American Trails magazine #11

chasing freedom since day one

What WeLike

There are plenty of folks out there who know more about American music than me. Probably a lot of them are reading this magazine. There are a lot of people who long for a road trip through the deep South—me being one of them. There are a lot of people who like bourbon—and beer. One comes after the other, a chaser as it is called. At any rate, I hope you like some of these things that I like, cause then you are definitely going to like this issue—a lot.

For some reason, we have become infatuated lately with the South. There’s the epic music, the relaxed and down-tempo pace of life, and of course fried food. There’s a certain mystical element to it all, like you are suddenly cast in a film. Once rolling, some have a hard time to bare and watch, wanting to leave it all and look away, denying what is happening in front of them. But you can’t, and you shouldn’t. These parts of the country really aren’t as scary as some have made it out to be. If you keep an open mind and ask the right questions, then you might be surprised at the stories people tell. I like this about the South.

Our U.K. editor, photographer, and overall lovely guy Simon Urwin and I felt the South pulling us in a slightly different direction, ‘’Go west young men.’’ So, our contribution to this edition plays out in Sierra Vista, Arizona, where we fearlessly accompanied a group of bird watchers on an outing. Exciting right? Wait till you read about the butcher bird, then you can call me. We like denim too, and there are many out there who burn for those indigo dyed cotton threads, most notably in Japan. In this issue our faithful correspondent Mattias Lundblad along with a new friend, Charlie Bennet, seek a meeting with a true Japanese denim head in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.

We have also decided that Trails can really be anywhere out there, American culture and the trails it leaves behind are what fascinate us, so why not investigate those routes all over the world? We gave you a sneak peek on how this plays out in the previous issue, when our translator and editor Erek Bell wrote about finding his version of America in Sweden’s southernmost state, Skåne. It will be exciting! Did I hear… Japan? Stay tuned and thanks as always for hanging in there with us and for reading American Trails.

Happy Trails, Jonas Larsson | Editor-in Chief | Founder

To be a birder is full on action despite what you might think otherwise. In Sierra Vista, Arizona we met this little one who was quite the socialite.

Oregon

A ROAD TRIP IN THE AGE OF PANDEMIC. FOLLOW ROBIN'S FOOTSTEPS IN A DESERTED WORLD. PAGE 32.

AN INSIDER'S GUIDE

L.A.

CITY OF ANGELS. PAGE 80.

Arizona

MEET THE BUTCHER BIRD, AND FOLLOW JONAS AND SIMON'S FEARLESS BIRD WATCHING ADVENTURES AT PAGE 88.

Utah

A ROAD TRIP IN THE AGE OF PANDEMIC. FOLLOW ROBIN'S FOOTSTEPS IN A DESERTED WORLD. PAGE 47.

TOTEM POLE MAKERS AND WILD NATURE. PAGE 116.

A ROAD TRIP IN THE AGE OF PANDEMIC. FOLLOW ROBIN'S FOOTSTEPS IN A DESERTED WORLD. PAGE 46.

NEW MEXICO

NEVADA

IDAHO

MONTANA

NORTH DAKOTA

SOUTH DAKOTA

Content

5. THE FEARLESS LEADER | WHAT WE LIKE Issue 11 – finally! Editor-in-chief Larsson ponders on what and why we like certain things.

6. THE MAP

It's a red and blue issue. There's blues music and red states – ah the beautiful South!

16. TO DIVE FOR: THE LOCK SPOT | SEATTLE

Come have a brew with us at a fishy place.

15. CONTRIBUTORS

Say hello to our friends who have the are the best in meeting, writing, and photographing all the people and places we go.

16. BBQ QUEEN | TENNESSEE

Helen Turner in Brownsdale is your stop if you are only slightly interested in smoked meat.

18. TYPOGRAPHY | MESA, CALIFORNIA

A wet dream for all typeface nerds. Signage at its best.

20. WE GOT THE BLUES | CLARKSDALE, MISSISSIPPI

Blue Monday every day of the week! But wait, not just music, some extraordinary people too!

30. THE MOMENT | ALPHABET CITY, N.Y.C. Willhan's daring camera and nerves in 1994, but what a catch with this Volvo PV and its original brakes.

32. I'M WITHOUT THE BAND | USA Robin is normally always on tour. During the pandemic she ditched the bands and hit the road for a solo act.

50. TO DIVE FOR | THE LOCK SPOT CAFÉ, SEATTLE

You can't always be sober. Come step Inside the doors to one of Ballard’s classic neighbourhood watering holes.

52. DREAMING OF DENIM | NEW YORK CITY

Japan meets American Denim history. Bowery Blue takes everything about blue jeans seriously.

66. A MUSICAL ROAD TRIP | DEEP SOUTH

Photographer and Americana afficionado Peter Eriksson lives the dream. Follow along on his journey through the South.

80. CITY GUIDE| LOS ANGELES

Some local dives, gems, and tips in the ”City of Angels”.

88. BIRDS OF A FEATHER | SIERRA VISTA, ARIZONA

The butcher bird keeps us on our toes on this dive into the world of bird watching.

94. THE AMERICAN | ARIZONA

Blake Brazeal in Saguaro National Park lives the cowboy dream.

98. PORTFOLIO | ON PAUSE

Our buddy Charlie Bennet got permission to shoot New York during lockdown. A compelling juxtaposition.

114. HAIDA GWAII | BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

Here ancestors and totem animals live on in the best of health.

126. FORGOTTEN CLASSICS | BETTY WRIGHT

Our music editor has once again found some hidden gems.

132. BOURBON | KENTUCKY

This family has been cooking up some fine bourbons for generations.

144. TRAINSPOTTING | SALTON SEA, CALIFORNIA

Big solitary locomotives standing still in the desert heat, of course we are all aboard!

EDITORIAL

JONAS LARSSON

EDITOR IN CHIEF AND PUBLISHER

LARSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

SIMON URWIN UK EDITOR

URWIN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

BO SANDLUND ART DIRECTOR

SANDLUND@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

EREK BELL EDITOR/TRANSLATOR BELL@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JOHAN LETH

PROJECT MANAGER/EDITOR

LETH@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

DONIVAN BERUBE MUSIC EDITOR

INFO@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

ANDERS BERGERSEN STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER

INFO@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

LEIF

BEER EDITOR

EIMAN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JONAS

LARSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

TEL: +46

American Trails Magazine is a quarterly publication and an online community, which focuses on people, places, and passions. We distribute the Swedish edition in the Nordic countries, and the international edition in the UK and the USA.

We do not accept responsibility for the loss of unsolicited materials. Permission is granted to quote and praise us as long as the source is identified. For permission to use any of our photos or stories, please contact the editors.

ISSN 2002-7842

Cosmic Accomodation

EL COSMICO | MARFA | TEXAS

WORDS BY JONAS LARSSON | PHOTO BY ANDERS BERGERSEN

We have written about Marfa and El Cosmico before, but hey they are great places and those who are familiar know that the ’effect’ as it’s known locally, is a real thing—no two experiences are the same in these oddly weird, yet wonderful places. Marfa is a magnet for artists, creative souls, and those who have mañana steering their inner compasses. El Cosmico is a great representation of this small town. Guests here stay in different types of tents, trailers, and hotel rooms—some even bring their own with them. It’s a free-for-all, anything goes. If you want to really get the most out of your stay, then this is absolutely the place you want to be resting your head. Check out El Cosmico’s homepage for all the details and happenings.

TO OWN A PAIR OF GROUNDSTONE SHOES

Means that you, like us, think that good shoes are unique, created with an open mind and with the heart in the right place. Where small series, solid craftsmanship and top quality is just common sense.

a tribe called Contributors

In this issue we present four fantastic team members. Interested in joining the ranks? Send a line to info@amtrailsmag.com We are always interested in meeting new people and hearing their ideas.

ROBIN LAANANEN, LOS ANGELES

Robin is a photographer based in Los Angeles but who can be found either traveling with musicians around the world, documenting what life is like off-stage or exploring foreign lands with her camera via a road trip or by air. She is inspired by music and the people behind the songs, along with nature of all kinds.

Instagram: robinlaananen

Web: robinlaananen.com

CHRESTIAN WILLHANS, TÄLLBERG, SWEDEN

Chrestian is a photographer, writer, and graphic designer. A design nerd passionately obsessed with classic cars and motorcycles. Chrestian collects good stories and has a talent for ending up in places and situations that should usually be avoided. He has also broken two Swedish speed records with a car on ice. He hopes to one day drive 320 km/h on the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah.

SIMON URWIN, LONDON

Simon Urwin is an award-winning travel photographer whose work has been recognised by the likes of Nikon, Taylor Wessing and National Geographic. Based in London, he’s passionate about getting on a plane somewhere else as often as possible, then taking the road less travelled by when he gets there.

Web: simonurwin.com

Instagram: simonurwinphoto

CHARLIE BENNET, NEW YORK, USA

Charlie worked for 15 years in the advertising industry before he, without any experience in photography, decided to change his career – from project manager to food and lifestyle photographer. Today, Charlie works for clients such as the New York Times, Wallpaper, and Starbucks. He has also published six books. On Pause: Three Months That Changed New York is his latest book (Winifred Publishing).

Instagram: charlie.bennet

The Queen of the pit

HELEN'S BAR-B-Q | BROWNSWILLE | TENNESSEE

WORDS AND PHOTO BY SIMON URWIN

Helen’s Bar-B-Q of Brownsville, Tennessee is a much-loved institution, famous across the state – indeed the whole of the Deep South - for its warm welcome and succulent, slow-cooked meats. “We start the fire at 4am and cook over hickory and oak embers for a good 12 hours,” says owner-cum-pitmaster Helen Turner, or ‘Miss Helen’ as she’s universally known. “There’s a great tradition of barbecue in the south, but not many people still use wood. It makes all the difference to the flavour.” Miss Helen’s speciality is pulled-pork shoulder served in a soft bun with slaw and her sweet and spicy ‘secret sauce’. “Only I know the recipe,” she says, coyly. “It has just five ingredients in it but I’ll never tell what they are. So when I die, it’ll be gone for good. Not everything has to last forever. Maybe that’s what makes it so special.”

Sign language

TYPOGRAPHY | MESA | CALIFORNIA

WORDS AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

215 bold souls live in Mesa. Many of them run the hotels that line the main street, the simple yet charming abodes that we so often long for; humble and quaint lodging that we associate with a nostalgic America which so often only lives in our dreams. No spas, no gyms. Forget the latte machine in the room. This is the kind of stuff we love.

Mesa gets its name from the Spanish word of the same name. Meaning ‘table’, it is reflective of the landscape and geology out here. It’s flat desert and distinctive flattened stone formations rise from it, dotting the landscape, impressive topography awaits. Perhaps not ideal for long visits, Mesa is however a perfect overnighter for those road trips in and around Joshua Tree National Park. Eat a supreme burrito, take a beer, and walk with the sunset along the main street. The neon signs, they glimmer with a retro charm and creative typography and aesthetic which can’t help but be admired.

CLARKSDALE | MISSISSIPPI

World Capital of the Blues

This Mississippi town is one of the USA’s great music destinations – a quintessential Deep South ‘small town’, which boasts live blues every night of the year and a welcome as warm as an embrace between old friends.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

At first sight, Clarksdale, is an un likely place to bear so grand a title as the ‘World Capital of Blues’. There are no imposing music ven ues here like the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville nor glittering streets of neon-signed honky-tonks like you’d find in downtown Memphis.

Instead, as I cross the Sunflower River into central Clarksdale on a languid summer’s morning, I find a town that’s clearly seen better days – the streets full of vacant lots and crumbling storefronts, of barbershops selling jail bonds and mom-and-pop restaurants stuck in a time warp.

But looks can be deceptive, and as I jump out of the car and head off on a walk around the heart of down town, it soon becomes clear that Clarksdale is dripping in character and history. I quickly come across the birthplace of Sam Cooke, the golden-voiced pioneer of 1960s soul

music, famous the world over for hits such as ‘You Send Me’ and ‘A Change Is Gonna Come.’ Then, I spot the for mer studios of WROX, Clarksdale’s first ever radio station, which hosted early performances by the legendary Sonny Boy Williamson and ‘chief of the hepcats’, saxophonist Raymond Hill. Outside Red’s Lounge juke joint, I can even make out the faint lettering of the building’s former occupant: Levine’s Music Center, where Ike Turner and his Kings of Rhythm bought the instruments that played what is widely considered to be the first ever rock ‘n’ roll song.

HOME OF THE DELTA BLUES

“Music is in the DNA of Clarksdale; it’s in the soil and the air; literally everywhere,” says Deak Harp, a renowned lo cal harmonica player who I meet outside his store, ‘Deak’s Mississippi Saxophones & Blues Emporium’. “Nowhere in Mississippi or the Deep South comes close in terms of music heritage or live music. You can find authentic Delta

Supa Chikan plays a custommade diddley bow in his instrument workshop.

blues here 365 days and nights of the year, in venues all across town. It doesn’t even stop at Christmas.”

Harp invites me in and shows me the workshop where he makes and and repairs harmonicas. “Ozzy Osbourne has an original of mine, so does Billy Corgan of The Smashing Pumpkins.” He picks up an instrument and lets rip with a prolonged and impressive flourish of notes. “They say I got the best tone in the business,” he says. “They describe it as like a train whistle that hits you in the chest. And that’s the power of blues. When it’s good, it can really move you; it can transport you back in time to when the likes of Muddy Waters or Robert Johnson were first playing. It helps you understand how it gave the early pioneers a voice to express their culture, their experience, through the blues.”

DON’T BE AFRAID.

I continue my wander around the compact heart of down town. Outside the dilapidated Wade’s barbershop – where former owner Wade Walton would cut hair and perform the blues for customers - a station wagon pulls up at the kerbside. “Live Blues this afternoon at the Bad Apple Blues Club,” says the man from his driver’s seat. “3pm until whenever. You’ll be very welcome.”

I head to the address later in the afternoon and find an ominous-looking tin shack, with a sign above the entrance that reads ‘Don’t Be Afraid.’ Inside, the station wagon driver is busy putting bottles of beer on ice. We shake hands and he introduces himself as Sean Apple, club own er and blues musician. We chat a while as music fans from as far away as California and New Jersey file through the door. With just 15 people in the room, it already feels cramped. “That’s what’s so great about playing and lis tening to live music in Clarksdale,” Apple says. “It’s not like the big stadiums. It’s intimate; you’re almost sitting in each other’s laps. You can really feel the music.”

Apple then begins his one-man show. In between songs, he gives a potted history of the blues: its deep roots in the music of Africa that was brought to Mississippi via the slave trade; the birth of blues in the Delta’s cotton plantations, notably at nearby Dockery Farms where the likes of Howlin’ Wolf and Charley Patton resided. “Patton was an illiterate, illegitimate descendant of slaves himself,” Apple explains. “He went on to become one of the greatest and most influential blues musicians of all time.”

As local musicians drop in to jam with Apple, he also shares some of his own story. He is originally from upstate

2nd Street corner of Delta Avenue. ‘Woman of Rock’ mural by the Colombian street artist Erre Erre.

Jukebox, Ramon’s diner.

HERE I STILL AM THOUGH, AGED 70, AND TOURING THE WORLD.”

Pennsylvania, he tells the crowd that he fell in love with the blues as a 12 year-old; he then went on to play the clubs of Beale Street in Memphis before settling in his spiritual home: Clarksdale. “It’s the only place to be if you eat, breathe, sleep and bleed blues music,” he says. “It’s the grandfather of music after all. Without the blues, there’d be no rock n’ roll, no Elvis, no Rolling Stones, no Led Zeppelin.”

TUPELO ELVIS

In the early evening I stop for a bite at Ramon’s, a Clarksdale institution, run by the inimitable Beverly Ely. (See issue 10) “I bought it back in 1967 when it was called The Snack Shack,” she says with a broad smile. “And pretty much the only thing that’s changed in fifty years is the name.”

She disappears to the kitchen and returns with the house speciality - a plate of deep-fried Gulf prawns, just as the

jukebox switches from ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ to ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. “I used to dance the jitterbug to Elvis Presley at a local club called The Cat Cave; it burned down a long time ago,” she tells me. “I saw him play live in Clarksdale too. This was Tupelo Elvis, not Vegas Elvis, before he got popular. A furniture store brought him in for their opening. All us young girls were hollering at him like crazy. I can remember it as clearly as if it was yesterday. Music puts down all kinds of vivid memories doesn’t it? And it helps bring them back too.”

‘SUPA CHIKAN’ GOTTA SHINE

That evening, I take up an invitation to visit one of Clarks dale’s oldest bluesmen, James ‘Supa Chikan’ Johnson, who flashes me a jewel-encrusted smile when he greets me at the door of his bungalow. “I make all my own grills,” he says. “This one I made outta a gold-look arm bracelet. Being a

THEN MY GRANDMA SHOT HIM ’CAUSE HE’D BEAT HER. HIS DYING WORDS WERE: “DO FOR ME WHAT I SHOULD’VE DONE FOR ROBERT.” I WAS ONLY SIX AT THE TIME.

Dockery Farms, established in 1895 to produce cotton.

Deep-fried Gulf prawns.

Deak Harp, legendary harmonica player and Clarksdale resident.

Bad Apple Blues Club is the real deal.

At Wade’s Barber Shop former owner Wade Walton would cut hair and perform the blues for customers.

showman, I can’t go on stage with snaggle teeth and holes in my mouth. I gotta shine.”

He leads me to a workshop in the rear yard where he builds and customises guitars and diddley bows, each one bearing his famous insignia: a chicken’s head. “When I was little, no more than 5, my job was to take care of the roosters and hens,” he says, pausing to light the first of a chain of cigarettes. “I was good at my chores, it’s how I got me my name.”

We drop onto the sofa; behind us a guitar hangs on the wall that has been converted from a hunting rifle. “Music is in my blood, always has been,” he says. “My momma showed me my first guitar licks; she and my daddy would have front-porch parties and Sonny Boy Williamson, Mud dy Waters and Johnny Lee Hooker would come to play. So I absorbed it, slowly, slowly, from when I was just a kid.”

A COLOURFUL KIND OF GUY

Supa Chikan then goes on to tell me about his grand father - Ellis Johnson, first cousin to Robert Johnson, the legendary bluesman who was said to have sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads of Highways 49 and 61 in return for his extraordinary guitar skills. “They played

ogether and had a pact: if one died the other would play on,” he says. “Well, Robert got popular; the women loved him ‘cause he played so well. They’d be all over him, buying him shots. One jealous husband gave him a drink laced with strychnine. The way he died – foamin’ at the mouth, cryin’ in pain – it was like he’d turned into some kind of animal. It scared the hell out of my granddaddy. So he stopped playing altogether. Then my grandma shot him ’cause he’d beat her. His dying words were: “do for me what I should’ve done for Robert.” I was only six at the time. Here I still am though, aged 70, and touring the world.”

Johnson picks up a rainbow-coloured diddley bow. “This one features all the colours of my heart. I’m a colourful kind of guy,” he says. He closes his eyes and begins to strum. He sings of heartache and moonshine, and the harsh life of the cotton plantations. “My family were sharecroppers; it was modernised slavery,” he says. “There was violence too. My granddaddy would gamble and kill the men he beat. They say he killed seven men. So when you come from that kinda hurt and hardship, the Blues becomes the most powerful way of tellin’ your stories. Blues is an expression of our pain,” he says. “And the blues is also our salvation.”

Clarkdale’s Greyhound Bus Terminal, built in 1936 in the ‘Art Moderne’ style.

Sean Apple club owner and blues musician at the Bad Apple Blues Club.

Volvo With an Attitude

THE MOMENT | 1994 | ALPHABET CITY | NEW YORK CITY

WORDS AND PHOTO BY CHRESTIAN WILLHANS

I took this picture in one of New York’s more downtrodden neighbourhoods at some point in 1994. The proud owner sat by the car, drinking something suspect out of one of those infamous brown paper sacks. With the last sip he stood up, dried his mouth, and threw the bottle over the fence behind him, hurtling it through the air where it audibly smashed into pieces.

This was the southern parts of ‘Alphabet City’ the part of New York which was built after all other streets got numbers. It was initially proposed that the streets of ‘Alphabet City’ would get minus values, like ‘Minus 1’ and ‘Minus 2’ for their street names, keeping up with the numerical theme. They went for the alphabet instead. Street ‘A’ and ‘B’ were quite tough streets. By the time one got to Avenue C, a visible difference could be discerned. The atmosphere was noticeably tougher and harder here. Then to Avenue D, where there would be no signs of taxis or police cars. Many of the houses were missing windows, others left derelict and bearing the marks of fire. The eyes of those living here followed us, knowing all to well that we did not fit in here.

Before we went there, we got some advice from a guy at a kiosk on Avenue A, gauging how the environment might be further down at Avenue D. He measured us up with his eyes from top to bottom and said, “You’re two pretty big guys. If you walk right through, don’t stop for anything, and don’t wave your cameras—you might just make it.”

On a side street between Avenues D and C I felt inclined to dig out my camera to get a snapshot of this red Volvo PV. It had a Cadillac 8.2 litre engine and original brakes; however pitiful and worn-down they were. You can easily say that the owner had as much attitude and deft to him as his car. Nonetheless, he volunteered to get this picture taken.

WITH(OUT)

Robin Laananen spent her life on the road, travelling with musicians both as a photographer and as a tour manager. When Covid hit, she found herself landlocked in her apartment. Until the road came calling.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY ROBIN LAANANEN

WITH(OUT) BAND

ith memories of a past life lingering in my thoughts like a re-oc curring dream you can’t shake, I sat on the bouncy throne behind the wheel of a 12-pas senger converted camp ervan. The sounds of life on the road accompanied my playlist as I covered thousands of domestic miles while exploring National Parks, small towns and whatever caught my eye. It genuinely felt like yesterday when I’d spend most months out of the year touring the world with musicians. We rarely spent more than 24 hours in one place while we hopped countries either in the air or in the comfort of our own bunks as the tour bus drove the same stretches of highway I consumed now. But this time, I was alone. I followed a rough itinerary, as I work better with a plan, and nothing about this year had followed anything resembling a plan as a pandemic grounded the world. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I knew I wasn’t going to find it within the constraints of my four walls during the enforced global house arrest called “quarantine”.

GOING PLACES

Space. Time. There was nowhere I had to be aside from being on the hunt for that perfect light at that perfect time. While on this current course, I had found an unex pected love for landscape photography, having once docu mented behind the scenes of musicians’ lives while on tour, using days off to search for the highest building among a dense cityscape now replaced with taking thoughtful self-portraits and the search for that epic sunrise cascad ing through a valley of mountains. I traveled with my cof fee stained itinerary printed on my lap, knowing where I’d park up on most nights and carrying through my nightly routine of cooking veggies, lighting candles, playing music

Wand downloading the photographs taken before calling it a night. Early to bed even earlier to rise.

The stillness as I opened the van window, not another soul around as the sunlight began to brim over the hori zon, is hard to describe. The morning provided moments of reflection and where life had gone in the past months. They say you can’t feel sadness or rage or any other volatile feelings when feeling grateful, yet I feel they can share the same space. No one could’ve described what it would feel like to be in a global limbo with no clear idea of what the future would look like, and at one point, if there’d be one. The makeshift signs posted at campsites requesting no socializing outside of my bubble served as a reminder had I forgotten while submersed in nature that day.

MEMORIES OF A CAREER

As the van covered thousands of miles, I would often settle into memories of a career now feeling so completely foreign, the artform involved with scheduling weeks of other people’s lives to create a smooth transition between flights, traveling across country in buses, getting the band on-stage, keeping everyone happy while being away from home for long periods of time, and putting out fires all while smiling. I missed both the chaos and the comradery of being in the trenches known as tour.

When time stands still, there’s more of it to notice the details, to enjoy all senses of nature. As the world nearly crumbled, photography, music and mother nature helped not only get me through but gave hope. After months of solo exploration with a questionable future, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d actually find myself back on tour, as a band I work with slid through a crack as the door for touring began closing again. We were some of the first (after many moons) to venture out on a lengthy tour, the first band to play many of these venues since 2019, therefore, being called “pioneers”.

REDWOODS NATIONAL PARK | CALIFORNIA

It takes a long time to drive anywhere in this park as the roads are breathtakingly photogenic. And, I didn’t mind taking pause to take in the sounds and smells of the forest in the process.

SOMEWHERE, COAST OF SOUTHERN OREGON

The lack of human traffic gave way for the animals to temporarily return to the lands more freely. I was sure to drive cautiously, with that in mind. I spotted this lovely elk, stopping only long enough to take a photo, as not to disturb.

SEQUOIA NATIONAL PARK | CALIFORNIA

Being the final days of my second road trip of the year that, in hindsight, may have been too long, I was absolutely smitten with the girth and resilience of these massive trees. I could feel both grateful for being alive and a sense of my mortality while being surrounded by trees having stood for thousands of years. Recently, I rooted for Giant Sherman, the oldest tree in the park, as it was once again wrapped in foil to keep it from being taken down in another (annual) forest fire.

YOSEMITE NATIONAL PARK | CALIFORNIA

The crowds pile up, elbowing their way into that “sweet spot” to catch sunrise through the park’s “tunnel view”, and I couldn’t resist. After the sun peaks, the parking lot fills with sounds of folding tripods, car doors slamming and engines starting to move to the next photo opportunity.

CANNON BEACH | OREGON

I’m not immune to the desire to recapture a shot oversaturated in the world of travel photography. This beach was on my list. The sun was already brimming as I parked, so I didn’t take time to put on the proper shoes. My slip-on vans soaked in the cold ocean water as I was more intrigued with the rocks and sleepy birds beside the infamous rock of Cannon Beach.

SOMEWHERE | OREGON

Having lived in the Pacific Northwest during my impressionable years, I think I could actually feel when I had entered the state of Oregon from Idaho. I pulled over and took out my “All Trails” app to find a hike. I will always remember the strong winds nearly blowing me over as I search for signs of Spring.

CANYONLANDS | UTAH

My hands burned from the freezing wind as I stubbornly waited for sunrise. As I waited for the darkness to be lifted, the thought occurred to me that should there be any hungry wildlife still roaming the night, there’d be nowhere to run. Though I had seen photos of the park, I wasn’t prepared for the never-ending red rock.

(JUST OUTSIDE)

JEDEDIAH SMITH REDWOODS STATE PARK | CALIFORNIA

The aerial view of beautifully massive redwood trees. This being one of my favorite parks in the country, I wanted to take as many visuals as I could to properly remember the time spent there.

WHITE SANDS NATIONAL MONUMENT | NEW MEXICO

I had been looking forward to exploring this park, for years, and I took a chance on this day, without booking a campsite ahead of time after a long drive. The park only had “first come, first serve” options, and though I wouldn’t be first due to the afternoon hour, I felt I’d find a place to park up for the night. A big bold sign posted by the entrance, “no overnight stays” broke the news that a sandstorm was expected.

ANTELOPE ISLAND STATE PARK | UTAH

I took a detour to this park, specifically for the bison. They’re very hungry from what I could tell, this photo being taken for the split second his nuzzle wasn’t buried in the browned grass.

SWING ARM CITY | UTAH

I had read Utah is the closest landscape resembling the surface of Mars, at least in this country, and there’s actually a Mars Desert Research Station tucked into the canyon seen briefly while speeding past on the seemingly endless highway. This is where astronauts simulate space missions while being trained in relative isolation. I went to the area where motorcycles challenge gravity while traipsing mountains of heavily packed gray sand. I went at sunrise, before the nearby bikers were awake, amused with the miles of burnout tracks.

A fishy place

TO DIVE FOR | THE LOCK SPOT CAFÉ | BALLARD | SEATTLE

WORDS AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

To travel via boat from Puget Sound to Lake Union, one must pass through a canal and the impressive Hiram M. Chittenden Locks. The locks are manned by rock-solid and sturdy individuals, the kind of folk who need just that in their food and drink. The Lock Spot is the goto place for these workers who wash down a hard day’s work with a plate of fish n’ chips or clam chowder and a beer. This classic, nestled in the Scandinavian neighborhood Ballard, has for over 100 years served thirsty fishermen, locals, and tourists alike.

I frequent Lock Spot anytime I am in town. Located somewhere between Ballard and the beautiful beach Golden Gardens, it is more of a neighborhood pub than a drunk’s bar. You’d feel easily at home taking a plate of fish n’ ships here, drinking down a beer, and letting your eyes take in all the stuff hanging on the walls. After being featured in the TV show, ‘’Deadliest Catch’’, all things of value are now bolted in place, much to the demise of would-be souvenir hunters.

3005

Practice makes imperfect

American style and Japanese meticulousness merge at Bowery Blue Makers. Customers from all over the world keep Takayuchi Echigoya busy making jeans in his Brooklyn studio. His process involves archeology and the quest for the perfect imperfections.

WORDS BY MATTIAS LUNDBLAD | PHOTOS BY CHARLIE BENNET

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK,

Time appears different as we enter the golden light of a third floor loft behind a non-descript gate in Bed ford Stuvyesant in Brooklyn, New York. Bowery Blue Makers is a stu dio of around five hundred square feet, filled with old and new denim fabric, and antique sewing machines. Here, Takayuki Echigoya, known as Echan, makes jeans by historical methods, each part of the process by hand.

“The entire room is full of still lifes,” says Charlie, the pho tographer. Echan himself stands by his cutting table, cutting out parts of jeans with his iron scissors from a large roll. The hissing of the steam iron blends with Lionel Hampton’s vi braphone from a laptop. Each pair of jeans consists of fifteen parts, plus the belt loops, and one pair is usually what can be made in a day. The order book is so full, that Echan has closed his web shop for the next five months. That time also includes some time to recharge in Thailand and his native Japan. He calls himself a denim artist, not a craftsman.

“A craftsman or an artisan repeats the same work to create perfect beauty. I use unstable old sewing machines and shrinking denim to make imperfections. It’s kind of

experimental, I can’t make the same thing again. Their beauty is in the imperfections, just like with vintage clothes. I also like imperfections in humans,” says Echan.

His jeans are all individuals, and the imperfection that comes with the ancient technique become personal traits.

“Older denim shrinks more than modern. I ask my weaver to imitate it. It shrinks ten percent one way, four or five the other. It’s a lot – four to five inches, but it de pends on how you wash them. It doesn’t shrink as much unless you tumble dry them.”

Most customers are experienced and know this. Once a month a fitting appointment is offered, which many travel far for.

“Last time it was someone from South America. Some times they come from Hong Kong or Japan. Sometimes Europe. If they know of me, they love denim.”

625 MILLION BUTTON HOLES

Almost all his sewing machines are made by Singer, a proud New York brand. One exception is a button hole machine, with the ticker showing that more than 625 mil lion button holes have been made on it. The machine was once so expensive that it was rented rather than bought,

Takayuki Echigoya, A.K.A. Echan is a denim artist.

At Bowery Blue once a month a fitting appointment is offered. To make sure your new denim wear will fit pefectly.

The Bed-Stuy work shop is a piece of art in it self.

Finds from old mines adorn the walls.

Rivets and buttons in jars looks like candy in Echan's work shop.

and paid for by how much it was used. A hemming ma chine making rope-like seams is another exception from the Singer rule. Echan scoffs a little at it, at the fact it comes from Chicago, and at how pop ular it is.

“Singer were pioneers and have the best design. I love to use them. Most people like to use ugly Union Specials. I don’t know why.”

He finds it symbolic that the day Singer was registered as a trademark in New York, June 8 1875, and his birthday are 90 years apart to the day. The development of jeans and sewing machines have gone hand in hand. His ideal is Levi’s earliest 501 models, especially pre-1900 The model that started it all among workers in America’s mines, railroads and factories, and an important symbol

SINGER WERE PIONEERS AND HAVE THE BEST DESIGN. I LOVE TO USE THEM. MOST PEOPLE LIKE TO USE UGLY UNION SPECIALS.

for the US emerging as an industrial nation. It is therefore a bit ironic that Echan is unable to find anyone in the country to weave his denim. Instead, American cotton is made into thread, then shipped to Japan to a small mill in Okayama, the denim center of Japan. The weaver he used to work with, Tomoki Kiyama also worked alone and in the same spirit, until his recent death.

I DON’T KNOW WHY.

“He used the oldest loom in Japan, and had a career of over 60 years. I was worried when he died, but his family has taken over the mill,” says Echan.

The fabric is shipped back to New York, 50 rolls at a time, enough to make 1200 pairs of jeans. There are two shades and three weights – 12, 13 and 14 ounces. Each pair of jeans go through eight to ten sewing machines. Then there are the

very oldest models, which are made on the early Singer model no. 2. According to Echan’s research the foot op erated machine must have been used during Levi’s first decade, since the factory was steam powered from 1886 At this time the models had no numbers, but were known as Waist Overalls. He shows a pair he has made on the machine. The crotch has to be made in a different man ner, as the machine cannot handle the thickness where more than two layers of fabric meet. The edges are frayed, as they are sewn like before the overlock machine was invented. The more demanding method makes it so it takes two to three days to make a pair of jeans, at a cost of 1800 dollars, compared to the more common models at between 500 and 750.

JAPAN VS NEW YORK

Echan grew up in Wakkanai, a coastal city of 35 000 in northern Japan. His father was a fisherman and his

mother a home maker. There was no sewing tradition in the family, but Echan’s career began in vintage clothing shops in Tokyo and Sapporo. In 1996 he moved to New York for the first time, to start a fashion brand on Man hattan’s Lower East Side. He returned to Japan after some time, and brought his brand with him. He focused more and more on denim, learned to sew it, and started collect ing old sewing machines.

“I got tired of chasing fashion. I gave up because keeping up with trends and throwing away ideas became painful.” Life in Japan didn’t fit him as well anymore. He felt he had more in common with people in New York, and 2014 he returned with his sewing machines to found Bowery Blue Makers. Echan is now 56 years old, but something about the enthusiasm for his work makes him seem much younger. He keeps a strict schedule and sews every day. The work day starts at 9:30 am, and ends at 6:45 pm. His studio is also his home.

Echan's work day starts at 9:30 am, and ends at 6:45 pm. His studio is also his home.

“I’m addicted to my work, but it’s also kind of a hobby, so it’s no problem at all. Winter vacation is helpful, be cause then I’m in the warmth of Bangkok and Japan for two to three months at a time.”

Part of his work is finding historical sewing machines, clothes and fabrics. A lot can be found on auctions online, but sometimes Echan travels in the US on treasure hunts. His cutting table, dated 1953, and several of the sewing machines come from a finding in an old closed factory in Pennsylvania.

“I found it on Craigslist. They were selling something else, but I saw the sewing machines in the background in the pictures,” he says.

“It’s usually not that simple,” his friend Justin Gordon adds. He is an antique dealer visiting from Massachusetts, partly to help with the language, partly to plan another treasure hunt in Pennsylvania.”

DISASSEMBLING OLD JEANS

Copper rivets, pieces of fabric, seams, and parts of ancient jeans hang on the walls like samples of the smallest ele ments of jeans making. A crucial part of Echan’s artistic process is disassembling old jeans, to study and date each detail, and to see and feel the fabrics. That way he can recreate them with authenticity on his old machines. He collaborates with Brit Eaton, a denim hunter known as Indiana Jeans, who spends ten months a year on the road searching for denim in barns, attics and mines dating back to the gold rush.

Echan pulls out a cardboard box from Brit Eaton. In it is a yellowish brown canvas fabric waiting to be trans formed into clothing. The fabric has small wax stains all over it. Echan explains by showing a photograph of min ers with candles in their hands.

“The fabric comes from a gold or silver mine in Colo rado. They had no electricity, so the miners used candles to find their way.”

A recent project has resulted in jackets from fabric hand painted by American soldiers in the Second World War. An advertisement banner for Blue Bell Wrangler from the 1950s has been transformed into a jacket.

“A banner like that usually goes for 1500 to 2000 dollars,” says Echan, cracking a big smile.

“I cut them, and give them a new life.”

The old New York brand Singer is Echans favourite sewingmachine.

Deep South

Peter and Andreas are really just two overgrown boys—their words. These two, these boys, they have a nearly borderline unhealthy interest in all things American music and culture. So, what better way to get to the bottom of it all then by sending these boys out into the wild. Hop in, we are setting off on a road trip through blues country.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY PETER ERIKSSON

ROAD

Road to nowhere? Nope, road to Sweet home Alabama.

Taste these words: Alabama, Missis sippi, Nashville, Tupelo, Memphis. Small boys’ dreams of America. There’s Elvis, blues, country mu sic, but also there’s a darker more suppressed memory at the back of my mind—race riots and the brave souls fitting for their civil rights in a movement that defined so much of the contemporary history here. It’s on my mind. It can’t be forgotten or ig nored. But for this trip, it is the music which is going to take center stage for my friend Andreas and I. We rent a Jeep, cause after all we are two overgrown boys, what vehicle could be more fitting for a road trip through the deep South.

We start off from Nashville where we spend a few days (See issue 7) before heading out towards a charming albeit touristy town, Franklin. Mental images by the illustrator Norman Rockwell come to mind. Think the idealized smalltown America of the 50’s which was so romanticized. Onwards to Leiper Fork, where we take a coffee break and have a chat with Karen who is working behind the bar

at Puckett’s Grocery & Restaurant—quite the combo if you ask me. You can buy your groceries, sit down to drink a beer, and while you’re at it have a steak, some barbeque, or a burger all in one stop. There are even some vegetarian options, which seems merely obligatory.

At Puckett’s there’s even a stage for live music. We like Leipers Fork, this place has got charm.

NATCHEZ TRACE PARKWAY

Leaving Leipers Fork behind us, we head up to Natchez Trace Parkway, one of the longest recreational and scenic driving routes in the US at a staggering 444 miles. The unusually beautiful road follows Natchez Trace, a historic trail that runs from Nashville in the north, to Natchez in the south. Along its meandering path, the road inter sects The Trail of Tears. A trail which is named after the tragic and tear-filled forced relocation of countless Native American tribes, most notably the Cherokee, during the 1830’s. They say that at least one in five died along this forced march. There are a lot of interesting attractions along this route. One such stop is the place where Meri weather Lewis took his last breath. Lewis is most widely

Colinwoood is one of these charming small towns in the South.

ACCORDING TO THE MYTHS, KEITH RICHARDS FINISHED WRITING “WILD HORSES” WHILE ON THE TOILET AT THE STUDIO. AFTER THE TOUR WRAPPED UP OUR FIRST QUESTION WAS IF WE COULD USE THE BATHROOM. THE AUTHOR IS NOW PROUD TO SAY THAT HE TOO HAS NOW GRACED THE SAME TOILET WHERE A CLASSIC STONES SONG WAS BORN.

known for being the other half to the famous Lewis and Clark Expedition. Meriweather finished his days at the Natchez Trace milepost 385.9 in 1809. He is now buried at Pioneer Cemetery right nearby.

3614 JACKSON HIGHWAY, MUSCLE SHOALS

Turning off at Collinwood, we leave the Natchez Trace Parkway and head out towards Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Once there, we find the renowned studio of the same name—Muscle Shoals Sound Studio.

A young guy with a thick Southern drawl is our guide. He lists off and references the studio musicians that start ed this studio back in the 60’s: Barry Beckett, Roger Haw kins, Jimmy Johnson and David Hood, but you might know them as The Swampers. “Our boys”, as our guide calls them with an endearing hometown proud. Well-de served pride, cause The Swampers have been behind some major successes in the music industry.

Rumors about the studio grew fast, and the number of musical legends that recorded there— either solo in the studio, or with The Swampers as their rhythm section—is innumerable. To name just a few: Aretha Franklin, Cher (who named her record 3614 Jackson Street after the stu dio’s street address) Willie Nelson, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Paul Simon, George Michael, Rod Stewart, Cat Stevens, Le von Helm, Bob Dylan and many more. Today the studio isn’t as bookable as it used to be, but Band of Horses and Black Keys have recorded here relatively recently.

The most legendary recording session, however, has to go to the Rolling Stones. The Stones didn’t have work visas for the USA but had a few free days during their tour. They decided to record three tracks at the studio: “Wild Horses”, “Brown Sugar”, and a cover of a blues song by Mississippi Fred McDowell, “You Gotta Move”—all found on their classic album, Sticky Fingers from 1971. Because they didn’t have visa papers, there is little ev idence to show that they were ever in the studio. Save except for some small receipts for cassette tapes, which have been kept for your viewing pleasure.

According to the myths, Keith Richards finished writing “Wild Horses” while on the toilet at the studio. After the tour

wrapped up our first question was if we could use the bath room. The author is now proud to say that he too has now graced the same toilet where a classic Stones song was born. Here at the Muscle Shores rehearsal studio, Willie Nel son and other legendary musicians have taken a drink—it feels more like a rec room from the 70’s until you see the amount of gold albums covering the walls.

TUPELO HONEY

The roads carry us onwards towards Mississippi and Tu pelo, where we will stay for the night. We arrive in Tupelo late at night, stopping into a motel for some rest. In the morning we are up at the crack of dawn, like kids on Christmas morning, because we are on our way to see, “The birthplace of Elvis Presley”. The early birds got their worms, as we were the first visitors of the day. We peek in through the glass doors at the entrance to see three older women, well beyond their retirement years, prepping for the onrush of the day’s visitors. After buying tickets, we wait for our guide Nina to take us out to the shotgun shack where Elvis was born. We climb on in, and Nina sits herself down in an armchair. With a familiar voice, she begins to tell us about Elvis’s childhood. The house has moved from its original location, albeit not too far, and the interior is naturally not the exact same, but done up in a way that is representative of that moment in time. The Presley family wasn’t super well off, but it most certainly could have been worse.

We wander on over to the church where Elvis had some of his first musical experiences. Judy, the guide here, has hair that not even the worst tornado could disturb. She snuck us into the church even though we hadn’t bought tickets for this separate experience, “Of course we have to see this, I mean we are already here”, really throwing on the sympathy, thanks Judy! The museum is charming in its obscurity, and the gift shop is jam-packed with irresistible kitschy souvenirs. A Christmas tree ornament in “solid brass” catches my eye, it’s coming home with me.

Another obligatory stop here is the Tupelo Hardware Store. It was here that Gladys Presley bought her little son his first guitar, the exact spot demarcated with a cross

The bathroom where Keith Richards wrote the famous song Wild Horses and where the author did his thing.

AMERICAN TRAILS MAGAZINE

Karen runs the show at Puckett’s Grocery & Restaurant.

Muscle Shoals Sound Studio. A legendary music studio.

John Warren is a true southerner from Harmontown.

Judy is the guide at the church where Elvis had his first musical experience.

Deep-fried food in the Deep South.

You get why Emmylou Harris got inspired to write the song “Red dirt road.”

WE WANDER ON OVER TO THE CHURCH WHERE ELVIS HAD SOME OF HIS FIRST MUSICAL EXPERIENCES. JUDY, THE GUIDE HERE, HAS HAIR THAT NOT EVEN THE WORST TORNADO COULD DISTURB. SHE SNUCK US INTO THE CHURCH EVEN THOUGH WE HADN’T BOUGHT TICKETS

FOR THIS SEPARATE EXPERIENCE, “

on the shop floor. Naturally, guitars are still sold here, a sure bet for a nice cash out when all of them Elvis hungry tourists come through the doors. Otherwise, it is a totally normal hardware store dating back to 1926.

SOUL FOOD IN OXFORD, MISSISSIPPI

Time to shake a leg, daylight is a wasting. Soon we are back in the car on our way towards Oxford, a short drive of about an hour. Time for lunch, so we pop on into Ajax Diner, a nice little local treasure. I go all in, ordering up a heaping plate of deep-fried catfish, eggplant, okra and french fries. Yes, my arteries took a full barrage there, but hey this is soul food! I strongly recommend visiting this restaurant, you will walk away full and satisfied regardless of your then increased risk for heart attack. After lunch, we meander freely down to the main square to peruse some boutiques, of which, Square Books bookstore is a favorite.

Square Books in Oxford Mississippi has two floors full of books, and a wall lined with pictures of famous authors who have been here to visit.

Oxford is home to the prestigious university, “Ole Miss” which was founded in 1844. The reason the town got its name was a sort of hopeful osmosis. By naming it after the British counterpart, the founders hoped to attract a major university, cementing its right as an intellectual hub. The plan worked—only in America! As with so many parts of the South, the racist and segregated policies of the past are hard to miss. It was here in 1962 that James Meredith be came the first African American student to attend classes at Ole Miss after years of racial segregation. Bob Dylan’s song, “Oxford Town” is so deeply rooted in this particular moment in history. Music history abounds even here, a theme which also runs deep in the South. It was here that the record label, Fat Possum Records ‘discovered’ a bunch of old blues musicians in town like, T-Model Ford, Junior Kimbrough, and RL Burnside.

We stop for gas at a derelict gas station and were re minded of the ever-present class differences present as we made our way out of Oxford. Absent are the visibly well-

to-do Caucasian intellectuals of the city center. Instead, here it is almost exclusively African in complexation. The few white faces seem like what I imagine a stereotypical ‘redneck’ might look like, the beefy pickup trucks probably had something to do with that. It is at this moment that I feel the revenge of my deep-fried lunch coming on and I ask if there is a customer toilet. “Yes sir, it’s right there in the back” said the young black man at the register, in a way that made me feel like a complete and utter stranger, which in fact I was. The toilet itself, not near as kind as the staff.

HARMONTOWN, MISSISSIPPI

The journey takes us further to the small Harmontown of Mississippi Hill County. The place wound up on our roadmap because the blues legend RL Burnside, who was born and is buried there. We search for his grave for what seems an eternity to no avail. Almost a half year later I had the pleasure of meeting RL Burnsides son Cedric at a gig in Stockholm. He told us that we had simply taken the wrong turn and ended up at a different church. That’s life for you, so close yet so far away.

We wander around a bit in the small town where I find a classic ‘red dirt road’ and my mind instantly veers to thinking of Emmylou Harris and her fine-tuned tale of growing up hopeless in the song, “Red Dirt Girl”. After asking permission of course—we don’t want to end up on the wrong side of a double barrel shotgun, wielded by a guy in suspenders—we take a seat down on a front porch of an abandoned house. A school bus stops and lets out three kids some houses down the street, they wave as the skip along the sidewalk. For a few brief seconds I think to myself, “Yea, I could live here.”

´We get back in the car, drive onwards, and stop at the closest gas station. I take a few pictures of an overflowing dumpster out back when a Latino guy comes around ask ing, “Who are you working for?” I suspect that he believes I am some kind of inspector or something and when I explain that I am simply on vacation, he meets me with a sceptical look. After a few more follow-up questions he

IT WAS HERE THAT THE SINGLE, “ROCKET 66” WAS RECORDED—OFTEN REGARDED AS THE WORLD’S FIRST ROCK SONG—WRITTEN BY A VERY YOUNG, IKE TURNER. SAM PHILLIPS, SUN STUDIOS FOUNDER, HAD A FAVORITE IN THE BLUES MAN, HOWLIN WOLF, FOR WHICH HE HAS BEEN QUOTED SAYING, “THIS IS FOR ME. THIS IS WHERE THE SOUL OF MAN NEVER DIES.”

seems to believe this strange, albeit true, explanation for my interest in his garbage can. Andreas meanwhile bought a coffee from the tattooed woman working the counter. A few days later he got a friend request from her on Facebook.

´To wrap up this surreal visit, a man in a pickup truck came barrelling into the lot to fill up his ride. He had, and I promise you this, what must have been a nearly 20-footlong tree dragging behind his truck. Not like strapped in under a tarp or anything, no. It was just stuck in there real good under the tail gate. “Hey, you know you got a tree stuck behind you?”, yelled out the gas station clerk. With a loud laugh the man who was driving exclaimed, “Yeah, I know.” He filled up his truck and drove off. Class act!

MEMPHIS

After some long and strenuous hours on the roads we final ly hit our end destination—Memphis, Tennessee. We check in to a seedy Motel 6 with a suspicious looking dented door. We take an Uber to Beale Street, “The Official Home of the Blue” and “America’s Most Iconic Street” as stated by Memphis proper. Beale Street tonight is jampacked, abso lutely full of motorcycles. “Bike Night” here on Beale Street, the noise and lights are exactly what you would expect. The sounds of revved up exhausts blends sweetly with the music pouring out from the bars which line the street. I exchange some words with Dupree, a gigantic guy from New Orleans with the ever-so fitting nickname, ‘Big Easy’.

The night wraps up at B.B. King’s Blues Club, where an amazingly tight soul band is playing covers. They abso lutely demolish the stage, some of the best live music we have seen. The peak of the show was of course when the unofficial anthem of the LGBTQ movement, “I Will Sur vive” started blasting—the dance floor went into a frenzy.

SUN RECORDS

The schedule is daunting our last few days in Memphis. We start with the illustrious Sun Records.

Inside the studio we are given guided tour. There is something magical to find oneself in the same room where

so many of rock n’ rolls’ pioneers breathed, worked, record ed, and blazed trails. Just think that this is the place where Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, and Carl Perkins all recorded their records—I was like a hog in shit, absolutely loving it.

It was here that the single, “Rocket 66” was record ed—often regarded as the world’s first rock song—written by a very young, Ike Turner. Sam Phillips, Sun Studios founder, had a favorite in the blues man, Howlin Wolf, for which he has been quoted saying, “This is for me. This is where the soul of man never dies.”

A nice little bit of trivia was mentioned by our guide, when he brough up the receptionist at Sun Studios, Mar ion Keisker. For when Elvis first visited the studio, Sam Phillips wasn’t around. Keisker instead was the one who sat in to record Elvis. According to Kesiker, this was the conversation with Elvis:

What kind of singer are you?

I sing all kinds.

Who do you sound like?

I don’t sound like nobody.

After the recording, Keisker noted that he was a, “good ballad singer. Hold.” The rest is, as they s ay, history.

SENSORY OVERLOAD

Leaving Memphis behind us we set our course for Nash ville, and I am left trying to sum up all the impressions experienced thus far—which is entirely impossible. Over the course of 72 hours and nearly 625 miles of driving, we have had experiences that could last the average joe, weeks or months with still some bits left to chew on. We got to see where rock n’ roll was born (and died), the American Dream (its face, and its backside). We have glimpsed at the racial injustices which still evoke strong emotions here. Seemingly, we have only scratched the surface, merely sniffed the fields of the blues. But there is always so much more to discover in “The Deep South” when it comes to music, history, culture—and of course, fried foods.

There are always good vibes at the BB Kings Blues Club.

The City of Angels

The city of dreams. Los Angeles is a vast-spread city with many exciting neighborhoods. We put together a guide for you to maneuver your search for cool spots. It was made by a local. Robin Laananen gives away her coolest places in The City of Angels.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY ROBIN LAANANEN

People rarely move to Los Angeles without being in pursuit of something, a dream of sorts. People don’t move to Los Angeles just to pay higher rent, spend more time in their cars or to be that smaller fish in a bigger pond without a goal in mind. Some of the silver linings of taking the big plunge are the beautiful yearlong sunshine, the coastline full of beaches, being within a few hours of National Parks (ranging from the Redwoods to Death Valley), and the easy access to delicious culinary from around the world, whenever hunger strikes, despite the hour. A question I hear visitors ask is “does anyone work in this town?” as the streets always feel packed, coffee shops holding court to a sea of laptops, which all is a reflection of the beauty of working for themselves. The city inhabits artists of all mediums; architects, designers, photographers, filmmakers, tech wizards, athletes, come dians, and, of course, actors. To come to this city, the “City of Angels”, with an idea of what kind of life you want is taking it one step closer to making it possible.

While considering the length of your stay, you’d be clever to keep in mind the amount of road trips easily inspired by the city. Not too far is Palm Springs, Joshua Tree National

Park, Idyllwild, Lake Arrowhead and even the crazy im pressive Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks. One of the most beautiful drives in the country is mainlined here, the drive North to Big Sur and the Redwoods, pass ing countless beautiful coastline cities, like Santa Barbara, or grab your passport and head South to Mexico (feel free to stop short in beautiful more mellow, San Diego). You will even find a charming Danish-inspired village of Sol vang just over two hours away. Not to mention the Salton Sea, a unique stop. Being the largest lake in California be low sea level accidentally to divert the flow of the Colorado River and a big fail as a tourist attraction.

If you have less time, the Pacific Coast Highway along the Malibu Coastline is not to miss with the ocean on one side and impressive cascading mountains on the other.

The ease of taking a road trip, with so many options, to completely change perspective is one main reason why I’ve continued to live in Los Angeles.

Got the travel bug? Please visit our website americantrailsmag.com for a longer version of the L. A. city guide or scan the qr-code.

Cha Cha Lounge | Dive bar

The original Cha Cha Lounge in Seattle was in an institution, with mostly musicians employed as bar staff, it would be where everyone went before going to a show, and then drink with the band who played afterwards. I could walk in any time, any day, and grab a booth with people I knew. It was our version of “Cheers”. In 2005, the owners opened the Cha Cha Lounge in Silver Lake, open daily from 5pm – 2am. This dimly lit bar in Silver Lake is the epitome of an appreciated dive bar with a photo booth, wall to wall velvet paintings, foosball tables, daily happy hour specials and lived in booths that could make you lose track of time. Imagine a tiki bar bathed in red light and most likely music blasting that you’ll try to Shazam over the boisterous chatter. No need to leave if you get hungry, there’s a vending machine full of snacks and souvenirs.

Good Housekeeping | Cocktail bar

Should you want to have a proper nightcap after eating at Café Birdie or beating your friends at Highland Park Bowl, you can head to this adorably small bar. The most literal description would be the brickhouse tucked behind Birdie, with the same owners, and charming outdoor seating available, once the stools at the lovely marble bar or handful of booths quickly become occupied. You can find a plethora of classic cocktails made with only the best ingredients, perhaps a negroni, or going as far as a charcoal-filtered Manhattan. For such a small place, it is big in vibe.

5635 N FIGUEROA ST | GOODHOUSEKEEPINGHLP.COM

Grand Central Market | A fix for your thirst and food cravings

While exploring the heart of downtown Los Angeles, not to be missed when feeling puckish, is the Grand Central Market for everything from Sticky Rice’s Thai food, to Berlin Currywurst, a bowl at Ramen Hood, BBQ, yummy pupusas, anything made with egg at Eggslut, Mexican food, or a pie and cookie shop, Fat & Flour. You could quench your thirst with nice coffee, fresh juice or craft beer. With culinary options from around the world, it’s a great place to take a break from walking the streets. And make sure to notice that you’re inside an historical building, with the market having been around since 1917 Once you’ve taken a load off and replenished with a meal, if you feel like dancing, La Cita bar is directly next door and has been a popular place to get your boogie on.

317 S BROADWAY | GRANDCENTRALMARKET.COM

Good House keeping is a small but adorably bar.

Grand Central Market is a must for any foodie.

Malibu Beach | Beach life

The Pacific Coast Highway is one of the most scenic highways in the country, and people will often design a road trip for the sole purpose of traveling the length of it which totals just over 656 miles, the longest state route in California. You can get a taste of the drive heading to Malibu, a coastal city with gorgeous beaches silhouetted by the Santa Monica Mountains. You can choose from Zuma, El Matador or Point Dume, all of which have their own intrigue. Point Dume has an incredible higher view, but if you’re planning to watch the sunrise, plan to elbow your way into the pack of early rising “influencers”. El Matador is home of a popular arch typically photographed at sunset and parking is gated off until 8:00am. A word to the wise, pay attention to the parking signs as Malibu police don’t mess around and will ticket you in a heartbeat. And be prepared to gaze at the beautiful beachside homes with priceless views of the ocean.

MALIBUCITY.ORG

Griffith Park | Hiking in the wilderness

Griffith Park is a treasure, with over 4500 acres of plush wilderness located convenient to the city, in the Eastern Santa Monica Mountain range and offers activities for everyone. The Griffith Observatory (yes, the one with movie cameos like “Rebel Without A Cause” and “La La Land”) has daily programs in the Samuel Oschin Planetarium while providing free public telescopes outside. There are tons of hiking trails through the park’s canyons, one very popular trail leads up to a view of the Observatory, downtown, the “Hollywood” sign and even the ocean. The park is home to the historic Greek Theatre, the Autry Museum of the America West, the Bronson Caves, the LA Zoo and scattered with golf courses and ball fields. If hiking during the summer months, keep an eye out for rattlesnakes sunbathing on or near the trail and perhaps you’ll spot the infamous yet evasive mountain lion during the cooler hours. Located near the Western Canyon entrance, you can find Trails Café for a satisfying breakfast or lunch under the trees.

LAPARKS.ORG/GRIFFITHPARK

These vegan donut shops, it’s wildly popular. You can find Donut Friend in multiple locations.

Highland Park brewery has won multiple awards for its beer. There is two locations, Highland Park and China Town.

The bar at Café Birdie.

At Café Birdie you can get delicious farm fresh food in a Parisian-style bistro.

Have some great mexican food in the sun at Salazars.

Four Favorites in LA LA LAND

Donut Friend, Vegan sugar kick

Should you find yourself with a sugar craving and either in Highland Park or Downtown, you could satisfy that craving with an incredible donut. A vegan donut shop, it’s wildly popular with all the locals. With the owner being Mark Trombino, a punk rock music producer and former drummer of Drive Like Jehu, you won’t be surprised to see the donut flavors nodding tribute to bands, like “Rites of Sprinkles”, “Dag Nutty”and, of course, “Fudgegazi”. Multiple locations | donutfriend.com

Salazar, Mexican food

If you’re hungry for delicious Mexican food and want to take advantage of the city’s sunshine, you’d should head to Salazar, located in Eastside’s Frogtown. It is known for its colorful Sonoran desert-style outdoor seating and delicious wood-grill focused menu. Newly arrived chef, Esteban, is proudly bringing the recipes Mexico, being born and raised in both Mexicali and Calexico. Whether you’re looking for a boozy brunch or a pre-show funk before heading over to the venue next door, Zebulon, you won’t be disappointed. 2490 Fletcher Dr.

Highland Park Brewery, China Town

With the original location being a small, cozy spot in Highland Park, they opened a second more spacious location in Chinatown. The brewery has won multiple awards for its beer, and you can watch the brewers at work as you enjoy a brew of your choice, like “Thunderbolt Gold”, “Old Tomorrow” or “Fill Pils”. Whether you like wild hoppy, crisp lagers or stoic stouts, you’ll be in good company, along with refreshing non-alcoholic options. The spacious inside is inviting with tall ceilings and exposed brick walls, or you can sit outside in the big patio to soak in the California sun. 1220 N Spring St | hpb.la

Café Birdie, Bistro

This Parisian-style bistro is immediately welcoming with its gorgeous tile wall, long open bar, copper accents and tall ceiling. Not to be overlooked is the calming back patio seating with exposed brick and string lights. Their menu consists of fresh farmer’s market vegetables, handmade pastas and proteins suitable for any diet. You can choose from a meal of elevated comfort foods, or a dish that will transport you to another city entirely, and the inviting list of cocktails satisfies weekend casual sippers or night on the town thirsts. 5631 N Figueroa St | cafebirdiela.com

The NobleArtof Birding

SIERRA VISTA | ARIZONA

We joined up with a group of birdwatchers to find out what all the hype is about. The San Pedro river just outside Sierra Vista in Southeast Arizona is one of the hottest spots in the US for taking in some of our feathered friends. You can spot more than 350 species here, assuming you know your way around a pair of binoculars.

WORDS BY JONAS LARSSON | PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

Considering how my main tal ent in life is stumbling on stuff, birdwatching probably isn’t my sport–having to navigate a rather uneven path with my mouth halfopen, scanning the skies for birds, is not a good combination for me.

Add to this the rookie mistake of walking while peering through binoculars, and anybody could figure out that things aren’t likely to end well. Once I’ve gotten my first fall out of the way, though, I’ve learned my lesson. The San Pedro Riparian National Conserva tion Area close to Sierra Vista in Southeast Arizona is commonly thought to be one of the very finest sites for birdwatching in all the USA. That’s where we are today.

“Hi there! You look Swedish!” a tall, gangly man with an inviting smile bursts out. Docent Richard Bansberg is one of two guides from the Friends of the San Pedro River who will lead this small group of enthusiastic bird watchers on today’s hike. Simon, my traveling compan ion, and myself stick out like sore thumbs: having arrived somewhat unprepared, we have too little water, and aren’t wearing hats or shades. Just the kind of look a keen-eyed birder would identify as… Swedish. Simon is actually En glish, but you get the idea.

The San Pedro river winds its way through the desert of South Arizona and Mexico, between the Huachuca and Mule Mountains. Unusually, it runs from the south to the north. The riverbed is full of life, and rich in plants, insects, and animals–particularly birds. The San Pedro Riparian National Conservation Area, as it is officially named, is a popular destination for birders and hikers. The Friends of San Pedro River Association was founded in 1987, the year before the river area was granted protected status. It was founded primarily by people living in Sierra Vista who came together to help protect the area. Today, they play an important role in the conservation efforts here, employing a staff of five. They organize several bird tours and hikes each week, which cater to both the local pop ulace and to visitors.

FRIENDS OF THE SAN PEDRO RIVER

“We organize tours almost every week, more frequently during the winter when our ‘Snow birds’ arrive. It’s not just birds that migrate to warmer climes for the winter–some people do, too! We should really be out at five in the morning to do this, but that’s a tough sell, there’s not too many people who enjoy getting up early,” Richard explains. “The birds are the most active, and do the most singing at dawn and at dusk,” he continues.

It turns out that the best birdwatching season is in April and May, when the major migration paths pass through the area. The birds come from Mexico to the South–we’re close enough to the border to see it!

We learn that around 350 bird species pass by or breed here each year. A hundred or so are permanent residents, while the rest either winter here or make a stop here to take a rest from their journey.

“Hey everyone, some words of advice before we head out. Stay on the path–there are rattlers about! Bring a lot of water, and wearing a hat is a good idea,” the other guide, Pete Siminski informs us. Although today is on the cool side (90 degrees at 7 am…), the sun is beating down on us mercilessly. I think to myself that all I need to do to go three for three in terms of mistakes is to step on a rattlesnake. Some of our friendly fellow birders lend us hats and give us water, and after all, I’m not that likely to be stepping on a snake.

THE BUTCHERBIRD

We head off through pleasant, shaded groves, stopping now and then to look for some birds. It’s quite frustrating at first. The moment I hold the binoculars to my eyes, to try to spot something, I inevitably hear someone say, “It flew away!”, but after a little while, I get into the swing of it, and manage to see some birds. My competitive nature wins out, and I spot one bird before anybody else does: a Loggerhead Shrike. Deidre Asbjorn laughs out loud when she sees what I wrote in my notebook: “lager head shake”.

“Typical Swede, beer on the brain!” She has Norwegian roots herself, so you get the picture.

The bird I’ve spotted turns out to be something of an avian version of the monsters from the Alien movies. The Loggerhead Shrike’s diet is mainly insects, but it occa sionally hunts prey even larger than itself. By diving at high speed, using its powerful beak and neck muscles to impale the head or neck of its prey, and then twisting and turning, it can kill remarkably large animals. Lizards, other birds, and other small animals are all on the menu as far as this little killing machine is concerned. It also has a habit of hanging its dead prey from thorns or barbed wire, to make it easier to eat, or simply to save it for leaner times. This is a cute, but kind of scary bird, with the well-de served nickname “butcherbird”. I’m quite relieved that it’s no larger than a mitten.

Carol Moore has come from Brooklyn to visit her daughter, who works at Fort Huachuca. Carol is an en thusiastic birder, who enjoys the dry heat of Arizona. Now, she lives in Atlanta, where she sometimes finds the heat and humidity a bit of a struggle.

“Do you hear that?” she asks. “Tiii-tiii-tii… it’s a Com mon Yellowthroat.” This turns out to be a kind of passer

ine, or perching bird. We can hear its singing constantly, but it is notoriously difficult to catch sight of.

“My name is George Bush,” a friendly man introduces himself.

I blurt out “like the president?” before realizing that he’s probably been asked that question before. George, who hails from Sierra Vista, is another dedicated birder. I sneak a jealous glance at his fine Swarovski binoculars–I’d like to have a pair like that! George spots a mimid drinking water from a little pond. I cheat a little and stand behind him, to make it easier for me to spot the bird.

HUMMINGBIRDS GALORE

I realize that I’m beginning to enjoy this birdwatching stuff. It’s nice to go for a walk, stop now and then to check out some birds, and have a chat with your fellow birders. Diana, a charming Sierra Vistan, agrees:

“I birdwatch almost every day; I think of it as exercise and inspiration. I either take a walk, or I head out on my bike. I like taking these tours, too. Richard and Pete are so knowledgeable, and so exciting to listen to.”

There are 14 different species of humming birds in Sierra Vista.

Richard, who is a retired geologist, tells us that the area has 14 different species of hummingbirds, counting both the permanent residents and the ones who just pass through. They have exciting names like Lucifer Hummingbird, An na’s Hummingbird, Alien Hummingbird, and Rufous Hum mingbird. Now and then, we hear a hum, as if from a large insect, and suddenly, one of these perky little birds hovers around in mid-air for a moment, before suddenly darting off.

We hear the dry grass rustle as we advance; a constant flow of lizards is zipping away from the path ahead. Pete, who is a living encyclopedia, tells us about a certain spe cies of lizards that is exclusively female, but still manages to reproduce without any males. It’s thought-provoking, to say the least. Pete points to a beautiful, white plant that looks like a lily.

“That’s a Sacred Datura. The indigenous population in the area used it for religious rites,” he explains. The whole plant is toxic, particularly the seeds. They used to make tea from the plant. After drinking it, people would see their totem animals, speak to birds, see ghosts, and experience a bunch of other stuff. Kids sometimes try to get high from

the plant, but they don’t realize the dangers involved, and often end up in the hospital.

“It’s open at night, and it attracts a special species of moth to pollinate it, but as you can see, it can open during the day, as well. When it does that, it attracts bees, who get intoxicated and stumble around inside the flower, making them perfect pollinators,” he laughs.

We need to migrate, and so, we leave the group to make our way back to the car. As we soon find out, we’re nowhere near as good at finding our way around as the birds are. After plodding around in the thick sand of a dried riverbed for a while, the whole birdwatching experience begins to feel like a scene from a spaghetti western. We’re out of water, we’re boiling hot, and I keep up appearances by lying and claiming to know exactly where we are. We stumble up from the riv erbed, only to find that we’ve been walking next to the road we came here on for almost a mile. Once we’re back at the car, the tepid water we forgot inside tastes like heaven.

Do you want to go birding in Sierra Vista? Learn more at: sanpedroriver.org/wpfspr and sierravistaaz.gov

On the lookout for the Butcherbird.

Anyone can go to ‘Boot Barn’, pick up the gear and try to look the part. Those are your town cowboys”, says Blake Brazeal with a wry smile.

“But no true cowboy calls themselves a cowboy. It’s all about quietly exuding the fact that you are one.”

Handsome and full of swag ger, Mississippi-born Brazeal was lifted into his first saddle at the age of 7 and immediately felt right at home. “It’s not sur prising, he explains. My father was a well-known horse trainer, and my great grandpa prepared pack mules for the Vietnam War. It’s something that’s in the family’s blood dating way back.”

candelabra cacti of the Saguaro National Park in Arizona.

“This is the cowboy’s office: the desert, the red rock mountains, the big skies”, he says. There’s no place more beautiful to do this job in the world.

THE AMERICAN Blake Brazeal

DELICATE CREATURES

As he effortlessly rounds up a pair of colts with the twirl of his lasso he talks fondly of his equestrian charges.

Now 22, Brazeal spends his days breaking, training and riding horses amongst the towering

“Even though they are big beasts, inside they are real del icate”, he says. They are kind, gentle and very smart. They fig ure things out quickly – how to untie themselves and the other horses too - just to test you. But deep down I know what they are really thinking. Even the wildest ones just want to be your best buddy.

BY SIMON URWIN

“Even though they are big beasts, inside they are real delicate”

SAGUARO NATIONAL PARK | ARIZONA

In Saguaro National Park, you'll find The giant saguaro cacti, the universal symbol of the American West. These majestic plants are found only in a small portion of the United States.

Do you want to experience the giant plants, visit the beautiful but sweltering park close to Tucson

AMERICAN

SAGUARO NATIONAL PARK, ARIZONA

PORTFOLIO

BY CHARLIE BENNET WEB: CHARLIEBENNET.COM | INSTAGRAM: CHARLIE.BENNET

New York City locked down in the spring of 2020. The city had seemingly overnight become the epicentre of a global pandemic. The streets, bridges, and train stations lay barren and empty. People began going out in protective gloves and facemasks to shield themselves and others whilst in public. Forced from bars and restaurants, people turned to video screens for social interaction. Our book, On Pause: Three Months Which Changed New York, looks back at this strange and often terrifying time through the lens of photography; offering up a retrospective look at those New Yorkers who stayed put while so many others vacated the city. Hospital staff overwhelmed with patients and scared of the proximity to the virus and its easy transfer home. Small business owners and parents who tried to navigate their normal lives under a whole new paradigm and set of rules. We were constantly impressed with peoples’ creativity, willpower, and adaptability. We love New York more than ever after this experience.

CHARLIE BENNET AND HELENA GUSTAVSSON AUTHORS OF, ON PAUSE: THREE MONTHS WHICH CHANGED NEW YORK.

GET IT HERE: ONPAUSEBOOK.COM

TRAILS

PORTFOLIO

CHARLIE BENNET

ISLANDS OF BEAUTY

Located 93 miles off the coast of British Columbia, the archipelago of Haida Gwaii is home to the indigenous Haida people – renowned amongst the First Nations of Canada for their remarkable skills as mariners, sea hunters and master craftsmen.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

According to Haida myth, a raven dropped a black pebble into the ocean and so created the two hun dred islands of Haida Gwaii”, says local guide Behn Cochrane as we walk along a vast, sweeping crescent of sand.

“The Haida also believe that the first human beings were born on the spit at the end of this beach”, he continues. “The story goes that the raven found a large clamshell there, looked inside and saw many little men hiding in fear. The bird prized the shell open and set them free. They were the first people on earth – and they were Haida.”

Clouds scudding across the sky suddenly turn to black. As the rain begins to fall we head for cover, clambering

over piles of driftwood thrown ashore on a ferocious high tide. “Whatever the true origin story, we know for sure that the Haida have lived on these islands for at least fourteen thousand years”, he says.

Where the high tide ends, dense rainforest begins, and we shelter under the leafy canopy until the downpour eases, then follow a trail inland through great stands of hemlock, spruce and red cedar. “Like all coastal peoples, the Haida’s lives have always revolved around the tree”, he explains. “They built their sea canoes and longhouses from timber, their hats and baskets were woven from roots, and their clothing was made from bark. Wood was also their means for expressing their spirituality, their creativity and their cultural traditions.”

We emerge into a clearing where a Haida totem pole towers 50-foot above us, resplendent with figures of grizzly

Master carver Christian White is at work on a totem pole.

“THE HAIDA ALSO BELIEVE THAT THE FIRST HUMAN BEINGS WERE BORN ON THE SPIT AT THE END OF THIS BEACH”, HE CONTINUES. “THE STORY GOES THAT THE RAVEN FOUND A LARGE CLAMSHELL THERE, LOOKED INSIDE AND SAW MANY LITTLE MEN HIDING IN FEAR. THE BIRD PRIZED THE SHELL OPEN AND SET THEM FREE. THEY WERE THE FIRST PEOPLE ON EARTH – AND THEY WERE HAIDA.”

bears, pine martens, butterflies and frogs. “It was cut from a whole tree; a 600-year-old red western cedar. The artist is a friend of mine – he’s one of the best craftsmen on the islands. Let’s go and see if he’s at work.”

THE TOTEMPOLE CARVER

We drive to the town of Old Masset and pull up outside the home of fifth-generation master carver Christian White. Cochrane toots the car horn and White emerges wearing his traditional giid dajang hat. We say our hellos on the front lawn in the shadow of a soaring totem, also his hand iwork, hewn from a trunk so mighty it took a team of more than a hundred people to raise it into position.

“It’s a memorial pole to honour my grandfather”, says White. “One of the reasons I wanted to express my grat itude to him was because he taught me so much when I was growing up. He would take me to fish for sockeye salmon and halibut, and he showed me how to gather seaweed and mussels. Thanks to him, I know how to feed myself from Mother Nature all year round.”

White invites me into his carving shed to show me his latest project: a pole that commemorates the peace treaty between the Haida and the Heltsyuk people of Bella Bella island. He picks up a carving tool and sets to work on the timber, which was recently felled in a sacred ceremony. White tells me it will take him six months to finish the carving and painting, but despite all the intricate and in tensive labour involved – such as making natural pigments from clamshells and salmon roe – the finished pole will purposefully receive no weatherproofing.

“Sun, rain and wind will begin to eat away at it first”, he tells me. “Then, the lichen and the woodpeckers will take their turn. The colours will fade and the pole will

eventually rot and crumble. In Haida culture, succumbing to nature is all part of the totem’s lifespan. Returning to the earth is its destiny. You’ll see this when you visit some of the old village sites around Haida Gwaii. But there are no roads to take you there - you’ll need to arrange a boat.”

THE VIKINGS OF NORTH AMERICA

I spend the night in the nearby logging town of Sandspit, and next morning Jessie Lay, a cheery transplant from the Canadian mainland, picks me up in her truck and we drive to a boat ramp an hour away at Camp Moresby. The sun is slowly creeping over the treetops as we launch our Zodiac onto the steely blue waters. “It was from forested inlets like this that the Haida once set sail in their canoes to raid and trade their way up the Pacific coast”, she tells me. “Their fearless sea expeditions earned them the reputation of being the Vikings of North America.”

We slowly skirt the maze of coves and channels, and Lay recounts more of the islands’ history. “First Contact with Europeans happened in the late 1700s”, she says. “Ships arrived to purchase sea otter pelts from the Haida in exchange for iron, firearms, beads and buttons. Sea otter fur was all the rage back then - especially in China – be cause it’s the densest fur in the world. Hunting totally decimated the otter population though, and hundreds of years later it still hasn’t recovered.”

The fur traders were followed by further waves of out siders who came to ransack the islands’ rich natural re sources. As we drift down Cumshewa Inlet the debris of their endeavours - the logging camps, gold mines and fish ing canneries - can be seen rusting and crumbling in the forest undergrowth, silently suffocating under blankets of liverwort, moss and lichen.

The beautiful nature in British Columbia is stunning.

HAIDA GWAII

COLUMBIA

HAIDA

Jessie Lay is launching a Zodiac.

“SUN, RAIN AND WIND WILL BEGIN TO EAT AWAY AT IT FIRST”, HE TELLS ME. “THEN, THE LICHEN AND THE WOODPECKERS WILL TAKE THEIR TURN. THE COLOURS WILL FADE AND THE POLE WILL EVENTUALLY ROT AND CRUMBLE. IN HAIDA CULTURE, SUCCUMBING TO NATURE IS ALL PART OF THE TOTEM’S LIFESPAN. RETURNING TO THE EARTH IS ITS DESTINY.

“The explorers and colonizers left behind a much dark er legacy than industrial pollution”, says Lay, as we drop anchor in the shallows off Louise Island. “First Contact brought Western diseases like smallpox, influenza and tu berculosis that swept through Haida Gwaii like wildfire. The total population of 10,000 Haida fell to less than 600 and resulted in more than a hundred deserted villages across the islands, just like this one.”

We walk into the settlement of Skedans which is mournfully quiet save for the cry of a pair of bald eagles wheeling overhead. Where a proud row of twenty-seven longhouses once stood, there are now just hollow foun dations that resemble shallow graves. Many of the last surviving totem poles lean at drunken angles; others have been felled completely by the wild winter storms. I see one marked with 13 rings and ask about their signifi cance. “They’re potlatch rings”, says Lay. “A potlatch is a gift-giving feast in Haida culture and it can serve many different purposes. It could be for a wedding, or to honour ancestors, or to celebrate finishing the construction of a longhouse. Historically the host would provide food for all those who attended, also gifts – everything from candle fish to canoes. So the rings indicate that there were 13 highly significant events during the lifetime of the village.”

AN QUATIC AURORA BOREALIS.

We spend the night further down the coast in a floating lodge. From the deck I spend hours watching the waters; blooms of fried egg jellyfish swim by and, after dark, the bioluminescent algae produce their extraordinary flashes of electric-blue light, like a kind of aquatic Aurora Borealis.

Next morning we depart in the direction of Gwaii Haanas - ‘Islands of Beauty’ in the Haida language, a national park

reserve that covers almost 15 percent of the archipelago’s total landmass, and the only place in Canada to be protected in its entirety from sea floor to mountain peak.

GANG SGWAAY, A UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE, We venture out into the infamous Hecate Strait, a peril ous stretch of water that shares its name with the Greek goddess of witchcraft - a malevolent deity with the pow er to open the gates of death. Today on the Hecate there are mercifully no violent storms or terrifying swells to contend with; instead we are met with a full day of fog that’s so dense and spectral it dims bright sunlight to the point of darkness. It slows our progress, but come the afternoon, we finally draw close to the village of SGang Gwaay, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which is home to the largest collection of Haida totem poles anywhere on the islands.

We wade ashore and follow a path through large patch es of giant skunk cabbage – a favourite of the islands’ bears who devour it to cure their constipation after months of hibernation. Eventually the trail reaches a bay, where two-dozen mortuary poles stand guard, staring out to sea. Their trunks, bleached to the colour of bones, are scored with all manner of wild-eyed creatures – both real and supernatural; some with their nostrils flared, others with teeth bared, as if ready to bite. Lay tells me that the top of each pole would have held the boxed remains of a highly regarded individual. “It was believed that in time their soul merged with the tree, and that once the earth reclaimed the pole, the soul was free to continue with their journey”, she says.

One pole carved with a grizzly bear stands apart from the main cluster. The wind ripples through the trees as

In Haida culture, succumbing to nature is all part of the totem’s lifespan.

ONE POLE CARVED WITH A GRIZZLY BEAR STANDS APART FROM THE MAIN CLUSTER.

“THERE’S A STORY ABOUT A JAPANESE PHOTOGRAPHER WHO FELT THE STRANGEST SENSATION. HE COULDN’T LIFT HIS CAMERA TO TAKE A PICTURE OF IT”, SAYS LAY. “NOT LONG AFTERWARDS HE WAS IN RUSSIA AND WAS ATTACKED AND EATEN BY A GRIZZLY. IT WAS AS IF HE HAD EXPERIENCED A KIND OF PROPHECY, A FORESEEING.”

we approach it, and there’s a palpable sense of a presence of some kind, as if someone or something is watching us. “There’s a story about a Japanese photographer who felt the strangest sensation. He couldn’t lift his camera to take a picture of it”, says Lay. “Not long afterwards he was in Russia and was attacked and eaten by a grizzly. It was as if he had experienced a kind of prophecy, a foreseeing.”

THE OLD WHALING STATION

As the light begins to fade, we set sail, rounding the southernmost tip of Gwaii Haanas to reach journey’s end in the serene inlet of Rose Harbour, its mirror glass waters broken by the rusting hulks of a once-prosperous whaling station. “In the past it was worse than a concentration camp”, says resident Goetz Hanisch as he welcomes me ashore. “Between 1909 and 1943 they slaughtered more than 2,000 sperm, blue, and humpback whales here, then processed their carcasses for meat and by-products like lamp oil, glue and margarine.”

He invites me to see the house he single-handedly built from scratch that now stands amongst the station’s ruins. I ask what brought him here. “It was Mother Na ture”, he replies. “As a child growing up in Germany I had these vivid visions of trees, mountains and water. I happened to come to Haida Gwaii as a traveller and re alised that this was the place that I’d seen in my dreams. I then set about looking for the right place to live. I wanted somewhere with no road access – because the road is a corrupting force that brings all the bullshit of modern life. I found Rose Harbour. The nearest road is at least 74 miles away. This is probably the most isolated spot in British Columbia.”

FINDING THE PLACE OF ONES DREAMS

His home for nearly 35 years, Hanisch remains the only full time resident. “There are very few people nearby and sometimes in winter I don’t see another soul for four months”, he says. I ask him if he enjoys the hermitic life style. “I prefer the words ‘contented isolation on my own terms’ to ‘hermit’”, he replies, pointedly. “It was my de cision. I wanted to live somewhere surrounded by nature and to be self-sufficient. And I’ve more than achieved that - you should see my garden.”

We walk to the back of the house to find a riot of perfume and colour: roses and trumpet lilies blooming amongst the gooseberry and redcurrant bushes; honey suckle and grape vines climbing along the fence posts. “I catch all my own fish, I get eggs from my ducks, and I’ve even learned how to grow figs and lemons in this cold, rainy climate”, he says.

“The most wonderful thing though is that all the nectar has attracted a flood of insects and birds to the garden, and to Rose Harbour”, he continues. “The deer have returned and I’m sure there’s more biodiversity now than ever be fore. It just goes to show that the human footprint can be a good thing. I’m slowly overturning the cruel legacy of the whaling station. The animals know they can trust me – they can sense that I’m different to the whalers. What was once a place of death, is now a part of Haida Gwaii that’s full of life.”

Goetz Hanisch outside is cabin.

Remains from the wailing station in Rose Harbour.

Betty Wright

Wright Where I Need To Be The EnduringLegacy of “Little MissSuper Soul”

In every issue our music editor, Donivan Berube, takes a deep dive into musical history, dusting off the oftentimes forgotten classics that are these albums. This time he is showcasing the legendary and soulful pipes of Betty Wright.

WORDS AN PHOTOS BY DONIVAN BERUBE

What “star” depicts to me is that one day you can fall. I always say that I’m a moon, because a moon eclipses every now and then but you always know it’s coming back.”

The record-setting force of soul behind “Clean Up Woman” and “Tonight Is the Night” made a whole career of comebacks. A lifelong resident of Miami, Florida, the two-year-old baby “Bessie” was towed along by her family’s gospel band Echoes of Joy as they toured southern United States church circuits. Of her gifted musical family and six siblings, two brothers played guitar for the Afrobeats, serving as backing band to star singers of the day. But their child prodigy kid sister was coming into her own right there on stage, recording

and performing with the family band until she was ready to step into a spotlight for herself.

RECORD DEBUT AT THE AGE OF 14!

Wright’s debut record My First Time Around was re leased in 1968; she was only 14 years old at the time. Radio DJs around the world were already recognizing her “anointed force” as “Little Miss Super Soul.” And while it predates her peak of superstardom, it’s this early out put that remains the crown jewel for crate-digging record collectors, with original copies fetching spendy price tags of over $50 in its rare availability.

1972’s follow-up I Love The Way You Love still shi nes as the brightest gem in her discography, a masterful collection of orchestral grooves and lovesick boogie bal lads. With instrumentation and arrangement by the “Par ty Down” cult icon of disco blues Willie “Little Beaver”

Hale carving up complex layers of funk guitars, “Clean Up Woman” took flight as an instantly recognizable smash hit that would go on to become her defining work, selling millions of copies and reaching certified gold status as Wright approached her 18th birthday.

The title track, “I Love The Way You Love,” opens with Wright singing softly over lush, hushed strings before a percussive backbeat drops in to take commanding pace with guitar licks and soulful attitude. A cover of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine” is followed by the whist le-note registers of “Don’t Let It End This Way,” a rare vocal styling ability that she discovered accidentally while laughing. Wright’s otherwise cool and controlled delivery can effortlessly erupt into a ferocious wail. On “I Am Wo man” she sings: “I am wise, but it’s wisdom born of pain / Yes I’ve paid the price, but look how much I gained / I am strong, I am invincible, I am woman.” The aplomb youngster crooned such themes on many songs, with lines

like: “The best girls don’t always win, sometimes they lose for the better.”

PRODUCER, SONGWRITER AND SINGER

It was her versatile talent not just for singing but for writing and arranging songs firsthand that helped launch the careers of countless others. She won the 1976 Grammy Award for Best R&B Song with “Where is the Love?” and co-produced and co-wrote Joss Stone’s 2004 album Mind, Body & Soul, another number one record. Her list of contributions is end less, from singing backup vocals for Stevie Wonder, Alice Cooper, and (much later) Erykah Badu and Jennifer Lopez, to securing local Miami record deals for George & Gwen McRae while still in high school. Television appearances on Soul Train, Dick Clark’s American Bandstand, and later as a vocal coach in MTV’s Making the Band showcased her viva cious, joyful confidence in live performances and cemented her notoriety as both mentor and inspirator.

WITHIN JUST A FEW YEARS SHE WAS MAKING HISTORY AS THE FIRST BLACK FEMALE ARTIST TO SCORE A GOLD ALBUM ON HER VERY OWN RECORD LABEL WITH 1987’s MOTHER WIT.

While laying the groundwork for Black performers in business, Wright’s music has continued to elevate across the span of six decades to a nowlegendary status, often sampled by hip hop and R&B artists like Beyoncé, Mary J. Blige and Chance the Rapper. And though Wright succumbed to cancer in May of 2020, news of her death shocked the music world as she was still singing and performing on television up to the month prior.

Her joyful spirit lives on indelibly as a celebrated songstress and foundational reference in music sampling for all tomorrow’s hits to come.

In the 1980s, Wright left the major label Epic to start her own company, Ms. B Records. Within just a few years she was making history as the first Black female artist to score a gold album on her very own record la bel with 1987’s Mother Wit. While she may have been experiencing one of those self-described “eclipses” by this point in time, the album’s catchy single “No Pain, No Gain” reestablished her singular voice awash in the electrified drums, funk bass, and synthesized sounds of the era.

I BELIEVE IN LEGACY

Wright returned to the Grammys in 2012 following the release of her collaborative album with The Roots, titled Betty Wright: The Movie. With renowned record collector, drummer, author, and overall music aficianado Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson at the helm, the album compiles a

tight orchestration of jazz-influenced hip hop, breakbeats, and classic soul into a euphoric triumph with contributions from Snoop Dogg and Lil Wayne amongst others. In an interview with NPR at the time she professed: “I believe in legacy, and I believe in making the radio sound better. If I gotta listen to it, I want it to sound good.”

While laying the groundwork for Black performers in business, Wright’s music has continued to elevate across the span of six decades to a now-legendary status, often sampled by hip hop and R&B artists like Beyoncé, Mary J. Blige and Chance the Rapper. And though Wright succumbed to cancer in May of 2020, news of her de ath shocked the music world as she was still singing and performing on television up to the month prior. Her joy ful spirit lives on indelibly as a celebrated songstress and foundational reference in music sampling for all tomor row’s hits to come.

WRIGHT RETURNED TO THE GRAMMYS IN 2012 FOLLOWING THE RELEASE OF HER COLLABORATIVE ALBUM WITH THE ROOTS, TITLED BETTY WRIGHT: THE MOVIE. WITH RENOWNED RECORD COLLECTOR, DRUMMER, AUTHOR, AND OVERALL MUSIC AFICIANADO AHMIR “QUESTLOVE”

THOMPSON AT THE HELM

LORETTO | KENTUCKY

THE SAMUEL FAMILY'S FEELINGS FOR BOURBON

”Don't ruin the whiskey!” was Bill Samuel's Sr. word to his son when he took over running the family business. Samuels Sr. had already burned the family's 170-year-old whiskey recipe as he set about refining the flavour, before wife Marjorie transformed the bottle with its signature red wax topper. Meet the Maker's Mark family, eight generations of creative Kentucky distillers.

The words Kentucky and bourbon go together like mac and cheese, ham and eggs, and the Stars and Stripes,” says Bill Samuels Jr. as he welcomes me to the Maker’s Mark distillery in the small community of Loretto, KY, population: 771. “They always have, they always will. This is the spiritual home of bourbon whiskey after all.”

Samuels – chairman emeritus of Maker’s Mark and nicknamed ‘the godfather of bourbon’ - then invites me on a tour of the distillery, first passing by an old painting of Daniel Boone, the explorer and pioneer who in the

late 18th century blazed a trail through the Cumberland Gap into what is now Kentucky, where he established one of the first English-speaking settlements west of the Appalachian Mountains.

SETTLERS FROM SCOTLAND AND IRELAND “Without Daniel Boone, I guess we might not have Ken tucky bourbon,” Samuels says with a smile. “The route he opened up lead to a flood of immigrants – mainly from Scotland and Ireland. They brought their distilling and drinking culture to the New World and they found the perfect conditions for making bourbon here. By the late 1700s and early 1800s some of Kentucky’s most famous

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

WE SKIRT A STREAM THAT RUNS THROUGH THE PROPERTY. “ONE VERY IMPORTANT FACTOR MADE THOSE EARLY DISTILLERS STAY HERE OF ALL PLACES,” SAYS SAMUELS, NODDING TOWARDS THE WATER. “YES, THERE WAS FERTILE FARMLAND FOR GROWING CORN (BOURBON’S PRINCIPAL INGREDIENT) AND PLENTY OF WOOD FOR MAKING BARRELS OR BURNING AS FIREWOOD DURING THE DISTILLATION PROCESS

distilling names had put down roots in the region – in cluding my own ancestor, Robert Samuels, a Scot; I’m his five-times grandson. Nowadays, around 95% of all bour bon made in the United States, including Maker’s Mark, is made in the Bluegrass State.”

PERFECT CONDITIONS

We skirt a stream that runs through the property. “One very important factor made those early distillers stay here of all places,” says Samuels, nodding towards the water. “Yes, there was fertile farmland for growing corn (bour bon’s principal ingredient) and plenty of wood for mak ing barrels or burning as firewood during the distillation process - just like lots of other parts of the US. But water was the special magic ingredient; it made the whiskey taste better than anywhere else.”

Bourbon’s magic ingredient is specifically pure spring water filtered by limestone. Rich in minerals and ex tremely porous, the limestone allows water to pass through it freely; it absorbs calcium and magnesium in the process, and, crucially, eradicates impurities such as iron. “There’s never been a good bourbon made from soft water,” says Samuels. “And Kentucky water is the hardest in the country. To get an idea of what it’d be like if there was iron present, just dip a rusty nail into a glass of whiskey and you’ll see what it does to the flavour. It’ll turn your stomach.”

OLD YEAST

Samuels leads the way into the fermentation room, where Maker’s Mark’s unique recipe of milled grains – known as the mash bill – is fermented with yeast and water in vast cypress-wood tanks. “Cypress is ideal because it has no impact on flavour,” says Samuels as we watch the pungent slurry puttering merrily. “The yeast is an heirloom strain

more than a hundred years old that has been passed down to every bottle of Maker’s Mark. It loves the magnesium in the water.”

Samuels goes on to explain that as per Federal rules, for a whiskey to qualify as a bourbon, the mash bill must consist of at least 51% corn; the remainder can be quan tities of other small grains chosen by the distiller. Adding rye – a common bourbon ingredient - gives peppery, spicy notes, while barley results in more chocolatey flavours. Maker’s Mark eschews both in favour of red winter wheat.

THE SWEET RED WINTER WHEAT

“It was an unusual choice and it all came about as a result of baking bread,” says Samuels. “Back in the 1950s, my father – Bill Snr - decided to play around with the fami ly’s trusted 170-year-old bourbon recipe by experimenting with different flavouring grains. To save years of aging time, he baked several loaves with different combinations instead of distilling them. It led him to swap out the tradi tional rye for red winter wheat which gives the bourbon a sweetness, a lightness, that makes it really easy to drink.”

After fermentation and distillation is complete, the bourbon is barrel-aged in one of the rickhouses that are set in fields surrounding the distillery. Samuels takes me to one of them which is piled to the rafters with wooden barrels carrying liquid cargo, each one weighing 250kg. There he tells me that Federal rules dictate that while other whiskeys can be aged in barrels that previously held port or wine, all bourbon barrels must be made of new, unadulterated oak.

“We use American white oak, a Kentucky native”, he says. “It doesn’t have any of the strong-tasting saps or res ins found in other woods. We season ours for a year out doors which helps remove the bitter tannins too.” As per the regulations, the interior staves of the oak barrel must

The leaded window in the fermentation room is one of Margie Samuel's works. The S stands for Samuels. The Roman numeral "IV" means that her husband is the fourth generation distiller.

Copper stills are the key to all the impurities in the whiskey disappearing.

The iconic red wax top on the bottles was Margie Samuel's idea.

BOURBON

The mash simmers well in one of the cypress-wood tanks.

The historical collection in Samuel's house.

“THE GOAL IS CONSISTENCY, AND THAT’S DIFFICULT WHEN GOD GIVES YOU CHALLENGES WITH THE WEATHER EVERY DAY. SO, WE TASTE REGULARLY, THEN DETERMINE WHEN THE WHISKEY IS READY TO BE HAND ROTATED TO A COOLER SECTION TO KEEP IT FROM MATURING TOO QUICKLY.

also be charred - to one of four different levels depending on the flavour profile the distiller wants their bourbon to acquire. “Forty seconds of fire is all it takes to achieve a number three char which is our preference,” says Samuels. “It caramelizes the natural wood sugars and helps give the bourbon lovely vanilla notes.”

COLOUR AND FLAVOUR

We climb the stairs to the top floor of the rickhouse, the warm air filled with a sweet, fruity aroma that resembles a slice of sherry-soaked fruit cake at Christmas. “Bar rels spend a minimum of three hot Kentucky summers here so that the whiskey expands through the wood, gaining colour and flavour from the oak and char,” says Samuels. “It’s like making good porridge – you do the aggressive part of the cooking first and then you let it simmer down.”

As the climate and temperature can vary wildly from year to year, Samuels and the distillery tasting panel do a lot of sampling to keep a close eye on the aging process. “The goal is consistency, and that’s difficult when God gives you challenges with the weather every day. So, we taste regularly, then determine when the whiskey is ready to be hand rotated to a cooler section to keep it from ma turing too quickly. Ultimately, we age for taste not time, and overall, it takes around six years. If we could make Bourbon any faster, we certainly wouldn’t.”

Our final stop is the plant where each Maker’s Mark bottle receives its signature crown of hand-dipped wax. “That was my mom’s idea”, Samuels says, as a procession of amber-filled bottles races along the conveyer belt - be fore being plunged head-first into vats of molten wax, the scarlet-coloured tears spilling down each bottle neck in their own unique pattern.

MRS. SAMUELS MADE IT LOOK BEAUTIFUL

“Mom (Marjorie Mattingly Samuels) was a biochemist, so she knew how to formulate the wax to achieve the right viscosity and colour,” he says. “Her laboratory wasn’t anything fancy. She used the deep fat fryer in the family kitchen to work it all out.”

Marjorie Samuels was also responsible for the aesthetic of the rest of the bottle beneath the topper. “The flavour stood out from the crowd, so she wanted the bottle to do the same on the store shelves. She was bored by the look of everything else on the market, so the distinctive square-shaped body was her idea; it was inspired by her collection of 19th-century cognac bottles. She loved cal ligraphy too. That led to the distinctive label which is still hand-cut to this day.”

Mrs. Samuels, an authority on 18th-century English pewter, even dreamed up the brand name – a nod to the maker’s marks that pewterers stamped on their works as proof of the purity and the provenance of the object in hand. “Up until then, whisky bottles all looked the same because they were designed solely by men. Mom didn’t have all the baggage of knowing how it should be done. We’re pretty sure it’s the first liquor bottle designed and named by a woman anywhere in the world”, he adds. “That’s what makes it so unique. Dad was in charge of making the contents taste great, but mom made it look really beautiful.”

Desert Bound Train

UNION PACIFIC 5927 | SALTON SEA, CALIFORNIA WORDS AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

Union Pacific 5927 stands still, all alone on the tracks that bank the Salton Sea. Disillusioned, this could easily appear to be a mirage, the air here dances in the heat. A powerful relic weighing in at a quarter of a ton at 73ft long, it is a model C44ACCTE from GE Transportation Systems out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

We don’t know why it stands here idle. Normally it is out chugging around on the Sunset Route, moving goods between Los Angeles and New Orleans. Maybe it’s broken down, or maybe the engineer is out in the bushes answering the call of nature? Who knows, in the meantime we can’t help but gawk at its awesomeness, “There is the railway. And that is the desert.” .