American Trails Magazine #12

NASHVILLE

Nashville Stories är en serie viner som passar att drickas både med och utan mat. Alltifrån smaker av kryddstarka amerikanska södern till soliga Italien, från apéritif & charkuterier till fisk, skaldjur, pasta, grillat & grytor. Vinerna är omsorgsfullt utvalda av artisten Jill Johnson.

BRA KÖP

Movin’ On W

hen I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed 13-year old living in Uppsala, Sweden, my Saturday nights were holy, “same procedure as last Saturday” was the modus operandi. Mom would bring home small soft cheeses wrapped in colored foils, La vache qui rit, ‘the laughing cow’—and I loved them. Then on with the TV, with the whole family gathering around to check out a show about two truck drivers, Movin’ On, all were keen to see what adventures these guys were up to on their journey across America’s highways.

A few years later and I was firmly convinced that I should become a Mack Truck driver, doing long hauls across the USA, pulling down on the horn, talking on the CB radio, and of course leaving the cops in my dust as I geared up and over the Rocky Mountains.

Well, that didn’t quite come true, as I ended up working for a fashion magazine, although I was however a member of the Swedish Tractor Pulling Society, and this was about as close as I got. But the dream of driving through the open Midwest, across mountain passes and pan-hot deserts did eventually become a reality. Seemingly, this is a dream held by many—to road trip across the USA.

Where should one go? The possibilities are endless, and especially when you can cater it all to your personal interests. Since you are asking, here are some of my favorites. The road trip for those with limited vacation days: Highway 49, the old miner roads which goes along the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. A fantastic route best done in Spring when everything is green. You decide yourself how long to go, but Yosemite National Park, which is on the route, is definitely not something to miss (see page 126 and historichwy49. com). Another favorite is “The Great Circle” a loop through the National Parks of Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, especially if, like me, you can find a cheap flight out of Vegas.

There aren’t enough pages, but I’ll throw in as well the coastal drive from Vancouver, Canada down to Southern California—Hell yes. In this issue you’ll find no less than three captivating road trips to dream yourself away. Robin and Majsan battle storms and washed out roads in South Dakota and North Dakota, Camilla holds on for dear life while her and another Robin zip along the roads of California by motorcycle. ‘Rookie of the Year’ goes to our newest collaborator, Fredrik Lundgren, who seeks out ghost towns, National Parks, and strange lakes all while blasting Pink Floyd and Neil Young from his van. Hold on to your butts’ ladies and gentlemen, let’s ride!

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

I almost forgot. We won the Publishing Prize for the fifth year in a row! If we celebrated? Yes a little…

North Dakota

Louisiana

New Jersey

5. A FEW WORDS FROM THE TRIBE LEADER Issue 12, the road trip issue. Editor-in-chief Larsson fires up his engine and gets out there.

6. THE MAP

We have been traveling all over this time. Finally, some articles from cowboy country in the north.

13. CONTRIBUTORS

This time our friends spent lots of time behind the wheel or out on a bike, except for David, who drove for an hour.

14. THE RAMBLER | VENICE | CALIFORNIA

Take a hike. We are very good at walking.

17. 2ND LINE, ANY TIME | NOLA | LOUISIANA

We are always longing back to The Big Easy. The music, the food, the people.

18. SALVATION MOUNTAIN | CALIFORNIA

Some mountains are more like hills. This one is also holy and filled with love.

20. THE BANJO MAN| HOMEWOOD | ALABAMA

Say hi to Jason Burns, a banjo maker.

22. THE GRAPES OF JOY | HÖGANÄS | SWEDEN

Jill Johnson is the biggest star on the Swedish country scene. We talked to her about Nashville, wine, and friends.

32. ROAD TRIPPING ON A BIKE | CALIFORNIA

We sent Camilla Lindqvist to find out how a motorcycle road trip in California would suit her. Yes, correct, she loved it.

48. NEIGHBORHOOD | DOGPATCH | SAN FRANCISCO

It’s a cool name and, as it turns out – a cool part of Frisco.

52. ROAD TRIP IN COWBOY COUNTRY

SOUTH DAKOTA | NORTH DAKOTA

Majsan and Robin went on an epic road trip in the west.

68. T.R.O.G. | WILDWOOD | NEW JERSEY Herr Huwe is back. Our favorite German, back this time with photos of retro hot rodders on a beach in New Jersey.

84. A TASTE OF ALABAMA | ALABAMA

We had no idea how diverse and great the food and wine scene in the Yellowhammer state was. Thanks to Simon Urwin, we do now.

106. PORTFOLIO | CAJUN COUNTRY

30 years ago, photographer Micke Lundström spent some time in the Bayou and took fantastic photos with his Leica.

122. TO DIVE FOR: THE FAT PELICAN | CAROLINA BEACH | NC

We love this old bird so much that we gave it a couple of extra pages. Welcome into the walk-in beer cooler.

126. ROAD TRIP | YOSEMITE | MARIPOSA MONO LAKE | BODIE | CALIFORNIA Rookie of the year and new staff member Fredrik Lundgren has some advice for your next Californian road trip.

140. A SHADY PLACE | THE SHADY DELL | ARIZONA

If you like vintage trailers and 1950’s style welcome to southern Arizona.

142. ON THE SAME PAGE | PAGE | ARIZONA Small town barbeque at its best.

144. SKY HIGH | BRECKENRIDGE | COLORADO

We love skiing, and this time we went all the way up to the top.

EDITORIAL

JONAS LARSSON EDITOR IN CHIEF AND PUBLISHER LARSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

SIMON URWIN UK EDITOR URWIN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

FREDRIK LUNDGREN DIGITAL CONTENT DIRECTOR LUNDGREN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

BO SANDLUND ART DIRECTOR SANDLUND@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

NATHALIE WOLF DESIGNER WOLF@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

EREK BELL EDITOR | TRANSLATOR BELL@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JOHAN LETH PROJECT MANAGER | EDITOR LETH@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

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.

Rubrik

DONIVAN BERUBE MUSIC EDITOR INFO@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

ANDERS BERGERSEN STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER INFO@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

LEIF EIMAN BEER EDITOR

EIMAN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

ADVERTISING AND SPONSORSHIPS

JONAS LARSSON

LARSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM TEL: +46 70 76 01 720

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 tribe 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.

CAMILLA LINDQVIST, STOCKHOLM,

SWEDEN

28 years ago, Camilla moved from the northern parts of Sweden to Stockholm to work as a photographer. She has ever since focused her work on lifestyle magazines, portraits, and interior and travel photography. In this issue, she hopped on a motorcycle with a friend north of Los Angeles and headed out on an epic road trip in California. Find out more at: camillalindqvist.com Instagram: @photographercamillalindqvist

MAJSAN BOSTRÖM, WILMINGTON, NC, USA

Majsan Boström is an author and screenwriter, who began her career as a crime reporter in the American south. Her work has been published in The New York Times, The Bangkok Post, Narratively, Omvärlden, Magazine Café and Tidningen Vi as well as broadcasted on NPR and Radio Sweden. Follow her journey on Instagram @ majstyle1 or majsanbostrom.com

MICKE LUNDSTRÖM, STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN

The Appalachians and Louisiana are his favorite spots since he is into American roots music like delta blues, Cajun, and zydeco. He gets his inspiration from the likes of Robert Frank, Christer Strömholm, and Pentti Sammallahti. Photographers that add something of their own to the picture. So does Micke; check out his fantastic photo story from Cajun country on page 106. Instagram: @ foto_lundstrom or mickelundstrom.com

DAVID BACK, LANDSKRONA, SWEDEN

David Back is a photographer and videographer with food as his focus. He shoots for the most of Sweden’s food magazines and a ton of the cookbooks. Currently he is busy with filming and editing for a Swedish food inspired TV program. In this issue he photographed Jill Johnson. Stay tuned, more from David to come, in the meantime check him out: davidback.se or

Instagram: @davidback1975

The Rambler

VENICE | LA | CALIFORNIA

WORDS AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

Once upon a time, there were telephone directories, a friend put the title “Rambler” in front of his name. It was a bit of a sport to get cool titles. According to Webster’s dictionary, rambling means “to move aimlessly from place to place” - nothing is better. I spent a few days one summer strolling in Venice. What an affordable pastime. Venice is a paradise for us ramblers, with imaginative houses in art deco or Californian modernism, flowers, palm trees, cool cars, and canals. If you have boots that are made for walking, you can also take a turn along the beach walk. Should you need to rest your paws, there are plenty of places to eat and drink.

Första gången jag träffade Den Matt Pollitz så hade han sin Volvo-verkstad i en gammal plåtlada nere vid fiskebåtarna en bit ner på Market Street i Ballard, Seattle. Nu ligger nybyggda National Nordic Museum där, då lekte Matt med tanken på att hans verkstad kunde bli en interigerad del av museet. Det hade varit otorligt cool, men nu blev det inte så.

Därför blev jag glad när jag såg att han omlokaliserat till en annan del av Ballard. En verkstad för gamla volvobilar ska självklart ligga i den genomnordiska stadsdelen, ingen annanstans. En intressant sak är att bilarna är relativt rostfria här, visserligen är det fuktigt i Pacific North West men det snöar sällan i Seattle och man använder inte vägsalt, så mossa är ett större problem än rost …

Förutom att renovera de gamla trotjänarna så har han börjat elkonvertera dem också. Det bästa av två världar, även om en B18 alltid kommer att vara en B18.

TEXT OCH FOTO: JONAS LARSSON

Sendra 10604

Sendra Evo Tang

Danner Mountain

2nd Line any time

NEW ORLEANS | LOUISIANA

TEXT BY JONAS LARSSON | PHOTO BY ANDERS BERGERSEN

At first, I think “tourist trap”, but my feet won’t start tapping, this really swings. Sure, these guys—for they are mostly guys—do play for the droves of tourists, but they are far from amateur street musicians. And what would you expect, this is NOLA, the swingiest city in the South. Sorry Memphis, Atlanta, and Nashville, but in my book, these horns are awfully hard to beat. I did of course say this about some country music heard at a honky-tonk bar in Nashville… but I stand my ground! Here come’s a business woman in a pencil skirt, high heels, and touting a briefcase—but a dance break, there is absolutely time for that. And that’s what I love. No matter who you are, where you’re from, whatever your stature in society, as soon as those horns start going into a 2nd line, it is impossible not to feel good. You dig?

The Mountain of love

SALVATION MOUNTAIN | SONORA DESERT | CALIFORNIA

WORDS AND PHOTO BY SIMON URWIN

There are purposefully no signs indicating the way to Slab City – a transient community of artists, snowbirds, anarchists and grifters who squat amongst the concrete remains of Camp Dunlap, a WWII Marine barracks in California’s Sonoran Desert. The entrance to the Mad Max-esque sprawl of trailers, tents and lean-tos is heralded however by the psychedelic Salvation Mountain, a 50-ft high piece of religious folk art that serves as the unofficial centrepiece of the community, as well as a symbol of its counter-culture identity. It was handbuilt by local resident and devout Christian, the late Leonard Knight, who spent 28 years fashioning the fever-dream complex from adobe, straw, bricks and vehicle parts, before painting it with Bible verses and the Sinner’s prayer to spread his message: that God is love, and that Love is the strongest force on earth - capable of defeating all the evils of the modern world.

SALVATIONMOUNTAININC.ORG

PEOPLE, PLACES AND PASSIONS

The banjo man

HOMEWOOD | ALABAMA

WORDS AND PHOTO BY SIMON URWIN

Jason Burns was raised in a musical family. His father, uncles and aunts all played gospel and honky-tonk, even appearing on local, live TV in the ‘Country Boy Eddie Show.’ Fascinated by how musical instruments worked, his first experience as a luthier was taking apart his dad’s electric guitar as a child then putting it back together again. Later, he worked in a recording studio near Birmingham, AL, where he’d perform repairs for musicians laying down tracks. He started making banjos around 15 years ago after searching in vain for an open-back model to play, so built one himself from scratch. Burns now makes custom-build banjos to order – each takes four to six months to complete –but he admits he enjoys repairs and restoration work most of all. ‘I get to touch and play instruments I’m never going to own; I get to put my hands on works of art’.

The grapes of joy

In Scania, Sweden’s southernmost state, we meet up with an artist, sommelier, and americana musician who doesn’t do anything half-assed. Jill Johnson spends a lot of time in her second home – Nashville, to write music. We sat down to talk about The Music City, wine, country music, and friends.

WORDS BY JONAS LARSSON | PHOTOS BY DAVID BACK

HÖGANÄS

JILL JOHNSON

Black Barn just outside of Höganäs in late July. In the rafters hangs a plastic pig, turning ever so slowly in its decadence just like a disco ball. The stage, illuminated by a red star framed in circus lights, shines down on the sole musi cian strumming softly on her guitar. She is completely absorbed in her own world in this moment, utterly focused on her art. A true pleasure to witness, and a perk of the job to catch this moment so perfectly, so intimately. Soon enough, the whole barn will be packed full of fans, and the volume cranked up. But right now, she sits alone, acoustic guitar in hand, her strong but at the same time delicate voice carrying soft ly through the empty barn, and my mouth with its jaw dropping to the floor.

A MEETING IN MUSIC CITY

Nashville, country music’s Mecca. A city which also goes by the moniker “Music City”, Nashville has been a focal point full of meaning for many musicians and their careers. Stars like Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, George Jones, Dolly Parton, Charley Pride, and Elvis all got their start here. At RCA’s renowned Studio B on Music Row, many of these artists and more recorded their albums. Elvis alone recorded some 260 songs here.

The heart of the country music industry has to be the Grand Ole Opry, which got its start in 1925 broadcasting a live radio show called “Barn Dance”. It was instantly popular and people flocked from all across the country to stand outside the broadcasting studio every Saturday night, just to catch a glimpse of the artists. Eventually the program was forced to move to Ryman Auditorium, where it was renamed the Grand Ole Opry. For over 30 years it resided at the Ryman, up until 1974 when

it moved again to a new location, the Grand Ole Opry House, where the show still airs today.

In 2001 Jill Johnson arrived in Nashville for the first time, arguably the most important trip in her career. It was nearly 100 degrees outside, but that didn’t stop Jill from walking back and forth between the record compa nies. The fact that she walked was unimaginable for the Americans who were used to driving to their meetings in the comfort of their airconditioned cars.

“I walked to and from meetings with record labels. They were in small, quaint houses with porches on the second level, and they thought I was crazy for not driving a car. By the end of the night I was totally exhausted”, laughs Jill.

She dived into the scene in Nashville, quickly making friends. Eventually she ended up moving in with two oth er women who also wrote music. As Jill explains, that’s just how it works out there—life finds a way. People with similar interests are naturally drawn to each other, and it makes a lot of sense to live together and have fun with likeminded and creative people then to sit alone in a hotel room.

“Americans are very social, for real. If you can play three chords and have a guitar, then you are always welcome to jam. They are polite and professional in Nashville, and the lowest bar is extremely high. Even in the more tour isty parts of town where you have the honky-tonk joints, where a lot of musicians are playing for tips, you will find an exceptional quality of music.”s

SOMMELIER, ARTIST AND MENTORSHIP

It was also in Nashville where she met Liz Rose, a country music song writer from Texas, who moved to Nashville and started writing songs when she was 37 years old. It’s been going well for Liz, she has racked up work with not only Jill, but has also written for other artists like Taylor Swift. She has won several Grammy awards, and In 2007

THE STAGE, ILLUMINATED BY A RED STAR FRAMED IN CIRCUS LIGHTS, SHINES DOWN ON THE SOLE MUSICIAN STRUMMING SOFTLY ON HER GUITAR. SHE IS COMPLETELY ABSORBED IN HER OWN WORLD IN THIS MOMENT, UTTERLY FOCUSED ON HER ART. A TRUE PLEASURE TO WITNESS, AND A PERK OF THE JOB TO CATCH THIS MOMENT SO PERFECTLY, SO INTIMATELY.

THE BAND IS TIGHT, AND TOGETHER WITH JILL THEY DELIVER BOTH OLDER HITS AND NEW MATERIAL. A COUPLE OF GUYS IN PINK COWBOY HATS DANCE UP A SWEAT. THEY GET A BREAK WHEN JILL PLAYS, “DEAR HAVANNA” THE TITLE TRACK FROM HER LATEST ALBUM AND A POP-BALLAD SONG THAT SHARE ITS NAME WITH HER DAUGHTER.

she was acknowledged as SESAC Nashville’s “Songwriter of the Year”.

Jill and Liz hit it off, becoming best friends. She says that Liz was a mentor for her, and became vital to her own musical development. Together with two other song writers, they wrote the tracks for the 2011 album, Flirting With Disaster.

“Every time I travel to Nashville now, I stay with her. We write together, talk about life, and take a glass of wine. She really means a lot to me.”

Music might take first place in her rankings of interests, but food and wine are right up there. This intimate inter est in food has resulted in cookbooks, realized together with fellow musician Maria Molin Lundgren. During the working process of these books, an interest in wine began to grow, which has now flourished into a full-on venture alongside her musical career. In 2018 she released her first wine, Nashville Stories Red Blend. A full-bodied wine, blended from four different grape varieties native to California. The warm climate of Nashville might make for good country music, but it does not allow for grapes to flourish.

Then the pandemic hit, and life hit the brakes for most of us. Concerts were cancelled, so for Jill and many other performing artists, there was free time to kill. Jill took the opportunity to pursue a program in sommelier education to further her knowledge and feed her interest of wine.

“Early on, I got a lot of questions about realising a wine, but I have always chosen to be credible and felt that I didn’t know enough about wine to give the product the justice it deserved. I was also afraid of the judgement, so always declined the offers. But then during my education, I studied so hard, quizzing myself with flashcards all the

time. It was a lot of fun though, I learned a lot, and once I was finished, I felt confident that I could release a wine in good faith.”

Now she has five wines: a red, white, rosé, sparkling, and a boxed red wine. Naturally, they are called “Nashville Stories.” Cause what better name than to describe it all, the love for Nashville, her journey, the stories, and wine–it all goes hand in hand, in vino veritas.

LIVING IN THE NASHVILLE BUBBLE

Through the years, Jill has managed to build up a local network of songwriters in Nashville. To go back and work in this environment is a bit like landing in a bubble she explains. In this bubble she is free to disconnect from every thing else, focusing solely on music and hanging out with good friends. She talks about East Nashville, her stomping grounds, an area of the city brimming with creativity and on the outskirts of Nashville there is Leapers Fork and Puckett’s Grocery & Restaurant (Now renamed to Fox and Locke) are a favorite (Check out Peter Eriksson’s musings on it in issue 11) a small general store, a bar, and a stage. There’s live music here five days of the week. Jill has been a performer on this small stage, but also there’s been other big names like Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings who are known to take the stage from time to time.

We get into country music’s bad reputation in Sweden and the bias against Americans and this form of musical ex pression. As a Swede there can sometimes be strong culture shocks—the US is a huge country with marked regional dif ferences, and many who have prejudices against this country have never even been there. She explains that to be a country artist in Sweden takes courage. Here, she really starts to fire up. Perhaps she has gotten to answer this question already:

“I have become a sort of unofficial ambassador for country music in Sweden, and lately this music is more and more accepted”, she says.

Who can argue with that? Country can take many shapes and forms, in Sweden there was a flirtatious mix of a genre known as “dansband”, but it is widely accepted as cringy and lowbrow music. Her own TV-show “Jill’s Veranda” has certainly played an ambassadorial role in opening many ears in Sweden to what country music can sound like. Just take a look at what’s happening on the festival circuits for ex ample: STHLM Americana, River Valley Countryfestival, Eds Countryfest, and Northern Trails who organize con certs with americana artists. It is clear that country music has taken on a whole new understanding and appreciation, attaining a status that is comfortable in most homes and widely available on radio and TV.

ON THE STAGE

Black Barn again. The mood is high, the place is packed full of people and high hopes.

This concert was actually supposed to take place two years ago, explains the arranger Johan, who runs the BBQ

place Holy Smoke, but a pandemic put the brakes on that. The band is tight, and together with Jill they deliver both older hits and new material. A couple of guys in pink cow boy hats dance up a sweat. They get a break when Jill plays, “Dear Havanna” the title track from her latest album, and a pop-ballad song that share its name with her daughter. Between numbers she talks to the crowd, it all feels so familiar and star struck at the same time. There she stands in cowboy boots, deep in the roots of country. Even If her newest album isn’t pure country per say, her soulful voice still carries those bittersweet tones from Tennessee.

JILLAN

On the stage, she talks about her alter ego, “Jillan,” a woman who closes the bars and after parties together with her band. Jillan isn’t along tonight, sadly, as Jill has some things to fix and heads home after the gig. Those of us left in the barn, though, we bring Jillan to life ourselves. The bar is still open, so I grab a beer and say cheers to the disco pig hanging from the roof, which is still ever turning in tempo to the sounds of the night fading away.

Where the Days Are Longer and The Nights ARE STRONGER

You know you want to… To burn rubber along Highway 1, with an ocean salty breeze in your face, taking every turn low. Stopping to check out the weird yet delightful hangouts along the way before checking in to a winery for the evening. Yep, it’s the California dream, and Camilla Lindqvist got her chance to soak it all in.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY CAMILLA LINDQVIST

Brandon, and his custom-built Sportster, is one of five in the world commissioned by Harley Davidson for their 65th anniversary.

Despite the overbearing sound of the motor, the sounds of seagulls make it through my helmet, welcoming me along side the chilled air sneaking up through my warm leather jacket. The feeling of being to tally free and at these speeds is fantastic. The experience is ephemeral, like you are leaving your body and your stomach is full of butterflies, but all at once.

The wind gets hold of my long hair, making it dance in the air like those scenes from the movies. I get the smell of the ocean, just coming in through underneath my visor. My senses are on high alert, and everything feels heightened, elevated, as I sit behind Robin on his Ducati Multi Strada. I hold onto him tightly as he gears up and accelerates along Highway 1. To my left, the ocean flickers turquoise, like sprinkles spread out over the waves. To my right, luxury villas dot their way up the slopes as LA fades away in the distance behind us.

This is the second motorcycle trip in my life. So, my experience of being a biker chick is pretty limited. My childhood is however marked with a lot of shop talk after hanging out with my father in the garage, and who as a mechanic, would take me along to rally races. I feel at home in this environment, with motor interested people,

with men who have the need for speed, and I personally have always love faced paced living and new adventures. When I got the chance to ride a motorcycle with a mem ber of the Sinners MCC, the choice was easy. Robin has longed for this ride, and to also meet up with some old friends in the club in Los Angeles, and I am along for the ride to document this trip.

The sinners started out as classic outlaw club for bad boys in 1952. Holding themselves in the desert outside of LA, they played rowdy. Today it is not nearly as hardcore, rather, they consist more of guys who just like to hang around and build old Harley models from pre-war up through the 50’s. During these days there’s lots of cursing mixed in with motorcycle talk. Engines gone bust. Other parts that aren’t working. One gets the impression that this is the kind of hobby one would love to hate. Like when we were sitting at the local bar with Stevie, a Sinners member who we lived with in LA. He sulks and sighs before saying, “They run the best just before they blow up.”

LOCALLY MADE SPEEDY SPORTSTERS

Before we head off on our road trip, we meet up with some of the Sinners in LA. Brandon Hill of The Speed Merchant has set up in Signal Hill in Long Beach build ing speed demons under the pretence that, “less is more”. The focus is on modern high-performance racing models from Harley Davidson. The bikes that roll out of these

HARLEY HAS PRODUCED SPORTSTER MODELS FOR OVER 65 YEARS AND ONLY FIVE PEOPLE—IN THE ENTIRE WORLD—HAVE BEEN CALLED UPON TO BUILD CUSTOM VERSIONS FOR HARLEY DAVIDSON’S JUBILEE. BRANDON IS ONE OF THEM.

WE TURN IN AT THE MADONNA INN, A PLACE THAT RESEMBLES THE INSIDE OF A PINK MARSHMALLOW, A GLUTTONOUS APPROACH

TO KITSCH STYLE, AND I CAN’T DO ANYTHING BUT LIKE IT.

STEPPING OFF THE BIKE, I REALIZE THAT I AM STILL ALIVE.

doors aren’t just wickedly fast, but also utterly beautiful. The Speed Merchant holds themselves to a high level of accountability, ensuring that all bikes are 100% locally made here in Southern California.

When we meet Brandon, he is just finishing up work on a special built Sportster on order for Harley Davidson. Harley has produced sportster models for over 65 years and only five people—in the entire world—have been called upon to build custom versions for Harley David son’s jubilee. Brandon is one of them. He rolls the bike on out so I can photograph it, on the serious stipulation that I can not publish said photographs before the launch and the Sportster’s 65th year jubilee.

CHOPPER DAVE

We say our farewells to Brandon and his bike, onward to the next Sinner. Dave “Chopper Dave” Freston looks ex actly like what you would imagine of a chopper guy: long hair done up in a ponytail, a beard, authority, and arms full of tattoos. Dave is a renowned “chopper wizard” who has taken the classic choppers of the 50’s and 60’s into the modern day. He builds Harleys that most would think to be impossible. Not only does he do vintage Harleys, but he also builds handmade aluminum casting details for motorcycles, custom parts, gear knobs and changers, pegs, intakes and buckles. Dave and Robin catchup over con versations about old friends and motorcycle parts. Expres sions and vulgare language abound, I sneak off, camera in hand, and investigate what’s in the garage.

Robin and Dave loose themselves in a discussion on the Evo motors that Dave works with. I quickly learn that the Evo motor came in the 80’s from Harley Davidson, a solid built piece of modern machinery which translates to less work and more time on the road. I can’t help but think to

myself, “gosh, isn’t this a tedious hobby these guys got?”

Dave shows us some various cast parts he has made, including some new buckles with the Sinners logo, a gift intended for some chapter members in Sweden.

HIGH ALERT ON HIGHWAY 1

It was a pleasure to meet Brandon and Dave, but now we are finally on our way. Pulling out of LA on Highway 1, we swing off by Santa Barbara on Highway 101 towards our destination, Sant Louis Obispo; a ride which I will never forget. That morning while we packed things up, I overheard Robin and his buddy Steve talking. There was word that it could be a little windy on the stretch just after Santa Barbara. When we got off on this bit of road, it was more than a little windy—no we are talking storm winds of over 55 miles per hour! The bike takes it bluntly on the side, unevenly, and the lust for speed and wind is fading for me in this fleeting moment.

Normally I do not react too much to this kind of stuff. Maybe it’s age and getting older, or perhaps it is that feeling of not being in control as I hung tightly around Robin. Regardless, I do get scared in that kind of wind and at those speeds. All I could do was position myself, hang on for dear life and endure the next couple of hours which dragged on like an eternity, plenty of time to pon der ones own funeral.

KITSCHY MADONNA

We turn in at The Madonna Inn, a place that resembles the inside of a pink marshmallow, a gluttonous approach to kitsch style, and I can’t do anything but like it. Stepping off the bike, I realize that I am still alive. I set my funeral plans aside and mention this to Robin, who calmy ex plains that it is always windy on that part of the road, and

The Madonna Inn is like walking into a giant bubblegum.

ROAD TRIP

“Chopper Dave” Freston at his shop.

The bar at Bike Shed Moto Co.

A great sign at the great Sky View Motel.

Chopper Dave builds handmade aluminum casting details. Here on an EVO motor.

Sweet dreams at The Madonna Inn.

The beautiful pool at The Madonna Inn.

The view from The Madonna Inn is stunning.

WE DECIDE TO ONCE AGAIN TAKE THE BACKROADS DOWN TO LA, ROUTE 192 AND 159 THROUGH MIRA MONTE AND OJAI, PROMISING ROUTE WHICH WINDS AND SNAKES ITS WAY THROUGH THE CANYONS. THE LANDSCAPE CONTINUES TO IMPRESS, SHOWING OFF ALL OF NATURE’S BEST SIDES.

he is a veteran of riding in the strong winds. Reassured, I admit that my beginners nerves were a bit spooked. After parking the bikes and checking in to the hotel room I notice my hair. Perhaps that idyllic vision of long hair blowing in the wind isn’t such a good idea after all, as my ponytail has become a tuft of a thousand small dread locks which take all evening to comb out. It’s not just the nerves and hair which needs carrying for after a day like that; old muscles pains are making themselves known again, a remainder that I can’t sit like that for too many hours at a time. It is actually quite extensive how exhausted one is, how physical it is to ride like that. It’s like doing yin yoga, but instead of five 10-minute sets of the same stretch, it’s all at once, for hours and at high speeds. I stretch out my stiff limbs, swearing at my muscle cramps, and when my hair is somewhat back to normal, we sit down on the balcony, taking in the view of the green hills in the evening light and sunset—an unbelievably beautiful sight.

A CLASSIC MOTEL

After our night at The Madonna Inn, we set our sights on a little motel in Los Alamos as per a recommendation, and wouldn’t you know it, today I braid my hair to avoid any dreadlock situation. First off is Morro Bay where we stop for lunch. We decide to bypass the larger roads, and instead plot a route along the backroads to Los Osos and Arroyo Grande. This feels much safer this time around, my love for speed and wind is coming back. I am relaxed, taking in the landscape around me, the smells, and all the liberation that is riding a motorcycle. We have a nice trip, winding up at the Sky View Motel, an old classic with its charm intact, albeit upgraded to a boutique hotel. When I get off the bike this time, there are no muscle pains. In fact, this time around it feels as if all the hours

in the same position were actually good for the legs—I am feeling the best I have in years. We take off our leather jackets, take a quick shower and grab an outside table at the hotel’s restaurant. Right by the pool, we have a round of Aperol Spritz and cheer to motorcycle yoga.

BACKROAD BLISS

The morning after and we are back on the bikes, rolling out on Highway 101 towards Los Olivos where we will take Route 154 past Cachuma Lake and its pristine na ture sprawling out before us. When we had passed Santa Barbara, we found a cozy taco stand, Padaro Beach Grill. Right down by the water, we treat ourselves to a well-de served lunch under an umbrella on their patio.

We decide to once again take the backroads down to LA, Route 192 and 159 through Mira Monte and Ojai, promising route which winds and snakes its way through the canyons. The landscape continues to impress, showing off all of nature’s best sides.

The rough 100-degree weather and leather attire re mind us that we need to keep cool. We take a pitstop in Santa Paula for an ice-cold cola under the shade of a tree and a chance to take off our heavy leather jackets. Before we mount up on the Ducati, which we borrowed for this trip, I ask Robin why we aren’t riding a classic Harley Davidson:

Well, you said you got pains from riding, right? I want ed to make sure you were as comfortable as possible on this trip, and that just isn’t going to happen on the back of a Harley.

I am thankful for that decision. Although, I can’t help but wonder, after feeling this good being stretched out yoga style on the Ducati, perhaps it would have been even more relieving aboard a Harley. Who knows.

Bike Shed Moto Co is a must if you are a motorcycle guy in LA.

We continue along 126 Catiac Junction 5 past Santa Clar ita where the wind whipped up a bit. But now I am about more seasoned and know that I need not fear, for Robin is an expert driver and I am in good hands. We zip past car after car through San Fernando Valley, on our way to LA, ending up with Steve, a fellow Sinner, and his wife Melanie. The evening winds down with dinner in their backyard, full of stories and conversations about motorcycle culture, why not to have long hair let loose when riding, the life, politics, and a fear swear words about motorcycles in general.

BIKE MEET

The following day is the grand opening for Bike Shed Moto Co, nestled in the LA Arts District. A 30,000 square foot warehouse building with a restaurant, bar, bar ber shop, a large exhibition space, VIP room for members, tattoo parlour, and a store—most of the lynchpins of MC culture all under one roof.

I post up outside on the street to snap some shots. Motorcycle after motorcycle rumbles by, a procession which reminds me of models going down the catwalk. The large atrium inside serves as parking, and is soon bristling with lights and sounds of bikes, the smell of gas and oil hangs in the air. Sights and sounds that give me flashbacks to when I was a kid, hanging with Dad in the garage, it all feels familiar. I suddenly remember that this is our last day, and I take the chance to breathe it all in, to bask in the noise and lights of LA on this warm evening before we head back to Stevie and Melanie.

At Bike Shed Moto Co, you can have dinner, drinks, shop, get a tattoo and even get your hair cut.

DOGPATCH | SAN FRANCISCO

Dog Life in Frisco

San Francisco has undergone many changes over the years, and all the different neighborhoods have their own character. To ensure the quality of one of them, we put a leash on Fredrik Lundgren and took him for a walk in Dogpatch. Who let the dogs out?

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY FREDRIK LUNDGREN

San Francisco, the city that changes form time and time again. During the California Gold Rush in the middle of the 1800’s, the city exploded in growth, a real life “boomtown”. From the gold rush to the cultural move ments encapsulating the Summer of Love 1967, all the way to the 1990’s tech-boom in Silicon Valley, San Francisco has had an ev er-changing meaning to those who get to experience it.

DIGGING ON DOGPATCH

Catching an Uber from Union Square to Third Street, I step out into a neighborhood called Dogpatch. It’s a chilly day and industrial buildings stand tightly packed along the streets, a familiar scent of weed lingers in the air. It’s calm here, totally different from the other parts of the city I have visited. I like it here.

I walk aimlessly down Third Street and find the San Francisco I have been longing for—cool, calm, collected and with a fun name. Just that name, Dogpatch, chew on that for awhile and you will most definitely have your curiosity perking up. There are of course several theories as to why this area has gotten its name, but I would like to believe that packs of dogs used to get loose here and would live it up good eating discarded scraps of meat from the local butcheries, and just kind of stuck around. But today I see just see dogs on leashes.

IT’S THAT HOMETOWN FEEL, A NEIGHBORHOOD WHERE YOU FEEL LIKE YOU KNOW EVERYONE. I KNOW MY GUESTS, AND MOST ARE REGULARS

LIVING NEARBY. DOGPATCH FEELS LIKE A BIG COLLECTIVE, AND IF YOU LIKE ART AND DESIGN THEN YOU HAVE ENDED UP IN THE RIGHT PLACE.

The old industrial area has revitalized and become a home to designers, musicians, artists and the likes who harness creative powers. For being in a major US city, Dogpatch is relatively affordable when it comes to living, or so I’ve heard.

BEER WITH THE LOCALS

I stop in at Harmonic Brewing and behind the bar stands a guy with a suspiciously Swedish name, Alex Englund. He has been a bartender here since 2016. I ask him what the best thing about Dogpatch is while he pours up his favorite brew for me, their own IPA: Out on the Tiles – It’s that hometown feel, a neighborhood where you feel like you know everyone. I know my guests, and most are regulars living nearby. Dogpatch feels like a big col lective, and if you like art and design then you have ended up in the right place.

A portable pizza oven has rolled out and two guys are at it turning out fresh pies. The smell of freshly baked pizza wafts over the bar, and outside they are getting ready for the evening. With a beer in me, I venture out onto the street to see where the night takes me. I wind up at the Minnesota Street Project, an old warehouse building filled to the brim with modern art made by local artists.

A stone’s throw away is the Museum of Craft & Design which hosts pop-up style exhibitions that rotate every few months. Pride flags wave over the streets, and outside one of Dogpatch’s popular cafes stands a man with a mega phone preaching for equality. Amen brother, Amen.

Despite the strong tech-culture which has taken over a large swathe of the city, this oasis for artists has remained steadfast in its history and relaxed atmosphere, all with a strong feeling of cooperation and togetherness. This is my San Francisco.

Dogs like Pierre, are of course, welcomed at most places.

Alex Englund is the beertender at Harmonic Brewing.

Dogpatch Saloon is a classic cozy neighborhood bar.

| IN THE GREAT AMERICAN WEST

ROAD TRIP

The

Needles in South Dakota is a mysterious and breathtaking place.

SOUTH DAKOTA | NORTH DAKOTA

ROAD TRIP IN THE GREAT AMERICAN WEST, PART 1

Do you want to see the real west, the one with bison, rodeo, and breathtaking landscapes? Well, get in the car and come along with Majsan and Robin, our fearless team that went on a 14-day, five-state tour through the Great American West. Here's part 1.

WORDS BY MAJSAN BOSTRÖM | PHOTOS BY ROBIN LAANANEN

In the 1870’s some men traveling through the Black Hills in the southwestern corner of South Dakota and came upon a gulch full of dead trees and a creek full of gold. A boomtown was born. Today, Deadwood is less lawless, but saloons are busy and there is plenty of lore to indulge in. It was here that Wild Bill Hickock was shot during a poker game, holding dead man’s hand, the black eights and aces and an unknown card. And it’s here where he is spending his eternal sleep in a grave next to Calamity Jane. As the story has it, the locals buried her next to him as a prank.

We are in Deadwood to check out The Graves – leg ends are legends – and randomly find that this particu lar weekend the Professional Bull Riders are in town for some preseason promo competitions. Until now I always thought PBR referred to beer.

Down at the rodeo grounds, young men strut around in ten-gallon straw hats and high-waisted Wranglers. For a moment I think we’ve been beamed back to 1983.

The PBR is a league where young men compete for style points and to see who can stay on a bucking bull for more than eight seconds. It's a big business with championships, teams and hundreds of thousands in prize money. There’s

WHILE SOME OF THE BULL RIDERS HAVE MADE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS, MILLIONS EVEN, MOST OF THEM STILL HAVE REGULAR JOBS TOO. DAKOTA WORKS LONG AND HARD DAYS ON THE FAMILY RANCH UP IN BROWNING, MONTANA, CLOSE TO THE CANADIAN BORDER, WHEN HE’S NOT ON THE RODEO ROAD.

a draft and more than 500 cowboys compete from all over the world including Australia, Brazil and Canada. There’s even a clown, offering comic relief and is there to distract the bull once a rider is down.

The PBR media person says he’ll get us a couple of bull riders to talk to while he locates the famous rodeo clown, Flint Rasmussen.

“But,” he says, “I can’t make any guarantees, he usually does not like talking to the press before a rodeo.”

We respect that but are hoping to at least get his number. Because, who becomes a rodeo clown?

A few moments later Dakota Louis from Montana and Cody Casper from Washington State, both 29 and both with ironed creases on their jeans, step out of the arena and give us an interview. They have a couple of minutes before it’s time to change from button down oxfords to a protective west, and trade in hats for helmets.

Dakota says there’s 30k on the table. That, or a quick death. There is no telling where the bull will steer his fury in his violent efforts to get rid of the cowboy on his back.

“They step on you and that could be your last breath,” he says.

How many bones have you broken?

“I’d rather talk about how many championships, I’ve won,” he says with equal parts cowboy cockiness and politeness and adds that he has won three.

You can tell he’s a star.

While some of the bull riders have made hundreds of thousands, millions even, most of them still have regular jobs too. Dakota works long and hard days on the family ranch up in Browning, Montana, when he’s not on the rodeo road.

While the world of professional bull riding is unfolding like a red carpet before us, everyone polite and helpful, the clown, shines in his absence and we have to leave.

RAPID CITY

Driving down the beautiful mountains, we miss all the highlights of the Black Hills, Crazy Horse, Mount Rush more and The Needles, because it’s dark. But we find Rap id City a small and charming town and have dinner at a fire station turned brewery. In all empty spaces on the walls, firefighter patches are stapled, gifts from visitors from around the world. Over craft beers we take stock of the day. We have 14 days on the road through South and North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming and Idaho, during which my biggest desires are watching the full moon over the Badlands and seeing bison in the wild. We have al ready seen and experienced some pretty amazing things. We also almost ran out of gas. The Great American West is vast, and we, both seasoned world travelers and logis ticians, are embarrassed that we didn’t take into account the distances between fueling stations.

THE SACRED SAGE

As we sit arrive at Gus Yellowhair’s art studio he picks up a bowl of smoldering sage and invites us to smudge ourselves. We do. Then he and his daughter, Tianna, wel come us in Lakota Oglala, before they transfer back to English. We are at the Pine Ridge Reservation, meeting the father-daughter artist duo and tourist guides.

Sage is one of the four Native American sacred medi cines. Harvesting it requires certain rituals.

“When you harvest, as a woman you cannot be on your moon,” they explain. “You need to clip it, so you don’t pull up the roots. Never harvest the same place.”

Gus shows us a buffalo hide soaking in water so that he can shape it around the frame of a drum. He also explains ledger art, which we have seen everywhere, and is exactly what it sounds like, paintings on recycled documents.

Professional Bull Riders are both tough and stylish.

| IN THE GREAT AMERICAN WEST

ROAD TRIP

Dawn at Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota, overlooking the Little Missouri River.

Joe Wiegand has just transformed into Theodore Roosevelt.

GUS CAUTIONS US WHEN HE HEARS WE ARE GOING TO THE PARK

LATER THAT NIGHT TO CATCH THE FULL MOON. “BRING ENOUGH BREADCRUMBS TO FIND YOUR WAY BACK.” DRIVING OUT OF THE RESERVATION, ALERTS COME ACROSS BOTH OUR PHONES ABOUT BAD WEATHER, POSSIBLE SEVERE HAILSTORMS, MARBLE-SIZED.

“To the Native Americans, who didn’t have paper to draw on, ledgers were a novelty. They obtained the ledgers by raid or trade.”

There is still a big dispute over who owns the Black Hills of South Dakota, 9 tribal bands refuse to take money for land they say was never for sale in the first place. Gus makes it a point to represent the sacred place in all his pieces.

“It’s a political statement that it has not been settled,”.

South Dakota, home to several bloody battles and the birthplace of legendary Chiefs like Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull and Red Cloud, is a great place to learn more about Native American history. The Massacre at Wounded Knee (1890), for example, where 300 Lakota were killed and buried in a mass grave, happened right here, on the Pine Ridge Reservation.

“Each year riders and their horses brave the cold as they retrace the path that their family members took to Wounded Knee,” Gus says. “They carry a white flag, sym bolizing their hope for world peace and honoring and remembering the victims.”

Gus and Tianna are trying to shift their income on the reservation from “stop and shop” to actual tourism. With Tatanka Rez Tourz, they want to offer eco tourism, tipi camping, classes in history and traditional medicine, and guided tours in the Badlands.

Gus cautions us when he hears we are going to the park later that night to catch the full moon.

“Bring enough breadcrumbs to find your way back.”

COWBOY CORNER

Driving out of the Reservation, bad weather alerts come across our phones, possible severe hailstorms, marble-sized. We look at each other. Thinking about that extra insurance that we blew off as an up-sale at the rental car place in

Denver. We decide to look for a carport, maybe a bank or gas station, in case we need to take cover. I find a place called Cowboy Corner and it’s a done deal.

The gas station, camping supply store and diner, is located on the edge of Badlands National Park. Sue, the owner, a tall woman with big glasses, lives on the property and serves lunch every day.

Interior listed a population of 65 people in 2020, but Cowboy Corner has a lot of business thanks to two nearby campgrounds and all the Badlands tourists. A young man with Wisconsin plates pulls in and Sue goes out to greet him, a yellow screwdriver in hand.

“The handle broke off on number three,” she hollers and helps him fill up.

Later she explains that the pumps are so old, she can’t find parts.

I look out the window and the empty street. My mind goes to movies with desperados sticking up convenience stores with sawed-off shotguns during erratic cross-country road trips.

“Ever been robbed?”

Sue shakes her head. Just then a towering young man walks up behind her.

“Everybody knows that my son lives with me,” she says and nods over her shoulder. “Would you wanna mess with him?”

THE BADLANDS

The sun is starting to dip as we speed up the mountainside and into the South Unit of Badlands National Park. If we are going to catch the moon up over the legendary South Dakota Badlands, we have to find a good lookout – quickly.

The barren landscape is eerily beautiful. The striped pattern in the almost white canyons is, if possible, even more gorgeous in the golden hour. The bad weather alert

AMERICAN TRAILS MAGAZINE

Artist Gus Yellowhair in his studio on Pine Ridge Reservation. He and daughter, Tianna, run Tatanka Rez Tourz, offering eco-tourism, tipi camping, history and traditional medicine classes and guided tours in the Badlands.

Sue runs the Cowboy Corner gas station, store, and diner.

Old gas station in The Needles, South Dakota.

Full moon over the Badlands, South Dakota.

IN THE GREAT AMERICAN WEST

ROAD TRIP

Joe Wiegand works as a Roosevelt impersonator and takes people on guided tours.

Native American history on display.

Bison are a common sight in parts of Northand South Dakota.

goes off again, and we beg the weather gods to let the moon come up while the sky is still clear.

It does.

Big and pink, the Strawberry Moon materializes behind the jagged limestone-colored peaks and in front of a dark and stormy sky. No stars. We get almost 30 minutes with the prettiest moon I have ever seen, before the wind starts whipping in our hair and big drops fall out of the sky.

We wake up to piercing blue skies, the following morn ing at Circle View Ranch, a place just like the name sug gests, has an amazing view in all directions. The Bed & Breakfast owners serve a hearty breakfast, we watch their kids feed their chicken and white peacock, and are off to ward North Dakota.

Barely a few miles up the road our iPhones go off with severe weather alerts. Again. This time it’s baseball-sized hail? The sky looks violet and violent.

No hail, but the rain, so heavy the windshield wipers can’t keep up, forces us to pass up Lemmon, and a place

made internationally famous thanks to the 2016 film, “The Revenant” with Leonardo di Caprio. He plays Hugh Glass, a trapper who was mauled by a bear and left for dead by his friends.

The storm is over as suddenly as it started, and a blinding sun guides us west on US Highway 12. The hillsides glimmer silver-like as the abundance of sage bushes are drying up. And just like that, we are in North Dakota.

HIKING IN NORTH DAKOTA

It’s a crisp, cashmere cold evening as we pull into Medora, a five-block town with a population of 129 people and 150 deer. Over the course of two days we discover that the person who made your morning coffee may very well also be the bartender that pours your beer that evening, a volunteer firefighter and a town councilman. Medora is so picturesque and well manicured that it feels a little like the twilight zone, for all of the above.

Badlands from a bird's perspective.

In Medora, North Dakota, you can get a pitchfork steak fondue served up.

An open air-theater with topnotch actors performing a musical every night, a pitchfork steak fondue, a zip line, horseback riding and a live Theodore Roosevelt imper sonator giving both tours and performances about the conservation president, and the national park.

“It’s a small town with a lot to offer,” says Jim Bridger who used to be a medical examiner in Minneapolis and accidentally became a saloon owner in Medora.

We go on a hillside walk with Joe Wiegand, the Roo sevelt impersonator. He starts off by kneeling down, rub bing his hands into a big silvery bush of sage and takes a great big inhale.

“This is how we wash our hands,” he says.

We do the same. It smells so wonderfully, that I keep doing it during the whole hike.

Switchback trails take us high above Medora, offer ing a spectacular view of the town and in a distance, the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. This is where I see my very first Bison, a childhood dream.

It’s just standing there, eating grass on the side of the road, chewing and observing us with suspicious eyes. His coat is a little patchy because of shedding season, I assume. It’s June after all. Bison are dangerous and despite their size, much faster than humans, so we follow orders and take pictures from inside the car.

That night, the musical is rained out to everyone’s great disappointment, including the show greeter, Marshall Pink erton, who’s practicing his pistol-spinning skills at the en trance. Instead we get a show at the Little Missouri Saloon, which is where the musical talent throw down that night, getting the whole saloon to line dance underneath a ceiling of stapled dollar-bills and a forest of retired cowboy hats.

Follow Majsan and Robin's road trip in the next American Trails magazine issue.

How Gentlemen get Beached in Wildwood

trog sounds like a soda or a character in a fantasy movie, but it’s not. It stands for: The Race Of Gentlemen. The men and women of trog are probably all gentle, but there is nothing gentle about the beasts they are racing in on the beaches of New Jersey. Our very own German Gentleman, Johannes Huwe, knows all about it.

PHOTOS AND WORDS BY JOHANNES HUWE

There are loud engine noises com ing off what looks like a cast-iron bathtub on wheels. It’s a 1934 Ford Hot Rod heading towards the beach in Wildwood, New Jersey. Meanwhile, the rules of the race are being announced to the spectators and riders from a lifeguard tower.

Many have come from far and wide to participate in “The Race of Gentlemen” (aka TROG bringing their pre1935 American cars. These vintage cars are also further restricted to replacement or add-on parts dating from the early 1950s at the latest in order to qualify for racing. Meanwhile, the motorcycles all date from before 1947.

BEING LIGHT FOOTED

Along the wide sandy beach, the hot rods line up at the starting line in side-by-side pairs. All eyes are on the flag girl, a barefooted woman with blonde hair wearing white Harley-Davidson service overalls, albeit now cut into short shorts. She’s got the checkered flag in her hand, ready to signal the start of the race. The engines roar and the tension on the beach rises. Then, the flag girl jumps a good two feet into the air and lowers the flag.

The sand flies as the gentlemen floor the gas pedals in their vintage sportsters. A lot of gas, but not too much, because otherwise the tires will just dig a hole for them selves in the sand and they’ll become bogged down.

Despite keeping their racing cars in the best possible shape, the drivers still have to reckon with everything else that can be thrown at them in this 1/8 mile sprint along the Atlantic shore. Jessie Combs, the world’s fast est woman, for example, found that her steering wheel had come loose from the dash in one race! Somehow, she skillfully navigated her vehicle to the finish line, but

not at anywhere near the 435-mph speed with which she had broken the 48-year-old land speed record back in October 2013.

A DAY AT THE BEACH

On top of the thrill of the race, the beach atmosphere provides plenty of fun for grilling and chilling. Back in the 1940’s and 50s, hot-rodders had already started coming together on the beaches of the east and west coasts of the United States to compete against each other in sprints like the TROG. The 2015 event at Wildwood was organized for the fourth time by the Oilers Car Club, one of the 1949 co-founders of the National Hot Rod Association (NHRA), and organizer of some of the first hot rod com petitions ever. It’s no wonder that it’s this organization which is bringing back this spectacle for today’s audiences.

With typical Vegas-style neon signs on the motels and restaurants straight out of the 1950’s, Wildwood is the perfect spot for such racing matchups of historic cars and motorcycles. Motel after motel lines the four miles stretch called Atlantic Avenue. The Surfcomber Motel hosted a pre-race party the night before as the racers’ cars and motorcycles lined the streets to the delight of the many visitors.

Everyone celebrated the next day’s Race of Gentlemen, complete with the flag girl and her acrobatic jumps, all a part of the 1950’s charm of Wildwood.

On the following pages you can admire Johannes Huwes stunning photos from a wild weekend in Wildwood. At americantrailsmag.com you can see more and get info about the event.

THE RACE OF

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

Iconic Americanathe water tower in Clanton, the peach capital of Alabama

Just Peachy, A Taste of ALABAMA

Simon Urwin takes a trip across the Yellowhammer State to savor the flavors of its burgeoning food and wine scene.

From a menu richly imbued with a sense of history and community, he discovers sublime seafood, heritage grape wines, sugar-filled surprises, and the freshest, friendliest farm-to-table food in the Deep South.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

BIRMINGHAM | ALABAMA

A Tale of Two Menus

Alabama is best known for its barbecued meats, but with Gulf Coast waters abundant in marine life, it serves up superb seafood too. While many restaurants specialize in traditional fishy fare, there are new kids on the block making waves with contemporary takes on the classics.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN A

Adam Evans in the dining room of Automatic Seafood.

As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again.” So said Scar lett O’Hara in the historical epic Gone with the Wind. It’s a line that regularly springs to mind on a day spent sampling the menus of two award-winning restaurants in the city of Birmingham, often referred to as the ‘Dinner Table of the South.’

I start with lunch at the Bright Star, Alabama’s oldest restaurant, located in Bessemer, some 13 miles southwest of downtown. Recognised by the James Beard Foundationthe Oscars of cooking - as one of ‘America’s Classics’, it was opened in 1907 by Tom Bonduris, a native of the farming village of Peleta in the Peloponnese region of Greece.

“He came in search of a better life and found a safe haven here,” says server Sonya Twitty in her honey-thick Alabama accent. “That’s why he called this place the Bright Star.” Bonduris was one of thousands of Greeks who crossed the Atlantic at the turn of the century and ended up in the Birmingham area - for many, their exodus

was precipitated by the defeat of Greek forces in a war with Turkey, as well as thousands of families losing their livelihoods when the global market for dried seedless grapes disappeared.

SERVING HEARTY AND HONEST FOOD Bonduris arrived to find the city and its suburbs booming with industry and he - like many of his compatriotsquickly saw an opportunity to make money serving weary workers with hearty, honest food. “At one point, 95% of all the restaurants in and around Birmingham were owned by Greeks,” Twitty explains. “They served Southern dishes with a touch of the Mediterranean, something we still do to this day.”

Twitty brings me a selection from their menu to try, starting first with a bowl of seafood gumbo, then a bright, leafy salad made with briny olives and tart, salty feta cheese. Next, comes a Southern classic: snapper throats (the suc culent cut of meat from the underside of the fish behind the gills) which is grilled Greek-style with oregano and olive oil. Fit to burst, she refuses to let me leave until I’ve

Bright Star restaurant and its signature dish of snapper throats served Greek-style.

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

Mural at Pepper Place Farmers’ Market, Birmingham, Alabama.

Birmingham’s landmark Alabama Theatre, built in 1927.

“PEOPLE HAVE ALL THESE PRECONCEPTIONS - AND MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT ALABAMA,” SAYS EVANS. “BUT THERE’S WAY MORE TO FOOD HERE THAN YOUR TRADITIONAL CHICKEN POT PIE AND MEAT-AND-THREE. THE FOOD SCENE IS EXCITING, IT’S EVOLVING FAST AND IS GETTING BETTER AND BETTER.

had a dessert. I relent and pick the Lemon Ice Box – a creamy concoction of condensed milk, lemon and eggs that sits under a Graham cracker crust. “That’s the thing about Southern hospitality, it’s impossible to resist,” she says, de livering a vast slice to the table. “We’ll treat you good in so many different ways, you have to like at least one of ‘em.”

FOR THE SEAFOOD LOVERS

I drive across town to Birmingham’s Lakeview neigh bourhood in time for dinner at Automatic Seafood and Oysters, for which owner and executive chef Adam Evans recently picked up a James Beard Award for ‘Best Chef in the South’.

“My love of food came about as a young kid picking okra, corn and tomatoes in my grandfather’s garden,” says Evans, originally of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. “I can still remember the intense flavours of all that super-fresh pro duce. That’s what got me hooked.” Evans got his first paid job serving soft-serve ice cream at the local Dairy Queen before graduating to the world of fine dining; he learned his craft in kitchens in New York, New Orleans, and Atlanta - finally returning to his home state to launch a restaurant in a converted sprinkler manufacturing facility in the heart of Birmingham.

“One important thing - I wanted it to be open seven days a week,” he says. “Many places take two days off, but I wanted folks to feel welcome all the time. I guess it’s a Southern thing.” He settled on a seafood menu – a reflection of happy childhood summers spent on Alabama’s beaches along the Gulf of Mexico. “The Gulf produces all this incredible fish and I really wanted to show it off as best as I could,” he says. So, Evans found a spear fisherman based in Destin, Florida, to dive and spear-catch exclusively for the restaurant. “It’s his only

job; I’m able to get pompano, amberjack, tilefish, and triggerfish - all these very different, very beautiful spe cies. He brings me whatever he finds so I’m able to serve whatever’s in season.”

A FAST-MOVING FOOD SCENE

Evans invites me to sit and then heads to the kitchen to send out some of his personal highlights from the menu. First come Alabama oysters on the half-shell –their subtle saltiness offset by the sweetness of a perfectly made daiquiri cocktail. They’re followed by a bowl of crab claws in a punchy citrus-herb marinade that delivers an extra kick from some Korean chilli pepper. I pick a sum mery glass of Chenin Blanc to accompany the next dish: speared mangrove snapper on a bed of apple and radish and topped with an ingenious and delicious garnish: in an effort to avoid food waste, Evans has perfected a way of crisping up the fish’s swim bladder to taste like a marine version of pork crackling. The pièce de résistance though is his own take on snapper throat: an Asian-inspired, crispy fish collar with chilli butter, lime, and farm pickles, which is spectacular, as good as anything I’ve tasted on my travels throughout the Far East.

“People have all these preconceptions - and misconcep tions about Alabama,” says Evans. “But there’s way more to food here than your traditional chicken pot pie and meat-and-three. The food scene is exciting, it’s evolving fast and is getting better and better. I think if people come and try it for themselves, they’ll be surprised, not only by the quality, but by how much thought and love goes into our cooking.”

Clockwise: Automatic Seafood’s oysters on the half shell, mixing cocktails, restaurant exterior, crispy fish collar.

NOTASULGA | ALABAMA

Holy Wine

While the state beverage is Conecuh Ridge Whiskey, the word on the grapevine is that local wines are fast becoming the drink of choice for discerning palates. Praise be for the reds, whites and rosés of Alabama!

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

Alot of praying gets done if you’re a farmer,” says Tim Watkins when we meet under the old, rugged cross that marks the entrance to his winery, Whippoorwill Vine yards, just off Highway 14 in Notasulga, central Alabama. “The vagaries of the weather make us all a little more religious. I certainly call to a higher power to help me out. The Lord then delivers the rain and the sunshine; I just gotta deal with what he decides to give me.” Watkins’s faith is clearly working wonders. As he leads me around the vineyard – named after a local nightjar with a distinctive three-note call that sounds like ‘whippoor-will’ – his vines are all heavy with bunches of plump muscadine grapes. “They’re the only variety endemic to Alabama,” he says. “Having nourished the Native Amer icans, they were then found by Europeans colonizers growing wild in the forests and tangled up in the brush. Pretty much everyone in the South has grandparents and great-grandparents who tell stories of going on adven tures to harvest them, climbing up trees and shaking them down to eat or making a little wine on the back porch. It’s a grand old Southern tradition.”

Watkins picks a handful of greenish-purple scupper nongs – one of the oldest and best-known muscadine varieties, its name derived from an Algonquin Indian name for the sweet bay tree, ‘ascopo’. He offers me a taste – the fruit is intensely sweet with a smoky finish. “The muscadine - Vitis rotundifolia - is a cousin to the com mon grape, Vitis vinifera, so it has a distinctive flavour,” he explains. “The muscadine skin is also thicker than a vinifera grape and has seven times more antioxidants. It’s a superfood like the blueberry or the pomegranate. We ferment with those skins for a week to get the goodness out; that’s why at Whippoorwill we call our wines ‘heart medicine’.

SWEET TOOTH

Together, Watkins and his family have turned what was traditionally a back-porch pastime into a busy and suc cessful small-batch operation. One of just 22 wineries in the state, Whippoorwill now produces around 2,000 cases a year, including a dry Cynthiana – known as the ‘cabernet of the South’ - and a Lenoir or ‘Black Spanish’, made from a grape once used on the Iberian Peninsula for a commu nion wine. His most popular labels though are light and fruity, similar to dessert or ice wines, such as his Tail Gate

Tim Watkins enjoys a glass of red at the end of a day’s winemaking.

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

Some of Whippoorwill’s award-winning wines.

BROWN SUGAR. BESIDES, PEOPLE IN ALABAMA HAVE NOT BEEN DRINKING WINES THAT LONG AND THE LONGER YOU DRINK WINE, YOUR TASTE CHANGES, YOU WANT THINGS A LITTLE DRIER.

Red, a muscadine blended with a touch of strawberry. “Most folk here like them sweet just like everything else: we like our tea sugary and cold; we like our barbecue meats cooked with molasses and brown sugar. Besides, people in Alabama have not been drinking wines that long and the longer you drink wine, your taste changes, you want things a little drier.”

THE LOCAL PREACHER BLESSES THE VINES

Watkins’s wines have won considerable acclaim, even garnering accolades in the USA’s most notable winegrowing state: California, but he tells me he didn’t choose wine-making for the medals or indeed the financial rewards. “For me, it’s a profound experience to do something that

brings people together and shows respect for the past,” he says. “We do everything by hand here and use traditional methods. Our local preacher blesses the vines to protect them and ensure an abundant harvest and we invite the community to join us to bring it home, just like in the olden days.”

Watkins says he also cherishes how wine-making allows him to get closer to nature. “After sunset, when the whippoor wills are crying and the owls are hooting, I pour me a glass of wine and go out into the vineyard. Sometimes I get talking to the vines. I say to them, ‘What do you need so that you can give me what I want?’ Working with the land and seeing the miracle of it bearing fruit is a spiritual experience; it’s as close to divine as you can get.”

MOST FOLK HERE LIKE THEM SWEET JUST LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE: WE LIKE OUR TEA SUGARY AND COLD; WE LIKE OUR BARBECUE MEATS COOKED WITH MOLASSES AND

Muscadine grapes ready for harvest.

The vineyard’s old, rugged cross.

AUBURN | ALABAMA

Green fingers

For a small-batch farmer and a leading chef, friendship is a key ingredient in delivering flavour-packed produce in innovative style at one of the finest food joints in the South. Bring out the silverware – dinner is served.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

Josh Hornsby prepares pickled okra in the kitchen at Hornsby Farms.

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

AMERICAN TRAILS MAGAZINE

Acre restaurant’s signature butcher’s block.

Ripe okra at Hornsby Farms.

David Bancroft picks Meyer lemons in his kitchen garden.

Okra loves the heat, so okra loves Alabama,” says farmer Josh Hornsby of the Deep South staple crop, as iconic on menus here as grits, gumbo, and col lard greens. “It blows my mind the rate they grow at,” he adds, flicking open a jack-knife to harvest a batch of the edible seed pods by hand. “If they’re not ready in the morning, they will be by dusk. But you have to catch ‘em at just the right size. Too small and they lack flavor, too big and they’re tough as old boots.”

His basket is soon overflowing, so Hornsby heads to the canning kitchen at the family farm outside Auburn to topand-tail the okra, before slotting the pods into a series of jars alongside garlic cloves, slices of lemon, and a handful of spices. “Everyone in the state has their own favorite recipe,” he says, pausing to pour over a hot brine made from apple cider vinegar and pickling salt. “Whether it’s okra dusted in cornmeal and deep-fried - or slow-cooked in a stew with Gulf prawns. But in my book pickled is best because you end up with a dozen different flavours in every pod: you’ve got your sweet, grassy notes from the okra; you’ve got your seed flavours of coriander, mustard and dill - and hits of allspice, juniper and cinnamon too. Pickled okra goes with pretty much everything – meats and cheeses, you can even serve it in a Bloody Mary cocktail.”

HOMEMADE BY FARMER HORNSBY

Hornsby’s pickled okra are a key ingredient of the butch er’s block at chef David Bancroft’s Acre restaurant – a gastronomic work of art that resembles a still life painting by a Dutch master. Here, the okra sits amongst Bancroft’s homemade charcuterie; including slices of smoked duck, pork salami flavoured with fennel and white wine, and a braised pork shoulder rillette topped with pecan mustard.

Bancroft, like Hornsby, is a farmer himself, who has taken the concept of farm-to-table cooking one step further than most, surrounding his Auburn city-centre restaurant with its own gardens and orchards that produce everything from arbequina olives to Meyer lemons. What he can’t grow himself, he sources from nearby suppliers, including beef, pork, cornmeal, cheese - even honey from a local university professor who moonlights as a beekeeper. “Acre is more than just about the local and the sustainable though, it’s about relationships and friendships – like the one I have with Josh,” he says, before disappearing to the kitchen and returning moments later with a pan of piping hot cornbread for me to try. “I know where all my ingredients come from, who provided them and how they were grown,” he says, cutting me a slice of the normally stodgy Southern classic, which he’s transformed into a light cake that is glazed with honey-butter hot sauce and finished with a sprinkling of benne seeds - an heirloom variety of sesame. “The guy who supplies my eggs for the cornbread for example, Charlie, he drops them off in person and is having a drink in the restau rant bar right now. That’s how well I know my suppliers.”

A SENSE

OF

COMMUNITY Bancroft says he learnt all about co-operation as a young child – watching the farm hands and vaqueros (Mexican cowboys) working together as a team at his grandfather’s ranch in Texas where they’d end the day around the camp fire over a plate of food. “It’s so much more fruitful when there’s a spirit of open-hearted collaboration,” he says. “I partner with other chefs; we share ideas and ingredi ents like a co-op would do. My staff will go pick okra at Josh Hornsby’s place if he needs help. In Alabama, people will give the shirt off their backs for each other. These are things that really matter to us in the South. It makes good food taste even better when it comes with a sense of community.”

“IT’S SO MUCH MORE FRUITFUL WHEN THERE’S A SPIRIT OF OPEN-HEARTED COLLABORATION,” HE SAYS. “I PARTNER WITH OTHER CHEFS; WE SHARE IDEAS AND INGREDIENTS LIKE A CO-OP WOULD DO. MY STAFF WILL GO PICK OKRA AT JOSH HORNSBY’S PLACE IF HE NEEDS HELP. IN ALABAMA, PEOPLE WILL GIVE THE SHIRT OFF THEIR BACKS FOR EACH OTHER.

SWEET HOME ALABAMA

In small-town Mobile, a transplant from New Mexico likes to push locals out of their comfort zone with her daring dessert menu, while a gay, interracial couple have become talk of the town with their deliciously alternative bakery. Meet Arwin Rice and The Guncles!

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY SIMON URWIN

Everyone knows their neighbors in small-town Alabama,” says chef Arwin Rice. “And those people you don’t know, you acknowledge them with a smile and a hello. It’s the local custom. It’s polite soci ety. It’s one of the first things you notice when you come here.” Rice, who moved from New Mexico to settle on Alabama’s Gulf Coast more than 15 years ago, also found that same society to be quite conservative, especially in its attitudes towards food. “People can be a bit set in their ways here, they like what they like,” she says. “I, on the other hand, like to shake things up, scare people a little, make them wonder if ingredients really should go together.”

In a state renowned for its sweet tooth, Rice decided it would be best to push any culinary boundaries via the dessert menu at her wine shop-cum-restaurant, Red or White, located in the Gulf port city of Mobile. “It’s hot on the coast so one dish I created early on was something cold, rooted in nostalgia but with a modern twist: pea nut butter and jelly ice cream with Alabama muscadine grapes. Some people thought it sounded rather unappe tising, but that didn’t bother me, I knew they’d love it if they tried it. Anyway, I take it as a compliment if I weird people out.”

HOW TO EXPAND MINDS THROUGH FOOD

Next came something equally successful – a contemporary spin on a centuries-old recipe for Southern persimmon bread. “I teased diners out of their comfort zone by trans forming it into a kind of tiramisu,” she says, before asking a server to bring me a portion to try. I take a spoonful; it’s deliciously sweet to the point of tooth-loosening, the delicate honey and cantaloupe flavours from the persim mons perfectly complimented by the addition of cinna mon, nutmeg, caramel, and cream. “Once you win people over and you gain their trust, you can get them to try all kinds of things they’ve never even heard of,” she says. “You can expand minds through food for sure; food is capable of breaking down all kinds of barriers.”

TWO GUNCLES GO GLUTEN FREE

Two chefs also creating waves on the city’s food scene in their own inimitable style are John Edward McGee and Demetrius James. Both born and bred in Mobile, after a stint of living in San Francisco the couple moved back home to set up a gluten-free bakery. “Eyebrows were certainly raised,” says James. “A gay, interracial couple opening a bakery focused on wellbeing is not something you’d traditionally associate with the Deep South.” To gether they launched ‘Guncles’ – a play on the words ‘gay uncle’ – initially with a small selection of baked goods

Arwin Rice in the dining room of her restaurant Red or White.

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

Street Art, Mobile, Alabama.

The Guncles: John Edward McGee and Demetrius James.

including one type of cake which held a particular senti mental value for McGee. “It was a modified version of my mother’s fig-spiced cake which she served at pretty much every church social and family gathering,” he explains. “When she passed, we found her hand-written recipe for it. We turned it gluten-free and now her memory lives on through that cake. It’s still bringing pleasure to folks all these years later.”

The Guncles’ offering has since grown to include a vast array of breads, layer cakes, cookies, and cream pies. “We don’t just want our gluten-free goods to be as good as any other bakery though – we want them to be even better in terms of flavour and texture,” says McGee. “It’s also important for us to excel in things which are Southern classics,” adds James. “Our menu has allowed customers to eat a buttermilk biscuit or a cinnamon roll again for the first time in years, maybe decades. People have literally stood at the counter and cried when they take a first bite. It’s because there are so many memories tied up in food here - of family and togetherness.”

FOOD AND FAITH

McGee has one theory about the roots of this strong relationship between food and kinship in the South. “I think it goes back to the time of our grandparents and great-grandparents and the hardships they faced,” he says. “Even if they didn’t have much to eat themselves, they

would still provide for others and make sure they didn’t go hungry. I think a certain level of economic insecurity pulls everyone together. Historically, food has helped to cement all kinds of relationships by bringing comfort.” James thinks faith has played a role too. “This the Bible Belt. You don’t just have your blood family, but the church is family too. When the church service is over, everyone goes to have lunch. You praise God together; you eat together. Food represents community and belonging.”

He goes on to tell me that his own experience of the church was far from welcoming. “I was raised in a very religious Southern Baptist home,” he says. “It was very difficult to be accepted for who I was. But times slowly change. Now people are more tolerant and inclusive, y’all does mean y’all.” James and McGee say they’ve been able to change plenty of mindsets themselves as a direct result of the bakery’s success. “Guncles has opened up all kinds of conversations with people we did not expect to have,” says McGee. “We’ve been approached by customers who say they have never talked with any gay people before or otherwise been friends with a gay man or an African American. It’s been extraordinary. We’ve been able to build all kinds of bridges through our food.”

A TASTE OF ALABAMA

Arwin Rice’s persimmon dessert.

S Joachim Street in Mobile’s Lower Dauphin Street Historic District.

BY MICKE LUNDSTRÖM

| MICKE LUNDSTRÖM

The Cajun Soul

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY MICKE

It’s the French area west of New Orleans which is where Cajun calls home. Here in the Mississippi River’s bayou, French culture has survived in par allel alongside English, where both languages are still spoken.

The French here is a variation on the language which was spoken in the 1700’s, and not even someone from France would understand it today. You can, in the more isolated backwaters of the bayou, still find folks who speak only Cajun. The Cajuns came originally from Acadi ana in northeast Canada. In the end of the 1700’s, the En glish drove them out, because they defied to submit their loyalty to the crown. After 20 years in exile, wandering through the wilds, the Cajuns made it to Louisiana, mak ing their homes on the prairie and in the bayou. Here they lived essentially in isolation, up until the Second World War, when the army came in to find soldiers.

A UNIQUE CULTURE

The combinations of historical isolation, proximity to na tive peoples, and French heritage has created a distinct lifestyle. Today, the Cajun kitchen is world renowned, known for its crawfish, jambalaya, and gumbo.

The black sheep of Cajun music, zydeco, has influenced heaps of artists, and can be heard in its original form on stages in most of Europe’s big cities. For all its cultural riches, this area is historically economically impoverished. Many of the buildings in the villages are mobile homes, trailers, and trashed asbestos insulated homes. The roads are derelict, with floodings and bad weather a constant drain on the inhabitants. Despite all of this, there is a carefree air here. When a storm comes rolling in, the doors and windows open, and the neighbors are invited over for the drink of the same name, The Hurricane.

Eating, drinking, dancing, and hanging out are central to Cajun culture. A strong memory I have was when I was in vited to a crawfish broil, complete with beer and dancing, at the home of those who owned the motel I was staying at. We were six adults, and they cooked up 130 pounds of crawfish.

DANCE, DRINK, AND THEN DANCE AGAIN

After a hard week fishing, ploughing fields, or drilling for oil, people unwind by partying at the dance halls around here. The dancing kicks off on Friday night, going late into Saturday morning. Those who can’t afford to buy a beer are offered a glass to pour the drinks they brought with them in. When the dancing ceases at one dance hall, the party moves on to the next, all with live cajun or zydeco music.

WARMTH AND EMPATHY

These pictures were taken nearly 30 years ago, and back then literacy rates were 20%. Many I met had married very young, at 15 years old. Education was basic, and the only safety nets were friends and family. Despite hardships, there was a generosity unlike anywhere else, a warmth and empathy that prevailed all the time.

I remember calling over to a family that I was meant to interview, explaining to them I had to cancel because I came down with a stomach flu. Within 30 minutes they had driven all the way over from Basil to my motel in Opelousas to pick me up, take me to their home, and nurse me back to health. A spartan home, I heard two hens getting butchered in the backyard. They cooked me a meal to help with my bad stomach bug.

The vision I had when taking these photos* was to cap ture the feeling that was found in the music, that something that harmonized and resonated so deeply within me, to see it in these people and where they lived. I haven’t been back since, but my oldest son was there a few years ago. He said not much had changed. Poverty remains, but there are fewer and fewer dance halls. The southern tracts along the Gulf are being evacuated due to rising sea levels. Fred’s Lounge in Mamou is still there. If you are ever in the area, be sure to swing by on a Saturday morning around 8:00AM. It's then the live radio show starts; live bands playing, live radio advertisements right from the newspapers, people danc ing, people drinking. The celebration of surviving the long march from Canada down to the bayous lives on in Cajun country.

*All pictures were taken with a Leica M2 35 mm with Tri-x film.

PORTFOLIO

It was the music that captivated me and which for 30 years ago, had me travelling to Louisiana. That painfully beautiful Cajun sound had, in some way, creeped deep into my soul.

LUNDSTRÖM

A rare bird

TO DIVE FOR | THE FAT PELICAN | CAROLINA BEACH, NC

WORDS AND PHOTO BY MAJSAN BOSTRÖM

Anyone who starts the about-section on their website with “The Legend of the Fat Pelican started in 1986” deserves a prize. It’s been named one of America’s top-ten “Diviest Dive Bars” and the number one dive bar in North Carolina and the eclectic beer garden has won both hearts and awards.

The walk-in beer cooler is the refrigerated trailer of an old 18-wheeler, where you can choose from more than 400 different beers, hard ciders, and seltzers. Out back, in the beer garden, people can chill on hand-made furniture, play corn hole or ring toss.

“Locals call it ‘Beach Trailer-Park Chic’,” says beer-tender, Bess, and gestures toward the sandy patio, where recycled film props and old restaurant signs, are strewn about tables and chairs.

Other locals have called the shack-like structure an eyesore.

Despite being built from a garage that partially burned down in 1951, The Fat Pelican has withstood over 50 named storms and hurricanes including Fran, Floyd and Florence. Located on the main drag of Carolina Beach, there’s only a boardwalk and an amusement park between the bar and the Atlantic Ocean.

The names of thousands of tourists, local luminaries and famous actors are permanently scribbled onto the weathered wood, and everything else that’s been bolted down.

“People were a little disappointed that they just wrote ‘Crew of Hot Stuff,’ when the cast for Outer Banks were here shooting that video,” Bess says about Kygo’s 2020-remix of Donna Summer’s sultry disco banger from the seventies. She has worked on and off at the Pelican for 20 years and speaks of the establishment as if it was her own.

Like any other place, it wouldn’t be a dive bar without its people—both patrons and personnel.

The manager, Robin, is 60 and calls everyone “Baby” in a southern drawl that’s as beautiful as she is.

THE MANAGER, ROBIN, IS 60 AND CALLS EVERYONE “BABY” IN A SOUTHERN DRAWL THAT’S AS BEAUTIFUL AS SHE IS. BUT BEWARE: HER QUICK WIT IS NOT TO BE UNDERESTIMATED. AND TOO-DRUNK PUNKS BETTER NOT CATCH AN ATTITUDE, OR SHE’LL THROW THEIR SASSY ASSES OUT ON THE PAVEMENT.

But beware: her quick wit is not to be underestimated. And too-drunk punks better not catch an attitude, or she’ll throw their sassy asses out on the pavement.

The patrons come from near and far, anyone from a curly-mustached Brooklyn kid looking for that special ty brew, to locals like David, who insists on drinking his Rolling Rocks straight from the bottle. Or the couple in their seventies, who come in just to smoke so their children won’t find out. And it wouldn’t be Friday if Amy didn’t play American Girl with Tom Petty on the jukebox. Most of the regulars have been quenching their thirsts at the “Fat P” for more than 30 years. The loudest is Aaron. Only a teething

infant could match his squeal as the tall shadow of Cole falls upon the door, because Aaron knows he’ll get his butt kicked on the bowling machine.

But perhaps most colorful of all characters is owner, Danny McLaughlin, who these days is seen on the premises more often with a drill than a Heineken in his hand. Danny did two tours in Vietnam. Later became a roadie for major bands like Van Halen and Aerosmith, and somehow got himself in a jam so big some New Jersey wise guys sent a hit man after him. Obviously, tales like that pair well with a Daycation IPA, or a Shark & Stormy Lager.

The owner, Danny, takes a break.

Out back, you can play different games on the patio.

Bess and Robin are running the show at The Fat Pelican.

YOSEMITE

CALIFORNIA ON THE ROAD AGAIN

A Road Trip Through Northern California

There’re a few things to consider when taking a road trip in the USA: 1. a good car, 2. good music, (Neil Young for example) 3. good stops. It’s not the miles in the car that counts, it’s the places and people you meet along the way. Northern California is a good place to practice the art.

WORDS AND PHOTOS BY FREDRIK LUNDGREN

Never underestimate the pow er of going on a road trip while blasting good music. After a three-hour long car trip from San Francisco with Neil Young in the speakers, we wind up on small, snak ing back roads which leads to our destination for the day: the former mining town of Mariposa, just at the edge of Yosemite National Park.

I climb out of the car, and it feels like someone has pointed a hairdryer right in my face. The air is particularly warm, and it smells like a forest fire.

A walk through the town is easily done and over within a few minutes. The low buildings along the main street would make for an excellent backdrop to a classic western film.

There’s a clothing store, Fremont House, which looks welcoming and enticing. From the floor to the roof the place is full of cowboy boots, jeans, and shirts from brands like Pendleton and Wrangler. The staff are knowledge able, and eager to explain why Wrangler jeans are a per fect fit for cowboys. In all honesty, while their prowess and passion for clothes were impressive, it was really the air-conditioning which kept me in there for so long.

Not far from Fremont House lies the Yosemite Climb ing Museum. A sure stop for all those interested in climb ing. The small white building doesn’t look like much, but inside is a towering amount of American climbing history. Local climber Ken Yager saw that there was a need to canonize the history of Yosemite’s climbers, and this museum is a testament to his vision. At the museum you’ll find artifacts, photos, publications, and memora bilia highlighting the history of climbing. Yager has taken

The smog from the forest fires put an eerie touch on Yosemite Valley.

his passion for the outdoors even further by organizing the yearly ‘Facelift’, an event where people get together to go clean up trash and litter left in nature. Even small towns carry significant historical importance, Mariposa is one of them. From Native Americans to miners, history has walked and climbed all over here through the ages.

MARIPOSA GROVE

According to the locals, you can’t visit Mariposa without see ing the Mariposa Grove. I personally feel a little hesitant to go see some massive trees when it feels like the thermometer is about to melt. But curiosity got me, and wouldn’t you know it, but I had no regrets. Mariposa Grove lies in the southern parts of Yosemite and is home to over 500 gigantic sequoia Trees, many of which are over a thousand years old.

“I am a park ranger here, hence the hat and the badge.” The welcoming words from ranger Scott Gediman as we get out of our car at Mariposa Grove. Just seeing his

big smile is worth the trip. Ranger Scott has worked for the National Park Service for 32 years, but his burning interest for this career began when he was just a child. He tells us a fascinating story. In the beginning of the 1800’s, Mariposa Grove was a remote place, far from civilization. But by the middle of the century, people from out East began arriving in droves, seeking luck.

“There are many who insist that it was the army who, in the middle of the 1800’s, discovered Mariposa Grove and Yosemite. But that isn’t quite true and more so a biased view when you consider that Native folk had been living here for thousands of years”, says ranger Scott.

The Natives are still indeed here, and today offer their vast and intimate knowledge of the forest and how best to preserve it.

During the 1840’s there was a doctrine born into exis tence—Manifest Destiny. It indoctrinated those Americans living in Eastern States, that it was their right and destiny

Yosemite Climbing Museum in Mariposa.

Get a pair of authentic jeans at Fremont House in Mariposa.

to expand Westwards, which also gave credence and justi fication for the forced removal of indigenous people from their land and homes. It really kickstarted a slew of horrible events: the settlers vigorously hunted the wild animals, chopped down the forests, brutalized the Natives, and in some cases murdering scores of the population. Mariposa Grove’s nature, with its big trees, beautiful waterfalls, and pristine wilderness were under threat to disappear entirely.

It was then that nature conservationists stepped in and stood up for nature, shielding this wilderness off and protecting what they could. One of them was a landscape photographer, Carleton Watkins. Watkins photographed and documented the sequoia trees to prove their existence, alas to no avail.

THE BIRTH OF THE NATIONAL PARKS

The settlers unleashed a destructive rampage on nature at speeds which drastically changed the landscape in a short amount of time. When the photos of the pillaging, the barren

forests, and clear-cut trees reached President Abraham Lin coln in June of 1864, he signed into act the Yosemite Land Grant. For the first time ever, land was set aside for pro tection and conservation. This was followed by Yellowstone, which became the world’s first National Park in 1872.

“You can argue which was actually the first Nation al Park, says ranger Scott. The Yosemite Land grant was signed in 1864 and although Yosemite didn’t officially become a National Park until 1890, well, it all depends on how you count,” he laughs.

The concept that an area of land and nature should be protected and preserved for everyone to enjoy, forever, was a new idea at that time. Today there are 423 National Parks in the USA. The National Parks are one of the best ideas to come out of this country, and rightfully so. It is hard not to be taken back by the nature here. Everything is so big that you half expect a T-Rex to come rumbling through the tree canopy.

We have met Ranger Scott before. See American Trails no 3.

El Capitan is one piece of impressive rock.

ROAD TRIP

OUT OF THE HAZE RISES THE IMPRESSIVE VERTICAL WALL THAT IS EL CAPITAN. LIKE A MONUMENT AMONGST THE FOREST, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO MISS WITH ITS CHARACTERISTIC SMOOTH AND GREY GRANITE FACE.

UNFORTUNATELY THE VIEW IS LIMITED DUE TO THE SMOKE, BUT THE POWERFUL FEELING OF BEING MET BY THIS ANCIENT SUMMIT IS STILL HARD TO BEAT.

The stillness and scent of the trees has a noted calming effect on me, there is something truly special about this place. It was this exact feeling after all that gave birth to the National Parks. One can’t simply stand under the canopy of a 300 foot tall tree without reflecting on its story and the history of this place. You can easily say that ranger Scott’s passion for these trees is infectious, and it is thanks to people like him that these forests and all their might remain standing.

YOSEMITE VALLEY

The air is stuffy and the smoke from nearby forest fires hangs like a blanket over the trees in Yosemite Valley, which is just a short car ride from Mariposa Grove. Out of the haze rises the impressive vertical wall that is El Capitan. Like a monument amongst the forest, it

is impossible to miss with its characteristic smooth and grey granite face. Unfortunately the view is limited due to the smoke, but the powerful feeling of being met by this ancient summit is still hard to beat. I’m on the hunt for a climber to interview, so I peel off at a vantage point and venture forward on foot. The climbers are absent, and I wind up in a near meditative state due to the silence and awe of it all—the perfect all natural cure for my chronic restlessness.

Ranger Scott takes us along a tour through the valley. The smell of smoke is a constant reminder of the fires in the area, and everywhere we look there are traces of its destruction. While it is underwhelming perhaps to see burned down forests, there is always another way to look at it. Forest fires are a necessary evil for many species in the forest. The fires actually keep the forests healthy and

Alligator jerky, anyone?

The rangers help you with maps and other things you need to know.

The valley floor is beautiful. If you have time for a hike, it is even more fantastic.

OUT IN THE BOONDOCKS LIES A SMALL FORGOTTEN TOWN, WHICH FOR MANY YEARS AGO WAS FULL OF LIFE—BODIE. WE CHAT WITH A PARK GUARD AND EXPLAIN WHERE WE ARE GOING, BUT HE ADVISES AGAINST IT, EXPLAINING THAT A STORM IS ROLLING IN AND THAT RAIN HANGS IN THE AIR. THIS OF COURSE DOES NOTHING TO STOP TWO ENTHUSIASTIC SCANDINAVIANS IN SHORTS.

in fact promote a vast array of species. The cones from the sequoia tree for example need fire in order to open and release their seed. Of course, the fires do cause damage; animals and people can and do wind up in danger and death amongst the blazes.

Therefor knowledge about forest fires is extremely im portant, knowledge that ranger Scott instils to tourists and politicians alike. He explains how for thousands of years ago, planned and inscribed burns were utilized by indige nous peoples to maintain nature.

PARK RANGERS

Hunting and logging were a threat to Yosemite for a long time. People could come here to hunt and chop down trees without repercussion. That was until 1905, when the park rangers began patrolling these areas. Eleven years lat er these rangers were organized under an official bureau, the National Park Service, with the goal to protect flora and fauna.

“A park ranger is always in conflict because every year we take in millions of guests and tourists, while at the same time having the goal to protect nature, so it is a fine balance, but everything in nature is about a delicate balance”, says ranger Scott.

He explains that the uniform which he bears is mod elled after the cavalry uniforms of the First World War, hence the hat. On the hat he proudly points out a hatband made of sterling silver with a sequoia motif, an heirloom from his precursor which is nearly 60 years old. After dinner, the haze and smell of smoke from the fires have dissipated. The views get better, and it starts to smell of lupine and butterscotch from the pines.

We would have really liked to hike on some of the trails in Yosemite, but sadly there wasn’t time this trip. But salvage the situation with a few drinks at the Ahwahnee Hotel bar in the company of ranger Scott, who has a few more stories up his sleeves.

MONO LAKE AND WHOA NELLIE DELI

Early the next morning we head east over the mountains. With stomachs growling, we stop in at a gas station in Lee Vining to fill up the tank and our bellies. Some locals challenge us to try the station’s fish tacos. Gas station and fish tacos are two words which I have never heard in the same sentence, and something about that combo just seemed suspect. The gas station’s restaurant is called Whoa Nellie Deli, and it boasts a view over Mono Lake. Even the staff recommend the “World famous Fish Tacos” and to my surprise, they taste incredible.

The view, fresh ingredients, and superbly fried fish make Woah Nellie Deli the perfect little lunch pit stop. Stomachs and gas tanks full, we roll forward along gravel roads down to Mono Lake, the great salt lake in the Sierra Nevada known for its formations of limestone towers. It smells wonderful, there’s wild sage growing all around the lake. The thick heat in the air beckons us to take a dip, so we cool off our feet in the water.

It’s hard to process that this lake has been here for over a 750,000 years ago. Along its edges, limestone formations rise up. Known as Tufa Towers, these stone monoliths make invoke my memory back to Pink Floyds, “Wish You Were Here”. A quick Google search later, and I under stand why. The renowned photo of one of the members diving into water was taken here. The car trip out of there is a trip in itself, as we blast Pink Floyd at full volume, barrelling out of there as Mono Lake drifts away.

BODIE - GOLD, BARS & BROTHELS

Out in the boondocks lies a small forgotten town, which for many years ago was full of life—Bodie. We chat with a park guard and explain where we are going, but he advises against it, explaining that a storm is rolling in and that rain hangs in the air. The dark clouds behind him, impose threateningly against his silhouette. This of course does nothing to stop two enthusiastic Scandinavians in shorts.

AMERICAN TRAILS MAGAZINE

Bodie is a ghostly town.

The fascinating formations at Mono Lake.

The author is hiking at Mono Lake.

Bodie was once a boom town. Now it’s a ghost town in arrested decay.

“HE WAS HUNG BY THE GANG BODIE 601 MONDAY THE 24TH OF JANUARY 1881.” SO BEGINS THE HEADLINE OF THE BODIE FREE PRESS AND ITS ARTICLE PUBLISHED THE MORNING AFTER ONE OF THE MOST INFAMOUS EVENTS IN THE TOWN’S HISTORY. THE PIECE IS ABOUT THE GANG KNOWN AS THE ‘601 VIGILANTE GROUP’. THE NUMBERS “601” IS COMMONLY KNOWN TO MEAN “6 FEET UNDER, 0 TRIALS, 1 ROPE”.

We pat each other on the back and say, “It’ll be good”.

Bodie was founded in the middle of the 1800’s and was once a lively mining town. It grew quickly over the years. Between 1877 and 1880 the town boomed, with Bodie inhabiting 10,000 people, of which 31 of them were Swedish. The rumors of gold in the hills had spread, and enticed people to come searching for luck of all kinds. Shortly thereafter, the city went bust and became a ghost town as the gold dried up and everyone left to chase their dreams elsewhere. Today it is totally empty and off the beaten tracks from modern settlements. The bars echo empty with dusty glasses left on the tables; pool sticks left out as if the game got cut short. It’s like the whole populace just went up in smoke.

With people came culture, banks, bank robbers, churches, and railways. There was even a daily newspaper, a jail of course, and nearly 65 bars and saloons. With money in the pocket, a luck-seeking gold miner could order luxurious food and drink; oysters on ice were shipped in via the rails. But with all good comes some pain, and in this case “The Bad Men of Bodie”. Bar fights, gunshots, and prostitu tion were a part of the day-to-day life. Many miners went straight from their holes in the earth, directly to the brothel after work, to blow the money they had earned. This lust, combined with money and alcohol ended in tragedy for many of those who lived in Bodie.

BODIE 601

“He was hung by the gang Bodie 601 Monday the 24th of January 1881.” So begins the headline of the Bodie Free Press and its article published the morning after one of the most infamous events in the town’s history. The piece is about the gang known as the ‘601 Vigilante group’. The numbers “601” is commonly known to mean “6 feet under, 0 trials, 1 rope”. In the article you can read the account of what went down. It’s stated that a man named Joseph DeRoche was dancing with another

man’s wife during a ball at the Miner’s Union Hall. This did not sit well with the women’s husband, and a brawl ensued. DeRoche left the ball, and later that evening the man and his wife also left, exiting onto Main Street. Out of the darkness jumped DeRoche forward, shooting the man in the head. He was arrested immediately and turned over to the acting sheriff, who was heavily intox icated, allowing DeRoche to escape custody. It wasn’t long before the 601 Vigilante Group caught up with him, subsequently hanging him to death. A paper nailed into the victim’s breast read: “Everyone take warning. Don’t let anyone cut him down. Bodie 601.”

ARRESTED DECAY

It’s raining and lighting dances down from thunder clouds as I wander along main street. The fantasy takes over me, and I envision this ghost town as it was back then, bream ing with life. Cowboys on horses, folks smashing beer glasses, pistols firing freely. The town is frozen in time and is kept as such by California State Parks in a perma nent state known as “arrested decay”. Meaning that the buildings are kept exactly as how they were found, not restoring the buildings, but rather keeping them exactly as they stand, bare and weather-beaten.

When the Gold Rush was over and the crash came, the people left for new places, taking with them just what they could carry, and the rest got left behind; objects and artifacts which would in essence become a time capsule for us modern visitors to this ghost town.

What makes Bodie truly fascinating isn’t just the ghost town aspect because there are a few towns like this one preserved in the USA. But with Bodie it’s how the people left it. Abandoned in a state which seems to suggest that they thought they would someday come back. To return to work, to school, or to that pool game. For us, it is time to turn back as well, towards San Francisco, as this road trip is nearing its end.

Forest fires are a part of the cycle of nature, but they can cause a lot of damage.

PEOPLE, PLACES AND PASSIONS

A shady place

THE SHADY DELL | BISBEE | ARIZONA

WORDS

AND PHOTO BY SIMON URWIN

Located near Bisbee, Arizona, Shady Dell began life in 1927 as a trailer court for travellers journeying along Route 80, the epic interstate which stretches from Savannah to San Diego. “They’d pull in, get a sandwich and freshen up in the communal bathhouse”, explains Brad Hardy, the park manager (pictured). “For those without a trailer, there was a segregated bunk house for just 10 cents a night. Men would enter in one door, women through another – it was all very proper." A love letter to the 1950’s, Shady Dell is home to 12 lovingly restored trailers, each with glorious vintage appliances and kitschy period details. “The park is particularly popular with older folks who experienced this way of travel the first time around”, says Hardy. “It’s also a paradise for anyone with a love for Americana, and who doesn’t feel at home staying some place with just four white walls.”

The right Page, the right BBQ

AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

The food at Big John’s Texas BBQ is better than anything I had eaten for a long time. Not since I was in Texas had I had such beautifully perfect pulled pork or brisket. The service— even better. Not soon after sitting down and opening my computer was there a server at the ready with the Wi-Fi password. Big John is situated perfectly in the small desert town of Page, nestled in a former gas station, it is now transformed into a BBQ oasis. We sit outside in the warm air as the place begins to fill up. There isn’t a whole lot to say about Page, but that’s not the point, location is everything. Because around Page lies some of the most pristine desert environments I have seen, and that alone is worth staying for a few days. You can even go trout fishing back behind the gigantic Glen Canyon Dam.

WORDS

PEOPLE, PLACES AND PASSIONS

On top of the top

BRECKENRIDGE | COLORADO

TEXT AND PHOTO BY JONAS LARSSON

There’s an extra dimension to skiing when it is so steep, you must take off your skis. We hade skied on a mountain spine, a skinny one. Some of us, and I won’t give any names, were scared to death. As it started to raise up into the clouds, I had to crawl the last bit. Finally at the top, we could take in the view, and what a magical sight it is from the top of a mountain in Colorado. Absolutely worth it, and something to think back on during those boring days at work on a dark and rainy October day. Going down? Fast, scary, but fantastic. Breckenridge has a good system, it’s big and there are slopes for all skill levels. The city itself is cozy, with plenty of options for after-ski activities. And compared to Aspen, the prices are quite reasonable, and the accommodation was a gem. Be sure to check out The Bivvi Hostel, where we stayed.

GOBRECK.COM | THEBIVVI.COM