On the outside of the outdoorsy
Finding space for myself in open spaces.
Annabelle mountain biking on Galbraith Mountain on Sunday, May 7. Though only her second time riding, she was comfortable enough going out first on an unknown trail. // Photo by Francis Neff
Written by Annabelle Stefanoff
When the sound of my heavy breathing overwhelms all other senses, it is difficult to focus on feeling nervous. I learned this convenient fact on an early morning in April as I hoisted my borrowed bike up Galbraith Mountain, one burning pedal push after the next.
As someone who was voted “most adventurous” by my graduating class in high school, this early-morning spin should not seem like much of a feat. However, in the three years between high school graduation and senior year of college, my once-effortless relationship with the outdoors and those who recreate within it faced challenges.
When I began college, I had grand plans to thrust myself into the outdoor community. After all, Bellingham residents stake much of their foundation on the outdoor opportunities the area has to offer.
I quickly learned that, in a place with so many recreational options, the culture created by those who participate can feel daunting and inaccessible to those who don’t. Most activities in Bellingham, like rock climbing, skiing, mountaineering and mountain biking have high cultural, economic and gendered barriers to access.
I felt the lack of accessibility for the first time when I was hanging out with new friends during the beginning of winter quarter. The conversation went from dining hall food complaints to class stressors, both of which I solidly related to. Then, to weekend plans.
In an instant so quick I could only feel the aftershock, the group closed up and spit me out. I remember feeling the distinct discomfort that comes from awkward loneliness in a room full of people. Ski season was beginning, and it was time to spend weekends at Mount Baker. I felt a divide form between me and this group; a divide that unknowingly widened every winter that I was not on the slopes.
The same feeling kept returning. During my third year at Western, COVID-19 pushed most of my social interactions to the outdoors. In the expansive space outside my home, I somehow felt even more closed-off.
While longtime friends and peers took their gear to the mountain or rock wall, I stuck to walks in the arboretum and rollerblade adventures through residential streets. My lack of experience felt like a burden to my well-seasoned counterparts, and my lack of expensive gear left me and my pink, adjustable inline skates from childhood on a solo journey.
Along with these barriers, I felt isolated by my gender.
One of Annabelle’s riding partners, Francis Neff, overlooking the bay from Galbraith Mountain on Sunday, May 7. Francis has been mountain biking for a year and was patient while teaching Annabelle techniques like sitting back on the bike when going downhill. // Photo by Annabelle Stefanoff
Becca Marx, a 21-year-old neuroscience student from Alaska, mountain bikes and downhill skis regularly. For her, outdoor recreation is a way to connect with others and nature. She said she is more aware of her gender identity when recreating in outdoor spaces.
“My gender is a part of my identity that I think about a lot more when I’m out there,” she said. “I certainly take notice when I’m the only woman in a group of bikers or skiers. It’s not too uncommon.”
In Yvonne Krumrey’s research on “patterns of whiteness, racism, masculinity, and misogyny in outdoor culture,” she finds that these symptoms are a greater pattern of white masculinity being the “ideal” in the outdoors.
For people whose identities do not naturally align with the masculine ideal, feeling welcome or comfortable is challenging. For me, someone who is female-identifying and without experience, the unknown of these new activities is daunting.
“It’s easy to compare yourself and think, ‘Oh, I’m not going as fast, I’m slowing people down, I feel bad about that,’” Becca said. “But typically, I would say that very few people are actually upset. It’s important to get over that and have a good time.”
Eventually, I realized Becca was right. I also realized, more importantly, that whether Becca was right did not actually matter. New experiences and being around people who are different from me are an unavoidable part of life, and they happen whether people get upset by beginners or not.
As I prepare to graduate, each possible next step is tainted with the unknown. And no matter how uncomfortable it feels, I am not alone in feeling it. Everyone starts somewhere, even those who seem like lifetime pros.
Annabelle at the top of her first jump trail on Galbraith Mountain on Thursday, April 14. This is the last moment before she went downhill on a mountain bike for the first time. // Photo by Abby Andersen
These realizations prompted me to finally pursue discomfort. So, I got on a bike.
When I reached the top of the logging road and looked over the cliff of the beginner jump trail, my nerves returned. Before they could take hold, I dropped my front wheel, handing all of my control to gravity.
When mountain biking, I learned you should never have more than one or two fingers resting on the brakes. Because, if you reach a moment of panic and clamp down, the strength from your whole hand would slam them and likely cause a catapult over the handlebars. So, I hesitantly let go, knowing that coming to a complete stop was not an option.
And then, for the first time, I was flying.