From Backcountry Elitism to National Park Evangelism: Why Shared Wild Spaces Matter More Than Ever.

For a specific breed of outdoor enthusiast, the value of a wilderness experience is often measured by the height of the vertical gain, the scarcity of other humans, and the level of physical "suffering" required to reach a destination. This ethos, rooted in the stoic traditions of 20th-century mountaineering, suggests that nature is a prize to be won through grit and isolation. For years, Mikaela Ruland lived by this creed. A climber, skier, and owner of high-energy dogs, she viewed the National Park System with a skeptical eye, dismissive of the paved paths and crowded overlooks that seemed to sanitize the raw power of the American West. To her, national parks were "soft"—the antithesis of the rugged, lonely trails where she felt most at home.

However, a period of personal upheaval in her early 20s forced a radical reconsideration of what it means to experience the wild. After what she describes as "imploding" her life, Ruland transitioned into the burgeoning "vanlife" culture, living out of a Subaru hatchback with her husband and dog. A failed plan to vagabond through the Canadian Rockies pivoted into a summer-long odyssey through the American West, a journey that would take them through the heart of the National Park System. This was 2016, a year that saw the National Park Service (NPS) celebrate its centennial and welcome a staggering 331 million visitors. It was during this summer of transit that Ruland began to dismantle her prejudices against developed wilderness, discovering that the "surface-level" beauty of the parks served a profound, democratic purpose.

The tension between preservation and public enjoyment has defined the National Park Service since the signing of the Organic Act in 1916. The mandate was inherently contradictory: to conserve the scenery and wildlife while providing for the enjoyment of the same in such a manner as to leave them unimpaired for future generations. For the "hardcore" backcountry community, the "enjoyment" part of the mandate often feels like a compromise. Yet, as Ruland navigated the iconic corridors of the West—driving the engineering marvel of Glacier’s Going-to-the-Sun Road and watching the predictable but majestic eruption of Old Faithful in Yellowstone—she witnessed a different kind of majesty. She saw teenagers in slides, international tourists navigating language barriers, and families clutching bear spray, all standing on the same platforms as elite mountaineers preparing to summit Mount Rainier.

This democratization of the outdoors is the hidden engine of American conservation. While the purist might scoff at the crowds at Paradise Lodge, these accessible hubs provide a "gateway drug" to environmental stewardship. For many, the barrier to entry for outdoor recreation is not just physical, but psychological and financial. Traditional mountaineering requires expensive gear, specialized knowledge, and a high tolerance for risk. National parks, by contrast, offer a structured introduction. With smiling rangers, clear signage, and well-maintained boardwalks, the parks lower the "activation energy" required to engage with nature. Ruland found that even in jeans and flip-flops, the impact of a crater’s blue depth or a redwood’s height was undiminished.

This realization sparked a professional transformation. Two years after her transformative road trip, Ruland joined National Park Trips, a sister publication of Outside, where she has spent nearly a decade documenting the nuances of the country’s 63 headliner parks and hundreds of other NPS units. Having now explored 25 national parks in depth, her perspective has shifted from that of a solitary adventurer to a communal advocate. She argues that the "shared view" is not a dilution of the experience, but an amplification of its social value.

The data supports the necessity of this inclusive model. According to the Outdoor Industry Association, while outdoor participation reached record highs in the mid-2020s, there remains a significant "participation gap" across racial and socioeconomic lines. National parks act as the primary bridge for these gaps. On a recent excursion to Rocky Mountain National Park, Ruland observed a demographic diversity rarely seen on the remote, unmarked trails she still frequents on weekends. This diversity is critical for the political survival of public lands. As the U.S. population becomes more urbanized and diverse, the constituency for protecting wild spaces must expand beyond the traditional "mountaineer" demographic. If people do not feel welcome in or inspired by these landscapes, they are unlikely to support the federal funding and legislative protections—such as the Great American Outdoors Act—that keep these lands in public hands.

Ruland’s experiences over the last decade have also highlighted the human element of the parks. She recalls assisting an 80-year-old photographer in Zion National Park, helping him navigate the sandstone under a canopy of the Milky Way. In that moment, the park wasn’t just a collection of geological features; it was a theater for human wonder. She has led nervous first-time winter hikers to frozen alpine lakes and helped non-English speakers navigate the practicalities of bear-proof infrastructure. These interactions underscore a vital truth: the "soft" features of national parks—the trash cans, the paved loops, the visitor centers—are the scaffolding upon which life-changing experiences are built.

Furthermore, the "gateway drug" effect is a documented phenomenon in environmental psychology. The "biophilia hypothesis," popularized by Edward O. Wilson, suggests that humans have an innate tendency to seek connections with nature. However, for that connection to mature into advocacy, it often requires a positive initial exposure. Seeing a moose in the Grand Tetons or the sunrise over the Grand Canyon’s North Rim creates a sensory imprint that breeds a desire for deeper exploration. Ruland herself found that the "easy" views in Olympic National Park fueled a desire to return for more grueling backcountry treks to hidden villages like Stehekin or multi-day beach camping trips. The "surface level" experience did not satisfy her; it whetted her appetite.

As National Parks Week approaches, the conversation around these spaces often turns to the challenges of "overtourism" and the strain on infrastructure. While these are valid concerns requiring sophisticated management—such as the reservation systems implemented in Arches and Rocky Mountain—the fundamental value of the high-traffic park remains unchallenged. The "profound value in sharing iconic views," as Ruland puts it, lies in the collective memory it creates. When millions of people share the experience of standing before a glacier or an ancient sequoia, that beauty becomes a part of the national identity, rather than a private luxury for the elite athlete.

Ruland’s evolution from a backcountry purist to a national park person represents a broader shift in the outdoor industry. There is a growing recognition that the "suffering" model of recreation is exclusionary. By celebrating the parks, advocates are not just supporting the "greatest hits" of American geography; they are supporting the entire ecosystem of public lands, including national forests, state parks, and local greenways. The enthusiasm generated at a crowded overlook in Yellowstone eventually spills over into support for the obscure, unmarked trails that Ruland still loves.

In the end, the dichotomy between the "hardcore" adventurer and the "national park tourist" is a false one. Ruland continues to seek out the solitude of alpine lakes and unnamed peaks where her dogs can roam freely. But she does so with a renewed appreciation for the boardwalks and the crowds she once avoided. She recognizes that the teenager in flip-flops at the Old Faithful viewing platform is not an intruder in her wilderness, but a future ally in the fight to protect it. Celebrating National Parks Week is, therefore, an act of looking forward. It is an acknowledgment that by making the wild accessible, we ensure that the next generation of outdoor people—regardless of their gear, their background, or their physical ability—will have a place to start their own journey into the great, shared American wild. The value of the view is not diminished by the number of people who see it; rather, its power is multiplied by every person who carries that image home and decides that it is a place worth saving.