The wheel of my jeep is just a few inches from the edge of a red, dusty road. To my right is 8,000 feet of a sheer, bum-clenchingly steep drop, peppered with the skeletons of gnarled pine trees and the remnants of a train wreck from 1920, when this road was a railway track built to transport gold.
This is fresh. New. You’re about to discover places you’ve never heard of, old stays with new tricks, and meet dozens of people tweaking and transforming the ways in which we take short breaks.