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When it comes to many backpacking gear categories, most of the options are pretty good. That’s not always true with sleeping pads. They can be sneakily complicated. Your sleeping pad needs to be tough and thick enough to insulate you from the cold, uneven ground, yet light enough to carry and pack for at least a few miles. Weaknesses in any of these areas will just about ruin your day. I believe you should give your sleeping pad as much consideration as a sleeping bag or tent. Maybe more. Bottom line: Want a good night sleep? Pick the right sleeping pad.

I’ve been camping for 25 years, including five years spent working as an outdoor guide. For the past decade, I’ve tested and reviewed sleeping pads for Outside.

Over the past several years, my favorite backpacking sleeping pad has been Therm-a-Rest’s NeoAir XTherm Max SV. It quickly inflates and deflates and blows up thick and stable. It doesn’t make a lot of noise when I roll over at night. It’s big enough to feel palatial while car camping, yet it packs down small and light for backpacking. Here are some of my other favorite backcountry-friendly sleeping pads.

This pad has been my favorite for years. First, some stats. The NeoAir XTherm Max weighs 1.1 pounds and packs down to a little bigger than a one-liter water bottle. Those are good figures on their own, but they’re even more impressive when matched with the inflated thickness of 2.5 inches and slightly wider than normal footprint—that’s the “max” in its name—which are genuinely plush dimensions for a backcountry pad. Heat-reflective materials and internal insulation give it an R-value of 5.7, making the NeoAir one of the warmest air mats available and worthy of year-round use.

It takes a bit of huffing and puffing to inflate, but it’s worth the effort, trust me. Fully inflated, the pad’s horizontal baffles felt stable and allowed me to sleep comfortably on rough ground, including in a field of pointy rocks on a forced alpine bivvy. Normally, when I know I’m not venturing into the backcountry to camp, I bring the biggest pad I have available, since weight and packability aren’t concerns. But increasingly I’ve been sleeping on the NeoAir in car camping situations as well.

The regular length version is about $200. Not cheap for a sleeping pad. That price starts to make more sense when you consider that the NeoAir XTherm Max is made in the United States and takes care of all your camping needs.

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This pad gave the Therm-a-Rest a run for its money. Ituses varying internal air-pocket structures in different places for optimal weight distribution: a double layer of smaller cells in the torso and a single layer of bigger cells everywhere else. The smaller cells are meant to be more comfortable, and the bigger ones are designed to be lighter and more packable. That results in a network of 331 individual air cells. In practice, it feels like a more supported, stabler sleeping platform.

Those extra cells come with a slight weight penalty: At 2.5 inches thick and with an R-value of 4, the Comfort Light weighs 1.4 pounds—0.2 pounds heavier than the NeoAir XTherm Max SV. (That’s for a regular-length version; like many manufacturers, Sea to Summit also sells short and tall options.) That’s not a big difference, and the mat packs even smaller than the NeoAir. While reasonably warm, however, this pad is better suited to three-season use.

Sleeping pad makers are always negotiating between comfort on one hand and weight and bulk on the other, and I think Sea to Summit did well. It beats out the new Mountain Equipment down mat, which I reviewed in Outside’s 2018 Summer Buyer’s Guide, in every category. At $170, I would recommend this one if the NeoAir is beyond your budget or if you prioritize a smaller packed size over other features. For backpackers, the Sea to Summit Comfort Light Insulated Mat is a strong silver medalist.

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The Klymit V Ultralight SL weighs less than 12 ounces and rolls up to the size of a pint glass. Inflated, the rectangular pad is 2.5 inches thick and 20 inches wide—about average dimensions for an air pad despite its below-average weight. At $100, its cost is in line with other lightweight pads.

This is a tricky category. There are lighter and more compact options on the market, and people buying ultralight backpacking gear tend to be laser-focused on weight. But I worry about durability in pads lighter than this one. In fact, I still worry about the Klymit’s 20-denier nylon when I camp with it. That’s notably thinner than what’s found on the other pads reviewed here, and anyone who buys this pad should plan to be careful around sharp rocks or branches. (Plus, it’s rated to only R-1.3, so it’s best reserved for summer camping.)

But it sure is comfortable. I found that the V-shaped baffles and separate pods of air along the sides acted like a cradle that kept me centered and supported, so I never found myself half off the pad in the middle of the night.

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Therm-a-Rest’s classic noninflatable foam pad retains a cult following among many backpackers, particularly the thru-hiker crowd. Why? It’s light and durable, and no Z Lite user has ever had their night ruined by a leaking pad. Of course, at only 0.75 inches thick, it’s neither wildly comfortable nor compact. But if you’ve never slept on a foam-only pad, you might be surprised at how well the cupped, dual-density (softer on top, firmer on the bottom) foam cushions you.

There are other reasons to like the Z Lite SOL: It doubles as a seat better than inflatable pads because you don’t have to inflate it, and you can clip it to the outside of you pack, where it’s accessible. (I usually clip it under the top lid of my pack. It’s the first thing I unclip at lunch, to protect my butt from rocks or wet ground.) You could never do that with a fragile, lightweight air mat. Winter campers invariably carry a foam pad like the Z Lite SOL to double up insulation underneath their air pads.

At 14 ounces, the Z Lite is lighter than many fancier mats, and you can’t beat the $45 price tag. On flat ground, it’s comfortable enough to let you sleep well, especially if you prefer a firm mattress at home, though less so on uneven or rocky ground. Still, on trips when I bring a more robust pad, I usually miss the Z Lite’s utility around camp. There are good reasons this mat continues to sell more than 20 years after its debut.

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Most of the time, I think air pads are superior to self-inflating mats, because they’re lighter and more packable. But if you want something more than foam and don’t want to spend $100 for air, I’d suggest the REI Co-op Trekker Self-Inflating Sleeping Pad.

Deflated, the Trekker measures 5×21 inches, which is probably too big to fit in your pack, and it weighs more than 2.5 pounds. But it comes with a sack and compression straps to keep it safe while tied to your pack. At camp, unscrew the single valve, lay the mat flat, and in a few minutes it will inflate most of the way on its own. Once topped up, it’s 1.75 inches thick and 20 inches wide and has an excellent R-value of 5.6. It’s more stable than any air mat and absorbs under-tent obstacles much better than a foam-only pad like the Z Lite SOL. During long-term testing, I’ve found this category of pad to be very durable. Plus, $70 is affordable. It’s a solid value if weight and bulk aren’t big factors.

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At 25 inches wide and 3.5 inches thick, the Nemo Cosmo Air creates about the most comfortable bed you could imagine tossing into a pack. One tester told me he liked it so much that he chose it over his couch when watching TV at home. My mother now refuses to camp with me unless I bring the Cosmo Air for her. (Note: This pad is getting hard to find online but is still available through third-party retailers, often discounted from its $180 price.)

The catch—you saw this coming—is weight and bulk. The Cosmo Air in the long-wide configuration weighs about two pounds and doesn’t pack down small enough to fit in a backpack, so you’ll need to strap it to the outside.

But there really is a lot to love. Nemo included a built-in foot pump, and I was able to fill this pad in about the same time it took me to blow up the Klymit pad. The 75-denier polyester is tough, and horizontal baffles plus a baffle at the head do a good job of keeping air in place. There’s enough synthetic insulation here to make this pad worthy of three-season use. I don’t take the Cosmo Air on any trip where I need to cover more than a couple miles to my campsite, but when I do get to bring it, I’m always happy it’s there.

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Every year, manufacturers send me their new sleeping pads to check out. I send each pad to a team of testers—sea kayak guides, climbers, ski bums, weekend warriors, and active families—and I spend four to five weeks sleeping outdoors in all sorts of environments and on all kinds of trips. The idea is to use the pads in as many situations and by as many different people as possible.

For this test, I tested dozens of sleeping pads, including every model reviewed here. Before taking the pads out into the wild, I timed inflation and deflation, set up pads on different surfaces, and checked ease of packing.

Sleeping pads come in three main styles—air, self-inflating, and foam—and an array of shapes, constructions, and thicknesses, which means there are a lot of decision points when purchasing one. Here’s a breakdown.

, like the Therm-a-Rest NeoAir XTherm Max SV, are light and packable and tend to be quite comfortable. They’re also expensive, sometimes lack insulation, pop easily, and take forever to inflate. Still, they’re the obvious choice if you value comfort, weight, and packability. The best air pads on the market are well insulated.

, like the Therm-A-Rest Z Lite SOL, are single pieces of foldable dense foam full of tiny air pockets. They’re nearly indestructible, lightweight, and inexpensive. But any outdoor gear that’s cheap and light inevitably comes with downsides—in this case, comfort and packability.

, like the REI Co-op Trekker, use elements of both foam and air pads. They’re generally tougher than air pads, insulate well, and are more comfortable than foam-only options. They’re also heavy and hardly pack down.

R-value, a measure of a pad’s ability to resist heat flow, is arguably more important than pad thickness. (Higher numbers are better.) Insulated air pads typically include down or synthetic fibers, while self-inflating and foam pads use closed-cell foam. Most pad manufacturers will list an R-value, but some may just suggest a temperature range. When camping in summer, R-3 or less is usually fine; cold sleepers and three-season campers should look for values between R-3 and R-5. Winter camping requires R-5 or higher. Don’t worry about overheating—unlike a sleeping bag, your sleeping pad won’t ever be too warm.

Mats range in thickness from less than an inch to more than four inches. Anything over two inches feels luxurious. Most of the time, the thicker a pad, the more comfortable it will be. That’s especially true on bumpy, rocky, and uneven ground. Three inches of air pad cush can make a two-inch pine cone disappear.

No matter the thickness, an air mat with no internal structure will feel bouncy or squishy, like a waterbed. When you lean on an elbow, you’ll likely hit the ground. Look for baffles or dividers that create individual pockets to reduce air movement and improve stability.

The classic pad shape is a rectangle, but many companies cut weight by tapering at the head and feet. Streamlined pads work fine unless you’re a restless sleeper and need the extra square inches. I tend to prefer the tried-and-true rectangle.

A standard pad is 20 inches wide and 72 inches long, though many pads come in longer and wider versions. Some lightweight backpackers opt for three-quarter-length pads, trading insulation and padding at the feet to save weight and bulk.

Air pads are the clear winners here, with some now weighing less than a pound and folding into the shape and size of a medium water bottle. Foam mats and self-inflating pads remain bulky enough that they usually need to be carried on the outside of your pack.

Materials matter for two reasons: durability and noise. The lightest materials are often noisy enough to disrupt your sleep (or worse, that of your tent mates). Sometimes they’re also slippery, making it hard to stay on top of a mattress. This is mostly a problem with air mats, less with self-inflating pads, and almost never with foam. When shopping for an air pad not mentioned here, try to test it in person, checking for sound and a slippery feeling.

Higher-denier fabrics will be more durable and less likely to leak. Twenty denier is my cutoff. Features like the Therm-A-Rest SpeedValve use a huge opening to speed up inflation and deflation. It’s a pricey add-on, but one I really like. Some pads may come with pumps that are built into a stuffsack or as an additional feature—that can be a nice bonus.

Some pads use raised baffles along the edge, like bumper rails, to help prevent slipping off the sides and a bigger baffle at the head to create a built-in pillow. All these features are great but add cost, weight, and often bulk.

Top-end lightweight air pads cost upwards of $250 (good-quality pads start around $100). Spending less usually means taking a hit on durability and internal structure. On the other hand, foam pads might set you back $30 or $40, and self-inflating mats a minimum of $80. Across the board, prices start rising when you look for packability, quality materials, structure, and features.

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Jimmy Chin hardly needs an introduction. The National Geographic contributor and co-director of Meru and Free Solo is one of the most recognizable photographers in the world (he has, for example, 1.9 million Instagram followers). He’s also a world-class athlete. Not only does he keep up with the best climbers, skiers, and mountaineers, he does so carrying the extra weight of camera gear while constantly repositioning to capture the perfect shot. So it’s fitting that when we caught up with Chin to hear his adventure-photography tips, his first piece of advice had nothing do with photography, but with proficiency in the mountains.

“Be really good at the activity you want to shoot, whether that’s skiing, climbing, or mountaineering. If you want to shoot with the best athletes or want to get out and get after it, you need to be able to keep up. And you certainly want to be dialed in. No one wants to shoot with someone who’s a liability in the mountains.”

“If I’m really on the move, I usually carry my camera in a super-minimalist shoulder bag so it’s always accessible. Most photography bags have a ton of padding, but I’ve found that’s usually overkill. If the going gets really technical or it’s nuking out, you can always put the smaller bag in your pack until you need to shoot.”

“Light is such an important aspect of photography, especially outdoors. The Golden Hour is great, but oftentimes there’s beautiful saturated light right before sunrise and right after sunset, so it’s always worth getting to your spot early and sticking around.”

“Shoot the moment for what it is and for yourself. Don’t worry about how it’s going to look on Instagram.”

“When you’re charging in one direction and you’re like, That shot’s so sick, it’s easy to focus on one thing and miss what else is around you. I’m surprised at how often I miss something just because I didn’t turn around. Ideally, it’s not later that evening when you’re sitting there with your friend and you’re like, Where did you get that shot? And he says, Oh, it was right behind you.”

“This means shooting with different focal lengths and compositions, for starters. But also think about how light shapes the subject—frontlighting versus backlighting versus sidelighting, and highlights. Take lots of different shots so you can compare them later.”

“Is it the landscape or a person? If you want to focus on a person, you can make them very big in the frame and put them in the center or follow the rule of thirds. If you want to show context or the scale of the landscape, then zoom out to make the person smaller. Weighting the photo based on those decisions is a good way to think about it.”

“Study different genres of photography for inspiration—conflict to street to fashion. You never know who or what will influence your style or inspire you.Look at photos and think about why you do or don’t like them. Ask yourself why they speak to you. Try to understand what the photographer was thinking and how they shot it. How would you have shot it?”

“A lot. Find your voice.”

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Since 1961, when Royal Robbins, Tom Frost, and Chuck Pratt made the first ascent, the Salathè Wall on Yosemite's El Capitan has stood as one of the pinnacles of big wall climbing. The first ascent crew split the climb into two trips: they climbed the first 900 feet in three and a half days, then came down on fixed lines. Several days later, they went back up the fixed lines and took another six days to finish the climb.

In 1997, Japanese climber Yuji Hirayama tried to onsight the route—which means they attempted to climb it on his first try without any falls or prior knowledge of the line. Hirayama fell at the Teflon Corner, pitch number 24 of 35. If that pitch sounds familiar, it’s because the Salathè Wall shares approximately 87 percent of Freerider’s terrain, the route Alex Honnold famously free soloed in 2017 after years of practice. The two routes diverge at pitch number 29, the Headwall, with Freerider taking a slightly easier line.

Onsighting a route takes a particular set of skills. Primarily a climber has to be incredibly good at reading difficult sequences of moves. But they’ve also got to be strong enough to hold on while they figure things out, or to downclimb to a rest when they’re a little unsure how to proceed. A single fall and the onsight doesn't count. 

Enter Adam Ondra, by far the best climber in the world. The 25-year-old Czech has onsighted routes as hard as 5.14d (the Salathe Wall is 5.13b), but had never onsighted anything as massive as the 3,000-foot Salathè Wall.

Last weekend, he gave it a go. Starting at a minute past midnight, Ondra and his partner, Nico Favresse, made it up over 2,500 feet to the Headwall (the route’s crux) where Ondra fell twice.

“Some dreams came true yesterday, but the ultimate—the onsight—is not fulfilled,” Ondra wrote on Instagram. “And the nature of onsight is that it will never be fulfilled any more. It is only one try, lots of pressure in case of such a legendary route like Salathè in Yosemite on El Capitan.”

With Ondra’s one chance gone, this monumental achievementremains to be accomplished.

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Singling out your next snowboard has never been trickier. Imperceptible design variations, seemingly limitless options, and an avalanche of technical jargon—it’s enough to paralyze the ill-prepared shopper with indecision. To aid you on your quest for the perfect snowboard, Outside calls in the best boards each spring from brands big and small, rallies testers from all rides of life, wades through mediocre models, and hoists a few select winners high above the rest.

This year our testers’ favorite board is the Weston Japow—a surf-inspired, powder-oriented swallowtail. That this board won is especially remarkable since we never scored its performance during the deep, endless storms for which it’s designed. Here’s a deeper look at the Japow and other standouts decks. 

Weston Japow ($599)

It’s no secret that snowboarders draw inspiration from surfers. From carving techniques and aerial style to lingo and board shapes, we’re closely related to our salty cousins. And it appears that manufacturers are building more boards than ever that allow for a surfy approach to snowboarding. Case in point is the Weston Japow, with its directional pow shape that chewed up marginal conditions and spat out good times.

Though the Weston is designed for deep fluff—“Japow” is a portmanteau of “Japan” and “powder”—we tested this board during a dry year in the Rockies. Still, testers loved it on groomers, leftover stashes, and spring slush. The board’s camber-dominant profile “railed responsive turns like a Formula One race car,” said a tester, and it made groomers “an art,” according to another. Because of the dramatic swallowtail design (which is the notch in the board’s tail), the Japow doesn’t offer much pop, but we were pleasantly surprised by its ability to let loose, get airborne, and stomp landings. “Given the choice to send or not to send,” said one tester, “I’d send on the Japow.” He went on to complement its “dreamy flex,” quick transitions despite a wide nose, and superglue-like edge hold. Testers agreed that while the Japow is ultimately a board meant for soft snow, it’s capable in variable spring snow on everything but the steepest, most technical lines. A freeride carver with energetic flex and float, this is a powder board worth riding even when conditions don’t cooperate.

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At the crossroads of surf and snow sits the Jones Mind Expander. Crafted in collaboration with celebrated surf shaper Chris Christenson, the Mind Expander’s front half has a Surf Rocker profile that helps keep the nose high in deep snow. Another notable surf-sparked design element is a contour across the board’s horizontal axis, which brings a subtle shape to both the nose and tail, encouraging a fluid, rocking ingress into turns. Testers subsequently loved the edge-to-edge action, and one noted that its short sidecut “snaked quick turns through trees like an agility show dog through weave poles.”

Another tester liked the feel of the medium-stiff deck, although one rider who prefers to ride the fall line at full gas noted that the flex was too soft and the long nose too chattery when straight-lining. The Mind Expander can actually ride switch with surprising ease, and overall it’s a more versatile board than we expected. One tester figured he’d leave it at home on any day with fewer than six inches or of fresh now but ended up loving it in variable snow. “I wouldn’t have called it a quiver killer—until I rode it,” he said.

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A big-mountain charger named after Nicolas Müller, the Swiss pioneer of backcountry freestyle riding, the Müllair is a stiff, directional board. With a C3 hybrid camber profile—aggressive camber at both feet, with a mild rocker bulge in between the bindings—it is best suited for riding sketchy lines.

“Stiff enough to blast through chop, soft enough to butter,” said a heavier tester, who was also impressed by the Müllair’s ability to handle hang time. “So much pop,” he said. “You could boost to the moon with this thing.” A freeride competitor added that the wide 159 version offered a “very stable landing platform—it takes bumps like a champ and absorbs them all.” He went on to call the Müllair his “new favorite big-mountain board,” and hinted that we might be seeing it on his feet at his next big-mountain event.

A couple of lightweight riders, however, found the Müllair tricky to maneuver at lower speeds, noting that it was perhaps too stiff. That stiffness, though, paired with serrated Magne-Traction edges and the camber-dominant profile, helped it lock into icy hardpack. The big-picture consensus was that this board loves high speeds, thrives on air time, and isn’t designed for beginners or intermediates.

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Never Summer’s Shaper Series—which includes boards like the Swift, one of our favorite freeride directional decks—has been focused on fun, the art of the carve, and plain old-fashioned style. The new Shaper Twin, while not exactly a divergence from that path, takes a more freestyle approach. Testers noted that the board’s build inspired creative all-mountain riding and should be sized down a couple centimeters due to the Shaper Twin’s wider waist. The tapered twin puts rocker between the feet, camber at each binding, and a flat transition section toward the nose.

The result is poppy: “Much poppier than your average all-mountain board,” said one tester. “The board pairs well with back lips, cork fives, and beers in the parking lot,” said another. The subtle ten-millimeter taper was hardly noticeable riding switch, though one freeride-oriented tester thought it was a little soft between the feet in steep terrain.

We’ve tested plenty of park boards and all-mountain boards throughout the years, and the Shaper Twin doesn’t fit neatly in either box. Rather, it plays its own niche: it’s an all-mountain freestyle assassin, one that testers were stoked to ride in and out of the terrain park. A former freestyle competitor said that the Shaper Twin was ideal for all-mountain riders who want one board, but warned that park riders may want more dampening or oomph.

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Built with input from freeride phenom Kimmy Fasani, the Day Trader’s mellow 12-millimeter taper, set-back stance, and gentle flex make it an obvious choice for deep days. The directional deck has an offset sidecut and camber profile to match the 3.75-centimeter set-back stance, meaning the board engages with the snowpack like a twin, despite a lengthy nose that comes in handy on deep days.

“Super fun, easy to ride, and really versatile,” said one hard-carving tester. Let’s dwell on that second compliment for a second: few advanced freeride boards earn the accolade “easy to ride,” but the Day Trader’s early-rise rocker nose and middle-of-the-road flex cater to intermediates and up. “This board cradles the rider. You can get off your line and it’s like, ‘It’s all good. I got you.’ And it carries you through.”

That said, the Day Trader is far from a wet noodle. It was able to pop through slush and variable conditions, and it was energetic from edge to edge. Another tester agreed, but felt the deck would be “a little soft” for technical riders craving a freeride weapon. Yet another recommended the Burton for the “all-around shredder who chases pow but won’t pass up the groomers.” And one rider wrapped it up succinctly: “Burton nailed it with this design.”

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This was the top-rated women’s all-mountain board of the test. Rossignol’s Lite Frame technology (hence the LF) wraps the perimeter of the snowboard in a urethane strip that aims to dampen vibrations, and Rossignol notches the Diva at a seven out of ten on the flex scale. Given the softness at the waist, we think that rating is an overestimate, and the Diva felt too loose at high speeds. After lapping the steeps and cruising the park a couple times, one tester said that it felt “washy for runouts and big airs,” but noted that the camber-dominant deck “locked onto all the rails.”

On small to midsize jumps and jibs, the Diva’s true twin shape excelled, as it rides and lands switch comfortably. Other testers liked its flex, and everyone said it was playful. Another tester noted that “almost everyone could like this board,” whether you’re pushing yourself to progress in the park or just starting to tap into the secrets of linking turns. In true all-mountain fashion, a critical tester said the Diva is a “great board for someone looking for a one-board quiver that’s pretty good for everything but doesn’t shine in any one place.”

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With a price you’re more likely to find in an art gallery than your local shred shop, the 146-centimeter Franco Snowshapes Squashtail we tested is a functional masterpiece. The maple and fir core is stiff, ideal for ripping big, fast turns. It thrived on edge at high speed and “wanted to go everywhere with a steep angle,” according to one tester. It was even too stiff for playful riding, though, and a bit more longitudinal flex would’ve been nice when hop-turning through sketchy zones. For that reason, we wouldn’t call it an all-mountain board. Another tester felt that while the rigidity hindered the Squashtail from snapping ollies, it also lended the board stability. We thought the Franco was too stiff for the average rider to enjoy, but because Franco is a custom shop—the hand-cut topsheet has a veneer of whitebark pine harvested from Jackson Hole’s Casper Bowl, with the coordinates carved in—you can dial in a more forgiving flex pattern. The torpedo-like shape we tested, however, is primed for going supersonic on the steeps.

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I’ve been snowboarding for the better part of the past two decades and reviewing snowboard gear professionally for the past five years.

At this year’s test, we had 86 boards in the running, from companies that ranged from corporate behemoths to mom-and-pop shops. We tested up to three boards from each company, aiming to include a men’s, a women’s, and wildcard board when possible.

Once the boards were wrangled, I organized a test team of 30-plus people to ride boards in Crested Butte, Colorado. The testers represented a cross section of the industry, including former professionals, up-and-coming competitors, shop techs, and instructors.

With over 30 testers and 86 boards, no rider tests every single board. For the first couple days of the test, riders put a board through the paces for a few laps, fill out a review form, swap out bindings, and repeat. We input overall scores from each test sheet into a master spreadsheet. After a couple days, we’ve got a pretty good idea of which boards are contenders and which boards are duds. The last day or two, we box up the duds and encourage testers to take longer spins on 20 potential winners.

Once the board test has come to a close, my bedroom floor turns into a mosaic of beer- and coffee-stained board-review forms. I read through stacks and stacks of these, catalog the reviews, contact testers with questions (you’d be amazed at some of their handwriting), and finally choose our top picks.

Before you start searching for that magic shred stick, take time to know yourself. The more you can define your intentions, the better buying process will be. These five key considerations will help you get to know just what you want before searching for a new snowboard:

1. How do you envision your dream day of snowboarding?

Are you cruising the bunny slopes? Dropping jaws in the park? Scoring deep powder? Carving fresh corduroy? There are specialized boards for each of these aspects of riding, as well as do-it-all decks that get any job done.

2. Now wake up. What does reality look like?

Not every day of riding is a dreamy one. Do you live on the East Coast and need a board that holds an edge in ice? If there’s a powder shortage, will you wander toward the park? Don’t just shop for the board you want, shop for the board you need.

3. What boards have you enjoyed in the past—and what boards have you hated?

Did you need more float on deeper days? Did you crave more pop? Was the size right but the flex too soft? If you don’t have experience riding different boards, go out and experiment. You can read snowboard reviews all day long, but nothing will reveal your preferences like firsthand experience.

4. What’s your skill level?

If you’re completely new to snowboarding, you need a beginner-friendly board that’s on the soft side, easy to turn, and doesn’t break the bank. We didn’t include beginner boards in our test, but directional twins like the Burton Instigator, Gnu Chromatic, and K2 Standard are solid, affordable options that will be easy to learn on and still allow for progression.

If you’re an intermediate or advanced rider, you should consider the terrain you most enjoy and the style of riding you prefer. An advanced park rider, for instance, has drastically different requirements than those of an equally advanced freerider.

5. What’s your budget?

There’s no magic formula for navigating snowboard costs. Generally, a more expensive deck ($1,000 or more) will use lighter, pricier materials like carbon or employ complex construction techniques. However, a more expensive board won’t necessarily last longer or improve your riding. We’ve fallen in love with cheap, no-frills decks that are heavy, surprisingly durable, and a dream to ride. If you’re board shopping on a budget, aim for something around $500 or less.

Not only is it helpful to know yourself before picking out a new board, but it’s also good practice to know the difference between specialty boards and all-mountain boards, as well as variations in snowboard shapes, profiles, flex, sidecut, and technology.

Specialized Boards Versus All-Mountain Boards

Like shot-putters or hurdle hoppers, specialized snowboards shine in certain areas. Poppy park boards are unbeatable when sliding boxes all day long, but you wouldn’t want to tip into a 60-degree chute with one underfoot. The same goes for a directional powder board: your typical wide, big-nosed swallowtail is at its best in deep snow, but chunky, variable conditions weeks after a storm may have you cursing your purchase.

Because conditions are always changing, we love specialized shapes that are still competent outside their areas of expertise. Testers found that the Never Summer Shaper Twin, for example, crushes the park but still has the stability to whip through moguls, ride groomers at speed, and drop technical cliffs. The Japow, while designed for powder, maintains impeccable edge control when carving groomers.

And then, of course, there are boards built with everything in mind, like the women’s Rossignol Diva LF and the Jones Mind Expander.

Shape

Snowboards can be broken down into four main categories: directional, twin, directional twin, and asymmetrical shapes.

tend to have longer noses and shorter tails. They often have a taper, which means the nose is wider than the tail (this bestows better float in powder). These boards are built mainly for all-mountain snowboarding and freeriding, as they are more confidence-inspiring at speed. Some of them ride well switch (though rarely as well as a true twin shape), while others, like the Gear of the Year–winning Weston Japow, would require a death wish to do so.

(a.k.a. a true twin) is the classic symmetrical shape that most folks picture when imagining a snowboard. The nose and tail are mirror images of one another, and these boards are best suited for freestyle or all-mountain riding, as they can be ridden both regular and switch.

The lovechild of twin and directional shapes is the , a bit of a confusing term as it can refer to two different things: a directionally shaped board with a twin flex pattern, or a twin with a directional flex pattern. These boards are suited to anything from powder to pipe, but are most often designed for all-mountain riding.

As of late, brands have been experimenting with . This trend comes on the heels of an epiphany: unlike skiers, who face forward and turn left or right with exactly the same physical movements, sideways-standing snowboarders have anatomically disparate turns. Essentially, because our toe-side turns differ from our heel-side turns, toe-side construction need not mirror heel-side construction.

are snowboards that are cut in half and can be disassembled and divided into a pair of skis for skinning uphill. When it’s time to descend, the splitboarder stows the skins, reassembles the snowboard, and rides downhill. One of our favorite splitboards of 2019 is the Lib Tech Split BRD. (Since splitboarding most often occurs in avalanche terrain beyond the patrolled boundaries of a ski resort, we recommend you reach an advanced level of snowboarding and enroll in an avalanche level-one course.)

Profile

Profile refers to the contour of a snowboard when you look at it sideways laid on the ground. This curve determines how a board interacts with the snowpack. The following terms are related to profile.

Go back in time to snowboarding’s golden days, and camber is all you would see on the mountain. This classic arch-shaped profile is defined by a downward curve, with a gap between the center of the board and the ground, and contact points on either side of the binding inserts. Camber requires downward force to engage the flex and rails of the board, and subsequently supplies pop, power, and grip.

Rocker is the opposite of camber. Like an upside-down arch, rockered boards have a single contact point between the bindings, with an upturned tip and tail. Rocker offers less precision in icy and technical terrain, but it’s easy to turn and unrivaled when it comes to float in powder.

Flat camber has become exceedingly popular over the past few years, so much so that it’s earned its own category. As flat as the name suggests, this shape is often employed in park and all-mountain boards.

These days, hybrid boards, which combine both rocker and camber, are common. The Weston Japow, for example, has a camber section dominating the bulk of the board, allowing for high-speed carves, with a rockered nose that brings the float requisite for deep days. The Gnu Müllair, on the other hand, has a subtle rocker between the feet, sandwiched by two intense camber pockets.

If you’re new to these terms, try not to get caught up in them. Rather, determine what kind of riding you like to do, and work backward from there. If you crave pop and only ride at hell-bent speeds, a camber deck is best for you. If you ride playfully and appreciate buoyancy on storm days, rocker is your friend. If you’re an indiscriminate shredder, as likely to get lost in the white room as you are to throw down in the park, a hybrid will best serve to your needs.

Flex

A discussion of snowboard shapes is incomplete without mention of flex. Snowboarders refer to flex two ways: longitudinal flex and torsional flex. Longitudinal flex—the flex that you feel from tip to tail—helps determine ollie power and stability. Torsional flex—the flex you feel from edge to edge—directly influences turning ability and edge hold. All you really need to know is that a softer board is more playful and forgiving but also less stable at speed, while a stiffer board is less playful but more reliable and responsive in steeps.

Beginners will be happier with softer boards, while advanced riders should pick their stick based on personal preference: soft to medium-stiff boards for park, medium-stiff and beyond for all-mountain riders and freeriding.

Sidecut

Sidecut refers to the arc alongside the edges of the snowboard. This arc—measured by its radius—is directly responsible for how a board turns. (A board with a bigger-radius sidecut naturally wants to draw bigger arcs as it carves down a mountain.) When eyeballing a new snowboard, keep in mind that bigger-radius sidecuts are shallower and harder to see, while smaller sidecuts are deeper and more defined.

Technology

First, a hot take regarding snowboard technology: much of it is utter nonsense. Brands throw around proprietary technology willy-nilly in their board descriptions—behold the Carbon Bamboo Booster Bumps! Gaze upon the Titanium Uranium Wiggle Rod! There are plenty of technological advancements that we love to geek out over, such as faster and stronger base materials, carbon-reinforced cores, serrated edges, revolutionary tail shapes, improved shock absorption. Generally speaking, though, we take tech talk with a grain of salt and try to avoid bringing up specific spec highlights unless our testers notice it on their own. For example, the Jones Mind Expander’s Surf Rocker is noteworthy because it significantly influences the feel of the Mind Expander.

Binding Hole Patterns

At this point, the snowboard world is pretty much split into two camps: screws and slots. Most common are four-hole screw patterns, and most binding brands craft their products with screw-hole compatibility in mind. Burton is at the forefront of the slot revolution, and all of its boards are built with the Channel system, which allows for an integrated, adjustable fit. Other brands, like Signal, are also utilizing this technology. Where you fall on the slots-versus-screws debate is largely a matter of personal preference, though keep this in mind: if you go with a Burton Channel system, Burton’s EST bindings are preferable, but they’re also incompatible with four-hole screw-pattern boards.

There is no calculator that will spit out your precise ideal board size. Board-sizing charts exist, but they vary from brand to brand and board to board.

Old logic says to pick a board that hits between your chin and nose when stood on end. But that solely considers height and fails to account for more important measurements like weight, riding style, and skill level. Experimentation is key when it comes to dialing in your preferences, but you can also use this Evo general sizing chart and size up or down accordingly:

·   Go smaller if you’re a newbie.

·   Go bigger if you’re heavier than average for your height.

·   Go smaller if you’re a featherweight.

·   Go bigger if you care more about speed and float than agility and aerial performance.

·   Go smaller if you’re more likely to be in the park than chasing pow.

Funky Boards, Funky Sizing

Not every board plays by the same rules. While your classically cambered twin board will line up more with sizing charts, more and more unconventional boards are being built to be ridden shorter or longer than your normal size. Testers who normally ride 158- to 160-centimeter boards, for example, loved the Jones Mind Expander in a 154—it’s a big-nosed, rocker-dominant board with a smaller sidecut, and riders loved the playfulness it showed when sized down.

You know what they say about big feet? They make snowboard shopping a pain! If you’ve got gargantuan, Sasquatch-size boots, you’ll need to consider a mid-wide or full-wide board to avoid excessive overhanging boots and toe drag.

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Bequi Livingston and the rest of theNew Mexico–based Smokey Bear Hotshot crew were digging a trench through thick timber to deter the wildfire that was raging within earshot. It was 1988, and they had been dispatched to fight the Yellowstone Fires that were engulfing much of the national park. A crew member on watch alerted the hotshots that the fire was headed directly for their camp. Livingston, who stood four-foot-ten and 98 pounds, hoisted her pack—which was more than half her size—and ran. Moments later, the meadow where they had set up camp burst into flames.

Livingston first applied to become a wildland firefighter in 1979, when she was 18. Her friends and family tried to talk her out of it, citing the dangerous nature of the job, her diminutive size, and, of course, her gender. Today many would-be women firefighters face the same skepticism.

Throughout her nearly 40 years in the field, Livingston faced down the challenges of her high-stress, physically demanding job by dedicating herself to training as hard as she could. She relied on her fitness to assert herself as one of the crew, and eventually created a program, the Women in Wildland Fire Boot Camp, to share what she learned with the women firefighters of the future. Livingston retired from the force in August, but the work she did to make firefighting more accessible to women continues to positively impact the entire community.

Livingston and her friend Margarita Philips, a retired smokejumper, had talked about creating a program to promote women in their field since 2008. They were convinced that women just needed a little extra preparation and encouragement to join the hotshot ranks. In 2011, the number of women in wildland firefighting across the country hit a 20-year low, at less than 5 percent of the force, and Washington began to pressure the U.S. Forest Service to address the disparity. When Livingston heard that the Forest Service was serious about gender equality, she pitched a solution to her supervisor: a program where women interested in firefighting could come together to learn and train before committing to joining a crew.

Livingston launched the camps, which are held all over the country, in the spring of 2012. Participants get paid by the Forest Service for their training, and each week-long session combines on-the-ground skills development with classroom learning. Daily tasks include mimicking fieldwork, like hiking in full turnout gear or running up a steep hill while dragging a heavy water hose. The classroom portion covers subjects like fire behavior, ecology, and incident command.

The goal is for the instructors—experienced firefighters—to give participants the tools they need to move successfully through the application process and earn a spot on a fire crew. For instance, participants are matched with a personal trainer for an hour of conditioning each day to ensure they’ll be ready for the work capacity test that all Forest Service firefighters must pass: hike three miles wearing a 45-pound weighted vest in under 45 minutes. Livingston set a good example for prospective recruits. Though the test is only required once, she volunteered to take it every year until she retired. She passed every time.

But physical preparedness only goes so far: Livingston still faced bullying and harassment from male firefighters. On one assignment, members of Livingston’s crew weighted her pack with rocks to slow her down. On another occasion, an all-male crew challenged Livingston’s coed hotshots to a miles-long hike in an attempt to prove an all-male crew could beat out Livingston’s. (It couldn’t.) The physical and mental demands of the job wore on her, and Livingston repressed her anxiety and alienation. “I spent so much of my career trying desperately to help others that I was neglecting the little things in my health and life even when they were whispering to me,” Livingston said.

Informed by her own experiences, Livingston wrote elements of self-care and mental health into the boot-camp curriculum, developing a more holistic approach to fireline preparedness that emphasizes mental well-being alongside physical fitness. Firefighters are taught to recognize the signs and symptoms of mental illness like PTSD, and they’re encouraged to seek help if they need it.

After a career of serving others, Livingston is taking a step back to focus on herself. She no longer runs the program, and most of her current exercise is walking and yoga. Mostly she wants to enjoy her home state of New Mexico and the land she spent so much of her career protecting. She’s passed the torch to a new generation of firefighters: 120 women participated in the southwestern region’s boot camp this year, an all-time high. 

Avery Shawler left her Idaho apartment one morning in 2016 to hike a prominent peak. But the day outing quickly took a turn for the worse, and Shawler would end up needing a lot of luck—and all her backcountry skills—to make it home alive.

When she regained consciousness, Avery Shawler didn’t know where she was. She couldn’t see out of her left eye and the pain from her left arm was searing. With her right hand, she wiped gently over her brow. Looking down at her palm, she saw that it was covered in blood.

The sight of blood and a few more seconds, or perhaps it was minutes, prompted Shawler to take stock of her injuries and circumstances. She was still unclear as to what had happened and her whereabouts, but her wilderness training had taught her to assess, to plan, to be smart.

There was the injured eye, or damage around, and the arm hurting like hell. Her side also ached; probably a broken rib or ribs. Her right knee was smashed and, most alarming, blood seeped steadily from two deep gashes on the side of her left leg.

Using just her uninjured arm, Shawler dug into her backpack and removed her first-aid kit. She managed to wrap her wounds with gauze and a bandage that would, she hoped, stem the bleeding. Then she put on her extra layers. Her bright red jacket helped with the wind, but the cold was unrelenting. She was already losing feeling in her feet.

Next, Shawler pulled a small plastic packet from her first-aid kit. As a Christmas gift the previous year, her brother Evan had sent her some Mylar emergency blankets. (He was studying to be a physician and had recently completed a wilderness medicine course.) His note read something to the effect of You like doing things outdoors. Throw a couple of these into your first-aid kit. You never know. Shawler had thought it was an odd gift, but also kind of cool, in that preparedness-geek kind of way.

Now, halfway up the rocky face of a mountain called the Devil’s Bedstead in the Pioneer Mountains of central Idaho, Shawler tore open the package, unfolded the bright silver blanket, and wrapped it tightly around herself.

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Shawler grew up everywhere. Before college, the family moved 10 times, following her father’s work as an executive in the eyecare business. By the time she reached Middlebury—a small liberal arts university in Vermont—Shawler had lived in Singapore, China, Germany, Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, Florida (again), South Korea, and Singapore (again). During high school in Asia, she swam and ran track and cross-country. It was only at Middlebury that she got into outdoor pursuits like biking, skiing, and hiking. She joined the Mountain Club and, when not studying for her degree in conservation biology, went on many adventures that would sound familiar to just about anyone who has an affinity for the mountains and has lived in Vermont. She became a Mountain Club guide, took a Wilderness First Responder course, and renewed her certification in 2014.

Soon after graduating, Shawler moved to Ketchum, Idaho, where she mixed contract work and volunteer hours for local conservation groups, including one called the Wood River Wolf Project. She took advantage of easy access to the outdoors, biking throughout the area and hiking many peaks in and around the Pioneers, often by herself. She loved being around friends, but there was something meditative about experiencing nature without talking, without anyone but the self.

At 8 a.m. on the morning of September 5, 2016, Shawler set out from the apartment she shared with a fellow Middlebury grad and headed northeast out of Ketchum on Trail Creek Road toward the trailhead that would lead her up the Devil’s Bedstead. At 11,865 feet, the mountain is capped by a nearly vertical 1,000-foot wall and overlooks a stunning U-shaped valley. 

Before the hike, Shawler texted some friends to tell them where she was going and when she expected to return, as she always did before heading into the backcountry. She had her first-aid gear in her pack, as well as extra food, water, clothes, and an emergency satellite beacon.

The first part of the hike cuts through a Douglas fir forest before rising past the timberline and then ascending by way of a series of switchbacks. Shawler could see that fresh snow had fallen on the slate gray slopes above, but the snow was melting. Around 11 a.m., she came to a juncture. It wasn’t a fork, per se: at that elevation, roughly 9,400 feet, trails fade away and ascents become scrambles pointed in a specific direction. But it was a juncture in the “choice” sense of the word: continue the steady traverse up from the mountain’s saddle, or take a more direct, and somewhat more exposed, route. Seeing that the more challenging route looked fun and doable, Shawler decided to take it.

Within an hour, however, her fun scramble transformed into a dangerous predicament. The slushy snow was refreezing, turning nearly every rock into a treacherous slick. Pausing on a living-room-sized ledge, she could see that the route she had ascended was falling into shadows and icing over completely. Descending that path looked like a poor option. She even tested this hypothesis, attempting to walk downhill a bit, but a quick stumble confirmed her thinking.

There would be no U-turn.

Shawler sat down to try and calm her nerves. She ate half of her leftover pasta lunch, saving the rest just in case. Peering further up the slope, she could see that conditions were drier. From there, she guessed a safer traverse and descent would be possible. But it was also a steep climb to get there, perhaps 70 feet. She assessed the risk and didn’t like the result: a fall here would be serious, if not deadly. She took out her iPhone and walked all around the ledge, trying unsuccessfully to get a signal. She dialed 911, anyway. Nothing. “Searching,” the screen declared with perfect indifference.

Now she had no choice: she had to use the satellite beacon. Yet even after retrieving it from her backpack, Shawler paused, reluctant to switch it on due to a combination of embarrassment and uncertainty about initiating a full-scale rescue. Reason soon prevailed, and she pressed and held the SOS button. After about 20 seconds, the device was supposed to enable texting with emergency dispatch. She began counting, but within a few seconds the beacon went dead. (It had 50 percent of its battery life left when she had checked it the night before, but the cold weather had apparently sapped it.)

Fear arrived in earnest. Shawler yelled for help, knowing full well that it was a waste of energy, that any hikers on the trail to Kane Lake were far too far away. She cursed, loud, angry at herself for landing in this situation. Her friends wouldn’t expect her home yet, and by the time anyone noted her absence, it would be too late in the day to mobilize an emergency response. Nighttime on the mountain, with limited clothing and freezing temperatures, would likely kill her. Shawler had no choice but to climb.

Reexamining the slope above, she felt that if she could just get past that tough section, she would be on that safer route. It was a huge risk, but it also wasn’t; not when the only other move was to stay put and try not to freeze to death.

Shawler felt a rush of adrenaline as she began to make her way closer to safety. The climb went smoothly, for almost 60 feet, until that one rock near the top. That one rock that came loose and sent Shawler tumbling.

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Wrapped in the Mylar blanket and shivering, Shawler knew that, barring some freakish good fortune—another hiker, maybe, or an emergency beacon miracle—she was going to die. She grew heartsick thinking of the sadness that would soon befall her family and friends, and she felt selfish for having opted for the slightly more challenging route.

She began to reflect on death, and on the varied nature of those reflections. She thought about her family and friends, of course, and how unfair it was that her torment and sadness would soon end in sleep, while theirs would persist. She also wondered what photograph would accompany newspaper coverage of her fatal accident. She even thought about the young guy from Vermont. He was her same age and, although they had never met, Shawler remembered reading about him, that he had died in a hiking accident just a year ago. Wasn’t that near here, near this place where I’m lying, broken and freezing?

Then Shawler heard a strange mammalian screech. Eeeeep! Eeeeep! She lifted her head and saw a pika, an animal that looks like a mashup of a mouse, squirrel, and rabbit. The pika was perched on a rock nearby, as much at home in this environment as injured Shawler was not. Shawler wondered if she was hallucinating, but in a way it didn’t matter: the pika’s jolting call stirred her, urged her to sit up straighter, pull the blanket in closer, and resist sleep at all costs.

As she repositioned herself, Shawler felt the phone in her backpack side pocket. She pulled it out and saw that the battery life was down to about 10 percent. The area had no coverage; she had already checked, from this very spot, before her fall. She thought about using the remaining battery juice to record a goodbye video. She didn’t know precisely what she would say, but it would be some blend of apology, gratefulness, love, and please don’t stay sad. It would be the kind of goodbye message that people with the foresight and ability to do so often record in tragic situations like this one. Yet how to pull it off without sounding cliché? And how to do it without crying, because surely if she cried that would make it harder, not easier, on those watching it after she was gone.

So she reconsidered. Recording that message, she realized, would have been the first step in giving up, and Shawler wasn’t ready to give up. Instead, she dialed 911.

The call failed.

She tried again.

She tried 13 more times.

Then, at 2:55 p.m., Avery Shawler heard a ringtone, and then a person.

Dispatch: Blaine County 911, what’s the address of your emergency? Nine-one-one, do you have an emergency?
Shawler: Yes.
Dispatch: What’s going on?
Shawler: I was climbing a mountain and I fell . . .
Dispatch: Okay, you fell off while rock climbing?
Shawler: I don’t know. . . . I don’t know.
Dispatch: Were you rock climbing?
Shawler: Well, I was climbing this peak.
Dispatch: You’re hiking?
Shawler: Well, yeah. Oh, wow, I . . .
Dispatch: How far did you fall?
Shawler: I don’t know, but my leg is torn up and I don’t know where I am.
Dispatch: Okay. Do you know what mountain it was you were climbing up?
Shawler: I’m afraid that I can . . . can’t, you know.
Dispatch: Okay. And what’s the telephone number, is that a deactivated cell phone?
Shawler: Is it a what?
Dispatch: That cell phone you’re using, is that a deactivated one?
Shawler: No, it’s activated.
Dispatch: So what’s your cell phone number?
Shawler: It’s 802-377-5066.

A minute later, the line went dead.

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Rod Gregg, a 51-year-old former police officer, was working as a 911 dispatcher for Blaine County. The connection with the injured woman had failed, but she called back immediately. This time, before the call dropped away again, Gregg and a colleague were able to learn that she was not on Bald Mountain (the main peak at Sun Valley Resort and a popular hiking area). They needed a lot more to go on, but it was a start.

The dispatchers tried calling Shawler back, but both attempts went straight to voicemail. Then Shawler’s third call made it through to Gregg, and this time he kept her on the line for 35 minutes, gathering information about her location and injuries, and encouraging her to stay alert. Help was coming. But Gregg could hear that Shawler was deteriorating.

Shawler: I want to go to sleep.
Gregg: Don’t go to—just stay awake for me, okay?

Sixteen times during those 35 minutes, Gregg promised Shawler that rescuers would find her and get her out of there. Local authorities tried to triangulate her location using cellular data, but that only works if there are multiple nodes in a network connecting with a device. Shawler’s phone was only reaching one tower, and with a weak signal at that. Instead, through steady and supportive questioning, Gregg was able to jog Shawler’s memory, drawing out critical details about her day and her whereabouts—where she had parked, what she could see from her perch, which way she was facing, her probable elevation. From these clues, Gregg and other emergency responders were able to approximate her location.

Shawler: The helicopter’s coming?
Gregg: It is, it’s on the way.
Shawler: I hope you know—

Her voice trailed off, and the line went quiet for good. “It was pretty heartbreaking when the [cellphone] battery went dead and we lost her,” Gregg later told me. “I had to walk out and take a few minutes to myself—let the emotions settle a little bit.”

Up on the ledge, Shawler thought she heard a helicopter a few times, but it was just the wind. Maybe no one is coming, she thought. Weak, cold, and alone, Shawler was nevertheless alert enough to know that her concussion and hypothermia might be messing with her mind. Perhaps she had imagined the 911 call. What about the pika? Was that even real?

Then, breaking the silence like a thunderclap, a helicopter appeared overhead. Its approach was not from the valley below, as Shawler had anticipated, but from above, from behind the mountain summit. The sound and whipping wind were overwhelming, as was the sense of relief.

Shawler didn’t know it at the time, but the fact that a helicopter had reached her so quickly, and that it was this particular helicopter, was yet another stroke of improbable good fortune. Based near Kalispell, Montana, the crew happened to be on a search nearby, just about 60 miles from Shawler’s position in the Pioneers. At 4:20 p.m., when the pilot got word of the injured hiker, he steered the Bell 429 aircraft south, reaching the search area in less than 20 minutes. Landing anywhere nearby would have been out of the question, but this helicopter was equipped with a special cable for exactly this kind of extraction mission. Thanks to the bright silver space blanket, the crew spotted Shawler almost immediately. In video footage taken from the aircraft during the rescue, Shawler—bloodied and half asleep—smiles wide.

When Gregg later learned that Shawler had been rescued, he stepped outside once again. “I never had a call really affect me that way,” he told me. Shawler was clearly a strong person, he said. The fact is, unexpected things can happen out there. “She held in and held on. I mean, a 60-foot fall? Others might have given up,” Gregg said. As for the long odds, rogue cell signal, and nearby helicopter, Gregg had only one thought: “Someone was looking out for her that day.”

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Last spring, at a coffee shop next to the UC Berkeley campus, Avery Shawler looked out the window at pedestrians staring at cellphones as they walked down Oxford Street and crossed Berkeley Way. “I almost just …went to sleep,” she said, recalling that afternoon on the Devil’s Bedstead. Her injuries have healed and the scar above her eye is barely perceptible, but the accident, almost two years ago now, is still on her mind. “I’m really not supposed to be here.”

Her astonishing good luck is almost enough to make a nonbeliever wonder about fate. In fact, not long after her ordeal, Shawler, received a note from a colleague saying that a self-described clairvoyant had dropped by the office looking for Shawler. She had a message. The woman claimed to have spoken to Luke Richardson’s spirit. Luke was the young man from Vermont who had died on the Devil’s Bedstead the previous summer, no more than a few hundred feet from where Shawler had been rescued. The clairvoyant wanted to tell Shawler that Luke was the reason for the telecommunications miracle. Luke saved her life.

Shawler never followed up with the woman, and she isn’t about to trade biology for parapsychology. (For the record, I have it on good authority, which is to say physics professor Rich Wolfson, that a change from zero to one bar is not outside the range of random fluctuations or small changes to signal strength that can occur due to factors such as humidity or clouds.) Yet Shawler isn’t in a hurry to wave the thought aside, either. “I feel so guilty that I survived but he didn’t,” she told me. The possibility, however remote, that Luke helped is a heartening one, and so she holds on to it. One of these days, she added, she will reach out to the Richardson family. She just hasn’t yet found the right way, the right words.

In the meantime, Shawler spends most days continuing to be the vivacious explorer and driven scholar that her family and friends know her to be. While living in Ketchum, she had thought about graduate school, but figured she would get around to it at some point in the future. But the accident altered her attitude toward time. She jumped into the application process and is now pursuing her PhD in environmental science, focusing her research on wildlife conservation.

When it comes to risk, Shawler does think her experience changed her: if she was a seven out of 10 on the risky-behavior scale before, today she says she is a five. Yet she cringes to think that any expression of restraint, let alone this very public one, might be misconstrued as her telling others not to have adventures, not to take risks. That couldn’t be further from the truth. As if to underscore the point, we spend a good portion of the afternoon talking about Shawler’s upcoming summer in Wyoming and her field research deep in grizzly country. Shawler laughs, clearly happy with the path she’s chosen.

This story originally appeared in the summer 2018 issue of Middlebury Magazine. 

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For the first 12 weekdays in December, we’ll be updating this page with a daily gear giveaway featuring a product from our 2018 Holiday Gift Guide. Just enter your name below if you want to be considered for that day’s prize—we’ll contact the winners directly, and we’ll also be announcing them on our Outside Gear Facebook Page. Good luck, and happy holidays!

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Tuesday, December 18, 2018

 

A portable cooler made comfortable—seriously. The straps, pockets, and large main compartment of the Hydro Flask Unbound Soft Cooler ($275) make it ideal for carrying an icy six-pack on a day hike or trip to the crag.

Monday, December 17, 2018

REI’s Flash Air hammock ($200) strings up between two trees but has the mesh and rain fly of a ground tent—the best of both worlds. 

Winner: Isaac G., New York

Friday, December 14, 2018

Forget bar carts—get a bar backpack. The Picnic Time Bar Backpack ($245) is equipped with a shaker, muddler, bottle opener, and all the other accessories you need to blend the perfect winter cocktail.

Winner: Tricia W., Washington

Thursday, December 13, 2018

The La-Z-Boy of camp chairs, Helinox’s Sunset ($150) is as comfortable as this camp essential gets—without being overbuilt. 

Winner: Janet M., North Carolina

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

For those who love beer, the Stanley Go Growler and Stein set ($90) is the perfect combo to keep the stuff frosty and carbonated. Plus, the ceramic liner doesn’t taint the brew with a metallic taste.

Winner: Rachel L., New Mexico

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Thanks to built-in heaters, Ember’s Ceramic mug ($80) keeps coffee or cocoa hot all day. You can tweak the temperature manually or enter preset ones via the Ember app.

Winner: Caryn P., Connecticut

Monday, December 10, 2018

The Oyuki Pep Trigger mitts ($140) are a favorite of gear editor Ben Fox. The design allows the wearer’s thumb and forefinger to move freely—helpful when gripping a ski pole—while the middle, ring, and pinky fingers are grouped together to maximize heat retention.

Winner: Charles P., Pennsylvania

Friday, December 7, 2018

Tech junkies, rejoice! The Nomad Wireless Hub ($80) eliminates tangled wires while making sure all of your devices stay charged.

Winner: Kevin H., California

Thursday, December 6, 2018

With the Wacaco Nanopresso ($65), you can make a fresh cup of (seriously good) coffee almost anywhere. Perfect for campers who want an alternative to the instant junk.

Winner: Rachel L., New Mexico

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

Photographers will dig today’s gift. The Everyday Sling ($150) from Peak Design can fit a full camera body and two lenses. The internal padded dividers can be adjusted to tightly cradle all that gear. Even if you’re not toting a DSLR, the Sling works just as well for carrying a day’s essentials around town. 

Winner: Andrew R., Rhode Island

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Gear editor Ariella Gintzler shares why she loves the Kari Traa Rothe Fleece ($90). Its polyester fabric is extra plush, while fashionable touches like bomber jacket-style cuffs and a contrasting nylon chest patch boost its style points. 

Winner: Hadley D., Tennessee 

Monday, December 3, 2018

To kick off our 2018 giveaway, senior gear editor Will Egensteiner introduces the first item on our list: Rumpl’s Puffy Sherpa blanket ($159). Cushy fleece on one side and hardy nylon on the other make it a car-camping, picnicking, and tailgating standout.

Winner: Daisy A., Nevada

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When I came up with the idea of microadventures, I created all sorts of elaborate, fabulous escapades involving pack rafts, folding bicycles, climbing harnesses, sea kayaks, mountain bikes, and vans to carry all the gear. These were all brilliant. But the idea only began to spread to a greater number of people (with fewer ludicrous stashes of outdoor gear in the garage) once I made the idea much simpler. Simple + short + local + cheap = an achievable microadventure, unlike the vicarious adventure thrills you read about in magazines but never actually do yourself.

Just as the foundations of a delicious meal are salt, fat, acid, and heat (though I would argue that an alternative route is to get yourself exhausted and cold in the hills and then melt with joy as you shovel anything edible into your mouth), so too are there staple activities in any good month of microadventures. These include sleeping on a hill; swimming in a river, lake, or ocean; sitting still in a forest; and doing something that scares or challenges you. Other ingredients depend upon where you live, the time of year, and what motivates you to shake up your life. For instance, maybe you want to get some exercise in a fun, new way or get head space away from your phone. Maybe you want to spend more time with loved ones, discover (or rediscover) new places, save money, or prepare for a bigger adventure.  

No matter what, it’s important to make the barriers to entry as low as possible. That means choosing activities that are local, easy to organize, short enough to be compatible with real life, and cheap. If you’re trying to become more microadventurous, here are a few things to remember.

All you need to get started is your basic outdoor getup: warm clothes and raingear, a water bottle, a headlamp, your backpack. If you’re going to camp out, you’ll need a sleeping bag, bivy bag, and sleeping mat. If you’re up for some wild swimming, you’ll need your swimsuit. (Or perhaps not.)

How can you fit adventure into the realities of a nine-to-five career? Simple—fit it into the five-to-nine. That’s the 16 hours of theoretical daily freedom we all tend to undervalue and fritter. When somebody asks me, “What is a microadventure?” I say, “Leave work at 5 P.M. Head out of town. Sleep on a hill. Wake up at sunrise. Get back to your desk for 9 A.M.” Simple, but you will remember it a year from now.

We often love the idea of living more adventurously and dream that we could somehow do that with our lives. The idea is glorious, but making it happen can be daunting. I am besotted with wild swimming, jumping into rivers, lakes and oceans at every single opportunity. But at this time of year the water is cold, and the prospect of getting in is nerve-racking. The first step in is a shock. But a few more seconds pass, I plunge, and then I am in! I’m doing it! Whooping! Delighted! Often in this season, this is the end of the operation—I leap out of the water, grinning, and get dressed and warm as quickly as I can. 

Long before work e-mail and social media started screaming for our attention 24/7, some wise government officials in Japan coined the phrase shinrin-yoku (forest bathing) to encourage people to become healthier by taking strolls in the forest. I love the idea of bathing in a forest, that feeling of being submerged beneath the green (or glorious fall colors), far from the tribulations of an overflowing inbox. Turn off your phone, go for a walk in the woods, and slowly you will learn to slow down, observe, listen, be calmer. What do I do when my work life becomes insanely busy? Turn off my computer and go for a walk in the woods. I never regret it. 

Make an effort this month to seek out something that scares or challenges you. It could be entering a longer race than you have done before, whether that’s the wonderful Parkrun or the Barkley Marathons. It might be taking a chilly dip or your first night of camping out. One of the key aspects of microadventures is learning to look differently at the familiar, to see wilderness and excitement around your hometown, rather than thinking you can only live adventurously if you fly to Patagonia. A way that I love resetting how I look at somewhere familiar is to go for a walk in the dark. Pick a route you know well, perhaps your morning run or the route you walk your dog or your favorite out-of-town trail, and go walk it under a full moon. The well-known becomes mysterious. A mile becomes a long way. Once you’re brave enough, turn off your headlamp. I love letting my eyes adjust to the moonlight and paying attention to different senses. You notice the smells of the fields. I remember once hearing a rabbit run past me into the undergrowth. I have never paid such close attention before. 

One of the regular problems of adventure is that newcomers can feel intimidated by the expertise, fitness, and elite nature of it all. Microadventures are the exact opposite. Everyone is welcome. And here’s the thing: once you summon up the nerve to begin, to approach an expert and say that you are new but keen, you will always find that they are only too eager to help get you started. Google your local climbing wall, give them a ring, and say, “I’ve never climbed before, I’m totally unfit, really scared of heights, can’t do a single pull-up.” Staff will say, “Great! Come along and try it out! You are very welcome.”

However much of a novice you might feel (see above), the simple fact that you are reading this means that you’re more knowledgeable and motivated than loads of your friends. So take on the challenge of introducing a friend to the outdoors. You’ll get a real buzz from being the expert, and your friend will enjoy trying something new. It could be as simple as taking your camping stove to the park and making coffee. At the very least, this is an evening or a day that you will not soon forget. (And how often can we say that about the times we meet a friend for coffee or go to a bar or go out for a meal?)

Have a look on Google for the state parks nearest to where you live. There are more than 10,000 in the U.S.—an incredible resource, and a great privilege to enjoy. Make the effort to explore one you’ve never been to, and do your bit to support their upkeep. The more people that use, enjoy, and care for the wilderness regions of the U.S., the more the government will value them and take care of them. 

You win, Strava. You win.

It’s a beautiful Saturday, and I’ve just arrived back home after a race in Central Park. I’m attempting to sync my Strava data so I can pore over the graphical representation of my meager efforts, but for some reason I keep getting an “upload pending” message. Rather than set my phone aside and tend to more important matters, such as divesting myself of my chamois and cracking open a shower beer, I keep refreshing over and over again like I’m trying to snag Taylor Swift tickets.

*Record Scratch* *Freeze Frame*

So how did I get here?

Well, it all started last summer. I’d been a racer for many years but had transitioned into a casual phase that involved avoiding Lycra and seeking out dirt as much as possible. Every so often, I’d jump into the odd low-key mountain bike race, but I hadn’t pinned on a number and bent over a pair of drop bars since sliding off the back of a crit in 2014 like a fried egg off a spatula.

I derived much pleasure from this casual, unkempt lifestyle, much like Daniel Day-Lewis probably did when he moved to Italy to become a cobbler. However, the roadie within was not dead; he was merely dormant. When Martin Scorsese came a-callin’ and gave Day-Lewis the opportunity to yell at people while wearing period dress in Gangs of New York, he eventually set down the loafers and got back to the grind. Similarly, unbeknownst to me at that point, it was only a matter of time before someone or something came along to awaken my inner roadie.

That something was Strava.

I’d been making a point of avoiding Strava for years, dismissing it as a hand mirror for the self-obsessed, but it was becoming increasingly clear to me that I was in deep denial about my own profound self-obsession. Moreover, I was beginning to come off like one of those annoying people who still brags about not having a smartphone. So, exactly one year ago, I sucked it up and created a Strava account.

At first, not much changed. I enjoyed the novelty of reliving my rides afterward in detail, thanks to all that data, but the way I approached these rides (slow, mostly) remained the same. As far as I was concerned, I’d raced my last race and I would ride into the sunset on a steel bike while wearing cutoffs. Similarly, I’m sure the first time Scorsese called Day-Lewis, he didn’t even bother to put down his cobbler’s hammer. “I’ve got an Oscar and a BAFTA, what the hell do I need to do another movie for? Now leave me alone while I reheel this boot.”

Ultimately though, with the right combination of elements, you can lure anyone back to their original passion. For Day-Lewis, the prospect of working with Scorsese may not have been enough to pry him off the cobbler’s bench, but throw in a creepy glass eye and the opportunity to throw knives at people and you’ve got a deal. As for me, Strava might not have gotten me out of my jorts and back into my chamois, but a few months later, I took delivery of an exquisite wooden bicycle for testing, and that got me thinking: “It sure would be fun to try racing this thing.”

I might have been able to withstand the seductive whirring of the electronic gear shifters and the purposeful ratcheting sound of a coasting carbon wheelset by themselves, but now that I was kitted out and wired up, I was deeply screwed. Thanks to Strava, I could see my erstwhile roadie compatriots still riding around in circles, and, like a recovering alcoholic peering through the window of a bar, I found myself longing to rejoin them. So, by the following March, I was making my way down to Central Park in 30-degree weather under cover of darkness to make an ass-crack-of-dawn start time for the first time in years.

One year into my Strava adoption, there’s plenty that hasn’t changed. For one thing, I still suck at racing. I sucked then, I suck now, and I plan to continue sucking for as long as I’m able to throw a leg over a bicycle. For another, I still don’t have any cycling goals. (Sucking and not having goals tend to go together.) Sure, Strava’s more than willing to help me in that regard—you can set all sorts of goals and challenges for yourself—but if I was interested in checking boxes and making deadlines, I’d skip Strava altogether and use TurboTax. I also still refuse to ride a trainer, and you’ll never find me recording my Citi Bike jaunts, grocery runs, or lawnmowing endeavors. (It helps a lot that I don’t have a lawn.)

What has changed is that I now acknowledge Strava does indeed motivate me to ride, an idea I’d always scoffed at since riding was always my default activity. There’s just something about seeing my rides ordered on a screen that makes me want to keep them consistent. I suppose it’s the same anal-retentive impulse that caused me to painstakingly alphabetize my records when I was younger even though they all sounded exactly the same (“Exploited” comes before “Extreme Noise Terror”), or to, you know, ride road bikes, which is arguably the most anally retentive activity of all.

More motivating, though—and more difficult for me to admit—is that as a parent with weird riding hours who works from home, I do need the social component that Strava offers. As much as I reveled (and continue to revel) in my solitary rambling jorts rides, it turns out that I do crave occasional interaction with other like-minded adults. And dressing identically to them, riding around in circles, and drinking coffee with them afterward offers this. In this sense, Strava helped restore some balance to my life. I realize now that while I had vilified Strava for being antisocial and self-indulgent, it’s really just a way for busy people who like riding bikes to exchange high-fives, and what’s so bad about that?

So, in the course of a year, did Strava manage to ensnare me in an inextricable web of Lycra? Sure, it did. But as long as I continue to suck, it can never own me completely, because sucking is freedom.

Expert Essentials

The Gear You Need to Work Out at Night

See and be seen on evening runs, rides, and hikes

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Aug 28, 2018

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Aug 28, 2018

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See and be seen on evening runs, rides, and hikes

As fall approaches and the days get shorter, our workouts often get pushed into the dark hours. But that doesn’t mean you need to stay indoors. Here are the headlamps and reflective gear that professional athletes use to train long into the night.

Bontrager Ion 800 R Front Bike Light ($100)

Casey Brown, Mountain Biker

Casey Brown, who lives in Revelstoke, British Columbia, plays outside well after dark. The Bontrager Ion bike light, which Brown attaches to her handlebars or helmet, boasts a whopping 800 lumens to light up all the details on a forested trail, like camouflaged roots and rocks. “It’s not too heavy and allows me to see everything I need to see,” Brown says.

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Petzl Actik Core Headlamp ($70)

Kelly Halpin, Mountain Endurance Athlete

For mountain pursuits that require a predawn start or extend into the night, Kelly Halpin uses the Petzl Actik Core headlamp, which has a rechargeable battery but also takes AAA batteries for backup. “It has a red light option that helps with night vision, especially when traveling on snow,” Halpin says. The 350-lumen light attaches to a reflective headband and has an emergency whistle, just in case you need it.

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Nathan Nightfall Vest ($20)

Camille Herron, Ultrarunner

Training for ultras takes plenty of time, so Camille Herron finds herself running in the dark year-round in her hometown of Oklahoma City. On busy streets and bike lanes, she wears the reflective Nathan Nightfall vest. “It’s good to make sure all of your clothing and shoes have some reflective material, both front and back,” Herron says. The vest is made with lightweight, breathable materials and is meant to be slipped over your head. According to Nathan, the vest’s reflective treatment and high-visibility yellow color allow runners to be seen from as far away as 1,200 feet. Herron recommends wearing light colors underneath to further increase your visibility.

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Black Diamond Storm Headlamp ($50)

Jim Walmsley, Ultrarunner

Ultras call for running through the night, so James Walmsley, who holds the course record for the Western States 100, wears the Black Diamond Storm. The headlamp’s 375 lumens give him confidence to keep his speed up in the darkness. The waterproof, touch-sensitive design allows you to adjust the brightness with a simple tap. It’s not rechargeable, but Walmsley says that’s a good thing. “My pro tip for headlamps in general is go with lithium batteries. They are brighter and lighter than normal batteries.”

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Salomon Agile Short-Sleeve Shirt ($40) and Black Diamond Sprinter Headlamp ($80)

Zak Ricklefs, Runner, Gearhead for Backcountry.com

The Salomon Agile short-sleeve is a runner’s everyday shirt that fits true to size. This technical tee is made with wicking, quick-dry fabric and includes 360-degree reflective features. “It seriously lights up when shining a flashlight or car headlights on it,” says Zak Ricklefs. He also recommends the Black Diamond Sprinter Headlamp ($80). The minimalist, 3.7-ounce light is rechargeable and has an extra strap over the top of the head for extra security during high-impact activities.

Buy Shirt Buy Headlamp