That's Why We Go

When we started the Open Container podcast, we had a clear plan.

We wanted to show that the outdoors isn’t just a niche, that it’s part of the fabric of everyday American life. That’s true whether you’ve turned your back on the mad rush, living out of a van, biking Moab, skiing Jackson… or whether you live in New York City and occasionally slip away to ride your bike along the Hudson River Greenway.

The outdoors is not separate from us.

And I think we realize that more and more as we tumble into lives increasingly controlled by phones, AI, and social media. This world is always asking but it rarely gives much in return.

The outdoors does.

My first outdoor memories begin on a dead-end street: Conover Lane, in the little town of Little Silver, New Jersey, not far from a brackish creek.

When I was young, there were still horses in a pasture at the end of the next street. In my yard, an only child at the time I’d play under the holly trees. I’d go with the Bowies, our neighbors, into the woods behind their house. We’d crawl through tunnels of leaves under towering maples and oaks, remnants of the forests the first Europeans coveted when they landed here… and quickly cut down.

There was something grounding, something essential, about playing in those woods.I remember once finding a dead bird, both scared and fascinated by what lay beyond the safety of the house.

Most of all, I remember Billy Bowie. A few years older, he was the coolest kid alive in my mind. He had a banana board skateboard and wore a Davy Crockett hat. He took me into his world and showed me different tree barks, hidden paths, and one legendary place he called the Circle Factory.

I didn’t believe it existed until he brought me there.

I can still see it now, though it feels dreamlike: a place where we could climb into a tree and look down over honeysuckle vines that had overtaken everything. We’d pull pistils through the flowers, taste the sweetness, and sit in the quiet joy of summer afternoons.

Later, the outdoors meant the beach.

I’d go with my dad, spin-casting for stripers and bluefish off the jetties of Sandy Hook. From those long, quiet beaches, you could see the towers of New York City across the bay.

When I was in school in Boston, I found salvation in skiing: Franconia Notch, Loon Mountain. My friend Mark, who lived in Jackson Hole, introduced me to telemark skiing and a more fluid, artful way of moving through the mountains. I was hooked. Not just on skiing, but on finding a life in the mountains.

But the outdoors doesn’t have to be dangerous or difficult. Though, let’s be honest, there’s always a pull to that part of it too.

The outdoors is open to everyone.And I don’t say that to dilute the concept. Some worry: if the outdoors is everything, then maybe it’s nothing. But of course, it’s not everything.

It’s what you make of it. A personal relationship. A unique way to interact with the natural world.

That’s why we go. To find ourselves where we can simply be. Without pressure. Without performance. Not even for family, or friends, or loved ones. Just another creature within the boundless beauty of existence.

Or maybe we go with others to share in that communion.

The discovery of a new flower’s name.

A faster lap on the trail.

A summit we always dreamed about from some forgotten back road.

This basic way of being resonates. Across the U.S., across the globe. Especially now, on a smaller, rapidly shrinking Earth, we’re beginning to understand: it’s not just about saving the planet. It’s about becoming a better part of the ecosystem and understanding what it means to be alive here.

You can mountain bike Rabbit Valley. Suck your CamelBak dry. Stop to fix a pinch flat.

You can skate ski and learn the subtle intricacies of movement and breath. Support local clubs that keep trails open. Or head to a resort and carve silent loops through pine trees, cold air burning in your lungs. You can birdwatch in New York City. Go to Central Park. Maybe you’ll see a black-crowned night heron scoop up a rat. Maybe you’ll just watch the life that buzzes between garbage and gutters, beneath the canyons of concrete and glass.

You can go forest bathing; the Japanese call it shinrin-yoku. Just walking among trees. Letting go of thought. Inhaling the breath of a forest built on chlorophyll and rooted in soil rich with fungi and rhizomes and mystery.

You can be part of that.

You can climb wilderness peaks. Load your pack with everything you need to survive a few days. Press your hands against rock, face deadly exposure, and stand in the sky.

You can take your paddleboard into the Pacific off San Diego. Ride your e-bike through community trails. Run, and time yourself on Strava.Hike without a plan.Or plan a through-hike. Maybe the CDT, from Mexico to Canada along the spine of the Rockies.

You can throw a frisbee. You can geocache. You can paddle the Potomac and feel the tug of water so close to the Capitol.

You can bring your children to a quiet lake. Let them dip their feet in the water. Let them feel the miracle of simply being alive. Teach them to fly fish on the fabled rivers of Montana’s Madison, drifting downstream in a boat, casting to fat browns tucked under grassy banks.

You can hunt elk in the mountains, honoring a tradition passed through your family, or rediscovering something ancient: the communion between human and animal.

You can find shapes in clouds. You can simply breathe.There, away from the noise.

The point is this: How you experience the outdoors doesn’t have to be determined by anyone else but you.

That’s the beauty.

That’s the freedom.

That’s why we go.

Doug Schnitzspahn's Opened Container is a weekly column that highlights Doug's unique point of view on the intersection of outdoor culture, policy, business, politics, and conservation. To hear more, listen to Doug's podcast Open Container by clicking here. Let's get some.