7 Underrated Ways to Leave No Trace in the Outdoors

Locals know that the Lost Maples State Natural Area East Trail is one of the most challenging day hikes in the area. The 0.8 mile climb required is demanding, to say the least. But it's also very rewarding and worth the effort, even for rookies and novices. After your heart rate has recovered from the punchy 400 foot gain in elevation, you are rewarded with a phenomenal view of the Sabinal Valley below. To commence with this challenge, park on the northeast parking lot of the park and take the aptly named East trail. Hike 1.29 miles to Monkey Rock to pump yourself up for the climb. The simian resemblance of this rock is uncanny. You can also take the Maple trail which connects back to the East trail. After the first bend, you may choose to free climb a bit and explore near a large crevasse. You can't miss the crevasse because of it’s attention-grabbing size.   Around the first bend at Lost Maples Chrstine HershKeep hiking about 2.7 miles along the relatively flat East Trail until you hit the warning sign. Pro tip: If you see a warning sign, 100% of the time it means you absolutely should take that trail. Warning sign = Go for it! Christine HershOnce you hit the warning sign, you can start mentally preparing yourself to ascend 0.8 miles up rugged terrain to the top. At first, you will see the trail stairs. You will quickly pass the trail stairs and use Mother Nature’s stairs (read: rocks), for the remainder of the way. You can always stop for a breather, turn around and look at the view behind you, or chat with other hikers until you get to the top. Many hikers turn around before getting to the top. Do not despair! Once you see the bench, you're almost there. This entire stretch is a great sunrise location. Only one way...Up. Christine HershWhen you reach the top, you are graced with a beautiful vista of the Sabinal Valley below. Walk south towards the scenic overlook (point of interest number three on the LMSNA map) for another inspiring view. This overlook is a great panoramic lunch spot for large and small groups with plenty of space to sit. Turn around due north and walk the return 0.3 mile path back to the East Trail. You will pass another scenic overlook (point of interest number four on the map).   View from the top. Christine HershMake sure to take a picture at the scenic overlooks before you descend the 0.35 miles down the valley on the rocky terrain. Be careful as the rocks can slide.   The way back down is rocky -- watch your footing. Christine HershThe base of the valley reveals a pond with plenty of shade. This is another pleasant spot to stop for a lunch break, located near Primitive Campsite C. At this point, you can either take the East/West Trail 1-mile back to the parking lot or take the West Trail to add on more miles. Since you are here for the hills and not the flats, you will likely take the West Trail 2-miles through dried up creek beds and woods. Make sure to stop hiking for a minute and listen; it's quite a relaxing experience. Most of the other hikers return to the parking lot via the East/West Trail, so along the West Trail, you won't have to see or hear crowds of people (and their cell phones). After about 2-miles, you will find another 400 foot ascent (this time without a warning sign!). The grade isn't as steep as the East Trail’s climb, but it is still a challenge and is just as rocky as the descent from the previous climb. The top of the incline provides a little bench to take a breather, a snack, or a nap. The trail continues on the top of the plateau and then quickly descends into the valley via another rocky trail. In fairness, Lost Maples does not have the steepest inclines in the world, but it is a good challenge in Central Texas that is easily accessed by Austin and San Antonio locals. The park is busy during November when the maple leaves change color but is rarely traversed in the off-season. Expect to see 15-20 people in the off season throughout the hike, particularly on the West Trail. During the inclines, your thumping heart and lungs will be thankful that no one else is around to hear you panting.

If you're looking for a hike less then two hours from the urban sprawl of Denver that's unfathomably gorgeous, yet incredibly easy to access, you've come to the right place. Each of these treks comes fully-loaded with manageable trails, flawless views of snowcapped peaks, and of course, mountain lake waters so tremendously blue they bring to mind Gatorade's most unnatural Blue#1 food dyes. Additionally, there's something to be said for hikes that end at the edge of a mountain lake. There's a level of satisfaction that comes with reaching such a well-defined terminus, and all too often—in Colorado, at least—there exists all the ingredients necessary for a sensory feast—the gentle lapping of waves, the awe-inspiring backdrop of 13,000-foot peaks, and the bone-chilling promise of a polar plunge in frigid waters. Here are four Rocky Mountain lakes to add to your Colorado bucket list: 1. Blue Lake Nestled between three peaks at 11,355 feet, Blue Lake is a 5.1-mile round-trip trail full of alpine views, rugged boulders, wildflower clusters, and marshy ponds. This is one of the most popular Indian Peaks Wilderness destinations located in the Brainard Lake Recreation Area just 13-miles north of Nederland. There's a reason everyone is trying to visit Blue Lake—the sapphire waters next to an exposed Rocky Mountain backdrop are ceaselessly enticing to every visitor. Bring your dog, lunch, camera, and extra layers for this adventure-filled hike. The winds can pick up at the top of Blue Lake, so a windbreaker is always a good call too. If you're feeling up for a challenge, Blue Lake has a cliff-jumping spot at the far end of the lake near the waterfall. Come early to beat the crowds and bring $10 for the park entrance fee. And stay on the lookout for moose and elk in the late summer/early fall seasons. 2. Emerald and Dream Lake This is an easy hike jam-packed with stellar views of Rocky Mountain National Park. At every turn, there seems to be another lake, pond, waterfall, or cliff-face that is bound to make jaws drop. For this reason, the hike can be very crowded, but the masses pan out once you reach Emerald Lake. Both Emerald and Dream Lake have clear blue-green waters to swim in, gnarled pines to sit against, and bountiful fields of wildflowers to “ooh” and “ahh” at. Along the hike, there are several rock features worth scrambling up for views of Hallett and Longs Peak . Most hikers consider Emerald Lake the final destination, while others continue onward into the backcountry. RMNP charges $20 per car at the park entrance (this pass lasts one week). Once you've entered the park, head to Bear Lake Trailhead parking area and follow the Emerald Lake Trail to the left. 3. St. Mary's Glacier and Lake When it comes to driving convenience from Denver (only 40 miles west in Idaho Springs) and easy trail accessibility, St. Mary's is the perfect option. Not only is it well-suited for families, four-legged friends, or hikers in a time crunch, the hike also includes a diverse array of sites and activities. Want to cliff jump? Hike to the top of a glacier? Ski down the glacier-packed snow? Or fish? St. Mary's has all of this, and more! The trail is only 1.5-miles round-trip, but there's also the option of hiking to the top of the mountain to view the lake from above. Depending on the time of year you visit, the river running beneath the glacier is a great place to fill up your water bottle and crawl underneath the glacier's icy exterior. St. Mary's encompasses scenic views in every direction as well as assorted hangout spots amongst the large boulders and sandy shoreline. There is a large parking lot next to the trailhead for $5. 4. Lost Lake Hallelujah! You can actually swim in this water! Well, technically you can, and should, swim in all of these lakes. But at only 9,786 feet in elevation, Lost Lake will have the warmest water compared to the other lakes previously listed. If you visit on a hot day, air drying on a rock slab is a reasonable option. This is another rewarding lake hike in the Indian Peaks Wilderness just west of Nederland. The 3.2-mile round-trip trail is a pleasant uphill trek to the shores of Lost Lake. There are also plenty of campsites right next to the water. With mountain views, turbulent rivers, and aspen groves galore, Lost Lake is another quintessential Colorado hike that anyone can enjoy. Plus, parking is free along the dirt road in designated areas.

People like their seashores. They always have. The biophilia hypothesis even suggests we’ve got an intrinsic attraction to the coast, perhaps because of how fertile this threshold tends to be: Across human history, living’s often been easy here (relatively speaking), what with all the clams, fish, bird and turtle eggs, seaweed, and beached whales to feast on. Whether it’s an evolutionary deal or not, sand and surf certainly casts a powerful spell over us. Of course, this also means your average coastline tends to be thronged and shackled. Big harbor cities, resort towns, highways, swarmed beaches, jetties, and breakwaters and riprap: That’s often the look of the littoral in the United States. But there are places where the roughness of the shore, the roughness of the sea, or some farsighted conservation efforts have thwarted development and left a primeval frontier of terra firma and saltwater. For the backpacker or paddler, the wilderness coasts below—some of the most back-of-beyond in America—offer the rare chance to explore places where the land margin holds a magnificent mirror up to the inherent wildness of heaving swells and roaring breakers. Obligatory Alaska Disclaimer Any roundup of U.S. wilderness reckons with the scale of it in Alaska as compared to the rest of the country, and this here seacoast survey isn’t any different. We’re excluding the Last Frontier from the discussion, only because otherwise we’d end up devoting most of our attention to its vast reaches of remote strand. Cape Lookout National Seashore (North Carolina) Wild horses roaming Cape Lookout National Seashore. Doug Butchy The hurricane coast of North Carolina’s Outer Banks reaches a wild pinnacle in Cape Lookout National Seashore, separated from the more developed Cape Hatteras National Seashore to the north by the Ocracoke Inlet. The barrier islands of Shackleford Banks, South Core Banks, and North Core Banks, separated from the mainland by Back and Core sounds, serve up some 112 miles of undeveloped shoreline, and hikers and boaters have awesome opportunities for primal beach camping. Nine-mile-long Shackleford Banks, where vehicles aren’t allowed, is best for solitude. The isle includes a remnant of Outer Banks maritime forest—dark dune-sheltered woods of live oak, juniper, holly, and other trees drenched in Spanish moss and vines—as well as sun-blasted grasses, saltmarsh, and barren sand. Keep an eye peeled for some of Shackleford’s 100-odd feral ponies, the so-called Banker horses descended from animals brought over by the Spanish. (Don’t get too close: They kick.) Check the National Seashore’s website for details on camping, plan kayak safaris with the Down East Paddle Trail, and avail yourself of a NOAA nautical chart. The Everglades Coast (Florida) Paddling Everglades National Park. Miguel Vieira Sure, the Sunshine State’s got glammed-up resort beaches, gargantuan sprawl, and galaxies of golf courses. But it also lays claim to some truly gnarly wilderness, not least in southwestern Florida’s great mangrove rim edging the Gulf of Mexico and Florida Bay. Fed by the languid rivers and sloughs of the Everglades and the Big Cypress Swamp, this tropical outback comprises a morass of tidal swampland, backwater bays, maritime hammocks, and mangrove keys: one of the biggest roadless swaths—and certainly one of the wildest coastlines—in the conterminous U.S. The northern portion of the wilderness coast encompasses the Ten Thousand Islands from Cape Romano southeast to the vicinity of the shell isle of Chokoloskee. Southeast of that archipelago sprawl, the big mangrove swamps (or mangal) and brackish channels where the Big Cypress and the Shark River Slough of the Everglades drain to the sea. Lonely Cape Sable with its mangrove jungle, buttonwood parks, and coastal prairie forms the southwestern heel of the Florida mainland, wrapping around to the road’s-end outpost of Flamingo in Everglades National Park. From there to the east rolls another coastal backcountry: the scalloped, crocodile-prowled north shore of Florida Bay, roadless all the way to the Overseas Highway to Key Largo. Aside from a few buggy trails in the Flamingo vicinity, the only practical way to penetrate this convoluted seacoast is by boat. The 99-mile-long Wilderness Waterway makes a popular paddling or powerboat route, but a challenging one on account of mosquitoes, heat, wind, and the mazelike nature of the country. Molokai’s North Shore (Hawaii) The dramatic shoreline of Molokai’s North Shore. Forest Starr and Kim Starr Not only one of the wildest seacoasts in the country but one of the most jaw-droppingly spectacular in the world, the North Shore of Molokai between the Kalaupapa Peninsula on the west and the Halawa Valley on the east confronts the Pacific with the world’s tallest sea cliffs: These pali, as they’re called in Hawaii, rear better than 3,000 feet from the surf at their highest, and wall off pristine high rainforest. Several almost otherworldly valleys breach this 40-mile-long bastion of Molokai’s “Back Side,” including the Nature Conservancy-managed Pelekunu Valley and the Wailau Valley, the beach mouth of which makes an unreal camping spot for coastal paddlers. Given the remoteness and the outer-coast conditions, kayaking the North Shore—a summertime activity—demands plenty of planning and preparation. Kauai’s Na Pali Coast (Hawaii) The sheer, razorback spurs of Hawaii's Na Pali Coast. Matt Wunderle A similarly sheer spectacle composes Kauai’s northwestern shore: the fabled Na Pali Coast, where slumping and erosion have turned the flanks of the island’s shield volcano into razorback spurs, toothy pinnacles, and grooved cliffs (which rise past 1,000 feet directly above the breakers, and beyond 4,000 feet just inland). This gloriously ravaged and roadless oceanfront extends some 15 miles between Polihale Beach in the southwest and Kee Beach in the northeast, the scenic apex being the pali-walled Kalalau Valley and its remote Kalalau Beach. The Kalalau and other Na Pali glens, their headwalls streaked with waterfalls, historically sheltered populations of Native Hawaiians, who used what’s now the Kalalau Trail to access these valleys when the ferocious surf of winter made ocean access too dicey. Hiking the 11-mile-long Kalalau today and camping overnight in the coves of the Na Pali is unforgettable, though you must tread carefully along the steep and switchbacking track, as it's downright dangerous in wet conditions. In summer, you can also kayak the Na Pali Coast, with the option of camping at the Miloli’i Valley, which is only reachable by boat. The Olympic Coast (Washington) Taking in just one of the thousands of gorgeous vistas along the sublime Washington Coast. Jeff Bartlett Spruce-topped seastacks, dark rainforest headlands, brimming tidepools, cobble coves, piles of whalesize driftwood, the gray rage of the North Pacific: the northwestern coast of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula offers backpackers some of the Lower 48’s rawest maritime wilderness. On this isolated outer coast, you may spot porpoises, harbor seals, and sea otters—maybe even a gray whale along its yearly Baja-to-Alaska-and-back odyssey. Two long roadless sections make up most of Olympic National Park’s seaboard: a southern reach between the mouth of the Hoh River and La Push on the Quillayute Indian Reservation, and a northern reach between Rialto Beach at the mouth of the Quillayute up to Shi Shi Beach. Major access points include Kalaloch and Rialto beaches and Ozette Lake in the coastal forest, from which boardwalk trails lead to Sand Point and Cape Alava. Long-distance coastal hiking here is rigorous: slogging on sand, grinding over cobble, skirting drift logs, and following muddy and jungly overland trails to round impassable headlands. A good topo map and tide chart are essential. The Oregon Dunes (Oregon) The seemingly endless sands of Oregon's coastal dunes. Michael Renfrow Given the overall ruggedness of the Pacific Northwest coast, it may come as a surprise to learn that the central Oregon seashore claims the nation’s largest tract of sand dunes. The so-called Coos Bay dune sheet stretches some 54 miles between Heceta Head and Coos Bay, much of it managed by the U.S. Forest Service as the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. Now, Oregon has a famously scenic coastline with plenty of wild character—storm-battered capes and headlands, shrouded spruce ravines, rocky coves of boiling surf—but highways (mainly 101) hug it nearly all the way. In the Oregon Dunes, however, the road pulls inland for long stretches. Off-highway vehicles are allowed in much of the recreation area, but where they’re forbidden—for instance, between the sand mouths of the Siltcoos and Umpqua rivers—hikers can easily find solitude amid the dune wastes, the soggy (and often mosquito-swarmed) pinewoods of the deflation plain, and lush “tree islands” of sand-encircled temperate rainforest. Summer backpackers often find themselves socked in for days by Pacific fog that turns the dunefields into a chilly dreamscape. The Lost Coast (California) Alone along the sand and surf of California's Lost Coast. Matt Palmer The highest and roughest mountains directly flanking the Lower 48’s Pacific Coast lie in California. South of Eureka, the rugged King Range looms 4,000 feet not far from the tideline, forcing Highway 1 inland and thereby fortressing some 60 miles of mostly roadless shore called the Lost Coast. Between the King Range National Conservation Area in the north and the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park in the south, this is the West Coast in the raw: raging surf, offshore arches, beach rivers, redwood ravines, shadowy Douglas-fir/tanoak forests breaking into grassy ridgetops with sweeping ocean views. It’s not uncommon to see Roosevelt elk grazing within sight of harbor seals, sea lions, and spouting gray whales. The Lost Coast Trail makes one of the finest coastal backpacking treks in the country, though, as on the Olympic shore, you’ll be challenged by tides, weather, and tiring sand/cobble hiking. Much of the 25-mile northern segment between the Mattole River and Black Sands Beach goes right along the beach; the southern Sinkyone section, nearly 30 miles of it, spends more time inland and upslope. Written by Ethan Shaw for RootsRated.

No season in North America packs a punch like winter, which means no season inspires such verging-on-religious gratitude like spring. As the equinox approaches, outdoor lovers can savor the vernal unfolding by spotlighting a few noteworthy natural harbingers. Of course, some of the best-known signs of the season include deafening spring-peeper choruses out East, desert superblooms in the Southwest, and early-flowering trilliums all over, to name a few. But what about some of the lesser-known phenomena those hitting the spring trails or waterways might come across—the swarthy swamp-cabbage, for example, or even a snake or two? Here, nature’s extra-special ways of signaling that spring is on the way. The Magic of Snowmelt How cold would you guess that water is? Anita Ritenour So snowmelt may seem an overly obvious sign of spring, but many outdoor enthusiasts don’t really pay it much mind, focusing instead on flashier symptoms of the season like flower petals and singing birds. But melting snow creates its own beautiful spectacles—and stark hazards—so backcountry ramblers should keep a respectful eye on the snowmelt. Wandering a thawing-out snowscape is tough and wet work, but it’s cool to see up-close: meltwater channels among (and within) the drifts; frigid pools and rills at snowfield rims; gleaming firnspiegel ("snow mirror") expanses where an icy lid overlays a melting subsurface. Snowmelt also behaves differently around trees, with those iconic “thaw circles” of bare ground around their bases. They’re formed because tree trunks absorb more solar radiation than the reflective snowpack and cause the snow around them to change directly to water vapor, or sublimate, which creates pits and then thaw circles. (In deciduous woods, they may be important green-up sites for early spring ephemeral wildflowers.) There’s peril, too, amid this ongoing, often stop-and-start thaw. Statistically speaking, this is the most dangerous avalanche season, given springtime’s lengthening days, freeze-thaw cycles, and percolating, destabilizing meltwater—not to mention the burgeoning numbers of backcountry users. Of course, snowmelt time also means high-volume, supercharged rivers that are hazardous—often impossible—to cross. But as long you’re steering clear of them via sensible safety practices, you can appreciate the temporary scars of those wet slab avalanches on the slopes and the roar of the barreling meltwater rivers as evidence of a landscape waking up. The Buzz of Bumblebees It’s not all about chirping birds: Buzzing bees make themselves heard in spring, too. manyamoon Their large size, heavy coat of bristles, and ability to shiver to warm up flight muscles mean bumblebees kick off the pollinating season early—you may even spot them careening around on a warm late winter’s day. In leafless woods that are still mostly clad in winter gray or brown, a big bumblebee makes a highly conspicuous harbinger of spring on its noisy, drunken-looking flightpath. The Curious Skunk Cabbage in Bloom It’s not quite as cheerful as wildflowers, but the flowering of the skunk-cabbage is nevertheless a harbinger of spring. Aaron Carlson Whether in a sodden hollow in the eastern backwoods or a red cedar swamp in the Pacific Northwest, spring comes early, bold, and almost unsettling with the flowering of the giant wetland herb called skunk cabbage. A bit of botanical background on this stinky plant: The eastern and western versions aren’t closely related, though both brandish huge, tropical-style leaves. In addition, the flower structures that often precede the glossy foliage—some of the first blooms of spring—differ. Eastern skunk cabbage shields its flower stalk within an infernal-looking hood—technically speaking, a spathe—of mottled purple; the western skunk cabbage’s spathe is a comparatively cheerful banana-yellow. The namesake skunky odor of these plants when blooming attracts flies and beetles, adding a distinct seasonal scent to the bottomlands. The Flutter of Spring Wings Once you know how to spot an osprey, you’ll be able to see them much more easily—especially during the springtime. Stephanie Pluscht Birds epitomize springtime like nothing else for many people: the pulses of migrants large and small through backyards and local wetlands, the riotous symphonies of love-crazy songbirds. Birders, naturally, love this time of year. But even outdoorsy types who don’t know a wren from a warbler can key into the vernal onset by watching for some of the big high-flying raptors clocking back to their breeding grounds. A slew of hawks appear in the Lower 48 this time of year, including a handful of relatively easily distinguishable species just about anybody can learn to recognize—two of them found across most of the conterminous U.S. and an exotic third one outdoors folks in the Southeast may luck out and see. Keep your eyes out for ospreys, those hook-footed "fish hawks" (or “seahawks,” for all you 12s out there) that winter in the Neotropics and far southern U.S. but start returning to North American waterways in spring to reoccupy or build their massive stick nests. Ospreys are easy to identify with a little practice: They’re big and slender, boldly black-and-white plumaged, and flap a lot in a jouncy, almost bat-like sort of flight. Watch one long enough and you’ll probably see its steep fishing dive. One unexpected winged sign of spring is that dark, tottering, low-angled V up in the sky made by a recently returned turkey vulture. These sharp-nosed "buzzards"—which evacuate much of the central and northern U.S. in winter, but often return on the early end of things—get a bad rap. But in addition to performing essential scavenger duties across their vast range, they give daily master classes in the art of soaring with minimal effort. Meanwhile, if you’re down in the Everglades or elsewhere in the Florida wilds in February and March, you may luck out with a glimpse of arguably the handsomest raptor in the Americas, if not the world: the swallow-tailed kite. These impossibly graceful black-and-white tropical birds, named for their extravagant scissored tailfeathers, return to the Sunshine State from South America this time of year to nest, and it’s always a thrill to see one looping over the jungle hammocks and pinelands. Serpent Emergence Watch where you sss-tep. Brian Greer Many species of snakes in middle and higher latitudes spend the winter in communal hibernacula, which are essentially snake dens. It’s not unusual for overwintering membership to run into the hundreds, and for multiple species of snakes—garter snakes, bullsnakes, racers, rattlesnakes—to share the same hibernaculum. In spring, snakes gradually emerge from these winter refuges, often situated in outcrops, talus, rock piles, or caves, and spend a few days or weeks basking on sunny warm afternoons before retreating back inside at night. While you’re out on an early spring hike, you might spot such lethargic serpents, possibly in intimidating quantity. Appreciate them from a distance, leave them alone, and they’ll do the same. Emergence from hibernacula tends to roll right into romance. You may also see "breeding balls" of snakes this time of year, made up of multiple males coiled around an impressively stoic female. Written by Ethan Shaw for RootsRated.