Too Good To Be True?

By Aja Simpson, produced by Out There Podcast

Re-released on December 16, 2021

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: When I moved to Wyoming, there were two things that sealed the deal for me. One was that there were beautiful mountains nearby. And the other was that Wyoming gets a LOT of winter. Oh, and I had a good job offer. So I guess that’s three reasons. 

But anyway, about the winter. I love winter. I love snow. I love skiing. I love those mornings where every twig is coated in white.

If you are also a lover of winter, you might be interested in an app called PeakVisor.

PeakVisor is one of our sponsors for this episode. And when you use their app in winter mode, you can get ski resort schedules and lift statuses in real time. The app will show you opening times and current availability of every major ski resort in the U.S.

There are a lot of other things you can do with PeakVisor as well — and I will tell you about some of those later in the episode. But for now, take a look at 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.

To start off, I want to share some exciting news: this February, we are launching a new season of Out There. 

We’re not changing the focus or the format of the podcast. We’ll still be telling the kind of introspective outdoor stories you know and love. We’re just grouping those stories around a common theme.

The theme in this case is “Things I Thought I Knew.” All season, we’ll be sharing stories about outdoor experiences that changed something we thought we knew about the world. Some of the storytellers discover new truths about themselves. Sometimes they find new truths about humanity. Sometimes they figure out a new way to do good in the world.

The season kicks off in early February, and in between now and then, we’re going to be taking a little break. But don’t worry — there will still be things to listen to. For example, in January, we’re bringing you a special guest episode from another podcast that I think you’ll love. Plus, of course, we’ll be giving you a sneak peak at the upcoming season.

If you’re not already subscribed to our email newsletter, go ahead and sign up so you don’t miss out on any of the fun. There’s a link for that in the show notes.

(theme music fades out)

And now, on to our story for today.

This is a love story. A love story that, on its surface, seems a little far-fetched. It involves chance encounters, unlikely coincidences...and a happy ending.

We often assume that stories like that are just fairy tales. The real world is muddier, and less poetic — right? I want you to set aside those assumptions for a moment, because sometimes the real world gives us little glimmers of hope. This episode is about one of those glimmers. 

It’s a story that first ran last year. But I want to share it with you again, because it won a national award from the Public Media Journalists Association. Besides, I think we can all use a little hope in our lives right now.

The story is about a woman named Donna Martino, and her husband, Walt House, and it explores when it’s worth throwing aside skepticism and taking a chance on someone.

Aja Simpson has the story.

AJA SIMPSON: The story you’re about to hear is of my cousin and his wife. The first time I heard it was in 2017, when they invited me and my boyfriend to stay with them in Colorado. I had never spent much time with them, but when we arrived we immediately fell in love with their banter and chemistry. We could tell these two people were meant for one another. And then they told us this story.

(cheerful music begins)

In 1998, Donna was living and working in her hometown of Chicago. She had just moved back there from Minneapolis after her first marriage ended. She wanted to spend some time by herself to reconnect with who she was and what it was that she enjoyed most in life. She was an outdoorsy person and it was important to her that she got to know those interests again. 

DONNA MARTINO: I had discovered a love for rock climbing and started doing that for a couple of years. And then through that group of friends, I met some other friends who introduced me to whitewater kayaking. So I started doing that a lot.

AJA: One day, a few years later in 2001, Donna got a letter in the mail from her mother.

DONNA: My mother sent me an article that she had seen in the Chicago Tribune about surf kayaking on Lake Michigan. It was a very cool, four color picture article. And I actually knew one of the guys in there, and there were two other guys I didn't know. One of them was in this really cool closeup of him kayaking with his paddle and he was surfing through the waves and I'm like, ‘This is really cool.’ So I hung the picture up on my refrigerator, and that was it for a while.

AJA: Donna thought nothing of it. The picture was cool, she hung it up, and that was that. Little did she know that this attractive kayaker from the newspaper would soon show up in her life in a different capacity. 

(music slowly fades out)

So a couple months go by and Donna had decided she’d spent enough time on her own and wanted to dip her toes back into the dating pool. She had done some online dating since her divorce…

DONNA: And I met a couple nice guys, went on a couple dates, but nothing really clicked. 

AJA: But now?

DONNA: I'm like, ‘You know what? I want to get back on match.com and just see if there's any new faces out there.’ And I updated my profile a little bit and I did a really narrow search. I chose someone who lived very close to me, because I didn't have a car at the time. Between 30 and 40, cause I didn't want someone too far off of my age. Non-Smoker, social drinker, you know, very, very similar to me.

So I put all that in there and then I did search. And there were nine men that came up. I read all their bios and this one guy sounded really interesting. We had a lot of similar interests, lot of things in common, we were both divorced. We both liked graphic design. We had just moved back to Chicago after our divorces. 

And I just thought he sounded really nice. So I clicked on more pictures — he had other pictures to look at — and it turned out to be the picture in the Chicago Tribune of the guy kayaking with the surf all around him. And it freaked me out because I'm like, ‘This is not a coincidence.’ I'm not superstitious. So I was like, ‘What? What's happening here?’ So I was like, ‘Oh my God. Oh my God, do I write to him? What do I do?’

AJA: It’s kind of an unlikely scenario, right? You have a photo of this gorgeous man on your fridge...and suddenly you match with him on a dating site? That doesn’t happen in the real world. 

Donna mulled over her options. She could write to him, and mention the picture. But what if that creeped him out? Maybe she should just move on. Forget about him. Message a different guy. But at the same time, what if this was more than just a coincidence?

WALT HOUSE: So segue two or three months later, and I'm on match and I get a message saying, "Don't be alarmed, but I have your picture from the article on my refrigerator. My mom sent it to me.”

(relaxed music begins)

AJA: That’s the guy from the photo.

His story was remarkably similar to Donna’s. Like her, he had recently moved back to Chicago, where he’d briefly lived years ago. He’d also just gotten out of a sticky marriage prior to moving, and was taking this time alone to focus on himself and invest in the hobbies he loved, like surf kayaking, white water kayaking and other outdoor activities. Luckily, upon moving, he was able to snag a job at a kayak shop. 

One day, while he was working, he got a phone call from the Chicago Tribune. They wanted to run a piece about the small community of kayakers in the city, and asked him if he and a few of his friends were interested in doing an interview and photoshoot on Lake Michigan.

WALT: So I did the interview and photo shoot. The article appeared in the Sunday paper on the front page of the lifestyle section. And it was a very nice picture. So I put it on my match.com profile. And I thought, well, we'll see what happens. I was looking for a partner or a friend who was into the outdoors, and I thought this picture would filter out those that weren’t really into that kind of stuff.

AJA: A couple months later...

DONNA: So I decided I was going to take a chance. So I wrote, "Not to freak you out or anything, but I have your picture on my refrigerator." 

So he wrote back right away and he's like, “I’m so…”

WALT & DONNA: “Flattered.”

WALT: “Are you into kayaking?” And she's like, “I'm into kayaking and climbing and snowboarding.” And it was very cool to me because I wanted someone that did those kinds of things. 

DONNA: And so we wrote back and forth through the Match.com system, but then our accounts expired cause we only had like a two-week trial period. 

AJA: Match.com’s system worked so that users had to upgrade to full memberships in order to exchange contact information. Neither of them upgraded. They were enjoying their conversations online, but they thought it all seemed too good to be true. And usually if something SEEMS too good to be true, it isn’t real. 

DONNA: And I thought, ‘You know what? The kayaking community in Chicago is…’

WALT: Very small. So I figured ‘If I run into her…’

WALT & DONNA: ‘I run into her/him.’

WALT: So...and if it didn't work out, you know, it wasn't going to be the end of the world. And then it's just like kayaking. It’s like, there's another, another eddy somewhere down the stream that I can catch. Or if I can't surf this wave, I'll catch the next wave. 

(music fades out)

DONNA: A couple months go by, and I meet my friends at the pool. There's an organization that rents out the pool and then you can bring your kayak to practice during the off season. So I met my friends there and as I'm walking in, I look around and I see Walt standing in the middle of the Olympic-size pool with little kids, in kayaks, paddling around him. And I'm like, ‘Oh my God, there he is. I'm going to actually meet this guy.’ 

WALT: So, I’m teaching this class and I’m treading water, and I notice out of the corner of my eye a woman walk in with a kayak on her shoulder. Now I had seen Donna's picture on her match.com profile, and I recognized her. And then I had some, a little fluttering of my heart. I was very excited to see her, but I was in the middle of the pool teaching. So I couldn't just get out of the water and introduce myself.

DONNA: So I play it cool because I didn't want to interrupt him. So I was paddling around with my friends and at the end of the night, I took my boat out of the water and I see him come towards me. 

WALT: But as soon as the clinic was over and she was available, I walked up and introduced myself, and shook her by the hand and said, “It's great to finally meet you.”

DONNA: And I started getting really nervous. And he smiled, and I smiled. And he puts his hand out and he's like, "Hey, I know you." 

WALT: She had a big smile on her face. And it was a happy little incident that she showed up that night. 

DONNA: I'll never forget it. It was like this moment in time where I only saw him. And I knew we were going to be good friends. I could tell right away.

WALT: That was our first meeting.

AJA: You’ve probably gathered by now that the man from the kayaking photo was Walt, so you know how this story ends. You know that he and Donna eventually end up getting married.

But how does that happen? How do the two of them go from this unlikely fairy tale situation...to marriage? Many of us would probably assume that a relationship that starts so improbably could never work out in the long run. That only happens in movies, right?

All these doubts were swirling through Walt and Donna’s heads at this point too. But despite the odds, they both decided to go for it.

DONNA: I knew I was taking a chance, because this was someone who I didn't know. I knew in my heart that it was the right thing to do because all of the signs were there. 

WALT: And when I met Donna, I was like, ‘Yes, I'm going to take it slow and easy, but I like this woman. She's got a lot of the things I'm looking for: intellectual and emotional,’ and it was a really good connection from the get go.

(keyed up music begins)

AJA: As they slowly began to get to know each other, their relationship blossomed. Their first unofficial date was at REI (because of course it was). And they began formally dating in 2003, a few months after meeting. They saw each other almost every weekend and while they learned more about one another, they continued to get to know themselves. Later on in the year, they began preparing for a trip to Devil’s Lake in Minnesota over Memorial Day weekend to spend some time together outdoors.

This trip was going to be a test of their relationship. While they both loved outdoor activities, they had very different strengths. Walt was a seasoned kayaker, but wasn’t very confident as a rock climber. Donna was a natural on the rock, but she was less experienced when it came to whitewater.  

Their plan for this Memorial Day trip was that Walt would take the lead when kayaking and Donna would teach Walt a bit more about climbing.

They were looking forward to it, but it was also a risk. If you’ve ever tried to teach a new love interest how to do something, you know that it doesn’t always go over well. Once again, they were taking a chance that seemed unlikely to lead to success.

(music ends)

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear what happened to Walt and Donna on that trip in just a moment. But first… 

It’s that time of the year when I kind of wish I could hibernate. Or at least, spend a lot of time curled up in sweatpants with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book.

But of course, I still have work to do, and meetings to attend. And for a lot of those things, I have to look at least halfway presentable. Which is why I was so excited to get some new clothing from a company called tentree.

Tentree is one of our sponsors. They make eco-friendly clothing, and for every item you buy, they plant 10 trees.

The thing I love about their clothing — aside from the sustainability aspect — is that it’s comfy and stylish at the same time. It’s the kind of clothing that feels like you’re wearing PJs, but is appropriate for me to wear to work. 

For 15% off your first order, go to tentree.com and enter the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s T-E-N-tree-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE.

And now, let’s get back to the story about Walt and Donna. When we left off, they were just about to embark on a trip to Minnesota, where they were going to go rock climbing, and kayaking.

WALT: I hadn't really seen Donna on the river yet, only in pool sessions, but she had a solid Eskimo roll. So I didn't feel too ill at ease, and it was only class two. So rivers are rated from their level of expertise you need from one to five-plus or six. But a, a class two is, you know, highly survivable. The risk of injury is very minimal. 

DONNA: I had done like class two, class three, so this shouldn't have been a problem. But I just could not catch my breath, I was having a little anxiety. He's like, “You know, you don't have to do this.” I'm like, “No, no, I'm fine. I can do this.”

AJA: When they found their spot on the river, they decided one person was going to watch from an overview above while the other kayaked down below. Walt went down first, and went through gracefully, making it look easy. And when he finished, he gave Donna the heads up that he’d be on his way back up, and that she should get ready for her turn in the water.

(soft music begins)

DONNA: So I pushed off, got into the water, and I knew the spot was right, you know, to the right. So I stayed on the right of the river and I went through it perfectly. But then I started feeling myself fall to the right, so I braced myself, but I didn't have my paddle positioned correctly — and so I just flipped over to the right. And I was already out of breath because I was nervous, and so I just pulled my skirt, got out of the boat, hung onto my boat, but I lost my paddle. 

WALT: And the next thing I know, I see her floating by, and then I see her paddle float by. 

DONNA: So I'm like trying to swim to the right of the shore, and I hear this voice, “Are you okay?”

WALT: And so I jump into my boat, paddle out, get her, shuttle her to the shore of the river, then chase down her paddle.

DONNA: Somehow he found my paddle in that huge river. And I’m like, “Oh my god, thank you so much. You’re amazing.” I just had so much respect and appreciation for him. That he got down there so quickly, he found my paddle...and there was no judgement — at least I don’t think there was.

(Donna laughs and the music fades out)

AJA: Donna remembers that as the day she fell in love with Walt. She fell in love with his courage and selflessness. But perhaps even more importantly, she allowed herself to be vulnerable around him. And that gave Walt the chance to see her as she was: someone who could take risks, but laugh them off if things didn’t go according to plan. 

DONNA: So the next day we were gonna climb, and this was my sport. So I thought, ‘Well, this is my chance to redeem myself after that failed attempt at kayaking.’

WALT: I have a fear of heights, and I always try to use climbing as a way to manage my fear, but I hadn't climbed in a while. So the longer I take time off from climbing, the fear creeps up and gets magnified. 

DONNA: The rock there is different than what I was used to, cause I'd been used to climbing at Devil's Lake, which is quartzite. And quartzite is very slippery. It's a beautiful pink rock, but it's super hard and super slippery. And this rock at Taylor's Falls was I think it's granite or basalt...I'm not sure. It's like dark gray and very, very sticky. 

WALT: So luckily enough these weren't very technical climbs and weren't very difficult to do, but, you know, I didn't want to have a little bit of a panic attack in front of Donna. 

DONNA: I could tell he was a little nervous trusting his feet, and I knew where he was coming from because I was there, you know, a few years prior. So I just encouraged him to trust his feet and move up the rock slowly. And he did great cause he's a, he's a natural athlete, so he picked it up pretty easily. 

AJA: When you do something your partner is really good at, you tend to want to excel at it. You want to impress them, show them you can keep up. That didn’t happen on this trip. Neither Walt nor Donna achieved superhuman feats while they were trying out the other person’s sport. But as it turned out, it was actually better that way. 

WALT: You know, again, I had a little pre-climb jitters, but everything was good. It was a really good first trip for us, that showed both of our weaknesses. And we could talk about it.

DONNA: But you would've, I would've never known that he had a fear of heights. He put himself out there and he tried, and he did really well.

(lighthearted music begins)

AJA: Walt and Donna have been together for 18 years now, and their 15th wedding anniversary just passed in July.

WALT: I popped the question while we were at a kayak pool session, and she was paddling up to me and I was just kind of off looking into space and just had a...I had a big grin. And she’s like, “What are you thinking about?” And I’m like, “I’m thinking about our wedding.”

DONNA: And I remember him in his rash guard, and he was holding his paddle, and he just looked really, really cute. And we were both thinking the same thing at the same time. Like, it’d be nice to get married at…

DONNA & WALT: Devil’s Lake.

WALT: And there’s this carved out, by the Conservation Corp., amphitheater. And I thought, this would be a great place to have our wedding. 

(music fades out)

We had the ceremony outside in the gazebo. And the dinner and all of the toasting was outside. It was very beautiful.

DONNA: And, uh, one of the cool moments was after the ceremony, we were waiting for the dinner to be served and out in the distance was a pair of deer. A male and a female deer.  

WALT: And we had a yogini perform the ceremony for us.

DONNA: She said, “That’s a really good sign.”

WALT: She's like, “That is a really good omen.”

DONNA: And, uh, that just, kinda made us feel like, yeah, this is great. This is…

DONNA & WALT: Perfect.

WALT: I mean, up until the day of the wedding, we had these horrendous temperatures of in the nineties with humidity and all that. And then it rained that morning, and everything cooled down and it was perfect.

(gentle music begins)

AJA: I don’t blame you if you’re rolling your eyes right now. It’s such a sappy story.

But what’s so compelling about it — at least to me (and I think to Walt and Donna, too) — is that this fairy tale didn’t happen by accident. Sure, there were unlikely coincidences, but unlikely coincidences on their own don’t lead to happy endings. You only get happy endings if you put in the work and take advantage of opportunities that present themselves. 

The reason why Walt and Donna fell into such a remarkable circumstance was because they both took a leap of faith. They put themselves out there and took a chance on what could be. 

DONNA: One of the things I learned after my divorce was that I needed to learn to trust my instincts. And had I trusted my instincts, I wouldn't have married that first guy. 

(Donna chuckles)

You know, all the signs were there that I shouldn't, I shouldn't do that. And so after I got the divorce, I realized you should have trusted your instincts. You should have listened to yourself. And you don't know how to trust yourself until you put yourself out there and you take chances. And the more chances you take and things go well, you build that confidence. And the more I did that, the more I learned to trust my instincts.

WALT: I learned from most of my outdoor activities, that the moment, when it presents itself, you have to take it, but you also have to be prepared for it. You have to work on yourself. 

So all the kayaking I did was, you know, years of training and working up to different skill levels to be able to put myself into those risky or chancey situations. And it's the same thing when I met Donna. I went through the divorce and knew that I was partly to blame for it failing. I mean, a relationship is two people. So I worked on myself. 

DONNA: The way he sounded on paper and all of these things that were kind of aligning for me to meet him...if this really was, I hate to sound sappy, but if this was meant to be, if he was my soulmate, then I owed it to myself to take this chance. This guy sounds amazing, and I deserve this, you know, and I was glad I did it. 

(music fades out)

It turned out to be the best thing I did in my life.

AJA: After I heard Walt and Donna’s story for the first time, I was inspired. Inspired personally because my boyfriend and I also met online, so I was excited to know that it was possible to foster a relationship like that. And inspired in a broader sense because they exemplified the philosophy that diving into something head first is always the first step toward manifesting the things you most want in life. 

You never know what’s around the bend.

(upbeat music begins)

WILLOW: That story was reported, written, and produced by Aja Simpson. Aja is one of our former interns. She’s currently working at Audible and Cosmic Standard, creating shows for TED and Google. 

I’d like to take a moment to say thank you. Thank you for listening to Out There. Thank you for sending us kind words now and again. Thank you for sharing episodes with your friends. Thank you for believing in us.

I want to give a special shout-out to all of you who are supporting us financially, including Tessa Peters, Matthew Simonson, Thomas Lee, Sora Kim, Doug Frick, Phil Timm, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. This podcast wouldn’t be possible without you.

(music fades out)

Thank you also to everyone who has been sharing Out There with your friends, including Mary Gordon, Cathay Rotman, Tessa Peters, Laurie Richardson, and Michael Mowry. If you’d like to spread some cheer and earn rewards for sharing Out There, just go to outtherepodcast.com/share.You’ll be able to get your own personal referral link, which you can share with your friends. 

And the person with the most referrals by December 31 will have a chance to be interviewed by the Out There team, and we’ll make a custom story for you! Again, that’s outtherepodcast.com/share.

Also, I wanted to remind you that you can get a FREE Out There sticker, and be entered into a drawing for a chance to win an REI gift card, if you take our listener survey. We’re doing this survey so we can get to know you a little better, because knowing who you are helps us produce stories that make a difference in your life. The survey closes TOMORROW, December 17th, and I have a link to it in the episode description. Thank you so much for your time!

Support for Out There comes from PeakVisor. PeakVisor is an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains. 

One of the things they offer is 3D maps to help you plan out your trip. And recently, they updated these maps, so they’re now ultra-high resolution. That means you can see tons of detail — down to individual trees. It’s almost like going for a helicopter ride over the area you want to explore.

Once you’re out on an adventure, you can use the app to figure out what you’re looking at. For example, maybe you’re on a hike and you see a mountain in the distance, and you want to know what it is. PeakVisor will tell you.

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)

And as I mentioned at the top of the show, we’re going to be taking a little break as we gear up for the start of our new season. This is the last episode of 2021, but we’ll be back in January with some special bonus content. And in February, we’ll be launching a brand new season. I’m so excited about the stories we have in the works, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

That’s it for this episode. Our 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. Be safe out there, and Happy New Year!

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Art of Loving Yourself

By Melat Amha, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on December 2, 2021

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: Hey everyone, happy December!

I gotta say, it’s not feeling very wintry where I live at the moment. But it is the time of year when a lot of us start to think about winter sports.

If you’re into downhill skiing or snowboarding, I want to tell you about an app that can help you plan out your trips. The app is called PeakVisor, and they’re one of our sponsors.

You’ve probably heard me talk about them on previous episodes. The PeakVisor app helps you figure out what mountains you’re looking at when you’re out on adventures.

But that’s not the only thing this app does. When you use PeakVisor in winter mode, it’ll give you ski resort schedules and lift statuses in real time. You can see opening times and current availability of every major ski resort in the U.S.

If you want to take some of the guesswork out of your winter outings, download 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.

To start things off, I wanted to let you know that we are giving away FREE Out There stickers, as well as a gift card to REI.To get a free sticker, and be entered into the drawing for that gift card, all you have to do is take our listener survey.

The survey takes about 10 minutes, and we’re doing it because we want to get to know you a little better. Because knowing who you are helps us produce stories that will make a difference in your life.

To take the survey, just click the link in the episode description, or go to outtherepodcast.com.

(theme music fades out)

Today’s story is about love. 

When you think of love...what comes to mind? You probably start off by imagining a happy couple. Love at first sight. Two people developing affection for each other over time. Or maybe you think about the love between a parent and their child. Or the love between friends. 

But there’s another kind of love out there: love for yourself. 

We often hear that self-love is important. But what does that kind of love really look like? And how do you practice it?

Melat Amha recently had a series of experiences that forced her to grapple with those very questions. On this episode, she’s going to take us from urban LA to a farm in the Sierra National Forest, and tell you the story of how she changed her perspective on nearly everything.

I’ll let Melat take it from here.

MELAT AMHA: As long as I can remember, I’ve had a voice in my head pointing out my defects. 

(background music begins to play)

I had thoughts circling around that I couldn’t do this or that. There were these internal whispers that I was less than, or defective. I had torturous memories that confirmed that I was stupid. 

Most of that time, I wasn’t even aware of the diminishing self talk. It had just been playing in the background for so long that I didn’t really notice. Then last year, I became aware of the voice in my head.

(music continues for a few moments and then fades out)

My journey started in 2012, when I got a mild case of food poisoning. Or at least, that’s what I thought it was until the symptoms never went away. At first it wasn’t so bad and I mostly ignored it.

But by mid-2016, I was a mess. I was dealing with extreme memory issues to the point that I couldn’t remember what I’d just read. I was always exhausted, and my thinking was cloudy and confused. It was like my head space was bogged down in molasses. I had constant heartburn that I mistook for hunger, so I ate a lot. People would congratulate me because they thought I was pregnant, but I was just permanently bloated. 

Before all this started, I was used to running seven miles a day, six days a week. But now, I was overweight and unable to build muscle. 

(soft, haunting music begins)

I became a shadow of my former self.

I went to the doctor. Many, many doctors. Conventional doctors, alternative doctors…but none of them could give me satisfying answers.  

I was told that the heartburn was caused by stomach acid washing up into my esophagus. Ok, but why is it doing that? They didn’t know. 

They explained that the food sensitivities were likely caused by food particles escaping my gut and causing my immune system to freak out. Sure, but why are there suddenly holes in my intestine? Again, nothing. I wanted to know the root cause, but that was exactly what nobody could tell me.

(music fades out)

Instead, they prescribed antibiotics and antacids. None of which helped.  

They also suggested special diets, which I tried. My choice of what to eat was so restricted that I was forced to food prep religiously. I had to carry all my day’s meals with me in a big cooler bag. I almost went crazy trying to stick to all the diets, and they didn’t even help. It was nothing short of traumatizing. 

(pensive music begins)

Throughout all of this, I was in college working toward a degree in chemistry. I wasn’t excited about it, but felt I was in too deep to quit. I had recently gotten married, and felt like I needed to get a good job so I could provide for my household. My parents generously offered to help with my expenses while I was in school, and I didn’t take that lightly. I desperately wanted to prove to myself and the world that I could finish college. All because I felt so inadequate.

(music fades out)

But being a full-time student and holding down three part-time jobs — while you’re trying to deal with chronic health problems — was practically impossible. 

By winter 2018, I felt completely drained physically and emotionally. I had just one semester left before graduation, and I could almost taste the sweet satisfaction of that accomplishment. But I was terrified that the extra effort that it would take might actually kill me.  

I wanted to quit so badly. But I worried that if I dropped out, I might never go back. Then I’d never earn enough money, and my parents would be disappointed, and my husband might leave me. I already felt useless, and if I didn’t graduate, I’d be even more useless.  

(hushed music begins)

So I kept pushing through that final semester. 

Maybe my health would improve when I finished school, I thought. Well…it didn’t.

So, post graduation, I made an appointment to see a highly recommended specialist. The hope was that this doctor would give me the time and attention that all the doctors before hadn’t. I sent her my medical history and requested that she review it before our meeting. I was sure to mention that I’d pay for any extra time she took on my case. 

(music fades out)

On the appointed day, my husband and I made our way to the doctor’s office. She invited us to sit down, then put on her glasses and picked up a stack of papers. As she flipped through the pages, I tried to decide if she was looking at my health records for the first time or just referencing them to jog her memory.

But soon it didn’t matter, because she gave me the same kind of blanket diagnosis that everyone else had. The kind they give a patient when they don’t know what they have, and they’re out of tests. 

(melancholy music begins)

She said that my condition didn’t seem to put me in danger of dying anytime soon, but that I would probably always have it. She suggested that I give up on a cure and focus on managing my symptoms.

There was a sinking feeling in my chest. My face got hot as I tried to blink back tears. As soon as we walked out onto the street a few minutes later, I fell apart. 

My husband looked at me, confused. He reminded me that the doctor had just said that I would live. I felt like he was missing the point. I didn’t WANT to live like this. 

After a few minutes, he nudged me to straighten up because we had plans to meet with a friend, and so I wiped my tears, shoved my despair deep down, and faked light-heartedness. I was a pro at it by then. 

(music fades out)

By the time 2019 rolled around, I felt hopeless and depressed. Whenever I was alone, I was crying. I cried during my long commute to work every morning. I cried at lunch time while eating the food I’d packed in my cooler bag. I cried while meal prepping for hours each evening. And I cried in bed while trying to keep everything, including the bedsheet, from touching my painfully swollen belly. I was like a zombie, with rotting insides and all, trying to pass as human. 

(gentle piano music begins)

One day, I broke down and shared what I was going through with my friend Olja. She listened carefully, then offered up an idea that she thought might help. She reminded me of a work exchange program I’d heard about some years back. You could learn to grow organic food by helping out on a farm in exchange for room and board. This idea felt like how a lifesaver might to a drowning person. It was like I suddenly saw a possibility of goodness ahead, and I had reason to press on. 

(music fades out)

I had always been interested in growing food. I’d enjoyed harvesting fruits and veggies from the gardens outside of my apartments. And foraging for mushrooms was one of my most favorite activities. In the back of my mind, I had even envisioned having a small-scale farm of my own one day. 

I also loved the idea of eating freshly grown organic food. I was worried that the pesticides and pollution might be making my condition worse. But getting food, air, and water that are pesticide and pollution free — in a city — was impossible. 

(laid-back music begins)

By March my husband and I had decided to make the move to a farm on an 80-acre plot within the Sierra National Forest. I couldn’t wait. 

That visit to the specialist had been the last straw. I had completely given up on the idea that guidance for my healing could come from the outside. It had forced me to turn inwards and ask my spirit what was wrong. I felt that the peace and quiet of farm life would be the perfect place for my self-inquiry. 

I counted down the days to when I would no longer have to commute, no longer have to go grocery shopping nearly every day, no longer have to worry about coming up with rent money. I dreamt of bathing in all the green colors of the forest and digging my hands into the cool, crumbly soil.

Sure, I’d still have to work, but it would be spirit reviving work. It would be the kind of work that I hoped would bring me back to life. I would finally be doing something that sounded fun. Something just for me. Not for my husband. Not for my parents. 

It just felt...so right.

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. We’ll hear the rest of the story in a moment. But first, I want to tell you about something astonishing that happened to me recently.

I had ordered some new clothing. And I was looking forward to getting it, but I wasn’t holding my breath. I mean, usually when I order things online, a lot of it doesn’t fit.

So on this occasion, I opened the package... 

(rustling sounds)

And I tried on one of the new tops….and it fit beautifully. And I tried on another top. And it also fit perfectly. And then I tried on a pair of tights. And lo and behold, they fit amazingly well too!

WILLOW: Okay this may be a first. I am not sure that I have ever had an experience where everything that I ordered fit well, looked nice, and was comfy.

WILLOW: These clothes all came from a company called tentree. Tentree is one of our sponsors. They sell eco-friendly clothing. And for every item you buy, they plant ten trees.

To get 15% off your first order, go to tentree.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE” at checkout. That’s T-E-N-tree-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE.

And now, back to the story.

MELAT: The day we arrived at the farm happened to be the day of their annual farm party. 

(cheerful music begins)

There was food, drinks, live music, over a hundred friends of the farm, and a handful of fellow work exchange volunteers. I felt enormously relieved to have left the stress of my old life behind. 

The next seven months were blissful. Weekday mornings, we were out in the field prepping, planting, and harvesting. At noon we’d head up to the main house where we’d eat a big group lunch with goodies from the land while telling stories, cracking jokes, and laughing until our faces hurt. 

In the afternoon, we’d hike to the creek that ran through the farm. We’d take turns jumping into the pools of cool mountain water. Then we’d lie on the large, sun-heated slabs of stone nearby to dry. On Saturdays I’d wake up early to attend a cacao ceremony followed by a primal yoga session at a waterfall down the street.  

The 23-hour work week left me plenty of time to just be.

(music fades out)

My health problems didn’t go away, but so many of the internal pressures that had been weighing on me were lifted. I’d given up obsessing about what I was eating, drinking, and breathing because the farm was remote and as pristine as it gets. My inner chemist was enormously relieved. 

The bloating went down a little. I even felt pretty clear headed a few times. I was grateful for those moments of relief. I almost had forgotten what it felt like.

(soothing music begins)

I was determined to think less about my health, to stop trying to figure it out and just listen instead. Listen to my instinct, the voice of wisdom that I had discounted and suppressed for so long. 

Most mornings, I would clear my mind and meditate on the sunrise before the day’s work. I would sit creak-side, close my eyes and pay close attention to each distinct sound of trickling water. 

(sound of trickling water)

I concentrated on the warm sensation of the light on my skin. And then I would look inward and pose questions to myself. I would ask my body, “What are you trying to tell me?”

It was kind of hard to figure out which of the voices in my head I should listen to, but over time I sensed a subtle message coming through. It seemed to be saying I should let time pass and just be. And I obeyed. 

To be clear, I wasn’t hearing any actual voices; more like silencing the static and paying attention to an inner expression of my true needs.

(sound of running water and music ends)

And then, a few months later, something happened. Something that helped make sense of all my years of struggle.

(soft music begins)

I had taken up long walks with my childhood friend, Marko. And one day, he told me he’d also dealt with chronic illness. He suffered from symptoms like excruciating pain in his right hip and intense breathing problems for 10 years. 

Hearing that made me feel much less alone. I had spent so long trying to explain to people what I was going through. And nobody really understood. Even the people who were closest to me didn’t get it. And that feeling of being misunderstood was almost the worst part of my whole experience. 

So, realizing that Marko COULD relate was an answered prayer. Finally, I had someone who didn’t need any explanations. I could rest in that mutual understanding. 

(music fades out)

Then he said something magical. He told me that he’d healed himself. HEALED HIMSELF! I was just like, “Wait, what? How…how did you heal yourself?” I almost couldn’t get the questions out fast enough. 

(piano music begins)

He said that after nine years of trying all kinds of healing modalities that didn’t work, he’d totally given up. He had decided to accept the fact that he might be dying. 

But facing the possibility of his own death head-on turned out to be liberating. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t even afraid to die. Instead, he felt super relaxed and clear headed. He started to think about how he’d want to spend his last days. All he wanted was to feel pure joy and excitement, every moment until his last one.

(music fades out)

The next morning, he noticed something that at first seemed unimportant. When he was a kid, his friends teased him because he was uncircumcised. He got so insecure about it, that he developed a daily habit of pulling his foreskin back. It became as mindless as blinking, but this time, it caught his attention for some reason. 

Suddenly he realized he didn’t care anymore. If he was going to die soon, what did it matter what other people thought of him? So he just stopped. Stopped pulling his foreskin back. Stopped worrying what others might think.  

And lo and behold, the chronic, debilitating hip pain that he’d been experiencing for nine years just disappeared.

(music begins)

This was a major turning point for him, because now that his hip wasn’t constantly hurting, he could start playing basketball again, a sport he’d always loved to play when he was younger. 

He started to think that healing was more about letting go of habits of thinking and behaving. So over the next year, he worked on identifying other habits that might be detrimental — other things he was doing that stemmed from insecurity. And as he let those habits go, his other symptoms faded away too. It wasn’t overnight, but today he’s 100% healthy and thriving. 

(music fades out)

This revelation was mind-blowing to me. His experience validated my hunch that all the answers were inside of me. 

(contemplative music begins)

Our conversation sparked a whole line of introspective inquiry. Could it be that my condition stemmed from the way I had been thinking about myself? Was I sick because of the self-diminishing thoughts that played in my head like a broken record?

The events of the past few years started running through my head. I had gone back to school and forced myself to finish college because of crippling self-doubt. Because of a sense of obligation. Because of shame and fear. I was afraid to disappoint, afraid I would fail to pay back, afraid I wouldn’t live up to expectations. I was trying hard to please those around me and live by other people’s values. The more I worked to be seen as worthy and valuable to others, the more I felt stressed, anxious, and sick. 

Moving to the farm had been the first thing I had done that was different. It was the first thing I had done for me. My time there had helped me discover my passion for working with the land and growing food. And my illness hadn’t gone away, but it was already a little better. 

The second thing I had done for me was begin to explore my love for music by starting to play the piano again. Piano was something I had always enjoyed growing up, and picking it up again now as an adult felt wonderful. 

All these choices were inspired by something deep inside of me. They were motivated by self-trust, curiosity, and the promise of joy. I was listening to myself, showing love for myself, taking a chance on myself...and that was paying off. I was finding adventure, excitement, soul nourishment and even a bit of healing. My body seemed to be rewarding me for these self-affirming behaviors.

(music fades out)

Around this time, I read a book called The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. In it, he argued that loving is an art. Like any other art, loving well requires a few essential components: care, knowledge, responsibility and respect. He explained that the only way to love another person well is to first cultivate love for yourself. 

(serene music begins)

This was the catalyst that I needed. 

For my birthday last year, I gifted myself a regular journaling practice, and it’s been a total game changer. I record my daily experiences, what I’m thinking and how I’m feeling. I imagine my ideal life in as much detail as possible and give thanks for the ways in which I’m supported in my journey. Writing helps me see myself more clearly, spot destructive patterns, and reorient myself. 

A year ago, I purchased a ring and wrote vows to myself. I promised that I would always take the time to listen to and consider what I want and need. I resolved to have faith in my gut feelings. I committed to seek inner validation instead of external approval. And I decided that I would allow others to grow to appreciate me, instead of desperately working to win their love. I could go on, but I won’t risk getting too sappy.

Eventually, my mind and spirit started to feel lighter. It was a feeling that reminded me of childhood. 

(music grows quieter and then changes tone)

These days I live on a shared piece of land in Southern California, and a few months ago I started a small-scale farm to table project. I sell the produce to my land mates, neighbors, and friends. My room opens to my garden, just like I imagined it would in my ideal life. Watching my plants grow and cultivating local relationships is such a special pleasure.

Evenings, I dedicate a chunk of time to exploring my endless fascination with music. I work on developing a playlist-sharing podcast of my own. I learn new songs to sing, and practice on both keyboard and bass guitar. I’ve sung a cappella at open mics on several occasions, so far. And I’m even trying my hand at writing my own songs. 

Feel free to picture me rubbing my hands together with sheer overflowing eagerness at the wonders that lie ahead.

Oh, yeah…and I’m healthy. While I’ll probably never pinpoint exactly why I’ve recovered, for me health came as a byproduct of joy. Part and parcel of self love.

(music continues for a few moments and then fades out)

WILLOW BELDEN: That was Melat Amha. Melat was one of our production interns this summer. She lives in California, and as she mentioned in her story, she’s looking to start a podcast of her own.

Special thanks to Barn Time Podcast for letting us use their studio to record Melat’s narration. Barn Time is a multimedia podcast produced out of a backyard barn in San Diego, California. They’re part of a multimedia collective aimed at empowering artists and supporting a culture of creativity. You can check them out at barntimemusic.com.

(folksy music begins)

Before you go, I want to share some exciting news: this February, we are going to be launching a brand new season of Out There!

Don’t worry — we’re not changing the format of the podcast. We’ll still be telling the kind of introspective outdoor stories you know and love. We’re just grouping those stories around a common theme, so we can dive deep and — hopefully — make a real difference in your life.

To give you a sneak peak, the theme for our new season is “Things I Thought I Knew.” 

Each episode will explore that theme in some way. The stories will take us from the Appalachian Trail, to a beach in Washington State, to the streets of Boston. There’s even one piece that involves Live Action Role Play. So, it’s fair to say we’re going to cover a wide variety of topics. 

But there’s also a common thread. Each story will show how an outdoor experience uncovered new truths. New truths about ourselves. About our humanity. And about our world.

The season kicks off in early February, and we’ll have more updates as we get closer to then. But for now, I just wanted to let you know that this is coming up. And I also wanted to let you know that we’ll be taking a little break right before the new season launches. I’ll have more on that in our next episode, so tune in on December 16 to hear the latest.

(music fades out)

On our last episode, we brought you a story about fairness in running. We introduced you to a runner from Uganda, named Annet Negesa. Annet is intersex. Even though she’s a woman, she was born with internal testes. And as a result, her testosterone levels were unusually high for a woman. Because of the high testosterone, Annet was not allowed to compete in the Olympics as a woman.

But it now looks like things may be changing.

The same week that our story came out, the International Olympic Committee (or IOC) released a new framework aimed at making sports more inclusive and fair. The framework seeks to ensure that - quote - “athletes are not excluded soleley on the basis of their transgender identity or sex variations.” End quote. 

The framework goes on to say that athletes should not have to undergo the kind of targeted testing that Annet was subjected to. Testing to determine their sex, their gender identity, or sex variations.

The IOC also acknowledges that it’s important to keep competitions fair. Nobody wants a system where certain athletes have an unfair advantage. But they’re now urging sports federations to take an evidence-based approach when they’re establishing rules about who can participate, and in which category. They argue that we shouldn’t simply assume athletes have unfair advantages because of sex variations or transgender status.

The new IOC framework was built after a two-year consultation process with more than 250 athletes and other concerned stakeholders,  including Annet Negesa and another voice you heard on our episode, Dr. Payoshni Mitra. 

I should note that this framework is just that — a framework. These are not regulations. The IOC is leaving it up to the governing bodies for each sport to make the actual rules about inclusion. But this is still a change from previous messaging. It’s a clear call to make elite sports more inclusive, and to ensure that all athletes — regardless of who they are — feel safe and welcomed. 

If you’d like to learn more, I have a link to the IOC’s new framework in the show notes. And of course, if you missed our last episode, where we tell Annet’s story, go ahead and check it out. It’s called “In the Name of Fairness.”

(brief musical interlude)

Support for Out There comes from PeakVisor. PeakVisor is an app that helps you make the most of your adventures in the mountains. 

One of the things they offer is 3D maps to help you plan out your trip. And recently, they updated these maps, so they’re now ultra-high resolution. That means you can see tons of detail — down to individual trees. It’s almost like going for a helicopter ride over the area you want to explore.

Once you’re out on a hike, you can use the app to figure out what you’re looking at. For example, maybe you see a mountain in the distance, and you want to know what it is. PeakVisor will tell you.

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)

As I mentioned at the top of the episode, we’d love to get to know you a little better. So we put together an audience survey. I’d be so grateful if you’d take 10 minutes to fill it out. You can find the link in the episode notes. And after you complete the survey, I’ll send you a free Out There sticker and enter you into a drawing for a chance to win an REI gift card. Thank you so much.

Thank you also to Cathy Rotman, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia for their financial contributions to Out There. If you’re interested in supporting the show as well, go to outtherepodcast.com and click the support tab.

That’s it for this episode. Our 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. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

In the Name of Fairness

By Joe Hawthorne and Sheeba Joseph, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on November 18, 2021

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.

I’ve been producing Out There for almost seven years now. And the show has grown and changed a lot over that time. But one thing has stayed the same: YOU are my number-one priority.

You, the listeners, who tune in and share your time with us. You are always — always — front and center for me. 

My hope is that our stories offer you inspiration, healing, and comfort. Because we all deserve to flourish, no matter how difficult the world around us may be.

In order to produce stories that really make a difference in your life...I’d like to get to know you a little better. 

So my team and I have put together a little survey. I would be so grateful if you’d take a few minutes to fill it out. You can find a link to the survey in the show notes and at our website, outtherepodcast.com.

To thank you for your time, after you complete the survey I’ll send you a free Out There sticker and enter you into a drawing for an REI gift card. Plus, of course, you’ll have my undying gratitude.

Again, just click the link in the show notes to take the survey. 

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Today we’re telling a story about fairness and sports. Running, specifically. 

On the surface, running seems like a pretty fair competition. The winner of the race is the fastest person from point A to point B. And to move up in the ranks, you just have to be a better runner than everyone else. Right?

Turns out, it’s not so simple. “Fairness” is a surprisingly complicated concept. And rules that are meant to ensure fairness can actually end up keeping some of the best athletes from participating.

Joseph Hawthorne has the story.

(Out There theme music ends and spy music begins to play)

JOE HAWTHORNE: John Tarrant and his brother arrived at Doncaster early Easter Monday to case the joint. They drove slowly through the town’s red-brick streets, dodging puddles and onlookers. Victor pulled up and got out to casually scout for security. 

(car door opens and slams shut)

“Bad news,” said Vic. “They’re looking for you.”

This sounds like the scene from a spy movie. But it wasn’t a heist for money. John Tarrant was trying to steal a marathon.

(music fades out)

JOE: Let’s back up. John grew up in England during World War II. After the war, he took up running.   

BILL JONES: He had an innate power, physical power and strength.

JOE: That’s Bill Jones, John Tarrant’s biographer.

BILL: He had great stamina, and he could run endlessly across the hills, along the roads. And that was his time. That was where John could be John.

JOE: As Jones puts it, the act of running awoke something in John. He ran against his own clock, but dreamed about racing top runners, perhaps even making it to the Olympics.

(Olympic-style theme song begins)

So, as a first step, he tried to join the local running club…and he was rejected.

(music ends abruptly)

The reason John was rejected had nothing to do with his prowess as a runner. That was undeniable. Instead, it was because of something he had dabbled in years earlier.

John had briefly taken up boxing. He wasn’t very good, and he didn’t do it for long. But he did earn 17 pounds fighting at a local pub. Turns out, that little bit of money from boxing would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

(soft music begins)

In the 1950s, British racing associations had strict amateurism rules. Sports were supposed to be pure, and earning money at sports was seen as corrupting. It didn’t matter how little the prize was — if you’d ever earned a single penny from sports, you were out.  

BILL: And there was no forgiveness. There was no way he could earn the mercy of the establishment. 

So he stewed on that for years. And, I mean years. He wrote letter after letter after letter. 

JOE: John was rebuffed or ignored by every racing official he contacted, but he was desperate to compete. So he cooked up a radical scheme: if he couldn’t participate in races officially, he’d race unofficially. 

(music fades out)

He’d just jump right into marathons as they started, without being on the race roster.

The first race he identified was a marathon in Liverpool. He traveled there by train. See John couldn’t afford a car to drive, and he snuck into the changing room.

BILL: They were small fields in those days, only 50 or 60 runners, but the best runners in Britain, and some runners from Europe. And they wondered who he was, but he kept quiet.

JOE: And he walked quietly out to the track, right as the race was about to begin. When an official fired the starting gun...

(sound of gun firing and running footsteps)

John jumped up from the crowd and sprinted into the race.

BILL: And immediately the stewards tried to stop him. 

(sound of whistle blowing)

People with loud hailers were calling for this strange man in his black vest, in his old  battered shoes, to stop running. He was an illegal runner — to get out of the race! He was going to spoil the race. 

But they couldn't catch him. They couldn't keep up with him.

(sound of footsteps fades away)

JOE: He didn’t end up winning that day, but within 48 hours articles began to appear in the national press.

John was nicknamed the “Ghost Runner” because racing officials refused to record his existence. 

Over the course of the next few years, John crashed more and more races. By the late 1950s, he was coming in first and second on a regular basis.

Despite his successes, officials pretended he didn’t exist. Every time. If Tarrant finished third, for example, they moved the fourth-place runner up to third, the fifth-place runner up to fourth, and so on. After each competition, he was officially erased.

But as he continued to crash races each weekend, John got an unexpected lift from the BBC.

(sound of wind blowing and running footsteps)

DAVID (BBC REPORTER): Are you training as hard as this every day, John? 

JOHN TARRANT: Yes, every day, David.

DAVID: How many miles are you doing a week?

JOHN: 80 miles a week.

DAVID: And no prospect of competition at all?

JOHN: No prospect of official competition.

DAVID: How long...

JOE: In a rare recorded interview, the newscaster actually joins John on an afternoon run. I wish more TV anchors did this today!

DAVID: Well I must say, John, you’re the most genuine amateur I think I’ve ever met!

(footsteps and wind fade out)

JOE: The positive press encouraged John to go on the offensive.  

BILL: And I think fundamentally, he eventually, he wore the system down in a changing environment. It…he became an embarrassment. He became a situation where it was better to shut him up by allowing him to run, than by allowing him to continue to embarrass the authorities. 

JOE: Eventually the British racing authorities “found” a loophole to let John into domestic races. Tarrant happily shed his “Ghost Runner” persona and was racing up and down the country. 

But as it turned out, his victory at home did not translate to an overall victory for his career. 

(music begins to play)

He was now allowed to compete in the UK, but he was still banned from ANY international competitions. So at these events abroad, Tarrant was back to being the ghost runner — racing unofficially and never earning medals for his victories.  

It wasn’t easy, racing illegally.

When he went to South Africa for a 56-mile ultra marathon called the Comrades race, event officials did everything they could to scare him off. 

BILL: Well, the press was against him. Other runners were instructed not to speak to him. He was not allowed to take refreshments from the roadside tables, over a 56 mile run — therefore, in theory, he was going to have to run 56 miles without a drink. 

There was...letters were circulated by the South African athletics administrators, warning other athletes that merely by sharing the road with John Tarrant, they were themselves in breach of international athletics codes. So John had become a form of virus, you know, and to be in his presence was to be in the presence of something contagious to them.

(music stops)

JOE: And this is where we’re going to pause John’s story, and fast forward in time. 

In the 21st century, Tarrant’s ban is almost absurd. We don’t think it’s right to bar working class athletes from sports for just trying to earn an income. 

Exclusionary practices, though, have not gone away. And it turns out, the reasons WHY we exclude people today are shockingly similar to the reasons people like John Tarrant were excluded decades ago. 

ANNET NEGESA: Running was just like my life.

JOE: That’s Annet Negesa, a modern-day runner from Uganda. Annet specializes in the 800 meters, and she was recognized at an early age.  

ANNET: I was so tiny and slender. By that time I was so small, I was too tiny. And I was running with big people. They were much older and huger than me. I was a slender person. 

JOE: Despite her size, Annet grew into a formidable runner. As she grew, she outpaced any local competition. By 2012, Annet was being hailed as the country’s next great hope for the London Olympics. She spent every day training. But just as she was preparing for the Olympics, she was blindsided.

ANNET: I received a call from my manager, and told me, “You know what? You can't, you can't be allowed to go for that competition.”

(soft music begins)

JOE: Blood tests from the previous year showed that Annet had unusually high levels of testosterone. According to World Athletics authorities, these hormones could give her an unfair advantage in building muscle and endurance. It seemed that Annet would be disqualified.

But from her point of view, Annet was shocked. She hadn’t taken performance enhancing drugs or done anything that could explain her strange blood tests. She had no idea what was going on.  

ANNET: So I was waiting for the manager to explain to me really, because I was not understanding. Me, I was thinking that when I qualify that everything is done.

(music fades out)

JOE: Annet eventually learned that this high testosterone test was a naturally occurring phenomenon.

Testing revealed that Annet was intersex. “Intersex” is a term used to describe people whose anatomy doesn’t fit the traditional definitions of “male” or “female.” For example, this could include someone who was born with genitals that are somewhere in between what’s typical of men and women. Or someone might have physical features that look female on the outside, but have inner anatomy that’s typical of males. 

In Annet’s case, she had internal testes and testosterone levels that were much higher than usual for women. 

To give you some context, you probably know someone who is intersex. About 1.7% of the world’s population is born with intersex traits. That is about as common as having red hair. 

Sometimes a person can live their whole life without ever discovering they’re intersex. 

So you can imagine the shock and bewilderment Annet must have felt upon hearing this life-altering news.

(melancholy music begins)

Because of Annet’s high levels of testosterone, officials from the International Association of Athletics Federation said she wasn’t eligible to compete as a woman. 

When Annet heard the news, she was crushed. Running had been her passion, her life. And now, on the eve of going to the Olympics, she was being turned away. Simply because of who she was.

(music continues for a few notes and then fades out)

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

(sound of a package being opened)

This is the sound of me opening a package from a company called Tentree.

Tentree makes eco-friendly clothing, and for every item sold, they plant 10 trees. They’re also one of our sponsors for this episode.

(more rustling)

WILLOW: Oh my gosh, this is so soft. I might never want to take this off.

WILLOW: One of the things I ordered from Tentree is a hoodie.

WILLOW: Love the colors. They’re like these really beautiful earthy greens and greys. And it’s pretty...it’s casual but stylish at the same time.

WILLOW: Like I said, for every item you buy, Tentree plants TEN TREES. For 15% off your first order, go to tentree.com and enter the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s T-E-N-tree-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE. 

And now, back to the story.

JOE: Sports are all about fairness; we like to think of these games as a true meritocracy.

Of course there’s no such thing as total fairness — people all have different heights, weights, and body structures. But officials are supposed to decide on rules that promote equity and health. For example, that’s why we have regulations on performance enhancing drugs. It’s why we often separate men’s and women’s sports. It’s why there are amateur leagues and professional leagues.

But where do we draw these lines? And who are the rules made for?

VICTORIA JACKSON: The history of modern sports governance is a history of unintended consequences.

JOE: That’s Victoria Jackson. She’s a sports historian at Arizona State University and a former professional runner. 

(soft music begins to play)

To her, there’s a throughline between the Ghost Runner and Annet Negasa. In both of their cases, she says, the governing bodies for their sport designed the rules in the image of their founders. Everyone who didn’t fit that image was excluded. 

In the case of the Ghost Runner, the governing bodies for sports were run by elites.

VICTORIA: So as white, elite Europeans, Americans, and Brits creating a sport, you know, mega-event for themselves, thinking that everyone else needs to live up to their principles — because they're moral, they're pure, they're just, they play sports the right way. And if you want to play with us, you need to live up to our principles.

(music slowly fades out)

JOE: Remember, this was during the Industrial Revolution, a period of radical change. Sports were one way elites could continue to signal their aristocratic class. Athletes that needed to be paid were considered “ungentlemanly” and were excluded.

Over the years, athletes have been separated or excluded for many reasons: race, nationality, sex. For decades, American football, baseball and hockey were segregated based on race. At the time, virtually all of the owners or commissioners of these leagues were white men.

In the 1904 Olympics, segregation was even more blatant. White organizers separated people from non-European countries into so-called Special or “Savage” Olympics.

Even when a marginalized group is included, there are often additional hoops to jump through. Women were allowed to start participating in the Olympics at the beginning of the 20th century, but they had to undergo “sex testing.”

VICTORIA: So there's this perception, which is never validated, that either individuals or the countries they compete for will get men to masquerade as women and try to win at women's events…pretending to be women, but they're really men. 

Because the assumption is that men are automatically athletically superior to women, and also that men will do whatever it takes to win, even if that means pretending to be a woman. 

So in the early period of sex testing, it was like a “line up and show your parts” parade, where medical doctors would, you know, line up the women competing in international competitions and have them show their parts. And the doctor would, you know, confirm that they were all women based on their external genitalia, and then they'd be cleared to compete.

And of course, it’s not both categories of competition. It’s only the women that have to prove they’re women. Men never have to prove they’re men, because, you know, they’re the default category. So of course you don’t have to prove that you’re a man; we just know you are. But if you’re a woman, you have to prove it. And you have to play by what our idea of what a woman is — not yours, not your culture’s, not your community’s. 

JOE: And that brings us to athletes like Annet. In 2012, the International Association of Athletics Federation, what is today called World Athletics, told Annet that her testosterone levels were too high to qualify as a woman. And there was no Olympic category for non-binary athletes, or those with differences of sex development.

(quiet piano music begins)

But Annet is not alone; there are other athletes just like her. 

VICTORIA: But again, bodies exist on spectrums in all sorts of ways, including hormones. So we have lots of women who have high testosterone for all different sorts of reasons: polyovariancystic syndrome is one reason why women have high testosterone, when women are pregnant they have more testosterone in their bodies... 

JOE: These are all naturally occurring phenomena, but they’re still considered unacceptable by governing bodies. 

(music fades out)

As far as we can tell, none of the officials who currently make the rules for international track and field publically identify as having high testosterone, or being intersex. 

To be clear: I’m not trying to vilify athletics officials. We reached out to World Athletics, the governing body of international track. Their stated mission is to ensure fair competition. Over email, the spokesperson explained that athletes with differences of sex development, like Annet, have an unfair advantage. They wrote — quote  — “Without these regulations World Athletics has no way to maintain the separation of male and female categories.” End quote.

Fairness is a worthy goal, but officials have to balance a difficult position. The challenge is that even if you make rules for the right reasons, the end result can still be problematic

VICTORIA: And just the layers and layers and layers of rules that have the perception of kind of clean, scientific, fair, objective rules, they carry a lot of baggage when it's up to humans to make decisions about what is fair, what is clean, what is in violation of the spirit of the sport. And so if the original stakeholders come from a certain class, racial, cultural, social, political, economic background, those founding structures have tentacles that carry into the present, but again, often kind of creating many different unintended results.

(soft guitar music begins)

JOE: Unintended results, like sidelining entire groups of people. People who are exceptional athletes, but don’t fit neatly into the narrow categories we’ve created. People who are too different from those making the rules.

Elite athletes stand apart from the crowd because they are different. Because they are above average. But when sports leagues are slow to adjust for changing times — when we get so hung up on rigid definitions of normalcy — some of the most promising athletes are excluded.

Jackson sees a silver lining, though, which is that people want to win. And not just personally — people want their teams to win. That can create a major incentive to start rethinking who’s allowed to compete.

VICTORIA: And winning is the greatest democratizing force in the history of modern sports, because in order to win you have to expand your talent pool.

JOE: Which means inviting in some of the very people that you might have been excluding.

(music fades out)

JOE: Sports may have democratic elements, but the reality is that the aftermath for these runners isn’t neat. 

John Tarrant became a champion marathoner within the UK, and he traveled to South Africa for several ultra-marathons. He was one of the few notable athletes to protest Apartheid in sports there. But John was never able to fulfill his dream of competing in the Olympics. And that wasn’t easy on him.

BILL: The realization that he couldn't run internationally really, really hurt him. 

JOE: Here’s Bill Jones again, the Ghost Runner biographer.

BILL: When I was researching this book, and I found all his correspondence, which his wife had kept. The thing that moved me the most was the letter from the International Amateur Athletics Federation, which was...which began, “Dear Tarrant.” It didn't even begin, “Dear Mr. Tarrant.” And it was informing him that he would never be allowed to run overseas or for Britain. 

And the letter had been opened and folded so many times — clearly shown to friends, clearly shown to runners, clearly shown to people who might help him — opened and closed, opened and closed. The corners of the folds had worn through and, and the sort of dirt of his fingers was visible along the crease marks. 

The indignity this...the, the humiliation, the frustration was, was, was palpable in this single letter. 

JOE: John Tarrant died at 43 from stomach cancer.

(music begins)

Annet Negesa has also had a hard go of it. She was one of the most promising athletes in Africa, but she’s also never made it to the Olympics.

World Athletics rules stated that if athletes underwent a physician-approved treatment to reduce their testosterone levels, they could be reinstated. Later in 2012, a gonadectomy was performed on Annet to remove her internal testes. This was meant to address the source of her high testosterone, although Annet later said she did not understand the extent of the surgery. Critically, though, the procedure was performed too late for her to compete in the 2012 Olympics. She never received the proper hormone treatment after the surgery, making it hard to recover as an athlete and as a patient.

Just a few years later, the World Medical Association put out a press release advising physicians not to carry out surgeries like the one Annet had, because the procedures are not medically required or even recommended for healthy individuals — they’re only intended so that athletes can compete in sports.

(music fades out)

The ordeal didn’t just ruin Annet’s running career; it derailed her life. Uganda has a disturbing history with non-traditional identities. There have been calls to murder people just for being gay. People were less than welcoming about Annet’s situation

ANNET:  No one can give you a job. Because now like differentiating you when you go to the office, they say is this a woman or man? Woman or man? Such things really discourages someone's mind. 

JOE: Annet eventually fled because she felt unsafe remaining in Uganda. She gained asylum in Germany in 2019. 

After keeping silent about her experiences for seven years, she began sharing her story, and she has started training again. Annet's hoping that her story will bring change and awareness to the rules, but she knows it's going to be an uphill battle.

PAYOSHNI: For the longest time, athletes with high testosterone were told that they were cheaters. 

JOE: That’s Dr. Payoshni Mitra, an Athletes’ Rights Activist for High T athletes like Annet.

PAYOSHNI: They were made to feel as if they were cheating, but they have never doped. This is high testosterone which is naturally occurring high testosterone. So there is nothing to hide about it, there is nothing to be ashamed about it. This is how they are born. 

JOE: As Dr. Mitra explains, a lot of athletes are ashamed about their exclusion, and afraid to reach out.

PAYOSHNI: This is such an issue where you don’t expect an athlete to believe that that athlete can be supported by someone. So athletes feel so vulnerable and so helpless. And they feel that, they don't, they really don't understand that there is another option, there could be someone who could help them somehow. 

So athletes generally don't reach out. Also the fact that they're often told by these Federations and Federation Officials that there's something wrong about them, there is a reason to hide, whatever it is. And athletes tend to believe in that and not reach out to people who might be of help. 

JOE: These aren’t happy endings. These are athletes making the best of what they have — trying to follow their dreams in a world where the rules, however well intentioned, have shut them out. Here’s sports historian Victoria Jackson again.

VICTORIA: You know these, these governing bodies are suspicious of the athletes, but the athletes have the right to be suspicious of the governing bodies as well. And it takes incredible courage for these runners to say “no” to these powerful institutions, when all they want to do is run as themselves and compete. We should be paying as much attention to the consequences of rules as the rules themselves. 

(soft music begins)

JOE: Dr. Mitra takes it one step further. To her, fair play, inclusivity and health are all intertwined. At a basic level, she says, a race is fair when everyone can take the same playing field.

PAYOSHNI: The way fairness is sort of defined today, and the way inclusion and fairness seem to be sort, you know, on opposite sides, is actually not true. Inclusion is fairness. 

WILLOW: That story was reported and produced by Joseph Hawthorne and Sheeba Joseph.

Joe is a producer for a new podcast from Campside Media, called Eclipsed. It’s a weekly narrative history podcast that re-investigates important events from the past that were overshadowed.

Sheeba is Out There's Audience Growth Director and she’s a freelance producer based in New York. She's currently working on another story about Annet Negesa. That story is a more in-depth look at Annet’s experience and her activism. It’s going to run on a podcast called “The Long Game,” which is a co-production of Foreign Policy and Doha Debates. The Long Game takes you around the world to meet athletes who are fighting for change, and it’s hosted by Olympic medalist Ibtihaj Muhammed. You can find it wherever you listen to podcasts.

If you’d like to learn more about the Ghost Runner, check out the biography that Bill Jones wrote about him. It’s called Ghost Runner: The Tragedy of the Man They Couldn't Stop.

I have a link to all those items in the show notes, at outtherepodcast.com.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There, we’ll have a story about a woman named Melat Amha, who suffered from a mysterious illness — for YEARS.

MELAT AMHA: I went to the doctor. Many, many doctors. I was told that the heartburn was caused by stomach acid washing up into my esophagus. Ok, but why is it doing that? They didn’t know. They explained that the food sensitivities were likely caused by food particles escaping my gut and causing my immune system to freak out. Sure, but why are there suddenly holes in my intestine? Again, nothing.

WILLOW: And then Melat moved to a farm. And everything changed. Tune in on Dec. 2 to hear that story.

(cheerful music begins to play)

It’s time now for community classifieds. Today’s classified ad comes from Jesse McNeil. Jesse has a new book out called On the Hoof: Pacific to Atlantic, A 3,800-Mile Adventure. At times carpenter, commercial fisherman, dabbler in real estate...Jesse decided to buy an untrained horse, make himself into a horseman, and ride all the way across the United States. On the Hoof is about that adventure. Ask for it at your favorite bookseller or order from horseandriderbooks.com.

(music fades out)

Don’t forget that you can get a free Out There sticker, and be entered into a drawing for a chance to win an REI gift card, if you fill out our listener survey! Just click the link in the show notes or to go outtherepodcast.com. Thank you SO much.

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our 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. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Riding Past Fear

By Tanya Chawla, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on November 4, 2021

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 footsteps on a trail)

WILLOW BELDEN: This is a sound that occurs in my life a lot. It’s the sound of me hiking.

And because I hike a lot, there are often times when I need to pee in the woods. Which raises a question of logistics. I could bring along toilet paper, but I don’t want to have to pack it out. And I also don’t like to drip dry.

Enter Kula Cloth.

Kula Cloth is a high-tech pee cloth. It’s made with antimicrobial fabric, and it has a waterproof backing, so you don’t get your fingers wet. You can use it in lieu of toilet paper any time you’re out on an adventure.

Kula Cloth is one of our sponsors, and they have a special deal, just for you. You can get 15% off your order by going to outtherepodcast.com/kula and entering the promo code outtherepodcast15. Again, that’s out-there-podcast-dot-com-slash-K-U-L-A, promo code outtherepodcast15.

(sound of footsteps comes to an end)

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

Ok to start things off today, who’s up for a challenge?

I don’t know about you, but I think challenges are a fun way to motivate myself. They’re a way to get myself doing things that I find meaningful.

The challenge I’m proposing today is this: I’d like to ask you to share Out There with your friends. At the end of the year, I’ll tally up how many referrals everyone has. The person with the MOST referrals will get a chance to be interviewed by the Out There team, and we’ll make a personalized audio story for you, based on that interview.

It’s super easy to get in on the fun. Just go to outtherepodcast.com/share to sign up for your own personal referral link, which you can share with your friends. When your friends click the link and listen to Out There, you’ll automatically be in the running for this challenge.

If you already have a referral link, just keep using that! And all your past referrals will count toward this challenge.

Again, the person with the most referrals by December 31 wins a custom-made story from us. Go to outtherepodcast.com/share — or click the link in the show notes — to get started. That’s outtherepodcast.com/share.

I think this is going to be really fun!

One other announcement: we have a brand new line of Out There merch! We have t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, even decorative throw pillows. And in addition to our regular logo-wear, we have a gorgeous new design by Wyoming artist Ashley Quick. It’s beautiful and fun, and I think you’re going to really love it. 

Check it all out at outtherepodcast.com. Just click on the Merch tab. Again, that’s outtherepodcast.com.

And now, on to our story for today.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Imagine the bones growing in your body. Now imagine they’re like glass. They break every time you fall, and they grow in twisted ways because of tumors. Every year, you have to have surgery to remove the tumors. 

This was childhood for Will Cox. Because he was so fragile, he grew up fearful. Fearful of injury, fearful of the outside world. And this fear…became overpowering. It started to control his life.

That was probably the way his future would have played out — had it not been for a mountain bike. 

Tanya Chawla has the story. And — trigger warning  — this story discusses depression and suicidal thoughts. There’s also some adult language.

(theme music ends)

WILL COX: So as to date I am 24 years old, and I think I've had some 30 odd surgeries. 

(rhythmic music begins to play)

I've had surgeries from head to toe — on my ankles, my knees, my hip, my shoulders, even a couple on my chest.

TANYA CHAWLA: That’s Will Cox. Will has a rare genetic bone disorder called osteochondromatosis. 

Picture the area where two bones meet. That’s called a growth plate. And Will’s growth plates develop these tumors — non-cancerous, but still tumors.

WILL: And that causes your bones to grow in sort of weird, twisted ways. Like, my arms are kind of weird. My shoulders and my hips don't have like quite the motion that an average person would have. 

And this disorder, the only way that you can treat it effectively is to have the tumors removed, so that just means a whole bunch of surgeries.

(music fades out)

TANYA: Along with all the surgeries, when Will was a kid, his bones were also unusually fragile.

WILL: I've broken both my legs, at least twice. And then both my arms, five or six times. 

If a slide was too vertical, I wouldn't do that kind of slide. If I fell off the monkey bar, then I would, I would just, break both my legs, and then an arm too, or something. 

There's this one time I was in a Radio Shack, and I was just walking around in the Radio Shack with my dad, and I just tripped and fell and — boom — broke both the bones that time too.

TANYA: It was a rough childhood. A childhood full of trips to the hospital, and medications — both for his bone disorder and for ADHD. 

And all of that made it hard for him to do things other kids were doing. 

WILL: Other kids were playing, you know, starting to play sports but I never did anything — really like play soccer, even, just go on a run, jog; you know, simple stuff.

And there was one time where I wanted to actually try playing soccer. And, it's just kids playing soccer, you don't actually have to be good, but I guess I was worse enough that they wouldn't even let me be part of the team in a sense. They just sort of let me on the sidelines, right. Gave me a pair of binoculars and said, “Uh, tell the goalie when the ball is getting close to him.”

At first I honestly kind of got into it, because I thought I was helping out the team, but then I realized what I was doing was pointless, because the goalie can see the ball. Like it's all he's doing is watching the ball. What am I doing? Just sitting over there looking pretty.

Eventually it did dawn on me that what I was doing was just worthless and I kinda just put the binoculars down and just sat in the corner there.

(quiet background music begins)

TANYA: We’ve all been there. Being young and wanting to do what all the other kids are doing. But Will wasn’t given the chance. And that shattered his confidence. 

That experience on the soccer field made Will turn his back on the outdoors. 

He already knew the outdoors could hurt him. He'd broken bones just tripping on a rock. And now, a kids' soccer game left him feeling lonely and isolated. 

WILL: It definitely made me see the world as a really dangerous, scary, evil place. And made me wanna kind of just be inside and do not much.

(Will chuckles)

I was not very strong. I was not very durable. So it just sort of made me see threats everywhere. 

So a lot of my free time was spent inside playing video games, building Legos. 

(music fades out)

TANYA: As Will got older, his fear took on a mind of its own and started making decisions for him. 

Here’s a story from when he was in high school.

WILL: Me and my friends were going to a beach in Santa Cruz, and there's this beach where you can walk all the way along the beach to where it’s sort of like a stone wall. And you can climb up the stone wall and just keep going onto the other side of the beach basically.

But it's really high. And to climb up to the top, you have to sort of like be on the side of the cliff, and hold on to this rope that people have nailed into the side of the rock. 

So it's, it's pretty terrifying. Cause you fall off, you fall into the ocean, into the rocks below. I'm pretty sure even someone more durable than me would not be okay. 

So every single one of my friends went to the top of the damn thing. Except me. 

(soft guitar music begins)

And I was too afraid to actually get up to the top. They were like, “Oh no, dude, it's all good. You know, it's like, it's just a stupid hike or whatever, right?” Just, didn't seem afraid. And I just felt filled with fear. Like I couldn't move.

TANYA: This was more than just a fear of heights. It was a fear of injury, it was fear of breaking his bones again.

And the result was that Will was left out — again. But this time, it wasn’t other people who were holding him back; it was his fear.

WILL: Fear isn't like a tangible thing, you know? You can't touch it, you can't see it, you can't smell it. So you think that you can get some kind of grip on it, right? Like you can, if you're afraid you can take a deep breath or something, and then that feeling's gonna just subside— or you'll, you'll have some kind of control — but the reality of the situation is you just kind of feel afraid, and you just get stuck in that feeling, you know? 

(music fades out)

TANYA: Will’s fear touched almost every corner of his life, even things unrelated to his condition. 

WILL: I mean, when I was a kid, I was kinda just afraid, like all the time. Like I know that sounds harsh but…have you ever seen a mosquito eater? It looks just like a giant mosquito, and the name is pretty apt to what they do. They just eat mosquitoes.  All my life I've been terrified of these things. They're just, they're awful. 

(quiet background music begins)

TANYA: Will was also afraid to talk to people. He always had a lot of social anxiety. 

WILL: I've kind of always been really introverted, you know, like large crowds make me nervous and all that shit. Loud noises and all that stuff — no good. 

Growing up, I didn't necessarily go to a lot of those like school social events, those dances and shit like that. I'd just stay home, do homework. 

So it was sort of my inability to connect with people, you know, like, uh, I had such a different life experience. And it's such a different point of view that when I would converse with people, it wouldn't click, you know what I mean? I was way too serious, honestly. I just, that, that weird kid who just couldn't seem to enjoy life.

My mortality was kind of just way too...I was way too aware of it.

(music fades out)

TANYA: As Will got older, the fear morphed into depression. A crippling depression. Depression so bad that he checked himself into a mental hospital. 

After getting out, he started college, hoping the change would help. But it didn’t, and eventually he dropped out.

WILL: I got really depressed about the whole thing. Like I felt like it was kind of an unsolvable problem. And when you get depressed, it's kind of hard to see anything else than just the, uh, the shit.

I thought that that was just going to be what life was: taking drugs — taking the medication, doing things I didn't want to do. The fucking black hole of nothingness.

It was just, it was getting to the point where I didn't feel safe around myself. And it turned into me being pretty darn suicidal.  

(subdued music begins)

TANYA: Things came to a head one day when he was on his lunch break from work.  

WILL: It was the stupidest fucking thing. I was going, getting lunch at Jack in the Box and the, the cashier, the person who hands you your food, forgot the honey mustard for my chicken nuggets. And that was the start of just total awfulness. Cause I was already kind of having a bad day, and food is kind of a weird thing with me.  

The ADHD medication really messes with your appetite. It really just makes you not want to eat. I'm super, super picky. I need things to be kind of the way they need to be. Otherwise I just can't eat it. So not having honey mustard was a big no-no. 

I just kind of had like a, a really bad panic attack in the parking lot and it was on my lunch break, right. So my 30-minute lunch break eventually came to 45 minutes, and then to an hour. So my boss came looking for me because he's like, you know, “What the fuck's going on?” 

And I was just like in the car crying and, uh, I think I went to the mental hospital like a couple hours after that.

(music fades out)

TANYA: This was the second time Will had admitted himself into a mental hospital. 

And it was here that he hit rock bottom.

WILL: My lowest point was probably like, after that sitting in my room. My fear and depression and all that shit was just too much.

This is going to sound awful, but I feel like rock bottom is kind of necessary. When you're spiraling out of control, you got to eventually hit rock bottom because, if you don't, then it's just going to keep going. And once you hit that rock bottom, that's where you can find the strength to actually go all the way up. 

(music begins)

So, at that moment I decided that, since I've, you know, gone to so many other people — hospitals and, you know, got ideas from other people and all that shit — that I was just going to take total control of my life, because getting, you know, advice and help from other people just wasn't working. 

So I stopped taking all of the medications, stopped going to the doctor's appointments, stopped having surgeries. Just sort of started doing more normal things, I guess.

(music changes tone)

TANYA: OK, so reality check. This was pretty radical.

But it wasn’t quite as far out as it sounds. As for the surgeries, Will was fully grown by now. And when you stop growing, the tumors in your growth plates stop growing too. So it wasn’t that risky to stop having more surgeries.

And in terms of going off of his medication, Will admits, going cold turkey is not the best. He experienced withdrawals, life became a lot harder, his depression got heavier...

It’s like a faucet that hasn’t been open for ages. When it’s opened for the first time in a long time, it spews out guck. The water’s dirty. It’s gross. But give it some time, and the water starts gushing out clear.

This was Will’s guck. Yes, it was tough — Will was feeling all sorts of raw emotions. But something inside of him was telling him he was moving in a better direction. He was moving towards clear water. 

(music ends)

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

One of the things I’ve been trying to do lately is be intentional about the things I buy. Whenever possible, I want the stuff I purchase to be eco-friendly.

But sustainable shopping is often easier said than done. Doing the research takes time, and let’s face it — I would rather be out hiking or biking than combing the internet to figure out which brands are easy on the environment.

This is where a company called tentree comes in.

Tentree is one of our sponsors for this episode, and they are a great place to find all sorts of essentials that are guaranteed to be earth friendly.

They sell clothing, activewear, outerwear, underwear, and more. And they plant TEN TREES with every item purchased. 

To learn more about tentree’s planting mission (and grab some comfy, sustainable clothing) go to tentree.com. Use the promo code OUTTHERE to get 15% off your first order. That’s T-E-N-tree-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE. 

And now, back to the story.

WILL: The first time I remember doing something like normal in a sense, right, it was me going with my group of friends to this bonfire. 

(soft but plucky music begins)

TANYA: And there was beer at this bonfire, and alcohol was one of the many things that Will was afraid of. He thought:

WILL: A sip of a beer would, you know, like the liquid would start melting my throat and I’d just die — convulsive seizure right there. 

TANYA: But he was tired of his fear. 

WILL: I feel like at a certain point you just kind of get sick of being afraid, you know. Like it's, it's not fun. You just sit there and you feel bad, and then you don't get to do the fun things that other people are doing. 

So you just kind of get fed up with not doing nothing and then you do something, and sometimes it might be too rash, but oftentimes it's kind of like that the push you need to break the threshold or whatever.

TANYA: So he had his first sip of beer at this bonfire. And lo and behold, the beer did not cause any convulsive seizures. 

WILL: Yeah, so I started doing more normal things like hanging out with friends, and staying out late, doing typical teenager kind of things. And I felt like that, that really helped me. You know like, it made me feel like I wasn't so different from everybody else.

Because once you start facing your fears, it’s just, it's like dominoes; it all becomes easier. Like that one fear it’s like, ‘Oh yeah, I did that. Maybe I could do this.’ And then, you know, then you start moving onto the big fears.

TANYA: The big fears. Like getting seriously injured. Participating in outdoor activities. 

(music fades out)

For Will, tackling this big fear started with a neighbor. A neighbor who mountain-biked. Chris.

WILL: He was an amazing mountain biker. It was like...he could do the stuff TV people do.

And it really inspired me. Like I wanted to be able to do what he did. You know, I've always been able to ride a bike, but he — he makes it look like it's art.

(upbeat music begins)

TANYA: Now mountain biking is an inherently dangerous sport. Even people who are perfectly healthy can get seriously injured doing it. 

But Will was on a yes streak. 

WILL: Being off the medication and doing more things that I wanted to do, I decided that I was going to try to bike more. Just cause I wanted to hang out with Chris, honestly. 

So I bought a bike from him, and we just kind of went around doing bike stuff. Like bike around the town and, you know, he'd honestly just show off and I'd just sit there drooling. I'd be like, “Oh my God.” 

TANYA: Will was scared at the beginning, but something about watching Chris mountain bike was captivating. He wanted to push himself, he wanted to get better. 

(music ends)

One day he went to a bike festival with Chris and tried out an e-bike, an electric bicycle. You still pedal, but there’s a motor to help you out. 

WILL: And, the motor on it made you be able to, you know, you could be 300 fricking pounds and bike straight up a 20% incline, 20 miles an hour.  It made me be able to keep up with my really skilled friends. 

Pretty much my whole life, I've just been the last picked for the team, you know what I mean? So being around people who were always first picked for the team and not being last picked, like being part of the group, was pretty self-fulfilling. 

It made me want to get more physically fit so that I could actually keep up on no motor required. 

TANYA: So he started practicing.

(upbeat music begins) 

WILL: I took my little dirt jumper and I just started to practice riding the, a, little two-mile stretch of road from my house to this little viewpoint.

At first it was, it was grueling. Like the first hundred feet I’d be pouring sweat, on the ground, panting, wanting to die. And it ended up like that for like the first couple times. And then eventually you get strong enough to, uh, set little goals, right? 

I’d try to bike all the way to this big old boulder without getting off the bike. And, you know, eventually you get halfway to the boulder, get all the way to the boulder, you get a little past. And eventually I got up to biking all the way to the viewpoint without getting off the bike. 

So it just kind of, it adds up — you do half a mile, and half a mile turns into a mile, and a mile turns into two, and two turns into three.

(music ends)

TANYA: Will kept biking, kept going farther and farther. But his fear of serious injury hadn’t gone away. 

And then something happened. Something that changed everything he knew about that fear. 

(lively music begins)

I was biking at UCSC, pretty fast, following my friend, we were towards the end of the trail. And there was a rut in the trail where the water had eaten it out.

I saw it coming up. I was like, ‘Oh, this is going to be weird.’

And I had a choice to either, you know, get off the bike — not hit that feature — or ride through. And I decided, you know, I'm going to ride through.

I don't know if you know, but when you ride over ruts, you're supposed to lean back, as to not have too much weight over the front handlebars.

I did not know this. So I had too much weight on my front handlebars, and my wheel dug into that, that little rut. I flew over the handlebars.

I thought like, as I was falling, mid-fall, I was, I was sure that I was going to have to have like an airlift out of there, or my leg was going to be broken…something was just going to be not good. 

(music ends)

TANYA: Will hits the ground.

WILL: I think I sat there for like a good 30 seconds, just kind of laying on the ground. Just like, ‘What's going on? It's all good? This is it?’

TANYA: So, pause. Here’s a kid who broke his leg at a Radio Shack. And now he’s just had his bike land on top of him after a 360, and he’s FINE? No broken bones?

Yeah, yeah no broken bones. 

(airy music begins)

Will still doesn’t know why he escaped that accident unharmed. But the upshot was that he was fine. 

WILL: It's certainly a moment that I conquered my fear. You know, going into it, like, I saw that rut and I was like, ‘Oh, okay. This is, this is going to be interesting. What's going to happen?’

But fear, it's weird. You're afraid. You're afraid. You're afraid. 

But then you do it and it doesn't, you don't get hurt. You're like, ‘Oh shit. That's, that's pretty cool.’ And then it kind of slowly turns into excitement. 

So, how far can you push that? 

Within that year, I started riding, you know, 5, 10, 20...started pushing 30 miles. My parents are fitter than me. And they’re numbers that could, you know, impress them. It felt good, it made me feel like I was part of the crew, you know, worthy.

(music fades out)

TANYA: The accident didn’t just help Will conquer his fear. It paved the way for changing his life.

WILL: Yeah, it was kind of like a systemic change. I started eating better. I started being more healthy. Just being, being able to do things that I didn't think I could do made me more confident in other aspects of my life. 

After that, like I, I strike up conversations with people at the store. I would talk with my barista and all that shit. Like, stuff that I would just never do before.

I'm no longer afraid of mosquito eaters. Since falling off the bike wasn't very scary anymore, then all the bugs and the, you know, the scary people and things that just generally terrified me just didn't do that anymore.

TANYA: Will was starting to feel normal. 

WILL: Like, I hate that word. Cause it's, there's no such thing as normal. But it made me feel included. Definitely happier. 

I was doing things that I wanted to do, and I didn't, you know...there's challenges in everything you do, but these challenges weren't like defeating me, you know. They weren't just totally awful, you know. I didn't just go in — lose, lose, lose. I was going in, I may lose once or twice, but eventually I would actually get it done. I'd win. 

So, gave me a sense of hope.

(cheerful music begins)

Nowadays I spend probably like 90, if not almost all my time — all my free time — outdoors. Biking, hiking, climbing, doing all kinds of stuff. I'm even trying to work my professional life into my hobbies. Like find a way to bike and get paid, or something like that.

TANYA: Now of course, Will’s condition hasn't gone away. He’s left sore. He needs to rest more than other people. He has these bumps and lumps all over his body. He hasn’t broken any bones yet, but he has torn his ACL. And he’s still aware of his own mortality. 

But his fear isn’t limiting him anymore. That’s the difference. 

WILL: Before, I wanted to probably spend every day of my life inside until I die. Now, I can't, I can't even, like I can't even wrap my head around that thought. That's just like crazy.

Being on a bike, it's like an expression of, of human freedom, you know? Like when, when I'm on the bike, it's, it's like I'm sitting at an easel or something, you know. It's, it's...my bike is my paintbrush, and the trails are my canvas.  

WILLOW: That story was reported and written by Tanya Chawla. Tanya is one of our most recent production interns. She’s a sophomore at UC Berkeley.

Editorial assistance for this story from Melat Amha.

(music fades out)

If you have a friend who you think would enjoy this episode, please share it with them! Go to outtherepodcast.com/share to sign up for your personal referral link. And as I mentioned at the top of the show, whoever has the most referrals by the end of 2021 will get a custom-made story from us. 

And in the meantime, there are lots of different rewards you can earn along the way. 

Get in on the fun by going to outtherepodcast.com/share. Or just click the link in the show notes.

Thank you so much!

Thank you also to all of our financial supporters, including Sam Shopinski, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia. I’m so grateful for your generosity. 

If you’re not yet supporting the show and you would like to, you can become a patron for as little as $2 a month. Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. That’s P-A-T-R-E-O-N-dot-com-slash-out-there-podcast and I have a link to that in the show notes as well. 

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Choosing a Line

By Grace Gordon, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on October 21, 2021

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: If you’ve been feeling some wanderlust lately, you might be interested in a podcast called Out Travel the System. 

Out Travel the System is one of our sponsors. It’s brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel, including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter. 

Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts.

(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.

To start things off today, I have a quick announcement: all of our t-shirts, tank tops, stickers, and other merch is currently on sale! We’re making way for a new line of products, and all our existing inventory is 40% off. It’s selling fast, so if you want something, make sure to put in your order soon. Just go to outtherepodcast.com and click on the merch tab.

And now, on to our story for today.

(theme music ends)

We often hear that you shouldn’t worry about what society thinks of you — that you should chart your own course in life. Be true to yourself. Trust your intuition.

But oftentimes, that’s easier said than done. What if your intuition is giving you mixed messages? What if different parts of you are at odds? How do you know if you’ve made a mistake by following your gut?

Today’s story takes us from the mountains of Colorado to the hills of Ohio, and explores the difficult process of learning to trust yourself — both on a mountain bike, and in life. 

Grace Gordon has the story.

(music begins to play)

GRACE GORDON: When I was a newbie mountain biker, I used to think there was one correct line on the trail that I had to follow. A “line,” for mountain bikers, is the path you follow on a particular section of trail. You decide how to navigate around rocks and other obstacles, so you don’t end up in a wreck.

As a novice, I worked hard to stick to the lines my boyfriend chose. I followed exactly where his tires touched the trail. If he went around a rock, I went around the rock in the same way. It was comforting to have him lead me down the trail. By following his line, I knew I was safe. I was doing things right.

(music ends)

He was a great teacher, and I quickly fell in love with mountain biking. Over the several years of our relationship, I took any and every opportunity to get out and ride. We rode in the mountains and the desert, and everywhere in between!  He was my coach, my cheerleader, and my personal bike mechanic.  

Eventually, my confidence in my skills as a mountain biker grew, and I began experimenting with my own line choice. I found that even if I didn’t follow exactly where my boyfriend went on the trail, it worked for me. In fact, my line often worked better for me than his.

But it didn’t take long for that confidence to be called into question. Turns out, charting your own path on the trail — and in life — isn’t a linear process. It’s not always as glamorous as you might expect.

(rustic music begins to play)

From the outside, I was living the perfect, outdoorsy life. A life that I always thought I wanted. I lived in Durango, Colorado, which is a nature lover’s paradise. We went on outdoor adventures every weekend. I was surrounded by natural beauty. And my boyfriend loved me deeply. And yet, something was eating away at me on the inside. Something I wasn’t quite ready to admit to anyone — even myself.

(music fades out)

I ignored it for a long time. But then one day, my dad called. He explained that his prostate cancer had returned. Or, maybe it wasn’t ever really gone after a surgery he had 10 years prior.  Either way, it was in my dad’s body and it had metastasized. He would have to go to daily radiation treatments for six weeks and see if that would help. 

I remember feeling like I couldn’t breathe. I also remember knowing, in that moment, that I needed to make some changes in my life. Big changes.

(delicate music begins)

Within three months, I was packing up my car and heading back to my childhood home in Central Ohio. The trip could have been temporary. I could have stayed just long enough to help my dad through radiation. But that wasn’t what I was doing. 

The news about my dad had shaken something loose inside me. I knew I needed a fresh start. A giant reset. So I decided to leave Colorado for good. And leave my boyfriend.

It was not an easy decision. I truly loved him, and he had been so good to me. But if I’m being honest, I also felt like I was dying inside a little. For some time already, I had had an inner knowing that I wanted to be dating women. This inner knowing had been clawing away at my soul. Now, on that two day drive home to Ohio, I made the commitment to listen to my gut and begin identifying as queer. 

(music fades out) 

When I told my family and friends that I now identified as queer, a lot of them were confused. To start with, they didn’t understand the term. They thought the word “queer” was derogatory. I found myself explaining that queer was a term that actually meant freedom for me, because being queer just means that you identify as anything but heterosexual. It was my statement that you don’t need to know the details, but I am now part of the LGBTQ+ community.  

Another common question was, “You’re 37.  How did you not know this when you were younger?” 

I found myself explaining that it is actually very common for women, especially, to realize later in life that they identify as queer. It is so hard to recognize these feelings when you fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum of sexuality, because our society is so heteronormative. 

Despite all the questions, I found most of these conversations with family and friends to be healing. I could tell they were trying to better understand me, which typically came from a place of love and eventually led to acceptance. The people who I confided in when I first returned to Ohio became my support system. 

(quiet music begins to play)

That didn’t make it easy though. Moving home to be closer to my family while my dad was treated for cancer, was like ripping a Band-Aid off that was attached with duct tape on tender, vulnerable skin. It was a combination of heart ache and raw sting. 

First, there was the fear that my dad might not recover from his illness. I remember helping family stack firewood one fall afternoon. I asked when dad was going to be able to help with chores like this again.  

My mom stopped stacking wood and looked at me. There was a long pause and tears were in her eyes. I could tell she was trying to figure out what to say, and finally, she answered, “He might never be able to do tasks that are this physical again.” 

I was shocked. My dad had always been so strong and energetic. The thought that he might never be able to do something as simple as stacking firewood seemed unimaginable. At that moment the danger he faced suddenly seemed very real. And the world around me felt fragile and precarious.

(music fades out)

In addition to the constant worry about my dad, I had a lot of confusing feelings about my decision to leave Colorado. Even though it had been my choice to leave, I found myself mourning my old life. I missed my boyfriend, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake in ending our relationship. 

I wanted to try dating women, but now that I had the chance to do that, I was scared. All of a sudden, I wasn’t just talking about the IDEA of dating a woman, I actually had the opportunity to do it.  And that was somehow terrifying. 

All these questions swirled in my head. What if I didn’t enjoy dating women? Would that mean I had made the wrong choice — thrown away a healthy, loving relationship for no reason? 

Or even scarier, what if I DID enjoy dating women? Yes, I had followed my gut. I had chosen the course I thought would make me happy. But would my life be that much harder because of it?  

As a society, we’ve made a lot of progress in accepting the LGBTQ+ community, but queer people still face so many challenges. For example, I understood that coming out at work was a danger. Queer Ohio workers are not protected by any laws regarding discrimination based on their sexual orientation. I wondered, if I couldn’t be my true self at work, where was I safe to be myself?  

I had been so sure that it was time to start picking my own line in life…but now? The reality was lonely and isolating. 

 (more upbeat music begins to play)

To help heal the pain and process all of these unfamiliar feelings, I turned to something that had always brought me solace back in Colorado: mountain biking.

One weekend I went over to a trail outside of Columbus. I was looking forward to some fresh air and exercise. And I was also looking forward to kicking some serious butt on the trail. After all, I learned how to mountain bike in Colorado. And this is just Ohio. There aren’t even mountains in Ohio! This was going to be easy. I was looking forward to feeling strong and capable.

I started out on the six-mile loop and quickly found out this was NOT going to be easy. I was used to rocks and dust from the trails in Colorado, but here in Ohio, the trails were full of mud and wet, slippery tree roots. 

I remember trying to climb this stairway of wet, slick roots and my tires just couldn’t hold the bumps. I tried it several times and the bike slipped out from underneath me each time. I skinned the side of my knee when I fell. 

I relished, in a strange way, the pain of the skinned knee because it felt good to have an external wound to focus on rather than my internal wounds. Blood ran down my knee, and hot tears ran down my face. I was angry at every root and log. I was angry at myself — and my inability to overcome the physical and the internal challenges I faced. 

(music fades out)

During that first ride, I ran into a lot of obstacles on the trail. Each time I failed to navigate what should have been an easy stretch of trail, these feelings of self hatred would bubble up and several times I ended up in tears of frustration in the middle of the trail. I made it through the ride that day, but I didn’t go back to that trail for a long time.

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

If you’re like Grace, and you spend a lot of time outside, chances are you also end up going to the bathroom outdoors sometimes.

And if you’re female, and/or you squat when you pee, you have to figure out the logistics. Do you bring along toilet paper, and then pack it out when you’re done? Do you drip dry?

Let’s be honest: neither of those options are very appealing. So what to do?

This is where something called the Kula Cloth comes in. Kula Cloth is one of our sponsors. They make high-tech reusable pee cloths.

Pee cloths are just what they sound like. They are something to use instead of toilet paper, when you have to pee outdoors. I’ve been using them for years, and they are a total game-changer! Worth every penny.

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.

GRACE: Over the next few months, I went on a lot of solo rides. They were solo out of necessity. I didn’t know any other mountain bikers in Ohio, so I had to go by myself. And because I was alone with my thoughts for hours on end, my mind went into overdrive.

(soft music begins to play)

Outdoor activities have always given me the space to process complicated feelings. But in this case, the feelings just kept churning around and around in my brain. It was like there were two different parts of me that couldn’t ever come to an agreement. 

One part of me knew that to be happy in the long run, I needed to embrace my queer identity. Outwardly, I was embracing that identity. I had talked about it with my friends and family. They were all supportive. 

And yet, another part of me was angry at myself. Deep down, I still didn’t accept my own sexuality. It felt shameful. Wrong. Why couldn’t I just be “normal”? It would make my life so much easier if I could just feel peace dating men. 

(music fades out)

It took me a good nine months before I started dating. Finally, I went on some apps and started making plans to meet up with other women. I hoped this would help relieve my inner turmoil. Maybe once I kissed a woman for the first time, I would realize that everything made sense now, and that I would feel an inner peace. Maybe I would start to feel comfortable with the line I was picking.

Well, unfortunately, that did not happen to me at all. 

(ambient music begins to play)

I remember sitting on my couch one evening with a woman I was interested in. We had just shared a romantic dinner at a nice restaurant, and I had invited her back to my place. I was on pins and needles, waiting to see if she would kiss me, and if so, how I would feel? 

Eventually, she turned toward me and leaned in. I leaned in too, and we kissed lightly on the lips. I was hypersensitive to how I was feeling in that moment. The kiss was ok. I was honestly disappointed because it felt like any other kiss. 

I was expecting fireworks!  A sure sign that I had chosen the right line for myself.  

Instead of everything clicking into place, I felt confused. I remember thinking, ‘I still don’t know if this is for me.’

(music ends)

This scenario played out with several relationships. I kept hoping there would be some sign that I was on the right track — that dating women was the right thing for me. I kept waiting for the fireworks. But the fireworks never came. Each time the feelings of self-loathing would come up while in a relationship, I would break it off.

And then, one weekend, everything changed.

(mellow music begins)

I had started dating someone more seriously. We had been together three months, and while I still wasn’t feeling the fireworks, we did share some pretty vulnerable feelings with each other. I found myself opening up and talking with her about the self-disgust I felt.  

During these conversations, she just listened — actively listened — and validated my feelings. She told me it made sense, even though she hadn’t experienced the same feelings. I felt like I could breathe deeper, in a way I hadn’t in a very long time.  

(music fades out)

And then we went on a backpacking trip together, along with my twin sister and one of her friends. 

The trip was a lot of fun, but kind of unremarkable. We did all the things you do on backpacking trips. We hiked. We soaked our feet in cold springs. We sat around the fire, telling funny stories and laughing. And then we went home. 

I had a great time and felt closer to my partner because of it, but the trip was no big deal. However, after the trip, I had a conversation with my sister that I will never forget.

I have always said that my twin sister is my mirror in life. She knows me better than anyone, and she can tell it to me straight. So, after the trip, I asked what she thought of my new partner. My twin took a moment and said, “I have never seen you happier or acting more like yourself with anyone else.”  

(thoughtful music begins)

In that moment, something clicked. I realized I was looking for the wrong clues. I had been waiting for fireworks, when what I really needed was a sense of hopefulness and peace. And for the first time, I had that. It was like things within me had aligned and the internal conflict had disappeared.  

(music continues for a few moments and then fades out)

Almost two years later to the day I went back out to that same mountain bike trail that had been so frustrating when I first returned to Ohio. I had been getting more comfortable with the terrain on other trails in the area, and I was starting to actually enjoy mountain biking again. But now, as I started down the trail, I felt nervous. 

(music begins)

The memory of that first ride came rushing back over me. My heart started pounding as I thought about all those slippery roots. All those obstacles that would still be there this time around. It was probably going to be just as hard. I worried that I’d flounder again. And all those feelings of self-hatred would come bubbling up. 

I started pedaling, wondering whether I was making a mistake to come back to this trail.

But when I reached the first log on the trail, it didn’t look so menacing after all. I had navigated hundreds of logs like this on other trails by this point. And this one wasn’t any harder. I rode up to it, kept pedaling, and rolled over it smoothly. No big deal. 

(music fades out)

Then I came to the bottom of the infamous, rooty hill. The hill that had been so humbling before. I took a deep breath and started up it. 

(lively music begins)

To my surprise, I made it up the incline without any trouble at all.

What had seemed like this insurmountable obstacle two years earlier, felt like a small and even fun challenge. When I finished the trail, I stopped, felt my heart beating hard in my chest, and thought about how far I had come in both my mountain biking skills and my self confidence. 

What had felt daunting, was now beginning to feel peaceful and like an exciting adventure. I knew how to pick a line on my bike, and I was having fun with it! And the same was true for my personal life: I was starting to have fun dating women.  

It has been almost three years since I moved home. My dad is still fighting the cancer, and I am still working to understand my sexuality. Shame and anger toward myself still pop up every once in a while, but it’s becoming less and less.

I am slowly making friends around mountain biking, and in the queer community. At some point, I hope these two worlds intersect, but that hasn’t happened just yet.

The important thing is that I now trust myself. I trust myself on my mountain bike in Ohio, and I trust myself to make the right life choices. It’s been a bumpy trail getting here, but I can honestly say that I am at peace with the line I have chosen in life. A line that is truly my own. 

(music continues)

WILLOW: That was Grace Gordon. She’s a preschool teacher living in Columbus, Ohio. 

Thank you to Ben Montoya for helping out with sound design for this story! Ben was my very first intern ever, and I’m so proud of everything he’s been doing the past few years.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There…

Will Cox grew up with a rare bone disorder. As a kid, he was constantly breaking bones, taking medication, getting surgery after surgery after surgery…

WILL COX: It definitely made me see the world as a really dangerous, scary, evil place.

WILLOW: Will’s fear took on a life of its own. It took over. 

So, what do you do in a situation like that? How do you move past a crippling fear? 

For Will, the answer came in the form of a bicycle. Tune in on November 4 for that story.

(folksy music begins to play)

A big thank you to everyone who has been sharing Out There with their friends, including Tessa Peters and Cathy Rotman. 

You may have heard me talk about our referral program on past episodes. Basically, we want to say thank you for sharing Out There with your friends. So we’re offering rewards to listeners who do that. 

The way it works is that we give you your own personal referral link, which you can share with your friends, and when your friends click the link and listen to Out There, YOU get rewards. 

What are these rewards? Well, for example, when you get your first referral, I’ll give you a shout-out on the show! And the person with the most referrals by the end of the year will have the chance to be interviewed by the Out There team, and we’ll make a little story for you based on that interview. 

To get your personal referral link, go to outtherepodcast.com/share. That’s outtherepodcast.com/share.

(music fades out)

I also want to thank all of the listeners who are supporting Out There financially, including Sara Kaplow, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, Deb and Vince Garcia, and Caitlyn Bagley. Caitlyn wrote that she and her mom, Robin, both listen to Out There, and that Robin’s birthday is this month. Happy Birthday, Robin!

If you’re enjoying Out There and you’d like to make a contribution of your own, go to outtherepodcast.com and click the support tab.

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(music ends on a last whistling note)

Outskating Your Demons

By Ilana Strauss, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on October 7, 2021

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 today, I have a couple of announcements.

The first is that all of our merch is currently on sale. We’re making way for a new line of products, and all our existing inventory is 30% off. We have Out There t-shirts, hoodies, baby onesies, stickers, and more. And all of it is 30% off until October 10. Just go to outtherepodcast.com/merch, and use the promo code FALL30 at checkout. That’s outtherepodcast.com/merch, promo code FALL30.

The second announcement is that our fall giveaway is coming up! We are giving away a HydroFlask AND a $20 gift certificate for Out There merchandise from our online store. 

If you haven’t used a Hydro Flask before, they are insulated water bottles, and they’re absolutely wonderful! I have two of them — one for water, one for tea. And I can tell you they keep hot things hot for hours, and they keep cold things cold, even on the most sweltering days. 

So like I said, we’re giving away a Hydroflask plus $20 worth of Out There merch, to one lucky listener. To enter into the drawing, you just need to get five of your friends to listen to Out There. 

You may have heard me talk about our rewards program on past episodes. Basically, we want to say thank you for sharing Out There with your friends. So we’re offering rewards to listeners who do that. 

The way it works is that we’ll give you your own personal referral link,which you can share with your friends. When your friends click the link and listen to Out There, you get rewards. 

Anyone with five referrals or more will automatically be entered into our giveaway. The more referrals, the more entries you get. We’ll be picking the winner on October 15. 

To get your personal referral link, go to outtherepodcast.com/share. That’s outtherepodcast.com/share.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

Sometimes, when bad things happen, they can kind of surround you and, over time, they can start to define you. So if you break free and leave all that negativity behind…what are you left with? If something bad becomes a huge part of your life, and you get rid of it, who are you?

Today’s episode takes us to the Eastern Seaboard, where a young woman named Molly-Anne Dameron finds herself face to face with the darkness she’s trying to outrun. Or outskate, really. 

Ilana Strauss has the story.

And - trigger warning: this episode discusses addiction, mental illness, and suicidal thoughts. It also includes adult language. 

(Out There theme music ends)

ILANA STRAUSS: Well, this all started because I was like, “Hey Molly. Wow. It's been a while. And we're both in LA. What have you been up to?” And you're just like, well…

(Ilana and Molly-Anne laugh)

MOLLY-ANNE DAMERON: I've been on a 400 mile skateboarding trip. 

ILANA: Yeah, you were like, “Sorry, I haven't gotten back to you! I've been really busy over the last two weeks.”

(Molly-Anne laughs)

So this is a friend of mine, Molly-Anne. And she had just attempted to skateboard from Maine to New Jersey.

MOLLY-ANNE: I was kind of terrified for my life in a sense. So I decided that the only way to save myself was to go on the skate trip.

ILANA: Can you connect the dots a little bit? Because I don't totally see the connection.

MOLLY-ANNE: Can I ask you a question real quick? 

ILANA: Yeah. 

MOLLY-ANNE: Okay. How much do I say?

ILANA: Uh, everything.

MOLLY-ANNE: Okay. So even like the dark bits, it doesn't matter? 

(quiet music begins to play)

ILANA: Okay, so to understand Molly-Anne’s story, there’s something you got to know. Molly-Anne suffers from dissociative identity disorder, formerly known as multiple personality disorder. She’s 26 now, and she’s been struggling with mental health since she was a little kid. 

MOLLY: Suddenly you could be you. And the next moment you could be like a literal psychotic person, or you could be acting like a child.

ILANA: Her episodes get pretty intense.

MOLLY-ANNE: I don't know if my brain is telling me truth or not. And when I look around at things, it's like looking at a literal nightmare — the entire world is crumbling and there's a plot against everybody. And everything, like, has this coating of, like, dirt and grime and sadness. And, like, you have x-ray vision into everything happening around you, or you think you do. You can see all of the emotions and all of the sadness and all the pain.

So sometimes I'll hear things and I'll hear, like, it's kinda my own thoughts, but they're not my own.

ILANA: What would they say?

MOLLY-ANNE: Often they'll tell me to kill myself. That could go on for like an hour. It could just be over and over and over. You should kill yourself. You should kill yourself.

(music fades out)

ILANA: Sometimes, Molly-Anne will have an episode while driving. 

MOLLY-ANNE: I'm just sobbing. And I'll just step on the gas, and then I'll break right before I hit the other car. And I'll do it over and over, but I can't see properly cause I can't stop crying.

ILANA: She’ll threaten other cars and even come close to crashing. 

MOLLY-ANNE: In a lot of ways it's super embarrassing because, like, that's not normal looking. Like, why would you do, like, finger guns at a car? It's like, “I want to fuck you up. And I want you to know that.”

And at the same time, it's like, “I need help. Like, fucking help me, because I can't stop doing this.” But like a driver in front of me who I'm flipping off is not going to help me.

ILANA: She needed help, but when it came to fighting her demons, she felt alone. Her mental illness separated her from other people.  

Molly-Anne had tried therapy and medication, but nothing solved her problems. Then as a teenager she started using drugs. They made her episodes less extreme, and made her less afraid of the world.

MOLLY-ANNE: It was the first time that I felt like I knew who I was, and it gave me that sense of self that I never had. And I didn't have to feel like I was constantly dying or fighting for my life.

ILANA: But of course drugs were not a magical solution.

MOLLY-ANNE: I had spent so many nights thinking, ‘Am I going to wake up tomorrow? Is my heart racing too much?’ Because I would do so much cocaine that, like, I could literally feel my chest was sore. Your chest being sore because your heart is racing so fast all day, every day, is not a good sign.

ILANA: In 2018, her grandfather had a heart attack and passed away. His death hit close to home.

MOLLY-ANNE: So I would go to bed sometimes and think, ‘Do I text my mom that I love her? Do I, like, what do I do? What if I don't wake up? Like, what if I have a heart attack?’

So watching somebody die, especially die through cardiac arrest was like, “Oh shit.”

ILANA: So the day of his funeral, she decided something. 

MOLLY-ANNE: I said, “That's it. I'm done.” And I didn't do anything again.

ILANA: Didn’t do anything again, as in she went off drugs. Completely. Cold turkey. She thought going clean would make her a functional member of society and let her achieve what she wanted.

MOLLY-ANNE: The irony to it is that it never gave me any of those things. People don't talk about when you get clean, but like, it's not always fucking rainbows.

(soft music begins)

ILANA: Her mental illness episodes got worse. She started hearing voices she’d never heard before.

MOLLY-ANNE: I’d been going to AA since I was 16, and nobody once told me this is what you deal with when you get clean and you have serious mental illness.

I feel so robotic and in constant survival mode all the time, because I’m always having to analyze my surroundings, and myself, and it's fucking exhausting.

ILANA: Molly-Anne felt like she lost this carefree, adventurous spirit she’d been on drugs.

MOLLY-ANNE: I would just hop on a plane and leave. I was happy to just move to a foreign country alone. And I had completely lost that when I got sober.

I had no idea who I was off of drugs, because I had started using when I was 16.

(music fades out)

ILANA: Then, in 2020, the pandemic made everything worse.

MOLLY-ANNE: I was terrified. I didn't want to get COVID. I'm not only a drug addict. I've, you know, smoked my life away for the last 10 years. And, and I have chronic problems because I did too much cocaine and, and I'm not risking getting COVID. I don't need more problems in my life.

ILANA: But staying safe was, well, dangerous.

MOLLY-ANNE: I had had a lot of people I knew die from overdoses during COVID.

Quarantine can make you go crazy. Right? I think that's been scientifically proven. You're like seeping into the walls. And you think, ‘What is my life worth? How do I still find the good pieces in me that existed once upon a time?’

(music begins to play)

ILANA: Finally, she hit her limit.

MOLLY-ANNE: I didn't know if I was gonna make it in sobriety if I didn't get out. 

And you ride across the country because this fucking mental illness is fucking eating at your brain, and you have to decide whether or not you're going to stay alive or you're gonna be dead.

ILANA: Ride across the country. Molly-Anne had grown up skateboarding, and she’d always played with the idea of traversing the country on a skateboard.

MOLLY-ANNE: It always sounded really cool, but kind of ridiculous.

ILANA: Alright, let’s be clear: skateboarding across the country is not something people typically do. Like, even long-distance skaters typically only skate for like a day or so. In fact, in all of her research, Molly-Anne had only found a few other people who had tried to do something like this.

But suddenly, a trip like this felt very necessary. Very right. 

MOLLY-ANNE: It was a way of proving to myself that I could make it. That I was still alive. That whatever happens in my brain doesn't mean that that's my whole being.

ILANA: She saw it as a way to recapture that adventurous spirit she lost when she got sober.

MOLLY-ANNE: I went into it thinking this trip's going to be a reminder that I can still be that person who knew how to find some freedom and knew how to live.

ILANA: Molly-Anne decided not to skateboard across the entire country. Instead she’d go from Maine to New Jersey, a journey that would take about two weeks. 

Why that route? She grew up in Connecticut, and lately she’d felt kind of drawn to visit her hometown, though she wasn’t sure why. This trip would give her a chance to find out.

(upbeat music begins)

Reality check: Molly-Anne is not some sort of professional skateboarder.

MOLLY-ANNE: I also hadn't skated in like a year and a half. I hadn’t been on a skateboard. 

ILANA: I didn't know that.

(Ilana laughs)

ILANA: And actually, skateboards are too small for this kind of journey. She’d be riding on highways full of trash and rocks, and those can send a skateboard flying. She’d need a longboard — it’s kind of like a bigger skateboard with big wheels that can ride over debris.

ILANA: You hadn't longboarded before? 

MOLLY-ANNE: No. 

(sound of laughter) 

MOLLY-ANNE: No. 

ILANA: Longboards move differently than skateboards though, so it would be kind of an adjustment. And making that adjustment for the first time on a trip like that would be…well, a lot. But she was determined.

MOLLY-ANNE: It was one of those times where you, like, you just don't look back. Like you just decide, and you don't look back, and you do it. And you don't think about it...but if you miss that moment, you're not going to do it.

(music ends and sound of traffic rushing past in background begins)

MOLLY-ANNE: I’ve been going up an incline for like two miles.

(sound of someone breathing hard)

Twenty-five pounds on my back…I think I’m gonna fucking die. 

ILANA: So this clip you’re hearing — it’s from Molly-Anne’s audio diary, from the start of her trip. 

She had started her journey full of all this hope that she’d finally prove to herself she could be an individual apart from her mental illness and addiction. But the first day was not going smoothly.

It wasn’t for lack of preparation. She had packed a backpack full of clothes, medical supplies, and tons of masks and hand sanitizer. She’d gotten tested for COVID — negative, luckily. Then she traveled to Maine and started riding. 

(sound of longboard wheels rolling down a road)

MOLLY-ANNE: Suddenly it's just like this big hill up, and the hill just never ends. It's a real issue. The hill just keeps going. And then I reached the top...and there's another hill.

And now I'm on, like, this deserted highway. It's like 6:30 in the morning. There's nobody on the road. And I remember that my aunt had said, “Well, it's hunting season, so make sure you have your vest.”

It's all forest around me. I'm like, ‘There could be a bear.’ I stick my vest, like, on. I strap it to my front. Like, I'm terrified, please don't shoot me.

(music begins to play)

ILANA: Molly-Anne sees a home on the side of the road. And there’s this dog sitting outside.

MOLLY-ANNE: It’s like this huge Great Dane.

ILANA: The dog sees her.

MOLLY-ANNE: Dogs HATE skateboards, like hate them.

ILANA: It starts barking.

MOLLY-ANNE: And so I’m just like, ‘Alright, stay cool. Like, look ahead. Don't act like anything's wrong.’ And the dog runs down the hill at me. It's like, it's coming to attack me. 

I just ran for my life across the road, and it followed me. It ran after me, and I screamed, and it finally just stopped. 

(music ends abruptly)

And after that, I think I just shook.

ILANA: This is from her audio diary.

(sound of wind begins)

MOLLY-ANNE: I nearly got attacked by a dog that chased me out into the street. A giant, huge, “I don’t know what the fuck it was” dog. And of course I yelled at it. Because why pull out your pepper spray when you can yell at a dog? Fuck!

(sound of cars driving past)

ILANA: Over the next few days, Molly-Anne gets used to avoiding dogs and riding over highways.

(sound of cars driving past in background)

MOLLY-ANNE:  It’s exhausting, dodging cars and rocks and all the crap on the road. Like, who told you littering was cool?

(traffic noises grow quieter)

MOLLY-ANNE: I can't even fathom how I walked up hills with semis inches away from me. How I rode on highways and got into people's cars and the beds of their trucks. It...it feels like a distant dream in some way.

(traffic noises stop)

ILANA: Then one day, something happens. 

(quiet, intense music begins)

Molly-Anne’s riding through Maine and she hits this construction zone. The whole shoulder is closed for miles, meaning she can’t keep riding. She’s figuring out what to do when this car honks at her. At first, she doesn’t give it much thought. Cars honked at her all the time.

MOLLY-ANNE: That would keep me going. Like, I would get really pumped. Like, people would wave to me and, like, cheer me on.

ILANA: But this time, the car pulls up next to her and stops.

The window rolls down. There’s a couple inside. They ask what Molly-Anne’s up to. She explains her plans. They start talking about their son.

MOLLY-ANNE: They said, “He passed away a month ago, but he would have thought this is so cool. A girl riding down the coast, like, that's amazing. And we just wanted to stop and see if you need anything. Do you need a ride past the construction zone? Like, where are you headed?”

ILANA: It was suspicious.

MOLLY-ANNE: You know I thought, ‘Okay, your son died. Like, that's a really good story. You know, that's like the story that kidnappers would tell you, right? They'd be like, yeah, my son just died. Like, get in my car please — come on, feel pity for me.’ Like, that was what ran through my head. Yeah. I had my phone ready. Like, I had 911 ready on my phone. I was prepared.

Are these people about to kidnap me? Like, should we get in cars with people, because we don't do that in America. We don't...we don't hitchhike.

ILANA: But she needs to get past the construction zone, so she gets in the car.

(music changes to a contemplative tone)

MOLLY-ANNE: And they said, “So why are you riding?” And I told them, “Well, I'm sober. And I'm, I'm kind of doing this for myself. And, and to represent everybody who… who has lived in silence and, and maybe wasn't able to make it.” And they said, “That's amazing. We've been sober 27 years.”

ILANA: They’d been thinking a lot about their son that day.

MOLLY-ANNE: They showed me a picture of him and his, his name was Alex.

ILANA: He’d overdosed. 

MOLLY-ANNE: They said, you know, he died a month ago and like, this is the hardest day we've had since he died. And we just needed to get out of the house. And then we stumbled upon you. And they were like, “You’ve given us so much hope. We needed this today.” Like, I needed them and they needed me.

(warm music begins)

They were exactly why I went out and did this, because of somebody like Alex who suffered in silence and who died from addiction. He was my story. He was me in so many ways, and I didn't know the kid. He was my greatest fear. Like his story was what I was trying to avoid by doing this. And also trying to tell by doing this.

ILANA: The couple drops her off, but they stay in touch.

MOLLY-ANNE: And they sent me text messages saying, “We're so proud of you!” And like, “Keep going; you're an inspiration.” Like, “Alex is riding with you.” It weighed heavily on me because I felt like in so many ways, like this kid who I didn't know was riding with me.

ILANA: They also made her realize something about herself: her identity didn’t end at her skin. She was part of this larger community.

MOLLY-ANNE: There were people who I could count on, even if I didn't know who they were. Good people out there that cared.

(music ends)

ILANA: So things were going well. Until Molly-Anne got to Massachusetts…

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

There are a lot of different ways to see the world. Long-distance skateboarding is one, but you don’t have to go on an epic journey like Molly-Anne in order to get something out of travel.

If you’ve been feeling some wanderlust lately, you might be interested in a podcast called Out Travel the System. 

Out Travel the System is one of our sponsors. It’s brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel, including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts.

And now, back to the story.

ILANA: So up until this point, things are actually going pretty well. Molly-Anne knows her purpose. She’s encountered kind strangers. She’s making good progress. But then she gets to Massachusetts.

(sound of strong wind blowing and cars driving past)

MOLLY-ANNE: The wind is fighting me. We’re having a giant battle. We’ve been at war...and I think I’ve lost. I’ve definitely lost.

(wind fades out)

ILANA: She passes by Cape Cod, where she and her family used to visit.

MOLLY-ANNE: It was really lonely being there by myself. And I just sat in my hotel room and cried. And I think that's the moment when I realized, like, ‘I don't know how to keep doing this.’

ILANA: When she gets back on the road, things feel off. She starts to feel this sense of impending doom.

(sound of wind, cars driving past, and longboard wheels on the road)

MOLLY-ANNE: It’s getting really stormy. And I don’t like stormy. Me and storms don’t mix well. We require medication when that happens. Oh god, what the fuck is that? 

(rain starts coming down hard)

Oh my god. I think it’s raining.

(quiet music begins)

ILANA: It wasn’t just the bad weather that was bothering her. It was the stuff going on inside her head. Molly-Anne had gone on this trip to escape the worst bits of her mind. But now that she’d been on the road for a while, she was realizing she’d brought her mind with her. And now, alone on the road, she felt an episode coming on.

MOLLY-ANNE: And then it started, and there was really no turning back from there.

I tried to destroy my board. I literally tried to chuck my board, and like pound my board to destroy it. I was like, “I'm done skating. This is it.”

ILANA: So you were just like chucking your board at the ground?

MOLLY-ANNE: At bridges.

ILANA: You were chucking your board at bridges?

MOLLY-ANNE: Yes. Yeah. 

I think I just looked like a crazy person walking down the side of the highway

ILANA: And what was kind of going through your head?

MOLLY-ANNE: I just felt like a fool. Like, ‘I want to destroy this. Like, why did I even come out here? This is crazy.’

And I was... I was this close to walking into a bar. Like, I don't think I've been that close to drinking my whole sobriety. I was fully committed to going and getting drunk, and stopping the madness from happening.

(music ends)

ILANA: But then something occurs to her.

MOLLY-ANNE: I need to get to a beach.

ILANA: A beach. The beach had been kind of a symbol for her on this trip.  

MOLLY-ANNE: Every time I would ride by the beach, I would kind of feel more alive. And I always felt like I was connected to that story. Like the Alex story, my own story, when I was on the beach.

ILANA: So instead of going into a bar, Molly-Anne calls an Uber. A girl picks her up.

MOLLY-ANNE: And she said, “If you need anything tomorrow, if you need me to come pick you up and take you to Connecticut, like I will do it. I will get up, just call me and I'll be there. And I'll take you.”

ILANA: They drive to the beach.

MOLLY-ANNE: And I got out of the car, and I just sat on the beach, and I didn't move for like three hours.

(gentle music begins)

ILANA: During those three hours on the beach, her mind was in overdrive. She was starting to realize something important: she couldn’t run away from her mental illness. 

MOLLY-ANNE: What caused me to take this trip doesn't stop existing because I took the trip. And it will always come out, and it will always be there, and even though it's existing here, I'm not going to let it stop me from doing what I came here to do.

ILANA: Molly-Anne’s mental illness was a part of her. But that didn’t mean it had to control her. It couldn’t stop her from doing incredible things — like skateboarding from Maine to New Jersey.

In fact, she’d soon come to realize that it might actually help her reach her goal. 

(music fades out)

Not long after that day on the beach, she arrives in Connecticut. She wasn’t too far from Westport, the town she grew up in — a town she had some pretty difficult feelings about. 

MOLLY-ANNE: A house that was my childhood home, a house that raised me, wasn't a house that fostered something good in me. 

And it was a house that I needed to say goodbye to, because it destroyed me. It destroyed everything that was good in me and had created the monsters that I had worked to understand.

ILANA: And as all these complicated childhood memories start coming back, she rides into this roundabout.

(sound of wheels rolling past)

MOLLY-ANNE: And I get cut off by a whole swarm of cars. And I freak out.

(tense music begins)

And the episode starts again, suddenly. And I'm ready to walk out into the middle of the road and let a car hit me.

I said, “This is not happening right now.” And I booked it.

I was in this mode of, like, ultimate strength. Like, fucking, it was beyond my normal strength.

ILANA: A destination forms in her mind. Westport: the town where she grew up. 

MOLLY-ANNE: That's where the demons started and came out, and fighting them in the same moment that I was riding through them was like the culmination of that whole trip for me.

Every single hill I hit, I pushed uphill. I rode in the middle of the street. I didn't care what cars were around me. I just did not stop.

ILANA: Molly-Anne was riding 18 miles an hour with 25 pounds on her back and a hole in her shoe.

MOLLY-ANNE: I was just riding through lights, whatever. I'm not even breathing. I don't even know how I'm breathing. I don't stop. I don't drink water, nothing. 

ILANA: She rides 50 miles  — that’s like two marathons. That’s long even if you’re on a bike, and she did it on a skateboard. But she finally gets there. 

MOLLY-ANNE: And I just started crying and I just, I was just balling.

(music fades out)

It was like not only was I having an episode in the middle of the street, I was riding through my town that broke me. And I was refusing to, to feel broken in that moment, to let it break me. 

(more cheerful music begins)

ILANA: A few days later, she makes it to New Jersey. She had skated 400 miles in two weeks. 

MOLLY-ANNE: In the two years I've been clean, I hadn't done something that really meant something to me. It was, it was two years of just trying to survive, and finding the best way to survive. And I needed to find some meaning in that. And this gave me some of that. It gave me some, some of the pride that I needed to keep going.

ILANA: So it sort of changed how you thought about yourself?

MOLLY-ANNE: Yeah, I think so.

ILANA: Since getting off drugs, Molly-Anne had struggled to figure out who she was, and how she could survive with her mental illness. During the trip she realized she couldn’t leave her mental illness behind, but she was a person who could accomplish amazing things despite it. And actually, her determination to overcome her demons is kind of what made the trip possible in the first place, and it even gave her incredible strength near the end. 

And Molly-Anne learned she didn’t have to do it alone. Just like her demons were part of her, other people were part of her too.

MOLLY-ANNE: The people that I met along the way were what kept me going. I was surprised by humanity. Like, that there were people who showed up out of nowhere and were there for me when I was alone. And that was amazing, because I went out there feeling like those people didn’t exist, and this world was lacking those kinds of people. But in reality, we just don’t always see those people.

(music continues for a few moments)

WILLOW: That story was reported and written by Ilana Strauss. She’s a journalist living in Chicago, and you can follow her on twitter @ilanaestrauss. That’s I-L-A-N-A-E-Strauss.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There…

When Grace Gordon decided to start dating women, her friends and family were really supportive. But embracing a queer identity didn’t turn out to be as straight-forward as she had imagined. 

GRACE GORDON: All of a sudden, I wasn’t just talking about the IDEA of dating a woman, I actually had the opportunity to do it. And that was somehow terrifying.

WILLOW: Tune in on October 14 for a story about learning to chart your own course in life — and on a mountain bike.

A big thank you to everyone who has been sharing Out There with their friends, including Michael Mowery and Laurie Richardson.

If you’d like to get in on the fun, go to outtherepodcast.com/share to sign up for your personal referral link. When your friends click that link and listen to Out There, YOU get rewards. Anyone with at least five referrals will be entered into our fall giveaway, for a chance to win a Hydroflask plus $20 worth of Out There merch of your choice. The more referrals, the more entries you get.

Again, just go to outtherepodcast.com/share to get started. It just takes a moment to sign up!

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Forest as Pharmacy

By Shannon Prince, produced by Out There Podcast

Re-released on September 23, 2021

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: Summer is over, and if you’re anything like me, you could probably use something to look forward to.

One of the things I like to daydream about is travel. And if you’re the same way, you might be interested in a podcast called Out Travel the System. 

Out Travel the System is one of our sponsors. It’s brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts.

(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.

To start things off today, I’d like to tell you about an exciting opportunity. We are offering a whole bunch of fun rewards to listeners like you, who share Out There with friends.

You may have heard me say that word of mouth is one of the best ways for us to reach new listeners — and we want to thank you for spreading the word about this podcast!

The way it works is that we’ll give you your own personal referral link, which you can share with your friends by email, text, or social media. When your friends click the link and listen to Out There, you get rewards.

So, what are these rewards? Well, for example, if you refer five friends you’ll get entered into our fall giveaway. The more referrals, the more chances to win. And for 15 referrals, you’ll get an invitation to a virtual Q&A session with me — where you can ask me anything you want. 

Those are just a couple of the rewards we’re offering. To see all the rest — and sign up for your personal referral link — go to outtherepodcast.com/share. That’s outtherepodcast.com/share. And I also have a link to that in the episode description. 

Thank you so much for listening, and for helping us grow and thrive. We could not be doing this without you!

(Out There theme music ends)

We all have our reasons for going outdoors. Some people turn to nature for an emotional reset. For others it’s about rising to a challenge. Maybe you go to find yourself…or lose yourself. 

For Shannon Prince, it was a little different. For her, going out there was about holding onto memories from generations past — about making sure beautiful traditions aren’t forgotten. 

Her story takes us from Houston, Texas, to the remote meadows of Outer Mongolia, and explores the surprising things that can happen on a personal level, when we attempt to preserve a way of life that’s slowly disappearing.

This story first ran a couple of years ago, but if you’re new to the show, you might not have heard it. And if you’ve been with us since the start, I think this is a story you’ll enjoy hearing again.

I’ll let Shannon take it from here.

(soft music begins to play)

SHANNON PRINCE: When my grandmother was a little girl, her brother accidentally chopped her head open.

She’d been playing close to where he was splitting wood, and she got into the path of his axe. My grandmother managed to stagger to the house where her own grandmother, Missouri, lived.

Missouri saved her from bleeding to death, and closed her head back up by sealing the wound with ashes from the fireplace. For the rest of my grandmother’s life, a fine gray tattoo of cinders was embedded in her brow.

(music fades out)

As a woman whose background includes both African American and Cherokee heritages, I come from peoples who have rich relationships with the natural world. In Cherokee thought, “plant” and “medicine” are practically synonyms. If they were circles on a Venn diagram, there’d be no space illustrating plants that aren’t pharmaceutical. Our traditional stories teach us that there’s no such thing as a non-medicinal plant — only plants whose medicinal purpose we aren’t aware of.

Growing up, I knew all this. I knew that out there were things that could save you — that could become part of you. I learned how to use plants to do everything from ward off a cold, to keeping smallpox from causing male sterility. Nature, for me, was something that could literally get under your skin and remain forever.

And yet...I only knew a fraction of what my grandparents knew. For them, the forest was like a pharmacy. For me, it’s more like a medicine cabinet. 

(gentle, folksy music begins to play)

I grew up in Houston, Texas where Vietnamese-Cajun-fusion restaurants and acclaimed museums were prevalent, but forests where I could spend long hours wildcrafting were not. Instead of focusing on herbalist practice, my childhood was filled with horseback riding, piano, dance, golf, tennis, and figure skating lessons. My sister and I went to school, my parents ran their own business, and when my mother brewed us Cherokee tea, it was so that we’d all have the strength to continue our busy suburban lives the next day.

(music fades out)

My family’s ecological literacy had been slipping away for generations. My great-great-great-great grandmother on the Cherokee side, Grandma Sallie, was kidnapped as a teenager. Her kidnapper was a Texan plantation owner who forced her to be a concubine. Sallie lost everything, from her family to her traditional homeland to her freedom. And then she lost her bioregion — the local botanical treasury that she had been taught to make use of from childhood.

It was Grandma Sallie who taught Missouri her practice. But Cherokee medicine is site-specific, and they didn’t live in the Cherokee homeland anymore. That meant they didn’t have all the right plants for their herbal medicines. Already, the apothecary had shrunk.

(quiet music begins)

You might expect that Missouri would have passed on everything that Sallie taught her to my grandmother. But here’s the thing about Missouri — the day she saved my grandmother’s life was the only day she was ever kind to her. 

You see, my grandmother was a Black native with skin the color of pecans. Missouri was colorist. She had adopted the colonizers’ white standard of beauty. As a result, she never formed a close relationship with her granddaughter, and the intergenerational sharing of knowledge dwindled even more. 

So by the time I came along, there wasn’t as much left to teach me. Imperialism had shrunk my family’s cultural wealth the way a financial crisis erodes your bank account.

(music fades out)

I realize that I’m blessed to be in the possession of the knowledge that I have, but still...it’s like, have you ever been to a gourmet restaurant where you’re served a series of exquisite but tiny dishes, and you leave with your appetite whetted instead of sated? That’s how I feel about my ecological knowledge. The remedies that I know make me ravenous for more. 

But it's not just ravenousness I feel, but urgency. What if, one day, my own granddaughter comes staggering, ailing, to my door?

(soft music begins)

Because I feel my own cultural loss so keenly, I’ve always been drawn to peoples whose traditions are intact and robust. So, during my senior year at Dartmouth, I applied for a fellowship to go to Outer Mongolia. 

I felt this inexorable pull to the country. I had read that if Genghis Khan were to come back to contemporary Mongolia, he’d barely feel any culture shock. He’d find that his people were still living in yurts, still dressing in the same beautiful robes that their ancestors had worn 900 years ago — even still using horses as a means of transportation. Sure, nomadic Mongolians often transport generator-powered flat-screen TVs on those horses, but they revere their way of being and carefully choose which outside influences to integrate into their lives.

But their culture wasn’t as stable as it seemed. 

(music fades out)

During the twentieth century, Soviet domination led to socialism. The socialists were fanatically atheist, and religious expression was commonly punished by death. The problem was, every aspect of Mongolian culture was and is inflected with religion — especially its sustainability practices. 

Mongolians ask the spirits of the animals that they hunt for forgiveness. They consider certain places spiritual and thus off limits for uses like livestock grazing. They believe that plants and rivers are not objects to be exploited, but animate beings whose souls must be treated with reverence.

But passing on their spiritually-derived values to their children was like loading a gun and giving it to a toddler to play with. Under socialism, Buddhists, many of them monks, were exterminated. And other people were slaughtered for their animistic faith. I met a man whose father had been murdered right in front of him when he was a child simply because the father had been suspected of being a shaman. 

For nine hundred years, Mongolians had proudly taught their sons and daughters their way of life. But after all those centuries, many made the heartbreaking decision to stop. It was the only way not to get killed.

(quiet music begins)

Mongolia had a democratic revolution in 1990, and by the time I was graduating from college, it was nearly twenty years into freedom and actively trying to restore its culture. I saw a people currently in the same state that my own ethnicities had been in centuries before — their culture pummeled by repression, and I felt drawn to them somehow.

It’s like this: think about the intangible thing that you cherish the most — maybe it’s your religion, or literature, or a recipe that’s been passed down from generation to generation. Now, imagine a future in which your descendants have never even heard of that thing that you treasure. Imagine that when you said “Jesus” or “Moses,” they just cocked their heads to the side and wrinkled their noses in confusion. Imagine if they said, “Shakespeare? Never heard of him.” Imagine a tomorrow in which your children’s children wouldn’t recognize a plate of spaghetti Bolognese, or a bowl of ramen, or a slice of babka.

I’m that child.

 (music fades out)

I couldn’t travel across time to antebellum America and advocate for my own peoples, but I could travel across the world in the hopes of playing a small role in keeping another folk from facing the same fate as my own.

(hopeful music begins)

What I wouldn’t be able to give to my own descendants, I might be able to help my contemporaries give to theirs.

So, I went to Siberian Mongolia to collect oral history. I would use that oral history to write a reference book for the people of the region. There were individuals — many of them elderly — who had knowledge that they’d kept to themselves during socialism. They now wanted to disseminate that knowledge. An ethnography would allow them to do that.

(music continues for a few notes and then fades out)

Siberian Mongolia was like no place I’d ever seen before, a cross between the Swiss Alps and the old west. 

(ethereal music begins)

There was so much open land that it almost gave you the unmoored feeling you get when you’re at sea and no coast is in view. What at first looked like telephone poles, turned out to be hitching posts. And at night, there were so many stars that the sky seemed more white than black.

Growing up in Houston, which is America’s fourth largest city, I’d delight in identifying constellations at night, but you couldn’t do that in Mongolia, because the stars made the sky look as though a salt shaker had been knocked over. I thought, “Who knew that the heavens looked like this?”

(music fades out)

While I was en route to the communities where I would do my fieldwork, I stopped to attend Naadam — the Mongolian festival of archery, wrestling, and horseracing. People sitting in the bleachers with me would caress my cheeks and run their fingers along my cornrows. I was the first Black person many had seen outside of television. 

And I was struck by their appearance, too. Each woman seemed more beautiful than the last. At one point, I noticed a lady in her early sixties. Her face looked as though it had been sculpted by the same artist who made the bust of Nefertiti. That one, I resolved, is the most beautiful of them all.

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

I want to take a moment to talk about sleep. Studies have shown that if you lose just one hour of sleep, it can take you four days to fully recover. And prolonged sleep deprivation can lead to serious health conditions.

But getting a good night’s sleep is not always easy. That’s where a company called Pachamama comes in. 

Pachamama is one of Out There’s sponsors, and they are taking a modern, holistic approach to sleep support. Their Sleep Well gummies are made with CBD, CBN, and a micro-dose of melatonin. Plus Elderberry extract. 

In case some of these things are new to you, CBD and CBN are compounds produced by the cannabis plant. When they’re paired together, they create a powerful sleep aid. 

Melatonin is something that can help ease your body into a relaxed, sleepy state. And elderberry is great for boosting your immune system. 

The Sleep Well gummies are 100% THC-free, so you won’t get high from them.

If you want to get a good night’s sleep, and support your immune system, head over to pachamamacbd.com. You can get 40% off your order with the promo code OUTTHERE. Again, that’s p-a-c-h-a-mama-c-b-d-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE.

And now, back to the story.

SHANNON: Work in Mongolia was quite the experience. In between interviewing people, I rode Khalkha horses over the steppes, I let baby reindeer suck my thumb — I even ate nearly raw goat intestines in blood sauce. 

A lot of the knowledge that Mongolians wanted to preserve was ecological. I was told that people should cover their heads when milking yaks as a sign of respect to the animals. I learned that slaughtered livestock were to be honored by being careful not to waste any part of them — hence my meal of goat intestines and blood. 

I learned that when you harvest plants, you should only pick flowers on cloudy days, and, even then, you should never take all the flowers in a patch. That’s to ensure sustainability. 

(cheerful music begins)

In Europe, edelweiss are threatened with extinction, despite the fact that many countries protect them by law. In Mongolia, edelweiss are managed through traditional practices, and they’re all over the steppes.

I was learning so much new wisdom, I could feel myself growing, the way you can feel your muscles burning with nascent strength when you work out. Yet, much of what I heard also echoed teachings from my own cultures. I’d find myself nodding vigorously as I took notes, all but crying out “Amen” as though I were in a church pew. 

Part of Mongolia’s allure had been its exoticism, but actually being there turned out to be like visiting your childhood home. There was this pleasure of realizing that, as different as this place was to me, it was also tinglingly familiar.

(music fades out)

As I traveled from nomadic camp to camp by horseback and hitchhiking, I eventually ended up at a collection of yurts and log cabins. As always, despite being a stranger, I was welcomed into one of the homes for salty yak-milk tea and bread. And there inside was the breathtaking woman from the sports festival. 

She was married to a man named Basbaish, who is a traditional healer so renowned for his plant-based medicine that medical professors come from Europe to learn from him. I remember sitting outside in a meadow with him, as he taught me to fold paper into origami-like containers that would hold the pharmaceutical he was making. 

His medicines could contain blends of as many as 50 to 70 ingredients — all plants he’d collected from the meadows or byproducts of humanely killed animals. One plant being endangered, a single herb going extinct, and the remedy couldn’t be manufactured. Out there, he taught me, was a treasury of things that we could use to care for ourselves, but only if we, in turn, cared for the environment.

(quiet music begins)

He and his beautiful wife, whose name was Marusia, absolutely doted on me. Once, as I was falling asleep, I opened my eyes to find Marusia ever so gently stroking my cheek. I fell in love with them right back.

But despite the atmosphere of warmth and affection in the camp, it was clear that something was wrong. While everyone else in the family hunted and sheared the cashmere goats and played volleyball, Marusia spent most of her time resting in bed.

Eventually, privately, one of her 11 children explained: Marusia had terminal cancer. She had had chemotherapy, but wasn’t in remission. When it got to the point that Western medicine could do nothing more for her, Basbaish brought her home from the hospital.

She didn’t have much energy, but Basbaish’s potions gave her a good quality of life — she played with her grandchildren, had heartfelt talks with her adult kids, and spent sweet, quiet moments with her husband. His medicine was potent enough to keep her in this world, yet gentle enough that she could enjoy being here.

(music fades out)

I would learn that cancer was becoming more common as foreign gold-mining corporations came to Mongolia. In the excavation process, they used things like arsenic that got into the water supply and poisoned people. Socialism had threatened the lives of Mongolians a generation before, and capitalism was threatening it now.

(soft music begins)

When I learned of Marusia’s diagnosis, something my relatives always warned me about traditional medicine came to mind. Everytime anyone told the story of my grandmother getting her head chopped open, they would warn me that I must never try the ash cure today. They told me that in our era, there was so much pollution, that the wood ash would poison you to death. 

I knew that my own environment was toxic, but learning that Mongolia’s — which seemed so pristine — was as well, was a brutal shock. I felt like someone who had learned that her spouse had cleaned out her bank account and disappeared. I’d come to the country with a sense of urgency. Now, I wondered whether I was already too late.

(music fades out)

That evening at dinner, I watched Marusia’s granddaughter toddle around and babble.

When she’d pause, Marusia would furrow her brow and pretend to respond solemnly in baby talk. And I just remember thinking, this little girl won’t remember Marusia. She will forget her just as completely as she adores her.

I excused myself and rushed outside. I didn’t want the family to see me cry. But it felt as though someone had jammed an envelope opener into my heart and was forcing through its seam. I thought, ‘Compose yourself. You’re going to be here awhile. You can’t go to pieces every time you’re around Marusia.’

(solemn music begins)

When I came back inside, Basbaish had begun his after-dinner ritual of treating his wife.

And, all of a sudden, something occurred to me. Have you ever had that feeling when it’s like the narrator of your life story whispers in your ear and gives you a hint as to how the plot should unfold? It dawned on me that, just maybe, I had something to offer. I told Marusia and Basbaish that sometimes I performed a special type of massage on people in pain. I offered to do it for Marusia.

(music fades out)

I don’t know if what I do has a name. I don’t even fully understand how it works. I did know that the worst thing I’d used this sort of massage on before was arthritis. I’d never attempted it on someone suffering the pain of cancer. But that log cabin at the end of the world where a woman was tiptoeing away from her life was somehow a place of hope, a place where it felt as though a half-comprehended remedy could just maybe work.

(music begins)

I sat beside Marusia on her bed and began the massage. Basbaish, her kids and grandkids, and my interpreter passed in and out of the house as I concentrated. I prayed for her while I worked and, at one point, the two of us found ourselves all alone in the house. I closed my eyes, lay my head on her shoulder, and gathered up all of my love for her, trying to send it directly into her body. Then I felt her head rest upon mine.

Eventually, my interpreter wandered back into the cabin. She gasped when she saw the two of us nestled together like that. Through my interpreter, Marusia expressed that she was better. Then she gave my interpreter two more words to translate. The first one, “Sainaa,” I recognized — it was the Mongolian name I’d been given. The second word was “daughter.”

(music fades out)

For the rest of my time in Mongolia, every chance I could, I visited Basbaish and Marusia. I started calling them Aw and Ej — honorable father and honorable mother. I went home. 

Basbaish and I had a routine. He’d treat Marusia first and then gesture to me with a grand sweep of his arm, teasingly announcing, “And now, I pass you on to my colleague.” Then I’d go sit beside Marusia and give the massage.

We were so hopeful during those visits, but that hope had a salted caramel tinge of sadness. I remember sitting beside Marusia on her bed after one of our massage sessions, holding her when she stated with such conviction, “I’m going to live.” But she was crying when she said it.

(somber music begins)

About four months after I met her, Marusia passed away. I had just returned to America. I felt like a sand mandala, like the elaborate paintings that Tibetan monks labor to create for weeks and weeks, just a few grains of sand at a time, only to ritually destroy them. 

I’d longed for my lost traditions, and Mongolians had shared theirs with me. I’d ached for my stolen heritage, and a family had installed me in their own lineage. And now, the matriarch at the heart of it all was gone.

(music fades out)

Processing it all, I was reminded of a traditional Cherokee story. In the tale, humans inadvertently kill the daughter of the sun. A group then journeys to the west, to the afterlife, to resurrect her. They hope that if they can restore her life, her mother, the sun, will start shining again. 

The group is told that when they get to the afterlife, they must catch the daughter’s ghost in a box and then, no matter what, they must not open that box until they’ve returned east again.

You know what happens, of course. If the humans had managed to wait until they were back east, they could have restored the sun’s daughter back to her original form. But they can’t wait — they can’t resist opening the box early, and when they do, the sun’s daughter is transformed. She’s not in her original form. Rather, she’s turned into a bird who flies away. 

(hopeful music begins)

To me, the moral of that story is that change is irreversible. That we can never make things exactly what they once were or perfectly restore them to how they should have been. We can’t summon back our dead. But there’s a difference between acknowledging that we cannot turn back time, and believing that we can’t come back from tragedy. 

Mongolia didn’t make me the person I would have been if the Mayflower hadn’t landed, or the slave ships hadn’t anchored on the west coast of Africa. But it gave me this: one day I will teach my own granddaughter that once, wood ash could be used to seal the deepest wound. And then I’ll have to tell her that this is no longer safe. 

(music fades out)

But I’ll be able to add that there’s another way to heal injury. I’ll tell her that she can brew a tea from Rhodiola quadrifida. I will tell her that this medicine comes from our people — from our Mongolian people. That it comes from the land of her grandmother Marusia.

(piano music begins)

WILLOW: That was Shannon Prince. She’s a writer and attorney based in New York. Her new book is called Tactics for Racial Justice: Building an Antiracist Organization and Community. It’s a book aimed at people who want to end racism, but may not know how. And it gives you the tools you need to help create a more just world. I have a link to that book in the show notes, and if you’d like to order a copy, you can get 20% off with the promo code FLY21. That’s F-L-Y-21.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There…

You’ve heard of thru-hikes, and cycling across the country. But what about long-distance skateboarding? We’re going to bring you a story about a woman who tried to outrun her demons by skating all the way from Maine to New Jersey. 

MOLLY ANNE: It was one of those times where you, like, you just don't look back. Like you just decide, and you don't look back, and you do it. And you don't think about it...but if you miss that moment, you're not going to do it.

WILLOW: Tune in on October 7 to hear that story.

(rustic music begins to play)

As I mentioned at the top of the show, we would like to thank you for sharing this podcast with your friends. So we’re offering a whole bunch of fun rewards as a token of our gratitude.

Just go to outtherepodcast.com/share to get your own personal referral link and start earning rewards today. That’s outtherepodcast.com/share. Or you can simply click the link in the episode description. 

Thank you so much!

(music fades out)

A big thank you to Rebecca Wirfs-Brock, Lauren Rubin, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia for their financial contributions to Out There. If you’d like to make a financial gift of your own, go to outtherepodcast.com and click support. All gifts go directly toward paying for the stories you hear on this podcast.

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Trial by Fire

By Becky Jensen, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on September 9, 2021

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 running water in a stream)

WILLOW BELDEN: So, I’m out for a hike, and I’ve stopped by a little stream.

And when I was packing my backpack this morning, I couldn’t decide how much water to bring. I didn’t want to bring too much and carry unnecessary weight, but I also didn’t want to run out.

Then I remembered that I would be passing by this stream part-way through the hike. So I could bring my new water filter, and simply fill up there.

The water filter in question is from a company called Epic Water Filters. It fits into a Nalgene, and it filters the water as you drink.

Turns out, it was super easy. I just filled the Nalgene in the stream, screwed the lid back on, and started drinking.

For 20% off your purchase at epicwaterfilters.com, use the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s epicwaterfilters.com, promo code OUTTHERE.

(stream sounds fade out)

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

Before we get started, I have exciting news! 

Starting today, you can earn rewards simply for sharing Out There with your friends. One of the best ways to support this show is to share it. So we want to thank you for doing that. 

And to make it fun in the process, we thought we’d tie in a little competition.

Everyone who refers at least five friends will be entered into our fall giveaway. The more referrals you have, the more giveaway entries you get. Just head over to outtherepodcast.com/share to sign up.

We’ll be picking the winner on October 15th. And, of course, we’ll have additional giveaways each season after that as well.

So maybe you're thinking, “Okay, but I’m not that competitive'' — no worries, we get it. You can move at your own pace and still earn all sorts of great prizes! Head over to outtherepodcast.com/share to see all the various rewards and sign up for your own personal referral link. You can then share that link with your friends by emailing it, texting it, posting it on social media — however you want to do it. When your friends listen to Out There, you get rewards.

To get your personal referral link, just click the link in today’s episode notes. Or you can go directly to outtherepodcast.com/share. 

Thank you so much for believing in us! 

(Out There theme music begins to play)

It’s wildfire season out west. For a lot of us, that means thick, smoky air. Smoke that feels suffocating, and often makes it unhealthy to go outside.

That’s unpleasant enough. But for some people, wildfires are a whole lot more personal.

Today’s story is about what happens when a fire comes straight for your home.

It’s a story that takes us from a tranquil backpacking trip in the mountains to a cramped basement in town. And it offers an intimate inside look at the emotional chaos that ensues when a natural disaster threatens everything you’ve built.

How do you come to grips with a complete loss of control? How do you find some semblance of serenity amidst the tumult?

Becky Jensen has the story.

(theme music fades out and soft guitar music begins)

BECKY JENSEN: Last summer, I turned fifty years old. 

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. 

In the months leading up to my August birthday, the milestone felt ominous, made me restless, like I had something to prove. 

My biggest fear was that soon I would turn into my frail and helpless mother who is slowly losing her mind to Alzheimer’s disease. She still manages to live on her own, but that requires a lot of outside support. 

When the pandemic isolated us from her team of helpers last year, Mom grew dependent on me more than usual. It really wore me down and, at times, made me think I might be losing my mind too.

(music fades out)

As a birthday present, I had given myself a two-week backpacking trip in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. I needed this adventure to prove my age wouldn’t define me. That my mother’s disease wouldn’t consume me. 

I was determined to start my fifties off strong. 

(upbeat music begins to play)

My older sister, Barb, made it possible for me to get away. She agreed to drive up from New Mexico, manage Mom while I was gone, and pick me up at the trailhead near Durango when I was done. She even offered to give me a ride back home to Northern Colorado, which was no small feat. 

I had meticulously planned the 150-mile hike down to the last detail, from making sure my pets were cared for, to arriving at the final trailhead on my actual birthday. 

I loved mapping out a trip like this. It gave me something to look forward to. 

And building safety nets and backup protocols into my plans made me feel calm and focused and safe. Practically bullet-proof. 

As long as I had a plan, I reasoned, then I was in control.

(music fades out)

Once I started the actual hike, my two weeks in the backcountry flew by.

(sound of birds singing)

The final morning began like every other day on the trail — lovely, slow, and predictable. 

My eyes fluttered open to the sound of birdsong. 

(sound of person unzipping sleeping bag and moving around tent)

As I deflated my sleeping pad, I stretched my back, lingering in the release of child’s pose. 

And as soon as I unzipped the tent, and wiggled that first foot into a dirty trail runner, my inexplicable craving for fish tacos started up again. 

Knowing it was the last day, I packed my gear reverently, giving each item an extra squeeze of appreciation before stowing it in my backpack. I surveyed my final campsite with satisfaction, lifted the pack onto my shoulders, and started walking toward Durango. 

(sound of footsteps for a few moments that then fades out with the birdsong, followed by relaxed music)

The hike had been rewarding, but I was looking forward to getting back home. 

One year earlier, I had sold my house in the city and bought a log cabin in the woods by a river where I would live and write. 

I loved simple things about my cabin. Daily rituals like filling the hummingbird feeder, and walking down the dirt lane to pick up my mail.

I couldn’t wait to get back to my desk, and its three walls of windows that made me feel like I was writing stories in a treehouse. 

The cabin wasn’t just my home, it was a testament to my hard work and determination, and the sheer grit it took to leave my old life behind and go after my dream.

It was proof I had agency, that I could control my destiny and carve out a meaningful life for myself, on my own terms. My cabin was my creative sanctuary. A symbol of my independence.

I had chosen its location carefully. Only forty miles from town, the cabin was close enough for me to help my mom, but far enough away to maintain a healthy boundary. 

It sat near the wild Poudre River, but not down in the floodplain. It was nestled in the trees of the more remote upper canyon, but only one mile away from the volunteer fire station. I had built safety nets and backup protocols into my plan for home ownership.

(music fades out and footsteps and nature sounds begin)

I turned my attention back to the trail, and my last day of hiking. Up ahead, I spied a large log on a stony outcropping with a panoramic view. And sitting on the log was my sister, who had hiked up the trail to surprise me.

“Woo-hoo!” I crowed, lifting both trekking poles toward the sky in a giant V for victory. It was so good to see her familiar face.

“Hey, happy birthday!” Barb said, wrapping me up in a solid hug. 

It was barely 11 a.m. and already pushing ninety degrees. She fished around inside her daypack and handed me a drink. It was chilled. I pressed the ice-cold can against my cheek, and then my forehead, before cracking it open. 

Between long gulps, I blabbed on and on about the minutiae of my hike, and confessed how eager I was to get back home to my pets, my comfy bed, and my writing. 

“I just love the life I’ve created for myself, you know?” I said. My sister nodded. Took a sip of her drink. 

“Fifty’s not so bad,” I added, “But there’s no way I’m joining AARP. That’s where I draw the line.” 

She said nothing. No snarky comeback. Not even a smirk. 

Barb was unusually quiet, but nothing was going to put a damper on my birthday.

(nature sounds fade out)

In less than two hours, we reached my sister’s car. She had tied a ridiculous happy birthday banner across the windows for me. 

“Aahhh, this is great,” I said, pointing to the shiny letters. Barb looked down at the ground.

“Soooo, there’s been a wildfire,” she said simply. 

It was wildfire season, so this wasn’t shocking news. 

“The fire is in your canyon,” she said.

“In my canyon?” I asked, sliding the heavy backpack off my shoulders and onto the back seat of her car. 

“Yeah,” she said. “It started yesterday afternoon.”

(somber music begins)

I realized my sister had been kind enough to let me enjoy my full hike, to wait until we reached the road, before she broke the bad news. I looked up at the harmless clouds floating across the blue, smokeless sky and let out the breath I had been holding. 

Near the car, a yellow road sign cautioned “rough road” ahead. Barb was telling me something. I could see her lips moving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the ringing in my ears.

I mean, I knew it could happen. 

I had weighed the risks of fire and flood when I bought the cabin. But I never thought it would happen to me, not really, even though my property was surrounded by a national forest full of dry beetle-kill trees, long overdue for a much-needed burn. 

“I even told you what to grab, what to do, if it happened while I was on the trail,” I said, 

reminding myself that I had indeed planned for this, that I knew what to do in a wildfire. 

The truth was, I did not know what to do, or how to feel, or who to call in a real-life natural disaster.

I couldn’t even say the word “fire” out loud, for Pete’s sake. So much for bullet-proof.

(music fades out)

I turned to my sister, who was remarkably calm. Her years as a case manager for the homeless — her patience and compassion, her cool head under pressure — were all coming through. It was as if she was trying to manage an emotionally charged situation. De-escalate a crisis. 

‘Holy crap,’ I thought. ‘Am I homeless?’ 

(music begins)

I nearly dropped my phone as it started to blow up in a bizarre mix of birthday messages from friends, and evacuation orders from the sheriff’s office. 

The relentless bombardment was out of sync with the peaceful, methodical pace of my two-week hike. The rapid-fire pings erased all serenity I had cultivated on the trail. 

This was NOT the birthday I had planned.

(music ends)

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

When you’re dealing with hard things in life — or even when you’re just, you know, living — one thing that’s really important is getting enough sleep. 

That’s where a company called Pachamama comes in. They’ve created a modern, holistic approach to sleep support. And they’re one of Out THere’s sponsors for this episode.

Pachamama’s elderberry Sleep Well gummies are formulated with an all-new ingredient combination, which features CBD, CBN, and a micro-dose of melatonin. Plus Elderberry extract, to support your immune system. 

For 40% off your Pachamama order, go to pachamamacbd.com and use the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s p-a-c-h-a mama CBD dot com, promo code OUTTHERE.

Support for Out There also comes from Out Travel the System. 

Out Travel the System is a podcast brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. 

That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right. The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. 

When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns and want to share them with travelers. Or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter. Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. 

And now, back to the story.

(quiet music begins)

BECKY: I had learned that my cabin was safe for the time being, so Barb and I decided to stay in Durango for the night.

The next morning, we left before dawn to begin the long journey home. We drove hundreds of miles across Colorado, forced to make detours around other raging wildfires. 

When we finally reached the cabin, there was no time to rest or reflect. The area was under evacuation, so Barb and I packed up what we could, loading her car and mine. I made a side trip to gather my dog and two cats, evacuated earlier by friends. 

It was 10:30 that night when I finally pulled the car into my mom’s driveway. 

(sound of car pulling into driveway as music ends)

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel and tried to take a few deep breaths. 

The car reeked of ammonia from the litter box. A gift bag sat wedged between the driver and passenger seats. I had picked it up earlier from some well-meaning friends. And now, a trail of glitter sparkled across the worn interior like a crime scene splatter. My dog’s nose was freckled with the stuff. The cats howled in their carriers. 

I hooked the handles of the gift bag under one finger and stepped out of my car. 

(sound of car door opening)

Holding it at arm’s length, I walked the bag through the side door of the garage and gingerly set it on top of the trash can like unexploded ordnance. I’d deal with it later.

(soft music begins)

Inside the house, Mom sat on the loveseat watching the news and knitting a winter scarf — in August.

Skeins of yarn and piles of scarves, finished and unfinished, were scattered throughout the living room. Winter, spring, summer, and fall — all day, every day, Mom was on a dementia-driven mission to knit scarves for the local homeless shelter. 

She offered a scarf to me each time I visited, but I could never bear to take one. They reminded me of her Alzheimer’s.

“I haven’t given you a scarf yet,” she announced, thrusting a reddish-purple one at me. “This color is called Badlands,” she explained. I lied and told her thanks, but I had one already.

(music ends)

I glanced at the blaring television and froze. Footage of orange and red flames, 

and a billowing mushroom cloud of thick smoke filled the screen. The TV anchor reported that the fire had doubled in size overnight.

“Residents in Poudre Canyon, about 60 miles west of Fort Collins, are being evacuated,” he said.

“Oh, those poor people,” Mom tutted, shaking her head. “Can you imagine?”

(quiet music begins to play)

I was too tired to handle her broken brain tonight, of all nights. 

I retrieved my exhausted animals and got them settled in the basement. After unloading the rest of my car, I looked at my meager pile of belongings. My computer and work projects thrown into a laundry basket. Important documents and photo albums in plastic tubs. My clothes in one big black trash bag. 

I couldn’t help but think I should have taken more things with me — saved more — when Barb and I cleared out the cabin. 

My sister was heading home to New Mexico, back to work, and I would be on my own with Mom again. Mom, who had hugged me goodnight, saying, “It’ll be fun to have you here.”

(music fades out)

The world doesn’t stop during a wildfire evacuation. We still have pets to feed, bills to pay, people to care for. Work to do.

I set up my office in my old childhood bedroom. It was now my mom’s catch-all junk room — the epicenter of her Alzheimer’s hoarding behavior. 

The bed was completely surrounded by two-foot-high stacks of Country Living magazines, old greeting cards, and other assorted crap from the Home Shopping Network.

The mattress was heaped with more scarves and a small mountain of half-used, orphan balls of yarn. I threw a blanket over the bed to cover up the chaos.

(music begins)

Scattered and unfocused, I headed into the kitchen for breakfast, opening cupboards at random. But there was nothing I wanted, just a refrigerator full of rotting food that Mom had forgotten to eat.

I cleared out the fridge and took the trash out to the garage — where I was confronted by the glitter bag.

It bulged with cake, a six-pack of beer, and plastic Mardi Gras beads. A colorful headband from the party store poked through the delicate tissue paper, featuring a jaunty little top hat, trimmed with feathers, and an enormous number “50”. 

It made me want to punch something.

(music fades out)

I removed the food and booze, and left the rest of the bag. Grabbing a fork from the kitchen drawer, I returned to the junk room, where I drank warm beer and ate birthday cake for breakfast as I read wildfire updates online.

It’s nearly impossible to get any work done when you’re on “wildfire watch.” The Cameron Peak Fire had its own Facebook page, text alert system, interactive maps, live chats, hotline numbers, hashtags, and community forums. When Facebook notified me that I had become a superfan of my own disaster, I did not accept the badge.

(melancholy music begins to play)

Over a blustery Labor Day weekend, the fire quadrupled in size to more than 102,000 acres. The shape of the fire perimeter on the map resembled a lobster claw reaching to crush my cabin between its red pincers. 

In town, ash fell like snow, and the sky glowed orange, apocalyptic, triggering street lights to come on in the middle of the day. 

During all of this, Mom was forgetting to bathe and change her sheets. These simple chores didn’t happen unless I reminded her. 

But the fire consumed my thoughts, and I became addicted to watching updates, getting information fixes, all day long. 

The shape of the fire perimeter kept growing on the map, like drug-induced hallucinations. First, the lobster claw morphed into a wolf, until it eventually shape-shifted into “the monster” with large jaws, gnashing teeth and greedy fingers. 

According to the latest map, my cabin was being swallowed. I watched, and waited, for the moment the beast might devour my little dream.

(music fades out)

I became irritable when people pressed me for updates, or asked what they could do to help. I didn’t have the energy or words to explain that each request, though well-intentioned, felt like a homework assignment. It seemed impossible to have a normal conversation with friends, so I withdrew and isolated myself.

I found more scarves in a kitchen cabinet one day, hidden and displaced. Just like me.

(somber music begins to play)

It was the hanging in limbo, the not knowing, that was the most unbearable. I found myself asking, “Did the cabin burn today, or did it survive? Is my dream dead, or is it still alive?” 

It was a roller coaster of emotions. 

One minute I was giving myself the classic pep talk that it’s just a house, just stuff, and things can be replaced. What matters is we're safe. I distanced myself from it, thinking, we need fire to keep the forest healthy. I reminded myself: this is what you sign up for when you live in the canyon.

The next minute I couldn’t stop crying.

(music fades out)

By late September, the fire exploded on another wind-driven rampage, heading straight for my cabin. 

We were told if our homes burned, then we would receive a personal call from our volunteer fire chief. And if the phone didn’t ring, then no news was good news. Each scam robo-call made me jump out of my skin.

Meanwhile, Mom continued to knit hot, stifling scarves for the homeless. Every day, she asked me to take a scarf. Every day, I declined. 

I wanted to yell, “Hey, I’m not homeless, lady. Not yet!”

(tense music begins)

One day, Mom complained of dropping a stitch, and I watched horrified as she began to unravel an entire scarf, feeling myself unraveling at the same time. 

Like a trapped animal, I snapped, my teeth gnashing and my fingers clawing through the kitchen for a black Hefty bag. I stormed through the house looking for scarves. 

I found them squirreled away under beds, tucked into drawers, stacked on dining room chairs. In the junk room, I ripped the blanket off the bed to expose the largest stash of all.

Like a mad woman, I stuffed scarves into the trash bag I had been dragging behind me, and yanked the drawstring into an angry knot. I threw open the closet door, ready to hurl the bag into oblivion. 

(music ends abruptly)

When suddenly, I spied a large manilla envelope with the words “MISC TREASURES” written on the front in my father’s long-lost handwriting. 

Carefully, I reached for it, picked it up, and opened it.

Inside was a small wooden plaque that used to hang in my dad’s office, before he died of cancer. It said: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

(soft music begins)

I am not a religious person. But this was a message from my father. The message I desperately needed to hear.

I clutched the Serenity Prayer to my chest and burst into tears, not out of frustration or sadness, but out of pure relief. As if Dad was telling me, “You’re dealing with incredibly hard things right now, Beck, things beyond your control. There’s only so much you can do. You gotta let go.”

I thought about me turning 50, my mom’s disease, this raging wildfire — things I could not change, no matter how hard I tried. And a weight lifted from my shoulders then, like unbuckling a heavy backpack after a very long day of steep hiking. 

Sitting on the floor of the junk room, I closed my eyes and leaned against the bag of scarves, making peace with my loss of control — accepting that my cabin may have already burned to the ground.

And when I pictured my cabin gone, I realized something else. 

My long-held dream wasn’t necessarily this exact cabin, not the structure itself. It was the idea of my writer’s cabin...of holding a physical and mental space for my creative life. 

That was the dream. 

And knowing I would carry that with me, wherever I go, brought me back to the serenity I had found on the trail.

(music fades out)

After 10 weeks of living in my mom’s basement, the evacuation was lifted in late October. My cabin had survived. 

As I packed my things, Mom hovered anxiously. 

“Wait, have I given you a scarf yet?” she asked, her eyes eagerly searching my face.

“No, not yet,” I replied truthfully. I walked with Mom upstairs to see her latest creation, knitted from a cool and calming blue yarn. 

“This color,” she said, wrapping the scarf around my neck, “is called Glacier Bay.”

“Thank you, Mom,” I said, reaching for a hug. “Thank you for everything.”

(folksy music begins to play)

I pulled out of her driveway with my dog and two cats, and the final load of belongings in the back of my car. 

One black trash bag carried my clothes.The other held 70 scarves — one for every day I had been evacuated. 

I gave the bag of scarves an extra squeeze of appreciation before closing the hatch. I’d drop it off at the homeless shelter on my way out of town.

(music fades out)

By the time the Cameron Peak Fire was contained on December 2nd, it had consumed nearly 209,000 acres over 112 days, making it the largest and longest-lasting wildfire in Colorado history. 

Today, my cabin stands in a green oasis of healthy ponderosa pines, surrounded on three sides by burn scar. 

I know that, living in my cabin, there’s always a chance disaster can strike again.

Wildfire season keeps getting longer, the fires keep getting bigger, growing faster. And for some western states, fire season is 365 days a year.

But the words of my dad’s plaque keep me centered. 

(relaxed music begins to play)

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. 

We all have our wildfires. And floods and hurricanes and heat domes and illnesses, and whatever else life throws our way. 

We have our dreams. We take calculated risks. And sometimes, things don’t go as planned. 

But grant me the courage to change the things I can.

If I choose to live in wildfire country, then I have a responsibility to mitigate the risk — to change the things I can where I live. 

I keep a defensible perimeter around my cabin. Clear out dead trees and debris with other local volunteers. I’m part of a university research study to improve public communications during natural disasters. And right now, my neighbors and I monitor the small creek out back that feeds into the river. It’s the end of flash-flood season, here in the canyon.

Sometimes change is hard, even when things seem within our control. 

Last year, I had planned to finish writing my first book, chink the logs of my cabin, and lose 10 pounds. I did none of these things. 

But I did find the courage to go on a long walk through the mountains, survive a massive wildfire, and navigate my mom’s Alzheimer’s the best I could.

Fifty’s not so bad; I’m settling into it. It’s really not the disaster I thought it would be. 

If there’s one thing my birthday year taught me, it’s that I have nothing to prove — to myself or anyone. And I learned there is strength in being gentle to ourselves, especially when things get tough. 

There’s the plan, and then there’s life. God, grant me the wisdom to know the difference.

WILLOW: That was Becky Jensen. She’s a writer living in northern Colorado. You can see more of her work at beckyjensenwrites.com.

Becky has been on Out There multiple times before. So if you enjoyed this story, check out some of her other episodes. I have links to them in the show notes.

Thank you to Tanya Chawla for production assistance on this story. Tanya also provided editorial input, along with Melat Amha.

(music fades out and then more upbeat music begins to play)

Before you go, I want to remind you about our referral program, where you can earn rewards for sharing Out There with your friends. 

It takes just a moment to sign up and get in on the fun, and as soon as you get even one friend to listen, you’ll start earning rewards. Click the link in the episode description to sign up for your own personal referral link, or go to outtherepodcast.com/share.

(music fades out)

Support for Out There comes from Epic Water Filters. Epic Water Filters is on a mission to get people to use fewer disposable plastic bottles. So they’ve created a whole line of water filters that fit into Nalgenes, Hydro Flasks, and other reusable water bottles. That way, you can have clean, filtered water wherever you go.

(sound of tap water running)

They sent me a couple of their filters to try out.

(tap water turns off, and you hear the sound of a water bottle lid being screwed on, the the sound of sipping)

It’s pretty nice. Water tastes good. Simple and easy. I think this is going to be especially great for road trips. You know, when you like stop and you want to fill your water bottle at gas stations and stuff, and the water always tastes terrible there? This is going to be awesome for that.

For 20% off your purchase at epicwaterfilters.com, use the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s epicwaterfilters.com, promo code OUTTHERE.

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

On My Own Terms

By Ava Ahmadbeigi, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on August 26, 2021

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: If you’re someone who likes to travel, you might be interested in a podcast called Out Travel the System. 

Out Travel the System is one of our sponsors for this episode.Their show is brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter.

 Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. 

(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.

Before we get started, I have an exciting announcement. Starting in a few weeks, you will be able to earn rewards, simply for sharing Out There with your friends. I’ll have more details on how everything works later, but basically: when you share a special link to tell people about the show, you’ll instantly start earning all sorts of fun rewards.

You may have heard me say, on previous episodes, that word of mouth is one of the best ways for people to learn about new podcasts. So, this is a chance to build on that. And we want to invite YOU, our loyal listening community, to be a part of it. Our goal is to make it fun and worthwhile for you to spread the word about Out There - because we love you! 

As I said, I’ll have more info about this on our next episode. But for now, go ahead and click on the link in the show notes to sign up for our email list. That way, you’ll be the first to hear updates, and you won’t miss out on the fun.

One other announcement: As I mentioned on our last episode, we have started putting transcripts on our website. If you’d like to follow along as you listen, just go to outtherepodcast.com and click on this episode.

And now, on to our story for today.

(theme music ends)

Have you ever had an experience that you just couldn’t stop thinking about? A memory you kept returning to years after it happened? 

Today’s episode comes to us from a woman named Ava Ahmadbeigi. She now lives in the Hudson Valley in New York, and she’s surrounded by more outdoors than she ever saw growing up. But for years, she kept hanging on to an experience she had a long time ago. An experience that, she felt, held the key to whether or not she could have a place in the outdoors. 

I’ll let Ava take it from here. 

And just so you know, there is some adult language in this episode.

(sound of frantic digging)

AVA AHMADBEIGI: Connor, what's going on? 

(Connor sighs)

CONNOR: Oh God — we drove on a snowmobile trail, and the car is really quite badly stuck. 

(soft music begins to play)

The snowmobilers keep driving by and calling me an idiot and a moron. I think they might be right. 

AVA: Stay tuned. 

Before we start, I want to offer a disclaimer: I am no great athlete or adventurer. I have never in my life claimed to be “outdoorsy”, and my heart still races when I try new, simple things in the outdoors. 

This is not the story of a life-changing event that made me fall in love with nature. 

This is the story of trying to connect with the outdoors and my body, both equally foreign to me. And it’s my journey as I try to come to a decision: can I depend on my body? And if I can, can someone like me find belonging in the outdoors? 

(music fades away)

What I consider to be my first true experience in the outdoors — like nature, trails, bears and bugs outdoors — was in my junior year of college at NYU. 

I had saved enough money to afford a nasty little sixth-floor walk-up apartment with three other roommates. We had sky high rent, and rooftop parties, and mice that ate our Cheetos. It was all very NYU. I, despite my best efforts, was not very NYU. I loved the education part — I could feel myself growing intellectually. But I was still so aware of where I had come from, how I had grown up. And even more, I was aware of just how different that might be from how my three white roommates had grown up. 

I was not — at this point in my life — self-assured by any means. I’m an Iranian immigrant, but at NYU, I found myself in a group of mostly white friends. I was trying and, I thought, failing to fit in. 

(contemplative music begins)

So one fall night in 2014 when the idea of a weekend trip to the Adirondacks came up, I was surprised to be invited. I was happy to be included, for sure, but I was worried by the same token. Should I be included? Can I do whatever it is you do when you go camping? And, was this a pity invite? 

In the end, I said, “Ses, please and thank you, I will come to the Adirondacks.” After all, how different could it be from the as-seen-on-TV camping getaways? 

(music fades out)

Turns out, it was very different. Not in the least because I had optimistically overlooked something pretty important...I had no idea how to be outdoors. And, I would learn, I didn’t trust my body to figure it out either. 

To understand just how unprepared I was for this trip, there’s something you have to know about me. 

I was born in Iran and grew up mostly in Queens, New York. Immigrating is never easy, and our case wasn’t any different. My mom and I shared an apartment with my uncle, my grandmother and her live-in caregiver aid, while my mom and uncle worked as much as they could to make ends meet. I was taken care of and loved, and I never felt I was lacking anything. But I did feel alone. 

(music begins)

I spent a lot of time watching TV, doing homework on commercial breaks. I felt safe indoors, and I wanted to stay there. But as time went on, I got lost in the made-up stories of movies, and I started to have some...let’s say “magical” thinking. 

I had seen somewhere on TV that you can make a sort of vision board — images of what you want most in life, cut out and pasted on a display board. And if you just believe that these things can be yours, the universe will give them to you. 

Instead of making a board, in middle school, I cut out photos of body parts I wanted when I grew up, and I put them in an envelope in my underwear drawer. I had cut-outs of a flat belly; perky, full breasts; perfectly toned, hairless thighs — you get the picture. And they were all unambiguously white. Fragmented body parts of white women from magazines.

(music fades out)

THIS is what I wanted. 

And when my body turned out to look different than what was in that envelope, I think I turned my back on it. I even remember saying to a friend in high school, “My body is just there to carry my head around.” 

It’s sad to think about now, the way this relationship with my body grew. I understand it now as the anxiety of a child trying to fit in, to look the way I should look, using whatever tools were available to me. 

It was not a healthy relationship, but it’s the one I had with my body. And to be honest, it worked fine. I was perfectly happy in my routine. After all, if you’re a healthy young person, it’s easy to pretend the body is an afterthought. But this made-up division between my mind and my body — it didn’t hold up in my first big experience in the outdoors, and it didn’t hold up in one of the most tumultuous years of my life, either. 

(sound of soft thunder and steady rain begins)

The night that we arrived at the campground in the Adirondacks, it was cold and raining. My memory of most of the trip is vague — but there is one thing that I still remember, that I haven’t been able to let go of, to this day. 

(sound of rain ends)

The day after we arrived, we went on a hike. 

(sound of footsteps on a trail)

It’s safe to say I didn’t know much about what I was getting myself into. I knew it was not a long hike, but that there was a view at the top, and I felt reassured by the attitude of my friends: just a fun little hike, on a fun little weekend trip. Great. I can do this. 

(music begins)

Most of the way up was manageable. But as we approached the last stretch, the trail got steep — like, really steep. 

The rocks dug into the arches of my feet, and I wanted to get off of them as fast as possible, but this was literally new terrain for me. I couldn’t balance. Add to it that it had rained the night before, so the trail was extremely muddy. All the fallen leaves were slippery and wet, and they made it a terrifying feat to climb the last stretch up the mountain. 

I had to stop, gather myself, breathe, and hydrate a lot. Like many, many times. And with each time, I could see my companions getting more impatient. And I felt bad. 

I wanted so much to keep up — to prove that I could do this, that no matter where I came from, or how much experience I lacked in the outdoors, I can do a little mountain trail. So I kept pushing myself. But as much as I was used to pushing my mind, this is not the relationship I had with my body. 

(music ends)

I was suddenly painfully aware of my body and its demands. It seemed to be saying to me, “Oh, you pretend I don’t exist for all your life, and now you want me to step up?”

I needed to take my time, but my friends wanted to keep the momentum, and eventually, on one of my breaks, they left me behind. Yeah, you heard that right: they left me behind.

In a way, I couldn't blame them — I was not prepared to do that hike the way they wanted to do it. But at the same time, I was so afraid. I didn’t trust my body to be able to do this, and now I didn’t really trust my friends either. I was furious that they had left me — a person who’d never been hiking, and didn’t know the first thing about trail markers or safety in the outdoors — alone on a steep and slippery trail. I think it’s this fury that kept me going up the mountain, to the viewpoint, and back down. 

But I think, in a way, this whole incident broke my heart. It solidified the fears I had that I was too different from these friends: my background was different, my upbringing was different, my body was bad and weak and different, and I should just leave the outdoors to the people who could appreciate it. 

(quiet music begins)

It’s this feeling that I hadn’t been able to forget. And it’s this feeling that made me decide, definitively, I am not outdoorsy, and I will never do this again. 

WILLOW: Hey, it’s Willow. 

(music fades out)

We’ll hear the rest of Ava’s story in a moment. But first…

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And now, back to the story.

AVA: It’s been nearly seven years since that trip. In that time, I graduated from NYU, got a job at an international non-profit in Manhattan, left that work place because it had become toxic, and landed at StoryCorps. 

StoryCorps is a non-profit that records conversations between two ordinary people, and airs segments of those conversations on NPR. My job as the site manager of their mobile tour was to supervise a small staff as we moved a mobile recording studio from city to city each month, going all across the US. I felt the tour promised me a year of adventure, away from everything that had caused me so much stress in New York. 

But my first few months on the job, I was more anxious than I’ve ever been in my life.

(soft music begins)

I was in such a rush to get out of a bad situation that I didn’t stop to consider that my unprocessed feelings might catch up with me in the loneliness of a year-long tour, or that the newness of everything, and the lack of community, would seriously affect my mental health.

As these things started to take a toll. I started holding so much tension in my body that over the course of two months, I went from having hip cramps that made it hard to walk without a limp, to feeling like my hips and sides were being squeezed so hard my organs were going to burst out through my abdomen. It was the kind of pain that was subtle enough to ignore, until it wasn’t. 

(music fades out)

The anxiety caused tension, which caused actual pain, and the pain caused more anxiety, and it just went round and round. 

I had to change my relationship with my body. I didn’t have much of a choice. Those fragmented parts in an envelope, the way I had learned to think about my body, they were no use to me anymore. For the first time in my life, I was willing — or forced — to acknowledge that my mind and body are connected.

(optimistic music begins to play)

I started with a little stretching every morning, a practice that was completely about comforting my body, not getting fit or looking good. I was working on accepting that my body was more than a vehicle for my head, that it had real needs and value. That actually it was, and it is, strong. 

And as I got better at this, the world around me transformed a little bit. I found a feeling of home in my body, and I felt safer. It was like taking off anxiety-tinted glasses and seeing the world around me as it was for the first time in a long time. 

(music fades out)

And it just so happened that where I was, was the outdoors. It was not the kind of outdoors that I experienced on that first camping trip, but it was a stark contrast to the concrete structures of New York that I had known most of my life.

I sometimes have a hard time articulating this connection between my relationship with my body and the outdoors, because the truth is, it’s only by coincidence that they’re linked. 

See, I had started to feel a kinship with the outdoors because these were the spaces where I learned to get comfortable in my own skin. Like in Memphis, Tennessee, where I first went on a bike ride with my boyfriend Connor. And Yuma, Arizona, where we’d drive out into the desert and run around on sunny afternoons. And then those surreal last months in California, making our way above clouds to look over the ocean. 

But as much as I had started to feel comfortable in my body, and even in outdoor spaces, I felt unsure of whether or not other people who claimed the outdoors for themselves would accept me there. 

I know this might sound a little odd. Like, so what if they don’t accept me? But the kind of belonging and acceptance I worry about is not the kind you might feel at a party where you don’t have any friends. Belonging, for me, is tinged with power — the ability for someone who claims that space to tell me not just that I don’t fit in, but that I have to get out. 

This is an anxiety based in reality that I’ve negotiated since I was eight years old, first immigrating to this country. And I’ve learned to manage it in most situations, but the outdoors is still pretty new to me, and one of the reasons I felt unwelcome there is because I kept replaying that hike from college in my head. It was the first time I felt someone was communicating to me that I don’t belong outdoors, whether they intended to or not.

I wanted to finally face this memory head on. Why did my friends leave me behind? And did the trip actually reveal something essential about my belonging in the outdoors?

So I reached out to Kevin — one of my friends who was on that trip — to see if they’d be willing to talk about what they remembered. 

(music begins)

And they said yes. 

KEVIN: It's so good to...it honestly is so good to see you! Where are you? Are you in New York?

AVA: I'm in New York. Where are you? 

KEVIN: I'm in Chicago right now. 

AVA: Kevin and I caught up a bit. We hadn’t seen each other since we graduated from NYU and it’s been a long few years, packed full of life. But what I really wanted to talk with them about was that hike from college. I told Kevin about how hard it was for me to climb that little mountain in the Adirondacks, how slippery and steep it was, how I had to take break after break after break, how at some point the group stopped waiting for me…

AVA: And I was left behind. Do you remember this? 

KEVIN: I really don't, but that's...I don’t remember that.

AVA: I remember when I got to the top, people were spread out and just like chilling, like enjoying the views. And I remember I was so bitter. 

KEVIN: I’d be bitter too.

(Kevin chuckles)

AVA: I was like, “I can't believe you guys left me behind.”

(Ava laughs)

AVA: And I got up there and I was like — not proud of it — but I was like, “Thanks assholes.”

(Kevin laughs heartily)

KEVIN: I mean...I don’t remember any of this, but that would be exactly how I would react too, if someone left me in the woods. I'd be like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

AVA: Kevin didn’t even remember leaving me behind. I was at a loss. Like, how could they not remember?

But as we talked, I started to understand why. Kevin said they were in their own head about a lot of things at the time. For one thing, their grandfather had recently passed away...

KEVIN: And I was also, like, realizing that I needed to come out. And I didn't really have a language for that yet. And I was, like, still trying to figure that out. That was just a really weird time for me.

It's funny for me to think about this now, because I'm SO fucking gay. But the first two years of college, I wasn't, I wasn't out to anybody except like...I came out to two people my sophomore year.

For most of our early friendship, like I said, I was still living as like a straight person, you know, which was a complicated thing for me. I didn't like need people — I couldn't have people knowing anything about me that I wasn't ready to know about myself. I think that the way that I learned to be in the world is just in response to, like, preemptively assuming that people are going to reject me if they like get to know me at all. So I have to kind of be something that they either can't reject initially or, you know...anyway...

AVA: This is not what I expected from our call. I thought that the hike we did was probably so normal for the rest of the group, and there was some collective but unspoken decision to leave me behind. But, at least for Kevin, they were just as caught up in themselves and their anxieties as I was. In different ways, we were both trying to fit in, and at the same time come to an acceptance for who we each were. 

I don’t know what that trip looked like from our other friends’ perspectives, but if I could be so wrong about Kevin’s motivation that day, then couldn’t I be wrong about this other assumption I’d made? This assumption that I couldn’t find belonging in the outdoors?

Talking to Kevin really made me want to go back to that trail. Maybe it would spark some new memories, or be some sort of healing experience. Maybe by the end, I could feel confident that not only can I be outdoorsy, but others will accept me in this space too.  

So my boyfriend Connor and I decided to make the four hour trip to the Adirondacks. 

(music begins to play, then the sound of closing a car door and starting to drive)

It was February. We had had a couple of big snowstorms, and we knew the trail wasn’t safe to do in its entirety. But I really wanted to be back there again, even if we just went out to the first, easy part of the trail with our snowshoes.

(music ends)

But we never even made it to the trailhead. With just a few miles left, the road we were driving on changed. It was packed with snow.

AVA: (laughs) I was not concerned about the driving portion of this trip. 

CONNOR: Well, I just, I remember...

AVA: Oh my god, there are people behind me!

CONNOR: Oh my god, they’re on snowmobiles! 

(sound of turn signal)

That’s funny. We just passed a sign that said “no snowmobiles.” They should be able to go past, but it kind of looks he wants to talk to us. Roll down your window.

(sound of window rolling down)

AVA: Hey!

SNOWMOBILER: This is a snowmobile trail.

AVA: Really?

SNOWMOBILER: Yes. 

CONNOR: Oh, we didn’t realize…

AVA: Well, we got to turn back around.

SNOWMOBILER: It’s a snowmobile trail, back where it says turn around. That’s the end of the road.

CONNOR: Alright.

AVA: Thanks!

CONNOR: Go on ahead.

(sound of window rolling up)

CONNOR: Let’s just let them go past. 

AVA: Yeah.

CONNOR: I swear that sign said “no snowmobiles,” but maybe it said “snowmobiles only.”

AVA: We kept going for another few minutes, trying to find a place to safely turn around. But just as we found our spot, another group of snowmobilers came up behind us. So we pulled to the side just a hair, to let them pass, and...yeah, we got stuck. 

(sound of digging in snow)

We dug with whatever tools we had: our snowshoeing poles, the snowshoes themselves, our little windshield scraper. Snowmobilers would go by and immediately start yelling at us, cursing with real venom. No one offered to help. 

We did eventually get out. We got to a trailhead, and set out on our snowshoes. It wasn’t the same trail Kevin and our friends had gone on in college, but this one was beautiful. A complete winter wonderland. The sky was clear and light, and there was snow on even the thinnest tree branches. And the few other people we saw with their snowshoes were super pleasant — it was a complete 180 from our morning, and I’m glad we went out there. But I can’t say that I got the healing experience I thought I wanted. 

Still, on the drive home, our spirits were high. 

(driving sounds begin)

AVA: I feel like it was a success.

CONNOR: I think it was a huge success.

AVA: Really?

AVA: We had ourselves a full day of adventure, together, and that was worth it for us. 

But the more I thought about our long day — the digging and snowshing that would leave us sore for days, and the snowmobilers zooming by and throwing curses our way — the more I thought how strange this was...how strange that both times I had been in this area, this area that is so removed from our world and the stresses of daily life, tensions were actually running really high.  

AVA: And I feel like my assumption has always been, like, okay, if the people are removed from the world as well, they’re going to just be nicer.  

CONNOR: You think if the people are removed from the world, the world is removed from the people? 

AVA: Exactly.

(driving sounds end and music begins to play)

AVA: I had a thought, in some crevice of my mind, that the outdoors was different. I thought my experience in college was an anomaly — that really, the outdoors is supposed to be a place where people leave the other stuff behind, the stuff that makes them mean or impatient. But the outdoors is just like anywhere else — with welcoming people, and people who think everyone should look like and act like them. And people everywhere in between.

That realization is somehow liberating for me. And honestly, I think running into all those snowmobilers is what I needed. If I had had the healing experience I was looking for, it would’ve helped me pretend I am accepted unconditionally. But I know I am not. I’ve been worried all my life about belonging, and I don’t expect I’ll ever really stop.

But I’ve learned how to claim space for myself in the world, and how to continually accept myself — my mind and body all the same — just as I am and without permission from anyone else. And this realization that the outdoors is like everything else, it means I can claim space here too. On my own terms.

WILLOW: That was Ava Ahmadbeigi. Ava is a freelance audio producer based in New York's Hudson Valley. You can see more of her work at avaahmadbeigi.com. And I have a link to that on our website as well.

(music slowly fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There: Becky Jensen was out on a backpacking trip when a wildfire started near her house in Colorado. She came home to an evacuation order. 

BECKY JENSEN: One minute I was giving myself the classic pep talk that it’s just a house, just stuff, and things can be replaced. What matters is we're safe.

The next minute I couldn’t stop crying.

WILLOW: How do you cope, when you’re displaced by a natural disaster? When every day you watch the news, wondering whether you’ve lost everything? How do you make peace with a complete loss of control?

Tune in for that story on September 9.

(folksy music begins to play)

A big thank you to Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia for their financial contributions to Out There. 

If you’re not already supporting the show financially, take a moment to think about what Out There means to you. Does it brighten your day at all? Does it inspire you? Does it help you navigate the challenges in your life? 

If you answered “yes” to any of these questions, consider becoming a patron. Patrons are listeners who make monthly contributions to help us pay for creating the stories on this show. The contributions don’t have to be large — although of course we’re very grateful for larger gifts. If you have the means to contribute even $2 a month, you’ll be doing your part to support quality independent storytelling and help keep this show up and running.

Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast to become a patron today. I have a link to that in the show notes too.

(music ends and Out There’s 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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Happy Hustle

By Forrest Wood, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on August 12, 2021

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: For a lot of us, summer means road trips. Which also means you’re probably looking for good things to listen to in the car.

One of Out There’s sponsors is a podcast called Out Travel the System. Out Travel the System is brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter.

 Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. 

(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.

Just to let you know: we have started putting episode transcripts on our website. So if you’d like to follow along as you listen, just head to outtherepodcast.com and click on this episode. I also have a link to the transcript in the show notes. 

The choice to pursue something you love as a career can be daunting, especially when that something comes with some pretty significant financial barriers to overcome before your career can even begin. On top of that, the industry you work for notoriously undervalues the work you produce. Even if you summon the courage to commit to those initial financial investments, and you work hard to accomplish your goals, you run the risk of turning your passion into just another stressful job.

How do you walk the line between living the lifestyle you want to live, and simply paying the bills? How can you get the compensation you deserve without sacrificing your artistic integrity? How do you find balance between happiness and the hustle? 

(Out There theme music ends)

On this episode, we bring you a story about photographer and skateboarder Khaleeq Alfred, who has spent his career navigating these very questions. 

Forrest Wood has the story. 

(lively music begins to play)

KHALEEQ ALFRED: My name is Khaleeq Alfred. I go by he/him. Yeah I just, I love  skateboarding. I love riding my bike. I love good energy, and photography, and light…and that’s me.

FORREST WOOD: Khaleeq is the kind of person who knows what he wants.

KHALEEQ: I wanted to be a pilot, like that was my passion. I was going into junior year of high school knowing that I wanted to be a pilot. But then I got into the photography class, sat down, and was like, ‘Oh, this is what I'm supposed to be doing, got you.’

FORREST: Khaleeq quickly fell in love with the process of film photography. 

KHALEEQ: Once I got the film camera, I was shooting 24/7. Like the camera was attached to my hip.

FORREST: Khaleeq then combined his new passion for photography with another budding passion: longboarding. And in case anyone here is new to the lingo, longboarding is just like skateboarding, only longer. Now, there are many different styles, or disciplines, within skateboarding and longboarding, and most people who skate tend to dabble in more than one. So, for those core riders, skateboarding, longboarding — it’s all just skating.

(music fades out) 

In 2010, the longboarding industry was on the rise, and the scene was incredibly welcoming. 

KHALEEQ:  The scene was just booming back then. You could spend the day skating, and, if you saw somebody, the chances are you knew them. It was just skaters everywhere, longboarders everywhere. We somehow just naturally found the community, and the two, photography and skating, just flowed very nicely.

FORREST: Small companies were popping up all around the country, and they were all pushing new products. Varying levels of flex, board length, shape, and weight, gave each new design a unique feel, and pushed riders to newfound limits. Skateboard trucks got reengineered to give riders more range of motion when carving, or more stability at high speeds. Polyurethane wheels of all different hardnesses came out to give better grip to downhill racers, and smoother slides for freeriders. 

But those two disciplines, downhill and freeride, require steep hills, preferably on well-paved roads with lots of turns. Khaleeq grew up in New York City, which isn’t exactly known for its hills or winding roads. Riders from New York were forced to look outside of the city to progress, and Khaleeq followed the action.

KHALEEQ: The first time I traveled to shoot was to an event called Guajataca down in Puerto Rico.

(sound of a crowd of people)

ANNOUNCER: Push Culture, Guajataca 2012. There’s a bunch of people here at the slide jam. There’s a bunch of international riders at the race...

(cheering sounds and announcer continues talking in background)

 KHALEEQ: Yeah, good times. 

(people cheer excitedly )

That’s when the scene was very, the scene was still new to me, um, and I think that was the closest place that felt or looked like a big, skate party? 

(Crowd cheers, “Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico! Puerto Rico!”)

But you also get to just like enjoy a hill, enjoy beautiful weather, and then also have really big name riders at the time, be there. 

ANNOUNCER: Came into the right, a little too fast. He’s going like…

KHALEEQ: It was kind of just the place to be.

(announcer’s voice fades out)

FORREST: Khaleeq didn’t go to this event looking to make money; he went so he could photograph some of the best riders around. But in the back of his mind, he knew his photography would turn some heads. Khaleeq shot from the sidelines, and got a ton of great photos, and just as he had hoped — it didn’t take long for those photos to get noticed. All those new companies that were popping up, all those riders competing at events trying to earn sponsorships, they all needed media. And Instagram had just been invented, and skate brands were working hard to create a social media presence. 

KHALEEQ: For me it was just like, I just wanna get these amazing photos out. And every time I dropped photos it's just like, more and more connections, more networking.

FORREST: Khaleeq earned a reputation, and was introduced to the hustle that came with the life of a photographer. He got contacted by a few companies asking to use his photos in advertisements, and on their websites. With Instagram and Facebook, media turnover was happening fast, and companies loved having event coverage on their feeds, and there were events happening all over the world. 

KHALEEQ: And was like, “Okay, I can document this one in California, but the one over in Europe also looks really dope, and I would love to get over there.”

That’s when I maybe realized, okay I could start, like really going places or really traveling. I could get a job doing this in some complete other place. Ok cool, I wanna do this. I’m doing this. 

(upbeat music begins to play)

FORREST: The next big break for Khaleeq’s photography career came when he was a freshman in college, when he took a trip to Washington State to photograph the Maryhill Festival of Speed. 

ANNOUNCER: Here we are at Maryhill Festival of Speed. I’m Bricin "Striker" Lyons, Push Culture News. We’re at the boiling point here; the sun is killing us...

FORREST: Maryhill was at the time, the largest downhill event in the country. Khaleeq knew that if he could make it to that event, he would surely come away with some great photos that he could both add to his portfolio, and even potentially sell to some longboard companies. His work was already getting used in advertisements, primarily by Bustin Boards, a company based in Brooklyn that he had developed a relationship with. He asked around for some financial help getting to the event, but eventually he had to use some of his own savings to buy a plane ticket, and his mom fronted the rest. He bartered photographs for space in a hotel room, and bummed rides to and from the event with a skater he knew.

Maryhill Loops road is very photogenic. You’ve likely seen it in a car commercial before. It’s a 10-mile-long winding road adjacent to a field of churning windmills. It traces the contours of the landscape in a way that allows it to sustain a consistent downhill grade of 5%. Every turn is banked, which makes it a pleasure to ride down.

ANNOUNCER: The Maryhill Festival of Speed. It’s the easiest track to ride but the hardest race to win...

FORREST: The race course itself is just a slice of this road, but hosts 18 notable curves, and six hairpin corners. Khaleeq found a spot on the side of a hairpin with a good view of the road above, and the surrounding landscape beyond. He put on some music, settled in, and waited for the racers to come by.   

(sound of skateboarders speeding by)

By the end of the day, he knew he had gotten what he came for. 

Every night, after shooting in the sun all day, he would send out a batch of photos to Bustin Boards, whose riders he was looking out for on the hill. 

A few days after he got home from the event, he woke up to an email from his contact at Bustin Boards.  

KHALEEQ: Literally woke up to a random email, which probably isn't necessarily how this should be done, but a random email like, “Hey, so, the photo is gonna be on the cover.”

I mean like, I'm waking up at like seven in the morning, my mom’s not even awake. And I see this and I'm just like, “Holy shit, this is, okay, this is big.”

(music begins to play)

FORREST: The cover we’re talking about here is the cover of Concrete Wave Magazine, one of the largest longboard-centric media producers in the industry. 

FORREST: Do you remember how much you got paid for the cover? 

KHALEEQ: Uh, yeah.

(Khaleeq chuckles) 

KHALEEQ: Technically, um, I did not get paid funds for that cover. 

(music ends abruptly)

FORREST: You heard that right. Khaleeq did not get paid for his first magazine cover photo. 

KHALEEQ: I think I was still getting used to the whole photos bringing you money and valuing yourself, and being able to actually have a set number. You know, I’m just into college so I haven’t learned all the finance stuff yet.

FORREST: Bustin offered Khaleeq $1,000 in online store credit. This, unfortunately, is not an uncommon occurrence for young photographers and artists in many different industries. 

Khaleeq had gotten paid in gear for advertisements before, so a LOT of gear for a cover shot seemed to make sense at the time. 

Now for a company, paying someone off with products is the easy thing to do. They’ve already spent the money to produce the products, so shelling out gear is easier for them than actually writing a check. 

KHALEEQ: You know, if Ryan was giving me $1,000 worth of products, to me, I was like, “Okay, that’s the compensation in all of this.”

FORREST: Having a magazine cover photo in your portfolio as a young photographer is great and all, but having more skateboards than you can even fit in your dorm room isn't going to buy you a new camera lens. It’s not gonna put food on the table, and it's definitely not going to pay off your student loans. College, in this country, is not free. 

Khaleeq’s family falls into a category that many American families do: they qualified for some financial aid, but were far from being given a full ride. So Khaleeq took out thousands of dollars in student loans in order to get his photography degree.

KHALEEQ: When will I be able to pay that off? Not totally sure...

FORREST: How did your mom feel about that as a career choice back then?

KHALEEQ: My mom was totally fine. My mom, she's very open, she's very like, “As long as you are stable, and are mentally like ok, that’s all that matters.”

FORREST: Khaleeq had no hesitations about pursuing a degree in a field he knew wouldn’t make him rich. But when he got to be a junior in college, his program finally started teaching the financial aspects of being a photographer, and he realized he’d been selling himself short for years. 

KHALEEQ: You hear what your teachers’ rates are, you hear what their friends in the industry’s rates are, and you’re like, “Oh, so that’s what I could charge.” You have to find your value. You never really know…like, “Oh, ok, it’s actually acceptable to charge this. Oh, I can charge this and the company is actually going to pay. Ok. I need to ask for what I'm worth.”

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

In the world of travel and adventure, it’s easy to say, “Someday I’m going to do this or see that.”

But when will that “someday” be?

One of our sponsors is a company called Frost River. Frost River makes reliable bags, packs, totes, and adventure gear, to help you find adventure in the everyday, and start seeking your “someday” today.

With sustainably sourced materials and solar-powered manufacturing facilities, Frost River creates every piece of gear by hand, right here in the United States. If your pack gets broken, they also offer repairs, to help us get away from a throw-away mentality.

Stop waiting for your next adventure and start seeking your “someday” today at frostriver.com/outthere. That’s frost-river-dot-com-slash-outthere. Use the promo code OUTTHERE for free shipping on your next order.

And now, back to the story.

(music begins to play)

FORREST: Shortly after graduating from college, Bustin Boards — the company that had been using his photos for years — offered Khaleeq an official, full-time job. It felt like all his hard work had paid off. Photography had turned from a passion to a profession, and that was the goal, right? 

KHALEEQ: Working at Bustin, I thought like that would be a job that I would absolutely love. Like I’m at the headquarters, Under Armour is in here. We get to skate. I might have to build a board or two here and there. I get to do product shots. Imma get to travel here and there.

FORREST: But the reality of being Bustin’s resident photographer was not what he had imagined.

KHALEEQ: It’s like, “Ahh, that looks a lot different, little homie. It’s not what you thought.”

FORREST: In addition to product photography and web design, Khaleeq did a lot of behind-the-scenes work in the warehouse — shipping, packaging, and painting. He got a good look at how the industry worked from the inside. But he didn’t get a degree in photography to work in the longboard manufacturing industry; he got it so he could be a photographer. 

KHALEEQ: I just wasn’t happy, you know, and I wasn’t able to do all the things that maybe I necessarily wanted to do. I felt as though I shot more, and I was more happy, on the weekends.

FORREST: The weekends, when he got to skate and shoot with his friends. Even though Bustin expected him to shoot tons of photos for their website and social media, during the work week the only photos Khaleeq made were product shots. The good stuff, the action shots, the images that capture the true essence of the community — that was the weekend hustle. And because the weekends were when he produced the most photography, it started to feel like he was always on the clock. 

(music fades out)

Khaleeq worked for Bustin for about a year, doing what should have been his dream job. A job doing what he loved. A job that he thought was going to give him a healthy work-life balance. But like any good skateboarder knows, balance is not a passive state of being; it’s an active pursuit. 

Work had weighed down his life, and now it was time for life to balance the scale. So he took a step away from the safety net of a full-time job.

It’s been years since Khaleeq left Bustin. He’s branched out as a photographer, and now documents the blading scene, the fixed-gear bicycle community, BMX riders, and more. He was on the streets documenting the Black Lives Matter protests in New York last summer. He almost always has a camera on him, and constantly remains in the mindset of a photographer. 

FORREST: So now that you have a degree and an extensive portfolio in multiple different, you know, action scenes, are you able to support yourself with photography solely?

KHALEEQ: Um, no...and yes. Like, yes because it is a possibility. Like I could...I know that I’m capable of shooting anything. I’ve done headshots. I can do events. Um...I’m capable of shooting anything. It’s just like, I don’t want to be miserable, I don’t want to be working tons and tons of hours, ‘cause I think that’s what our society does now — work tons of hours and be miserable, but use that money to make you happy. And I would rather actually live my life. So you know, it’s doable, but there are other things that also, you know, bring me joy.

I’m a person who is very fixed on doing what you love, and being happy about doing what you love. Or being happy about doing what you do, period. 

(upbeat music begins to play)

FORREST: It was a big realization for Khaleeq: that being a full-time photographer wasn’t actually going to make him happy. In fact, he realized that being a full-time ANYTHING wasn’t going to make him happy. If he treated photography like a nine-to-five, he would come to resent it just like any other job. He knew he needed money, but he didn't need photography to be his only source of income. So he picked up a side hustle.  

KHALEEQ: I got a quick job that ended up turning into something long-term where I took care of a dog that just like, absolutely stole my heart. 

I love dogs. Walking dogs happened to be a thing that people can do. You know, if you can combine happiness and money, then like, cool, you’re good.

FORREST: Skating and photography had coupled very nicely for Khaleeq, and allowed him to experience multiple passions simultaneously. Dog walking now provided the same, combining Khaleeq’s love for dogs, with a love for riding his bike around the city.

KHALEEQ: It kept me out of the house, it put me on my bike. I was literally on my bike every day, which also, you know, was giving me exercise every day.

FORREST: And to be clear, dog walking did not take anything away from Khaleeq’s photography career; it just gave him another source of income. It gave him the ability to select the photography gigs that he wanted to do, and decline any offers that didn’t speak to his artistic sensibilities.

KHALEEQ: If I'm gonna be spending time behind a camera and shooting, I wanna make sure I have good energy behind it. I’m happy with it.

One of my college professors, John H. White, would always say, “Your camera is your passport to the world.” And that man is not wrong. 

(music fades out)

FORREST: For Khaleeq, photography is about traveling to new environments and spending time outside with his friends, doing the activities that they’re passionate about. The pursuit of these passions is the primary mission. Selling the art he produces along the way is the bonus. 

Khaleeq still shoots and sells his photos all the time, only he does it on his own terms. He plans skate trips with his friends, many of whom happen to be sponsored riders. He pitches these trips to skate companies, and negotiates equitable rates for himself in advance. He recently got back from one of those trips. 

KHALEEQ: And you know, obviously, like I got paid from that, and got paid well. ’Cause I know better.

FORREST: I’ve known Khaleeq for a long time; we used to skate together in Central Park. Throughout all the years I've known him, he always seems to be up to something. Whether he’s shooting, or traveling, or just cruising around with a pack of dogs, he seems to emanate good vibes and always gets great photos. To me, Khaleeq is a living example of the “New York Hustle”. So I asked him what “The Hustle” means to him.

KHALEEQ: So, people typically say, in New York, “The Hustle”. And to me, I think that just means being hungry, being motivated and staying motivated. 

And you know, I do identify with the phrase. Regardless what it is, whether it’s photography, whether it’s painting, whether it’s being a bike courier or messenger — there is a hustle, there is a work ethic that comes along with the title. So I definitely do agree that there is a hustle. 

What would I say my hustle is? Umm, that’s an interesting — I would have to say my hustle is photography. I would also just say, like, there's a part of me that’s being compelled to say — just like trying to live, and just thrive, and be happy. Finding the most happiness and keeping that going for as long as possible, is my hustle. 

That’s my hustle: staying happy.

(modern music begins)

 WILLOW: That story was reported, written, and produced by Forrest Wood, one of our interns at Out There last spring. Editorial assistance for the story came from Cecily Mauran. Special thanks to Push Culture News for letting us use audio from their YouTube channel, to Huck for allowing us to use their song, ‘Scrimmage’, and of course to Khaleeq Alfred, for sharing his story. If you want to check out Khaleeq’s photography, you can find him @Khaleeqovision on Instagram. That’s K-H-A-L-E-E-Q-O-vision. Or you can check out his website, Khaleeqphotography.com.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There: when Ava Ahmadbeigi’s friends invited her on a hike in the Adirondacks, she was surprised to be included. She was not an outdoorsy person. But she said yes.

AVA AHMADBEIGI: I wanted so much to keep up — to prove that I can do this, that no matter where I came from, or how much experience I lacked in the outdoors, I can do a little mountain trail. So I kept pushing myself. But my friends wanted to keep the momentum and eventually, on one of my breaks, they left me behind. Yeah, you heard that right. They left me behind.

WILLOW: What do you do, when you can’t trust your body — or your friends? When your attempts to BELONG end up backfiring? How do you find your place?

Tune in on August 26 to hear Ava’s story.

A big thank you to Melissa Spense, Marilyn Stoner, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia, for their financial contributions to Out There.

The stories you hear on the show take months to put together. Literally months. For example, we started working on this episode all the way back in January. 

Paying for stories like this requires money. And since Out There is an independent production, we don’t have big corporate financing behind us. 

That’s why we turn to you, our listeners, for support. Your gifts enable us to pay our storytellers for their hard work. 

To become a patron today, head over 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.

Check out all of our great rewards, and become a patron today, at patreon.com/outtherepodcast. That’s P-A-T-R-E-O-N-dot-com-slash-outtherepodcast. And I have a link to that in the show notes as well.

Thank you SO much.

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Horse Crazy

With Sarah Maslin Nir, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on July 29, 2021

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: For a lot of us, summer means road trips. Which also means you’re probably looking for good things to listen to in the car.

One of Out There’s sponsors is a podcast called Out Travel the System. Out Travel the System is brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns and want to share them with travelers — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter.

 Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. You can like and subscribe to get all the latest episodes.

(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.

On today’s episode, we talk with the author of a book called Horse Crazy. Horse Crazy is part memoir and part cultural exploration. It’s a love letter to an animal. It’s a story about the struggle to belong. And it’s a deep dive into the fascinating things that horses — and the humans connected to them — can teach us about ourselves and our society. 

I’m joined now by Horse Crazy author Sarah Maslin Nir.

(Out There theme music ends)

WILLOW: So how did the idea for this book come about?

SARAH MASLIN NIR:I have always been a secret, obsessive horse person — emphasis on secret. Because as a reporter for the New York Times, I cover really hard corners of the earth — really difficult subjects, some of the grittiest. And I was really concerned that if I ever outed myself as a horse person, that if people knew that so much of my heart and mind was filled with ponies, I wouldn't be taken seriously doing my job. 

And I was chatting with a friend about wanting to write a book, and I told him that the only subject I wanted to write about was horses, but I couldn't for the reasons I explained. And he said really something important — he said, “Sara, passion translates. Whatever the subject is, readers just want to understand passion. And if you're passionate about it, that's the important part.” 

(upbeat music begins to play)

Everywhere I've gone around the world as a reporter for The New York Times, I realized that when I was finished reporting the story I was sent there to do, I'd whip out another notebook and go find the horses. So when I was in Rajasthan, I found a woman who's managed to smuggle rare Indian horses to America. Hint: she smuggled their semen in her pockets on Air India flights.

(Sarah and Willow laugh)

When I was traveling around doing stories in New York, I found fox hunters who ape the rules of aristocracy in Westchester, galloping around on horseback. And a woman who galloped away from a failed marriage. When I was in Chincoteague, following the steps of Marguerite Henry, the wonderful children's horse book author, I found two little girls who bought a wild horse from an auction, only to set her back free. And I realized that they're horse people just as much as I am, even though they've never even stroked her auburn nose. They own what it means to be a horse, which is freedom. And that became the threads I pulled together to write this book because I had been doing it all along.

(music fades away)

WILLOW: You know, you delve into a lot of these kind of cultural phenomena related to horses. Phenomena that I think reveal a lot more about us as humans, than about horses really. And one of the ones that I found particularly interesting was this chapter that you have on Breyer horse shows.

And maybe for listeners who are not horse lovers themselves, Breyer horses are these, these toy horses, these little plastic horses that I mean — I remember playing with them endlessly as a kid, and I would, you know, make little saddles out of bits of fabric and have my dollhouse dolls ride them and things like that. And to me they were a toy but, um, but that you know that eventually I grew out of when I got older. But you write about this, this just fascinating thing of Breyer horse shows. Tell us about that.

SARAH: Willow, why do you find it strange that adults cart hundreds of 12-inch playthings around the country to compete them in 4-H clubs as if they're living creatures? What, what's so strange? 

(Willow laughs)

WILLOW: I know, right? We all, we all do that, right? We all..

(Willow laughs again and cheerful music begins)

SARAH: It is a fascinating phenomena. So Breyer model horses are acetate horses at a one-to-eight scale of the real thing, and they're quite realistic...but they are plastic. And here I found a world in which adults predominantly, though there are children, drive them around the country to compete them against each other. And lest you think they're competing models they painted — right, some artistic endeavor — they are competing store-bought horses against store-bought, plastic horses. 

And this isn't a small phenomenon, I should add: 30,000 people come to the annual Breyer horse convention at the Kentucky Horse Park where the derby is run. So it's a real deal thing. 

I came into that center in Leesport full of skepticism. I almost felt judgy — you know, what is this thing? How? How could people participate in this? And there, in that room, I saw adults doing something that I don't let myself do as a grownup anymore, which is play. It was pure play. And here were these people finding the same things that I find in living, breathing fur-covered horses, in these plastic animals.

(music ends)

And they really appeal to people who can't access horses for financial reasons. They still seem to have that draw. And I left that hall, I write in the book, feeling ashamed that I had come in with preconceptions, and realizing at the end that those people — those adults playing with plastic horses — were horse crazy, in the same way that I was. That what they loved was what a horse can do for your soul, which is expand it. 

WILLOW: Well, and I was gonna ask about that. The title of the book, of course, is Horse Crazy. What does, what does that term mean to you? 

SARAH: It's a fascinating term, because I don't think there's an equivalent dog crazy or cat crazy, right? If you look at a kitten or a dog, I like to say, you think like, ‘Aw, how cute.’

But when you look at a horse, you feel something. It's more akin to looking at a mountain vista, or waves rolling in across the ocean. It tugs at something. 

(music begins)

And that, to me, speaks that horses are, have come to embody something larger than just being these 1,200-pound creatures on hooves. You know, you don't feel that way about a cow. 

Horse crazy is a global phenomenon. In America, it's actually predominantly female, a lot of the sport. And I look into that. My father, a Freudian therapist, would say this is an example of young women wanting to dominate something large between their legs. And it goes into these atomistic, id-based feelings and impulses. 

But I think it's about power. On my own two legs, I'm just me. And given four more, I suddenly become formidable. And a little girl is probably the least formidable thing in our whole society. And here she is able to control this wondrous beast and make them one with her. And that, to me, just sparks horse crazy.

(music swells and then fades away)

WILLOW: Well, and that actually leads into one of my other questions. Because I think it's really fascinating that — and you go into this a bit in the book — I think it's really fascinating that in the US, riding is seen as a predominantly women's sport. I mean, leaving aside let's say rodeo and, and ranches where horses are actually working, but just riding for the sake of riding is, is very much seen as a women's thing to do here. 

But that's not the case in other places around the world. And you have a trip to India in your book where you talk about the fact that, that it's really, like women really don't ride there. It's, it's much more of a men's thing. So how do these, how do these cultural norms about who gets to ride — and what is the appropriate gender to ride — like how does that come about?

SARAH: It's more than gender. One of the subjects I really unpack deeply — and the threads I pull at in Horse Crazy — are who do horses belong to? For me, in examining my own passion for these animals, I realized a tremendous part of it was about passing. Passing as an all-American girl, when I was the daughter of a Holocaust survivor — of an immigrant, a Jew — who felt out of place in this sport that's of kings and of Jackie Kennedy. Who was I? And I think I inserted myself, maybe shoehorned myself, into this sport so deeply in an effort to pass. And that gave me a lens to examine the horse world in general. 

(quiet music begins)

One of the stories I dig into deeply is the erased legacy of the Black cowboy. One in four cowboys, Willow, were Black in the American pioneer era. And they've been totally erased from the narrative by racism. As the great historian William Loren Katz said to me — another Jew from Brooklyn, actually who is a black cowboy historian — he said, “If Black people came into the American origin story, the cowboy story, they came under a whip and in chains. And that's not the America we wanted to remember.”

And they've been removed from that narrative. So in my book, I ride with the Black cowboys of Texas and in Harlem and try to examine that. But the question you pose is fascinating. In different countries, it's a men's sport. In this country, certain aspects are seen as hopelessly female and derided because of it. But horses are incognizant of all of that. They have no concept of who they belong to. And in that way, they're deeply democratic. They belong to all of us.

(music fades out)

WILLOW: This concept of the Black cowboys I found really interesting, and not least so because the way you, the way you sort of find out about all of this is you stumble upon a Black cowboy in New York City. Can you talk about that? 

SARAH: Sure. So when I was in my early twenties, I was biking around the city and I saw, in the middle of the Harlem River, what I really thought was a mirage. That can't be a little red barn, underneath, like, a wastewater treatment plant and beside a mental institution. And so I biked across and threw my bicycle into a shrub and ran to the barn. And lo and behold, a little brown horse popped her head out. And that was my introduction to the New York City Riding Academy, which I just thought was a little riding school run by two ornery and lovable old folk. 

Turns out they were the founders of the New York City Black Rodeo, which had taken place for 20 years in Harlem. And they were evangelists for reinserting the Black cowboy into the American story. Dr. Blair — don't call him George, he's Dr. Blair to you Sarah, and Mrs. Blair too — he said to me one day, I asked him, “What are we teaching at this riding academy?” 

Because we just had three horses, and 40 inner-city children would come at a time — and they would never ride, because we couldn't mount them all up. And I said to Dr. Blair, “What do we, what do we teach here at the New York City Riding Academy?”

And he said to me, “Sarah, do you know what a cowboy is?”

And I thought that was a rhetorical question. Right, who doesn't know what a cowboy is? The Marlboro Man. And he said to me, “Sarah, a cowboy is a Black man.”

And actually etymologists, some believe that the very word “cowboy” speaks to the blackness of the people who had that profession first. Because in the era of its coinage — I think it's the late 1800s, early 1800s — you wouldn't call a white man a “boy.” It would be incredibly derogatory, but you had a house boy, and a yard boy, and those were your slaves. And he said to me, “Sarah, a cowboy is a Black man.”

And the next thing he said I will remember for the rest of my life. He said, “I'm not teaching children to ride here. I'm teaching them that there are different futures for them in this world. That they belong to much larger a part of the American story.”

He said, “I'm not teaching them to ride, Sarah. I'm teaching them to dream.”

(soft music begins)

And that was incredibly powerful for me. And as the daughter of a Holocaust survivor, whose people were literally erased from the planet, the figurative erasure of Black people from the American equestrian story really felt a parallel, and something that I wanted to help repair.

WILLOW: Where are we heading with that? I mean, I think you hear now and again about, about people like this, who are trying to bring stories of Black cowboys back into the narrative. But I think for a lot of us, I mean, it's like you said: you picture a cowboy, and you picture the Marlboro Man — you picture a white guy.

So how, like, where are we in this process? Is there, is there hope for, for you know, getting Black people back into this narrative where they belong? 

SARAH: There have been strides taken towards equity in the horse world, especially sparked by the Black Lives Matter conversations of the past summer. They have been painful conversations. Show jumping is an incredibly white sport. And there have been long discussions, “Oh, it's because it's wealthy.”

But there are rich Black people, and they obviously don't feel welcome to participate in the sport of show jumping. And so there have been a lot of conversations about inclusion that are happening now, across the disciplines. 

A really interesting thing to me, that I wish I had explored in my book, and I didn't, is Black jockeys. So the first-ever winner of the first-ever Kentucky Derby was a Black man, and the trainer of that horse was a freed slave.

WILLOW: Wow.

SARAH: And in the early days of, yeah, in the early days of American horse racing, people ran the horses they owned, with the humans they owned on their backs. And Willow, when you walk into a plantation, you feel the blood that built those places, right? 

We are so deeply aware of the pain that the cotton industry was predicated on. But thoroughbred racing owes that same debt to Black lives, and it has never had its moment of reckoning. 

When you go to Churchill Downs where the derby is run, there's a statue of Secretariat, right? Everybody knows the Triple Crown winner stretched out in a gallop in bronze with a jockey on his back. And actually not far away is a statue very similar with Aristedes, the first horse that won that first-ever Derby. But there's no rider on Artistedes’ back, and that's because that rider was a Black man.

(music continues and then fades out)

WILLOW: Coming up on this episode, we’ll talk about the connection between being a horse lover, and being a journalist. But first…

I often hear about people getting tattoos as a reminder of something important to them. Maybe it’s a reminder that you are strong and capable and resilient. Maybe it’s a reminder to stay present and stop worrying about the future. 

I’ve always liked the idea of a physical thing that can serve as your own secret pep talk. Something to give you hope and courage. But I personally don’t want a tattoo. So I’ve started wearing a ring.

One of our sponsors is a company called Qalo. They make silicone rings, designed for people with active, outdoorsy lifestyles. A lot of people wear them in lieu of metal wedding rings. 

For me, since I’m not married, I use mine as a personal reminder that things might turn out ok. That even when life gets rough, it’s possible that everything will be fine.

If you’re looking for a ring that will hold up to all your adventures, check out Qalo. You can get 20% off your purchase at qalo.com/outthere. That’s Q-A-L-O-dot-com-slash-outthere. Your 20% off discount will automatically be applied at checkout.

Support for Out There also comes from Frost River.

In the world of travel and adventure, it’s easy to say, “Someday I’m going to do this or see that.” But the folks at Frost River are challenging all of us to start seeking our “somedays” today. Frost River makes reliable bags, packs, totes, and adventure gear, to help you find adventure in the everyday, and start seeking your “someday” today.

With sustainably sourced materials and solar-powered manufacturing facilities, Frost River creates every piece of gear by hand, right here in the United States. They also offer repairs for their packs, to try to get us away from throw-away culture.

Whether your next adventure is a stroll through a local park or a backcountry camping trip, Frost River has sustainably-made gear that’s built to last. 

Stop waiting for your next adventure and start seeking your “someday” today at frostriver.com/outthere. That’s frost-river-dot-com-slash-outthere. Use promo code OUTTHERE for free shipping on your next order.

And now, back to our conversation with Sarah Maslin Nir.

You’re horse person, and you are also a reporter for the New York Times. And I'm curious about the connection between those two identities. I mean, do you think it's an accident that you have these dual passions of horses and journalism? Or do you think there are certain personality traits that you have, that lend themselves to both?

SARAH: I've never been asked that question in all of my interviews, so I love it. Good job. Let me think about it.

(soothing music begins)

Being with a horse requires speaking in horse, which is silence. Horses are nonverbal communicators. They communicate in a language of very specifically delineated gestures, and communicating with them, steeped in silence, is very different than what I do as a reporter, which is verbally engaging with people. 

But I often say that interviewing is not a conversation; you're extracting something. It's very different than talking. And it requires a sort of quiet listening that allows the other person to fill a space. And that is similar to being with a horse in their deep silence. 

(music fades out)

I will tell you something really interesting. Horses really healed me through that silence. I was the victim of a knife attack that I write about in my book, where a burglar climbed in through my window in my apartment in New York City, and stabbed me while I was sleeping on Thanksgiving Day. 

And after that attack, I had what's called hypervigilance, a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder, where you hear everything. I couldn't quiet the city down. I heard every air conditioner, every screeching car. It was incredibly loud. And that's the way that prey creatures hear the world. They're listening in case something attacks. And that's the way that horses relate to the world. 

And what healed me, and what silenced the city again, was being around those creatures who navigate the world in silence, and yet somehow survive. So it's a very circuitous way of answering your question that both engaging with these animals and engaging and winning the trust of humans requires a depth of listening that you don't do in the outside world. 

(piano music begins)

WILLOW: What do you hope readers will take away from the book?

SARAH: My fervent hope is that readers understand that passion and the things that define us are our choice. I really dig deeply into the barriers that society puts up against participating in this world. These sports with the black cowboys — and we didn't get into this yet, but the Indian horse riders who are stoned when lower-caste people have the audacity to attempt to ride a horse to their wedding, sometimes killed. The jockeys, the wild horse owners, the plastic horse people, that all of them are part of this story and that how we define ourselves isn't up to other people. And I hope there's some solace in that. Horses have given me tremendous solace ,in my life and I hope this book does the same.

WILLOW: Well, thank you so much, Sarah. It was a delight talking with you, and a delight to read your book.

SARAH: Thank you. It's really meaningful to me, and thank you for thinking of it for this.

WILLOW: Sarah Maslin Nir’s book is called Horse Crazy. It comes out in paperback August 3rd. Special thanks to Cecily Mauran for editing this episode, and to Tiffany Duong for connecting us with Sarah.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There, we have a story about the tension between following our dreams and paying the bills. 

KHALEEQ ALFRED: I'm a person who's very fixed on doing what you love, and being happy about doing what you love, or being happy about doing what you do. Period.

(folksy music begins)

WILLOW: Tune in on August 12 to hear that story. 

A quick reminder that story pitches for our upcoming season are due tomorrow. The theme for the season is “Things I thought I knew”. We have all the details for how to pitch us at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Just click on the contact tab. 

Also, if Out There brightens your day at all, consider making a financial contribution to the show. We are an independent production, which means we don't have a network or big corporate money behind us. In fact, about half of our operating budget comes from listeners just like you. The stories we run typically take months to put together. And we believe strongly that the writers and producers who create these stories should be compensated fairly. Help us pay our storytellers what they deserve by becoming a patron today. Just head over to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. In case you're not familiar with it, Patreon is a crowdfunding platform for creative endeavors. It lets you make monthly contributions to projects you care about, like this podcast. We have lots of great rewards for different pledge levels. For example, if you contribute $10 a month, you'll get a handwritten thankyou card from me, a free Out There sticker, and 20% off all out there merchandise. Check it out and become a patron today at patreon.com/outtherepodcast. That's P-A-T-R-E-O-N-dot-com-slash-out-there-podcast. 

(music ends and Out There theme music starts)

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.

That's it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White and Stacia Bennett. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. We'll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Bucket List Traveler

By Cecily Mauran, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on July 15, 2021

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’m 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 Peak Visor app.

WILLOW BELDEN: Peak Visor is our sponsor 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. Peak Visor will tell you. It’ll show you the name of the summit, how tall it is, how far away it is...plus, loads more 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 to have your own personal mountain guide, check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music begins to play)

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

Before we get started today, I wanted to let you know that we are currently accepting pitches for our upcoming season. The theme for the season is “Things I Thought I Knew.” If you’re an audio producer or writer, and you’d like to pitch us a story, head over to our website, outtherepodcast.com. We have all the details on what kinds of stories we’re looking for, as well as how to pitch us, under the “contact” tab. Pitches are due July 30.

(Out There theme music ends)

One of the things I think about a lot these days is the boundary between self-care, and doing good for others. How much self-care is appropriate, and when do you stop thinking about you, and focus on the greater good? Where’s the balance?

Today’s story offers a new twist on that question. It explores this division between self care and acts of service, and asks whether we’re looking at it the wrong way. What if self-care is NOT inherently selfish? What if doing something good for yourself, and doing something good for others, is a false dichotomy? What if you can have your cake and eat it too?

The story follows a woman named Linda Mohammad, who set out to visit all the national parks in the U.S. When she started on the project, she wasn’t trying to resolve any existential questions. She was just trying to get outside and get in shape. But the experience snowballed into something much bigger than that, and something much more beautiful. Cecily Mauran has the story.

CECILY MAURAN: Like all great adventures, it started with a Black Friday sale and a visit to the doctor’s office. 

(soft music begins to play)

At least, that’s how it started for Linda.

LINDA: My full name is Nur Az Linda Mohammad, but I go by Linda, not because it's the easy thing to do. My mom, when she named me and my sister, she made it a point to give us a Malay name with some English name to it. So it works out. 

(Linda laughs)

CECILY: Linda moved to the U.S. from Malaysia 17 years ago, and now she lives in the Central Valley of California. Her story starts in 2016. 

She had recently decided that she wanted to be more physically active, but not just by going to the gym. She wanted to be outside enjoying nature. So when she found a CamelBak on sale, Linda started thinking about hiking as her new activity. 

A few weeks later, she was at the doctor’s office browsing through a magazine. There she found an article listing all the national parks in California. 

LINDA: So I thought, ‘Oh, well this is perfect. I got a Camelbak. I want to go hike. And now I have a list.’

(Linda laughs)

CECILY: A list. At that moment, Linda decided to set a goal for herself. She would visit all nine national parks in California. 

This goal suited her. She is an engineer by trade, so working her way down a to-do list that required precise planning and logistics was the perfect challenge. 

It didn’t take long to get the project off the ground. 

First, she had to tackle the 100-degree heat of the appropriately named Death Valley National Park. Next up was Pinnacles National Park. And it was there, amongst the craggy rock formations, she realized this project was going to give her a lot more than just physical fitness and the satisfaction of checking off items on a list. 

LINDA: It was a tough trail, but the more I hiked, the more I felt disconnected from all these racing thoughts about work and about, you know, family and other things that you usually, you know, think about. And at that time, it was just so peaceful, and I could hear my own thoughts about me, about, you know, things that I'm wondering about, but it's mostly like, it's about me and not trying to prioritize everybody, also anything else. 

CECILY: That hike was liberating and empowering. It gave her the self-care she didn’t even know she was craving.

(music fades away slowly)

LINDA: And that was the moment that I got hooked on spending time outside, hiking, just being in my own thoughts and kinda, you know, fuel up that tank after a long week at work, or stressful week. 

CECILY: From here on out, Linda’s project was full throttle. Every weekend she explored a new national park and returned home with a full tank, ready to start her work week. By the end of 2016, she had visited all nine of the national parks in California. 

So naturally, she decided to keep going and visit all the parks in the US. All 59 of them. As a side note, there are now 63 parks, but at the time there were just 59.

Just to be clear, she was doing this while holding down a full-time job and leading an otherwise normal life. It’s not like she sold all her belongings and became a van lifer. 

And it definitely wasn’t easy. But she made it work. Fueled by what she calls a…  

LINDA: ...healthy obsession.

CECILY: Linda planned her whole calendar around the project. 

(upbeat music begins)

She stockpiled vacation days and used long weekends for bigger trips, sometimes combining several parks in one trip. Long drives changed to red-eye flights as her park trips spread farther and farther across the country. 

LINDA: Thursday night, I'll be at LAX, waiting to fly somewhere. And then as soon as you get to where I'm going, it'll be like 6 a.m. driving time to a national park somewhere. And I'll be back home by Sunday, close to midnight and you know, sleep for a couple of hours and then have to go to work on Monday. 

(Linda chuckles)

CECILY: Sounds exhausting, right? And maybe even a little self-indulgent? Since often, when we have an action-packed weekend and get too little sleep, our work suffers. 

But to Linda’s surprise, that wasn’t what happened. 

LINDA: Before this, my performance review will always talk about how I'm meeting expectations, but I'm not really “out there”, literally. But all this experience outdoors and finding all this newfound strength and you know, challenging the limit and whatnot, it really shows up at work in terms of how I carry myself — my leadership style. And it really improved my performance.

(music fades away)

CECILY: And her work was just one of the aspects of her life that blossomed as a result. Working her way down that list of national parks was no longer just a side project but a driving force of her life. 

LINDA: I feel so enriched. I feel so fulfilled by all the time that I spend in these parks. It kind of changed me as a person.

CECILY: Linda felt so much gratitude for what the parks had given her. She felt indebted to them, so she started volunteering with the National Park Service as a way to give back what she felt like she owed to the parks. For her, volunteering was a gesture of thanks. An acknowledgment of gifts given. And helping to protect and preserve the national parks was her small way of ensuring that she and others could continue to enjoy them.

So she started dividing her travels into two categories: some weekends she’d visit new parks, and others, she’d return to old parks for volunteer trips. She did things like guiding people at visitor centers, playing park movies, and her favorite task, swearing in kids as junior park rangers. 

LINDA: Swearing them in…it’s like the cutest thing.

(Linda laughs)

CECILY: The actual park rangers thought she was crazy. After all, the John Muir Historic Site, where she was regularly volunteering, was not exactly in her backyard. She’d take a four-hour train at 6 a.m. just to volunteer for the day, and go back home that night. But Linda loved the chance to be able to give back, even just a little bit.

(soft music begins)

A year later in 2017, a friend took Linda on a volunteer trip to the Channel Islands national park. It’s a secluded set of islands off the coast of California that can only be accessed by boat. Picture dramatic rocky cliffs that plunge into the blue-green waters of the Pacific. She fell in love with the enchanting world of dolphins, whales, underwater kelp forests, and native foxes as friendly as dogs. It quickly became one of her favorite places to visit.

And because she loved it there so much, she wanted to enlist as much help as possible. So she turned to Instagram. 

(music ends)

Linda had already built a significant following on Instagram through her page the Bucket List Traveler. And now, she began using it to recruit volunteers. 

Over the years, those volunteers she recruited turned into friends. 

Being an introvert, she never really imagined herself making friends through social media, but Linda and the people she met quickly bonded over their mutual love of national parks and conservation. 

LINDA: We all have that genuine passion for the outdoors and for the parks. And because of that, we connected on a deeper level. And these are the friends that I will go on trips with, travel across the country with and, you know, some of them are lifelong friends, or will be.

CECILY: Her newfound friendships weren’t only about having fun and enjoying the parks together. They held a powerful significance. Her park friends shared the same values and ideals. They were park lovers like Linda. And through her, the park goodwill grew exponentially. 

LINDA: To me, like the biggest honor is when I get, you know, two of my separate volunteer, national-park-loving friends connected and they start making plans without me. 

(Linda laughs)

I think that's the best kind because now you know, the network just branch out and now they have new friends that share the same passion to go explore and experience all these parks.

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

(Sound of wind blowing)

JESSICA: So I’m looking all around me…

WILLOW: That’s my colleague Jessica. She’s out backpacking in the Grand Canyon.

JESSICA: And I’ve opened up my Peak Visor 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: This episode is sponsored by Peak Visor, the app that Jessica is using. Peak Visor helps you plan out adventures — and figure out what you’re looking at when you’re out on those adventures. Their app has info on more than a million summits all over the world. 

If that sounds appealing to you, check out Peak Visor in the app store.

And now, back to our story.

CECILY: Linda’s tank wasn’t just full; it was overflowing. She was in great shape. She was nurturing her soul. She had a nation-wide network of new friends. And now, she realized she could take it one step further and turn this project into something truly meaningful on a societal level. 

(quiet music begins to play)

One of the things she had noticed over the years was that there weren’t a lot of women of color out on the trails. And now that she had this major Instagram presence, a lot of people were reaching out to her and telling her that she was an inspiration.

This came as a bit of a surprise.

Linda grew up in Malaysia where she was part of the racial majority. So when she moved to the U.S. for college, it was the first time she experienced being a minority. 

Linda studied at Colorado School of Mines, which is a top engineering school. It also happens to be in a predominantly white part of the country. She got used to being the only person of color in the room.  

So when she started her national parks bucket list, she wasn’t totally surprised about the lack of diversity in the outdoors. She also didn’t quite feel like it was her fight to take on. Yes, she looked different than most people on the trails, but she had never experienced overt discrimination or been made to feel out of place.

LINDA: It didn't quite bother me that I don't see people like me outside. I noticed it, but it didn't bother me because at that time, I just felt like, ‘Well, I'm just doing this for me.’

(music fades out)

CECILY: But as she got deeper into the world of park lovers on Instagram, she discovered accounts that promoted diversity on the trails. Accounts with names like Brown People Camping and Unlikely Hikers. They talked about the obstacles that a lot of people of color face in the outdoors…and used their platforms to push back against those obstacles and help people overcome them. 

Linda started to realize that while the lack of other black and brown people on trails hadn’t stopped her from getting outside, not everyone felt comfortable or safe if they didn’t see other people who looked like them out on the trails. 

LINDA: The last few years I learned, you know, when we talk about those spaces, how representation matters. And also, just because I don't experience any of the setbacks that other people of color experience, it didn't mean that it didn't happen. So it's just a lot of light bulbs that pop at the time. 

CECILY: Linda realized it was important for her to just be out there. And not just for her own personal edification — and not even just to care for public lands. It was important because she was being a role model. She was visible. Somebody that other people of color and female solo travelers could relate to. The very act of visiting national parks as a woman of color was a challenge to the status quo.

LINDA: And the fact that I am out there, doing my thing, I think in some ways it does inspire some solo female travelers and people of color, a lot of friends from Asian and Hispanic and Black communities that find that connection and, you know, they will seek suggestions and advices and not just trails and trips, but also, “Hey, is this a safe place to go as a person of color who's a solo female traveler?”

(joyful music begins to play)

CECILY: In October 2019, Linda and a friend visited Everglades National Park, the final park on her list. Before walking out onto the trail, her friend said they had forgotten something in the car, so they doubled back to the visitor center. And there waiting for her was a surprise party that her friends had arranged with the park rangers.

LINDA: And it was a total surprise. There were cupcakes, the park made this certificate for first time, congratulating me. We have a small ceremony. It was, it was so awesome.

CECILY: National park friends who couldn’t be there had even coordinated ahead of time and mailed in postcards from all over the country. It was at this moment — surrounded virtually and physically by friends that she had found through her project — that she realized something important. She realized that what started as a way of doing something good for herself, became a means of sending good back into the world. She could have her cupcakes and share them with her friends too. 

Linda was surrounded by the community that she had created, all because she had chased self care in the outdoors…and because she wanted people to feel as good as she did. For Linda, self-care didn’t just stop with the self; it was what drove her to give back. 

LINDA: It always makes me smile, because I felt like for this community, I'm always happy to give: give information, give tips, give opportunities to meet up in hikes and do things, and for once like to be on the receiving end and be celebrated…

(music fades out)

CECILY: It was the perfect finish to Linda’s project. She had visited 61 national parks in just three years. Which, if you think about it, is pretty bonkers. It’s about 20 national parks a year. Most people don’t do that in a whole lifetime. 

By then, Linda had joined the Board of Directors for the Channel Islands Foundation, amassed thousands of followers on Instagram, and was an official ambassador for several hiking and outdoors communities. She’s even become a brand ambassador for HydroFlask, the trendy water bottle company.

But in many ways, it was just the beginning for a goal-oriented engineer in search of a new challenge. 

LINDA: It felt...I felt accomplished. That's for sure. But at the same time, it made me ask myself, what's next? What is going to be the next big bucket list?

CECILY: Linda’s current bucket list ideas include visiting all 50 states, taking all 30 of the Amtrak train routes, and visiting all 423 of the National Park units — which are places like monuments, battlefields, and other historic sites that are managed by the National Park Service. As of this interview, Linda had already visited 171 of them.  

(music begins)

WILLOW: That episode was reported, written and produced by Cecily Mauran. Cecily was one of our interns last semester. She’s a print and audio journalist living in Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Twitter @cecily_mauran.

Special thanks to Cara Schaefer for suggesting the story and introducing us to Linda.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There, we talk with Sarah Maslin Nir, author of a book called “Horse Crazy”. Her book is part memoir, and part cultural exploration. It dives deep into things horses can show us about ourselves, and our society. For example, we talk about the legacy of Black cowboys, we talk about gender stereotypes surrounding “horse culture”…and we talk about a fascinating phenomenon known as Breyerfest.

SARAH MASLIN NIR: There, in that room, I saw adults doing something that I don’t let myself do as a grown-up anymore, which was play. It was pure play.

WILLOW: Tune in on July 29 to hear that episode.

(folksy music begins to play)

Before you go, I have a couple of announcements. First, I’m excited to say that Out There received a major national award. Each year, the Public Media Journalists Association honors the best audio stories from across the country. We took second place in the Independent Podcast Division, for our episode “A Series of Unlikely Events.” That episode was reported and produced by our former intern Aja Simpson. And I just want to say: Congratulations, Aja! I’m so proud of you.

In case you missed that episode, it’s called “A Series of Unlikely Events” and I have a link to it in the show notes.

Also, if you are a writer and/or audio producer, I’d like to invite you to pitch us a story for our upcoming season. As I mentioned at the top of the show, the theme for the season is “Things I Thought I Knew.” We have all the details for how to pitch us, at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Just click on the contact tab. Pitches are due July 30.

A big thank you to Eric Biedermann, Maya Kroth, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia, for their financial contributions to Out There.

If Out There brightens your day at all, consider making a financial gift to the show. You can make a contribution in any amount — every dollar helps. Go to outtherepodcast.com and click support to make a donation now. Or you can find us on Venmo @outthere-podcast. Thank you so much.

(music ends)

Okay, 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 a lot 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 an adventure. But a lot of the time, it’s hard to figure it out because hiking maps usually only show you the immediate vicinity.

Lucky for us, there’s an app out there that can help. It’s called Peak Visor.

Peak Visor is our sponsor for this episode.

Their app provides mountain names, elevation, distance, and a ton of extra information on more than a million summits all over the world. 

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.

That’s it for this episode. Our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a last whistling note)

Don't Take 'No' for an Answer

By Willow Belden, produced by Out There Podcast

Re-released on July 1, 2021

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: It’s a sunny day, and I’m out for a mountain bike ride. From the open prairie, I can see three separate mountain ranges.

I get out my phone and open up an app called Peak Visor.

Peak Visor is one of our sponsors for this episode. They’re on a mission to help you figure out what mountains you’re looking at — wherever you are in the world.

WILLOW: Okay, so that’s the Rawahs, and that’s Rocky Mountain National Park. Very cool.

WILLOW: The app labels all the peaks, and tells me how far away they are.

There’s also a peak bagging feature. So if I decide to climb one of these mountains, I can check in at the summit and keep track of my achievements.

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

(wind noises fade out)

For a lot of us, summer means road trips. Which also means you’re probably looking for good things to listen to in the car.

Another one of Out There’s sponsors is a podcast called Out Travel the System. Out Travel the System is brought to you by Expedia, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel - including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who pretty much travels year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter.

Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. You can like and subscribe to get all the latest episodes. 

(Out There theme music begins)

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

On this episode, we’re going to talk about a compulsion that I think a lot of us feel: it’s the compulsion to keep pushing on, until we reach our goals.

We argue our way into things, we bulldoze through obstacles, and we pride ourselves on being people who GET STUFF DONE. 

But what happens if you suddenly lose that ability? What happens when you can’t get things done — when something you’ve always taken for granted is taken away from you, and you’re forced to stop?

I’m going to share a story that first aired in 2019. It’s a story about something that happened to me a few summers ago, which completely changed my mindset about what it means to give in.

(Out There theme music fades out)

So, my mother always taught me that I should never take “no” for an answer. If you don’t get what you want the first time around, you try again. Ask differently. Keep pushing.

Growing up, I took this advice to heart.

In college, whenever I didn’t get into a class I wanted, I’d show up anyway...and I’d keep showing up, until the professor finally let me in.

As a journalist, if a source refused to talk with me, I’d badger them until I got a quote. 

Even when it came to mundane tasks, I refused to take “no” for an answer. If there was a mistake on my phone bill, and the customer service rep said there was nothing they could do, I’d keep arguing until they let me talk to a manager.

(upbeat music begins)

It was an effective strategy. I pushed hard, and a lot of the time, I got what I wanted. 

But then, one day last summer, something happened that changed the way I think about this drive to win. For the first time, I was forced to back down — in a big way. And that gave me a whole new perspective on my impulse to control things.

(music fades out)

It all started on a beautiful June morning. I was out for a mountain bike ride, and I felt great. My muscles were strong; I was sailing over rocks; and on the downhills, I was cruising. It was exhilarating. 

And then, all of a sudden, the world was spinning out of control. 

(tense music begins)

I was on the ground ... my bike was on top of me ... and my whole left side felt crushed. I remember gasping, struggling to breathe. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs.

Luckily, I had been riding with a friend, and now, there she was, leaning over me, asking me questions. But I couldn’t seem to arrange my thoughts coherently. Everything came out all mumbly.

We were only a couple of miles from the trailhead, but it was clear very quickly that I would not be able to walk out, let alone ride. Every time I tried to sit up, I got nauseous and dizzy. 

In the end, my friend called 911.

I lay in the trail for two hours while we waited for help. The pain was so intense that I was crying — big, fat ugly tears. A burning sensation had spread over my left hip and my pelvis. My arms went numb — first the left one, and then the right. And every breath felt like I was being stabbed. 

Finally, medics arrived on ATVs. They poked and prodded me; they asked me if I knew my name and what day it was. Eventually, after the nausea had subsided enough for me to sit up, they loaded me onto an ATV and brought me back to the trailhead.

I was given strict orders to stay with friends that day. The medics told me I had a concussion and that I needed to be monitored, in case things took a turn for the worse. If I started slurring my speech or vomiting, they said to go to the ER immediately.

Luckily, neither of those things happened. But I was still in pretty rough shape.

(sound of birds chirping in the background)

By the next morning, it was a struggle just to form sentences.

WILLOW: Okay, so I’m sitting in my backyard, drinking some coffee. Um. Man, I’m tired.

WILLOW: I was recording an audio diary, because I didn’t have enough energy to actually write in my journal. 

WILLOW: Last night was pretty rough. I ended up alternating Tylenol and Ibuprofen, because the triple dose of Tylenol wore off in three hours, and there’s only so often you can take it. And the night – I just, I mean I couldn’t get comfortable, I couldn’t get to sleep. Everything hurt. I couldn’t get into a position...it just felt like 100% of the time, somebody was jamming the sharp end of a screwdriver into the soft tissue around my spine. 

WILLOW: So yeah...it was pretty miserable. 

And yet, despite all the pain and the fact that my brain was only functioning at partial speed, something surprising was already starting to happen.

I remember feeling this odd sense of relief. And no – it wasn’t the relief of living through an accident. Instead, it was the relief of knowing that I was allowed to relax. That I HAD to relax.

WILLOW: Like, there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I’m even allowed to do. I have a concussion, which means I can’t do work, I need to take it easy, I need to rest my brain, I need to...like I can’t be on screens, we need to limit screen time. 

WILLOW: It was like I finally had to get off the hamster wheel. I had to drop everything and let go. And I remember feeling so grateful about the forced relaxation.

(bird sounds fade out and soothing music begins to play)

WILLOW: I rested all weekend. I slept a lot, took quadruple doses of Tylenol and Ibuprofen. Turns out, in addition to the concussion, I had sprained some ribs — and sprained ribs are pretty painful.

(music fades out)

And then, it was Monday. 

I knew I was still a mess. I knew I still had a concussion and that I would have to take it easy for a while. But I figured I could at least do a few hours of work. Wrap up that week’s episode for Out There, answer some emails. 

(scoffing sound)

Turns out, I was completely useless. After about 20 minutes on the computer, I already had a nasty headache. My eyes were hurting from looking at the screen. And I was so, so tired. Like, more tired than I can ever remember being.

(soft music begins)

So, I shut my computer, and I took a long nap.

When I woke up, the headache was still there, and I felt dazed. Almost as if I were tipsy. 

I started worrying about work. What if I couldn’t get the next podcast episode out on time? I had never missed an episode, and it seemed unfathomable to miss one now. 

But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t get any more work done that day. My brain was telling me, “No,” and I didn’t have the strength to argue. 

Here’s what I recorded in my audio diary that night:

WILLOW: It’s kind of scary really. I mean, my brain is very literally saying, “You cannot do anything right now.” And if I try to defy it and just push through and go for it anyway, it just shuts me down. This is the first time ever where I have to take “no” for an answer; I don’t have a choice. My brain literally doesn’t have the capacity to push through this. I can’t muscle through it.

WILLOW: Over the next few weeks, my body kept telling me “no.” The headaches were constant. Any amount of time on the computer made my eyes hurt. And I was exhausted all the time. I was sleeping 14 hours a day. And if I even so much as talked on the phone with a friend, I needed a nap to recover. 

Work was out of the question.

(music begins)

A couple of weeks after the bike wreck, I was finally feeling a little better. So I thought, OK, maybe I can handle an hour of something other than just lying on the couch like a vegetable.

I thought about opening up my computer and doing some work. But it was a beautiful day, and I decided to go outside instead. 

I took my trekking poles, because I still felt unsteady, and I set off on a very mellow trail. Just a tiny baby hike.

(sound of walking and breathing hard)

The fresh air felt good, but I definitely wasn’t my normal self.

WILLOW: I can’t believe how slow I’m walking. It feels like I’m an old person or something. Because if I go any faster, my head just starts pounding and I feel kind of dizzy and light-headed.

WILLOW: The going was slow, for sure, but it was something. And as I went along, I found myself getting kind of emotional.

WILLOW: Right now, I don’t have to be strong. 

(Willow begins crying)

And I don’t have to prove anything. I just need to do what I need for me. And that’s enough. I don’t know why I’m crying. I just feel really relieved that I’m giving myself permission to be gentle with myself. And I guess it just feels good to be ok with not giving it my all right now. Sometimes you just need a break.

(hiking noises fade out)

Sometimes you DO just need a break.

But you already know that. We’ve all heard stories about the merits of slowing down. About how you don’t always have to give it your all. 

And don’t get me wrong — it was good for me to slow down while I was recovering. It was good for me to listen, when my body told me “no.” Learning how to let go is an important lesson, and in my case I had to have a brain injury in order to learn it. 

But the bigger takeaway from this whole experience — for me — went much deeper than that. And it was far more unexpected.

Okay, so I’ll have the rest of  the story for you in just a moment. But first…

The events you’ve been hearing about took place several years ago. But more recently, life has been hard again. In different ways, but hard nonetheless. And as a result, it’s sometimes tough to stay optimistic. I often find myself spiralling into this mindset where it feels like everything that can go wrong…will go wrong.

I don’t like being in that mindset. So I’ve been trying to find ways to pull myself out of it.

And it turns out that one of our sponsors is helping with that. They’re a company called Qalo, and they make silicone rings for active, outdoorsy people.

So I decided to wear one of their rings as a reminder to myself. A reminder that things could turn out ok.

Every time my mind starts to scroll through worst-case scenarios, I look at this ring on my finger, and I tell myself that everything might be fine. Things might turn out ok. That is one possible outcome.

It’s amazing how much comfort that brings me.

Whether you’re in the market for a mantra like that, to boost your spirits — or you just want an adventure-proof ring in lieu of a metal wedding band — Qalo has you covered. 

For 20% off your purchase, go to qalo.com/outthere. That’s Q-A-L-O-dot-com-slash-outthere. Your 20% off discount will automatically be applied at checkout.

Support for Out There also comes from Life Handle. Life Handle is a weight-distribution sling that allows you to carry things easily and comfortably.

Whether you’re carrying a cooler, or a stand-up paddle board, or a child — it lets you do that without straining your shoulders.

Joe Wold is the inventor and co-founder of Life Handle. He says traditional child carriers have some disadvantages.

JOE WOLD: They’re bulky, they get hot, and at the end of the day, you’re not actually holding the child. And so when the child wants to be held, you have to take them out of these carriers.

WILLOW: In contrast, with Life Handle, you’re still holding the child. It’s just a lot easier on your arms and shoulders. 

Life Handle also has a dog leash attachment, so you can walk your dog hands free. 

For 20% off your order, go to  mylifehandle.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s mylifehandle.com, promo code OUTTHERE20.

And now, back to the story.

It took over a month before I was anywhere near back to normal. And during that time, I had to budget my energy carefully. I found that I could only handle doing one thing each day. Maybe that was an hour of work. Or maybe it was a short walk. But I couldn’t do both. I simply didn’t have the energy.

And, surprisingly, I found myself prioritizing the walks more and more. 

Instead of shoving aside outdoor time in order to get work done, I’d do the opposite. I wanted to get my daily dose of fresh air and movement, and I simply didn’t let other responsibilities encroach on that. 

(soft music begins)

And then one day, it hit me: this idea that you shouldn’t take “no” for an answer? It can go both ways. It doesn’t just have to apply to obligations — things you should do. It can also apply to things you just want to do.

If I want to spend time out in the sunshine, I can make that a priority. I can refuse to take “no” for an answer — even if it means postponing my responsibilities.

(music fades out)

That thought was so liberating. 

In the past, not taking “no” for an answer had been exhausting. The drive to win was like a full-time job. And if I failed to come out on top, I’d beat myself up about it.

Whereas this new type of perseverance — perseverance in the name of FUN, perseverance to keep a healthy balance in life — this was invigorating.

Later that summer, when I was finally feeling like myself again, I decided to treat myself to a day in the mountains. A weekday in the mountains.

I drove out the night before and pitched my tent in a quiet little campground. Before I went to sleep, I unzipped the rainfly and poked my head into the cool night air. 

(sound of tent zipper)

WILLOW: Oh, the moon is out. That’s awfully pretty. The moon is not full — it’s not even half, but it’s really lovely. And there are some stars out. 

(Willow sighs happily)

WILLOW: This little trip was an experiment. It was an experiment about not taking no for an answer, when it came to having fun, when it came to recharging my spirit. 

I knew I could be dogged about achieving things I had to do, but being just as dogged in the name of playtime was new for me.

As it turned out, it was not easy to keep a whole weekday free. Colleagues wanted to schedule meetings. Producers had questions for me. A freelancer needed my help on a time-sensitive story.

I felt guilty, telling all these people I wasn’t available, just so I could go goof off in the mountains. But at the same time, it was liberating to push off responsibilities in favor of doing something just for me.

(cheerful music starts)

It felt good to be the one saying “no” for a change. It was a whole new kind of control – of setting healthy boundaries – that I had never experienced before.

As I snuggled into my sleeping bag that night, everything felt so...right. 

WILLOW: It’s really nice here. I feel very peaceful and calm right now, watching the moon and the stars and the quiet night sky. 

(music fades out)

WILLOW: I’d love to say that since that evening, I’ve made a habit out of prioritizing playtime. But of course it’s not that simple. Work keeps me busy, and I still tend to set aside my own wants, in order to Get Things Done. 

(piano music begins)

But sometimes — not as often as I’d like, but sometimes — I set aside a day, or even just an evening, for myself. I pick one thing that I really want to do, and I promise myself that I’ll make it happen. That I won’t take “no” for an answer. 

This story was edited by Becky Jensen. It first aired in 2019.

(music fades out)

Coming up next time on Out There, we bring you the story of a woman who calls herself the Bucket List Traveler. A few years ago, she set out to visit all the national parks in the U.S.

LINDA MOHAMMED: Thursday night I’ll be at LAX waiting to fly somewhere. And then as soon as you get to where I’m going, it’ll be like 6 a.m. driving time to a national park somewhere. And I’ll be back home by Sunday close to midnight and sleep for a couple of hours and then have to go to work on Monday.

(Linda laughs)

 WILLOW: But what started as a challenge quickly turned into something more. And it ended up benefiting an entire community of people.

That story is coming up on July 15.

A big thank you to Andy Fowler and Peter Kemmeren for their financial contributions to Out There.

If you’re not yet a supporter of Out There, take a moment and think about how much this podcast is worth to you.

Really, I’m asking you to do this right now: if you had to put a dollar value on Out There, what would each episode be worth? One dollar? Two dollars? Five?

We’ve made it really easy for you to support the show by making small contributions on a monthly basis. For as little as two dollars a month, you can become a patron through a crowd-funding platform called Patreon. You pick the amount you want to give, and then you can sit back and relax, knowing that you’re making a difference. 

Just head over to patreon.com/outtherepodcast. That’s patreon.com/outtherepodcast. And I have a link to that in the show notes as well. 

Support for Out There comes from Peak Visor. Their app helps you figure out what you’re looking at when you’re out in the mountains. 

I recently used it while I was out on a mountain bike ride. The app took a moment to figure out my location, and then it showed me what mountains I could see from my vantage point.

WILLOW: Oh, and then this tells me how far away everything is. Ok so Long’s Peak is 73 miles, as the crow flies. Clark Peak is only 53 miles. Gosh, that’s funny. It takes like two hours to get there. 

WILLOW: Mountain names and distances are just a few of the features Peak Visor offers. They also have topo maps, and a peak bagging feature, which lets you check in at summits and keep track of your accomplishments.

If you’re one of those people who likes to know what you’re looking at when you’re out on an adventure, check out Peak Visor in the app store. 

(Out There theme music starts)

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. You can find “Best of Out There” on Spotify, and at our website outtherepodcast.com.

That’s it for this episode. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Melat Amha and Tanya Chawla. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Ultimate Outdoorswoman

By Victoria Marin and Sheeba Joseph, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on June 17, 2021

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 a sunny day, and I’m out for a mountain bike ride. From the open prairie, I can see three separate mountain ranges. I get out my phone and open up an app called Peak Visor.

Peak Visor is one of our sponsors for this episode. They’re on a mission to help you figure out what mountains you’re looking at — wherever you are in the world.

(sound of wind gently blowing)

WILLOW: Okay, so that’s the Rawahs, and that’s Rocky Mountain National Park. Very cool.

WILLOW: The app labels all the peaks, and tells me how far away they are.

There’s also a peak bagging feature. So if I decide to climb one of these mountains, I can check in at the summit and keep track of my achievements.

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

(wind noises fade out)

Support for Out There also comes from Out Travel the System. Out Travel the System is a podcast brought to you by Expedia. It’s now in its third season, and its mission is to inspire and inform about travel. That can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of this year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers  — or people who love, say, lake or beach life in the winter.

Out Travel the System is available wherever you get your podcasts. You can like and subscribe to get all the latest episodes. 

(Out There theme music starts)

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

Everyone knows Harriet Tubman as an activist and freedom fighter. We all learned about her in school growing up — how she led slaves to freedom on the underground railroad.

But there was a lot more to her than what you probably remember from history class. She was a daughter, a wife, an entrepreneur. And she was something else too…

ANGELA CRESHAW: When you think about it, she had to be the ultimate outdoorswoman to do what she did.

WILLOW: That’s right: an outdoorswoman. We don’t often talk about Harriet Tubman in that light. Or if we do, it’s a cautionary tale. Her experiences in the outdoors were so awful — so why would any sane Black person want to go into the wilderness voluntarily? It feeds into the narrative we often hear, that African Americans are not outdoorsy.

But what if there’s more to the story? What was Harriet’s relationship with nature? How does that shape the way African Americans engage with the outdoors today? And how might a closer look at Harriet offer a new perspective on who belongs outdoors? Victoria Marin has the story.

(Out There theme music ends)

VICTORIA MARIN: So this story was inspired by a podcast called Following Harriet, which is about Harriet Tubman. The show pulls back the curtain on Harriet’s life, giving listeners a deeper context to her story — a story that I think is more layered, and probably more relatable, than many people realize.

(sound of quiet music and footsteps from Following Harriet)

CELESTE HEADLEE: Most of us enter Harriet Tubman’s life when she was in her 30s, 40s, 50s and oftentimes we don’t think about how she came to be Harriet.

You know, I think for people of my generation, people who grew up in the 1970s, we first met Harriet in a photo in the corner of a textbook. She looked old. Her skin was stretched tight on her face, her mouth was pinched. Her head was wrapped in a dark kerchief. 

We read a couple of paragraphs about how she freed herself from slavery and then became a conductor in the underground railroad. She saved the lives of many other people, guided them safely from slavery to freedom. That was it. That was the whole story we were told, but Harriet Tubman was so much more than a small woman with a lantern in the woods. 

She was a wife and mother, an entrepreneur, a soldier, spy, nurse, and an activist who fought for women's right to vote.

VICTORIA: But what I want to talk about today is Harriet as an outdoorswoman.

I used to teach history, so I love digging deep into esoteric historical questions. But this is about more than that for me. I wanted to explore Harriet’s relationship with nature in order to better understand my own relationship with the outdoors. Because that relationship for me — and I think for a lot of Black Americans — has always been a little complicated.

(music fades out)

The outdoors was never part of our family lifestyle when I was growing up. I grew up in LA, so we went on short hikes very occasionally, but rarely did we even do stuff like going to the beach – even though we lived just a few miles away. We definitely never went camping. I actually didn’t get a chance to do that until I became an adult. (More about that later).

My parents also come from wildly different backgrounds, which had a huge impact on my ability to find my place in the world. My mom is a Black woman who grew up poor; my dad is white and comes from a middle class family. Those differences often made it hard for them to really connect with each other, and as a result I felt very untethered throughout my childhood. I spent a lot of time searching for where I belonged.

For me, struggling with a sense of belonging as a biracial Black girl made the outdoors seem especially off limits. I always felt like I was so different from everyone around me that I didn’t want to add another layer of complexity to who I already was. I didn’t see many people who looked like me, period, much less many who looked like me embracing an outdoorsy identity. 

So I spent most of my young life indoors.

(reflective music begins)

I hear a lot of other Black Americans express something similar: that “the outdoors” is a white-people thing — that Black people don’t do nature. Our ancestors worked hard so that we don’t have to sleep on the ground, so why would we want to?

It makes sense, in a way. After all, the first Black people in America didn’t exactly have a good experience outdoors. Their interactions with the natural world involved working the cotton fields. Forced labor. Slavery. 

Even much more recently, my own mother told me that while she did get to go to summer camp as a kid, that camp was segregated. The outdoors, for her, was yet another reminder of her status as a second-class citizen in her own country.

If bondage and segregation are what you associate with the outdoors, it’s no wonder that the outdoors would seem inhospitable.

And yet…I see another side to this history. A more nuanced side.

(music fades away)

Which brings us back to Harriet. She was even more extraordinary than I think a lot of us ever realized. And part of that had to do with her skills out in nature. I think if Black folks knew more about her, maybe our collective relationship with the outdoors might look a little different than it does today. Maybe we’d take more ownership of it as our own.

(sound of birds chirping)

ANGELA: When you think about it, she had to be the ultimate outdoorswoman to do what she did.

VICTORIA: That’s park ranger Angela Creshaw. She used to be an assistant manager at the Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad State Park. And she’s thought a lot about Harriet as an outdoorswoman. She says Harriet’s work on the underground railroad would have been the ultimate test of her wilderness survival skills.

(sound of footsteps hiking)

ANGELA: It's about 100 miles from South Dorchester County, to freedom in Philadelphia. And then after the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, you had to go to Canada — you had to leave the United States. There is no way you could walk that far by yourself, or with people, and not be able to read the landscape, understand the landscape, communicate clandestinely with people, feed those people. 

It's not like you — like I come to work and I pack my lunch; they probably did not do that. I make a sandwich the night before, I bring something I can put in the microwave. Impossible. You had to live off the landscape, you had to read the landscape. You had to be comfortable out there, because there were people that were after you.

(bird sings)

VICTORIA: In the outdoor community today, you hear about people doing thru-hikes. Thru-hikes have always sounded wildly difficult to me. You hike for hundreds, or even thousands of miles, through the wilderness, carrying everything you need on your back. Food, tent, clothing — everything. Now imagine pulling that off without being able to go to a gear shop and buy the things you need, without being able to stop in towns and resupply. 

Imagine doing it while people are actively trying to hunt you down. As Angela pointed out, that was Harriet’s experience.

ANGELA: It's not like she could go to the store and pick up anything. She was a wanted individual, once she self-emancipated in 1849. So every time she came back to emancipate other folks, she was risking her life and the lives of those that were helping her, as well as those that were on that journey of mercy with her.

(sound of crickets chirping and owl hooting)

When Tubman was out with the group, she had to notify them if it was safe to stay hidden. Or if they could come out.

(sound of barred owl hooting)

The barred owl is very common here in Maryland. So the barred owl sound kind of sounds like 'who cooks for you, who cooks for you'. So she would make that sound and folks knew what to do when they heard it.

(sound of barred owl hooting repeats and then cricket chirps fade away)

VICTORIA: Remember, this wasn’t just one trip, to free just herself — which was heroic enough on its own.

ANGELA: What amazes me about Tubman is she did it multiple times. Once is amazing. Twice is amazing. Three, four, but she got up in the double digits. And the fact that she was a woman too — there were very few women who were conductors on the Underground Railroad — and the fact that she was wanted herself. That's a big deal. That is a big deal.

VICTORIA: Even considering the pre-industrial time period, it kind of blows my mind to think about everything Harriet was capable of and everything she did. She could walk for hundreds of miles. She could navigate using only the stars. She could forage for all the food she and an entire group of enslaved fugitives needed, in the woods. She could imitate birdsong…

Given all that, why is there this stereotype today that Black people don’t know our way around the outdoors?

(inquisitive music begins)

If you ask my mom, part of it comes down to a lack of opportunities.

SHEILA: When I lived in St. Louis, Missouri, as a young girl, we didn't have much outdoorsy life. I think they had a slide, and maybe a couple swings, but so many families, and they never kept the things repaired. So somebody was always falling out of a swing that was never repaired.

VICTORIA: My mom lived in the projects — in the middle of the city — as a kid. It’s not like she had easy access to beaches or trailheads. And remember, the camps that did exist were segregated and poorly resourced. As for spending time in the urban outdoors? My mom said that just wasn’t safe.

SHEILA: A lot of violence and gangs and police brutality, you know, forced a lot of young Black folks to just stay home. It was safe. Your mother made you stay home because you hear gunshots.

VICTORIA: I guess the upshot of all this is that my mom does not consider herself outdoorsy. But she doesn’t think that it’s because of her personality alone.

SHEILA: Product of environment has a lot to do with whether or not you want to go skydiving, or climb Mount Kilimanjaro, or anything like that.

VICTORIA: Products of our environment. 

(music fades away)

But Harriet was a product of HER environment, too. 

(nature sounds begin)

According to Angela, she had a leg up when it came to learning how to survive in the woods.

(sound of wood being chopped)

ANGELA: Her father, Ben Ross, was a respected timber foreman, meaning he would cut timber, haul timber. He was so highly respected that when he was emancipated, he was given 10 acres of land, which is nearly unheard of. 

So she would work in the timber fields with her father. She said she could do all the work of a man, she cut wood, she hauled timber, she floated things down the canal, and she actually led a team of oxen. She said she could cut half a cord of wood a day.

So while she was out working in those timber fields, she would have learned the skills necessary to become a successful conductor on the Underground Railroad.

(nature sounds fade away)

VICTORIA: Again, my mind is blown thinking about Harriet’s life. Learning about her childhood made me reflect on my own — which was spent in the lap of luxury, comparatively. I grew up in the ‘burbs; my parents did white-collar work; I never had to explicitly fear for my safety. And I certainly never had to rely on wilderness skills to survive. 

Which brings me back to this question — if Harriet Tubman and many of her contemporaries were so good in nature, why do the outdoors seem so off-limits to Black people today? 

It might have something to do with an assumption we make. The assumption that, even though Harriet was good at navigating her way through the woods, it wasn’t an experience she would have enjoyed. After all, you don’t exactly get to relax and enjoy the birdsong, if you’re on the run. There’s this implicit assumption that Harriet was outdoors not because she WANTED to be, but because she HAD to be.

But is that really true? 

(thoughtful music begins)

Here’s historian Catherine Clinton from Following Harriet:

CATHERINE CLINTON: Harriet was a very intrepid, independent person and she was quite happy, for example, to be working on a canal, because it meant she didn’t have the close supervision of a white master or mistress, which she found unpleasant and abusive.

(music continues for a few moments and then fades away)

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

If you are a parent of small children, chances are those children will want to be carried in your arms sometimes. And that means your arms are going to get tired.

One of our sponsors for this episode is a company called Life Handle. They’ve developed a solution that makes carrying kids more comfortable, and easier. It’s not a traditional child carrier — it’s a lot less bulky than that — but it still lets you tote around your kiddos comfortably and easily.

It also doesn’t have to be kids that you’re toting around. The system works for coolers, ladders, boxes — you name it. They even have a dog leash attachment so you can walk your dog and keep your hands free. 

For 20% off your order, go to mylifehandle.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s mylifehandle.com, promo code OUTTHERE20.

Support also comes from Qalo. Qalo makes silicone rings that are designed to be worn during all of your everyday activities.

The company was started by two guys who were proud to be married and wanted to showcase their commitment to their spouses…but were irritated by their metal wedding rings.

So they decided to make rings that would give active, outdoorsy people a safe, comfortable option.

Qalo sent me a few of their rings to try out. And I should say, I’m not married, but I am wearing one of their rings right now. It’s a simple black silicone band, and I really like how it looks and feels. Plus, I know it’s safe for adventures, because it’ll break after it exceeds a certain amount of pressure, rather than injuring my finger.

For 20% off your purchase, go to qalo.com/outthere. That’s Q-A-L-O-dot-com-slash-outthere. Your 20% off discount will automatically be applied at checkout.

And now, back to our story.

(music begins)

VICTORIA: We’ll probably never know for sure exactly how Harriet truly felt about being outside. But there’s a part of me that wonders whether she might have relished the chance to be out in nature, despite the danger. Maybe it factored into her decision to keep going back over the Mason Dixon line, continually risking her life on behalf of other people’s freedom. 

Maybe being courageous in the outdoors can be a source of freedom in itself.

This quote — read by a voice actor on Following Harriet — encapsulates this point for me:

VOICE ACTOR: When I found I had crossed that line, I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything. The sun came like gold through the trees and over the fields, and I felt like I was in heaven.

(music swells and then fades away)

VICTORIA: I can’t say I’m anything close to as brave as Harriet was, or do work that’s as important as what she did, but I can identify with those feelings she describes.

(sound of waves crashing)

On my honeymoon a few years ago, we went out with a group hoping to swim with whale sharks. The group leader ferried our boat to the middle of the ocean and directed us to jump into the water when she spotted the shark. The water was really choppy, and we were quickly separated from the boat. I remember looking around at the vast expanse of water and waves around me, and even though I knew I was in some kind danger, in that moment I felt so...free.

(waves fade away and twinkly music begins)

And something similar happened a couple years later, when my fear of heights kicked in while I was hiking on a steep and slippery mountainside. I pushed myself, even though I was literally shaking. And it was another moment that was really terrifying for me, but also deeply freeing.

And there was my first time camping, with my now-husband, about 10 years ago. 

(crickets chirping)

It was a pretty rugged experience for a first-timer looking back — we camped on a hiking trail, so we didn’t have access to our car or running water, and we only had things like beef jerky and trail mix to eat. It wasn’t exactly comfortable...but I clearly remember being comforted by being out there, feeling one with nature and at peace with my surroundings — even when we heard a pack of coyotes start howling nearby. 

(coyotes howl in distance)

There was just something about those moments, even when they were tense with discomfort or fear, that made me feel fulfilled.

(cricket noises fade away)

Looking back, now that I’ve had experiences like that, I realize just how much being outside demands a willingness to step outside of your comfort zone. 

Growing up, I didn’t want to put myself in positions to be uncomfortable, or challenge what I thought of as established social norms. So I let a certain amount of gatekeeping, first by my parents, and later by society, hold me back. Society told me that being outside wasn’t for me, which kept me from accessing the fulfillment...the freedom...that comes with the outdoors.

(quiet music begins)

Harriet defied the norms and laws of her time. She established herself as a person who deserved freedom on this land, even though so many other people didn’t think she did. 

It seems like stories like this one, and shows like “Following Harriet”, demonstrate that there’s new interest in getting a fuller picture of Harriet Tubman’s story. 

And all around the country, it seems like there’s more collective interest in the plight of Black Americans — both in the dangers we face due to racism and white supremacy, but also in our cultural identities, and whether we are included and welcomed in traditionally white spaces.

(music ends)

Let’s be clear: not all Black Americans feel trepidation about the outdoors. Angela Crenshaw is a great example. Unlike me, she’s always felt comfortable being outside and claiming it as part of her identity, first as a Girl Scout, and later as a park ranger. But she’s the exception, not the rule.

ANGELA: I acknowledge that there are very few African Americans working in the outdoor industry, and having worked at Tubman and other parks, I hear that every other week — if not every single week — you know it’s, “I didn't expect to see you, it's good to see you.” And I know what people are saying when they say that. They're trying to be polite, but I know exactly what they mean. So I find that when I'm doing interpretation and sharing Tubman's life, if what I'm interpreting doesn't mean much to me, that comes through. But if I can connect my own personal story with that, my passion and my emotional connection comes through. And that really speaks volumes to people.

(music begins)

VICTORIA: Teaching people about Harriet’s history — and weaving in her own experiences — is Angela’s way of subverting the traditional narrative of who belongs outdoors. And hopefully forming a legacy of her own.

ANGELA: This history has been hidden on purpose. And I see a big part of my job as turning a light on it, and letting people know that it's out there, and that these people did these amazing things and that we are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants. I would not be here if it was not for Harriet Tubman.

I lived in Church Creek, Maryland, which was a town built on creating and building slave ships to go back and get more enslaved people from Africa. I was living there, I was thriving. I was telling people this, that story, that is not lost on me. 

VICTORIA: History isn’t a static thing. It’s an often-changing story we write together as a society, and our personal experiences can influence our interpretation of it. It’s important to recognize that history’s stories can change over time as we learn the nuances of what happened, through new lenses.

Learning about Harriet Tubman, the outdoorswoman, has offered me new insight into what she means symbolically to Black Americans. Harriet is a beacon of what so many of us see in ourselves. She symbolizes strength, courage, tenacity, and freedom itself, all of which is exemplified in her relationship with nature and the outdoors. 

Getting to know this side of her story makes me hopeful that I can recalibrate my own relationship with the outdoors to be one of empowerment and belonging...and for the first time ever, as central to my identity. I’m not an outsider when I go outside after all — the complete opposite is actually true: when I go outside, I’m home — I’m free. 

By telling a story like this one, one that centers the complex experiences of Black women in the outdoors, I hope I’m able to show my own daughter, who’s just a couple months old now, that she’s not alone or an outsider either. That this legacy — one that started with Harriet and our enslaved ancestors and is carried on today in different ways by me, by her grandmother, by ranger Angela, and by so many others — is hers, too, if she chooses to embrace it.

(music continues for a few moments and ends on a hopeful note)

WILLOW: That was Victoria Marin. She’s a writer and audio maker based in Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on social media @vixmarin. That’s v-i-x-m-a-r-i-n.

This story was co-produced by Sheeba Joseph. Sheeba is an independent producer and marketer in New York, and she’s also the audience growth director for Out There. This episode was her idea, and she spearheaded the collaboration between Out There, and the folks behind the Following Harriet podcast.

Speaking of which, I’d like to give a special shout-out to Tanner Latham and his podcast studio at INGREDIENT. They produced Following Harriet for the Virginia Tourism Corporation, and Tanner has been SO helpful helping us make this episode a success.

Speaking of Virginia Tourism, we’d like to extend a special thank you to their team as well: especially Caroline Logan, Taylor Paul, Jane Lammay, Andrew Cothern, and Patricia Anderson. You can listen to the entire series of Following Harriet wherever you get your podcasts. 

And if you’d like to learn more about the rich history and land in Virginia as it relates to the Black experience, visit Virginia.org/blacktravel. The folks at Virginia tourism have created loads of interesting resources, such as sites connected to the underground railroad and Harriet Tubman, and even a black history walking tour. Again, you can check that out at Virginia.org/blacktravel.

(music begins)

If you enjoyed this episode, I’d like to invite you to check out a playlist we put together called “Black and Outdoorsy”. It’s a collection of stories we’ve run over the past few years that highlight Black experiences outside. For example, there’s an episode about a Black thru-hiker on the Appalachian Trail, there’s a love story involving a Black kayaker, there’s a piece about the unexpected benefits of walking to work, and much more. You can find that playlist on Spotify, and at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Just click on the blog. I’m also linking to it in the show notes. And again, that playlist is called “Black and Outdoorsy”.

(music fades away)

A big thank you to Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia for their financial contributions to Out There.

Listener gifts make up nearly half of our operating budget. Your contributions go directly toward paying for the stories you hear on this show.

So, if Out There brightens your day at all, consider making a financial gift to the show. You can make a contribution in any amount — every dollar helps. And there are lots of easy ways to give.

You can find us on Venmo @outthere-podcast. You can support us on Patreon. Which in case you’re not familiar with it, is a crowd-funding platform for creative endeavors. Just go to patreon.com/outtherepodcast for that. And finally, you can make a gift with a credit card or PayPal via our website outtherepodcast.com. Just click support. 

Thank you so much.

Support for Out There comes from Peak Visor. Their app helps you figure out what you’re looking at when you’re out in the mountains. 

I recently used it while I was out on a mountain bike ride. The app took a moment to figure out my location, and then it showed me what mountains I could see from my vantage point.

(sound of wind blowing)

WILLOW: Oh, and then this tells me how far away everything is. Okay, so Long’s Peak is 73 miles, as the crow flies. Clark Peak is only 53 miles. Gosh, that’s funny. It takes like two hours to get there. 

(sound of wind grows louder for a moment then ends)

WILLOW: Mountain names and distances are just a few of the features Peak Visor offers. THey also have topo maps, and a peak bagging feature, which lets you check in at summits and keep track of your accomplishments.

If you’re one of those people who likes to know what you’re looking at when you’re out on an adventure, check out Peak Visor in the app store. You just might love it.

(Out There theme music starts)

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.

That’s it for this episode. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. 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. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a last whistling note)

The Thru-Hike of Misery

By Paul Barach, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on June 3, 2021

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.

(wind sound fades away)

 WILLOW: This is exactly the situation where an app called Peak Visor comes in handy.

Peak Visor is one of our sponsors for this episode. When you open up their app, it figures out where you are, and then it shows you a panoramic picture of everything you’re looking at, with all the mountains labeled. 

If you decide to climb one of those mountains, you can also use their peak bagging feature to check in at the summits, so you can keep track of all your achievements and get inspired about next targets.

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

Support for Out There also comes from a podcast called Out Travel the System. Out Travel the System, which is brought to you by Expedia, is now in its third season. The show has a central mission to inspire and inform about travel, which can mean anything from building your bucket list, to taking concrete steps to take that next trip when the time is right.

The podcast finds people who are passionate about travel in general — including a commercial airline pilot, a woman who travels pretty much year-round, and a man who wants to have visited every country in the world by the end of the year. When it comes to inspiration, Out Travel the System is also giving a voice to people who love their hometowns — and want to share them with travelers — or people who love lake or beach life in the winter.

Take a moment to pull up your usual podcast player and pull up Out Travel the System. You can like and subscribe to get the latest episodes.

(Out There theme music starts)

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

If you’ve ever gone on a thru-hike, you know how exciting it can be to plan it out. The anticipation leading up to it...there’s just nothing like that. You dream about being on the trail, you tell everyone about it, you let your imagination run wild.

But what if it turns out to be harder and less fulfilling than you expected? What happens when, a lot of the time, you don’t have any fun at all out on the trail? 

Today’s episode takes us to Shikoku Island in Japan, and explores how you make peace with the worst parts of hiking when those parts never end. 

(Out There theme music ends)

Paul Barach has the story.  

(upbeat music begins)

PAUL BARACH: My expectations for walking Japan’s Shikoku Pilgrimage were admittedly a little high.

I was leaving an office job where I woke up sighing every day to do my first thru-hike, and I’d picked an epic one: an ancient, 750 mile pilgrimage trail circling the most rural island of Japan. 

The trail visits 88 Buddhist temples and takes you along waving rice fields, seaside cliffs, and dense cedar forests. As pilgrims stop and pray at each of the 88 temples, they also pass through Shikoku’s four regions, each representing a different level of spiritual progress. There’s Tokushima: The Land of Awakening Faith, Kochi: The Land of Ascetic Training, Ehime: The Land of Enlightenment, and Kagawa: The Land of Nirvana. 

(music fades away)

I would not shut up about it. 

I’d been interested in Japan since I was four and learned that ninjas came from there. That fascination branched out as I got older. I studied Karate, and started practicing Zen Buddhism. 

I was raised reform Jewish, and I’d latched onto the inquisitive and spiritual side of Judaism early. But the laws and rules hadn’t ever sat right. I never really stopped searching for the big answers in life, though. Eventually, that search led me to stop believing in God, which made Zen Buddhism a perfect fit. In meditation and Zen Buddhism, I found a way to search for the big answers in the present moment. 

Now I was going off on my first long hike, which was also a spiritual and meditative journey. My imagination was running wild. 

Would this be an epic adventure? Of course!

Would I gain the self-knowledge and answers that I’d been searching for all my life? Probably.

Would an old man step out from the forest, give me a sword, and declare cryptically, “You are ready”? Sure, I deserved it. 

(joyful music begins)

That first day, I stepped off the train into the first section, Tokushima: The Land of Awakening Faith. I was grinning ear to ear. I couldn’t wait to begin. 

Within the first few days I established a routine that began with morning meditation. With my eyes closed, I’d breath in the landscape. The breeze would play with my traditional sedge hat and billow my white pilgrim’s vest. 

As I sat in meditation, I felt like this is what the pilgrimage should be. Moments of peace, where everything felt balanced, and the island itself seemed to welcome me.

But then I would stand up, and all that calm would shatter.

(music ends with a last crash)

The problem wasn’t the scenery. The pilgrimage was just as beautiful as I imagined. I walked through bamboo forests, over green mountain passes, and beside the roaring ocean, where monkeys screeched and songbirds chirped from vine-covered hillsides. 

The problem also wasn’t the reception I received. The locals were beyond friendly. 

The problem was all the big and small things that added up to make my hike miserable.  

(music begins)

I was charged by a boar, spooked by snakes, and threatened by screeching monkeys. My third day was spent collapsing from dehydration for six hours, because it was the hottest summer on record in Japan at that time. For the first week and a half, I drank two liters of water an hour and never peed while the sun was up. After the sun went down, it’d take another hour in my tent before I’d stop sweating.  

I’d also learned that there’s a vast gulf between being in hiking shape and being in thru-hiking shape. 

Plus, I didn’t speak Japanese and had not met another western pilgrim so I was alone with my thoughts the entire day. Since I’d also decided against bringing any electronics or music, the days could get pretty boring.  

And then there was the worst part: my shoes did not fit. 

(music changes to a more somber tone)

They’d been hurting me since that first step off the train in Tokushima. 

They were a constant distraction from what the pilgrimage was supposed to be.

Every step was an iron bar striking into flesh, muscle, and bone. As if that wasn’t enough, some invisible molars inside my shoes were chewing up my feet. 

Three times a day, I would remove my shoes to apply bandages to new blisters, drain old ones, and cut away the loose skin. Within the first week, my feet were so wrapped up it looked like ancient Egyptians had prepared them for burial. 

(music ends)

The shoes were my fault. I had a pair that were already broken in, but my mother kept begging me to bring another pair that she’d bought specially for this trip. 

She was driving me to the airport, and I was in a hurry, so I relented and took the shoes she gave me. I hadn’t even slipped them on once.

No shop I’d found on Shikoku Island carried shoes in my size, so I was stuck with them, step after step.

(music begins)

I tried to stay positive.

I regularly reminded myself of the second oath of the Shikoku Pilgrim: Do not complain when things go wrong on the journey. Consider it part of ascetic training.

But that was easier said than done. And of course it contradicted my Jewish oath of “Complain, because why not?”

(music ends)

The problem with the foot pain wasn’t just the pain. It was that it was keeping me from properly experiencing this amazing pilgrimage. I’d be walking through a breathtaking landscape, but instead of enjoying it, I’d stare at the ground, willing myself to walk faster so that I could get off my feet sooner. My motivation had changed from “be here now” to “get done fast”. 

I couldn’t help it. Trying to be in the moment just made the moment hurt more. I’d be walking beside a pond of vibrant lotus flowers, and all I could feel were blood blisters stabbing between my toes. I’d be climbing through these mist-shrouded forests where stone Buddhas prayed among gnarled roots, and all I could think about were my thighs cramping from dehydration. It always felt like I was so close to figuring it out — so close to the enlightenment I was seeking — but then the discomfort would get in the way. 

(calm music begins)

The temples were a temporary distraction from the pain.

Each Buddhist temple on the pilgrimage had its own character, but the ritual was the same. I’d bow to the statues guarding the entrance, which showed reverence and also cleared me of any ghosts hanging on. After ringing the courtyard bell and cleansing my mouth with a tin dipper, came the prayer ritual.

That part was easy. The guide book had the prayers written out phonetically, and being Jewish, I was used to reciting ancient prayers I couldn’t understand, in a language I didn’t really know, at a temple I wasn’t planning to return to. I had some idea of what the prayers were for, but to me they were just another part of the ritual. 

(music ends)

The temples were just like you’re probably imagining them: brass statues, sloping roofs, here and there a snow white crane stalking through a pond. It was magical to walk through, and a great distraction from my feet. But once I bowed out to the temple guardians again, I was back to grinding my teeth as I walked down the road. 

(plodding music begins)

As miserable as it was, I never truly considered quitting. I’d love to say it was due to my iron willpower, which is a much nicer way to say “stubbornness,” but really it was pride, which is a much nicer way to say “fear of judgement.” 

After talking about the trip non-stop, there was no way I was heading home early and telling friends, “Yeah, I know I wouldn’t shut up about it but it was way harder than I thought so I came back.” 

Fear of that embarrassment prompted me to pick another bad option: keep going through the motions and spend all my energy wishing that this could be different. 

(music fades away)

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

(Sound of breeze)

JESSICA TAYLOR: Foxy, this way! Come on!

WILLOW: That’s my colleague Jessica. She’s trying out some gear from a company called Life Handle.

Life Handle is one of our sponsors. They are on a mission to make life’s everyday adventures a little easier, and a lot more comfortable. They’ve engineered a system for walking dogs, carrying kids, or toting around gear — all while keeping your hands free.

Life Handle sent some of their products to Jessica, so she could try out their hands-free system with her dog Foxy.

JESSICA: So, I have Foxy hooked up to it. And to be honest, it’s really nice to have my hands free and to be able to have the leash about the same height where my hand would be with holding it.

WILLOW: For 20% off your order, go to  mylifehandle.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s mylifehandle.com, promo code OUTTHERE20.

Support for Out There also comes from Wild Woman Box.

Wild Woman is a monthly subscription box for nature lovers and outdoor women. When you subscribe, you’ll get a box in the mail each month, filled with gear, food, body products, and inspiration to help you get out and get moving.

Wild Woman Founder Alexandra DiRuscio says the idea is for subscribers to treat themselves, and make time to do what they want to do.

ALEXANDRA DIRUSCIO: It’s their monthly reminder, that shows up at their door, for them to focus on themselves for a little bit.

WILLOW: If you’re wondering whether you’re hardcore enough to enjoy Wild Woman boxes, the answer is yes. DiRuscio works hard to make sure that this subscription works for everyone, regardless of your skill level in the outdoors.

For 15% off your first box, go to wildwomanbox.com and enter the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s wildwomanbox.com, promo code OUTTHERE.

And now, back to the story.

(music begins)

PAUL: As I neared the last temple of Kochi, which was the halfway point of the pilgrimage, I wished there would be some big epiphany that made all this worth it. I wished that I would finally be able to start experiencing the pilgrimage, as it was supposed to be experienced. Full of calm and beauty and inner peace, so I could find those answers I was searching for. 

(music ends)  

One day I’d finished minor foot surgery in a seaside public bathroom that doubled as a fish-gutting station and saw a payphone. I called my father back home. He asked how the pilgrimage was going. 

“It’s going great!” I lied — like I did to anyone who asked. 

“I’m glad you remembered to call today,” my dad said.

“Why?” I asked. It wasn’t anyone’s birthday.

“You forgot what day it is, didn’t you?” 

“Is it Wednesday?” I asked.

“It’s Rosh Hashanah,” he said. 

“Oh..L’shana tova.”

My dad sighed. “At least you’ll be at temple this time.” 

Which I only mention because it was a pretty good joke for my dad. 

(music begins)

We talked a little longer. He remained confused why his middle child was spending his entire savings during a recession. I remained unable to convince him why it made perfect sense, since I was still figuring that out myself.

The best I could come up with was that the planet was getting hotter, the future looked bleak, and I just wanted to live a little while I was still alive. He’d tell me I could do my living on the weekends while working full-time.  

(music ends quickly)

I hung up and headed down the road. I had to admit, my dad had a point. I’d spent everything to come on this journey with no guarantee that anything would come of it. Stability was always the safer bet. It’d worked for everyone else in my family. Even I could hear how vague and childish it sounded to say, “I’m searching for answers.” Not that I’d ever admit that to him.   

(soft music begins)

The following day, it was nearing sunset, and I was just trying to get to this rest hut, so that I could sleep under a roof. My feet were getting pummeled, and I just couldn’t think about anything else. 

The entire pilgrimage had become this repeating background, like I was in an old Scooby-Doo cartoon. It was just: rice field, ocean, mountain, temple, rice field, ocean, mountain, temple. I was hurrying past the thousandth farm village that week, staring at the ground and just thinking, “Where is that stupid rest hut? My feet are killing me.” 

Then I looked up and stopped in my tracks. 

(nature sounds begin)

Above this soggy, overturned rice paddy, these red dragonflies were glittering in that golden hour light. This galaxy of precious gems suspended in the air next to me. My jaw literally dropped. 

In that instant, I knew that I was sharing an experience that’d occurred over the centuries as pilgrims, peasants, and holy men stood on this spot, witnessing this marvel and feeling what I do now: lucky.

Lucky to be here.

Lucky to be alive.

And I was embarrassed. When did I lose my appreciation of this place? How many sights like this had I missed?  How many dragonflies had flown by unseen? No more. On that spot, I rededicated myself to the pilgrimage.

Five minutes later, I saw the exact same thing and thought: ‘WHERE is that rest hut? My feet are killing me.’

(nature sounds end and music begins)

On my last day in Kochi, I woke up, meditated, and then beat my pain receptors into submission along the highway towards the Temple of Emitting Light. It was the final temple of Kochi. Once I left the temple, I’d have half of Shikoku behind me. 

The last few miles were on a highway with these blind curves and almost no shoulder. As cars drove by I’d have to dodge into the overhanging vines. 

I was going through my usual routine of trying to stay present…and thinking about my aching feet instead. 

But then, over the last mile of highway, something changed.

I wasn’t doing anything different. I’d catch myself zoning out and thinking about the end of the pilgrimage. Then I’d meditate and focus on the present moment. I’d become aware of the birds chirping, the gurgling stream by my feet. I’d feel the wind that swayed the dangling vines. Then I’d zone back out and think about finally being done with the pilgrimage. 

I also didn’t see anything particularly beautiful. The cars didn't stop roaring past me way too close. I didn’t even sweat any less than usual.

But there was a mental shift. 

(music fades away)

In that last mile, I just gradually came to realize that I had to stop wishing for this moment to be any better than it was. 

I had to stop trying to define my journey while I was still on it. 

I wasn’t here to have fun all the time, or to be handed a sword by a wizened old man (although both those things were still welcome.) Maybe I wasn’t even here to gain answers to my life. 

I was here to walk the Shikoku Pilgrimage, and I had to accept that every day, at every moment, that was what I was doing. The dragonflies, the shoes, the meditation, the fantasizing about being home, the heat, the boredom, they were all a part of it. There was nothing keeping me from experiencing the journey I was on, because I was experiencing it. This was it. 

(quiet piano music begins)

I was so exhausted by the time I reached the Temple of Emitting Light that I had to ask three people for directions in the last quarter mile. 

I bowed to the temple guardians, rang the bell, washed my hands and mouth, and then approached the main shrine to recite the prayers. I was at peace with every step on the bruised, strained, bandaged, and blistered feet that brought me here. I said the prayers, bowed to the temple guardians, and left the last temple of Kochi.  

The Land of Ascetic Training was complete. As far as spiritual discipline and not feeling any pleasure went, it had lived up to its name. The training had been as hard as advertised, but I’d made it through.

I was finally ready for Ehime: the Land of Enlightenment.

Where my shoes also did not fit. 

WILLOW: That was Paul Barach. He’s a writer living in Washington State. If you want to hear more about his pilgrimage, you can check out his book. It’s called Fighting Monks and Burning Mountains, and it’s available on Amazon in eBook, audiobook, and print. Again, that’s called Fighting Monks and Burning Mountains.

Special thanks to Forrest Wood, one of our production interns, for script editing and production assistance on this story. 

(music ends)

Speaking of Forrest, they are going to be featured on our next Tuesday Spotlight. The Tuesday Spotlight is a print series, where we interview interesting people and organizations about the unique ways in which they engage with the outdoors. This coming Tuesday, you can read about Forrest’s relationship with skateboarding, rock climbing, and storytelling. Check out that interview, and all our other Tuesday Spotlight profiles, on our blog, at outtherepodcast.com.

(music begins)

Coming up next time on Out There, we’re going to travel back in time, to the world of Harriet Tubman. 

Most of us learned about Tubman in history class — how she led slaves to freedom on the underground railroad.

But there was a lot more to her than that. She was a daughter, a sister, a wife, an entrepreneur. And she was something else too…

ANGELA CRESHAW: When you think about it, she had to be the ultimate outdoorswoman to do what she did.

WILLOW: What was Harriet’s relationship with nature? How does that shape the way African Americans engage with the outdoors today? And how might a closer look at Harriet offer a new perspective on who belongs outdoors?

That story is coming up on June 17.

(music ends and the sound of wind blowing starts) 

WILLOW: Alright, so I’ve opened up Peak Visor. It’s thinking.

WILLOW: As I mentioned at the top of the episode, Peak Visor is one of our sponsors. Their app helps you figure out what mountains you’re looking at.

(wind blows strongly)

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 ceases)

WILLOW: Peak Visor has info on more than a million summits all over the world. In addition to mountain names and elevation, they also have intricate 3D maps that can help with planning hikes. And they have a peak bagging feature that lets you keep track of all your achievements.

If that sounds good to you, then 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.

That’s it for this episode. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends with a last whistle)

Running Blind

By Stephanie Maltarich, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on May 6, 2021

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: Support for Out There comes from Kula Cloth. Kula Cloth is a high-tech pee cloth for women and anyone who squats when they pee. 

In case you’re not familiar with pee cloths, they are reusable cloths that you can use instead of toilet paper when you’re outdoors (at least for number one). 

I’ve been using a pee cloth for years, and it is truly a game changer. It makes personal hygiene easy in the backcountry. And it means you don’t have to schlep around toilet paper all the time.

The Kula cloth is made with antimicrobial material, and it has a waterproof backing so you don’t get your fingers wet. Plus it’s got a handy loop so you can hang it on your pack to dry, in between uses. 

For 15% off your order at kulacloth.com, enter the promo code OUTTHERE2 at checkout. That’s K-U-L-A-cloth-dot-com, promo code OUTTHERE2.

(Out There theme music begins)

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

As more people are getting vaccinated, and the world is slowly opening up again, many of us are reflecting on the isolation we’ve experienced this past year. I know I am. The pandemic cut me off from normal human interaction. And, especially in the early days, that brought a level of isolation that I had never experienced. 

It’s a relief to know that I’ll be able to start getting back to normal this year. Or at least, whatever the new normal looks like.

But not everyone can escape their aloneness. 

On this episode, we’re going to hear the story of one woman who has been dealing with deep isolation for decades. Isolation is not what defines her, by any means, but it is an ongoing reality for her. And it’s something she will continue to experience, even after much of the world returns to a “new normal.”

Stephanie Maltarich has the story.

(music ends)

STEPHANIE MALTARICH: I met Luanne Burke nearly six years ago, on a backpacking trip for visually impaired women. The trip was dreamy. We spent five days in the desert near the Colorado-Utah border.

I was one of Luanne’s hiking guides during the trip. Our days were spent traveling along the sandy trails while finding creeks to jump into and waterfalls to stand beneath.

She and I laughed a lot. We bonded over our love of coffee, chocolate, and yoga.

Luanne is blind. But at the time, she could still see a little — shadows, shapes, things like that. I remember how she held desert flower petals between her finger tips. She told me that sometimes, she could make out a shadow or a hint of color.

One night the moon, a harvest moon, rose above one of the bluffs that encircled the canyon. Luanne remembers it well.

LUANNE BURKE: Well, I had more light sensitivity then and I could have a little more grasp of my surroundings, or I don't know if it was more imagination. I could still see really high contrast light and dark. 

And the moon was the last thing that went for me. And I can no longer see the moon, which I’m very sad about, but I still go out. Anytime there is a full moon or anything like that, I go tell my friend “Let’s go! Let’s go. It’s gonna be out there, let’s go watch it come over.” I can’t see it, but I want to be there. I want the moonlight to shine on me. I can’t see the light at all, but it still means a lot to me to go find it. 

STEPHANIE: Luanne and I stayed in touch after the trip. Later that year, we made plans to complete an iconic hike over a 12,000-foot pass near my home in Colorado. It was a long day; we were on the trail for nearly 10 hours.  But the time passed quickly as we laughed and talked about relationships, travel goals, and life. We slowly picked our way across the rocky alpine trail and over the pass.

I walked ahead and Luanne followed. I helped her find her way by tapping rocks with my trekking pole so she could navigate around them. Other times I’d simply explain the terrain ahead of us: whether there were trees she needed to walk around or a steep hill that we were about to climb.

When we finished the hike, we reveled in the golden sun, celebrating a wonderful day in the mountains. 

(quiet music begins)

 In these moments, in developing my friendship with Luanne, I saw her as someone living a full life. She seized experiences and got outside often. She adventured in the mountains and ran races. She surprised people.

It wasn’t until later on that I learned how profoundly isolated her life had been.

(music fades out)

Growing up, she was an outdoorsy kid. She spent a ton of time in the mountains with her dad and brothers. She remembers swinging from cottonwood trees and going on camping and backpacking trips with her dad.

And then there was running.

It was the 1970s, and she was in seventh grade. Her female gym teacher required the class full of girls to complete a 5K. Most of the girls didn’t want to run, but Luanne could feel the physical excitement in her body.  

(jubilant music begins)

LUANNE: I was just elated. I was so thrilled, I was just, I mean my endorphins were pumping. When they saw me coming they’re like, “Oh my God! Look, it’s Luanne!” and they were cheering me on. 

They just couldn’t believe it. I was the puniest girl in the whole school, there was one girl smaller than me, and I was just bringing it in. And I was so excited, and so happy, and I was so proud. I had never been so proud in my life. And I had never done anything that made me feel that good about myself.  

STEPHANIE: After that day, she wanted to run every day, and she did. She found a friend who woke up with her at 6 a.m. to run before school. 

(music fades out)

 But when she was 19 everything changed — all at once. She can recall the day, 40 years ago, like it was yesterday.

Luanne had made an appointment to see a new eye doctor for a routine checkup. She hadn’t had a check-up in years despite wearing glasses since she was six years old. She stopped wearing them as a teenager because she disliked the way they looked. But now, she wanted to be able to see a little better.

She figured the checkup would be routine. She’d get her eyes checked, get new glasses, and be on her way. But as soon as the doctor started examining her, she learned it wasn’t going to be a normal appointment.

LUANNE: He looked into my eyes, and then he said he had to leave the room for a little bit and he left. He and his nurse, I guess, came in and turned the lights on. And he asked me: “Has anyone ever told you anything unusual about your eyes?”

I’m like, “Oh yeah, I think I got some eye disease.” 

He took a big sigh. And then he asked me how I got there that day, and I told him I drove. And what happened is he went on with the eye exam, and later he informed me and my family that I should not be driving, and should no longer drive.

STEPHANIE: Luanne was shocked. She knew that an eye disease, Retinitis Pigmentosa, ran in her family, but no one ever talked to her about it. Her brother was diagnosed, but she wasn’t sure if she had it or not. 

Looking back, she knows that she didn’t always understand what other people were seeing. Like when she went skiing in junior high, she never understood how people could see the trails or ski through the trees.

But it was never something she worried about, she could still see ENOUGH.

On this pivotal day in her life, she was told she was legally blind. The doctor called her parents and told them that she couldn’t safely drive anymore. He recommended she didn’t drive home from her appointment. That would be the beginning of a life of isolation.

LUANNE: You know, I was young. I wanted to go out dancing, I wanted to do stuff. I had to ask for rides. We didn't take taxis in the 80s in Fort Collins. It changed how I socialized. I really missed out on a lot of things....a lot, yeah. And that continued. It continues.

STEPHANIE: Despite this life-altering news, she was able to go on with life as usual in many ways for a while. She was in college and was able to walk everywhere she needed to go. Her vision was bad, but not bad enough that others would notice.

But then she finished college and returned home to rural Colorado. If you’ve ever lived in a rural area, you know it’s pretty much impossible to get around without a car. And Luanne wasn’t allowed to drive. All of a sudden, the isolation felt overwhelming.

LUANNE: That’s when it all really hit. I was on my knees, on my knees for sure. I had this really, really great friend, who I still have. And I was like, “I don’t understand how am I going to make it in the world. What am I gonna do? Why is it like this for me?” 

And it’s the only time I really ever asked that question. 

Her answer was, “Well, maybe it’s because God thinks you’re strong enough.”

(somber music starts)

 STEPHANIE: These words stayed with her. And helped her see through something that seemed impossible. But they didn’t make the isolation go away.

LUANNE: I still looked the same, I still moved around the same, everybody thought of me the same, but my world had changed dramatically, because we have a very mobile society, and I could not fit into it the same way. 

That's actually, too, when I really started running a lot more miles, because I was waiting around a couple times for rides for something and I was like, “F-THIS.” I put on my little fanny pack, and my running shoes, and I’m like, “I’m running everywhere I need to go. I am not waiting for one bus that travels around this town.”   

(music ends)

 STEPHANIE: Even though her reality had shifted completely, she committed to exploring the possibilities of a new life. She was hired as a caretaker for a man who was quadriplegic and used a wheelchair. During her time with him, she learned about how people with disabilities navigated the world. 

She learned about the possibilities, about different sports for adaptive athletes. She learned that there was a way to live with her disability, even if it looked different than she imagined.

(music begins)

 But her eyesight continued to get worse. Until this point, she could still see a tiny bit. Now, even that was fading.

She recalls a day when she went skiing and felt so disoriented. Moving downhill, she felt like she went over the edge of a cliff and tumbled and tumbled to a stop. She had no idea where she was. 

When she finally made it down the mountain, she realized she couldn’t ignore her disability. She couldn’t get by on her own anymore.

(music fades out)

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

ALEXANDRA DIRUSCIO: Essentially, I started the business out of a need that I discovered myself.

WILLOW: That’s Alexandra DiRuscio. She’s the founder of Wild Woman Box, which is a subscription box for nature lovers and outdoor women. Alexandra says getting outdoors on a regular basis has made her life so much richer.

ALEXANDRA: And when I went looking for a subscription box, like as a monthly treat, all of the outdoor boxes felt too advanced for me.

WILLOW: Alexandra wanted a box that would help make the outdoors accessible to all women — no matter their background or their skill level with outdoor activities.

So she started Wild Woman Box. When you subscribe, you’ll get a box in the mail each month, filled with gear, food, body products, and inspiration to help you get out, get moving, and be YOU.

For 15% off your first box, go to wildwomanbox.com and enter the promo code OUTTHERE at checkout. That’s wildwomanbox.com, promo code OUTTHERE.

And now, back to the story.

(sound of wind)

 One day this winter, I picked up Luanne and her dog Chessie to meet a friend for a run. Luanne wasn’t in the greatest mood; she hadn’t run in several days. She had spent a lot of days alone in her apartment.

 I noticed a change in her mood the moment we arrived at the trailhead. She met her friend and running guide, Cam, and they got right down to business planning out their run.

LUANNE: Do you want to run out to the cattle guard?

CAM SMITH: Yeah.

(dog barks and Luanne and friend laugh)

CAM: You probably felt it too. It’s really slick from that wind and the sun that we’ve gotten the last few days, now that it’s finally warmed up again. 

LUANNE: Uh-huh.

(dog whines)

CAM:  So that means the road will feel like this, probably most of the way, but at least it’s like, um…

 LUANNE: Is there any ruts?

CAM: I don’t see any. It got plowed like two or three weeks ago the last time it snowed, and then since then it’s been like -20 every morning.

(sound of feet running on the snow and then music begins)

STEPHANIE: For many people, being in the mountains is stunning because of the views. For Luanne, it’s a feeling. As we stood in the valley post-run, I looked around at the large meadows, tall peaks and ridgelines surrounding us on every side. Then I asked Luanne to describe the scene from her perspective.

LUANNE: I can tell we are in wide open space. Which just, I can feel the air moving, you know further distance. I just love wide open space.  

STEPHANIE: That day, for a brief moment, running brought her out of isolation. It created a connection.

LUANNE:  I’m a different person! I am a totally different person right now. It changes everything, my endorphins are up. It’s not like I’m jacked, I’m just happy to be alive. It’s incredible.

(music slowly fades out)

STEPHANIE: That’s a feeling she often gets from running. And she chases it however she can. She runs races and plans trips to places like Machu Picchu. She even rode her bike across the country.

But she does have to depend on others to do all of this. Luanne can’t just slip on her trail runners and hit the trail on her own whenever she wants.

When Luanne and her seeing-eye dog, Chessie, are familiar with a place, they can run alone – together. But that takes time: they have to frequent the place many times and train Chessie before they are comfortable. Mostly, she relies on a team of people. And that takes a lot of the spontaneity and independence out of running. She jokes that it takes eight people to keep a blind person fit.

LUANNE: You have to be able to call on at least eight different people because people are doing stuff, they’re busy. So you’ve got to have a list of people, “Hey, I want to go running this day”. Well, maybe only one of them can. It’s gotta be like a flow, people get bored, they’ve got things to do. If you got a group that are just kind of flowing in and out, it keeps you fit and keeps them still interested.

(music starts again)

STEPHANIE: Last year, in the midst of the pandemic and shelter in place, I started a weekly newsletter asking people about their experiences in lockdown, in isolation. Luanne quickly responded, and when I read her email an uncomfortable feeling arose in my stomach. Profound isolation was new to me. But for Luanne, it was familiar. I felt ignorant to her experience.

She said that she had been isolated from society for most of her adult life. 

She wrote (quote): “I find myself receiving texts and emails from people more often. They have more time, they are trying to avoid isolation, and they are reaching out more.  I have been here all along as have most people with disabilities.”

(last few notes and music stops)

 Luanne doesn’t feel sorry for herself. But she also will tell you that her life has been different than she imagined it would be. She considers herself independent, but she wonders how she could have been even more independent and adventurous. She has to rely on people in a way she would rather not. She spends a lot of time alone, and that often feels hard.

(optimistic music begins)

But having this time alone, to process things in a different way, has forced her to slow down. In her email, she reflected on this. She wrote (quote): “But I, as always, noticed the ducks returning to the creek a week ago Tuesday. Marking their territory by flying over their creek quacking in the early morning. A ways down is another pair. They come every year and I look forward to it.  I love them. They work so hard, so incredibly hard to survive and hatch and raise their young. I cannot see them. I choose to listen for and admire the returning Spring, despite our human chaos.”

WILLOW: That was Stephanie Maltarich. She’s an audio producer living in Gunnison, Colorado, and she was one of Out There’s interns last year.

(music fades out)

Coming up on the next episode of Out There, we’ll talk with filmmaker Devin Fei-Fan Tau about his new film “Who’s On Top”. The documentary is about a group of LGBTQ climbers who set out to summit Mt. Hood. In our interview, we talk about the parallels between climbing a mountain, and coming out, and we’ll look at the value of sharing your fears with the people around you.

DEVIN FEI-FAN TAU: I learned that being vulnerable is actually a strength. And, you know, in the Asian culture, that was very new to me. Still is. Six thousand years of fables and history, there’s no stories about vulnerability and empathy or compassion. It’s always about duty and sacrifice.

(Devin laughs)

WILLOW: That interview is coming up on May 20.

A big thank you to Karl Griena, Joan Amero, Richard Giles, Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Mike Ludders, Tara Joslin, and Deb and Vince Garcia for their financial contributions to Out There.

If this show brightens your day at all, consider joining your fellow listeners and making a financial contribution to Out There.

The best way to support the show is to become a patron. Patrons are listeners who make monthly contributions to the podcast. Those contributions can be as big or as small as you want. We have listeners who donate $50 a month, and listeners who donate $2 a month...and everything in between. You can become a patron today by going to patreon.com/outtherepodcast.

If you’re not up for making contributions every month, you can always make a gift on Venmo. We are @outthere-podcast, or you can go to our website — outtherepodcast.com — to make a gift by credit card. I have links to all those options in the show notes as well. 

(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.

That’s it for this episode. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

We’ll see you in two weeks.

(theme music ends on a final whistle)

Why Do We Stay?

By Anmargaret Warner, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on April 22, 2021

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: Happy Earth Day! Since today is a time for thinking about the environment, I’d like to tell you about one of our sponsors, Athletic Brewing. Athletic Brewing makes non-alcoholic craft beers.

As you’ve probably heard on previous episodes, I’ve tasted several of their beers, and if I didn’t know they were non-alcoholic, I would have no idea. They have all the flavor, without the alcohol. 

But what I really want to tell you about today is something they do in addition to making beer. 

Athletic Brewing has a program called “Two for the Trails”, whereby they donate 2% of sales to maintaining trails and parks.

If you’d like to treat yourself to some nice, alcohol-free beer, and support the planet, Athletic Brewing has you covered.

For 20% off your order, go to athleticbrewing.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s athleticbrewing.com, promo code “OUTTHERE20”.

(Out There theme music starts)

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

Before we get started, I wanted to remind you that we’re currently accepting applications for our summer production internship. This internship is a chance to work one-on-one with me, and learn about all aspects of making this podcast — from evaluating pitches, to conducting interviews, to editing scripts, to working on sound design. 

Applications are due April 30, and you can find all the details about the internship on our website, outtherepodcast.com. Just click on our blog.

(music ends)

Here at Out There, we like to define the outdoors as anything beyond your doorstep. And when we think about what’s beyond that doorstep, we encounter a lot of different things. The natural environment. The weather. Our communities. And sometimes, those things collide.

Many of us have experienced at least one extreme weather event. Droughts, wildfires, hurricanes. But what happens when the weather — and the climate — poses a longer-term threat? If you live in a place that’s prone to natural disasters, how do you decide whether to uproot your family and find a new home, or just stay put? And if you do decide to stay, why? This week’s story is about how one person is navigating the difficult decisions about what to do when the outside comes in. Annmargaret Warner has the story.

(sound of gentle waves begins)

ANMARGARET WARNER: About 30 miles off the coast of North Carolina, there’s a small island named Ocracoke. It sits at the southern end of a chain of barrier islands called the Outer Banks. 

On Ocracoke, there’s one public school. One health clinic. One gas station — though if it runs dry, you can try and finagle your way into filling your tank down at the marina. 

Ocracoke has about 700 year-round residents. Most don’t lock their cars or their front doors. The only way to get to the island is by boat or private plane. It gets really busy in the summer, when tourists come to visit the beach. It’s all national seashore, and it’s beautiful.

(sound of waves stops)

Ocracoke can be an idyllic place. In late spring, the smell of confederate jasmine flowers mixes with the salty air. The cicadas and crickets sing at night. 

(soft, rhythmic music begins to play)

But like everywhere else, the island has its own challenges too. And those challenges are personal to me. Because Ocracoke is my hometown. It’s where my mom and brother still live and work. So the island’s unstable future has me worried.

Ocracoke is a narrow spit of sand that sits right in the path of powerful hurricanes that barrel up the East Coast. There’s usually a big storm every decade. At least. That holds true as far back as you can really trace on the island, to the late 1700s. And looking to the future, climate scientists predict hurricanes will bring more rainfall and flooding. And maybe higher wind speeds too. But it’s not only hurricanes that threaten the island. Ocracoke basically sits at sea level. And the sea level is rising. 

To be fair, every coastal community will be threatened by sea-level rise. Ocracoke is not the MOST disaster prone. And it’s definitely not the most populated. But it’s the most familiar to me.

(music ends)

In the wake of many hurricanes, some people — off-islanders — will say: “Well why don’t you just leave? You know. Why don’t you just go? Go somewhere else. It’s expensive to stay there, and to re-build over and over again. And it’s dangerous. Right?” 

It’s easy to brush off questions like that. Backhanded accusations. But the concerns are legitimate. Why DO people stay? Why do they continue living on an island that is vulnerable to hurricanes and sea-level rise? Why don’t they move away? 

(music begins with the sound of plinking notes)

It’s understandable that people like my family still live on Ocracoke. My mom’s owned a business on the island for 30 years. She owns her own home too. Leaving would disrupt everything she’s built.

Many other islanders can trace their family history back generations, to the island’s first white settlers. But not everyone has such visibly concrete ties to the place. What about them? What if your family hasn’t lived on Ocracoke for generations? What if you’re not a fisherwoman, or don’t own your own business. Why are people like that set on staying?

(music ends)

MAURO IBARRA: My name is Mauro Ibarra. And I live in Ocracoke.

ANMARGARET: Mauro Ibarra is 48. He’s a manager at the only grocery store on the island. It’s called the Variety Store. Mauro’s lived on Ocracoke for 28 years. But he hadn’t even heard of the island until a few days before he moved there.

(music begins to play)

Mauro grew up in Mexico in a tiny mountain town, about a five hour drive north of Mexico City. He left when he was just a teenager and came to the U.S. He’s worked a lot of different jobs throughout the south. Everything from a factory in Texas making diapers, to picking peaches on a farm in Georgia.

MAURO: Well picking peaches? That’s a bad job. Good money, oh yeah. 

ANMARGARET: $110 a day, he says. It took him a week to make that much money in Texas. But he couldn’t stand the peach fuzz.

MAURO: The little hair, it gets into your body and you start scratching and it’s nonstop all day long. 

ANMARGARET: Eventually Mauro made his way to eastern North Carolina. A town known as Little Washington. It was 1992 and he was working on a farm. And after just a few days, his boss pulled him aside.

MAURO: And he told me that I was smart enough to do something else than what I was doing in Little Washington, working on the farm. And he asked me if my wife knew how to clean rooms, and she said, “Yes,” because I asked her. I said, “Yeah, yeah, I can work motels,” you know. 

And he said, “Can you cook?” 

I said, “Not really.”

I never...see I don’t cook. But anyway, he said, “Well you can learn.” 

ANMARGARET: The boss had a friend on Ocracoke who needed help cleaning hotel rooms. Mauro and his wife decided to take a chance. They drove to the ferry and headed to the island. Mauro had never been on a boat that big.

MAURO: And I got out of the car, maybe about midway. And I just looked around and I say, I went to talk to my wife, I say, “There’s nothing around.” And I didn’t know if we were lost or where we were going to end up. I said: “I think we need to just turn around back.” 

ANMARGARET: They’d never been to an island before. They barely spoke any English. And they didn’t know who’d be meeting them when they got to the other side. They didn’t even have a phone number to call. 

But when Mauro and his wife drove off the ferry, someone was waiting for them. It was a local who owned a hotel and restaurant. Mauro’s boss from the farm had called ahead. 

Mauro remembers they ate hamburgers that first night. And then they got to work, cleaning the 40-plus hotel rooms, every single day of the week. Washing and folding sheets. Making beds. After a few months, Mauro moved over to the restaurant to cook. It was hard work, but decent money. And it was way better than some of Mauro’s other jobs. No peach fuzz in sight.

It wasn’t long before Mauro’s first hurricane came along. It was his first year on the island. 

MAURO: We didn’t know nothing about the storms. About hurricanes. How dangerous or how bad they can really be. 

ANMARGARET: He laughs, remembering how naive he was. The storm was Hurricane Emily. It was Labor Day weekend, the final push of the tourist season.

MAURO: See, we didn’t leave. We didn’t know what to do.

(sighing sound) 

I’m sure they told us about it. But we...see the motel was packed. And we just saw they were packing up and left. And then we saw the wind started blowing harder and harder, you know. And we lost electricity. We stayed in 309, in the third floor. Waterfront. We saw when the water started coming in the road, underneath the fish house, and moving to the motel. And that’s when we find out that that was bad. We got these three big windows out front. Thought the windows were going to blow out. That was the first one.

ANMARGARET: Everyone on Ocracoke remembers their first hurricane. The first one I remember blew out a window in our living room. My brother and I were playing in a teepee in our bedroom. And my mom scooped us out and we held hands crossing thigh high water to get to the neighbor’s house. 

Hurricanes have always been a part of life on the island. Mauro started to get used to them. For the last few years, he’s made it a habit to evacuate before the bad ones.

In 2019, Mauro and his wife even bought a piece of property off island, on the mainland. There were a lot of factors that went into the decision, but one reason was so they could have a place to evacuate to, when storms hit. They found an apartment outside of Greenville, in eastern North Carolina. They closed on the last day of August. And then one week later, Hurricane Dorian hit Ocracoke. 

(chime-like music begins)

Dorian might sound familiar to you. It completely devastated parts of the Bahamas. Mauro thought this was going to be a big storm for Ocracoke too. So he didn’t wait long before evacuating. He and his family headed to their new apartment on the mainland.

By the time it got to North Carolina, Dorian was only a category one hurricane. The wind speeds were lower. But Dorian was stronger in other ways.

MAURO: I made me some coffee and I went to my sofa, and I got a phone call from Jose, my brother in law. He said, “Did you hear about the island?”

I said, “What happened?”

He said, “The water is getting in the store.”

I said, “How bad?”

He said, “Bad”.

I said, “Ok”. And then right after that, I got the video. 

(sound of rushing water and wind blowing hard in the background)

ANMARGARET: Mauro’s brother-in-law texted him a video. It shows chest-high water rushing past Mauro’s house. There’s a red van parked in the driveway. The water is almost up to the windows, and waves are rolling onto the hood like it’s a beach. 

Where did all that water come from?

It’s called storm surge. The hurricane’s winds shifted, and in a matter of minutes, seawater was suddenly rushing across the island and into people’s homes. Some people scrambled into their attics and had to be rescued later by boat. Mauro was afraid.

MAURO: At that point, I didn’t know. Didn’t know if I was going to have a job. If I was going to have a house? Don’t know. When the water goes that high, don’t know if the house is going to stand up for a long time or just...don’t know. Don’t know.

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

Support for Out There comes from Better Help. Better Help provides professional online counseling to clients all over the world. If there’s something that’s interfering with your happiness, or preventing you from meeting your goals, they can help.

Their services are more affordable than traditional offline counseling, and financial aid is also available. Plus, they have experts in a bunch of different areas, some of which might not be available locally, especially if you live in a more rural area.

When you sign up, they’ll assess your needs and match you with a licensed professional therapist who can meet those needs. You can start communicating in under 24 hours.

For 10% off your first month of counseling, go to betterhelp.com/outthere. That’s betterhelp.com/outthere. 

And now, back to the story.

ANMARGARET: After Hurricane Dorian hit Ocracoke, it was a whole week before Mauro was allowed back onto the island. He was shocked by the damage. Many of the homes and businesses on Ocracoke had flooded, including the school. And the Variety Store. Almost all of the cars were totaled. Most people didn’t have electricity. Parts of Highway 12, the only paved road at the north end of the island, had been washed away. People were taking everything that got ruined out of their homes — couches, refrigerators, washing machines — and putting it in their yards. Mauro had never seen anything like it before. Not many people had. The last hurricane to bring that much water onto the island was in 1944. 

(melancholy music begins to play)

In Mauro’s home, a thick sludge of mud and sewage coated the floor and crept up the walls. Mold was starting to grow. Mauro threw out his mattress and pretty much all of his furniture and appliances, and slept in his car for four nights. He had to hire someone to help him tear out the floor and the walls.

The clean-up process brought normal life on the island to a halt that fall. Visitors weren’t allowed to ride the ferry over until December — a full three months after Dorian. Of course, the recovery process lasted a lot longer than that. Some businesses were so damaged they weren’t able to open until a year later. And to this day when you drive around the island you’ll see dozens of homes getting raised up on stilts. It’s how a lot of the newer structures were getting built anyways. But after Dorian hit, they started lifting everything up on stilts, including the old church. Mauro’s hoping to do this with his rental house too. Which shows resilience, right? Lift up above the floodlines, and prepare for next time. But it also shows an intention to stay. 

(music ends)

It’s kind of surprising — this urge to stay put. Your home gets flooded, all of your belongings get ruined, your whole way of life is upended for months...and yet you stick around. 

Sure, hurricane-wise, things were quiet for Ocracoke last year. But zoom out and the 2020 hurricane season was record-breaking. There were 30 named storms. And a dozen of those made landfall in the U.S. Given the realities of climate change, we’re on track for things to get worse. It’s not yet clear exactly what that will look like. There will likely be stronger hurricanes, though the frequency of those storms is still uncertain. But either way, it’s not promising for Ocracoke. So why, after all of that, do people stay?

MAURO: The reason I say why here. I know this is a good community. Good people and all. They do, they’ve helped a lot of people in the past. Over the years I’ve been around, if someone’s down, they do a fish fry. And they do anything to collect money to help them. You don’t see that anywhere. Only Ocracoke, I think.

ANMARGARET: Not a GoFundMe. A fish fry. Mauro tells me that everybody knows everybody in Ocracoke. Which isn’t an exaggeration. 

But Ocrocoke isn’t unique in this respect. There are other tight-knit communities all over the world. But Mauro has built his life HERE. 

ANMARGARET: When did you start feeling like a part of the community on Ocracoke?

MAURO: When I moved into the Variety Store. Cause I got to know more people. Nice, friendly, they made me feel like home. You know, you think different when you got good people around you. You feel like it’s where you want to be.

(upbeat music begins to play)

ANMARGARET: Mauro started working at the Variety Store in 1996, stacking drinks in the coolers and sweeping the floors. Now he’s a manager. He lives with his family just behind the Variety Store, in a house they rent from the store owner. When Mauro’s eating lunch he can still hear the PA system. So he knows if he needs to head back in a hurry, or if he can take his time. He goes in every day of the week. 

I met Mauro early one Saturday while he worked the cash register.

(sound of Anmargaret entering a building)

ANMARGARET: Good morning Mauro.

MAURO: You doing okay?

ANMARGARET: Yeah. How are you?

MAURO: Good, good.

ANMARGARET: It was the first week of December, and the island was quiet. Mauro had just set up the coffee station, and unlocked the front door. And he knew every customer.

(music ends)

MAURO: Morning Andy.

ANDY: You’ve got a good man for that this morning.

(Mauro laughs, and cash register beeps)

MAURO: Okay, $12.69.

(sound of change clinking)

MAURO: $7.31. Let me give you a bag.

(sound of bag rustling)

MAURO: Thank you Andy.

ANDY: Alright buddy. Catch you later.

(register closes)

ANMARGARET: After Andy walks out the door, Mauro tells me they used to be neighbors. 

MAURO: I’ve known Andy for a long time. Very long time. Yeah, he’s a good man. He comes every morning. He gets the same thing. Just crackers and gatorade. The same flavor. 

(Mauro laughs)

ANMARGARET: Mauro did this for everyone who walked in. Told me little tidbits about them, without me even asking. I think this is what community sounds like. The easy interactions. The familiarity. The comfort. 

But these little pleasantries are just the tip of the iceberg, the outer trappings of community. Because in the end, knowing everyone’s name isn’t really what matters. What matters is the sense of security and comfort you get from being a part of a community. The implicit understanding that you’re in this together. If you’re going through a crisis — like clean-up from a major hurricane — that comfort can help you make it through. 

Mauro told me he feels safe on Ocracoke. And I think this sense of safety is born out of trust. He trusts his boss, his neighbors, his customers. Two of his children have autism. Mauro trusts their teachers. He believes his kids will find the most care and attention with the safety net of the island community looking out for them. 

(music begins to play)

After Hurricane Dorian, islanders looked out for each other too. Sharing an extra bedroom here, a truck there. Time volunteering at the food pantry.

Still, for a lot of people, Dorian was kind of a wake-up call. A time to re-evaluate. Is this where they wanted to keep living? A handful of people decided no — they’d had enough. But most people — including Mauro and his family — have decided to stay on the island.

(music ends)

Turns out, what Mauro is experiencing on Ocracoke is a universal phenomenon. It happens to people all over the world. And it’s something that has far-reaching implications. 

DR. MICHELLE DOVIL: I’m Dr. Michelle Dovil, a visiting assistant professor at Howard University in the department of sociology and criminology.

ANMARGARET: As a sociologist, one of Dr. Dovil’s main research areas is coastal communities. She looks at why people keep living where they do, despite the immediate threat of hurricanes and the long-term threat of sea-level rise. Dovil led a study in eastern North Carolina where she looked at this thing called place attachment. It’s the relationship a person has with their physical environment.

DOVIL: Individuals who owned their homes had a stronger place attachment. Individuals who had stronger familial ties had stronger place attachments. And we also saw that people who had strong, like their identities that were tied to these communities, also felt strongly about their emotional bonds towards those lands.

ANMARGARET: Mauro doesn’t own his home in Ocracoke. And he could take his skillset to a grocery store anywhere. But he’s raised his family on the island. And his identity is tied to the community. It’s part of who he is. Once a place becomes central to someone’s identity, you can become dependent on it, and it can be very difficult to leave. Especially when you’re up against slow-moving threats like climate change.

DOVIL: Sea-level rise is happening over a long period of time. And we’re asking people to process this information that’s gonna happen within the next 50 to 100 years. So how can we ask someone, “Hey are you willing to relocate? Hey, why are you still here in this high-risk or highly vulnerable place?” when these things are going to happen over a long term period.

ANMARGARET: The long-term threat feels intangible compared to the very concrete benefits of living in a community you trust. 

After Hurricane Dorian, Mauro and his wife agreed they wouldn’t buy property on Ocracoke. It seemed too risky. And rationally, Mauro is still on board with that. But the sentimental side of him still likes to dream. 

MAURO: I’m being very honest with you. I mean, I want to own something here. Like, even a small piece of land. Something. I feel like I’ve been here too long and not have nothing! I always got that in my mind.

DOVIL: Mmmm. I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard that before. I completely understand, you know, the concept of just wanting to own something because it means something, especially when you’ve been there for 28 years. But I would not recommend it. I really do think it’s risky. But I totally understand the psychology behind it. And I sympathize with people. 

ANMARGARET: Dovil has seen people all along the coast, from New Orleans to Virginia Beach, grappling with decisions on how to make it work. Which is why she thinks it’s time to start thinking about a new approach.

DOVIL: The current conversation is centered on adaptation and mitigation. But I strongly recommend that we start shifting the conversation to migration, whether that be forced or voluntary.

ANMARGARET: Migration, as in picking up and moving for the long haul. It's a difficult thing to stomach. Connection to a place is deeply visceral. Dovil says there’s this thinking that if you want to get an entire community to move, then a local leader the community respects and trusts needs to go first. Maybe it’s a priest. Or a family matriarch. The hope is that it becomes a sort of domino effect. And even then, Dovil knows this is a complex process. 

DOVIL: This is a global issue. In the U.S. alone, there are over 50 coastal communities with more than 100 million residents at risk for sea-level rise, you know. And sea-level rise is changing our coasts, our economies, our ecosystems. And so this is an issue not only that academics and researchers and practitioners are looking at and are trying to understand this social phenomena. But also the government. Like government officials, right? Who are supposed to, you know, secure, protect and keep these communities safe. Like, how do we deal with this?

ANMARGARET: These challenges apply to all kinds of areas facing risks — like places experiencing historic wildfires. Or drought. Or tornadoes or earthquakes. People keep living in those communities, too. And the risks keep building. 

But what Dovil knows from her research — and what Mauro knows from his own experience — is that we don’t make decisions about where to call home based on a simple risk analysis. It’s not that easy. 

(steady music begins)

There is so much that ties us to a place. And for many people, community is what helps you really belong. It’s a steadfast channel of connectivity and support.

For most of us, life is hard in one way or another. And Mauro is no exception. He works a lot. Two of his kids have autism. And he’s constantly thinking about the next hurricane. But he has his community. The community is what gets him through it all. And ultimately, it’s what makes the life he’s built on Ocracoke satisfying and meaningful.

WILLOW: That was Anmargaret Warner. Anmargaret was one of our interns in the fall of 2020. She’s now an associate producer at another podcast production company, and I couldn’t be more proud of her!

If you enjoyed this episode, I have a special treat for you. In honor of Earth Day, we put together a playlist called “After the Storm.” It’s a collection of episodes from other podcasts that explore different angles to the questions we’ve been asking with this story. Questions of why we live where we live, in the face of natural disasters.

For example, we have episodes on the playlist that explore the concept of climate gentrification, and how that plays out in communities of color. Another episode looks at why construction is booming, in a neighborhood that could be mostly underwater within 80 years. Another story introduces us to a teenager in New York whose community is still struggling to rebuild, nearly a decade after Hurricane Sandy.

Those are just a few of the episodes on our playlist “After the Storm”. 

You can find the full playlist on Spotify or at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Again, it’s called “After the Storm.”

(music ends)

A quick reminder that applications for our summer internship are due April 30. You can find all the details at our website - outtherepodcast.com. Just click on our blog.

(Out There theme music plays)

That’s it for this episode. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. Our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. And today’s episode was reported, written, and produced by Anmargaret Warner.

Happy Earth Day, and we’ll see you in two weeks.

(music ends)

The Stories We Carry

By Kitty Galloway, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on March 11, 2021

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 the end of a long workday...and I’m in the mood for a beer. But I don’t actually want the alcohol — I just want the taste, and the FEELING of drinking a beer. I want that emotional relaxation. 

So I’m trying out a beer from Athletic Brewing company.

Athletic Brewing is one of our sponsors. They make non-alcoholic craft brews.

(Sound of beer can opening)

Oh, that’s good! This is their All Out Stout, and I really like dark beer. Um, but this is really nice. It’s a little nutty.

If I didn’t know that this was non-alcoholic, I would never have guessed. It tastes just like a really nice, tasty stout.

And as for the emotional relaxation I was craving? I wasn’t sure if non-alcoholic beer would do the trick, but it totally did!

For 20% off your order of non-alcoholic beer from athleticbrewing.com, just enter the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s athleticbrewing.com, promo code “OUTTHERE20”.

(Out There theme music starts)

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

When you’re doing a long distance hike, chances are, you don’t enjoy the parts where you have to walk on roads. 

Asphalt is hot. It’s tough on your joints…and you’re out there to enjoy the wilderness, not to breathe in exhaust fumes from passing cars.

But sometimes, the edges of roads can offer powerful lessons. Turns out, road walking has just as much capacity to change us as traversing alpine ridgelines.

On this episode, a woman named Kitty Galloway tells the story of something that happened at the side of a highway in Idaho…which shifted her worldview.

(theme music comes to an end)

It’s a story about strength, and fear, and vulnerability. And it’s about learning to accept that two opposing narratives can be true at the same time. 

I’ll let Kitty take it from here. 

And, just so you know, this story does contain a scene about assault.

(quiet, steady music begins)

KITTY GALLOWAY: The bear cub, or what was left of her, was small. Just a loose pile of bones and fur. 

I paused, looking. The hot afternoon sun beat down. 

It was the summer of 2010, and my partner at the time, Miles, and I, along with our dog Zeek, were walking from Bellingham, Washington, to Missoula, Montana. We were moving, and we had decided to make the move by walking.

The day we saw the bear cub, it was the middle of July. We were in Idaho, walking the edge of Highway 200. There were weeks of dust on our backpacks and in our shoes.

(music ends)

There’s a lot of answers to why we walked, and I could say it amounted on its surface to curiosity. What does the world look like, between here and there? 

I say “on the surface,” because for me, the walking carried more weight, or at least a longer history. 

(upbeat music starts)

I was raised by a mother who was a worrier, and I think sometimes it was her worrying, combined with my own fierce stubbornness, that pushed me to take risks when I was young...which I did. As a teenager, I ran alone at night. I hitch-hiked. I left for long solo trips as soon as I had access to a car and could drive.

A while after high school, I moved into my truck. I was a rock climber by then, and figured I could live off my savings while I drove around from crag to crag...alone. 

My mother didn’t want me to go. She worried constantly, and told me so.

(music grows louder and then fades out)

It was a story I’d heard often growing up – that women on their own would get harassed, or raped, or killed. That a woman alone in the woods was even worse, even more vulnerable. I heard the story from my mom, sure, but it came from everywhere else too. Movies, books…a story fundamental to my own culture. 

Women, I was taught, were vulnerable. Victims in the making. 

I’d always struggled with that narrative. I didn’t want that story to belong to me, so at some point, I guess I just decided it didn’t. My mom was a person that worried. The world was full of people that worried. And the story was overtold. 

I was as strong, competent and smart as any guy out there, I figured. And that had to be enough. I made the choice to simply ignore risks, ignore dangers, because that felt easier than accepting a narrative I didn’t want to believe in. 

I perfected the art of looking away from the hard things. 

And then? At 19 years old, on that same solo road trip my mother argued so bitterly against, I was assaulted. 

(somber music begins)

It was a guy I’d met at a hostel one afternoon. He’d seemed nice, even if he was already drinking at 3 p.m. We spent the day together and then the evening, and then, much later, after I said goodnight, he followed me upstairs to the empty women’s dormitory.  

And he would not accept no for an answer. 

I managed eventually to fight him off me. Away from me. Out of that room. But there was no lock on the door. I pushed every piece of furniture I could move then, against the door, to barricade him out of the room. Still, he kept coming back for what felt like hours and maybe was. He would apologize, then he would hiss insults through the wood. He would pound his fists against the door, then grow quiet, then begin again.

I’ll never understand why no one else in the hostel heard. Or if they did, why no one got out of their bed to help.

But it’s easier to look away.

The furniture held, but so, too, did the shame and the silence that made a home in me during those dark, dragging hours before dawn. I sat there with my back pressed against the wall, knees pulled up, eyes on the door. Every story I’d ever heard about women and vulnerability tumbling through my head. 

It felt like MY FAULT. I had been warned.

When the sun finally rose the next morning, I moved the barricaded furniture from the door, piece by piece. I tiptoed down the stairs. I ran to my truck. I got out of that place as fast as my wheels would turn.

I think maybe I thought that if I could drive fast enough, far enough, I could just leave the whole thing behind. 

But it doesn’t work like that.  

The first few years after the assault, I managed to keep convincing myself it didn’t matter. I told my friends about it, but in the same breath told them I was fine. 

Even as my self-confidence tanked. 

Even as I found myself nauseous anytime a man so much as looked at me wrong. 

I spent years telling myself the same script, which was that I was strong. Independent. Invincible.

Over the years, I finally started admitting to myself that the assault HAD affected me. I did my first long, solo thru-hike. I went to therapy, made art, filled journals. But I still had trouble reconciling what had happened to me, and what that meant for who I thought I was. For what I believed about the world. 

I was learning to admit that I wasn’t invincible. But I still didn’t want to believe that my mother’s anxious version of the world could be true — even a little true. I didn’t want to believe that the world was a dangerous place, and that fear was the right answer.

I didn’t want to believe that you should live your life NOT doing things because you are afraid.

(music ends)

The summer that Miles and I walked across three states, I was still trying to believe in MY version of the world. A version of the world where the assault was a fluke. 

Before we left for the hike that summer, my mother tried to gift us a GPS SPOT device to carry with us. It was a tiny, expensive piece of equipment that would allow us to send out an SOS signal if we got in trouble. It was light. It would have taken very little effort on my part to carry, and it would have offered my mom a lot of peace of mind. 

I hate to admit that I said no to taking it along. 

I wanted THAT BADLY for the world to prove itself to be different. 

To prove my mom wrong. Even if she’d been right once already. 

(quiet guitar music begins)

When we decided to walk to Montana, we realized pretty quickly we’d have to walk on some roads. Most long trails angle north/south. They follow ridges and mountain ranges: the Pacific Crest or the Continental Divide. 

Yet we wanted to go east. East meant crossing ridgelines and watersheds. And east meant, at least to some extent, following roads. 

Which leads me back to the dead bear cub. 

(music ends)

That day in July, two months into the walk, I stood on the side of the highway, looking down. The bear’s heft only barely suggested what she used to be. Brown fur matted, long past impact, heart stopping, dust settling.

It was the first roadkill bear I’d seen that summer, but not the first dead animal. There’d been elk and deer, mice and birds, foxes and raccoons, snakes and bats. I’d seen several possum. And coyotes, countless. One time there was a moose. 

Now this, a bear cub. 

The trip had been different than we expected. Our prior winter spent poring over maps didn’t convey the monotony of road walking, the mental space those miles would take. Not to mention the dead animals. It is not often we are asked to stop, witness the casualties of our collective speed. But one million animals are killed crossing roads in the U.S. daily. That’s an animal killed every 11.5 seconds. 

The animals are usually a flash as we drive past. Matted fur, legs akimbo, ruptured guts. It’s easier, looking out the window, not to look. To look through, or look past. To the beautiful river, scenic valley, awe-inspiring mountain, highway, prairie, city, park, sunset over buildings, twinkly lights, look! 

It’s easier to look at that. 

(meandering music begins)

That day in July, the day we saw the dead bear cub, was our longest stretch of highway yet. Miles was two steps behind me, Zeek following last, panting. Cars careened close and made us all think of near misses. 

When we reached the bear cub, we all stopped. We stared at her dark, coarse fur. There was dirt and gravel mixed in with limbs. One paw was still intact, the pads still visible and angled just so, outstretched. This was often the case with the animals we saw that summer, their paws so often still whole beneath the oncoming decay.

I considered how the bear cub may have died. Screech of brakes, careening car, swerve, impact. 

Maybe she was with her mama, or a sibling, or several. Maybe it was dark. Maybe the driver didn’t see her. 

After a while, we turned away and continued on. As we always did. 

(music ends)

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

We’ve been talking about some pretty heavy things on this episode. And I want to acknowledge that, while we can gain a lot of wisdom and healing from outdoor experiences, sometimes you need more than that. 

Sometimes you need the support of a professional. 

Better Help can provide that support. 

Better Help is one of Out There’s sponsors. They provide professional online counseling to clients all over the world. They have specialists in all sorts of areas from depression and anxiety, to LGBTQ matters, to grief and trauma.

If there’s something that’s interfering with your happiness, or preventing you from meeting your goals, get the support you need.

For 10% off your first month of counseling, go to betterhelp.com/outthere. That’s betterhelp.com/outthere.

Speaking of things that might be interfering with your happiness….

Do you ever feel like no matter how hard you work, you just can’t seem to get ahead? 

If you look back at the past few years, have you ever had money in the bank, or do you only have enough to pay your bills?

First of all, please know that you’re not alone. Almost 70% of Americans die with credit card debt and no money in the bank.

But also — please know that there are solutions. And you don’t have to figure out everything on your own.

One of Out There’s sponsors is a company called TurboDebt. TurboDebt can help you with credit card debt, payday loans, medical debt, and more. 

If you have over $10,000 in debt, go to turbodebt.com/OUTTHERE for a free consultation. That’s turbodebt.com/OUTTHERE. 

TurboDebt. Start investing in your future.

And now, back to Kitty’s story.

KITTY: It wasn’t long after we passed the dead bear cub that day on Highway 200, that the police officer showed up. She slowed as she first passed us. Then the lights clicked on. The flashes arced — bright, muted, bright — in the high noon sun.

The cop pulled over to the shoulder behind us, and we turned to face her. She waited a minute, sitting in the car, eyes on us, mouth on radio, then cracked the door, got out.

Her first line was an accusation, not a question. “Hitch-hiking’s illegal in Idaho,” she said.  

Miles and I interrupted, “We’re not hitching, we’re walking!”   

But she’d already gotten going, so we were forced to listen as she explained that no one in their right mind would walk this highway.

“We were hitching”, she said...again. 

The pavement, in direct sun, oozed heat as Zeek lifted one paw, then the next. He leaned on the leash toward shade. 

A few more questions and still no one was budging. We couldn’t change our story, and the cop couldn’t believe us. 

She turned back to her car. The radio crackling, air conditioning on high. 

The lights kept flashing, and we kept our backpacks on. Cars thundered by. 

Then the officer was back. She turned to me.

“Ok,” she said, “Can I talk to you?”

I was taken by surprise at this. Why was she singling me out? Still, I followed her around to the other side of the car. 

The officer squared up, angled to intimidate, but what came out of her mouth was instead an attempt to be kind.

“So. What are you two actually doing? You hitching?”

“No!” I said, shaking my head, “We’re walking. We…”

“Fine.” She cut me off. “But I’m just telling you. Hitchhiking is illegal in Idaho. And girls like you…it can end up bad.”

(quiet, solemn music begins)

Her story was the same story I’d pushed back on all my life.

This narrative that I could be a “type” – a type who takes risks, a type who makes herself vulnerable. A type who looks for trouble, and when that trouble comes, it’s her own damn fault. 

Yet something had shifted in me that summer. Something in hiking all those miles along the edges of all those highways and roads. I had been forced to look and really SEE. Mile after mile, day after day, I had been forced to witness the unwitnessed violence of all those roadkill animals. 

I thought of the bear cub again, then. Why had I assumed it to be female? 

I realized then that the cop did actually have her reasons for worrying. My mother, all those mothers, they each had their reasons to feel worried about their daughters. 

We are collectively processing a history of trauma, and the trauma seems at times to be unending. 

I realized this. But I realized, too, that I had a choice. I could choose what to do with that fear.

Maybe I was just finally — finally! —  learning to accept the truth: that we live in a world where people are hurt, where women and queer people and brown people are more often hurt, and where animals are left for dead on the side of the road every minute without acknowledgement. I was learning that I needed to be a person who did, in fact, acknowledge all that. I had to stop looking away.

(music ends)

But that didn’t mean I had to live my life governed by fear.  

I spent years before the assault refusing to acknowledge my mother’s narrative: that I, as a woman, may be vulnerable – more vulnerable than if I were a man. And I spent years after the assault still refusing to admit that it was NOT an anomaly, NOT some rare trick of fate that I was unlucky enough to stumble into. 

It was common. My story of assault was common. Not rare. 

(more upbeat music begins to play)

Ignoring the truth of inequities and risk does not make them go away. It perpetuates them. And accepting the reality of this world? It doesn’t mean we agree with it. And it doesn’t mean we’re weak, or incapable of pursuing the lives we want to live. 

It means we have a solid grounding to launch from. It means we understand what needs to be changed.

I thought of the bear cub as I stood there with the cop.

I thought for some reason of telling her what I’d seen. About all those bodies that summer, pushed to the edges of the asphalt. 

Perhaps there was strength in acknowledgement, power in looking toward rather than away. Maybe optimism doesn’t necessitate denial. 

Strength and courage do not mean the absence of fear. 

“Girls like you, it can end up bad”, she’d said.  

I looked away from her, up to the trees, but I didn’t know how to say any of it.

(music fades away)

The cop had a few more questions, but eventually she let us go. Loose stones scattered as she drove off and picked up speed. We watched her, around the bend and away. 

She drove past us several more times that afternoon as we walked, and I assumed she was looking for outstretched thumbs. But maybe she was just checking to see if I was ok. 

(music begins)

Perhaps it’s a strange thing to learn from: roadkill and all that road walking. But I learned something that summer, about stories and casualties, fear and how to move forward. 

Years later, I’d do another long distance hike, solo again. I still didn’t carry a GPS SPOT that summer, but I did call my mom every chance I got. 

To tell her I was ok. 

To tell her I was being careful. 

To tell her that I understood.  

WILLOW: That was Kitty Galloway. She’s a writer and educator based in Frenchtown, Montana. She’s currently working on her first book, which is about healing, walking and what can come from slowing down. You can find more of her work at www.kittygalloway.com.

Special thanks to Forrest Wood for editorial assistance on this story. And thank you to the Freeflow Podcast for production assistance.

(music ends)

If you enjoyed this episode, you might like a story we ran a while back, called “Acceptance”. It’s about rock climbing, not walking. But, like this one, it explores questions of trauma, and strength, and making sense out of our own realities. I have a link to that episode in the show notes, and you can also listen to it wherever you stream podcasts. Again, that episode is called “Acceptance”.

One of the things I love about hosting a podcast is hearing your feedback. For example, in a recent review on Apple Podcasts, one listener referred to Out There as – quote – “storytelling at its best.” Another listener said we are their new favorite podcast. 

Reviews like that are so encouraging to me, and to our whole team! And they also help new listeners find our show. So if you’d like to help us out, and brighten my day, leave us a review on your podcast platform of choice. I might even read your comments on a future episode of the show!

A big thank you to Phil Timm, Doug Frick, Mike Ludders, Tara Joslin, Deb and Vince Garcia, and a listener named Sheila, who asked that we only use her first name, for their financial contributions to Out There.

If you’d like to make a contribution of your own, you can find us on Venmo @outthere-podcast, or go to our website – outtherepodcast.com – and click support. 

(Out There theme music plays)

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.

That’s it for this episode. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Cara Schaefer is our print content coordinator. Our interns are Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Ashley White, and Stacia Bennet. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. 

(Out There theme music ends)

Common Ground

By Stephanie Maltarich, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on February 11, 2021

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: Support for Out There comes from Athletic Brewing Company. Athletic Brewing is reimagining beer for the modern, active adult. Their great-tasting brews let you enjoy the refreshing taste of craft beer, but without the alcohol. You can enjoy them anytime, anywhere, and still be healthy, active, and at your best.

Whether you’ve decided to cut alcohol out of your life for good, for a night, or for just one drink, Athletic Brewing Company provides an option you’re guaranteed to enjoy.

To top it all off, as part of their “​Two for the Trails​” program, 2% of all sales are donated to park and trail cleanup and maintenance.

You can get 20% off your first order of award-winning non-alcoholic beers at AthleticBrewing.com. Just use the coupon code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s athleticbrewing.com, promo code “OUTTHERE20”. 

(Out There theme music starts)

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

The past year has created tensions that have forced many of us into difficult conversations with the people we love. From racial justice to proper pandemic behavior to a highly politicized presidential election, many of us have found ourselves navigating muddy waters with family and close friends. But for some, difficult conversations were already the norm long before 2020.

So. How do we nurture relationships with our loved ones, when their values contradict our own?

On this episode, Stephanie Maltarich tells the story of a trip she took with her father in rural Ohio. The week they spent together outdoors highlighted the deep divides that existed in their politics and values...but their conversations around the campfire also laid some groundwork for reconciling with those divides. 

I’ll let Stephanie take it from here. 

(theme music comes to an end)

STEPHANIE MALTARICH: One of my dad’s favorite photos of us is from a weekend at Camp when I was a toddler. I’m sitting on a pile of slabby rocks around the firepit; my feet dangle slightly above the ground. I’m wearing tiny jeans and a zip-up hoodie. I cling to a pacifier between my lips, and unruly brown curls frame my face. I watch intently as my dad stokes the coals while adding wood to the fire. 

(a strumming sound and then upbeat, twinkly music begins to play)

Back then, my family spent a lot of time at Camp. Camp was a small plot of land my dad bought in southeastern Ohio following his time in Vietnam. The tiny parcel is located a few hours’ drive from where we lived outside of Cleveland. 

But shortly after that photo was taken, we moved to Colorado. And we stopped going to Camp. Growing up, the photo remained my only memory of the land that my mom now refers to as my dad’s refuge, his Walden Pond. 

(music stops)

Now, several decades later, we both have a love for the outdoors. But our love is very different. 

I thrive on adventure. I love to explore new locations in the mountains by biking, running and skiing, and I rarely visit the same place twice. 

In college I made friends with people who liked to hike and backpack and rock climb. I fell in love with carrying heavy loads on my back, bagging peaks and sleeping beneath the stars. 

After college, I prioritized adventure in every way. I moved to Ecuador and learned how to rock climb. I learned to read the lines of ridges on topo maps. I used crampons and an ice axe while navigating glaciated peaks in Mexico. I led teenagers on month-long backpacking trips in the Rocky Mountains. 

Eventually, I moved to a mountain town. I adventured before work, after work, on the weekends, and took long trips each off season. Life was centered on existing in wild spaces: exploring every contour line on the map, every remote trailhead, making goals for double digits of nights spent in the dirt.

(jaunty music starts)

But my dad, he prefers what he knows. He doesn’t seek out new places or adventure. He wants an unspoiled place, where he can go whenever he wants to do whatever he wants: chop wood, build campfires, fish on lakes, and shoot his gun. 

Even though he now lives in Colorado, he still makes the trek back to his camp in Ohio — several times a year. Seriously, he drives 20-plus hours across the country to cut down trees and sit around a campfire IN OHIO smoking cigars. 

(music comes to an end)

While in Vietnam, he discovered that he liked sleeping on the ground. He dreamt of returning home and finding some land to call his own. He admits this might sound odd. He once told me, “You’d think sleeping on the ground in the Army would have turned me off!”  But it didn’t.

His first visit to Camp remains vivid. 

(warm music starts)

He heard about the property from a friend, and he drove down for a weekend with my mom to see what it was like.  

The property was open and barren from years of sheep and cattle grazing. But a solitary oak tree, alive and undisturbed, stood in the middle of the property. He knew then that singular oak tree would provide growth and life. 

They didn’t think long about the decision. They put in an offer for $2,000, money my dad saved while in the army, and the owners accepted it at a discount since the entire property slanted slightly downhill.

Over the years, when my dad talked about his time spent at Camp, it wasn’t somewhere I felt compelled to visit. It didn’t have trails or altitude. I couldn’t ride my mountain bike or find a rock wall to climb. 

So when my dad asked if I might want to join him at Camp sometime, my stomach turned. My vacation time was already too valuable and overallocated. I planned trips to the desert, bikepacking trips, road trips along Oregon’s coast. I imagined idle time with my dad in Appalachia, and I couldn’t dig deep enough to find the slightest desire to join him. He’d ask, and I’d reply, “Gosh dad, I don’t know if I can make it happen this year.” 

(contemplative piano music starts)

But then he turned 70. And I was creeping into my mid-thirties. Time felt fleeting as the lines around his face, and mine, deepened. He developed a limp when he walked, which he blamed on years of running around the concrete streets around our neighborhood. 

I wasn’t sure if it was now or never, but I decided that now seemed to be as good a time as any. 

(music rises and then ends )

A few months later, we sat at the picnic table aiming our BB guns at a dangling aluminum can. I squinted and pulled the trigger and soon heard the glorious ping signifying my good shot. I smiled and looked over at my dad. He smiled back and lit a cigar. 

(strumming music begins to play)

We had arrived the day before, driving in on a windy country road. Lush green oak, maple and walnut trees lined each curve. I felt lost and out of place. Out West, you can see for miles, so it’s easy to figure out where you are by way of the mountains. But in rural Ohio, each converging road and stop sign looked like the next. 

We rolled to a stop on a dead-end gravel road, and as my dad killed the ignition, I realized we’d arrived. A short tunnel of bushes and trees led us down to Camp. It was different than I remembered. The campsite itself felt small. Yet towering trees, 50 to 60 feet in height, created a canopy encircling the area. Dad pointed out the once solitary oak tree, which was now lost in the lush forest. 

Camp was littered with small structures: a picnic table, benches, tent platforms. I was impressed by the craftsmanship and care, and how my dad had made this place a home. 

(music fades away)

He put me to work right away. 

“I’ve got a tree I need to cut down,” he said while grabbing his bow saw. 

He handed me the tool, and I struggled to master the back-and-forth motion he seemed to perform with ease.

“No, like this,” he’d say while standing next to me, demonstrating the proper technique. 

Back and forth, back and forth. I saw little progress as I soaked through my t-shirt. The humidity felt suffocating.

Once the notch grew deep enough, we placed our hands side by side on the trunk, and gave several hefty shoves. We didn’t yell “Timber”, but we felled it to the ground. Then, we cut it into pieces. 

That was day one. 

In the following days, he took me on a motorboat tour of the nearby reservoir. He taught me about the history of the area and the jobs created constructing dams after the Great Depression. We visited the local bar, where we played music on the jukebox. 

But mostly, we spent time around the campfire. Sitting on the same granite slabs I sat on as a toddler, I cringed, watching him spray gasoline on the wood to get the fire going. I yelled at him when he threw plastic trash into the flames, reminding him that he was releasing toxic chemicals into the air. 

But as much as I criticized him, I was also hungry for the stories he told. There were tales about my mom’s big Italian family and his Croatian grandfather; his father’s experience in World War II, and his own in Vietnam. The more he told me, the more I wanted to hear. I wanted to remember everything he said. 

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

Navigating fraught relationships can be really hard. And sometimes a little support from a professional can help. Better Help can provide that support. 

Better Help is one of Out There’s sponsors. They provide professional online counseling to clients all over the world. They have specialists in all sorts of areas, from depression and anxiety, to LGBTQ matters, to family relationships.

When you sign up, they’ll ask you a series of questions to match you with a therapist who can meet your specific needs. You can meet with your therapist via video chat, phone, or even text. In the event that your therapist isn’t a great fit, you can always switch to a new one.

If there’s something that’s interfering with your happiness, or preventing you from meeting your goals, get the support you need. For 10% off your first month of counseling, go to betterhelp.com/outthere. That’s betterhelp.com/outthere.

Speaking of things that are interfering with your happiness...

Do you ever feel like no matter how hard you work, you just can’t seem to get ahead? If you look back at the past few years, have you ever had money in the bank, or do you only have enough to pay your bills?

First of all, please know that you’re not alone. Almost 70% of Americans die with credit card debt and no money in the bank. But also, please know that there are solutions. And you don’t have to figure everything out on your own.

One of Out There’s sponsors is a company called TurboDebt. TurboDebt can help you with credit card debt, payday loans, medical debt, and more. If you have over $10,000 in debt, go to turbodebt.com/OUTTHERE for a free consultation. That’s turbodebt.com/OUTTHERE. 

TurboDebt. Start investing in your future.

And now, back to Stephanie’s story.

STEPHANIE: I didn’t plan to talk about politics, because I knew we didn’t agree on much. On national holidays, he hangs a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag from his front porch. Whereas I’m always going on about social justice and the environment. But I couldn’t help but ask about the gas leases. 

Several years before our trip, an energy company discovered the land below the rolling hills surrounding Camp was ripe in shale and conducive to fracking. They promptly contacted property owners in the area to offer money to lease their land. 

The phone rang and rang. They left messages. But my dad ignored them. 

This went on for several years. But eventually, he gave in. 

Back at the campfire, I watched my dad as he flipped his T-bone steak over the open flame. I asked why he held out for so long. 

I was optimistic: “Was it because you didn’t want anything to happen to Camp?” 

“Nope,” he said. “I held out because of the deal.” 

(melancholy music begins to play)

I felt deflated. I had hoped, like me, he had enough love for this piece of land, that he didn’t want to see it ruined — that he didn’t want the community around Camp to be exploited. But he’s a businessman. 

He assured me that the wells would run underground, and the land surrounding Camp would remain the same if — and when — they ever drilled. I felt like he was missing the point. 

Over the years, I had spent time advocating for conservation of our public lands, calling senators, speaking out in small ways to oppose various extractive proposals. My time in wild spaces had taught me so much. These places were worth protecting. I wanted them to stay pristine.

A few days at Camp left me wanting to protect this place, too. But Camp sat in one of the poorest counties in Ohio. According to my dad, it was the center of the opioid epidemic in the state. He argued that the community welcomed the idea of development. 

I understood. I noticed the homes along the winding country roads: many were old and dilapidated, paint peeled off the sides and the surrounding structures were disintegrating. I understood money talks, and extracting gas meant houses could be repainted. Money promised hope and prosperity.  

But I also understood that fracking in small rural communities often came with complicated costs. Some communities have linked their contaminated groundwater to the extractive practice. There are greenhouse gas emissions, earthquakes, boom and bust economies...the list of problems seemed to be a never ending spiral of doom. 

(music comes to a stop)

I’d love to say that a week at Camp resolved our differences. That didn’t happen. 

We didn’t agree on his choice to lease his land. We didn’t agree on the same definition of progress. And we certainly didn’t agree on politics. But through these conversations around the fire, we did find some common ground. 

As the days passed, his words continued to convey a love for the land, for the place and his memories. I realized he, too, liked things to remain how they once were. Whether that constant existed in the community, the local bar, or his small piece of land, his nostalgia, in some weird way, seemed to align with my own passion for conservation. 

(music rings out and begins to grow)

One evening he admitted something: he said that although he wasn’t an environmentalist, he felt at the minimum, humans needed to hold some regard for the natural world. It was in that moment I realized he did care — in his own way.

Seeing him in his element, his favorite place, while getting to know him more deeply, gave me some compassion for his beliefs. I knew he loved his little plot, but seeing him in the place made me realize it in a way I didn't understand before.

From the stories of loneliness and losing friends in Vietnam, to tearing up while he spoke about his own father, to his unwavering respect to the generations who worked hard with their hands and hearts on the land we sat upon, I started to see the soft side of him. His warmth. His sentimentality. 

My time at Camp, on this unremarkable piece of land in Ohio, helped us connect. It gave us time to talk through our differences and understand one another. 

As we packed up the car at the end of the week, my dad motioned me over to the fire pit.

“We need to get our photo,” he said. All week he talked about wanting to replicate his favorite picture of us sitting on the rocky slabs around the firepit, 30-something years later. This time he put his arm around me and we smiled into the camera.

When we made it back to Colorado, I bought a frame that held two photos: one space for each snapshot of us around the firepit. My dad smiled when I gave him the gift, and now it sits above his desk. 

The photos, much like the land, remind me of what’s changed over time. As an adult, I’ve developed my own lens and choose how I see the world. I’m firmly rooted in my values and beliefs, all of which are much different than my dad’s. But after that week in Ohio, I started seeking understanding of his values and beliefs because, well, he’s my dad, and I love him. 

I won’t stop loving my dad because of what he believes, and he will never stop loving me. We will still experience frustrations, we will continue to engage in difficult conversations, and it’s likely that I will sometimes get angry over our differences. But we will forever continue to seek some sort of understanding. 

And we have Camp to thank for that.

(music grows in richness and volume for a few moments then becomes softer) 

WILLOW: That was Stephanie Maltarich. She’s an audio producer living in Gunnison, Colorado, and she was one of Out There’s interns during the fall of 2020. If you’d like to see those two photos of Stephanie and her dad, head over to our website, outtherepodcast.com.

(music slowly stops)

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like a story that ran a couple of years ago, called “The Truths We Hold”. It’s a story about our beliefs — about things we’re brought up to know to be true — and about what causes us to question those beliefs. I have a link to that story in the show notes.

(soft guitar music plays)

Before you go, I have a question for you.

We’ve had to adapt to a lot since the start of the pandemic. Restaurants have started serving customers in makeshift structures on the sidewalk, exercise studios host classes in the park, religious leaders address their communities in parking lots, and pop-up tents are the new clinics. 

Many of these adaptations have been adequate. But at the end of the day, they’re temporary solutions. They’re a way for us to endure hardship while the world is on pause. Once the pandemic is over, we’ll be glad to go back to our old ways.

But what I’d like to know from you is: what has gotten better since it’s been moved outdoors? I don’t want to belittle the hardships. Life has been REALLY TOUGH this past year. But do you have any examples of something that’s actually IMPROVED, now that it happens outside? Did you come up with a new idea for your business — something that’s so good you want to keep it going, once the world gets back to normal? Do you have new daily rituals you want to continue? Changes in lifestyle? Newfound relationships? 

We want to hear all of it! Send us a voice message, and tell us what’s gotten better for you, since being moved outdoors. You can email us a voice memo, or you can click the link in the show notes to record a message. We can't wait to hear your responses, and we might use some of them on the show.

A big thank you to Linda Lockhart, Doug Frick, Phil Timm, Tara Joslin, Mike Ludders, and Deb and Vince Garcia, for their financial contributions to Out There.

To make a gift of your own, you can find us on Venmo @outthere-podcast, or head over to outtherepodcast.com and click “support.”

(Out There theme music starts )

If you’re new to Out There, check out our Best of Out There playlist. You can find it on Spotify, and at our website, outtherepodcast.com. Best of Out There is a list of some of our favorite episodes of all time. It’s a great way to get a taste for our storytelling, if you’ve just discovered the show.

That’s all for today. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking; our advertising manager is Jessica Taylor; Sheeba Joseph is our audience growth director; our interns are Cara Schaefer, Forrest Wood and Cecily Mauran; our ambassadors are Ashley White, Stacia Bennett and Tiffany Duong; and our theme music was written by Jared Arnold.

We’ll see you in two weeks!

(music ends on a last whistling note followed by a final strum of the guitar)

The Three-Year-Old Thru-Hiker

By Tara Karineh, produced by Out There Podcast

Released on January 28, 2021

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: Hey there. 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 an adventure. But a lot of times, it’s hard to figure it out. 

Lucky for us, there’s an app out there that can help. It’s called Peak Visor. 

Peak Visor is our presenting sponsor for this episode. Their app provides mountain names, elevation, distance, and a ton of extra information on more than a million summits all over the world. 

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

 (Out There theme music begins)

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

A few years ago, I heard about a couple who had hiked the entire Appalachian Trail with a baby. I remember thinking that sounded impossible. Thru-hiking is hard enough when you only have to worry about you. Or maybe you and another adult. How could you possibly do it with a baby?

Today’s episode isn’t exactly about a baby. And it doesn’t take place on the Appalachian Trail. But it is about attempting a thru-hike with a very small child. A three-year-old, to be precise. Which, to me, seems equally extraordinary.

The toddler in question is a little girl named Acacia. 

On this episode, her mother, Tara Karina, shares the story of Acacia’s first attempt at a thru-hike. It’s a story that takes us to an island in California, and explores what makes it possible for a tiny person to accomplish a huge feat.

I’ll let Tara take it from here.

(Out There theme music ends)

TARA KARINEH: When my husband Samuel and I first met five years ago, we were already acclimated to the culture of hiking. 

We married soon after and fell pregnant instantly. Then we were faced with the question of how we wanted our lives to look like. 

We weren’t the type of people to buy an SUV, sign a large mortgage, and begin nesting our way into “normal” living. We were still the same people we were before, so why should a baby suddenly force us into a conventional life that wasn’t us? 

(music begins)

When our daughter Acacia was born we vowed that her life would be just as colourful, inspiring, outdoorsy and bold as ours had been. We hoped that having a baby didn’t have to tie you down. That perhaps, it might just do the opposite.

At age one we backpacked around the world for a year, with Acacia in a child carrier. And at age two we began encouraging her to walk sections of trail with us. 

Now, this took a great deal of patience for us as parents. There were multiple meltdowns, a constant need to snack, and general boredom. But we knew she was capable, and we knew her limits. 

For Acacia, and certainly for many other kids, running around a playground or at home, while jumping up and down for 12 hours of the day is more energy than Samuel and I could ever hope to have. So in terms of energy, we knew she had it. It was just a matter of harnessing that energy.

So instead of making her into someone she wasn’t, it was about taking what she already had and teaching her the skills of perseverance. To show her how to explore nature in her own way and open her up to learning how to love the simple things, away from technology.

(music ends)

By the time she turned three, life on the trail with mum and dad was just another part of her normal. Eating peanut butter crackers, like any kid, but doing it from two-mile lookout points and gentle river crossings. The meltdowns still occurred, just less frequently. 

By the time she turned three, she was able to do a seven-mile day. But in the winter of 2019, after Acacia turned three, we tried something with her that even we didn’t think would succeed.

(music begins)

We had travelled to Los Angeles to visit my family for Christmas and heard about a little thru-hike called the Trans-Catalina Trail. The TCT (as they call it) was a 38.5-mile hike off the mainland of LA, on the island of Catalina. Most people complete it in four or five days. 

I immediately wanted to try hiking it. Because who wouldn’t want to explore an exotic island with an ancient creature called bison roaming wild across the trail? And it was relatively achievable, as far as thru-hikes go. It was also close to the family home without the freezing cold temperatures. But would Acacia, at only 36 months of age, actually be able to walk it with us? 

Of course, I had my reservations. And Samuel was even less convinced that she would ever complete the entire thing. She would have to average almost nine and a half miles a day to finish it in the four days typically aimed for. Not just that, but climb a colossal 8,329 feet in total. That’s tough for even the fittest of hikers. 

But there were bail out points on each day, and if we gave ourselves five days to complete it, we were being relatively smart about it. And why not?  

(music fades away)

Tent, water filter, sleeping bags, mats, food for five days, clothes, thermals, and jackets. We were well set up for the very UNLIKELY chance of actually completing it.

So in the cold month of January we hopped off the ferry and began our hike. 

The sun was strong and the climb was already unrelenting. We were only three miles in and Acacia began asking if we had almost finished our hiking trip. 

Were we nuts?! Were we completely out of our depth to think that our three-year-old could actually hike the entire stretch of island?

Just as we reached the ridgeline, a couple (who had taken their time behind us) finally passed. A pink-faced young woman panted towards us and said, “Hi there! Are you guys doing a nice day hike?” 

Samuel and I looked at each other, to see who wanted to be the idiot parent to say it first.

“We’re actually going to try and do the whole thing,” Samuel admitted half-embarrassingly. 

Before they had a chance to react, Acacia chimed in. She exclaimed her age, full name and that her favorite colour was purple.

The couple looked stunned for a moment, most certainly thinking we were deluded. Then looked down at Acacia, who beamed back at them.

Their names were Riley and Gareth, university students from the midwest, both nature enthusiasts and in their mid-twenties. 

“Well then, I guess we’ll see you at Black Jack,”Riley waved enthusiastically as they pushed on in front of us. Black Jack was where we planned to camp that night.

(music begins)

Samuel and I both went to hold Acacia’s hand so we could hurry along, but she had already begun walking, trying to catch up to her two newest pals.

The day was long. It had started at 5 a.m. back at my mum’s house in L.A. and it was already now becoming dark. We were about a mile from Black Jack Campground and Acacia was starting to lose it. 

With nowhere to turn back to it was either push on, or camp in the valley with the bison. 

Before we were about to genuinely consider the latter we caught a glimpse of the campsite in the distance, and saw someone setting up their tent. 

I quickly bent down to Acacia and encouraged her to walk a bit faster, so that we could say ‘Hi’ to the hiker before it got too dark. And with hearing that, she was off again, with miraculous energy from out of nowhere. 

(music ends)

It didn’t dawn on us fully at the time, but what we hadn’t realised was the crucial difference between a fully-grown person attempting a “thru-hike” and a child. Besides the obvious difference, the core purpose for many of us adult hikers is usually to “escape life” or “find ourselves” or even just tackle the trail to say you did it.

For Samuel and I it was to be with ourselves, alone. And for much of the time it was just to say we did it. We climbed it. We defeated it. We accomplished something.

But for a child like Acacia who has no sense of mileage or climb, no need to escape or isolate to heal, it was about connection. Finding another soul to share her joy with.
It was about being a part of something together.

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

If you, too, want to get your kiddos outside, why not invest in something that will fuel their curiosity about nature? Think Outside Boxes will do just that.

Think Outside is one of our sponsors for this episode. They are a subscription service for kids, focused on outdoor exploration.

When you subscribe, your kids will get a box in the mail each month, filled with gear, activities, and educational information that will encourage them to get outside and play.

Justin Wren is one of the founders of Think Outside. He says each month focuses on a different theme.

JUSTIN WREN: Fire starting and weather and navigation, wildlife. Some kids like bugs, and we have a box that talks about bugs. It has a magnifying glass. Some kids like larger animals. And our wildlife box teaches you how to measure their animal tracks and locate them and things like that.

WILLOW: For $10 off your first box, go to thinkoutsideboxes.com and enter the promo code “OUTTHERE” at checkout. That’s thinkoutsideboxes.com, promo code OUTTHERE.

Support for Out There also comes from Athletic Brewing.

Athletic Brewing Company is reimagining beer for the modern, active adult. Their great-tasting brews let you enjoy the refreshing taste of craft beer, without the alcohol or the hangover. You can enjoy them anytime, anywhere, and still be healthy, active, and at your best.

When Athletic Brewing won North American Brewer of the Year at the International Beer Challenge, the judges were shocked to find out it was alcohol free! 

Whether you’ve decided to cut alcohol out of your life for good, for a night, or for just one drink, Athletic Brewing Company provides an option you’re guaranteed to enjoy.

You can get 20% off your first order of award-winning, non-alcoholic beers at AthleticBrewing.com. Just use the promo code “OUTTHERE20” at checkout. That’s athleticbrewing.com, promo code “OUTTHERE20”. 

Athletic Brewing. Brew Without Compromise. 

And now, back to Tara’s story.

(joyful music begins)

TARA: The next morning Acacia bounced out of the tent and began bounding around the campsite. She met Aaron, a scientist from Pasadena, and soon began discussing breakfast options with him. It was comforting for Samuel and I to know we weren’t alone.

Day two started off well, and I was starting to feel optimistic. As we walked along a ridgeline, Acacia stretched out her arms, as though she were flying, with the ocean breeze running through her fingers.

Somehow we were doing it. Acacia was doing it.

But we had no idea that within ten minutes we were going to be hit by a severe rainstorm. 

(sound of strong wind and rain)

It happens that way on islands. One minute you’re sweltering and the next you’re layered up in down jackets and waterproofs, soaked to the bone.

(thunder sounds in the background)

Storms such as these aren’t unpleasant; they’re actually rather dangerous on a ridgeline up 350 metres….especially with a three-year-old.

I held Acacia’s hand for the first few minutes, while Samuel took photographic evidence. But she was slipping and sliding all over the place and I was losing my grip on her. 

The wind was smacking right into us and I was barely able to walk in a straight line. The trail was a one-person width wide, so my right foot would take a slip down the cliff face now and then and my pole wasn’t doing much in the way of balance. It was about 10 minutes into the storm and we were already completely drenched. 

Eventually, Samuel turned to me and shouted, “We need to pick up the pace. We need to get off this ridgeline!” 

At that, Acacia started to cry. Samuel knelt down and grabbed Acacia by the arms, as though he were coaching a NBL player with seconds left on the clock. 

From what I could tell he was explaining to her the severity of our situation, as though she were an adult. That though she was cold, wet and scared, we had no other option than for her to simply walk as fast as she could. 

It was one of those moments you remember as a parent. When your baby girl suddenly gets it. That she decidedly left her self-centered mindset behind and recognised that she has to step it up. That we couldn’t carry her.

So she nodded her little dripping head in the hurricane about us and walked, fast. Gripping onto Samuel without a wail or complaint. 

Forty-five minutes had gone by and the storm hadn’t ceased and we were still on the ridgeline. 

We were tired and I was getting worried. One slip and one of us would be rolling down the face of the mountain. One trip and we’d be injured with no easy access to help. We couldn’t see where we were or how far we had left until shelter. There were no trees, no refuge. We were fully exposed to the elements and it was getting cold. 

I remember praying, asking God to help us make it through this safely. It wasn’t even about finishing it anymore. It was about the survival of my family.

And was all this worth it? Would we be that family you saw on the headline news, who had taken an unnecessary risk and put their child in harm’s way?

Finally, about 300 metres ahead of us at the bottom of the descent, was the faintest distinction of a shelter. And by shelter I mean wooden benches with a table and a few roofing beams, without a roof.

The lower we got the lighter the rain became and by the time we reached the shelter the rain had ceased. 

As we approached, we noticed a tarp on one side under the table. A head popped out and there, under the table, was Aaron, the thru-hiker Acacia had met earlier that morning at Black Jack Campground.

“Hi guys! How’s it going?” he said nonchalantly. 

Out of nowhere Acacia burst into laugher. It was apparently the most amusing thing she’d ever seen. That is, a grown man hiding under a table like an infant, with what looked like to be a garbage bag wrapped around him. 

(music begins)

The entire trauma of the storm had completely dissipated for Acacia, in the same way most toddlers pendulum from one extreme emotion to another.

Perhaps she didn’t quite understand just how dangerous the last hour was for us. Or maybe, Acacia was the kind of child who could see through the storm and enjoy the little things that the trail had to offer her. Like company. A friend.The comedy of it all. That we were all in this together. 

(music slowly ends)

This togetherness, this camaraderie, continued to get us through each trying moment on the trail. We kept meeting other hikers, and each time, they became Acacia’s new best friends.

On day three, we either had to finish the trail or bail early. 

We were exhausted. My feet were aching. My brain was sore from the constant sing-song, conversation, games, and encouragement, while Samuel was spent from rationing out food and water, while calculating terrain and bail out points. 

There was also a part of me that wondered if I was hurting my baby girl, by asking her to walk that much further. Might we break her somehow?

As we always do, Samuel and I turned to Acacia and asked her if she wanted to go home, or keep going and finish the trail.

“I want to camp with Riley and Gareth and Malcolm and Aaron tonight!” she beamed.

So we did. 

Riley and Gareth walked with us for part of the time, sharing stories, sharing snacks, pointing out whale spray. Sharing the trail. Sharing the load. Giving Samuel and I a break. Giving Acacia kindness and encouragement. 

They became her pals. Her trail aunties and uncles. Holding her hand, holding us up. 

(upbeat music begins)

When we finally reached the campground that night, our trail community, our family of hikers, all cheered and clapped and whistled as Acacia clambered down towards their tents. 

There was nothing like it. The rising applaud of comradery. All because they saw a little girl who pushed through the trials of the trail, at age three, just to join in with them. 

To sit by their fire, to share their snacks, to play in the sand and watch the moon rise with them from our tents on the beach. To be part of a community. 

That was what she wanted. That was her triumph. 

I realized then that, for any child attempting to do anything extraordinary, it doesn’t always take an exceptional child to do it. Though, there are those kids too. 

It takes a village, a community, an extended family of believers who lift up and breathe encouragement to that child, every step of the way.

What it takes is a community of parents to give meaning to the trail. 

(music slowly grows quiet)

The next day our three-year-old daughter walked the last six miles back to Little Harbor, and officially became the youngest-ever person to complete the Trans-Catalina Trail. And did it in just four days, a whole day less than what we expected.

It wasn’t even a title we initiated claiming when we came off the trail. It was the other hikers who had arrived first at the visitor’s center. They explained to the director of operations that they’d just witnessed a little girl, who’d only just turned three, complete the entire TCT on foot. 

They wanted to make sure she had the surprise of celebrating her triumph, as soon as she hopped off the trail, with her trail family.  

(music begins)

WILLOW: That was Tara Karineh. She’s a full-time mother and blogger, living in Sydney, Australia. You can see more of her work at TaraKarineh.com. And we have a link to that on our website as well.

If you enjoyed this episode, I think you’ll love an episode we ran a few years ago, called “Fractured Self”. It’s about a kayaker who struggles to come to terms with her identity, after having kids. How do you balance your old, adventurous self…with your new mommy existence? I have a link to that episode in the show notes, so you can find it easily. Again, it’s called “Fractured Self”.

(music ends)

One of the things I love about hosting a podcast is hearing your feedback. For example, here’s a review that one listener left us recently on Apple Podcasts. This listener said - quote - “I love stories about adventures in the outdoors, and I love stories about personal growth and transformation. This is a fusion of both.” End quote.

Reviews like that are not only encouraging to our team, they also help new listeners find our show. So, if you’d like to help us out, leave us a review on your podcast platform of choice. We might even read your comments on a future episode of the show!

Before you go….

WILLOW: Alright, so I am out for a little afternoon ski.

WILLOW: This is a recording I made a few weeks ago, at this gorgeous spot near my home in Wyoming. There are beautiful views of snow-capped mountains, but I never really know which mountains they were. 

WILLOW: Because my maps, my trail maps, just show the immediate vicinity, and these mountains are probably 80 or 100 miles away.

WILLOW: This is where Peak Visor comes in handy. As I mentioned at the top of the show, Peak Visor is our presenting sponsor for this episode. When I open up their app, it shows me a panorama that matches what I’m looking at in real life. All the peaks are labeled. I can see that one of the little nubbins I’m looking at is Long’s Peak, down in Rocky Mountain National Park. I can see Clark Peak which I’ve hiked around before. And a bunch of others.

If you, too, want to know what you’re looking at when you’re out in the mountains, check out PeakVisor in the app store. PeakVisor. Your personal mountain guide.

(Out There theme music begins)

If you’re new to Out There, check out our “Best of Out There” playlist. It’s a collection of our favorite stories of all time. You can find “Best of Out There” at our website, outtherepodcast.com.

That’s it for this episode. Our strategic advisor is Alex Eggerking. Our audience growth director is Sheeba Joseph. Jessica Taylor is our advertising manager. Our interns are Cara Schaefer, Forrest Wood, Cecily Mauran, Stephanie Maltarich, and Anmargaret Warner. Our ambassadors are Tiffany Duong, Stacia Bennett, and Ashley White. And our theme music was written by Jared Arnold. We’ll see you in two weeks.

(Out There theme music ends on a final whistle)