Racing meant a lot to my identity as a high schooler. I was on the track and cross-country teams at my rural high school, and I was never more nervous than the day of a meet. During that teenage time of figuring out who I was, being a runner was an identifier I held onto when other things in my social world shifted. Which was why I took it especially hard the season I sustained a fascia injury in my left calf muscle that left me limping. Nothing seemed worse than being unable to run.  

I think of that injury nearly 20 years later for a few reasons. My cross-country coach asked me to compete in the districts race at the end of the season, hoping I’d score some points for the team, even though I could barely walk. I lined up at the start because I was a high school girl used to doing what I was told. I finished almost dead last, was in a lot of pain when I did, and never told off my coach for treating me like an asset instead of a person.  

By the following season, I had healed and I had a new coach, one who ran marathons as a hobby. “Listen to your body,” she said to our team, which I heard as “you’re the authority on what you can and should do on the course.” It was the first time I’d considered it. The fact that I can still see her on the front lawn of the high school saying this to a circle of runners doing pre-practice stretches is proof of how perspective-shifting it was for me.  

“Listen to your body” reframed my idea of working with my body rather than against it while running, of entering into a partnership with it rather than seeing it as something to tamp into submission. I never ran a race when it didn’t feel right again. 

Since high school, I’ve continued running and racing for pleasure. I enjoy a challenge and I’m competitive. I’m able to run sustainably by respecting my knees when they say I haven’t done enough base training, not hitting the trail if I haven’t adequately fueled and hydrated, and saying no to races that don’t feel right, even if I’ve already paid for them.  

Establishing a good relationship with racing has allowed me to connect with all the other beautiful things that the sport can provide. I love the running community in Spokane, the gear shops and run clubs, and I still love picking up a few races each year. I’ve run through loneliness, frustration, anxiety, sadness and joy. I’ve run alone and with a stroller, on roads and on trails, near rivers and up mountains. Running has been a companion that has helped me through life, more partnership than punishment, and one good coach helped me see it that way long ago. 

In this issue of Out There Venture, we’ve rounded up our Race, Ride and Event Guide, a collection of the races in our region from March through October for runners, cyclists, walkers, triathletes, swimmers and paddlers. It’s an exciting list. I hope it sparks some inspiration to explore our region and the community that comes with racing and outdoor activities. And I hope you race for you. 

• Lisa Laughlin, managing editor  

The post Learning to Race for Good  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Introducing kids to skiing or snowboarding starts long before their first chairlift ride. The best way to build excitement is simply to play in the snow together. Gentle snowball fights, building snow forts and snowmen, and sledding and tubing all help kids get comfortable outdoors in winter. These activities also help them learn to love moving in the cold. When the time feels right—usually between ages 3 and 6 for most kids—visit a local ski area just to play and watch other families having fun on the slopes.

Tubing hills like those at Silver Mountain, Mt. Spokane or Schweitzer, are another great way to ease kids into sliding on snow. Cross-country skiing and snowshoeing can also help young kids build balance and strength while having fun. And when you finally strap on that first pair of alpine skis or a snowboard, keep sessions short, warm and pressure-free. A positive first experience goes a long way toward a lifetime of winter adventures together. (OTO) 

The post Raising Little Rippers: Tips for Getting Kids Started on Snow  appeared first on Out There Venture.

By Bri Loveall 

Cover photo courtesy of Bri Loveall

Before teaching my kids to ski, I received a lot of really helpful advice: private lessons, ski school, hula hoops instead of ski harnesses, and even recruiting a grandparent. Last fall, we finally committed and rented season-long skis and boots from our favorite ski shop. The day after Thanksgiving, I packed a bag with more snacks than seemed necessary, loaded the gear into the car, and drove the kids up to the mountain for our first day on the snow.  

By then my children had taken about three lessons (which they seemed to forget the moment they clicked into their skis). I envisioned watching them glide down the bunny hill, laughing and waving as they tipped and then righted themselves. Instead, I found myself chasing after my older child, certain she’d run into someone. My youngest child managed to do a single run (while I held him up) before deciding he’d rather play in the snow instead. 

It’s fine, I told myself. It’s only the first day. As the season progressed, my commitment deepened; we were going to be a ski family and the outdoors would be our teacher. 

So much of what we teach our children is physical—how to tie shoes, tidy a room, catch a ball—that we forget what we are really teaching them is resilience. How to keep going even when they are uncomfortable, even when they fail and fall, when they’re cold and bored and tired. We are teaching them to embrace discomfort.  

Frequently, as a parent, I recognize within myself a limited tolerance for discomfort. The second my children begin whining (a normal childhood behavior that’s actually indicative of healthy emotional maturation), I think I’m causing some irreversible damage to their premature egos, and I want to quit. Children learn best when environments are fun and relaxed, when big tasks are broken down into small ones and when snacks are plentiful. But that doesn’t mean the learning is easy. And last season I learned that there is an art to discomfort.  

Crammed into our car (we have yet to invest in ski racks) with gear wedged into every nook and cranny, each weekend we made the trek up the mountain while the kids bickered in the back seat. It was hot, it was cold, their legs were sore. They were hungry, they were tired, they’d rather be home watching a show.  

In the parking lot, the wind whipped through the open doors and they shouted and shoved at each other as they all tried to dress in the same limited space. And we hadn’t even reached the worst part—ski boots. “You’re breaking my foot!” my youngest hollered, as other ski-ready families walked past. My own fingers were halfway frozen, struggling to hold my son’s boot open while I patiently coaxed him to shove his foot in.  

Once dressed, we still faced the walk from the car to the lift. “Here, kids, carry your own helmets, OK?” I’d say in my best Julie Andrews voice, stuffing extra gear and snacks into my backpack before grabbing their skis (and mine). “It’s too heavy. It’s too cold. It’s hard to walk in boots,” they groaned, lagging behind me. By the time we reached the bunny hill for lessons, I was ready to pass off my children to the instructors and find any excuse to escape into the lodge, where I could try to regain my Julie Andrews voice. 

All of us have a threshold for being uncomfortable, and yet we rarely think of it as a muscle that also needs to be stretched and strengthened. Because, let’s be honest, some days the skiing (or the hiking, camping, swimming, biking) just sucks. The weather is too cold or too hot, too wet or too smoky, and our kids are tired and we’re tired and no one—I mean no one—is having fun. I might argue that those moments are the most important in developing a lifelong commitment to the pursuit of ​​adventure.  

The advice I would give to parents is this: acknowledge the sensations your child is experiencing (cold, wet, fatigue, boredom) and then encourage them to keep going. When we mirror a tempered version of our child’s emotions, we validate them, and in doing so, create a safe space for them to practice navigating their discomfort.  

One Saturday last year, my youngest had a full-on meltdown in the middle of the crowded lodge. While onlookers tried not to stare as I began gathering our wet hats, lunch trash and helmets, one mom at the table nearest to me met my eye. “It gets better,” she said, gesturing to the teens situated around her. “Eventually, they learn to love it.”  

The post The Art of Discomfort  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Full disclosure, my friends. I am a proud member of Gen X. For the younger folks out there, you might know us as the “latch-key kids” or the “forgotten” generation. We grew up on a healthy diet of sugar cereals and sarcasm, a complete lack of parental supervision, and we didn’t have iPhones to take with us to the bathroom. We had to walk to school no matter the weather and were forced to spend time outside on the weekends, armed with only a bike, a baseball bat and our imagination. The 1970s and 1980s were much simpler times, and man, do I miss those days. But it was during the winter months when we were taught the most valuable lessons in toughness. Now, before you decide to tangle with a Gen Xer on the hill this season, keep the following in mind. 

Getting to the Hill 
I can’t even count the number of times I have seen the younger generations rolling to the mountain in all-wheel-drive SUVs that are loaded with so many amenities that I question whether they are really vehicles or just plush living rooms on wheels. And if you park close enough to them, you can smell the Starbucks soy latte and gluten-free breakfast sandwich made with free-range eggs that they enjoyed on their leisurely drive. Back in our day, we were jammed into some gas-guzzling, rear-wheel-drive land yacht with no seat belts that struggled to make it uphill in August, let alone in a blizzard in February. If you were lucky, you might have had a Pop-Tart composed of 90% sugar to snack on, though most of it crumbled apart the second you opened the package and vanished into the ice-cold vinyl seats that most cars were equipped with back then. Oh well, those were useless calories anyway … 

Old-School Ski Gear 
There is no doubt that today’s equipment technology equates to a more comfortable day on the mountain, especially when it comes to clothing. And nothing gets my juices going like a full-blown storm day, with single-digit temps and snow blowing sideways. But I always chuckle and give the side-eye when my younger chairlift partner inquires through chattering teeth if I am also cold. Bruh, four decades ago we were forced to go hard from opening to last chair with two pairs of cotton socks, stretch pants that had the texture of sandpaper and an oversized sweatshirt adorned with the logo of our favorite football team. And you always had to bring an extra pair of gloves because the first pair would be soaked after four runs, rendering your fingers useless. My dad said this built character. 
 
Chairlift Air Fresheners 
As a weekend warrior, I have grown accustomed to dealing with the sheer volume of people that head to the mountain after the workweek comes to a close. What amazes me, though, are some of the habits they bring with them. On more than a few occasions, I have caught aromatic whiffs of cotton candy or rainbow sherbet originating from a billowing cloud of vape smoke from the chair in front of me. And to be honest, they smell delicious. Back in the 1980s, we had to endure the acrid smell of Marlboro Reds, Tiparillo cigars, or some nasty, sub-par Devil’s Lettuce (if you know, you know). God forbid if your chairlift partner was the one firing these up, as you would be right in the line of fire. As a side note, rainbow sherbet vape flavor is known as Unicorn Vomit … Thanks ChatGPT. 
 
Brad Northrup is a former ski racer, coach and ski industry professional. He still snacks on Pop-Tarts on the way to the hill and occasionally rocks a Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt. 

The post Ski Bum Advice: Don’t Mess With Gen X Skiers  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Cover photo courtesy of Toby Carroll

Last spring, when I got the email for the Wild Woman Marathon, I didn’t immediately hit delete. I hadn’t been back to those soft trails near the base of Mount Adams for years, though I loved that women-only race. Could I pin on a bib after years of not racing and, well, not race? 

I invited a couple of far-flung friends to come for a June weekend of fun. Sara did the full marathon; Ann and I both did the half, where she kicked my butt. This was as expected as it was annoying. (Also, inspiring. At 65, she just ran 4:07 at the Portland Marathon.) Sara had a rough race and kind of hated me for making her fly across the country to do it. 

On the other hand, I had so much fun pushing myself I began looking for more races. I found a 25K on Mount Spokane the next weekend. Just a chance for a nice trail outing, I told myself. I had nothing to prove. I could stroll if I wanted. I thought, It doesn’t matter if women pass you! No age group awards! Nope. Having entered a race, I ran until it hurt.  

In September, Sara came to Spokane. She’d mostly forgiven me, so I got her and my husband Toby to sign up for the Boulevard Race: an easy trot, a community event, and only four miles. “Just a fun run,” I assured. Bibs on, we took off, barely faster than a walk. We had little choice since we picked the “cruise” corral. The crowd trudged along and kept us (me) in check. 

For the first mile, we chatted, enjoying the day. I sped us up as soon as the throng thinned. Still, nice and easy. When we hit the marker for the final mile, I told Sara we were going to pick up the pace for the last half mile. “Um, okay.” About 60 seconds later, I slid in front and said, “Keep your eyes on my back. Pretend a rope is tethering us.” I said, “Relax your shoulders, don’t clench your jaw, pump your arms going uphill.” 

Here’s the thing. My body, like that of a high-strung Arabian horse, seems to have been made to run and somehow takes care of itself (while I do little to maintain it), even as the clock showed I had started to slow down. I loved racing, but for years when I pinned on a bib, I carried a wooden dowel with balloons tied to it that announced the time I’d cross the finish line after 26.2 miles. I found joy as a marathon pace team leader, helping others achieve their goals. While I’ve never cried after racing, I often finished teary-eyed when runners hugged me, thanked me, and claimed (falsely, I knew) they couldn’t have done it without me. 

Even though Sara didn’t care about her time, the pacer in me knew she was capable of more. I couldn’t help myself and pushed her to finish strong. Our last mile clocked in at more than two minutes faster than our first. She was only a little mad. 

Now in my 60s, while I have (mostly) given up racing and pacing, habits of mind are hard to break. Sure, I find joy on family runs with Toby and our mutt, Harry, and I still go out most days for at least a handful of miles. But when I pin on a bib, dormant parts of my brain spring to life. Can’t help it. Like (also elderly) Jessica Rabbit, that’s just the way I’m drawn.  

Rachel Toor lives in Spokane and teaches creative writing at Eastern Washington University. 

The post Once a Racer  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Cover photo courtesy of Adam Gebauer

Picture a stand of large ponderosa trees with thick black and red puzzled bark, spaced far apart so their canopies don’t touch, grasses growing in the understory with a few sparse shrubs and saplings. This is the type of habitat that is shaped by frequent, low-intensity fire. There are no ladder fuels or an accumulation of wood on the forest floor to carry fire up into the crowns of trees. This type of forest is the goal of many prescribed burns in our dry east side ponderosa pine forests. 

Fire has shaped the landscapes of Eastern Washington, as it has with many of the landscapes across North America. Some studies have estimated that 60% of North America historically experienced regular fire intervals. Prairie fires prevented trees from encroaching and returned nutrients to the soil. Fires in western forests opened up the canopy to create meadows and propagate new trees, reduced the number of trees per acre and allowed grasses to grow in the understory. But different landscapes have evolved with different fire return intervals that are affected by climate, elevation, aspect and the plant species present. Subalpine forests would see fires every 300 to 400 years, whereas ponderosa pine forests had fires every 1 to 125 years. 

Unfortunately, fire suppression has been occurring in North America for almost 200 years, from outlawing tribal members from conducting cultural burning to federal policies that have focused largely on suppression. But, along with naturally occurring fire from lightning, people have been using fire to manipulate their environment for tens of thousands of years. Tribes in the region would burn meadows to increase camas yields or reduce tree cover in huckleberry patches. These manipulated fires would improve forage for large game and open up sight lines to improve hunting. Fires were also used for ceremonial practices and tribes had a close community connection to this tool. 

The lack of fire has altered many landscapes and therefore habitat for wildlife. In mid-elevation forests in the Inland Northwest, there is a lack of open forest conditions that support the aspen and grasslands preferred by grizzly bears, ungulates and wolves. Fires produce snags that support white-headed woodpeckers. They reduce thatch, the dead grass and pine needles, creating a connection with seeds and the soil. Ponderosa pines prefer to germinate on mineral soil and areas where the sun gets to the forest floor. Species like lodgepole pine have serotinous cones, meaning they only open to release their seeds when exposed to heat from a forest fire. 

Prescribed fire, the carefully planned and intentionally implemented practice of lighting fire, can help these landscapes accept naturally occurring, low-intensity fire. Other benefits of prescribed fires include wildfire hazard reduction, controlling competing vegetation, thinning and release of crop trees, disease control, site preparation, increasing the quantity and quality of forage for livestock grazing and managing and improving wildlife habitat. 

The first time you get to wield a drip torch or dig a containment line, you come to understand all the planning and experience that is needed to execute a prescribed burn. When you return to the site the next season, you can see the regeneration of seedlings and grasses and the hoof prints of deer and moose moving through the area. Many prescribed and cultural burns can be events that bring the community together to put good fire back on the landscape. 

Adam is gearing up for ski season by trying to stay uninjured. He has several backcountry ski trips planned to the far north and far east. 

The post Why Prescribed Burns Matter: The Role of Good Fire in Healthy Forests appeared first on Out There Venture.

Cover photo courtesy of Ammi Midstokke

I recently picked up Henry David Thoreau’s classic naturalist philosophy book, “Walden.” I suspect that most outdoors folks, knowing the transcendentalism of Thoreau is basically a rite of passage for any serious claimant of nature loving or minimalism, at least pretend to have read it.  

I wasn’t sure if I had, which is to say I probably had read enough meaningful quotes to pass. If I had read it, the meat of the matter had altogether escaped me, whether by my youthful inexperience at the time or a lapse in memory. Or perhaps Thoreau’s heady use of now-antiquated English lost me in the first paragraphs, much like the time I tried to read “The Federalist Papers.” (It was an ambitious response to the days of Covid, when Hamilton became the soundtrack of my life.)  

The summary of “Walden” is that contentment and meaning can be found in the mere act of survival. Thoreau was righteous in his arguments for such a life, considering volitional poverty a kind of freedom, but it was his deep connection to nature and his surroundings that brought him joy. For the two years he spent on the shores of Walden Pond, he wallowed in the simple pleasures of a well-made jacket, tending to his bean crop and the lost art of contemplation.  

Perhaps that is what’s wrong with the world: We aren’t spending enough time observing it or thinking about it. Which is decidedly different from consuming it through our usual means of bludgeoning by roadside advertisement, curated media feeds, and all the ways in which society screams our inadequacies at us with a relentless cacophony of not-enough.  

Which brings me to ask: Does anything bring us deeper satisfaction, connection or understanding than stepping out of that fabricated world and into the natural world? If we know this in our bones, why don’t we do more of it? What beliefs do we have that justify our collective suffering and destruction of the planet? 

Realizing this after a morning of busyness that mostly achieved nothing beyond a painful awareness of my vapid existence, I went outside to find my dinner and commune with nature. 

I spent the afternoon picking my way through the undergrowth in search of mushrooms. I found them, along with gratitude for the abundance of wilderness, and hundreds of new and independent thoughts that had been lurking just behind all the “productivity” of my morning. I discovered edible mushrooms growing along animal tracks, then discovered the paths of the forest creatures and their favorite places: fields of ferns and sun-kissed slopes, shaded ravines lush with moss, stony clutches turned by the curious snouts of boar. I felt a kindredness to them, a bittersweet reminder that we, too, are of nature. Only, too often, too far removed. 

Back home, the mushrooms were cleaned and baked in oil with herbs from the garden. They tasted of the complexities of the forest: millennia of soil and weather, the metallic tang of mineral, something earthy and rich and buttery. And as I put another log on the fire and watched it twist and dance, as if to call heat up from the Earth’s core in some ancient ceremony, I knew Thoreau was right. All we really need is food and shelter. The rest is superfluous at best. 

Ammi Midstokke lives mostly in North Idaho, where there are in fact no wild boars. Sometimes, she retreats to a stone cottage in the mountains of Greece to live off the land and practice contemplative knitting. 

The post The Lost Art of Contemplation  appeared first on Out There Venture.

Some runners perk up when winter rolls around, energized by crisp air, fresh snow and quiet streets. Other runners go into self-preservation mode when confronted with cold temperatures and a monotone landscape. Winter urges them to take to their blankets and burrow until spring. 

Whichever camp you fall within, making a winter running bucket list can make the season more enjoyable. As you check off unique-to-winter running experiences, you’ll also build endurance that will improve your running come spring—and you might create a new running tradition you’ll look forward to year after year. 

Sunrise Run 

Many runners thrive on the rosy-hued optimism that comes from running as the sun rises. But unless you’re a natural early bird, the wake-up time can be painful: In June, the sun is up before 5 a.m.! This season, schedule a run to coincide with a winter sunrise, which happens in the 7:00 hour in January and February. You’ll feel rejuvenated; you’ll still finish with your run relatively early; and you’ll get some vitamin D at a time when your stores might be low. 

First Snowfall Run 

Have you ever watched a little kid play in untouched snow? These young explorers show pure joy in exploring a never-before-seen landscape. You can feel some of this same joy this winter! Check the forecast and plan to be the first to blaze your own trail after a snowfall.  

Winter Group Run 

When the weather is unwelcoming, community is key. Plan a run with a friend or meet up with a group like Fleet Feet’s Winter Warriors or any of the area’s many running clubs. (Check out the Bloomsday Road Runners Club calendar at Brrc.net for ideas.) Runs pass by more quickly with company, and the darkness feels far less enveloping when you’re with others. 

Winter Race 

Force yourself to stay active by signing up for a winter race. Whether it’s a half marathon in a sunny state or something local like Spokane’s Partners in Pain, putting a formal running commitment on the calendar gives you something to work toward when motivation is low. With a goal to structure your runs around, it will be easier to stay active. You might discover a new favorite race or find that your winter race PR is faster than you expected. 

Make It an Event 

Friends and family make things more fun. If you are still building your running community, see what’s on the docket with the local running groups mentioned above. They likely have fun winter events on the agenda. Or plan something with your own running buddies, like: 

• A neon night run: Gather a group, plan a safe route and run decked out in neon and glow sticks. 

• Winter trail run: Visit someplace you usually only see in warmer weather. Notice the difference in the scenery, your pace and your state of mind.  

• Family pajama run: Run in your PJs, then get hot chocolate. 

• Galentine’s Day run: In February, gather some ladies who lunch run. After your run, have brunch or a crafternoon (or a “Parks and Recreation” marathon to celebrate the original Galentine’s Day).  

• Progressive run: Kind of like a progressive dinner (appetizers at one house, main course at another, dessert at a third). Do dynamic stretches at one house; run to a second house where you stop for water, fuel and a bathroom break; then run to the final house, where you have a post-run stretch and snack. 

Whatever goes on your winter running bucket list, the season will be more fun if you explore new things, stay active and spend time in community. 

Sarah Hauge is a writer and editor who lives in Spokane with her husband and two children. She is looking forward to her first snowy run this winter and is registered for a couple of spring half marathons.  

The post Winter Running Bucket List  appeared first on Out There Venture.

By Karie Lee Knoke 

Winter transforms the landscape into a blank canvas. Fresh snow covers the ground, softening every edge and silencing the world. But for those who know where to look, this quiet season reveals a secret language. Tracks, trails and signs left by animals going on about their lives. Tracking in winter isn’t just about identifying footprints; it’s about reading the story of survival written across the snow. 

The Art of Seeing While Wildlife Tracking 

The first rule of tracking is to slow down. Walk quietly, notice patterns and let your eyes adjust to the subtleties of snow. A crisp, clean snowfall is a tracker’s dream, capturing every step, slide and wingbeat in fine detail. But even days after a storm, melted and refrozen impressions can tell as much about time and behavior as they do about species. 

Early morning is the best time to head out. The light is low and slanted, casting long shadows that make shallow impressions easier to see. A hand lens or small ruler helps measure track size and depth, and a notebook or phone camera keeps a record for later study. 

Reading the Clues 

Each track carries a signature combination of shape, stride and pattern. The spacing between prints tells how fast an animal was moving; the depth hints at its weight, or the preparation of a pounce; and the symmetry reveals its gait. 

Deer leave two neat, heart-shaped prints, each about 2 to 3 inches long. In soft snow, their hooves cut deep and sharp. A wandering line means the deer was browsing for twigs, while a direct, steady trail suggests it was traveling between feeding and bedding areas. 

Snowshoe hares print in a distinctive pattern: two large hind feet land ahead of the smaller front ones as they hop. Their tracks often appear in clusters, each group marking a single bound. Look for them near thickets, brush piles or the edges of open fields where they feed at dusk and dawn. 

Bobcats and mountain lions walk with a smooth, straight pattern, often along brushy edges. When trotting, you’ll see alternating left-right prints. When stalking, they tighten up and sometimes overlap perfectly, called “direct register walking.” Their prints are round, with no claw marks as they have retractable claws.  

Squirrels leave tracks that seem almost playful. Their large hind feet land ahead of the smaller fronts, creating a leapfrog pattern that leads from tree base to tree base. Scattered bits of cone debris nearby mark feeding spots, often called “middens.” 

Following the Story 

Winter tracking is less about finding the animal itself and more about understanding its habits. Every trail is a mystery of motion and intention. As in a “whodunit” story, embrace the inspector role: Who? What are they doing? Where are they headed and where did they come from? When or how long ago? And why? 

Let the mystery unfold as you take in all the signs that you see, hear, smell and feel. If you’re following fresh mountain lion tracks, I suggest following them back from where they came, not to where they were headed. Best not to find yourself face-to-face with one!  

Spend enough time tracking and the forest begins to speak in a new language. What once looked like an empty white field becomes alive with paths, decisions and dramas unfolding in silence. You realize you’re walking through a world in motion, one that never really sleeps. 

So the next time fresh snow falls, grab your boots and head outside. Slow down, look closely and follow the prints. Every mark in the snow is a story of survival, and in reading them, you become part of that story too. 

Karie Lee Knoke is a wilderness and primitive-skills instructor and founder of Sacred Cedars Wilderness School. She was a contestant on the reality survival TV show, “Alone,” Season 9, on the History Channel. For more information, go to Karieleeknoke.com or follow her on Facebook @SacredCedarsWildernessSchool or Instagram @karie_lee_knoke. 

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