The Ultimate Tonneau Cover for a Pickup Truck

For months, we debated whether to go truck cap or tonneau on our Chevy Silverado. Then we found the Pace Edwards Ultragroove series.

When you buy an Airstream, you quickly realize that your big investment is going to get a lot bigger. First, you need accessories to make the trailer livable. Then you need a truck—with some modifications—to haul it. 

Our new Chevy Silverado 2500 HD demanded a few add-ons. We had to get a new hitch, to compensate for the truck’s extra height, and a BedRug liner, to make scrapping around on your knees easier and camping comfier. But the biggest dilemma was what to do about the bed.

We like to call our truck bed “the garage,” and just like at our permanent address in Santa Fe, we need our primary gear storage space to be weatherproof, easy to organize, and most importantly secure. The big dilemma was whether to go with a truck cap, as we had on the Colorado, or a tonneau cover—a retractable bed-height enclosure that provides less interior storage space when closed, but rolls back for oversize loads. 

We always ran a cap on the Colorado, and in many ways it worked great: the large cargo space meant it was easy to pack everything we need; the headroom made it possible to use the bed for camping, which we did regularly on backcountry endeavors or just getting out of the rain; and if there was ever any question of security where we camped, it was no big deal to throw spare bikes and gear inside.

We had some misgivings, however. Most importantly, a cap negates the ability to use your bed for large loads, which, in our case, most often means hauling mountain bikes over the gate. The dealer we purchased our cap from argued that it was easy to take on and off when you need, but the truth is it's a hassle and we never did it. We put accessory rails on our cap, which worked well enough for mounting a Thule rack and carrying bikes up there. But the height made it so difficult to load that Jen could never get bikes on and off herself. Finally, because we bought the Colorado not long after it launched, there was no cap on the market that offered extra rise, so getting bikes in and out of the cap was always a jigsaw puzzle.

(JJAG Media)

All these things in mind, we thought we had settled on the Leer 180XL as our top cap choice for the Silverado. The swivel windows and upgradeable lock system make it highly secure, and the added head height means getting bikes in and out would be a lot simpler. We were ready to pull the trigger but then realized this system still had too many drawbacks. Mainly, the extra height—both from the cap and the taller truck—would make getting bikes onto a roof rack even more difficult than before. And that would likely mean filling up the bed with a couple of bikes pretty much full time, which would fill up all the extra storage we’d gained by purchasing a larger truck. And, as before, we’d never be able to use the bed for loads like gravel, mulch, or mountain bikes over the gate.

So we turned the search to tonneau covers. The solid fiberglass models were definitely a no-go because, while they could accept rails for a bike rack, they don’t allow the use of your bed for oversize hauling—hence no advantage over a cap. The flexible and retractable models were better, but we’d still have the problem of where to put extra bikes.

Then we discovered the Pace Edwards Ultragroove series. After lots of searching and comparison, I’ve concluded that this is basically the ultimate solution for outdoorspeople with trucks.

First and foremost, it’s a highly secure, incredibly well-detailed metal tonneau that retracts shutter-style into a trim can at the head of the bed—it takes up the least amount of bed space of any other I found. What really sets it apart from others, however, is the addition of a groove system along the length of both bed sides that accepts Thule and Yakima racks. That means you can store all hard goods, such as stoves, chairs, fuel, camera gear, etc., securely in the bed but still haul cargo such as bikes, skis, kayaks, or a roof box above the bed. This makes loading all that gear easy, and because it’s not sitting up on a truck cap, there’s less concern about diminished gas mileage and wind-blown accidents. Best of all, if you use the Thule 430 feet stocked by Pace Edwards, the rack snaps on and off with push-button ease, so we can easily shuttle bikes over the gate when we please.

(JJAG Media)

I manage Outside’s annual bike test, and this setup was a godsend for this year’s edition. Using Thule ThruRide bike trays, which are the best out there thanks to their ability to easily hold every axle standard on the market, we were able to carry everything we needed for the test in the bed, as well as six bikes above it. With four more bikes off the back of the trailer courtesy of Küat’s new Pivot setup for pickups, we were the ultimate rolling test unit—and one hell of a spectacle. The only slight downside was the need to stow six front wheels in the bed, which was challenging but doable. When we finish the test and downsize back to just two racks on the UltraGroove, it will be even easier to load and the wheels no problem.

Though I’m bullish on the UltraGroove, I’d say the question of tonneau versus truck cap comes down to needs and use. This tonneau checks almost all of our boxes: secure storage that’s out of sight; ability to transport tons of bikes and other outdoor gear; simplicity of freeing up the truck bed for oversize cargo. It’s also less expensive ($1,600 base versus $1,800 on the cap, though the latter is likely to be well above $2,000 with options). Having said that, if you camp a lot in the bed of your truck or worry about bikes and other gear being out in the elements, the 180XL cap may be a better choice.

Either way, it’ll make you wonder why you need all that space—and stuff—that’s filling up the two-car garage back home.

"Give Your Sprinter to a Real Dirtbag!"

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“There’s too goddamn many climbers,” I grumble to my wife, Nellie, as we drive up and down Colorado’s Rifle Canyon searching desperately for a place to park. The three-hour drive from Boulder has left me a little nauseous and grumpy. “I feel like I’m at a fucking cargo van dealership,” I say, as we pass an endless train of 4×4 Sprinters, shiny new Ram ProMasters, and the occasional Ford Transit, each taking up one and a half parking spots in the limited space that Rifle State Park has to offer.

Finally, after 30 minutes of patrolling the canyon, a Sprinter pulls out, leaving plenty of room for my trusty minivan. In fact, by blocking in the passenger side of the adjacent ProMaster, I’m able to leave enough room for another car to park next to me!    

It’s a typical peak-season weekend in the beautiful-from-afar—but far from beautiful—limestone canyon that is Rifle. Which means hundreds of weekend #vanlifers from the Front Range to the Western Slope and beyond are here to test their gym-honed tendons on the chossy, blocky overhangs that are, sadly, some of the best sport climbing we have in America. Much like the parking in Rifle, the warm-ups are limited, and we spend a good 30 minutes waiting for our turn to climb on the Meat Wall, home to the greasiest, most polished moderate sport climbs in the world. 

As Nellie and I wait, I marvel at two couples spread out at the base, complete with babies in blinged-out luxury strollers, several dogs, and some comfy-looking camp chairs. It’s a far cry from the scrappy dirtbag cragging scenes I grew up with. I eavesdrop on their friendly debate over the pros and cons of the Sprinter versus the ProMaster. It turns out the ProMaster has a square interior and is easier to build out, and maintenance is cheaper and more widely available. I assume—with no small amount of prejudice—that the couples are probably in the tech industry in Boulder and raking in nice six-figure incomes. Having finished their warm-ups, the two couples maneuver back to their massive vans.

“I bet they have separate quarters in there for the housekeeper,” I joke.

“You’re just jealous that they can stand up in their van,” Nellie says.

“We’ll see who’s laughing when I pass them going 85 on the way back home in my soccer-mom mobile,” I tell her.

And it’s true: minivans are fast these days! Apparently soccer moms need to get their kids to the gamequickly, because my Dodge Grand Caravan hauls some serious ass and handles pretty nicely, too. “Maybe I should go down there and tell them about #MinivanLife,” I say.

I have to admit I’m also a bit emotionally attached. I’ve held steadfast to Big Blue, my trusty minivan for the past five years, as I’ve watched one friend after the next fall victim to the temptation of the massive tricked-out cargo van. Conversely, the build-out, or lack thereof, in my minivan is simple: I took out the four back seats and put in a mattress.  Nellie, myself, and our two mini dogs, Gus and Bernie, have gotten many a solid night’s sleep in the back, and I have privacy inserts for all the windows.

For sure, the build-outs in some of the many vans I’ve toured over the past few years have been slightly more luxurious than Big Blue. I’ve seen Sprinters with showers and flat-screen TVs. I’ve had people offer me fresh-baked cookies from their in-van ovens. Some of these vans have so many gorgeous wood panels and stainless steel fixtures, they make my town house look a little dumpy.   

It’s not that I don’t see the attraction. Eight years ago, when I was still living on the road full-time, I definitely couldn’t afford a kitted-out cargo van, but it would have made my life a little easier. Tragically, now that I can afford the down payment on a Sprinter, I just don’t need it anymore. In fact, not owning a Sprinter has become a point of honor for me, and you can find me at Whole Foods trying to talk my bougie climber friends out of buying them.   

You see, I’ve always been a bit of a grumpy, hold-out ascetic when it comes to my vehicle. Through most of my extensive dirtbag career in Yosemite and Joshua Tree, I lived out of Silver Lightning, a reliable 1989 Toyota Camry. (May she rest in peace.) Only now that I’m a relatively successful, married, older professional climber have I begrudgingly opted for the comfort of a vehicle I can sleep in.

And since I embarked on #minivanlife, it’s been pretty damn glorious. Big Blue has seen me through some epic times, from big walls in Zion to first ascents in Yosemite to my first 100-kilometer flight in my paraglider. Big Blue got me there and gave me a place to sleep, and for that I am grateful. Would a Sprinter have intrinsically changed anything? No. (Also: How much comfort do you really need? I can sit up in Big Blue; do I really need to stand?)

It’s not that I blame today’s climbers, necessarily—it’s just that I think they’re getting a little soft. And I see these kitted-out homes-on-wheels as a symptom of that. Everyone wants to boulder and sport climb, but no one wants to run it out above RPs anymore. Everybody wants to go to Rifle for the weekend, but nobody wants to pitch a tent or sleep on a pad. 

After warming up at the Meat Wall, Nellie and I moved to more difficult climbs down the canyon, and, as is the tradition in Rifle, we both got our asses kicked whipping off of our projects. That evening we slept comfortably in Big Blue, climbed the next day, and then headed back to Boulder so that Nellie could get back to work. We ripped along the highway at 15 over the speed limit the whole way home, passing an endless parade of converted utility “climber vans.” 

As we pulled into the Boulder city limit, the three-hour drive almost behind us, I saw the mother of all four-wheel-drive Sprinters, decked out with all kinds of after-market racks and add-ons that made the vehicle look like, well, one of the most badass vans I’ve ever seen. If wings had popped out the sides and it had gone airborne I wouldn’t have been surprised.  

We pulled up closer and I looked at the license plate: it read Camp4. I couldn’t believe the irony. Camp 4, a walk-in campground in Yosemite, the very emblem of dirtbag culture, plastered onto the license plate of an extremely expensive, borderline-ostentatious camper van almost certainly owned by someone that was as much a dirtbag as Warren Buffet. “Arrrggh!” I screamed, waking Nellie up from her slumber. “Give your Sprinter to a real dirtbag!”

“Honey, Relax,” Nellie told me. “It’s not that big a deal.”    

And she was right. It wasn’t a big deal. The poor folks had probably worked really hard for that van, and for all I knew the vehicle was their home. (Though I doubt it.)

As I left the most baller of all baller vans in my rear view, the foam in my mouth receded and my breathing returned to normal, but I had only become more resolute in my anti-Sprinter campaign. I turned to Nellie and started preaching. “When did it become normal for climbers, who have roots in dirtbagging frugality, to drop upwards of $100K on a vehicle?” Nellie smiled at me, realizing, perhaps sadly, that if I could help it, we would never own a Sprinter.

In the last miles home, I started calculating the number of weekends your average climber could spend in a motel right next to the canyon if they didn’t spring for the Promaster, and came up with over 700 weekends. So, to the weekend warriors with full-time jobs who are considering buying a Sprinter or the like, I’d like to dissuade you: think of all the money you could save for that trip to Spain, or that nice rack of cams you have been lusting after! And think of the parking spots you’ll save in Rifle.

Why I Still Have Stress Dreams About Running Track 

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About every other week, I have the same dream: I’m on a hazy, hillier version of my college campus, and I still have another semester of school to complete. With that semester comes another season of indoor and outdoor track. Spoiler alert: It goes very poorly.

Sometimes it’s September, other times January, but the dream always drips of first-day anticipation—that intangible feeling of a fresh start, when you show up and learn whether your off-season training was enough. Teetering on the edge of opportunity, I’m excited for new semester. But I’m also anxious, knowing I’m getting my ass kicked today. I get to practice, and because I’m my real-life age of 28, I’m woefully out of middle-distance shape. I have to complete some workout involving fast 200s and 400s on an indoor track, and I can’t do it. I invariably think to myself, “I could’ve been training for this. What have I been doing since graduation—sitting on my ass?” Even in my dream spikes, I’m sluggish and pudgy and weak, like the air is molasses and my muscles have melted off my bones. There’s no one yelling at me, just an internal pressure—the knowledge that I will never be able to move my legs like I could six years ago. My teammates always smoke me. I wake up and start the day off-kilter. This has been happening for about the past three years. Jesus, did track really mess with my brain this much?


Running dreams, for runners and plebeians nonrunners alike, are totally common and take myriad forms with boundless interpretations. Most of us have had at least one during our sleeping lives. There’s the common slow-motion running reverie, where you’re trying to move forward but can’t—this apparently indicates a lack of self-confidence. Then there’s running from something (you’re afraid to confront a real-life problem) and running toward something you can’t reach (which represents a childlike fear, a need to be carried). If you’re running from a thief or a killer, in particular, this apparently means you’re going to solve your current problems, which doesn’t really track for me, but sure.

I don’t believe in the all-knowing power or even potent symbolism of dreams. Trust me, I’m not above the occult—I’ll try to decipher your sun, moon, and rising signs within ten minutes of meeting you. But dreams, to me, are simply our mind’s way of sorting through recent events, refiling the cabinets and schlepping the boxes of our brains from one end to the other. In our sleep, we get a glimpse of our brain’s rather chaotic rearranging routine. But the sheer consistency of these track dreams, both in content and timing, sticks with me.

It’s very common to have anxiety in the nights leading up to a big race. An eagerness to PR, just like the anticipation of an important test or interview, morphs into taking a final for a class you never attended with your jaw wired shut. But this isn’t the kind of stress dream I’m talking about. The extent of my current racing schedule is an annual fundraiser 5K, which entails jogging three miles and then striding/bounding Super Mario–style for the last 160 meters. All things considered, the dreams are pretty realistic—if I had to, for whatever reason, compete in a season of collegiate track, I’d be absolutely destroyed. The mere thought of being asking to complete 3×200-400-200 at goal 800 pace makes me want to dry-heave, then wet-heave until I dry-heave again. Assuming that’s enough heaving to get out of doing the workout. I haven’t raced on a track since I graduated college; these days, I just run to stay in shape. (Oh god, am I a jogger?)

Which is to say, considering its minimal role in my current life, these dreams aren’t actually about track. Competitive track and field is not, at this point in my life, what gives me anxiety. Rather, track represents my recurring sense of dread. Perhaps these dreams are, in part, flickers of nostalgia lapping at the back of my brain—I miss competition, and my teammates, and prancing around the dining hall in spandex shorts post-workout, a habit I’ve lamentably aged out of. But mostly, they’re a place for my latent anxieties about work, love, and the future to run endless laps around my brain.


Competitive running and anxiety have always gone hand-in-hand for me. About ten minutes before every cross-country race in high school, I’d throw up. The seven varsity girls would be on the line, doing strides, and I’d feel a lurch—I’d stride over to a garbage can, barf, and stride back to the line. I’d feel more centered, like I had just physically shed my pre-race jitters. It was objectively gross and probably deeply unhealthy, so just be happy you didn’t know 17-year-old me. My point is that pre-race dread takes on all kinds of forms for each runner and often becomes its own little ritual. I kicked the puke habit in college, when I decided distance running was boring (and too hard) and pivoted my energy to middle-distance track, which I was better at anyway. But that pre-race anxiety never let up, regardless of distance: the stomach-churning buzz from heart to fingertips, when you know you’re about to be in a lot of pain and find out whether your best is enough.

Around age 20, I started feeling that pre-race unease during times other than pre-race. In the off-season, or in the middle of the night, or on a gorgeous fall afternoon, for no discernable reason. I started discovering the ways in which anxiety was debilitating to my life in late college and the years following graduation. I’ve since gotten it under control with medication and therapy. But I’m an Irish Catholic Scorpio, so I don’t exactly wear my insecurities on my sleeve. Instead, twice a month, I wear them in the form of Nike spikes on an indoor track in my sleeping mind, and also I’m maybe running on Jell-O or I’m underwater or something.

Part of why I fell in love with track as a teenager is the sport’s reliance on numbers. Success is black and white. Did you hit your goal time, mark, distance, or not? There aren’t judges or refs making bullshit calls; there’s only a sliver of room for subjectivity in the sport. And while cross-country running has hills and mud and a giant log right before mile three that you have to hurdle, track is just a track (shush, steeplechasers) and a click. I used to think that was such a beautiful metaphor for life—you get out what you put in. Now I realize that such crystal-clear metrics are a rarity.


Six years out of competition, my subconscious is using the simplicity of track against me. “Remember this?” it roars, in the form of the fuzzy, nostalgic wash of Massachusetts winters. “Remember when success was clear-cut, and you’d figure out whether you’d succeeded that week in less than two and a half minutes?” Little did I know, half my life ago, when I started running competitively, that this sport would rattle my psyche well into adulthood.

Now I’m approaching 30, and measurements of real-life success couldn’t resemble a track PR any less. What is success, even? Having a job that satisfies me, one that pays well, or one that does both? Is it having a stable relationship, or a solid friend group, or Twitter likes? Is it a 401(k), or a Roth IRA, or, at the very least, being able to articulate the difference between those two things?Is quantifiable success achievable when I sort of have all of the above things, or just half of them at 100 percent?The answer, of course: No such recipe exists. But that realization hasn’t quite clicked yet with my dream-state self.

I guess somewhere, deep down, I probably miss the candor of working my entire body to its limits, when it felt like every organ in my body was about to fall out of my butt. You know, when things were easy.

So You Want to Get Your Dog on a Raw-Food Diet

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It seems like every week a commercial pet food is outed as containing actual poison. First it was a euthanasia drug that popped up in the mass-market foods on the cheaper end of the spectrum. No surprise, I thought, rather smugly. If you feed your dog garbage, what do you expect? Then it was discovered that the stuff I was spending over $200 per month on contained both arsenic and BPAs in potentially harmful amounts. If even the most expensive kibbles contain poison, what are you supposed to feed your dog? 

This is how I figured out how to feed my dogs healthy raw food, and do it without going broke. 

Late last year, Wiley (our five-year-old mutt) developed a sore next to his mouth. Convinced it was ringworm (a really nasty fungus that’s transmissible to humans), I paid the vet $500 for a battery of tests for both Wiley and our other dog, Bowie (our one-year-old), bought two different types of antifungal dog shampoo that I started bathing Wiley in daily, boiled my bed sheets, and scrubbed our entire house with Lysol. My girlfriend and I started showering with antifungal soap, too. We considered canceling our Christmas travel plans—a road trip to northern Montana, visiting family and friends along the way. We feared infecting someone else’s house. Turns out it was just irritated skin. 

Wiley’s always been sensitive to what’s in his diet. When he was a puppy, I started him off on Solid Gold. But that contains grain, and I think the ingredient was to blame for a spate of skin problems he had early on in puppyhood. So, we went grain-free, with Taste of the Wild. That was a lot better—he’d develop only occasional hot spots at the base of his tail. I figured those were just due to flea bites, and I’d treat them with coconut oil as they appeared. 

But that ringworm scare had come after a few months of persistent skin irritation. The exposed skin on his belly was dark red and wasn’t clearing up with oatmeal baths or topical treatments. His ears were scabbed and scaly inside. The worst part was that he was visibly uncomfortable and lacked energy. Reading online forums, I saw that a few other dog owners had reported their pets had started to suffer skin problems on Taste of the Wild, too. So just before Christmas, we switched the dogs to Acana Regionals, the most expensive grain-free kibble available at our bougie pet food store here in Hollywood. 

That seemed to do the trick. Wiley’s sore disappeared, his stomach eventually went back to its normal color, and his ears were again smooth and clean. Solid result, but he and Bowie didn’t particularly like this new food. To get them to eat it, we had to incentivize them by boiling chicken breasts, then chopping those up and mixing them into the kibble. Even then they’d still never finish a complete bowl. 

When the news about Acana broke, I decided I was done trusting other people to feed my dogs. I’d heard other dog owners rave about the positive benefits of a raw diet, so I resolved to try that.  

I’ve always given dogs raw, meaty bones as treats, but I knew enough to realize I was ignorant of how to develop a total diet on my own. So I started looking for solutions. 

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First I went to the pet food store and bought a bulk box of frozen raw patties from a West Coast company called Small Batch Dog Food. The dogs loved the ground-up mix of high-quality meat, bones, and veggies more than anything I’d ever fed them. But after taxes, the 18-pound box came out to about $90. And I calculated it was only enough to get us through four and a half days. At over $600 per month, that was more than twice what we’d previous been spending—it’s an insane amount of money for dog food, regardless of your income. 

So I started reading up on how to create a complete diet on my own, at home. A Facebook post asking for help led to a friend suggesting a book by Kymythy Schultze, Natural Nutrition for Dogs and Cats

Schultze details stuff I’ve always heard about dogs digestion but never fully understood. They have a short digestive tract and an acidic stomach, factors that combine to make them largely impervious to bacteria prevalent in raw foods, like E. coli and salmonella. She also explains the role that whole foods, like uncooked bones, play in a dog’s health, cleaning their teeth and providing fiber to aid in their digestion in addition to valuable vitamins, minerals, and calcium. 

Another thing I’d never understood about “biologically appropriate raw food” (or, charmingly, BARF) diets—where the idea is to feed dogs how they’d eat in the wild—is how that’s still relevant in dogs today, a species we’ve essentially created ourselves, since they were first domesticated tens of thousands of years ago. Schultze explains that commercial dog foods have only been around for about 100 years, and for the thousands of years before that, dogs of all sizes survived on scraps, refuse, and by hunting. In fact, it wasn’t common practice to feed dogs commercially made processed or even cooked foods until the mid-20th century. 

Years ago, I made the switch from eating low-quality processed food to cooking most of my own meals at home and considering the source and quality of ingredients in everything I consume. That’s made me leaner, stronger, and fitter. Everyone knows that eating well makes you healthier. So why haven’t the same people made the obvious leap to doing the same for their dogs?

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Would you believe that a scientific analysis of commercial raw dog foods found that many contained bacteria like E. coli and salmonella?! Wait, they’re made from raw meat…

There seems to be a general opinion on the Internet that feeding dogs raw food is dangerous. I’ll spare you all the hand-wringing and simply skip ahead to the logical conclusion: wash your hands, cutting boards, knives, bowls, and counter tops. Really people, have you never made a hamburger from scratch? 

Far more telling is that a scientific analysis of processed and cooked kibble also showed that a bunch of it had listeria and salmonella in it. But that’s not a problem, largely because dogs evolved as scavengers, designed to eat both carcasses and human refuse they found laying around, of uncertain origins, and stuff they kill themselves and consume fresh. Short digestive tracts, acidic stomachs, remember? 

Of course, that’s also why raw diets work for dogs. Both cooking and processing chemically alter food. Just like we’re designed to eat healthy, natural food, dogs are designed to eat food in its natural state. Heck, they can even kill it themselves. 

The idea with BARF food is to replicate the meal a dog would get from killing and consuming a prey animal—their healthiest-possible food source. A lot of meat, little fat (these being wild animals), plenty of bones, then a few organs and whatever may have been partially digested in the prey’s stomach—a few veggies, basically. 

Note that the natural formula doesn’t include grain, soybeans, corn products, or any of the other awful garbage that most commercial dog foods are made from. The other big idea with the raw diet is to feed your dog the healthiest human-grade food you can afford. Meat and other ingredients intended for the dog food industry doesn’t have to pass the same quality or health standards present in the human-food supply chain, so is often just disgusting. Hence all the poison. 

Gizmodo reports that the euthanasia drug in all that dog food likely comes from euthanized horses winding up in the dog-food supply chain. That isn’t just gross, it’s also illegal. I’d rather be a little more vigilant about washing my hands after feeding my dogs than feed them illegally sourced poisoned food, thanks. 

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Schultze suggests feeding dogs meat with bones in it, along with stuff she dubs “extras” that make up the rest of the nutrients dogs need. So, per-day, my dogs together are eating about four pounds of meat with bones, plus a little organ meat, cod liver oil, hemp oil, alfalfa powder, kelp powder, ascorbic acid (vitamin c), and some veggies. Maybe an egg, too. 

To make this attempt at creating an affordable, easy version of that diet as widely applicable as possible, I’m not including any wild-caught meat, or deals available from big-box discount stores like Costco. Instead all my meat has been coming from my local Ralph’s (California’s Kroger chain), and I ordered the extras on Amazon. 

Chicken seems to be working best, so using that as an example, I can buy about four pounds of wings, thighs, and drumsticks of reasonable quality for about $9. A week’s worth of chicken livers or assorted organs is about $2. All the extras cost $103.41, and in those amounts should last about three months. I’m going to call the veggies free, since you use so little of them—just a few tablespoons—and I just pull them from whatever meal we’re cooking for ourselves. 

So, per day, that’s $9 of meat, 28 cents of organs, and $1.15 of extras, for a total of $10.43. In a 30-day month, that’s $312.90—probably not that much more than what we were spending on kibble when you factor in all the incentives we had to provide, and half the cost of the commercial raw alternatives. It’s also a price we’re very happy paying to guarantee the health of our two dogs. 

As a caveat, I should say that a center piece of of Schultze’s advice is that you don’t need to feed your dogs precise amounts of these ingredients, or that you need to feed them the exact same thing every day. In fact, it’s healthy to introduce a variety of animal proteins to the diet. Prices also vary, as do sources. I saved some money last week when friends went out of town and gave me a Blue Apron box that was about to expire. The steaks, pork loin, and chicken breasts I pulled out of it covered one and a half meals. 

Feeding your dog healthy raw food takes a little more effort than just throwing down a bowl of kibble. Preparing their daily meal (Schultze recommends one big meal, rather than two small ones, for adults), takes me 10 to 15 minutes. And I do have to do more clean up throughout the process, and after, so I don’t get raw meat all over the kitchen. So, it’s reasonable to expect that taking your dog’s new diet on the road is going to take a little more planning, and time, too. 

When we leave the dogs at home, with a caretaker, we’ve just been buying the pre-made patties to make their lives as easy as possible. I’ve been keeping a box around just in case we’re crunched on time, having a bad day, or other real world considerations like that. 

Driving somewhere with the dogs, it’s a mix of using the premades to keep it easy while we’re on the move, then doing the whole shebang if we’re at a destination (the cabin, say), where we have the time and a kitchen. How do we keep the food frozen throughout a trip? Well, that’s just one of the reasons why I really prefer portable fridge-freezers to high-end coolers. The weight and external size-to-interior volume is actually higher with a good portable freezer. A quality item like our Dometic CFX 75DZW  has room for a week’s worth of dog food plus a couple days for us, and it can be plugged into both AC and DC power, meaning you can pull it out of the car at your destination and run it on a normal wall outlet. That will save your car’s battery charge (one night won’t run a quality battery down) and add cooling space in addition to the small fridge-freezer in your room or cabin. The Dometic also has two separate internal spaces, so you can set one to freeze (down to minus seven degrees), and one run above freezing, allowing you to defrost one meal’s worth of meat ahead of time as you travel. 

What about camping? Well, the Dometic comes along when we’re car or 4×4 camping, but for a recent backpacking trip I found premade freeze-dried patties to be an ideal solution. Just like human backpacking food, all the weight is sucked out of those, making them ideal on the trail, but they’re easily rehydrated with even cool water in camp. They’re expensive ($30 for about a day and a half of food for one dog), but I really appreciated the weight savings, and Wiley enjoyed eating them. 

BhozD40D58s

Bowie and Wiley have been eating a totally raw diet, with zero kibble, for a month now. That’s not very long, but both dogs are visibly leaner and have more energy throughout the day. The quality of both their coats has improved from already excellent to totally flawless. Most importantly, Wiley has had absolutely zero skin problems of any kind. His usual hot-spot area is fully furred and not itchy. His skin isn’t dry or flaky at all. 

One other change I was surprised to notice is that both dogs’ sporadic loose stools have given way to healthy, firm poops with 100 percent reliability. Wiley had a couple incidents last year where his anal glands weren’t fully expressing and instead leaked a terrible smell—no more. They also produce considerably less poop overall than before. 

The most important change, though, is that the dogs love it. Before, with kibble, you’d hand it to them and they’d look up with a look that said: “Really? This crap again?” Putting down a giant bowl brimming with healthy meat just feels a whole lot better. 

Want to learn more about creating your own healthy raw diet, tailored to your dog’s need? Want to know what vets have to say about feeding your dogs raw food? Interested in the science behind this? Schultze’s book is a quick read, but also a very powerful one. 

The Guide Who Became a Toxically Masculine Feminist

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On a 23-day backpacking expedition I led with a dozen teenage boys in the early 2000s, one of the first rules we established was no derogatory language. Cussing was fine, of course. To ask them to refrain from throwing F-bombs would be unrealistic and just plain cruel. But bitch, gay, and their many misogynist, homophobic, racist cousins would absolutely not be tolerated.

The alpha boy threw his hands in the air. “So, we’ve gotta talk like a bunch of pussies now?”

I wince every time I hear a man of any age use that word. I hate it. Almost as much as I hate its synonym that rhymes with blunt. But I realized that I’d started throwing that word around quite regularly. I’d always told myself this was my way of reclaiming that word from men. But who was I kidding? Throughout my twenties, I used pussy and bitch for no other reason than to attack other men or make fun of myself—as synonyms for coward and difficult.

Despite identifying as a proud feminist working in an industry dominated by men, over the years I’d somehow become just as toxically masculine as the worst of them.

I was lucky to be raised by a progressive single mom and a feminist older sister. Still, I was a tomboy who grew up in the South, where they still have debutante balls. My mom didn’t try to squash my boyish instincts, but she didn’t exactly encourage them either. In my first letter to Santa, I asked for a Tonka dump truck. I got a Barbie.

I finally realized I just didn’t fit in down South and escaped the land of malls for the mountains of Montana. There, I met women doing things I didn’t even know were options for us. They skied and climbed harder than men. I wanted that. The day after I graduated from college, I gave away everything I owned except my gear and moved into my truck, where I lived for the next five years, traveling the country. I threw myself into new experiences, becoming a raft guide, without any experience on rivers; a ski instructor, having never been on a lift; and a backpacking guide slash naturalist, knowing nothing about either.

The outdoor industry embraces tough women and often understands our worth—at least more so than the tech industry, comedy, or Wall Street. But it still has its fair share of frat boys hiding in puffy jackets. As I would soon learn, the rafting sector of the outdoor industry is where you’ll find a lot of them. My journey to toxic masculinity started with my attempts to simply navigate these many bros, and then morphed into a version of trying to fit in that gave me no other option than to act just as badly as they did.

On an early job, a fellow boater who was a friend of my boss and 20 years my senior kissed me unexpectedly one day. I assumed I’d somehow “asked for” his sexual advances by letting him teach me how to lead climb, so I dated this man I wasn’t the least bit attracted to all summer. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, he was pretty nice to me, and I really just wanted to climb.

Another rafting boss later in my careerwasn’t a bad person, but I was absolutely terrified of his temper. It was exhausting having to tiptoe around this all summer, but I loved my co-workers and my job even more, so I put up with it. At that job, the men would shamelessly rate the “fuckability” of each female tourist, even teenage girls, as they stepped off the bus. The one man leading the others in such awful behavior was in his late thirties and wore a wedding ring because apparently you can “bang way more chicks when they think you’re already taken.” Since I was still new to rafting, this small mountain town, and this company in particular, I bit my tongue and hated myself for it.

By the end of the season, though, I’d had enough. I asked the other girls if the comments bothered them too. They either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Boyswill be boys, right? Still, I confronted Wedding Ring Guy at the end of the season. I bent myself into a pretzel trying to avoid offending him because I’m a Southern woman and that’s what we do best. “It’s uh, kinda hard to hear you guys talk about women like they’re, uh, prey and shit, you know?”

Wedding Ring Guy gaslit me with that typical response: “Calm down, tiger.” I wondered if, to work in the rafting world, I’d have to adopt the motto of my fellow women working in a male-dominated industry: Keep calm and carry on.

The next summer, thankfully, I had a female boss, who soon became an important role model for me. I admired how she handled the world and her employees—thoughtful yet direct. She didn’t take shit from anyone, especially men. Still, the only other two female guides weren’t full-time, meaning I spent 15-hour days on the river with six dudes in their twenties. Luckily, these guys rated just the adult women getting off the bus, not the girls. But they were crueler in other ways. “Look at the hail damage on that one!” they’d say. Already paranoid about my own cellulite and struggling with bulimia, I saw this as confirmation of my worst fear—that men criticize our bodies as much as we do.

I barfed five times a day that summer.

I kinda loved some of the teasing.These were the brothers I never had, and sometimes they dropped their tough-guy routine around me and shared intimate secrets they were too afraid to tell the other guys. But when they took the teasing about my body too far, it hardened what little softness I had left. From that point on, I only spoke about men the way they spoke about women. I desperately needed these guys to see me as a brother, not some fragile female.

Instead of calling them on their shit, I matched and heightened their behavior. You wanna talk about sex, boys? Don’t get me started. Until that summer, I never knew just how perverted I could be.By being their brother instead of a girl they wanted to sleep with—or, even worse, a feminist—I was finally their equal.

That’s all I’d ever wanted.

On the rare occasion when I did challenge their sexist jokes, they’d bark back, “Oh god, we’ve got a feminist among us. And here we thought you were one of the cool girls!” Ah, the cool girl. I wanted to be the one given the secret password to the boys’ treehouse. There’s only room for one of us, though, so it’s lonely at the top, especially since your status depends on other women sucking. It’s a hefty price. At the time, I was willing to pay it.

By the time I found myself leading the 23-day backpacking trip, four years later, I had become just as afraid of being seen as feminine as the teenage boys I was supposed to mentor. I judged their toxic masculinity at first because they mirrored my own behavior, and it scared me.

After a week of doing the brutal, exhausting work of calling them on their derogatory language, I was surprised to find the boys finally stopped saying “no homo” literally all the time. In fact, they quit saying all of it. They didn’t want to sit through another lecture, and they hated us for this but respected us anyway.

On day ten, one of our most homophobic boys told the whole group during lunch that he was gay. We were stunned he would be so brave. “Yo, I am too, bro,” piped in another. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had some serious internalized bigotry going on.

On day 17, the bully of the group confided in me about his stepfather’s abuse, about the guilt he felt for not being home to field the punches meant for his mom. These kids broke my heart. They made me wish I could disarm myself, too.

On the last day, when we asked for constructive feedback from the kids, one of the boys handed my ass to me. “Mel, you obviously care about us and shit. But you don’t have to pretend like you don’t or hide behind all these jokes. Just be yourself. You’re, like, cool.”

Yep, a bunch of teenage boys forced me to see that I’d somehow become toxically masculine and feelings avoidant. If I wanted to be the best version of myself, I had to stop rejecting everything sensitive about me.

That fall, I moved to New York Cityand found myself working in yet another boys’ club—the film industry. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes here. I didn’t volunteer constantly to lift sandbags and load cube trucks for the sole reason of proving I was tough, and I took more pride in using my problem-solving skills, intuition, and creativity.

Now, when I sit around talking shit with the guys and the topic turns to women, as it always does, I come to the defense of women instead of one-upping. And whenever they try to insult me with the feminist label, I holler back, “Fuck yeah, I am!”

Ladies: Want to Ride Across Alaska? Here’s Your Chance

Take a page from Lael Wilcox’s playbook and go long

Lael Wilcox talks about cycling in the nonchalant, unflappable way that Steven Hawking probably discusses theoretical physics. Speaking from Tucson, Arizona, about her upcoming riding plans for the next couple weeks, Wilcox says, “I’m going to Specialized to pick up a new bike. Then I’ll ride it back.” It sounds like she’s headed over to a local shop, but the truth is she’s flying to Specialized’s headquarters in Morgan Hill, California, and will tour back—1,130 miles—on the new bike. Oh, and she’ll only be gone a week.

(Rugile Kaladyte)

It’s safe to say that Wilcox, at 31 and less than four years into her riding career, is a bit of a cycling prodigy. You might even call her a freak. The year her boyfriend, Nick, got her into riding, she entered a 600-mile mountain bike race called the Holyland Challenge on a whim and placed second overall. The following year, Wilcox shattered the women’s record on the 2,745-mile Tour Divide by more than two days, then returned a month later to shave almost two more days off her own time. That’s right, she rode the course twice in a single summer, and yes, she’s ridden it faster than pretty much anyone in history. In 2016, Wilcox won the TransAm Bike Race outright, beating 65 riders on the coast-to-coast ride. During the winter of 2017, she helped launch an epic new bikepacking course, the Baja Divide, then rode the fastest known time on it.

All of this is to say that Wilcox thinks big and has the legs and heart to back it up. And while you might expect her to be some puffed-up, finely honed über-athlete, she’s actually a weedy, unassuming, rail of a brunette who rides in baggy shorts and a T-shirt and looks like the perpetual newb. But woe to anyone who underestimates her.

Case in point: After speeding across Baja, which would leave most people craving a beach vacation, Wilcox decided to take on an idea she’d been brewing for a couple years—to ride all the major roads in Alaska. “I’m a fourth-generation Alaskan. My grandfather was born in Fairbanks, and my family had stores in Cordova and Seward,” she says. “I’ve never been to some of these places. And I just decided that it was important to go and see them, to know what their lives were like and know my home. Besides, there are only ten major roads, maybe 12.”

Coming from Wilcox, that sounds as casual as ever, but it’s worth remembering that Alaska is also three times the size of Texas. A few months and 4,500 miles later, Wilcox had ridden them all. Pretty much. “There are still some roads out there I want to do. There are 90 miles on Kodiak Island and 300 or so of logging roads on Prince of Wales Island. But I had some family stuff come up, and anyway, I saw a lot.” The fact that she puts an asterisk on such a monumental feat speaks to Wilcox’s outlook and drive.

Following the ride, Wilcox, who runs a girl’s cycling mentorship program called Anchorage GRIT, was so jazzed up over the experience that she decided to launch a scholarship to allow another woman to follow in her tracks. Applications for the Lael Rides Alaska scholarship program opened on February 1 on Wilcox’s blog, Lael’s Globe of Adventure. Applicants will be judged on their stories and the 1,000-mile itinerary they craft. The winner will receive a Specialized Diverge bike and gear, Revelate Designs bikepacking bags, Big Agnes camping equipment, Patagonia apparel, and a $1,000 stipend to make her Alaska ride happen this summer.

Wilcox sponsored a similar scholarship last year for the Baja Divide, and more than 200 women applied, ages 19 to 63. “I was like, ‘Woah, this is a lot of people who are willing to take off six weeks to go ride.’ And there are so many great people and stories out there, it was so hard to pick,” Wilcox says. “But the coolest part was that even though we gave the prize to just one of them, more than 30 of those women ended up going out and riding the route.”

Through all her wild adventures and record-setting races, the thing that maybe inspires Wilcox most is simply motivating people to get out and ride. “For me, bikepacking and bike touring weren’t on my radar before I started. I wouldn’t have gotten into it without Nick,” she says. “So I’m hoping that my putting this out there may give a few women the opportunity.” Wilcox says she’s just “opening people’s eyes.”

And she’s not done—hardly—though that’s difficult to tell from her insouciance. Talking about her plans after the Specialized pick-up, Wilcox says, “Nothing big. I’m leading some endurance gravel camps in Patagonia in February and March, doing the Anchorage middle-school mentorship program in April and May, and then planning to race this summer. Maybe the Navad 1000 in Switzerland, maybe the Tour Divide, maybe the Silk Road Bike Race in Kyrgyzstan.” Nothing big, as usual.

Raptor Closures Are Evolving, Thanks to Climbers

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Every year in late winter and early spring, about 85 to 100 climbing areas nationwide are closed to protect birds of prey during their nesting period. Many of these seasonal bans on climbing are large-scale, fixed closures of entire cliff faces. The peregrine falcon, whose nesting period runs between February and August, is the cause of about half of these closures. (The rest close for golden eagles.)

Once a victim of the egg-destroying pesticide DDT, the peregrine—a crow-sized raptor known for its speed—is now no longer endangered and in recovery. Still, the cliff closures that were designed when they were nearly extinct remain largely unchanged. They frustrate not only climbers but also scientists, who argue that the closures are unnecessarily strict. Unable to make progress with cash-strapped and cautious wildlife officials, many climbers are now taking management into their own hands.

“Climbing was never an impact to the species. It was always DDT,” says Adam Baylor, stewardship and advocacy manager for Mazamas, a mountaineering organization based in Portland, Oregon. “It’s really up to the community at this point to help land managers figure out what’s allowable, what can we do within the space, and be very scientific about it.”


In 1973, the peregrine was listed as federally endangered, its populations nearly eliminated from eastern states and cut by 80 to 90 percent in the West. DDT, once a widely used pesticide, thinned the bird’s eggs and caused unborn chicks to die, bringing them to the brink of extinction. In the 1980s, frantic biologists tried a novel approach to saving them in Yosemite and other national parks and forests: removing brittle DDT-laden eggs from nests, replacing them with wooden eggs, and then later replacing the wooden eggs with captivity-raised chicks. The birds nest high on cliffs, so scientists enlisted the help of climbers to make these swaps.

“Climbers were willing to risk all for the birds” says Rob Roy Ramey II, a biologist and owner of Wildlife Science International, a consulting firm that specializes in threatened and endangered species. Ramey helped with these egg swaps in Yosemite and throughout California, at times joined by well-known climbers from that era, including John “Yabo” Yablonski and Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard.

The efforts paid off. In 1999, the peregrine was delisted. Since then, the bird’s numbers have steadily increased. A 2016 study estimated the peregrine falcon’s numbers in North America at 80,000. “Clearly, they have fully recovered under any imaginable scenario,” Ramey says.

While the falcon was delisted by the federal government nearly 20 years ago, many states still protect it. And in states that have lifted protection, closures are enforced under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. The MBTA was originally drafted to protect wildlife from interstate trafficking and devastating levels of hunting, Ramey says, but it now acts as a “mini Endangered Species Act.”

Many cliffs are managed under cautious principles established in the 1970s, says Dave Peterson, a falconer and retired U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist. At the time, land managers drew wide circles of restricted use around a cliff. Katie Goodwin, public lands associate at the Access Fund, sees many closures consisting of a half-mile radius that extends from a cliff face. Even in areas with smaller closures (there tends to be a lot of variation in how bans are implemented), there’s often no data on if the site is still used for nesting and, therefore, if a closure is warranted.

A few programs show another way, in a process called adaptive monitoring. In Yosemite, for example, a biologist walks along the cliffs throughout the peregrine’s nesting season, spending hours gazing up at each potential nesting site. When it’s determined that an area isn’t being used, the routes around it quickly open up. The closures are updated this way four or five times a season to maximize climber access.

“When we find a peregrine nest that we know is adjacent to climbing routes, we work with the climbing rangers to determine which routes to open and which routes to close,” says Sarah Stock, a wildlife ecologist who manages the program. Peregrines do get stressed when they can clearly see climbers, Stock says, and stressed birds sometimes abandon their nest. But they’re unfazed by climbers farther away: “If a nest is high up on El Capitan, then we can keep the whole bottom portion of the cliff open to climbers.”

The park’s efforts have led to a shortened closure period and improved access. Even at the beginning of the season, which sees the greatest number of closures, 97 percent of routes remain open. Why aren’t more areas managed in this way? A lot it comes down to funding, says Stock, who is applying for grants to continue the program through next year.

“The easiest thing to do is always a blanket closure,” says Randy Kline, trails coordinator at Washington State Parks, who helps prepare the state’s climbing plan. “The options are out there, but they are staff-intensive. We as an agency cannot do it.”


Now, climbers at six areas nationwide are collaborating with the Access Fund to push for more flexible closures at their respective cliffs. In one location, Stone Hill in northwestern Montana, the discovery of a single nest in 2016 led to a 288-acre closure, effective March 1 through August 1 each year. So John Gangemi, a Montana climber and training coordinator with the River Management Society, offered to help monitor the nest sites. He hopes to tap into the membership of the Northwest Montana Climbers Coalition to build a team of citizen scientists to assist him.

More than just help with monitoring, says Access Fund’s Goodwin, the science used by land managers needs to be updated. In Oregon, climbers are doing that, too. In June, Greg Orton, a climbing guidebook author and retired soil scientist, completed a draft scientific literature review and management guide for peregrines. In his own unpaid time, Orton spent three years sifting through more than 100 sources to come up with a “fairly unbiased management strategy,” which he says could apply to other raptor closures around the country.

Overall, Orton finds, there’s little data to support the use of broad, circular closure zones. Instead, his report recommends a focus on site-specific features, such as the shape and size of the cliff and how adapted the area’s peregrines are to human activity. Such considerations create a concise closure zone, mostly limited to the view visible from the nest. Continued monitoring then further limits the closure to the dates when the nest is occupied.

Ramey and Goodwin also think there needs to be a national directive to change the current practices of land managers, such as a memorandum or scientific review that informs officials that peregrines are no longer threatened and guides future management. “In a lot of ways, climbers are currently treated more or less the same as a timber company,” Goodwin says. “Clearly, recreational impacts are not the same as timber.”

In addition to improved cliff access, these changes might also improve relationships between officials and climbers. “In general,” says Ramey, “you get better compliance if the closure is well-justified.”

First Look: Thule’s New MTB, Travel, and Hiking Packs

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Thule is best known for roof racks and baby strollers, but over the last several years, the Swedish company has earned a reputation for its high-quality, simple yet well-designed backpacks and duffel bags. Recently we got a sneak peek at a handful of new Thule packs launching in February, including an enduro mountain-biking hydration vest, an adventure travel duffel, and a hiking pack. Here’s a preview of products to get excited about.

Thule’s take on the adventure duffel keeps the long-term traveler in mind. The Landmark duffels (available in 40, 60, and 70 liters, $180, $200, and $220, not yet online) feature padded hipbelts and contoured, adjustable backpack straps just like a typical backpacking bag’s. They’re comfortable for heavy loads yet tuck away when you want to check the bag at an airport. An included small daypack buckles onto the outside of the 60- and 70-liter versions, so you can clip your carry-on and personal item together to get out of the airport, ditch the duffel at your hostel, and then take the daypack for a whirl through downtown. The Landmark also has a hard-sided pocket for stashing electronics and other breakables, internal straps for keeping your clothes in place, and a hidden passport pocket (the daypack has one too) for peace of mind.


The Rail 12 Pro furthers Thule’s foray into the bike-bag market after last year’s launch of the cross-country-oriented Vital. Designed for enduro riding, the 12-liter Rail ramps it up a notch with exterior straps capable of carrying a full-face helmet and knee and elbow pads. Inside are the standard mesh organizational pockets as well as a lightweight, double-layer Koroyd back shield for serious protection. But thanks to its honeycomb construction, it doesn’t compromise on ventilation. The best part is Thule’s proprietary Retrakt water-bladder hose-return system, which uses a series of magnets to keep the hose secured to the shoulder strap but still easy to grab for on-the-bike hydration.


Rounding out Thule’s AllTrail hiking-pack line, which already includes 45-liter ($180) and 35-liter ($160) packs, the new AllTrail 25-liter ($100) is simpler than its predecessors, trading in the long, bell-shaped top zipper for a classic buckled flip-top with a brain pocket. A cavernous front stretch-mesh pocket adds even more quick-access storage than the larger packs get. However, the 25-liter forgoes the adjustable torso, built-in pack cover, and padding on the hipbelt. It has what you need for a single day on the trail, without the heft and extra bells and whistles you might want for longer trips or heavier loads.

Turn Your Phone into a Pro Adventure Movie Maker

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You don’t need a five-figure video recorder balanced on your shoulder to shoot quality adventure footage. It’s cheaper and more convenient to take advantage of that device sitting in your pocket or hand—your phone. But out of the box, even the best phones have crappy lighting, miserable audio, and footage that bounces around like the operator’s being kidnapped. It’s worth dropping some cash on accessories that’ll turn your phone into a stable, crisp, 4K-shooting machine that makes big-production-looking video. You already own the most expensive part. The rest is gravy.

Sensors in this device detect the inevitable shakiness from using a lightweight camera, and a motorized gimbal attached to the phone applies opposite force to accidental movements, smoothing out the unsteadiness. As you turn and aim the collapsible Tiffen Steadicam Volt ($170), the electric motors resist your hand a bit, giving it an artificial sense of weight so your movements on the lightweight, one-pound rig aren’t jerky. The rechargeable battery is good for eight hours, but it’ll shift to a slightly less-smooth manual stabilization if the juice runs out.

You can tell the one-pound DJI Osmo Mobile 2 ($129) to track a person or object automatically using its software and motorized gimbal, so if you turn the Mobile 2 sharply, the gimbal will smoothly track the subject instead of jarring the picture. The battery lasts 15 hours, but it won’t run in manual mode once the juice is gone and can’t be swapped out for a fresh battery. Both the Steadicam Volt’s high haptic feedback and the Osmo Mobile 2’s auto-tracking will work fine for whatever you’re filming; it’s just personal preference on how you like the rig to feel.

Buy Now: Tiffen Buy Now: DJI


Basically, these lenses stretch footage to the 2:40:1 widescreen format commonly used in films, meaning your video will look more Hollywood than YouTube. The Moment Anamorphic Lens ($120) is my favorite, capturing it all in a sleek, affordable package, though it requires a proprietary photo case ($30) that works with iPhones, Google Pixels, and Samsung Galaxies.

Buy Now


If your footage puts you far away from your subject, you need to close the distance with a zoom lens. The ExoLens Pro, produced by 172-year-old German lens maker Zeiss, has a crisp 2x zoom and clocks in at $199. (It also comes with a mount.) Zeiss proved its chops making lenses for submarine periscopes and NASA’s Apollo program for moon photos.

Buy Now


A lot of nature videography splices in detail-laden close-ups. Filmmakers use high-magnification macro lenses, which focus on objects extremely close to the camera, rather than telephoto lenses, which focus on objects far away. Olloclip ($60) packages a 15x macro with a swappable fisheye lens—rarely used but cool for the occasional distorted special effects—and they work with front- and rear-facing cameras. Edges of shots can be slightly fuzzy, but image quality across most of the frame is sharp and satisfying.

Buy Now


As with lenses, many filters are available that screw on over the lens and specialize in cutting out certain undesirable effects. The Moondog Labs 52mm Filter Mount ($35) lets you mount any standard 52mm lens filter to a phone. You’ll need three: a Hoya PRO1 Digital Circular Polarization Filter ($32), which quashes glare and brings out detail under cloudy skies; a Tiffen UV Protection Filter ($7), which prevents intense sunlight from giving footage an unnatural bluish tint; and a B+W SC 106 Solid Neutral Density 1.8 Filter ($36), which reduces light entering the lens, preventing overexposure common in harsh light.

Buy Now: Moondog Labs Buy Now: Hoya

Buy Now: Tiffen Buy Now: B+W


A phone’s single flash isn’t potent enough to bathe even a close-up subject in decent lighting, much less an entire scene from far away. The Lume Cube LED ($80) mounts directly to the phone, connects to it through Bluetooth, and puts out 1,500 lumens—three times as bright as a full-size D-cell Maglite. The LitraTorch ($80) is not as bright, at 800 lumens of continuous light, but offers more filters to fine-tune the light’s color.

Buy Now: Lume Cube Buy Now: LitraTorch


The Sennheiser ClipMic Digital ($200) is what you’d use in a face-to-face interview up close, clipped to the interviewee’s shirt under the chin, but it’s only good for short distances and minimal movement. The Audio-Technica AT9913iS ($53) is a shotgun microphone—a long, cylindrical mic that you attach to the camera. You have to aim it at who or what you want to record, but it’s better for subjects you can’t tether to a clip-on mic, such as wildlife, the breezes, and breaking waves of landscape shots, or activities with multiple people in the shot.

Buy Now: Audio-Technica Buy Now: Sennheiser


You’ll quickly drain the life out of your phone if you’re shooting video, so bring along a power bank that can offer a fast recharge and get you back to filming. The Anker PowerCore Speed 20000 PD ($100) uses a new, faster USB PD and can recharge a typical smartphone six times before it needs to be recharged itself, which takes four hours. The Belkin Pocket Power 15K ($50) 15K uses a slower, non-quick-charging USB 3.0 standard, but it’s half the cost and, unlike USB PD, won’t require an adapter if you’re using an Android phone.

Buy Now: Anker Buy Now: Belkin


All that hardware is pointless if you can’t edit footage in postproduction. Software like Filmic Pro ($15) and FilmConvert ($150) lets you edit exposure, color, focus, frame rate, tint, grain, and more. You can nitpick with all the settings yourself or choose from profiles that emulate classic brands of film from the heyday of celluloid. You’ll also need it to desquish your image if you shot footage using an anamorphic lens.

Buy Now: Filmic Buy Now: FilmConvert

What the Flu Taught Me About Taking It Slow on the Road

Fighting sickness and the desire to do too much in the Sonoran Desert

One thing most #vanlifers don’t talk about is being sick on the road. But if you travel full time, you’ll eventually have to fight a cold or the flu. For the nearly two years, we’ve been traveling in Artemis the Airstream, Jen and I have mercifully avoided serious illness—until a month ago. And while a head full of snot and a crippling fever doesn’t make for the shiny, inspirational photos that fuel Insta, there are lessons to be learned from weathering a bad patch in a trailer.

Following Outside’s Annual Bike Test, I was depleted from two weeks of hard riding and late nights. I often get sick following the event, but this year a week passed and I thought I was in the clear. Then, I woke up one morning stuffed up, hacking, and swinging wildly between paroxysms of chills and sheet-soaking sweats. Jen offered to drive 30 minutes to the store for medicine and tissues, which I think was less an act of compassion than a simple desire to get as far from me as possible. I don’t know who was worse off that first morning: me or Jen, who, knowing we were trapped together in a 200-square-foot petri dish, basically realized it was only a matter of time before I infected her.

If there’s any advantage to being sick in a trailer, it’s the compact space. Three paces got me to the stove every time I wanted tea. And the bathroom was only a couple more steps beyond. With no television and no demands of home like chores or laundry, there’s also nothing to distract you from focusing on recuperating. So I spent that first 24 hours sucking down Nyquil and Echinacea and drifting in and out of sleep, which is probably just what I needed. And fortunately for Jen, it was unseasonably warm in Tucson, so she kept herself occupied outside the trailer, reading, running, and catching up on work.

Following the test, we'd holed up at a Pima County campground, Gilbert Ray, to make work easy on ourselves for a few days with electricity and amenities. Naturally, the day after I caught the flu was the final one of our permissible seven-day stay, meaning, sick or not, we had to move on. Our plan had been to head west to Organ Pipe National Monument, but I was feeling so pathetic that I started lobbying for a hotel. A big part of the reason we wanted to visit Organ Pipe, beyond just the iconic succulents, was I’d heard that the park’s lonely dirt roads were ideal for bikepacking. We’d actually been trying to get there for two years but had been thwarted first by an unexpected international assignment and most recently by torrential rains. Now, the idea of finally making it to Organ Pipe but not getting to do what I wanted to do—in my infirm state, I couldn’t pedal a lap around the trailer, much less three or four days around the park—made me feel crabby and sicker. “Hashtag vanlife sucks,” I think I may have groused once or twice. But Jen, who still hadn’t succumbed to my sickness, simply went about packing up and driving us west, despite my protestations.

Twenty-eight species of cactus grow in Organ Pipe, but the one that gives the park its name is a magnificent and humongous specimen that grows in palm-shape clusters up to 20-feet tall. They reminded me of dry-land coral reef outcrops, and, despite my flu, as soon as I caught site of one, I was glad we’d come. Though the campground was on the compact side, with tents and trailers sandwiched into a grid, we scored a nice site in the generator-free zone with a couple of towering saguaros, and with temperatures pushing 80 degrees, I was glad to sit quietly in the desert heat and convalesce. I was slowly starting to feel better, but to Jen’s chagrin, she came down with my sickness that evening. All hopes of adventuring in the park were off.

(JJAG Media)

That turned out to be okay. For a couple of days, we slept long stretches, day and night, lounged in the sun, and read our books. Once we both began to improve, we took to driving out into the park late in the day and setting up our chairs to listen to the shrill, oscillating cries of cactus wrens and to watch the sun set over the still, Sonoran desert. If we’d arrived at Organ Pipe feeling well, not sick, we never would have appreciated these simplicities. More importantly, if we’d gotten sick at home, not in Artemis, we’d likely never have taken so much down time. As it was, we not only got to see a place in a way that we might not have otherwise, we also recovered quicker than we probably would have if we weren’t in the trailer.

On our last full day in the park, I was feeling well enough that I mustered a 20-mile pedal at slightly faster than walking pace on the closest loop road to the campground. Jen, meanwhile, took advantage of the park’s awesome, twice-weekly shuttle service to get in a short hike. The ride wasn’t the big adventure I’d had in mind, but after a week of lying on my back, I was happy for the simple act of breathing the desert air a little more deeply. And riding in the Sonoran desert, on dirt roads virtually empty of traffic, through stunning, black, empty mountains festooned with needly succulents, was just as compelling as I had always imagined it would be—even at a slow creep.