The Quiet Struggle of Finding Belonging in the Outdoor Community

There’s a certain irony in loving the wild.

Nature — vast, open, and boundless — gives us a sense of freedom, of possibility. Yet for many of us who spend our days scaling peaks, chasing rivers, or carving through snow, a deeper wilderness often haunts us: loneliness.

I’ve been an avid outdoorsman for as long as I can remember. Skiing, hiking, fly fishing, trail running, mountain biking — these aren’t just hobbies. They’re how I feel alive. I’ve traversed ridgelines in New Hampshire, wandered deep into Colorado backcountry, and even spent months living out of a van, waking up under desert skies. And while I’ve never had a problem doing these things solo — in fact, solitude in nature can be soul-fueling — I also crave community. I want the shared laughter around a campfire, the easy banter on a skin track, the post-hike beer with someone who just gets it.

But here’s the truth I’ve struggled to admit, even to myself: despite years of searching, I’ve never really found that tribe.

The Myth of the Welcoming Outdoor Community

These feelings aren’t about any one person or relationship, they are about the broader challenge of finding a community where you truly belong. From the outside, outdoor communities appear as vibrant hubs of connection. Instagram showcases close-knit trail crews and groups of friends sharing moments over enamel mugs beside mountain lakes. Yet, in my experience, the reality is often more nuanced.

Even when I’ve spent time in mountain towns — whether briefly or semi-long-term — I’ve found it nearly impossible to break into those social circles. The locals, the lifers, the ones who moved there for the powder and stayed for the lifestyle — they often already have their people. Their climbing partner. Their weekend crew. Their Tuesday morning skin-track text thread.

People might smile and chat at the trailhead, compliment your gear, or give you directions — but that surface-level kindness rarely turns into an actual invite to join their group or grab a beer afterward.

Why Is It So Hard?

This isn’t just an outdoor community issue. Culturally, making friends as an adult in today’s world is hard — really hard. Social media has created the illusion of constant connection, but it’s often surface-level. Everyone is busy. Burnt out. Guarded. If you’re not already in the group chat, getting added to it feels almost impossible.

But the outdoor world adds another layer. For all its supposed openness and chill vibes, it’s often surprisingly insular. Many people in these spaces value self-sufficiency, independence, and minimal obligations. That’s part of the appeal, right? You can head into the mountains and disappear for a weekend. You don’t owe anyone anything.

And yet — that same mindset can make deeper friendship feel just out of reach. There’s no natural venue for real connection. You don’t usually introduce yourself mid-hike — that’s awkward, even weird. Chairlift small talk is fun but fleeting. Trailhead convos don’t usually evolve into text threads.

So where do you meet people who want more than just a casual "let’s do something sometime"?

Online Doesn’t Always Translate Offline

I’ve tried. I’ve reached out through Instagram and Facebook groups. I’ve commented, DMed, followed up. I’ve seen someone’s trip report and said “hey, I’d love to join next time” — and sometimes they say “sure” — but more often than not, it never turns into anything. Plans fall through. People flake. Or they politely decline, only to post photos later from the same trail I suggested.

You start to wonder: is it you?

But I don’t think it is. I think it’s a bigger societal trend that we don’t really talk about. People are overwhelmed. We’re used to curated, controllable interactions. The vulnerability of building new friendships — especially deeper ones — is messy and uncertain. It’s easier not to.

And yet, I still believe most of us are lonely. Especially those of us who love wild places. We go outside to feel — to feel wonder, freedom, presence. But I think we also go outside hoping to feel seen.

So What’s the Solution?

Honestly? I’m not sure there is one — at least not a tidy, prescriptive answer.

I’m learning that building connection in these spaces takes a kind of persistence that isn’t always glamorous. It means showing up, again and again, even when it feels like no one sees you. It means reaching out, knowing the response might be silence. It means sitting with the ache of wanting something deeper and not quite knowing how to find it.

Sometimes you meet someone on a trail or at a ski clinic and there’s a spark — and maybe it goes somewhere. Maybe it doesn’t. Sometimes it’s just a moment. But I’m starting to believe that those moments still matter. They’re small signals in the wilderness: you’re not alone.

I don’t think we talk enough about how hard this can be. How even the most “connected” among us — the ones posting summit selfies and tagging trail buddies — might still feel a gnawing loneliness underneath it all.

So no, I don’t have a solution. But I do have hope. That by naming this feeling, by saying it out loud, we might make space for something real. That somewhere out there, someone else is hiking solo and wondering if anyone else feels this way too.

If that’s you — I see you.