Outdoor Personality Quiz

Your bike and kayak easily cost twice as much as that rusty Datsun, but you’ve got your priorities firmly in check. Last year you notched 366 days of good rock, chunderous trail, and class V runs. College can wait; for now the “pre-application stage” for college and jobs is enough to keep parents at bay. For you, there’s nothing wrong with eating canned-food cold and sleeping in a truck bed if it means an epic descent or top-notch bouldering awaits.

You’ve been counting calories since you joined the middle school cross country team. There’s a stockpile of gels and goo in your pantry, and you can’t find sufficiently masochistic running or riding partners that can hang with you on the steeps. Your significant other sometimes feels widowed. But it’s all worth it, because come race day, you’re kicking everybody else’s ass. Post-race, when you’re writhing on the ground, screaming off a bad cramp, in skin-tight Lycra and a visor, it’s that gold medal that everyone notices.

You sprinkle flax seeds on your tofu falafel. You rock man-buns and Hindu tattoos with a confidence that makes the Dalai Lama seem like a squirmy teen. You’ve downward-dogged at 6,000 feet and sun-saluted in sweaty rooms all over the world. You think globally to the sound of Ibiza Chill Music. Your fit, lean, and flexible, although a little fragile. A good hike and some rock stacking is a hearty day in the wild.

You drive a hybrid. You buy the best gear. You’re getting a big dividend from REI this year, and all the boys down at corporate know it. You’ve bought a hip townhouse in the coolest city. All you have to do is give a Alexa a quick shout down and she’s pushing play on the Michael Buble while you pour choice Cabernet from a recent trip to Chile. Southern hemisphere glamping is first-rate. You’re a touch excited for that fly-fishing trip you booked in New Zealand. The haters may scoff, but they’re just jealous.

You’re a quasi-spiritual shooting meteor—here, and then gone in a flash. Your trail bud Pine nicknamed you Banjo, and you’ve gone by that moniker ever since. You’ll go anywhere and do anything—as long as you’ve got space to spread out and can bring your dog. You’re always planning your next thru-hike: The AT? The Pacific Crest? Why not both? You’ve got an abundance of time, energy, and underrated skills. Sewing, chili, philosophizing, and a mini guitar are mighty useful when you spend the entire year sleeping in a tent.

You resemble a young Robert Redford or Jane Goodall, and people describe you as thoughtful and responsible. You wake early and take long hikes identifying flora and fauna. You read literature, paddle a canoe, and wear L.L. Bean. You’re timeless and anything but square, because underneath your serene facade is a burning wildness and a Peter, Paul, and Mary sing-along.

Back in the 90s, you hung with guys named Buzzy and Moon Dog, charged hard in neon, and chugged brewskis while Eddie Vedder bellowed “Even Flow." These days you’re doing upside down push-ups in the family rec room and making business calls on the stationary bike. You’re the cool dad or mom who says things like “dawn patrol” and “shred." Sure, times have changed, but you’re still a complete fun hog.

Whether rafting, creeking, playboating, or tubing, you’re always going with the the flow. Every summer you lay claim to the same little plot at the river outpost. Guiding, boating, cash tips, and old friends are the quintessence of life. Your whip smells like river funk. You dig class IV runs, reggae, and Rafa Ortiz.

You’re the guy or gal that saves our ass. EMT, wilderness first aid, swiftwater rescue—your skills are many. Through countless hours in the gym, you’ve developed bulging biceps capable pulling whole families to safety. You’re a stoic motivated by what you perceive to be a harsh, indifferent cosmos. With your F350, you’ve made in-roads with the hook-and-bullet outdoor community. You can start a fire without matches, you regularly check the expiration dates of your five-year food provisions, and you have a bug-out bag by the door in case sh*t hits the fan.

You’re a connoisseur in tie-dye surrounded by hand-holding bears. You won the frisbee-golf league championship, have encyclopedic knowledge of craft beer, and can grow exotic gardens in the humblest apartments. You’re well-traveled and connected, making annual pilgrimages to bacchanalian festivals, where celebrants beckon you adamantly to their campfires.

You’re Instagram is exploding with strange hand symbols and gorgeous mountain sunsets. You wear Patagonia fleeces and worn baseball hats. You’re always ready for an adventure, although preferably it ends with a kegger beside a bonfire. A brigade of bleach-blonde sisters and overstimulated, shirtless bros would gladly throw themselves in front of a rabid bear before they’d let a fellow Greek perish. Kanye West at Bonnaroo was exciting for you.

For you, waking up the troops every morning is an extreme sport. You’re the fit and reliable mom or dad who jogs with a stroller, packs organic snacks, and herds a fleet of pets and babies into the van before most people have their first sip of coffee. Daily life is like an AT hike as you lug your kids through the switchbacking aisles of Whole Foods. Despite so little sleep, you beast on the stationary bike, swapping turns with your significant other like a Jamaican relay team. You can handle a mini-van on rugged forest service roads like a boss and have tolerance for diaper odors that would make Bear Grylls nauseous.