Writer. Editor. Journalist. Storyteller.
Humankind --> I try to be both.
Even in a state as saturated with dramatic peaks and geological marvels as Colorado, it’s thrilling to get up close and personal with something as grand — and as emblematic of our ballooning climate change crisis — as a glacier. Given the near certainty of continued climate chaos in coming years, seeing these remnants of the last ice age is becoming a catch-them-while-you-can prospect.
When Jon Waterman first visited the Alaskan Arctic in 1983 as a Denali National Park ranger on patrol at the wild Noatak River, he had no idea how profoundly the experience would shape his life. Today, the Carbondale-based award-winning author—as prolific an environmental writer and researcher as he is an intrepid explorer and adventurer—has just released his 17th book, Into the Thaw: Witnessing Wonder amid the Arctic Climate Crisis (November 12, 2024).
On a crisp early October morning in downtown Crested Butte, the aspens are doing their thing, radiating gold and fluttering audibly in the breeze. Sunshine warms the shoulders of couples strolling along Elk Avenue—dogs on leashes, coffees in hand—against the backdrop of the town’s eponymous peak. Planters overflowing with fall blooms gild pastel-painted Victorian buildings, and handwritten chalkboard signs beckon passersby to pop through the open doors of storefronts. The whole vibe is impossibly quaint—perhaps more so because of the quirky free-spiritedness that makes the charm feel genuine.
Nora began drinking heavily in her late 30s, turning to alcohol after the demons of early childhood trauma resurfaced. A self-described emotional drinker, the fortysomething Denverite, who asked that her real name be withheld to protect her privacy, says her consumption only increased during the COVID-19 crisis. “You’d be seeing all these memes on social media at 2 p.m. that people were having wine parties together,” Nora says, “so you’d feel comfortable doing it as well.” But after a two-week bender in early 2021, Nora woke up feeling more broken than usual.
[See page 7] Silvia Perez Yescas of Oaxaca, Mexico, knows what it’s like to have her voice silenced. For an entire year, month after month, she stood outside a room full of men who gathered to discuss land rights and environmental issues that were affecting family and community well-being. For an entire year, she planted herself firmly on the other side of the room’s window— she wasn’t “allowed” to come inside—and raised her hand to participate in the discussion. For an entire year, the men ignored her. Why? Because Yescas is a woman. In Mexican territories where vast swaths of natural resources are being threatened by energy companies, infrastructure projects, and mining corporations compounding the effects of climate change, the people most impacted—women—rarely get a seat at the table to lend their
Dwarfed by five stainless steel grain-storage bins outside the Root Shoot malt house in Loveland, Emily Olander gestures toward the horizon. A two-story cookie-cutter house with a white fence peeks out from the rolling green land. “See that?” 38-year-old Emily asks. “That’s what we don’t want.” The Olanders, who farm nearly 2,200 acres in northern Colorado and run a malt business that regularly supplies 150 breweries in the state, have nothing against the homeowners, of course. It’s the big-picture development they’re wary of—an encroaching sprawl that’s gobbling up farmland along Colorado’s I-25 corridor faster than older farmers can devise ways to affordably retire without selling their fields to the developers behind the ubiquitous mixed-use retail and residential enclaves.
Somewhere between Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula and Japan’s northernmost island of Hokkaido, just off the coast of a tiny volcanic island called Raikoke, a small vessel bobbed in the chop of the Sea of Okhotsk. An assorted group of photographers, scientists, and filmmakers lined the boat’s railing and stared in disbelief as the landscape came into focus. The island, usually lush and green, smoldered in an ashy gray state of complete desolation. The air was heavy with sulfuric smoke tendrils, and flocks of birds circled in infinite loops overhead with nowhere to land. The sea-lapped shores, once home to a thriving sea lion rookery, had been reduced to smoking rubble.
On the way to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport — the nation’s busiest transportation hub — the air is filled with the hum of planes and the drone of cars as they speed toward departures. What you don’t hear is the rushing of water. Or even the trickle of a stream. Which is problematic, given that the headwaters of the 344-mile Flint River, which supplies water to hundreds of thousands of people across Georgia, are located at the airport. Or, more precisely, under the airport. A network of urban tunnels moves the Flint beneath the sprawling parking lots and runways.
Farmers in Arizona are no longer in a “what if” scenario. A shrinking Colorado River is transforming life in the West. The solutions will take all of us.
As I wobble along the via ferrata’s cable-wire bridge stretched across the Uncompahgre Gorge in Ouray, I keep reminding myself of one thing: Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Do. Not. Look. Down. That’s because a ribbon of frothy whitewater churns far below me. It’s the first feature of the Ouray Via Ferrata’s downstream route. My friend and I, despite our lack of rock climbing experience, are harnessed and helmeted behind our mountain guide, Micah Lewkowitz of Mountain Trip, who’d already cruised across the cable and swiveled around to snap photos of us. Via ferrata is Italian for “iron path,” a concept that dates to World War I in Italy’s Dolomites, where they were developed to maneuver troops through inaccessible terrain. It’s a system of steel rungs, ladders, bridges, and cables permanently bolted into rock walls and ledges. This one follows the east side of the 180-foot-deep gorge, across from the famous Ouray Ice Park, for nearly a mile.
We found 116 reasons to fall in love with the Mile High City all over again. From the tastiest scoop of ice cream to the most inviting patio for summer sips to the hippest new lodging in town, we tracked down the best of the best that the Mile High City has to offer. The result is a curated list of 37 editors’ choices that complement our 79 readers’ choice winners.
So, you’re itching for an adventure. Not surprising, given most Coloradans’ proximity to, well, a veritable promised land of mountains, crags, trails, rivers, and general outdoorsy splendor. Given the options, though, it can be a little overwhelming to narrow down what, exactly, you want to do, and where, exactly, you can do it. And chances are, if you want to really push yourself outside your recreational comfort zone, you’ll need a backcountry guide. Enter 57hours, a platform that connects adrenaline seekers—of all levels—and outdoor guides in much the same way that VRBO or Airbnb connect vacationers and homeowners.
Staying at a dude ranch in the West is a rite of passage for many vacationers. So beloved is the experience that for decades, the same families have booked the same weeks at the same guest ranches in Colorado. Some of these destinations are more luxurious than others, but all of them offer a taste of the iconic, gritty Old West (horseback riding! chuckwagon feasts!) intertwined with the gourmet meals and guided adventures. Because of COVID-19, however, the way guest ranches operate has necessarily had to change. Early on, the pandemic took an economic toll on many ranches, where communal traditions like family-style dinners and campfire jam sessions became a little too close for comfort in a virus-y world. While early closures, capacity restrictions, and staff cuts dealt catastrophic blows to some, almost every ranch owner had to make difficult decisions about how to survive—and hopefully thrive—in the new normal. But change wasn’t easy.
Last year, about one in six Centennial Staters visited an emergency department, despite the fact that more than a third of respondents to a 2019 Colorado Health Institute survey believed the maladies that landed them there could have been treated by a nonemergency doctor. Why is the ED so confusing? We asked local physicians for insight into that question—as well as 10 other queries that routinely pop up when crises arise.
In the summer of 2021, Kim Miller found himself in a familiar position: considering the best move to shepherd his team through a life-threatening storm. In his previous life as an expedition leader, he’d shouldered that very burden on plenty of high peaks. As the CEO of Scarpa North America, he now faced a different deadly threat: Covid-19. “My mentality as a leader is to keep people safe,” Miller says. “And motivated, engaged, and happy at a time when people are freaking out.”
[Co-bylined] Aaaand, that’s a wrap on the 2022 Outdoor Retailer Snow Show. As attendees trickled in to hit their last meetings and squeeze in just a few more booths, conversations were upbeat. Coffee queue congratulations were plentiful coming off of last night’s fourth annual Innovation Awards ceremony, where 14 winners were crowned by an independent judging panel for their game-changing outdoor products and services.
[Co-bylined] Right on cue, the flakes were flying outside the Convention Center as the second day of the OR Snow Show ramped up. The morning kicked off with an early session covering outdoor market research and consumer trends, which parsed data on a phenomenon we’ve all happily witnessed over the past couple of years: More people are itching to buy outdoor stuff. In fact, the core outdoor market grew by $5 billion between 2019 and 2021, now sitting at $27.4 billion. Accompanying this data was the pointed re
[Co-bylined] The Outdoor Retailer Snow Show 2022 returned to the Colorado Convention Center today on an appropriately wintery morning. The general vibe? Subdued. And as the morning unfolded, cautiously hopeful.
Eugenia Di Girolamo is no stranger to big cities with vibrant development scenes. The Italian-born New Yorker recently stepped into the brand new role of Denver’s chief urban designer, making the transition from her post as deputy director of urban design for New York City’s Department of City Planning. Now, as she takes the design helm of a city whose population has grown by about 15 percent in the past decade, Di Girolamo talks with us about her vision for rapidly changing neighborhoods, pedestrian love, and the rebirth of downtown.
If there’s one thing we’ve learned over the past year, it’s to appreciate the place we live—because, well, we’ve all been spending a lot of time here. We found ourselves rediscovering what we love about the institutions, venues, businesses, restaurants, parks, and people that make up our (suddenly smaller) world. Sure, the way we go about crafting our lifestyle has been—and will continue to be—outside the norm these past months, and the places that infuse the personality of our neighborhoods may operate differently or more intermittently than they ever have, but their contribution to the character of our city remains.
