High in the thin air of Pakistan鈥檚 Karakoram Range, Christina Lustenberger paused to look up. A mere 900 feet above her, the snowcapped summit of a granite spire known as the Great Trango Tower soared to over 20,600 feet. Scaling its bulging face felt like climbing on a giant basketball, the world falling away into empty space on all sides. Her pack, pulling on her petite five-foot-six frame, was heavy with skis and climbing equipment. Her toeholds in the snow were shallow. The hanging glacier a few hundred feet to the right calved relentlessly, each time sending the energy of the place up through her feet.

She and her two expedition mates, American ski mountaineer Jim Morrison and Canadian professional skier Nick McNutt, were perched together below an enormous horizontal crevasse that stood between them and the summit like a dragon guarding a castle. They鈥檇 already been climbing mixed rock and ice for several hours. This chasm was bigger than they鈥檇 expected鈥攑robably bigger than anyone would have expected, given that this behemoth spire had only been climbed a handful of times, and only in summer. They had traveled there in April 2023. Likely no one had even thought to ski it before Lustenberger, or Lusti, as she鈥檇 been nicknamed, dreamed up this expedition.

Lusti, 39, had spent the previous decade quietly blowing open the doors of what鈥檚 possible in the mountains. The feats revealed her听as one of this generation鈥檚 great explorers, one who moves through seemingly impassable terrain in remote ranges with a combination of ski mountaineering, technical alpinism, and genuine creativity. Her racing career laid a hard-charging foundation: she skis with graceful, powerful style. If you鈥檝e never heard of her, it鈥檚 because she鈥檚 more interested in drawing improbable lines than in proclaiming her lengthening list of first descents on Instagram.

Lusti examined the problem of the crevasse. It yawned at least 25 feet wide, bisecting the full 600-foot width of the slope. To cross it would require building an anchor, belaying one of them into it to climb up the other side, then building another anchor there to create a fixed line. If they succeeded, they could possibly reach the summit that day to win an elusive prize: skiing a first descent on their first attempt.

But Lusti is as calculated as she is creative. Years ago, when the industry and her fellow skiers were just waking up to what she could do, she often thought about the inherent risk of following this path: a career-ending injury, losing friends to the mountains, the possibility of her own death and what that would mean for the people she loves. Back then there was something else, too, harder to articulate: a sudden can鈥檛-touch-the-bottom feeling听when she imagined her full potential, realizing that what she was truly capable of might be off the current map. In such terra incognita, she determined, only mastery, humility, and careful decision-making would keep her safe.

But in the months leading up to their April 2023 expedition, Lusti had been wondering whether even those cultivated qualities were enough. Her mentor, accomplished ski mountaineer Hilaree Nelson, was supposed to be here, in the Karakoram, on the team. But Nelson had been killed in a fall while skiing off the summit of 26,781-foot Manaslu, in Nepal, just five months before. The question of risk haunted Lusti anew ever since.

It was already late afternoon, leaving the trio less time than they would have liked to tackle a crux this complicated. They decided to retreat, armed now with the knowledge of the obstacles they faced.

But once she had her feet back on firm ground, the sense that the world was falling away wouldn鈥檛 disappear.

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When the SOS message beeped on Kirsten Neusch盲fer鈥檚 satellite device, she was piloting her 36-foot sailboat, Minnehaha, alone through the remote vastness of the Southern Ocean. She was two and a half months into the Golden Globe, an old-school, solo, nonstop sailing race around the world鈥攔un without use of most forms of modern technology, a challenge that many in the maritime community consider the greatest in sailing鈥攁nd she had the lead. Fellow competitor Tapio Lehtinen鈥檚 boat had suddenly sunk, leaving the Finnish sailor adrift in a tiny raft far off the tip of the African continent. Neusch盲fer changed course, sailed some hundred miles through the night, found the little raft in the huge and heaving ocean, and shared a glass of rum with Lehtinen before safely transferring him to a giant bulk carrier that had detoured from Singapore to help with the search. Then she turned the Minnehaha to the wind and kept racing.

Even after rescuing Lehtinen, Neusch盲fer retained the lead in the perilous contest, which ultimately forced 13 of 16 entrants to drop out. When she crossed the finish line in Les Sables d鈥橭lonne, France, on April 27, 2023鈥攁fter 30,000 miles and 235 days without stepping off her boat鈥擭eusch盲fer became the first woman to win a circumnavigation race, crewed or solo, that involves navigating past the three great capes at the bottom of the world.

Neusch盲fer, 40, doesn鈥檛 like the focus on her gender. She鈥檚 prouder that the win made her the first South African to win a round-the-world sailing event. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 quite a pity that the attention is due to the fact that I鈥檓 a woman rather than a sailor,鈥� she told 国产吃瓜黑料. 鈥淚 like to be on the playing ground as an equal.鈥�

But the playing ground itself isn鈥檛 equal. Historically, women were barred from working on ships, and in our time they remain wildly underrepresented in sail racing, chartering, and sail training, and on superyacht crews. Discrimination still exists; in February, French sailor Clarisse Cremer, who holds the current record for fastest woman to sail solo around the world, was dropped by her sponsor in advance of the 2024 Vend茅e Globe after she took a break from sailing to give birth to her first child. Race organizers changed the qualifying process, increasing the number of sailing hours competitors needed to complete in the year prior to the event. (She has since found a new sponsor and is working toward qualifying for the race.)

In fact, Neusch盲fer doesn鈥檛 like the spotlight, full stop. Competitors were required to send daily text message updates for race media, and hers often read merely: text. But she does acknowledge that there are positive aspects to the staggering amount of press coverage she received. 鈥淚f there are women out there who鈥檝e had a tough time getting into the sailing industry鈥攐r any industry that鈥檚 male dominated鈥攁nd they feel, 鈥楽he could do it, maybe I can also pursue my dream,鈥� then that鈥檚 a good thing,鈥� she says.

The coverage has also helped draw attention to the Golden Globe. While other major circumnavigation races鈥攍ike the Vend茅e Globe and the BOC Challenge鈥攊nvolve expensive, high-tech boats that race at high speeds, the Golden Globe hearkens back to a simpler era. The inaugural, legendarily disastrous Golden Globe was run in 1968, when nine men vied to be the first to sail solo, nonstop, around the world. Only one man finished the race. The rest sank, abandoned the journey, or, in one harrowing case, slipped into the sea in an apparent suicide. The Golden Globe was revived in 2018 and is run every four years. The course follows the same perilous route as the original: from Europe down the coast of Africa, around Africa鈥檚 Cape of Good Hope, Australia鈥檚 Cape Leeuwin, and South America鈥檚 Cape Horn, returning north along the east coast of South America, and crossing the Atlantic back to Europe. Competitors, who are barred any outside assistance, sail with much the same technology used in 1968, in small boats, navigating with paper charts and sextant, catching rain for water, and communicating by radio.

Neusch盲fer likes the Golden Globe because it鈥檚 old-school, which makes it more affordable than other sailing races. 鈥淚t鈥檚 accessible to anyone who鈥檚 interested in adventure,鈥� says Neusch盲fer, a veteran thrill seeker. She cycled the full length of Africa at age 22, riding more than 9,300 miles through jungles and across the Sahara Desert, and sailed National Geographic and BBC film crews to wildly remote locations in the Southern Ocean. When she鈥檚 alone in the calm waters of the tropics, she sometimes drops sail and jumps into the ocean, swimming away from the boat 鈥渢o get that feeling of vastness, that sense of eternity.鈥�

If the buzz around Neusch盲fer鈥檚 Golden Globe win 鈥渋nspires people to follow their dreams to whatever degree,鈥� she says, 鈥渢hen it has its worth in that.鈥�

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On the evening of April 27, as the sky darkened over the Atlantic coast of France, a 36-foot sailboat drifted slowly on a windless sea. South African sailor Kirsten Neusch盲fer, 40, stood alone at the helm of Minnehaha, whose once-white hull had gone dingy with algae. An entourage of rubber Zodiacs, motorized crafts, and other sailboats surrounded her as a welcome into the Les Sable d鈥橭lonne harbor. Their occupants were the first people she鈥檇 seen in months. She hadn鈥檛 stepped off her sailboat in 235 days.

The leisurely pace of the fleet belied the magnitude of the feat Neusch盲fer had just accomplished. When she finally crossed the finish in the full dark of night, she became the first South African to win a round-the-world sailing event, and the first woman to win a circumnavigation race via the three great capes, crewed or solo.

And the Golden Globe is no average sailing race.

Where modern circumnavigation races like the Vendee Globe, BOC Challenge, and Whitbread Round-the World involve expensive, high-tech boats that race at high speeds and can evoke an elitist image of sail racing, the Golden Globe has only been held three times, and hearkens back to a simpler era. Competitors sail small boats, navigate with paper charts and sextant, catch rain for water, hand-write their logs, communicate by radio, and cannot accept outside assistance. The original race was run in 1968 when nine men vied to be the first to sail solo, without stopping, around the world. No one even knew if a boat could survive 30,000 miles straight at sea, or what might happen to the mind of a sailor alone for so long.

Only one man finished. Twenty-nine-year-old Robin Knox-Johnston sailed back into Falmouth Harbor, in southern England, nearly a year after he鈥檇 left it. Along the journey, his water tanks polluted, the sails tore, and the self-steering broke. The radio malfunctioned a month and a half in, and his only contact was sightings from other ships to confirm he was still racing. The other eight competitors sank or abandoned the journey, most in spectacular fashion. Bernard Moitessier, the favored winner, slingshot a message onto the deck of a passing ship that he was abandoning the Western world for Tahiti. Donald Crowhurst sailed in circles while transmitting fake radio reports to fool the world into believing he was winning, then slipped into the ocean in an apparent suicide. The Golden Globe was deemed a voyage for madmen and it was not repeated.

It was only revived in 2018, and it鈥檚 a retro race in every way. The course follows the same dangerous route as the original race: from Europe down the coast of Africa, under the three great capes where the infamously violent Southern Ocean roils unobstructed by land, before returning northward along South America. Racers stop at a series of three gates along the way鈥揕anzarote in the Canary Islands, Cape Town in South Africa, Storm Bay in Tasmania鈥搕o drop film. But they 诲辞苍鈥檛 leave their boats, making the race nonstop over the course of several months. Many in the marine community call it the greatest challenge in sailing. The 2018 race delivered its share of adventure: daring rescues of fellow competitors dismasted in a cyclone, a massive rogue wave that somersaulted one boat and left it slowly sinking three days鈥� voyage from the nearest help.

Neusch盲fer finished sixth place to the first race gate in Lanzarote, The Canary Islands. But she soon cruised into the leading fleet to arrive second to the Cape Town, South Africa, gate. By day 164 of the race, 12 of the 16 entrants had dropped out or been forced to quit due to equipment failures, and Neusch盲fer was first to make it around Cape Horn. She outran a storm and was barely able to speak through frozen lips on her weekly check-in call with race headquarters. Even after she sailed 100 miles through the night to rescue fellow racer Tapio Lenin, from Finland, who radioed for help after his boat suddenly sank in the Southern Ocean, Neusch盲fer retained the lead. Over the last days of the race, Indian Abhilash Tomy tailed Neusch盲fer in a tossup for first, until it became apparent on April 26 that Tomy would be unable to close the gap.

Throughout the race, Neusch盲fer appeared uninterested in spotlighting her performance. Her communications were terse; competitors were required to send daily text messages for race media, and Neusch盲fer鈥檚 often read only: Text. When race founder Don McIntyre asked her how she felt at having become the first woman to win a nonstop circumnavigation race, she said, 鈥淚 entered as a sailor, but it doesn鈥檛 change the fact that I鈥檓 a woman so… great,鈥� and trailed off, appearing at a loss for more to say about it.

Jean-Luc Van den Heede, the 76-year-old French sailor who won the 2018 Golden Globe, says that such a challenge doesn鈥檛 discriminate on gender. The fact that a woman had yet to win it is largely due to the fact that women in sail racing are still rare; consider that throughout the vast majority of history, women were barred from working on sea ships at all. Van den Heede was on hand to welcome Neusch盲fer to Les Sable d鈥橭lonne. 鈥淚n this kind of race,鈥� he told me, 鈥渢here鈥檚 no difference to me between a man and woman.鈥�

Neusch盲fer is no newcomer to improbable solo pursuits. When she was 22 years old, she cycled the full length of Africa: over 9,000 miles through jungles and the Sahara Desert. She鈥檚 an experienced Southern Ocean sailor who鈥檚 taken National Geographic and BBC film crews to wildly remote South Georgia Island鈥攖he lonely landmass that Ernest Shackleton sailed to, then famously crossed on foot to secure aid听 for his stranded men after his ship Endurance was crushed in sea ice. She says that, while solo sailing in the calm water of the tropics, she鈥檒l sometimes drop sail and jump into the ocean, swimming away from the boat 鈥渢o get that feeling of vastness, that sense of eternity.鈥� Golden Globe race organizers have called her a 鈥渞eal loner, reminiscent of Bernard Moitessier鈥�, the sailor from the first Golden Globe who abandoned the race for the tropics

Neusch盲fer鈥檚 not the first groundbreaking female in solo sailing or racing. In 1988, Australian Kay Cottee was the first to circumnavigate solo, nonstop, and unassisted via the Southern Ocean. The following year, Tracy Edwards assembled the first all-female crew in the Whitbread Round the World Race also via the capes. In 2005, Brit Ellen MacArthur became the fastest person to sail solo nonstop around the world, and in 2012 at 16 years old, Laura Dekker was the youngest person to circumnavigate alone.

And in 2018, at 29, Brit Susie Goodall became the first woman to race the Golden Globe. Goodall鈥檚 well-publicized status as the only woman, particularly when the circumstances of her rescue after her boat was pitchpoled in the Southern Ocean abruptly flipped the public narrative around her from lone heroine to damsel in distress. The situation also highlighted the few roles women have traditionally been allowed to occupy in cultural narratives.

Of Neuschafer鈥檚 win, Goodall says, 鈥淪he鈥檚 made history. And that鈥檚 amazing. But what she鈥檚 done also speaks for itself. The sea doesn鈥檛 care if you鈥檙e a man or a woman. Anyone finishing a race like that is amazing.鈥�

Some would argue that we鈥檙e past the point of needing to label female accomplishments and firsts; that rather than leveling the existing playing field, such emphasis only serves to create a separate one. And as women鈥檚 accomplishments stack up, it can seem as though barriers to entry and skewed participation levels for women in the outdoors have been all but eliminated.

But just in February, French sailor Clarisse Cremer, who holds the current record for fastest woman to sail solo around the world, was dropped by her sponsor in her 2024 bid for the Vendee Globe circumnavigation race after she gave birth to her first child, and 鈥渁fter race organizers introduced a rule change that penalized her for taking maternity leave,鈥� .

Katie Gaut, a sailor out of Bellingham, Washington who鈥檚 had her captain鈥檚 license for twenty years and teaches women to sail, watched the progress of the Golden Globe in 2018 particularly to follow Goodall and did the same with Neusch盲fer. 鈥淚鈥檝e been in the marine and sailing industry practically my whole adult life,鈥� Gaut said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 so male-dominated and there are very few women in boating, much less sailing. I know how hard it is just to get a sailing job locally. So watching those women do what they do at that level… I can鈥檛 imagine how many obstacles they had to surpass to get where they鈥檙e at.鈥�

Gaut watched the live feed of Neusch盲fer crossing the finish line. It brought her to tears. 鈥淚t鈥檚 empowering for myself, for every little girl, for everyone out there that of course women are capable, and they can beat the guys. We鈥檝e just never gotten the chance because there are too many hurdles to even get to the start line.鈥�

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Our little rubber Zodiac boat听wove around icebergs eight stories high and entered a fjord flanked by high mountain basins. Jagged peaks听called nunataks听rose 5,000 feet into the Arctic clouds, forming a skyline to rival any Patagonia silhouette. Our native east Greenland听guide, Julius Nielson, cut the motor and pointed to two fleeting spouts of water to our left. A humpback whale breached, her calf surfacing beside her a second later. Drifting beside their rhythmic rising, our small group was awed into silence.

But it was far from quiet on these northern waters. The explosive breath of the two creatures echoed against the intermittent thundering created by restless tidewater glaciers听and another sound: the soft crackling of thousand-year-old air bubbles streaming to the surface, released from icebergs broken off from the vast Greenland ice sheet.

I noticed tears falling down my cheeks. This place had staggered me.

I was boating through Sermilik Fjord as part of a trip with , a company that specializes in responsible adventure travel. Once a relatively obscure spot on the globe, Greenland has been making headlines lately for both trivial reasons () and consequential ones. Its听ice听sheet听is melting at an alarming rate. But those science-heavy climate-change stories often fail to convey the magnitude of this place. Even as someone who considers myself a conscious environmentalist鈥攈aving gotten a master鈥檚 degree in environmental studies and spent the past decade doing advocacy work鈥攖his in-person experience made me want to enact more serious change than any article or statistic has inspired.

So when I was sitting in the Reykjavik airport in Iceland on the way home and saw an article from pop听up in my feed about how the best thing we can all do to combat climate change is stop traveling, I couldn鈥檛 help but feel irked. It听was spurred in part by a recent that found that the environmental impact of tourism is responsible for 8听percent of global emissions听from transport, shopping, and food. (It should be noted that calculate air travel as only 2 to 2.5 percent of global emissions.) The piece was authored听by an established travel writer who鈥檚 already gotten to see the world, and it was essentially telling people that they should feel guilty for doing the same.听Frankly, it pissed me off.

Not only that, but it missed an important point. Travel is what opens our eyes to what鈥檚 at risk鈥攆rom fragile ecosystems and disappearing wildlife to warming oceans and people struggling鈥攁nd inspires听us to fight for it. Could seeing a place actually be worth the 8听percent of global emissions? Especially when that number, while not insignificant, seems diminutive next to the for our buildings and homes听or the . In fact, mounting studies show that tourism plays a big role in preservation of the natural world.

The research on how travel has a positive effect on conservation is still relatively new, and one of the most compelling ways to measure it quantitatively is through people鈥檚 willingness to pay to see and conserve our environment. 鈥淒ollar value is the best way to turn heads to show that nature is valuable,鈥� says Court Whelan, director of sustainability for Natural Habitat 国产吃瓜黑料s. A from the World Travel and听Tourism Council shows that wildlife tourism generates five times more revenue than illegal wildlife poaching worldwide. Thanks to tourism, an elephant is than dead; India鈥檚 tiger population has increased in major part because a single wild tiger is in tourism; and several experts agree that gorillas are right now because of tourism. Other similar studies abound for pandas, one-horned rhinos, wolves, polar bears, and other species at risk.

鈥淭here鈥檚 no amount of PowerPoints or David Attenborough specials or magazine articles that come even close to having a personal experience with the things we鈥檙e protecting,鈥澨齭ays James Sano, vice president of travel, tourism, and conservation for the听, which protects wildlife and vulnerable places and communities.听鈥淧eople can read about Glacier National Park, but that doesn鈥檛 hold a candle to someone actually going there.鈥� Those personal experiences, at destinations听like Glacier鈥攚hose namesakes are melting so fast that 听it will have to be renamed鈥攕pur new behaviors toward conservation, and the WWF has the data to prove it. 鈥淭ravelers contribute [money]听at significantly higher levels to our conservation work, on the order of 27 times more compared to those who 诲辞苍鈥檛 travel,鈥� Sano says about those registered with the company鈥檚 membership program.

Not only can travel help enact change on a personal level, but it can initiate change on听a federal level, too. Once governments see how many tourism dollars are going into their natural attractions, they often realize the economic viability in preserving them.听鈥淢any countries know that without natural resources and cultural resources, tourism doesn鈥檛 work,鈥� says Casey Hanisko, president of the , citing recent efforts in Jordan and Japan.听鈥淚n听Jordan, the development of the Jordan Trail as a tourism asset focused on adventure travel has听ensured that the land and communities around it are protected,鈥� says Hanisko. Meanwhile, in Japan, 鈥渨hile its cultural appreciation for nature makes it more naturally focused on preservation, with almost 30 percent of its lands protected, its aging population has made the country more focused on adventure-tourism development, to support a need to bring in international visitors to replace their declining domestic-tourism market.鈥�

In Greenland,听out on Sermilik as we followed in the ripples left behind by the whales, Natural Habitat鈥檚 Nielson told us that this fjord used to freeze solid in winter with sea ice, making a nearly seamless connection between his village of Tiniteqilaaq and the glaciers descending from the ice sheet across the channel. That ice sheet is听the second largest in the world, behind Antarctica, and accounts for the vast majority of the polar ice cap. It鈥檚 two miles thick at its center听and stretches 1,500 miles north to south, covering 80 percent of Greenland.

But Sermilik no longer freezes in winter, Nielson said. And this past summer, scientists measured unprecedented melt of the ice sheet while watching parts of its center . Most of the icebergs we threaded through broke from the Helheim Glacier, just north, which has been calving from its sister, the Midgard Glacier, that seals off the fjord to the east. Neilson relayed a conversation he had last week with a sailboat captain who has听long given tours to this isolated region and believes that in ten years the Midgard will be gone completely, that he鈥檒l be able to sail straight through the fjord to the ocean. Nielson thinks it鈥檚 more like seven years.

As we passed by these ancient pieces of ice devolving into sea, the low clouds muted everything to gray. After my eyes adjusted, I was struck by a kaleidoscope of color, with each layer of ice taking on a different shade. Then the clouds suddenly parted听and revealed a bright blue sky that put our surroundings into new focus.

Watching the clouds part, I was struck by a feeling of heartbreaking clarity, similar to that of understanding something fully for the first time. It鈥檚 this moment that Sam Ham, a professor of communication psychology at the University of Idaho, identifies as the transformative lynchpin. Ham, who has been studying environmental interpretation in tourism for nearly 20 years,听explains that it鈥檚 not just the act of travel that will lead to measurable transformation听but the interpretation of the experience.

Ham pioneered this concept when he consulted with adventure-cruise company in 1998 on its small-boat Gal谩pagos Islands program. In 1997, owner Sven Lindblad had a hunch that if the company asked its passengers to donate to local conservation efforts at the same time they were asked to tip the crew at the end of the journey, they鈥檇 jump at the chance. Lindblad raised $50,000 that year听but believed the sum听could have been听much higher. He brought in Ham, who designed a new approach that was all about helping clients interpret Charles Darwin and the animals听and connecting passengers to the environment. At no point were travelers asked to give, but donations to the 听increased by a staggering 270 percent the next year.

Upon returning home from our close-up with the impacts of climate change in Greenland, my fellow traveler听Kim Borovik听found herself imagining the flight path of an aging banana she bought in the tiny Tasiilaq grocery store while there, leading her to a habit of basing her produce purchases off the origin labels in her own supermarket. Another new friend from the trip, Linnet Tse, began conscious attempts to reduce food waste, which of global emissions,听by being more strategic with purchases and eating out less. As for me, I dove headfirst into the rabbit hole that is carbon offsetting. I鈥檇 never offset my travel before, but now I wanted to figure out how to do it for my upcoming flights听to Tanzania.

I found numerous companies that will calculate travel emissions and offer projects that travelers can invest in to offset their trips. I decided to use , a Swiss nonprofit that鈥檚 certified with strict third-party auditors like CDM, Gold Standard, and Plan Vivo. The website provides options for calculating individual parts of your trip, from a flight to a car ride, as well as听trip鈥檚 entire carbon footprint. Carbon emissions are measured in metric tons, so offsets are measured in equivalent reductions of metric tons, which are priced anywhere from . My flights from Missoula, Montana, to the Kilimanjaro airport via Amsterdam weighed in at 4.7 tons of CO2, which translates to a cost of $135, a shockingly small price to pay and in this case went to helping small farmers with reforestation in Nicaragua.听

The effectiveness of carbon offsetting has seen , which is why it鈥檚 crucial to choose projects with third-party certifications. But spending my money on programs听like reforestation, renewable energy, and听water-filtration systems for villages in developing countries, so that people 诲辞苍鈥檛 have to cut wood and burn it to sanitize drinking water, are all worthy add-ons in听an effort to be听a more conscious traveler in general, whether that means flying less or听more thoughtfully.

Not every travel experience will be transformative or lead to behavior change, and offsetting flights doesn鈥檛 give听us carte blanche to turn up the taps, but the answer is not to stop traveling altogether. In fact, nowadays, there are as many answers as there are innovative solutions. One of my answers is understanding the impact, both bad and good, of the trips we choose to take. When that understanding leads to concrete steps toward听investing in climate-change solutions, or when our valuing a place or species through tourism is a driving force in conserving it, then yes, travel is worth the carbon footprint.

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Jeff Scott鈥檚 life as he knew it ended on a bluebird spring afternoon at听Revelstoke Mountain Resort听in southeastern British Columbia. On the last day of the ski season in 2010, the then 25-year-old听hit a roller gap he鈥檇 been eyeing all morning. He came up short, landed flat, and was knocked out cartwheeling.听The crash left him a C5鈥�6 quadriplegic, with no feeling below his collarbones or in his triceps,听and limited hand movement.

Scott would no longer lead his wildland firefighter team in the summers or spend his winters exploring the backcountry on his sled and snowboard. He鈥檇 snowboarded since he was a kid in Burns Lake, in northern B.C., and started pushing limits on drops and speed in the relatively undiscovered big-mountain landscape around Revelstoke in its early days as a resort town. 鈥淭he mountains are a part of who I am,鈥� Scott says. 鈥淚 grew up with them being my playground. That freedom and exploration that the backcountry represents鈥︹�� He pauses for a long moment. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 ever have that returned. But maybe you can at least experience the feeling of bottomless powder.鈥�

That鈥檚 why, eight years after his accident, 33-year-old Scott听has become a pioneer on one of the last frontiers of snow: backcountry adaptive skiing.

Anyone trying to get into sit听skiing will encounter scant resources and abundant obstacles鈥攁nd that鈥檚 before heading off-piste. Adaptive skiers can鈥檛 just walk into the ski shop and choose a sit ski, because听there are few companies making such equipment, and it听often needs to be customized to the level and听type of injury. James Eger, head of , likens it to ski boots, which should be well fit and without play to best control the ski. 鈥淪ame with a sit ski: it should fit snug on the body to the level of the athlete鈥檚 ability,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f the injury level is low on the spine and you have [the use of] abs, chest, and back muscles, then the sit ski probably doesn鈥檛 have much of a back, and the skier can muscle that around. If the injury level is high, you need a lot more of it attached to you.鈥�

This need for specific performance based on body shape and balance points, unique to mobility levels, is also why there鈥檚 no market for sit-ski rentals. Adaptive ski programs have become common at听most major resorts in the last two decades, and some of the biggest such听programs, like those in Crested Butte, Colorado,听and Park City, Utah, sometimes have enough equipment听in their kit to outfit an adaptive athlete with a sit ski鈥攊f it matches the specifics of the user鈥檚 needs. That鈥檚 a big if.

Sit skis can range from $3,000 to $12,000 for advanced customization. Some organizations subsidize this cost for people looking to overcome this massive barrier to entry鈥攍ike the , which听promotes the progression of adaptive adventure (Scott became its executive director a few years after his accident).听

Scott made his way back onto the snow a year and a half after his injury, working through a steep learning curve.听鈥淭o be put in a body that doesn鈥檛 move the same way and learn a new sport was straight-up challenging,鈥澨齢e says. 鈥淛ust the physics of it is complicated: In not having triceps, I can鈥檛 recover from any fall on my own. I have to be very calculated in my movements. And in not having sensation, I have to anticipate movements, because I can鈥檛 always react in time.鈥�

Scott鈥檚 injury is high on his spine, and because of the limited feeling in his hands, he can鈥檛 hold outriggers for balance and direction the way many sit skiers can. He drives the ski鈥檚 motion with his upper body, using his arms as rudders; another person skis behind him, holding a pair of handlebars on Scott鈥檚 customized sit ski, taking cues from his movements. That person is often Eger, one of Scott鈥檚 partners听in expanding the landscape of adaptive skiing, who听rides听a pair of antiquated tele skis that hang off his boots at improbable angles for landing the jumps that he and Scott favor.

The pair met in 2013 when Eger relocated to Revelstoke from Crested Butte, where he鈥檇 volunteered with the Adaptive Sports Center. Eger began running lessons for Revelstoke Adaptive around the same time that Scott took the helm as executive director of the Live It Love It Foundation. With their shared taste for extreme adventure, they partnered Revelstoke Adaptive and the Foundation to build a big-mountain sit-ski camp at Revelstoke听Mountain Resort (RMR). Whereas most adaptive ski programs are teaching more beginner to intermediate levels on a regular basis, the RMR camp听teaches athletes to expand their comfort zones in the mountain鈥檚 steeps, cliffs, and famously deep powder.听

But Scott still yearned for the backcountry.听Existing models for getting a sit skier into the backcountry generally involve听snowcats, helicopters, or occasionally sleds if the level of injury permits. 鈥淚鈥檝e done these scenarios over the years, and it鈥檚 always a major production,鈥� says Eger. 鈥淵ou get someone from their wheelchair into the cat, load the sit ski, load everyone else, get the ski off, unload the person, fit them up in their sit ski, make sure they鈥檙e sorted, and redo it all for the next run.鈥� Devoted friends have carried skiers into the backcountry on their shoulders听or lined them up听snowfields on ropes. Some programs, like , use plywood ramps and several volunteers to muscle a sit skier into a cat while still in the ski, to at least eliminate听the听step of transferring an athlete in and out of the sit ski.

But the bottom line in every case is that those methods are exhausting and time-consuming, and the adaptive skier has to rely heavily on others to move them around. The biggest problem, in Scott鈥檚 view: there鈥檚 usually only one sit skier in a group of able-bodied skiers,听and with so much energy and attention focused on them, it robs the adventure of any feeling of normalcy.

Scott came face to face with these problems on his first day in the backcountry after the injury; one friend had a mini cat, and several others joined in to take Scott on a few runs in the mountains above Revelstoke. 鈥淚 was blown away at the lengths my friends were willing to go to,鈥� he says. 鈥淜nowing that not everyone had friends with those kinds of resources or experience was disheartening.鈥澨�

He wanted to figure out听how to get a sit skier easily into the backcountry听and鈥攂etter yet鈥攄o it with a group of sit skiers to normalize the adventure.

The solution he envisioned was a one-of-a-kind trailer that sat with its belly on the snow. It would have a flat ramp so sit skiers could simply slide into it at ground level on their own with minimal assistance, and it would close听into a tailgate to secure skiers inside while in motion. It would be towed behind a snowcat and hold up to four sit skiers. Over the course of three years,听Scott raised funds through Live It Love It for the design and build. It finally emerged in early 2017, looking听like a teardrop trailer on steroids, with sled skis instead of wheels, aluminum siding with open-air windows, a windshield to protect听against any snow kicked up by the cat, and a ground-level ramp that closed into a tailgate. He christened it the Lunchbox.

Its maiden mission was slated for that April at Mustang Powder Cat Skiing in the heart of B.C.鈥檚听Monashee Mountains. Scott had pitched the idea听to the operation the year before, choosing Mustang听for its location, noteworthy variety of terrain, and听generosity in donating听time, guides, and lodge space. Scott assembled a team of athletes to help him test the Lunchbox: Samson Danniels, the 2012 Winter X Games mono-ski cross gold medalist who has figured out how to surf, speed-fly, and snowmobile since breaking his back in 2005; Josh Dueck, the famed Paralympian who was the first to pull off a backflip in a sit ski; and Amanda Timm, the first woman to sit-ski the听expert-only Delirium Dive terrain at Banff鈥檚 Sunshine Village ski resort.

Despite last-minute rigging with plywood and wrenches听and the threat of high mid-April freezing levels that threatened to abort the entire mission, the trailer performed without a hitch. The sit skiers shredded several lines through bottomless powder听with an efficiency that represented a new independence of movement.

The听test was deemed such a smashing success that Scott took the Lunchbox public听this year for a three-day cat-ski trip at Mustang. Live It Love It raised funds,听and Mustang kept costs low so the trip would be free听for participants (a regular three-day cat-skiing trip at Mustang costs $3,500). Live It Love It听ran a lottery to give seats away, and sit skiers could also win one through 2018鈥檚 Live It Love It Send It adaptive competition at RMR鈥攖he first-ever big-mountain adaptive competition in the world, to Scott鈥檚 knowledge. The grand prize was a three-day trip to Mustang with a seat in the Lunchbox the following week.听听

鈥淒emocratizing backcountry access for adaptive athletes is a huge factor in the operation of the Lunchbox,鈥� says Scott. 鈥淎nyone can take the big-mountain camp at RMR, enter the competition, and win a seat.听Or they can enter a lottery to win a free seat. In my mind, that鈥檚 the epitome of openness.鈥�

There鈥檚 one other, more subtle, factor that differentiates Scott鈥檚 project from existing models听like snowcats, helicopters, and sleds.听鈥淭he real glue that we didn鈥檛 even think about coming into it is the time we get in the lodge after skiing,鈥� says Dueck. 鈥淎nyone who鈥檚 had a good day in the mountains knows that the stoke level is like a runner鈥檚 high, with a clarity of mind that allows for profound realizations. Sharing that is what mountain culture is all about: what nature provides as a teacher that makes us better people for it.鈥�

That feeling is听even more profound as an adaptive skier, Dueck explains. 鈥淭he backcountry is about experiencing something they never thought possible. There鈥檚 still a component of fear, but you find a way to get down the mountain听and realize your capacity for overcoming challenges. You come out with an elevated perspective, so that now some of those everyday challenges in life seem a little more manageable.鈥�

Scott is already moving on to his vision of creating the first-ever adaptive-backcountry competition, where sit skiers find a zone, pick their lines from the bottom, and ski them, all rider judged.

鈥淏ackcountry adventure is about progression,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what the Lunchbox can offer. It opens it up for sit skiers to go as far as they can go. We鈥檙e blazing trail, and the ideas are endless from here.鈥�

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When I moved from Los Angeles to Montana in my mid-twenties, I became well acquainted with the clich茅s of mountain-town dating, went through a period of swinging singledom, and then met the man I thought I might marry. Years later, we became each other鈥檚 greatest heartbreak. I emerged in my thirties to the same small-town dating scene of my twenties and found it no longer fit what I was looking for.

Unlike much of the ski-town crowd, I 诲辞苍鈥檛 live in a van or a tiny home (although I鈥檝e been known to live out of the back of my truck for weeklong stints). I鈥檓 a classic weekend warrior, generally working full-time as a freelance writer and marketer. I like to have money in my bank account and an adult home, and I tend to choose a nice bottle of wine over a night at the bar these days. I chase winter, but I put down roots where I land instead of blowing through in a hedonistic storm. I want a mountain man who鈥檚 similarly mature, adventurous, and self-sufficient (did I mention employed?).

I鈥檇 like to think depth in a relationship and the mountain lifestyle aren鈥檛 mutually exclusive. But when the pool of single men is notoriously overcrowded with Peter Pans and 40-year-old ski bums, the search for a mature, healthy relationship starts to resemble a quest for the holy grail.

And so I set out on my quest in ski towns across the world in search of real romance. These are my dating dispatches from a year traveling through three different mountain locales.

The Hazardous Ski Lift Meet-Cute

Missoula, Montana

What It鈥檚 Known For: More nonprofits per capita than literally anywhere else; ; and Snowbowl, the local ski hill with unpredictable southern exposure and the best Bloody Mary around.

The Scene: I鈥檇 spent the fall of 2015 in Missoula without meeting anyone of note, and I was ready to give up. Enter winter and Snowbowl鈥檚 aging two-person ski lift, which has been sneakily matchmaking the locals for years with its interminable rides and frequent breakdowns.

One day in December, I yelled, 鈥淪ingle!鈥� and hopped on the lift with another single dude. We were well into acquainting ourselves on the slow ascent when the lift lurched and stopped abruptly. As we hung there for 45 minutes, waiting for our death-defying rappel rescue by the ski patrol, we talked about work, passions, and life goals.

Before we鈥檇 even been lowered to the ground, I decided I would ask him out. He beat me to it.

The Outcome: Bachelor #1 and I dated for several months. Over the course of this relationship, I became deeply familiar with the iconic commitment-phobia of lifelong ski bums. This category of man can typically be found on the ski hill or in the backcountry for as many days as there鈥檚 snow. He doesn鈥檛 work in winter, holding down summer seasonal jobs long past his twenties to fund his powder habit. While Bachelor #1 bucked many of the common stereotypes, he was unable to fit anything (or anyone) into the ski bachelor lifestyle he鈥檇 been living for so long. I ended it in favor of finding someone for whom I would be a priority (and in favor of chasing winter).

The Swiping Experiment

Wanaka, New Zealand

What It鈥檚 Known For: Mellow vibe, Treble Cone鈥檚 big lines, and badass Kiwis.

The Scene: I left Missoula in the spring of 2016 to chase winter in New Zealand and landed in the paradise that is Wanaka. In the spirit of adventure, I decided to try dating apps for the first time. I quickly encountered all the classic hazards of small-town Tindering, including repeated awkward encounters in our only grocery store with that dude I accidentally Superliked and running into all three of my most recent matches in the lift line.

I met Bachelor #2 when I commented on the speed-flying photo in his profile. He offered to take me out, and I was booked for my first full-day outdoor Tinder date.

We drove to the Old Man Range and sledded around in search of an appropriate learning slope. He gave me a quick safety talk on how to operate the wing, and I took off on my first attempt鈥攑romptly crashing after about 45 seconds in the air. I hit the snow laughing, lucky not to have injured myself spectacularly. The wing wasn鈥檛 so lucky: I鈥檇 grazed the only rock on the entire slope during the crash, tearing a hole in Bachelor #2鈥檚 $2,000 piece of gear and effectively closing the door on a second attempt (and a second date).

After that, I decided to expand my Tinder search into neighboring Queenstown. I matched with Bachelor #3, whose beat-up truck was a little too beat up to make it over the icy pass. He hitchhiked over to Wanaka for our first date, wearing a costume tiger onesie in the hopes that it would facilitate being picked up on the side of the road. I gave him points for guts.

The Outcome: We drove my slightly more-functional station wagon to the shores of Lake Wanaka and made dinner over a fire. We dated for the rest of my stint in New Zealand, making time for ski missions between his 50-hour-a-week startup gig and my budding freelance career. Only my expired visa interfered with what could have been an endgame romance.

The Too-Friendly Town

Revelstoke, Canada

What It鈥檚 Known For: Drool-worthy big-mountain terrain on Rogers Pass, a legendary snowpack, and 鈥檚 extreme vert.

The Scene: Revelstoke is renowned as a seasonal ski destination, its population of almost 7,000 swelling by as much as 2,000 people in winter. When I arrived there for the winter of 2017, I was in the market for a lasting relationship, but little did I know I鈥檇 be viewed as a nomadic ski bum myself.

I met Bachelor #4 at the resort. He was smart, funny, a badass skier鈥攁nd a local. We went on one of those dates that evolves from skiing to beers to dinner. In this case, it evolved into dinner with his best friends, the ski-town equivalent of meeting the parents right off the bat. However, Bachelor #4 was the male version of me: mid-thirties and looking for a lasting relationship. Ultimately, I couldn鈥檛 prove to him that I鈥檇 still be there when the snow melted, and that was that.

Shortly after, I broke my ankle in a high-speed ski crash, effectively ending my run on the Revelstoke dating scene. After all, being laid up with a broken bone is not an ideal way to meet men in a ski town. That is, until I crossed paths with Bachelor #5, one of #4鈥檚 best friends whom I鈥檇 met on that fateful dinner date.

Bachelor #5 was a recovering ski bum just trying out the professional life, and he offered to take my broken self out on his snowmobile for a sunset sled after work. Having suffered a season-ending injury of his own the previous winter, he understood my craving to get into the mountains鈥攚hether I could take turns or not. I brought Montanan IPA to share, he brought local red wine, and we had an unexpectedly awesome happy hour on the cat track.

The Outcome: The next morning, I snuck out of his house and ran smack into Bachelor #4, who was picking up #5 for a morning ski mission. I decided that while this overlap is part and parcel of mountain-town dating, it was more than I could handle鈥攁 decision that also, unfortunately, precluded me from dating about 82 percent of Revelstoke鈥檚 male population.

My quest for the holy grail of meaningful relationships is ongoing, but I refuse to let all the clich茅s of mountain-town dating win. Somewhere out there, among the 40-year-old ski bums and seasonal liftees, there鈥檚 a unicorn in ski pants looking for a dawn-patrol partner before we both head to our full-time jobs. It鈥檚 only a matter of time before we run into each other on the mountain.

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In February 2014, Wendy Fisher stood at the top of a steep chute in the Whistler backcountry, camera trained on her, as she prepared to drop into her first big line in eight years. Mike Douglas, a director for Salomon Freeski TV stood next to her. 鈥淎ny thoughts of the kids?鈥� he asked.

It was a natural question. Fisher was filming , about Fisher鈥檚 return to big-mountain skiing after taking years off to prioritize motherhood. Out loud, she said, 鈥淚鈥檝e had a few, yeah. But I can鈥檛 think about them right now. I鈥檝e got to think about me.鈥� The truth was she wasn鈥檛 focused on her two sons, ages 10 and 12, at all at that moment. 鈥淚 was thinking that I was scared again, but it was so rewarding.鈥�

Fisher is widely credited with helping to pioneer extreme skiing. An Olympian and World Cup competitor, she broke into extreme skiing during its emergence in the mid-1990s, winning championships and starring in films for Matchstick Productions and Warren Miller. Then she had her first child, Aksel, in 2005, and everything changed for her. 鈥淚 remember holding him in my arms and thinking, 鈥榃hat did I just do? I could be in Alaska skiing. I just screwed myself.鈥� Because I fell in love with my kids.鈥�

Fisher is one of only a few women in the big-mountain industry鈥攎ountaineers, pro skiers, and guides鈥攁nd one of even fewer who are raising a family. That world hasn鈥檛 allowed for much nuance in how moms are portrayed or accommodated. In 1995, when American climber , a media firestorm ensued over her choice to risk her life in the mountains as a mother. Today, popular media celebrates mountain athletes and guides who are new moms as 鈥渉aving it all,鈥� while rarely acknowledging the weight behind their decisions. Little attention is given to the realities of starting a family in the guiding and sponsored-athlete industries, where the mainstream model of motherhood doesn鈥檛 fit. As a result, women like Fisher have had to blaze their own trails.

鈥淚 always knew I wanted to be a mom, but when I was younger, I was too focused on skiing to admit I wanted it, even to myself,鈥� says Ingrid Backstrom, 39, one of most well-known freeskiers in the world. She held a common perception that once she had kids, she wouldn鈥檛 be 鈥渁llowed to do anything rad.鈥� In 2017, Backstrom had her daughter, Betty, and went on to release Lineage, a film documenting her mission to ski the top 25 lift-accessed lines in North America, traveling with her then ten-month-old.

鈥淚 thought I had to do all these things and get it out of my system before kids, because then it would be over,鈥� says Caroline George, 45, a mountain guide and pro skier based in Switzerland. 鈥淏ut life isn鈥檛 so linear. Once it鈥檚 in your system, you can鈥檛 get it out. And I never wanted to say to my daughter, 鈥業 had you and I couldn鈥檛 accomplish my dreams.鈥欌�� At 35, George realized she wanted children but resolved that having a child wouldn鈥檛 change the way she lived her life. She mountaineered halfway through her pregnancy, ski-toured all the way through it, and continues to guide now.

Fisher agrees. 鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 want my kids to hear, 鈥榊our mom used to do that,鈥欌�� she says. 鈥淚 want my boys to look up to me as a fiery skier on these big lines that people 诲辞苍鈥檛 usually expect to see women skiing.鈥� Still, Fisher says, 鈥淚t鈥檚 a weird mental thing just to decide to have kids in this industry.鈥� Most women, at the age they鈥檇 think about having kids, have worked for years to earn a certain level of credibility and training, and it鈥檚 hard to give that up.

Penny Goddard, a mountain guide and avalanche consultant based in Revelstoke, British Columbia, had her daughter in 2012, halfway through her guide training. 鈥淚 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to be a poster girl for this imaginary dream,鈥� she says. Goddard recalls a period of serious soul searching to decide whether she would even complete her training, which involved significant time, a tremendous amount of pressure, and long stints away from her daughter after giving birth. And there were financial implications: Goddard鈥檚 husband put his career on hold to take over a big share of the childcare. 鈥淚 asked myself why I wanted to do this and if my ambition was getting in the way of motherhood,鈥� she says. 鈥淣ow that those hardest years are behind me, I鈥檓 glad we did it, but it was heart-wrenchingly difficult.鈥�

Mountain guide Lilla Molnar, 46, based in Canmore, Alberta, encountered similar childcare hurdles when she had her daughter, Ella, in April 2012. But she was able to mold her place of employment, the massive Canadian Mountain Holidays guiding system, to her needs. She鈥檇 bring her infant daughter to the lodge with her during her multiweek guiding shifts, along with her mother, mother-in-law, or her husband, fellow mountain guide Marc Piche, who joined when he was off work. To Molnar鈥檚 knowledge, this had never been done before. 鈥淚 never thought, 鈥楴ow I have to change my lifestyle to suit having a baby,鈥欌�� she says. 鈥淚 looked for solutions rather than going back to the drawing board on how I would live my life.鈥�

Social media has in some ways supported that kind of attitude, giving women the freedom to blend family and big-mountain adventure while demonstrating to their employers (or, often, their sponsors) that such a thing is possible. To announce freeskier Tessa Treadway鈥檚 pregnancy in 2013, her husband, Dave, a fellow pro skier, wrote a letter to their sponsors, including Rossignol, from their unborn son鈥檚 perspective. 鈥淗i. My name is Kasper,鈥� it read. 鈥淚 want to be a skier like my mom and dad. Will you sponsor me, too?鈥� The family has been living out of their camper with their two sons for the past three years, traveling the West and . Now they can鈥檛 keep up with social media requests from resorts, guided ski operations, and lodges. 鈥淟ots of different companies want us on their team to promote skiing as a family,鈥� Tessa says. 鈥淲e鈥檝e carved out a new market for ourselves.鈥�

For athletes who make much of their living from sponsorships, the image of motherhood hasn鈥檛 been part of their brand content until fairly recently. In 2001, a rumor circulated throughout the outdoor world that The North Face had dropped pro climber Lynn Hill from its sponsorship because of her pregnancy. In fact, Hill鈥檚 contract had simply expired, but the rumor added to a climate in which female athletes were gun-shy about announcing pregnancy to their sponsors.

Jessica Hollister, director of consumer communications for The North Face, says the brand is very supportive of motherhood within its athlete team as part of a conscious move to share more images and stories of female explorers. 鈥淭hat applies to women who are getting out and pushing boundaries in all stages of their lives鈥攊ncluding becoming a parent.鈥� The brand has already featured images and films spotlighting Backstrom with her daughter. It also sponsors ski mountaineer Kit DesLauriers and big-mountain skier Hilaree O鈥橬eill, both of whom went before Backstrom in integrating motherhood into ski mountaineering careers. 鈥淎s sponsors, we owe it to them, and the sport, to recognize and honor all of their contributions,鈥� Hollister says.

鈥淐ompanies are realizing that audiences want more of a story than the image of a hot, young ripper who parties all night and shreds all day,鈥� says Izzy Lynch, a pro skier and former big-mountain competitor on the Freeride World Tour Circuit who had her son, Knox, in the spring of 2017. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e letting us grow up. I was really proud to be skiing and shooting while pregnant.鈥�

At the same time, there鈥檚 the danger that once an athlete has children, she鈥檒l fall into the default box of 鈥渕om athlete鈥� in the public perception, a phenomenon that doesn鈥檛 happen nearly as often with men. 鈥淓ver since I gave my first interview at 22, I鈥檝e been asked about having kids,鈥� says mountain guide Melissa Arnot, who, in 2016, was the first American woman to summit Everest without oxygen. 鈥淚 finally started replying that until we ask that question of men, I鈥檓 not willing to answer it.鈥� Arnot, 34, gave birth to her daughter just three months ago. 鈥淚鈥檝e been able to hold on quite tightly to my identity. The person I am is a mountain athlete, a stubborn pursuer of what鈥檚 out of the norm. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 have interest in chasing the 鈥榤om athlete鈥� persona, even though there鈥檚 a certain pressure to do that.鈥�

Regardless of public perception, some mothers do make the choice to cut back on high-risk, time-consuming adventures as part of their career. Treadway acknowledges that she鈥檚 stepped back from skiing big lines. 鈥淚f we want to ski something big, it鈥檚 easier for Dave. I鈥檓 more the primary caregiver, and he鈥檚 more the breadwinner鈥攈e鈥檒l still go out on those epic missions,鈥� she says. This was her own choice, she notes. 鈥淚 wanted to not miss out on that time in their lives and be there for my sons. And we鈥檙e promoting to people that adventure isn鈥檛 over when you have kids.鈥�

All the mothers I spoke with acknowledged that they gave no small consideration to the risk inherent in their careers鈥攕omething that lots of people who 诲辞苍鈥檛 work in the industry have opinions about. 鈥淭he activities we do can be perceived as overly risky by people who aren鈥檛 engaging in them on a daily basis, even though we鈥檙e trained for them to the highest level,鈥� Lynch says. 鈥淚f everything goes right, then it鈥檚 fine, but if something goes wrong, then I鈥檓 the negligent mom.鈥�

DesLauriers questioned whether her risk tolerance would change after having children. 鈥淲hen I was pregnant with my first,鈥� she says, 鈥淚 remember looking up at the Grand Teton and wondering if I would be the kind of parent who would get over the fear and go climb and ski something like that.鈥�

DesLauriers had already skied off the Grand twice and knew exactly what it would take. She questioned if she鈥檇 physically be able to do it after childbirth. 鈥淏ut I have always said that I play hard and I rehab hard. And coming back from pregnancy is like rehab,鈥� DesLauriers jokes. 鈥淚 trained really hard, but I could never be out for more than two hours at a time, because I was breastfeeding constantly.鈥� The day she went for the Grand, DesLauriers fed her daughter at 11 p.m., put her back to bed, started hiking at midnight, and summited at 8 a.m. 鈥淲e had to drop in whether it was soft enough or not, because I had to get back to breastfeed,鈥� she says.

Women like Treadway and her colleagues are demonstrating that there are as many ways to be a mother with a big-mountain career as there are mothers. Simplifying their stories as 鈥渉aving it all鈥� or not being a 鈥済ood enough鈥� mom doesn鈥檛 do service to the gravity that motherhood deserves, whether or not a woman decides to have children.

鈥淚 hope more people feel comfortable to make the choice that鈥檚 right for them鈥攁nd that the choice isn鈥檛 limiting,鈥� Backstrom says. 鈥淚t should be a celebration of everyone鈥檚 individual DNA and choices and less about projecting our expectations onto anyone else.鈥�

The post Kids and an Exciting Mountain Career? It’s Complicated appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

In January 2018, a helicopter lifted off the ground in British Columbia鈥檚 Purcell Mountains, leaving a knot of 11 skiers crouched in its wake. Shannon Werner stood up and led the group down the slope, tasked with finding the best powder turns鈥攁nd keeping them alive in the remote backcountry terrain.

Werner is a ski guide with the Canadian Mountain Holidays鈥搑un wilderness lodge Bobbie Burns. She works at the lodge for two weeks at a time, and each day is packed. It starts at 6:30 a.m. with a guides meeting, then she spends the next eight hours skiing up to 40,000 vertical feet; making calls about runs, conditions, heli drop-offs and pickups; managing the group; and ending at 8:30 p.m. On her days off, Werner is an avalanche forecaster with , putting in long days analyzing snowpack across the country. From the time the snow starts falling until well into spring, Werner rarely has a day off.

In the midst of all this, at 38 years old, she鈥檚 deciding whether or not to have a child.

This decision can be uniquely weighty for women who are big-mountain professionals, including mountaineers, pro skiers, and guides. These jobs are particularly rife with logistical hurdles for mothers: They are heavily male-dominated, centered on risky endeavors that require top physical fitness, and often involve multiday, potentially high-consequence missions in the backcountry. While there鈥檚 been some progress over the past few decades, women are still fighting for workplaces that 诲辞苍鈥檛 revert to the status quo of requiring them to choose motherhood or career, especially if they want to move up the ranks.

Werner is part of the (ACMG), in which only 9 percent of ski-trained certified guides are women. In its U.S. counterpart, the American Association of Mountain Guides (AMGA), 8 percent of ski guides are women. Worldwide, only 105 of the 6,937 mountain guides certified by the International Federation of Mountain Guides Association (IFMGA) are women. Forecasting programs also tend to have few women in top positions; Werner is the only woman in a full forecasting role at Avalanche Canada.

鈥淥f course [the decision to have kids] is why the numbers are smaller. It鈥檚 not about women being fit enough or strong enough or not having the right academic background,鈥� Werner says. 鈥淚 know motherhood is possible, but for me personally at this point in my career, I have to be strategic and plan it. It鈥檚 not an easy industry to just let it happen.鈥� She knows that having kids would mean major changes to her professional life.

A ski or mountain guide鈥檚 career path is a particularly intense illustration of the logistics facing any big-mountain professional. It鈥檚 a lengthy process requiring several years of dedication to top physical fitness and nearly continual stints in the backcountry during winter. For most national associations, certification involves demonstrating several years of backcountry skiing experience, belaying experience, and basic alpine climbing systems. According to , guides must also demonstrate the physical fitness to ascend and descend 4,500 vertical feet per day.

Those are just the prerequisites. Training then involves several seven- to ten-day courses and certifications, including an alpine skills course, ski guide course, avalanche training, and backcountry medical training; a one- to three-year stint as an apprentice guide; and, finally, passing a multiday guide exam to become a fully certified guide. To become an IFMGA mountain guide, candidates must complete all three certifications in rock, alpine, and ski. It can take anywhere from two to ten years to complete this process, with most guides estimating an average time of four years. And it鈥檚 difficult to take time off in the middle of the process.

Some associations have tried to develop maternity policies that fit into this long process. For example, the New Zealand Mountain Guides Association (NZMGA) has what鈥檚 called a lapsed member policy. 鈥淭his means you can hold your professional development requirements while taking a leave of absence for as long as you need,鈥� says Anna Keeling, an IFMGA-certified mountain guide who works as a trainer and examiner for NZMGA. 鈥淵ou can pick up where you left off in terms of guide exams. But the danger, of course, lies in the loss of fitness, hard skills, or confidence. You鈥檒l need to train back to proficiency.鈥� But NZMGA is unique in having such a codified policy; ACMG and AMGA 诲辞苍鈥檛 yet have formal maternity-leave policies for pregnant members or aspirants.

Beyond the lack of official policies, other obstacles remain for new mothers trying to return to this work. Once certified ski guides like Werner join a heli-ski or cat-ski operation, they鈥檙e headed up by a lead guide who directs all logistics for running the program on the mountain. It generally takes four to seven years of experience at any given operation to become a lead guide there. 鈥淚f that鈥檚 something you want to work towards, you have to be there full-time,鈥� Werner says. 鈥淪o if you got pregnant and had to leave your operation for a stint, and they didn鈥檛 find a town-based job for you for those first couple of years, you鈥檇 have to start all over at another operation鈥攁nd even if you鈥檙e an experienced guide, it would take another several years to get to lead guide.鈥�

Danyelle Magnan, a 39-year-old ACMG-certified ski guide and avalanche technician who鈥檚 training to become a full avalanche forecaster, remembers sitting down with a mentor early in her career to talk about her professional aspirations. She recalls being asked whether she planned to start a family. 鈥淎t that point, I hadn鈥檛 really thought about whether I wanted children,鈥� Magnan says. 鈥淏ut I remember them saying that if guiding were in my future, having kids would be a setback. That the ACMG certification requires a lot of commitment, and you wouldn鈥檛 want to give up something you鈥檇 worked so hard for.鈥� Magnan says that didn鈥檛 steer her away from her commitment to a big-mountain career, which was something she鈥檇 wanted to do her whole life, whereas having children has never been one of her life goals.

Both Magnan and Werner are enjoying high points in their careers, trained to the unique level of knowledge and field time required for avalanche forecasting. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e in your late thirties by the time you鈥檙e a major contributor to the industry as a pro guide or forecaster,鈥� Werner says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why the choice of starting a family absolutely steers your professional decisions. Having a child would definitely affect my career for a few years, and that鈥檚 how it should be, because I鈥檇 want to give my child and family 100 percent. But it would be a hard transition with my career.鈥�

For pro skiers, that career peak鈥攁s a formidable competitor, as coveted talent in ski films and brand content, and for expeditions鈥攇enerally happens smack in the middle of prime childbearing years.

Lexi DuPont, 29, is a pro skier sponsored by Eddie Bauer and K2 who鈥檚 been featured in films like and . 鈥淚 have friends who are getting married and having kids, and I haven鈥檛 even touched my full potential. Every season, I get better. I 诲辞苍鈥檛 want to interrupt that constant progression; I want to maximize it as long as possible.鈥�

Several female pros are on the same page with waiting to have children for physical reasons. 鈥淧regnancy is akin to an injury in the sense that you have to look after your body and prioritize things other than your sport,鈥� says Kim Vinet, a 34-year-old pro skier based in Revelstoke who has already interrupted her career for a couple winters due to multiple knee injuries. 鈥淚鈥檇 always planned to adopt even before I became a professional athlete, and so I鈥檝e never had to worry about losing my capacity for fitness with pregnancy.鈥�

DuPont points out that a mother would be likely to take at least a year off from intense skiing while having a baby, 鈥渨hereas a father鈥檚 going to keep hard-charging every day until the baby comes and likely get to keep skiing while a mother attends to recovery, breastfeeding, and all the other biological realities of having a baby.鈥�

Lynsey Dyer is a pioneer in amplifying women in the big-mountain industry. She founded , which aims to increase the participation of women and girls in outdoor activities, and , the production company behind the only all-women ski film Pretty Faces. Dyer has watched many of her industry role models transition to motherhood. 鈥淚 had this vision that those skiers got what they needed out of the pro ski life and were ready to have kids. I wanted to tell myself that everyone makes this beautiful transition from wanting the glory and the freedom. But it isn鈥檛 the pretty story we want to hear; it鈥檚 hard, and it鈥檚 uglier and messier and more real than I ever wanted to see it. They still want the glory and the freedom, and that transition is hard.鈥�

For one thing, Dyer feels that many women aren鈥檛 given the option to prioritize their career after having kids, because they can鈥檛 make the travel and training work if their partner isn鈥檛 willing to take care of kids and everyday logistics full-time. 鈥淚f you 诲辞苍鈥檛 have a supportive husband, the question becomes whether you can afford for someone to take your place for your kids,鈥� Dyer says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 the unsaid truth about this whole industry. Lots of people could climb mountains if they could afford it.鈥�

Almost every woman I interviewed used the word 鈥渟elfish鈥� at some point in the conversation with regard to wanting to put their career and ambitions first. It鈥檚 a common narrative in Western culture. But when taking into account the heavy factors that big-mountain professionals weigh in thinking about whether to bring children into their lives, the question arises: Can we create another narrative? It may be time to make room for alternative trajectories of motherhood鈥攁s well as the trajectories that 诲辞苍鈥檛 involve children at all.

Dyer feels that female big-mountain professionals wouldn鈥檛 have to give up their careers to the same degree if we flipped the industry concept of 鈥渁dventure wives鈥� on its head. In the male-dominated mountain world, it鈥檚 often the case that while the husband is out on expeditions, missions, or working in the backcountry for long stints, the wife usually stays behind to care for the children and everyday logistics. It鈥檚 still rare for both partners in a relationship to split childcare evenly, let alone for the man to take on the majority of care while the woman pursues an outdoor-based career. 鈥淲e should celebrate that role of the supportive man, because it鈥檚 new and not necessarily 鈥榗ool,鈥欌�� Dyer says.

DuPont believes it would also help if pro skiers felt more valued in the ski industry beyond always finding the next big line, shooting films, and keeping up a nonstop adrenaline-filled social media presence鈥攕he would like to find additional ways to enrich her career if she started a family. 鈥淚 wouldn鈥檛 continue my ski career the way that I am now if I had kids. You want to be there and dedicate your time to them, and the skiing takes a backseat,鈥� DuPont explains. 鈥淏ut then you have to go back to your definition of what it means to grow as an athlete. Maybe it means developing product, creating, or getting that next generation involved, and that鈥檚 just as important as a medal or getting the next best trick. We can continue to grow the sport in other ways beyond being just the gnarliest chick.鈥�

While professional skiing doesn鈥檛 require certifications and courses the way guiding does, it does call for a tremendous amount of dedication to develop and maintain the skills and strength necessary to stay relevant in the big-mountain world, which generally means pushing limits in the backcountry to deliver the content that sponsors and media expect. Adding the equally tremendous dedication of the traditional model of motherhood into the mix can often seem like an impossible proposition.

Diny Harrison, the first Canadian woman to become an internationally certified mountain guide, talked over the idea of kids with her husband just after she finished her last guide exam, in 1992. 鈥淚 was with someone who I felt secure with and could support a family. But then he said, 鈥極f course, if you have children, you can鈥檛 work as a guide anymore,鈥欌�� she says. 鈥淎nd that was the end of that conversation, as I had just worked so hard to become a full guide that I wasn鈥檛 going to give it up.鈥�

Harrison muses that if she had children, she might have made the decision herself to step back from her career, but to be told from the get-go that she had to choose between the two meant she sided with her career鈥攚hich has been an illustrious one, and she has no regrets. Harrison has skied and guided all over the world and now guides with Mustang Powder in British Columbia. She also works as an instructor at the , an all-female ski mountaineering course, passing on her knowledge with an aim to bring more women into the sport鈥攚hether motherhood is in the books for them or not.

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On December 4, President Trump signed an executive order shrinking Bears Ears National Monument, prompting tribal and environmental groups鈥攁s well as major 鈥攖o file lawsuits against the administration. Though many people see legal action听as the only hope for protecting these lands, it鈥檚 not.

A significant chunk of the land just released from its听national monument status听sits in the Manti La Sal National Forest, which is smack in the middle of a planning process that includes considering those areas for an even higher protection status: that of Wilderness.

It鈥檚 not all of Bears Ears: approximately 92,504 of the acres removed from the monument designation are on Utah state land,听11,121听are private,听and 894,381 sit on Bureau of Land Management property听(which听will continue to be managed under the 2008 Monticello Field Office Management Plan).听The opportunity lies in the remaining 256,479 acres that fall under U.S. Forest Service management in听the Manti La Sal, which is currently heading into year two of a four-year process to revise its 1986 Forest Plan.听

While revising its plan for how lands听within听their boundaries are managed, Manti officials are also required to identify places that may be suitable for inclusion in the National Wilderness Preservation System. This highest level of protection for federal lands would prohibit permanent roads and听structures, motorized-vehicle use, and any kind of development.

The forest planning process is also designed so that the public has a say听every step of the way. That鈥檚 in addition to state, local, and tribal governments鈥攑arts of Manti听in particular听have historical and cultural value to Utah鈥檚 Native American groups.听Of course, it鈥檚 not a perfect system.听Anyone who鈥檚 ever tried to participate in this process will point out that it can be incredibly confusing. The Forest Service has gained a reputation as a dusty bureaucracy听that doesn鈥檛 prioritize clarity听for the public.

Officials hope听to change that with a recently launched project called , presented as an easy-to-navigate website with information on how to participate in USFS decisions. There are short films, infographics, and podcasts meant to spark discussion about what national forests mean to all types of users鈥攆rom boaters and family campers to hunters and anglers. It鈥檚 run by a partnership between the听USFS, the Idaho-based NGO Salmon Valley Stewardship, and the media company More than Just Parks.听

鈥淚t鈥檚 a matter of knowing how and when to comment. It鈥檚 not enough to say, I like hiking in that spot,鈥� says Elizabeth Townley, the coordinator of Your Forests Your Future. 鈥淚f you want that land to be recommended as Wilderness, you have to craft your comments around Wilderness values. So if you say, 鈥業 love hiking in that spot because it represents an opportunity for outstanding solitude and hiking is a primitive recreation,鈥� that鈥檚 much more likely to have an impact.鈥�

The website lays out what 听are, as defined by the Wilderness Act of 1964, in an infographic accompanied by a minute-long film. It also has a short on forest planning that explains when and how people can have a say in designing the future of their public lands. Eventually听the website will connect people to all of the 154 national forests and 20 grasslands in the U.S., with real-time updates on where each currently is听in the forest planning process and the opportunities for public participation鈥攊ncluding听the Manti La Sal.听

In July 2017, Manti鈥檚 managers wrapped up a 30-day public comment period on their听Draft Assessment, which provides an overview of existing conditions and trends in the forest. The next opportunity for people to speak up will be an online public comment period starting听January 26 and running through February 29. Beginning in May 2018, a series of open houses鈥攑ublic meetings to give updates on the process and solicit feedback鈥攚ill focus on setting goals and objectives for the revised Forest Plan components.听

Now, Utah has a notoriously scant record of actually passing Wilderness into law. The state had zero acres protected in the original 1964 Wilderness Act听and currently has less designated Wilderness, at 1.1 million acres, than any Western state. A significant forest Wilderness bill hasn鈥檛 passed in Utah since 1984. Which is why it鈥檚 all the more important to speak up in January.听

鈥淏ecause of the strong anti-public-lands-protection stance of some Utah politicians, local Forest Service officials are not used to hearing good things about wilderness,鈥� says Tim Peterson, a Utah Wildlands听program director with the Grand Canyon Trust, which has been working to secure Wilderness recommendations for qualifying lands across the forest for many years. 鈥淯tah politicians had an outsized influence on Trump鈥檚 shrinking Bears Ears, against the wishes of the public. But national forests are public lands owned by all Americans, and the more people that reach out in support of robust Wilderness recommendations, the better.鈥�

Elected officials do still play a role in the process of听protecting lands as Wilderness. While the Manti can recommend areas for Wilderness, it鈥檚 up to Congress to formally grant that designation. But there鈥檚 a catch, which is why public participation is so critical: even without official Wilderness designation, an area can be identified under the Forest Plan as being听“managed for Wilderness values.” For example, if those 250,000-plus听acres that were released from Bears Ears National Monument were identified under the Manti La Sal Forest Plan as having Wilderness values and managed as such, a proposal for oil and gas exploration听would be rejected, because the area isn鈥檛 managed for that use.听

鈥淔orest planning can be dry stuff. Those involved seem to skew older and older, and the process stretches on and on,鈥� says Peterson. 鈥淭he agency has always expressed a desire to get more people more involved in planning, and I hope Your Forests Your Future can engage a new generation. History is written by those who show up, after all.鈥�

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Lydia Bradey always knew she didn鈥檛 want kids of her own. She knew that when she was 18, and had already summited both of New Zealand鈥檚 most famous peaks, Mount Aspiring and Mount Cook. She didn't change her mind at听19, when she听attempted the south face of Alaska鈥檚 Denali, nor at听26, when she became听the first woman to climb an 8,000-metre听Himalayan peak, Gasherbrum II in the Karakorum range, alpine-style without oxygen.听

In 1986, after Gasherbrum, she made the decision to get sterilized. 鈥淚 wanted to travel the world, be a mountaineer, and have adventures,鈥� Bradey, who is from New Zealand, recalls. 鈥淚t was a pretty simple decision at the time.鈥澨�

In 1987, she became the first woman to summit Everest without oxygen.听

grew up as the only child of a single mother. From a young age, she learned that being a good parent听required an incredible amount of time and attention. With her climbing career gaining momentum each year, she didn鈥檛 have those hours to give to a child. 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want to risk doing something so very important badly,鈥� says Bradey, now 55.听鈥淎nd for me, there were other things in the world than having children.鈥�

When she raised听the topic of the tubal ligation procedure鈥攕terilization鈥攚ith doctors in her early 20s, they advised her that she was too young to make such a decision. But in her mind, her chosen profession as an expedition mountaineer and the required months spent traveling should have been added justification for procedure. 鈥淚 remember being frustrated because the doctors would never ask me what I was passionately interested in. I felt that had they understood, they would have reacted differently, along the lines of 鈥極h, well if you want to be a mountaineer, now we understand鈥攕o yes, we鈥檒l give you a sterilization.鈥欌�澨�

Bradey鈥檚 decision wasn鈥檛 widely publicized. She听mentioned it just once in her 2015 memoir . When she had the sterilization听procedure, most of her inner circle supported her. Many of her friends lived similar lifestyles, also undertaking big expeditions of their own. Comments of 鈥淕ood on you鈥� were the norm.听

The topic of motherhood in mountaineering wouldn鈥檛 ignite the public's attention听until 1995, when British climber Alison Hargreaves died on K2 in a violent storm. Hargreaves was one of the best mountaineers of her generation, also summiting Everest without supplemental oxygen and soloing all six of the classic north faces of the Alps in a single season. But rather than being remembered for her skill, she was attacked after her death as irresponsible and selfish for being a mother of two who indulged in such a risky career.听

鈥淲hen I started mountaineering, I would see men who were fathers pushing themselves and taking risks,鈥� Bradey writes in her memoir. 鈥淎nd it seemed to me that their wives and girlfriends back home were in the dark about what was going on. So men got away with what they were doing and it was only when women who were mothers started climbing that the spotlight fell on the subject.鈥�

While Bradey鈥檚 trajectory is unique, the factors behind her decision are well-known to women who are big mountain professionals, including mountaineers, guides, avalanche forecasters, and pro skiers. Weighing whether or not to have children means considering how much time would be sacrificed that would be spent pursuing these endeavors, not to mention the time required to hone skills and achieve necessary physical fitness for these jobs. There are also expectations (both internal and external) of mitigating risk as a mother, which raises concerns of potentially limiting听growth as an athlete. Often, it鈥檚 literally weighing career against family鈥攁 weighty decision for any woman, even more so when a profession depends on high-consequence multi-day missions that require top physical fitness.

It's not that Bradey made the decision lightly, and she admits that over the years, her thoughts about having children began to evolve. 鈥淵ou begin to meet young people and you start to think about how having children would be rewarding,鈥� she says. 鈥淎s you get older, you see that parenthood is a compromise.鈥澨�

In her early 40s, Bradey began the process to adopt a child. 鈥淲hen I was very young, the concept of adoption came up a lot,鈥� she explains. 鈥淚鈥檇 decided when I was little that if I were to have children, I wanted to adopt.鈥� By that time, she had started a career as a physiotherapist and was guiding locally in New Zealand. She听finally had the time she thought she needed to devote to a child.听

鈥淚 felt blessed in that I didn鈥檛 go through the agonizing period of making the decision of whether I wanted children based on the pressure to do it before a certain age or to make sacrifices in my climbing,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 was unencumbered with the grief, stress, and complication of such a choice, and instead it became a simple emotion to explore.鈥�

But听as she came to the last step of the adoption process, she happened to go back to the Himalayas in 2004 to guide a high-altitude expedition. 鈥淚 realized how much I loved big mountains. I wanted to be back there. So I pulled the pin on adoption,鈥� she says.听

On that expedtion, Bradey noted that听only one woman on the team had children. 鈥淪he had enough money to have a permanent full-time nanny who鈥檇 become part of the family, and she could afford to call her children on the satellite phone for a half hour every day,鈥� Bradey says. 鈥淚 reckon if I could afford to have a permanent nanny and I could do full-time adventures, I would definitely have had children, and I鈥檇 have had no problem being a Himalayan guide.鈥�

Since 1988, Bradey has summited Everest three more times, claimed first ascents of Antarctic mountains, and is a sought-after high-altitude guide for missions all over the world. While she views the big-wall climbing she did in her early twenties and summiting Everest without oxygen as some of her finest听achievements, she's most proud of her guiding career post-2004.听

鈥淏eing a mountain guide at altitude is a big accomplishment,鈥� she says. As she wrote听in her memoir, 鈥淚t enlarges my life.鈥�

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