Mementos, Notes, and Fragments

Nothing spoils a relaxing campfire like the hot, choking tentacles of the smoke beast drifting into your face. You get up, arrange your chair upwind on the opposite side of the fire, sit back down, and the wind shifts, blowing the smoke into your face again. Repeat until it’s time to crawl into the tent, eyes watering.

It seems purposeful, doesn’t it, like the smoke is following you around the fire? But that can’t be, right?

Actually, yes. Smoke does follow you and here’s why. A campfire functions like a tiny weather system. As hot air from the fire rises, cool air moves in to take its place. But when you’re sitting next to a fire, your body acts as an air dam, blocking the cooler air behind you from reaching the fire. A dead zone forms between you and the blaze. Meanwhile, cooler air from the opposite side of the fire rushes toward the flames, pushing the smoke into your blinking, coughing mug. It’s simple physics; the smoke might be a jerk, but as far as science goes, it’s nothing personal.

Wanna avoid campsmoke face? If you’re in a group, position everyone equally around the fire. Moving a foot or two away from the fire also helps. Of course, the time-tested method is one you already know. Every time the smoke follows you, move your chair and repeat, “Smoke follows beauty, smoke follows beauty.” This accomplishes absolutely nothing, but it might boost your self-esteem.

As with so many good ideas, the Sonoran Avalanche Center arose after a day of skiing and a bunch of brews. Len Necefer, the CEO of Natives Outdoors, was hanging out with a friend on the slopes of Arizona’s Mount Lemmon. “We were multiple beers in…and just saw an opportunity: There’s no avalanche center in southern Arizona. We decided we were going to make one,” Necefer told High Country News.

“Then we thought: What would make Sonoran Avalanche Center different than other avalanche centers? Well, there’s no snow here, really. And the hazards are cactuses and mudslides. We’ve had to come up with new terms like ‘agualanches,’ which are flash floods. We decided to be a year-round avalanche center because monsoons can get pretty crazy.”

They took the (sorta) joke and set out to see how far they could run with it, tweaking the nose of ski culture and consumerism while pointing out the perils of the climate crisis. They bought a tiny, two-door Fiat 500 Abarth as a mascot and plastered it with cactuses and the colors of the Mexican flag. Their imagery is a nod to the Sahuaro Ski Club, a whimsy created by journalist Lowell Thomas in Tuscon in the 1940s, mashing up vaquero and winter sports cultures. Social media posts are set to uptempo Banda music. “We just really want to culture-jam the ski industry,” Necefer told AJ.

It’s nonsense, but also not. Mount Lemmon is about as far south as you can ski in the U.S., but its snowpack has been dwindling. Part of SAC’s goal is reminding people what’s at risk as the climate warms. Another is punking expectations and neoliberal sacred cows with absurdity. “We are a proud for-profit avalanche center,” Necefer told us. “The snows have stopped coming and we are actively searching for the cause. We are appalled that you call our important work on finding the origins of facet snow and forecasting non-snow avalanches ‘humor.’” Uh-huh. Cue the Bandas.

Packrafting. Bikerafting. Skirafting. Can’t peruse adventure media these days without seeing someone in a colorful little boat ferrying themselves and their gear over a body of water a million miles from anywhere. The idea of an ultra-portable raft makes all the sense in the world—so much that you might be wondering why they’re a relatively recent invention.

Well, they aren’t. If the British Royal Navy had better foresight, we’d have almost two centuries of packraft evolution under our belts. In the 1840s, Canadian Peter Halkett, an Arctic-obsessed lieutenant in the Royal Navy, started tinkering with an inflatable boat light enough to be carried anywhere. His innovation: What if the boat doubled as clothes? The waterproof skin of the boat, made from rubber-impregnated cotton, was to be worn as a cloak. The oar was a hiking staff and an umbrella served as a small sail. The Boat Cloak, as he called it, weighed only seven pounds and worked beautifully. Canadian Arctic surveyors loved the little craft.

“Although in constant use for upwards of six weeks on a rocky coast, it never required the slightest repair,” said Hudson Bay doctor and explorer John Rae. “They ought to form part of the equipment of every expedition.”

Halkett made a larger, two-person version and expected to sell a bunch to the Royal Navy. “No,” said the Admiralty. The boats are cool, but not really our thing, they explained. By 1885, Halkett was dead and with him went the Boat Cloak design. Only two survive today, both in museums. It took another hundred years for packrafts to catch on. Somewhere, Halkett is shouting “Told you so!”

Few things are blander than a communiqué from a government agency, but brilliance can elevate the bland to art. Case in point: the Twitter account of Washington’s Department of Natural Resources. Overseeing nearly six million acres of public land across the state, the DNR has tons of info to share, lots of which wouldn’t draw a second glance without the wit of Rachel Terlep and Mary Watkins, the women behind the government’s social media accounts. “Let’s be honest: What DNR does can be a little dry,” says Commissioner of Public Lands Hilary Franz. Not when Terlep and Watkins are on the case.

“Whoever said life is about the journey not the destination has never been on mile 6 of a 3.5-mile hike,” reads a tweet that addresses hiking safely in the backcountry. On encouraging responsible trash management: “One thing your dating inbox and our public lands have in common is they’re full of unsolicited trash.” For Thanksgiving: “Please be responsible with hot takes this Thanksgiving if your turkey is as dry as our forests.”

The posts tackle how to interact with animals, leave no trace etiquette, and what kinds of music to play from your Bluetooth speaker while hiking (answer: none kinds of music). The idea is to grab a scroller’s attention, maybe even to go viral, while passing along really important stuff. Like: “Every time you leave dog poop on the trail, you’re denying trash cans essential nutrients to fatten up for winter. Heartbreaking.”