Roark Artifacts - Vol. 15: "Vagabundos Del Carne"

Vagabundos del Carne Northern Patagonia

The Forgotten Archipelago Falkland Islands

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The hunt for Roark and the collections inspired by our travels are never ending.

Each season Roark’s travels take us to a different point on the map chasing a bold spirit of adventurism that inspires a collection of products.

Stories, culture, climate, people and local textiles from the destination provide the road map for our adventure-ready goods. Join us this Fall as we follow Roark into the more classical setting of Northern Patagonia, Argentina.

Travel well...

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THE “SAFE CAMP”

BEHIND THE CONCEPT OF ROARK’S ICON

Inspired by the depression era hobo moniker for “safe place to camp.”

THE SEARCH FOR ROARK HAS LANDED ON MANY A FOREIGN SHORE.

To date, Roark has traveled to 15 different destinations inspiring collections.

From Dakar to the Himalayas and Cuba to Iceland - we’ve made our way into experiences that have opened our minds both spiritually and culturally. We hope that the products and stories discovered on the road are thought provoking and persuade you to adventure in a free-spirited and inquisitive way. “Travel doesn’t become adventure until you leave yourself behind.” - M. Rubin

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R O A R K ’ S J O U R N E Y I N S P I R E D B Y S E A S O N A L T R AV E L S .

V O L 0 1 : C A L I F O R N I A, N O RT H E R N C O A S T L I N E

VOL 06: C U B A , H AVA N A

VO L 11: CANADA, VANCOUVER ISLAND B.C.

V O L 0 2 : M E X I C O, B A J A

VOL 07: I C E L A N D, R E Y K J AV I K

VO L 12: I N D I A , TA M I L N A D U S TAT E

VOL 03: C A L I F O R N I A, B I G S U R

VOL 08: A F R I C A , D A K A R

VO L 13: R U S S I A , T E R R I B E R K A

VOL 04: I N D O N E S I A, B A L I

VOL 09: N E PA L , H I M A L AYA S

VO L 14: J A M A I C A , K I N G S T O N

V O L 0 5 : J A PA N , T O K Y O

VOL 10: V I E T N A M , H A N O I

VO L 15: ARGENTINA, N. PATAGONIA - FALKLAND ISLANDS

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Stories 06 Vol. 15: "Vagabundos del Carne" 10

BOYS ON THE BACKS OF BEASTS

16

A LABYRINTH OF ALPINE SPLENDOR

28

DISASTER THROUGH THE BINOS

38 “The Forgotten Archipelago” 44

THROWING THE MAP OUT THE WINDOW

46

SHOTGUN SHELLS, SHIT AND BONES

48

W E AT H E R E D A N D W I S E R

52

HE WAS ONE OF US

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S K I P P I N G T H E PA R A D E T O S U R F

Cover Drew Smith, shot by Jeff Johnson.

Photography Dylan Gordon, Drew Smith and Jeff Johnson.

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Features 12 How to Build a Bush Sauna ALEX ANDREWS

Culinary 15 ARGENTINE-STYLE GRILLING

32 Zen and the Art of Fly Fishing

Revivalists

MANU DOMINGUEZ

24 MANU DOMINGUEZ

22 ALEX ANDREWS

30 DREW SMITH

34 The “Reluctant Protagonist” JEFF JOHNSON

42 DYLAN GORDON

Roark's Guide 3 6 U N C U R AT E D T R AV E L

58 Artist Profile

56 BARTERING

JACK BAILEY

60 Rincon Grande Collection 100% ARGENTINE WOOL

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Vagabundos del Carne

“We’re flying over a seemingly endless landscape: raw, isolated, devoid of people. Puffy cotton ball clouds cast shadows across snow-capped mountains, shades of brown and green, patterns of a calico cat.”

BY JEFF JOHNSON

It could be Utah, Colorado, Wyoming… a familiar topography, though none of us has ever been here: the other Americas, way south of the equator, Bariloche, Argentina, to be exact.

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VAGABUNDOS DEL CARNE

VOLUME 15

CHAPTER 1

We wake up to roosters, dogs barking, the sound of sheep driven across a paddock. Men and women are laughing and yelling.

The smell of livestock and fresh bread. The sun has yet to come up.

It remains hidden behind mountains; its sharp light glancing off distant peaks. In shadow lay Estancia Rincon Grande, a massive sheep ranch that spans the Rio Negro, Argentine Steppe and foothills of the Andes.

We’re all out of sorts as we stumble into the common area near the kitchen for breakfast: a diverse collection of skaters, surfers, snowboarders and climbers—spanning two generations. We have no

BY JEFF JOHNSON

“

The smell of livestock and fresh bread.

The sun has yet to come up. It remains hidden behind mountains; its sharp light glancing off distant peaks.

business being on a ranch, especially setting out on a pack-trip on horseback. None of us has any real experience riding horses, except for maybe Drew Smith, aka School Boy, a climber who grew up in Montana and Dylan Gordon who was raised on a ranch in Ventura.

This is his inaugural trip with the Roark crew, getting jumped in, so to speak, like a gang member—to see if he can handle. It is also Parker Coffin’s first trip, aka Porker, a reluctant pro surfer from Ventura. Both are blessed with a humble swagger, an odd paradox that will give them a leg up out on the trail.

After a cold, afternoon swim in the Rio Negro we find local gauchos behind the sheep-shearing barn preparing a traditional lamb asado. Froth Puppy, the perpetually wired, up-for-anything snowboarder from Utah, pours a round of whiskey shots.

The rest of the crew surrounds the table practically drooling over the spread: bottles of Malbec, freshly baked bread, grilled veggies, fish soup and the lamb asado dripping and sizzling on sticks by an open fire. What follows will become a reoccurring theme throughout the entire trip: gorge on local fare, ripping bones apart like cavemen, seconds, thirds, fourths of everything till the wine is all but gone, and top it off with mouthfuls of dulce de leche.

Loud talk turns to mumbling as we crawl into our beds replete with meat sweats and bed spins. Sleep like an entombed pharaoh, never to wake again.

VAGABUNDOS DEL CARNE

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Beasts Boys on the Backs of

CHAPTER 2

VOLUME 15

CHAPTER 2

BY JEFF JOHNSON

“The morning is cloudy with a cold bite in the air. Andres Kempel, a big-game hunting and fishing guide, has arrived and is preparing our horses. He is quiet and confident, old-school in his demeanor.”

We watch him from the other

Estancia Rincon Grande

upon the hard trail, snorting

side of the fence as he tosses

is virtually surrounded by

and showing their teeth, breath

saddles around, balancing

national parks and ranchlands.

visible like smoke. We pass

a smoke in his mouth while

There is nothing but pastures

around hand-rolled cigarettes

synching down gear. Little by

and mountains and rivers in

and a flask of whiskey.

little we wander in and around

all directions. We see a giant

Very few words are spoken.

him. He smiles crookedly and

condor glide over a canyon,

No one wants to be the first to

shakes our hands. One thing is

dwarfed by the sprawling

admit it…then I hear someone

suddenly clear: Andres is man

backdrop, though its wingspan

mutter behind clinched teeth,

amongst boys.

looks to be about 10 feet.

“It’s fucking cold.”

The massive bird darts and The ride begins in hysterics.

drifts and dives out of site.

It is late by the time we get to

We’re laughing at one another

The wind picks up. It begins to

the makeshift hunting camp.

as we try to situate ourselves

drizzle. Jackets are zipped to the

The sun we had never seen has

on the backs of beasts.

chin; hats are lowered over the

dropped behind the mountains

Chief, who is arguably one

eyes. It’s going to be a long day.

above. It has stopped snowing.

of the best skateboarders

We pitch tents and prepare

in modern times, and, who

Late in the afternoon our crew

bunk beds in a shack with dirt

is exceptionally good at

enters Valle Frizon. We wind

floors. Morale is lifted as we

everything, looks painfully

our way down a steep hillside

light a fire and make dinner.

awkward. It’s like looking into

where the valley opens up into

Tomorrow we will run amuck,

a mirror, though, as most of us

grassy plains. It’s snowing now.

build a sweat lodge next to the

are in the same predicament.

Wisps of white flakes swirl

creek, drink more red wine and

Riding single file and at times

around us in gusts. We slow

gladly suffer meat sweats in

broken into clusters, we rise

to a halt and gather round.

our sleep.

slowly onto the first plateau.

The horses shuffle their hooves

BOYS ON THE BACKS OF BEASTS

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HOW TO BUILD A BUSH SAUNA

BY ALEX ANDREWS

What could be better than a DIY sauna while you’re miles away from civilization deep in the mountains of Patagonia? This is how the Roark family stayed warm aside from a fire; cold beverages and good friends recommended!

SUPPLIES

- Access to water, preferably a river, creek, lake, or pond.

- You’ll also need a solid fire.

- 30 to 50 rocks. Don’t use rocks from a river, or lake. They explode! We made that mistake.

- Tarp (20 X 20) without holes or tears.

- Branches or tree trunks or posts.

6 ft minimum length.

- Bottle of Whiskey or Malbec in this case.

STEPS 01 Scout a decent size creek or body of water

with stable ground near by to build the sauna.

02 Start a fire near the creek and sauna. Fill

with scavenged rocks the size of a soft ball or larger. It’s important to get the rocks cooking prior to the rest of the build. Heat them for a minimum of 3 hours.

03 Build a typical A-frame structure with a beam

running the length. Dig out benches in the ground for seating on each side of the sauna. Opposite the entrance, dig a 2 foot deep and 3 foot wide circular hole in the ground for hot rocks.

04 Drape the tarp over the top of structure and

seal to the ground with dirt and rock.

05 Carefully transit 5-7 of the largest hot rocks

to the sauna hole in the rear of structure. Use cast iron skillet or something to protect you from the heat.

06 Get the crew inside of the sauna quickly and

seal entrance.

07 Pour cold river water onto rocks to create

steam. Add hot rocks and water as needed.

REVIVALISTS PA R K E R C O F F I N @ PA R K E R C O F F I N A L E X A N D R E W S @ T H E R E A L F R OT H P U P P Y

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HOW TO BUILD A BUSH SAUNA

HOW TO BUILD A BUSH SAUNA

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ANDRES KEMPEL S A D D L I N G U P AT E S TA N C I A R I N C O N G R A N D E FROTH PUPPY (ALEX ANDREWS) W H I S K E Y PA S S I N T H E V A L L E F R I Z O N PA R K E R C O F F I N & F R O T H P U P P Y E N D U R I N G M E AT S W E AT S

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BOYS ON THE BACKS OF BEASTS

CULINARY

ARGENTINE-STYLE GRILLING

BY M AT T H E W C A R D FOOD EDITOR OF C H R I S T O P H E R K I M B A L L’ S MILK STREET MAGAZINE.

G R I L L I N G AT T H E E S TA N C I A R I N C O N GRANDE

The broad, windswept vistas and fertile pampas of Argentina

Mallman may be the face of Argentine cooking, but it’s the

are both stunningly beautiful and ideally designed for nurturing

pampas-roaming gauchos that own the collective imagination.

Argentina’s culinary obsession: beef. Grilled beef to be exact.

Clad in shaggy sweaters, slouchy bombachas trousers and

According to Francis Mallman, Argentina’s wild-haired culinary

trademark caps, the gauchos both tend the cattle and cook it on

visionary and self-appointed spokesman, “grilling in Argentina

primitive spits. With their razor-sharp cuchillos, they’ll eat hunks

isn’t just about the food. It is a ritual and a ceremony.”

of meat with a swipe of tangy chimichurri, a tangy herb sauce as ubiquitous on Argentine tables as ketchup. It’s all chased down

Asado, the high art of Argentine-style grilling, is a low-and-slow affair

with Malbec—the earthy-rich wine that put Argentine vineyards

that requires patience and a keen eye. Hardwood is burnt down to

on the map. Tannic and fruity, it’s the perfect foil to the mineral-

glowing coals before being leveled out beneath the meat on

rich meat. What grows together, goes together.

the grill; the flaring fire of American grilling is avoided at all costs. The meat’s slowly dripping fat generates smoke,

Make sure to save some room for Argentina’s myriad pastries,

bathing the beef in flavor. It’s a hard-won craft that’s often

which easily rival the quality of the beef. Must-haves include

the family business.

the flaky stuffed empanadas (filled with all manner of stuffings), croissant-like facturas, or buttery-crisp alfajores

Parillas, or steakhouses, dominate the restaurant scene. Waiters

wafers sandwiched with dulce de leche, arguably the world’s

weave between tables, slicing slabs of glistening meat off long

best cookie.

skewers with scimitar-like knives. Pacing is key—you’ll want to try all the various cuts on offer.

CULINARY

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A Labyrinth of

Alpine Splendor CHAPTER 3

VOLUME 15

CHAPTER 3

We’re back in the town of Bariloche gearing up for a trip into Frey for a bit of splitboarding. We’re all a little worked from the packtrip, walking it off with stiff backs and legs. Chief is itching to skate. He takes off with local snowboarder Manu Dominguez.

Heavy storm clouds float down from the Andes and hover over Nahuel Huapi Lake. Off in the distance we can see the craggy spires of Frey, a few thousand feet higher in elevation. Caked in snow, the serrated skyline is both alluring and foreboding, the age-old contradiction that attracts men to mountains.

Leaving Rincon Grande we make a quick detour to Valle Encantado where School Boy introduces some of the guys to

BY JEFF JOHNSON

“

Heavy storm clouds float down from the Andes and hover over Nahuel Huapi Lake.

Off in the distance we can see the craggy spires of Frey, a few thousand feet higher in elevation.

rock climbing. But it is only a tease. School Boy can’t handle it anymore. We’ve been able to see the mountains of Frey the entire trip and it’s taunting him. We’re all supposed to hike into Frey tomorrow afternoon but he wants to go now. So we go, School Boy and I, with heavy, towering backpacks, into the forest for a long trek into the mountains.

A LABYRINTH OF ALPINE SPLENDOR

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JAMIE THOMAS, REVIVALIST - BARILOCHE

VOLUME 15

CHAPTER 3

SOUTHERN ANDES LEFT JEFF JOHNSON, VOLUME 15 WRITER TOP MANU DOMINGUEZ, REVIVALIST RIGHT DREW SMITH, REVIVALIST

BY JEFF JOHNSON

Last night we slept head to toe in a small tent as it dumped snow and sleet. Now we are post-holing through steep snow, punching our gloved hands in deep to gain purchase as we make our way to the base of a climb. It’s not the season for rock climbing in Frey, unless you’re into mountaineering, which we aren’t. We have no ice axes or crampons. Nonetheless, we make due and top-out on a couple of formations, one of which is a steep spire surrounded by puffy clouds and patchy, cobalt skies. Far below a group of skiers are leaving the ski hut, skinning across the frozen lake in single file. The scene is straight out of a Tolkien novel, more fantasy than reality.

The rest of the crew arrives the next afternoon, exhausted from the arduous, 6-mile trek in and a few thousand feet in elevation gained with 50 pound packs. Chief had to bail so they replaced him with a local shredder, a kid named Toto. It is drizzling, cold and wet. Tents are pitched on the side of the hill while a few of us find newly vacated beds in the hut. Dinner is pizza and beer. We drink and eat and scheme about tomorrow’s activities.

The morning is crisp and somewhat clear. It seems we have a break in the weather. We skin single file across the lake toward a series of highly visible couloirs that dominate the western skyline. The sun pops out intermittently as we crisscross up the mountain, the sound of heavy breathing amongst dampening snow. Near the upper ridgeline we shed layers. School Boy and Froth Puppy hike a little higher and out left to access a tight, improbable-looking chute. Manu traverses out under a steep ridge adorned with striking spires. The view is awe-inspiring to say the least. The Andes off in the distance, countless lakes and valleys, all spread out in a labyrinth of alpine splendor. Fresh, untracked couloirs fan out beneath us. We all take separate lines down shadowy corridors toward the frozen lake where ant-like figures cross, some coming, some going.

Beers are cracked as we make our way across the lake to the Refugio. We convene in the hut and stuff ourselves full of toast and clumps of dolce de leche scooped from a large bucket. What next, we ponder, sitting in the warmth of the hut, looking out the steamed window to an ever-changing sky and the endless possibilities of Cerro Catedral. Storm clouds creep down the cirques and fill the valley floor. It begins to snow. Someone suggests we build kickers on the lower slopes. So we do. And we do till it gets dark.

Meat goulash for dinner—not quite enough for meat sweats so we order rounds of hops and barley and anticipate bed spins. Space in the hut has opened up for a few of us. The sleeping quarters is comprised of two large bunk beds all connected as to make one large community bed. Tonight it’s packed with people we haven’t met. It’s pitch black inside. There is no way to tell who is sleeping next to you. We fall asleep positioned like sardines, lullabied by a concert full of snores and coughs and sleep apnea gurgles.

A LABYRINTH OF ALPINE SPLENDOR

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REVIVALIST

PROFILE

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

Alex Andrews

Plug “froth” or “stoke” or “psyched” into a Google Search and the mug of the perpetually positive pro snowboarder from Utah, Alex Andrews, should pop up. With a smile that no hail storm could scrub off his face, the “Froth God” reminisces about the recent trip to Patagonia.

Alex Andrews: “It might sound cliche, but this was one of the best trips of my life. When we arrived in Bariloche, I honestly felt at home and couldn’t wait to take on the adventure with the Roark family. We started by riding horseback for 3 days into the mountains camping out, drinking whiskey, talking shit and taking in the beautiful scenery. The landscape was unreal with a mixture of light snow, sun, and rain. We ended up at a bare bones hut in the mountains where we cooked a goat over a fire. Jeff Johnson told us out of this world stories: homie has seen and done some insane shit. His stories are more entertaining than anything I’ve ever encountered. This is all accompanied by some vino, amazing food, and a warm fire, by the way.”

“One of the days we decided to build a DIY sauna next to the river and found a tarp to use as the shelter. It was a rad little project to keep us busy and warm. We made our way back to a beautiful ranch that we were able to call home base, and had an unreal couple of days fly fishing, skating, climbing and experiencing the culture of Argentina. During the tail end of our trip we did a 10mile hike with all of our camping gear and split board gear into the mountains of Patagonia to a place called the Frey hut. The hut sits right at the base of a breathtaking mountain range. This was a

Pro snowboarder aka “Froth Puppy”

dream come true since the part of snowboarding I love most is the adventure aspect of just being in the mountains. The hike started under a hot spring sun followed by beautiful lush forest which eventually turned into high alpine rugged mountains covered with snow. The mountains there are like nothing I’ve ever seen: big spires with steep chutes that all funnel into a lake bed. It’s a split boarder's paradise.”

“We were actually there in late spring, so conditions are a bit different that time of year, slushier glacier snow and warmer temps, but still so fun and good for touring around the mountains.

Patagonia is intimidating in the sense that the mountains have so much power to them, they are so big and rugged with steep couloirs and epic features speckled all over the mountains. It definitely puts you in your place a bit and reminds you to treat them with respect!”

“One of my favorite things I got to witness, though, was Parker Coffin, who lives at the beach, completely out of his element. It was awesome to see him so hyped on the experience and how different it was from his usual waterman’s day to day. He absolutely crushed it!”

ALEX ANDREWS

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REVIVALIST

PROFILE

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

as a snowboarder in Argentina…

Manu: It’s crazy, because besides being a really big country, the snowboard community in Argentina is super small. Everyone knows each other and rides together. So, everywhere you go, you'll have a friend to ride with, not a stranger. Essentially, what makes snowboarding in Argentina special is our small community of people that do it. But as far as home, Argentinian landscape and weather is so drastic. In Patagonia, for instance, the land is so rugged and beautiful and the weather is as raw as it gets. One minute it could be sunny, and the next, the strongest wind could bring the heaviest storm. You really have to just surrender to the elements here and adjust, which is both humbling and amazing.

Unreal. What would you say your favorite places to ride in Argentina would be?

I grew up riding Catedral in Bariloche, and after many years I keep finding new spots and it doesn't stop to amaze me how good it is. So that’s still my favorite zone. Second, I would say Ushuaia, which is not exactly known for its ski resort, but more for the streets and the mountains around the southernmost city on the planet. Plus, the snowboard community down there is the best. Third, I would say Cerro Bayo, because whenever you go ride over there it’s a good time. A small ski resort with unbelievable backcountry.

Manu Dominguez

Talk to me about your home and what that’s like growing up

Is it pretty tough to have a career as a pro snowboarder in South America?

[Laughs] Sure, you could say that. I think actually having

“The second I met Manu,” said pro-snowboarder/

a career at it must be my greatest accomplishment. But I stay

Froth Puppy, Alex Andrews, “I knew we would

busy. Filming, producing and riding in a film called "RS: Fin del

be friends. He's a radical human and someone

Mundo" was a favorite of mine. We worked and rode super hard

we all strive to be like. He showed us around and

for that one. Filming for the "Will Film For Food" movies was

opened up his home to us, which I think says a lot

also something I'm proud of to tell you the truth.

about a person. The guy just has awesome style on and off his snowboard.” And we concur. From his

And what are you into when you’re not riding?

home in Bariloche, somewhere between the DIY

Besides spending time with my girl and my daughter, I actually

skate features, eclectic trinkets and lush garden

love skateboarding as much as snowboarding. Surfing as well, even though I don't get to do it as much as I would like to.

overlooking the lake, we caught up with Manu before our journey into the mountains.

I love growing food, filming Super8, riding and working on bikes, building random stuff, listening to records, hiking and generally being outside.

Anywhere you’ve always wanted to go outside of Argentina?

Man, I would love to go on a hot water surfing trip. I have never surfed without a wetsuit. Indonesia maybe? I don't know, anywhere, my body needs it after so many years of snowboarding!

Argentine correspondent/ pro snowboarder MANU DOMINGUEZ

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MANU DOMINGUEZ, REVIVALIST - SOUTHERN ANDES

VOLUME 15

CHAPTER 4

BY JEFF JOHNSON

Disaster Through the Binos

The Refugio was inaugurated in 1957 by the Club Andino Bariloche. It’s a reminder of the enduring mountain culture of the Patagonian Andes.

“ It doesn’t have to be fun to be fun.

It’s the morning of the last day.

Gordon and below him is

Are we witnessing a disaster?

We’re packing for the long hike

cinematographer Ben Weiland.

Ben is still visible, floating

out and having breakfast in the

We turn on our radio and listen

down the slope in a wave of

hut. Toto and Manu are pushing

to them getting satiated.

debris. The slide thins out to a

unusually opposed to the idea,

Toto is the first to go. He hops

makes his way to the shoulder

- Mark Twight

mainly because of the unstable

into a couple of tight turns to

and sits down. Over the radio

weather—it’s half rain and half

the top of the step, pauses for

we ask him if he’s ok. “Oh

snow. After a heated discussion,

a second, and drops. The landing

my God, did you see that shit!

he relents. A few of us stay

is a little off. He catches an edge

Whoooo-hoooo! I was fucking

back while the small crew

and goes ass-over-teakettle,

riding that thing! I made it—

skins across the lake, this time

cartwheeling to a stop. He doesn’t

yewwww!” He is laughing

more to the left toward a steep,

get up. A slab of snow releases

uncontrollably. We focus in on

staircase-looking cirque.

beneath him and begins to

Toto. He stands up then drops

stop. Ben stands up and hastily

for one last run. Froth Puppy is

slide. Ben is down below.

back down. He does it again

We order more coffee and toast

He is traversing out left, trying

and is down. He’s not moving.

from the hut host and fill in

to get out of the way, and is

Dylan and the other guys are

around the window to check

swept up in it.

stuck above the step, trying to find a way down though the

in on our crew’s progress

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through binoculars. They

It is surreal watching this

broken path of the slide.

have made it to the top of the

through binoculars, like some

cirque. Froth Puppy, Manu and

awkward, silent movie. From

School Boy had spent a

Toto are perched high above

the safety and warmth of the

few seasons as a member of

a rocky step. Placed below

hut, it all looks pretty tame,

YOSAR (Yosemite Search and

them is photographer Dylan

maybe even fun…but wait.

Rescue). The camp host is an

REFUGIO FREY PATA G O N I A

EMT. The two of them prepare

part of the trail down will be

Late in the day we meet the

a stretcher and with the help of

the toughest: it’s steep and full

rescue team a little more than

others, tow the apparatus across

of obstacles. Today will be a

half way down the trail. It’s a

the lake. Toto is in a lot of pain.

long day.

relief to see fresh faces and new

It’s hard to tell if it’s his lower

energy. Toto is transferred to

back or maybe even his pelvis.

It’s a massive group effort,

a new litter that is much more

Worse case scenario he has

a long, single file line of

functional. The kid will be fine.

internal bleeding, but his vitals

able bodies rotating through

He’s beaten up, but he’s tough.

are all good. Getting him down

to help carry the litter up

Guaranteed he will be back in

the slope is slow and arduous,

front. Progress is slow. Toto

the mountains in no time. Our

as he’s carefully lowered, bit-

is wincing and grunting as he

crew looks a little thrashed,

by-bit, on a snowboard to the

is carried over large boulders

but wild-eyed and hyper-alert,

lake. He is then placed into a

and fallen trees. Internal

nonetheless. I think of a quote

vacuum splint, strapped to a

bleeding is ruled out. His

from the great alpinist, Mark

stretcher, and pulled across to

face still has color and he’s

Twight: “It doesn’t have to be

the Refugio.

alert, no sign of shock. Froth

fun to be fun.”

A 12 KM hike up a mountainside laden with 60 pounds of personal effect, climbing gear and splitboards tested our resilience.

The obscure but legendary perch in the Andes provided the perfect canvas to climb, ride and challenge our commitment. The climate dictated our gear needs and inspired the layering and outerwear needed.

Refugio Frey shelters snowboarders, skiers and climbers all year round. It’s home to world class couloir’s, devilish pinnacle’s and a nutty home brew that tames the bravest of adventurers.

Puppy is kicking himself. “I Gathered inside the hut, with

knew in my gut,” he says with

We emerge from the clouds at

Toto laid out on a table, we

a bit of contempt. “That, we

the end of the trail and sprawl

prepare to take him down the

shouldn’t have gone up there.

out on the ski resort parking lot.

trail where a rescue team will

It was a bad idea in the first

Gear is strewn about, high fives

hopefully meet us halfway. We

place. Hell, I could hear water

and fist bumps. More of our

transfer him to a one-wheel

rushing beneath the snow! I

crew trickles out from the forest

rescue litter and the tire is flat,

know better than that.”

onto the blacktop. Boots are

just riding on the rim. The first

off. Beers are cracked.

31

REVIVALIST

PROFILE

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

Maybe, just maybe … if you shook Drew Smith’s calloused, bear-like hand, perhaps through osmosis you might catch a piece of whatever cosmic plane that guy is vibrating on. Sure, it would be a hand that has clutched manya-mountain the world over, but also a hand that has seized the essence of most men’s dreams. That distant voice deep down in all of us yearning for adventure, urging us to say, Fuck it, I’m following my heart. I’m gone.

Drew Smith

Born in a cabin in Montana with no electricity or running water to bohemian rancher parents, Drew was encouraged to drift and be merry from the start.

So he did. Before getting into climbing around age 23, out of high school, he tried welding for a bit before working on an Alaskan fish hatchery. He’d go explore the Grizzly-infested wilderness by foot on his off-times. He bought a car with his friend and took 5 months to drive down to Baja, camping and surfing along the way. He’s hitchhiked through Cuba, paddled a canoe up random Laotian rivers, he’s raced dirtbikes, snowboarded behind a dogsled team, worked seasons for the esteemed Yosemite Search and Rescue team (YOSAR), free climbed El Cap and even christened a difficult climb in Chile (La Piqueta Voladora) as Drew was its very first ascensionist.

Indeed, his list of exploits and expeditions goes on, but through it all, Drew Smith has become a successful photographer. Published in Sidetracked, Alpinist, Rock, and Ice magazines to name a few, the American Alpine Club and Black Diamond have also hired him to shoot, among a number of other companies. Mostly, because coupled with his sheer talent, Drew is right there on the rock with his subjects.

“Climbing…it’s a type of meditation for me,” says Drew.

PHOTOGRAPHER, CLIMBER & ALPINE VAGABOND PHOTO BY GARRETT SMITH

“When I’m climbing nothing else is on the mind you are just so focused on what you are doing. Every once in awhile when you find that flow it’s one of the best feelings in the world. Your body moves without thought and you feel as though you are floating. The places it’s brought me in the world, up El Capitan in Yosemite and on remote peaks of Patagonia and the people I’ve met through it all — that community of transient dirtbags — we all are searching for something and have that same fire for life and adventure.”

Certainly, if you’re looking to find this elusive vagabond, you’ll have to do some searching yourself; Drew still lives out of a van to this day. ‘Cause that’s one sure way to never put down roots.

DREW SMITH

33

ZEN AND THE ART O F F LY F I S H I N G

BY MANU DOMINGUEZ

Growing up in Argentinian Patagonia, my dad would take my brother and me fishing ever since I could remember.

My dad was super into it, one of Mel Krieger’s best friends actually, and they would organize clinics and travel the world together.

34

Z E N & T H E A R T O F F LY F I S H I N G

Mel Krieger is a famous American fisherman who literally wrote the book(s) on fly-fishing. I remember one time, my friends and I acted in one of Mel’s movies, Kids and Flyfishing. And one summer, when my dad became unemployed, he started a full time career as a fly-fishing guide. He would actually become one of the best fly-fishermen in the area, drawing in fishermen from all over the globe.

So basically, growing up, we would spend all winter snowboarding in Catedral, and then all summer season fishing either at my family’s ranch or the rivers and lakes around Bariloche. But there did come a time when I was a teenager, and I didn’t have the patience and the discipline to go fishing anymore. Not to mention, like most adolescents, I didn’t wanted to spend all my free time with my dad. I wanted to be with my friends my age and into the same things I was into.

All I wanted was action, skateboarding and snowboarding every single day, and fishing can often be a lot of standing around and waiting. Mostly, I just wanted to be up at the local ski resort every day.

Eventually, when I finished high school, I bought myself a plane ticket to the US and went boarding for six months during our summer (their winter). For the next ten years I’ve been jumping back and forth from Southern Hemisphere to Northern Hemisphere winter looking for adventures and snowboarding.

It’s been a crazy ride, getting to know lots of places, cool people and riding in some beautiful mountains. But with all this winter life, my fishing and pretty much the rest of my summer activities disappeared for a long time.

That is, until last spring when I jumped on a boat with the

LEFT

TOP

BOTTOM

R YA N H I T Z E L , FOUNDER

MANU DOMINGUEZ, REVIVALIST

F R O T H P U P P Y, REVIVALIST

Roark crew one misty morning in Argentina and went fishing.

First boat of the day, on the first day of the fishing season — just like we used to do with my dad. And man… that’s when it clicked for me. I had some kind of revelation flashback.

It’s not about how good you cast, or how many fish you catch, or how many flips you can do on a snowboard. It’s not about the numbers or kilos or pounds a fish weighs. It’s about the good times, the stories, and the places you get to see and the beers you get to share along the way. It’s the moment within the moment that’s really worth anything and fly-fishing is all about that special space. That day I felt like I was floating down the river, heading back home. Hell, I even got a nice brown. Thanks after all, Dad.

Z E N & T H E A R T O F F LY F I S H I N G

35

ROARK

PROFILE

BY R YA N H I T Z E L

The Reluctant Protagonist

JEFF JOHNSON

Jeff and I first met 20 years ago via my best friend Jon Rose on a murky summer night in Laguna Beach on a spiritual quest of sorts - driven by boredom and an ever present urge to make our little enclave weirder than it had become. But my experience with Jeff has traveled much further than the anchor point, and it seems that the “ground tackle” that connects us is both strong and infinite in length.

We share common interests from surfing to music and culture to photography, but the fabric of adventure and the respect for moments in between conquests are what really connects us. Jeff is a well-versed photographer, writer, director, surfer, skateboarder and climber. But above all, Jeff is a storyteller. Usually great storytellers participate in the stories - but are more observational than activist.

When you read Jeff ’s work you’d assume the same.

A fly on the wall, not taking risks, hanging back and watching - competent, but not in the dirt setting the pace. Wrong. Jeff won’t upstage the main character, but he’s seen and done more than most, so his willingness to take the first ascent, paddle deeper or hoist the first beer is second nature. He observes, but he’s clipped in beside you.

It’s the active participation that makes Jeff ’s writing so vibrant and authentic. He understands the feelings of the characters because he is one himself – living it in real time. There’s no conjecture, just a straight feed from the main line that brings you directly into the moment. An impossible task unless you’re locked in yourself. "We're honored to have Jeff on the trip to write and document our adventure to Argentina.

T H E R E LU CTA NT P R OTAG O N I S T

37

R OA R K’S G U I D E TO U N C U R AT E D T R AV E L

BY WESLEY GROVER

DESTROY YOUR ITINERARY We often dive headfirst into our adventures thinking that we know where we’re going and what experiences lie ahead. Yet somewhere along the way, the travel gods chew up our itinerary and spit us out in a strange land of uncertainty. If there’s anywhere in the world that Roark finds himself at home, this is the place.

O ur travels are challenging, uncomfortable, and

enlightening, but they sure as shit aren’t curated.

Taking a chance is what leads to our most memorable experiences, like dirt biking a rugged trail through Jamaica’s Blue Mountains in search of the world’s best coffee or chancing upon the most revered tailor here in Hong Kong. These are the values that allow us to forge our own path on each expedition.

01 WE ARE NEVER REALLY IN CONTROL OF THE JOURNEY Arriving at this sobering reality is imperative.

Opportunities present themselves in the form of an unmarked path overgrown with brush, a haunting aroma that leads down a dark alley, or rumors of a swell hitting

03 EMBRACE THE UNKNOWN These days, it’s all too easy to travel the world without getting lost or leaving our comfort zone.

The ever-rambling Roark is always wary of the guide books, for they provide a road-map to play it safe and can rob us of the rewards only found after digging beneath the surface. Go and find it for yourself.

04 IT’S A GAMBLE THAT DOESN’T ALWAYS PAY OFF, AND THAT’S OKAY Sometimes you find yourself staring at the Northern Lights in the Arctic Circle and other times you’re writhing on the floor of a Mumbai outhouse. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

the nearby coast. Only some people choose to follow

Keep your bug-out bag packed, a flask at your hip,

these, driven by the need to scratch an incessant itch of

and always be ready to burn the itinerary.

curiosity for what lies on the other side.

05 A SENSE OF PLACE 02 ENGAGE WITH THE LOCALS No matter how prepared we think we are, the best

not for everyone, and to each their own, we say.

advice always seems to come when we get on the

Hell, there are times when even we question our own

ground. It comes through authentic interactions,

sanity. The mere possibility of an adventure leading

whether simply asking for directions on the side of

to a discovery – a new flavor, an off-the-radar location,

the road or making new friends over a few rounds in

or an ancient tradition of a distant culture – is what

a dimly lit watering hole. This is the true passage to

gives Roark a sense of place.

gaining new perspective.

38

We know this way of going through the world is

DESTROY YOUR ITINERARY

The bunks at Refugio Frey were full, so we set up camp just ahead of a snow storm.

Forgotten The

Archipelago

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

PHOTOS BY DYLAN GORDON

The small things matter. Watching warm air float from your mouth before the sun joins the mountains in the east. The glaring frost on the ground. The hawk sitting on the fence post. The deafening silence before the gate creaks open.

The radiator rattle as the Defender four-lows over arctic shrubbery.

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 1

Conversations with new friends as the heater blasts with the windows cracked. Talking surf with someone who has never surfed, who owns an island and doesn’t even know how to swim.

The Falkland Islands are inherently risky. Local maps show shipwrecks wrapping the entirety of the islands’ coastline. West wind from the Roaring Forties spits down into the Furious Fifties: the world’s most vicious sea. And we are headed straight there, to a group of islands in the middle of it all, suiting up from head to toe. Entering the ring with the bastard that took centuries of mariners’ lives.

Flying over the endlessly rugged Torres Del Paine mountain range on a bluebird morning is like seeing something you weren’t supposed to.

Untouched clean earth. Fault lines splitting apart vertical cliffs. Volcano peaks with valleys of no return, marching towards the coast. We land in Punta Arenas, Patagonia ready to take on the final jaunt towards the forgotten archipelago. A small terminal full of fisherman, Russian tourists, fish and game surveyors and laid out surfers look towards the flight attendant as the intercom clicks on; “Attention passengers, the flight to Malvina has been canceled.” A roar of enthusiasm comes from the tatted-up fishermen in the corner. They’ve just dodged a bullet, buying them one more day before shipping out to catch Toothfish off South Georgia Island for the next four months. “The hookers and the Pisco Sours are top notch here,” chimes in a fisherman with a Kiwi accent as he rolls a cigarette. “Who knows if it will leave tomorrow, or the next day, or next week.” With a tight swell window of a day and a half, we were already pushing it on time. But once the flight was canceled there was no choice but to submit to the inevitability of travel.

Punta Arenas, the capital of Chile’s southernmost region, would be our outpost for the next 24 hours.

There’s only one commercial plane allowed to fly over Argentina en route the islands per week and we were on it.

42

THE FORGOTTEN ARCHIPELAGO

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

The next day as the entire flight shuffles back to the airport on the tour bus, you could see the sleeplessness on the fishermen’s faces.

The good news for us, though, was that the flight was a go. There’s only one commercial plane allowed to fly over Argentina en route the islands per week and we were on it. From the sky, the islands mesh together in a series of inlets and waterways, deep brown meets dark blue. Central California meets Iceland on Mars. We walk out of the airplane onto the British Forces South Atlantic base to sunshine and a brisk winter wind. Scanning my documents at customs, the agent smiles and says, “Oh you’re the surfer group; I heard about you guys.”

Then she hands me a pamphlet and the first thing I read is, “Minefields remain on the islands.” It was clear this was going to be a surf adventure unlike any of us had ever set out on.

THE FORGOTTEN ARCHIPELAGO

43

REVIVALIST

PROFILE

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

Roark’s go-to still-frame documentarian adventurist

Dylan Gordon

On seizing moments in remote places.

“I love being immersed in a culture, surrounded by languages you don’t understand but understanding exactly the reason why you’re there.” Wise words, indeed, from Roark’s go-to still-frame documentarian cum adventurist, Dylan Gordon. Just arrived home from a trip to some islands at the bottom of the earth (the Falklands, that is), Dylan shares some glimpses of his fascinating life with us, snatching light and shadows in faraway lands.

And the surf — difficult to score down there?

Yeah, the trip to Patagonia was special. I grew up raising horses on our ranch up on the Central Coast, so to have the opportunity to ride beside pretty radical gauchos across their countryside was incredible. Cooking up lambs fireside, riding across snowy passes, galloping beside one of the ranch hands…not so bad. I was also pretty damn blown away by the extremes. It goes from flat plains to jagged mountainscapes in a blink of the eye down there. When we went into the alpine behind Bariloche, it felt like another world. Approaching the place by foot was a hell of a time. It’s a humble place but she will humble you quickly.

How’d you get into photography, anyway?

Photography came about when I used to travel to skate. I became more interested in documenting the travels, moments and my friends than I was in actually progressing as a skater. That became an avenue to continue to surround myself in the spaces that I love, while still being a part of them. So now I get to still surf or ride whenever the hell I like and same goes with shooting.

They go hand in hand nicely.

Amen to that. Talk to me about some of the favorite places you’ve ever shot while traveling.

What, to you, makes a great photo?

The moment. To be so involved in what you’re shooting that capturing a moment becomes irrelevant and the camera may as well not even be noticed. And light.

Damn, I love good light. Beer helps too.

Left: Warding off bad luck in his travels through India during Volume 12: "Monsoon Church". Dylan wears the vermilion mark, Bindi, known as the third eye in Hindu religion.

Since the nature of my trips is always changing, I love so many places for different reasons. Whether it’s riding motos across somewhere like Vietnam or the Himalayas, horseback in Argentina, surfing in Russia — I love them all so much, but individually they all have a different hold on me. I love being immersed in a culture, surrounded by languages you don’t understand but understanding exactly the reason why you’re there.

I love that. Any particularly sketch situations that stick out in your mind while on the job?

Ha. Gun point in Russia? That wasn’t too fun. I was almost run off the road on a bike by big semis across mountain passes in Bhutan.

Getting chased out of the water by sharks and killer whales was pretty sketch, too.

DYLAN GORDON

45

Throwing the Map

Out the Window CHAPTER 2

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 2

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

The five of us; Parker Coffin, L.J. O’Leary, Ben Weiland, Dylan Gordon and myself are dropped off an hour bus ride from the airport at our bed and breakfast next to the cemetery overlooking the harbor. We drag our boardbags up the driveway to find our host Arlette waiting to greet us at the front door with fresh baked sugar cookies. Arlette is like the English grandma we never had. I look over at Ben and he’s beaming. Nine years of researching this far off land and he’s finally here in the flesh.

At this point it’s 4:30pm and the sun is setting behind us in the West. We pile in the Toyota Hilux and jam towards the only wave nearby available by car, aptly titled Surf Bay. The white sand greets us immediately and a punchy close-out head high wave explodes across the sandbar upon first site.

“Woaahhhh!” yells Parker. “What the fuck was that?!” Dylan

There are no natural trees on the island, just mild hills and natural

yanks the e-brake and we march through the soft, muddy grass

bowling ball size stones littered around. Sheep, geese, albatross and

and onto the beach for a closer look. A bit of a mirage. The sun is

seagulls pepper the roadside as we drive towards the airport on the

already down, and it feels like an evening in Big Bear. I touch the

far side of the east island. The sun never seems to rise that far above

water and it feels like melted ice. We decide to head to the pub

the horizon throughout the day, leaving behind a constant soft glow.

for a beer and some warm food to meet Sean Moffit, the man who posted on Wannasurf.com nine years prior, the person responsible

We are headed to the Fitzroy farm to meet Annie, whom we

for this trip. After years of exchanging emails Ben and Sean

managed to convince to give us the keys to the gate in order to find

finally meet face to face. Sean is an enduro bike racer first and a

a wave on their property. At the farm house Annie gives us detailed

surfer somewhere further down the line. He and his brother are

directions to get to Bertha’s Beach, a swell and wind friendly stretch

the only local surfers on the island but are busy with their local

of sand littered with penguins and albatross. Passing the Air Force

DIY hardware store. Instead of physically guiding us, he whips

Base we take a left and see the groomed conditions, immediately

out a printed map of the islands and shows us what he knows,

igniting stoke levels in our car. We’d traveled an ungodly distance

which outside the few local spots, is not much. But we know less,

to surf, from California to the last landmass before Antarctica.

so we prod him with yes or no questions. Is this region accessible

Looking a little like Cape Cod with a tall grass called tussac, once we

by car?” “Has anyone ever been here to surf?” Most answers

see the penguins it’s clear this place is unlike New England. We walk

are no. But flying into the island we saw perfect waves reeling

from the car about 15 minutes to the sand dune perch above the

underneath us, and the shots we took on our iPhones helps us

beach, scrambling into our 5 mil suits while beginning to sweat

navigate where they are on the map. After Google Earth-ing the

from the glassy sunny weather. Parker is out first, and his energy

setups, we pinpoint where we need to go to find them. We decide

is contagious. He whips around his new Merrick fish like he’s out

on a plan to be up at dark tomorrow, and when the sun rises at

at Jalama. Two-foot peaks peel up and down the beach as L.J. and I

8:30am we will trek out into the unknown. Nobody has ever

paddle out soon after. Before even catching a wave, a penguin swims

surfed where we are going, not even the Argentinians.

through the lineup toward us. It swims like a duck but then belly surfs a wave in and we all lose it. After a short 30-minute session, the ocean goes quiet on the dropping tide. The three of us go in and hang out with the penguin colony, about 20 of them waddling around the beach in a synchronized shuffle. But there is a saying here: “Follow the country code,” which is a basic ask of respect toward the land and wildlife. Among the country code ethics require not getting closer than 30-feet from the penguins. Since we maybe look like penguins in our full body wetsuit attire, we’re able to check them out from the water’s edge. What a strange land we have found ourselves in, and it has only just begun.

THROWING THE MAP OUT THE WINDOW

47

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 3

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

Shotgun Shells, Shit and Bones On the way home we stop at the Victory bar, a local watering hole where Prince William once drank until 3am. We walk in to see British flags lining the ceiling and the weekly dart tournament in full swing. All the best players from the various pubs converge here every Monday for battle. It appears that bar sports (darts, pool, and drinking) are the biggest activities here. Leaning against the bar next to us was the local radio DJ, Nick, who stands out with long hair, tight jeans and a leather jacket. “We have fuck-all trees, and they all have a bad combover from the wind.” Looking around the bar we notice everyone is drinking cans of Budweiser.

“Why is everyone drinking Bud?” asks Dylan. “A can of Coke is more expensive than a can of beer. Because import tax is so high, there is not much tax on alcohol,” laughs Nick. Turns out it’s less than a dollar a can and the beer out of the tap was flat and room temperature. The vibe in the pub feels like a house party because everyone has known each other since childhood. The ratio is 5 women to 50 men.

Ben had been in communication with a guy named Chris Poole that supposedly owned his own island with his dad just off the coast.

When asking people at the local pub about Chris one guy chirps, “Chris Poole? He doesn’t even have a boat!” From the way that these guys regarded Chris, I had a feeling he was more like us than like them. He’s not the status quo. He’s an outlier. Maybe that’s why he bought an island with 4,600 sheep and eight miles of raw coastline. When asking Chris what kind of compensation he wanted in exchange for guiding us to his island he responded, “Bring a couple slabs (24 pack) of Bud and a drum of oil and we're all set.

Fuel for the fire and fuel for the men.” In the six years that he has owned the island he has never brought guests outside of family, especially not a group of surfers from California. As we pack up the RIB boat with our food and beer at the makeshift harbor off to the side of the British Navy base, we prod Chris again about compensation. “The only thing I ask when you leave off into the world, is just to remember us.” His currency is the experience and that hits home. Chris brings along his dad, Big Steve, a sheep farmer who has a total of three teeth, and his brother-in-law Stevie, who has his own boat and constantly has a lolly-pop in his mouth and enthusiasm on par with Parker when he sees a good wave.

48

SHOTGUN SHELLS, SHIT & BONES

“ 'All I see is shotgun shells, shit and bones.

This is f--ked up,' notes Parker as we take the gear from the boat to the house.

We’d found pretty much nothing anywhere on the Internet about Lively Island. All we know is that it sits right in the swell path.

A half-hour boat ride through inlets and past small islands takes us there and it’s dark and creepy when we arrive around 4pm. The ocean is calm in the inlet, and you can see the bottom it’s so clear.

Sheep skulls line the shore. The four dogs jump out of the RIB, grab a bone and chase each other rabidly around the farm house.

“All I see is shotgun shells, shit and bones. This is fucked up,” notes Parker as we take the gear from the boat to the house. We walk into the old 19th century farm house and it’s full of smoke from the freshly lit wood furnace. The inside of the house feels oddly Russian with a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-vibe.

SHOTGUN SHELLS, SHIT & BONES

49

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 4

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

Weathered and Wiser We wake up the next morning in our sleeping bags at 7:15am to a dark and freezing room, even with five of us sandwiched in. After a quick instant coffee we pack the boards in the old Land Rover Defender and start the 8-mile, hour and a half trek to the exposed coast.

There are countless wave setups here and nobody has ever surfed

with full rainbows popping into existence every few minutes.

any of it. On the way to a wave in the distance we pass the site

It is not uncommon to experience all four seasons in one day here.

of an Argentinian plane crash that happened during the 1982

Each driver has a Budweiser in his hand for the entirety of the

war. Supposedly, the Argentines were told they were going on a

drive. As we approach the coast Parker and I see what looks like

training mission and instead were sent into war here. As Big Steve

a right reeling off a point in the distance. Right then Big Steve,

says, “The Argentines came to plant flags and start the fight.”

who is in front in the Defender, stops, pulls out his 22-caliber

Even on the eve of the 36th anniversary of the war there is still a

rifle, points it toward a flock of geese and shoots a few rounds

theme of disagreement from both countries involved. As the story

into them, killing four. One for each of his dogs.

goes, England was about to leave the islands before the war of 1982 started. They didn’t need the trade route anymore because of

Stevie takes a wide route around the back of the point and ends up

the inception of the Panama Canal. But when Argentina showed up

putting us in the spot for a spitting A-frame on a shallow reef shelf.

unannounced and ‘started the fight,’ the Falklands was put on the

Parker and I immediately freak out. Eight seconds later, another one

world stage, incentivizing England to maintain ownership. I grab a

explodes in the same spot. We can’t believe that after five days of

couple pieces of scrap metal left behind in the crash and we keep

pulling our hair out trying to figure out where the waves were, that

trucking towards the untapped surf.

we’re now seeing offshore tubes on the smallest forecasted day of the trip. Parker and I jump out of the car into the cold to put our wetsuits

It feels like the Endless Summer coming over every ridge and not

on. Thick rubber mixed with cold weather takes about 15 minutes of

knowing what gold lies ahead. Driving around the island is surreal

squirming in order to be ready for the water. The 20 knot Antarctic

50

EXPEDITIONS OF THE OBSESSED

“

Driving around the island is surreal with full rainbows popping into existence every few minutes.

offshore wind forces me into a place of mental Zen. First, I tell myself

partly because of the tunnel-vision but mostly because I realize that

the cold is a good thing and that it does not affect me. Then once

I’m the first person to ever surf this new spot we dub “The Tip.” I

all the armor is on I jump in the car with the heaters blasted to raise

make the barrel on the next wave which shows me just how good

my core temperature, music blasting. At this point I feel like a boxer

this wave must get on the right day. My body’s beginning to cramp

going into the ring, just completely in the zone and ready for battle.

up from the extended exposure in the cold Antarctic wind and water, so I call it a day. Walking back to the car Dylan chucks me

Parker runs out and makes a barrel on his first wave. I follow shortly

a cold Budweiser. “We once drank 17 cases of beer in 6 days,”

after and make one too, LJ following suit. We trade ridiculously fun

laughs Chris, nearby. “A mellow week for us.” Indeed, the

wedge-barrels, just the three of us, for about three hours. Half way

day turned from a scout mission into one of the coolest surf

through, a rainsquall comes and goes leaving a full triple rainbow, t

experiences of our lives. We fought the elements and came

he three of us screaming in a state of surf adventure ecstasy. Tripping

out weathered and wiser.

out that we were surfing off the last land point before Antarctica.

All those long hours of travel melting away into a feeling of euphoria.

As the tide gets too low I walk up the rocks and see a right reeling to the left of the wedge that we just christened Parker’s Peak.

Ben convinces me to paddle back out and my first wave ends up being a driving tube into an over the falls high-line. I come up screaming,

EXPEDITIONS OF THE OBSESSED

51

“ T H E T I P ” - PA R K E R C O F F I N , N AT E Z O L L E R A N D L J O ' L E A R Y

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 5

He was

One of Us The next day I volunteer to take the RIB boat back to the main

We arrive in town to a beautiful sunset and an amazing home

island with Dylan and Chris while the others take Stevie’s

cooked meal by Arlette. Slow braised roast leg of lamb,

slower, warmer cabin boat. It ends up turning into one of

veggies, Yorkshire pudding and mint sauce, gravy and wine,

those experiences you never forget. We barrel through the

local style cooking under a warm roof; just what we needed.

inlets slicing through water like butter, Budweisers in hand,

Jamie, the artist that has a studio and works with Arlette, tells

wet from the rain, wearing snowboard goggles and a full-face

us that he once went to go look for a missing person on Lively

beanie. I’m smiling that stupid smile where you can’t believe

Island. They found him on the northeast corner sitting with a

where you are at that exact moment. We stop to check the crab

bottle in between his legs, dead. Turns out that’s exactly

pot we planted two days ago to find it full to the brim. But

where we found our slab peak.

nobody eats crab here, too much work, they say. “We’ll just leave it with the British Special Forces, they seem to like

It’s been a week and we’ve only surfed twice. The weather,

this stuff,” says Stevie.

wind, changing swell models, big tide swings, and inaccessibility have left us scratching our heads more than once.

54

HE WAS ONE OF US

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

What looked like a giant swell reading (23 feet at 11 seconds)

myself that I’ve always loved like a eulogy for him. “Travel isn’t

has downgraded to shoulder high surf on the island. But nobody

always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it

has ever tried to find these spots because nobody here surfs.

even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you;

So instead, we would have to be the Guinea pigs. Though morale is

it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your

starting to come into play at this point, the crew decides that extending

consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something

another week is the only way to see this mission through. Thusly, week

with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” Amen.

two on the forgotten archipelago becomes all about using last week’s hard-earned knowledge to find the perfect day.

I read it two or three times more and get a breath of energy. We were doing what Bourdain would have wanted, pursuing relentlessly into

The next morning, as we’re making a game plan for the coming

the unknown in the name of adventure. And sometimes that means

week we hear the news that Anthony Bourdain had committed

picking your heart up off the ground and pushing forward well

suicide in a hotel room in Paris. It comes as a total shock, because

into a new reality.

— at least we all feel — he was one of us. I read a quote of his to

HE WAS ONE OF US

55

FA L K L A N D I S L A N D S

CHAPTER 6

BY N AT E ZO L L E R

Skipping the

Parade

Saturday is said to be the one night a week that everyone in town

into a perfect square pit, my vision only made better by seeing his

goes out to the pubs. We start at Deano’s Bar, pool table and lasers,

smiling face looking in at me. The wave reminds me of a cold water

then shuffle over to the Globe, techno rave music and lasers. Each of

Bingin in Bali because of the way it breaks the same every time.

which had a packed house of around 50 people. The bars close down

Off the drop it ledges and goes square then lets you out to do a turn

at midnight and everyone “borrows” a slab of Budweiser and

before it ends up onto dry reef.

heists it over their shoulder on the way out. They are headed to the Troff; a multipurpose room up the road that allows late night

After the session we pack our stuff in the truck and drive to the

drinking and dancing with a live cover band on tap. At this point

other side of the beach to see what was going on. It’s still side

most of our crew has fallen back to the house, it is now just Dylan

shore and a lot smaller, so we head back to our left reef and

and I carrying on into the strange dance floor filled with people

sure enough it’s draining tubes still. By the end of it, we must

of all ages. We finally find some young people to talk to outside

have had 20 tubes each throughout the day, which came just in

our group. Before this we saw more penguins than people. I catch

time, as we were leaving tomorrow.

a short cab ride home from Chris and Stevie and we leave Dylan behind with a girl he seemed to like.

Morning breaks and as we pack our gear, the northwest wind gusts our boardbags down the driveway. Supposedly northwest is the only

We awake to a giant parade — 36 years ago today the Falklands War

wind that planes cannot takeoff in. Rumors that the flight won’t take

began on the island of Malvina — but at the moment we are headed

off begin to circulate through town like a rabid virus. One local we

to the left slab to try another shot at finding it bigger and better.

ran into at dinner assures us it would go, though. Then, like a miracle,

The weather has finally cleared, and black sky is turning into blue

the big bus gets to our house, picks us up and heads through town

as we head south on the highway toward the beach. Snow covers

picking up one group after another. We still had no confirmation

the mountains from last night’s frigid storm. This is definitely the

the flight would go. Driving past the war memorial in town I read,

coldest day of the trip, and as we pull up to the beach we can see

“In memory of those who liberated us.” And in a weird way I think

rooster tails flying into the sky. We head toward the left reef setup

that we have done our part in liberating these untapped surf spots.

we surfed earlier in the week and the tide is high enough at first light

There is still so much more to see here and that’s precisely what

for it to be barreling right along the reef. I’m the first person to suit

keeps us coming back and searching for more. Turning stones in

up and jump in the water and as Parker paddles out, I slot myself

forgotten archipelagos.

56

S K I P P I N G T H E PA R A D E T O S U R F

P A R K E R C O F F I N - L I V E LY I S L A N D

ROARK’S GUIDE TO BARTERING

I BEARING

BY BEAU FLEMISTER

COME GIFTS

H O W TO G E T W H AT YO U WA NT W H E N T H E G U Y I N U N I F O R M S A Y S T H E Y D O N ’ T H A V E I T.

I often travel with a pack of cigarettes. I don’t smoke.

Not at all, but you’d be surprised when a gruff-looking customs agent that looks a little on-edge is only testy because he just needs a smoke. Call it bribery, call it a gift, call it baksheesh or just another type of bartering, but a small peace offering goes a long way in the middle of noweheresville.

This is something I learned when I lost my passport in Pakistan. I blame Fed-ex, actually. But long story short, I used a Fed-ex courier office in Lahore to take care of mailing my passport to the Indian Embassy in order to obtain a visa back into the country. Fed-ex told me to come back in one week, which I did, and no passport in sight. They’re still taking care of it, they told me. So after going to the Indian Embassy (twice) to find the passport (with no luck), another week of smothering 42 degree Celsius heat (that’s 108 degrees Fahrenheit), and one too many hours in the city’s only Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf (for the A.C.) I marched back into the Fedex with a pack in my pocket to get to the bottom of it.

Where’s the manager, I ask, and then I was taken to a backroom where I was told they don’t have my passport.

I offer him a cigarette and tell him the Indian Embassy doesn’t either. He takes my cig, lights ups and I watch his demeanor lighten. He makes a few calls: they’ve had it the whole time since it returned from the embassy.

The envelope was just mis-numbered.

Clearly, a small gift doesn’t have to come in the form of a cancer stick. Get to know your audience. I often bring airlines’ flight crew a couple bags of premium trail mix from Trader Joes on a long haul. Their answer to that? Usually free liquor, food, entertainment and even a bump into First Class if all the seats aren’t taken. I met a UN officer in Sri Lanka one time that I’d heard surfed, brought him an extra leash of mine and the guy took me to secret spots only he had access to. There are no surf shops in Cuba, so extra wax, sunscreen and any other unavailable goods are also great ice-breakers. Things like that, but even at the most basic level: bringing a genuine smile along with you can smooth out some rough edges often.

Oh, and what the f--k was I doing in Pakistan? That’s a story for another time…

I COME BEARING GIFTS

57

ARTIST PROFILE

JACK

BAIALEY

BORN

Redhill, United Kingdom CURRENT Byron Bay, Australia

I have always felt an uncommon affinity with places dark, ancient and unbroken. I find solace in empty landscapes, void of human interference: Raw. Rugged. Elemental.

I find the company of the wild far more affable than that of modern man.

MANIFESTO

“The more time spent removed from the mediocrity of society, the less we depend upon it.”

W W W . J A C K B A I L E Y. C O M . A U @JACKBAILEYPHOTO

JACK

BAILEY

59

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