In college, I brought guys into the forest at night because it was a place where I was less scared than they were. As a woman, dating—or even just being alone with a man—felt vulnerable. I wanted to flip the script.

I remember the second time in particular, with a man I really liked. We were a mile deep in the campus arboretum, following a trail through faint moonshadows and then, as the trees grew thicker, into a tunnel of black. My flashlight was dim. He held my arm as I led the way.

Something rustled in the dark to our right.

The man jumped a little, chuckled once, and grabbed my arm with his other hand. He squeezed.

“You nervous,” I said.

I sensed, rather than saw, his nod.

“What are you scared of?”

“What was that?” he said. He meant the rustle. Probably a mouse, I thought, but I didn’t answer. I imagined what he’d do if I said the flashlight had burned out. He wouldn’t panic, at least not outwardly, but his breath would quicken. He’d stay close; he’d squeeze my arm tighter. He’d trust me to lead the way out.

Still in blackness, I stepped back so we weren’t touching. He didn’t move. I thought about reaching back toward him, but instead I waited. Counted. One breath. Five, ten. When he still hadn’t moved or spoken, I stepped back toward him. Took one of his hands, then the other, and rose to my toes for a kiss.

“That would never have occurred to me,” he said later, back inside. “Going into the woods at night. I just never think of it as an option. I don’t know how you weren’t nervous.”

The secret was that I’d been nervous, too. But unlike him, I was used to it.

As a kid, I dreaded getting home at night because I hated walking in darkness from the car to the front door. I’d run past the roses and thuja trees by the driveway—fearing that at any moment, hands would reach from the thickets and grab me tight—and I didn’t calm down until I’d reached the bright artificial light of the entry. In the daytime, I loved being outside; I made passageways in the bushes, and tossed seeds to lure squirrels close. But at night, the yard turned into something different. It became a place I didn’t understand.

By my late teens, I spent most of my free time outside, bushwhacking through mountainsides and forests with a backpack and a map. I felt that my fear of the woods at night—though common, normal—was one of the last barriers between myself and the wild life I wanted. But the dark wasn’t dangerous, I told myself. It was just scary. And fear, I hoped, could be fixed. It was with that intention that I tried solo backpacking at 18, laying my sleeping bag on the moss at the edge of a mountain lake called Sick Water, where I planned to spend two days. But I panicked the first night–lying frozen, eyes open in blackness, barely able to breathe–and then hiked five miles home at three in the morning. I climbed into my own bed as the sun was rising, weak with relief.

Later that year, I tried again. It was winter. I skied uphill to the same lake, which was smooth and white, and found an open creek at the edge, barely a foot across and bounded with deep banks. I drank the water by cupping it in my bare hands, though the cold hurt my skin, and then I built a fire for warmth. I’d brought a book of poems—Prufrock, I think—to read for distraction, but I never opened the book at all. I didn’t need it. For some reason, that time I wasn’t afraid.

In retrospect, I think the cold helped my nerves. Winter’s always been my comfort. The world quiets; animals sleep. And the snow doesn’t lie. At times, lying in the darkness, I imagined creatures creeping toward me. But when the sun rose again, I saw from the untouched snow that they had not.

By the way, there was nothing sick about Sick Water. I don’t know how the lake got its name. It was good fishing, so maybe that’s why. Some fisherman tried to scare folks away and claim the whole lake for his own.

My husband and I live deep in the Wisconsin woods; we take all our city friends outdoors. It’s a running joke that we can teach them dogsledding, kayaking, fishing, skiing—and when we bring them back to the cabin late, by headlamp, and they’ll say, “I didn’t know I could do that.”

And we say, “Dogsledding?”

And they say, “No, being in the forest at night.”

Why is this fear so universal? I looked up science, studies. I wanted to tell you facts about what we’re afraid might happen, and how to push through. But I found almost no research at all. Only stories. Fairy tales, myths, legends, warnings. Don’t go in the woods at night, characters tell each other, or else. Or else what? In the forest, power shifts. We’re not in charge anymore. We have to face the fact that we never were.

Stories don’t create our fears; they reflect them back to us, shimmering with layers of unease. One reason humans are scared of the dark woods, wrote scholar Dr. Elizabeth Parker, who studies ecogothic literature, is because we fear nature’s appetite, even when it pales before our own. In the forest, “we fear being eaten: be it by literal predators such as wolves and bears, or by the many monsters that we imagine within it.”

In the dark, in the trees, anything can creep toward you.

You won’t see it coming.

It will open wide its mouth.

It might consume you, or might just stand there watching.

We’re scared of the dark woods, Dr. Parker writes, because they hold a secret we’re not sure we want to know.

Over the years, I have, in fact, been approached by animals at night. One time, alone in a lean-to of sticks in Florida, something huge blackened the night nearby. I imagined it might attack me. I saw from its tracks in the morning that it had been a cow.

In South Africa, I was surrounded by a pack of hyenas for several nights in a row. They circled, barking and grunting, for hours on end. I had no weapons, but I built my fire high. They didn’t dare enter the light.

Hyenas eat people. Big cats do, too. Some bears. Sharks, I guess, with all those teeth. But the fear of being consumed isn’t just a fear of dying. It’s a fear of recalling that you’re an animal, too, with warm soft flesh like the rest of them. We’re not afraid of the woods at night because we don’t belong there. We’re afraid of them because we do.

It takes practice, time, to accept that. After my stay at Sick Water, I didn’t spend a night alone outside for several years; I’d just needed to know that I could. But when I finally did venture out again, it was for weeks straight. I was visiting a Norwegian village, and needed somewhere to stay, so I set up camp in a grove of sparse birch, a few minutes’ walk from the nearest road. Each night I lay on my back in my sleeping bag, watching heart-shaped leaves flicker against the sky. That was the Arctic, in summer, so the sun never set. Darkness only came when I closed my eyes.

The post This is Why You’re Afraid of the Woods at Night appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

In February, I joined four strangers on an overnight dogsled expedition for beginners. They ranged in age from their twenties to sixties, and sat long hours around the campfire—laughing, roasting marshmallows for each other, and petting a yellow dog who squeezed along the snowbanks behind them, nosing for snacks. Each attendee had signed up for the trip alone; they’d never met each other before. But the mood—and the conversation—couldn’t have been better. If you’d told me right then, sitting around the fire, that we’d be extending the expedition for a month, I would have looked at my companions’ eyes sparkling in the firelight and thought: Yes. Bring it on.

Recently The Atlantic published a , which is caused—in part—by what we might call an epidemic of individualism: our own ongoing choices to stay siloed in tiny worlds. We work from home; we eat at home; we stream instead of going to the movies—and the problem, as diagnosed in The Atlantic, isn’t so much that we’re lonely as that we’re not. We’re alone by choice, and we’re OK with it, in part because of the ways that technology intrudes on what used to be solo time. Let’s say you choose to take a quiet evening to recharge. But your phone’s lighting up constantly, and you owe so-and-so a text and so-and-so an email, and you should probably check socials just to see what disasters are happening in the news… and by the end of the night, you haven’t spent quality time with other people or yourself. So you’re hungry for quiet, and stay home the next night and do the same, with the same result. As author Annie Dillard says, how we spend our days is how we spend our lives—and a life of neither solitude nor companionship can leave us feeling consistently wrong.

The article strikes me partially as hand-wringing (I’m rarely compelled by arguments that other people are choosing to live their personal lives wrong) and partially as terrifying (it’s easier to hate people for their differences if you rarely encounter them). But I also wrote an outdoors advice column for almost a decade, long enough to notice deep grooves of recurring themes in the questions that readers sent in. Many readers’ problems were steeped, above all, not in solitude but in true loneliness; the theme came up so often that it was sometimes difficult to find questions to answer that weren’t about being alone. People struggled to make friends as adults, or after a move to a new location; they mourned when relationships drifted apart, and weren’t sure how to fill the gap. And yes, when you’re a hammer—or an outdoors columnist—everything looks like a nail, but it’s hard to ignore the degree to which time outdoors can heal these ills, at least when it comes to the particular forms they take in modern life.

When we go outside with someone, whether that means joining a meetup or organizing a trip with friends, we’re committing to spending time together in bulk: a two-night camping trip with a buddy means logging as many waking hours together as two years’ worth of monthly coffee dates. Researchers have found that the closeness of a friendship can, : that it takes roughly 50 hours to build a casual friendship, versus 200 to be in someone’s inner circle, and ��that involved locking male strangers in a room together for ten days resulted in the men becoming, well, basically besties. If you’ve spent any amount of time traveling or hiking with strangers—or even sitting around a campfire—and experienced the intense bond that results, then this degree of rapid closeness may not surprise you at all.

I spoke to Jenny Baker, the founder of Sheventures, an outdoors camp for women in Tennessee, about how her campers make friends. She tries to make sure that 35 percent of the slots at each camp are saved for people who don’t know anyone else, so that they can meet and connect with one another. The strategy is so effective that now, nine years on, it can be hard for her to find enough solo travelers: previous years’ campers are now friends with each other, and choose to return together as a group.

“If we want to combat loneliness,” Jenny told me, “we can’t just find the places where people are connecting. We have to build those places intentionally. How do we ease the hurdles that people encounter when they’re making new outdoor friends? How do we make space for deep connection?”

Jenny’s found that not all outdoor activities are created equal when it comes to making friends. Paddleboarding and mountain biking require too much solitary focus, even when a group does them together. “Hiking is great for introverts,” she told me, “because you don’t have to make eye contact while you’re talking.” But the best activity she’s seen for building friendships, by far, is rock climbing. “You’d think it’s a solo sport, but it’s not. At camp, we might have three women on the wall and 20 women on the ground cheering for them. A climber might be scared. Maybe she’s tried for the next hold a few times, and keeps missing it. As women, we try not to take up space, so she’ll say she’s done and someone else should go. But the women on the ground will literally not let her off the wall. They’re calling out, helping her. They’re completely invested. And when she succeeds, the cheering that erupts in the woods is incredible. It’s like everyone succeeded together.”

But what about after camp? How can people keep those intense bonds from drifting apart?

It turns out that the science of friendship can guide us here, too. For one thing, it’s OK for friendships to drift apart; we benefit from companionship at any level, and just because a friendship is short-lived doesn’t mean that it’s not important, or that it won’t be rekindled later. But if you find yourself making an outdoor friend that you really want to hold onto, just remember to do the opposite of what every true crime podcast tells you and go to a second location. Going from the trail to the pub, or making plans to meet up after camp, helps you to see each other in a different light, and also lets your new pal know that you care about them beyond convenience. And that choice–that intention–can make all the difference between an outdoor friend and a friend for good.

The post Can Outdoor Friendships Solve the Loneliness Epidemic? appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

Last fall, at a dryland dogsled race in Pearson,Wisconsin, one canine athlete stood out from the rest. While her competition—mostly pointers and Alaskan huskies—ran one- to three-mile sprints, then rested, she entered multiple divisions in such quick succession that she once hurried straight from the finish line to the starting line without slowing down. Her gaze is stoic. Her fur is orange. Her legs are four inches long.

Musher Betsy Heidt of Wausau, Wisconsin, didn’t plan for her 18-pound dachshund mix, Muppy, to become one of the most recognizable sled dogs in the Midwest. As it turns out, that was all Muppy’s idea.

“I could never get Muppy to walk on a leash,” Betsy told me over the phone. (I’m a dogsledder myself, and cheer for Muppy at races, but I don’t know Betsy well; I reached out to learn the full story.) “Someone commented that I should walk faster, so I walked faster, and then Muppy started running, so I started running, and then she started running faster. I don’t have the cardio for that, so I hooked her up to a bike and off she went. I was like, oh, I guess this is a thing.”

Betsy grew up on a dairy farm in the southern part of the state. As a kid, she sometimes hooked up the farm collies to a plastic sled with bailer twine, then threw snowballs for them to chase so they’d pull her. But those experiments, plus the movie Snow Dogs, were the only context she had for sled dog sports. So she turned to YouTube for urban mushing tutorials, which explained the basics of , , and : dogs pulling bikes, scooters, and human runners, respectively. The videos were helpful, but geared toward folks with huskies and other big dogs. They didn’t address many of the problems she encountered, like that Muppy was so short that she had to swim through puddles. Plus, where do you find a good harness that size?

But Muppy loved pulling so much that Betsy was determined to figure it out. She contacted a harness company called , ordering their smallest adjustable size, and got some goggles so that Muppy’s eyes were protected from sticks and burdock. They trained on deer trails in the woods by their house. Muppy was ecstatic to pull, and her never-ending energy felt like magic—even when she turned to chase critters, and Betsy went flying. “I got really good at reading her body language,” she told me. “I can tell by the way she holds her tail if she’s locked into something ahead of us, whether it’s a person in the distance or an unsuspecting rabbit.” Betsy learned to brace herself, and Muppy learned not to swerve: “She throws into the harness even more to get out that frustration.”

When Muppy was four, in 2021, Betsy posted a picture on Facebook, and a page called Twin Cities Dog-Powered Sports liked her post. “I sent some messages to their page, asking them 900 different questions, and they were super helpful.” When she saw that they were hosting a first-time race in Minnesota, she signed up for the 1.3 mile bikejoring event. She was terrified.

For one thing, Betsy didn’t know if other mushers would accept her. “But my biggest fear,” she said, “was that someone would pass us.” That summer, Muppy had been attacked by three golden retrievers at a park, and she’d been sketchy around strange dogs ever since. How would she react to a team coming up behind them? Betsy made a plan: if another team approached, she would veer off-trail and sit on the ground, holding Muppy, until they were gone. As it turned out, she and Muppy both had so much adrenaline—“We were pedal to the metal!”—that no other teams came close. They finished the course in just five and a half minutes, averaging over 14 miles per hour. The duo didn’t make the podium, but they weren’t on the bottom, either.

After that, they were hooked.

When most people picture sled dogs, they imagine huskies racing 1,000 miles through snowy wilderness. But in dryland racing, an ever-growing corner of the sport, teams consisting of one to six dogs compete in parks, cities, and small towns worldwide. Mushers gather at trailheads and parking lots for long weekends of racing, with world-champion sprinters (often huge, muscular pointers with legs a mile long) competing alongside teams of purebred Siberians and assorted mutts. When Betsy and Muppy first started showing up at races, people assumed that Muppy belonged to a spectator, or that she was a pet accompanying another team. But it wasn’t long before they took her seriously, as both a friend and competition.

Muppy’s not the fastest dog on the race circuit, but she’s among the most recognizeable, and crowds will sometimes gather to chant her name. The affection is mutual: there’s a bar on the country road that leads to one of the race sites, and whenever Betsy makes the turn in her car, Muppy starts screeching with excitement. In the starting chute, while the judge counts down, she wails, eyes glued to the trail ahead—and the moment Betsy releases the brake, they take off at top speed. She’s become a pro at some of the more technical aspects of racing, like getting passed—or, just as often, passing. “The dog parts of the other team, sometimes they just stare as they’re running, trying to decide if she’s food or friend,” Betsy recalled, laughing. “And their mushers will say, ‘Come on, Snowball! You’re getting passed by a wiener dog!”

For the past four years, during dryland season, Muppy races frequently, and trains by pulling Betsy or her husband two to three miles up to four times a week. Betsy works at a composting facility, and even brings Muppy to work sometimes, so she can practice running up and down the compost rows—which smell enticing, making them perfect practice for resisting distraction. Until this year, winter’s been Muppy’s off-season; she spends the snowy months digging and shredding sticks. But Betsy recently bought a fatbike, and the duo have been training for fatbikejoring races on snow.

Last May, Betsy and her husband adopted a second dog, Journey, who’s a terrier-shepherd mix. Journey’s bigger than Muppy, and not that into pulling, but she does love running, so sometimes they enter two-dog races together. Muppy pulls, and Journey simply runs alongside her. Betsy doesn’t mind. The point of dog-powered sports, as she sees it, is to make dogs’ lives richer, and that means embracing each dog’s skills and interests—so as long as Journey’s happy, she’s happy too.

As for Muppy, she’s fully embraced her role as an icon; she prances when fans call her name. Betsy’s thrilled to be her ambassador. “If someone has a pet with boundless energy, a sport like this is a great opportunity for them,” she told me. “Even for a dog who doesn’t pull a lot, like Journey, being out in front and making decisions seems to tucker her out more than games of fetch ever did.”

But Betsy’s favorite thing has been seeing how much joy and inspiration Muppy’s athleticism brings to people. “I want to show that little dogs can do things,” she said proudly, “and help more dogs live enriching lives!”

The post Meet Muppy, the World’s Smallest Sled Dog appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

Leslie Gaynor, 68, loves survival shows. After she finishes her day’s work as a therapist, she makes herself some tea and puts on an episode of Naked and Afraid. By the time the show’s over, it’s dark out. Her dog has to pee, but she doesn’t like to go outside at night. What if there are wild animals in the yard? One time last year, her dog ran out and saw a possum, and the possum flopped over dead, and when she went out a few minutes later it was gone. So it wasn’t really dead, but the whole thing was traumatic anyway. Not for the possum. But for her.

Leslie’s my aunt, and my husband and I were both on Naked and Afraid; we’re outdoor folk by trade, and when we were invited to apply for the show, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to step into a ready-made adventure. That’s not why my aunt watches it, though. She was a fan first. “I can’t really explain it,” she told me after we watched a scene together of a proud, hungry woman plucking a grouse for stew. “I just think it’s relaxing!”

Leslie’s not the only one who finds survival shows addictive. Ever since Survivor premiered in 2000, and promptly became one of the highest-rated shows on network television, survival-themed reality shows and their spinoffs have reproduced like rabbits. In addition to Naked and Afraid, there’s Alone, Survivor, Dual Survival, Survivorman, Ultimate Survival, Man vs. Wild,, Race to Survive, Outlast, and Celebrity Bear Hunt, not to mention numerous spinoffs and international versions. (My personal favorite title? Naked and Afraid’s Shark Week special, Naked and Afraid of Sharks.) Sure, some of their viewers are outdoorsy, but the shows aren’t just made for survivalists any more than shows about serial killers are made for, well, other serial killers. No: what makes survival shows so popular is that, while they depict extreme situations, the feelings they tap into are damn near universal.

There’s pleasure in seeing someone succeed despite hardship—and there’s also pleasure (maybe more) in watching someone fail spectacularly, particularly if they went in cocky. Whenever a survivalist’s intro includes them sayingany version of the phrase “making nature my bitch,” you know they’re gonna get their ass handed to them. It’s just a matter of when and how.

“Some guy’s hungry, or cut himself with his knife, and it’s time to tap,” says my husband, Quince Mountain, who survived 21 days—mostly alone—in the Honduran jungle. (We were on the show at the same time, but were sent to different locations.) “He’s crying because he misses his wife and kids too much, but he says it like, ‘It’s really unfair to them, me being out here…’ Is that his epiphany about how his wife does massive amounts of invisible labor to keep his life comfortable, and now he’s going home a changed man, a grateful, devoted, humble partner—or is it his excuse because he’s hungry and lonely and doesn’t know how to take care of himself? You decide!”

In one of the most popular survival shows, Alone, participants film themselves in complete isolation without knowing how many of the other contestants are still out there. The show premiered in 2015, but viewership soared in 2020 when select seasons became available on Netflix and Hulu. “With COVID, there was a lot of interest because of the isolation aspect,” recalls Juan Pablo Quiñonez, author of the survival book , who won Alone’s season 9 after surviving 78 days in Labrador with a strategy of fasting, drinking unboiled water, and hunkering down to rest. “There aren’t many shows that are really truly unscripted, and where you can see real emotions, like craving for fish, or craving to be with a loved one. How often do we get to see someone catch a fish after five days without food? These moments are super powerful.”

He believes that we’re all hunter-gatherers at heart, and that survival shows—and wilderness survival in general—connect us to an ancestral legacy that feels both vital and familiar. “There might be strong feelings on The Bachelor, but it’s definitely not as real.”

As much as skeptics in online forums might debate the authenticity of their favorite shows (a common theory centers around the idea that when people are getting too weak, production will leave a dead animal in one of their traps), it’s hard for viewers to dismiss the fact that at least something real is happening onscreen. People don’t lose 20 pounds in three weeks without going awfully hungry, and a lot of the effects of survival—sunburn, frostbite, open wounds—are physically undeniable. There are even ways that being on a show can be harder than plain old survival. Camera crews inadvertantly scare away game, and interrupt survivors for interviews, even when they’re beyond exhausted. Plus, the survivors are usually limited by geographic barriers that have little to do with what’s actually practical or effective. You’re ravenous, searching for any darn calories, and finally spot some berries in a clearing that’s off-limits? Too bad, so sad. This isn’t just survival, it’s a show, and you gotta perform for both.

Another factor in their proliferation is that survival shows—and reality shows in general—are economical to produce. “The reason that unscripted TV came out of the gate so strongly is that it’s cheaper,” says Rachel Maguire, who’s been an international showrunner and executive producer for Naked and Afraid and Dual Survival. “You don’t have high-paid actors. There are no writers. The cast is generally not union.” Although, she adds upon reflection, Naked and Afraid does have awfully pricey accidental death and dismemberment insurance.

Her theory as to why the genre’s so popular? People are increasingly aware of instability in the world—including a steep increase in natural disasters due to climate change—and watching survival shows helps them feel prepared.

I agree with Quiñonez and Maguire, but I also think there’s another instinctive appeal. We worry about extraordinary disasters, but we worry about problems in our lives just as much, and usually more. Survival shows are addictive because much of our daily life is also about struggling to meet our basic needs, and we feel that stress even when we can’t name it. Negotiating jobs, health insurance, child and elder care, housing? That’s all survival, viscerally so. And so watching people get shelter by building it from scratch, and food by catching it in a handmade trap, isn’t about watching them go through challenges that are completely disconnected from our own. It’s about watching our everyday adversity reflected back to us, but distilled into a pure form. We empathize when TV survivalists want to tap out; we cheer when they succeed. It’s relatable. It’s therapeutic. We know—deep down—that we’re all just trying to survive.

The post My Experience on ‘Naked and Afraid’ Showed Me Why We Keep Watching Survival Reality TV appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

My favorite Tough Love question from the last eight years, the one I (somewhat inexplicably) recall most fondly, was from a woman whose boyfriend was grossed out that she used a pee rag—a.k.a. reusable toilet paper—while camping. We got a lot of impassioned reader feedback about that one: Pee is sanitary! Pee is gross! Bodies are normal! Women’s bodies in particular are gross! (OK, dude.) And though I’d phrase my answer differently now, I stand by the gist of it: If you don’t want your boyfriend weighing in on your wiping habits, don’t tell him about them. Wherever that couple is now, together or apart, I hope they’ve figured out how to pee in peace.

The secret about an outdoors advice column, of course, is that it’s basically a regular advice column with the words “while camping” tacked to the end of each question. Consider:

Should I break up with my boyfriend? He’s ignoring my boundaries while camping.

How do I stop hating my body while camping?

I’m desperately lonely. While camping, I mean. Obviously. Right?

“While camping” is �����ԹϺ��� magazine’s “asking for a friend”: a framing that distances us just enough from our problems that we might gather the courage to speak them aloud. The questions that readers sent to Tough Love were almost never uniquely outdoors-specific. Rather, the outdoors served as both backdrop and shared language between asker and reader. A number of thru-hikers, climbers, kayakers, skiers, and runners wrote to me over the years, but their problems weren’t about, say, the best way to dry long johns over a campfire. They were about grief, illness, heartbreak, anxiety, and love. �����ԹϺ���’s community, more than anyone, should know that wherever we go, our shadows follow. And it’s often in the most spectacular places—a mountaintop at sunrise, a bonfire with friends—that our worries are cast in the greatest relief.

And yet there is something unique about an outdoors advice column, less in the specifics of individual problems than in the way those problems reveal the contours of bigger, communal ones. By far the most common questions I received, again and again, were variations on two issues. First: I am a man, and I’m struggling to find and date women who are outdoorsy. Second: I am an outdoorsy woman, and men won’t date me because I’m better/stronger/faster than they are. It would be too simple to suggest that the writers of these letters meet, date each other, and thus solve all their problems, because it’s precisely the contrast between these two categories that reveals the root of the issue. What is it? Misogyny (or to phrase it as generously as possible for individual men: the sexist pressure on them to be more accomplished than their girlfriends or wives). Men, if you want to date outdoorsy women, there are plenty available—but you might need to work on your insecurities first. As for women who date men? At least some of us are outta luck.

At the core, advice columns are gossip. It’s a myth—an excuse we tell ourselves, as part of the writer-columnist-reader triad—that their purpose is to deliver wisdom to the letter-writer. Instead, the whole dynamic is a collaboration, an exchange. Readers rubberneck, reassuring themselves that although they make plenty of mistakes, they would never make that one. Alternately, they take comfort in the fact they’re not alone. And the letter-writer shares something vulnerable, under cover of anonymity, in exchange for being seen.

I never shared letter-writers’ identities, even with my editors. A few questions were written by celebrities. Some were sent by my friends. Some people were so cautious that they wrote in under fake names, from fake email addresses. And at least one question was my own. (A great exercise, in a tricky situation, is to imagine that you’re an advice columnist and someone sent in a letter about your exact situation. How would you reassure them? What would you recommend they do? And if you happened to write an actual advice column, wouldn’t you be tempted to publish the exchange?) There were questions, too, that I never had a chance to answer, either because they were too similar to ones we’d already published, or because they lacked context. “What do I do next?” someone once wrote, as the entirety of their email. I just wanted to give them a hug.

Sometimes readers sent in advice for other letter-writers, pouring their hearts out over shared experiences, and I passed the messages along. Other times, folks corrected my takes, explaining details I’d missed or ways my response was short-sighted. Regarding a woman with asthma whose boyfriend accused her of abandoning him when she had to leave a campground due to wildfire smoke, I received, to Tough Love’s email address, this phenomenal piece of reader feedback: “The fact that your advice to this poor woman was decent enough does not justify your presuming, as a dogsledder, to answer her deeply concerning plea.”

I texted my friend a screenshot, delighted by the implication that dogsledders are uniquely bad at giving advice. “Does she think that advice columnists go to… advice column school?” she texted back.

In fact, at the time I started writing Tough Love, I was just out of grad school, living on $18,000 a year and supporting a fledgling sled dog team. I’d written an essay—a love letter, really—that went viral, and got passed around �����ԹϺ���’s editors. When they approached me about writing an outdoors relationship advice column, I felt like I’d won the lottery, and in a way I had: a steady freelance gig is practically as rare. I was on a road trip when I got the email. To give me practice, my now-husband read letters from Cosmo magazine aloud, tweaking details to make them outdoors-specfic. I still remember: “What do you do if you get cum in your eye,” he asked me, “in the woods?”

I had no idea. Stick your face in a river? I googled it. Then I regretted googling it. I probably wouldn’t get that question, I reassured myself. On the other hand, what if I did? I didn’t want to guide people wrong. Or make their eyes hurt. I felt then about the column, and always have, an intense pressure to do no harm.

I suspect my primary strength as an advice columnist is that I don’t think I have all the answers. For some questions, I dug deeply into my own experience.Those columns are still raw and near to my heart, whether they’re about grief, being a woman alone in the wilderness, writing a memoir, or the fear of losing a dog. But more often, I used the questions as springboards to approach and interview people—family members, friends, even strangers I admired—whose wisdom I wanted to both learn from and pass on. With particularly puzzling situations, I even brought up the questions at dinner parties, asking folks around the table to weigh in. It was in response to these strangers’ questions that people close to me shared some of their most tender truths. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

At the close of the column, I think its greatest lesson, at least for me, is this: we should ask each other for advice more. The questions don’t even have to be our own. Share situations you’ve read about, or heard about, or even seen on TV, and ask your loved ones what they’d recommend. Problems are inherently vulnerable; they invite vulnerability in return. You’ll be surprised by how often people will take the invitation to say what they’ve needed to say.

The post What Writing an Outdoors Advice Column Taught Me About Relationships appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

When I first started dating my boyfriend, he mentioned that he had a group of friends who went “camping” every month to practice skills for the future. I asked for more details and he said that they practice orienteering, tracking, and survival skills like that. He’s a really sweet, caring guy and nothing seemed like a red flag. Actually, my ex was less social and very clingy, so I remember thinking it was a green flag that he spent time with friends.��

We’ve been together for a year now. In that time, this group has become a bigger part of his life. They meet up almost every week. They also started meeting at a gun club. When I asked why, he talked about social unrest and wanting to make sure that he can protect us. He’s also been obsessively watching the news about in New Jersey.��

I was looking for something in the basement last week and came across a duffel bag filled with packaged food and ammo boxes. It was upsetting because I’ve asked him before if he’s a prepper. He told me he isn’t, but that he doesn’t want to be a frog in boiling water who doesn’t notice when things start to heat up. But I don’t want to be a frog in boiling water either. I really love him, but I’m starting to think there might be more under the surface that he’s hiding from me. How do I know when it’s getting to be too much?

Question: Does your boyfriend seem to enjoy all this? Is it fun for him? If so, then I want to hold space for the best possibility here, which is that prepping (and yes, this is prepping, regardless of whether he admits it) is his hobby.

Consider historical reenactment: a broad interest that gathers a lot of different skills and pastimes under one roof. Reenactors don’t just dress up like people in their chosen era; they also learn crafts, cooking, languages, and so on. Hobby preppers do the same, but in reverse. Instead of focusing on the past, they imagine a future when their skills in self-reliance might be put to good use.

That future probably won’t come to pass, but there are plenty of realistic scenarios where their skills could come in handy. It’s not that everyone who buys a zombie apocalypse bug-out kit is actually scared of zombies. It’s just that prepping for a zombie apocalypse is more fun than packing the exact same supplies so they’re ready in case of an unusually long power outage.����

Some people follow end-of-the-world scenarios like other people follow sports. Sometimes a bag of food and bullets is just, uh, a bag of food and bullets.

If that’s your boyfriend’s situation—if he enjoys thinking about possibilities, and trying new things, and he has a good friend group to try them with—then there’s no need to worry. That said, you mentioned a few things that do concern me, and I’d recommend getting to the bottom of them.

First, your boyfriend said he’s going to the gun club because he wants to be able to protect your household against social unrest.

To me, that says he’s imagining a near future in which he might have to shoot people, or at the very least, scare them away with guns. Not zombies; people. He’s couching the violence of that image under a fantasy of protection, but the point remains the same.

Does that mean that everyone who learns to shoot for self-defense is fantasizing about shooting people? Of course not. And presumably, he’s practicing at a range that emphasizes gun safety and responsibility.�� But given the anticipatory subtext of prepping in general, and the other details you shared—including his use of the phrase “heat up”—I think this development is concerning.

Secondly, and most important, you’re worried that there’s more under the surface.

You know your boyfriend well. You’ve watched his interests change and grow, and you’ve seen how he’s responding to the news. You saw the look on his face when you found his bag of food and bullets. You don’t seem like a paranoid or sensational person. If the hairs on the back of your neck are going up, that’s the most important clue that something is wrong.

aIn fact, even if everything else seemed perfect, that would still tell me that something’s wrong.

I’m wondering why your boyfriend denied that he was a prepper, when the term isn’t derogatory, and it seems so clearly accurate from the outside. Is there another term he uses for his activities, or his identity? If he’s willing to tell you, it might help clarify his agenda, his priorities, and where his head is at. If he won’t tell you–if he’s convinced that his activities are so practical and universal that they have no name–then that’s illuminating, too.

You haven’t been together very long, in the grand scheme of things. Do you really want to move into the future with someone whose vision of that future is fundamentally different from yours? If this isn’t the relationship you want, you don’t need a specific conflict or fight or reason to break up. Your feelings–and your discomfort–are more than enough.

If you stay together, keep your eyes open. Notice what’s going on. Remember that you’ve had concerns before, so if something else raises an alarm, it’s part of a pattern. If you live together, try to have a plan, and some money saved up, in case you decide to leave. After all, it never hurts to be prepared.

Blair Braverman writes our��Tough Love column. Previously, she has given advice on dating a sore loser.

The post Help! My Boyfriend Is a Doomsday Prepper. appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

I recently moved into a new neighborhood where everyone is involved in each others’ lives. (Picture picket fences, etc.) I’ve noticed that when a neighbor needs to borrow something, like a snow shovel, they come to my door. In particular, there’s an older woman who lives alone across the street and seems to think that I’m her personal assistant. She’ll come over uninvited to ask for things every week or so, like to take her dog out to pee when she has an appointment, or even to reach things that are high up in her garage. She does bring me baked goods, which is nice. But cynically, I feel like she does it so that I can’t say no when she asks for favors in return. I have a physical outdoor job, and when I come home I just want to relax and protect my peace. I don’t want to be rude, but how much am I actually obligated to help people just because I live near them?

Surely, your elderly neighbor is baking you cookies in an insidious plot to put you in her debt, but joke’s on her—you never signed a contract! The answer to your question, clearly, is that you’re not obligated to help her at all. People aren’t credit card companies, measuring all interactions based on who owes what to whom, with a guarantee that at the end of the day we’ll all end up exactly even (or ahead). You can accept your neighbor’s cookies, but refuse to reach things off her top shelf. You’ll probably get fewer cookies over time, but that’s not because you haven’t earned them. It’s because she’ll assume that you don’t like her very much.

From my perspective, it doesn’t seem like this neighbor is taking advantage of you. The help she’s requested isn’t particularly time consuming, nor has she asked for anything she could reasonably hire someone to do. Sure, she could stand on a chair and reach things herself, but if she’s disinclined to do that, it’s probably because she knows something about her balance that you don’t. These are exactly the kinds of things that we should be relying on friends and neighbors for—and if the ask isn’t onerous (and sometimes even if it is), then yes, I believe we should all try to chip in when we can. Even you.

It may be that you’re overworked right now, and feeling extra irritable because you’re stressed and tired. If that’s the case, I think it’s a reason to lean on community more, not less. That’s exactly why your neighbor brings you cookies! She wants you to know that she’s thinking of you, and that she cares. Not just about what you can do for her, but about who you are and how you’re doing. If you fell and broke both of your legs, and you couldn’t take her dog out anymore, I’m 99 percent sure she would keep bringing you baked goods. In fact, she’d probably bring you more.

I’m curious what you mean when you say that you want to protect your peace. Does “peace” mean sitting in your house, undisturbed, free from considering the inconvenient needs of the people around you? What would it look like if everyone protected their peace the same way you do? What if you need a snow shovel one day, because your car is buried and you need to dig it out before you can get to the store to buy one? Your peace isn’t just yours; it’s contingent on living in a world where people have what they need, and part of that means that communities and neighbors are able to rely on each other.

Unless, of course, your peace is just yours—and it’s something you’ve learned to guard fiercely because no one else has protected it for you. If you’ve spent your life being taken advantage of, then it makes sense that you’d develop a laser-focus on self-protection, and would come to view apparently generous interactions through a lens of suspicion. If that’s the case, I’m truly sorry. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. You’re welcome to continue focusing on yourself alone, especially if it’s how you’ve learned to survive. But if there’s some spark in you that does crave an interdependent community, but feels vulnerable or afraid, then perhaps this new neighborhood presents a small opportunity to heal. I wonder if you even sensed this ahead of time, and were drawn to living here for that very reason.

One way to change your experience, ironically, is to learn to accept kindness. Even when that feels scary, because if it ends, you’ll be alone again. Enjoying your neighbor’s cookies doesn’t mean that you’re dependent on her generosity. It means you’re peering through the doorway into a world that’s full of cookies. A world where kindness is passed freely, without suspicion. To you. And from you, too.

There are an infinite number of ways to build that kindness. Instead of just lending a snow shovel, offer to come help dig. Hold a door for someone. Toss back a frisbee that comes your way. Or just smile and say, “Sure, I can reach something off your top shelf. It’s no problem. And why don’t I bring over some hot chocolate, too?”

��writes our��Tough Love��column. Previously, she has given advice on dealing with a weird neighbor.

The post Confession: I’m Tired of Helping My Neighbors appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

I’m the owner of a small hiking gear company that I founded five years ago when I was 33 years old. I’ve put my everything into it: long hours, 24/7 availability, and my own savings. Many longtime members of my team share my work philosophy. We love this brand and believe in its mission, so we’re willing to go the extra mile for it—even if that means taking on additional work or staying on the clock a little longer to finish up.

As my team has grown, we’ve started to hire a staff of young, fun, mostly Gen Zers, and I love the energy and creativity they bring to the table. But I’ve noticed their perspective on work differs from my more senior staffers’. They tend to sign off right at 5 P.M., even if it means running a little late on a deadline, and they rarely volunteer to take on any task that isn’t mapped out in their job descriptions.

On one hand, I really admire this clear boundary they’re setting between work and their personal lives. It’s the opposite approach of the “the harder you work, the more you get ahead” philosophy millennials like me came up under. But on the other hand, I spent years in the corporate world eating dinner at my desk, raising my hand for every extra opportunity, and taking zero vacation days to climb my way up the career ladder.��

I believe my work ethic and rapid career growth led to my own company’s success, but I know burnout is a real issue, too. How can I respect my employees’ work boundaries without resenting them or, deep down, feeling like they’re disrespecting me?

We’ve all heard about love languages. But when I brought your question to two friends—one Gen Z, one boomer—it became clear that something parallel exists in the workplace, which is that different people, and different generations, have different languages of respect.

For older generations, respect often meant giving your all. “I remember being told, ‘Don’t call in sick, call in dead,’” my friend Laurie—a Gen X/Boomer cusper who works with an intergenerational team—told me. In exchange, employees expected that they were working toward retirement, a pension, and healthcare that would last them throughout their lives. Although that social contract doesn’t exist anymore, older generations may still see signs of a healthy work-life balance, like leaving work at five despite a looming deadline, as fundamental shows of disrespect. After all, how can young employees be truly committed to the team when they’re always the first to get up from their desks?

Laurie says that Gen X and boomers often value punctuality, professional dress, respect for authority, attention to detail, and “formal” professional communication: “We come down on the side of full sentences.” Even if Gen Z employees don’t agree with all of these values, they should understand that skipping them may create tension that they don’t intend to create—and that, while it’s important for older people to understand how young people show respect, it’s just as important to do the same in the other direction. It’s also strategic: the people in charge of promotions are generally millennials or older.

Gen Z, by contrast, tends to value humanity in the workplace. “The main difference I’ve seen between myself and my boss is that I have multiple identities outside of my work, and she ties much of her own identity to her work,” says my friend Maggie, a 22-year-old college senior who’s pursuing a career in education. But Gen Z employees don’t just value their own complex lives and layered identities; they extend that understanding to others, too. They may be unusually empathetic, flexible, and willing to take on extra work when they see that someone else is going through a hard time.

Maggie told me that she recently saw a video of a Gen Z woman resigning from her job, with her boss’s voice audible over zoom. “The boss was saying things like, ‘I’m so excited for you and this next opportunity. It’s totally OK��to cry. It’s the end of an era for you! Don’t worry about me for a second,’” Maggie recalls. “That Gen Z employee learned that she’s allowed to look for big things, and she learned what it feels like to be seen as a human in the workplace. Isn’t that what we all are?” By engaging with her (former) Gen Z employee on a deeply human level, the boss was speaking her language of respect, which made her words and excitement all the more meaningful.

If one of your employees does something that feels disrespectful to you, remember that they may be prioritizing different languages of respect than the ones you anticipate. Someone who often shows up late—but with a bright smile and genuine warmth for their colleagues—is probably not trying to be dismissive or rude. Their lateness could still be an issue, of course, but it’s more likely to be a problem of time management than contempt. And because their intentions are good, it’s more likely to be a fixable problem, too.

In your letter, you mention that your Gen Z staff bring energy and creativity to the table. That is no small display of respect. It means they’re being fully present—and that they care. It’s also no coincidence that the generation that most prioritizes work-life balance��balance is able to bring a unique level of energy to the team.

As for you, it’s time for some reflection. What are your languages of respect in the workplace? What were you taught by your bosses, mentors, and older colleagues? Do all of their teachings ring true? You’re in a position right now to shape the work culture that you believe in, and it sounds like you already have been doing that. Be intentional in your decisions. And know that even if times are changing, your hard work got you to where you are, with a company and vision that you’re passionate about. That’s something to be proud of—and I respect the heck out of all that you’ve done.

writes our��Tough Love��column. Previously, she has given advice on working with friends.

The post I’m Worried That My Gen Z Employees Don’t Work Hard Enough appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

It’s not that I don’t like food. I do. I carry frozen cheesecakes on winter expeditions. They’re caloric and they don’t freeze hard, so you can bite off chunks without chipping your teeth. I once ate the same dead catfish boiled over a fire for three days. Was it good? Absolutely not. I like cardamom, snap peas, and Asian pears. I eat frozen bean burritos. I hate raw tomatoes, a trait I attribute to growing up near a ketchup factory in California. Tomatoes festered on every street corner and stuck to the soles of my flip-flops. They rolled off trucks en route to the factory, then rotted in the sun.

My husband, on the other hand, was raised by an epicurean grandfather, driving hours one-way for frog legs, bouillabasse, a pastry shaped like a bird’s nest. We have twin babies now. He wants them to appreciate good food, so he’s learning to cook. In pursuit of this goal, he discovered the , a remote bed and breakfast in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula where superstar chef Lane Regan (formerly Iliana) cooks foraged ingredients for a handful of guests in exclusive weekends that sell out years in advance. This year, my husband’s been helping out at the Inn, building a woodshed and tending colonies of bees. He’s developed a new language, dropping words like “garum” and fermenting wild plums on the top shelf of our closet. In exchange for his work, Lane offered us a slot on a last-minute November weekend—and my husband, excited to share a place he loves, gave the slot to me.

The Inn lies about a mile from two-lane Highway 13 as the crow flies, and 25 miles by unmarked dirt road. Guests caravan. It’s a log cabin with a central parlor that’s half kitchen, adorned with Pendleton blankets, paintings of foxes, and Chef’s three Michelin stars. Tonight’s dinner is not the star of the weekend—that would be Saturday’s 15-course tasting menu—but as guests gather around the three small tables, it’s clearly no less anticipated. I scoot in at the corner table with two couples, dodging a silky lump that reveals itself to be a Shih Tzu named Clemmie. George, a nine-year-old Newfoundland, sprawls like a bear rug by the hearth.

Host Rebecca, a breezy redhead with pigtails and an expression of warm concern, brings dishes of savoy cabbage with pine flower miso and milkweed flower vinegar that have my tablemates gasping. It’s meaty, complex, and—to my inexperienced palate—ineffable. I feel like a phony for eating it without the knowledge to name the tastes. Like wild mushrooms, I think, tentative even in my mind—and when a neighbor mentions the same, I feel a sprig of confidence. By the bread course, a thick warm sourdough with tangy goat milk butter and honey, I find myself relaxing. The trout in herb gribiche is fleshy and tastes like lake in the best way, and dessert—a profiterole with spruce ice cream and chaga cookie top that cracks into patches like the spots on an amanita—offers an almost musical experience of bliss.

By the time guests sigh and lean back, the woods outside the windows are black. The nearest neighbors are more than a howl’s reach away. Rebecca did a 12-day silent retreat “in order to be able to work here—because one struggles with one’s mind,” she remarks of the Inn’s isolation, gliding to the table with postprandial tea. A guest inquires if she has any decaf coffee. “No the fuck we do not,” she says.

I sleep outside by choice, full-bellied in two sleeping bags, and wake to daylight in a shell of ice.

By first breakfast—banana-walnut bread with salt and butter—the guests are familiar with each other. They’re midwestern, foodies, adventurous—two retired couples, a pair of restaurant owners, and a data scientist and millennial geriatrician from Madison, Wisconsin. Chef Lane bustles in the kitchen, answering questions and offering guidance on the wood-fired sauna. They’re slim and soft-spoken, with a teal moth tattooed on their neck, wings filling the open collar of their tucked-in wool flannel. In a minute they stir, scoop, plate, taste, give hiking suggestions, and brush Shih Tzu Clemmie’s eyebrows up with their hand, securing them with plastic barrettes. Second breakfast is tacos on green tortillas, tinged with weeds picked that week.

The day is food and leisure; some folks wander to the Sturgeon River, descending a trailless slope, while others knit, hike, or read. I sit briefly in the loft, overhearing snippets of conversation. “One time I got stung by a hornet on my butt cheek and [redacted] sucked all the venom out of me,” someone remarks. “That was the most romantic thing he’s ever done.” Later, thoughtful: “My tapeworm’s the only one who understands me.”

When guests stay too long in the sauna, Lane worries. “Do you think they passed out?” they murmur. “Maybe they’re cooking.”

Lane says that guests at Milkweed fall on a spectrum: on one extreme, foodies who rarely step outdoors, and at the other, outdoorsfolk who—like myself—“have never even had a tasting menu.” It’s Milkweed that brings them together.

As an adventurer, I’m often in the position of enticing people outside, and it can be a hard sell. Not because the highs aren’t great, but because folks fear the lows: bugs, cold, bears, isolation, toilet paper made of leaves. And yet here’s Milkweed, pulling magic: calling new people into the Northwoods, not in spite of discomfort, but for pursuit of pleasure alone.

Lunch starts with a salad of fennel and carrot two ways (shaved raw, and blanched and marinated in lemon), moose garum and egg white aminos with marinated white beans and garnished with chamomile. The flavor is multisensory, euphoric; I feel it in my arms. Something’s sweet on my tongue, and tart on the sides of my mouth, and there’s a tinge of smoke, too, which surprises me.

“We fed the moose firewood,” says cooking resident Jade. She’s joking, but she might as well not be, because I swear it’s all there: the soil, the rain, the antlers, the trees. And when it hits me, I almost laugh from the revelation: foraged food isn’t just about bringing people into wildness. It’s about bringing wildness into our very mouths.

We can—we do—have nature inside us, even in the most conservative sense of the word: wilderness as nonhuman, nature as beyond control. What’s a tapeworm if not a reminder that our bodies are ecosystems, too? But this place, this cooking, this food—it turns fear into pleasure. Savoring a wild lion’s mane mushroom is no less an engagement with wildness than spotting one in the woods, and it is—in a tactile way—more accessible to most.

I’m not proud to realize that my lack of engagement with good food was, in minuscule part, because I thought myself above it. Because, while I savor comfort, I’ve always prided myself on enduring its lack, and I have in me some Puritan sense that suffering for a goal gives you greater pride. I have struggled in my life to let myself be purely content, and maybe food represents that: it turns a need into a gift. I’ve spent decades chasing wilderness, when it could always be right here: on my plate, in my mouth, in the animal body that I am.

The post How Milkweed Inn Challenged My Idea of Food appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.

I spent most of my twenties single, and eventually started to believe (happily) that I might be a lone wolf for the rest of my life. Which wasn’t a terrible proposition: I was (and am) surrounded by incredible people, and lead a joyful life full of adventure. Namely, long days in the backcountry, on my skis, on my feet, or on my mountain bike. I loved being able to do exactly what I wanted, when I wanted. Then, I fell in love.

My boyfriend is incredible, and in so many ways a great match for me. He loves to bike, ski, fly-fish, and camp. But the trouble is, he also loves bait- fishing, ATVs, dirtbikes, snowmobiles, and giant diesel trucks. When it comes to the activities we share—like mountain biking, for instance—he’d rather hop on a lift and descend something gnarly at mach speed in the front country, then camp in his truck. I’d rather strap some bike bags on my frame and pedal 40 miles to camp in the alpine.��

We’ve been able to find common ground on a lot of this—we’ll ride at a bike park one day, then ride an alpine epic the next—but what I just can’t get behind is the gas-guzzling, loud-as-hell, erosion-causing motorsports. That, and the big truck, which he does use for towing, but still feels wildly unnecessary, dangerous for pedestrians and cyclists, and bad for the planet. We’re both liberal, but this feels like almost a political or ethical divide.��

I’ve come around a lot in the last few years. When I went hunting for the first time, it really opened my eyes to the beauty of something that I used to think was wrapped up in machismo and domination. But I just don’t think I’m going to have a spiritual awakening about ATVs and motorcycles. In fact, they kind of give me the ick. He’s so excited to share that part of his life with me, and I want to support him (or at least understand the appeal). What’s a leave-no-trace gal with a brap-brap boyfriend to do?��

When I told my friend about your problem, he sighed and said, “Why are people so precious?”

I disagree with my friend’s judgment. I don’t think you’re being particularly precious. You’re not writing because you want to dump your boyfriend over his obnoxious, noisy-ass motorsports. You’re writing because you want to support him. You don’t want to yuck his yum. And that makes all the difference.

In other words, kudos. Finding love is rare. You don’t want to lose it over something that’s ultimately symbolic.

But wait, readers might be thinking. Motorsports aren’t symbolic! They do guzzle gas! They can cause erosion! Big trucks are more dangerous to pedestrians!

Sure. But you know what else guzzles fossil fuels? Plane travel. You know what else is dangerous to pedestrians? Driving when you’re overtired. But while it would be awfully surprising to hear someone suggest that a relationship is incompatible because one partner, say, takes unnecessary plane trips or makes long drives late at night, I wouldn’t be shocked if some judgy folks think your relationship is destined to fizzle. That’s because the difference they perceive between you and your boyfriend isn’t truly about environmentalism. (Can you say with confidence that his carbon footprint is higher than yours? All factors considered?) It’s about class.

ATVs, trucks, hunting: these things are coded rural, working class, conservative. (In large part, I suspect this is because of the urban/rural divide: is emphasized in areas with high traffic because more people means more incremental damage to trails and habitats.) I know, there are a million exceptions to these stereotypes—but there’s a reason you felt a need to state that you and your boyfriend are both liberal. The symbolic divide feels “almost ethical” not because it necessarily represents fundamental ethical differences, but because it’s coded as such. I mean—you like fly-fishing, he likes bait-fishing, and that’s supposed to represent a difference in your values? The only one who cares is the bait.

Understand that I don’t bring up class to dismiss you. These are very real forces and issues. But it makes me wonder if part of your worry is about being seen with someone who’s displaying different class signifiers than you are. If so, then noticing those dynamics might help you figure out how you really feel, what’s at stake, and what you want to do about it.

I’d recommend taking some time to figure out if there really are ethical elements to your divide. I wouldn’t date someone who drove an ATV off-trail in vulnerable ecosystems, because I’d be grossed out by their destructive behavior—but I also wouldn’t date someone who bushwhacked in vulnerable ecosystems when they know they’re supposed to stay on-trail. The problem isn’t just the vehicle, but the fundamental disrespect. Is your boyfriend careful to stay on-road, drive safely, follow guidelines, and so on? If so, those are helpful things to remember when you get the ick. Take a deep breath and repeat to yourself: “He follows noise ordinances. He follows noise ordinances.” Then hop on your bike and take a ride to clear your head.

As for how to support him, it sounds like you’ve both found amazing ways to share your love of the outdoors together, and I’d recommend letting him take the lead on some of his favorite activities, too. Don’t think of snowmobiling as a replacement for skiing; think of it as a completely different pastime, like video games or chess, that you’re trying out so you can be together. If you try an activity and end up hating it, you don’t have to do it again, but it will mean a lot to him that you gave it a go. And if you’re uncomfortable about sleeping in his truck, then as you’re drifting off in his arms, cozy and dry, you can close your eyes and pretend it’s a Subaru.

Blair Braverman writes �����ԹϺ���’s Tough Love column. As a musher, she uses an ATV frequently—although she normally has sled dogs pulling it.

The post My Boyfriend’s ATV Gives Me the Ick. How Do I Get Over It? appeared first on �����ԹϺ��� Online.