IT WAS ALMOST A YEAR ago that the editors of Outside proposed that I dress myself up, head into the outdoors like some live-action bobblehead, and see if the seventies still plays. They weren't sure (or wouldn't say) why they thought this was a good idea—something about the magazine's 30th anniversary—but as soon as I started flipping through back issues, it became obvious: The outdoors were boss back then.

Circa 1977, when I was two, adventurous people saw themselves as "mountain ramblers" and "wanderers," and their style was big and lusty. In the photos from those old issues, men in thin wool turtlenecks and women in tiny cutoff jeans sat around gigantic campfires munching on roasted rattlesnake. In my favorite, three buddies—one inexplicably outfitted in full pirate regalia—fearlessly paddled a flimsy birch-bark canoe in front of what appeared to be the bow wave of a supertanker.

How much grass they smoked we'll never know, but the magazine's early writers obviously enjoyed themselves. Blissed out on steaming cups of sassafras tea, they extolled the virtues of darn near any pursuit so long as it was real. "Our hearts are set on more freedom," wrote one, "on being free in even wilder places." Another said he felt "the quick vibrations of the Earth passing underneath." I have no idea what he was talking about, except that it wasn't a seismic event. Regardless, they were in search of bodacious vibes.

Of course, Outside's seventies incarnation saw its share of gear geeks: guys with worn-out copies of The Complete Walker who were savvy enough to wear both Woolrich cotton and Woolrich wool, "a high-performance combination." These unfortunate dolts debated the merits of Bukflex II, Dacron, and Nylsilk, and then, to start the day out righteous after a night of "muskrat love" with a backpacking lady friend, served up freeze-dried eggs and bacon bits for breakfast.

Reading through those old issues left me wistful. Yes, everybody looked ridiculous, but they seemed to be having a blast. I think it's fair to say we've lost some of that.

People can be so grim now. Somewhere between the seventies and today, every outdoor pursuit became a sport. Canoeing led to rodeo kayaking, hiking to adventure racing, and Hacky Sacking to professional panhandling. These days, instead of innocence and enthusiasm, aggressiveness and training trump all. In my hometown of Boulder, you can't rent an apartment without a notarized document proving you have a VO₂ max of 60-plus. "Rocky Mountain High" has become Rocky Mountain Tri, and outdoorspeople, fit though they are, could benefit from a 10cc dose of mellow.

So we got after it. The editors borrowed moth-eaten duds from aging hippie associates; some friends and I spent a long weekend hitting Denver vintage shops, including one place, Boss Unlimited, that served complimentary Pabst Blue Ribbon. The transformation was completed a week before July 4, when I emerged as the tube-sock-wearing messenger of all that is copacetic.