I love being outside. I blame my small-town Alaskan upbringing for that. Or the wildlife-worshipping hippie types that I was exposed to as a young child. Or perhaps it was my privileged access to bikes, skis, paddles and a vehicle to get me to wild places.

I even turned out to be an environmental studies major: I’m supposed to intrinsically love everything that has to do with the natural world.
Yes, nature is my friend. But this year, as I sat through my fourth (and final) BANFF Mountain Film Festival in Cordiner Hall on January 19, I didn’t feel myself slip into that familiar collective worship of all-things-natural-and-outdoorsy.

Watching, from the safety of my seat, the adrenaline junkies on the screen hit the slopes, flip their kayaks or wedge their hands into rock crevices, I was hit with a guilty epiphany: sometimes, I just love being inside.

I don’t often admit how glad I am to escape from the outdoors. Four walls, a roof over my head and separation from the elements.
Is it blasphemy to proclaim a certain love for the unnatural world? I adore sunsets, green trees and rushing rivers, but I also love safety, security and the comforts offered by human society.

I like thick blankets and real beds. Electricity and running water (I’ve lived in a place without either, and life is truly more complicated).
To hell with it: modern conveniences are brilliant.

I love the outdoors, but not enough to forgo the comforts of the indoor world. Sometimes, my favorite part of an expedition is getting to the cabin, building that fire and hunkering down. Or getting back to the car, blasting the tunes and heading back to civilization.

I love my tent, but I wouldn’t want to live in it. Camp cooking is fun and presents an exciting culinary challenge, but it sure is nice to use an electric range with a full set of utensils. Or sometimes (gasp), even a microwave.

Minimalist camping? Sure, if it’s for a minimal duration. When it comes down to it, I’ll take my exposure to the elements in humble dosages. Sometimes, I’ll be content to experience it vicariously through a window, or on a screen.

No matter how much I enjoy adventuring in the outdoors with nothing but a pack on my back, spending time in tents and sleeping bags, I just never have any intentions of staying outside forever. After a long trip, it is always indescribably wonderful to be home.

I feel like a criminal, fessing up to my gratitude for the indoors. My shameful appreciation for ease and comfort.

But perhaps this is only the pressure of my major, or my Alaskanness, or my closet full of outdoor gear talking.

While I believe our culture has become overly accustomed to convenience, I don’t believe we humans were built for constant exposure to the elements. Even the most rugged outdoor enthusiast must appreciate a mattress, a hot meal and occasional access to the internet.

Being out in nature has taught me a lot. It has also brought me discomfort and pain. What puzzles me still is the strange pressure I feel to gloss over that fact.

Must I pretend that outdoor adventuring is the only pure form of existence, complete with magical wilderness but also near-frostbite and rationing granola bars? I’ll take nature in all its glory…then, retreat to safety and a warm house. I’m an outdoorswoman. I also like to be inside. The two do not need to be mutually exclusive.