Frontier Narratives And Why We Must Rewrite The Outdoors
Henry David Thoreau's writings on self-sufficient living, despite his reliance on others, serve as an apt analogy for America's early beginnings—built on the labor of enslaved people, women, and immigrants. Never mind the open secrets that Thoreau lived on his wealthy neighbor's land and his mother did his laundry; he was living the rugged frontier American boy dream, dammit!
This analogy highlights America's foundation built on the exploitation of enslaved African people, the unpaid labor of women, and the backbreaking work of immigrant laborers, which made the nation's infrastructure possible. It also includes the convenient "clearing" of Indigenous peoples through European-introduced diseases and genocide. These stark realities render Thoreau's romanticized "American original nature boy" narrative of rugged self-sufficiency laughable at best, and deeply problematic at worst.
Frontier myths permeate outdoor narratives and media, shaping stories in ways that hinder meaningful self-reflection and critical analysis. These narratives often portray personal growth or enlightenment as achievable only through solitary, soul-searching journeys. This framing emphasizes the adventurer's internal experience while neglecting the broader social, environmental, and historical impacts on the lands and communities they traverse. Even today, the individual setting out to the frontier and removing the self from collective traumas or responsibilities continues to be a common theme from films, documentaries, books, history, and magazines. Whether or not we actively subscribe to these narratives, we are all affected by them. They obscure a fundamental truth: that survival, success, and even adventure are not the result of rugged individualism, but of our interdependence.
No man is an island, but rugged individualism romanticizes these narratives because it perpetuates the cultural legacy of Manifest Destiny and the taming of the “Wild West”. Greg Grandin shares in his book, The End of the Myth: From the Frontier to the Border Wall in the Mind of America, the word “frontier came to suggest a cultural zone or a civilizational struggle, a way of life: a semantic change electrified by the terror and bloodshed that went along with settler expansion.” He adds, “What we think of as the West, since its inception, has been the domain of large-scale power, of highly capitalized speculators, businesses, railroads, agricultural, and mining.” In essence, nation-building wasn't accomplished by rugged individuals discovering and settling alone; it was backed by U.S. military force and treasury handouts. This project isn't a relic of the past—it's an ongoing process happening to this day, not only here on Turtle Island but also in Palestine under the Settler Colony of Israel.
The myth of rugged individualism is deeply ingrained in American culture and politics. Culturally, it manifests as the solo adventurer archetype—think "The Lone Ranger," cowboys of the Western genre, and the strapping Marlboro Man from cigarette ads.***The Economist*** described this figure as epitomizing "resilience, self-sufficiency, independence, and free enterprise." Politically, the term "rugged individualism" gained prominence in Herbert Hoover's 1928 campaign speech, where he framed it as a choice between American self-reliance and European "paternalism and state socialism." This belief—that individuals can "pull themselves up by their bootstraps" with minimal government assistance—has echoed through neoliberal policies for decades, championed by presidents like Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton, and Donald Trump.
The problem with these ideologies is that they center and glorify white, cishet men who embody, benefit from, and abuse privilege and power, like Thoreau. These narratives of self-reliance and freedom fail to acknowledge the white privilege and power that allow certain individuals to move freely without fear for their physical safety—a freedom denied to Indigenous and non-white people. This so-called freedom comes at the expense of Indigenous communities, who continue to face violent barriers in accessing their homelands and exercising sovereignty.
From media to politics, the myth of rugged individualism is now consuming us and the planet. We've witnessed this play out during the coronavirus pandemic, as some cling to their individual rights, disregarding the worth and value of others while ignoring the pandemic's ongoing impact. These individuals view vaccines and restrictions as unnecessary infringements on their personal freedoms—freedoms they're unwilling to compromise, even to protect themselves and their communities. The result? A devastating toll: 676,609,955 **cases and** 6,881,955 deaths in the United States alone—and the numbers continue to rise.
The outdoor industry has also played a role in perpetuating rugged individualism, particularly at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, in which Indigenous communities have been severely and disproportionately impacted. A clear example is the continued promotion of recreational activities on sacred Indigenous lands, like Bears Ears National Monument. At the beginning of the pandemic, these lands saw an influx of outdoor enthusiasts seeking escape, yet this blatantly disregarded the fact that nearby Indigenous communities were disproportionately suffering from the virus.
This complicity by the outdoor industry—continuing to celebrate adventure in places like Bears Ears—underscores how the glorification of recreation as "escape" comes at the expense of Indigenous health and safety. It's not just a public health issue; it's an environmental and climate crisis. The rising tide of rugged individualism is sinking us all. No amount of reusable straws, electric vehicles, or gear swaps can offset the damage done when the land and its people are continuously commodified and exploited for recreation.
The environmental toll of consumerism in outdoor gear and activities is staggering, intensifying the issue of resource depletion. Simultaneously, the surge in tourism driven by the quest for Instagram-worthy shots in national parks has sparked a catastrophe. This includes overcrowding, traffic jams, pollution, desecration of sacred sites, and straining park resources. As The Guardian reports in "Crisis in our national parks: how tourists are loving nature to death," our love for these natural wonders may be pushing them to their breaking point.
Events like the Tour Divide, a long-distance bikepacking race, highlight the complex and often unsettling implications of recreation and climate crises across borders. Starting at the open Canadian border, the race finishes at the militarized U.S.-Mexico border, where the violent legacies of colonialism, political oppression, and environmental devastation intersect. For many, this route is not just a path of adventure but a reminder of broken families, the desecration of sacred Indigenous lands, and the disruption of wildlife migration. The sight of cyclists posing joyfully at these violent symbols of nationalism is unsettling—particularly for those whose lives and lands have been irreparably harmed. It reflects a privileged indifference to the suffering tied to these spaces, exposing how the outdoor industry often glorifies individual achievement at the expense of marginalized communities and the environment.
This same pattern emerges in countless stories where self-discovery is prioritized over the lived realities of those most impacted by the violence of colonialism and environmental destruction. Much like Kate Harris in Lands of Lost Borders, whose bikepacking journey through war-torn countries along the Silk Road centers her individual quest for enlightenment. Harris's narrative rings “frontier of the self” more than a deep dive into the geographic, ecological, or geopolitical issues she casually opines on—without input from the locals.
This is not an isolated example. In bikepacking and outdoor recreation, we often see similar narratives, like those surrounding the Trans-Alaska Pipeline, where oil pipelines have devastated Indigenous ways of life, disrupted caribou migration, and caused environmental destruction. Yet, adventurers continue to glorify these landscapes, positioning them as mere playgrounds for personal growth and self-discovery. These stories perpetuate colonial ideals, granting settlers the privilege to use violently impacted lands for their own purposes while rendering local communities invisible. It's a stark reminder of how the outdoor industry and adventure culture too often uphold the harmful legacies of colonialism, allowing privileged individuals to benefit from the exploitation of both the land and its people without accountability.
There is no ethical way to consume the outdoors under settler colonialism and extraction. The idea of “escapism” or "liberation" through adventure on these lands, without critically examining our roles within these colonial systems, is fundamentally flawed. Furthermore, there is no ethical way to embark on a soul-searching journey while remaining attached to the toxic narrative of rugged individualism—a narrative that prioritizes personal growth over collective responsibility. Our attachment to these stories allows us to ignore the environmental and social costs of our outdoor experiences.
For those of us who recreate in the outdoors, it's time we dismantle the narratives of rugged individualism that push us into assimilating within a hegemonic culture grounded in white supremacy and patriarchy. A radical shift in how we express ourselves through the lens of the colonial gaze and the internalization of respectability politics is not just a suggestion—it’s our only hope for liberating both ourselves and the Land. The language we use, the stories we tell, and the narratives we perpetuate around the outdoors must move beyond erasure. We must embody the actions and belief systems that dismantle colonial frameworks, rather than uphold them.
Black, Indigenous, and People of Color artists, writers, poets, photographers, and activists have long understood the urgency of this work. We question and disrupt representation in media, challenging the colonial gaze that has dominated outdoor spaces for too long. The path forward is one where we celebrate storytelling that centers joy rather than pain, where we honor the cultural, linguistic, and bodily wisdom that the Land offers us—wisdom that does not judge, but invites us to belong.
This means approaching the Land in a good way: seeking consent, offering gifts of gratitude, picking up trash, supporting local communities, respecting sacred sites, and learning the history of the places we're guests on. These aren't just acts of respect, they're our responsibilities. Our interdependence with the Land requires that we act in harmony with it, rather than expecting the Land to change for our comfort or exploiting it for our personal gain. By weaving the Land into our stories and recognizing its sovereignty—rather than objects to be conquered or consumed—we start to shift the narrative away from domination. This shift is essential for decolonizing our experiences with the Land, centering care and reciprocity instead of extraction for our experiences. These ways of being on the Land are essential to creating a new narrative.
This is a call to reckon with the impacts of frontier extremism and embrace a more radicalized narrative, one that requires us to be deeply attentive to the impacts of how our privileges, positionally, and power take up space and how the language we use when creating and seeking "escape" on Stolen Land is often complicit in systems of oppression. Ultimately, we must dismantle and unsubscribe from the narratives of rugged individualism to create new narratives grounded in decolonization, reciprocal relationships, and stewardship—focusing on the simple but profound act of being a good relative to the Land.
