Our Favorite Travel Gear for Under $25

Six things that will make road trips and plane rides more pleasant

Traveling is expensive. The gear you bring along for the ride doesn’t have to be. Here are six affordable items you’ll want to pack for your next trip.

Nomad Key Charger ($25)

(Courtesy Nomad)

Leave this little guy on your keychain, and you’ll have an iPhone charger anywhere you go. In your jeans, it’s barely noticeable and surprisingly flexible, which makes it friendlier for those who carry their keys in their back pocket.

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Gerber Shard Keychain Tool ($7)

(Courtesy Gerber)

The Shard is a bare-bones multitool you can keep on your keychain or in the bottom of your backpack. It’s most useful as a screwdriver, bottle opener, and mini pry bar. I can’t count how many of these I’ve bought—not because they break, but because people rarely give them back after borrowing them.

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Vapur Element Water Bottle ($12)

(Courtesy Vapur)

It can be hard to stay hydrated on the road, so bring your own water bottle. The Vapur Element is a rugged yet foldable plastic-and-nylon bottle that packs down to the size of thin wallet.

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Field Notes Expedition ($13)

(Courtesy Field Notes)

All-weather notebooks are often too big to fit in your pocket, or, worse, have paper as thick as playing cards. This version from Field Notes is the same size as its standard pocket notebooks but will keep your notes legible, even after getting soaked. Heads up: The pages are slick, so it’s best to avoid gel pens.

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Brainwavz Jive Headphones ($25)

(Courtesy Brainwavz)

Isolating headphones can offer much-needed quiet when you’re traveling. These, from Brainwavz, probably offer the best sound quality at their price point. The cable is made with a matte plastic, which means you can toss them in the bottom of your bag without having to spend five minutes untangling them later.

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Natti Bars ($32 for 16)

(Courtesy Natti Bar)

These Natti Bars are just dried and compressed bananas mixed with chocolate nibs. Unlike most energy bars, they won’t lose their appeal or texture if they get smashed in the bottom of your bag. The bars are also available without chocolate nibs and are always delicious.

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The Best Winter Boots for Men

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If you spend time in the mountains or just spend weekdays trudging along snowy sidewalks, then you know life is better with a pair of winter boots. But not all are created equal, so I put together a team to evaluate 15 of the top-rated styles.

In the end, our favorite was the Kamik Nationplus, an inexpensive model that many of our testers fell in love with. We pitted the Nationplus head-to-head with some of the fanciest winter boots on the market and found that, while it wasn’t the boot for Arctic cold or high-output aerobic activities, it rated good to really good in all the categories we used to evaluate it and will give you the most mileage for everyday wear and outdoor play. It’s flexible while remaining supportive, repels the elements, and feels comfortable for walking around. It’s the ultimate utility player. Even better, it’s about $100 cheaper than its nearest competitors. Buy the Nationplus and spend that extra cash on fancy winter socks.

As a lifetime West Coaster, I’ve spent time exploring the Canadian Rockies in temps hovering in the minus 20 Fahrenheit range, but I have never lived in truly brutal cold. So, for expert winter boot guidance, I called polar explorer and guide Eric Larsen, who walked 500 miles to the North Pole in 2014.

First, Larsen recommends focusing on how you’ll be using your boots, paying attention to two variables: how much you’ll be moving and for how long. Exertion and duration. High-exertion activities will require considerably less insulation than, for example, ice fishing. “If you aren’t going to be very active, don’t underestimate insulation,” Larsen says. To stay warm during ten-hour dogsled expeditions, he once wore boots with three-inch-thick soles. And if your activity is going to span more than one night, you’ll need a way to dry your boots. That means a removable liner.

“If you’re looking for the warmest footwear, then, hands down, it is going to be a boot with insulated rubber, a very thick sole, an insole, and a removable liner,” Larsen says. Finally, size up a little. “People have a tendency to buy their winter boots like they buy their running shoes,” he says. “You don’t want a fit that will cut off circulation to your feet. That’ll just make them colder.”

I started by asking guides, fellow gear testers, and outdoor educators for their personal favorite winter boots. Next, I cross-referenced their favorites with picks from the Outdoor Gear Lab and The Wirecutter and looked at ratings of popular boots on Amazon.

I also took into account what the boots were made from: I looked at insulation, upper materials, sole materials and tread, water resistance, stack height, whether the boots had removable liners, and collar height. I also used information from a test that I conducted for my Gear Guy column. (For that test, I wanted to see how boots did while soaking wet and how they performed as yard boots.) Next, I put together a list of 15 boots, including the four from my previous test, and requested samples. Companies sent the samples for free, and I’ve since returned several boots and donated the rest to a local charity.

Finally, I rounded up a group of students from the outdoor program at Southern Oregon University, where I teach, to test boots in the field. I included the students in part to neutralize any bias I had from the previous test, as well as any bias I have from years of testing gear in the outdoor industry. The students didn’t know much about the boots in advance, and their mission was to wear them as much as possible, rate them with a number system, and pick their favorites.

The students used these boots to walk around town in Ashland, Oregon, as well as on snowy hikes in the Siskiyou Mountains. Conditions ranged from rain to wet snow, and temperatures hovered between 30 and 50 degrees. They compared the boots while hiking up our local ski resort, Mount Ashland, on hills with about four inches of snow. Next, testers completely submerged each boot for a minute in a snow-slurried puddle that was just over ankle deep. Finally, they buried the boots up to the ankle in snow and took notes on how warm their feet remained after two minutes. One note: It’s been a bad winter in the West, and we didn’t have a chance to test the boots in temperatures below 30 degrees or in snow deeper than four inches.

Kamik Nationplus ($85)

The Nationplus has everything a warm boot needs: insulated rubber, a very thick sole, an insole, and a removable liner. It comes with 200 grams of Thinsulate insulation and a seam-sealed leather upper that was supple while remaining waterproof. From the sole to the tongue is a thick, burly rubber base that ends right above your ankle. The Nationplus also has an intuitive lacing system, with six large eyelets above the ankle. “Standing in the puddle of ice water, I didn’t feel anything on my feet,” wrote one tester.

While the Nationplus wasn’t sport-specific like the Salomon Quest Winter GTX, our favorite boot for winter hiking, it still received some of the highest marks for comfort, particularly while testers were using them to climb the ski runs. That’s partly because they’re relatively lightweight for their height: 3.6 pounds per pair and 11.5 inches tall. (The heaviest boot we tested, the Bogs Bozeman, weighs four pounds per pair; the lightest is the Quest Winter GTX, at two pounds four ounces per pair.) That height gives the Nationplus ample ankle support and helped keep snow from sneaking into our socks. And despite its height, the Nationplus was easy to put on and take off.

It is also worth noting that the leather upper and simple, straightforward style help the Nationplus dress up a bit if you choose to wear them around town. They work with a pair of jeans, and putting them on won’t frustrate you as you get ready to walk to the store. The treated leather and hearty rubber make them look like a considerably more sophisticated boot than their $85 price tag would suggest.

The Nationplus was slightly (but only slightly) less comfortable than Keen’s Durand Polar ($160), another warm and versatile boot that also impressed testers with its combination of insulation and low weight. At first glance, we worried that the Polar would be stiff and overbuilt for higher-output activities, but we found it to be nearly as versatile as the Nationplus. It lost to the Nationplus for two reasons: Its lacing system made the Polar tricky to put on and take off, despite its significantly shorter 6.7-inch collar height, and testers also said it was slightly less grippy while ascending the ski hill.

Overall, the Nationplus most impressed us with its versatility. It scored at or near the top of the test for snow traction, beating even the studded Icebug Metro2 W Bugrip. It hung with the warmest boot, the Vasque Lost 40, for warmth. It also had great water resistance. I could imagine being equally comfortable wearing the Nationplus on a snowy evening dog walk and pulling a long shift as a chairlift operator.

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Icebug Metro2 W Bugrip ($190)

As the name suggests, this boot belongs in the city. The soft elastic cuff and a single zipper combine to make the Metro2 the easiest boot to put on and take off, and the suede exterior gave it a Blundstone-like style.

But it was the Metro2’s crampon-like grip that really shone. It’s the product of 16 carbide studs in each outsole. You could run laps around an ice rink in the Metro2, and it is the boot to buy if you regularly traverse icy sidewalks or hard-packed snow. It won’t work as well if you live anywhere with slushy or rainy winters—it finished dead last in our soak test. And the studs are annoyingly aggressive on bare asphalt. But the Metro2 was so much grippier on ice than any other boot in our test that we had to include them.

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Vasque Lost 40 ($180)

While the aesthetic of the Lost 40 is reminiscent of a low-tech Mukluk boot, its style hides some impressive technical performance. It placed neck-and-neck with the Keen and Kamik Nationplus for warmth, boasted the tallest stack height (more than an inch) of all the boots we tested, and gripped snow and ice with tenacity. Its seven-millimeter inner felt sole and 200 grams of insulation made it a beast at keeping out the cold and snowy elements.

When I tested the Lost 40 in my previous Outside roundup, I knocked it for letting water seep in through the soles after 22 minutes. This test, however, was focused on overall winter performance, and, hot damn, did it perform. Using Vibram Icetrek technology, the Lost 40’s soles proved nearly as sticky as the studded Icebugs on the ice, and they hung with the Kamik while ascending the ski runs. The Lost 40 is too much boot for everyday city use, which kept it from winning the test outright, and the aesthetic has more of a Luke Skywalker on Hoth look than you might want for date night—unless, of course, dinner was on Hoth. But it’s our choice for people who spend extended periods of time outdoors in very cold conditions. This would be a great boot for a chairlift operator, where its grip, impressive stack height, insulated midsole, and thick outsole are unstoppable.

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Salomon Quest Winter GTX

A lightweight waterproof boot with an aggressive tread, the Salomon Quest Winter GTX takes the cake for winter day-hiking. The Quest finished close to the best on the climb, and our testers noted that the robust lacing system allowed a snug fit that was better than any other boot we evaluated. At two pounds four ounces, it saved a noticeable amount of energy compared to boots that were significantly heavier.

Visually, the Quest could have passed for a spring hiking boot, but Salomon did not skimp on warmth. This boot was best in the slush-water soak test, thanks to its Gore-Tex waterproof membrane. And that lacing system allowed testers to really yank on the laces and firmly place their heels in the back of the boot, aided by a brilliant U-shaped catch just above the ankle. This gave testers’ toes plenty of room to move around while still making the boot feel locked down and secure.

If we were basing this test solely on cold-weather hiking performance, the mixture of low weight, great fit, and aggressive lugs would have made the Quest hard to beat. But there’s a catch: To keep weight low, Salomon used a nonremovable integrated liner, which makes it hard to dry out if it gets wet. If you sweat heavily on day one of a winter backpacking trip, for example, you’d be in real trouble for day two.

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How a One-Armed Surfer Plans to Fix Wildfires

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Last year was the most expensive wildfire season on record. The U.S. Forest Service spent $2 billion fighting blazes in 2017, and those fires still destroyed more than $12 billion in property—in California alone. In the 13 western states, the total value of homes threatened by wildfire now tops $500 billion, and due to climate change, that threat is only going to get worse.

Plus, the way we fight fires isn't great for the environment. The vast quantities of water dumped and sprayed on blazes can wash toxic debris into groundwater. Worse, the foam and thickening agents used by firefighters are toxic, adding to pollution and potentially threatening the health of firefighters and the public. Finally, during a drought, water can be difficult to find nearby and thus require expensive transportation by land or air.

A one-armed surfer thinks he can do something about all the above.

In 1993, Jeff Denholm was working as a fisherman when he lost his right arm to a trawler’s driveshaft off the coast of Alaska. After surviving the 21-hour trip to the nearest hospital and the subsequent amputation, he set about designing a prosthesis that would enable him to continue surfing. Denholm has since created similar prosthetic arms for skiing and mountain biking, and he now works as a surf and paddleboard ambassador for Patagonia.

Denholm also owns a fleet of fire trucks that he rents to the U.S. Forest Service to help it fight wildfires, which is how he became aware of the problems with existing firefighting chemicals and decided to look for a solution. His search led him to Steve Haddix, an engineer who had developed a biodegradable gel that promised just that. The two are now partners in Atira Systems, which makes just one product—Strong Water. 

Strong Water is a gel intended to be coated on structures and even forests to make them fire-resistant. It’s distributed as a concentrate (Denholm won’t reveal exactly what's in it, but says the mixture poses no risk to humans or the environment), which is then shipped to local fire departments. They then mix it with water, and voilà—they get a toothpaste-like substance suitable for fire protection or suppression. Five gallons of Strong Water concentrate combined with 250 gallons of water can coat a 1,074-square-foot structure with three-quarters of an inch of gel. 

Denholm claims that the gel, which has a six-year shelf life, increases the “value” of water to firefighters by up to 20 times. He arrives at this calculation due to the gel’s ability to “stick and stay” on vertical surfaces. Where water and foams simply run off whatever they’re sprayed on, Strong Water clings for two to eight hours. That enables considerably less water to provide much more effective fire prevention. When dropped from an airplane, Smart Water will coat the upper layers of a forest. It can be sprayed onto houses well in advance of a fire’s arrival. Because it persists through flames, the gel can prevent the fire from rekindling. 

With current technology, firefighters might “write off” a home if it’s adjacent to an overwhelming amount of fuel (dead trees and brush). They simply lack the ability to effectively protect structures in those circumstances. With Strong Water, both that home and the adjacent fuel could be coated in fire-extinguishing gel an hour or two before the fire arrives, allowing firefighters to efficiently save the structure and move on to its neighbors, all well in advance of the actual fire line.

The stuff's already been approved for use in California following a three-year trial by the state’s Office of Emergency Services. Atira is working to create local stockpiles of the concentrate around the state so it’ll be available wherever it’s needed during this summer’s fire season. It’s currently being used by fire departments in San Diego County and San Bernardino County, as well as on the trucks that Denholm supplies to Forest Service Region 6 in the Pacific Northwest.

It’s difficult to fully quantify the advantages of this new technology, especially because it’s designed for such a chaotic, constantly changing application and all the methods and practices for using it have yet to be developed. Government employees like firefighters are also prevented from endorsing businesses and their products. But Strong Water has already faced its first real-world test: Atira estimates that roughly 1,000 gallons of the gel concentrate were used to fight last year’s destructive Napa and Thomas fires, protecting $200 million in homes.

As for the name? “Strong water took my arm on the Bering Sea. Strong water has provided a platform to leverage athletics into environmental activism," Denholm says. "Strong water is the nexus of all things in my life." 

The Best Affordable Bike Components

Thanks to trickle-down technology, second- and third-tier groups are almost as good as the premium stuff but cost a fraction of the price

There’s a lot of grousing out there over the high price of bikes and bike parts. But in June, SRAM announced its GX Eagle MTB group, which brings the pinnacle of mountain bike drivetrain performance to the masses at 65 percent less than the cost of the top-shelf XX1 Eagle.

I’ve been testing the new components against their more-expensive counterparts, and though GX Eagle is technically third tier, the performance is so good—even considering weight—that I’d bet the average rider could not tell the difference between it, the second-tier XO1 Eagle, or the top-shelf XX1 Eagle. There’s a place and market for each, naturally, but if you’re on a budget, there’s no need to feel like you’re slumming it anymore.

As I’ve argued before, SRAM effectively killed the mountain bike front derailleur by building a system out back with a 12-gear range so large that it nearly equaled what’s possible with two chainrings. That was great if you wanted to spend nearly the price of a full bike for just a component set, but the other 99 percent were relegated to well-designed, smaller 1×11 setups. Now, however, GX Eagle offers the same 12-gear range as the top shelf, with a 50-tooth granny, and it costs $495 for a full drivetrain versus $1,411 for the premium XX1 Eagle.

To be clear, GX Eagle is not 100 percent equal to XX1 or even X01 Eagle. Manufacturing and materials step down through the range. Whereas XX1 gets a carbon derailleur and XO1 is built of steel, GX goes to a slightly less burly aluminum. And while the coup de grace of XX1 Eagle is a cassette that’s intricately stamped from a single piece of steel (and held onto the hub by an aluminum, 50-tooth ring), the GX Eagle cassette is built from stamped-steel cogs (plus that alloy 50-tooth ring) held together by stainless pins. Sure, it’s heavier by about half a pound, or 20 percent, but you still get the same cassette steps and range.

Shifting on GX Eagle is virtually identical to its two higher siblings, though perhaps nominally slower. And when I say nominally, I don’t mean the difference between power windows and crank windows on your car. I mean the disparity between fabric seats and leather. It’s quick and accurate, and unless you were riding the group back-to-back with XO1 or XX1 Eagle, you would never know the difference. In fact, I think few would be able to discern the contrast in head-to-head tests.

It’s not just SRAM and GX Eagle that are providing this value. As technology continues to trickle down, the performance of bike components is higher across the ranges. Weight and, to a lesser degree, dependability over time are the biggest distinguishing traits between the top three or four group sets between brands these days, which means that no matter your brand preference, it’s possible to buy near top-level execution on a mid- or even budget-level bike if you’re a savvy consumer.

For instance, I’ve been testing three mountain bikes equipped with Shimano’s three component groups: XTR on a Pivot Switchblade, XT on a Rocky Mountain Element, and SLX on the new Cannondale Trigger. While all the components have worked almost flawlessly, what has impressed me most is the quality and feel of the new SLX M7000. Like SRAM’s new GX Eagle, the third tier shifts and brakes virtually as well as the top end. The performance is especially impressive if you compare costs of identical 1×11 setups: XTR weighs 2,596 grams and sells for $1954.88, XT weighs 3,003 grams and costs $879.88, and SLX weighs 3,151 grams and costs $588.88. There’s just over a pound difference from top end to third tier, while SLX sells for 70 percent less.

The juxtaposition of Shimano’s two electric MTB groups is even more stark. Yes, a complete XTR Di2 1×11 setup weighs 339 grams less than XT Di2, but it costs almost double ($2,908.82 versus $1,573.82), while performance is virtually the same. If you parse that out, it costs $112 per ounce to upgrade to XTR Di2.

It’s easy to get lost in the numbers, but the big picture is that, at least where components are concerned, performance and value are on the rise. I’ve long counseled friends and colleagues that the smart money buys bikes with second-tier setups—either SRAM XO1 or Shimano XT in the case of mountain bikes. But with the arrival of GX Eagle and SLX, that logic extends down the line. (And with road components—Shimano 105 versus Dura Ace, for instance—it offers the same value proposition.)

If budget is no issue or you need the highest performance available, the top-of-the-line parts and bikes are impossible to argue against. But if you can’t afford or justify the bling, you no longer need to view lower-tier components as a comedown.

Has Amelia Earhart Really Been Found?

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If you were paying any attention to the news over the past few weeks, you’d be forgiven for thinking that pioneering American aviator Amelia Earhart had, at last, been found. The headlines were written at a fever pitch.

“Bones from Pacific Island Likely Those of Amelia Earhart, Researchers Say,” said CNN.

“Bones Discovered on a Pacific Island Belong to Amelia Earhart, a New Forensic Analysis Claims,” reported the Washington Post.

“Amelia Earhart Found!” said the Los Angeles Times. “Great for Science, But Sad News for Mystery Buffs.”

The blitz came after the journal Forensic Anthropology released a paper by Richard Jantz, professor emeritus and director emeritus of the University of Tennessee’s Forensic Anthropology Center. Jantz compared old data from about 13 human bones found in 1940 on the remote Pacific island of Nikumaroro with what’s known about Earhart’s physique. Although the bones in question have long since vanished, they were examined at the time by a Fiji-based forensic anthropologist named D.W. Hoodless, who concluded that their size indicated that they came from a male. Revisiting the info, Jantz scrutinized the remains relative to old photographs of Earhart and to clothing that once belonged to her. He decided that given Earhart’s likely skeletal structure and height (about 5'7"), they were consistent with a body type very similar to hers.

“This analysis reveals that Earhart is more similar to the Nikumaroro bones than 99 percent of individuals in a large reference sample,” Jantz wrote.

“In the case of the Nikumaroro bones,” he continued, “the only documented person to whom they may belong is…Earhart. She was known to have been in the area of Nikumaroro Island, she went missing, and human remains were discovered which are entirely consistent with her and inconsistent with most other people.”

Great. Except there’s no “documented” evidence that Earhart was anywhere near Nikumaroro. Jantz’s argument depends on accepting the claim that Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, crashed on Nikumaroro’s reef and survived there for a while as castaways. But this notion remains the unlikely and unproven theory of a single organization: the International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery (TIGHAR), which is run by a Pennsylvania-based aviation enthusiast named Ric Gillespie. Though Jantz is not a member of TIGHAR, Gillespie helped facilitate the cooperation of a Purdue University archive that provided measurements from a pair of Earhart’s trousers. Jantz himself calls his relationship with Gillespie “collaborative.”

“TIGHAR had a lot of resources that enabled me to get what I got,” says Jantz, reached at his home in Tennessee.“It was TIGHAR that got the measurements from Purdue University archives on her clothes…I know there are criticisms of TIGHAR, but TIGHAR has invested heavily in the Nikumaroro hypothesis, and there was evidence she was there.”

But what if Gillespie’s contention that Earhart crashed on Nikumaroro is wrong? Jantz acknowledges that there’s nothing about the bones in and of themselves that establish them as being Earhart’s. “It’s pretty clear on bone length alone that Earhart would have looked like a male, because she’s so tall,” he says. “So that’s as much evidence as there is that the bones point to female. If there were just these bones and nothing else, the argument would be much weaker.”


The assertion that Earhart’s bones have been found fits in with a long pattern of TIGHAR claiming that some new artifact or lead was about to solve the mystery for good. Indeed, if the recent flood of headlines sound familiar, it’s because they are.

“Researchers Think They Know Where Amelia Earhart Died,” reported the Washington Post in the spring of 2017.

In 2014, after Gillespie announced finding a photograph of Earhart’s plane, a Lockheed Electra, showing an aluminum patch that could, maybe, resemble a piece of aluminum scrap recovered from the island on a prior expedition, he declared, “We reached a point where we feel very confident we have a part of the airplane.”

“On a scale of 1 to 10, Gillespie’s confidence is at 9.8,” wrote the Inquirer. “Finding proof could happen soon, with a June expedition planned.”

All this after the huge wave of hype surrounding a TIGHAR expedition that happened in the summer of 2012, which was based on newly discovered images that, according to Gillespie, showed a piece of the Electra’s landing gear in the waters off Nikumaroro. “I’m quite sure it’s there,” he told the Washington Post. Among those who bought in were Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who stood before cameras at the State Department to throw support behind TIGHAR’s dream. “Even if you do not find what you seek,” she said, “there is great honor and possibility in the search itself.”

This kind of thing has been going on since 1989, when TIGHAR’s first expedition to Nikumaroro yielded a metal bookcase that, Gillespie was convinced, came from Earhart’s plane. Ultimately, nothing came of this object, which Gillespie once referred to as “the grail.”

In the years since, TIGHAR has made 11 more trips to a largely barren island just 4.5 miles long by 1.5 miles wide—a place reached by a five-day, thousand-mile voyage from Fiji. During that time, they have found a woman’s shoe, a bottle that may have once contained freckle cream, a wooden box that may have held a sextant, a piece of aluminum and assorted other items, and a baby skeleton in an island grave that they dug up.

Over time, none of these leads have panned out. That landing gear? Side-scan sonars found no sign of it. An effort last year involving forensic dogs that was supposed to find remains of Earhart and Noonan? The dogs got excited at the base of a tree that was supposedly the site of the human bones found in 1940, but excavations uncovered nothing.

These speculations abound in part because there aren’t many established facts about Earhart’s last hours. But there are some, and they are important. In 1937, as Earhart got underway on the longest and most dangerous leg of her around-the-world flight, she was flying from Lae, New Guinea, to Howland Island. Howland, too, was small—a bare speck in the sea—but it had a landing strip, a fuel cache, and the Itasca, a waiting U.S. Coast Guard cutter with trained radio operators helping to guide Earhart in. Flying with her was Noonan, a deeply experienced aerial celestial navigator who had pioneered Pan Am’s Clipper routes across the Pacific.

Although Earhart’s radios were not working properly and she was unable to hear the Itasca, its radio operators could hear her. Among other communications, she reported a position at 200 miles out and then again at 100 miles out. Operators on the Itasca recorded signal strengths on a one-to-five scale, with five the strongest and clearest. During each report, her signals gained in strength. She was, it seems, heading to Howland as planned, in clear-sky conditions.

During her approach, Earhart said, “I must be on you but cannot see you,” at which point the radio operator recorded the strongest signal yet, a 5+, so strong that men ran out onto the deck expecting to see her plane. They didn’t, and Earhart’s next transmission, which came soon after, dropped to a five as she reported that she was nearly out of fuel and flying north to south along compass bearing 157–337, which bisected Howland Island.

And then nothing. Silence. Earhart and Noonan had vanished.


Gillespie and TIGHAR believe that the pair flew farther south along that line until reaching Nikumaroro, where they successfully landed on the island’s exposed reef. Over the next five nights, they were able to power up the Electra and send a series of cryptic radio transmissions, picked up by listeners as far away as the United States. Before long, waves washed the plane into the ocean, and for weeks the castaways lived on the island, eventually dying of thirst and starvation.

But the castaway theory is full of holes. Nikumaroro lies 350 nautical miles south of Howland, and Earhart herself reported that she was running out of fuel near the island. Those radio transmissions supposedly picked up by random people thousands of miles away? None have been verified as coming from Earhart. Navy search planes flew over Nikumaroro a week after her disappearance and saw nothing related to the aviator: not a human, not an airplane or the debris of one, not a smoke signal, not an SOS written with palm fronds.

What about the various pieces of junk and bones found there over time? Fishermen and voyagers had been stopping at Nikumaroro for centuries. Waves and wind send flotsam and jetsam across vast stretches of ocean. There had been at least one documented attempt in the 19th century to create a coconut plantation on Nikumaroro, and one night in 1929, the SS Norwich City, a 400-foot freighter, ran aground on the reef. Of the ship’s 35 crew members, 11 perished on or near the island. The 24 survivors made camp until their rescue a few days later.

For these and other reasons, TIGHAR’s theory is absurd, argues Dave Jourdan, who’s been looking for Earhart since 2002. A former Navy submarine officer and physicist at the Johns Hopkins University Applied Physics Laboratory, Jourdan began developing sophisticated ocean navigation and locating software for the U.S. Navy in the 1980s, helping it track and locate its submarines.

After leaving Hopkins, Jourdan teamed up with Thomas Dettweiler, a veteran deep-ocean explorer who managed the discovery of the Titanic in 1985 and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute’s Deep Submergence Laboratory. Together, they began locating objects in the ocean for a variety of clients, including the Navy. Many of their projects remain classified, but among their more famous finds are the I-52, a World War II–era Japanese submarine that they located in 1995 at a depth of 17,000 feet, and the Israeli submarine Dakar, which vanished in the Mediterranean in 1968. They found that one in 1999 at a depth of 10,000 feet.

In 1999, a detailed analysis of the fuel consumption of Earhart’s plane—done by Fred Culick, a professor of mechanical engineering and jet propulsion at Caltech—determined that Earhart was, as she stated, nearly out of fuel right at the time when she said she was, putting Nikumaroro far out of reach. Jourdan modeled her radio signals, which supported the Itasca’s conclusions that Earhart was on her intended flight path, coming closer with every transmission, and “within tens of miles” of Howland Island.

Jourdan fed all the known data into his proprietary Renav software, which spit out a likely crash area. He then performed what’s known as a Monte Carlo analysis, a blind statistical game in which a computer randomly modeled every possible permutation of 4 million flight paths, again resulting in a likely crash area. In a third analysis, he asked questions about each possible data point: How accurate was Earhart’s compass likely to be? How accurate was Noonan’s navigation? This, too, resulted in a high probability area.

Where all three analyses overlapped is where Jourdan believes Earhart crashed—somewhere near Howland Island, inside an area measuring 6,000 square miles, about twice the size of Connecticut, in water 18,000 feet deep. During three expeditions since 2002, he has searched 3,600 square miles with side-scan sonar at a resolution of one meter, leaving him with 2,400 square miles still to go.


Jantz’s forensic paper and its recent press notwithstanding, Jourdan remains incredulous about TIGHAR’s claims. “Everything that they declare as evidence isn’t evidence at all,” he says. “You take an item that in itself cannot be connected to Amelia Earhart in any way, and then take ten more items that in themselves can’t be connected to her, and say we have all this evidence, and together they give weight and people believe it. So many people say this that it must be true. But the consensus about the wrong answer is still wrong.”

TIGHAR’s whole theory, Jourdan believes, persists because it’s easy and cheap for a group of amateurs to look on an island instead of under 18,000 feet of ocean, which requires massive amounts of money, know-how, and technology. “An island is a much easier place to search than under 18,000 feet of ocean,” he says.

So, what comes next? Asked if the latest development in the Earhart case will be followed by another expedition, Ric Gillespie says, “We have no immediate plans to go back to the island.” Having combed the place so many times, the only thing left is to search the deep ocean off Nikumaroro, which, as Jourdan says, is daunting. “We’d like to go back, but what needs doing is a very thorough underwater search for the airplane, and that’s very expensive,” Gillespie says. “You need a lot of tech and a much bigger boat, and I’m not about to go beating the bushes for that.”

“And, look, it doesn’t really matter what happened to Amelia Earhart,” Gillespie adds. “She’s dead. The real value in what we’re doing is that her mystery is a wonderful opportunity to explore and teach the scientific method of inquiry.”

Which leads to an odd possibility. At TIGHAR’s greatest moment of triumph—“Amelia Earhart has been found!”—it almost sounds like they’re giving up.

The Art of Group Adventure Diplomacy

Outside’s love guide answers your most pressing questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Today, we discuss how to make sure everyone has fun—from stoner to straightlaced, slow to speedy, risk-averse to reckless.

Welcome to Tough Love. Every other week, we’re answering your questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Our advice giver is Blair Braverman, dogsled racer and author of Welcome to the Goddamn Ice Cube. Have a question of your own? Write to us at [email protected].


Q: This guy I’m dating always wants to get stoned when we’re camping, and to me that’s kind of the opposite of the point. He says I’m being no fun when I ask him not to. How can we compromise?

—Weed-Free

Q: How do you deal with differences in adventurousness and risk aversion when you’re doing outdoor activities with others? I observed a friend and her partner when we did a New Year’s hike a couple years ago—my friend wanted to climb to the icy peak, while her partner was uncomfortable and nervous about the conditions. My friend went ahead without her, and her partner stayed behind and felt left out.

—Cautious

Q: My boyfriend and I have been hiking and camping together for years, and we love it! There’s one thing that always seems to dampen the experience though: He is just much faster than I am. It’s not that I’m terribly slow (I go on solo hikes regularly), but he’s just taller and stronger than I am in general. Occasionally, on a steep uphill, I need to take a break, and I can tell he tries to be understanding, but I know he just wants to keep moving. I’ve told him to go on ahead and that I’ll catch up, but he refuses because he doesn’t want me to be alone. What can we do to help this situation?

—Slowpoke

Earlier this summer, some friends and I went backpacking on Lake Superior’s Isle Royale. Our group included an artist who was five months pregnant (who also happens to be a marathon runner), someone recovering from foot surgery, a taxidermist with lots of backwoods experience and a new fascination with ultralight camping, a woman who had never backpacked before and didn’t realize that was the plan until the day we left, and my husband and me. Personally, I wanted a straight-up vacation—as a semipro dogsledder, I use the off-season for work and rest. My husband wanted quality time with friends he didn’t see often. Our co-backpackers wanted, in no particular order, to log 20-plus miles a day, to take it easy, to see moose, to watch birds, to climb every peak on the island, to relax with their journals, and to gorge on wild strawberries (that was me again). The trip was a blast, but it took some negotiation to get there. We had to sit down, be straight with each other, and think pretty creatively.

Under some circumstances—say, going to a restaurant—we understand that people won’t all want the same thing. But for some reason, with camping, there’s often a unique expectation of agreement. I mention this because the core challenge to our Isle Royale trip is the same as all three of these readers’ questions: What do you do when people have different expectations for the outdoors, and those expectations don’t line up?

Nobody should feel bad if they don’t want to climb an icy mountain. But it’s also frustrating to be held back, and with a couple, the pressure is on both people to stick together the whole time. One solution is to travel with more people. In a bigger group, you can have your stoners and your straight-edge folks, your speed walkers and your amblers, and nobody goes without company.

You should discuss, ahead of time, what everyone envisions for the trip. You already negotiate who’s bringing the water filter and who’s carrying the stove; it’s just as easy to be proactive about activity preferences. Make sure that in addition to sharing what you all want, you should also say what you don’t want. For some people, it’s frightening to be left alone or to walk after dark, and making that known to the group can ease a lot of anxiety. Others will be actively disappointed if they don’t get solo time, or they may be cautious of committing to an itinerary because of physical constraints. You may be surprised by how little you can predict these things.

Weed-Free: What is the point of camping for you? Is the problem that your boyfriend’s smoking at all, or that pot affects his personality, or that he’s self-medicating for something else entirely? This may represent a deep conflict in philosophy about substance use, but it could also be as simple as the fact that you want to go fishing and your guy likes to nap when he smokes, which makes for a workable compromise.

Slowpoke: Since you go solo hiking regularly, is it possible that your boyfriend is the one who doesn’t want to be alone but is afraid to admit that? You could even your pace by giving him some of your pack weight, which would speed you up and slow him down. Or, if his goal is exercise, he can do sets of push-ups while you catch up. He also might just value hiking as a way to spend time together and doesn’t want to feel like he’s ditching you. Maybe he’d feel better if you sent him ahead with a task, like pitching camp or boiling water for dinner.

Cautious: The best way for partners to deal with risk preferences is to give each other space—let the bolder partner climb as many mountains as she wants!—but make sure not to ditch each other when you’d planned to be together. There’s a time for adrenaline. There’s a time for companionship. And it’s up to every couple to determine how much those times overlap.

Your turn—ask away at [email protected].

We're Entering an Era of Mega-Fire

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On July 9, 2016, two hitchhikers camping illegally on private land north of Nederland, Colorado, piled rocks onto a campfire that they hadn’t fully extinguished. Shortly after, wind (most likely) flamed the embers into a blaze. By 1:30 p.m., tentative puffs of smoke gathered above the ad hoc site, flanked by groves of dry aspen and conifer. The fire soon made a 40-acre run up a hill and across a ridge heavily populated with homes.

I live in Nederland and was home the day the fire started. Only marginally concerned—it flamed up across a reservoir from my home, and in the 15 years that we’d lived here, we’d never had a fire so close to our home blaze out of control—I left with my husband and three children on an overnight mountain bike trip to Winter Park, two hours away. By July 10, friends were texting to say that the fire had grown and we should rush home in case our neighborhood was evacuated.

A year and a half later, I know that wildland firefighters acted heroically to stop the blaze that would come to be known as the Cold Springs Fire. It eventually charred 430 acres of private land and 98 acres of Forest Service land, required 12 Type 1 and Type 2 fire crews, employed 744 fire-related personnel, and cost a total of $3.5 million. But I had no idea of the politics, policies, science, history, innovation, blood, sweat, and controversy that have been linked to wildland fire management and suppression in our country since the creation of the Forest Reserve Act of 1891, which put millions of acres of mountainous forestland in the West into the public domain.

Journalist Heather Hansen had been following firefighters from Station 8 in Boulder, Colorado, for months when the Cold Springs Fire broke out in Nederland. (She even became a certified wildland firefighter in the process.) In her new book, Wildfire: On the Front Lines with Station 8 ($25; Mountaineers Books), an entire section is devoted to a fire that personally affected my life—which, truthfully, may have influenced my positive feelings about the book. But what Hansen really focuses on is telling the story of fire management and mitigation in the West, layered with the added context of history, science, landscape, and human behavior.

Year by year, Hansen writes, humans—and human-caused global warming—increase the chances of wildfire. A major problem in the past several decades has been the influx of people moving to the “wildland-urban interface” (cities next to undeveloped places, like Boulder, Colorado; Bozeman, Montana; and Santa Fe, New Mexico). We’ve also entered the age of the so-called mega-fire, a new normal of seemingly unstoppable blazes.

Hansen gives us a fascinating overview of major wildfires in the West that brings into relief something we all know: big blazes have been a constant presence every fire season. The problem heightened back when Theodore Roosevelt created the U.S. Forest Service, with the main aim to “preserve forests,” not only for recreation but also for board feet of lumber—and wildfire “management” became a tool for preservation. By 1935, Hansen writes, the USFS had implemented a policy that every fire be “contained and controlled” by 10 a.m. on the day after it was reported.

Without naturally burning fires, thanks to the practice of fire exclusion, we now know that millions of acres of forest became overgrown and the 10 a.m. goal became laughable. But blaming the Forest Service’s practices solely for our current problem—as many people do—is misguided, Hansen writes. She spends dozens of pages artfully explaining how global warming, people moving into the wildland-urban interface, a shocking lack of funding to the USFS for fire mitigation, and public perception (read: fear and simple intolerance) of prescribed burns has led us to the mega-fire age we’re now in.

But instead of leaving readers aghast (and depressed) by our seemingly beyond-repairwildfire management practices, Hansen explains positive solutions that she discovers in her research. In some places, when appropriate, agencies are fully suppressing naturally sparked fires where they endanger homes or people, while letting nonthreatening parts of the same fire burn for the benefit of the resource. She alsoweaves in plenty of new studies that scientists are conducting around things like wind effect, heat effect, convection, and the conflagration of fuels.

Perhaps the least compelling parts of the book are the sections focused on the firefighters at Station 8. No insult—I was just far hungrier to learn about fire politics, policies, history, and science. But I was glad to have read about Mike Smith, a real-life Nederland neighbor I’ve never met in person, in early chapters of Wild Fire, because of his key role as incident commander when the Cold Springs Fire sparked.

With such great research, affecting writing, and first-person experience (Hansen embeds with Station 8 for training and even shows up ready to dig fire line when the Cold Springs blaze erupted), it seems odd that this book didn’t win over a bigger publisher and hasn’t garnered more acclaim. Perhaps it’s because the book feels very Colorado-centric (though Hansen travels throughout the West doing research). Nonetheless, she captures the most up-to-date science, theories, practices, and public perception about our still-expanding era of mega-fires. And for that reason alone, anyone living in the ever-growing wildland-urban interface will benefit from reading her book.

On Being a Woman Alone in the Woods

It’s no more dangerous than being a woman anywhere else in society. In fact, it may be safer.

Welcome to Tough Love. Every other week, we’re answering your questions about dating, breakups, and everything in between. Our advice giver is Blair Braverman, dogsled racer and author of Welcome to the Goddamn Ice Cube. Have a question of your own? Write to us at [email protected].


Q: I love solo backpacking and try to sleep out by myself a few times a year at a national park about an hour from my home. I’ve been dating this new guy lately, and my solo adventuring seems to really bother him. Last time, he said he should come along because it’s not safe to be a woman alone at night, and then, when I went alone anyway, he wouldn’t even look up from his book when I left because he said he didn’t “support my decision.” Things were better after I got back, and we get along really well in other ways since we work in the same field and have great chemistry. But now I’m planning a new trip, and he said he wants me to stop solo backpacking entirely. How do I get him to understand that this is important to me?

Tell him it’s not safe to be a woman whose boyfriend controls what she can or can’t do.

Seriously, statistically speaking, the most dangerous place for a woman is in her own home—and one of the red flags for domestic violence is controlling behavior. I’m not saying this guy you’re dating is abusive, necessarily. I’m saying his argument is bullshit.

If this is really about safety, then you should be able to brainstorm some solutions to make your boyfriend more comfortable. Maybe he’d feel better if you brought a satellite phone or beacon in case of emergency (which is a fine idea for anyone backpacking alone). Or maybe he just wants to go camping with you and is going about asking in a deeply unproductive way.

My gut instinct is that this guy is bad news and you’d be wise to get out early. But there’s also a squeak of possibility that he’s a well-meaning fellow, oblivious and anxious, who has never stopped to consider the reality of what it’s like living as a woman in the world.

If I were you, here’s what I would tell him.

I’d tell him about the time when, as a 13-year-old, I joined my father on a trip to Santa Barbara and wanted to walk on the beach while he went to a meeting. He took me aside to say, his voice tight, that I should know that, uh, men might approach me, that people might treat me differently now, that I should be careful—and I interrupted him, not because of the life-ruining embarrassment of hearing a parent mention puberty, but because I already knew, and had known for years, what he was trying to say. Because, in a way, I wanted to protect him from it. It seemed so innocent—that he thought I might ever walk on the beach, even then, without the constant shadow of my own vulnerability.

I wouldn’t tell him about the times I’ve faced physical violence, because those stories are too easy, too universally condemned. And ultimately they’re less harmful than all the nonstories, the untidy moments that are so common and so much harder to describe. I would tell him—or I’d try, at least—about the times I’ve been out with friends and caught a look from a man with no kindness in his face, a look that followed me until I was back home with the door double-locked. Gestures that have kept me awake on red-eye flights, afraid to fall asleep in the dark cabin. The times when an acquaintance gets suggestive out of nowhere, in a way that lets me know they’ve been considering the options even when I was not: at the grocery store, at the finish line of a dogsled race, at the laundromat, at a friend’s house, running, hiking, resting, working.

I’d tell him about the time I wrote a book about sexual violence and arctic wilderness, and two different male readers thanked me for helping them understand what it’s like to be pretty.

I’d tell him that being solo in the backcountry is one of the only times in my life that I’ve been able to exist as a body and a person without worrying about how other people might try to claim my body as their own. Crossing frozen rivers on my hands and knees, curling up in my sleeping bag, waking at dawn in a bed of dew—these are the moments when the shadow of that vulnerability fades, and the only thing that exists is the beautiful, indifferent landscape and my own strength and skills. Going alone into the wilderness is one of the ways I reclaim myself. It is an act of joy and an act of self-defense.

I’d tell him that, sure, maybe solo camping as a woman is somewhat dangerous. But you know what else is dangerous? Going anywhere, every day. And even that isn’t as dangerous as giving in, staying home, letting my life become a collage of other people’s limits and expectations. Men and women live in different worlds with a one-way glass between them, and if your boyfriend cares about you, me, and every woman he’s ever met, he’ll have to listen and believe the things he’s unable to see. He’ll have to trust you, and he’ll have to let go.

Is the Chevy Colorado Enough Truck?

When you’re pulling a big trailer, you need a big engine to match

Since we bought Artemis the Airstream one and half years ago, the truck we use for towing, a 2015 Chevrolet Colorado, has been mostly an afterthought, a conveyance for our rolling home. Yet we receive as many inquiries about the pickup as any other single road-life topic. 

“How do you like the truck?” people invariably ask me when I’m fueling. “Can you really tow that big trailer with such a little pickup?” That last part always makes me laugh. Standing at a one-pump gas station in some forgotten, nowhere part of the West, with the trailer behind our “little” truck, the Airstream didn’t roll in on its own.

Of course, what they mean is what dozens of others have previously enquired: Is the Colorado able to pull around our home well? After 18 months and 20,000 miles of travel, the answer is, yes. Mostly.

We purchased the freshly revamped Chevy Colorado back in July 2015, partly on the promise of 27 highway miles per gallon. We went with the 6-speed automatic 3.6-liter V6 engine, the largest available at the time, chose four-wheel drive based on our backcountry needs, and opted for the crew cab and long box, big enough for us to camp in. The sticker promised 24 miles per gallon on the highway: we averaged 26 on the return to Santa Fe from Denver.

What wasn’t immediately clear about our Colorado, but what we discovered a few weeks later while picking our way along rocky two-track in the Gila National Forest for an elk hunt, is that the gas economy comes, in part, courtesy of the urban setup. The stock 255/65R17 tires were slick and skinny for asphalt performance, and combined with the front under-bumper plastic fairing, the truck had little more ground clearance than a passenger car. After gouging that fairing several times, we removed it, and the gas economy dropped. We also destroyed one of those highway tires while four-wheeling and upgraded to a set of 265/70R17 BF Goodrich KO2s, the largest that we could fit. And while the off-road handling and clearance improved dramatically, the gas mileage tumbled. Add the cargo box and a couple of bike racks (and occasionally bikes), and our highway gas mileage was down to around 18. We still loved the truck, but the lesson was clear: don’t buy an off-road pickup for fuel economy.

Fast-forward six months, when Jen persuaded me to try an Airstream. We loved it so much, we decided to get one and hit the road. The only problem: with a max towing capacity of 7,000 pounds, the Colorado limited our trailer choices. We were torn between the Airstream Flying Cloud 23FB, with a max weight of 6,000 pounds (4,806 pounds dry), and the Flying Cloud 25FB, which topped out at 7,300 pounds. We were already leaning toward the smaller model for maneuverability, but the capacity decided it. 

For the most part, the truck and trailer have made a good match. Sleek, fearsome black, and a bit over the top with racks and boxes, the pickup is Apollo, the protector, to Artemis’ wilder side. We’ve put on a lot of towing miles, and 90 percent of the time the trailer is easy to manage. We drive comfortably at 60 to 65 miles per hour most of the time and average around 13 miles per gallon. That seems atrocious from the perspective of ex-Volkswagen Golf owners but reasonable considering that we’re tugging around nearly 6,000 pounds of wind-catching, gravity-resisting toys. (A friend with a 2.8-liter Duramax Turbo-Diesel Colorado says he gets up to 17 when pulling his 5,500-pound Airstream.)

Occasionally, we wish for a bit more truck. When hauling in heavy winds, we get pushed around a little. “Ten and two, ten and two,” Jen reminds me when I’m driving to keep hands on the wheel for more control. And on steep, high, long mountain passes, say Wolf Creek or Loveland in Colorado, the engine screams at 6,000 RPM and we can bog down to 45 miles per hour. 

We’ve had two instances where the Chevy felt flat-out inadequate. The first time, while lumbering up a forest road outside of Salida, we lost traction and had to reverse and get some momentum to make the hill. The second time, in Durango, we stalled while pushing Artemis into a campsite guarded by a two-foot roll. On both occasions, we managed, but I wondered then whether we didn’t need a bigger truck.

“Absolutely not,” Brent Deep, Chevrolet’s vehicle performance manager for the Colorado told me. He described Chevy’s worst-case scenario testing, including a towing test in Death Valley on a 20-minute uphill grade at 300 feet below sea level at temperatures sometimes exceeding 120 degress Fahrenheit while carrying more than weight ratings. “Your truck is tested to take a whole lot more than you’re throwing at it,” he told me. He suggested that setup, including load distribution in the trailer and weight distribution on the tongue, is the likeliest culprit for performance issues. He recommended load bars (we already use them), and we’re also considering air bags for the suspension, which are an easy way to add stability. “You can find conditions and terrain that would stop any truck from pulling your trailer.” 

That was perhaps his best advice. No truck is perfect. Even with a Chevy Silverado 3500 HD that has over 20,000 pounds of towing capacity, we can probably find steep and rough enough terrain that will stop Artemis. And while something like that Silverado might clear steeper, looser climbs, it would likely be less comfortable, get worse gas mileage, and be tougher to drive around town when we’re not towing. Ironically, while the Colorado is considered a mid-size truck by today’s standards, it’s larger than Silverados and Tundras from just a few years ago. Capacity wise, it’s plenty big for us.

As an experiment, I borrowed a friend’s 2008 Toyota Tundra with over 10,000 pounds towing capacity for comparison. And while it was true that we could haul Artemis quicker up hills and felt a little more stable in the wind, our gas mileage was lower (11 miles per gallon on a 250-mile roundtrip in the mountains of New Mexico), and overall the ride felt rougher and less comfortable. The biggest difference I noticed was lateral stability, which I believe came from the wider stance between the wheels. In some ways, I liked the extra power and the added confidence. But I also realized that, for safety’s sake, I probably don’t need to go faster than 65 miles per hour anyway.

If we had it to do over and we were buying a truck at the same time as the Airstream, would we get something bigger? Sometimes I say, no. Sometimes, yes. The truth is, I’ve come to like our truck. If Artemis is the elegant, shiny, backcountry hideaway that makes our vagabond life appealing, the Colorado is the unsung workhorse that enables it all. Are there compromises? Of course, but then every truck will have some sort of issue. Something beefier with a wider stance, like the Silverado 1500, is tempting, but the smaller price tag and lighter footprint of the Colorado is equally appealing.

So, for now, we’ll keep trucking through the boondocks in our good, “little” Chevy. “Run what you brung,” as they say. It tows that big trailer just fine.

The Best Winter Boots for Women

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I have strong opinions about winter boots. I’ve lived in Canada’s Yukon Territory for nine years, where we get subfreezing temperatures and snow for at least seven months out of 12 and lows down to minus 55 Fahrenheit (before factoring in windchill). People here wear boots everywhere—at dogsled races, on winter camping trips, to the bar. The Yukon is a good proving ground for footwear testing.

This winter, I researched and field tested a half-dozen of the best boot options on the market. If I learned one thing in this process, it’s that finding a winter boot that can be all things to all people—one boot to rule them all—is really hard, so I’ve written about several boot options for climates and lifestyles beyond the Arctic Circle.

But the best boot I tested was the Steger Mukluks Arctic, a comfortable and versatile boot that stands up to serious cold.

What you need in a winter boot depends on what you plan to use it for, how often, and in what kinds of conditions. For me, living in the Yukon, winter boots are a pretty big deal. I’m happy to spend serious money for heavy-duty performance and reliability. But for folks with shorter or milder cold-weather seasons, a lighter boot may do the trick. Or you might prioritize waterproofing over an extreme cold-weather rating (Pacific Northwest, I’m looking at you). Or you might not want to spend top dollar for a pair of boots you’ll only wear a few times a year. Maybe you only really need winter boots for your après-ski and drive home from the hill. I’ve done my best to contextualize my reviews here with that in mind.

To start, consider average winter temperatures where you live and just how far it drops during serious cold snaps, the occasional “bomb cyclone” aside. What about precipitation—do you tend to see deep drifts of powder or frequent freezing rain? Finally, think about what you want to do in those conditions and for how long. All-day ice fishing demands different boots than a nightly dog walk.

For me, here’s what matters in a winter boot, ranked more or less in order of importance:

  1. Warmth. Does it keep my toes warm?
  2. Comfort. Does it chafe or hurt? Is it generally pleasant to wear?
  3. Weight and flexibility. Can it move? Can I move in it?
  4. Traction. Can it keep me upright?

You’ll note that price, style, and waterproofing don’t make my list of concerns. But I know other people’s rankings will be different from my own, so I’ve assessed the boots I tested based on all these factors. Where I have biases, I’ve tried to be clear about them.

Boot companies often list detailed information about the materials used in a given boot, types and amounts of insulation, measurements of height and weight, and official temperature ratings. It’s my considered opinion that those numbers don’t always mean very much, especially when it comes to temperature ratings, so I tried to test each pair using a set of hands-on tasks and my own observations.

I started out by reading a pile of other reviews and roundups of women’s winter boots. From those, I put together a list of boots that repeatedly cropped up and that seemed to fit an active lifestyle—no faux-fur heels here—and then requested pairs for testing. A few I was interested in testing never made it to the Yukon: Sorel never got back to me about its popular Joan of Arctic (winner for best boot name!). I never heard from Bogs, either, which was too bad because I wanted to do a head-to-head Bogs vs. Muck Boots test. The Ugg Adirondacks, an unexpectedly well-reviewed boot, got lost in the mail. So I wound up with two pairs from Columbia (the Canuk was sent to me as a successor to the Bugaboot line I’d seen reviewed elsewhere); two styles from Kamik (the Momentum, repeatedly cited in other reviews, and the Starling, which looked worth a try but turned out to be too narrow for my foot and generally uncomfortable); and the Muck Boot Arctic. Into that mix I added two boots that I’ve been looking at myself: the Baffin Impact and the Steger Mukluk. I wore a borrowed pair of Impacts on a reporting trip in the Arctic last year and was impressed. The Stegers I’d never tried, but they’re a beloved standby in Alaska and northern Canada, and I’d been eyeing them for years.

In designing a testing plan, I thought about what I actually do with a regular winter boot. Most outdoor winter sports—ice climbing, pond hockey, all forms of skiing—require specialized footwear. I settled on four main testing activities: driving a manual transmission vehicle (spoiler alert: not all winter boots are great for this!); pushing a fat bike up a steep section of slippery, snow-packed trail; strapping on a pair of snowshoes to tromp around off-trail; and heading to a local rink to see how each pair of boots performed on ice, taking a running start and then measuring the length of my skid. In addition, I wore them around for day-to-day use: shoveling snow, scraping my windshield, walking to the grocery store, etc. In a happyish coincidence, temperatures plunged to minus 25 Fahrenheit on one of my testing days, so I was also able to assess the boots’ cold-weather claims.

Only the Baffins gave me trouble while driving stick. The soles are so thick that I couldn’t totally feel the clutch to know how far in or out it was, and I had a slightly sketchy drive home from the grocery store. I wasn’t sure how the soft-sided boots would do with snowshoes, but they all handled them well. And every pair did better than expected on the rink-ice test. I had expected to sail across the rink, but all the boots stopped my skid within two or three feet of where I started, and I never even felt close to falling. In that test, the differences between most styles were incremental.

The fat-bike test, however, separated the good from the great. I took the boots and my bike to a steep, hard-packed, well-trafficked hill on the local trail network that always gives me trouble. Maybe someday I’ll be strong enough or bold enough to ride up it, but these days I mostly wind up admitting defeat, dismounting, and pushing my bike all the way, and I really notice when my footwear isn’t good enough for the job. Only three pairs of boots got me to the top without feeling like I might fall on my face any second, and only one got me there without any major slippage at all. Which brings me to…

My favorite overall boot was the Steger Mukluks Arctic ($199). (“Arctic with Ribbon,” to be precise.) The small Minnesota-based company combines a soft moose-hide boot and layered felt liner and insoles with a knee-high canvas upper that acts as a built-in gaiter for deep snow. They’re super warm. I wore them for a two-hour hike at minus 24 Fahrenheit, and my feet weren’t even slightly cool. They’re comfortable and provide great traction on ice and snow. They were second best in the ice-skid test, after the Columbia Canuk, and crushed the competition in the fat-bike test (once I figured out that I needed to put my feet down flat and let the rubber soles do their work, rather than trying to dig a toe in or use the hard edge of the boot). Mukluks are not mountaineering boots, it turns out.

I noticed two issues: While the Stegers felt great for snowshoeing, after a vigorous five-hour outing, the moose hide sustained some notable wear from the snowshoe straps. If you’ll be snowshoeing a lot, you might want a hard-sided boot. Second, and this should be clear from looking at them, these are not wet-weather boots. You can buy water-repellent spray to treat the moose hide or pair them with a set of Neos overboots, but they’re not meant to be submerged. I see them as perfect boots for areas that get deep snow and dry cold: the Midwest, Rocky Mountain West, Alaska, and northern and western Canada.

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If that doesn’t sound like your kind of winter, read on for more options.


Columbia Heavenly Chimera Omni-Heat Organza ($175)

I’ll be honest: I love these boots with the long-winded name. The latest in Columbia’s Heavenly series, they are the most comfortable winter boots I’ve ever worn. They’re soft and flexible, and the laces from toe to top let you customize your degree of tightness and ankle support. The upper is slim enough that you can slip a skinny jean inside it or pull a boot-cut jean down over it, if you swing that way.

Also, even though I sometimes groan at all the “look good and stay warm” messaging around women’s boots, these are cute as hell. They’re rated to minus 25 Fahrenheit, and I did wear them out in that temp a few times, albeit briefly: pumping gas, walking from the car to the grocery store. My feet felt fine, though I wouldn’t trust them for prolonged exposure. I’m skeptical that the thin, flexible sole that makes them so comfy just doesn’t have the goods to keep serious cold from leaking in over time.

For me, they’re the ideal around-town boots. But they performed less well than the other models in both traction tests (just a matter of inches in the ice-skid test, but they almost didn’t get me up the hill in the fat-bike test), and they’re not built for extreme cold, so if I had to choose just one pair of boots to spend an active winter with, they wouldn’t make the cut. If your calculus is different (if, say, you’re primarily a skier, so you don’t need your everyday winter boots to be built for winter sports and long hours outside), these would be perfect.

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Kamik Momentum

This is a classic winter boot: rubber bottom, nylon upper, faux-fur trim, a little clunky to walk around in. They’re rated to minus 40 Fahrenheit, and I can confirm that they’re warm and cozy: I shoveled my driveway in them when the temperature was deep into the minus 20s and my feet didn’t feel the cold.

The Momentum performed extremely well on the fat-bike traction test, tying for second best after the Steger, but it was a bit less impressive on ice, tying the Baffin for fourth best. The only real complaint I have about these boots is the bungee lacing, which is all one piece and tightened by a single cinch at the top. I had trouble getting the ankles as tight as I wanted. Still, at $89, these are also less than half the price of some of the other models I tested, which makes them a real bargain. They’d be great for anyone on a tighter budget or someone looking for general-use boots that get worn just a few times a year.

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Baffin Impact

These boots are rated to minus 148 Fahrenheit, and while I sincerely hope I never test that claim in real-world conditions, I have at least 50 hours outside in them in very cold conditions, down to minus 40. I never had even a twinge of cold in my toes. All that warmth comes with a few drawbacks. At 2.2 pounds each, these boots are heavy. They’re also awkward to drive in, and they performed poorly relative to the other models in both traction tests, tying for fourth in the ice test and matching the Muck Boots in last place in the fat bike test. (My cousin, who helped out with the ice test, wondered if that’s because ice and snow stops being slippery in extreme cold anyway.) These are the boots I would count on to save my life if I were trapped on an ice floe in the Arctic, but they’re not a practical option for everyday use. These are the boots to get if you spend a lot of time outside in deep cold and you don’t need to be super nimble or light on your feet. They would be great for ice fishing or volunteering at winter events—timing ski races, maybe, or working an aid station at a dogsled race.

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Muck Boot Arctic Sport II Mid

If your winter is mostly slush and sleet, what you want might not be a waterproof winter boot so much as a rain boot that’s also built for cold. Enter the Muck Boot Arctic Sport II. It comes in a mid-calf and a tall model; I tested the mid.

Insulted with neoprene and fleece, this is the warmest model of Muck Boots made for women. It’s rated to minus 40 Fahrenheit and handles deep cold surprisingly well, at least over the short haul. I wore it to shovel and visit a neighbor on a minus-20-degree day. It performed well on ice, placing third, though poorly on the snowy uphill, tying the Baffin for last. The loose-fitting style felt a little funny to me on the snowshoe test. I didn’t get any blisters, but it felt weird not having a tight fit with the weight of the snowshoe attached. For a slushy walk to work, though, you couldn’t do better, and at $159, it was among the more affordable options I tried.

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Columbia Canuk Titanium Omni-Heat Outdry Extreme

I laughed when I pulled the Canuks out of their box and saw that the soles were made by Michelin. As in, the tire company. Gimmick! I thought. But Michelin does know rubber. These boots, like a set of winter tires, are built with an aggressive tread made from a softer rubber that continues to grip even when deep cold would harden a firmer sole. The Canuks easily defeated all challengers in the ice-skid test, jerking me to a quick stop after a skid of about a foot and a half, and only the Stegers were noticeably better in the bike-up-a-hill test.

The Canuks look like a basketball shoe and feel like a hiking boot, with a strong support structure around the foot and ankle. And they’re warm: rated to minus 65 Fahrenheit, with triple the insulation of the Heavenly Chimera. I was completely comfortable on a 20-minute dog walk at minus 25 degrees. The downside is that the low-cut style means you’ll need gaiters to keep out even relatively small amounts of snow. (I wonder if I’d be fonder of them if we hadn’t gotten a huge dump of fresh powder right before I started testing.) But if warmth and traction are your priorities, and you’re not planning to go off-trail in deep snow—maybe your city does a crappy job of clearing the sidewalks and you just want to get around safely without needing crampons—these are worth a serious look.

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If your feet are always cold, no matter which boots you choose, one potential culprit might be moisture. The only time my feet got cold during testing was when I wore my boots to a screening of The Last Jedi. While I was sitting around inside, my feet sweated a little and my socks got damp, and when I went back into the freezing air, I paid the price. Always bring a change of shoes with you to the office for the day, and consider bringing a spare pair of socks if you can’t change your shoes. If you have chronically sweaty feet, you might even look into vapor-barrier liner socks, which trap the moisture against your skin, keeping your outer socks and boots dry.

And fat-bikers, swap out your cold-conducting metal pedals for some nylon pedals already!