Leon County, TX

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Surfing Rockaway Beach with Joe Falcone

The Case for Hiking with a Heavy Pack

It was July in upstate New York, and the forecast called for a hell of a day: unusually hot and humid. I planned to start my summit hike at dawn and left my farm while it was still dark. My border collie rode shotgun as my truck’s headlights illuminated the way up mountain roads to the trailhead. We would only be out for the day, but with my busy schedule as a farmer, recreational time outside is precious. I had flagged the date on my calendar weeks in advance and planned the route to a T. The night before, I prepared my daypack with all the things I’d bring to get the most out of my time outdoors. If all went according to plan, by 11 a.m. we’d be taking in a view of the Adirondacks while sharing bites of mochi.

I hike because it’s a chance to experience primal pleasures. For me, that means a hard walk uphill in miserable heat to what feels like the one cool breeze in the entire county. When I find it, I am staying put for a good while—sometimes until dusk, finding my truck by headlamp. That is why I carry a heavy pack. It has the magical ability to alchemize sore muscles and sweat into gratitude and instant nostalgia.

I love the weight. For a day hike, I find the novelty of discomfort that goes along with it appealing. I am only out for a matter of hours, and I know full well that I’ll return home to a hot shower and my comfortable bed. The burden of distance isn’t mine to carry, so instead I carry books and stoves and sometimes even a shelter. I’m not looking to cheat hardship. I’m actively embracing it.

My heavy pack, dog, and I would cover just seven miles of trail that day, but mileage wasn’t the point. We hiked together all morning, feeling the day turn uncomfortably warm. This meant a lot of water breaks. We rested near some puffball mushrooms. In fall, the foam balls turn into husks with spores that, when flicked, explode like puffs of smoke—which is why their Latin name, Lycoperdon, literally translates to wolf fart. But right now they remained intact as my dog finished her water and we continued on.

When we finally arrived at a well-earned view, I was coated in sweat and my heart was pounding. I flung off my 20-some-pound pack and soaked in the bliss of being weightless again among rolling mountains and puffy clouds before sitting down to split a sandwich with my dog, something we’d both looked forward to since dawn.

While she napped in the shade, I dug into my pack. This was the best part of the day. Out came a hammock, a travel pillow, and a beloved hardcover novel. I set up the hammock before making a cup of coffee on my stove and pulling out the thermos of crushed ice to chill my fresh brew. For the next few hours—the hottest part of the day—I swung in my mountain paradise, sipped iced coffee, and read a book about a lute player.

If you’re an ultralight hiker who made it this far into this essay, I am frankly shocked. I was certain I lost you somewhere around pillow and hardcover book. But I wasn’t exaggerating. I carry at least 20 pounds of gear for a day hike, and I do it with gusto. Sure, I like backpacks, headlamps, and boots as much as the next hiker with an internet connection, but I am a little weary of the ultralight trend. It’s borderline gear worship seemingly targeted at people more excited about purchasing outdoor equipment than actually being outdoors.

Making your pack as light as possible seems to be the new goal, even for people just heading out for a day. So many gear reviews focus only on this quality, suggesting the value of Dyneema over nylon, paring down first-aid kits, and forgoing cooking altogether in lieu of cold-soaking mush. When I watch a 22-year-old video host who could pass as a linebacker warn his viewers to be wary of the hidden weight of tortillas, I can’t help but laugh.

Listen, if consuming expensive thru-hiking gear gets you excited about being outside, enjoy your dopamine where you can get it. It’s your money and your hike. But I urge you, at least every once in a while, to be a draft pony instead of a race horse on the trail. Be gloriously selfish in your carried treasures! Bring everything you need to bake a pizza on a flat stone by a sunset campfire. Pack your tent just to take a nap in the shade. Tote around guidebooks and learn how to tell an elm from an ash. Bring a suit and towel to swim in a river. Or perhaps start by changing your online views to people who teach you about mushrooms and campfires instead of titanium spoons.

For most of us, hiking isn’t a race you can win. If ultralight is your thing, enjoy it, but make sure your entire reason for being outside isn’t to justify a purchase or test gear. Take time to savor the fresh air, the sunshine, and some sweat. Throw in all the creature comforts, regardless of how many ounces they weigh, to make the effort worth it. And for the love of Sisyphus, take some time to stop and smell the wolf farts.

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Your Next Doctor's Appointment Should Be Outdoors

Fifteen years ago, David Sabgir, a practicing cardiologist in Columbus, Ohio, tried something new that would prove to be revolutionary. Having spent countless years vainly urging his patients to get more active, even if just to take a walk around the block, in a moment of desperation one winter day, he asked a patient to meet him outside the clinic. “I decided I wanted this patient to say no to my face,” Sabgir remembers, laughing. “I said, ‘Can I invite you to join my family and me in the park one Saturday morning?’” His patient’s response was immediate and enthusiastic. “That was really kind of magical,” Sabgir says.

Based on the good response, Sabgir went on to ask other patients to attend a group outing. In the end, when he finally hit the park after the snows of winter had melted, Sabgir was joined by over a hundred patients and colleagues. Since then, this simple idea—walk the talk with your patients—has caught on with health care providers in nearly every discipline. The organization Sabgir went on to found, Walk with a Doc, now supports provider-led walking excursions for patients around the world, with nearly 500 Walk with a Doc chapters leading monthly outings in 48 states and 25 countries, on six out of seven continents.

Sabgir, who has personally led more than 450 outings, estimates that over the last decade, Walk with a Doc has helped hundreds of thousands of people get outside. Nearly 40 percent of participants say it’s their first time out [for the purpose of well-being] in years, if ever.

We caught up with Sagbir recently, as his organization finished its most ambitious outing yet: 50 consecutive miles.

Outside: You’ve just led the longest walk of your organization’s history. What motivated you to try for 50 miles?
Sabgir: The idea grew out of these 50-mile walks that leaders in American history have organized over the years. Teddy Roosevelt started it in 1908, to improve the readiness of American troops, and JFK and Bobby Kennedy picked up that mantle 50 years later. It’s now been over 55 years since the first Kennedy March, so we thought the time was right for a big event.

How did it go?
It went great. Collectively, we had 158 people walk over 1,700 miles. I believe 14 people did the full 50 miles. And we exceeded our major fundraising goal.

I’m embarrassed to say that I myself did not do the walk. Although my training went fantastically—I still feel the endorphins pumping from a 26-mile walk my wife and I did the previous weekend—I injured my back lifting a planter a few days before the event. Most likely I herniated a disk.

That must have been disappointing.
Despite being in pain, it was a ten out of ten for me. After the event, I went home and was pretty much flat on my back the rest of the day. Thank God the park was literally next to my house.

Our original goal was: let’s all walk 50 miles. But seeing the looks on the faces of our attendees when we announced that distance, I realized it just wasn’t right. A lot of them were thinking, I can’t walk 50 miles. We want them to be a part of every walk, so we ended up designing options for everyone. The goal became to push yourself: if five miles is a reach, we want to help you do that.

Over the years, you’ve inspired thousands of health care providers to hit the trails with their patients. Why do you think this idea has caught on?
My goal was pretty simple—just get more people outside and moving. Probably 5 percent of my patients were achieving the weekly recommendations, and probably 80 percent were not doing anything at all.

Initially, I didn’t think the idea was that revolutionary. I know from studies that walking or any physical activity is by far the best medicine. But no one was doing it. I spent months Googling this to see what other people had already done. I knew it had to be around already—it was too easy, and it made too much sense.

We were also at the right time in history. The internet had been out for, what, eight years when we started? So it was easy to coordinate, and cell phones made it even easier. We just got to be the lucky ones to ride this roller coaster. We added 189 chapters last year. And this year we are on pace to add about 20 per month. These days, I’m 90 percent cardiologist, 10 percent Walk CEO.

You say the couch is the dangerous thing. How much can something as simple as walking help?
To say exercise is the best medicine is a massive understatement. It is 100 to 1,000 times better than the best medicine.

There’s this negative cycle to inactivity, a cascade where excess weight leads to back pain, leads to bad sleep. I see it magnified every time I open the exam-room door: back pain, arthritis, sleep apnea, coronary artery disease, depression, anxiety. Being active reduces stroke and heart disease by 50 percent, depression by 50 percent, and Alzheimer’s by 50 percent. The answer is right there! The fact that we aren’t doing this before more invasive or expensive interventions is sickening. We aren’t taking care of what we can take care of easily.  

What kind of patients tend to join a walk?
It’s pretty diverse. A lot of times it’s people that may be scared about either a recent diagnosis or a family member with a diagnosis. And they may bring out someone, like a sick family member, that they are concerned about. But they are so diverse that I have a hard time categorizing them. When we’ve surveyed our walkers, around 78 percent say that they feel they are getting more physical activity then they otherwise would have without Walk with a Doc.

I’m constantly impressed by our walkers. I had one patient who came to the walk every month for years, even after she couldn’t walk. She just loved being in the park with us. It would warm your heart to see her covered with blankets on a 30-degree day, out in her wheelchair. She eventually left us an endowment that we have allocated completely to partnerships with medical schools, to raise the next generation of walking doctors.

Being stretched too thin is a common complaint of doctors. Why ask them to lead walks on the weekend?
People still feel strongly about their health care providers. For a lot of the 30 to 40 percent of attendees doing this for the first time, it’s comforting to have a health professional out there with them. A lot of them are scared to do this, even though the actually dangerous thing is staying on the couch. And they think, If my health care professional is out here with me, then it must be good for me.

Yes, doctors—really all health care providers—are stretched thin. I see in the range of 2,000 to 2,500 patients a year. Visits are 30 minutes each for new patients, 15 minutes for repeats. It’s easy to get nervous about your numbers. But, gosh, what you get back from these outings is so much more than you put in.

And what has been the reception among doctors who participate?
For starters, it feels really good to help your patients actually meet their goals. So that’s a primary reinforcer. But there’s also something special about being outside and opening up with your patients that I didn’t necessarily expect.

Typically, patients get a very brief allocation of time with their provider. They don’t love that—and trust me, your doctor isn’t thrilled about it either. People who go into health care dream about forming connections. On Saturday mornings, suddenly there’s time to connect. You get to meet your patient’s family. They get to meet your family. There is time to talk about the bigger picture, health or otherwise. You form friendships very quickly.

What a great thing to be able to offer a patient: Hey, I’d like to meet you outside of here—I’ll be at the park next Saturday, and we can catch up, and I can learn more about your family.

What’s next for you and for Walk with a Doc?
Every morning I’m like a kid at Christmas—you never know where a request for a new chapter will come in from. Australia, Nigeria. I want to stay in the game as long as I can, and I want to see thousands of walks around the world.

We now have partnerships with 25 medical schools. That’s part of our grand vision. We want to transform the way medicine is practiced, to make it more open, accessible, and rooted within a community. I hope that there will be a time, within my lifetime, when people won’t remember when they didn’t take walks with their doctors. There are around 855,000 doctors in the U.S. and so many more nurses and nurse practitioners. With a broad enough net, we can reach every community. That’s what keeps me going—imagining that this incredible, simple, powerful thing is eventually going to be all over the world.

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A Car Is the Path to Financial Ruin

Earlier this year, hedge fund billionaire Ken Griffin bought the most expensive home in America: a $238-million Manhattan penthouse on Central Park South. That could have been me. In fact, the only reason I’m not bathing in caviar as I dictate this to my manservant is one seemingly small but ultimately ruinous financial decision I made decades ago.

I got a car.

Well, okay I made some other bad money moves, too. I failed to buy Amazon stock in 1997, I neglected to sell Bitcoin in December 2017, and, perhaps worst of all, I went to college and majored in English. Still, the car thing didn’t help.

Ironically, the reason I got the car in the first place (I certainly didn’t need one living in New York City) was because of bikes. I wanted to be able to do stuff like drive to out-of-town races or go mountain biking without having to make lots of arrangements beforehand. At first it seemed like a good decision. Not only could I just throw the bike up on the roof after work and drive 150 miles to do cyclocross for the weekend, but I could also do whimsical stuff like pick up furniture from Ikea or go to dinner on City Island just because.  

Unfortunately, seduced by the illusion of convenience, I failed to appreciate how much money the car was costing me. In addition to all the usual car-related expenses you have anywhere else in the world (fuel, insurance premiums, dashboard bobbleheads), there were plenty of surprise ones, too. Not only do the potholes of New York City eat roughly a tire a week, but it turns out that dinner on City Island is actually pretty expensive. However, when you’re young and not responsible for anybody except yourself, it’s easy to write these sorts of things off as the cost of doing business as a 20-something in a dynamic metropolis, and in that sense, pouring 13 gallons of gasoline into a car you don’t need is no different than quaffing those overpriced cocktails you could have made yourself.

Of course, economy isn’t the point of cocktails. You’re also paying for the company, and the ambience, and ideally the serendipitous liaisons. In fact, going to bars and going to races are awfully similar in that both cost money, both involve throwing yourself into a pit full of relative strangers, and both leave you feeling like you got hit by a truck. Yet they also help relieve stress and tedium, so in that sense it’s both unfair and unreasonable to subject either of them to a cost-benefit analysis—and my car did carry me to some memorable riding experiences, I’ll certainly give it that.

But there’s another important similarity between cocktails and cars: they’re okay in moderation, but you can’t let them rule your life. And that’s exactly what the car wants to do. Like booze, cars lead to extremely poor decision-making. This is especially true when it comes to perhaps the most important economic decision you’ll ever make, which is choosing a place to live.

“You don’t need all this parking hassle,” the car says to the city dweller. “Let’s move farther out.”

“But what about getting to work?” you reply. “I need to be close to transit.”

“Transit schmansit! What do you need trains and buses for? You got me!”

At first blush, the car makes a compelling case. The further away from transit and bike infrastructure you move, the cheaper real estate gets. Sure, you’ve got the added expense of the car, which you’re now totally dependent on in order to get anywhere, but there’s lots of easy credit available for that. Plus, when you need a new one there are all sorts of leasing and financing arrangements available, including subprime loans that prey upon the poor. 

Banks and landlords may require all sorts of references and deposits and income requirements, but there’s always someone out there willing to put you in a nicer car. So it’s easy to move away from transit and tell yourself you’re making up for the inconvenience and isolation by getting a new car with a bigger engine or a more luxurious interior. But the reality is that every car on the road is basically a miniature Venezuelan economy on wheels, rapidly depreciating with no end in sight, and as soon as you’re dependent on one to get anywhere, you’ll be indentured to it for the rest of your life.

Planners and policy makers have been going with this program for generations now, and the result of it all has been transit deserts, income inequality, and sprawl. Cars aren’t a mode of transport: they’re Black Mirror-esque mind-fuckers that are trying to lead you out into the wilderness so they can kill you.

As for me, I must be the motorist equivalent of a social drinker; I never let my car lead me too far astray. (Also, having lived through terror attacks and blackouts, I don’t think I’d ever live anyplace in New York where I couldn’t walk or ride a bicycle to or from Manhattan.) I’m also very happy where I am now. Even so, if I’d never gotten that car in the first place—or if convenient alternatives like car share had existed at the time—I’d probably have made much better real estate decisions along the way. Maybe my neighborhood would have gotten hot and a landlord would have bought me out of my lease for big money. Maybe I’d have used that windfall to buy a place. Then maybe I’d have flipped that place for a big profit, and from there it’s just a few more savvy moves before you’re sitting pretty up in that penthouse.

Or, more likely, I’d have spent all my money on bicycle stuff—though more money for bikes is arguably an even better reason never to own or lease a car.

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