Language matters: How common outdoorsy terms like "bagging peaks" are rooted in a colonial mindset

Every time I hear fellow white people outdoorsy terms and phrases like “bagging peaks” or “the outdoors is our playground,” I pause and then cringe.

I know people mean them casually, but these words reflect something deeper—a mindset that treats land as something to conquer, claim, and consume, rather than something to respect, revere, and live in relationship with.

Let's be crystal clear: I'm not saying you can't play in nature, and I'm not saying you can't be proud of summiting mountains or your outdoor accomplishments. This is not about the acts themselves, but rather the language we use to talk about them.

If reading this post makes you, as a white person, feel uncomfortable, that's okay! Discomfort isn’t oppression. It’s part of the work. Anti-racism work and deconstructing colonialist beliefs is not supposed to make white people feel comfortable—it’s supposed to dismantle harm. That dismantling starts with being able to hear hard truths without making them about us.

Before you roll your eyes and close this article because you think it's "not that deep," I guarantee you: It is that deep. This isn’t just semantics. It’s about how the U.S. outdoor community was built (by and for white people, on stolen Indigenous land) and how our words carry that legacy forward, even today.

As Governor Tim Walz said: “The road to authoritarianism is littered with people telling you that you’re overreacting.”

Note: This article is written by a white person, FOR white people, specifically. If you're not white, I have no business recommending what words you should or should not use. Kindly disregard :)

1. The colonial roots of “conquering nature”

Outdoor recreation in settler-colonial societies has long framed nature as a space to dominate. National parks were created by forcibly removing Indigenous peoples from their ancestral lands. Climbing and mountaineering lore celebrates “first ascents” as feats of personal glory, ignoring that Indigenous communities had lived with and traveled those mountains for millennia.

As Lilli Garza of Drawstring Magazine puts it:

“The colonizer mindset lives on within the culture of outdoor recreation… the urge to conquer is descendent from the colonizers, resulting in degradation of Indigenous lands and limited access for Indigenous groups.”

Similarly, Erin Monahan of Terrain Cognita Media calls out the toxic entitlement embedded in certain outdoor phrases:

“Toxic masculinity in the outdoor industry reflects rape culture, manifesting through a mindset of ‘conquering’ nature and ‘peak-bagging.’”

Even when we don’t intend harm, this language echoes a worldview where nature is an obstacle to overcome or a trophy to collect. This is a worldview born from colonialism and extractive relationships to land.

2. This is a white-people issue

One of the comments I get from people whenever I talk about this online is: Why are you picking on white people? My answer is simple: This is a white people issue (and also, this isn't "picking on" white people).

Here's the thing: The U.S. outdoor industry—from our national parks system to mainstream hiking and climbing culture—has long centered white comfort and white access.

People of color, especially Indigenous and Black communities, have been systematically excluded from outdoor spaces through laws, social violence, and ongoing gatekeeping. This is not an opinion; this is a fact.

Melanin Base Camp writes:

“People of Color have been excluded from full participation in nature spaces since European colonists arrived on Turtle Island… As white settlers rewrote the narrative of this land to serve themselves, their colonial imagination positioned white people as landowners while restricting the rights and freedom of movement of everyone else.”

Even today, much of outdoor knowledge (like how to secure backcountry permits, what gear to buy, or which areas feel safe) is “hidden knowledge” often passed and kept within white networks.

So when white outdoor enthusiasts casually say they’ve “bagged a peak” or that nature is “our playground,” it doesn’t land neutrally. It exists within the context of these larger societal issues. It reinforces a narrative that white people not only dominate the outdoors but dictate who gets to belong there and how.

3. Why this language is harmful

Language shapes how we think and how we act. When we talk about “bagging peaks,” we position land as something to take, mark, and leave behind. When we call nature “our playground,” we make it sound like a space designed solely for our pleasure and use, not a living ecosystem with its own rights and relationships.

In other words, land has always been full of life, culture, and knowledge, not a blank slate to be conquered or commodified. Yet colonialism reframed it as empty, waiting to be claimed, played on, or conquered, and our language continues to echo that lie.

4. Why language matters so much

Language isn’t neutral. It shapes how we see the world, how we treat each other, and what behaviors we normalize. Words carry history, power, and perspective. When we repeat certain phrases without questioning them, we keep old systems of harm alive. Language shifts are often the first quieter shifts we see happening in the decent into dangerous ideals like fascism and white supremacy.

In the outdoors, phrases like “bagging peaks” or “nature is our playground” might seem harmless, even celebratory to some. But they’re rooted in a worldview shaped by colonialism, conquest, and entitlement to land.

That mindset is what allowed settlers to claim stolen territories, force Indigenous people out, and commodify nature for white enjoyment. The language we use today reflects those same ideas, whether we intend it or not.

As scholar Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o writes in Decolonising the Mind:

“Language carries culture, and culture carries, particularly through orature and literature, the entire body of values by which we come to perceive ourselves and our place in the world.”

So, when white outdoor communities use language rooted in conquest, we reinforce a narrative where:

• Nature exists to serve us instead of us having responsibilities to it.

• Access and belonging are determined by white norms, ignoring Indigenous and non-white relationships with land.

• The history of dispossession and harm gets erased, making it easier to repeat.

Words carry power. Especially when those in authority or positions of power dictate which narratives get told or erased.

Let's look at a few really recent examples of how this shows up IRL:

• The Trump administration issued directives to scrub language from national parks and monuments that it deemed “too negative,” “divisive,” or “not patriotic.” Signs were removed, exhibits shut down, and language promoting the realities of racism, systemic oppression, and diverse histories was stripped away. 

• The National Park Service wiped transgender, queer, and slavery-related content from sites like the Stonewall National Monument and Harriet Tubman/Underground Railroad exhibits, effectively censoring LGBTQ and Black history. 

• At Muir Woods, an exhibit highlighting Indigenous contributions and colonial violence was removed under similar directives. 

Image source

These actions aren’t neutral. Language (and the censorship of it) can rewrite history, erase marginalized voices, and protect comfort over truth. That’s tone policing on a national scale.

Changing how we speak is not just “political correctness.” It’s part of dismantling harmful systems, disrupting colonial narratives, and making room for perspectives that have long been silenced. Choosing different words is one small but powerful way to honor the land, respect its original stewards, and reshape outdoor culture toward justice and care. Changing the language we use is such a small yet impactful thing we can do to make a difference. There's really no excuse not to once you know its harm and impact.

5. What I’m not saying

This is where people often misunderstand me. Again, I’m not saying you shouldn’t hike. I’m not saying you can’t summit mountains, push your limits, or have fun outside. I'm not saying you can't play and explore. What I am saying is this: As white people, we just need to be mindful of the language we use.

We need to ask:

• Does this phrase honor the land and its history?

• Or does it repeat colonial patterns of dominance and entitlement?

The problem isn’t loving adventure. The problem is repeating harmful narratives and centering only the white experience of the outdoors.

6. This isn't a "chronically online take" - this is real

Another pushback I get constantly is that this is a “chronically online take.” But my perspective didn’t come from Twitter or the echo chambers of Reddit. It came from real-life conversations with non-white people in outdoor spaces. It came from reading Indigenous scholars like Robin Wall Kimmerer, who teach about land as kin and as a site of relational responsibility, not ownership or conquest.

It came from learning that what sounds like harmless language to me as a white person can feel violent or erasing to someone whose ancestors were forcibly removed from the very lands we now “play” on.

As Danielle Williams of Melanin Base Camp writes:

“Nature is inhabited by people who reflect the same biases you see everywhere else in society… Forest bathing doesn’t wash away bigotry. John Muir quotes do nothing to resolve racial inequality.”

6. A call to action

If this feels new or uncomfortable, that’s not a reason to dismiss it. In fact, that discomfort is an invitation to dig deeper.

Here's what you can do:

• Read: Start with books like As We Have Always Done (Leanne Betasamosake Simpson), Braiding Sweetgrass (Robin Wall Kimmerer), or Melanin Base Camp’s essays on racial exclusion in outdoor spaces.

• Listen: Talk to people of color about their experiences outdoors. Ask how certain phrases or practices land with them.

• Reflect: Question why we normalize language that frames nature as something to “bag” or a “playground” to dominate. What other words could we use that honor land as living, relational, and not ours to claim?

• Support: Whether it's paying rent to the Indigenous nations whose land you reside on or contributing in other ways, supporting our Indigenous communities takes this action one step further.

Words matter. They tell stories about who belongs, what nature is for, and whose worldview counts. We can keep repeating the colonial story of domination and entitlement, or we can tell a new story, one rooted in reverence, reciprocity, and shared belonging. What will you do?