For many of us, outdoor adventures feel out of reach. We think we don’t know enough or that we don’t have the right gear – we’re scared of putting ourselves out there and making mistakes.
I’m here to tell you: the road to adventures under the open sky is paved with inconveniences and errors. Lots of them. Encountering them doesn’t make you any less of an adventurer – it actually makes you a certifiable badass. Here’s how to push past your fears and come out smiling on the other side.
I made the leap and you can too
Fun fact: I’m writing this article next to my fire while solo camping, my only company are the fireflies whizzing by in the darkness like jaunty little spaceships and the occasional bullfrog. Traveling – and especially camping – alone as a woman is becoming more common (yay!), but many still say: “I could never do that.”
I wasn’t an “outside kid” in the adventure-y sense: my flavor of outdoor activity looked more like recreational soccer games and summer afternoons at the neighborhood pool. This trend continued into my adulthood and travel career – I loved writing about art and culture around the world, but outdoor adventure still felt like a far-away thing reserved for folks way more savvy and intrepid than myself.
Then I was invited on a trip to Chilean Patagonia that changed my life. It was a very tough 5-day guided trek through rugged terrain – I was usually at the rear of the group, but I did it. That trek showed me what I was capable of, and I became determined to do it on my own when I got home. Soon after, I seized upon a Memorial Day sale on camping gear and headed to the woods.
I started small, exploring campgrounds close to home, eventually gathering courage to travel the American West solo for three weeks. I explored landscapes I had only ever seen pictures of – all almost entirely alone. After that, I was irrevocably addicted to outdoor adventure.
However, things have not always been smooth sailing. I’ve messed up, done dumb things, and just been plain scared. I’m not advocating jumping into the deep end without prep work (that can be dangerous!), but I wanted to share a few stories to humanize outdoor adventure – we don’t all have to be rugged men with six packs who’ve been rock climbing since childhood. Sometimes things don’t go according to plan, but Mother Nature is here for us no matter how we arrive at her doorstep.
Conquering fear in the Shenandoah haze
The fog was a velvety blanket enveloping Skyline Drive, a road known for some of the best views east of the Mississippi. My husband and I gawked as the clouds slowly closed in around us.
“Real question: did we die and we just don’t know it yet?” he chuckled, half-kidding. I laughed nervously as we weaved along the ridge to our campground, the famous Big Meadows in Shenandoah National Park. When I secured our site months prior, I thought myself clever – the tent spots are tightly packed, save a few situated far from everyone else, offering a taste of solitude while still maintaining access to amenities like restrooms and water spigots.
The fog cleared just enough for us to set up our tent, our things dampening as the moist air wrapped around us. Soon we sat enclosed in opaque darkness that drowned out not just the light from any other campers, but also the sound. It became a silent, lightless cocoon, not an ideal scenario when we’d been warned about Shenandoah’s higher-than-average bear population.
It might seem silly to hardcore adventurers – especially since we weren’t technically alone – but we were spooked. The absence of stimuli felt uncanny, making sleep fitful thanks to our bear paranoia; we wouldn’t be able to hear them if they approached.
Groggy-eyed, we awoke to more fog – lighter, but still a present specter. Despite our less-than-chipper mood, we packed our bags and headed to the trail we intended to explore, one that delved deep into valleys and circled back over steep ridgelines.
As we put one boot in front of the other, the fog transformed. It lost its foreboding edge, playfully dancing down waterfalls and through vibrant mushrooms. It shrouded the green hills, but instead of blocking us out, it highlighted unusual features as if to say, “Look at this, isn’t it beautiful?” It became an enchanting presence in our outdoor exploration, one we would have missed if we’d scrapped our camping plan out of fear the night before.
Did we get sweeping mountain views that day? Nope. But we did learn about our own grit and shifted our conception of a good “mountain trip” – we learned to stop searching for the panorama and appreciate the wonders right in front of us.
Badass lesson #1: You just might be braver than you think.
I learned how to let go in Chattanooga
I’ll admit it – I was cocky. I work as an aerialist when I’m not traveling, which means I hang from my hands on a regular basis. So when I went rock climbing for the first time in Chattanooga, I insisted I wanted to do it on a real rock, believing I already had a leg up.
Cut to me literally quaking in my climbing shoes roughly 30 feet in the air, my panicky eyes searching for something – anything – to grab. “I just don’t understand where I’m supposed to go?!” I pleaded with my guide.
“Take a look to your left and see where you can find a foothold,” he coaxed. My forearms were on fire, and my voice trembled. “How did y’all get up here?” I whimpered.
“Let go and take a break for a second,” he amiably suggested. I looked at him in disbelief. “What do you mean ‘let go’?! In aerial, letting go equals a rather uncomfortable death – how is that not the same in climbing?”
In the end, my hands decided for me – my grip finally gave way and I swung off the cliffside, yelping a string of curses. Dangling there, I realized I was still very much alive. Hands still vibrating with nerves, I found my way back to the rock and, with a helpful haul from my friend below, slowly ascended through the spot, eventually making my way to the top. Noodle-limbed and panting, I enjoyed the sweeping view – my heart slowed and I breathed in the breeze.
That day, I learned it was okay – sometimes even advantageous – to fall. In a practical sense, I absorbed much about rock climbing, but I also learned that hitting the restart button is nothing to be ashamed of.
Badass lesson #2: It’s okay to suck at new things. You’ll get there.
Utah’s desert taught me that asking for help isn’t a weakness
Nothing feels quite like the moment you realize you’re lost – it’s a mix of dread and confusion as you try to figure out where you are and where you went wrong.
This feeling washed over me as I realized the trail I’d been following through Tahoe National Forest had evaporated under my feet, leaving me marooned on a rocky outcropping next to a rushing creek swollen with snowmelt.
Full disclosure: I did not prepare for this hike. This spontaneous stop en route to visit a friend in Truckee lacked the necessary research – I didn’t bother downloading the trail path beforehand. It was early March, technically offseason, so the trailhead had been stripped of informational flyers and maps.
Despite this, I confidently set out, taking deep breaths of cool air. After about twenty minutes, my tranquility vanished when the path disappeared, leaving me at a dead end that felt too soon to be the trail terminus. I scanned the creek banks for a way across, but the torrent of icy water roared at an intimidating velocity. Turning around, I discovered the “trail” I’d been following may not have been one at all, as shrubs and trees obstructed my view.
I made my way through a narrow corridor of trees, trying to approximate my original route and fend off growing panic. My phone lacked service, but I spotted a smudge of snow imprinted with my boot shape – I was on the right track. I chaotically stumbled through the greenery until, making my way back, I was relieved to find myself at the trailhead.
You would think that would’ve sufficed, but I refused to accept defeat; surely I had just made a wrong turn and a glorious hike awaited. I hurriedly set out again.
But I was lost…again, just off course. At least I consciously noted landmarks for my return journey – which I had to use. I eventually made it to the parking lot once more, quite sure my proverbial cat had just lost one of its nine lives in the process.
Jump several months forward to my Western US road trip. I woke with the sun to hike the spectacular ridges of Capitol Reef National Park on an 11-mile route delivering panoramic views of red rock cliffs. Hiking in the desert differs from hiking in the woods – you leave no tracks and have nothing to follow if you get turned around. Instead of blazes, trails are marked with cairns of variances in size and shape.
Since my Tahoe hiking mistake, I’ve improved my approach – paper and digital maps always, familiarity with a compass, and routine check-ins with loved ones. But even with that, it wasn’t long before the ridge I was following gave way to a wide expanse of rock that scrambled my vision – I simply couldn’t spot any cairns leading the way.
I was prepared to abandon my mission when a couple of hikers passed me and forged ahead, looking like they knew where they were going. I gathered my courage and chased after them. “Hi y’all! I’m out here solo – I don’t mean to interrupt your hike, but is it okay if I follow you until we find a clearer path?”
Fortunately, one of them was an Eagle Scout with navigation expertise and they both were keen on some company after traveling together for months. What could have been a dangerous solo hiking scenario transformed into an incredible afternoon scrambling over Utah’s otherworldly landscape with newfound friends, all because a past mistake taught me to prepare for bad scenarios and recognize my limits.
Badass lesson #3: Find friends to help you through tough spots – there’s no shame in asking for help.
Finding my sea legs in the rapids of Oregon
It was a gorgeous day to sea-kayak along the striking southwestern Oregon coastline – we spotted numerous vibrant starfish, a mama harbor seal and her curious pup, and clusters of shy sea anemones hugging the rocky outcroppings. It was a dream for anyone wanting to see the best of the Pacific Northwest.
One of my colleagues snapped a picture of me as I floated past, looking out to the horizon. The reality? I was taking deep, desperate breaths trying not to hurl over the side of the kayak in front of people I had just met.
You see, motion sickness runs in my family, a fact I like to try and ignore. On this particular day, I rolled the dice that I would hold it together – and I lost. Anxious sweat glistened on my forehead as my kayak bobbed with the coming swells, my stomach flipping with each rise and fall. The guides helped me combat the sickness with ginger chewing gum and pressure-point bracelets, but when it was time to go, I led the way back to dry land, practically jumping out of my boat to sit with my head in my hands.
In a way, the situation felt depressing – exploring coastal Oregon had always been a dream, yet when the time came, I could hardly focus on the beauty surrounding me because my body wouldn’t cooperate. It’s tough to give yourself grace when you’re feeling FOMO.
Now the kicker: we were supposed to go whitewater kayaking the next day, another water adventure with loads of motion. While I forced myself to do it (because I’d rather die than quit), I didn’t fancy feeling queasy again.
The next day, we geared up and headed to the mighty Rogue River, known for its whitewater rapids. With the memory of my previous nausea swimming in my mind, I climbed into the inflatable kayak – a first for me – ready to either puke or fall overboard.
We started with small riffles that tickled our boats, progressing to stronger rapids gradually. My boat bobbed, swayed, and spun, but I didn’t feel a hint of sickness; adrenaline eclipsed it as we waved through the currents. Instead, my face hurt from smiling, my nerves delighted in the splashes on my skin and the exhilarating speed beneath my boat.
In between rapids, I floated along the calm water, watching ospreys and bald eagles soar around the treeline – I had never witnessed a bald eagle in the wild before. I finished the trip exuberantly through a class 3 rapid, invigorated and already plotting my next adventure.
If I had allowed anxiety to dominate, I would have missed out on one of my favorite days of outdoor adventure. The juxtaposition of experiences also revealed something else: I can comfortably say that sea kayaking probably isn’t for me, and that’s perfectly fine.
Badass lesson #4: Try new things to discover your boundaries – and possibly your new favorite activities.
Conclusion: Get out there and try it yourself
Outdoor adventure encompasses many undignified moments that the industry rarely discusses, and each notch adds to your badass belt. Experience is an exceptional teacher, so do your research and face the challenges, one fail at a time.
