’m going to be honest, I was starting to give up hope. 

(Music fades)

I was starting to think we might have to abandon our dreams and close up shop. Either that, or sell out.

And then, I discovered Hub & Spoke.

(Music plays, moving, inspirational)

It started with a conversation I was having with a colleague. He mentioned this collective of independent podcasts that he thought were sort of kindred spirits to Out There. And he offered to put me in touch with them. 

I had never heard of Hub & Spoke, but I started listening to their shows, and I fell in love. Instantly and totally in love.

The podcasts in Hub & Spoke were an eclectic mix — they focused on everything from art history to technology to the ocean — but they were all driven by big ideas, and boundless curiosity. And they were all beautifully crafted. Seriously, it’s some of the best audio storytelling around.

I remember thinking, “Wow - these are my people. And I really, really want to be a part of this collective.” 

(Music fades)

When I finally got to talk to some of the folks at Hub & Spoke, that feeling was reinforced. Each conversation left me energized and invigorated. 

Finally, I had found a group of peers who believe in what we’re doing. They believe that introspective storytelling is inherently worthwhile. That quality independent podcasts have value. That stories told through sound can change minds and stir souls.

And they believe that together, we can thrive. 

(Music plays, cheerful guitar)

I am beyond thrilled to announce that Out There has joined this beautiful community. We are now a proud member of Hub & Spoke, and I can’t wait to introduce you to the other podcasts in the collective.

I’m excited about the opportunities ahead. And for the first time in a long time, I feel genuinely hopeful about the future of Out There.

(Guitar swells, ambles, concludes)

(Bicycle bell rings twice)

VOICEOVER: Hub and Spoke, audio collective. 

(Bicycle wheel spinning and bells ringing)

WILLOW: OK so we’re going to get on with today’s story in a moment. And it’s really a wonderful story, in fact it won a big national award. 

But first, I want to tell you about one of our sponsors. It’s a company called Athletic Greens, and they make a blend of vitamins, minerals, probiotics, and more, which my colleague Jessica absolutely adores.

JESSICA TAYLOR: It has really changed kind of my whole world, when it comes to vitamins and health, not only for my body but for my stomach, my gut, my digestion, my mindset.

WILLOW: Athletic Greens was started because the founder was experiencing all these gut health issues. His doctors put him on a really intensive regimen of supplements, which was costing him, no joke, $100 a day. 

He wanted to create something better, something that would give you the nutrition you need without breaking the bank.

Athletic Greens will cost you less than $3 a day. And with your first purchase, they’ll send you a free one-year supply of Vitamin D, and five free travel packs. Just visit athleticgreens.com/outthere to take ownership over your health and pick up the ultimate daily nutritional insurance! Again, that is athleticgreens.com/outthere.

(Music plays, ambling guitar)

This season is called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re sharing award-winning stories and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There.

Today’s story involves something I think about often at this time of year.

I live in Wyoming, and every fall, it seems like almost everyone here goes hunting. They’ll go out into the woods and spend days on end tromping around in the cold, trying to shoot deer and elk and other big game.

Now, I understand the merits of hunting. It helps keep wildlife populations sustainable. And it means your family can eat healthy meat that wasn’t factory farmed all year round.

But I myself have never felt the urge to hunt. I like to joke that if I had a choice between hunting, and being a vegetarian, I would almost certainly be a vegetarian. I somehow don’t think I have it in me to kill an animal.

So, why is that? Are some of us just not cut out to be hunters? Or is there more to the equation?

Today’s story comes from reporter Sam Anderson, who wanted to answer that very question: did he have it in him to be a hunter? And if so, what did that say about him?

This story first aired in 2017, and it won a gold medal from Public Radio News Directors, Incorporated, or PRNDI.

I’ll let Sam take it from here. And trigger warning, literally: this story does include the sound of gunshots.

(Music fades out)

SAM ANDERSON: Is it loaded, right now? 

SAM’S DAD: It’s not officially loaded until you have this in because it’s gonna create the spark that’s gonna fire the charge.

(Gun cocks)

So now it’s loaded. Cause we’re goin’ in. 

(Music plays, suspenseful guitar)

SAM: Ever since my dad started hunting, he’s been trying to bring me with him. I’ve never felt the desire to kill an animal. But since I was a little kid, I was fascinated with guns and knives and other tools of violence. Typical boy stuff. 

Deep down, I think I always wondered what it would be like to take the life of another creature. And I was curious about this ancient ritual, this masculine tradition where you go into the woods, just you and your dad, to go hunting. And you come out, changed, somehow. Maybe more grown up. 

(Guitar swells, then fades)

We don’t come from a hunting family, and though I was curious about this experience, I wasn’t so curious that I tried to seek it out. My dad started hunting right around the same time that I moved to New York City, and at that point in my life, spending a weekend in the woods with my old man was the last thing I wanted to do. 

A few years went by, and I became more involved in my new life, and less involved in his. But then, something happened. 

Right at the start of hunting season, my dad got a DUI, and he lost his license. My mom was pissed. Now she had to drive him to work every day. And there was no way she was going to waste a Saturday bringing him to the woods to hunt. 

So he came to me, his oldest son. He asked if I would come with him. 

(Car door opening and slamming shut)

And I said yes. 

(Car ignition sputtering)

So we loaded up his truck and headed out to the woods.

SAM’S DAD:  We’re going to, uh, Warren County, New Jersey, to go hunting. January what? Sixteen? It's 2016, warm winter day. Sunny. 

SAM: That’s my dad. He’s 48 years old, and known for taking long pauses in his speech. He loves nature, and he’s inspired that love in me too. I think that’s partly why I found myself driving him into the woods that day. It sounds cliche, but I wanted to make him proud. 

I wanted to share this experience, to let him teach me something new the way he did when I was younger, like how to pitch a baseball or jumpstart a car. I knew that spending a day in the woods going hunting would mean a lot to him. And it meant something to me, too.

So there I was, in the car with my dad, and a gun in the trunk. And it was becoming increasingly clear that I was supposed to be the one to shoot it. 

SAM’S DAD: So what we’re gonna do is you’re gonna shoot the first shot, then you’re gonna hand me the rifle, I’m gonna reload it and if there’s a second shot to be had, I’m gonna take it. 

SAM: The first shot. He wanted me to take the first shot. As soon as he said it, I started to get nervous. ‘What if I can’t do it?’ I thought. ‘What if I can’t pull the trigger?’ 

(Music plays, somber piano)

Will he think it’s because I’m weak, or that I don’t care about him and his new favorite sport? And what about the alternative, what if I can pull the trigger? What if I am capable of killing? 

Sure, I used to think weapons were cool, but I’ve actually lived my life as a pretty peaceful person. I’ve never hurt anything. And I was going to start now? What does it say about my character that I’m willing to commit an act of violence just to please another person?

(Music concludes) 

My dad came to terms with the idea of hunting a while ago, and he says there’s actually a pretty strong argument to be made in favor of killing deer. 

SAM’S DAD: That’s why it’s unlimited bag on does. They want you to get as many does as possible, in this state. 

SAM: Because there’s too many deer, right? 

SAM’S DAD: There’s too many deer. 

SAM: Now, you might not picture New Jersey as a wilderness teeming with wildlife, but we actually have a quarter million acres of rural, public land, especially along the western side bordering Pennsylvania, which is where my dad and I were headed. 

And if you live out here, you know that the deer population is out of control. Drive down any highway and you’ll be sure to pass at least two or three deer carcasses on the side of the road. 

This overpopulation isn’t just a hazard for drivers, it’s bad for the deer. There are more of them than the ecosystem can properly support. So the Division of Fish and Wildlife made a rule where you can shoot two deer every day for as long as the season lasts. 

SAM’S DAD: There’s one guy the butcher told me who had 98 deer, himself. 

SAM: In one season?

SAM’S DAD: In one season. What sounds absurd. What do you do with all that meat? I’m sure he’s not doing anything with it. 

SAM: Hunters are definitely taking advantage of this rule. In Colorado, hunters killed about 34,000 deer last year. In New Jersey, a state that’s 10 times smaller, they killed over 52,000. 

So yeah, we have a deer problem. And from that point of view, hunting makes sense. It serves a logical purpose, and knowing this made me feel better about the whole situation. 

(Music plays, ambient, suspenseful)

But even though I could rationalize the logical side of it, there was still the moral side, the ethical side. I imagined a young doe with big brown eyes frolicking through the forest, with a fawn following behind her. And lurking in the bushes was me, the hunter. The enemy of everything cute and furry. When I thought of myself as the hunter, pointing a gun at that innocent creature, I felt cruel and barbaric. I didn’t want to be that person. 

(Music fades)

(Sound of car driving on gravel road)

We parked the truck on a gravelly road in a rural town called Allamuchy, and hiked into the woods. 

(Sound of rustling leaves and branches)

Eventually we came to a spot on a hillside overlooking a small valley. My dad said every morning the herd of deer come in from the deep woods towards the houses to look for food, and each night they return along a similar path. He was confident that the herd would pass through this valley sometime today. 

Our spot wasn’t concealed at all, which I found surprising. As it turns out, if you’re completely silent and still, the deer will look straight at you without noticing a thing. But they do have an amazing sense of smell. Luckily my dad was prepared. 

(Sound of pump spraying from a spray bottle)

SAM: So what are you doing here? 

(Sound of more spraying)

SAM’S DAD: Spraying fox piss on this wick. 

SAM: Aw, smells like - 

SAM’S DAD: What’s it smell like?

SAM: Smells like shit.

(Both, Sniffing)

SAM’S DAD: It’s not that bad. 

SAM: It’s pretty bad.

SAM’S DAD: I think it’s pretty cool. You get used to it I guess. So that’s a scent that’s gonna be around us for the moment, intended to cover our stinky scent. Your perfumes, deodorants. Shampoos. 

SAM: With our scents camouflaged, we rolled out a blanket, sat down, and loaded the gun. We were using a muzzle loading rifle, basically an updated version of the muskets used in the revolutionary war, meaning you only get one shot. 

SAM’S DAD: You gotta be good. Little more challenging, not so easy. If you’re gonna take a deer’s life, you gotta put some effort into it. Make it more work. I don’t know, I just justify it to myself that way. 

So they’re gonna come in somewhere through here, and they’re gonna make their way in here eventually, but the risk is, you gotta be able to get into a shooting position, and get a clean shot without them seeing you. If in the process they see you and you spook them enough that they'll run off. You wanna be able to squeeze your shot off when you know you have a good one, as soon as possible, but you don’t wanna rush it. If you know what I mean. 

SAM: Yeah. 

He explained that you aim for the kill zone, the lower part of the chest that contains the heart and lungs. If I miss, If I hit the gut or the hip or the shoulder, the animal will suffer a long and painful death. 

My dad told me it’s my responsibility to prevent this. One time, he shot a deer in the lung, but it wasn’t a kill shot. The deer used its other lung to run deeper into the woods. My dad followed the trail of blood for an hour before he finally found the animal, and he had to gut it in the dark. I could tell that he felt bad about this. 

SAM’S DAD: But it is exciting, when you see a deer for the first time, for that day, it’s exciting because then you know, you’re gonna have a shot. 

(Gun cocking) 

The gun is yours. 

SAM: We sat in silence and let the woods quiet down around us.

(Sound of geese calling) 

I always thought of hunting as this very intense, action packed sport, but it turns out that 90% of your day is spent sitting in one place, being totally silent. And during that time, your mind begins to wander. 

(Music plays, ambient, low)

I started thinking about my dad, and how he felt the need to justify his actions. How he brought up the overpopulation of deer, or the idea that using a simpler gun made it more fair to the animal. He, too, felt bad about what he was doing. 

It occurred to me that maybe most hunters have experienced the same moral dilemma. Maybe they hesitate, or even agonize over the decision to pull the trigger. But eventually, they do it. That’s what makes them hunters. And I wondered: am I one of them?

The question filled my stomach with tension. We continued to wait. 

(Sound of wind building)

As the minutes went by, the air around us grew colder, the sky grew darker. I wrapped a blanket around my legs for warmth, but my toes were numb. We hadn’t moved our bodies in nearly three hours. And as the sun began to set behind the hills, I felt a sense of relief. 

I knew that once it got dark, it was time to go home, and I wouldn't be expected to kill a deer after all.

(Music fades)

But then, in the distance, I saw something move. 

It was a deer. Then another. The whole herd ambled into view, five or six of them in total. They were slowly creeping towards us. I was going to have a shot. 

They were inching closer to our hiding spot, sniffing the ground for food and raising their heads every few seconds, looking for danger. 

They came closer and closer. And then, the biggest doe lifted her head and looked directly at me. Her eyes were big and brown and alert, and I couldn’t shake the sense that she was aware of my presence. 

Without thinking, my body moved into the shooting position. 

(Sound of ambient woodland, wind, owl hooting)

Her ears pricked up, as if she heard me pulling back the hammer of the gun. And in that moment, all of my human emotions disappeared. All of the fear, all of the guilt, all of the contradicting feelings that had paralyzed me with anxiety, were gone. And in their place, was raw sensory perception. It was like I could see and hear for miles. I had disappeared into a new reality where mind and body were one, and all my senses were concentrated on the doe. I was completely focused. 

Peering through the scope, I watched the crosshairs float across her soft golden fur. 

I took a deep breath. 

SAM’S DAD: (Whispering) That one.

(Sound of gunshot, echoing) 

Just watch em’.

SAM: The clearing filled with smoke and deer sprinted away in all directions. I expected the doe to drop dead where she was standing, but when the smoke cleared, there was nothing there. 

(Sound of footsteps on crunchy leaves)

We scrambled down the hillside. We approached the spot where the deer should have been. 

SAM’S DAD: See anything? 

SAM: There was nothing. The clearing was empty. 

SAM’S DAD: We just gotta’ keep looking around in this area. Cause of blood. If we don’t ever find it then you missed. 

SAM: We scanned the leaves for drops of blood. Even if I hit the doe, it could have kept running, so we continued to search. 

SAM: (Clears throat) What? (Distant voice) You you found the trail? Did you find it? 

(Incoherent speech)

No I didn’t see any blood. Where is it? 

SAM’S DAD: Right there. 

SAM: Oh shit. 

There was the doe, sprawled out on her side, her legs pointing out stiffly. Her tongue was hanging out of her blood covered mouth. There was no question: this animal was dead. 

I knelt down next to the doe and put my hand on her belly.

That’s weird, that’s really weird. 

SAM’S DAD: It’s warm still, right? 

SAM: Yeah, it’s really warm. 

SAM’S DAD: Feel the body. 

SAM: Big ears, and eyelashes too, just like the cartoons. And their feet. 

SAM’S DAD: Aren’t they cool, the feet? 

SAM:Their hooves are soft, they have pads on the bottom. 

SAM’S DAD: Their hooves are like soft flexible toes, they’re not like a hoof like a horse. Beautiful beast. 

SAM: Truly. 

SAM’S DAD: But that’s a good shot. He didn’t travel very far.

(Awkward laughter) 

Good job though, you got him. That means we’re gonna go dump this one off at the butcher, and pick up last weeks, bring it home. And uh, we’re a success. We got three for the season so far. Congratulations. What do you think?

SAM: Well, I’m not so sure right now. (chuckles) I’m not quite so sure what I think about this. 

(Music plays, piano)

In that moment, kneeling over the body of the lifeless doe, I felt different. Something had changed. Moments ago, I was watching this creature, and it was watching me. There were two of us, two creatures in the woods, coexisting. And then, I pulled the trigger. 

(Music cuts abruptly, gunshot) 

And suddenly, one less life in the world. 

(Music continues)

And yet, Touching the body that I consciously destroyed, I didn’t feel sad. I felt a feeling of power. 

It wasn’t a good feeling. But it wasn’t exactly bad either. It was a sensation of total control over my environment. I felt like an athlete after winning a race, when that natural high fills your body with warmth and confidence and the feeling that nothing is beyond your reach. 

(Music fades)

By that time, the sun had gone down, and we still had to gut the animal. We put on our headlamps. That’s when I realized the ordeal was far from over. 

SAM’S DAD: There’s your shot, right there. So you were a little high, from the looks of it, but we’ll know for sure once we get inside and see the organs. 

SAM: I don’t think I wanna get inside and see the organs. 

SAM’S DAD:This is what you gotta do though. You just did the fun part. Now the work starts. 

SAM: He pulled out two knives, a small folding one and a big hunting knife. 

SAM’S DAD: So the first thing you do is cut a hole around its anus. And then when you gut it, you’re pulling everything out, so you’re gonna pull that right out, from the front. So this is difficult, that’s the hardest part, really. 

(Sound of cutting flesh)

SAM: Awww that’s fucking disgusting. 

SAM’S DAD: Yeah, it’s gonna be. 

SAM: That’s really horrible. 

SAM’S DAD: And when you get down to the red, that’s the muscle. 

SAM: The skin is really just like, it just peels off like a layer. Just like a… the muscle looks just like you think a muscle would look. 

SAM’S DAD: Oh yeah, just like a human. 

SAM: Using the smaller knife, my dad made one long incision along the belly of the animal, exposing its organs. 

SAM’S DAD: Alright so take a look. Trachea. It’s like a corrugated tube. See it? So I’m gonna cut this, this is the artery, or vein. This is a blood vessel. When I cut this, blood’s gonna spurt out. You cut that, the trachea, and I guess the esophagus is right with it. And you just pull it all out, and just kind of rip it from the back. 

SAM: And everything comes with it? 

SAM’S DAD: Yeah until you get down here, then you gotta mess with the ass again. But this is going smooth. So let me cut this. Just cut right through it. That was some food he just ate. 

SAM: Oh wow look at that.

SAM’S DAD: And then you stick your finger in there. 

SAM: Ugh, Jesus fucking Christ.

(Nervous laughter) 

SAM’S DAD: Yeah, this is where you made a mess of the thing with your shot. 

SAM: My dad tipped the deer on its side, and all of the guts just kind of just flopped out onto the ground. 

SAM’S DAD: Flip her over, make sure we got everything.

SAM: And that’s when it really hit me. Seeing the insides of this creature in a pile on the forest floor, with steam and the putrid smell of rotting meat rising into the air was truly revolting. I already knew that I was responsible for the fate of this doe, but I realized that pulling the trigger is the easy part. 

Hunters have a euphemism for the gutting process, they call it field dressing. But what it really is, is just stabbing and cutting a warm body with a knife. The reality is intimate and brutal and totally animalistic. There’s no other way to describe it. 

And yet I couldn’t look away.

SAM’S DAD: It’s dirty work, but you do it as quick as possible. And be done with it.

SAM: But what do we do with all these organs? 

SAM’S DAD: That’s the best part. This here...You come back tomorrow, completely gone. No signs of it. All this blood’s gonna be licked up and eaten. 

SAM: By who? 

SAM’S DAD: By the woods. 

SAM: By “the woods,” he mostly means coyotes and turkey vultures and black bears. 

SAM’S DAD: Alright let’s take a look at what you did. 

SAM: The final step was to open up the chest cavity, and remove the heart and lungs. 

SAM’S DAD: So this is all torn up lungs, you tore through here and this is the heart. 

SAM: What should we do with the heart? Should we eat it? 

SAM’S DAD: Nah, I don’t usually eat the heart. 

SAM: I was kidding, I was not gonna eat that heart. 

SAM’S DAD: I do tend to like to hold it and see it and feel it. As a matter of ritual I guess. 

SAM: My dad held the heart in his hand. It was big, about the size of a grapefruit. He gestured for me to take it into my hand, but I couldn’t. I accepted the fact that I was responsible for killing this doe, but I wasn’t ready to embrace it as a victory, like he was. It was just too much.

My dad put down the heart, and we tied a rope around the doe’s legs and started dragging the carcass back toward the road. 

SAM’S DAD: That’s it. Now it’s a matter of getting it out of the woods and into the truck. 

(Music plays, hopeful) 

When we dropped off the doe at the butcher, my dad proudly told the man that this was my first kill. He even sent a picture to the rest of the family. I had set out to make him proud, and I achieved that goal. 

So what about me? I had gone into this thinking I might secretly be disgusted with myself, if I actually killed an animal. But as it turns out, I was pretty proud of myself too. Successfully shooting a deer made me feel strong, and powerful, and self reliant, in a way that I had never felt before.

It’s been about a year since I had that experience, and looking back now, I realize that hunting does change your perspective. It forces you to realize just how difficult it was for our ancestors to obtain food for their families. It made me appreciate both the physical skill and the emotional intensity of the sport. And it helped me to accept the fact that hunting is not just a hobby. For many people in the world, it’s a way of life. 

But those realizations are all kind of academic. On a more personal level, I’ve realized that hunting does not actually change who you are. I’m not a different person, just because I took the life of another animal. When it came down to it, pulling the trigger wasn’t that hard. In fact, it was almost innate. 

So maybe I was always capable of violence. I just hadn’t acted on it until now. Maybe we’re ALL capable of violence, even the most peace-loving people among us. 

(Music swells)

WILLOW: That was Sam Anderson. If you enjoyed this story, you might like the project that he’s currently working on. It’s a brand new series tracing the journey of a friend from his hometown, who traveled to California to work on a pot farm, and became involved in a brutal murder. The show is coming out on November 7th as Crooked City Season 2: The Emerald Triangle.

(Music fades)

Coming up next time on Out There, we’re going to have a story about a mountain biker and a whitewater rafter.

And you guessed it - they fall in love. But, they realize that they don’t actually enjoy doing the same things.

DEWEY GALLEGOS: When I saw what Jessica did, like when she showed me a video of what rafting was, I just remember thinking she was insane. Like, completely and utterly insane.

WILLOW: What happens when the person you love doesn’t love what you do? Tune in on Oct. 20 for that story.

(Music plays, ambling guitar)

I want to give a big thank you to Julie Busch, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia.

These folks are all supporting Out There with financial contributions. And those contributions enable us to produce this podcast.

If you’d like to get in on the fun, you, too, can support Out There. Just go to patreon.com/outtherpodcast or click the link in the episode description.

(Music fades)

There’s one other supporter I’d like to thank today. This is someone who meant the world to me many years ago, and who will always have a special place in my heart, even though he’s no longer with us. 

That person is Mike Ludders. 

Mike and I met in college. We were friends first. We worked on the school newspaper together. We did Model UN. 

My sophomore year, we started dating, and for a long time, he was ‘The One.’

He was big and rambunctious and extraordinarily articulate. And we constantly stayed up way too late having deep philosophical discussions over many bottles of wine.

Mike brought out the best in me. And most importantly, he believed in me.

Our romance ultimately ended. But Mike’s faith in me continued. 

He was one of the earliest supporters of Out There, and that support was unwavering.

After his death last year, his family decided to continue supporting Out There. They told me it’s what he would have wanted.

I’m not sure what to say here. There aren’t any words that seem quite adequate. So I guess I’ll just say, “Thank you, Mike.” 

And thank you to Mike’s family.

I’m utterly humbled by your kindness.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

I’d like to thank all the wonderful folks at Hub & Spoke, who have welcomed us into their collective. Thank you to John Barth, for introducing me to Hub & Spoke, and for believing in Out There. Thank you to my colleagues Sheeba and Jessica, for helping me navigate this transition. And finally, thank you to all of you, our listeners. We make this podcast for you and because of you, and I’m so grateful that you exist.

Today’s story was written and produced by Sam Anderson. Story editing by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(Theme music concludes)

Support for Out There comes from PeakVisor. PeakVisor is an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains.

You can use their 3D maps to plan out trips. You can sign up for one of their peak-bagging challenges to keep you motivated. You can keep track of your accomplishments with their logbook. And when you’re out somewhere and want to know what you’re looking at, you can use their app to find out the names of all the mountains you’re seeing.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

Too Poor to Dream?

By Charlsie Shaver, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on Sept. 8, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: So I’m curious: have any of you been feeling a little blue about the end of summer? I know I have.

And, to try and counteract the gloom, I’m starting to build a bucket list for the fall.

If you’re anything like me, and you want to come up with things to look forward to, consider trying a peak bagging challenge with PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. They make an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains.

They regularly run worldwide peak bagging challenges, where you can collect summits, mountain huts, lakes and more.

You can participate wherever you are in the world — and in fact, there are even hiking and check-in opportunities in relatively flat regions. 

If you’re looking for a fun challenge, Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

I wanted to start today by sharing something that a listener said about us. This is from a review on Apple Podcasts, and this person said - quote - “Willow’s stories and interviews always give me a sense of calmness, almost like the feeling I have when I’m in the wilderness.”

Thank you so much to whoever left this review. Feedback like that means a lot to me. And these kind of reviews also make a big difference to us as a show, because they help new listeners find us.

If Out There brightens your day at all, consider leaving a review of your own, wherever you’re listening right now. Thank you so much.

(Theme music ends)

This season is called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re sharing award-winning narratives and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There. 

The idea for tooday’s story came from an email I got a few years ago. A listener named Charlsie Shaver wrote to me, and she said she wished we would include a wider array of income levels on the podcast.

She said - and I’m quoting here - “As someone who isn’t even remotely close to middle class, much less upper middle class, it can be discouraging to constantly hear about people who quit their well-paying jobs to pursue a life of adventure, who trade in the house for a van, who have the luxury of taking some time off to figure out what new direction they want to take their life.”

Charslie went on to say - “For every person you hear about who quits their day job to pursue a life of freedom on the road, there are likely a dozen more of us trying to scrape together enough money for groceries. For every inspirational Instagram post that talks about setting aside your fears and just getting out there… there are those of us with $17 in the bank thinking, ‘I can’t even get to the nearest campground with that.’”

I remember sitting at my computer, reading this email, and thinking - Wow, she is so, so right. We totally need stories on the show, about those kinds of situations.

So I asked Charlsie if she’d be interested in doing a story for Out There.

And she said yes.

Today, we’re sharing that story. It’s a story that first aired in 2019. It’s about trying to dream, when you’re struggling to make ends meet. 

I’ll let Charlsie take it from here. And just FYI, there is a little adult language in this episode.

CHARLSIE SHAVER: Several months ago, I bounded out of bed bright and early. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, after two weeks of rain, and I had been looking forward to this day for what seemed like an eternity. What was the big occasion, you ask? I was going on a hike. 

(Music plays, slow piano)

It had been months since I had gotten out of the city, and after being cooped up in the house over an unusually wet and dreary winter, I was ready to go. I grabbed my camera, hopped into my truck and started east. 

My goal was Big Branch Marsh National wildlife refuge, a collection of marshes and pine savannas on Lake Pontchartrain’s north shore. It’s just under an hour’s drive from New Orleans. I crossed the lake and turned north on a state highway, but as I came to a stop at a red light, my truck shuddered and my service engine light started flashing. 

(Piano fades out)

Before I knew it, the truck hiccupped and died. She started right back up again but continued to shake. I was only fifteen minutes from my destination, but I worried about the cost of possibly having to be towed back to New Orleans from so far away. It had taken me a month of scraping together my change just to save enough gas money to make it out here. Getting towed all the way back home would mean credit card debt, not to mention the cost to diagnose and fix whatever this new problem was. 

(Music plays, suspenseful piano)

I deliberated until the light turned green, and then I turned around and headed back to the city.

I have to admit, I cried. It wasn’t just the day’s hike being canceled that brought forth the tears; the truck acting up was yet another setback, after two years of some of the hardest financial struggle I had ever experienced. In just two years time, I had gone from road tripping around the US, to being stuck in the city, barely able to get out even on a simple day hike.

How did I get here? How did I develop such a deep and immense love for the outdoors, but end up in a spot where I find it almost impossible to spend a quiet night camped under the stars every once in a while?

(Piano fades out)

I’ve always loved running around outside, but my family wasn’t into hiking or camping. My family wasn’t into much of anything, to be honest. I grew up with a single dad and he, like most of the adults where we lived, struggled to make ends meet. There were no summer vacations, getting a job was all about practicality and chances were, if you knew someone who was living in a van, it probably wasn’t by choice. 

My living situation was pretty stable compared to some of my friends’. I didn’t have to worry about the electricity being cut off or suddenly not having a place to live, but there wasn’t money for extras. From a young age I got used to hearing, “No, we can’t afford that,” and “That’s for rich people, not for us.” 

I learned not to ask if we could go on vacation in the summer or even just camping on the weekend. To spend a weekend camping would've meant spending money on gas, and a campground fee. 

(Music plays, melodic guitar)

But even without the luxury of weekend camping trips, I still loved the outdoors, even if that meant just running around in the backyard with my friends. 

In my freshman year of high school, my interest in the outdoors began to grow even more. I found an old camera in the attic and fell in love with photography. And a few months later, we got a computer. I began spending rainy days surfing photography forums on the internet, and I became enamored with images of towering mountains, and sun-soaked deserts. 

I knew that I wanted to see these places for myself someday. I started researching places to go in Arizona, then New Mexico, then my search landed me in Utah, and my world was upside down.

Over the years, I bookmarked websites and accumulated guide books and collected maps. Before I knew it, I had a two-to-three-month road trip planned, and I worked hard in my last year of high school to save up for the upcoming adventure.

(Music fades out) 

But the stars were not to align that summer. I wanted to go see these places before starting college in the fall, but my friends, my family, pretty much everyone I knew dismissed my plans as crazy. 

“You should be saving that money for college,” they told me, even though scholarships covered my school expenses. “Well we’d all like to throw away our responsibilities and just go on vacation,” they said, “but that’s not how life works.” I didn’t get it. I had worked hard for this, putting in hours at a part time job while still managing to graduate with honors from one of the top high schools in the state. I thought I had earned this trip, done everything I was supposed to do, but in the end the message was the same as it had always been: “That kind of life is not for people like us.”

(Music plays, somber piano)

I was used to hearing this sort of thing. I grew up in a place where people rarely take risks or stray from the traditional, well-trodden path. For most families, life was full of uncertainty. Will we have enough for rent? What about the electric bill? How are we going to afford school supplies and groceries? 

To take risks, to follow your dreams, could land you and your family in a bad spot with lasting consequences. Stability was a premier luxury, a much-envied and coveted way of life that many could only dream of, and it was always the ultimate goal. Doing something risky like spending your hard-earned savings on a big vacation was a privilege reserved for a different segment of the population.

Over the years, I’ve found that this yearning for stability is deeply ingrained in my own mind, and it often conflicts with my desire for a life built around travel and adventure. It can be hard to want stability and freedom at the same time. 

(Music fades)

When it came to my big summer road trip, I was too naïve, too unconfident, too ignorant of the larger world and all of its possibilities to go ahead with it, despite everyone's warnings.After a lifetime of hearing about all of the things that I “couldn’t” do, about all of the things that weren’t for someone like me, I believed what they told me. I can’t help but think that, had I gone out on the road that first summer, the entire course of my life would have been changed. 

I would have seen people out there doing the jobs that I had always dreamed of, and even more that hadn’t even occurred to me yet. I would have seen that the life I wanted to live was real and attainable and that there were so, so many paths that I could take, all while getting paid to be outdoors in America’s wildest landscapes. I probably would have returned home, changed my major to biology and now be spending my days out in the deserts of Utah surveying plant communities and nerding out over the wildlife.

Instead, I spent the summer working at the same barbeque joint that I had worked at through high school.

(Music plays, slow guitar strumming)

I eventually used my road trip savings to move to New Orleans, and that’s when things started to change. It was in New Orleans that I met the person who would give me my first real taste of the outdoors.

It was five years since I had first given up on my summer road trip, and I was working for eight dollars an hour, part time at a garden center. I had lost my job at a seafood restaurant six months prior thanks to the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Our tourist industry had tanked, restaurant jobs were few and far between, and the garden center was the first place in six months of job hunting to even offer me an interview. My savings were totally depleted. I took the job despite the long commute and low pay. 

But that job was where I met Ben. Ben loved the outdoors as much as I did, and it seemed like a match made in heaven. The first year we spent together was one of the best years of my life. Ben had a world of privileges that I could never fathom. He had a dad who still paid his car insurance and cell phone bill, a grandmother who gave him gas money every week, and a mother who was often heard saying, “There’s some money in my wallet; just take whatever you need.”

“Whatever you need” could easily be a hundred dollars.

On top of it all, he had a job with the local outdoor retail chain, where he got big discounts on gear.

(Music fades out)

But for the two years that we were together, his love of the outdoors, his generous nature and, admittedly, his access to privileges that I didn’t have, made for an adventurous and fun life. We backpacked into the Smoky Mountains, where we saw rhododendrons in bloom. We hiked into the Ozarks and dove into the deep blue waters of a hidden swimming hole. We went out west to Utah for the first time, where I finally got to set foot in the deserts I had seen photos of so many years before. I smelled the unmistakable scent of juniper for the first time, and I saw Ben brought to tears at the beauty of Indian Creek. 

He outfitted me with the gear that I would need to get out to remote places on my own two feet, and I still use all of that gear to this day. If it weren’t for his generosity, there’s no way I would be able to entertain the idea of going backpacking, of camping in the winter, or of taking my bike out on the trail. 

Though my years with Ben ultimately ended, he opened my eyes to a world that I didn’t know existed. People actually got paid to go have fun outside all day. Who knew? 

But getting a glimpse into this world of adventure didn’t immediately translate into running off to the west and getting a summer job in a national park. 

(Music plays, somber guitar)

Once Ben and I broke up, it was back to barely scraping by, and even going on a simple day hike was often out of reach. Getting the funds together to move across the country and start a new career, seemed an insurmountable task. 

Eventually though, I landed a job at a local city park, and I got to spend my days outside, tending to my beloved little plants, and watching the wildlife come and go. And for the first time in my life, I genuinely enjoyed my work days. It was the first real sense of stability and peace that I had ever had in my adult life. 

The job at the park also offered some perspective. After years of working socially intensive jobs in the tourist industry, I had to come to terms with the fact that I’m pretty introverted. After only a few months at the park, I realized that six hours spent smiling and making small talk with hundreds of strangers in an air-conditioned restaurant was infinitely more exhausting than12 hours spent standing up trees in the August sun after a hurricane. 

(Music fades) 

Although I had found a happy medium at the park, this new realization gave me pause when I would start looking at jobs in the outdoor industry. I still dreamed of living in the mountains, but my view of what constituted working outdoors was pretty narrow. 

I didn’t yet know that someone would pay me to hike out into the middle of nowhere to monitor vegetation plots or do water quality assessments, and even though I did a lot of physical labor at my job, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep up on a trail crew. Everyone I knew who lived the life I wanted worked as a guide, and as I scrolled past job listing after job listing, I questioned whether I was really cut out for it all.

“Do you love the outdoors?” the ads inevitably started out. 

‘Yeah!’ I would think. ‘I really do!’

“Do you want to spend your days getting paid to be outside in America’s most beautiful landscapes!?” 

Absolutely!

“Are you a people person? Do you thrive in an environment that requires an energetic, customer-focused individual who enjoys leading large groups?” 

Oh, um… Not really. That actually kind of sounds like my worst nightmare. I would inevitably get discouraged and pack away the idea of moving for a while. 

(Music plays, guitar) 

After a few years at the park, I started to get restless. I wanted to make a change but I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to go in. I looked into going back into school for ecology, but I quickly realized that I could get a better education in another state. If I was going to give up the stability that I had, go back to the stress of working and going to school, and put myself into debt, it better be worth it. 

(Music fades)

I tabled the idea for the time being. But the wanderlust didn't go away. I still perused google maps in my free time, and spent rainy days planning trips for the fun of it. And eventually I got a crazy idea in my head. For the first time in years, I opened a folder on my desktop titled “Southwest Roadtrip,” and I began to dream again.

I still didn’t quite believe that quitting my job and spending months on the road was something I was allowed to do, and if I'm going to be totally honest, by that point in my life I had kind of given up on the idea. Travel and extended road trips were just going to have to wait for retirement, right? 

But when I asked myself, “Why not go?” I couldn’t come up with a good answer. I had a good job, and even though it still paid less than $20,000 a year, I was used to micro-managing every penny to make the most of it. I could potentially fund a trip if I was careful. 

I was already taking on other gardening jobs on the side and putting all of that money into savings. And I had lucked into a ridiculously cheap apartment. I was in the best position I had ever been in to take such a big risk.

(Music plays, suspenseful piano) 

Every excuse that I could find came back to one major point: fear. Fear of giving up the stability I had sought for so long and had finally gained. Fear of the unknown after the trip ended. Fear of all of those dire warnings I had grown up with.

(Music fades) 

But ultimately, I decided to give it a shot. 

Ten years after first giving up on my summer road trip, I quit my job, gave up my apartment and set off across the plains. 

(Music plays, punchy upbeat guitar strumming) 

It had taken three years of long work days, meticulous budgeting and an almost total lack of a social life, but I was out on the road. 

Joining me was my boyfriend, Vince, who I’d been in a long-distance relationship with. I set aside a fund to get an apartment at the end, and figured we'd keep going until the rest of the money ran out. 

The plan was to settle down somewhere out West when it was all over. Somewhere that I could go back to school and Vince could get a good job. 

(Rock music swells, then fades)

So what happened? How did I end up back in New Orleans working as a gardener instead of somewhere else with a view of the mountains and a university worth paying for?

Vince initially threw out the idea of coming back here. He had visited me in New Orleans when we had been long-distance, and he had really liked it. 

It may seem crazy that I agreed, after how much I’ve talked about wanting to start a new life somewhere else. But it’s almost no surprise to me that it worked out this way. 

Back then, I hadn’t yet realized how the deeply ingrained beliefs that I grew up with were holding me back. I didn’t even really grasp that stability was what I was longing for, and that that longing was one of the biggest things preventing me from making a change in my life. 

New Orleans had an allure of safety. It was a place where I knew I could start working immediately. I told myself that a few more years of stability would make us just that much more prepared to start a new life elsewhere. Just a few more years, right? 

I was always waiting for just a little more certainty, for some magical moment when I’d suddenly feel prepared enough to allow myself to make a real change. 

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

JESSICA TAYLOR: It feels really good to know, ‘OK, my body is doing good. It’s getting everything it needs.

WILLOW: That’s my colleague Jessica. She recently started using a product called AG1 — and she says it’s been a game changer for her digestive health.

JESSICA: I don’t know how to say this, but like I am very much more regular on days that I take it than I don’t.

WILLOW: The product she’s taking — AG1 — is a blend of 75 vitamins, minerals, whole-food sourced ingredients, probiotics, and more. It’s made by a company called Athletic Greens, which is one of our sponsors. 

You just have to take one scoop a day, and that’s enough to support your gut health, your nervous system, your immune system, your sleep quality and recovery. Basically, it’s all-in-one nutritional insurance.

To make it easy, Athletic Greens is going to give you a free one-year supply of immune-supporting Vitamin D, and five free travel packs with your first purchase. All you have to do is visit athleticgreens.com/outthere. Again, that’s athleticgreens.com/outthere to take ownership over your health and pick up the ultimate daily nutritional insurance! 

And now, back to the story.

CHARLSIE: The next two years were a roller coaster. I started my own gardening business, probably the riskiest thing I’ve done to date. I enjoyed it but didn’t make much the first year. I was living on barely $10,000, and Vince was having a hard time finding solid work. But even with the tight finances, I was feeling optimistic about the future. 

Suddenly though, my cat racked up over $2,000 in vet bills, and then my truck racked up over $2,000 in repairs. 

Every time I made headway on the vet bills or managed to finally put a little bit into savings, the truck would break down again or Vince would get laid off, and it just kept happening over and over again.

I worked harder than I ever had before. There were a few times where I worked several weeks in a row without a day off. I was getting up at the crack of dawn and often returning home after dark. But by the end of the year, despite all of my hard work, I had nothing to show for it. 

(Music plays, suspenseful bass line)

The vet bills, the truck problems, Vince’s inconsistent work schedule, ate up every last penny. Although my business had grown and I made more than the previous year, I still ended the year with credit card debt, no savings, and a pretty pessimistic view of things. 

My confidence was shot. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and I still had to face a winter with almost no financial cushion, no security.

(Music fades) 

I desperately needed to get away from it all, even if that meant only a few hours spent out in a quiet forest, but that felt impossible. That whole world seemed further away than it ever had before.

Despite all of the optimism and success of the previous years, all of the old fears came flooding back like a tidal wave. Maybe everything I was told while growing up was true. Maybe I was asking too much. Maybe my life was good enough. 

But I ask myself, is it ok to want more than “good enough”? Because if we’re going to be totally honest, the fact is that I do. I’ve spent years at a time over the past decade making do with walks around the neighborhood and watching the sunset from my stoop. I’m all about making the most of where you’re at now, and admitting that where I’m at now isn’t enough, especially when I’ve had a roof over my head and food in my belly the whole time, comes with a pretty big dose of guilt. 

I’ve spent the last decade surrounded by some of New Orleans’ most poverty-stricken neighborhoods. I may be broke, I may be stressed about money all the time, but when it comes down to it, I lead an incredibly privileged life. Wanting more leaves me wondering if I'm really just being greedy. 

(Music plays, somber guitar chords)

But am I really being greedy if I want to get out to a place where I’m unlikely to run into more than a handful of other people? Am I asking too much if I want to get away from the traffic and the exhaust and breathe some fresh air? We hear all the time of studies that show that being in nature is good for your mental health. Am I allowed to strive for that? 

And getting out for a day hike somewhere quiet or spending a night in my tent, those are pretty small goals. What if I want to dream big? Is that ok? Am I allowed to dream of taking a road trip again or thru hiking a long trail or visiting another country? Do I even dare mention my desire to make a living from my creative skills? 

(Music fades)

As much as we criticize social media and caution others against comparing their lives to the polished pictures we see on Instagram, I have to say, being able to check in on the van life movement and other outdoor communities has really opened my eyes to a world of possibilities. I always knew that people had cool seasonal jobs aside from guiding positions, but it was a hazy gray area where I still didn’t really know what my options were or how to even go about learning more.

I always knew that people made a living from their creative talents, but I didn’t see how my limited skills could compete. Having my world opened to thousands of people living this life and seeing all of the unique ways in which people have made that possible has flipped a switch in my head. Suddenly, I see hundreds of opportunities to get paid to hike out into the middle of nowhere and nerd out over plants. Even more amazing, the idea of being a traveling photographer feels totally real. I stopped thinking of my dreams and aspirations as whimsical fantasies, and started viewing them as business opportunities. 

(Music plays, slow melodic guitar) 

For the first time in my life I have a clear picture of where I want my life to go over the next few years and the steps that I need to take to get there. And more importantly, I feel like I can achieve it. 

Granted, this wave of optimism and confidence is coming from a place of unprecedented stability in my life. If you had asked me last year if any of these things were feasible for me, I would have given you a resounding NO! I was working so much just to keep us afloat that I barely had time to cook a meal in the evening. How on earth was I supposed to carve out time in my day to go take pictures or sit down and write when I barely had time to eat and sleep? 

Taking the time to hone skills that I hoped would one day lead to a career change would have meant possibly not having enough to pay the rent. That was a luxury I just couldn’t afford at the time.

(Music ends) 

But after two years of struggle, we seem to finally be coming out of it. Vince has finally found consistent work, and the pay is good. The universe has allowed me to actually hang onto the money that I’m always squirreling away into savings, and my business has reached a level of consistency and stability that, in theory, should allow me to cut back the hours a bit and devote more time to my life outside of work. 

So now I have to ask myself, am I going to let history repeat itself? Or am I going to take advantage of this moment of opportunity and start making strides towards something new? 

(Music plays, inspirational piano)

I have accepted the fact that we will be living here in New Orleans for the next two years while Vince finishes an apprenticeship. But instead of feeling stuck, I am seeing all of the ways that I can make the most of this time.

So was it really that simple? All this time, did I just have to tell myself that the things I wanted were valid, and that it’s ok to pursue that path? Life is rarely that easy. There were large stretches of time when no amount of giving myself permission would have really changed the circumstances. When you only have $20 left in your bank account at the end of every month, you simply can’t afford to move across the country or make a major career change. At times in my life when the finances have been the tightest and the outlook was most grim, it was often some circumstance out of my control that gave me just enough of a break to start getting ahead again. 

I wish I could sit here and tell you that every success, every time I’ve bounced back from some major setback, was solely a product of my own hard work and determination, but if we’re going to be honest here, it often just feels like dumb luck.

(Music ends)

But looking back over the last decade I also can’t deny, there were times when I had the chance to create the life that I wanted, and I didn’t go for it. It would have meant taking big risks, and I erred on the side of caution and stability instead.

Making a big change in your life rarely comes without the discomfort of uncertainty, fear and a certain amount of risk. But if I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s that you have to allow yourself to take the risk when you have the chance, because circumstances may not always be in your favor. It’s not always as simple as giving yourself permission, but sometimes, allowing yourself to dream makes all the difference.

(Music plays, country fiddle and guitar duo)

WILLOW: That was Charlsie Shaver. Her story first aired in 2019. 

These days, Charlsie is still in New Orleans. Getting out on the road full-time didn't happen, but she's started a native plant nursery, and now hiking is a part of her job. She has a more optimistic view of the future, and she looks forward to building a life where she can get outdoors as part of her job at home and travel during the slow season. You can find her on Instagram @chickadeenatives and @mydestinyisunbound.

(Music swells, concludes)

Coming up next time on Out There, we’re going to go out into the woods with someone who’s brand new to hunting.

(Sound of a spray bottle spritzing liquid)

SAM ANDERSON: So what are you doing here?

SAM’S DAD: Spraying fox piss on this wick. 

SAM: Uh, it smells like…

SAM’S DAD: What’s it smell like?

(Sniffing)

SAM: Smells like shit.

SAM’S DAD: It’s not that bad.

SAM: It’s pretty bad.

WILLOW: What makes someone a hunter? Do we all have it in us to pull the trigger? And if so, what does that say about us?

Tune in on September 29th to hear that story.

(Music plays, ambling guitar) 

If you’re enjoying Out There, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you’re listening right now. Seriously, pause the episode and do it right now. Five-star ratings and kind words from listeners like you make a huge difference to independent podcasts like us, because they help new listeners find the show.

If you’ve already left a review, thank you so much.

(Music fades) 

I’d like to give a big shout out to all of our patrons, including Jeff Goeke-Smith, Simon Martin, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. Patrons are listeners who support Out There with monthly financial contributions. Basically, they make it possible to produce this podcast.

If you’re not yet a patron, and you’re interested in hearing more about it, click the link in the episode description or go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast.

Support for Out There comes from PeakVisor. PeakVisor is an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains.

You can use their 3D maps to plan out trips. You can sign up for one of their peak-bagging challenges to keep you motivated. You can keep track of your accomplishments with their logbook. And when you’re out somewhere and want to know what you’re looking at, you can use their app to find out the names of all the mountains you’re seeing.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website - outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written and narrated by Charlsie Shaver. Story editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(Music swells, concludes)

Selfless Acts

By Willow Belden, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On Aug. 18, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Sound of breeze)

WILLOW BELDEN (tape): Alright, so I am out for a hike. And it’s a beautiful, sunny day. Gentle breeze. It’s been a really tough week/month/year for me. So it’s a gift to have days like this, where I make time to go out and spend some quiet time in nature.

WILLOW (narration): One of the things I like to do when I’m out in nature is look at maps. I love to see where I am, what I’m looking at, what’s nearby.

But often — like on this day — my map only shows the immediate vicinity. I can see all these mountains off in the distance, but I don’t know what they are. 

This is where an app called PeakVisor comes in handy. 

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app figures out where you are, and then it tells you all the mountains you’re looking at.

If you’re a map geek like me, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This season is called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re sharing award-winning narratives and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There. These stories are the perfect thing to fuel your summer adventures, and they just might give you the inspiration you need to lead a more fulfilling life.

(Theme music fades out)

Before we get to today’s story, I have a favor to ask. If you enjoy listening to Out There, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you’re listening right now. Five-star reviews make such a difference in helping new listeners find the show, and reaching new listeners is crucial for our success as a podcast.

If you’ve already left a review, thank you so much!

And now, on to our story for today.

(Music plays, guitar, keys, wind instruments) 

I’m willing to bet that at some point in your life, you’ve experienced an act of altruism. Maybe it was the sweet older couple, who picked up your entire bill at a fancy restaurant. Or the stranger who fixed your car when you broke down in the middle of nowhere. Or the person who invited you to stay at their home when you were on the road and had no place to go.

You know what I’m talking about: those acts of kindness that seem over the top.

Today’s story is about that — about generosity taken to the extreme. And it’s about what prompts someone to BE that generous.

(Music fades)

The story starts four years ago, on a hot day in July.

I was thru-hiking the Colorado Trail, which is this long-distance hiking trail through the Rocky Mountains. I had been out for several weeks by this point, and I was in the middle of cattle country. Basically just miles upon miles of dry, dusty, brown fields. No shade. No place to fill up my water bottles.

The last stream I had passed was basically just a muddy trickle, full of cow manure.

I was totally out of water, and my mouth was so dry it felt like I was chewing on cotton balls. It was starting to make me nervous. What if I got dehydrated? Like, severely dehydrated? How would I handle that, all alone in the middle of nowhere?

And then, way in the distance, I saw the glint of something silver. As I got closer, I realized it was a vehicle. Next to it was some sort of home-made storm shelter, shaped like a dome. 

I had heard rumors that there was a trail angel out here somewhere — a man who gave out free food and drinks to hikers. But I didn’t actually believe he was real. 

And yet, now, here he was, stepping out of his storm shelter, offering me a camp chair to sit in, handing me a blue Gatorade. He had a stoic face, gray hair, and he was wearing blue jeans, despite the heat.

I don’t usually drink things that are bright blue. They kinda remind me of windshield wiper fluid. But this blue Gatorade was the most wonderful thing I have ever tasted. It was cold, and sweet, and refreshing, and I was beyond grateful.

The trail angel introduced himself as Apple. I figured it was a nickname, just like many thru-hikers have trail names. 

Apple told me he does trail angeling year-round. He spends a few weeks in Colorado, and at other times of year, he hangs out along other trails: the Appalachian Trail, the Florida Trail, the Continental Divide Trail. He brings food and water out to hikers, gives them a ride into town if they need it; he even took someone to the hospital once.

Basically, a full-time do-gooder. 

(Music plays, peaceful melodic guitar)

In the days and weeks and years that followed my encounter with Apple, I kept thinking about him. Something about him didn’t quite make sense. I couldn’t understand why someone would be a full-time trail angel, why you’d spend months and months out of the year just helping out complete strangers. For FREE.

Then, this summer, I finally got a chance to find some answers. 

(Guitar fades)

My colleague Becky Jensen told me she was going out to see Apple. 

Becky had thru-hiked the Colorado Trail two years after me, and she’d had a similar experience when she came across Apple’s aid station. 

BECKY JENSEN: It was like tiptoeing down the stairs on Christmas morning. You know,  you’re the only one up, and you know something magical is about ready to happen. I get emotional about this. And I went over and sat in a chair, and I hadn’t sat in a chair for a week, and I just sat there eating this buttermilk donut and getting teary like I am now, thinking, ‘Oh my gosh, this is the best thing I have ever eaten.’

(Music plays, rambling guitar) 

WILLOW: It’s funny how a donut, or a bottle of Gatorade, can be the BEST THING you’ve ever tasted. They’re simple treats, but when you’re alone and at the mercy of the mountains, little moments of trail magic can be really powerful.

BECKY: I thought, ‘Someone has come out into such a remote area, scoped out this trail and knew the absolute worst, toughest spot, and brought some hope.’

(Music swells, then fades) 

WILLOW: Like me, Becky marveled at Apple’s generosity. In fact, she was so touched by his kindness, that the following year, she contacted him and asked if she could join him for a day. She wanted to experience the trail magic again, but on the giving end this time. 

This made sense to me. I think it’s pretty natural to want to give back, after we’ve been on the receiving end of kindness.

But I still wondered about Apple. What was up with his uber-altruism? Are some people just nicer than everyone else?

So when Becky invited me to go out with her and spend a day with Apple this summer, I jumped at the offer. 

(Music plays, guitar plucking) 

We showed up at Apple’s aid station with a box of fresh peaches and a giant bag of popcorn.

The place was just like I remembered it: dusty fields, camping chairs set up by a big pine tree, coolers full of soda and lemonade, and of course, the homemade storm shelter. 

We sat with Apple, waiting for hikers to come through. 

The day got hot. Flies buzzed. We pushed our camp chairs into the shade.

(Music fades)

I studied Apple as he sat there. He was clean shaven and tan, with a crisp white safari shirt and a bright orange hat. And he seemed oddly content.

Not that I minded being there myself, particularly. Sitting quietly in a field is pleasant enough, for a few hours.  But days? WEEKS? I still couldn’t see the appeal. It wasn’t even a particularly scenic spot on the trail. And Apple had been doing this for SEVENTEEN YEARS.

WILLOW (Tape): So what’s average, how many people come through per day?

APPLE: It’s been about 15 now, it’s gone up.

WILLOW: Have you had days where nobody’s come? 

APPLE: Absolutely. Yeah. Later, certainly in August, you get that quite a bit actually. That’s why I have my drones, so I have something to do.

WILLOW (narration): Drones. He really does have drones, two of them. He’ll fly them down the trail to see if hikers are coming. He even sometimes delivers cold drinks to hikers via drone. 

(Sound of drone taking off, whur of propellers)

Today, he launches one of his devices and then lets Becky put on the drone goggles. They look sort of like virtual reality goggles, and they let you see what the drone is seeing. 

BECKY: So I’m looking at the road, I’m following the road. Pine trees to my right, and a big open space to the left. Can you go – oh, hold on Apple. Go back down.

APPLE: Seriously?

BECKY: Yep, come back toward us. Yep, we’ve got somebody. They’re kind of in white. It’s just a little white blob. 

WILLOW: So how far away is that?

APPLE: 4,163 feet.

(laughter)

(Music plays, rock drum fill, guitar)

WILLOW (narration): Apple really geeks out about the drones.  He’s a former engineer from IBM, so I guess it makes sense. You can tell he enjoys knowing when hikers are going to show up, surprising them with a beverage drop, setting the drones down EXACTLY where he wants them. He’s like a kid with a toy airplane.

(Music swells)

By mid-afternoon, a steady flow of hikers, and even a few mountain bikers, are coming through.

APPLE: Welcome, there’s all kinds of goodies, help yourself. Cold drinks are in the cooler, help yourself. And there’s chocolate donuts.

(Sound of cooler opening, people rummaging through it, ice sloshing) 

BIKEPACKER: Oh my God, a coca cola. They’re so cold. Ohhhh.

WILLOW: Apple has a little notebook, and as each traveler comes through, he keeps a record.

APPLE): What’s your trail name?

SOUL SLOSHER: Soul Slosher.

APPLE: I’m sorry?

SOUL SLOSHER: Soul Slosher.

APPLE: Soul Slosher.

WILLOW: Is there a story behind that?

SOUL SLOSHER: Well when I was doing the AT, a lot of people, especially in town, they would ask, you know, “Why are you hiking? What are you doing? What are you looking to get out of this?” And I remember I was so annoyed one day, someone asked me, and I was like, “I’m just doing something different. I’m just shaking up my soul.” And someone behind me goes, “So you’re a Soul Slosher!” And it’s just stuck. (Laughter)

WILLOW (narration): The hikers and bikers are lean, and sweaty, and sun-baked. They seem genuinely grateful for the cold drinks and salty snacks. And the conversation. 

You can kinda tell they’ve been by themselves in the middle of nowhere for a while. 

SOUL SLOSHER: I was hiking by myself yesterday, and it was raining, but the sun had come out. And I was like, “Here comes the sun!” But it was like a zany voice. Like I was like mentally deranged kinda singing, like, “Here comes the sun.” (Laughter in background) And I was like, I shouldn’t be by myself this much.

WILLOW: Some of the hikers stay a few minutes. Others hang out for hours. 

Apple seems to enjoy their conversation. He asks them about their journeys, trades jokes. But, he’s not gushy. He doesn’t share much about himself, kind of dodges questions actually.

SOUL SLOSHER: So Apple, tell us something about you, (sound of can opening) if you like.

APPLE: Well, I’m 23 years old, available. (Laughter) I’m retired long ago. From IBM. And I built that dome.

SOUL SLOSHER: OK. So how did you get your trail name? 

APPLE: Apple? That is my real name. My actual family name.

SOUL SLOSHER: Oh.

WILLOW: His full name is actually Bill Appel, and he lives in Ohio. At least, that’s his home base, when he’s not out on a trail. 

I still can’t figure him out, though. If you were to imagine someone who dedicates their life to committing random acts of kindness, you’d probably picture someone who’s kind of touchy feely. But Apple isn’t that. He’s just a regular person. Like you or me. And yet, here he is, spending his hard-earned retirement years, angeling. 

What’s up with that? 

(Music plays, joyus guitar and ukulele strumming, fades out)

WILLOW: We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…since we’re talking about thru-hiking today, I want to tell you about something that made MY thru-hike a whole lot simpler: a pee cloth.

Pee cloths are just what they sound like: they’re reusable cloths that you can use instead of toilet paper, when you need to pee. In between uses, you just hang your pee cloth on your pack to dry.

One of our sponsors is a company called Kula Cloth, and they make luxury pee cloths. When I say “luxury”, I’m talking antimicrobial fabric, a waterproof backing so you don’t get your fingers wet, and even reflective stitching so it’s easy to find your Kula Cloth at night.

For 15% off your Kula Cloth order, go to outtherepodcast.com/kula and enter the promo code “outtherepodcast15” at checkout. That’s outtherepodcast.com - slash - K-U-L-A, promo code “outtherepodcast15”.

And now, back to the story.

After the last hikers have come through and Apple has packed up and gone back to town for the night, I finally get to really talk to him. I ask why he does what he does. Why he’s so selfless.

I had expected him to give me some sort of kumbaya answer: to talk about how helping others is a noble thing to do, how we should all be more generous. But that’s not what he says. 

Instead, he tells me, he’s actually not being selfless at all. Quite the opposite. 

(Music plays, melancholy guitar)

It all started the first time he met a thru-hiker. It was back in 2001, and he was living in Raleigh, North Carolina at the time. On weekends, he’d sometimes go hiking in the Smoky Mountains. And one day, he came across two guys with big backpacks. They looked a little the worse for wear.

APPLE: They’re filthy, and they stink, to be honest. I  mean, honestly, you could tell from looking at them. They were pale, they were hungry. It was pretty obvious they were in bad shape – really, seriously, physically bad shape.

WILLOW: They told Apple they were hiking the whole Appalachian Trail. All the way from Georgia to Maine. And they were hungry. Like, really hungry.

APPLE: I had some candy bars with me, and I gave it to them, and it was like they were thanking god they were alive. It was an amazing thing. You never normally see anything like that.

WILLOW: The hikers were immensely grateful. They acted like it was so special, what Apple had done for them, giving them these candy bars. So he started thinking, ‘I hike here anyway. I could do this again, but in a bigger way. I could bring more food. Make a picnic out of it.’ It sounded kind of fun.

(Music fades out)

Apple figured a good way to reach a lot of hikers at one time would be to hang out at a trail shelter. There are a lot of them along the Appalachian Trail, kind of lean-to’s where hikers can get out of the rain or snow. 

So one day, Apple loads up his backpack with chocolate and hot dogs, and goes up to one of these shelters. Turns out, he was right, a lot of hikers showed up there.

APPLE: It was pretty nasty. It was like getting cold and rainy, so they were kind of hurting. So I built a fire, and they really liked that, and then I made them hot dogs, I remember that. And I remember, I went out to get wood and I came back to the shelter — the shelter was full that time of the year — and they all stood up and gave me an ovation. And I thought, ‘Has that ever happened to me at IBM? No way. And it never will, either.’ That is so good for your ego. 

(Music plays, joyus piano and strumming)

WILLOW: Apple felt like a total hero. He knew right away that he wanted to do this again. All that glory was intoxicating.

APPLE: It’s — what do they call it? The Messianic Complex. Right, you feel like you’re so powerful. I think that’s what it is, it all feeds into your ego. You just get totally addicted to it.

WILLOW: Totally addicted to it. 

(Music fades out)

Like an addict, Apple kept chasing that feeling, that feeling of being a hero, a savior. He kept going back for more. Every few weeks, he’d drive four hours from his home in Raleigh, out to the Appalachian Trail. He’d hike thousands of feet up a mountain, just to bring food to hikers.

After he retired, he started doing it full time. He branched out from the AT and started hitting other trails as well. And all of this, to keep getting that feeling he loved so much. That feeling of power, that “helper’s high.” 

“So you see,” he tells me, “there’s nothing selfless about it.”

WILLOW (tape): Do you think there is such a thing as doing something selfless? Does that even exist?

APPLE: That’s a really complicated question. I think no there isn’t. I think even the most selfless people ultimately may be doing it for their own ego. 

BECKY: It’s not this sense of martyrdom – of, “look at me and these sacrifices I’ve made.” 

WILLOW: That’s my colleague again, Becky — the one who brought me out to see Apple this summer.

Last year, when she joined Apple to do some angeling, it was her way of saying thankyou for the trail magic she received, her way of paying it forward. 

But it’s morphed into something else. Bringing peaches and Nutter Butters out to the trail, and seeing the hikers’ delight, she started to feel that same helper’s high that Apple talks about. She only does it for one day out of the year, but she, too, talks about angeling almost like it’s an addiction. 

BECKY: It feels SO GOOD. It must be like the little oxytocin or endorphins or dopamine, whatever the chemical is flowing through my body —I’m not the scientist here — but some happy thing is happening inside of me when I’m bringing joy to others. And it just kind of flows through me and kind of shoots out of my fingertips, and I have a perma-grin on my face that I can’t wipe off.

WILLOW (tape): A perma-grin! That’s going to be a new vocabulary word. (Laughter)

(Music plays, guitar strumming) 

WILLOW (narration): And there it is. This urge to help, to go out of your way for complete strangers — it’s not the result of some rare generosity gene. It’s not like Apple or Becky are inherently more gracious humans than the rest of us. They’re just drunk on the helper’s high. 

I guess it sounds a little jaded, this idea that there might not actually be such a thing as pure altruism — that generosity is often actually kind of self-serving. 

But you know what? It’s also kind of beautiful that life works that way. Because it means those mental highs we all crave might be easier to come by than we think. 

(Music swells, concludes)

That story first aired in 2018. And it won a national award. It got first place for best independent podcast from Public Radio News Directors Incorporated, or PRNDI. Getting a PRNDI award was a huge honor, and I’d like to give a big round of congratulations to everyone who helped out with this story.

(Music plays, rambling guitar)

Coming up next time on Out There, we often hear that “the outdoors is free” — that it doesn’t take money to enjoy nature. But it’s not really that simple. For some folks, even going camping for a weekend is a luxury that’s out of reach.

CHARLSIE SHAVER: I grew up with a single dad, and he, like most of the adults where we lived, struggled to make ends meet. There were no summer vacations. Getting a job was all about practicality. And chances were, if you knew someone who was living in a van, it probably wasn’t by choice. From a young age, I got used to hearing, “No, we can’t afford that.” And, “That’s for rich people, not for us.”

WILLOW: What happens when you’re too poor to dream? Tune in on September 8 for that story.

If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you’re listening right now. Seriously, pause the episode and do it right now. Five-star ratings and kind words from listeners like you make a huge difference to independent podcasts like us, because they help new listeners find the show.

If you’ve already left a review, thank you so much.

Speaking of thank yous, I want to give a shout-out to all the listeners who are supporting Out There financially, including Shannon and Peter Rogers, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia.

If you’d like to make a gift of your own, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast — or just click the link in the episode description.

(Sound of breeze)

WILLOW (tape): K, opening up PeakVisor…

WILLOW (narration): Remember, from the start of the episode, where I was out on a mountain top?

WILLOW (tape): Oh, this is cool. It tells me — it pops up, it knows where I am. It says, “Oh, you’re on Medicine Bow Peak,” and it says, “Tap to sign in and claim your visit.” So you can kind of keep track of what mountains you’ve climbed.

WILLOW (narration): PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app not only lets me keep track of my accomplishments; it also shows me a panorama of all the mountains I’m looking at, with every peak labeled.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(breeze fades out)

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time, and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website, outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was reported and produced by me, Willow Belden. Story editing by Becky Jensen. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(Theme music plays out) 

Blue Dive

By Tiffany Duong, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On July 28, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Sound of breeze)

WILLOW BELDEN (tape): Alright, so I am out for a hike. And it’s a beautiful, sunny day. Gentle breeze. It’s been a really tough week/month/year for me. So it’s a gift to have days like this, where I make time to go out and spend some quiet time in nature.

WILLOW (narration): One of the things I like to do when I’m out in nature is look at maps. I love to see where I am, what I’m looking at, what’s nearby.

But often — like on this day — my map only shows the immediate vicinity. I can see all these mountains off in the distance, but I don’t know what they are. 

This is where an app called PeakVisor comes in handy. PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app figures out where you are, and then it tells you all the mountains you’re looking at.

If you’re a map geek like me, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

As the world reopens, many of us are returning to the things we used to love. Things we did before the pandemic. We’re traveling, we’re seeing loved ones, we’re going on adventures.

And every adventure is better with a great soundtrack.

Our current season is called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re sharing award-winning narratives and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There. These stories are the perfect thing to fuel your summer adventures, and they just might give you the inspiration you need to lead a more fulfilling life.

But before we get to today’s story, I have a favor to ask.

(Theme music ends)

It takes a lot of time and money to produce the intricate narratives you hear on Out There. And because we are an independent podcast, we don’t have financial support from a network or radio station.

So — if Out There brightens your day at all, consider becoming a patron. Patrons are listeners who make monthly contributions to Out There through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon.

You can give as much or as little as you want. Most people do five or ten dollars a month. Of course, if you have the means to make larger gifts, we are extremely grateful for that. But every dollar really does help.

To become a patron today, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast or just click the link in the episode description.

Thank you so much!

(Music plays - rambling guitar)

WILLOW: So, what happens when you’re successful — but not happy?

Today’s story comes to us from one of the Out There ambassadors. A while back, she had been “living the life.” She’d finished law school, she worked for a big law firm in LA, and she traveled as much as she could. But despite the glamorous life, she was miserable. And she didn’t know what to do about it. And then she went on an impromptu trip to the Galapagos. And everything changed.

I’ll let Tiffany Duong take it from here. And just so you know, there’s some adult language in this episode.

(Guitar fades out)

TIFFANY DUONG: “Okay. Okay. Breathe.” Almost angry, I urged myself on. “You can do this,” I told myself. “You WANT to do this. You NEED to do this.”

(Music plays - tonal, spacy) 

My brow furrowed, and my throat felt dry from the anticipation. “C’mon, Tiff. It’s today, or… never?” I shook my head and sighed out loud at the same time, not sure if I wanted to cry or scream or just hide under my desk. 

I looked outside my office window for distraction, stability. The skyscrapers of downtown LA were the same as they’d always been – gray, tall, looming. I imagined all the corporate suits and finance people in them, working all hours of the day in their fluorescent yellow offices, just like me. 

(Music ends) 

“Okay, Tiff. Focus.” Why was this so hard? I’d already decided to quit my job, last month in the Galapagos. God, to be back there again, on the boat, carefree, instead of here, freaking out and trying to find the courage and resoluteness I had there. 

“TIFF! C’mon!” I begged myself. If I really wanted to quit my job, which I desperately did, it had to be within the next four hours. Tomorrow, my boss came back from vacation. He was bossy – bordering bullying – and I knew I didn’t have enough courage to stand my ground against him and quit tomorrow. So it was today, or never. 

Never - the idea of it made me wince. But the devil’s advocate in my head prodded, “Do you really have to quit? Are you really going to do this? Are you crazy?!” Maybe… maybe, I should just… get back to work?

I shook my head, “no.” Not today. Instead, I went to my computer and opened up Spotify: Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song.” The last few days, as I’d settled on doing that “crazy” thing and quitting my job without a next step, this cheesy anthem had saved me. “This is my fight song; Take back my life song; Prove I’m alright song.” I let the cheerleader-positive lyrics flood out all the “what if’s” that had begun to stir up clouds of doubt within me. 

(Music fades in - tonal, choral, divine) 

“Okay. This is really happening.” For the first time ever, I felt my resolve dig its heels into the carpet of my office and push back. “Never” was no longer an option. 

(Music fades out) 

To understand how I ended up here, let’s rewind half a year. I was, of course, in that same office, working yet another late night. It’d been a crappy quarter full of these all-nighters alone in my cold office, and I’d needed a vacation, badly. 

I was a midlevel associate at a top law firm. What that means, in practical terms, is that I’d learned to suffer, well. I could execute perfection in minute details to make someone else’s dreams come true. I’d work sometimes 18 hours a day, without meals, sleep, or seeing the sun, to close deals and to make a ton of money, for other people. 

I’d learned to feel good and justified in accepting a big paycheck for working so much. People – my friends, family, and even me, myself – told me it was a great job that everyone wanted: “Think about the pay! And security! All the cutting edge stuff you’re working on! Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

And so, I kept going, for six years. Every morning, it was a fight to get up, get dressed, and get to work. The reward for finishing an assignment early was more work. It felt endless, toxic, stagnant. To trick myself into working so much, I had to numb myself from the reality that I didn’t even know myself anymore.

(Music begins - calming piano)

When my mind would wander, I’d imagine my soul, my inner essence, as a translucent, milky stone. And, every day, just to get through that day’s mundane and/or insane shitstorms, I’d then imagine taking a chisel and chipping off bits of my precious soul stone. 

This was the price to pay for staying in this great job that was killing me. With each chip, I’d hope, ‘Maybe there’ll be enough left by the time I leave this job to still be happy. To still be me.’ 

(Music fades out)

Some days were worse. We’d get scolded for not making hours or told to cancel our plans to close “super-important” deals. Sometimes, I’d have to chip off entire corners from my soul to tell my disappointed family and friends that I couldn't join them. It hurt to do it, but I didn’t have a choice. This was my job. I’d gone to college and law school for seven years, to get this job. To be right here. And so many people WANTED this job, would KILL for it. I was one of the “lucky” ones. “So, chip away, Tiff. Stop whining. Get back to work.” 

I numbed myself during the workday and crammed as many happy hours, shopping trips, and weekend getaways into my precious moments off as was humanly possible, desperate to feel alive again. That was my big law life: work hard, play hard, get paid the big bucks. Find ways to not feel these feelings long enough to convince myself that life was good. Eat out all the time because who has time for groceries and cooking? Miss mom’s birthday and family vacations, but send something nice to stand in my place. Or, bring my laptop everywhere and just never stop working.

(Music plays - tonal, grandiose)

During those law firm years, every time I’d toy with the idea of quitting, that risk-averse bastard that lived in my head would start up: “But what will you do? What do you even like? And, you’re 31. You know that, right? You’re gonna start over in a new field that you know nothing about, going against 21-year-olds — fresh, eager kids. Can you handle that? Do you have the stamina?” 

Fear-stricken, I’d pick up the chisel and get back to work, the inertia of my life too overwhelming to overthrow. 

(Music ends)

Back to that late night in my office at the end of 2014. There I was, waiting for a 300-page contract to print at two a.m. I opened an email. It was a flyer for a scuba diving trip to the Galapagos. 

I considered it, for fun. I’d loved the few dives I’d already done, as one of the many activities I’d tried during my time off. And the Galapagos was the top thing on my bucket list. 

“Hmmm…” I pondered some more. I’d never dove outside of California before. And live-aboards are supposedly the way to dive. “F*ck it,” I said to myself. “Let’s go.” 

I replied to the email, signing up for the trip and asking where to send my $3,700 before I could change my mind. Like so many times before, I had overworked myself and was now buying distractions to make myself feel better. 

(Sound of ocean swell)

Fast-forward to June 2015, and I found myself on a boat sailing and scuba diving the Galapagos Islands. As our ship cut across the turquoise sea, I breathed in the warm, tropical air. I closed my eyes, letting it fill my lungs. This was nice. I sat there, on the lawn chair at the front of the sundeck in silence, taking it all in. I was in the Galapagos. I couldn’t believe it. 

(Ocean sounds end)

The next day, we started diving. Our plan for the week included many kinds of dives I’d never done before, with more challenging conditions requiring more skills. This was what I was here for, but still, I was nervous. The idea of “blue dives,” in particular, scared me. 

In scuba diving, a “blue dive” is when you swim “into the blue” – away from shore and into wide-open ocean. It requires you to let go of the anchors and rocks that keep you grounded. You float in the water column, with no tethers and no references on any side of you, totally and completely at the whim of the currents. 

(Sound of breathing through scuba regulator)

Breathing heavily into my scuba regulator, I started talking to myself on our first blue dive: “Tiff, let go,” I told myself. 

(Continued sound of breathing, layered with subaquatic white noise)

I watched everyone else swim away, but my fears locked me into place. “Now, Tiff!” I scolded myself. “Everyone is leaving. They’re looking for whale sharks, out THERE, in the blue.” My fingers remained death-gripped onto the rocks. As I tried to focus my eyes on the vast blueness in front of me, my heart beat so intensely I thought it was going to burst. 

I just couldn’t let go; there was nothing to hold onto out there. No rocks, no shore, no benchmarks, no safety nets. Just BLUE. 

The group was almost out of reach now. Fed up, I gave myself one last shot. “Ugh, Tiff, this is what you came for! GO! LET GO!” 

“Aahhh!” 

(Scream echos, sound of waves and moving water) 

I screamed into my regulator, as I tentatively opened my fingers. I felt a cool rush of water as the current took me up and out. Holy crap. No turning back now. 

(Waves crashing, bubbles bubbling) 

As we got further from shore, I lost sight of my little rock perch.

(Music plays - orchestral strings) 

I stopped looking back, actually. Excitement and wonder had replaced all my fear. “This isn’t scary; this is amazing! Bring on the whale sharks! We’re looking for the biggest fish in the sea!” 

The excitement of the search and of being so small in such a vast place felt freeing. I’d never been so unanchored before. The blood flowed through my veins, and my worries from a few minutes ago floated away with my bubbles. I felt so very alive.

(Music swells - twinkling chimes, harp) 

We finished our dive, and even though we didn’t find whale sharks, I was hooked. I wanted to do another blue dive, to keep exploring. The promise of something special in that vast nothingness called to me to find it. 

(Music swells, then fades)

 That night, I couldn’t sleep. The adrenaline still coursed through my veins. This was nothing like diving I’d done before. At Catalina Island, I just followed my instructor around to regular, safe spots. It was fun and beautiful being underwater, but there was no sense of wild adventure. 

 Here, in these Galapagos currents, there was no one to blindly follow around, so I was forced to face my fears and the open water. It was invigorating in a way I’d never felt before relying on just myself. The thoughts and emotions and aliveness swirled in my head and kept me awake. What was this that I was feeling? I went up to the top deck with my comforter. 

(Music plays - calming piano)

The salty sea air whipped at my face, and I felt almost embraced by the warm night. As the boat lapped through the waves, very bright, distinct little sparkles glimmered at the water's surface. Bioluminescence! They mirrored the southern hemisphere stars up above. 

The stars really do look different from the other side of the equator. And there were so many of them, blanketing the endless sky. It was like being in a planetarium. I stared at the glowing water meeting the twinkling skies, and as if it wasn’t magic enough already, shooting stars passed overhead. Incredulous, I just kept staring. I felt high on life. What was this place?

(Piano swells, fades)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first — it’s that time of year when I’m outdoors a LOT. And when you’re outdoors for hours or days on end, eventually you’re gonna have to pee.

If you’re like me, and you don’t want to schlep around toilet paper — and pack it back out — consider getting a pee cloth. A pee cloth is just what it sounds like: it’s a reusable cloth that you can use to wipe, for number one. 

One of our sponsors makes really snazzy pee cloths. They’re called Kula Cloths, and they’re made with antimicrobial material; they have a waterproof backing so you don’t get your fingers wet. And they even have reflective stitching, so it’s easy to find your Kula Cloth at night.

For 15% off your Kula Cloth order, go to outtherepodcast.com/kula and enter the promo code outtherepodcast15. That’s out-there-podcast-dot-com-slash-K-U-L-A. Promo code outtherepodcast15.

And now, back to the story.

TIFFANY: The rest of the trip continued with that same magical feeling.

(Music plays, light-hearted piano)

During the days, we dove and explored. Everything I saw and did blew my mind. I floated alongside 100-year old sea turtles and finished my safety stops in the middle of perfect circles of steel pompano fish.

The stone mountains jutted out of the sapphire seas, and we were so isolated that it felt like we were going back to a prehistoric time. I watched frigate birds fly around the islands and pictured pterodactyls doing the same thing, circling and squawking around these magic isles, millennia ago.

Each evening, I went back up on deck. I breathed in every sunset. They filled me with a peace and happiness that was as unfamiliar as it was reassuring. I spent every free moment right there. I even slept on the lawn chairs instead of in my cabin, unable to stop staring at the stars and unwilling to not feel the breeze on my face. 

Everything in my life up to that point had taught me to value power, positions, spending, and stability. There isn’t time in that kind of life for sunsets and starry nights. And yet, somehow, there I was, standing at the bow of this luxury yacht, in the middle of nowhere paradise. And to think, I’d just booked it on a whim because I was sick of reading contracts one night.

(Piano swells, then fades)

As we cruised from island to island, the rocking of the seas would sometimes wake me from my sleep. I’d go to the bow of the boat and stand there, eyes closed, arms out, breathing deeply. 

The wind and water danced around me, and I knew deep inside that I’d never forget these moments. The sheer perfection of it all — of floating on a small yacht in the middle of nowhere, listening to ocean gulls call in the night — created a feeling in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time: bliss.

I’d come on this trip alone, and that ended up being the biggest blessing of all. With nothing connecting me to my “real” life other than my name, I arrived to these remote islands as a blank slate. I was literally and figuratively as far as I could be from the life I’d created for myself. From the life that, I now realized, I had trapped myself into. 

This newfound distance freed me from the obligations, expectations, and fears that had numbed me and allowed my inner, neglected self to come out of hiding. 

(Music plays, calming piano) 

Thinking back to those days, I actually see my inner self emerging from the shadows as an entirely separate person from my body. She — this forgotten, wild adventurer — fell asleep on the deck with sunshine in her face and sea breeze running through her hair. She stayed up laughing with strangers-turned-friends in the hot tub. She challenged herself on each dive, questioning who she was, and seeing who might emerge from the depths of the sea. She stood in awe every single night. She explored these foreign lands and undiscovered parts of herself. She was wild, and she was happy. 

And then, just like that, it hit me: “she” was me. The real me — the one who dives with sharks, who prioritizes experiences over accomplishments, who loves her life. Going so far away from everything I knew allowed me to let go of the rocks in my life, to fully disconnect for the first time ever. At that point, I had no other reality — not work, not home, not friends, not family. Nothing else existed for me for that entire week — only this boat, these people, diving, waking up with adventure, and falling asleep rocked by the waves. 

(Piano fades out) 

When I thought about it, I couldn’t believe I’d been spending my 80-120 working hours a week trying to feel numb, trying to not feel alive. I got a more complete picture of who I was, and I had to admit, for the first time, that I didn’t like the life I’d chosen. 

(Ocean sounds, waves crashing)

On one of our last nights on the boat, we passed an active volcano spewing lava into the night as dolphins surfed our boat waves. I thought, ‘My God, I’m happy. I am so damn happy. Right here, right now.’ Waves of warmth held me there, and I felt whole, complete, and free. 

(Ocean swell)

I realized I hadn’t felt that happy and at peace within myself for the last decade. I quietly resolved to change that. Almost in tears from the realization, I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to that life. 

(Music plays - inspiring, tonal piano)

It stung to get off the boat at the end of the week to go back “home.” I didn’t want to acknowledge that there was any other reality for me other than what I had felt that week, because it felt so much more real than my safe, conventional life. 

That life, and the idea of going back to it, simultaneously felt like a faint memory and an imminent threat. I considered skipping my flight and getting right back on the boat for the next trip out, to get back to the magic. I didn’t want to lose this.

(Music fades)

When we landed at LAX, I felt uneasy, lost. How was it a boat with strangers, in a place I’d never been before, felt so strongly “home” that it hurt to leave. And yet here in L.A., where all my friends and family were, where I’d made my life for the past 10 years, I now felt absurd, forced — almost like a crushing prison. I knew something had to change. 

Over the next few weeks, I decided to quit. The more I analyzed myself, the more it became painfully clear that I’d never taken time to figure out what work called to me. Instead, I had looked to others for suggestions and then validation that I was becoming someone they approved of.

And I had succeeded. Only, now, I realized I didn’t share their definition of a “successful life.” No, I wanted something different for myself. I wanted to live slower, wake up with the sun, and feel alive in my own skin. I wanted to do work that invigorated me as much as I’d felt on the bow of that boat. I wanted, for the first time ever, to choose my own life. 

Back in my office, one month after my Galapagos trip, I played Rachel Platten. “This is my fight song; Take back my life song. Prove I’m alright song,” Rachel sang. 

Time to let go of the old rocks in my life and trust the currents to bring me where I’m meant to be — towards the big magic. 

(Music plays - slow piano) 

I could see now that my job at the law firm was the devil I knew, and that staying seemed less scary than the vast unknown blueBut, the blue was where the magic was. It was time to let go and define my own life. 

I turned the volume way up. “My power’s turned on,” Rachel belted. “Starting right now I’ll be strong.” Screaming along, crying, I told myself, “I’m brave. I’m strong. I’m courageous, and I deserve better than this. I deserve a life I love.”

I opened up a quote I’d saved for this exact moment, to hold myself accountable: “Do something today that your future self will thank you for.”  I read it out loud, my nerves finally steadying. Conviction, tears, and adrenaline swirled around inside me. I took a deep breath, and walked to the managing partner’s office next door. 

“Bob, do you have a moment?” I said.

(Piano plays on, concludes)

Twenty minutes and a bunch of tears later, it was done. The dream-nightmare I’d imagined and hoped for and dreaded for six years was done. Quitting my career and the life I’d lived for 31 years felt like the hardest thing I’d ever chosen to do. Utterly spent, I packed up my purse and left, for good. 

(Music plays - inspirational piano)

Now, three years later, I look back at those pivotal moments in the currents of the sea, and I see how they saved me. 

I’m grateful every day for what has come since and don’t regret the decision to quit, ever. I feel more alive, resilient, and authentically me than I’ve ever before.

Since letting go of my stagnant cubicle life, I’ve followed the winds and currents in search of my own something magic out there, exploring, trying, failing, and learning.

I moved to Singapore, Rio de Janeiro, and the Amazon rainforest. I trained with Al Gore in climate activism, published my writings, and joined a marine advocacy nonprofit. My work in this arena resonates deeply with me, helping to save the ocean that gave me so much of myself back. 

(Piano concludes) 

I still don’t have solid answers, but I’ve learned to trust in the unknown and to take wild bets on myself. I lean into my fears, the uncertainty reminding me that I’m alive and I’m real. 

I’ve got just this one life, and I’m determined to keep creating a life I don’t need a vacation from. 

On a recent dive, a friend who I’d met on that momentous Galapagos trip shared his observations with me. “You were alone a lot on that trip,” he said. “You were journaling all the time. It felt like you were searching for something.” 

(Music plays, dreamy piano, strings)

I laughed, because he was right. “Yeah, I was,” I answered. “Me. I was searching for me.” I smiled, knowing without a doubt that I’d finally found myself, and that that was all I’d ever need.

(Piano and strings swell)

WILLOW: That was Tiffany Duong. She’s a writer, an explorer, and an inspirational speaker, and she’s trying to save the world and have the time of her life doing it. Tiff is also one of Out There’s ambassadors.

You can read more about her at her website, tiffanyduong.com. And you can follow her on Instagram and Twitter @TiffMakesWaves.

This story first aired on Out There in 2018. Some of the sound effects we used in the piece come from Martin Erdtmann. And a huge thank you to Sara Hossaini for recording Tiffany’s narration.

If you enjoyed this story, please share the link with a friend! We’re always eager for new listeners, and your recommendation is our best form of advertising.

(Music fades)

Coming up next time on Out There, we’re going to spend a day with a trail angel on the Colorado Trail.

BILL APPEL: Welcome, there’s all kinds of goodies, help yourself. Cold drinks are in the cooler, help yourself. And there’s chocolate donuts.

         (Sound of rooting around in a cooler for drinks)

UNIDENTIFIED VOICE: Oh my God, a Coca Cola. They’re so cold. Ohhhh.

WILLOW: What makes a person commit over-the-top acts of kindness for total strangers? Tune in on August 18th for an award-winning story about altruism on the trail.

(Music plays - meandering guitar)

A big thank you to all of our patrons, including Sam Shopinski, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. 

As I mentioned at the top of the show, patrons are listeners who support Out There with monthly financial contributions. These gifts are what make it possible to do what we do. To become a patron, click the link in the episode description, or go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast.

Thank you so much!

(Sound of breeze)

WILLOW (tape): K, opening up PeakVisor…

WILLOW (narration): Remember, from the start of the episode, when I was out on top of a mountain?

WILLOW (tape): Oh, this is cool. It tells me — it pops up, it knows where I am. It says, “Oh, you’re on Medicine Bow Peak,” and it says, “Tap to sign in and claim your visit.” So you can kind of keep track of what mountains you’ve climbed.

WILLOW (narration): PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app not only lets me keep track of my accomplishments; it also shows me a panorama of all the mountains I’m looking at, with all the peaks labeled.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling) 

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website, outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written and narrated by Tiffany Duong. Story editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(Theme music concludes)

Failure in Success

By Willow Belden, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On July 7, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN (tape): Alright, I am out for a bike ride, and I’m at a spot here where I can see three different mountain ranges. And I only know what one of them is. And I’m always curious what the other two are.

WILLOW (narration): Lucky for me, there’s an app called PeakVisor that can help.

PeakVisor is our sponsor for this episode. Their app tells you what mountains you’re looking at, wherever you are in the world. They also have intricate 3D maps, to help you plan out your adventures. And you can keep track of your accomplishments with their peak bagging feature. 

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There Theme music plays - guitar plucking chords, wistful whistling) 

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

As the world reopens, many of us are returning to the things we used to love. We’re traveling, we’re seeing loved ones, we’re going on adventures. And every adventure is better with a great soundtrack.

This summer, our season theme is Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’re fueling your adventures with award-winning narratives and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There. 

Today’s story is about a mountain bike race. And about what happens when meeting your goals isn’t all you’d hoped. But before we get to that, I have a favor to ask. 

(Theme music fades out)

If you enjoy listening to Out There, please take a moment and leave us a review on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you’re listening right now.

Your honest feedback is so important for helping new listeners find this show. And reaching new listeners is crucial for Out There to grow and thrive. 

Thank you so much for your support.

And now, on to our story for today.

Every summer, there’s a crazy long mountain bike race near my home in Wyoming. 

The race course has changed over the years, but back in the day, it was 70 miles — on trails and dirt roads — with almost 9,000 feet of elevation gain.

On a scale of one to epic, that’s pretty epic. And in fact, the race is now CALLED the Laramie Range Epic.

Back in 2015, I made the mistake of signing up. On today’s episode, I’m going to tell you the story of what happened. It’s a story about trying to prove yourself — about pushing limits— about testing what you’re capable of. And ultimately, it’s about how forcing yourself to succeed can end up being its own kind of failure.

The story first ran in 2015. And I should note that back then, the race had a different name; it was called the Laramie Enduro.

Oh, and — also — there’s some adult language in this episode.

(Guitar plays - melodic plucking, sliding) 

WILLOW: The first time I heard about the Enduro, I was out for a drink with some friends, and there was this guy at our table who kept talking about a bike race. A really long, really hard mountain bike race. 

(Music fades)

This guy described the race as a sufferfest. (That’s actually the term he used – “sufferfest”). But, in the same breath, he also said it was super fun, and that I should try it some day.

Now, I love cycling, but a “sufferfest” did NOT sound fun. 

And yet, the place I live — Laramie, Wyoming — is aggressively outdoorsy. I’m surrounded by people who do epic things — whether it’s skiing, or biking, or climbing, or running. Herculean challenges are the norm around here.

CINDY DYWAN: If you’re a mountain biker in Laramie, you have to do the Enduro once. It’s an unstated rule. (laughs) 

WILLOW: That’s Cynthia Dywan. She’s a mountain biker extraordinaire. She’s ridden the entire continental divide – all the way from Canada to Mexico — and she’s done the Enduro several times. 

And what she said is kind of true. If you’re part of Laramie’s tight-knit, mountain biking community, it’s just expected that you’ll do the Enduro. 

And so, this year, I caved. 

I was nervous. But I told myself the race could be fun. After all, I enjoyed challenges —enjoyed seeing how far I could push myself. I’d done an Olympic-length triathlon, a half marathon on cross-country skis, even a 500-mile backpacking trip. Those were big athletic endeavors, and — yes — they were hard. But they were also some of the best things I’ve ever done for myself. They left me feeling exhilarated, and fulfilled, and ready to take life by the horns. They brought out the best in me. 

And so, I told myself, the Enduro could be fun, too. At the very least, it would feel good to have done it. 

So I signed up.

(Rhythmic, strumming guitar music begins)

Let’s be clear: I had no ambitions about WINNING. I simply wanted to FINISH. And yet, even that goal was a stretch. I was relatively new to mountain biking. The longest I’d ever ridden was 15 miles, and I wasn’t fast. 

But I made a training plan for myself and resolved to spend every free moment on my bike. 

To give you a sense of how that went — well, I’ll let you listen to some thoughts I recorded while I was out on training rides.

WILLOW  (Tape): I am so tired. I, like just don’t want to keep going.

This ride kicked my ass. (sighs) And my back hurts and my knee hurts, and I am just stiff and sore and tired and hungry, and … exhausted. (sighs)

 Holy fuck. (sighs)

WILLOW (narration): Ok, you get the picture. 

(Guitar fades out)

It felt like as hard as I pushed myself, it was never enough. I was biking five days a week, and one of those days was always a really long ride – something that lasted hours, or even all day. And yet, I kept falling short of my mileage goals. Even when I did ride enough miles, it was painfully slow, and exhausting. I began to wonder if I could actually pull this off. Riding 70 miles on my mountain bike was starting to seem impossible. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for this.

(Dreamy, tonal music begins)

That sense of inadequacy was toxic.

I used to love riding my bike. It was what I did to unwind. But now, it had become a chore — an item on my to-do list — something I resented. Training for this race had sucked the joy out of my passion. And worst of all, it was keeping me from doing other things I wanted to do — things like hiking, and kayaking. I canceled plans with friends, and told my family I couldn’t join them for a vacation. All I had time for was riding my bike. 

It. Was. Miserable. And yet, with steely determination, I stuck to the schedule. 

(Music swells)

One day in June, when I was feeling particularly low, a friend of mine suggested that I quit. 

“Just don’t do the Enduro,” she said. “Just because you signed up, doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

(Music fades out)

Giving up had never occurred to me. But now that someone else suggested it, it suddenly seemed like a viable option. A GOOD option. And so, I stopped training. It was such a relief.

But then this nagging sense of failure started creeping into my thoughts. I don’t like being a quitter. In fact, I pride myself on finishing the things I start. Backing out on the Enduro felt like defeat. I needed to prove that I could do it — that I could accomplish this goal I’d set for myself. I wanted to show that I had just as much mettle as all my hardcore mountain biking friends.

And so, I decided to give it another go.

A few weeks before the race, I got some advice from friends who had done the Enduro before. One of them was Cynthia Dywan, who you heard earlier. The other was my friend Evan O’Toole. They’re both excellent cyclists, and they tried their best to cheer me up. 

EVAN O’TOOLE: I would say, barring a mechanical failure, I bet you’ll finish. 

CINDY: I think that you have tenacity and mental strength to, to make it to the end.

WILLOW: And yet, their encouragement wasn’t altogether encouraging.

EVAN: Like, it’s gonna be terrible for certain parts. You’re gonna go through certain parts of the day and just be mad, and just think, ‘This is so stupid; why am I doing this?’

WILLOW: And in fact, Evan told me, the race is so hard that it brings him to tears. Literally — he starts crying two-thirds of the way through the race, when he sees his wife cheering him on.

EVAN: It’s so like, mentally, and psychologically draining, I think, that just to see her — and I’m just like, ‘Oh I feel so bad, and there she is, and I love her so much.’ Uh, you can’t help it. 

WILLOW: You might have heard Evan’s toddler making noise in the background there. We asked for her input as well.

(Laughter)

EVAN: Can you tell Willow what you think about the Enduro?

BEATRICE O’TOOLE: Waaaah. (Child whining)

(Melodic guitar and piano music swells, then fades…)

(Crowd noises, people talking)

WILLOW: Fast forward to race morning.Hundreds of cyclists are gathered in a gravel parking area. Most of them are wearing fancy skin-tight bike clothes, with ads from their sponsors. Many of them have ridiculously high-end bikes. All of them, I’m sure, are stronger riders than I am. 

I shiver, from the morning chill, and — if I’m being honest — from dread. 

LOUDSPEAKER: Five, four, three, two, one. 

(Cheering, clapping, whistling)

WILLOW: OK, so the first part of the race was actually pretty good. A few miles in, I started to feel a sense of exhilaration. ‘I’m doing the Enduro! I thought to myself. ‘I’m really doing it!’ It felt SO BADASS.

When I rolled into the first aid station — where you can get food and water — two of my friends were there, cheering.

(Clapping and cheering)

FRIEND’S VOICE: Woo! Look at that smile!

SECOND FRIEND’S VOICE: How you doing?

WILLOW: Good! (panting)

FIRST FRIEND’S VOICE: Do you need some water? What do you need?

SECOND FRIEND’S VOICE: Also, Because I’m a mom, I brought you applesauce, in case nothing here looked good.

WILLOW: Woah, it’s baby applesauce.

SECOND FRIEND’S VOICE: Toddler.

WILLOW: I got toddler applesauce! How do you eat this?

SECOND FRIEND’S VOICE: Suck on it. (laughter) Please put that in your episode. (friends laughing together)

(Inspirational music plays, ends. Sounds of bicycling begin — chain clicking, wheels rolling on gravel)

WILLOW (tape): : I feel like I’m on top of the world right now. I am going to take this race by storm. Oh yeah!

WILLOW (narration): Ok, so the course does get harder. I end up having to plough my way through murky swamps, and slog up steep hills. In true Wyoming style, there are cattle grazing all over the course, and cow poop splashes up onto my Gatorade bottle. My bike starts making weird noises. My legs get tired.

WILLOW (tape): But this isn’t as bad as I was imagining. 

WILLOW (narration): When I rolled into the fourth aid station, more friends were there to cheer me on.

(Cheering, clapping)

Someone told me I’d done 52 miles at this point.

WILLOW (tape): Fifty two. Fifty two! I’ve never ridden 52 miles on my mountain bike.

FRIEND’S VOICE: And you did it, and you’re smiling, and you’re only a little covered in cow poop. (Willow laughing) You are so close! You’re almost done.

WILLOW (tape): No no, but it’s like, all uphill from here. And it’s uphill on reallydifficult trails.

WILLOW (narration): Still, they remind me, I only have 18 miles left to go.

SECOND FRIEND’S VOICE: Eighteen! I could do 18. (group laughter). Not after doing 52.

WILLOW (narration): So, at this point, I’m pretty confident I’ll finish. 

But then, the route gets steeper. It winds through gnarly hills of sagebrush, past red granite cliffs. I skid over sharp rocks, and my tires spin in the loose pebbles as I fight my way up punishingly steep climbs. Every few minutes, I have to get off my bike and push it. 

The weather isn’t helping. This is the high desert, and the trail is completely exposed to the screaming August sun. Heat seems to radiate from every direction. 

My head starts to hurt. Badly. I’ve been drinking a lot of water and Gatorade, but I still feel dehydrated. Nauseous even.

WILLOW (tape): Oh my gosh. (panting, footsteps, bicycle clicking) I’ve been biking for more than 8 hours. (panting) That’s pretty fucked up. (panting)

WILLOW (narration): And then, I look at my watch. It’s 3:34 p.m. The next and final aid station closes in less than an hour. If I don’t get there before then, they won’t let me finish the race. 

All of a sudden, a huge wave of anger wells up inside me. I CAN’T miss this cutoff. Not after I’ve come this close. And so I muster all the energy I no longer have, and push myself to go faster.

I make it to the aid station four minutes before the cutoff. I’m too nauseous to eat anything, and I barely manage to gulp down some Gatorade. The aid station volunteers tell me I have 15 seconds to leave, if I want to keep going with the race. 

I start riding again. 

As I walk my bike up the last brutal hill, I can barely feel my legs. My left butt cheek feels like it’s covered in blisters. 

My head is pounding, and I’m dazed and confused. This is a trail that I’ve biked many times before, but somehow it doesn’t look familiar. I wonder, fleetingly, whether I’m starting to hallucinate. 

WILLOW (tape): I think I am past the point of being tired. And when you get past the point of being tired, you become a zombie, I think. That’s how it works right? 

WILLOW (narration): There are only a few other stragglers left on the course now. We’re all exhausted. We’re all suffering. And yet, we all have a grim determination to finish.

Finally, I reach the home stretch: A beautiful long downhill. I glide down it exuberantly. And when I cross the finish line, I’m grinning from ear to ear.

(Cheering)

WILLOW (tape): Thank you.

EVAN: I saved you a beer.

WILLOW: Aw, thank you.

UN-NAMED VOICE: Willow Belden, congratulations. 

(Willow panting)

WILLOW: Cheers! Oh man, this beer is amazing.

EVAN: So are you mad? How do you feel?

WILLOW: (Panting) Dazed. But I’m done. Now I’ve done it, now I don’t have to do it ever again. (laughter)

(Music, guitar strumming, drum beat. Fades...) 

A few days after the Enduro, a colleague of mine asked how it went. I told him I finished. He congratulated me. And then, he asked whether it was fulfilling. 

It was a good question. No, I realized. It was NOT fulfilling. 

I was RELIEVED that the race was done. But I wasn’t exhilarated by the experience. I didn’t feel like I’d done something wonderful. I just felt tired, and drained.

At first, that made no sense to me. I’d met my goal — accomplished something big. So why the gloom?

But in hindsight, I realized what was going on. The problem was, I was doing the Enduro for all the wrong reasons. 

I was doing it to fit in — to be part of the club. I wanted to be that girl who’s game for everything — wanted to maintain my identity as adventurous, and strong, and capable — wanted to succeed at the things my peers succeeded at. And so, I was pushing myself to my limits, over and over. I was doing this race to meet the expectations of my tribe.

We’ve all done this before: taken a job because our parents wanted us to, or gone to grad school because it sounds good at all the family parties. 

We want to fit in, and so we do things that we think will make people respect us, and see us the way we want to be seen. A lot of times, that doesn’t feel so good.

And, so, after the Enduro — even though friends and family congratulated me profusely — I felt hollow. Felt like I’d wasted a precious summer on something I didn’t really want.

(Music, calm guitar)

Since the race, several friends have suggested that I do it again. “No,” I’ve told them. “Once is enough.” 

They tell me I’ll change my mind — that I’ll start wondering how much faster I could do it the next time. 

And they’re right: I do wonder. 

But I’ve learned an important lesson. Succeeding at something doesn’t make it worth doing. Just because you can do it, doesn’t mean you should. And so, if I do the Enduro again — or any other difficult endeavor — I’ll be doing it for different reasons. From now on, I won’t take on athletic challenges just to prove that I’m not a wuss. From now on, I’ll be doing things because I WANT to do them. Because they’re exciting and invigorating. Because my heart is in them. I’ll be doing them for me.

(Music, calming guitar)

That story first aired in 2015. And it won a national award. It took second place for best independent podcast in the annual Public Radio News Directors Incorporated — or PRNDI — awards. 

(Music fades)

If you enjoyed this story, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you’re listening right now. Seriously — pause the episode and just do it right now. We’re always eager for new listeners, and your recommendation is our best form of advertising.

(Sound of waves crashing) 

Coming up next time on Out There, we’re going to take a trip to the Galapagos…

(Sound of bubbles underwater)

TIFFANY DUONG: Excitement and wonder had replaced all my fear. This isn't scary, this is amazing. Bring on the whale sharks! 

WILLOW: It’s a story about diving — and about letting go of a life that isn’t for you. Tune in on July 28.

(Ocean sounds end; sound of wind blowing begins)

WILLOW (tape): Alright, so I’ve opened up PeakVisor. It’s thinking.

WILLOW (narration): PeakVisor is our sponsor for this episode. When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it shows you a panoramic image of what you’re seeing, with all the peaks labeled. 

WILLOW (tape): Oh wow, ok. So, I am looking all the way down into Rocky Mountain National Park. Like, I can see Long’s Peak from here. That’s pretty cool.

(wind sounds end)

WILLOW (narration): PeakVisor has info on more than a million summits all over the world. Plus, they have detailed 3D maps to help you with your planning. And they have a peak bagging feature that lets you keep track of your accomplishments. Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it. 

(Out There Theme music plays) 

Today’s story was written and sound designed by me, Willow Belden. Story editing by Leigh Paterson. Leigh also helped out with recording and support on race day, along with Emily Guseman, Annie Wislowski, Erin Jones, Nanette Nelson, Koreen Zelasko, Case Button, and Caroline Ballard. 

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks. 

(Theme music swells, then ends) 

Moral Compass

By Phoebe Flanigan, produced by Out There Podcast

Released On June 16, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: Imagine you’re out on a hike. It’s a beautiful day. There’s a gentle breeze. It’s warm, but not too hot. 

You get to the top of a mountain, and you eat some chocolate, and you look around, and there’s this gorgeous panorama of mountains spread out in every direction. 

You pull out your map to figure out what you’re looking at. But the map only shows the immediate vicinity. So, what do you do?

Lucky for us, there’s an app out there that can help. It’s called PeakVisor. PeakVisor is one of our sponsors this season. When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it tells you all the mountains you’re looking at.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

As the world reopens, many of us are returning to the things we used to love. Things we did before the pandemic. We’re traveling, we’re seeing loved ones, we’re going on adventures.

And every adventure is better with a great soundtrack.

Over the past seven years, Out There has been bringing you outdoor stories that help you make sense out of your life and your world.

Today, we’re launching a new season called Nature’s Nostalgia. Each episode, we’ll fuel your adventures with award-winning narratives and beloved fan favorites from the early days of Out There. 

Today’s story is about a trip up Mt. Everest. But before we get to that, I have a favor to ask.

(theme music ends)

Out There is an independent podcast. That means we have a lot of editorial freedom. We can tell the stories we really want to tell — stories that push boundaries — stories that make a real difference in people’s lives. 

But being independent also means that money is always tight. Really, really tight. Which is why I’m turning to YOU for support.

If Out There brightens your day at all, consider becoming a patron. Patrons are listeners who make monthly contributions to Out There through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon.

You can give as much or as little as you want. Every dollar helps. And every dollar is put to good use. 

To become a patron today — and to see all the great rewards we offer — go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast or just click the link in the episode description.

If you’re already a patron, thank you SO much. We couldn’t be doing this without you.

And now, on to our story for today.

(introspective music begins)

This story is about how we make moral decisions — how we choose when to be compassionate and selfless. The story takes us up the tallest mountain in the world and brings us face to face with a decision that very literally affects the course of an entire life. 

But let’s go back to the beginning. 

(music fades out)

Our guest is a man named Myles Osborne. He’s a professor at the University of Colorado, and he’s also a world traveler and an outdoorsman. And as an outdoorsman, he does a lot of things that seem…risky. Crazy, even. He does these things because - well, frankly, because of FOMO: the fear of missing out.

MYLES OSBORNE: So, I have this sort of overwhelming terror that I’m suddenly going to die or, you know, get some horrible illness and I’ll look back and notice that I put off a load of things that I might have done earlier.

WILLOW: So, Myles has made a habit of not sitting around. And his approach on life — this fear of missing out — it’s served him well, for the most part. But a while back, something really conflicting happened to Myles. Something that pitted all of those life goals that he didn’t want to miss out on, against the life of a total stranger.

Reporter Phoebe Flanigan has the story. It’s a story about one of the hardest decisions mountaineers ever have to make — whether or not to save another human being. 

PHOEBE FLANIGAN: As a rule, Myles Osborne doesn’t like to talk about himself. He dodges compliments. He cringes at the thought of posting personal updates on Facebook. And as a kid, he was … kind of a wimp.

MYLES: No, I was terrified as a child. There are many stories that my brothers and sister will not let me forget of going to swimming lessons and me holding on to the side of the pool and screaming.

PHOEBE: Myles grew up second-to-youngest of six in a small village on the south coast of England. His father was a navy man who spent much of the year traveling.

MYLES: So he would always be in foreign countries. You know, writing us postcards and sending things back to the school where we were. So we were all very aware that there was this wider world out there. 

PHOEBE: As he got older, Myles became more and more curious about that world — the one that existed beyond the foggy coastline of his hometown. He wanted to see it for himself.  So, at eighteen, he traveled to Namibia for three months. After that, he took on scuba diving. Then mountain climbing.

(tonal music begins, with sounds of foot steps)

He tackled Kilimanjaro, Rainier, Denali. And, in 2004, he set his sights on the mother of all summits: Mount Everest. 

(foot steps end)

At the time, Myles was still pretty green as a climber. And he didn’t have much money. (He was just starting grad school). So he planned to go the low-budget route. But low budget on Everest still means twenty thousand dollars. 

Myles spent the next two years working odd jobs — on top of his studies — to scrape together the cash. Even so, he barely saved up enough.

MYLES: When I left the US, I think I had — I remember the number. I think I had 82 bucks in my bank account.

PHOEBE: So — no money to spare. And a tough mountain ahead of him. 

Now, experienced climbers will tell you that Everest isn’t actually the most technical climb. But that doesn’t make it safe. You’ve probably read news stories about lives lost on the mountain. On average, seven climbers die each season. That’s less than one percent of the people who actually attempt the mountain, but still — over the years, almost 300 people have lost their lives trying to get to the top. THREE HUNDRED!

As a side note, many of their bodies remain on the mountain. It makes sense — they’re often too difficult to remove. But still, it’s a grim reminder to any who might follow in their footsteps — that this is a dangerous place.

(music fades out)

Myles knew all this. But he says, he wasn’t really afraid.

MYLES: There’s always, you know, of course, anything can go wrong. But we’re talking about four or five hundred climbers or something on the mountain. By the numbers, the odds of something going wrong are still quite small. So there are risks, but I think that they are mitigated by being smart. And, you know, if you’re going to be unlucky you’re going to be unlucky. And there’s nothing that you can really do about that anyway.

(tonal music begins)

PHOEBE: What Myles didn’t consider was that it might not be his OWN life on the line. As it turns out, the hardest thing he had to do on Everest involved making a decision about the life of ANOTHER climber. 

It’s the kind of choice that many of us face on a smaller scale in our daily lives. Do you drive past the stranded motorist, or stop and help? But on Mount Everest, the stakes are much higher. And whatever you choose — you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life.

(music fades out)

 In late March of 2006, Myles began his journey. He planned to climb Everest from the north. And when he arrived in Tibet, the landscape blew him away. 

(subtle, insect-like sounds begin, followed by soft drum sounds)

MYLES: You know, the thing that I will never forget about Tibet is the scale of it. You have these extraordinary mountains in the background that are so much larger than anything that you can imagine. And then the plateau just stretches out for as far as you can see. This huge, flat expanse of dusty land. That was — it just felt bigger than anything I’d ever seen before.

(drums end)

PHOEBE: The basecamp in Tibet sits right beneath Everest’s north face, on a wide, gravel plateau — about two miles long by half a mile wide.

(low sound of wind whistling)

It’s like a moonscape — rocky and barren. There are no trees there, few plants. In fact the only real color around comes from man-made signs and tents. The prayer flags forever flapping in the wind.

MYLES: It’s not so much the temperature, but it’s the wind that really, that you notice. It’s just this constant thing in the back of your ears and in your head that you are always hearing the wind. And it’s not particularly unsettling. It’s almost sort of comforting that there is this sort of natural factor out beyond sort of a stillness perhaps.

And you can, you can see — once you get to basecamp and you ’re looking at the top of Everest, you can see this huge, you know, couple of kilometer plume coming off the peak. Which is the wind coming across the summit at sort of, you know, maybe 150-200 miles an hour. And that’s got to drop before you go to the top. But it’s a reminder that you are really treading somewhere you shouldn’t be for a very short window each season.

PHOEBE: A very short window. 

(wind fades out)

What Myles is saying is that there are only a few days out of the year when it’s possible to get to the top of Mount Everest. The peak is so high that it actually protrudes into the stratosphere, and most of the year, the summit is whipped by hurricane-force winds. Winds that could kill a climber in minutes.

It’s only during a weeklong period on either end of monsoon season that winds on Everest’s summit die down enough for climbers to take their shot at standing on the roof of the world.

Myles spent the first few days in Tibet at basecamp — drinking water, eating a lot, adjusting to the altitude. He was preparing to set out with a small team, led by world-famous American mountaineer Dan Mazur. And spirits were high.

MYLES: People are excited. There are very few people who are there who have not put in significant amounts of effort. You’re healthy, not injured, you’ve made it there, so in some ways you’ve done the bit that you really were worried was gonna stop you.

(clanking, metallic sounds begin)

PHOEBE: Soon, they started climbing — making trips up to the first camp, dropping gear, coming back down, resting. Always taking two steps forward, one step back. 

(foreboding, tonal music begins, along with footsteps)

MYLES: And just trying to run this fine line between getting your body used to the altitude but not spending so much time high on the mountain that you start not sleeping and losing muscle mass and getting weaker. 

(footsteps end)

There’s a kind of a fine balance that has to be struck there.

PHOEBE: Myles says he was finding that balance. But as three weeks dragged into four, then five, he began to worry.

MYLES: I wasn’t necessarily concerned about my physical shape, which I felt was fine. Not great, but fine. I was more, and what everybody obsesses about is: are you going to get an opportunity to go to the top of the mountain? Is the weather going to do what it needs to do?

By the time you get to May, it’s all anyone’s talking about. When’s the window going to be? You know, when are we going to be able to get to the top?

PHOEBE: So yeah, they were getting antsy. And meanwhile, something unnerving was going on: a lot of people were dying. By the end of the season, the mountain had claimed 11 lives — from altitude and illness and ice falls. It was the deadliest year in almost a decade. And as Myles and his team inched toward their own summit push, they kept hearing about death after death after death.

MYLES: We were pretty low budget and didn’t have much in the way of tech or radios and things like that, so you would hear stories, but we never knew quite what was going on.

PHOEBE: When you did hear about those sorts of things, do you remember what you thought?

MYLES: Yeah, you just think it won’t happen to you. It’s just, it’s funny, it’s one of those things — it’s obviously terrible that it’s happened, and you really feel for the people involved. But there’s also a sort of sense of gratitude that A) this hasn’t happened to you, and maybe on some level if the mountain is going to take a few people this year, maybe that’s it. Maybe it wasn’t you. Yeah, it’s kind of an odd mindset to be in.

(music ends)

PHOEBE: One death, in particular, sparked something of an international media storm that year. In mid-May, an English climber named David Sharp succumbed to cold and altitude sickness as he descended from a summit push. He took refuge in a cave. And remember how I said there were still about 300 bodies left on Everest? Sharp found himself next to one of those bodies — a dead climber known as Green Boots. And instead of being helped, he was abandoned there — allegedly left for dead, by almost 40 others on their way to the top. 

The story that came out over the next few weeks turned out to be more complicated. Many of the climbers who passed David Sharp said they hadn’t seen him there, or they thought he was already dead. And some had tried to help. 

But after the first reports about David Sharp’s death came out, people on the ground were outraged. Media pundits weighed in, asking whether Everest had become morally corrupt. And several big shots in the mountaineering world decried the behavior of the climbers who’d passed David Sharp as callous and horrifying.

To most of us down here at sea level, it does seem callous and horrifying. After all, how could anyone care more about getting to the top of a mountain than the life of another person?

But it’s not so cut and dried. And I’m going to unpack this for you a little bit, because to understand what happens next to Myles, you have to understand that there are actually a number of reasons why you might rationally pass a climber in distress.

(menacing music begins)

The first is self-preservation. Once you get above 25,000 feet, you’re in Everest’s “death zone.” At that altitude, your brain and heart begin to swell. And exposed flesh can freeze instantly. 

(zapping sound)

The air is so thin that even with bottled oxygen, any movement is like “running on a treadmill while breathing through a straw.” 

(sound of labored breath)

It’s hard enough to keep yourself alive — let alone someone else. And, as any first aid course will tell you, it’s not a good idea to help someone else if it puts your own life in danger. Because then you’ve just created another patient — not made things better.

(music fades out)

Another factor here is risk. Every climber who sets out to tackle Everest knows they’re taking on a substantial personal risk. David Sharp — the guy who was left for dead — had a particularly risky climb. He was attempting the mountain solo — without a climbing partner, sherpas, or even a radio. So, should his risk, and his costly rescue, really come at the expense of other teams — and guides who have their own clients that they’re busy trying to keep alive?

Suffice it to say, the moral territory is more complicated than it might first appear. But let’s get back to Myles.

(low booming sound)

By now it’s getting into late May. And Myles’ team has been on the mountain for nearly a month and a half. That’s pretty typical for Everest. But they were getting to the end of their supplies — and the end of the season.

Remember that window of time where the winds die down and you can actually get to the top of Everest? It was upon them, but coming to a close.

MYLES: This was probably the 20… I think it was the 25th of May. We were probably one of the only groups left on the mountain at that point. We had tried to go to the summit the week before. And we got driven back by weather at the high camp.

PHOEBE: It was six nights before the weather cleared up enough for them to take another stab at the top. That’s six nights just sitting in a tent — waiting, hoping. 

By the time the weather did clear, nearly all of the other climbers on the mountain had packed up and gone home. As they prepared for their final push, Myles and his team knew that it would be their very last chance.

Now just imagine that for a moment. You’ve spent years — literally YEARS — preparing for this trip. You’ve poured all of the money, all the time that you don’t really have into getting here. This is your one shot at that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Imagine how much hope, and anxiety, and fear, is riding on it.

(ethereal music begins)

Finally, they got their chance. At 11:30 p.m. on the night of May 25th, Myles and his team set out. The skies were clear, the air thin and brilliantly cold. So cold that every few minutes Myles had to check to make sure his oxygen mask and regulator hadn’t frozen.

They climbed through the night, carefully stepping across a narrow ridge that dropped off thousands of feet on either side. 

And then, they stumbled across something awful.

(music becomes sinister)

A human body, frozen to the mountain. 

MYLES: It’s quite a creepy thing seeing these things, because if you’re not – you know, you’re on this knife edge ridge at four in the morning, and it’s dark, and you’re climbing in this head lamp, and you have this little bubble of light about yourself. And as someone who’s a big fan of horror movies, I’m absolutely convinced these people are just going to pop up and start walking around.

PHOEBE: They later found out that this was the body of David Sharp — that British climber whose death had caused such an outcry earlier that season. And no — he didn’t pop up and start walking around. But as it would turn out, Myles’ fear of a horror-movie scenario wasn’t actually so far from the truth. 

Myles and his team passed the body of David Sharp. They worked up a sweat scaling the boulders of the first step. And climbed on into the dawn.

MYLES: It’s, by Everest standards, it’s a warm, beautiful morning.

PHOEBE: A balmy, six degrees below zero..

MYLES: It’s pretty still, the sun’s starting to come up...

PHOEBE: But something was about to happen.

MYLES: And so, it was just as the dawn was breaking, and we came around a rock. And I could not believe that I was seeing what my eyes were telling me I was seeing.

(foreboding music begins)

PHOEBE: At first, it just looked like a piece of bright fabric.

MYLES: And so I thought, ‘You know, is it a bit of tent or something? Am I looking at something else?’ 

And then as you get closer you realize it’s a guy who’s actively in the process of removing his clothes as quickly as he can. And then you’re sure that something funky is going on. Because A) there can’t be a person here and B) if there was a person here, why would they be removing their clothes at 8,700 meters on Everest?

And he says, you know, we approach this guy and he goes, “I bet you’re surprised to see me here.” And it was quite an extraordinary statement, because it was tremendously prescient — it was true — and it was also sort of the last coherent thing that he said for the next couple of hours. Because it was almost sort of a window of clarity into this cloud that was in his mind.

PHOEBE: The man was shivering uncontrollably, but didn’t want to keep his gloves or hat on. His head jerked and bobbed. His eyes darted about, unfocused. And his fingers were waxy and opaque, like long candlesticks. That’s something that happens when you have severe frostbite. 

As Myles and his team gathered around, the man began speaking — incoherently — about getting onto a boat.

MYLES: And then he starts trying to pull himself off the ridge, which drops, you know, ten thousand feet into Nepal.

PHOEBE: The man they’d discovered was Australian climber Lincoln Hall. Hall had been incapacitated by exhaustion and altitude sickness the night before, and declared dead by his team after hours of attempted rescue. His wife and kids back in Australia had already gotten the phone call — that her husband, their father, was gone. 

MYLES: I think the sun had probably woken him up. Because the sun had just hit the ridge there. He obviously had just kind of sat up within the last few minutes. And quite honestly, I think if it was another few minutes later, he wouldn’t have been there either. Because he spent the first hour that we were with him trying to get himself off the ridge, down the side. And I think if we’d been there a few minutes later, I think he probably would have achieved that, and we would have just kind of walked past and never known he was there.

(music fades out)

PHOEBE: So, just hours from the summit, with the peak literally within eyeshot, Myles and his team were confronted with the same horrible decision put before so many other climbers that season. Do they stay and help this guy — a man who’s clearly delusional, who might die anyway from exposure and frostbite? 

(music begins)

Or do they forge ahead — to finish this thing they’ve set out to do? To get to the top of this mountain. 

MYLES: At this point it’s Dan and Andrew and Jangbu and myself. And Dan and Jangbu have both been to the summit. And so there’s a conversation initially there of Dan, who says, “Well, do you guys want to just go up there and meet us down, and we’ll all go down together?”

PHOEBE: That might seem like a logical solution: let the guys who have already been to the summit help the man in distress … and the team members who haven’t can go ahead on their own. But after some conversation, they decided that just wasn’t safe — to leave this guy with just two other climbers. After all, he was actively trying to pull himself over a cliff.

So Myles’ team agreed to stay. All of them. At least until help could arrive. They anchored Hall to the snow, to prevent him from pulling himself over the ridge. And gave him hot drinks, food, oxygen.

MYLES: And then there was sort of a waiting period. 

(music fades out)

Because of the way the north ridge is, and it’s so flat, the only way to move somebody who isn’t ambulatory is with 10-12 guys. We didn’t have that, clearly. So we had sent a radio message down to the high camp. Which we thought had gone through. Again, because we were low budget, we didn’t really have radios that worked, and the batteries died.

PHOEBE: Their message had gotten through — and a group of sherpas were on the way up. But with the radio dead, Myles and his team didn’t know that. And they couldn’t go anywhere until they were sure someone was coming.

Half an hour went by. Then forty-five minutes. And then, out of nowhere, two other climbers appeared. They approached, moving at a fast clip. Myles’ team hailed them — but they said they didn’t speak English, and continued on.

Later, it would turn out, they did speak English. 

Myles doesn’t want to villainize these guys. And he says that they probably had their own, totally rational reasons for doing what they did. Still, it was surprising. To watch them move on toward the summit. While he sat there, waiting — his window of opportunity shrinking by the minute.

MYLES: Because it’s such a beautiful day, because we’re up there early. We’re strong. We have oxygen. You know, even a one, two, three-hour delay, probably would have been okay. But by the time we’re up there for three, becoming four, and eventually five hours, and it’s probably 11 in the morning, we know that we’re too late in the day to go up there.

PHOEBE: Too late in the day. Too late for them to make it to the top and back down again before the weather turned. 

MYLES: It’s pretty devastating. And I think anyone in that situation, you — you’re angry, and you’re upset, and you’re frustrated. And you don’t perhaps have the sense of clarity that comes after a day or two, in which you look at the situation rationally, and it’s the only choice. There’s absolutely no other option.

PHOEBE: So yeah, when Myles talks about it now, he says there was no other option but to stay and help this climber — even though it meant his team would never get to the top of Mount Everest.

But of course, there had been another option — the option the climbers who’d passed them that morning chose. The options the climbers who’d passed David Sharp, just two weeks earlier, had taken. The option to get to the top.

I got curious about this. How is it that Myles and his team could feel that there was no other option but to save Lincoln Hall, while so many other climbers felt just the opposite — that there was no other option but to leave a distressed climber behind?

JOE ARVAI: It's a question that I don’t know that I have a single answer to.

PHOEBE: This is Joe Arvai. He’s a professor at the University of Michigan. And he studies the psychology of risk and decision-making. He also happens to be a mountain climber himself.

I called him up to see how science answers that question: why would some people stop to help, while others walk on by? Are some of us just innately better human beings — or is there another explanation?

Arvai says the crux of the matter is that our minds don’t always see choices as choices. A climber who passes another person in distress might be making some kind of a logical calculation about their behavior — but most of the time, this isn’t really some belabored decision at all. 

ARVAI: What we see in the brain is this kind of balance between what we call System One, which is our emotional response to a stimulus, and System Two, which is a much more rational response. 

PHOEBE: And that balancing act happens kind of intuitively. 

It’s like this — imagine that the decision-making part of your brain is a teeter-totter. The left side of the teeter-totter, that’s where you put your System One input — your emotions, your feelings, your gut instincts. The right side of the teeter-totter — that’s where you put System Two data. Facts and figures, pros and cons, stuff that’s maybe a little more abstract. 

Normally, when you’re just comfortably going about your day to day life, the fulcrum of that teeter-totter is right near the middle. So any emotional input you have around a decision, it’s balanced out with logical data.

Think about it like this. You’re walking past a doughnut shop, and you think, ‘Man, those doughnuts look good. I want one right now. But, I’m also trying to cut back on doughnuts, because logically I know they’re bad for me.’ So the teeter-totter wobbles, lands on the data side, and you walk on by.

Okay, now imagine that you’re walking past that doughnut shop again — but this time you’re under a bit of stress. You haven’t had lunch, and you’re getting hangry. Or maybe you’re upset about something at work. Now what do you do? That emotional end of the teeter-totter takes on some extra weight, doesn’t it?

When you’re under really stressful conditions, like, you know, climbing a mountain in life-or-death circumstances, it’s not just that the emotional, System One end of the teeter-totter takes on extra weight — it’s like the whole fulcrum of that teeter-totter has moved. And suddenly it’s going to take a lot more data for you to make a rational decision, rather than an emotional one.  

Essentially, when you’re really stressed out, emotions win.

ARVAI: I think there’s, for a lot of people who are climbing, this kind of summit or plummet attitude. It’s what you’re there to do. I mean, you’re not there to get a tan. You’re not there to drink coffee in the tents with the sherpas. You’re not there to listen to the weather reports. You’re there to summit. And I think that’s what happens in the mountains — that, even though you may be confronted with data, like seeing someone in distress, that visceral pull is just so powerful that you just can’t beat it back.

PHOEBE: Okay — so our brain makes these decisions intuitively. And when we’re under a lot of stress, our intuition is weighted toward making an emotional choice. For mountain climbers, that often means following through on that desire to get to the top. 

But that emotional drive can be overwhelmed — by strong data. And maybe that’s what happened to Myles and his team. Yes — they wanted the summit, as badly as anyone else. Yes — they were under stress, and their mental teeter-totter was weighted towards making an emotional decision to summit. But there was enough data there to tip the scales. Data that said, “Hey — this guy’s alive, he’s in distress, and if you don’t step in to help him, you’re going to watch him die. Right now. Right in front of you. And it’s going to be your fault.”

Those people who passed by that morning and DIDN’T stop to help? Maybe they didn’t have that same sort of immediate data input to tip their teeter-totter. After all, Myles’ team was already there, helping. Maybe Lincoln Hall didn’t need more people. 

(rhythmic music begins)

But no matter how we arrive at our decisions, there’s always a need, after the fact, to find the logic in our actions. To rationalize them. To make sense, somehow, of a choice that’s often more intuitive than sensical. 

ARVAI: So people will tell themselves stories that justify their position. And the more they’re able to tell that story to themselves, the easier it becomes to deal with that feeling of dissonance. So, you know, the story that I think a lot of climbers tell themselves in a situation following a David Sharp or a Lincoln hall experience is: ‘There’s nothing I could have done.’

MYLES: As human beings, we tend to convince ourselves of certain things, and then we look for the evidence to back up the point that we want to make. And so, you know, had we walked past Lincoln Hall, I would be telling you a story of how, “Hey we checked on this guy, and he was fine, and he was redoing his gear, and we kept going, and I didn’t realize anything was going on.” Whereas the reality of it was that clearly something was a problem here.

And when I spoke to a bunch of the guys who had walked past David Sharp a couple of weeks ago, and I would speak to them in the months following the expedition, every one of them had a perfectly rational reason for why they had walked past a guy in distress. Eight or nine different reasons. Distinctly different reasons. So I think you do something and then you look for reasons why you did it.

(music ends)

Because otherwise, how could you continue to realize and to know that you had deliberately permitted the life of another to be lost because of your selfish endeavor? That’s not something people can live with.

PHOEBE: Lincoln Hall made it down off the mountain that day. The sherpas came and half carried, half walked him to a medical tent farther down the slopes. He lost the tips of his fingers and a toe to frostbite. But everyone got to the bottom alive.

And Myles? He’s still making sense of the whole thing.

MYLES: It’s not a story that I really told, I guess, a huge amount after it happened. And probably never in as much depth as you and I are discussing it at the moment either.

PHOEBE: What’s the, when you did, when it did ever come up, what was the question that people always asked?

MYLES: Oh, they just want to know if you got to the top or not. It’s really that simple. Which again is not something that I think climbing is really about, to be honest.

And one of the most impressive guys I ever met on the mountain was a British guy, who was extraordinarily modest. And he was there to be a part of that expedition and climb. And he made it an hour or two out of camp, heading towards the summit, and he thought, ‘You know, I’ve seen this, I’ve enjoyed this, this was great,’ and headed down perfectly happy. Because he had done what he set out to do. He had challenged himself against this peak. The summit was utterly irrelevant in it.

And in some ways, that was the most profound thing that I took home from that climb, was that it really is about the process, it’s not about whether or not you check a box on a  list or not.

(introspective music begins)

PHOEBE: Most of us won’t ever go to Mount Everest. But we do make difficult decisions — all the time. Decisions that pit our self-oriented, emotional desires against the wellbeing of other people. 

And the psychological mechanism behind those choices, that teeter-totter in our brain, it’s the same. The way we look back and craft stories to make sense of our decisions is the same.

So that kind of selfish or not-admirable thing that we did? It was all for the best. It was a learning experience. It was the only option.

And we do it when we make difficult but selfless decisions too — when we recycle even though the trash can’s closer. When we stop to help the injured biker over winning the race. Those choices also demand a narrative — however grand, or small. 

Those stories help us to survive our decisions. And, maybe, to make better ones next time.

(music swells)

WILLOW: That was Phoebe Flanigan. She’s currently living in Portland and is working on a Gimlet Media show called Every Little Thing.

Myles Osborne is still in Colorado. And he and his wife just opened an animal sanctuary.

As for Lincoln Hall, he passed away in 2012 — of causes unrelated to his near-death experience on Mount Everest. You can read his version of events in the book he wrote. It’s called Dead Lucky

(music fades out)

If you enjoyed today’s episode, please take 30 seconds and share the link with a friend! Seriously — pause the episode right now and go ahead and do that right now. We’re always eager for new listeners, and your recommendation is our best form of advertising.

Also, if you’re not already a patron, please consider becoming one. By supporting Out There, you will be making a very real difference in the future of this podcast.

Click the link in the episode description to become a patron today, or go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast.

Speaking of which, thank you so much to all of our current patrons, including Joe Cupps, Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. You all are the best.

(upbeat music starts)

Coming up next time on Out There: I’m going to share a story about something that happened to me quite a few years ago. It involves a big mountain bike race. 

(clapping and biking sounds)

FEMALE VOICE: Woo! Look at that smile. 

SECOND FEMALE VOICE: How you doing?

WILLOW: Good.

FIRST FEMALE VOICE: Do you need some water? What do you need?

SECOND FEMALE VOICE: I also, because I’m a mom, I brought you apple sauce, in case nothing here looked good.

WILLOW: Woah! It’s baby applesauce.

SECOND FEMALE VOICE: Toddler. 

(laugher)

WILLOW: I got toddler applesauce! How do you eat this?

SECOND FEMALE VOICE: Suck on it. (laughter) Please put that in your episode.

(ambient sounds fade out)

WILLOW: Tune in on July 7 to hear that story. The story has plenty of light-hearted moments, but it also takes a close look at success — and what happens when we’re laser focused on a goal that might not end up serving us in the long run.

(music fades out)

So, we’ve been hearing about Mt. Everest today. And I was curious whether PeakVisor — the app I told you about at the start of the show — would work there. Like, could I stand on top of Mt. Everest and use PeakVisor?

So I emailed them and asked. And they wrote back right away.

They told me that yes — PeakVisor would work just fine from the top of Mt. Everest. And in fact, they said a lot of people use their app during Everest Basecamp Treks. Because you don’t have to have cell phone reception to use the app. You just need to be able to turn on your phone.

Now, they did say that it might not be super convenient to use a phone at the top of Mt. Everest, because it’s really cold and really windy, etc. But hypothetically, it would work.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide — in the Himalayas or anywhere else in the world — check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Today’s story about Myles Osborne first aired in 2017. The piece was reported and produced by Phoebe Flanigan and edited by me, Willow Belden. Sound design by Chema Flores. You can find Chema on soundcloud — he’s little weather. And a special thank you to Alan Arnette of the all-things-Everest website, alanarnette.com.

Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in three weeks.

(theme music swells, then ends)

Beach Bum

By Bo Jensen, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on May 12, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: So, to start off today, I want to share a recording that my colleague Jessica made, while she was on a road trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

To set the scene — she made this recording from her travel trailer, and she was looking out at the highest peak east of the Mississippi, Mount Mitchell.

JESSICA TAYLOR: I wanted to make this recording actually on the day I hiked Mt. Mitchell. But it was 18 degrees — and mind you, this is the end of April — it was 18 degrees, and the wind was so terrible, there was no way I was going to be able to get a good recording. 

But I wanted to share with you, as I’m on this trip, I’ve really been loving using the app PeakVisor…which allows me to pull up my phone, use AR (augmented reality) to be able to see what the title is of all the peaks, what their height is. There’s a free option, you can use one location a day, and it will show you things about mountains in the area you’re in that you never knew.

WILLOW: PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app is like your own personal mountain guide. 

Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

It’s hard to believe, but this is our last episode of the spring season. So I want to do two things. First, I’d love to know what you thought of this season. 

So I put together a little survey. It’s very short — nothing like the big long survey we did last year. So if you can, go ahead and pause the episode right now, and fill it out. Just click the link in the episode description.

Your feedback will help us make future seasons of Out There even better. And to thank you for your time, I’d like to offer you a 30% discount on Out There merch when you complete the survey.

The second thing I want to do is give you a sneak peak at what’s next, now that the season is wrapping up.

After this episode, we’re going to take a little break for a few weeks. And then we’re going to give you a special summer treat.

I know a lot of you are relatively new to Out There. So we’re going to share some of our favorite stories from the early days of the podcast.

We have a lot of episodes that have won awards, or that resonated really strongly with listeners. But many of those episodes are too old to show up in your podcast feed anymore.

So, starting on June 16, we’re launching a “season of favorites,” where we share Out There oldies that you otherwise probably wouldn’t get to hear.

If you’re new to the show, it’ll be a great introduction to Out There. If you’ve been listening for a long time, it’ll be a wonderful trip down memory lane.

(theme music ends)

Today’s episode is about how we define ourselves.

Knowing who we are is a big part of leading a fulfilling life. It feels good to be able to say, “This is me” — or, conversely, “That’s NOT me.” 

But it can also be problematic to define ourselves too rigidly. When we say things like, “I’m NOT a city slicker,” or “I’m NOT a beach person,” those statements often carry embedded judgment. We see ourselves as superior. As better than the unfamiliar “other.” 

So what happens when we realize that we are that “other?”

On today’s episode, Bo Jensen takes us on a journey from the mountains to the sea, and explores how knowing who you are isn’t always as straightforward as you might think.

BO JENSEN: I always thought I knew my own mind. What I wanted. Who I was. 

I grew up on a farm, landlocked in the middle of the country. My sense of identity was grounded in dirt and hard work. Getting my hands dirty felt good, felt natural. Work was a source of pride. 

(breezy music begins)

In the Midwest, any down time was seen as lazy time, and “lazy” was about the worst thing you could call someone. When I was a kid, my relationship with the land was about showing my grit. I weeded our crops by hand in that intense summer heat; then, covered in bug bites and sunburned, I rode in the back of a pickup down dusty gravel roads to the next field. 

By college, I’d moved to Colorado, where I started road biking. My idea of fun involved my muscles burning as I climbed steep hills with fierce determination. As an adult, I bought a jeep to get me where I wanted to go; nothing would stand in my way. I was tough-minded, capable, self-sufficient. 

(music fades out)

I wore these identities like badges of honor. Or maybe like armor. It was who I was. 

(restless music begins)

As I got married and had kids, I approached family milestones with the same mindset I used in other aspects of my life: I worked at it, wanting to do it right. I had two little boys and was pregnant with a third baby. I took my role seriously, as a wife and mother. But even as I worked diligently at cultivating this traditional identity, something about it didn’t sit right.

(music fades out)

That third pregnancy was an intentional mistake. The marriage was crumbling; the only thing that could save it, I told myself, was another baby. I was trying so hard to be what I was supposed to be. I was trying to follow in my parents’ and grandparents’ footsteps, on a path of faith, family, and traditional gender roles. I was trying, hard — and I was failing — to be a wife, to be a devoted mother, to be…a woman. 

(quiet music begins)

I didn’t dare say it out loud. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t. Back in the 80s, I had no words for who I felt myself to be: a man somehow born into a female body. What could I say that wouldn’t sound crazy? Why wouldn’t I let this stupid idea go? What was wrong with me? 

I tried to ignore what I knew to be true, bury that male identity that refused to go away — because it scared me. 

(music ends)

The man inside me felt so relaxed, easy-going, confidently breaking all the traditional rules just by existing. ‘That’s not me,’ I told myself. I couldn’t face my own reality.

(bluesy music begins)

Even when we don’t want to change, even when we refuse to change, sometimes life intervenes. My husband got a job offer, and we moved to Houston. As I stepped awkwardly out of the car — pregnant, nauseous, my back aching — the heat and humidity hit me in the face like a slap. 

(music fades out)

We’d left everything familiar behind — friends, family, cool evergreen hiking trails, the aspen trees turning gold in the fall. I didn’t know how to get my bearings in this strange place. No ridge of mountains anchored me. 

There was only water. The Gulf of Mexico.

(sound of waves lapping at a beach followed by soft music)

I had never seen anything like the Gulf. I’d never even seen the Great Lakes, let alone the ocean. The first time we drove down from Houston, I walked out onto the sand and then…I just stood there, looking out. Dumbfounded. 

I could sense the depth, feel the weight, of all that water under the surface, spreading to the horizon. Beyond the horizon. It scared me, and thrilled me. Another world existed, fluid, moving, its waves reaching toward me, beckoning.

I was surprised at my own reaction. How was a mountain person like me so drawn to the sea? More than drawn — I felt a connection to it, somehow felt at home there. It was a connection that I didn’t understand. I mean, in my mind, oceans were for luxury cruises and island vacations, bikini babes and long-haired surfers.

(music ends and sound of soft waves hitting the shore begins)

During the months of my pregnancy, whenever my disorientation and loneliness became overwhelming, I would drive down to Galveston, to the beach, and walk along the ocean. I couldn’t explain why, but the waves comforted me. The sea air, the sound of the surf hitting the shore, even the crying of the gulls, soothed me. 

Wading in, I was amazed that the salt water could lift me up, help me to carry the weight of the life I’d been creating, for this child, and for myself.

(waves fade out)

We moved back to Colorado after the baby was born, and I ended the unhappy marriage. But old habits die hard. Returning to my landlocked world, I returned to my self-limiting strategies. 

(low music begins)

I stubbornly clung to my old ideas of who I was, or who I thought I was supposed to be; I wasn’t sure anymore. I felt like I had failed at my commitments as a wife and mother, so I vowed to try harder. I struggled into and out of two more marriages that didn’t work, two more attempts to prove myself “normal.”

(music ends)

I had become that fiercest of survivors: a single parent. In my case, I didn’t just feel like I had to act as both mother and father — it felt like I was both. 

(more upbeat music begins)

As the kids left home for college, moved away for jobs and relationships, I felt my heart leaping into the wider world with them. I was ready to start looking at the rigid definitions I’d set for myself. The opportunity to explore my own life had arrived. The time was now or never.

(music continues for a few moments and then ends)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

(sound of opening a box)

I’m opening up a new solar lantern that I just got in the mail. 

WILLOW: I feel like this is going to be excellent for camping.

WILLOW: This lantern is made by a company called MPowerd. They’re one of our sponsors, and they’re on a mission to transform lives with thoughtfully designed, clean technology. 

The lantern they sent me packs down small, and it puts out a lot of light. I think it’s going to be great for reading in my tent, or even just to use at home during a power outage.

You can check out all their solar products at Mpowerd.com. And while you’re there, you can also give the gift of light to someone in need. 

Mpowerd is working to get solar power banks and lanterns to people who have been displaced due to the conflict in Ukraine. And you can help them on that mission. Just go to their website for all the details. 

Oh, and just for our listeners, you can get 25% off your entire purchase with the discount code GetOutThere. That's M-Power-D.com, promo code GetOutThere.

And now, back to the story.

BO: Trails lead us places, away from well-traveled roads. Now, at age 51, I was finally stepping off the beaten path. I was abandoning my responsibilities, my work ethic, all the rock-solid security I had built, on what looked like a whim. 

But I didn’t care. I sold the empty house. With money in the bank, I quit my job, and boarded my first international flight — to Spain, to walk the Camino. 

(quaint, Spanish music begins)

The Camino de Santiago is a historic pilgrimage route that people have walked for centuries. You follow in the ancient footsteps of saints and sinners and everyone else in between, seeking answers, or forgiveness — some kind of reckoning. Maybe with God. Maybe with yourself. 

The trail is over 500 miles long, and it’s not easy. This was not a vacation. Here, I was just another seeker among the many thousands. Still, I didn’t take the usual path across the middle of the country. I took the Camino Norte, the route by the sea. After all these years, the ocean still called to me.

(music ends)

For six weeks, I backpacked up and over mountains, then down to the beaches of Northern Spain. Mountains and sea, mountains and sea. The high peaks were rugged, and required me to set my mind to the task. But the beaches…how I loved descending to the beaches. 

(sound of water splashing as cheerful music begins)

Grinning like a kid, I would dump my pack, yank off my sweaty clothes, and splash gleefully into the water in my underwear. It was like reconnecting with an old friend. 

Beach after beach, I waded out, dove in, and played in the ocean. I learned to body-surf short distances, riding the tops of swells. Sometimes, I ducked low instead, and watched the waves roll in overhead. I learned the salty taste of the sea, rich and intense, spitting with satisfaction as I rose from the water. 

Walking out onto the sand, I would lie down on my towel and nap in the sun until I was dry. Then, feeling refreshed, I’d get dressed, lace up my boots, pick up my pack, and hike on.

(music fades out)

It suddenly hit me one afternoon, like a wave of delight, and I laughed out loud: for all my mountain summits, I was a beach bum at heart. I was happy to drift with the tides and go with the flow. I was an easy-going, relaxed guy, confidently breaking all the rules I’d thought I needed to follow. And I really liked this part of myself. I had never known, because I had never allowed myself to let down my guard and just be…me. 

(soft piano music begins)

Floating lazily on my back, the ocean waves felt so mellow. 

(sound of seagulls and gentle waves)

I stretched out my arms, looking up at the soft clouds, and I just let go. 

I just let it all go. All the hiding, all the denial, all the trying to be who I thought I was supposed to be. I was finally free. 

(music fades out)

All my life, I had been defining myself within predetermined contexts — responsible homeowner, compassionate public servant, dutiful mother. “Bloom where you are planted,” they say, and that’s a fine sentiment, as far as it goes. 

But that rootedness doesn’t take into account the way life moves and exists with fluidity. I am more than those set labels. I am responsible, and freewheeling; compassionate, and irreverent; dutiful, and radical. I am a mother, and a father. 

I don’t have to choose, one side or another; I don’t have to define myself by negation, saying, “I’m this, not that.” That sort of self-definition may initially feel liberating; but too often, we let it become limiting. I embrace the totality that is me, unique and nonconforming, be that my approach to home and work, or my non-binary gender identity. Call me mountaineer, or beach bum — I’ll answer with an emphatic “YES.”

(upbeat music begins)

The work I do now is traveling around the country, exploring wilderness areas and writing about what I experience there. I find my eyes drawn to the horizon wherever I go. I watch in fascination as it shrinks or expands, depending on the surrounding terrain. Again and again, the horizon shifts as my perspective changes.

It’s all a continuum. We live in a world of spectrums: the colors of light, waves of sound, the hues of human skin tones. When does the mountain become the foothill, and the foothill become the plain? When does the dune become the beach, and then the seafloor?

(music ends)

Last winter, for my 55th birthday, I gave myself a gift: a grand tour of beaches. 

(piano music begins)

In Massachusetts, at Salisbury Beach, I strung shells into banners, and collected smooth stones. On Cumberland Island off the coast of Georgia, I walked under the live oaks hung with Spanish moss, following the wild horses down the beach. On Sombrero Beach in the Florida Keys, I sipped spiced rum on the white sand, squinting through my sunglasses at the impossibly turquoise waters. 

And at Padre Island National Seashore, back at the Gulf, I hiked 20 miles down the beach, carrying my mountain backpack, to camp on the sand near the dunes. 

(sound of wind and waves)

All night, the wind blew over my tent, and the waves rolled ashore. In the morning, I found that fog had enveloped the land and the water and the sky. Everything was white, clouded. Undefined. 

It soon began glowing, and all the world turned soft and rosy before my eyes. 

Hearing the waves, the salt water of the ocean and my own blood calling, I waded out. Into everything.

(music continues)

WILLOW: That was Bo Jensen. They are a writer, a mountaineer, a beach bum, and a parent. Currently, they’re writing about living by the Atlantic Ocean for a year. And yes, there is a beach right out their front door.

If you enjoyed this story, check out the episode Bo did for us back in 2020. It’s called “Passing,” and I have a link to it in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com. I also have a link to the places where you can read more of Bo’s work. 

(Out There Favorites music begins)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is the part of the show where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

JESSICA: Hi, I’m Jessica Taylor, and I’m the advertising manager at Out There Podcast. I’m excited to be sharing my three recommendations with you today. 

I recently quit my job, and I have not been working, because I’m trying to reset and allow myself time to figure out life, and what is important to me in resetting.

So my first recommendation is a book called Essentialism. It’s by Greg McKeown, and it is teaching me to concentrate on saying no to the good things, and saying yes to the great things. And it’s been really encouraging and freeing to have this permission to say no to things, and give myself the freedom to play, and openness to the changes in my life. 

My second recommendation is the podcast Mindset Mentor with Rob Dial. Episodes are short — they’re only about 20 minutes long. And they really help me when I’m driving in the car to reset and rethink about things. I tend to be an overthinker, and these episodes have helped me take a step back and work on making myself a better person. 

My third and last recommendation is the “Do It For The Process” affirmation card deck by Emily Jeffords. This is a little deck of cards that has a beautiful picture on one side, and encouragement on the other side. They’re just little, one sentence, short quotes that give me encouragement throughout the day, that I can concentrate on as I move forward and try to make myself a better person. 

That’s it. Those are my three recommendations. I hope you have a lovely day!

WILLOW: Again, that was Jessica Taylor, the advertising manager for Out There. 

I have links to all the things she recommended in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(music ends)

If you haven’t already taken our survey, I’d love to hear what you thought of this season. Just click the link in the episode description to share your thoughts. And as soon as you complete the survey, you’ll get a discount code for 30% off Out There merch. 

(folksy music begins)

I’d like to give a big thank you to Michelle Stahl, Caitlyn Bagley, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, Deb and Vince Garcia, and a listener who asked to just be identified by her first name, Sheila. 

These listeners support Out There financially. Their gifts make the show possible.

If you’re interested in supporting Out There as well, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. Patreon is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about. Like Out There.

Whatever amount you give — whether it’s $5 or $50 — you will be making a big difference for our little team.

Again, that’s patreon.com/outtherepodcast. Or click the link in the episode description. 

Thank you so much for your support!

(music ends)

OK, time for a pop quiz. How many mountains are there in the world?

Any guesses?

Turns out, there are 1,187,049 peaks that have names. And even more if you count the ones that don’t have names.

If you’re anything like me, you probably like to know what mountains you’re looking at when you’re out on adventures. But a lot of times, it’s hard to figure it out. Because hiking maps usually only show the immediate vicinity.

Lucky for us, there’s an app out there that can help. It’s called PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors.

Their app provides information on more than a million summits all over the world. 

The way it works is that wherever you’re standing, you just open up the app, and it’ll show you a panoramic picture of everything you’re looking at, with all the peaks labeled. Plus, they have intricate 3D maps to help you plan your hikes. 

Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Today’s story was written by Bo Jensen. Editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in June.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Never Enough

By Paul Barach, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on April 28, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: So, to start things off today, I want to share a recording that my colleague Jessica made while she was on a road trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

To set the scene — she made this recording from her travel trailer, and she was looking out at the highest peak east of the Mississippi, Mount Mitchell.

JESSICA TAYLOR: I wanted to make this recording actually on the day I hiked Mt. Mitchell. But it was 18 degrees — and mind you, this is the end of April — it was 18 degrees, and the wind was so terrible, there was no way I was going to be able to get a good recording. But I wanted to share with you, as I’m on this trip, I’ve really been loving using the app PeakVisor, which allows me to pull up my phone, use AR (augmented reality) to be able to see what the title is of all the peaks, what their height is. There’s a free option, you can use one location a day, and it will show you things about mountains in the area you’re in that you never knew.

WILLOW: PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app is like your own personal mountain guide. 

If you’re a map lover like Jessica and I are, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

I have some wonderful news! Out There received three awards from the Rocky Mountain chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists. 

We took first place for best podcast in our division. We got first place for mental health reporting, for an episode called “Outskating Your Demons,” which was about this woman who goes on a long-distance skateboard trip. And our episode about exclusion in sports took second place for social justice reporting. That episode was called “In the Name of Fairness.” 

In case you missed any of these award-winning episodes, I have links to them in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(theme music ends)

It’s hard to believe, but the current season of Out There is almost over. So I want to give you a sneak peak at our plans for the future.

After this season wraps up in May, we’re going to take a little break for a few weeks (because everyone needs a break — even podcasters). And THEN we’re going to give you a special summer treat.

I know a lot of you are relatively new to Out There. And I want to do something nice to welcome you. So I thought I’d share some of our favorite stories from the early days of Out There.

We have a whole bunch of episodes that have won awards, or that resonated especially strongly with listeners. But many of those episodes are too old to show up in your podcast feed anymore.

So, I’m going to remedy that problem.

Starting on June 16, we’re launching a “season of favorites,” where we share Out There oldies that you otherwise probably wouldn’t get to hear.

If you’re new to the show, it’ll be a great introduction to Out There. If you’ve been listening for a long time, it’ll be a wonderful trip down memory lane.

Even better — I’d like to invite you to weigh in on which stories we include in the season!

I put together a quick poll, where you can vote on what you’d like to hear. And you can join in the fun regardless of whether you’re a longtime fan, or a brand new listener.

To vote, just click the link in the episode description. The poll is super short, so it’ll be really quick. In fact, why don’t you pause the episode and vote right now? 

Or, if you’re driving or something, and you can’t take the poll right now, just make sure to vote before May 15.

Thank you so much! I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.

(calm music begins)

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding. 

Today’s story is about love, and loss.

When we lose someone we love, a lot of us have this instinct to escape to nature. We seek out healing from the outdoors — whether it’s a mountaintop vista, a desert sunset, or a quiet seashore.

But what happens when nature doesn’t cooperate — when the weather is bad and your happy place is miserable? What can we learn about grief and acceptance, when nature is at its ugliest? 

Paul Barach has the story.

And just to let you know: this story gets into some really heavy topics. We’re going to talk about depression, suicide, and substance use. So, be a little gentle with yourself. 

(music fades out)

PAUL BARACH: I’ll never forget Meredith’s face the first time that I saw her on stage.

(whimsical music begins)

It was beaming, full of that excitement that drew people like us into amateur stand-up comedy. She had this strawberry blond hair and this voice like a cartoon mouse, and this inability to not say everything she was thinking. 

It wasn’t love at first sight. There weren’t butterflies or stars exploding. I didn’t even realize what was happening, which was gravity doing what gravity does best: pulling two bodies together. 

By the time I finally got up the courage to ask her out, she said no, because she was dating someone else. When she asked if we could still be friends, I said no, because that never works. 

Within a week, we were texting every day. And within a month, she was one of my best friends. 

She just had that way with people. You couldn’t not love her, despite all her contradictions. 

(music fades out)

Meredith was incredibly self-centered, but she was also one of the most supportive friends you could ever want. She had this joyous belly laugh, punctuated by these bear-like snorts that would spread grins across a room. But she also quietly dealt with a lot of painful health issues that she couldn’t afford to get diagnosed, let alone treated. 

Onstage, her jokes were mostly upbeat. She saved her dark, blunt sense of humor for her closest friends.

At every moment, Meredith was uncontrollably herself. I loved that most about her. Because it meant I could stop pretending to be normal too. 

(relaxed music begins)

We finally started dating, and for a year Meredith was the one. We spent our days texting jokes back and forth, trying to out-do each other, and nights performing at the same open mics. We produced storytelling shows together featuring our friends from the stand-up scene. She was ambitious and capable. The sex was fun and adventurous. She was everything I wanted.

(music ends)

Then I hit this wall that I always hit after a year in a relationship. I started asking myself: ‘Is this enough? Could there be someone better?’ 

I always needed something bright and shiny to look forward to, and with Meredith things were becoming repetitive. I didn’t know how to talk about it, let alone fix it.   

So we broke up, but neither of us could break that gravity between us. So we spent the next two years in orbit: texting every day, failing to date other people, falling into bed whenever we could, and pushing each other away again. Until finally, after a long phone call, we both agreed to stop fighting gravity. Who else beside our best friend did we want to end up with? 

(light, airy music begins)

I grinned for days after that conversation. 

There was still a lot that we had to work on, and a lot of growing up to do. I wasn’t sure if it would be enough in the end, but after all that time we’d wasted, we had our whole future together to try and get it right.Eleven days later…

(music ends abruptly) 

…Meredith killed herself. 

(somber music begins)

For a week, the sun didn’t shine in Seattle.

I spent that gray, rainy week laughing at my friends’ dark jokes, sobbing at everything else, and trying my best to cause an alcohol shortage in Seattle. The world didn’t seem real anymore. Everything around me looked like stage props, and food tasted like dead wood. 

When I was alone, I’d think about those three years, and everything that should have gone differently between us. 

(music fades out)

The only thing that got me through that week was Shi Shi beach. 

I’d been planning to take Meredith there once the weather cleared up, because it was the most beautiful beach in Washington state. 

And I knew that, because I’d Googled “most beautiful beach in Washington state” and then read nothing about it.  

But the photos I’d seen looked incredible: there were these ocean-carved towers of basalt called sea stacks that rose above a pristine shore and a glassy ocean. Massive, free-standing ramparts and shipwrecks of stone bathed in warm skies and gemstone sunsets. 

(melancholic music begins)

Those bright skies and majestic sea stacks I’d seen online were my refuge, and I held on to them tightly at Meredith’s viewing. 

I’ll never forget her face. It had always been so animated, sharing everything that was going on beneath. Now it was just a mask. 

They’d covered up her neck with a scarf, but they couldn’t do anything about her lips. The belt had turned them purple.   

(music fades out

She’d left a note. She’d had blinding migraines the past couple days, her joints were swelling, her stomach had twisted up, her back had gone out, and she couldn’t see a life where she wasn’t always hurting. But it was depression too. 

I knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, because in shaky handwriting the note ended with the truly insane idea that one day, the people who loved her the most would “get over it.”

(subdued music begins)

Her family asked me why, just like our friends had all week. They wanted to know if it’d been about money, or some recent disappointment, or a terminal diagnosis. They just wanted to know what they’d missed.

Suicide is an American epidemic. And most people don’t understand it, because we don’t talk about it enough. I didn’t know how to tell them at the time what I knew, having lived with a lifetime of depression.   

(music ends)

When someone commits suicide, you want to believe it was an accident, as if they’d gotten too close to an open window without realizing and carelessly stumbled backwards. You want to believe that if you’d just seen them struggling and reached out in time, you could have pulled them to safety. 

But sometimes, they’re not reaching out to you at all. 

Meredith walked away quietly from a party full of supportive, loving friends to hang herself alone in her apartment. 

(somber music begins)

Each suicide is as individual and complex as the person you’ve lost.  

The way I saw it, Meredith didn’t choose to die. Her brain killed her, the same as if it was a stroke. 

Or at least that’s what I told myself then, and now. And I still wonder if there was something I could have said, some magic combination of words that when put together the right way at the right time, could have kept her in this world. 

My only hope, then and now, is that she didn’t regret it in the end. 

I hope that just before it went dark, there was a moment without pain. And I hope she lived in that moment forever. 

(music fades out)

But I couldn’t say any of that at Meredith’s viewing. I could barely get the words out to tell Meredith how much I’d miss her. 

That’s the worst part about saying goodbye. Feeling that sudden weight in your chest of all the words that you wish you were saying instead of goodbye.

(soft music begins)

Friends had invited me into their homes that weekend, but I couldn’t just sit in this dark world without Meredith. I needed more if I was going to get through this. I needed to know that there was still sunshine and beauty somewhere. I needed to get to Shi Shi beach.   

(music ends)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first, I want to tell you about another podcast series you might like. 

It’s called [Un] Natural Selection, and it’s about the benefits and pitfalls of humans tinkering with the environment.

The show looks at Indigenous practices of burning the landscape, how human emotions affect wolf management, and the possible link between conservation and genetically engineered animals.

MORGAN SPRINGER: It’s definitely motivating.

WILLOW: That’s Morgan Springer, the show’s co-host.

MORGAN: When I listen to these stories, I aspire to do better. 

WILLOW: [Un] Natural Selection is one of our sponsors. It’s a special season of the podcast Points North from Interlochen Public Radio.

Listen wherever you get your podcasts or visit pointsnorthradio.org.

And now, back to the story.

PAUL: That night, I was at my friend Tyler’s apartment telling him about my plans, and unexpectedly he said, “Sounds dope man! I’ll come with you.” 

(more upbeat music begins)

What Tyler secretly meant was, ‘I don’t like nature, but all of us are worried about you.’

And I said, “Sure, let’s invite Xung too.” Because what I secretly meant was, ‘I need a buffer, because you are loud and blunt.’

Both Tyler and Xung liked my plan: camp in the Hoh rainforest, then drive north to spend the day at Shi Shi beach. It was going to be an easy road trip to a gorgeous, sunny spot. Just what we all needed. 

(music fades out and sound of steady rain begins)

The night after Meredith’s wake, rain was hammering down as we pulled into the Hoh rainforest parking lot. 

(sound of car keys jangling and engine shutting off)

We waited it out for a half hour with some vodka and grapefruit juice until the car got claustrophobic. 

(sound of car door opening, and rummaging around with gear)

Xung grabbed the sleeping bags, Tyler got the tents, and I led them down the slatted boardwalk with my iPhone lighting the way. 

(music begins)

Halfway to the campsite, on the edge of that white halo of rain, I saw the emerald eyes of a cougar staring back at me. Which, if you've never had the pleasure, is like staring down the barrel of a gun covered in fur. 

It slid behind a bushy tree, and I turned back and said, “Bad news, guys. There’s a cougar.”

And they did not believe me, because literally a moment before I’d said, with great confidence, “Don’t worry, guys. I’ve never seen a cougar out here!” 

But they did believe me when the whole cougar emerged on the other side, circled between us and our campsite, then hunched down behind an embankment. 

The worst thing you can do is run, so I turned and said, “Don’t run.” Which Tyler didn’t hear, because he’d already sprinted back to the car, where Xung and I quickly joined him. 

(music fades and sound of rain begins again)

And in the rain, we smoked and cracked jokes, and soon we all broke down. Tyler pulled us together under his umbrella and we mourned for Meredith and all the other people in our lives that we’d lost to suicide, and cancer, and every other horrible thing the world will do to those that you love the most. 

And at every snap of branches we’d whip around in a panic, and shine our phones at the surrounding woods for that cougar that was still out there somewhere.  

(rain ends)

By the time we pulled into the Shi Shi Beach parking lot the next afternoon, both Tyler and Xung had had enough of the trip. I’d gotten us lost all morning, and we were tired, hungover, and cramped from sleeping in the car.

Tyler shut off the ignition and said, “So, the beach is just behind this stand of trees, right?” 

And I replied, “Yes.” Because I had read nothing about it. 

Then I walked up to the trail sign which read, “SHI SHI BEACH - 2 MILES.” Then I walked back and said, “Bad news, guys. We’re hiking.” 

And neither of them were dressed for that, since I had also said yesterday, with great confidence, that we would not be hiking.

(mercurial music begins)

It was drizzling, so I asked a retired couple coming out of the woods how the trail looked. Mostly for Tyler’s sake, since he was wearing his favorite pair of fire-engine red Chuck Taylors. They said, “It’s fine, just a little muddy.” 

But it was not “a little muddy.” It was a two-mile swamp. 

And I was now dragging my friends through that swamp. Mud poured into our shoes and we were all shivering in the haze. I could hear my friends complaining and slipping into the muck. Tyler’s umbrella was tearing on the low branches, and soaking his leather jacket. 

Everything seemed terrible, but I knew that Shi Shi Beach was going to make up for all of it. 

(music ends)

Suddenly, the path dead ended, right at the edge of a 150-foot bluff. And there was no real “trail” down to the bottom. 

Instead, there was this nylon rope that was looped back and forth around some trees that clearly no engineer had ever signed off on. The only footholds were the rocks and roots sticking out from the soil. So you kind of had to hold onto this rope, work your way down backwards, and hope that your shoes had good traction. Unlike, say, a pair of Chuck Taylors.  

(music begins)

So I turned down trail to say, “Guys, bad news…” 

But they were already looking down the bluff, and shaking their heads to say, “Paul…there is no way.” 

And I agreed, then grabbed the rope, and started down. I was getting to Shi Shi Beach, whether I rappelled or fell down there. And my friends followed, choosing me over personal safety, because it was the theme of the weekend. 

The descent was somehow even sketchier than it looked, but the closer I got to the bottom, the faster my heart pounded, until my feet touched flat ground. I’d made it. 

(music ends)

There was nothing left between me and this refuge I’d been waiting to reach all week. With tears flowing in anticipation, I finally stepped out onto the sands of Shi Shi Beach.

And it was the ugliest beach that I have ever seen. 

(sound of waves crashing on sand)

Both the sky and the ocean were gray as wet concrete. And the shore was covered with these quivering, yellow mounds of phlegmy seafoam, like the ocean had the flu. 

And the sea stacks that I’d seen in all the photos were dim shadows, miles away beneath the high tide that trapped us where we stood. 

I wandered down to a driftwood log, where the rolling waves coughed up more of this ocean mucus speckled with shards of plastic. My shoulders shook. I didn’t know what to do. 

Tyler joined me on the log, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Paul, this beach is disgusting.”

And I said nothing, because he was right. But then Xung sat on my other side, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Nah, man. I’m glad we came here. I think it’s pretty nice.”

And moments after saying that, this rogue wave crashed against the log, slapping a huge load of sea phlegm right across Xung’s face, as Tyler and I sprinted away just in time.

Further up the beach, Tyler lit up a joint, and started scraping the mud out of his socks. Xung passed me a cigarette out of a soggy pack, saying much less than usual. 

We’d have to head back soon. Sundown was coming and we had a whole swamp to return through. I looked down the beach at the distant sea stacks we’d never get to. After all the driving, the cougar, the cramped night, the swamp, all we’d done is find another dark part of this world without Meredith.  

(quiet music begins)

I glanced over to where the tideline met the bluff. A shaft of sunlight cut through the clouds, lighting up a wet patch of sand. It was the only sun that any of us had seen in this cold, dark week.  

I said, “Guys, there’s sunlight. Do you want to come with me?”

And they said “No,” because they were not following me another step at that point. 

Which was fine. They weren’t supposed to be here. Meredith was, when the tide was low, and the sky was blue, and we finally had more time. 

More time to make each other laugh. More time to say we loved each other. More time to say we were sorry. More time with our best friend, to try to get it right, because we weren’t ready to let go yet.  

But at the end of the worst week of my life, and the worst camping trip of my friends’ lives, that is what I had instead: 

(music fades out)

Three years where Meredith and I loved each other the best that we could, and a warm little sunbreak on the ugliest stretch of beach in Washington State.

And in that moment, I understood that it all had to be enough. Even if it never would be. 

(waves fade out and soft guitar music begins)

And as we walked back through the swamp, to return to that dimmer world, I understood something else. If I was ever lucky enough to feel a love like that again, if that gravity ever pulled me as close to another person as I’d been to Meredith, I’d make certain that it was enough. 

(music continues on its own a few moments)

WILLOW: That was Paul Barach. He’s a writer living in Washington State. And he wanted me to let you know that he has found another love as deep as his love for Meredith. Or, maybe even deeper. And he has made sure that that love is enough. He’s now happily married.

(music fades out)

Also, Paul has been on Out There twice before. He did a story about returning back to the real world after doing a thru-hike, and he did another piece about what happens when the adventure of a lifetime turns out to be pretty miserable. I have links to those episodes in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(Out There Favorites music begins)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is the part of the show where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

STACIA BENNETT: Hello! My name is Stacia Bennett, and I’m on the Out There Podcast ambassador  team. I’m so excited to be sharing with you three of my top favorite resources today.

To start with I’m going to share with you one of my current favorite podcasts, The Hiker Podcast, featuring host Andy Neal. Where he interviews a variety of people that are involved in the hiking community, whether that’s day-hiking or thru-hiking. I’m personally not usually a fan of interview-style podcasts, but Andy’s enthusiasm — as well as the interesting stories of the people that he interviews — really make this one a pleasure to listen to.

The second resource that I’d like to mention with you is one that I use, and open on my phone, almost every single day, and that is the Gaia GPS app. While not as immediately user-friendly as some other apps on the market, I find this to be an invaluable tool whenever I’m trying to plan a trip, map out routes, compare distances and elevation profiles, as well as navigating in the backcountry. Most especially whenever I’m hiking off-trail, or on trails that are poorly marked. 

The final resource that I wanted to mention to you today is a really cool company that you may have not have heard of before, and that is LightHeart Gear. It’s a women-owned company based out of Asheville, North Carolina. The company makes a lot of different types of gear, everything from tents to rain gear to clothing. And a couple of pieces that I find myself wearing and using on almost evehike that I go on, are my women’s backpacking dress, which has an incredible fit, awesome fabric, quick-drying, extremely comfortable, and can be purchased both with and without pockets. And then their micro grid fleece hoodie, which is super soft, and is just one of most versatile layering pieces that I personally have in my repertoire. 

So those are my top three resources that I wanted to mention to you on today’s episode. Thanks!

WILLOW: Again, that was Stacia Bennett. She’s one of Out There’s ambassadors.

(music ends)

I have links to all the things she recommended in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com. And you can follow Stacia on Instagram @adventurelikeagirl.

(laid back music begins)

Coming up next time on Out There, what if something happened that made you rethink who you are?

BO JENSEN: I was surprised at my own reaction. I mean, in my mind, oceans were for luxury cruises and island vacations, bikini babes and long-haired surfers. How was a mountain person like me so drawn to the sea? More than drawn — I felt a connection to it, somehow felt at home there.

WILLOW: Tune in on May 12 for our final episode of the season. It’s a story that takes us from the Gulf of Mexico to the Camino de Santiago, and explores why it can be good to stop defining yourself too rigidly.

(music fades out)

Before you go, don’t forget to take the poll about our upcoming season. We make Out There for you, and because of you, and we want the episodes to REALLY resonate. So, take a minute and vote for the stories you most want to hear. Just click the link in the episode description to take the poll.

(sound of cars passing in the background)

JESSICA: Hi, I’m Jessica Taylor, and I’m the advertising manager at Out There Podcast. I am a total map geek, so I love being able to identify and look at what’s around me.

WILLOW: Jessica made this recording when she was in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

If you’re a map geek like she is, you probably like to know what mountains you’re looking at when you’re out on a hike or some other adventure.

That’s where an app called PeakVisor comes in handy. Peak Visor is one of our sponsors. Their app is like your own personal mountain guide.

They have intricate 3D maps to help you plan out your adventures. And when you’re out on those adventures, it helps you figure out what you’re looking at.

Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

You can support Out There by leaving us a review on Apple Podcasts, or wherever you’re listening right now. Heart-felt reviews from listeners like you will help other people discover this podcast. And the more people who listen, the better we can grow and thrive. 

You can also help us out financially by becoming a patron. Patrons are listeners who make monthly contributions to Out There through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. Go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast, or just click the link in the episode description, to become a patron today. 

This episode was written by Paul Barach. Story editing by Forrest Wood and me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

(theme music ends)

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

Measuring Up

By Christine Reed, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on April 14, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(sound of breeze blowing)

JESSICA TAYLOR: This is Jessica Taylor, and I am the advertising manager at Out There Podcast, and I am actually in the middle of the Grand Canyon right now. And I’m out at Plateau Point, so I’m right above the Colorado River. And I’ve opened up my PeakVisor app.

WILLOW BELDEN: PeakVisor is one of our sponsors for this episode. Their app helps you figure out what you’re looking at when you’re out on adventures.

Let’s say you’re in a national park, and you see a mountain in the distance, and you want to know what it is. PeakVisor will tell you. It’ll show you the name of the summit, how tall it is, how far away it is... plus, other info.

JESSICA: It’s really cool to be able to see every single point and every single elevation of the entire canyon, all the way around me.

WILLOW: If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding.

Today’s story is about the expectations we set for ourselves.

As humans (and as hikers), we often compare ourselves to others. We worry about whether we’re too slow. We wonder if we can go longer, or harder, or faster, than other people.

It’s easy to get caught up in comparisons, to measure our achievements based on what other people are doing. 

But how do you know what you should really expect from yourself? And what do you do when it feels like you’re always coming up short? 

(theme music ends)

Christine Reed has the story.

CHRISTINE REED: So there’s this mountain in Little Rock, Arkansas — it’s really more of a hill, but it’s called Pinnacle Mountain. That’s where I learned to hate hiking. 

(relaxed music begins)

The first time I went there was my freshman year of college. I had just moved to Arkansas from California, and I had this new boyfriend, Alex. He told me, “Everybody in Little Rock hikes Pinnacle. It’s a thing.” So there we were. 

It was fall, maybe early October. I didn’t own any athletic clothing back then, so I was probably wearing something like layered cotton tank tops and denim shorts.

(music fades out, followed by the sound of a car door opening and footsteps)

Alex took off up the trail as soon as we got out of the car. I really tried to keep up, but within a few minutes I knew agreeing to the hike had been a huge mistake. I felt like I was dying. Going as fast as I could, and he was still way ahead of me. 

(sound of panting

Eventually, I just let him disappear around a corner so I could stop. 

(heavy breathing gets louder)

I bent over with my hands on my knees. My heart was pounding in my throat, and I was gasping, coughing, and pouring sweat. Other hikers trotted by looking totally casual, so I just pretended not to see them. They did not pretend not to see me.

(sound of heavy breathing ends)

I just didn’t understand how everyone else could move so quickly, or why they didn’t look like their hearts were trying to leap out of their chests. I stood there for a few minutes spiraling into self-loathing, but then I continued trudging along. 

(sound of slow footsteps)

I kind of hated that day. I definitely hated that trail. I hated that mountain. I hated hiking Alex, myself. 

(sound of person gasping for breath)

I dragged my feet along in the dirt, and I tried to slow my breathing down. But I was really trying not to cry like a baby. And there Alex was, standing with his arms crossed, waiting for me to catch up. When he saw the way I was shuffling along, he laughed this big goofy laugh — right in my face.

He said, “This isn’t even the hard part.” Then I hated him even more. 

(heavy breathing stops)

What seemed easy for others had always been hard to me. When I was a freshman in high school, I was the only one who couldn’t run a mile. In the fourth-grade, I told my classmates that I had asthma, because the other kids with asthma couldn’t breathe either. When I was in the first grade I never caught anyone else at tag. I would spend the whole recess chasing after the next slowest kid in class, kind of hoping they would trip and fall down, so I could just stop being “it.” 

(sound of wind blowing)

From the top of Pinnacle Mountain there’s this really beautiful view overlooking the Arkansas River. But when we got there, I didn’t even really notice it. All I could think about was my failure. 

(tense music begins)

Over the next six years, I came back to Pinnacle Mountain a dozen times or more. Some time would pass, and a friend or a new boyfriend would convince me to hike Pinnacle with them. Every time I would tell myself that it would be different. I wanted so badly for it to be different. But it was always the same. The same pounding heart, the same ragged breath, the same red face and disappointment. 

(music ends)

But then, I stumbled upon a blog about the Appalachian Trail. I read peoples’ stories about how their lives had been transformed by the trail. And I thought, ‘Hey, if 2,000 miles of hiking can fix all these strangers on the internet, it should be able to fix me.’

The AT is an immersion experience. I’d be hiking EVERY DAY for months! How could you do something like that and not get faster and stronger? So I started planning. 

(optimistic music begins)

For over a year leading up to my attempted thru-hike, it was the only thing I talked about. Every single person I met knew that I was getting ready to hike the AT. I researched and bought gear online. I practiced making backpacking recipes in my new camp stove at home. I studied the guidebook, debating the merits of different resupply towns. And I devoured blogs and online discussion boards about all things Appalachian Trail. 

I finally stepped on to the AT in March of 2015. It was seven years after that first hike on Pinnacle. 

(music continues for a few moments then ends)

I wasn’t surprised by the grueling first day. It was absolutely horrible. But that’s what I had signed up for: hard work, day after day. I knew eventually it would get easier. 

(soft music begins)

The first few weeks, I watched as fit super-hikers blew by me on the trail. I thought to myself, ‘That will be me in six months.’ I fell into my sleeping bag, exhausted and aching, but not defeated, at the end of most days. 

People commented that I would never make it to Maine at the rate I was going, but I held out hope. I’d read all about how thru-hikers got their “trail legs.” So I knew a day would come when my pack suddenly wouldn’t seem like such a burden, and my legs wouldn’t complain at the slightest uphill. 

Each week on trail, I hiked a little farther, a little longer. I learned to tolerate the pain. I learned to ignore my pounding heart. I watched as other slow hikers got their trail legs — and left me behind. 

(music fades out)

Seventy days passed, and I never got my trail legs. I pushed harder, but it never stopped being hard. My body was in a full-on revolt. In Tennessee, I got tendinitis in my Achilles so bad that I couldn’t put my heel on the ground for a week. I had a horrible UTI, that just wouldn’t go away. I was drinking so much water that it started to taste bad.  I ate like hikers who were putting down 25- and 30-mile days, but I rarely made it more than 15. I was just as sweaty and red and slow as I’d ever been. 

(subdued music begins)

After two and a half months, I broke down and quit. I had an excuse. Nobody blamed me for wanting to go home after my mom’s death. But wanting to spend time with my dad was a convenient excuse, when what I really wanted was to stop the daily torture. 

Back in Arkansas, I sat on the couch with my dad watching Grey’s Anatomy. I cried with him because my mom wasn’t there. But then I would go to my room and cry alone because I had failed. 

It all felt so unfair. Seventy days of hiking should have been enough. I should have gotten there. THERE — this magical place where I can walk uphill without feeling like I might collapse. A place where I can eat a snack and hike and breathe at the same time. I had seen a lot of people go from out of shape to there. But it just hadn’t worked for me.

(music fades out)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

If you are thinking about a thru-hike — or even if you’re just a day hiker — chances are, you’re going to have to go to the bathroom outdoors.

ANASTASIA ALLISON: Toilet paper, it can be sort of messy, and you’re carrying all these extra bags with you to put the dirty toilet paper in…

WILLOW: That’s Anastasia Allison. She’s the founder of a company called Kula Cloth. Kula Cloth is one of our sponsors. They make luxury pee cloths for women and anyone who squats when they pee.

What’s a pee cloth? Well, it’s a reusable cloth that you can use instead of toilet paper, for #1.

ANASTASIA: I get messages all the time from people who say that it changed their life.

WILLOW: For 15% off your Kula Cloth order, go to outtherepodcast.com/kula, and enter the promo code outtherepodcast15 at checkout. That’s outtherepodcast.com-slash-K-U-L-A, promo code outtherepodcast15. 

And now, back to the story.

CHRISTINE: After the AT, I convinced myself that I wasn’t trying hard enough. That hiking just hadn’t been enough. I had to find a way to push my body harder. That’s when I took up running. 

(plucky music begins)

Over the next several years, I ran and I hiked —  always slowly, always painfully, always alone. It was easier to not compare myself to other people if there were no other people around. For years, I waged a battle on my body. I resented it for holding me back, for always resisting and complaining.

But then just last year, my partner, Ryan, started running with me. He’s the type of person who just takes to physical endeavors and is naturally good at everything. So even though I’d been running for years, and he was only just starting, he had no trouble keeping up with me. 

(music fades out and sound of footsteps running along a trail begins)

One day, we were jogging along at my slow pace, and he kept checking to see if his heart rate was still in Zone 2. He’d been researching heart rate training, and was obsessed with his new running watch. So he kept speeding up and slowing down to see how precisely he could control his body. 

He would go a little faster until his heart rate crept up to 135, and then slow down just a hair so it would come back down to 130. The whole time he carried on about the science of heart rate training. He was hardly even taking a breath between sentences. And there I was, gasping and puffing along beside him, not even really listening. I barely had enough oxygen to say, “Cool”, let alone process his monologue.

Eventually he asked the inevitable:"What is your heart rate?” I’d been using a running watch for over a year by then, but never really paid attention to my heart rate. 

I looked at my watch and read out 186. He stopped in his tracks. 

(footsteps stop)

He said, “That’s way too high.” I immediately went on the defensive. I told him I just wasn’t in as good of shape as he was. He pointed out that I was the one who’d been running four days a week for months.

We stood there on the bike path in the middle of Denver, staring at each other. I couldn’t hide from him: he looked at my red cheeks, and the way I was gasping for air, like he’d never seen me before. His face was a mix of concern and confusion. But I saw Alex’s face — laughing, mocking. 

Ryan was sure something was wrong. He told me I needed to see a doctor. He said I shouldn’t be running. I shouldn’t be pushing my heart to that extreme.

There on the bike path, Ryan lovingly offered me something I wasn’t ready to accept. Something I wasn’t even ready to consider. He suggested that there might be a reason for my body’s shortcomings. That it might not be my fault. 

(quiet music begins)

I didn’t want to go to a doctor though.

What if it was something serious? What if the doctor said I couldn’t run? Or hike? I’d already invested so much time and energy and suffering. I couldn’t imagine what I would do if they said I had to quit, when I must be getting so close to THERE.

(music fades out)

It took almost a year for me to finally see a doctor. I sat on the table in one of those crinkly paper gowns, telling the nurse all about my life, and she wrote down everything I said. Then the doctor came in and took my heart rate and blood pressure. She made me lie down, sit, stand. 

Then she handed me a folded pamphlet with POTS written across the top. It’s short for Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. I read the list of symptoms. The elevated heart rate, which had started this whole thing, was right there at the top. Followed by excessive sweating, headaches, dizziness, nausea. I remembered the chronic stomachaches I’d had as a child, and how the doctors never figured out why. But the  last symptom on the list really made me laugh out loud. It said “exercise intolerance.”

(solemn music begins)

POTS is a condition that isn’t well understood, and doesn’t have a cure or really much in the way of effective treatment. It’s just something you learn to live with. Some people can live mostly normal lives with it, but more severe cases can be pretty debilitating. 

The cardiologist was surprised by my hiking and running — she hadn’t seen many POTS patients able to run long distances. 

I held it together while I was in the doctor’s office, but I cried the whole way home. I would never be the woman I had been working so hard to become. I would never escape or fix the body that was always letting me down. I would never get back the years I’d been wasting in a battle trying to get to a “there” that wasn’t even on my map.

(music fades out)

After two days of crying, I called my best friend. I needed her help to understand who I was. For so long I’d been living in this reality, that I thought I knew what was possible for my body. I’d been hiking and running in the quest to be able to call myself a rugged outdoors woman someday. But now I felt like the finish line hadn’t just moved farther away, it had completely disappeared. 

I explained all of this to her. And she asked me a question: “What if you already are a rugged outdoors woman?” 

(tentative, hopeful music begins)

She pointed out that I already do all the rugged outdoors things. I’m always pushing myself to the limit, and doing crazy stuff that most people would never do.

I really wanted to believe her, but I didn’t feel like it could be that easy. To just decide that the finish line had moved, and that I’d already accidentally crossed it without noticing. But it was kind of hard to deny her logic. For someone with POTS, I was as “there” as I was ever going to get.

(music ends)

Just this summer, I hiked more than 400 miles on the Colorado Trail. For the first time, I set out to do something hard for a different reason. I didn’t want to change my body, I wanted to try to understand it. 

(cheerful music begins)

I still pushed up against my limits, but instead of being upset that they were there, I tried my best to just experience them. I really listened to the pounding of my heart, and felt my lungs pulling oxygen in. I smiled when other hikers passed by me going uphill. I nodded along when they told me about the 30-mile days they were pulling. I don’t have to compare my miles to their miles anymore, so I took the opportunity to take my shoes off, and put my feet in the water. I finally stood in awe of the magic of the mountains. 

Now that I’m not always trying to get “there,” I can take my time and enjoy being wherever I am.

Back on the Appalachian Trail, I was sure that someday it would get easier. And it has, but not because I’ve finally put in enough miles. It’s gotten easier since I stopped carrying the weight of shame on my back. 

WILLOW: That was Christine Reed. Christine is an author and storyteller living in Denver, Colorado. You can follower her on Instagram @ruggedoutdoorswoman, and you can check out her memoir and other work at aloneinwonderland.com.

(music fades out)

As Christine mentioned in her story, there isn’t a cure for POTS. But there are ways to mitigate the symptoms.

CHRISTINE: When I got my POTS diagnosis, one of the things that they recommended to help manage symptoms was to consume a ton of salt. 

WILLOW: That’s right. Salt. 

For POTS patients, big doses of salt can be really beneficial. Enter something called SaltStick.

SaltStick is one of our sponsors. They make products to help athletes meet their electrolyte needs. And one of their products — Vitassium — is designed specifically for people with POTS and similar conditions.



CHRISTINE: I took them with me on the Colorado Trail, and I felt so much better than I’ve ever felt backpacking before.

WILLOW: Christine says she takes SaltSticks every 45 minutes or so when she’s exercising. And the relief is immediate. 

CHRISTINE: Like, I’ll start to get a cramp in my side; I’ll take a chewable; and within two minutes, I’m like totally better.

WILLOW: For 20 percent off your purchase at saltstick.com, enter the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s saltstick.com, promo code OUTTHERE (in all caps).

(soft music begins)

Coming up next time on Out There, we have a story about love, and loss.

PAUL BARACH: At every moment, Meredith was uncontrollably herself. She had this joyous belly laugh, punctuated by these bear-like snorts that would spread grins across a room. She was everything I wanted.

WILLOW: What happens when you lose someone like that? 

Tune in on April 28 for a story that takes us to a beach in Washington state and explores how we move forward when the unimaginable happens.

(music fades out)

Before you go, I want to share a little update with you. 

Last fall, when we did our listener survey, a lot of you said you’d like to hear what past guests are up to.

We thought that would be fun too. So each quarter, we’re catching up with someone who was on Out There a while back…and we’re putting together a little update about them.

These updates are available to Out There patrons who contribute $5 or more each month to the podcast.

If you’re already a patron at that level, you should have gotten an email a few weeks back about our first update on a past guest.

If you’re not yet a patron, it’s quick and easy to become one. Patrons are listeners who make monthly financial contributions to Out There, through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. Small contributions add up when a lot of people participate. In fact, this is kind of surprising, but listener gifts make up almost HALF of our operating budget. Your gifts enable this show to exist.

To become a patron, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. I have a link in the episode description as well. 

Speaking of patrons, a big thank you to Eric Biederman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. You all are the best!

(sound of wind blowing)

JESSICA: So I’m looking all around me…

WILLOW: That’s my colleague Jessica. She made this recording while she was backpacking in the Grand Canyon.

JESSICA: And I’ve opened up my PeakVisor app, and I’m taking a look at everything around me. And I can see down where Phantom Ranch is, where I’m going to be tomorrow. Then on the opposite side, I see Bright Angel Point. That’s where we’re ending in three days. And it’s such a cool thing to be able to use the augmented reality feature to be able to point out all the peaks, all the way around me.

WILLOW: Again, the app Jessica is using is called PeakVisor. They’re one of our sponsors. Their app has info on more than a million summits all over the world. 

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written by Christine Reed.  Story editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Escape

By Erin Phillips, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on March 31, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(sound of wind blowing)

WILLOW BELDEN: Alright, I am out for a bike ride, and I’m in a spot here where I can see three different mountain ranges. And I only know what one of them is. And I’m always curious what the other two are.

WILLOW: Lucky for me, there’s an app called PeakVisor that can help.

Peak Visor is one of our sponsors. Their app tells you what mountains you’re looking at, wherever you are in the world.

They also have intricate 3D maps, to help you plan out your adventures. And you can keep track of your accomplishments with their peak bagging feature. 

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

First things first — our open mic night is TONIGHT, and I would love for you to come. We’re co-hosting it with our friends at Kula Cloth, and we have an amazing lineup of performers. There will be comedy, poetry, storytelling, music…

It’s at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time / 8:30 p.m. Eastern, and it’s online, so you can join from anywhere. Grab your favorite beverage, curl up on your couch, and get ready to be dazzled. 

Oh, and it’s free to attend!

To save your spot and read about the performers, go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic. That’s outtherepodcast.com/openmic.

(theme music ends)

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding.

Today, it’s a story about escape.

For many of us, the outdoors is a refuge — a place where we can get away from the problems we’re facing. But escapism has its limits. At what point do you need to turn around and face your problems head on?

Our guest today is Paris McMillian, a live action roleplayer, or LARPer. Erin Phillips has the story.

ERIN PHILLIPS: I think we can all agree high school is hard. 

(soft music begins)

It was particularly hard for Paris McMillian.

PARIS MCMILLIAN: So I mean I had really low self esteem. Being neurodivergent, I was like getting pretty badly bullied in school…(laughs) Like for…and I didn’t realize it, but it was taking like an emotional toll.

ERIN: Paris didn’t know it at the time, but she was neurodivergent. She had undiagnosed ADHD, which changed the way her brain interacted with the world around her. It often left her feeling misunderstood and isolated.

(music slowly fades out)

PARIS: I felt like I didn’t really have, y’know, a lot of people that were like really my friend. I didn’t really…I felt really like lonely in myself, y’know unsure of myself.

ERIN: Paris spent a lot of time alone. And one day, alone in her house, she happened to catch the movie Role Models on TV. 

(epic fantasy music begins)

She watched in awe as Paul Rudd played a mentor to a kid who was obsessed with Live Action Role Playing or LARP.

PARIS: And they had LARPers in the movie, and it just looked really exciting. It was like kind of played as a joke in it, but I thought it looked cool. But I was too young and my mom was like, “Absolutely not.”

(music ends)

ERIN: But Paris didn’t forget about LARP. When she turned 17 she convinced her mom to take her to a local meeting of a medieval fantasy LARP called Amtgard. 

(lighthearted music begins)

She set about visiting local thrift stores to find the perfect costume.

PARIS: Yeah I remember getting ready for my first day. I was like thrifting way before, so I thrifted my whole first outfit. I knew it was gonna be freezing. I was so excited. I wore like a long like floor-length wool skirt and like a giant like little sweater…(laughs) It was comfy, but it wasn’t very practical for fighting. (laughs) And when I left the whole costume was pretty much like destroyed, cause I couldn’t like wash it cause it was wool and weird.

ERIN: Like a lot of newbies, Paris had done tons of preparation…and then realized things were completely different than she’d thought.

PARIS: I came with like a whole persona, and then when I got there they were like, “You don’t really need a persona; you just need like a name.” (chuckles) I had like a backstory. 

It was fun anyway. Like I definitely had a different idea of how it was gonna be than what it turned out to be. Like I brought like little props cause I was gonna be a healer, so I brought like a little healer kit that I had made with like gauze bandages, cause I said like I watched like all these LARP YouTube videos and they were like, “You need this and this and this to play a LARP healer” (laughs).

And they were like, “You don’t need that.” (laughter)

So it was fun, it was like a little…people were really helpful. They really wanted to… they really seemed like they wanted to help me get into the game.

(music fades out)

ERIN: Paris was feeling so welcome in this new fantasy world, until one well-meaning stranger said something that caught her off guard.

PARIS: It’s just a really classic someone telling me, y’know, that it’s nice that I’m out here cause people like me don’t LARP. lack people don’t do this stuff. And I was like, “Well I do.” And it’s like, “Well you’re different.”

(quiet music begins)

ERIN: The comment broke Paris’s immersion in the game. Here she was, supposedly in the Kingdom of Crystal Groves, fighting bandits and fire giants with an eclectic band of heroes, who she was already starting to feel at home with.And in walks casual racism in a baseball cap, reminding her that she was different, that she couldn’t even fit in in an imaginary world. 

PARIS: In hindsight it was like the first thing that was like, ‘Oh gosh.’ I was kind of…I remember kind of looking around expecting there to be a different reaction from people and there wasn’t. 

ERIN: The comment made her uncomfortable: it made her feel different, like she stuck out among all these white players. But at the same time, it made her feel like a token, “Black Player Number 1.” She asked herself: Do they not want me here? Or do they only want me here to say, “See, we’re diverse?”

(music ends)

After some thought though, she decided to laugh the comment off, and assume it was made with good intentions. The game was everything she wanted, and most of the players had seemed genuinely encouraging. So Paris became an official LARPer. For four years, she attended almost weekly park days and quarterly weekend campouts. But for all the friends she made, things kept popping up that she couldn’t ignore.

(somber music begins)

PARIS: There was a lot of different problems that needed — in my head — addressing. 

ERIN: Like the comment Paris had received on day one, or players who would make racist or sexist jokes when they thought no one could hear them.

PARIS: A lot of them were like game structural problems.

ERIN: The process for reporting those racist or sexist jokes was slow and difficult. And the players who made those jokes were sometimes the ones who voted on whether you could receive an award or rank.

PARIS: And the interpersonal issues and stuff…

ERIN: Debates about game issues were hashed out in Facebook groups that could get nasty.

PARIS: But all of them were highly detrimental to my personal like mental health.

(music fades out)

ERIN: Paris was convinced if she could just fix these underlying problems, she could get back to the escapism, the magic. She fought hard on the Facebook front lines, and even tried to start conversations in person at events. But the more she tried to speak out about the problems she was seeing, the more other players — even her friends — started to drift away.

PARIS: People just didn’t know what was going on because there weren’t enough players of color speaking out on their own behalf, so they were genuinely ignorant. 

I felt it more like as I was becoming more like loud and open in Amtgard about y’know my feelings and my struggles and stuff. It just became..it seemed like it became a chore to talk to me, or to hang out with me, and I felt people starting to y’know tiptoe around me. Even people who were my friends, because y’know at any point I might just like break out into a tirade. 

And to me I was just talking about my experiences y’know, but it became something that I was seen as like negative. And that manifests as y’know a lot of feelings of isolation and otherness. (chuckles)Like even attempting to bridge that gap is like causing me to be shunned, not by everyone, but it happened enough that it became exhausting.

ERIN: Every time something troubling would happen, Paris would think ‘That’s it, that’s the last straw.’ Then Sunday would come around, and she’d find herself in the car, in costume, foam swords in the trunk, on her way to another day at the park.

PARIS: I felt this loyalty. I felt this responsibility. I was like, ‘Y’know I have to stay and fix it.’ And I was kind of tanking for y’know the other, the new 17-year-old Black girl that was gonna come and maybe I could like jump in front of a bullet for her, y’know?

(piano music begins)

ERIN: Three years into LARPing, Paris needed a change of pace. She agreed to attend a new LARP with a few friends from Amtgard. It was a week-long standalone festival, kind of a Coachella for roleplaying. It was…

PARIS: Absolutely horrible. And it was the first time that I think someone said the quiet part out loud which was like, “We don’t want you here.” 

(music fades out)

ERIN: As shocking as this was, to Paris it actually felt similar to what she had experienced in Amtgard. In the end, she felt like neither of these LARPs ended up comprehensively addressing the concerns of players like her. They just went about it with different degrees of bluntness. It got her thinking that at Amtgard: 

PARIS: Oh they just aren’t saying the things that these people are willing to say, but they think them, y’know? They must, because I’m being treated the same way, like kind of like a nuisance or a loud-mouth or a rabble-rouser.

ERIN: The realization shifted Paris’s whole experience, but she still wasn’t ready to quit. Pretty much all her friends were ones she had met through LARP, and she did have some that were still supportive. 

(hushed, rhythmic music begins)

And then, at the festival, one of them came up to her and mentioned a new LARP that was forming called Dammerung. 

PARIS: I didn’t have really high hopes, honestly. I really didn’t. That first game I really did not have that high of hopes. So I was like, ‘Okay I’m gonna go and it’s gonna be a LARP,’ and I was bracing myself to deal with all the normal things that came with it.

(music ends)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first, I want to tell you about another podcast you might like. It’s called [Un] Natural Selection, and it’s about the benefits and pitfalls of humans tinkering with the environment.

Morgan Springer is the show’s cohost. She says one of her favorite episodes illustrates a pattern of hubris.

MORGAN SPRINGER: We see environmental problems, and we’re just totally convinced we can fix it, and then we mess it up. And the example of that is we brought in this foregin weevil, which is this little beetle, to beat back invasive thistles that were just wreaking havoc in farmland pastures. It didn’t work, because we had overlooked this major thing about how thistles actually grow. And now that weevil that we brought in is actually hurting a native thistle that’s really, really important to dune ecosystems, and they’re at risk of extinction.

WILLOW: It’s not all doom and gloom, though — there are also stories about how humans have HELPED the natural world.

[Un] Natural Selection is one of our sponsors. It’s a new season of Points North. Listen wherever you get your podcasts, or visit pointsnorthradio.org.

Support for Out There also comes from Powder7.

Powder7 is a full-service ski shop and online retailer based in Golden, Colorado. They have a classic ski shop vibe with the convenience, fast shipping, and great prices of a leading online retailer.

Powder7 only sells ski gear, and they do it year-round. The folks who work there are avid skiers, and they really know their stuff.

Powder7 carries one of the ski industry’s widest selections of gear. From carving skis like the Head Supershapes, to all-mountain and freeride skis like the Head Kores, they offer new and used skis from more than 30 brands.

Shop online at Powder7.com, or feel free to call or email them and chat with their team of experts. That’s Powder, the number 7, dot com.

And now, back to the story.

ERIN: So Paris is in the middle of a really uncomfortable LARP experience, when her friend tells her about a new LARP event called Dammerung. Apparently, it was talking a big game about being a safe space, and was trying to take a different approach to role-playing. They decided to give it a try.

(renaissance style music begins)

PARIS: The setting is like 10th century, like roughly like northern...like Nordic Europe. Right now it’s held on like a boy scout camp with like a castle and a pirate ship…(laughs)…and like a fort.

And…but y’know there’s a bunch of different cultures kind of from all around like flocking to this like northerner place because like the world is ending. (chuckles)And it’s like the goal is to play out the last 100 years of humanity, I guess, in this really awesome game world and story.

ERIN: A couple months later, Paris packed a bag of warm winter costumes and piled into the car with her friends. For all her trepidation, she was excited about the concept and the story of the game.

(music fades out)

When they finally arrived after hours of driving, Paris was ready to dive in. But the game organizers had other plans.

PARIS: The first — like it starts at nine — and the first few hours of the event until like midnight are just like workshops, y’know making sure that everyone knows each others’ triggers, pronouns, like everything. Like their characters intimately, so they can engage them in plots. A bunch of safety workshops too, which I was completely surprised by, because that was never a thing I had engaged in in a LARP space.

ERIN: The safety mechanics were a set of hand symbols designed to help roleplayers communicate with each other about their level of comfort, without disrupting a scene. Paris thought they were cool, but she couldn’t see herself needing them. She was playing a light, funny character. What could possibly get so real, so heavy that she’d need to stop an encounter with a thumbs down or a hand shaded over her eyes? 

(whimsical music begins)

But as Paris got into the game, her character, a nun named Hannah, took on new layers she couldn’t have predicted. At first, she played Hannah for laughs, running around chastising other players for being heathens.

PARIS: I was just kind of just taking cues from around me, y’know like building the character. Thinking in her head like what she would do.

I got to play with some…on the surface it seems like religious trauma stuff, but it was more so like personal agency like trauma. Like having that taken from you. Y’know she was very much reliant on religious dogma as a way to kind of direct her life, and kind of relied on that to the end, to her own demise. (laughs) So I was able to kind of, when that story was over, look back and realize the ironies and the connections to my own life, and kind of use that as a lesson going forward. 

(music ends)

ERIN: As the weekend unfolded, Hannah became a character who couldn’t make her own decisions. She was wholly reliant on an institution — her church — that did not have her best interests at heart. Paris realized how closely Hannah’s struggle matched her own reliance on a LARP system that did not have her best interests at heart. She’d let it rob her of her own agency.

(contemplative music begins)

In Amtgard, encountering real-world problems was frustrating. The whole point was to escape those problems, and other players got to, so why couldn’t Paris? 

But when Paris’s real-world problems showed up at Dammerung, it was all part of the plan. The system, with its safety mechanics, was designed to help her work through those problems, to find solutions or achieve growth. That kind of roleplay felt productive, even hopeful. Almost like therapy. She thought, ‘This is what everyone should be doing!’ 

So when she went back to Amtgard, she suggested they try some of Dammerung’s techniques. 

(music fades out)

PARIS: And it got a lot of pushback because it was like, “Well we can’t do any like deep RP. Y’know blah blah blah, we can’t do anything risky if it’s just gonna be…we can’t do anything like real.” 

But the safety mechanics make it so that you can do so much more exploration of character and so much more like deep cutting roleplay in a much more safe and productive manner. Because it’s just a quick flash of a symbol and then you know you can keep like digging deeper into the topic. Y’know, it enables you to have much deeper and more impactful roleplay.

ERIN: The roleplay groups at Amtgard had told her: “We can’t do anything real.” A totally valid response if your main goal is pure escapism. But that’s when Paris realized that wasn’t her main goal anymore. She had tapped into hard truths at Dammerung, ones she hadn’t seen until then. She wanted to explore those truths, and she couldn’t go back to ignoring them.

(soft, gentle music begins)

Dammerung only happens a few times a year, but Paris made it a habit to go to as many events as she could. Each time she went, she found herself confronting new pieces of herself and her life — pieces she used to try desperately to escape from, but now was facing head on.

PARIS: I have kind of been like slowly testing the bounds of like what I think like my brain is telling me I can like get away with with my own like personal advocacy. But it’s something I struggle with everyday outside of LARP — like I struggle with self advocacy and with prioritizing myself. But it’s interesting because Dammerung is kind of the place that I am the most…that I feel the most able to express those things and to like be myself and really play with those themes.

(music fades out)

ERIN: The more Paris explored themes like personal advocacy and prioritizing her needs, she started to feel the effects outside the game in surprising ways.

PARIS: LARP has really helped me be able to put on this like persona of like Work Paris, who has all her stuff together. And like yeah it helps me go through my day feeling much more competent, I guess, with all of the things that I have to do and all the things that I’m trying to juggle in my day-to-day life. Like I can put on this persona of the type of person that you know is doing everything that she’s supposed to do, and kind of knows what she’s doing y’know. And then I end up doing that after a while, that ends up being the reality of things cause I have this persona, but it really is just me.

(piano music begins)

ERIN: As she incorporated lessons from her trips to Dammerung, Paris underwent another even more elemental shift: redefining her relationship with her birth name. 

Since she started LARPing at 17, Paris had introduced herself to almost everyone — in game and out of game — as Kai, the name of her Amtgard persona. That’s because for years, she associated the name Paris with the specific brand of hyperfemininity associated with Paris Hilton and her celebrity image. 

PARIS: I was very disconnected with y’know the things that like…that her like famous persona and like me being me led me to, which I now realize was a lot of me experiencing like racism as a child because I felt very disconnected from like femininity and girlhood and like pink…(laughs)

 and like all that stuff. And that is dealing with like sexism stuff, but like also Black women are not allowed to be all these different feminine things, so it was like a double whammy.

(music ends)

ERIN: So Paris took her challenges with femininity and girlhood to Dammerung. And while LARP wasn’t solely responsible for the shift, between playing challengingly feminine characters on the weekends, and some regular old-fashioned therapy, Paris decided she was ready to reclaim her name.

PARIS: I introduce myself as Paris, and I really see myself as that, and I feel like it’s this full circle moment because I have never felt — and I’m still working on it — but I’ve never felt more like self-actualized than I do right now. And I feel very like sure of myself and like very confident in myself like bodily and y’know mentally. And I never thought I would be…I never thought I would get there. It didn’t seem like something that was in the cards for me, but it happened, and I feel like I was able at that point to really carry my name for the first time in my life.

ERIN: Paris has worked through so many of her biggest blocks through LARP, and even though she feels self-actualized, she’s excited to keep digging deeper. She recently got back from the first in-person Dammerung since COVID, and she’s excited about how her latest character is helping her tackle more subtle challenges.

(dainty piano music begins)

PARIS: Her name is Jamilla. She’s a princess. Her lands have been destroyed — she’s in like a foreign place having to marry someone she barely knows. And I don’t know, I don’t know, I got to play her and she’s just so…delicate. 

The world, like meaning the other players, react to that in a way that I’ve never gotten in any other… and I never really felt like I would get in any other, in any other environment. They…I really felt like y’know I was this like princess. 

I felt beautiful, and that’s not a thing I feel often as a Black woman. I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t feel…I’m not made to feel graceful or cared for or desired. I didn’t know I was capable of it. And being allowed to kind of explore that as concepts as a Black woman was interesting. (laughs) I’m excited to do it again. I really am.

ERIN: When she started, Paris had been seeking escapism. But as she shifted her perspective and began confronting problems head on, she found herself with less to escape from. 

(music fades out)

She thinks this approach can be particularly helpful for people who experience racism or other marginalization. You can’t always make those problems go away, but you can find an outlet to practice coping with them, thriving despite them, and safely building agency and identity.

PARIS: That can be really valuable to marginalized people. For us to be able to tell stories that don’t get told in media, and like develop our own representation from our own life experiences, to process through traumas and to bring about catharsis. 

(cheery guitar music begins)

WILLOW: That story was reported and written by Erin Phillips. Erin is an audio storyteller living in northern Virginia. She's the lead producer of The Tent, a weekly progressive politics and policy podcast from the Center for American Progress Action Fund. She also creates narrative stories for a variety of shows on religion, art, and the human experience. To hear more of her work, you can follow her on Twitter @phillips_ek.

(music ends after a few moments and Out There Favorites music begins)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is the part of the show where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

SHEEBA JOSEPH: Hi, this is Sheeba, the audience growth director here at Out There podcast. Today’s recommendations are inspired by the fact that March is women’s month. So I’ll be highlighting three podcasts, by and about women, that I hope you check out. 

The first is for science lovers who love untold stories. Check out The Lost Women of Science. They’re both a podcast and a nonprofit dedicated to sharing stories of female scientists who remain largely unknown until now, who have made groundbreaking achievements in their fields. They’re also on a mission to inspire girls and young women to embrace careers in STEM, which is really cool.

The next one is for all those true crime lovers out there — you know who you are. Believe Her is a true crime podcast that takes the genre and flips the script. On this six-part series instead of hearing a story about a woman who winds up dead, this is a story about a woman who survives, and what happens next. Trigger warning for the domestic and sexual abuse that is described, so if you’re sensitive, please proceed with caution.

My last recommendation hits on a much lighter note, and is for anyone who loves introspective, thoughtful moments — like all of you Out There listeners. I came across this creative artist and fellow podcaster last month on Apple Podcasts during Black History Month. Her show, the Morgan Harper Nichols Show, features short, bite-sized reflective clips with episode titles like “Small Animals and Welcoming Humans”, “Thorn-Covered Roses”, and “Light Support.” Pick any title that interests you, and take a breath, slow down, and I hope you enjoy.

WILLOW: Again, that was Sheeba Joseph, the audience growth director for Out There. 

I have links to all the podcasts she recommended in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(music ends)

Coming up next time on Out There, we have a story about a woman who always struggled to keep up. Whether it was hiking, or backpacking, or running, her body always seemed to let her down.

CHRISTINE REED: Every time I would tell myself that it would be different. I wanted so badly for it to be different. But it was always the same — the same pounding heart, the same ragged breath, the same red face and disappointment.

WILLOW: What do you do if you’re always fighting your body — if exercise is always, always hard? Can you still be a rugged outdoorswoman?

Tune in on April 14 for that story.

Before you go, don’t forget to register for our open mic night tonight! It’s free to attend, and I think it’s going to be a blast. Go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic to save your seat. That’s outtherepodcast.com/openmic. I really hope to see you there!

(sound of wind blowing)

WILLOW: Alright, so I’ve opened up PeakVisor. It’s thinking.

WILLOW: PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it shows you a panoramic image of what you’re seeing, with all the peaks labeled. 

WILLOW: Oh wow, ok. So I am looking all the way down into Rocky Mountain National Park. Like, I can see Long’s Peak from here. That’s pretty cool.

(wind sounds end)

Peak Visor has info on more than a million summits all over the world. Plus, they have detailed 3D maps to help you with your planning. And they have a peak bagging feature that lets you keep track of your accomplishments.

 Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music beings to play)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was reported and written by Erin Phillips. Story editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Pamper Your Brain

By Ziyi Xu , produced by Out There Podcast

Released on March 17, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: It’s that time of year when a lot of us start thinking about summer.

If you’re dreaming of the mountains, check out an app called PeakVisor. 

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains. When you’re in planning mode, their 3D maps can be super helpful. They’re so detailed you can see down to individual trees.

Once you’re out on an adventure, you can use PeakVisor to identify the mountains you’re looking at.

And they also have a peak bagging feature, so you can keep track of your accomplishments.

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

First off, I have some news. We have finalized the list of performers for our open mic night. And my goodness, they are some impressive individuals! We have storytellers, poets, a comedian…

You can read more about each of them at outtherepodcast.com/openmic. And while you’re there, go ahead and save your seat for the event.

The open mic night is March 31 at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time (that’s 8:30 p.m. Eastern). It’s online, so you can join from anywhere. And it is free to attend!

Again, to save your seat and read about the performers, go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic.

(theme music ends)

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding.

Today, we’re focusing on a challenge that a lot of us grapple with: too much time on our phones.

Living in the digital era, many of us are on our phones constantly. Sometimes for useful things, sometimes…less useful.

For Ziyi Xu, it got so bad that she couldn’t concentrate on her work. Her phone was taking over her life. It was miserable, but she couldn’t break the habit.

How do we move past this dependence on our devices? How do we get our creativity and focus back?

For Ziyi, the solution came totally unexpectedly, on a trip to Texas.

(rustic music begins)

ZIYI XU: I got my first phone in 2012. I was in the 7th grade. It was a small Samsung touch screen. Each month, my parents would give me 50 yuan, which is the equivalent of seven dollars for texting, calling, and very limited internet access. 

Nowadays, it might sound insane to spend only seven dollars on your phone per month, but at that time, in China, it was enough for me. I only used my phone for messaging friends and family and taking photos. 

Even in high school when the Internet became much more accessible, I still kept a pretty healthy relationship with my phone. I could leave my phone at home when I go grocery shopping, or go for a run. ‘No signal?’ — it didn’t bother me at all. 

(music fades out)

After high school, I left China and went to New York City for college. I wanted to pursue my dream as a filmmaker. It was my first time leaving Asia, and during that 13-hour flight, I played “Empire State of Mind” on loop the whole time. 

(jaunty music begins)

I pictured myself eating a hot dog in Times Square, biking through the Brooklyn bridge, or just jaywalk like a true New Yorker and yell, “I’m walking here.” My heart was pounding out of my chest when the customs officer stamped on my passport and let me in. 

For the first few days, I barely had any time to sleep, because there were so many places to visit and so many people to meet. It seemed like there’s always something happening right around the corner in this city. 

(music fades out)

However, after a while, the initial excitement was replaced by anxiety. Afterall, it was a new country and a new culture for me. I found it hard to follow conversations that my classmates were having. I didn’t understand their jokes. 

And I found it hard to keep up with my peers too because they’re always talking about the latest trends, the funny memes, new movies, and personal projects they just posted on social media that I had no idea was happening. 

I remember there was one time in a party when someone taped a banana on the wall, and everyone started laughing. Everyone except me. I didn’t understand what was the point of it, and they all looked at me as if I was an alien.

“How can you be an art student and not know about it?” someone asked. Then they continued laughing. I frantically googled “banana taped on the wall.”

Even after the search, I still didn’t understand the point of a banana on the wall, but at that moment I knew I didn't want to feel like an idiot anymore. I needed to know more. So I devoted all my time to absorbing information.

(energetic music begins)

Every morning while I’m sitting on the toilet, I would go through news and events that happened overnight; I’m always scrolling through other’s Instagram to see their updates. I would put on my headphones to listen to podcasts when I’m walking to school, or waiting in lines. 

It helped. Little by little, I became more involved in conversations with other American students, even including talks about politics. I could also laugh at their jokes. And through social media, I landed jobs on film sets. It looked like everything was going on the right track.

(music fades out)

However, deep down, I knew something was off. 

(soft music begins)

I noticed it was getting harder and harder to concentrate on movies, and time seemed to go slower any time I wasn’t actively reading or listening to something. Multi-tasking was no longer something I did to save time. Instead, it was something I had to do to alleviate the anxiety. 

Whenever I sit down and try to write a movie script, I couldn’t concentrate. 

I absolutely hated it. It felt like my brain was on a never-ending treadmill. 

(music ends)

But I couldn’t stop. 

I realized I had become emotionally attached to my phone. I couldn’t go anywhere without it. I couldn’t even go to sleep at night without watching random Youtube videos first. I wanted to be able to focus again and to be able to think clearly, but I didn’t know how. 

My smartphone addiction continued for my entire three and half years in college. And it got even harder to concentrate. I helped many other people with their projects, but I never managed to finish a script of my own. 

After one year of being locked down during Covid in my tiny apartment in Brooklyn, I decided to take a one-month, solo trip to a ranch in Texas near the Big Bend National Park. Part of me just wanted to get away from the city, but I was really hoping that a new environment would give me some inspiration for my script. 

(tranquil music begins)

When I first arrived on the ranch, I loved it. There was no ambulance siren, or random music blasting from my neighbor. I was the only human on that five acres of field. I sat on the porch, waving at the horses, listening to the birds singing, and feeling the breeze on my face. 

I thought, “This is the perfect place for me to concentrate and write my story.’ 

But when I took out my laptop and connected to the Wifi, everything just collapsed back to the old time. I still couldn’t type for more than two paragraphs before I clicked open Youtube and watched random videos. I would stay up till 1 a.m. just staring at Instagram posts in the dark. Whenever I tried to take a relaxing walk on the ranch, I couldn’t stand the quietness, and I felt the urge to put on my headphones.

A week into my trip, I was about to give up on writing. But then one night, something happened that changed everything. 

(sound of driving)

Two friends I made in the town took me to the observatory nearby to check out the stars. I was never into stargazing — nor did I know anything about it — but I knew the observatory is a popular place to visit, so I went along.

We weaved through the mountains, and climbed to the top. 

(sound of car door shutting amid crickets chirping)

When I first got out of the car, I couldn't see anything. It was pure darkness. I couldn’t see my feet, nor my friend who was standing right next to me. I could only hear the howling wind and crickets chirping. After a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I started to see the outline of the mountains in the distance. 

(ethereal music begins)

Then I looked up…

I wouldn’t even know where to begin to describe the sky I saw. As someone who has lived in big cities her whole life, I never knew there could be this many stars in the sky. 

For me, in the city, on a clear night, you could see a handful of stars, and that’s it. But here in the mountains, the stars were everywhere. They were not just above you, but surrounded you. No matter where you look, there's a star. 

I almost felt dizzy looking at all those stars, so I lay on the ground. With the sky filling my entire vision, I had this feeling I’ve never experienced before. I guess the closest thing to it is getting drunk or getting high. Your back is against the ground, but you feel like you’re floating. It seems like the stars are gonna fall on you, and you could touch them if you just reach out your arm. 

Time ceased to exist. Everything just froze at that moment. I felt nothing but calmness. It was pure tranquility. 

(music fades out)

It wasn’t until my friend suggested we head back did I realize we've been there for two hours. That was the first time in many years that I managed to live two hours without looking at my phone.

Having tasted the peace, I wanted to experience it more. I wondered if I could make it a habit to put my phone down, and train myself to be bulletproof to distraction. 

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

When we talk about environmentalism, we often focus on fixing the mess we’ve made. But what if we took a more forward-looking approach?

Morgan Springer is the co-host of a new podcast series called [Un] Natural Selection. It’s about the benefits and pitfalls of humans tinkering with the natural world. 

Morgan says the show focuses on so much more than just fixing problems.

MORGAN SPRINGER: You know, we can undo harm — yes, that’s one thing. We can also try to do no harm in the future. And then there’s going even further, where we can acknowledge our role as part of nature and try to really thrive together with the environment. And we hope people listen and start thinking about how to make that possible.

WILLOW: [Un] Natural Selection is a new season of Points North, and they’re one of our sponsors.

Listen wherever you get your podcasts or visit pointsnorthradio.org.

Support for Out There also comes from Powder7.

Powder7 is a full-service ski shop and online retailer based in Golden, Colorado. They have a classic ski shop vibe with the convenience, fast shipping, and great prices of a leading online retailer.

Powder7 only sells ski gear, and they do it year-round. The folks who work there are avid skiers, and they really know their stuff.  

Powder7 carries one of the ski industry’s widest selections of gear. From carving skis like the Head Supershapes, to all-mountain and freeride skis like the Head Kores, they offer new and used skis from more than 30 brands.

Shop online at Powder7.com, or feel free to call or email them and chat with their team of experts. That’s Powder, the number 7, dot com.

And now, back to the story.

ZIYI: People say it takes 21 days to develop a new habit, so the following morning I decided, for the next month, I’m going to stargaze every night; I will limit my screen usage to only work-related tasks; and I will use social media soley for replying messages. 

The first couple of days were painful. My hand would unconsciously reach out to grab my phone, and I was anxious not knowing what my friends were doing. Even when I read a book, I would constantly look at the clock to get a sense of time. 

Later I learned that too much screen time negatively affects the frontal lobe. That’s the part of your brain that’s responsible for planning, organizing, and controlling impulses. Years of screen addiction have changed my brain, and it wasn’t easy to fix. 

(peaceful music begins)

But eventually the sun went down, and the stars came out. I lay on the porch in the ranch, engulfed by the darkness and surrounded by the stars. 

(sound of deep breaths)

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

All my troubles and thoughts were slowly draining away, floating into the air, and disappearing into the universe. I could almost feel the neurons in my brain shuffling and reconnecting. 

Toward the end of my trip in Texas, one night, an inspiration hit me. I suddenly had the idea of how to finish the script I’ve been procrastinating on for months. It truly felt like one of those “Aha” moments in the movies. 

I grabbed my laptop and started typing. But this time, the words flowed like water in the stream. I felt like I could see clearer. I no longer wanted to click the notifications at the top of the screen. I just wanted to write!

I was focused. I never knew there were this many ideas lying in my head. They were probably buried under all the information I consumed, day in and day out, and never got the chance to be dug out. 

(music fades out)

But now the fog is fading, my brain could finally breathe. 

After my 21 days experiment, I returned to New York feeling like a new person. I felt like I got a new brain. And this new brain has enabled me to look at things from different perspectives, and from there creativity just kept running. I’ve never had this much motivation and ideas to work on projects.

I used to believe that it’s a waste of time to do nothing — to not absorb information — since life is so short, and there’s so much we need to know. But now I see how important it is to give my brain a break, and to let it destress on a daily basis. We all know not to over-exhaust our body; to get a massage or do some yoga when we don’t feel well. The same should go for our brains.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t entirely stop using the internet or social media. It’s not like I decided to cut my ties with the modern world and move to the jungle. I simply found a healthier way to co-exist with it. 

To start with, I have a designated time of the day to learn about the breaking news in the world. And instead of just reading the headlines, I would read the articles I found interesting. Sometimes, I’d even read a book about that topic. 

As for social media, I stopped checking everyone’s status and became invisible on the digital world. And guess what? I still have friends. And in fact, seeing them in person is a lot nicer than just having them “like” my Instagram posts.

(ambient sounds of a rooftop in Brooklyn at night)

ZIYI: It's 10:00 PM in New York City, and I'm standing on the rooftop of my apartment in Brooklyn.

ZIYI: It has become a habit for me to stargaze, and to clear my mind, every night before I go to bed. I’ll admit, it’s a bit more difficult to do it in New York City than in a ranch in Texas. But it’s still relaxing.

I have a pretty good view here. I can see the entire skyline of Manhattan and downtown Brooklyn.

Today's a little bit cloudy, but you can still see the stars pretty well. When I say stars, I mean like probably 10 stars. That's all I can see. The good news is that the moon is really big today. And, uh, it's yellowish. It's quite beautiful, I will say.

ZIYI: I have come to realize that being at peace with your thoughts should be a state of mind, unrelated by your surroundings. I might not have the perfect location to stargaze, but I can still lie on my rooftop for hours at a time. I can put down my phone. And I can listen to my own mind.

(city sounds fade out)

WILLOW: That was Ziyi Xu. Ziyi is a documentarian living in Beijing. To see more of her work, check out the link in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(music begins for Out There Favorites)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is the part of the show where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance to spread the love!

Today is my birthday, so I wanted to share a few of MY favorite things with you.

First off, I want to recommend a podcast called How to Be a Girl. It’s by a woman who’s raising a transgender daughter, and it is absolutely wonderful. It starts out where the woman has a baby, and she thinks it’s a boy…but at a really young age, I think like age two or three, the child tells her that she’s a girl. 

And at first the mom isn’t sure whether to take it seriously. I mean, how do you know something like this when you’re just a toddler? But eventually she realizes, ‘No, this is real. My child is a girl.’ And the podcast follows their life together, as her daughter grows up. It’s a serial podcast — so you start at episode one and listen in order. And my gosh, I just cannot recommend it enough.

The second thing I want to recommend is a book called Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer. It looks at the natural world through a combination of scientific knowledge and indigenous wisdom. It’s a beautiful read — it’s inquisitive, and insightful, and thought-provoking. And I guarantee it’ll give you inspiration for your own life and your relationship to nature. 

And finally, to end on a lighter note, I want to recommend Dirty Girl Gaiters. My Dirty Girls are one of my favorite pieces of gear. They’re these ankle-length gaiters that you wear over your trail runners or hiking shoes, and they keep all the rocks and dirt and other schmutz out of your shoes. 

They are a total game changer for hiking and backpacking. And they come in all sorts of bright cheerful designs, so you’re pretty much guaranteed to get compliments when you’re out on the trail. And I should say, they’re called Dirty Girls, but they are definitely not just for women.

I have links to all of these items in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There, we have a story about a woman who does Live Action Role Play.

PARIS MCMILLIAN: It helps me go through my day feeling much more competent. Like I can put on this persona of a type of person that, you know, is doing everything that she’s supposed to do, and that kind of knows what she’s doing. And then I end up doing that after a while. That ends up being the reality of things, cuz I have this persona but it really is just me.

WILLOW: Tune in on March 31 to hear that story.

Speaking of March 31 — don’t forget to sign up for our open mic night! You can save your seat and read about all our performers at outtherepodcast.com/openmic

(folksy music begins)

I’d like to give a big thank you to Annika Walters, Anne Galentine, Gary Peters, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia.

They are Out There patrons, which means they make monthly financial contributions to Out There. 

We are an independent podcast, and about half of our operating budget comes from listener gifts. So I mean it when I say we couldn’t produce this podcast without the support of listeners.

If you’re not yet a patron, consider becoming one! Your contributions go directly toward paying for the stories you hear on the show. 

To see all of the great perks we offer to patrons, and to sign up for the fun, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. And I have a link to that in the show notes as well.

Thank you SO much.

(music fades out)

OK, time for a pop quiz. How many mountains are there in the world?

Any guesses?

Turns out, there are 1,187,049 peaks that have names. And more if you count the ones that don’t have names.

If you’re anything like me, you probably like to know what mountains you’re looking at when you’re out on adventures. But that’s sometimes hard to figure out, because hiking maps usually only show you the immediate vicinity.

Lucky for us, there’s an app that can help. It’s called PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors.

When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it gives you a panoramic picture of what you’re seeing, with all the peaks labeled. They show you how high the mountains are, how far away they are, and more. 

If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written and sound designed by Ziyi Xu. Story editing by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

America's Best Idea?

By Sam Baker, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on March 3, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Sound of breeze blowing)

JESSICA TAYLOR: This is Jessica Taylor, and I’m the advertising manager at Out There Podcast, and I am actually in the middle of the Grand Canyon right now. So I’m right above the Colorado River. And I’ve opened up my PeakVisor app.

WILLOW BELDEN: PeakVisor is one of our sponsors for this season. Their app helps you figure out what you’re looking at when you’re out on adventures.

Let’s say you’re in a national park, and you see a mountain in the distance, and you want to know what it is. PeakVisor will tell you.

JESSICA: I can see down where Phantom Ranch is, where I’m going to be tomorrow. Then on the opposite side, I see Bright Angel Point. That’s where we’re ending in three days. 

WILLOW: PeakVisor also has intricate 3D maps, which are great for planning your trips. The maps are so detailed you can see down to individual trees.

If you’d like to have your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding. 

But before we get to that, I have a quick reminder. Tomorrow is the last day to become an Out There patron if you’d like to come to our virtual Happy Hour. 

The happy hour is to celebrate Out There’s seventh birthday, and it’s going to be on March 9 at 5 p.m. Pacific Time / 8 p.m. Eastern.

It’s open to all Out There patrons. If you’ve been a patron for a while, you should have already received an invitation in your email (but don’t worry if you missed it — I will send out a reminder).

If you’re not yet a patron, sign up by tomorrow, March 4th, so you can get in on the fun!

In case you’re wondering, patrons are listeners who support Out There financially. They make monthly contributions to the podcast through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon.

Whether you give $5 a month or $100 a month — it’s that support that makes this podcast possible. 

To become a patron, go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast, or just click the link in the show notes. 

Also, this season we’re bringing you a special treat at the end of each episode. It’s called Out There Favorites, and each episode, one of our team members is sharing recommendations for books, podcasts, gear, and other things we think you’ll love. Stick around after today’s story to hear this week’s installment of Out There favorites. 

(theme music ends)

National Parks are often referred to as America’s best idea. And there’s a lot to love about them. But they also have a complicated history — a history that involves displacement of indigenous people. A history of broken promises. A history of genocide.

And that history is not over. The way we preserve wild spaces today often comes at the expense of Native Americans and Alaska Natives.

I’ll admit, thinking about this always makes me…uncomfortable. I love national parks. I love that they’re pristine. I love that you can’t build condos there, and that cars can only drive in prescribed places, and that there are rules that protect the plants and animals. But I’m not ok with how these parks came to be.

So where does this leave us? Is there a way to right the wrongs of the past? Can we protect our wild spaces in a way that is also socially just? Is there a way to create a better future, one park at a time?

This episode comes to us from an environmental journalist who's struggled for a long time with the paternalism of environmental movements in the US. But she sees a way forward that offers a lot of hope. She takes us from a young national park in Germany to Denali in Alaska, and explores how we can start taking steps to right the wrongs of our past.

Sam Baker has this story. And just as a heads up, there is some adult language in this episode.

SAM BAKER: I've been bothered for a long time with how white and privileged environmental movements in the U.S. have been, historically. I especially think about this as a white, privileged person myself.

(soft music begins)

This tension is perhaps best articulated in the history of America's National Parks.

MARK DAVID SPENCE:  The creation of parks were either concurrent with, or occurred very soon after, the United States had proven victorious in a military conflict with native peoples.

SAM: That's environmental historian Mark David Spence. He's Métis, which is a group with native and European ancestry, and he's studied the national parks for over two decades.

MARK: Conflicts end with a treaty, and the treaty basically forces movement of native peoples — and I'm talking about the American West — to sort of bounded reservations.

SAM: In other words, in order to 'protect' the places that became parks, white people evicted those who lived there.

(music fades out)

Mark is the author of a book about the founding of our national parks called ​​Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of the National Parks. Published back in 1999, it was part of a historical reawakening about what had to happen to make U.S. national parks possible.

I first encountered Mark's work years ago when I was studying environmental history in college. But I first got to meet him – well, virtually anyway – when I interviewed him last year for the environmental radio show I host.

(airy music begins)

He talked about the history of U.S. national parks, and the problems with white ideas of wilderness. He said wilderness is a mythical notion — an idea of untouched land. But in fact, native peoples have been changing and shaping that land for centuries.

But one part of the interview really surprised me.

He said: “The most important word in National Parks is ‘national.’” He gave the examples of a Dutch national park featuring a Van Gogh museum, and how in China inscriptions of famous Chinese poems were displayed throughout the park. These countries were showcasing their national heritage in the landscape. Their national identity was reflected in what they chose to protect, and how they chose to share it.

(music fades out)

The things we try to erase can say just as much about us. In the U.S., we promote this idea that the wilderness is untouched. And we perpetuate this myth by erasing the history of the native peoples who lived on this land long before white people arrived.

(The Star-Spangled Banner begins to play)

It may be easy to think of national parks as being all about natural splendor. Wilderness. Wildlife. That’s if we think about it at all. A lot of us probably assume that the focus of a national park is the park.

But Mark’s words — this idea of national parks being symbols of the nation that establishes them, really stuck with me. I couldn't get it out of my mind. If national parks are 'America's Best Idea,' and there are deep, painful injustices embedded in their creation, what does that say about America?

(music fades out and the sound of footsteps on a trail begins)

I'm walking in Eifel National Park. It’s right on my doorstep on the western edge of Germany, where I live now. It's a small park, just 110 square kilometers. That's 100 times smaller than Yellowstone.

I’ve come here because the people in charge of Eifel are using the national park to help right historical wrongs. And because I’m curious if we can use some of their lessons in the U.S.

(footsteps fade out)

As someone who's from the U.S., I must admit, nothing in central Europe ever feels very 'wilderness-y' to me. You're never that far from a road, or the comforts of modern life. Oftentimes, even the campsites feel a bit contrived. I had a somewhat ridiculous argument last year with my boyfriend when we were camping in the Netherlands, about whether facilities where you could blow dry your hair are really roughing it.

But Eifel National Park is really quite lovely, with its vast forests of beech trees and rolling hills looking over deep valleys. It's also pretty new, established in 2004, as park ranger Nico Johannes tells me. It's funny to have such a young national park, when everything else in Europe feels so old.

Nico says they're still giving themselves some time to fully grow into being a national park.

NICO JOHANNES: Yeah, we have 30 years to become, you could say a 'real national park.' We are a real national park, but then the developing time is over and then nature's on its own. We have a lot of work to do, so it's interesting to see how the nature develops, and we can see it everywhere we go, because it's in constant change.

SAM: I've met Nico, along with historian Katharina Wonnemann, here at the park's headquarters – called Vogelsang, which means bird song. We have a beautiful view from high up, looking out over a dammed river and tall, forested hills.

NICO: We're looking at the core zone of the national park. Yeah, on the other side, we see parts of formerly restricted military area. There was a military camp training site here.

SAM: The facilities where we're standing on this windy, drizzly day, were a former Nazi training center.

KATHARINA WONNEMANN: These were the buildings where the people who came here in Nazi period learned something about the racist and anti-semitic ideology of the national socialism.

(parade music begins to play)

The Nazi leaders established this idea of these schooling centers, or training centers, shortly after Hitler's rise to power in 1933. And for young men, it was the vision of a great career that they were promised here.  

(music fades out)

SAM: In these stone buildings, meant to represent a powerful regime's control, future Nazi leaders and officials were educated from 1936 to1939. During the war, the buildings were used as a hospital, and later boys as young as 12 came here to be part of an elite Nazi school literally called Adolf Hitler School. 

In 1944, the grounds were abandoned. They were then used by the U.S. army, followed by the British army, and then Belgian troops, all the way up until 2005.

At that point, a difficult question was raised – what to do with this place? 

(soft piano music begins to play)

After discussions in favor and against maintaining Vogelsang, it was decided it'd be turned into a space where German and international tourists could reckon with the wrongs of the past. And so, work began to transform Vogelsang into part of the newly founded National Park, eventually housing its headquarters. It was reopened as part of an intentional effort to build a more tolerant world.

Katharina points out how they've decided to restore the property, in order to confront its Nazi past. Rather than restoring the site as it would have been during Nazi rule, architects added modern elements like bright green, geometric window frames to bring this space out of the past and into the present.

KATHARINA: What I quite like with these green parts here in the buildings is that they destroy the former view of the so-called Ordensburg Vogelsang. It doesn't look like a castle anymore, but it has these modern parts in it. 

SAM: Katharina shows me another spot, where there's a dramatic statue of a muscley man on the move with a torch in his hand. To his right is an inscription. It’s illegible now, as both he and the words have been shot many times, likely by Allied forces doing a bit of field training after the war. 

Instead of restoring the statue and its Nazi message, missing pieces have been replaced with plain white stones. And trees once chopped down to display the statue, have been allowed to grow back, obscuring it.

(sounds of walking feet as music fades out)

When we're back in the visitor's center, I ask Katharina if even with these specific renovations and a historical museum exhibit, if they were worried about neo-Nazis coming to this site.

KATHARINA: It was one of the fears, but we don't have to deal with many neo-Nazi groups or groups of the far right. It's quite calm. But there are some groups that come here that take photos. It's quite difficult to deal with, so we have to yeah, make clear that this is a place where we deal with this history in a reflective and also critical way.

SAM: Rather than ignoring history, it was decided that it needed to be talked about, to be dealt with. And that's what they do now — educating visitors and school groups about how average people at that time became Nazis, got swept up in this hateful movement.

We go into one of the barracks. It has words written in French on the walls, leftover from Belgian forces. In the center of the room is a circle of chairs, used by school groups to engage in discussion.

KATHARINA: Our main topic here at this place is to talk about the young men who came here. What did their life look like? And how did they became perpetrators during World War II? And that's questions that are not easy to answer, but we can discuss this, and also always the questions that tangle our present. What kind of mechanisms do we see in this racist and anti-Semitic ideology? And do they still work today, maybe?  

SAM: Back in the museum, Katharina shows me a black and white photograph of some of the men who walked these grounds, less than a century ago.

KATHARINA: I think it's quite interesting to look at the entrance of the exhibition, because it starts with a big photograph, a historical photograph, of these so-called Ordensjunge — the young men who came here during the 1930s. 

This photograph is quite irritating for visitors here because it's quite big, and the persons, they look calm. They look like they're having a break. And only the uniforms and the swastikas tell us that these people are Nazis, so we look them in the eyes, as you can say.

SAM: Looking these men in the eyes through the lens of history, I get a chill. Both because they were likely murderers, and also, maybe even more so, because they were ordinary people, just like us looking back at them. Katharina sees this as one of the most important parts of the site — the reflection visitors and students have — asking ourselves, what would I have done at this time? Might I have acted the same if I were educated in this way?

(quiet music begins)

Living in Germany has given me a greater appreciation for this type of reflection. By no means is this country perfect, or even free of Nazis for that matter, but it is trying to be better. And it's doing this work in one of its national parks — a space that symbolizes another German trait I've come to admire, their love of nature and the time they set aside to get out and enjoy it.

In this space that was once meant to be a beacon of Nazi ideology, the nation now grapples with its history. Amid complicated sights of severe buildings set against a beautiful landscape, they conserve the countryside and remember its history.

This site also symbolizes one other thing. Various nonprofits use the buildings here. And one of them happens to help resettle refugees. It’s even used barracks built by the Belgian army to house refugees when they first get to Germany, before getting resettled more permanently. 

And in this, I see something that I've heard Germans voice to me, something they feel they can finally be proud of — a new reputation as a more welcoming country.

(music fades out)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

MORGAN SPRINGER: I think it’s common to think of humans as apart from nature. But we are a part of nature, and there is a way that we can interact where we do less harm — maybe do no harm — and actually can thrive together with the environment.

WILLOW: That’s Morgan Springer. She’s the co-host of a new podcast series called [Un]Natural Selection.It’s about how humans have both helped, and hurt, the environment. 

MORGAN: The series is kind of a toolkit for listeners, so that we can evaluate how we operate in the environment, in the natural world, and figure out how we can really do better.

WILLOW: [Un]Natural Selection is one of our sponsors for this episode. It’s a new season of Points North. You can listen wherever you get your podcasts, or at pointsnorthradio.org.

Support for Out There also comes from Powder7.

Powder7 is a full-service ski shop and online retailer based in Golden, Colorado. They have a classic ski shop vibe with the convenience, fast shipping, and great prices of a leading online retailer.

Powder7 only sells ski gear, and they do it year-round. The folks who work there are avid skiers, and they really know their stuff.

Powder7 carries one of the ski industry’s widest selections of gear. From carving skis like the Head Supershapes, to all-mountain and freeride skis like the Head Kores, they offer new and used skis from more than 30 brands.

Shop online at Powder7.com, or feel free to call or email them and chat with their team of experts. That’s Powder, the number 7, dot com.

And now, back to the story.

SAM: Hearing how the Germans at Vogelsang were working to acknowledge their past, while also charting a new future within a National Park, I realized I knew a park like this in the US. In fact, I'd been to it when I lived in Alaska. Denali.

(whimsical music begins to play)

Now, if you're not from the U.S. or maybe even if you're not from Alaska, you likely learned in grade-school geography that the tallest mountain in North America — the centerpiece of this national park — was called Mt. McKinley.

But that wasn’t its original name. This mountain was known as Denali. It's a name that was stripped away when the park was founded in 1917.

Nearly a century later, ahead of a presidential visit to Alaska by Barack Obama, Secretary of the Interior at the time, Sally Jewel, officially reinstated the name Denali on the federal level.

The change was widely hailed by Alaskans as a positive, overdue announcement, falling in line with what the state had already done in 1980. It honored a native name for the mountain, instead of a President who'd never stepped foot in Alaska.

Having learned about the troubling history of U.S. national parks, I thought to myself, 'Yes, this is a great step towards righting the wrongs of the past, an easy win.’  

But is a name change enough?

(music fades out)

KIANA CARLSON: I'm Kiana Carlson. I was born and raised in Cantwell, Alaska. I work at Denali National Park and Preserve in the summers in the Cultural Resources Department, studying history and archaeology, and working in the museum. And I'm Ahtna Athabaskan, and grew up traditionally here in the middle of Alaska, and continue to live pretty traditionally.

SAM: Kiana grew up two miles away from Denali National Park. As a kid, she hiked and went on school field trips there.

I expected that Kiana would've welcomed changing the mountain's name back to Denali.

But she told me, it doesn’t really mean much for her family.

KIANA: There's a quote by my great, great grandmother. She was mad at people telling her to call it Denali because that's the native name. And she was like, “That's not my native name. That's not what we call it. Don't force me to call it something you think that's what we call it, even though that's not what we call it.”

SAM: There are five Alaska Native groups that use the land that now makes up Denali National Park and Preserve — Ahtna, Dena’ina or Deena eena, Tanana, Koyukon, and Upper Kuskokwim. And naturally, they all have words in their own languages for the mountain, though they all translate to “big mountain” or “the tall one.”

In Ahtna...

KIANA: Oh, gosh, it's always so hard to say… I'm going to try my best. This is not super correct, and I know my elders would laugh at me, but…

(Kiana chuckles)

They'd be proud that I'm at least trying. Dghelaay Ce'e, which literally translates to “big mountain.”

(quiet music begins)

Now the biggest thing is, is it Denali or Denali? Denali itself it's a native word, but it's an anglicized version.

SAM: As I was working on this piece, going through news stories of Denali's name change, I realized that I couldn't actually find a single Alaska Native quoted in them.  A blind spot on the part of, I assume, white journalists covering the story at the time.

Kiana made me realize that I was probably living in an environmentalist bubble at the time too, patting other liberals on the back for a largely symbolic gesture that didn't change much.

It's not that the name change was bad — there have been plenty of Alaska Natives who pushed for it. But it didn't fix the issues that still linger with the park. Issues that stem from white concepts of wilderness, which often get in the way of native peoples' connections to the land.

(music fades out)

Mark David Spence explains this tension well. He says a lot of white people see themselves as separate from nature, and their interactions with the natural world often involve conquering it.

I asked Mark what the establishment of national parks says about the history of white environmentalists in the U.S.

MARK: A lot. So when I was almost too young to remember, when I was a kid, when television signed off late at night, it basically played the Star-Spangled Banner…

(Star-Spangled Banner begins to play, with old-timey TV static)

And it was just a whole bunch…it was almost like a slideshow of national parks. This greatest idea, and this mighty nation, which is represented in the beauty, the grandeur of these sites, but also the sense of recreational struggle against nature that they provide. These are sort of, somehow or another, presumed to be strictly American traits. 

But it also comes from the European concept of the sublime, which is, when I get way up into the high country, I'm away from everything. And I'm just looking at pure divinity as originally emanated at the process of creation. 

In that, though, also comes a tremendous amount of ego. I climbed that. I hiked 20 miles in a day. There's a real sense of righteousness about outdoor recreation and particularly wilderness recreation. 

(music ends)

So this sort of white recreationalism, that's the thing that rubs me most raw, because they equate their experiences — which you know, are emotionally and physically transcendent — to indigenous peoples’ connections to the land. They go, “I've got deep connections to these places.”

SAM: In reality, Mark says, these kind of white recreational experiences are very different from indigenous connections to the land.

MARK: We're interested in a future that will last as many thousands of years forward as the past that has brought us to where we are now. Native peoples aren't interested in saving parks for visitation, they're interested in saving their world, restoring what's been lost, and then perpetuating it into the future.

(quiet music begins)

For native peoples, park boundaries aren't the important thing. It's, its homeland stories, food resources, fasting sites — which is also referred to as a vision quest,

All this might sound a little theoretical, but for Kiana and her family, the issues are very concrete.

For example, when Denali National Park was created, white people decided that hunting didn’t fit with their vision of wilderness. So hunting was banned inside the park. 

But Alaska Natives had hunted there for generations.

KIANA: All we want is to hunt and kill a moose, because we love moose meat. And it's beyond like us just being meat eaters. There's so many quotes from so many elders that like it's tied to our mental health, like it makes us happy. My brother lives in California, we send him moose meat, and I have a cousin that lives in Utah. She's vegetarian, but she comes up here, she eats moose meat, and she almost like cries because it's just, it's powerful eating food that we've eaten forever. Which is true to all cultures. There's no difference for us and moose meat and caribou meat, or sheep meat, or blueberries, or whatever it is. And we just want the rights to be able to access that.

(music fades out)

 SAM: In 1980, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act, better known as ANILCA, came into law. Among other things, it added 4 million acres to Denali, tripling its size. On the new park land, some hunting was allowed. But over the years, so many restrictions were put in place that today very few, if any, native hunters actually hunt on parkland.

KIANA: Personally, my personal opinion is that it did not do shit for protecting Alaska Native hunting and fishing rights. It basically just like didn't take any more away, but it didn't like explicitly protect either.

(contemplative music begins)

SAM: Debates around hunting on the newly added lands in Denali got heated in the 90s, especially around using four-wheelers to pack out game meat.

KIANA: I think it would be a huge win to deregulate some of the four-wheeler regulations. Even though I understand why they were trying to ban it, because four-wheelers and ATVs, side-by-sides, they can be very detrimental to the environment if we're not careful. 

What was the issue was the overregulation and the idea of like them telling us, “Hey, that's not your tradition.” You know, it's like, “No, you can't tell us what our traditions are or not.” And it's just like, not having trust in the local people that like, we know how to treat our land.

It's definitely kind of a statewide problem, or honestly, kind of a countrywide problem of, that idea of like, ‘Okay, natives should use their traditional ways.’ And it's like, but we've always been evolving too, like what are we supposed to go back to hunting with atlatls? We've moved on, like we aren't just stuck in 1930, or the 1830s, or whatever year you want us stuck in.

(music fades out)

SAM: In talking with Kiana, it's clear that white environmentalists' quest for the mythical “untouched wilderness” in our National Parks is still impinging on indigenous lives.  

Things do seem to be changing though, if slowly. After studying the national parks for over 20 years, Mark is at least cautiously optimistic.

MARK: Secretary of the Interior is an indigenous woman, Deb Holland. Chuck Sams, who is a member of the Umatilla nation, which is in northeastern Oregon, he's the director of the National Park Service. So that is a big shift.

SAM: He says it's also important for tourists to realize that native people still use national parks too, and like Kiana said earlier, how they use those lands is evolving.

But it's also a matter of shifting how white Americans think about national parks.

KIANA: I think the biggest thing, and this is kind of what I've been trying to state working at the park, whenever I talk with like the interpretation team, or tourists, or the public, is just these parks are not untouched land. 

Sure, it's not touched by like skyscrapers or oil development. But, it's just like reminding them that, one, people have been here forever, and this land has been touched forever. And those people are still here. They might not be living in the park anymore, but they're living right outside of the park. And still are involved within the park. 

(hopeful music begins)

There's always been people here. Well, not always, but you know, for a really long time.

SAM: There have been incremental moves in recent years to right some of the wrongs of the U.S. national parks — be it changing the name of a mountain, or giving some land use rights back to Alaska Natives and Native Americans. But there's still a lot of work to be done to acknowledge white environmentalists' roles in establishing national parks at the expense of native peoples.

I think Mark David Spence was right: the most important word in “National Park” is “national.”

Venturing to these two national parks in different countries, with different histories, I thought I'd find two redemption stories for how to confront problematic histories.

But now I know it's not as easy as just changing a name or the facade of a building. What I learned in looking at just these two parks — and two countries that are still grappling, and will probably always continue to deal with their flawed and painful pasts — is that what we choose to preserve says a lot about what we value, and who we strive to be.

In the U.S., we have chosen to make certain pieces of land off limits to the things Native people used to do there, and only the things white people want to do (hiking, rock climbing, conquering summits) are allowed. 

What this says about us is that we value white people's experiences on beautiful lands over indigenous people’s connections to that land. White recreation and ideas of environmentalism take priority.

If there's anything I've learned in Germany, it's that the work of addressing the darker moments of our pasts isn't done quickly. It's an ongoing process of reflection and thinking critically about the stories we tell ourselves, as well as actively, constantly doing better in our present. But maybe with a lot of effort and a willingness to listen, the U.S. can get there someday.

(music fades out)

In journalism, we often say we're writing the first draft of history. But the thing about history is, it has many drafts. And each generation will interpret and rewrite how they see what happened before, hopefully adding more nuance and including a more holistic set of voices as they do so.

National parks — like the nations and the people who create them — are unfinished. They are symbols of our ideals, and manifestations of what we value — what we want to protect, and what we want to project to the world. 

Most importantly, we have the power to change them and what they represent. As Nico told me in Eifel National Park, nature there is in constant change, and I think our national stories are too, hopefully for the better.

(folksy guitar music begins)

WILLOW: That was Sam Baker. She’s an American journalist living in Cologne, Germany, and she hosts an environmental podcast and radio show. It’s called Living Planet, and it’s a production of Deutsche Welle, Germany’s international broadcaster. If you liked Sam’s story, tune in to Out There next week for a special bonus episode, where we’ll play you one of Living Planet’s stories, and have a behind-the-scenes interview with Sam.

In the meantime, you can follow her on Twitter @srmBAKER.

(music fades out and Out There Favorites music starts)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is the part of the show where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

TIFFANY DUONG: Hi there! I’m Tiffany Duong, and I’m one of the ambassadors here on Out There. Today I’m sharing with you three of my favorite products. 

The first is Geckobrands roll-top, waterproof backpack. This is so much more than your ordinary drybag. First of all, it’s made of something that feels more like fabric than plastic. I love that. If you’re like me, and you’re always boating or diving or on the water, you don’t want all of your stuff to get wet. This is my favorite way to make sure that my clothes or my lunch, and sometimes even my laptop or journal, stay dry.

Second, I want to share with you Stream 2 Sea’s products. This line of skin and hair protection is really amazing, because it’s not only totally safe for our environment — the ocean in particular that I am in love with — but also for human bodies. Their sunscreen was their first big product, and it is the only one that I will trust and use on the water. Their leave-in conditioner is a cult classic. If you leave salt water, or even pool water, feeling like your hair is kind of dry and ratty and lacking of moisture, this product will save you, I promise. And it smells amazing! 

Last of all, I want to tell you about Silipints. These are silicon pint cups, but they also make wine glasses, shot glasses, whiskey cups, you name it. Bowls, dog bowls… 

They’re in amazing tie-dye patterns and bright colors, and there’s even glow-in-the-dark! This product is my favorite thing to drink out of. I use it when I go camping, when I am on road trips, and honestly like every day at home. I love them because you can bake in them, you can cook in them, you can…they’re dishwasher safe. They’re unbreakable because they’re silicon. And they’re just so happy to look at. 

WILLOW: Again, that was Tiffany Duong, one of Out There’s ambassadors.I have links to all the things she recommended in the show notes at outtherepodcast.com.

(music ends)

Coming soon on Out There, we’ll have a story about a young woman who was addicted to her phone. I think a lot of us can relate to that these days. It got so bad that it was getting in the way of her career — and her happiness.

But then, one starry night in Texas, something happened that changed everything.

ZIYI XU: When I first got out of the car, I couldn’t see anything. It was pure darkness. I couldn’t see my feet, nor my friend who was standing right next to me. I could only hear the howling wind and crickets chirping. Then I looked up..

WILLOW: Tune in on March 17 to hear that story.

(rustic music begins)

Before you go, two quick announcements.

First, as I mentioned at the top of the show, I’d love for you to come to our patrons-only happy hour on March 9. If you’re not yet a patron, you can become one by going to patreon.com/outtherepodcast, or you can just click the link in the show notes. Everyone who’s a patron as of tomorrow, March 4, will be invited! 

Secondly, we are co-hosting a virtual open mic night with our friends at Kula Cloth. There will be poetry, storytelling, and more!

It’s going to be on March 31 at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time. That’s 8:30 p.m. Eastern Time. 

It’s free to attend, and it’s online, so you can join from wherever you are in the world. Just grab a beverage and a snack, curl up on your couch, and prepare to be entertained and enchanted. 

To save your seat, go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic. And I have a link to that in the show notes as well.

(music fades out)

If you’re a skier, chances are you want some info about a mountain before you go there.

Maybe you want to know what the ski runs are like. Or you want to know the status of the various lifts. Or opening and closing times.

If that kind of info sounds helpful to you, check out an app called PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app helps you plan out your adventures by giving you detailed 3D maps of mountains all over the world. You can see ski runs and lifts, plus real-time info for almost all ski resorts in the U.S.

Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was reported and written by Sam Baker. Editing and sound design by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you soon.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note

Pandemic Sundays

By Angie Chatman, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on February 17, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(Sound of a gentle breeze and slight rustling)

WILLOW BELDEN: It is so beautiful here.

WILLOW: This is a recording I made last month, when I was on vacation in Colorado. 

WILLOW: I haven’t seen anyone else out on the trail today. It’s so quiet.

WILLOW: I was cross-country skiing, looking out over some of the highest mountains in the lower 48.

WILLOW: I know just to the south of here are Mount Massive and Mount Elbert, but I don’t know what these other peaks are.

WILLOW: I like knowing what I’m looking at. I think it goes along with my profound love for maps. And this is where an app called PeakVisor comes in handy.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors for this season.

When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it tells you all the mountains you’re looking at.

They also have intricate 3-D maps to help you plan out your adventures. And for the winter, they offer all sorts of info about every major ski resort in the U.S. 

Check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’re sharing a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding.

But before we get to that, I have a quick announcement.

Out There is going to be seven years old this spring. And to celebrate, we’re hosting a virtual happy hour for all of our patrons.

Patrons are listeners who support Out There financially. They make monthly contributions to the podcast through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. It’s that support that makes this podcast possible. 

So, to thank all of you, our patrons, let’s hang out over a beverage!

Happy hour will be March 9 at 5 p.m. Pacific Time / 8 p.m. Eastern.

If you’re already a patron, there’s nothing more you need to do. Just keep an eye on your inbox for an invitation.

If you’re not yet a patron, you can become one very easily. Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. As I mentioned, Patreon is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about. Like this podcast. You pick the amount you want to give, and they take care of the rest. 

Again, just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to sign up. I have a link in the episode description as well.

Make sure you sign up by March 4 so I can send you an invitation to the happy hour!

Also, this season we’re bringing you a special little treat at the end of each episode. It’s called Out There Favorites, and each episode, one of our team members is sharing recommendations for books, podcasts, gear, and other resources. 

These are not ads; they’re just a chance for us to spread the love and tell you about things we think you might like. So, stick around after today’s story to hear this week’s recommendations.

(Out There theme music ends)

We all have our own ways of finding peace. Of grounding ourselves. 

For today’s storyteller, church was her sanctuary, both literally and figuratively. So when the pandemic began, and she couldn’t go to church in person, there was a big void in her life.

On today’s episode, Angie Chatman shares the story of how she discovered a new way to find inner peace and a sense of community in a pretty unexpected way. I’ll let Angie take it from here.

(organ music begins to play)

ANGIE CHATMAN: I speak church — Protestant and Catholic. I can still recite the Nicene Creed and the Profession of Faith in their entirety, because of years of Catholic school. 

As a child, I went to my grandmother’s AME Church sometimes, and as an adult I joined my mother at her UCC church. There I listened to the Pastor’s Word instead of a homily, and I sang along with the choir, the organist, the drummer and a variety of horn players to gospel standards such as “Blessed Assurance,” “At the Cross,” and “Precious Lord.”

(music fades out)

After I got married and had children, our family moved from state to state for my husband’s career. And church became a valuable resource, as well as a place to worship. 

If I needed a recommendation for a local hairdresser or cleaners, all I had to do was check out the church’s bulletin board in the fellowship hall. Where could I find decent childcare? Someone at church would know. In fact, the best option might be in the daycare in the church’s basement. 

(soft music begins)

Church is more than good music and a space for meditation and reflection. Church is the place for me to find believers in the universal principles of morality: decency and humility. At church is where I have found peace and comfort from being with like-minded people. People who can provide shelter in this global storm of confusion and hate.

(music fades out)

Unfortunately, the Covid pandemic has made gathering in a church sanctuary challenging. I work as a freelance writer from my home office, and both my husband and I are in the over-55-plus risk category. At the height of the first wave of the virus, I didn’t even go out for groceries; my daughter did that for us. 

My friend, Tonya, who lives in Connecticut, started an online exercise group. I joined and worked out 30 minutes a day, four days a week. We did cardio and stretches, and lifted small weights. So, I was physically okay, but emotionally I was a wreck, because I missed the sense of community that comes from church. 

I missed listening to stories about folks who have been through stuff, suffered, and still come out on the other side. And I missed the ritual of peaceful contemplation that going to church offers.

That is, until my friend, Julie, asked me to walk with her one Sunday morning. 

(relaxed music begins)

She’d been following the reports from the CDC and the NIH. “As long as we’re masked,” she said, “And stay six feet apart, we’ll be fine.”

“Outdoors?” I asked. 

“Of course, outdoors,” she laughed. “What’s wrong with outdoors?”

All I knew then is that being outdoors was no longer a part of my identity. I had played outside with the kids on my block when I was growing up on the south side of Chicago. In middle and high school, I played in Lincoln Park on the school’s field hockey teams. 

However, as an adult living in majority white suburbs, I would often watch my children’s soccer games from the car, to avoid hearing the perspectives of the privileged. I enjoyed downhill skiing, but could no longer stand the cold. And I liked outdoor yoga, but I didn’t like the bugs. 

(music fades out)

Eventually, I came to the conclusion that my sense of unease is because I am a Black woman, and the outdoors isn’t safe for Black people. 

At the time, I was unable to articulate this in a logical way to Julie. Julie is a doctor. She has a deep and abiding respect for logic. So instead I gave in, got up early on a Sunday morning, and met Julie in Cambridge to go for a walk — outside.

(breeze blowing and birds singing faintly in the background)

It was a beautiful morning in early autumn. Leaves on the trees had begun to turn from green to gold and orange and red. 

Our route was along the Charles River, where crew teams were practicing, and vendors were setting up booths for the upcoming Head of the Charles Regatta boat races. It was a gorgeous day, and we walked two miles. 

(breeze and birdsong fade out)

I really enjoyed people watching, petting the dogs, cooing at the babies in their strollers. Yet, I was relieved when it was over.

(cheery music begins)

The best way to know a city is to walk it. Over the next series of Sundays Julie planned walks around Beacon Hill, past the bar shown in the sit-com Cheers. In the North End, we walked past the Paul Revere statue, and then had a cappuccino and biscotti at an outdoor cafe on Hanover Street. We watched the planes take off from Logan airport from a marsh preserve in Revere. 

Our walks became a series of adventures, each increasing my comfort level with the outdoors…until our visit to the Seaport district.

(music fades out)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

I’d like to tell you about our sponsor, Powder7.

Powder7 is a full-service ski shop and online retailer based in Golden, Colorado. They have a classic ski shop vibe with the convenience, fast shipping, and great prices of a leading online retailer.

Powder7 only sells ski gear, and they do it year-round. The folks who work there are avid skiers, and they really know their stuff.

Powder7 carries one of the ski industry’s widest selections of gear. From carving skis like the Head Supershapes, to all-mountain and freeride skis like the Head Kores, they offer new and used skis from more than 30 brands.

Shop online at Powder7.com, or feel free to call or email them and chat with their team of experts. Again that website is powder, the number seven, dot com.

And now, back to the story.

(modish music begins)

ANGIE:The Seaport used to be a series of wharfs, with a couple of seafood restaurants dotted among them. Now, it’s the headquarters of Vertex Pharmaceuticals. Boston’s World Trade Convention Center is also there. And both have attracted a wide variety of restaurants, hotels, and high-priced condos. And all of these have brought lots and lots of white people to the area.

(music fades out)

Boston is still a segregated city. In 2017, the Spotlight team of the Boston Globe, the same group that reported on years of clergy sex abuse in the Catholic Church, reported on the racial disparities in the city. The most striking of these is that on average, the wealth of white households in Boston is over $250,000; the average wealth of Black households: eight dollars. Eight. This difference is directly connected to housing segregation.

(quiet music begins)

Julie and I start early on our walks, before many people are up and about. Still, in the neighborhoods we’d walked prior to the Seaport, there were indications of diversity along the route — a bodega, a nail salon, a barbershop with pictures of fade cuts in the window, a Dunkin’ Donuts. In the Seaport, I saw none of these.

But during our walk that day, something happened that changed the way I saw our outings. And it changed the way I go about meeting my emotional needs.

(music fades out)

It started when we happened upon what appeared to be the hull of an old ship. 

(sound of gulls and cars driving by)

It was in an area behind chain link fencing, and clearly posted signs that said NO TRESSPASSING. 

Julie suggested we get a closer look. On our previous walks, I’d followed Julie without hesitation. But this time, I faltered. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“We’d be trespassing,” I said.

She stopped and said, “So?”

“I could get arrested,” I said.

“You mean ‘we’ could be arrested,” she said.

“Girlfriend, please,” I said. “They wouldn’t dare arrest you. You’re white, and this is a white neighborhood.”

Julie looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

(somber music begins)

Of course I believe that. I’m not free to roam outdoors. As an African American woman, in an all-white, upscale neighborhood, I am conspicuous. At any time, day or night, I could be stopped by the police. And depending on what they’d had for breakfast that morning, the conversation could quickly escalate into a series of dangerous outcomes…dangerous, for me.

The risk of this happening is particularly high in an all-white neighborhood. In those areas, I am especially afraid of being outdoors. And I explained this to Julie.

“I get it,” she said. “It’s like when I’d have to walk home alone in the middle of the night. Nothing ever happened, but it could have.”

That’s true, I thought. As a white female, Julie is at risk too, but the level of risk is lower, and different. If anything ever happened to Julie, there would have be an immediate media response filled with empathetic outrage; her incident, whatever it was, would likely have gone viral. If something happened to me, my role in the encounter would be scrutinized, IF it was reported at all. 

(music ends, and sound of waves, traffic, and gulls returns)

“Listen,” she continued. “I promise I won’t let them hurt you.” Julie has financial means, and knows nearly everyone in Boston. 

“Pinky swear?” I asked.

“Pinky swear,” Julie said.

(sound of footsteps on a trail)

So, we slipped through a space in the chain link fence, picked our way on the soggy, narrow trail, and leaped — yes, two middle-aged ladies leaped — across a gap where the water had broken through. Up close we saw it wasn’t the hull of a ship, but an enormous, rusted piece of equipment. 

(seaport sounds fade out)

While we were out there, I didn’t stop worrying. But it turned out ok. We returned to our cars without getting into any trouble — both of us. I hugged Julie goodbye. I hugged her because I was relieved. And I hugged her because she had acknowledged my lived experience. 

(quiet piano music begins)

We’d been friends before this, but now I felt a deep — I’d call it a spiritual — connection. She saw me. She saw me, and she understood.

This was a profound moment for me. The experience at the Seaport did a lot more than deepening my friendship with Julie; it helped me fill a void. 

Since the pandemic started, I had been missing spiritual connection with other people. I used to think that the only place to find those things was at church. But now, I realized that there are many ways to commune with others. 

For now, Julie was my community. And the streets of Boston were our church. 

(music fades out)

I still hesitate to venture outdoors, especially alone. It’s not safe. Given what happened to Brionna Taylor and numerous others, it’s not safe for me in my house, either. Black lives matter, only in tightly constrained, white approved, spaces. For Black people there is always, always, the risk of hurt, harm, or danger, whether inside or out.

However, there is also joy outdoors — profound joy. And I had been missing out on that outdoor joy. I’ve decided I’m not doing that anymore. 

It was after that jaunt through the Seaport when I began to take the lead in planning our Sunday walks. Not because I felt safe, but because I was no longer going to waste my time and energy worrying about being safe. Or as the church folks say, I’ve decided to “Let go and Let God.” 

(jubilant music begins)

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that on our walks, I recommend routes which end near a bakery. There, Julie and I buy a form of bread and a beverage. Sometimes it’s a bottle of grape juice. It’s like communion, without communion. 

(music continues as waves crash and birds begin to sing )

We sit, cool down, eat, drink, and listen to birdsong, and the ocean’s waves. And we revel in the blessings of another day on earth, alive, in decent health, and in our right minds. 

I also feel an immense sense of peace, the kind that passes all understanding.

Can I get an “Amen?”

Amen.

(music continues)

WILLOW: That was Angie Chatman. She’s a writer and storyteller based in Boston. She’s been on The Moth Radio Hour, and she’s won an award for a story she did on World Channel’s “Stories from the Stage.” I have links to those in the show notes, and you can find more of Angie’s work at angiecwriter.com.

(music fades out and soft music begins)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is a new segment we’re bringing you this season, where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads — we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

CARA SCHAEFER: My name is Cara Schaefer. And I’m the print content coordinator at Out There Podcast. 

So with it being winter, and way too cold for me to be outside as much as I’d like to be, I’ve been doing a lot more reading, and listening, to things lately. And here are a few of my favorites.

So, one book I’ve enjoyed recently is All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis. And the title might seem a little bit intimidating, but it’s really worth the read. The book is a collection of essays by women living through, and finding ways to navigate the climate crisis, and all the complex emotions, and other kind of interweaving issues that go along with that. And reading it just might leave you feeling a bit more hopeful about our planet’s future.

Another thing I’d highly recommend is the podcast Ologies. Host Alie Ward is the best sort of nerd. I would love to be her best friend. Like if anyone knows her, please introduce me. And who wouldn’t want to hear about everything from like crow funerals, to space archaeology, to apple cider. You’ll feel both smarter, and highly entertained, in no time. 

And a last thing I’ve been loving lately is the soundtrack of the movie Encanto. Your roommate will ask you what you’re humming. A random guy at the laundromat will compliment your singing voice, and ask why you’re not wearing socks. It’s a long story — they were in the laundry okay. The songs…basically the songs will get stuck in your head, and live there rent-free forever. 

So, yeah, hope you enjoy, and have a good winter. 

WILLOW: Again, that was Cara Schaefer. She is the print content coordinator for Out There. 

And speaking of print content, Cara does a series for our blog called the Tuesday Spotlight, where she interviews people who are engaging with the outdoors in thought-provoking ways. For example, in the last Tuesday Spotlight, she spoke with a woman who is an avid birder and also a wheelchair user. They talked about accessible outdoor recreation, funny bird encounters, and discovering that you are a bird nerd. 

You can read that interview, and all the other Tuesday Spotlight profiles, on our blog at outtherepodcast.com

I have a link to that in the show notes as well. And I also have links to the things Cara recommended for the Out There Favorites.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There…

National parks are often referred to as America’s best idea. And there’s a lot to love about them. But they also have a complicated history — a history that involves displacement of indigenous people. A history of broken promises. A history of genocide.

KIANA CARLSON: These parks are not untouched land. Sure it’s not touched by like skyscrapers or oil development, but people have been here forever, and this land has been touched forever.

WILLOW: Is there a way to right the wrongs of the past? Can we protect our wild spaces in a way that’s also socially just? Is there a way to create a better future, one park at a time?

Tune in on March 3 to hear that story.

(folksy music begins to play)

Before you go, I have an announcement to make.

We are going to be co-hosting an open mic night, and I would love for you to come!

It’s going to be on March 31st at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time. That’s 8:30 p.m. Eastern. We’ll be co-hosting it with our friends at Kula Cloth, and I think it’s going to be loads of fun. 

To register, go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic. The event is free, and it’s online, so you can join from wherever you are in the world. 

I’d like to give a big thank you to Amber Warner, Charles Manna, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia.

They are Out There patrons, which means they make monthly financial contributions to Out There. 

Out There is an independent podcast, and about half of our operating budget comes from listener gifts. So I mean it when I say we couldn’t produce this podcast without listeners like them.

If you’re not yet a patron, consider becoming one! Your contributions go directly toward paying for the stories you hear on this show. 

Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to sign up. That’s P-A-T-R-E-O-N-dot-com-slash-OutTherePodcast.

And as an added perk, if you become a patron by March 4 — or if you’re already a patron — I’ll invite you to our patrons-only happy hour in honor of Out There’s birthday.

Thank you SO much.

(music fades out)

If you are a skier, chances are you want some info about a mountain before you go there.

Maybe you want to know what the ski runs are like. Or you want to know the status of the various lifts. Or opening and closing times.

If that kind of info sounds helpful to you, check out an app called PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors. Their app helps you plan out adventures by giving you detailed 3D maps of mountains all over the world. You can see ski runs and lifts, plus real-time info for almost all ski resorts in the U.S.

Check out PeakVisor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written by Angie Chatman and edited by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Indoor Kid

By Sarah Dealy, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on February 3, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

(sound of wind and rustling )

WILLOW: It is so beautiful here. I’m out on the Mineral Belt Trail in Leadville. And there’s just a whole range of gorgeous, snow-capped mountains in the background, and I’m curious what they are.

(ambient sound faces out)

WILLOW: We’ve all had moments like this — looking out over beautiful vistas — and wondering what exactly we’re seeing.

That’s where an app called Peak Visor comes in handy. Peak Visor is one of our sponsors for this season.

When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it tells you all the mountains you’re looking at.

They also have intricate 3-D maps to help you plan out your adventures. And for the wintertime, they offer real-time info for every major ski resort in the U.S.

Check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

First things first: I have an announcement. We are co-hosting an open mic night, and I would love for you to come!

It’s going to be on March 31st at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time. That’s 8:30 p.m. Eastern. And we’ll be co-hosting it with our friends at Kula Cloth. 

If you’re interested in PERFORMING at the open mic night, we would love to hear from you! The deadline to sign up to perform is TOMORROW - February 4. Just go to outtherepodcast.com/openmic. That’s outtherepodcast.com/openmic. And again, the deadline to sign up if you want to perform is February 4.

If you want to attend — but not perform — that’s great too! We’ll have a registration form ready soon.

Also, this season we’re going to be bringing you a special treat at the end of each episode. It’s a new segment called Out There Favorites, and on it, our team members are going to be sharing recommendations for books, podcasts, gear, and other resources. 

These are not ads; they’re just a chance for us to spread the love and tell you about things we think more people should know about. So stick around after today’s story to hear the first installment of Out There Favorites.

(theme music ends)

This season, we’re exploring the theme “Things I Thought I Knew.” Each episode we’ll share a story about an outdoor experience that changed someone’s understanding. In some cases, the storytellers gain new understanding about themselves; in some cases, our guests learn how to rise to the challenges in their lives; and sometimes they learn important lessons about humanity.

On today’s episode, we have a story about the dreams we dream for ourselves, and how those dreams fit in with who we are.

If you’ve had a transformative experience in nature, you probably know that it can be tempting to come home wanting to make big changes in your life. We often leave the backcountry with this idea that we’re going to remake ourselves. Redesign our existence.

But it’s not always that simple.

Often, the reality is a lot messier and a lot less glamorous than we’d like to believe.

On this episode, Sarah Dealy takes us from the desert in Utah to the mountains of Colorado, and explores what happens when the person you think you want to be doesn’t quite mesh with the person you are. 

And just to let you know, this episode discusses depression and suicidal thoughts, and also includes some adult language. 

(sound of wind blowing, birds squawking, and heavy breathing)

SARAH DEALY: HELLO…that’s so a bear doesn’t get me. Alright. Okay, this is a lot scarier than I thought it would be. Holy shit, okay.

(soft music begins to play)

SARAH: I’ve always been an indoor kid. I never scraped my knees climbing trees, never got a rope burn on a tire swing. I never came home to my mother, covered in dirt, needing to be hosed off before I was allowed in. 

I grew up in Colorado, and while other kids spent their summers jumping into rivers, I spent mine in the cool basement of my childhood home, eating kettle corn, watching movies, and reading exactly 34 volumes of Magic Tree House books. 

I was never athletic, always a bit chubby, with no hand-eye coordination. Once I had to write an apology note to my phys-ed teacher because instead of trying to hit the softball that was pitched to me, I screamed and ran away every time. 

Despite the forced note, I wasn’t remorseful. I was confident in my choice to stay inside. I liked air conditioning. I liked reading. I liked reading in the air conditioning.

I spent high school and middle school happily inside at an art school where there weren’t even sports teams, so I was fine. 

(music fades out)

But when I started college, something shifted, and I became incredibly depressed. 

Every day I would wake up, very unhappy about being awake, and my whole motivation would be to make sure I could lie down. The only thing that made me feel not actively suicidal was lying down. 

After a few years of this, I dropped out and went home.

(somber music begins)

The indoors had warped. It was no longer a place of comfort and peaceful solitude. Now being inside was a symbol of my depression. It was all crumpled sheets littered with crumbs, blinds closed to keep out the afternoon sun, a window AC unit that wasn’t cooling the room well enough. 

I had nowhere I felt safe. 

After a while of being home, it was pretty clear that I needed serious help, and a therapist I was seeing recommended I go to residential treatment. 

(music fades out)

I was given three options:

One: farming therapy, a place where you literally worked through your depression on a farm. I guess the seeds were a metaphor, and eventually you would grow into a beautiful, functioning, happy stalk of corn. 

Two: residential therapy, which is similar to rehab, but it’s just for depressed people. You sit in group therapy for hours a day inside a hospital-like building.

Or three: wilderness therapy, where you hiked off your depression, carrying everything on your back, and sleeping on the ground until you weren’t sad anymore.

I chose wilderness therapy because it sounded like something my indoor-kid self would   never choose to do. I felt like my indoor mentality had brought me to this place, and I hated myself for that. So, I went into the woods as an attempt to exorcise myself from the inside demon that had rotted my life. 

(soft music begins)

I remember talking to an admin lady for the program on speakerphone before I left. My mom asked how long I would have to stay. 

 “An average stay is five to twelve weeks,” she said. 

“You’ll probably stay for five weeks,” my mom said. “I think you’re just five weeks fucked up.”

 And so, “five weeks fucked up” became our motto. We said it to each other in the car on the way to the airport, and on the last call I could make before I had to turn off my phone. 

I was five weeks fucked up. I wouldn’t be staying for months like the kids who really needed it. I’d be turned around in no time. 

In reality though, I ended up staying for twelve weeks, a decision I didn’t really have a lot of choice in. 

(music fades out)

I was 20 when I went to wilderness therapy, so I couldn’t be forced to go. If you’re under 18, it is legal for your parents to hire people to blindfold you, stick you in the back of a van, and drive you to wilderness therapy. 

But for me, it was a choice I made myself. I felt empowered that I got to choose to do this really hard thing. I figured I was in the driver’s seat of my own recovery, and I wouldn’t have to do anything too uncomfortable. This ended up being far from the truth. 

(meditative music begins)

When I got off the plane in Utah, I was greeted by two late-20-somethings, a man and a woman. They looked like the kind of people who ran the climbing wall at REI. Already, I felt nervous. 

Where I grew up in Denver, the REI has a giant climbing wall. I’d spent a lot of time in my youth in this store, mostly drinking frappuccinos in the Starbucks attached to it, but also looking at the climbing wall longingly, knowing that my shrimpy little arms could never get me up it. 

And suddenly there I was, in the tiny airport in St. George, Utah being guided by two muscley, tan, Patagonia-wearing people who could probably climb that wall in a minute flat with a bad flu. I felt like that little girl again.

(music ends)

But they were nice, and they drove me to get lunch, and then took me to their headquarters, which was tucked away in a strip mall and filled with brand new outdoor gear and clothes. 

When we entered the small building, the tone changed. We were the only ones in there. The man excused himself to the bathroom, and the woman took me behind a shelf and told me to take off all my clothes and squat. I hated the moment where she had to look at my non-athletic, plushy body, scanning me for hidden drugs. I exhaled. Then she handed me brand new clothes: tan cargo pants and a bright orange t-shirt. 

(sound of key turning in the ignition and car driving along a road)

We got in the car and drove to the edge of town, where they blindfolded me with a bright yellow bandana. “Sorry”, they said, tying the knot around the back of my head. “This is just what we have to do.” 

We drove for what felt like hours through bumpy, dusty dirt roads, until they parked and walked me, holding both of my hands, through an uneven patch of desert. 

(sound of footsteps on dry earth and voices in the distance)

I realized I was walking towards voices. The voices seemed to be making dinner. One voice noticed me. Another voice — deeper — told the first voice to stop noticing me and keep making dinner. 

“Here it is,” the REI climbing wall woman said as she took off my blindfold. 

(footsteps stop)

Standing in front of me were two more REI climbing-wall-type people. They were smiling. They were trying to be comforting. They said hello. 

Immediately, they told me a few things. The voices in the near-distance belonged to my peers. They were the group that I would be spending the foreseeable future with. 

The staff members told me I was not allowed to speak to my peers, and my peers were not allowed to speak to me, until I sat on a hill and wrote out my life story. They were not joking. I had to silently sit on a hill and write my entire life story. When I was done, I would read it to the group, and that’s how they would meet me. 

Also, when I had to go to the bathroom, I had to call my name every three to five  seconds so that staff members would know that I wasn’t running away. 

I had to pee. The woman reminded me to call my name. As I stepped away from them, I began saying my name.

SARAH (echoey, layered under narration): Sarah.

SARAH: Quietly at first.

SARAH (echoey, layered under narration): Sarah.

SARAH: Then in a regular speaking voice. 

SARAH (echoey, layered under narration): Sarah…

SARAH: Then I was screaming, uncertainly, my voice shaking. 

SARAH (echoey, layered under narration): Sarah…

SARAH: This, I realized, is how my new peers would learn my name. This was truly my introduction.

SARAH (echoey, layered under narration): SARAH…

(whimsical music begins)

SARAH: Wilderness therapy is similar to any type of treatment in that there are a lot of strange rules like:

One: we cannot know what time it is. If we know what time it is, we won’t be able to be fully present. This is closely related to…

Two: we cannot know what we are doing next. This, they believe, will truly make us present and focused on our therapy. 

At first, I hated it. On my second week, a staff member said I wasn’t allowed to eat hot food unless I used a bow, drill, and rock to “bust” a fire, an arbitrary and ineffective way to create a flame that is supposed to “build character.” I didn’t bust a fire. I ate cold beans. For some reason, I was also forbidden hot sauce. 

(music fades out)

One day, I was pretty fed up, and I walked out of camp. Because of this, I was put on “safety.” Safety meant I had even less freedom. Safety meant that I had to sleep next to staff, rolled up in a tarp, so that they could hear me crunching the tarp if I moved in the middle of the night. 

Safety meant I had to pull up the sleeves of my shirt to show staff I hadn’t taken a rock, or particularly pointy stick, to my arms. It also meant that I needed to be escorted to the bathroom by two staff. The bathroom was a large hole in the ground.

Eventually, I got off safety. And surprisingly, I started to enjoy hiking.

And not totally hating hiking led me to stop totally hating the rest of it.

My positive shift in feelings might have to do with the indoctrination that can come from programs such as these. There is truly a touch of brainwashing in all therapeutic programs — I’ve been to a few since. 

It’s kind of a part of it; you just have to buy into the program’s philosophy — believe it’s going to make your life better — in order to get something out of the experience. 

In this case, I bought into the idea that waking up every day and packing my tarp and sleeping bag within the count of 10 was vitally important to my recovery. 

I bought into that when I ate breakfast, I needed to eat every bite of oatmeal, and then when it came time to clean my cup, instead of squirting a bit of water in there and sloshing it around like the staff members did, it was essential that I, and the other members of our group, fill our cups with dirt and use that as a scrubbing sponge. I don’t remember the logic behind this one, but at the time, I knew the dirt scrubbing was building character. 

I happily called my name while I peed, while I pooped in a hole, and while I washed myself with a tiny bucket of water. 

I also bought into a lot of therapeutic stuff that I honestly can’t remember. But buying into the wilderness stuff caused me to look around at the environment, and I started to have a lot of really meaningful outdoor moments. 

(relaxed music begins to play)

I went on a “solo,” where basically for 48 hours I just hung out far enough from camp so I couldn’t see anyone, but close enough that if I screamed, staff could come help. I loved being alone. I loved listening to the wind, and dancing around my little campsite. 

I earned the opportunity to lead a hike, and at the same time we reached the peak of a hill, a group of wild horses ran through the valley below. The sun broke through the clouds to illuminate them. I was very affected by this. 

And eventually, I did become amazing at busting fires, and I ended up teaching everyone in my group my techniques. 

(music ends)

And all while this was happening, I started to create a new version of myself: the Outdoor Kid, a tan mountain climber with ripped calves and a well-trained dog. I could see her so clearly. She was about 70 pounds thinner than me. She was someone who had her life together, and that life was wild — someone who thru-hiked every summer and thought car camping was luxurious. She didn’t need AC because she wasn’t really inside a lot. She was beautiful. 

(rambling music begins)

After wilderness therapy, I tried to be that person. I moved to Boulder. I tried rock climbing. I bought a tent. I attempted to off-leash train my dog, but he ran into the woods to chase a fox immediately. He’s fine. He’s right next to me. But he would definitely get us both killed if I brought him into the wilderness.  

Soon, I started to turn into an indoor kid again. I moved back to a big city. Rewatched Gilmore Girls a lot. Closed my blinds. I couldn’t be an outdoor kid. I hate rock climbing. And I love taking long baths. And AC. Eventually, I gave up on my outdoor self altogether. 

(music continues for a moment and then fades out)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first…

If you enjoy skiing, I’d like to tell you about our sponsor, Powder7.

Powder7 is a full-service ski shop and online retailer based in Golden, Colorado. They have a classic ski shop vibe with the convenience, fast shipping, and great prices of a leading online retailer.

Powder7 only sells ski gear, and they do it year-round. The folks who work there are avid skiers, and they really know their stuff.

Powder7 carries one of the ski industry’s widest selections of gear. From carving skis like the Head Supershapes, to all-mountain and freeride skis like the Head Kores, they offer new and used skis from more than 30 brands.

Shop online at Powder7.com, or feel free to call or email them and chat with their team of experts. That’s Powder, the number seven, dot com.

And now, back to the story.

(sound of gear being moved around)

SARAH: Okay, I have my trekking poles.

(sound of zipping)

SARAH’S GIRLFRIEND: I think you need to get new trekking poles.

SARAH: I don’t think so. 

SARAH’S GIRLFRIEND: But one of them’s bent.

SARAH: It’s bent but it works. It’s bent, it’s not broken.

(Sarah laughs)

SARAH: Bent but not broken.

SARAH: That’s me talking to my girlfriend. It’s been eight years since wilderness therapy. 

SARAH’S GIRLFRIEND: Do you have your bear bag?

SARAH: I have my bear bag, yeah. It’s at the bottom. 

(sound of thumping)

SARAH: Cuz it’s heavy.

SARAH: We’re sitting in our bedroom double-checking that I have everything I need in my backpack that I’ve been obsessively packing for the past month. A lot has happened in the last eight years. 

My depression came back. I went in and out of treatment centers (all indoor). I got on medication. I got great therapists, and I really worked on my mental health in a way that I couldn’t fully in wilderness therapy. I got into a healthy relationship, I got a job I liked, I met great friends. I ended up getting to a really good place that depressed me couldn’t even have imagined. But I still wasn’t the Outdoor Kid. I was still me: fat, someone who is actually very gay, and accepted that. 

But even with all that acceptance and love, there was one thing that still gnawed at me.

I wanted to be outdoors more. I knew I was never going to be that rugged outdoors person I imagined, and I didn’t want to be, but when I completely gave up on this idealized version of myself, I also gave up on being outside. And I ended up taking something out of my life that would probably improve the quality of it. 

Also, I had set a goal for myself in wilderness therapy. I wanted to go backpacking alone. And even though I have forgotten about more goals than I’ve achieved in the course of my life, for some reason, I couldn’t forget about this one. I never did. And so a few months ago, I decided it was time. I was gonna hike a section of the Colorado Trail, over a weekend, all by myself. 

(ambient sound of a large store)

SARAH: I'm at REI, and I'm not sure if I can fit into all the sleeping bags here. And they're all sort of like hanging by a rock. So I keep like unzipping them and then putting my head in them backwards. 

SARAH: I have spent hours and hours in REI in the past few weeks, including an entire hour dedicated to trying to find a woman’s pack that fit me, until eventually the sales associate had to rent me a pack with an attached waist-strap extender. He also got my information to call me when the plus-size line of Deva packs comes out. However, the message that I’ve gotten loud and clear is that my body isn’t supposed to be doing this activity. 

And my worries didn’t end there. The night before my trip, I was spinning with anxiety.

SARAH: And I also just remembered that mountain lions exist, and honestly, that's fucking scary. And I have a cat, and I would be so much scared, I would be so scared if he was bigger. 

(Sarah switches to a creepy voice)

You would kill us all.

(Sarah’s normal voice resumes)

SARAH: But I don’t let the fear of a larger version of my cat cancel my trip. I get up, and I put on my hunter’s orange, Carhartt, men’s workwear t-shirt. And I get in the car with my friend and my girlfriend. And suddenly we’re at the trailhead. 

SARAH and FRIENDS: I love you so much. I’m so excited. Love you. You fucking got this. You rock. Bye.

SARAH: And then I’m alone. 

(sound of breathing)

SARAH: Okay. Part of me wants to turn around and be like, “Wait, don't go.” But part of me is excited.

SARAH: I’m going uphill. And I don’t think I’ve been alone with my thoughts for two years, and suddenly I can only hear my breath and the dirt beneath my feet.

The air is crisp and fresh in a way it can only be in late September. The trail is shrouded in Aspens all in the process of changing from green to yellow to red. Within my first few minutes on the trail, I can see a deer chewing some grass. I’m feeling excited, peaceful, and I start to philosophize… 

SARAH: Okay. I guess why I'm doing this is because I think I like it, and that's a good reason to do something. Because you like it. Right?

(sound of footsteps)

SARAH: I’m walking! I am walking! 

I just saw a girl walking her horse, and I'm kind of jealous because I want to have a friend.

(breathing in and out)

But, like, I'm not out of shape. I'm just in a shape that I'm in, and that shape is this shape. And I'm going to go as far as I feel like I can in that shape.

SARAH: And then things take a turn. 

SARAH: I’m feeling…I am in pain. I already kind of pulled a muscle. 

Panic, here's a slight panic. Like why do I like this? I don't totally remember. Ow, fuck. My body really hurts.

Cool cool cool. Sick sick sick. Love this. This is so fun. Who wouldn’t wanna do this for fun?

SARAH: At this point, I have pulled a muscle in my groin and every time I take a step, a shooting pain surges across my body. I’m less than halfway to the place I was going to camp, and I’m feeling really defeated. I’m wondering if I can even get there, let alone complete the whole trip I planned. 

I stop and take my pack off and immediately fall onto a rock and skin my knee. I feel like my body is failing me, and there’s no good moral to this story. Nothing positive will come from this. Just the confirmation that the people who decided not to make the backpacks that fit me were right.

(sound of Sarah sniffling)

SARAH: It just feels like, yeah, like I just…I don’t know. Like I pulled a muscle in a fucking mile and a half, and I can’t walk now, and now what the fuck am I gonna do? I can like barely move. 

SARAH: But the thing about backpacking, the thing I really liked about it before, is that you can’t just bail. Well, not without getting airlifted. I can only go forward or back. So I decide to go forward. 

SARAH: Okay. Step, step. Okay so my muscle is not feeling great, but the flatness is making it feel better as I walk.

(Sarah sings next part)

Step. Stepping the muscle. I’ve gotta step. I’ll step it out. Then I can step…

SARAH: I keep stepping. And eventually, I get farther than the place I was going to camp. My pulled muscle starts to feel better because I remember that I have packed Advil. And I finally find a place to sleep, and start setting up camp and making dinner, and I suddenly realize there are all these things that I never got to do. And now I can do whatever I want. 

SARAH: I've never stayed alone in my own tent. I’m realizing. Yeah, I've never actually had my own tent. 

(sound of moving around a tent)

I had this idea that maybe I would, I don't know, like bring my like busting stuff and like bust a fire here, which is funny because I'm not going to do that. Why would I do that? I didn't, I don't want to. 

SARAH: I don’t end up busting a fire, because I don’t want to. Because I don’t see the benefit. 

That sentiment – the “I don’t have to do things that I don’t think will benefit me” — that becomes my motto, and my energy for the rest of the trip. 

There’s nobody telling me what to do. No one making weird rules. No therapeutic games or rituals. The only thing that I have to buy into is myself. The only thing I have to focus on is my enjoyment. I can camp where I want, I can pack up as slowly or quickly as I want, I can hike at my own pace, I can clean my cup with water. And I actually do enjoy this activity. I enjoy myself a lot. It feels amazing to take the good things that wilderness therapy gave me and kick the rest to the dirt. 

SARAH: Okay, so it’s dark out, and I put my tarp in front of my tent so that I could pull my sleeping bag out onto my tarp and lay and look at the stars for a bit. I feel very happy right now. I'm very content. This is like my favorite thing. All I have are my own thoughts and the stars, which is pretty good.

SARAH: Before I knew it, it was the last morning of my trip. I packed up my things, made myself breakfast and walked to the parking lot where my mom and girlfriend were waiting for me. 

(sound of footsteps)

SARAH: Hello!

FAMILY: Hello!

SARAH: I felt proud. I went on an adventure, I put myself out of my comfort zone, and I liked it. But the trip gave me more than just a sense of accomplishment. It gave me a new way of looking at myself.

I invented the Outdoor Girl because I thought she was my only way out of depression. Basically, I thought that my only way not to feel miserable every second of every day was to become a completely different person. That I needed to be this extreme, toe-shoes-wearing adventurer in order to be happy. The problem was being her meant not being fat, not being gay, not being me.

It’s taken me a long time to realize how wrong that was. You don’t cure depression by becoming a different person. And mine isn’t cured. I still have depressive episodes, and I still take medication — something I’m not planning on changing. However, my life has been significantly better since I accepted that this is the brain, the personality, and the body that I have. 

And I don’t have to change those things to be outside. I just have to do the things in nature that I want to do, and not do the things I don’t.

(easygoing music begins)

Maybe I’m an indoor/outdoor girl. I won’t live in a van. I won’t wear those toe-shoes — I’m sorry to anyone who does, I know they’re like good for your feet or whatever, but that’s just really not my thing. I won’t climb Mount Everest. But I think I’d like to go on some more weekend trips. Until then though, I’ll be chilling in my air-conditioned apartment watching Netflix. I mean I’ll go for like day hikes and stuff; I do live in Colorado.

WILLOW: That was Sarah Dealy. She’s an audio producer and writer, and she’s currently working on a series about Troubled Teen wilderness programs. If you’d like to get notified when that series comes out, I have a link for that in the show notes. You can also see more of Sarah’s work at sarahdealy.com

Also, Sarah wanted me to mention that if you are a parent who is considering sending your kid to a wilderness program, she recommends a book called Help at Any Cost by Maia Szalavitz. I have a link to that in the show notes as well.

(music ends)

Coming up next time on Out There, we have another story about someone who didn’t consider herself outdoorsy.

But for Angie Chatman, the reason she was so reluctant to spend time outside was very different than the reasons you heard about on today’s episode. 

ANGIE CHATMAN: As an African-American woman in an all-white, upscale neighborhood, I am conspicuous. At any time, day or night, I could be stopped by the police.

WILLOW: But when the pandemic began, and Angie was feeling profoundly isolated, she started taking walks with a friend around the streets of Boston. She didn’t know it at the time, but those walks would give her a new way of finding peace. And a new way of finding community.

Tune in on February 17th to hear that story.

(soft music begins)

It’s time now for Out There Favorites. This is a new segment we’re bringing you this season, where we share some of our favorite resources. Favorite apps, favorite books, favorite podcasts, gear…

These are not ads; we’re not getting any money from the things we recommend. It’s just a chance for us to spread the love.

JESSICA TAYLOR: Hi there! My name is Jessica, and I’m the advertising manager here at Out There Podcast. And I’m so excited to share my three favorite resources with you today. 

My first favorite resource is an app called Hipcamp. It’s for all levels of adventurers to find unique outdoor stays. There’s options like tent camping, RV parks, cabins, treehouses, glamping, and more. 

I recently used this app when I took a road trip from California to North Carolina. One night I stayed in the desert land of Arizona, and another I stayed in a cabin of the Tennessee mountains, and it was so beautiful. There’s so many hidden gems all over this country. I would suggest checking out this app, and seeing what’s around you just where you live. That’s Hipcamp. H-I-P-C-A-M-P. 

My second favorite resource is Campendium. It’s a free camping app, and I use it to find dispersed camping. The app shares helpful information like cell coverage, elevation, maps, pictures, reviews — so you can get a sneak peek into the location you’re looking at. It also shows dump stations, public lands, and more. That’s Campendium. C-A-M-P-E-N-D-I-U-M. 

My third favorite resource is Harvest Hosts, and it’s more geared for RVers. I’m a fulltime RVer, and I sometimes have trouble finding free public land in the more eastern states. That’s how I found Harvest Hosts. Harvest Hosts is a yearly subscription with over 3,000 locations to park your RV and stay for the night, like museums, breweries, distilleries, wineries, farms, and more. I would highly recommend looking into it. That’s Harvest Hosts. 

WILLOW: Again, that was Jessica Taylor. She’s the advertising manager here at Out There. 

We have links to the apps she recommended in the show notes. And I also have links to a short video that Jessica put together about Campendium, plus a special Mother’s Day feature they did about her and some other great moms a while back. 

(music continues for a few notes then fades out)

Before you go, I have an announcement to make.

Out There is going to be seven years old this spring. And to celebrate, we are hosting a virtual Happy Hour for all of our patrons!

Patrons are listeners who support Out There financially. They make monthly contributions to the podcast, through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon.

It’s that support that makes this podcast possible. Seriously, we could not be doing this show without you. 

So to thank you, our patrons, for your generosity, I’d like to hang out with you and get to know you a little better. So I’m hoping you’ll join me for Out There’s birthday happy hour.

It’ll be on March 9th at 5 p.m. Pacific Time / 8 p.m. Eastern. If you’re already a patron, there’s nothing more you need to do. Just keep an eye on your inbox for an invitation.

If you’re not yet a patron, you can become one by going to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. As I mentioned, Patreon is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about. Like this podcast. You pick the amount to give, and they take care of the rest. Again, just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to sign up. Or just click the link in the episode description.

Make sure you sign up by March 4th so I can send you an invitation to the happy hour!

Speaking of patrons, I’d like to give a big thank you to Doug Frick, Phil Timm, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia, for their ongoing financial support of Out There. I truly mean it when I say we couldn’t produce this podcast without you.

(sound of light wind starts)

WILLOW: OK, so I am opening up PeakVisor…

WILLOW: Peak Visor is an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains.

They are one of our sponsors for this season, and as I mentioned at the top of the episode, I recently used PeakVisor when I was on a ski trip in Colorado. 

I was out on a nordic trail, and I had a gorgeous view of some of the tallest mountains in the lower 48. But I wasn’t sure which mountain was which.

When I opened up the PeakVisor app, it showed me a panoramic picture of everything I was looking at. And each mountain was labeled.

(sound of strong wind blowing)

WILLOW: So, Bald Eagle Mountain. 11,896 feet. Sugarloaf Mountain — eleven three….

(wind sounds stop)

WILLOW: If you’d like your own personal mountain guide, check out PeakVisor in the app store.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

If you’re new to Out There, check out the Best of Out There playlist. This is a collection of some of our favorite episodes of all time — and it’s a great introduction to the range of stories we do on the show. You can find Best of Out There on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

Today’s story was written, produced, and sound designed by Sarah Dealy. It was edited by me, Willow Belden. Out There’s advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

By Sheeba Joseph, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on January 27, 2022

Welcome to Out There Podcast. Our stories are written for the ear, so for those able, we recommend listening while reading along. Transcripts may contain minor errors; please check the audio before quoting.

WILLOW BELDEN: Hi, I’m Willow Belden, and you’re listening to Out There, the podcast that explores big questions through intimate stories outdoors.

To start things off, I have an announcement to make: I’m going to be hosting a virtual happy hour to celebrate Out There’s birthday in March!

Out There will be seven years old on March 9, and I’m planning to mark the occasion by hanging out with some of YOU. Because you are the reason I make this show.

To get in on the fun, all you have to do is become an Out There patron by March 4.

Patrons are listeners who support Out There financially, by making monthly contributions through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. It’s that support from listeners that makes this podcast possible. 

If you’re already a patron, there’s nothing more you need to do. Just keep an eye on your inbox for an invitation.

If you’re not yet a patron, head over to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. As I mentioned, Patreon is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about. Like this podcast. Again, just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to sign up. That’s P-A-T-R-E-O-N-dot-com-slash-out-there-podcast.

Make sure you sign up by March 4 so I can send you an invitation to our happy hour!

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Next week, as you probably already know, we’re launching a new season. And before it starts, we wanted to bring you a special treat.

We reached out to some of our friends and community members who love the outdoors as much as we do. And we asked them a question.

It’s a question that gets at the heart of our upcoming season.

The season theme is “Things I Thought I Knew.” And the question we asked was: “What is one way your relationship with nature has changed in a way that has surprised you?”

The answers we received were beautiful. Each one was its own little story. And those stories were thought-provoking, inspiring, and hopeful.

We’d like to spread the love, so on this episode, we’re sharing some of our favorites. You’ll hear from Out There listeners, ambassadors, and even a few other podcast hosts. 

What surprised us about the answers we received was that several clear themes emerged. 

Some people told stories about how nature changed the way they pursue their work. Some talked about how nature healed them. And others reflected on the beauty and poetry that nature provides.

(theme music ends)

To kick us off, here are a few of Out There’s ambassadors and listeners, talking about the intersection of nature and career.

ASHLEY WHITE: Well, over the course of the past year or two, I began working for and with nature as a career. 

(sound of a fishing line being thrown into running water)

As a fly fishing guide, I never thought that I could be closer to nature than when I started working for mother nature, so to speak. And so instead of just enjoying and protecting, as a now conservationist that has to make sure individuals are truly respecting and wonderful stewards of the watershed that I need for my livelihood, has made me think about many more engagements that I may have throughout my day that could affect the space in which I work. 

(contemplative music begins over the sound of running water)

How am I teaching my clients to be wonderful stewards so they too can share the relationship with nature that I have? The understanding of that has really not only empowered me to speak up more and stronger to those that I had the opportunity to teach, but it's made me look at my relationship with the world around me completely different when it comes to recreating outdoors.  

(music continues for a few notes and then fades out)

MARY GORDON: How did I get here? I was lying in bed, feeling incredibly tense. I had felt anxious the whole week, which was especially upsetting because I was on vacation in my favorite place. I was on an island in Canada. An island that I had been going to with my family every summer since I was a baby. 

This island is remote. There’s no electricity, no hot running water. There is no barrier between you and nature — no phones, no computers, no flushing toilets — you are forced to slow down and match nature's rhythm when you are there. 

It’s my heaven, so why was I feeling so tense? 

(soft music begins to play)

I should have been on cloud nine. I was about to start my second classroom teaching job, which I felt should be my next step in life. 

The problem was that whenever I would work on my lesson plans my body would get tense. I was hoping that once I got up to the island my tension would melt away. The problem was it didn’t. It actually got worse. I was so tired of this pain and tension. 

One night while on the island I was sitting up in my bed writing in my journal when a thought came to me: ‘Do I want to be teaching in the classroom?’ 

I felt in my chest, and heard, “No.” 

It was so powerful, I was stunned. If I didn’t teach in the classroom, what was I going to do? It had been just two years ago that I had graduated from college with a degree in middle childhood education. Not teach in the classroom? This was what I was supposed to do. 

As I asked myself this difficult question, I knew the answer right away — I was going to leave the classroom and teach in the outdoors.

Things moved fast as soon as I got home from vacation. I quit my classroom job and moved up to Michigan to teach outdoor education the following week. 

I have now been happily teaching in an outdoor setting for 15 years. Being surrounded by nature on the island allowed me to take down all the barriers I had around me in everyday life. It allowed me to really listen to what would make me happy. Even though it surprised me, I couldn’t be more thankful for where it has taken me. 

(music fades out)

TESSA PETERS: When I was little, my parents always had a garden. And I grew up in a rural agricultural community, but I never saw myself as someone who was involved in agriculture. I was interested in science and biology and genetics, and all kinds of other science, including physics. I got a bachelors in physics. Spent a lot of time working as a geo-physicist.

And then as I got older I felt this sort of draw back to agriculture, and found myself working more and more outdoors, on the land, and asking people about where their food came from and what they ate. And all of a sudden there I was getting a PhD in an agricultural field, and spending lots and lots of time walking down corn rows and learning more and more about the agricultural roots from which I really came, but didn't identify with until much later in my life.

(charmingly hopeful music begins to play)

TIFFANY DUONG: Nature went from being a sometimes escape from my life to being the driving energy of my life. 

I used to go to the oceans  to feel more alive, for blips of time away from the office. Now as an explorer, writer and science communicator, those beautiful places ARE my office. 

I always dreamed, but never imagined, that this could be my life. And I am so much happier than I thought possible.

WILLOW: The voices you just heard were Ashley White, Mary Gordon, Tessa Peters, and Tiffany Duong. 

Ashley and Tiffany are both Out There ambassadors. Tessa and Mary are listeners who have been helping us spread the word about Out There by referring friends to the show.

I have links to some of the exciting things they’re working on in the show notes.

(music fades out)

The next couple of anecdotes you’re going to hear are about the ways nature can heal us in surprising ways.

EVAN PHILLIPS: In my early 20s, I was a full-time mountain climber. It defined who I was.

During the summers I worked as a guide, taking people on expeditions up Denali in Alaska. And in the wintertime, I lived out of my vehicle, mostly rock climbing in the desert. It was a simple time, filled with one adventure after another. 

But when I was 27 years old, I sustained an injury that effectively ended my climbing career.

(melancholy music begins)

So for the next 10 years I was depressed, and I was angry. I sold all my climbing gear, I stopped hanging out with my old friends, and I guess you can say I engaged in a fair share of hurtful and self-destructive behavior. I was in a dark place. 

But as the years passed, I started to come out on the other side. I realized that through all the pain and sadness, what I’d really been experiencing was grief.  And ultimately the thing I needed to do was forgive myself. 

So today I might not be able to climb mountains, but I can still appreciate them. 

And today I’m grateful just to experience nature in a new way, whether I’m camping, sitting quietly by a river, or watching a squirrel just run around in the trees. 

Although I’ve taken my own path in the outdoors, what I do know is that nature has helped me heal, and it will always be a central and integral part of my life. 

WILLOW: That was Evan Phillips, host of the podcast The Firn Line. The Firn Line is a storytelling podcast about the lives of mountain climbers. Evan weaves together taped interviews, thoughtful narration, and original music to craft episodes that transport listeners across the human side of mountain exploration. The Firn Line just started Season 5 in January, and you can find them at thefirnline.com.

(birds singing

Evan is not the only one to find healing in nature. Here’s Nicole Christina, a psychotherapist and the host of an interview podcast called Zestful Aging

NICOLE CHRISTINA: During one very difficult time in my life, I was on one of my favorite wooded trails in upstate New York with my dogs.The rocks there are covered with moss and lichen — after it rains it just looks like an ocean of green. 

I had just received a diagnosis of breast cancer, and I was feeling so much grief I felt like I would explode. 

(quiet music begins to play)

Then I had an idea. As an avid knitter, I use hand-painted yarns. Their beauty speaks to me. 

The next day when I returned, I brought some of that yarn with me balled up in my pocket. I started tying pieces of my yarn around the trees that I felt particularly drawn to. It’s a kind of way to mark these feelings, and it was a way of asking these trees to help me process my overwhelming grief.

I walked from tree to tree, down my wooded trail, tying my colorful yarn, and thanking the trees for being part of my healing.

WILLOW: Again, that was Nicole Christina, host of the podcast Zestful Aging. You can find her show at zestfulaging.com.

(music fades out)

To wrap up, we have two stories that are brimming with gratitude about the ways nature keeps on giving.

SHANNON PRINCE: When I moved to my White Plains, New York apartment a few years ago from out of state, the sales department pointed out local amenities to me: a library a quick walk in one direction, a street a few blocks off that offered restaurants from every ethnicity, and tucked away in a slip of woods, hidden like an engagement ring in a flute of champagne, just five minutes away, was a river. 

(sound of a river flowing and then soft, cheerful music begins)

It was a wonder to me, so delightfully convoluted and improbable that just the description of it was fit for picture book prose — a forest in the city, a river in a forest. 

Back then, I didn’t know the Coronavirus was coming. I didn’t know how green spaces would become our safe places. I didn’t know a river could transport you, even if you never floated away on it. I didn’t know that the peace of still water was no more impressive than the dauntless fortitude of current. 

I didn’t know how even if you dared not wade inside — because it is afterall a city river, impure — a river can still wash you clean of the debris of a world broken apart. I’d heard that you could never enter the same river twice. I didn't know that you could never be the same after living beside a river.   

(music slowly fades out as the sound of ocean waves crashing begins)

SHELBY STANGER: The biggest way my relationship with nature has changed is just how much nature continues to give and teach. Not just to me, but everyone I interview, and even my own family. 

For example, I recently taught my niece and nephews how to surf. And my niece, she’s seven, she says gratitude to mama ocean every time she gets near the water. It’s so cute. She thanks mama ocean for being so pretty, and so fun to play with, and for having fishies, and for keeping her safe. And it’s just really joyful to watch.

(easygoing music begins)

I recently interviewed a woman, Diana Helmuth, who’s a backpacker. She wrote a book about being a pretty below-average but enthusiastic backpacker. And I love that she said, “The best part about nature is it doesn’t give a shit about you. But it makes you give a shit about yourself.” I think that nature has that ability to do that to you when you do something hard in it. 

Sometimes nature is hard and scary. I mean I recently saw a shark while I was surfing, and that was terrifying, but all I know is I continue to feel more at peace, and like all is right in the world when I am in the trees, or even out in the surf, and ideally when I see a dolphin rather than a shark…but I guess sometimes in some ways even when seeing a shark, because I just feel so much more alive. And I’m just grateful. So my relationship with nature, the only way it's changed is it’s just gotten better, and I’m more grateful to it than ever. 

(music fades out)

WILLOW: The voices you just heard were Shannon Prince and Shelby Stanger.

Shannon is an Out There listener. She’s also a writer, and she’s had a story on Out There before. Her episode was called “Forest as Pharmacy”, and I have a link to it in the show notes.

Shelby is the host and producer of an award-winning podcast from REI Co-Op Studios, called Wild Ideas Worth Living. Wild Ideas Worth Living is a show with high-impact interviews for those who love adventure and the outdoors. They release new episodes weekly on Tuesdays, so be sure to check them out wherever you listen to podcasts.

Thank you so much to everyone who contributed to this episode. We’re so grateful to have a community of listeners and fellow podcasters who are willing to share their stories with us.

I have links to all the various podcasts we’ve mentioned in the show notes. And I’ve also included info on where you can find our ambassadors and other contributors. That’s all at outtherepodcast.com.

(folksy music begins to play)

Our new season officially begins on February 3. The theme is “Things I Thought I Knew.” 

The first episode, which you’ll hear next week, is about a woman who was not outdoorsy — at all. But she ended up going to a wilderness therapy program. 

SARAH DEALY: The staff members told me I was not allowed to speak to my peers, and my peers were not allowed to speak to me, until I sat on a hill and wrote out my life story. They were not joking. I had to silently sit on a hill and write my entire life story. When I was done, I would read it to the group, and that’s how they would meet me. 

WILLOW: That story is coming up on February 3.

Finally, I wanted to let you know about an upcoming live event that we’ll be co-hosting. It’s an open mic night, and it’s going to be on March 31st at 5:30 p.m. Pacific Time. That’s 8:30 p.m. Eastern Time. We’ll be co-hosting it with our friends at Kula Cloth, and I think it’s going to be loads of fun. Stay tuned for more details in upcoming episodes.

But for now, if you’re interested in PERFORMING at the open mic night, we would love to hear from you! We have a sign-up form at outtherepodcast.com/openmic. That’s outtherepodcast.com/openmic. The deadline to sign up, if you want to perform, is February 4. 

If you just want to attend, but not perform, that’s great too! The event will be free and open to the public, and we will have a registration form ready soon.

(Out There theme music begins)

I want to give a special shout-out to Sheeba Joseph. Sheeba is our audience growth director, and this episode was her baby. Thank you so much for putting it together, Sheeba!

Thank you also to the rest of my amazing team. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our print content coordinator is Cara Schaefer. Our ambassadors are Ashley White, Tiffany Duong, and Stacia Bennett. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. Have a beautiful day, and we’ll see you next week.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)