Throughout his political career, Pearce has worked to privatize and undermine our public lands. As a New Mexico congressman, he co-sponsored several bills to dispose of national public lands. This alone ought to disqualify him from running the agency charged with stewarding 245 million acres for current and future generations.

In a 2012 letter to House leadership, Pearce argued that the federal government owns “vast” land holdings, “most of (which) we do not even need,” and called for a massive sell-off to pay down the national debt. Pearce’s vision for our public lands is not conservation or even balanced management—it’s liquidation.

President Trump has been down this road before: During his first term, he nominated anti-public-lands zealot William Perry Pendley to run the BLM. Pendley never even received a hearing, and the White House dropped the nomination after his record was revealed. Pendley went on to write the public lands chapter of the now-notorious Project 2025 blueprint for a second Trump administration.

Pendley spent his career as a lawyer arguing that the federal government should not own public lands. Steve Pearce has gone even further. From inside Congress, Pearce spent 14 years undermining public lands, seeking to gut wildlife protections and sell off huge amounts of public land.

Pearce’s nomination comes as our public lands are being attacked from all sides. Over the last 10 months, President Trump has elevated officials such as Interior Secretary Doug Burgum and Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins, both of whom view our public lands as nothing more than assets to monetize through drilling, mining and logging.

These officials are currently working to execute Trump’s vision of selling out public assets for private profit. Pearce would accelerate this effort, liquidating lands to the highest bidder—including corporations and luxury developers.

Even by recent standards, Pearce’s public lands record is radical. It is also unpopular. This spring, Utah Republican Senator Mike Lee tried to include a public land sale provision in the sprawling budget bill, framing it as a housing solution. The measure would have mandated the sale of 2-3 million acres of BLM and Forest Service lands.

But Lee’s amendment triggered immediate backlash from hunters, outdoor recreation groups and Western lawmakers. Within days, he abandoned the effort. If the Senate rejected Lee’s market-rate sell-off as radical, it should be easy now to reject a nominee whose goal is to get rid of even more public land.

That brings us to the Senate Stewardship Caucus, co-chaired by a Republican, Tim Sheehy of Montana, and a Democrat, Martin Heinrich of New Mexico. It launched last month to “advance bipartisan efforts to conserve the nation’s lands and waters” with science-based policy. The caucus has been applauded by hunting, outdoor recreation, and conservation organizations as a promising start for defending public access and wildlife.

Pearce’s nomination is the caucus’s first real test. If its members cannot draw a bright line at a nominee who has worked tirelessly to sell off public lands and weaken laws that protect them, then its vision of “stewardship” is nothing but empty branding.

The stakes are immense. BLM’s multiple-use mandate requires balancing energy, grazing, recreation and conservation under long-term land use plans grounded in science and public input. That mission collapses if the agency’s leader believes we must “reverse this trend of public ownership” of the very lands he is charged with managing.

Westerners understand what happens when responsible stewardship is abandoned. Rural communities lose the long-term economic engine that healthy public lands provide. Hunters, anglers and campers lose access they have relied on for generations.

Steve Pearce’s nomination is a referendum on whether Congress believes our shared lands still belong to all Americans. The Stewardship Caucus and every senator who claims to care about the West’s outdoor heritage should reject Pearce’s nomination. America’s public lands are a unique legacy we pass down to future generations, not a portfolio to liquidate.

Aaron Weiss is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is deputy director of the Center for Western Priorities and co-host of The Landscape podcast.

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His message was simple: “Get out of my classroom.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want us working as outdoor guides, trail crew leaders or ski bums. He wanted us to work as a seasonal, then come back to college when we were ready to value the economic stability of a degree.

“You don’t need a degree to be a guide,” he said. “A degree is so you can move into management after you burn out.” Most outdoor guides he knew burned out after five to seven years in the field, he said.

I took his advice and dropped out. It took me only three years to burn out.

It started when I took a sabbatical between my junior and senior years. I found work for a season on a schooner, then at an organic farm, and finally with AmeriCorps in Denver. After finishing my bachelor’s degree, more seasonal jobs followed: a stint at a museum, a tall ship on the Hudson River, working as a outdoor educator. For four years, I moved every two to eight months.

I was lucky. I was still on my parents’ health insurance. My car never broke down. I had no student loans, so I could build up a financial cushion.

Seasonal work provided travel, flexibility, constant learning and sometimes fun. But if you asked me now if I’d recommend it, I’d have to say “no”—unless you plan ahead. I learned that the hard way.

After one seasonal job fell through, I found myself over a thousand miles from home and a month away from being homeless. Luckily, I found work as a library assistant and temporarily moved in with my family back in Colorado. I qualified for the library position only because of my bachelor’s degree in Spanish, which I had finally finished thanks to my outdoor education professor.

Here are some of the hard questions I had to answer while working as a seasonal: Where would I live between contracts and what was the distance between jobs? Where would I store all my stuff? When I worked on the East Coast, I was a four-day drive away from my family in Denver, which made moving and swapping out gear extra difficult, especially in winter weather.

As a seasonal, you also have to keep start and end dates of seasonal jobs in mind, as not all run on the same schedule. If you live in employee housing, you risk becoming homeless between contracts. Always ask about relocation and travel stipends to fund the in-between.

If you enjoy a job and feel like you could learn more, try to return for multiple seasons. You’re more likely to be offered a permanent or management position, and it shows consistency to future employers. You’re also likely to make more money if you ask for a raise every season.

Seasonal work lets you try on professions until you find a good fit, or not. But regardless of how cool a job sounds, or how qualified you are to do it, you always need a backup plan.

Apply for multiple positions and be open to learning new skills on the job. If you have the chance to cross-train or pivot to doing something new at the same workplace, do it. And if you get a job with the U.S. Forest Service or any other federal land management agency, know that these days you could be fired without notice.

My professor was right. My degree saved me when seasonal work became too stressful to keep pursuing it anymore. But working seasonally in the “real world” and out of a classroom was invaluable. I had to be resilient and adept at picking up technical skills while connecting with people I would never have met while attending classes. I became someone who was always ready to learn new things.

When I finish my master’s degree, I want to teach, holding onto summers for outdoor jobs. This time, I’ll be doing it right.

Kira Cordova is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is currently working a seasonal job for Outward Bound while also completing a master’s degree in nature writing online.

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Hours earlier, I scrambled up to this cliff to watch the sunset. A lot of people take in the play of light over the red rocks every evening. But the route up a boulder wall that seemed so clear in the daylight was no longer obvious in the twilight. I was stuck.

Count me as one of the many hikers who’ve found themselves in a pickle. I was lucky, though, and finally found my own way down to the trailhead below. 

These days, I’ve been researching how the busiest search and rescue team in Utah, based in Moab, responds to an average of 130 calls per year from people who are not so lucky. This team has to be ready for urgent calls from climbers, mountain bikers, off-roaders, backcountry skiers, hikers, BASE jumpers and river rafters. The team handles it all.

“A lot of emergency situations are like improv because you don’t get to say no,” said Grand County Search and Rescue member Jordan Lister. “It’s just ‘Yes, and…we will get through this together.’”

Lister is one of the dozens of first responders who share their personal stories in a new podcast series that I’m producing, called Back From Beyond. The 60- to 90-minute episodes are a collaboration between the search and rescue team, Grand County tourism and trails staff, and Moab-based KZMU community radio.

In the episode “Hiking Behind the Rocks,” hiker Jason Goldsmith talked about how he got turned around in the maze-like terrain above Moab’s rim. With a fast-moving winter storm approaching, he said he had no choice but to find shelter.

“It was a huge emotional roller coaster,” he recalled, “and I don’t recommend it to anybody.” 

Like most people who call Moab’s search and rescue for help, he didn’t get in trouble by pushing a sport to the limit. Instead, something unexpected happened and the person is unprepared. Perhaps a route takes longer than anticipated, they twist an ankle a few miles in, get turned around and lost, their climbing rope gets stuck or they didn’t pack enough water.

“When I was younger,” said Grand County Search and Rescue member Michelle Leber, “I would hear about accidents and think, ‘Oh, that would never happen to me.’ But small decisions can add up to a miserable day outdoors. I mean, how many things have we all gotten away with and we didn’t even know it?”

The podcast has covered climbers stuck on Castleton Tower, one of the most challenging desert monoliths in the world; a backcountry skier tells of coping with an injury in the remote La Sal Mountains; and an off-roader recounts what happened after flipping their vehicle off a 150-foot cliff. All the stories in this first season of Back From Beyond serve to remind people how quickly things can go south, and how much we depend on somebody helping when they do.

“Outdoor recreation is a community,” said Rachelle Brinkman, recounting her mountain biking accident in the episode, “The Whole Enchilada.” Brinkman suffered injuries after crashing her bike in technical, rocky terrain around Moab. A lot of people came to her aid that day, she said, and she now makes sure to check on any rider who might need a hand.

“We look out for each other,” she said, “and we help each other, whether you’re in search and rescue or not.”

By now I’ve talked to many people about their trips in the backcountry, and it still amazes me how many times they recall saying to themselves before setting out: “Better grab an extra layer, this battery charger, a headlamp, and also tell someone where I’m going.” They realize that one small, smart decision before heading outdoors can save the day.

If you’re exploring the rugged outback of Moab someday and need to make an emergency call for help, you’re in luck. A team of seasoned professionals with Grand County Search and Rescue will work hard to get you home safe.

Molly Marcello is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She directed KZMU News in Moab for more than six years and is the producer of the new documentary podcast series, Back From Beyond.

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A fast-food burger, in the original wrapper. I suppose they left it for the timid woodland creatures, except if fast food isn’t good for us, why would critters want it?  

Someone’s last remains. When a hiker pointed out a shiny object off the trail, I clambered over rocks to find a sealed urn of cremains, which is illegal to leave in a national park. Local tribes have also asked that visitors avoid doing this for religious considerations. 

I reported finding the urn to park rangers, and for the next month was identified as “the lady who found the body.”  

A can of corned beef. We found this on day three of a seven-day backpack. Those who abandoned it surely thought, “Oh, whoever finds this shall fall upon it with glee!”  Except we had enough food, thanks. Rather than carry a three-pound can of beef, though, we ate it, and yes, it was vile. 

Balloons. I risked life and limb one day clambering down a scree slope after what I thought was an abandoned backpack only to find deflated balloons. It is a lovely thought to release balloons to honor a friend. But creatures can get tangled in the strings or eat them to serious ill effect.

Mascara wand. I understand that many women cannot bear to be without their makeup, but on the trail? For one thing, you are all sweaty and dirty, or at least, I am. In the same vein, I have come across discarded bottles of cologne. Perhaps the owners finally realized that no perfume can cover up the smell of a long hike.  

Glow sticks. Tied to the trees. Not only are they plastic, they’re toxic to any animal who chews on them.

Double boiler filled with rice.  It might make sense to find this in a campsite, but four miles up the trail?  

Underwear. I do know about these situations. Someone has an unavoidable emergency and no TP so they use whatever is at, um, hand.  

Plastic tooth floss picks. Oral hygiene is important. However, most people do not leave their toothbrush behind, so why leave the silly things that only weigh one-tenth of an ounce?  

A five-pack of beer. I assume they drank one and left the rest for later, then did not find tepid beer palatable. But stashing items along the trail is problematic. We never know if you are really going to pick it up later, or if you just got tired of hauling it around. So best keep it with you.  

Laminated photographs. These are often left as a memorial. Does your loved one really want you to honor them by littering public lands with their portrait?  

One shoe. How does one hike out with one shoe? Although I did once meet a hiker wearing a single shoe and sock, one for each foot.  Another time, we found a jacket, then a shirt, then a pair of pants, then socks. I guess they kept the shoes. 

A hemostat used to compress a blood vessel. Was someone prepping for emergency surgery?

An empty backpack. How did they get their gear out?

A full backpack, including, among other things, a queen-sized bed sheet, a beach towel, canned food, and two hardback books. Rumor has it that the hapless hiker yelled, “I can’t do this!”, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and threw the pack off the trail. At this point, the hiker was five miles from the trailhead. 

The first rule of “leave no trace” is to plan ahead. Perhaps one should sit down with one’s supplies and ask: Do I really want to lug these books, this frying pan, that good bottle of wine?

If yes, more power to you, and keep on lugging! Just make sure you take it all back out with you.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on

The Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is a Grand Canyon educator.

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E-bikes can be class 1, 2, or 3. Class 1 provides assistance when the pedals are turned. Class 2 has a throttle that can propel the bike without pedaling. Both have a top speed of 20 mph. Class 3 bikes, also pedal-assisted, have a maximum speed of 28 mph. Only class 1 and 3 are allowed in national parks.

Friends with e-bikes tell me they like them because the pedal assistance means they can ride farther with less effort, even uphill. The bikes keep them active outdoors. I ride my bike for exercise. If I ride 12 miles on what I consider a real bike instead of 20 mph on an e-bike, we probably get the same workout. 

At the Grand Canyon, by the end of the day the rim road is littered with abandoned rental e-bikes that ran out of juice. Rather than pedal a heavy bike with a useless battery, riders simply leave them on the side of the road for the rental company to retrieve.

On a recent catered mountain bike ride, one of the participants rented an e-bike so she could keep up with her husband. But the guides had to spend many hours recharging the bike before they could leave. I wonder just how practical it would have been on a multi-day trip.

I recently read a plaintive screed from a mountain biker with a moral dilemma. He has a coterie of buddies who ride. When one of them had knee surgery, that person bought an e-bike so he would not hold everyone up. The group kept riding on trails where e-bikes are banned, figuring that with 10 real riders and one e-bike, they were OK.

Over the course of time, Mr. E-bike started leaving the others behind, so they felt obligated to buy their own e-bikes while still poaching the non-e-bike trails. Was it now immoral, he wondered, because they were all riding illegally? He was advised to let his conscience be his guide.

Horses erode trails worse than bikes do, and bikes wear a trail down more than hikers. If the rationale for riding an e-bike is that it allows one to go farther, that is more trail to be worn down.

E-bikes pollute less than gasoline motorcycles. However, a human-powered bike doesn’t pollute at all—unless one counts heavy breathing.

Outdoor enthusiasts are already vying for increased access to wild lands. ATV and 4X4 owners in Utah are incensed that the BLM plans to close certain roads to them and allow (gasp) mountain bikers to have sway.

On the other hand, mountain bikers are pressuring managers of designated wilderness to allow them access to these heretofore closed trails. E-bikers are upset that many trails are still open only to analog bikes.

It’s a slippery slope. When a local area was declared a wilderness, many residents complained that now they could no longer visit. “I have bad knees: I need my ATV.”  But if I cannot afford an ATV, then I need a more developed road to visit in my 4-wheel drive. If I cannot afford a 4X4, pave the road so I can drive it in my car.

In China, there is now a plan to build an escalator to the top of a mountain so that “everyone can enjoy the view.” Where is it written that everyone must be able to go everywhere by any means necessary?

A recent article in an outdoor magazine predicts that e-mountain bikes are the wave of the future, and bicycle vendors expect e-bikes to soon outsell analog bikes. If I stick with my must-pedal bike, I guess I will be considered a Luddite.

I do not suppose I really want e-bike riders to bow to me as they go by because I am doing all the pedaling myself. I would, however, appreciate it if they would not smirk as they pass. On the other hand, I guess I could refrain from yelling: “At least pretend to pedal!”

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator at Grand Canyon and doesn’t mind picking fights.

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After he searched for smokes from Desolation Peak Lookout in Washington during one summer in the 1950s, Kerouac complained that his brain was “in rags.” He added, “I thought I’d die of boredom or jump off the mountain.”

I couldn’t disagree more. My wife Linda and I have worked for the last seven years at Benchmark Lookout on the San Juan National Forest, a fire tower in the southwest corner of Colorado, and we love being there. 

We’re on the job from mid-May until mid-September and mostly alone—except for the abundant wildlife, rare visitors and firefighters who get to see our side of the combined effort to thwart wildfires. The fire crews look forward to examining this huge swath of the West that’s their firefighting turf.

We start our trip in southern Colorado, leaving the town of Dolores and driving 30 miles on rough gravel up to the tower at 9,264 feet. We haul our own food for 10-day stretches, with four days off. Linda brings wool to spin, we both choose lots of books, and I spend the days scanning the land and the sky above.

We think we’re suited for the job, never finding the isolation a problem. Because once we climb our timber tower at season’s start, we become eyes-in-the sky for the vast Four Corners area, looking for what we don’t want out there—smoke indicating wildfire.

I usually spot smoke out of the corner of my eye, or when doing dishes or even while reading a book. Vigilance gets built in during a workday that usually lasts as long as there’s daylight. 

Everything stops while I plot the location of the smoke on the 80-year-old Osborne Fire Finder and on maps. Then I radio in my find to Durango Interagency Fire Dispatch. This is my 15 minutes of calculated frenzy in an otherwise quiet existence.  Dispatch uses the information I supply to send engine crews, helitack crews or aircraft to the fire.

Some days I spot two smokes, once five, more often none—though after a rain, mist rising out of canyons can mimic smokes and try to fool you.  We call them waterdogs.  What’s always entertaining is the weather itself. 

Out of thin air, clouds seem to materialize right above Benchmark Lookout, and with our 360-degree view, thunderstorms here are dramatic and loud. Once, a lightning bolt hit so close that the hair on our arms stood straight up.

We’re often asked why we staff a fire lookout. Our reasons aren’t easy to convey. Most of the time, our quick reply is “we like being alone” or “we enjoy being in a remote spot.” That’s too simple and doesn’t reflect how we and many other fire lookouts feel about their jobs.

For one thing, we know we’re still necessary, not yet outmoded by satellites and aircraft. Our job isn’t just fire detection. We provide critical weather and fire behavior observations to the fire crews on the line.  

Looking out, our view encompasses Mesa Verde National Park, Canyons of the Ancients, Bears Ears National Monument, Shiprock, the San Juan Range and much more—a four-state area where Arizona, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico meet.

Our view is ever-changing as the sun makes its arc and the weather makes its moves. And time seems to slows down when manmade distractions disappear. Our tower has been visited by horned lizards, elk, mountain lions and a mama bear with two cubs.  

Hummingbirds fly thick through masses of wildflowers beneath us, and we see flickers, swallows and turkey vultures. Sandhill cranes, white pelicans and the odd osprey also fly past. Quiet surrounds us as we have this magnificent view to ourselves. 

Winter is deepening now as I write this. We’re already dreaming of next year’s fire season atop our 42-foot-tower.

Rick Freimuth is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a former wildland firefighter and carpenter, now retired. He lives in Paonia in western Colorado.

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The fire lookout sits at about 7,700 feet above sea level and seems to be in good condition despite being abandoned since 1955, when the Forest Service last staffed the outpost.

Manning leads the Northwest Montana Lookout Association, a nonprofit group that supports government agencies in restoring and maintaining lookout towers around Kootenai and Flathead national forests.

The Forest Service began building fire-detection towers after the Great Fire of 1910, then added more after the Civilian Conservation Corps and other government agencies considered lookouts—particularly in the West—as New Deal investments.

The result: State and federal workers built close to 8,800 lookouts throughout all 50 states. But by 2024, only about three in 10 lookouts remained standing. Roughly 6,200 were burned, collapsed from neglect or became scrap wood.

Why did the towers—and their ever-vigilant occupants—lose their fire-spotting role? Mark Hufstetler is an architectural historian who works for the Forest Service as a fire lookout at Baptiste Lookout, near Hungry Horse, Montana. He said the use of fire lookouts started declining after World War II partly because of the widespread introduction of two-way radios. They improved the range and speed of the Forest Service’s ability to respond to fires.

The more important reason, Hufstetler said, was the development of aviation aircraft as fire spotters. “And as the decades progressed, that became more and more common.”

But Hufstetler, who has staffed several different lookout locations in the last seven years, believes a network of human watchers is still a vital asset.

“I interact with visitors and provide them with probably the most positive experience that they will have with any federal agency personnel,” Hufstetler said. “People are always in a great mood, and we can transmit that enthusiasm into an understanding of what the agency does.”

Hufstetler believes versatility is an even more fundamental value of human lookouts. In the past five months, Hufstetler was able to relay information about a missing hiker, and in a separate incident, a missing person, to state authorities within seconds.

“I’ve got my radio with me at all times; it’s on all night,” Hufstetler said. “So I’m always available if things happen.”

As longer and more devastating wildfires seasons continue to challenge firefighters across remote areas of the Rocky Mountains, Hufstetler said his vantage point also offers an important perspective when crews fight wildland fires near his tower.

“The key to being a good lookout is to have an intimate knowledge of where you are and why things are happening the way that they are,” he said.

To preserve and protect lookout towers, some agencies have turned to renting out the historic structures to campers. In Montana, it’s become such a popular program that a reservation is needed as much as six months in advance.

“It’s not a normal place to go to get away from things and live on the top of a mountain. Nobody else is around except birds and wildlife,” Manning said. “That’s their home. You’re basically planting yourself into an environment where nature calls the shots.”

Manning said he doesn’t have to worry about whether the next generation will continue the work of maintaining these historical structures: “There will always be people with a passion for lookouts,” Manning said, as he drove back toward Kalispell from Northwest Peak. He trusts that others will fall in love with these historic outposts, just as he did.

“There’s nothing greater than having a cup of coffee on any of the lookouts that we’re repairing,” Manning said, “while watching the sunrise or the sunset.”

Short lookout stays are managed by the Forest Service through the lookout rental program. You can learn more about fire lookout preservation through the Forest Fire Lookout Association or the Northwest Montana Lookout Association.

Zeke Lloyd is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about Western issues. He writes in Helena, Montana.

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Gaskill not only carried out the vision of a state trail, beginning slowly in the late 1970s but also gave birth to it. In 1972, she lobbied Congress, along with forester Bill Lucas, credited with the Colorado Trail idea, to change federal law so that volunteers could be allowed to build trails on public land.

Volunteerism was so potent an idea, that when, in 1984, writer Ed Quillen broke the story about Gaskill’s efforts to revive trail building that had foundered under the Colorado Mountain Trails Foundation, people were energized to join her. Soon, thanks to fundraising, she had 350 volunteers coming each summer to join trail crews she often led herself.

She made creating the Colorado Trail seem like a privilege: You camped out in beautiful backcountry, ate great food, and found stamina you never knew you possessed.

In 1985, caught up in the story, my father, Ed Marston, then publisher of High Country News, volunteered my sister, Wendy, 15, and me, 13, for a week of trail building. That’s how we learned how to swing those axe-like tools called Pulaskis on the Molas Pass to Durango section.

Gaskill herself led our crew, setting out early with orange ribbon to mark the trail. She was efficient and tireless, and in just a few hours, older, urban and young volunteers became trail builders with blisters to prove it.

It was exciting to work on a trail that unfurled along the rooftop of Colorado. Typical trails in those days led up mountains or over steep passes. The Colorado trail rejected peak-bagging and offered a moderate route of week-long, 70-mile sections, neither losing nor gaining elevation rapidly, though often charting a route above tree line.

I joined a trail crew to revisit my childhood adventure this summer, and from Aug. 7 to 11, Denver friend Jeff Miller and I worked to repair trail in Gunnison County’s Collegiate Peaks Wilderness.

In wilderness, if there’s a tree to fell, you use a handsaw. We needed to move big rocks, so two of us yoked ourselves together in nylon harnesses to do that. We divided labor this way: Men hauled big rocks, and women wielding rock hammers smashed the rocks into gravel.

Trail work has changed a lot in 39 years. Back then we built water bars to stop erosion from runoff. Logs anchored into slopes sluiced water off trails but required annual maintenance. Now, water moves off trail through “grade reversals.” The trail swoops below grade, efficiently shunting water off the path, then swoops back up to level grade. Drains are large versions of grade reversals.

My fellow volunteers were largely thru-hikers, skilled backcountry voyageurs who spend their holidays hiking the trail from Denver to Durango in one go. Mark Stephenson, 26, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was one of the trail’s most ardent fans.

He arrived on the trail via Greyhound bus with $40 in his pocket, saying, “This is a place where money doesn’t matter.”

Thinking a reported two-and-a-half-mile hike to camp would be easy, my friend and I arrived at the trailhead loaded up with both front and back packs. I confess to having done the shopping. My friend was optimistic: “I can carry anything two and a half miles.”

But our camp had moved six miles away and 2,700 feet uphill. We made it, slowly, and once at camp, we quickly became free-store proprietors. But there was another problem: I’d left my tent poles at home. Crew leader Matt Smith, an engineer from Golden, easily came up with a fix: He used parachute cord to rig up the tent fly, then added a tarp to ward off the rain that soaked us every afternoon and night.

I don’t recall meeting thru-hikers in the mid-1980s, but today they seem to dominate hiking culture. I could only listen as the rest of the group talked about trails known by acronyms, including the famous AT—Appalachian Trail.

“You’re doing great work!” hikers told us as they passed by. Crew leader Smith offers this perspective today: “19,000 volunteer person-hours go into trail improvement every year.”

We owe thanks to those original trail stalwarts—forester Bill Lucas, journalist Merrill Hastings and of course, Gudy Gaskill. Their vision created of one of the state’s wonders.

Dave Marston is the publisher of Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He lives in Durango, Colorado.

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“Good Morning.” As an introvert I don’t understand why I have to say Good Morning to every member of a 30-person group. Nor does Good Afternoon roll of the tongue as nicely. Too many plosives and fricatives. Yesterday I got yelled at for not saying a cheery enough “Good Morning” to a passing hiker. I did not realize I was at a Downtown Abbey garden party.

Then there’s the consoling “You’re Almost There” hello. For one thing, I am almost never almost there when assured that I am. Volunteers at 10-Ks or marathons are warned to never, ever, tell someone they are almost there. Almost there is when you can see the parking lot.

An annoying question is “Everything OK”? Why are they asking this? Admittedly I have more gray hair than brown, but do I look so decrepit that they are concerned about my well being?  What would they do if I said, “It would really be 0K if you took my pack!”

“How you doing?” Do they really want to know that my trick hip is acting up, and my pack irritates that weird spot on my scapula? Probably not. 

“Good Luck.” Again, why? Is the only thing that will assure my success a whim of fate? I used to answer, “In the words of the immortal solo climber of Mount Everest, Reinhold Messner, ‘I do not believe in luck.’” That usually gets me a blank look.

“Where did you start and how long did it take you?” People usually ask me this while hiking in Grand Canyon. But why ask a random stranger how they did? I’m not racing. One woman asked me this at Bryce Canyon National Park because she and her boyfriend were attempting a loop. She thought they were on the wrong trail, but her boyfriend thought she was wrong. Turned out he was the one who was wrong, and he wasn’t happy about finding that out.

“Is it really harder hiking uphill?” Is this a trick question?

“Where are you going?” That seems a deep philosophical question to pose to a complete stranger. 

“How was it?” I guess I could answer on a scale of one to ten…

“Was it worth it?”  I’m always tempted to reply, “No, turn around now.” 

“Does this trail go anywhere?” “No,” I want to say, “it just kind of sits there.”

“If I hike down this trail, is there another way out?”  Not really: Walk in, walk out, is usually the case. 

Sometimes a joker will ask, “Are we there yet?”  “I sometimes answer, ‘Buddha would say, ‘We are always there.’ That gets me a laugh now and then.”

Several times I have been asked where the next shuttle bus stop is. If this is asked while on a trail in the Grand Canyon, the answer is “A mile back and a thousand feet up the way you came.” Poleaxed stare. “The bus doesn’t come down here?”  “No,” I want to say, “they tend to stick to the paved road.”

One young man told me, “I hope I can do this.”  I said, “It looks as though you are.”  “No, I mean when I am as old as you.” I guess I can take that as a compliment. Then there is the compliment: “I hope I’m as fit as you when I’m your age.” I want to reply: “I might be as fit as your age!”

A friend who let her hair go grey during COVID told me that she gets a lot more positive comments than she used to: “Young hikers used to mutter under their breath when I passed them. Now they tend to do a thumbs up and say, ‘Good for you.’”

I was hiking one day with a group of women who have hiked the West on trails for years, when a man stepped to the side to let us pass. He beamed at us as he said, “You ladies look radiant.”  Now that is the kind of trail talk I like.

Marjorie ‘Slim’ Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She is an educator at the bottom of Grand Canyon. 

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First, follow the packing list. Do not leave your raingear at home because your brother tells you it never rains in the desert. If it is 100 degrees in the shade at your house and the list recommends a down parka: bring it. It can and will snow at 10,000 feet in midsummer.

If the guide goes through your pack removing extraneous objects and gets the weight down from 40 to 20 pounds, do not put the discards back.

If food is provided, you will be given a preferences/allergies form. Obviously you will want the chef to know if peanuts will put you into a coma, but if you will not eat spinach or chard, include that as well. 

If you employ a strict diet for reasons of philosophy—meat is murder! —or fad diets—carbohydrates are suicide!—keep it to yourself. Description of a First World resident: We define ourselves by what we refuse to eat. 

If the guide tells you not to ride past the Burr Trail switchbacks in Utah, do not ride past the Burr Trail switchbacks.  If the guide says, “Drink some water,” drink some water.

Be honest about your medical background. Do not, upon arrival at the first day’s campsite, mention that you have diabetes and did not say anything beforehand because you were afraid they would not allow you on the trip. 

Do not lie about your physical abilities. You tell yourself you have six months to get into shape, but we know what the road to hell is paved with. Walking the dog twice a day instead of once is not a strenuous exercise routine.

Be realistic. On the first morning of a five-day mountain bike tour, a participant announced that he had never been on a bike in his life. The entire first day was spent teaching him how to ride and the itinerary readjusted to fit his needs.

Do not stop taking your medications. Medicines can have side effects.  Stopping a long-term medication may also have side effects. I did not know that stopping anti-depression meds could cause massive irritation until a non-medicated hiker grabbed their gear and stomped off in a snit.

Don’t be selfish. I was on a on river trip that eliminated all day hikes because one person threw a hissy about “wasting time” that could better be spent sitting on the beach drinking Mai Tais. 

Don’t be a twit. I was busily bisecting bagels one morning to prepare lunches when a would-be epicurean loftily told me not to touch his bagel.  “Bagels should be sliced just prior to eating.”

Everyone began demanding that I stop molesting their bagels until the senior leader chimed in. “Those bagels have been bouncing around in packs for three days! Give us a break!”

Use the equipment you will rely on: Try out that new bicycle. Put up that tent, inflate that air mattress. Carry that backpack with the proposed equipment within. You may decide to abandon those hardback books. 

Female guides are every bit as competent as their male counterparts.  Resist “mansplaining” or telling them they look so amazing lugging gear or rowing a boat.

Guides will not break the law for you. If there is a ban on fires, they will not build a fire—even if you promise not to tell. 

Every company advertises knowledgeable guides, but I have overheard some outlandish “facts” from outdoor companies. Spoiler: Rocks in the Grand Canyon are not red because they are encrusted with dust from Sedona, Arizona, nor do they attract lightning. 

If you want a true educational trip, opt for one offered by a nonprofit organization.

A guided trip can still lead to frustration. It can rain for days, high winds can make putting up a tent a chore and blisters can manifest. But if you’re prepared to accept some hardship, getting outdoors can also lead to new friendships and a more relaxed approach to adventure.

Maybe, even, it can be the trip of a lifetime.

Marjorie “Slim” Woodruff is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. She works as an educator at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

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