Deep in the night on August 4, 2018, a trio of timber cutters bushwhacked into a steep valley thick with brush, wearing headlamps and carrying a chainsaw, gas can, and a slew of felling tools. Their target, a trifurcated, mossy bigleaf maple, towered above Jefferson Creek, which gurgled down the narrow ravine floor that drains the Olympic National Forest鈥檚 Elk Lake. Justin Wilke, the band鈥檚 captain, had discovered the massive tree the day before and dubbed her 鈥淏ertha.鈥�

Wilke had established three dispersed campsites in the Elk Lake vicinity, some 20 miles from the nearest town of Hoodsport, Washington, over the previous weeks. By day he scouted for the most prime bigleaf maples. He had illegally felled at least three in the area since April, but he considered Bertha the mother tree.

A carpenter by trade, Wilke, then 36, dabbled in odd jobs in construction, as a mechanic, on fishing boats, and in canneries, but like many across the peninsula鈥檚 scattered hamlets, he鈥檇 been a logger since his hands were sure enough to wield a chainsaw. A tattoo the length of his left arm read 鈥淲est Coast Loggers,鈥� his tribute to a heritage that began with his grandfather.

Honest work had grown scarce. Wilke and his girlfriend were camping on a friend鈥檚 property just outside the national forest to trim expenses and lived on his earnings from cutting illegal firewood and selling poached maple. The situation wasn鈥檛 tenable. He was hungry, and he needed a windfall.

Closing in on Bertha in the darkness alongside Wilke were Shawn 鈥淭hor鈥� Williams and Lucas Chapman. Thor had just sprung from a stint in prison two weeks earlier. A 47-year-old union framer, Thor had also dabbled as an MMA fighter and debt collector and carried a litany of past convictions ranging from assault and burglary to unlawful imprisonment. He hoped the job would deliver him back to his daughter and sometimes-girlfriend in California. Chapman, 35, was Wilke鈥檚 gopher, hired primarily to watch the campsites during the operation. The three were high on methamphetamines.

Though the relative humidity that night hovered around 75 percent, the air a pleasant 60 degrees, rainfall had been unusually sparse that summer. Higher than average temperatures ushered the typically wet Olympic region into a moderate drought. Smoke from various wildfires in British Columbia had clouded the air throughout the summer.

Bertha held a bee鈥檚 nest in a hollow at the base of her trunk that made chainsaw work problematic. 鈥淚鈥檓 not going over there,鈥� Thor, who was allergic to bees, protested. At their campsite two days earlier, he鈥檇 been stung on the hand and suffered mild anaphylaxis after he sipped a can of Four Loko with a bee in it. 鈥淚鈥檒l take care of it,鈥� Wilke said.

Accounts of who did what next vary, but someone pulled out a can of wasp killer and sprayed the hive to little effect, then doused it in gasoline and lit a match. The offended bees clouded the air. Flames sprouted up Bertha鈥檚 trunk and expanded in the underbrush at her roots.

For the next hour, Wilke, Thor, and Chapman beat the burgeoning fire with sticks, kicked dirt over it, and used Gatorade bottles to quench its tongues with creekwater. 鈥淟et鈥檚 go,鈥� Wilke finally ordered. 鈥淚t鈥檚 out.鈥�

By the time the poachers left, cold and wet from splashing in the waist-deep river, all clear signs of flame had vanished. The first gauzy motes of dawn lightened the sky. In the leafy silence that followed the thwarted thieves鈥� retreat, beneath the duff at Bertha鈥檚 roots, still-hot embers smoldered and crept through the forest, invisible but surging with the breaking day.

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The Appalachian Trail will change your life, but maybe no single mile of it will. Unlike its great western counterparts along the Pacific Crest or the Continental Divide, the United States鈥� most iconic footpath is subtle鈥攁 green tunnel through some of the oldest and most graceful mountains in the world, not some sizzle reel of endless panoramas. You can stand atop a 14er or a high Sierra pass and instantly feel altered; the AT takes time to shape you over miles, months, years.

While it鈥檚 hard to pick a birthday for the trail, which Benton MacKaye proposed in 1921 but wasn鈥檛 completed until 1937, you could reasonably say the founding of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC) in 1925 was when the AT became what it is. While the ATC has had its fair share of controversy, no other individual or organization has ever done more to protect and promote the trail鈥檚 2,197.4 miles and the land around it. At a time when federal resources for public lands are in the air at best, the ATC continues its century-long mission to safeguard the trail, from volunteers they lead on crucial maintenance missions to their audacious .

In that spirit, two of us who have had our lives changed by the Appalachian Trail鈥�Backpacker writers and 鈥攈ave selected our 鈥渂est鈥� 100 miles of the Appalachian Trail. (Fine, it鈥檚 103.8, but more trail is better than less.) All these mileage markers represent a northbound hike and are subject to change, like the trail itself.

We debated these picks, arguing about their accessibility, their beauty, the way they loom large in our memory. Underneath it all, we were discussing the ways certain bits of land strung together by white blazes had changed us. Not everyone has the opportunity to thru-hike, but there鈥檚 a chance, that these 19 chunks of trail, from a 14-mile roller coaster in Virginia to the climb up Katahdin in Maine, can still change you, anyway.

Prologue: The Arch to The Stairs, Georgia

Though the Appalachian Trail officially begins on Springer Mountain before heading (at least at the moment) 2,197.4 miles to Maine, you should begin at , beneath a simple stone arch. This is the 8.5-mile Appalachian Trail Approach, infamous for being debated by thru-hikers for its value and the 600-plus stairs to the top of the falls, which are as entertaining and challenging as almost anything on the actual Appalachian Trail. Legend has it that would-be thru-hikers have jettisoned their entire kits while climbing those stairs, returning to the parents still waiting below. And you will stun a dozen tourists when they ask you where you鈥檙e going and you simply answer 鈥淢aine!鈥� The falls, it should be said, are beautiful; pose for a photo, and keep grunting up that hill. 鈥擥贬颁

Blood Mountain to Neel Gap, Georgia (3.2 Miles: 28.1-31.3)

Blood Mountain is one of the first landmarks for northbound AT hikers. It鈥檚 also the highest peak on the Georgia section, the sixth highest in the state. But it鈥檚 best known for another reason: ghosts. Some hikers point to the peak鈥檚 history as a battleground between the Cherokee and the Muscogee people as the origin of the stories. Others point to , who went missing in 2008 on the mountain, to explain its shelter鈥檚 eeriness. The trail log is often full of stories about strange occurrences from those who are brave enough to stay the night. 鈥拟叠厂

Rocky Top and Thunderhead Mountain to Beechnut Gap, North Carolina/Tennessee (2.8 Miles: 184鈥�186.8)

The 72-mile path that the AT takes through Great Smoky Mountains National Park could have commandeered nearly three-quarters of this list, but that would be a copout. Still, less than 200 miles into a northbound journey, the Smokies offer a quick study on how the trail will push you around (if you take four days to hike the Smokies, the adage goes, you will encounter four seasons) and how stunning the whole thing will be. I love the wide-open views from Rocky Top and Thunderhead, plus how quickly you exit and reenter tree line. (There are some century-old names carved into rocks along the trail, too, predating the park itself.) And I have a distinct memory of being battered by wind so much that these mountains, as low-slung and ancient as they are, reasserted their power. 鈥擥贬颁

Max Patch Road to Lemon Gap, North Carolina (6.2 Miles: 254.6鈥�260.8)

Before and after my first AT thru-hike, I lived in a cabin a few ridges over from Max Patch, one of those scattered through the South. They can be so idyllic you will feel like you鈥檙e in a beautiful dream. It was essentially my backyard, so I鈥檝e hiked to, on, and around the iconic spot maybe more than anywhere else. Still, I鈥檇 accept an invitation right now. A panopticon of Appalachian grace, it offers views of multiple states, distant ridgelines, and several river drainages. And the northbound descent down its gentle slopes and across multiple creeks into Lemon Gap exemplifies the woods of the region鈥攚ildflowers sprouting through the damp forest floor in spring, a look at the bones of some of the world鈥檚 oldest mountains with fall鈥檚 arrival. 鈥擥贬颁

Views of the Nolichucky River to Beauty Spot, Tennessee/North Carolina (11.7 Miles: 343.5鈥�355.2)

Talk to a veteran AT hiker, and chances are you鈥檒l get a strong opinion about the green tunnel, or the prevailing sense that you鈥檙e mostly navigating 2,200 miles of tree cover from Georgia to Maine. They鈥檒l say it鈥檚 boring or it鈥檚 beautiful. I say it鈥檚 both, and the moments when it breaks affirm that. As you head into Erwin, Tenn., the trees split onto postcard-worthy shots of the Nolichucky River鈥檚 gorge far below. And after you cross the river (post-Tropical Storm Helene, you鈥檒l do it ), you鈥檒l steadily ascend a series of gaps and ridges, views offered by powerline clearings and natural overlooks alike. Just shy of 4,500 feet, you鈥檒l reach Beauty Spot, a mountaintop meadow ringed by little trees, so picturesque you may be tempted to make it your permanent address. I first encountered Beauty Spot after getting off trail for a funeral; it was the sight that galvanized my northward quest. 鈥擥贬颁

Cloudland Hotel on Roan Mountain to Little Hump Mountain, Tennessee/North Carolina (9.3 Miles: 378.7鈥�388.0)

I have always struggled with the obvious question: What is your favorite part of the Appalachian Trail? No one ever accepts 鈥渁ll of it,鈥� so I soon launch into a list that feels just shy of 鈥渁ll of it.鈥� But if my life depended on recommending one stretch, this right here is the one: From the top of rhododendron-crowned Roan Mountain, where remnants of the grand remain, you drop into a seesaw of dips and dives, the rugged old trail carved across the faces of some of the oldest mountains in the world. You cross three balds in a little more than a mile, drop way down, and then climb Little Hump Mountain. (The section misses some charm now since the loss of the fabled , but it still goes.) I stupidly camped on its flanks once during a strong storm, and weathering that felt like preparation for future, bigger adventures. The next morning, the sky was all cotton candy, and I briefly wondered if I might have slipped off in my sleep toward heaven. 鈥擥贬颁

Dennis Cove Road to Laurel Fork Falls, Tennessee聽(1.2 Miles: 420.3-421.5)

Located in the just outside of Hampton, Tenn., a strenuous stretch of trail takes you to the 40-foot tall, 50-foot wide Laurel Fork Falls. While springtime air temperatures are often in the high 70s or low 80s, the falls are notoriously cold. That doesn鈥檛 stop hikers from going for a soak, even in early spring. My trail family and I packed out a few beverages from the Black Bear Resort and stuck them in the water during our ice baths. By the time we were done splashing, they were ready to sip. 鈥拟叠厂

Buzzard Rock to Mount Rogers, Virginia (7.3 Miles: 491.9-499.2)

By the time I made it to Buzzard Rock, I finally had my trail legs. The climb to the summit of Buzzard Rock is a little bit of a monster, but for the first time in nearly 500 miles, the strain barely phased me. What鈥檚 more, the whole section offered 360-degree views, made even more beautiful by springtime blossoms. The bald-style peaks in this region make for consistent views across the , a stretch of trail known for wild ponies grazing around Wilburn Ridge. 鈥拟叠厂

McAfee Knob to Tinker Cliffs, Virginia (5.6 Miles: 714.5鈥�720.1)

is the most photographed overlook along the Appalachian Trail鈥攁nd for good reason, since the view it offers feels so epic. But truthfully, I found nearby Tinker Cliffs to be equally stunning, minus the crowds. After McAfee Knob, the trail winds through trees and shrubs before climbing through some boulders to a cliffside that gives you access to several different overlook options. You can complete the Virginia 鈥淭riple Crown鈥� by adding the .听鈥拟叠厂

The Roller Coaster, Virginia (14.0 Miles: 996.4-1,010.4)

Reaching the 1,000-mile mark of a northbound thru-hike, which you do during this infamous stretch, is a bit of an emotional rollercoaster in itself, but these 14 miles are better known for their literal ups and downs. The elevation profile is so tedious and repetitive it鈥檚 almost comedic. I carried an avocado for a friend through this section, contemplating whether or not I should just eat it myself to save my knees from 7 ounces of extra weight. My spirit proved valiant despite more than 3,500 feet of gain. After failing to find my friend after three days, I sliced the avocado into fat chunks, placed it on a burger I bought, and ate it myself, anyway.听鈥拟叠厂

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia (4.4 Miles: 1,025.4鈥�1,029.8)

The AT鈥檚 2,200 miles are chockablock with history, from the indigenous thoroughfares it overlaps to the battlefields it bypasses. But few places in the United States are crucibles of the country鈥檚 struggles and progress quite like . A gap in the ridge and the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers so close to D.C. essentially ensured important events, like the de facto start of the Civil War, would occur here. An idyllic town suspended in amber, Harpers Ferry is glorious on a spring day. Cross the Shenandoah by footbridge and then the Potomac (and into Maryland). Cruise the first few miles of the state on the C&O Canal Trail, surrounded by lush woods and families pushing strollers. The home of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (happy anniversary, and thanks!), Harpers Ferry offers a perfect break at what we call the AT鈥檚 鈥渆motional halfway point.鈥� 鈥擥贬颁

New Jersey-New York State Line (1.9 Miles: 1,369.7鈥�1,371.6)

A recovering van dweller, I was a state-line enthusiast long before I began thru-hiking, curious about how sometimes-arbitrary distinctions between this and that could impact people鈥檚 lives. Maybe the AT made a zealot out of me, crisscrossing as it does 14 states. My favorite crossing happens when, after dancing across the border multiple times, the northbound trail exits New Jersey (great AT state, by the way, for real) into New York. The distinction is painted blaze-white on a massive hunk of rock, part of a series of very brief scrambles (with occasional ladders for help) and open rock faces that offer expansive views of tree-lined ridges, deep blue lakes, and small towns. Few other bits of the AT are quite like it. Bonus: You鈥檙e very close to , some of the trail鈥檚 best ice cream. 鈥擥贬颁

Bear Mountain Recreation Area to Anthony鈥檚 Nose, New York (2.3 Miles: 1,408.2-1,410.5)

The stretch of Appalachian Trail that runs past New York City marks an odd juxtaposition between the trail鈥檚 quiet backcountry and civilization. I made it to just聽before Father鈥檚 Day on a balmy summer afternoon, noticing locals gathering for picnics near the lake. Upon reaching Bear鈥檚 summit, I spotted a rattlesnake, poised and ready to strike, just seconds before I peered across the New York skyline. Continuing north, I made my way past a small zoo before crossing the Hudson River on the Bear Mountain Bridge. By the time I reached Anthony鈥檚 Nose on the other side, my brain was still processing a rattlesnake, a skyline, a zoo, and a sprawling bridge in a matter of miles. 鈥拟叠厂

Route 9/Split Rock to Glastenbury Mountain, Vermont (10.4 Miles: 1,618.0鈥�1,628.4)

Vermont doesn鈥檛 get the Appalachian Trail love it deserves. If you鈥檙e headed north, you鈥檙e anticipating the big bosses at the end; if you鈥檙e headed south, you鈥檙e anticipating the four-state rush that begins with Massachusetts. But the 151-mile stretch through Vermont is memorable because of its seasonal mud, its rendezvous with the Long Trail, and its absolute wealth of rich forests, broad meadows, and dreamy ponds. Easily accessible from Bennington, this 10-mile span is an unexpected gem in the . You鈥檒l pass through a striking split rock, ford a stream, navigate slippery boardwalks through forest so green it feels like a sea of melted crayon, and slowly climb nearly 2,000 feet to a lookout tower where the woods blur into a horizon of endless ridges and sky. Get there at sunset, and you鈥檒l instantly understand that Vermont is possibly the AT鈥檚 most gently exquisite state. 鈥擥贬颁

Franconia Ridge to Mount Garfield, New Hampshire聽(7.0 Miles: 1,827.0鈥�1,834.0)

greeted me with 50-mile-per-hour winds, making it difficult to stand at my full height. Still, the views were worth it. The majority of this trail section is above treeline, making it high on exposure but easy on the eyes. As the day wore on, the wind died down just in time for me to make the steep climb up majestic Mount Garfield, studded with tiny trees like so many of its White Mountain kin.听鈥拟叠厂

Lost Pond to Carter Notch Hut, New Hampshire (5.2 Miles: 1,878.5鈥�1,883.7)

The White Mountains are not for the faint of heart, as the Wildcat Mountains taught me. This section of trail required rock scrambling, squeezing myself through small spaces, and crawling at a snail鈥檚 pace due to the relentless elevation gain. In fact, if this section were any steeper, it could be placed on the Yosemite Scale and given a rock-climbing grade. Some even call this the AT鈥檚 most challenging bit. One quality that makes the Whites so unique is its hut system. The Appalachian Mountain Club operates , a potential relief for hikers who are looking to get inside for a snack or stay. The Wildcat stretch includes the Carter Notch Hut鈥攓uiet, beautiful, and a great place for a cup of coffee before continuing on.听鈥拟叠厂

Mahoosuc Notch to Speck Pond Shelter, Maine (3.4 Miles: 1,922.0鈥�1,925.4)

For 2,000 miles of the AT, you will resent switchbacks and PUDS (that is, pointless ups-and-downs), all moves the trail makes to get you where you need to go without ruining the landscape. In Maine, where native son Stephen King must have convinced some poor trail builder that building switchbacks would haunt them, hikers face hard climbs. This wondrous little stretch starts with the Mahoosuc Notch, a mile-long jungle gym of enormous boulders that you will climb atop, under, and around. Finish that, and it鈥檚 time for the Mahoosuc Arm, a 1,600-foot climb on a little more than a mile of rock that鈥檚 so consistently wet it seems to be leaking grease. Finish that, and it鈥檚 time for your true reward: the glorious Speck Pond Shelter, one of the most stunning places to spend the night on the entire trip. 鈥擥贬颁

Pemadumcook Lake, Maine (2.7 Miles: 2,149.1鈥�2,151.8)

I will forever be grateful for the shores of Pemadumcook Lake, because that鈥檚 where, a few days into a trek of the , I inexplicably found a bag of unopened Pop-Tarts, my favorite trail food. I ate them all. But when I see photos of that moment, I am wowed again by how massive Mount Katahdin appears on the horizon, though it鈥檚 still 50 trail miles north. In its isolation, especially against a pale blue morning, it looks like the continent鈥檚 biggest peak. No wonder . If you鈥檙e heading north, summit fever will soon set in, so take time to enjoy the way Katahdin frames this placid Maine lake. And maybe eat a Pop-Tart? 鈥擥贬颁

Katahdin Spring Campground to Katahdin Summit, Maine聽(5.2 Miles: 2,192.2鈥�2,197.4)

Within days of finding my trail family in Georgia, our peers dubbed us 鈥渢he Breakfast Club,鈥� because we were infamous for waking up before the sun to catch sunrise on a summit somewhere. My hiking partner and I tackled Katahdin in the same spirit, rising from our quarters at Katahdin Spring Campground at 3 a.m. before beginning the ascent. Halfway up the climb, we turned to the sky and glimpsed the Milky Way, peppering the darkness with color. We slogged on, equal parts ecstatic and devastated to be nearly done. By the time we reached the summit of Katahdin, the sun winked over the horizon, making us some of the first people to greet a new day along the east coast while we ended our thru-hike. 鈥拟叠厂

The post What Are the 100 Best Miles of the Appalachian Trail? We Asked Two Thru-Hikers to Choose. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

鈥擨n April 2024, David Roche鈥檚 body was on a beeline toward death. Thrown off his bike by a turning car, Roche flew 100 feet into a fence. A concussion, a broken wrist, and stitches ensued, but so too did the lingering effects of a near-death experience, that strange and wildly scary reminder of fragility that feels all the more terrifying when one is blessed with a body that has never had to be reminded of such a thing.

For Roche, that accident was what led to his fuck it moment: a decision to live his life as a demonstration of love, grit, and joy. While recovering, Roche decided that he needed to go big. Fuck the haters. Climb the mountain. Do the thing. And he did. He won the historic Leadville Trail 100 just five months later. It was his first attempt at the distance. He set a course record.

When I first spoke to David Roche in February 2025, it only took him about 30 seconds to mention death. 鈥淓verything,鈥� Roche told me over the phone, 鈥渟tarts with death and impermanence.鈥� It was a jarring introduction for someone whose public persona feels so overwhelmingly positive. Love, kindness, awesomeness, even huzzah鈥攖hese words punctuate Roche鈥檚 social media posts, his Strava runs, and, recently, the texts and emails he sent my way. 鈥淪o excited,鈥� he emailed me, with four exclamation marks, when I told him I was flying out to Boulder, Colorado, to spend some time with him. And yet, as he told me over the phone, he is always subject to entropy, the unalterable process by which each of us, and I do mean each of us, is heading on that beeline toward death.

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Four years before I was born, in the summer of 1984, my parents hiked to the fire lookout on Yellowstone鈥檚 10,210-foot Mount Washburn and wrote their names in the lime-green federal supply service logbook stored inside. They were newly engaged. She was a 22-year-old nursing student from rural Minnesota who鈥檇 left behind the cornfields for a summer job folding sheets and working reception at the park鈥檚 Canyon Lodge; he was a 24-year-old ski patroller who spent off-seasons pumping gas at the Yellowstone Park Service Station (YPSS) at Canyon Village. Taking advantage of the long daylight of the Wyoming summer, they dashed out of work and hiked the six-mile trail from Chittenden Road, reaching the two-story, panoramic lookout with just enough time to get back to the car before dark.

8/14/84

Amy Peltier, Litchfield MN

Note to Steve Brown鈥擨鈥檒l meet you here Aug 25, 2018

I love you! 鈥擜my

Steve Brown, Sandpoint, Idaho (also Canyon YPSS) Wow what a surprise to meet my fianc茅 on this obscure mountain outpost. Thanks for showing up, Amy. P.S. Try not to eat so many flowers on the way down.

My dad doesn鈥檛 remember the flower joke. My mom doesn鈥檛 remember why she picked 2018. August 25 was the day summer park employees celebrated 鈥淐hristmas,鈥� with extravagant holiday decorations and gifts鈥攁 way to wind down the season together. This explains the many Merry Christmas messages written in the same register ten days later, including another from my mom after she鈥檇 hiked up the mountain again with two of her summer friends.

8/24/84 Never thought I鈥檇 come up here with 2 easterners. Love ya Foz and Sheila. See you up here next year, Christmas Eve.

Amy Peltier

Litchfield, Minnesota

Canyon Employee0

My parents met at the employee bar in the basement of Canyon Lodge. She was with friends, and he bought her a beer. It was only a matter of weeks before my dad called his sister to tell her he鈥檇 met the woman he was going to marry. His grandmother helped him buy a ring.

Over the two summers they worked in the park, my parents went adventuring. They drove my dad鈥檚 1970 green Chevy truck down a nearly impassable road deep into the Beartooths and hiked to Grasshopper Glacier鈥攏amed for the thousands of extinct insects found frozen in its ice. They paddled a Huck Finn鈥搒tyle log raft around an alpine lake in the Wind River Range. Sometimes they just walked the loop of boardwalks around the park鈥檚 Norris Geyser basin after work, or along the rim of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River to the Artist Point overlook. After my mom went back to school in Minnesota, they wrote hundreds of letters. When she graduated, my dad took the bus out to marry her.

I know what they wrote on Washburn because after a lightning strike burned one of Yellowstone鈥檚 historic fire lookouts to the ground, my mom texted our family鈥檚 group thread, frantic that the summit books might have burned, too. And so I went to look for them. I started thinking about how my family, and so many like ours, had left little fragments of themselves in notebooks and ammo cans on top of mountains. The spontaneous messages drafted in a surge of summit exhilaration, or love or loneliness, or in memory of someone who wasn鈥檛 there. Or simply in wonder at the supplicatory beauty of this blue-green earth.

The post Why Do We Leave Notes on Top of Mountains? It鈥檚 Personal. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

On a Sunday afternoon in October, I snuck out for a run. It was tank-top weather when I left my house in downtown Durango, Colorado, and I expected it to hold. I drove north into the mountains, and as I crested a hill 15 minutes in, the sky turned gray and cracked with lightning. The temperature reading in my car dropped 20 degrees, and the rain hitting the windshield was so thick I could hardly see the road. My phone buzzed in the cupholder. It was a text from the friend I was meeting: 鈥淲TF, DWG.鈥�

DWG stands for , the nom de plume of Jeff Givens, a local real estate agent turned amateur meteorologist who has much more power over my life than anyone running a WordPress blog should. His website offers weather forecasts, blow-by-blows of storms, and roundups of precipitation totals鈥攚ith a heavy dose of personal opinion. Sometimes the posts are excited updates: 鈥淪aturday 4:30 am: It鈥檚 not over yet! The closed low-pressure is spinning over Arizona early this morning.鈥� Sometimes he鈥檒l take a deep dive into the variability of La Nina, the cooling pattern in the Pacific Ocean that tends to bring dry winters to the Southwest, or the difference between Canadian and European forecasting models. Sometimes he鈥檒l answer requests from fans who ask for specific forecasts within their individual microclimate. In the forecast the day after my Sunday soaking, Givens walked back what he鈥檇 posted the day before, responding to the razzing he鈥檇 received from readers. You don鈥檛 get that from the Weather Channel.

Followers who subscribe to his email list might get three updates a day when storms are firing, sometimes time-stamped 3 A.M., 9 A.M., then noon. I read every one. And I鈥檓 not alone. Givens has 19,100 subscribers. The local population is about 19,500, and that includes children.

Givens is more accurate than any other weather source around here, and that makes him arguably the biggest celebrity in my smallish town. Our collective excitement crescendos with his forecasts, and whether they lead to joyful or disappointing experiences outside, we piece together a postmortem in the days that follow. Sometimes he sends the whole town into a spiral. Like any forecaster, occasionally he鈥檚 wrong. I鈥檓 on multiple ski-planning text chains that dissect his accuracy. 鈥淗e never admits when he鈥檚 wrong,鈥� one friend complained. 鈥淚 just don鈥檛 like his syntax,鈥� another told me, while her husband admitted to obsessively reading every post. 鈥淭oo many emails!鈥� several others said. 鈥淗ow can you get mad at him, he鈥檚 doing it for free,鈥� someone countered.

He is a common denominator: a folk hero and a prophet and the person to blame when your plans go to shit. Everyone I know has an opinion about his forecasts. And I mean literally everyone.

Yesterday at the doctor, as I shivered in my gown, the nurse asked me how the weather had been on the way over. 鈥淒urango Weather Guy says it鈥檚 supposed to get bad this weekend,鈥� she said, unprompted.

I needed to understand how this faceless man had become a ubiquitous and mercurial guru鈥攁nd wormed his way into the brains and hearts of my community. So I emailed Givens and asked him to meet up.

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Stepping off the train in Kitzb眉hel, Austria, feels like entering hallowed ground: one of the most famous ski towns in the Alps, chartered in 1271 by Duke Ludwig II of Bavaria. I inhaled the crisp afternoon air and began a short walk to my accommodations, passing fur boutiques and high-end ski shops, medieval churches, and brightly lit, glassed-in hotel lobbies. I came to a tiny concrete stairway one block off the main drag and descended into a snow-covered garden, where I passed a few ducks, quacking and nibbling on lettuce. I buzzed the doorbell and waited.

It was Tuesday, January 22, 2025. I had come to Kitzb眉hel to cover the baddest ski race on the World Cup circuit: the Hahnenkamm downhill, alpine schussing鈥檚 holy grail, where skiers become legends on a twisting elevator shaft of ice called the Streif. It is staged in this quaint Tyrolean hamlet of 8,000 residents, and each year attracts 45,000 paying fans, as well as celebrities and politicians who intermingle with depraved commoners like few places in the winter world.

I鈥檇 planned my trip late, in mid-December, when most of the area鈥檚 lodging had been gobbled up. My options were to pay $600 a night for a room in a village four miles away, accessed by train; or $50 a night for a bed in a six-bunk room at the SnowBunnys Hostel, a five-minute walk to the race finish鈥攂reakfast included. I hadn鈥檛 stayed in a European hostel since I was 21. Now I am a 45-year-old father of two who enjoys sleep.

It鈥檚 only six nights, I reassured myself as I booked the hostel.

A few minutes after arriving at the hostel, a heavyset man named Dave with long, stringy black hair and a graying beard opened the door. I followed him upstairs to a small, stuffy quarters on the third floor. He coughed and sneezed without covering his mouth. 鈥淓veryone in the village is sick,鈥� he explained.

Dave, a Kiwi in his fifties, showed me the bathrooms: a cramped toilet stall outside our room and a fourth-floor shower with a sign that read, 鈥淥nly 2 Euros to watch!鈥� A rabbit named Rocky hopped down the hallway.

I met my roommates: Josh, 41, a wildland firefighter from Sun Valley, Idaho, who was here to snowboard; and Jake, a Toronto dad in his sixties who鈥檇 come to watch his best friend鈥檚 son compete in the Hahnenkamm. More would arrive later in the week.

鈥淥h, hey,鈥� Jake mentioned in the common room, before I headed upstairs to bed, 鈥淛osh is a bit of a snorer. I do, too, sometimes.鈥� I soon learned this was like saying Hahnenkamm racers ski 鈥渁 bit fast.鈥� Jake started snoring ten seconds after he closed his eyes. But it was nothing like Josh, whose labored breathing sounded like a semi truck using its engine brake. That night I lay awake for six hours.
The following evening, we sat around a table while Dave held court. He told us he鈥檇 left school at 14, served in the British infantry, and moved to Kitzb眉hel in 1990 with 100 British pounds to his name.

鈥淲hat brought you?鈥� I asked.

鈥淚 met a girl in Prague and she was coming here.鈥�

Dave took a job at McDonald鈥檚, which improved his language skills; he spoke English, German, Bulgarian, and Japanese. Dave鈥檚 family had run the hostel for 27 years. 鈥淪ome people are so shiny,鈥� he lamented. 鈥淲e call 鈥檈m 鈥榮hinys.鈥� They complain about everything to try and get their money back. 鈥極h, my wife was allergic to chickens.鈥欌��

Seeking a bit of optimism, he shifted to the week鈥檚 marquee event鈥攖he reason his hostel would be full come Friday.

鈥淣ow we have the Hanhenkamm. It鈥檚 just bullshit on bullshit. But it鈥檚 amazing how we can put 90,000 people in one little village and nobody鈥檚 shooting or driving trucks through the crowd.鈥�

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Robert Baker clicks his flame-orange Tecnica boots into his bindings on the summit of Rendezvous Mountain, the high point of Jackson Hole Mountain Resort. Folks are just waking up in the valley below, but at 53, with bristling gray eyebrows, perma-rosied cheeks and a mariner’s beard, Baker wastes no time.

I watch Baker drop into Rendezvous Bowl, his skis cutting clean arcs through the wind-scoured snow. He moves with the ease of someone who鈥檚 skied this line for more than three decades鈥攍ight on his edges, unbothered by the chop. A cloud of powder trails behind him, then settles as he stops below, looking back upslope for me.

Baker has skied like this for decades, a local who built his life around the mountain. Until five years ago, he was running a plum and grape farm in Fresno so he could spend his winters here. Only in the last few years has he started tracking vertical feet, out of curiosity. By the end of last season, he logged 5.8 million feet鈥攁 full million more than the next closest skier at Jackson Hole. If this winter is anything like the last, he鈥檒l take more than 1,100 tram laps, spending the equivalent of a week of his life just riding back up the mountain. Unlike the younger skiers chasing single-day records, Baker鈥檚 approach is about sheer accumulation鈥攕tacking vertical, day after day, all season long. The Jackson Hole app will track nearly every foot. In classic ski bum-ese, Baker, called 鈥淏uddha鈥� by the locals鈥攕ays he doesn’t obsess over stats.

鈥淵ou get what you get,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 just go skiing.鈥�

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It鈥檚 a bluebird day at Val Thorens in France, the highest ski resort in Europe, and there鈥檚 still an hour and a half till the lifts close. But unlike your diehard last-chair Rockies skier, we鈥檝e abandoned our skis. We鈥檝e traded the lift lines for the queues at La Folie Douce, a famous outdoor bar above a steep blue run.

To my left, a group of skiers in Hogwarts regalia bops along to house music. Artificial fog engulfs the group on the table in front of me, where a flannel-clad man is dancing in front of the crowd. He and his friends are doing lewd things with a six-liter bottle of ros茅鈥�550 euros鈥攁nd taking turns drinking straight out of it. A woman sways in black sequined pants. In the right lighting, she could be mistaken for a disco ball.

鈥淐hampagne鈥� shower. Champagne鈥� SHOWER,鈥� the DJ starts to chant from a balcony overlooking the wooden deck, slowly building speed and volume. He waves for the crowd to join in.

鈥淐hampagne鈥� shower,鈥� we chant back. 鈥淐hampagne鈥� shower. Champagne鈥� SHOWER. CHAMPAGNE鈥斺�� and then we get what we want: three bottles are popped and fizz rains from the balcony. We scream and duck, but there鈥檚 nowhere to hide from the spray. We鈥檙e packed in tighter than ski bums jockeying for the first tram of the morning.

We鈥檙e above treeline, surrounded by views of sharp, snow-covered peaks, yet the Alps are forgotten. The mountains aren鈥檛 the point鈥攖hey鈥檙e the vehicle.

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I. Two Sides of a Single-Edged Blade

Franklin Park, Illinois, December 25, 2021

The sword was suspended in the basement rafters with a message from 1945 still secured to its fittings. My grandfather and I were sitting one floor above it at his kitchen table when an email arrived. It was 9:17 A.M. on Christmas Day in 2021, the Chicago weather too mild, the ground too much of a defeated brown, and the gathering too small to suggest that anything festive was about to happen. A notification lit up my phone with the subject line 鈥淢erry Christmas and a letter from Umeki-san.鈥�

The timing was convenient. I was visiting for the holidays, staying at my mother鈥檚 childhood home in Franklin Park, ten miles west of Chicago. My parents were there, too. My grandfather, Joseph Kasser, who goes by Ben or Benny, built the home in 1957 for a family of four that eventually dwindled to one. My mom, Kathy, was the first to go, leaving for college in 1971; my grandma Alice died in 2008; my uncle Bob died in 2010. They left Benny alone on Louis Street with a lifetime of modest possessions. Among them was a Japanese sword he鈥檇 found on an Okinawa beach in the final days of World War II.

It was six months after I first asked Benny if he鈥檇 be interested in finding the sword鈥檚 owner. I don鈥檛 remember what I said to start the conversation. I do remember that I was nervous asking a man who doesn鈥檛 own much to part ways with a keepsake he鈥檇 found during perhaps the most consequential time of his life as an antiaircraft gunner in the U.S. Army. He didn鈥檛 hesitate. He said, 鈥淪ure.鈥�

It was one of those inspired 鈥渟ure鈥漵 that really mean 鈥渁bsolutely,鈥� a posture-correcting 鈥渟ure,鈥� an energy-intoned 鈥渟ure,鈥� not 鈥淚 suppose鈥� or 鈥渋f you want.鈥� A momentous syllable that set something off. It was apparently something he had considered.

Now, on Christmas Day, I didn鈥檛 know if the email that had arrived contained good news about our quest. I read it silently while sitting at the kitchen table, where I had heard one side of the story for more than three decades.

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On a brisk weekday in October 2023, three sewing machines hummed while experimental indie pop played quietly inside a warehouse near the airport in Missoula, Montana. Three sewers had their heads down, assembling eggplant-colored jumpsuits, as Mallory Ottariano, the 34-year-old founder of the women鈥檚 outdoor clothing brand , squinted into a dizzying spreadsheet. The Youniverse鈥攚hat Ottariano, a queen of puns, calls the factory she opened just eight months earlier鈥攕melled like the sugary candle that had been burning that morning, and soon it would be fragrant with garlic.

鈥淲hat kind of pizza do you guys like? Or not like?鈥� Ottariano shouted from the lofted office that a handy friend helped her build. Staring at numbers was making her hungry.

鈥淣o olives!鈥� one of the sewers shouted between stitches.

鈥淎ny meat?鈥� Ottariano asked.

鈥淚 like pepperoni,鈥� said another.

You couldn鈥檛 tell from the employees鈥� nonchalance, but Youer was in the middle of its latest supply-chain crisis. Actually, two. First, it couldn鈥檛 find a specific purple thread in all of the U.S. to sew together 300 pairs of leggings, 30 of which had already sold to customers eagerly awaiting their arrival. Any other color would look weird, and dyeing was too expensive. Second, inventory slated to be ready in a month for a Black Friday drop wasn鈥檛 even underway at a contract factory in Los Angeles, California. Unless Ottariano found a fix fast, Youer鈥檚 customers would be disappointed, if not angry.

Since Ottariano started out back in 2012 with a $100 sewing machine from eBay, her brand has amassed a fanatical following among active women. Signature garments like the best-selling ($179) and stretchy ($94) sell out quickly. The vibrant prints are hand-designed and cheekily named by Ottariano, like a floral pattern called OK Bloomer.

Prodded about her stress levels, Ottariano shrugged as if to say, What鈥檚 new?聽After all she鈥檚 been through鈥攊ncluding contemplating bankruptcy following losses in the hundreds of thousands of dollars to unreliable factories in 2020鈥攏ot many setbacks phase her anymore.

鈥淚鈥檝e proven to myself that we can figure it out,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not really fun, but I think that鈥檚 just the reality of business. If I want to stay in this industry, that鈥檚 going to happen all the damn time.鈥�

It鈥檚 especially the reality for small outdoor businesses like Youer that have chosen to manufacture domestically despite countless challenges such as higher costs, fewer resources, more regulation, and now potential new tariffs proposed by President Donald Trump on U.S. imports from China, Canada, and Mexico.

These obstacles pose such a threat to small businesses that doubt lingers: Is having more control, greater transparency, and better ethics by manufacturing in the U.S. worth it? And do American consumers care enough about those things to keep the few American-made gear brands alive?

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