Who do you picture when you think of an outdoorswoman?
What clothes does she wear?
What vehicle does she drive? Does she live in it? Does she pull a tent out of the back, arranging it under the stars?
MAYBE SHE’S A REALIST, MAYBE SHE’S A dreamer. Maybe she’s an artist and the varying landscapes she crosses inspire creativity within her. Or maybe the changing landscapes are overwhelming at times. She wants to slow down and stay awhile.
Perhaps she has a family. She’s a mother, orienting her children to the world so they can figure out how to orient themselves on their own one day.
Or her children are all grown up, their compasses set. Her time is suddenly all her own.
She’s a biologist, a wilderness ranger, a computer programmer.
She’s grieving: a loved one, a relationship, a piece of herself.
Maybe she’s working tirelessly to share the stories of others. Or perhaps she’s articulating her own.
When you imagine this woman, do you see yourself in her? The outdoors is so special because it does not cultivate an archetype for the outdoorswoman. And while society is always tempted to shape us in its image, to create an “ideal” way to look and love and be, on our best days, when we’re out there alone in nature, we get the opportunity to define ourselves. Do you see all the possibilities for your own life?
I grew up in a small town in New Hampshire. My earliest outdoor memories include digging up potatoes in my dad’s garden and tromping through the woods with my twin sister and older brother. We didn’t travel a whole lot, but my dad took us on winding drives through our small state. We were encouraged to peek over stone walls and take the back roads home. My mother is an artist. She turns her interior world inside out by experimenting with new mediums: textiles, pastels, watercolor, pen and ink. My parents instilled in me a quiet curiosity and I’m grateful for that.
In college, I wouldn’t have identified as an outdoorswoman, even as I spent weekends hiking in the White Mountains and found solace on long winter walks through the city streets of Boston. I had no sense of who I was or what I wanted from work or relationships, but the time I spent in motion, in open air—that’s when I felt most at ease with myself. The pleasure I took from spending time outside was magnified by a deep appreciation for its beauty. Using my dad’s old 35 mm Pentax camera, I began taking photographs on those long walks and watching them come to life in the campus darkroom.
I graduated from college in 2008, a turbulent time in the American economy. Aimlessly armed with a psychology degree, I applied to grad school for a crash course in accounting and finance. From there I spent several years working at a “Big Four” accounting firm and then a venture capital firm in Boston. I enjoyed the stability of this work and the direction that came with it. I love problem solving, and accounting has it in spades. In my free time, I continued to hike New Hampshire’s worn trails. I escaped to Maine to swim in its clear, deep lakes. And almost every night I wandered my neighborhood with a camera, capturing shadows and bright spots.
By 2013 I’d lived in Boston for almost ten years, and I was starting to feel restless. In certain ways I was lonely, too. I lacked community, like-minded people whom I could share my interests and curiosities with.
Craving new landscapes and adventure, I made the decision with my partner, Jon, to travel in a Sprinter van for a year. We owned no house, had no kids. The timing felt right for us. I saved for more than fifteen months, and with careful planning, I was fortunate to be able to save money beyond my student loans and rent. I was nervous before we left. I was leaving behind my profession and I was only in my late twenties. As I packed, my landlady, a conservative woman in her sixties, asked me what neighborhood I was moving to. Hesitantly, I told her that I was going to road-trip with Jon.
Her response surprised me: “My husband was a taxi driver. He was happiest behind the wheel. When he retired, we were going to travel the country together in an RV. He died right after he retired. It was so unexpected. Good for you for doing it now. You never know what’s going to happen.”
We weren’t retiring, but I took her sentiment to heart.
I learned so much about myself during those months on the road. I redefined my boundaries. I discovered that I’m bad at recognizing what I need. I moved too fast and my camera shutter released too slowly. Sometimes the blurry images I took mimicked my headspace. At first I was afraid of almost everything, but slowly I found myself exchanging fear for confidence. I cultivated my most intimate relationship in a small space. I traced the Pacific and the Atlantic coasts by road.
My respect for the outdoors grew, as did my interest in trying new, adventurous activities. I hiked South Sister, the third-highest mountain in Oregon, and marveled at how thin the air feels above ten thousand feet. I floated on a surfboard in salt water off Los Angeles and tried to catch a wave. Day by day, I found myself a little less inhibited. When the trip ended and I returned to New England, I brought that feeling with me.
I started She-Explores.com when we set off on the road trip in 2014. My vision was to create a content site for and about inquisitive women in the outdoors and on the road. The inspiration for the site was multifold. In preparation for our trip, I’d searched the Internet and social media, but I couldn’t find many resources for women like me. I had all this pent-up creative energy that I’d harnessed in photographs that I wasn’t sharing with anyone. I wanted to find a community of women who love the outdoors and its beauty as much as I do, so I created a platform that allowed women to share their work and their thoughts with others. I hoped to grow an audience that cares about each other and celebrates our successes.
From the beginning, I knew my story wasn’t enough to fill the site. I researched and reached out to women who were inspired by time spent outside. I connected with writers, artists, photographers, and fellow travelers. I wanted to hear women’s stories, stories that historically have not been highlighted as often as men’s.
At first, the site and the stories were largely aesthetic, shaped by the romantic pull of the outdoors. But over time, I learned more about the outdoor space and its political and social nuances. Women actively carved a place for themselves within the outdoor industry by starting their own companies and spearheading grassroots organizations. The essays I received grew more reflective. They were honest and revealing, indicative of the transformative power of nature. After two years, I extended this vision to a She Explores podcast. It’s allowed me to have dynamic conversations about diversity, hiking solo, mental health, adventuring with kids, conservation, and more. After three years, I collaborated with the thoughtful Laura Hughes to start a second podcast, Women on the Road, which highlights life on the road from the feminine perspective. Audio is an intimate medium; I’m grateful for the women who choose to share their personal stories of adventure, creativity, hardship, and growth with me.
To date, She-Explores.com has featured hundreds of women and highlighted the myriad of ways they experience the outdoors. And it’s thrilling to imagine how many more of us are out there.
This book is a compendium of curious, creative outdoorswomen and travelers. I’ve divided the collection into groups: enthusiasts, creatives, founders and professionals, nomads, transplants, and advocates. But I recognize that we are not one thing; each woman featured is entirely herself, and yet there are overlaps in their interests. She can be a conservationist and an artist. She can be an accountant and a thru-hiker. She can be a climber, a writer, and a traveler. I like to think of the overlaps as the connections between us.
In addition to the personal stories from remarkable women, I share some of my own lessons from time spent in the outdoors and on the road. In the following pages you’ll find sidebars with tips on solo hiking, outdoor etiquette, travel photography, and more. It’s a healthy mix of practical how-to and honest first-person narrative, as told to me.
My hope is that the advice and stories in She Explores will inspire you to plan that next backpacking trip, on-the-road adventure, or transformative journey: whether it’s an artistic, entrepreneurial, or exploratory venture. I hope that by reading about their passions, you’ll dive deeper into your own.
You, a natural resource.
You who feels like the best version of herself at sunset when the air is crackling and the dirt’s between your toes.
You who, as the sun’s rising, promises to be quiet and let the dawn share its secret with the day on its own.
You who, at high noon, have almost-but-not-quite dared the sun to burn your skin, imagining the cracked patina leather it would someday become: signs of a life outside. But you know better than to dare the sun anything.
You who have pulled on crusty socks unceremoniously and brushed off those who notice.
You, who know that all the bruises and scrapes from scrambling and rambling are the best because they remind you of being alive. Someone may even point it out: “How’d ya do that?” And you shrug your shoulders, because you honestly don’t know.
You who have shed tears on the trail without really knowing why.
You who look at the mountains and think they must know everything about you, and you who look at the sea and are sure that it doesn’t care about you at all.
You who have surprised yourself by falling behind the group, and you who have surprised yourself by charging ahead. The trail is the same, but each time, you’re the one who’s different.
You who, however gracefully, made it. Sometimes it’s ugly, and sometimes you move across the water or rock and have never felt lighter.
You who smiles as someone tries to understand why you have to be barefoot at least some portion of the year, or come in with rosy cheeks and wild hair and dirt clinging in clumps to, well, anywhere it can get. And you who don’t really need them to understand anyways.
You who have found your remedy—you lucky girl. It takes some years to know about the cure-all of dried sweat and moon-stains.
You, a natural resource, supplied by nature, and made up of it, too. I am proud of you.
MADISON PERRINS
