Hi. We're Suburban Dirtbags.

There are three wants that never can be satisfied: that of the rich, who wants something more; that of the sick, who wants something different; and that of the traveler, who says anywhere but here.”

–Ralph Waldo Emerson

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So, let’s get this out of the way: Hi. We’re two painfully typical moms who happen to love climbing, camping, hiking, and just outdoor pursuits in general.

What do we mean by painfully typical? Well, we work white-collar jobs (Whitney’s a teacher; Lauren works in marketing). We live in the suburbs. We drive SUVs, we wear relatively nice yoga pa

\nts, and we're bougie AF. 

The thing is, we’re also kinda stuck. 

Don’t get us wrong. We’re lucky. We know that. Our salaries, while not particularly impressive, are comfortable. Our cars are relatively new. We can afford climbing gym memberships and the occasional family vacation. 

But still. In so many ways, we’re stuck.   

You see, when half of the U.S. population was migrating west during the 1800s and early 1900s, our ancestors — for whatever reason — decided to stay put. 

And decades later, when we had the chance to hop on that metaphorical wagon train ourselves, we made other choices instead. 

We went to college. We got jobs. We had kids. And before we knew it, our lives weren’t just ours anymore: They were a root system anchoring our families and their happiness firmly in place. 

And that place happens to be less than ideal for aspiring (and excruciatingly amateur) mountaineers.

Lauren (left) and Whitney (right) at their gym in Alexandria, VA, training to climb Mount Baker in Washington State.

Yes, if you’re willing to drive far enough, anyone can find rocks to climb and mountains to scale and rivers to kayak.

But let’s face it: ReelRock probably won’t be filming “Shenandoah Valley Uprising” any time soon. Clint Eastwood most likely will not be directing “The Blue Ridge Sanction.” And Jon Krakauer will never write Into the Suburban Wild.

It’s lame enough that we’re two middle-class 40-something moms living in the most traffic-ridden regions in North America. Adding insult to injury? The highest point on the East Coast is Mount Mitchell, in North Carolina. Standing at 6,684 feet, it’s barely high enough to make your ears pop, if at all. 

Yes, there are some beautiful places here. But still, the East Coast, particularly the Mid-Atlantic—isn’t exactly a hotbed of adventure, particularly not for aspiring climbers or mountaineers. 

Oh, so why don’t we move to Colorado or Utah or wherever?

Lauren, making her way to the Mount Lincoln summit of the DeCaLiBron loop in Colorado.

Glad you asked. You see, it’s complicated and, yet somehow painfully simple.

We have families. We have kids who would be devastated to leave their schools and friends and neighborhoods. 

“Oh, families move all the time,” you say. 

“That kind of challenge makes kids more resilient,” you say.

“Kids bounce,” you say. 

Shut up. Because yeah, families move by necessity all the time. But from where we’re sitting, altitude is a luxury. And our desire to chase it will never matter as much as their stability, security, or happiness. 

Sure, one day, many years from now, one or both of us might find a way to migrate west. But for the time being, we’re here, situated firmly in the Mid-Atlantic. 

So, here we are. Two basic bougie chicks in suburbia, dreaming of doing anything but what we’re doing, and doing it anywhere but here.

The late Amy Winehouse once said that every bad situation is just a blues song waiting to happen. 

In our case, just replace “bad” with “kind of mundane” and “blues song” with “blog.” 

Whitney at the top of Big Schloss Peak in West Virginia, halfway into a 32-mile backpacking loop.

Here’s the thing, though: We can’t be the only ones. As members of Gen X (Lauren, albeit barely) and Gen Y (Whitney), we grew up in a time when young girls were still essentially being force-fed all things pink, a time when girls who did any sport other than cheerleading were deemed “tomboys.” 

Meanwhile, our generations combined total an estimated 117 million people in the U.S. alone. That’s roughly 60 million women in the U.S. who grew up in a society that, by and large, still believed that a girl playing with anatomically impossible dolls was more normal than a girl kicking a soccer ball or climbing a wall. 

Maybe it explains why, during a recent backpacking trip, we didn’t encounter any other women while back-country camping.

Or why, when we signed up for a guided trip to climb Mount Baker in July 2025, we were two of only three women in a 15-person group. 

Or why it’s still freaking impossible to avoid the colors pink, purple, or seafoam green in the women’s clothing and shoe sections of REI.  

Or why, when we tell other mothers our age that we want to camp and climb and summit mountains, they look at us with raised eyebrows and what often feels like, at best, a sense of bemusement. (And at worst, judgment.) 

It shouldn’t be such a damned novelty for a mom in her 30s or 40s to decide she wants to accomplish things outdoors. 

Lauren top-roping in Great Falls, Virginia.

And that’s why we’re here. Our lives are firmly entwined with circumstances that are less than optimal for the things we want to do and the people we want to be. But we’ve decided to do everything we can to do those things and be those people anyway. 

We want to climb mountains. We want to learn about multi-pitch climbing. We want to ice climb. We want to whitewater kayak and run ultramarathons and bag as many fourteeners as possible (and, in Lauren’s case, maybe finally do a single freaking pull-up). Whitney wants to ski more. (And Lauren’s son wants Whitney to teach her how to navigate the bunny slopes without sustaining a concussion or inflicting one on someone else.)

It’s going to cost money, and, because we have limited disposable income, that’s going to require sacrificing in other areas. (Lauren, in particular, is less than optimistic about her ability to steer clear of the sale section of Anthropologie. Whitney has infinitely better self-control.) 

And, at times, it’s going to require working some scheduling wizardry. In addition to being moms with full-time jobs, Whitney is a dedicated runner and Lauren works part-time as an instructor at a climbing gym. Altogether, that means our free time is at a premium.

Oh, and we’re not in our 20s anymore, which means our bodies no longer exhibit the impermeability of kevlar or the flexibility of rubber bands. So it’s probably going to require a whole lotta naproxen and ibuprofen. 

Whitney, in some place outside that she hasn't identified to Lauren yet.

But we have to do it. We’ve wasted far too much time not doing these things. And with our kids finally capable of reaching the start button on the microwave, now seems like as good a time as any.

We might totally fail. We might be so overcome by the busyness of our lives—or the arthritis in our assorted lower joints—that we lose whatever fire this is in our proverbial bellies. But we’d rather regret trying and losing steam than not trying at all. 

So … here we go.