By: Liz Dengler From where you jump onto the Chisholm Trail in Moab, you can roll straight into the line—smooth flow, quick dips, and enough technical bits to keep it fun. Just rip and enjoy the sun on your shoulders. That’s the line we took: down Chisholm, around Big Mesa. It’s easy to chase the fun when it’s right in front of you. But gravity’s a short-term loan. Sooner or later, you have to pay it back. For us, the bill came due on 7-Up. It was an early spring day, perfect for riding. Mostly sunny, a few clouds to soften the heat, and just enough breeze to keep the sweat in check. It should’ve been one of those easy, feel-good days, and the descent was!  Alas, right before the climb, I got tangled in someone else’s frustration. A couple of riders ahead started yelling about a pass that wasn’t mine. I caught the tail end of it, didn’t respond, and I just rode off, their frustration hanging in the air like the dust. It was one of those weird moments where you end up being the body people throw their anger at just because you’re nearby. By the time I hit the base of 7-Up, the gap between my partner and me had widened. Not just on the trail. In my head, too. I recently started a new project. Honestly, it’s probably a little bigger than I have any business trying to pull off. I believe in it, but that belief certainly feels fragile on days like this. The questions wouldn’t quit. What if no one takes this seriously? What if I screw it up in front of everyone? How do I ask people to support something I’m not even sure I’m ready to lead? How can I afford it? 7-Up’s not a challenging climb, technically speaking. There’s no exposure or big moves, just a steady grind. A perfect blend of solid rock, loose sand, and low-grade misery. You’ve gotta keep your weight right, your cadence up, your brain calm. And even then, the trail still takes more than it gives. It’s also the kind of climb where your thoughts get loud. You settle into rhythm, and suddenly there’s nothing left to distract you from whatever’s been gnawing at the back of your mind. That day, it was the sinking feeling that I might’ve done this all backward. Maybe I should have started with the hard stuff—figured out the funding, the logistics, the pitch. Built the scaffolding before I leapt. Started with the climb so that the descent would be earned. But I hadn’t. I’d let myself chase the fun. I dropped in fast. And now here I was, mid-climb, wondering if I’d run out of steam before I found my way back out. Eventually, the trail eased up slightly. I took a breath. My legs were still burning, but I was moving again. Not just on the trail, but in my head, too. Things weren’t sorted, but they felt less tangled. By the time we hit Mustang, I was wiped. The kind of tired that settles deep and doesn’t ask if you want more. The climb still wasn’t done, but the worst of it was behind me. The questions were still there, though they didn’t feel quite as loud anymore. That’s what these long desert rides do. They don’t fix anything or hand you clarity on a platter. But they do give you space to contemplate. Just enough distance to feel yourself shift, even if only by a few degrees. Enough quiet to hear yourself think, even if you don’t like what you hear.  The loop doesn’t finish with a descent. You have to climb all the way out. And maybe that’s the lesson. If you start with the climb, you earn the descent. If you start with the descent, you owe the climb. Either way, you’re getting both. Either way, you keep pedaling. Some things don’t come easily. Some things you have to build the hard way, pedal stroke by pedal stroke, even when no one’s at the top waiting to say good job. I still don’t know where this thing I started is going. But I’m moving. And for now, that’s enough.

By Liz Dengler We’ve all seen the photos on Instagram. A beautifully built-out space, uncluttered, clean, and bright, with clean-shaven and freshly washed inhabitants brewing coffee on a mountainside while they watch a glorious sunrise from their spacious abode, doors flung wide open. The pictures offer a sense of peace and belonging, space but connection, and make the lifestyle feel romantic and attainable.  I don’t want to ruin the image for anyone because, as a full-time #vanlifer, I’ve had some unforgettable moments. However, in my experience over the last few years of living full-time in a van, the #vanlife movement is built on an ideal perception rather than reality. Those Instagram shots are brief moments and more of an exception than the rule. The bubble burst comes when you realize that full-time vanlife quickly loses its glamour and becomes, well, just life.  I never intended to live in my van (named Hustla) full-time. She was supposed to be for weekend getaways; a way to enable the lifestyle I wanted while working full-time at an office. I built out Hustla on my own. I did everything myself, from cutting holes for windows to wiring electrical (dimmer lights, please) to running plumbing. I, quite literally, put my blood, sweat, and tears into the project. She is small but feisty, and when I finally moved out of the overpriced room I rented in Boulder, Colorado, she was ready to adventure. Of course, for the first year, when I still needed to show face at an office, half of our adventuring was finding stealth sleep spots around a town that hates vagrants.  When not living in Hustla, I was cozied up in my partner’s “deluxe” Sprinter van, sharing 90 square feet with him and a dog. Three years of living in small quarters with two other beings is a challenge on its own. Throw in the breakdowns, the heater failing in winter, the water lines freezing, and the endless dust, and you will quickly learn what it really means to #vanlife.  Vanlife is not easy, and the challenges range from the mundane, like cold dishwater, to the extreme, like your engine dying. I speak on both of these from experience. Hustla, my precious home/car/identity, with nearly 250,000 miles on the engine, finally left me stranded in the mountains of Colorado…at 9,200 feet…at night…at the start of winter. The #vanlife photo that influencers will never post is heartbreak on the owner's face when a mechanic tells them they need to spend 10,000 USD to replace an engine.  So, why have I maintained the lifestyle for so long if it doesn’t match the influencer pictures? Why take the risk? What is the point of living in a van if it can spontaneously die on you, leaving you without wheels or a home? As a pilot, it's easy to explain.  Imagine rolling up to a camp spot at night at the edge of a cliff. In the morning, you’re awoken by the light of dawn. Lifting your head from your pillow, you can see the windsocks showing it’s blowing in perfectly, and there is already a pilot or two in the air soaring. You crawl out of bed, pull out your wing, launch into butter-smooth air, and watch the sunrise from your seat in the sky as the earth fills with golden light.  Are you not sold? How about an evening hike-and-fly soaring session? You launch into an epic glass-off and soar wingtip to wingtip with friends over the lakes and mountains of Colorado and watch the sunset. As the sun dips down, you land at your camp (read: van) to enjoy camaraderie before crawling into bed. The next day, the same site is forecasted to work for the morning cook or a midday send. These are the pilot “Instagram” moments that I #vanlife for. These moments keep me coming back again and again—refills for days. Sleeping at launches and LZs, or having my home and gear with me should I pass a site along the way, is the drive that keeps me on the road. As hard as it can be, the benefits of vanlife make the challenges worth tackling. The breakdowns, sleeping at truckstops, and the sweltering nights at summer comps in Chelan, Washington, all fade away when compared to the joys of waking up at launch on a flyable day.  Vanlife is a means to an end. It’s not always pretty or frankly comfortable, but home is home. My van, is part of me. My home and trusty vehicle, she’s taken me and my paraglider on countless adventures. It enables my adventure goals. Even as life evolves and lifestyles change, I don’t think I’ll ever completely be able to walk away. I’ll see you on the road.

By: Liz Dengler In the autumn of 2022, my trusty van (Hustla) died on me. I don’t mean the starter or the sparkplugs went bad—I mean, the engine broke. To be fair, there were 243,000 miles on the thing; she owed me nothing. Still, I lived in a van for over three years, but even after my partner bought a house, I still spent an inordinate amount of time cruising around in my tiny wheeled home. I was heartbroken, so I made the difficult choice to spend the money to replace her heart; but, thanks to production and shipping delays, it was months before she was running again. So, I tucked in, ready to tackle a winter without wheels in my partner's house at 10,200 feet (3,110 meters). I spent the entirety of the previous March in France speedriding but hadn’t been at all since—come winter of 2023, I was itching to get back on the snow with my little wing. Unlike in Europe, no resort in the United States allows this activity inbounds. Luckily, there is plenty of terrain to speedride in Colorado; however, the best skiing and only legal speedriding areas are far back in the mountains. You could, of course, skin back to the sites, but skinning at that altitude is time-consuming and can leave you exhausted, meaning you may only be able to run a lap or two before the day’s winds pick up.  In preparation for winter in this remote alpine town, my partner bought two mountain snowmobiles to enjoy the mountain terrain come snowfall. Though I am not much of a motorhead, I couldn't deny the intrigue of using the sleds for backcountry access. I was initially nervous, having not been indoctrinated in the ways of the mountain sled. Sure, I’d ridden a few snowmobiles in Antarctica. But ridding across crevasse-ridden glaciers and massive snowfields somehow feels entirely different from rallying through trees, up hills, and into avalanche terrain. With goals of getting a bit of speedriding in before heading to France for our annual speedriding trip, we started getting out.  My partner gave me a few lessons, but to this day, I am TERRIBLE at riding a sled off-trail properly. However, I got practiced enough that we could start heading to some “nearby” spots ideal for short and safe laps. There is a massive community of people in Colorado that ride snowmobiles, and, as such, there are extensive networks of maintained (both groomed and ungroomed) trail networks. Luckily, one of the best speedriding sites is also the base of a huge snowmobile recreation outfit and has a series of groomed trails. Zipping along these makes for fast, easy, “Liz-sledable” laps from the LZ back to the top.   The laps in the mountains of Colorado are short, but it was great fun to get out after nine months away from the snow. The first speedriding flight of the year is always exciting. Since I don’t foot-launch anything smaller than my 14m wing, returning to my 10m Level Fizz in the winter requires a bit of a brain adjustment. Even though a 10m wing is generally considered large by riders who frequent the Alps, it's ideal for launching at 12,000 feet (3,657m).   Pilots in the States dream of lift access like in the Alps, and yet, with the sleds, it wasn’t far off. Turnaround times were fast (as long as someone other than me was driving); with a stuff sack and a quick toss of the towrope, you can be towed up the hill in about a minute. We’d launch from the summit, rip over other snowmobiles riding the groomed track, and navigate the slope to the LZ. With cornices, trees, and craggy mountains, the scenery was stunning. When the wind rotated, we simply switched to the other side of the pass, where the slope angle was lower, and we could get in several snowy turns before launching.  Lap after lap, sled-access speedriding was a great way to reconnect with the wing/ski combo and get some much-needed practice before France. My partner and I got out multiple times before leaving for our trip. I (sort of) learned how to ride a sled, we explored new terrain, and had several beautiful days of speedriding. I can’t say it rivals the slopes of Val d’Isere, but the snow was epic, the laps were quick, and the company was outstanding. There’s nothing quite like exploring your home terrain in a new way, and I’m looking forward to the adventures we’ll have this coming winter. By the end of this winter, I expect I’ll know a bit more about riding a sled and speedriding this gorgeous terrain.

Re-discovering Colorado’s alpine on a fly By: Liz Dengler Tucked into the high mountains of the Colorado Rockies, my backyard boasts some of the most breathtaking landscapes in the country. But after a knee injury last year, I wondered when I’d enjoy them again. The months of recovery were long and frustrating, so this past summer, I decided to heal both body and spirit by exploring the Colorado alpine, combining my newfound enjoyment of fly fishing with my old passion for hiking. What I discovered in those remote, pristine lakes was more than just gorgeous fish—it was a reconnection to the joy of exploration and a deeper appreciation for my own resilience. There is something alluring about high alpine lakes. Perched near or above treeline, the isolation of these pools of glassy water, hemmed in by jagged peaks, feels rare in the modern world. But one can relish the solitude and beauty along their shores, even if only for a few hours before the afternoon storms roll in. Many of these lakes hold populations of native cutthroat trout, making these spots a fly angler's dream.  These lakes are not for casual fishermen. They require a fair amount of effort to access and a decent amount of patience to net fish. For me, the effort began before I laced up my boots. After months of physical therapy, the idea of carrying fishing gear, water, and snacks up miles of steep trail at altitude was daunting. Yet, the prospect of standing on a rocky shoreline, casting at the beautiful fish, was too enticing to ignore. The patience aspect of fishing is more challenging for me to settle into. Standing in a mountain cirque, enjoying the views, helped me stay centered when the fish weren’t biting. The act of hiking became part of the reward of these adventures. I’m no stranger to knee issues, but after years with no problems, I’d started taking my mobility for granted. Now, after an ACL repair and months of rehab, each step felt like progress. The trails to alpine lakes range from easy to challenging, some with steep inclines and loose rocks, but all of them are in the thin alpine air. Feeling like I could trust my knee again on these rugged trails was a huge leap forward in my mental rehab. It gave me the confidence I needed to keep moving forward. Hiking to fish in alpine lakes transformed my rehab into something beyond a workout. It wasn’t just about getting strong again; it was about enjoying the experience as a whole. For me, hiking has always been more about the journey than the destination, following trails weaving through forests and wildflower-filled meadows under the towering alpine peaks. By adding fishing, to some extent, hiking became about the destination. Each lake felt like a reward, the destination symbolizing my recovery progression. The fishing gave my hiking a purpose beyond enjoying the views. It was about the journey, the destination, and also the connection to the natural world once there.  Before this summer, my fly fishing experience was mostly limited to euronymphing the headwaters of the Arkansas River. It was convenient—the river practically runs through my backyard. Fishing this way, I learned to anticipate where fish would be and how to sneak up without spooking them, and the sensitivity of the setup helped me learn the feel of fish on a line. But alpine lake fishing was different—standing on the shore casting a weight-forward line with a dry towards a ripple in the water seemed to simplify things. When sightfishing was possible, it was a dream, watching those beauties slip out from their hiding spot and sip a fly.  More than once, when shade or sun glare made sight fishing hard, I crouched on the shore, scanning the water for signs of movement or trying to discern what the fish were eating off the top (because it wasn’t what I was tossing out). Fishing into those conditions felt like a gamble; each cast was a lesson in patience. Whispers of 20” cutthroat lured us to a lake nestled high in the mountains down the valley. We packed our camping and fishing gear on the motorcycles and rode a couple hours down the highway before navigating 17 miles of very rugged and rocky road to the trailhead. After the strenuous moto ride laden with gear, it was a relatively easy hike to the lake, sitting at 12,000 feet. After all that effort, we were properly skunked. The gorgeous and massive cutthroat were spawning. Additionally, all the trolling fish promptly ignored our bugs.  We returned more than a month later to try our luck again. Though the fish showed more interest this time, the fishing was still tenuous at best. After hiding atop a boulder overhanging the water and tossing bugs for over an hour, a gorgeous fish finally slipped out from under the rock and sipped my grasshopper. I let out a holler that echoed off the surrounding peaks as I frantically scrambled down the rock toward the shoreline. My partner rushed over with his net. It was the first hook of the day and it was gorgeous—22 inches at least with blazing colors. Just as we were about to net the monster, it rolled three times, and pop ! It swam back to the safety of the boulder.  Bested but now hungry for it, I wandered around the lake to see if there was another spot that might produce a nibble. I left on the hopper that had coaxed the last one out of hiding, assuming if it looked tasty to one, it might also look tasty to another. After an hour of no luck, I wandered back to the boulder to try my luck again. On the way, I spotted a large fish trolling the shores. Without much hope, I tossed at it, and when it turned toward me, I crouched down to “hide” behind a pathetically small rock. “Eat it, eat it, eat it,” I whispered as it cautiously eyed my hopper. As it sipped the top, I set the hook, and it was on. Again, I hollered, and my partner ran. I netted him myself, a beautiful 20-inch cutthroat. He was the only fish of the day, but he made the trip worth it. As the summer progressed, these adventures became as much about healing my mind as strengthening my body. Standing in these remote settings, surrounded by silence and remarkable landscapes, allowed me to reflect on the past year. The frustration of injury, the slow progress of recovery, and the doubts about my abilities faded when I was among the beauty of these landscapes and unique fish. Fly fishing became a form of meditation. The deliberate, repetitive motions of casting, the focus required to read the water, and the anticipation of a strike demanded my full attention. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about my knee or limitations; I was simply present. The mountains, the lakes, and the fish became my partners in this journey of recovery.