Backcountry Review Issue No. 6

Backcountry Review Live free and transcend

Issue No. 6

UNAFRAID TO MAKE WAVES Niamh Houston carves her path on a surfboard.

Heather Anderson Defies Expectations Rickey Gates Runs Beyond The Bib The Forces Behind Change

Springfield High School’s Miller Integrated Nature Experience gives students a look at Oregon they may never see otherwise. The program combines nature writing, Oregon geography, leadership, journalism, and exploration, while providing a foundation for environmental consciousness and stewardship.

Cover photo by Jadzia Engle

Ian Kerr

STAFF Editors-in-Chief

Cameron Branch Jadzia Engle Mckenzie Palmer Kindra Roy

Paige Oswalt

Estrella PeĂąa

Jared Stephens

Kameron Coryell Niamh Houston Braeden Lowe

Nathaniel Gordy AnaLaura Penaloza Kiara Teel

Jalen Forman

Logan Auxier Grace Hawthorne Sarah Karr Piper Sugg

Sarah Beck Katherine Boals Lexy Ellis Colby Endicott Cora Hall Ciara Hernandez Jaydon Johnson Melina Villegas

Rebecca Durbin Thomas Felton Ian Kerr Emelia Sherman

Jaiden Mitchell

Paige Scott

Austin Hilkey

Ivan Miller

Copy Editor

Social Justice Editor Feature Editor

Field Reporters

Designers

Illustrator

Photographers

Staff

MINE Contributors

Social Media Manager MINE Director Tech Director Adviser

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 16

32

44

TOP TEARE ATHLETE

FISHING FOR FREEDOM

SEEDS OF CHANGE

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68

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FIGHT FOR FLIGHT

ENDURANCE ARTIST

UNAFRAID TO MAKE WAVES

Ian Kerr

AGAINST THE ODDS Editor-in-chief Kindra Roy reflects on personal and team growth through unforeseen challenges.

Kindra Roy

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y eyes were heavy and my body felt like it was going to collapse. I dropped my bag, which seemed to weigh 50 pounds, and climbed into bed, ready for the day to end. The lights remained off in my room hour after hour, my family occasionally peeking in, only to receive no response. Every couple hours I would wake, a feeling of disgust and unease lingering, an unsettling beating of my heart chasing me back to sleep. My sophomore year passed by like a foggy dream in which I could only watch from the outside.

Each day left me so emotionally exhausted that I slept almost any time I was not at school, often missing meals and hardly conversing with family. I was constantly afraid.

Afraid that I was not enough, that I would do something wrong or let someone down. I emphasized perfection to a degree in which I was always left disappointed. Both my mental and physical health were at an all-time low.

I found myself afraid to reach outside the box and challenge myself because if I let others down I would plummet again. I did not believe in my ability to overcome fear, so I avoided anything that might distress me. My unhealthy relationship with stress felt like an obstacle I could not push past.

When it became obvious that my emotional health was in such an uncertain state, I tried anything to return to my true self. I tried multiple anxiety medications, which only seemed to heighten my nerves or further disrupt my sleep schedule. I then quit the medications and turned to therapy, which is one of the best decisions I have ever made.

However, therapy was just the first step as I tried to find myself, and my voice.

One of the ways I did that was through the Miller Integrated Nature Experience (MINE). The step to join the program, a combination of journalism and outdoor leadership, meant going out on a limb. For someone who had previously had a toxic relationship with pressure, I put a lot on my plate. However, it was an experience of personal growth like I never could have imagined.

The MINE program is incredibly unique because, while it offers a challenge and replicates real-world models, community building and support are at its core.

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Mckenzie Palmer The program merges experiential learning with outdoor education and journalism. The hands-on style of working as a production team and the bonding that comes with outdoor exploration create meaningful personal connections and a sense of belonging. I found myself in a learning environment different than any I had previously encountered.

My first major experience as part of MINE was a trip to the coast, one of the several adventures taken throughout the year to help team members connect and find roots in the outdoors. Still very new to the group, I was nervous to put myself out there with people all older than me who had worked together for much longer. However, the trip allowed me to be the most vulnerable I have ever been, sharing my emotional struggles. By the end of the trip, I had a support system that allowed me to take a risk and publish my first story, a personal narrative that addressed the tribulations of my childhood and many of the largest imperfections in my life.

The following year, just months after my first story was published, I was voted into the role of editor-in-chief. It was my second big step, taking on all the responsibilities and pressure of leading the program. I had fears about making mistakes, but my perspective had completely changed. I knew that there were people who had my back and that I did not have to be perfect to be good enough. I knew taking on the role would be difficult, but I was ready to take that step. Yet, the year held more challenges than I had ever expected.

On March 17, I closed my overheating laptop with a listless sigh and flopped onto the bed. My email inbox was flooded with messages from teachers, principals, and colleges. The initial school closure due to COVID-19 was just extended. No one knew when or if we would return to school.

It felt like our dreams were down the drain. We had big plans for the year, a 128-page magazine, stories and spreads that surpassed anything before seen from a high

Kindra Roy watches the sunset over the Willamette Valley.

Kindra Roy walks through a meadow near Spencer Butte.

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school journalism program. Now, my half-written story on extinction felt impossible, almost as impossible as working up the courage to tell my team a global pandemic couldn’t get in our way.

When I first joined MINE, our adviser, Ivan Miller, encouraged me that no challenge was too big. He assured me that I could get through anything. That I already had.

He encouraged me again when I chose to become editor-in-chief. I sat, half propped up on the desk in his office. He looked at me, seriousness in his eyes, but a daring smirk on his face, like he never doubted for a second. “You have to promise me you won’t quit,” he said. I promised.

Fast forward to seven months later, as we, as a nation, waited on the edge of our seats for news of when we could see friends, family, or teachers again. Every news station agreed: COVID-19 was the only thing going on in the world.

Questions arose, from whether face masks really worked to how people were going to pay their bills as businesses closed. MINE journalists, editors, photographers, and designers all had their own questions. But we had one in common: “Can we still do this?”

When we signed up for this wild ride, there were varying levels of uncertainty. Some questioned if we would live up to the success of previous years, whether it be gathering the funds for giant backpacking trips or turning out professional-level stories. Some wondered if they had signed up for too much work. Some wondered if we were crazy for thinking a class of 27 kids from a low socio-economic school in Springfield, Oregon could really compete on a national level in the world of journalism.

I, too, was uncertain. I wondered if I really had what it takes to lead. I questioned if I could take the pressure, the extra workload, and the responsibility of making everyone happy. Yet, when I looked around at the team, I knew each person had something to contribute. It was a class of gogetters, of unique talents and determined minds. If anyone could do it, it was us.

We came into the year as a group of amateur journalists, aside from a handful of us who had written a story or

two for last year’s issues. It started with pitching various roles, from editors to designers, photographers and field reporters. We were each directed to follow a passion, or branch out and try something new. Trying something new is exactly what most of us did.

Most students had never even written a 500-word news story. Our design team had to learn Adobe InDesign from scratch. Photographers did their best with the few cameras we had. As a group, we committed to learning from mistakes and bettering our products with each draft.

The process of revision proved effective. First-round stories and designs suddenly blossomed into feature writing and professional-looking spreads. Each assignment went through a process of edits and revision until it was polished, and then it was polished again until it was the best it could be.

When we received our first magazine, Sonder, there was a state of awe at the accomplishment. We pulled off what seemed impossible, but the biggest challenge was still ahead: Backcountry Review.

Because of our roots as a nature and outdoor journalism program, our signature magazine, Backcountry Review, is entirely dedicated to the coverage of outdoor stories. But not just any outdoor stories. We go big. Big art and even bigger profile subjects. We pitch wild adventures and dive into the world of high-level backpackers, rock climbers, and authors. We push the limits of high school journalism.

The whole year builds up to creating this magazine, when everything we learn is put to the test. But this year, that challenge was even greater.

Our pitches for Backcountry Review included big-name stories like Rickey Gates, Cooper Teare, and Heather “Anish” Anderson, leading us on the path to tackle indepth reporting. We already had a few mock designs on the board. The team was ready to produce the best issue of Backcountry Review to date. Then, everything we were accustomed to, everything we had planned on, was stripped away.

Our ability to meet and communicate face-to-face was gone in an instant. Access to design programs was left on

Rebecca Durbin

the computers in the school we were no longer allowed to enter. Interviews and photo shoots were canceled.

Most importantly, life for each member of MINE changed drastically.

I laid on the cold hardwood floor of my closet, tears streaming down my face. It was just two days after the extended school closure was announced, and doubt in our ability to produce a magazine seemed to spread like wildfire. Above all, my team was hurting, and I had no power. My worst fear going into this was that I would let them down, and even though it was not my fault, I was crumbling at the thought of them being unhappy.

We wanted to keep going, to prove that we could. Yet, at the same time, designers and reporters were under immense emotional stress. Senior year suddenly ended. We were unsure of our graduation status. We were not going to see most of our peers again. Students were providing child care for siblings all day, or losing energy worrying about their older relatives’ health. Some of the magazine staff was working overtime as essential workers at grocery stores. Everything felt uncertain.

I was torn, trying to be a leader and a friend, trying to make things easier without giving up. Some were ready to throw in the towel given the circumstances, but many of us, including myself, had worked too hard to see it all end. So we decided it wouldn’t.

We had no idea if the work would pay off, but we were willing to try. Upon reading the first-round stories we had completed, there was a moment of epiphany. We could do it.

The hurdle of how to design the magazine remained, but the creative team was not willing to give up either. Over half of our designers chose not to continue, but those who remained committed to taking on more work, drawing out designs on paper until getting access to design technology.

The first design was mocked up. Then another story got added to the mix. Suddenly, there was a feature section. We passed 64 pages, the usual length for Backcountry Review, and more pages were coming in. Designers stepped up again and again, writers made stories longer and deeper.

We counted the pages: 96.

Imperfection was something I had feared for years.

It was a fear so heavy it weighed me down every day, flaming up and hindering my ability to see the possibility of beauty and growth. MINE took that fear and peeled it back layer by layer, each time showing me I could accomplish more, I could be more than how anxiety defined me. Each challenge became a chance to redefine myself.

This year, MINE had more obstacles than it has ever had before, and with them came growth for each of us. We had to be okay with imperfection more than ever. We looked uncertainty and chaos in the eyes and said, “you can’t stop us.”

The resulting accomplishment proves immense. We will never be perfect, and we do not have to be. Even with our fears and flaws, we can achieve things beyond what we ever imagined.

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DEFINING HER OWN AMERICAN DREAM Heather "Anish" Anderson takes her own path through life via thru-hikes on America's longest trails.

Cameron Branch

Contributed

Additional research by Paige Scott

Heather Anderson hikes on the Continental Divide Trail in Montana.

Heather Anderson enters one of Nevada's slot canyons in Valley of Fire State Park.

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erely days after walking across the stage and receiving her diploma from Anderson University in 2003, Heather “Anish” Anderson set out on a backpacking journey with a $20 backpack, minimal training, and a heart that yearned for adventure. The result: a spiritual journey she would never forget. Somewhere along those 2,190 miles on the Appalachian Trail she discovered that her faith and overall happiness were enhanced when immersed in the elements, a turning point that marked the beginning of her thru-hiking escapades. Since 2013, Anderson has speed-hiked over 28,000 miles and made history on America's most iconic trails, becoming the first woman to complete the Triple Crown—hiking roughly 8,000 total miles on the Appalachian Trail (AT), the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), and the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) in one calendar year.

Her many accomplishments and world records are indicative of the top tier athlete she has become, but her goals were not always so elite. Throughout her youth, she was never particularly athletic, but her love for adventure and nature prompted her to take a summer job at the Grand Canyon after her freshman year of college. It was there that she got her first taste of life on the trail, and after just a few short day hikes into the vast canyon, she knew where she belonged. She explains that something about being on the trail “just feels right and innately human.” Anderson says, “I wanted to maximize the amount of time I get to spend in nature. Nothing else is as important.”

After spending many years dodging the pressures of conformity, she eventually caved, getting married and taking an office job in Seattle. Unsurprisingly, the new lifestyle left her unsatisfied. She yearned for something deeper and more spiritually fulfilling—life on the trail. “I was following a blueprint for life that was demonstrated to me by our entire culture,” says Anderson. “As I grew older, I rejected that blueprint to do what was right for me personally.”

She quit her job, got divorced, laced up her hiking boots, and set a new, seemingly impossible goal: hike the 2,650mile PCT faster than anyone else.

Adopting the trail name “Anish” after her great grandmother, who was of Native American Anishinaabe heritage, Anderson developed into one of the most accomplished athletes in the nation. In 2013, Anderson set the overall self-supported fastest known time for the PCT. After two months of averaging 40 miles per day and sleeping very few hours per night, she finished, beating Scott Williamson’s previous time by almost four days, making her the fastest person of any gender to complete the trail in that style. This accomplishment drew more

national attention than Anderson could have ever dreamed, yet she remained true to her lifestyle despite the flurry of magazine articles and online chatter, shying away from social media in an age of bragging and branding.

In January 2019, she published a memoir, Thirst: 2,600 Miles to Home. Anderson explained that her love for the trail, and the associated challenge, stems from her love for nature, desire for a deeper spiritual connection, and urgency to heal the emotional wounds inflicted by societal expectations and ideals. Anderson writes, “I’d chosen this challenge for many reasons, and one of the greatest was to face the darkness, both without and within.”

The book draws from Anderson’s personal insight and extensive journal entries logged along her record-setting PCT hike, describing in immaculate detail close encounters with death and the physical pain associated with hiking over 40 miles per day, while also capturing her seemingly impossible level of grit and determination.

The message that seems to resonate most is Anderson’s balance between superhuman athleticism and her ability to be vulnerable, showcasing a broader definition of success and suggesting that every dream is within reach. “I hated myself for not being able to conform happily,” writes Anderson. “I hated myself for trying and failing. I loved myself for choosing to do what was right for me, no matter the cost. I forgave myself for trying to please others when I knew it wasn’t right for me.”

Anderson’s accomplishments pave the path for many aspiring thru-hikers to follow and serve as inspiration for people all over the world. For her, life on the trail is about the overarching journey for enlightenment. “I believe that we are all connected and part of something much greater than ourselves,” says Anderson. “I've always felt this and the more time I spend in nature, the more certain I am.”

Her writing proves poetic and places her in good company with other nature writers, as she grapples with something beyond her own experience. “Daily, my body preferred to quit hours before I did,” she writes. “Instead I continued because of my stubbornness, yes, but also to allow scars to form when I wrestled with grief, memories, and destiny on a sliver of trail in the moonlight.”

Her accomplishments seem impossible to most. Her petite appearance and lack of bulging muscles don’t fit the elite endurance athlete mold. But it's what's behind the facade of thriftstore sundresses, past physical and emotional scars, and utter ordinariness that makes these incredible feats possible: Anderson’s ability to just keep walking. To anyone seeking out the secret to success or wondering what it takes to accomplish great things, Anderson offers simple advice: “Be all in.”

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Cooper Teare races at the 2018 NCAA Cross Country Championships in Madison, Wisconsin.

TOP TEARE RUNNER University of Oregon athlete Cooper Teare strives for success in the classroom and on the track.

Logan Auxier

Ben Crawford

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s Cooper Teare toed the starting line of the 2019 NCAA Division I Cross Country Championship race, a multitude of thoughts raced through his head. “Get out hard” and “stay in the mix,” he thought to himself as he prepared for the challenge of facing the best collegiate athletes in the nation for 30 painful minutes. But primarily, his focus was on his team. Teare reflected on a season of hard work, talking with each of his teammates and trying to motivate and excite them for the biggest race of the season.

They believed that they had a shot at having a podium finish as a team. Soon after, the starting gun shot into the morning sky, thereby releasing the herd of runners to tear through the wet, muddy course.

So many things had led up to that moment, rounding out the end of Teare’s junioryear cross country season. With two disappointing races as a sophomore—a 94th place finish at this same meet last year and a second-to-last-place finish in the NCAA Track Championships—he came into this race with determination, ready to prove that he had what it takes to vie for a national title.

As one of the top-ranked college athletes in the country, and racing for the storied University of Oregon, so much was riding on him to perform well. But for Teare, even in horrible weather conditions, the race was the accumulation of years of hard work and dreaming, and he couldn’t keep a smile off of his face.

Running what he said was the best race of his life at the time, he finished in sixth place. Yet even in what should have been his moment of triumph, his thoughts were not on his personal achievement. “Immediately after, I was looking for my teammates. I easily would have traded my individual performance for our team goal,” Teare reflects.

Both on the track and in the classroom, Teare is a standout performer.

He has learned the value of hard work and training by winning and also by falling short of his goals. Triumphs and defeats alike teach him to be patient and to trust the process, as well as having the humility to understand that growth is the result of work ethic and effort. Whether he’s running towards good grades or a finish line, for Teare, it is all about balance.

Teare first began running competitively in sixth grade, and he has been hooked ever since. Over the years, he discovered that running was his passion. “I kind of started just by doing it for fun, not really taking it super seriously. It was just something to pass the time,” says Teare. “I was mostly just doing it because my friends wanted me to. And then as the years went on, I found that I actually really enjoyed it. I'm a

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Cooper Teare and Carter Christman embrace after finishing the 2019 NCAA Cross Country West Regionals in Colfax, Washington.

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Cooper Teare enjoys a workout at Newport Harbor High School in Newport Beach, California.

pretty competitive person, so once I started getting a taste of winning some races, I felt like it got a lot more enjoyable.

Over the years seeing myself progress, setting new goals and accomplishing them, I found that running was the thing that I like a lot, and it challenges me the most.”

High school changed everything for Teare. After a couple of years, it was apparent that there was not much that could hold him back. “[My] junior year was when I considered that I wanted to be one of the top runners in the nation,” says Teare. “That was my goal… to focus on running.”

Throughout his senior season of track in high school, Teare won multiple large-scale meets against some of the nation’s best, and finished on the podium several times. His competitive drive allowed him to stand out even among the nation’s fiercest competitors.

Many gifted athletes from around the world compete in the NCAA, and Teare could have easily been swept aside and pushed into the shadows. Yet, the moment he donned the trademark green and yellow of the University of Oregon it was clear that he would not be overlooked.

At the University of Oregon, Teare earned a spot to compete at the NCAA Track Championships Finals in the 5,000 meter race as both a freshman and sophomore, he broke the four-minute-mile barrier, and has received AllAmerican honors in cross country. While impressive as the accolades he has earned may be, there is much more

to Teare than his titles and awards. Teare matches all of the hard work and accomplishments with an equally fierce desire to excel in the classroom. Currently majoring in business (marketing), he strives to be the best, just like with his athletics.

Teare suggests that academic and athletic success go hand in hand. He says, “you can’t do well in one aspect while not performing well in the other.” He adds, “I've always put a big emphasis on school. I take my education seriously, and I want to succeed in the classroom.”

But there’s more to success than excelling individually for Teare. He thrives in a team atmosphere, the feeling of camaraderie giving him an even stronger sense of purpose within the sport. “You can challenge yourself, but you can also run for something bigger than yourself,” says Teare. “[I] see what [my teammates] are doing every day… seeing them succeed gives me so much motivation and [makes me] want to succeed as well.”

Teare has big goals for the remainder of his time as an Oregon Duck, including winning an NCAA championship, as well as qualifying for the Olympic Trials. However, he prefers to focus on smaller goals such as staying healthy, or the next workout, things that he can tackle in the present.

He knows that it will lead him to a future of success, no matter what he runs towards. “I love this sport. There is always going to be another obstacle,” says Teare. “You can always find a new way to challenge yourself.”

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The student-built bridge at Hood River Middle School acts as an extension of the classroom.

A CLASSROOM WITHOUT WALLS Hood River Middle School teacher Michael Becker uses an innovative outdoor classroom to promote environmental stewardship.

Estrella Peña

Ciara Hernadez

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n April 26, 2019 at Hood River Middle School (HRMS), Juan and his friends, Sam, Steven, and Jack, worked on building a habitat for frogs as their classmates planted flowers, placed soil in pots, assembled a bench for the garden, and created an environment for hummingbirds.

The sky blazed blue and the sun illuminated the smiles of eager faces that worked collaboratively and explored the natural world. These different kinds of interactions outside the classroom help students cultivate awareness about their environment. Teacher Michael Becker implemented the program “Transparent Educational Design” at HRMS to establish a process for students to engage with and value hands-on work that extends far beyond the constraints of the classroom.

“The kids have built new, functional pieces that stay behind. Everything that is outside was built by my students: the fish tanks, oven, barn, tunnel, climate battery, biological systems, and the bridge,” says Becker. “The idea is for them to leave something behind that makes their school better, to realize the difference they can make, instead of sitting in a classroom all day to then proceed to throw their work in the recycle bin.”

Becker says, “this program is very much a studentinvolved and driven program,” because students take increased ownership for the direction and progress of their learning. Becker hopes students learn to understand the value of making mistakes and that together they can figure it out, all while gaining practical experience. “My goal for my design class is for my students to be able [to] say ‘I can do this,’” Becker says. “I want them to make mistakes, to learn about ownership, and declare a change of plans if they see it fit.”

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Contributed

Michael Becker puts his students to work in his green design class.

Becker’s students are involved in the decisionmaking process, thereby learning cooperation, conflict management, and communication skills. He strives for kids to learn about their potential, and to be creative and selfreliant. Becker initially guides students in the beginning of their projects, but then allows for creative space before the end result.

Seven years ago, the whole classroom setting was nothing but bare dirt. The building of the classroom established the groundwork for the overall design process, which also meant Becker reimagining his classroom instruction. When instituting hands-on learning activities, he believes that more time spent in nature leads to generating creative ideas, a concept the state of Oregon put into law over a decade ago.

In June 2009, Oregon legislature enacted the No Oregon Child Left Inside Act to create a program that provides children with a range of place-based outdoor learning opportunities. This system was built to ensure that Oregon students become independent thinkers, urban problem-solvers, and active citizens. Upon signing the bill, then Oregon Governor Ted Kulongoski said the act would “provide our youth with classroom instruction about our vital natural resources and an opportunity to conduct field investigations in an outdoor learning setting. This experience is fundamental to our children and will help them develop a sense of stewardship towards Oregon's environment and help them make informed decisions about our natural resources in the future.”

In 2011, the Oregon Environmental Literacy Plan created a goal in which all Oregon students engage regularly with the natural world. Integrating frequent outdoor adventures into a student's academic and life experience is an important factor of this goal, which is why Becker chose to create the green design class and has gone above and beyond to participate in outdoor field trips, providing students with real-world experiences.

Becker also instituted outdoor school for his district, resulting in a three-day environmental education program for all sixth-graders. He trusts that an outdoor education

program will “build community and culture, raise expectations and standards, increase connections between students, and develop positive associations around the school and the outdoors.”

He continues, “from the homeroom groups traveling together on the bus to the groups sharing cabins to the field study groups that rotate through activities, students live and work in teams that they wouldn't form on their own.”

Funded by Natural England, The Natural Connections Demonstration Project, a four-year project to help school children, found that the majority of children thought they “learned better and achieved more when learning outside.

92 percent of pupils involved in the project said they enjoyed their lessons more when outdoors, with 90 percent feeling happier and healthier as a result.”

Natural England also found that “outdoor experiences help students increase their understanding of their natural and human communities, which leads to a sense of place.

Outdoor education allows students to see how they are part of a larger community.”

In his book The Nature Principle, Richard Louv focuses on the role of the outdoors in children’s growth and progress. He claims, “The Nature Principle is about the power of living in nature—not with it, but in it… the twentyfirst century will be the century of human restoration in the natural world.” Louv adds that it is “essential for a man to reconnect with nature in order to improve their well being, health, spirit and survival.”

Smiles are sometimes hard to find in a school building, but at HRMS they seem contagious. Becker loves watching the outdoor setting restore the students’ depleted attention, bringing forth a new energy. They are not only physically present, but consciously. Becker hopes to stimulate the involvement in his students in which they “leave a part of [themselves] behind, a legacy for the future students to carry on.”

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THE ART OF RESTORATION Mckenzie Palmer ŠWashedAshore.org

Angela Haseltine Pozzi overcomes personal tragedy to educate others about ocean pollution.

Chompers the Shark makes a stop at a traveling exhibit.

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alking along the beach, one might feel a strong breeze brushing against their skin, chilling them to the bone and causing the grass to sway. The waves crash against the shore to create a perfect melody for the seagulls to sing to. Bare feet sink slightly into the ground as children run gleefully towards the water’s edge.

Strolling across the golden sand, one might glance down and notice a unique rock or a pretty shell that would fit just perfectly in their collection. Bending to pick it up, they then might notice the bits of plastic strewn on the ground, disrupting the harmony of the natural scene.

Pollution is becoming an issue of increasing concern on the Oregon coast. When introduced into habitats, it can negatively impact marine life. This is a relatively new issue, since plastic itself is a recently developed product that only became cheap to produce in 1907. As such, animals are not familiar with its presence in their environment. They often confuse plastic for other animals—their food source— since that is what they are used to seeing in the ocean.

Ingestion of the plastic can fill their stomachs over time, and cannot be digested, leaving them with no space for their actual diet that provides them with nutrients, so they starve to death. Other animals become entangled in nets and plastic bands, leading to yet another unnatural demise.

In an effort to educate the public on this issue, Washed Ashore, a nonprofit based out of Bandon, Oregon, brings volunteers together to build sculptures out of plastic collected from the beach. They are crafted to look like animals impacted by the pollution, such as puffins, sea turtles, and penguins. This art appears in national traveling exhibits, where they remain for several months until they are moved to another location. Permanent exhibits exist in Bandon, Oregon and the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C. Washed Ashore has a very specific goal. “Our mission is to build and exhibit aesthetically powerful art to educate a global audience about plastic pollution in the ocean and waterways, and to spark positive changes in consumer habits,” says Angela Haseltine Pozzi, founder of Washed Ashore.

Her love of art and sense of responsibility towards protecting nature were fostered at a young age, as her

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parents were both naturalists and artists. Her father was an art director and her mother a professional artist. Naturally, they took her to museums, galleries, operas, and dances on a regular basis. She says, “the visual and performing arts were always very much a part of my life, and I always had a place in my mom’s studio… I think that allowing creativity to flourish in your own home is really vital.”

Her parents also instilled in her a deep connection with the natural world. They taught her about edible plants and mushrooms, and spent a lot of time outdoors. Every summer, her family stayed at her grandparents’ lakeside cabin in an old-growth forest near the ocean, where she gained many valuable experiences. Participating in the outdoor school program with her class as a child, she was way ahead of the game.

These childhood experiences inspired her to share her passions with others. She says, “I realized that I was very different than most kids… Other people didn’t have this kind of knowledge of nature and art. And I thought, ‘that’s not right, I need to change that,’ and so I really became a teacher because I realized that I wanted other people to have the same kind of knowledge that I had of the arts, and of nature.”

Education is a key piece of the organization, and Haseltine Pozzi has plenty of experience in that field.

“I was an art teacher for 30 years and always believed in the power of arts education,” she says. “And then as a practicing artist and the director of a nonprofit, I’m a teacher on a much bigger scale.”

This education is often directed towards younger generations, as Haseltine Pozzi believes that it is especially important to educate youth, hoping they’ll someday enact change. She says, “children come to this problem [of pollution] with a fresh view that us adults don’t have. I mean, we’re trying to change our habits desperately, and it’s so hard for adults to change habits. It’s so much easier for children to get the right habits from the beginning instead of having to change them.”

What children lack in experience, they make up for in a positive outlook towards the future. It is crucial to take action and find solutions, rather than focusing on the reasons why a project may not work out. Haseltine Pozzi

Angela Haseltine Pozzi leans against Zorabelle the Rockhopper Penguin.

Octavia the Octopus sits atop a pile of man-made rubbish.

says, “[children] don’t see the barriers that all the adults see… They are filled with hope, they’re full of good ideas, and they don’t know all the roadblocks. And sometimes, it’s good not to know the roadblocks, so you can just jump over them.”

Haseltine Pozzi believes it is beneficial to channel the youth’s mindset. “We have to find a way to look at things differently,” she says. “We have to find the opportunity in the tragedy, and the opportunity is always there, it’s just a matter of changing our perspective on the way we see it.”

Before Washed Ashore was established, Haseltine Pozzi had her own tragedy to overcome. In 2001, Craig Pozzi, her husband of 25 years, collapsed with a cancerous brain tumor after having his seizures misdiagnosed as panic attacks for eight years. He underwent major surgery and radiation treatment, but tragically died of a stroke in 2004.

In search of healing, Haseltine Pozzi moved from the Vancouver, Washington area to Bandon, Oregon, the place of her family's cabin where she had spent every summer as a child. She found that the beaches she had loved so dearly as a child were strewn with garbage.

Having won a lawsuit against the healthcare organization that misdiagnosed Craig, Haseltine Pozzi started Washed Ashore in an effort to help save the ocean.

She put the lawsuit money to work, buying property and supplies, renting trucks, and paying wages for two and a half years. She knew that she had to make something positive come from the heartbreaking loss of her husband.

Immersing herself in her passion has proved beneficial, both for the world, with increased awareness of a global issue, and for Haseltine Pozzi herself. “I got remarried seven and a half years ago to a wonderful man named Frank Rocco, who is the marketing director of Washed Ashore,” says Haseltine Pozzi. “Things happen when you open your heart to what you love in life and what you care about. Your heart opens to love again.”

Not only does Haseltine Pozzi encourage people to pick up garbage and turn trash into treasure, she hopes that when more people see the negative impact made by humans, they will work to change laws to further protect the environment.

The first step in preparing communities to make large changes is sharing an understanding of the topic and the scientific reasoning behind the change. Presenting the facts and encouraging solutions while inspiring a positive attitude enables communities to come together and set great change in motion. It is crucial that people approach large issues with the idea that anything is possible, and individual efforts contribute towards amazing transformations. Haseltine Pozzi says, “you have to find a way to... find the hope. Otherwise, you can’t keep going forward.”

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Project Healing Waters volunteer Joe Humphreys guides US Army veteran Josh Williams as they fish.

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uring a deployment in Afghanistan, Alan Fitzpatrick’s life changed in an immeasurable way. After suffering a traumatic brain injury, the young man came back home with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), an often devastating disorder with symptoms such as hypervigilance, flashbacks, and nightmares. Fitzpatrick himself was dealing with hypervigilance, causing him to be overly aware of everything going on around him, always on edge, and expecting the worst in every situation.

In 2014, a man named Chuck Tye, a volunteer for Project Healing Waters at the time, asked him to join a program that could help him cope with some of the symptoms.

After refusing multiple times, Fitzpatrick says, “he literally grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to a Project Healing Waters booth.”

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One in 11 people will be diagnosed with PTSD in their lifetime. This disorder is not curable, however, it can be managed with a combination of psychiatry and medication.

While it affects everyone differently, people with PTSD often suffer from unwanted thoughts or memories as they try to sleep, work, eat, or do anything most people take for granted.

Project Healing Waters is a nonprofit organization that was established in 2005, focusing on creating programs that serve veterans with PTSD by taking them on numerous fishing trips throughout the year. The program does everything from helping them build rods and taking them fishing to helping build camaraderie with other members of the community.

As Fitzpatrick went through the program, he became

FISHING FOR FREEDOM Project Healing Waters helps veterans suffering from PTSD find healing, one cast at time.

Braeden Lowe

Courtesy of Project Healing Waters

noticeably less angry and more easygoing. The experience allowed him to focus on the present and escape constant distress. Though he still sometimes experienced symptoms, the program gave him an outlet to manage the stress: fly fishing. “Fly fishing helps connect the left and right brain and makes new pathways, but for me, it makes me focus,” says Fitzpatrick.

Having witnessed many horrible things throughout his time in the military, Fitzpatrick has had to deal with heightened levels of anxiety and paranoia in his everyday life. Fly fishing gives him something else to focus on, allowing him to do something fun and productive, rather than always feeling overwhelmed by hypervigilance. The new hobby he found through Project Healing Waters became such an impactful part of his life that Fitzpatrick

decided to help others on the same journey. In 2018, Fitzpatrick started working for the organization as the Northwest regional coordinator.

Research shows the presence of nature has various positive impacts on humans, especially relating to personal stress and mental health. Fishing specifically has been a focus, especially for veterans’ hospitals around the Pacific Northwest. Programs like Project Healing Waters work to introduce, or reintroduce, people to the power of the outdoors, and teaches them how to use it as an outlet for emotional struggles in their daily lives.

People with PTSD have experienced a significant

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Retired Sergeant J.R. Salzman of the US Army National Guard improvises to set up his fly rod.

life trauma, sometimes leaving them with memories they don’t want. These memories can cause violent and jarring flashbacks that place some people in an almost unconscious state. This is not the only negative effect of PTSD. Nightmares, eating disorders, and cognitive delays sometimes result and indirectly affect the people around those suffering.

These problems are heightened with veterans because of the things they have witnessed. As many as 30 percent of veterans have struggled with PTSD. The closest thing to a cure consists of a cocktail of drugs, also called selective serotonin retake inhibitors (SSRIs), that can be hard on the body. SSRIs limit the amount of serotonin reabsorbed

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into the body, thus increasing the amount of the chemical available for the brain, sometimes to dangerous levels.

Additionally, the drugs often cause side effects such as irritability, drowsiness, appetite change, and dry mouth, yet medications are still not always effective on their own.

Medication, combined with therapy, is the most common way to treat PTSD, but this combination can be very expensive.

Ecotherapy is a growing area of treatment. This type of dynamic healing refers to a wide range of treatments that involves activities within nature, such as hiking, meditating, and fishing. Fishing has been found to reduce stress in 56 percent of veterans, and decrease flashbacks or other

forms of re-experiences by 60 percent.

Part of the reason Project Healing Waters and organizations like it are so effective is because the experience brings people together, providing an added level of support. “It is difficult to find people who are my peers because they don’t know what it's like to be worried about something bad happening the whole time, but when I'm with people from Project Healing Waters we are [all] able to have each other's back and that's pretty unique,” says Fitzpatrick.

While ecotherapy is used more commonly for veterans than other at-risk people in the community, there is evidence that it could also help people struggling with other

mental illnesses. Nature is an accessible outlet for almost everyone and is free in most cases. Many other forms of ecotherapy work just as well as fishing, such as biking, kayaking, and swimming.

Over 18 million adults suffer from depression at any point in the year. Mental health is just as important as physical health, and people need to know about different techniques to treat disorders from PTSD to depression and anxiety. For Fitzpatrick, that means getting outside and fly fishing. “There's something special about standing kneedeep in the water and experiencing the nature around you,” says Fitzpatrick. “I think it's something everyone should experience.”

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NW-inspired menu Brunch 9-2 weekends Happy hour food specials

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Family friendly Great for groups Burger & Brew Monday

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CHANNELING COMMUNITY

McKenzie River Trust volunteer coordinator Elizabeth Goward connects people with nature while restoring our land and water.

Jadzia Engle

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rown and yellow Western Meadowlarks darted up and down through the clear, blue sky just over McKenzie River Trust (MRT) volunteer coordinator Elizabeth Goward’s head. The bare, straw-colored ground of the vast habitat stretched behind her until it connected with vivid, green pine trees that thrive in lowlands neighboring the waterways of Green Island. Goward shared her knowledge of the conservation property with a class of 16 high school volunteers. Green Island has been under the care of the MRT for the past 17 years, and now partially acts as a classroom for Goward, who readily reveals her love of the outdoors with visitors.

“We found gray fox footprints out here where you were working last time, not that long ago, and they’re an ancient fox that actually climbs trees and nests in tree cavities rather than burrowing and denning in the ground. They’re more cat-like in that way,” said Goward, beaming at her volunteers. “Oaks can also be a critical habitat for the really cute, cat-like foxes. So if nothing else drives you to plant your oak really well today, hopefully that will.”

Growing up in Salem, Oregon, Goward spent most of her time as a child engaging with nature and water, specifically

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Sarah Karr

the Willamette River. Due to years of degradation that the waterway endured as the river was manipulated to fuel urbanization and industrialization, this was not the easiest feat. “I grew up on a river that you didn’t get in as a kid,” and not always heeding the rules, “I’ve had giardia twice because I got in the river,” says Goward.

As a little girl, Goward developed a deep connection with nature alongside her family. She used to spend time at Clear Lake, bonding with her now late grandfather. She now hopes to share that connection. “My brother lives on the East Coast, he’s in the military, and we got him and his kids out on leave and got them on the lake and were able to pass that place on,” says Goward.

Goward often finds it hard to fathom how other people don’t have an intrinsic connection to the natural world around them, expressing that she “really feel[s] like people and land aren’t separate.” Reflecting on her early years out on Clear Lake and her experiences working out in the field with volunteers from various communities, businesses, organizations, or schools, she views “being out on the land, being out with water, [as] a very completing experience.”

Elizabeth Goward joyfully gives students a tour of Green Island.

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Goward progressed through life wanting to protect the outdoors and educate others. Veering away from the traditional route in education to complete a post-secondary degree, she always sought a classroom without walls.

By the time she caught wind of the position at the MRT, Goward had taken a windy road through “education, oldgrowth ecology, farming, big travels across the world, [back to] education, and then into conservation.”

The MRT was founded in 1989 with the intent to protect the habitat on and around the McKenzie River as a means to preserve the living organisms and water quality that were at risk of encroachment by human development. Over the years, they have flourished, expanding from a small niche in the community to a larger force of change and progress along waterways in western Oregon. By purchasing land or establishing agreements between landowners that allow them to continue using the land while protecting it from harmful development, via conservation easements, the MRT looks to acquire properties adjacent to rivers.

Goward shares that the “rivers that we have today really [aren’t] a reflection of rivers pre-white settlement in this area,” adding that they have “undergone a lot of transformation so we can live here.” In locations in which there used to be dynamic, braided channels with expansive flood plains that once fostered a biologically-productive habitat are now straightened rivers with developed land hugging their banks, causing them to cut deeper into the earth and speed up their flow. The land that MRT allocates and stewards along our rivers grants them room to move and breathe in their natural floodplains.

Slowly picking up speed in their efforts over the past 30 years, the nonprofit now employs 13 full-time staff members and has grown to 1,192 supporting members as of 2019. The MRT works closely with many indigenous tribes in respect to land delegation, and has transferred

125 acres back to the Confederated Tribes of the Siletz Indians through a process called partner assists.

MRT currently owns 15 properties and has conducted 23 conservation easements, protecting over 5,800 acres.

One of these properties, at the confluence of the McKenzie and Willamette Rivers, is Green Island. Purchased in 2003, rich in biodiversity and encompassing 1,100 acres, the Green Island conservation property has reshaped much of the MRT’s core mission to include active restoration and stewardship on their lands. Annual tree plantings began taking place on the property and showed early progress, transforming the once farmland back into a healthy riparian area and floodplain for the rivers.

Today, in a program that Goward has helped build from the ground up over the past three years, the MRT hosts over 100 events annually, including land tours, bird watchings, and a variety of volunteer opportunities, each of which Goward attends. They now have approximately 500 volunteers come out each year and participate in various opportunities, accomplishing the work equivalent to three additional full-time staff members, or nearly 6,500 hours.

Despite all of the support and success in restoration efforts, the trust does not go unbothered by hardships.

“There are a lot of people that I’ve heard that say ‘just leave it alone and the Earth will heal itself,’” says Goward.

Much of the opposing perspective to the active restoration work stems from research in passive environmental recovery. In his book, Half-Earth: Our Planet’s Fight For Life, biologist EO Wilson makes an argument for passive recovery: letting the biodiversity of the world foster itself back to sustainable levels. Studies, such as one conducted by The Royal Society Publishing, entitled Restoration and repair of Earth's damaged ecosystems, analyze the effects of active versus passive restoration of damaged ecosystems around the world, drawing a conclusion that promotes increased consideration of the latter, in attempts to preserve finances and uphold sustainability for environmental restoration in the future.

While these arguments work as ammunition against

the active restoration efforts made by environmentalists such as Goward, the unique components of restoration and legal protection that the MRT accomplishes facilitates both active and passive restoration on the land. These combined strategies are imperative to the land itself, fish and wildlife, and surrounding communities.

From trash cleanups to invasive plant species removal, the land and inhabitants benefit from the direct efforts of the trust. On Green Island alone, an estimated 750,000 trees and plants that have been planted work to shade rivers and increase the health of our groundwater.

The spring Chinook salmon are relied on by other organisms within the diverse ecosystem, as they are a keystone species, and find refuge on the Green Island property as well as the 13 miles of spawning ground that the MRT has restored for the endangered aquatic life. In 2015, history was made when the Oregon Chub became the first fish taken off of the endangered species list, initially rediscovered on MRT’s very first 11-acre conservation easement.

Living in towns adjacent to these properties, human welfare is also at stake. The McKenzie River is the sole drinking water source for all of Eugene and contributes greatly to Springfield residents. Beyond a necessity for survival, a connection to the natural world can be extremely valuable to humans, mentally or spiritually. However, the clean land and water that is protected for this very reason is unfortunately being taken for granted, seemingly at an increasing rate.

This separation between the land and communities in years to come is one of the biggest concerns for the MRT. Goward recognizes the digital realm that newer generations

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are immersed in and that there is “a potential for even more disconnect to the natural world.”

As a volunteer coordinator, she has noted how this may decrease support for the MRT, however, as a concerned community member, Goward suggests it could disconnect us in a much more substantial way. “Most of our conflicts come from a lack of understanding and a lack of curiosity to understand one another,” she says. “If you don’t understand something and you don’t have experiences with it, and nobody ever facilitates the opportunity to, why are you going to care?”

Bridging this disconnect is where Goward comes in, and community outreach helps spark a curiosity in others that inspires them to keep giving back. By doing so, Goward helps to fuel a self-sustaining cycle that makes a long-term plan, or as she puts it, “the forever concept,” much more attainable. After all, healing the habitat will take much longer than one lifetime.

After planting oak trees that will someday sustain a savanna-like habitat on Green Island, Goward leisurely led the students the “long way” back to their awaiting yellow school bus. The chirps of birds overhead, gusts of wind churning through tree branches, and sun glimmering on the McKenzie River created a sensory-immersing scene that cannot be replicated in a classroom. Goward says the legacy she wants to leave behind is for others to continue to “dig into the world around them, practice curiosity, plant trees, stare at birds, and try to understand and connect to the world.”

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SEEDS OF CHANGE

Becca Snowdale branches out into the community as she works alongside Friends of Trees to expand the urban greenspace.

Mckenzie Palmer

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Sarah Karr

Becca Snowdale stands in front of the Friends of Trees truck.

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Becca Snowdale plants bulbs in planting pods.

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ith a cracked dash and decorations representing her organization covering its light blue exterior, a beat up old pickup served as transportation for a team of volunteers, along with our gear. As Becca Snowdale pulled out of the parking lot, she admitted that the brakes were a little finicky. She pumped them a few times for good measure, explaining that this action probably had no actual effect, it was just mental. We were eager to hit the road and plant trees in the neighborhoods of Eugene, Oregon, and we just laughed off her remark. Her confidence made it seem unimportant.

Snowdale works part-time for Friends of Trees (FOT), an organization that originated in Portland, Oregon, but has since spread to Eugene. FOT works to build community while adding native plants to the urban space it operates in.

The FOT mission has held strong since its establishment in 1989. Richard Seidman, founder of FOT, says, “right from the start, my vision was two-fold. One was for the environmental benefits of planting trees and the other part was building a sense of community with people coming together to do something positive and tangible.”

Seidman explains that with many occupations, it is difficult to know if someone made a difference, but when it comes to hands-on environmental work, the impact can be seen. After a planting, Seidman says that there is a “feeling of accomplishment, and then collective accomplishment, like ‘hey, we did this together.’”

FOT has planted trees in six counties across Oregon and Washington. In 2019 alone, they planted 51,049 trees and native shrubs. Not only does this create a more pleasant view and help to clean the air, but these additional plants help reduce the amount of energy used on a daily basis.

According to the United States Department of Energy,

“carefully positioned trees can save up to 25 percent of a household’s energy consumption for heating and cooling… the proper placement of only three trees will save an average household between $100 and $250 in energy costs annually.”

The benefits for homeowners are substantial on their own, but even more important is the environmental impact of reducing the amount of energy used. The World Resources Institute states that “energy production and consumption is the largest source of global greenhouse gas emissions.”

This makes efficient energy usage crucial for fighting climate change, and FOT’s work all the more important.

Snowdale grew up in Florida, but the climate and culture were not to her liking, and it never felt quite right. She moved to Oregon in hopes of finding an environment more suitable to her personality. Luckily, Eugene was a match.

Eugene residents tend to place great value on preserving the natural world. Snowdale discovered a community with a “really strong sense of environmental stewardship” that she hasn’t found anywhere else she’s been.

Before she established roots in town, she was unemployed and lacking friends in the area. She quickly became bored. In search of something to occupy her time, she turned to Google. She asked it for outdoor volunteer opportunities in Eugene, and in its infinite wisdom, it led her to FOT. There, she began to volunteer as much as possible, becoming a crew leader and eagerly searching for more opportunities to help.

When a position as an intern popped up, Snowdale

"It’s easy to kind of psych yourself out and think that you’re not good enough or you’re too anxious or you’re not going to be able to do something. And if you kind of just go for it… then you find out that you’re actually way more of a badass than you thought you were."

- Becca Snowdale

jumped on the opportunity. Getting the internship allowed her to take on more responsibilities, such as taking over FOT’s watering program. This internship led naturally to employment, as she worked hard and became part of the FOT family.

Snowdale used to believe that she was scared of heights. Yet, she found herself in a position where she was about to scale her first tree, equipped with gear and prepared to climb high. She refused to let fear stop her.

Nervous, she avoided looking at the ground and instead focused on continuing her ascent.

Approximately 230 feet up a Douglas Fir and convinced that she was terrified of heights, Snowdale finally looked down. Strangely, she felt fine, not scared at all. She had conjured up a fear where there was none.

Snowdale explains that we all do this to some extent, manufacturing obstacles that don’t exist outside of our minds. She says, “it’s easy to kind of psych yourself out and think that you’re not good enough or you’re too anxious or you’re not going to be able to do something. And if you kind of just go for it… then you find out that you’re actually way

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more of a badass than you thought you were.”

This mindset can be applied to environmental preservation as well. Many people find themselves afraid to make changes and others are simply afraid to begin a project with an unknown outcome.

Decreasing, or perhaps reversing, the effects of climate change is likely to require major changes from individuals, corporations, and governments. A great deal of people are afraid of this commitment. Many struggle to see the link between human actions and environmental issues if it does not directly impact their own life. It is difficult for people to make great changes for a cause they are uncertain about.

However, it is important that people do not let their fear of change become an obstacle in the way of progress.

Seidman built FOT around this ideology. As a former teacher and tutor, he writes books and screenplays, saying that alongside FOT, “the common denominator is enthusiasm.” He continues, “my aspiration is… to cultivate a sense of possibility and joy. And joy not meaning happiness per say, but this great sense of vitality.”

This idea of possibility is crucial in a time of doubt.

Rather than focusing on the reasons why it would make sense to not make an effort, FOT encourages a belief that positive change can occur.

Becca Snowdale proudly watches volunteers planting at the BeltineRoosevelt Greenspace in Eugene.

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With divisions over climate change remaining constant, it is especially important to connect people, which is one of FOT’s greatest objectives. Snowdale says, “we create a space for people to come and express themselves through doing something so nice as planting trees.”

Beyond connecting with other people to create a community, volunteers are encouraged to connect to the environment in which they live. Snowdale says, “it’s absolutely essential for public health and for the well-being of our community to connect people with nature, and to have a healthy urban forest.”

She goes on to explain that trees have a great positive impact on the health of the planet and the people that inhabit it, from carbon storage to air and water filtration.

Jill Suttie explores the benefits of trees in her article, “Why Trees Can Make You Happier.” She writes, “probably the most well-researched benefit of nature exposure is that it seems to help decrease our stress, rumination, and anxiety.”

But mental health is not the only aspect of people’s lives that trees improve. Suttie says, “studies have shown that spending short amounts of time in forests seems to benefit our immune systems.” She explains, “though it’s not clear exactly why this would be, a prior study suggests that trees may improve immunity thanks to certain aromatic

compounds they release.”

With public health in mind, it is important to ensure a balance between green space and urban development.

Snowdale says, “one of our main focuses is getting the urban canopy up to 30 percent, which is pretty baseline for a healthy urban forest.” To accomplish this goal, FOT plants trees and shrubs in parks and neighborhoods, and creates concrete cutout projects in which they remove concrete in the city and replace it with greenery.

Determined to make a difference, Snowdale also works part-time for the city of Eugene. “I’m a seasonal tree crew worker, so I go out and I’ll actually remove a lot of the trees that are failing or are dying or succumb to disease or are tearing up the sidewalk,” says Snowdale. “It’s kind of satisfying also doing that, because then I will go back and replant at sites where I have removed the trees, so it’s like a full circle kind of thing.”

Snowdale has found her place and her passion. She loves the culture and environmental stewardship that she discovered in Eugene. She says, “I didn’t realize before I started doing this that you could do something that you love with your life.”

Becca Snowdale moves between planting pods.

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ARE YOU EXPERIENCED? Cameron Branch

Contributed

Eric Boggs leads students on life-changing adventures to prepare them for future success.

Eric Boggs poses with his surfboard before hitting the waves.

Eric Boggs throws the O in front of the Lillis Business Complex on the University of Oregon campus.

Logan Auxier

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satisfying popping sound broke the silence in remote Jinotega, Nicaragua on a blistering hot summer day. A group of pre-medical students from the University of Oregon, with a mission to improve access to clean drinking water in the small town, and their expedition leader Eric Boggs took shelter from the sun and dusty air in a makeshift store run out of a local’s garage. Fizzing orange Fanta sodas quenched their thirst and recharged spirits. After a prolonged moment of relaxation, empty orange cans started to hit the trash bin and the group slowly made their way back onto the dusty road as faded, old Toyota pickups slugged by.

The disparity between home and their present setting was striking. The lack of access to clean water and basic sanitation was a stark contrast to their privilege, privilege they now know was often taken for granted. As the road led the tired faces closer to their temporary home, a tropical coffee farm, one of the students remarked, “I just can't wait, I just can't wait to get back home. It's hard to be a gringo here and I'm tired of everybody always staring at me like I'm out of place.”

Having spent the day walking from house to house in the remote community collecting data for their largerscale effort to improve public health, Boggs replied with an understanding expression. The student’s comment was not taken so kindly by a young African American woman. Sporting a black student union T-shirt, she asked a question: “What's that like? I walk around Oregon and I'm often looked at the same way I'm looked at out here… like I don't belong and people aren't used to seeing people like me, people that are black.”

The conversation suddenly turned into a powerful debrief and, as they sorted through their emotions, many realized that each individual holds a unique perspective

based on their own lived experience, identity, and associated privilege.

For the small group of pre-medical students from the University of Oregon, Nicaragua’s rustic lifestyle challenged their knowledge of history and medicine while also sparking realizations about cultural differences and privilege, lessons that cannot be taught through lecture or presented on colorful slideshows. Educators like Boggs expand students’ learning potential and open up an array of new paths and opportunities as they break traditional boundaries and step away from the belief that one size fits all.

That insight isn’t limited to Nicaragua, of course. It’s the type of lesson that transcends time and can only be learned through cultural exposure, personal experience, and overcoming adversity, all powerful benefits that experiential education provides. By bridging the gap between lecture and real life, experiential learning cultivates an environment that supports learning across the board and provides students with useful life-long skills. This innovative educational model is nothing new to Boggs, a college professor at the University of Oregon, as he leads groups of students on life-changing adventures and uses a physically and verbally engaging curriculum to prepare his students for future success.

With large, clear-rimmed glasses, ironed khakis, and a firm half-smile, at first glance, Boggs might not seem like the type of guy to spend over 200 weeks of his life in a tent.

However, despite his gelled hair and preppy appearance, his lifestyle and teaching philosophy promote an unrecognized yet invaluable aspect of education. Spending his summers leading groups of college and high school students all over the world, and winters teaching business classes, Boggs has devoted his life to showing students the ways of the world through his involvement in outdoor and experiential education programs.

Having personally struggled at the beginning of his college career to find his passion and place in the world, Boggs believes that the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) provided him with an experience that opened up an array of new opportunities and paths, expanding society’s narrow vision of success. He says, “for

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me, [NOLS] opened up a bunch of new versions of success, [and] taught me to do what I love and not limit myself to what was expected.”

Boggs had his first taste of adventure during his junior year of college when he took a semester off and went on a NOLS expedition to Gelian, Patagonia, an experience that completely transformed him. He fell in love with the simplicity and demanding nature of the rustic lifestyle, and after 30 days of kayaking followed by 30 days of mountaineering, he suddenly knew where he belonged. “I really applied everything I had learned throughout school and life,” says Boggs. “And after that semester I knew I had found something I was really passionate about.”

Boggs’ adventure cultivated a heightened sense of self and became a source of personal and career inspiration.

He began working for NOLS at age 21, spending his summers in Alaska, leading groups through the Tongass National Forest and catching halibut out of his sea kayak while the wakes from nearby whale breaches rocked his boat. Winters were spent in Baja, where the desert meets the sea, or Chile, a hiking hotspot with a strong sense of community.

Boggs quickly developed a love for the principles of experiential education. “No matter where I go, I know that I am always going to work with people who have a common approach to education... We are going to use the same principles we would on an expedition,” says Boggs.

In his late 20s, Boggs faced a dilemma. Many of his older colleagues at NOLS were burnt out and in search of other job opportunities, a reminder that a placeless lifestyle can only maintain its charm for so long. Empowered to share his story and educate others, Boggs returned to school, eventually earning a masters in education at Pacific University.

After a few various teaching gigs, he landed at the University of Oregon, where he took part in creating the outdoor program WILD (Wilderness Institute for Leadership and Development) and began teaching business and leadership classes. Despite his new, more controlled environment, Boggs continued to build his curriculum around experience-based education. “When you implement different forms of experiential learning, students become more engaged and it’s challenging for them because they are adapting away from how they have been trained to learn their whole life into something totally different, immediately expanding their comfort zone,” says Boggs.

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Experience-based learning has many beneficial effects for people of all ages. Wilderness expeditions, international adventures, internships, and lessons or projects that demand physical or verbal involvement, are all forms of experiential learning that build community, challenge boundaries, expand interests, and improve personal well-being. Boggs says, “being on an expedition—or doing anything challenging, really—with a group of people promotes personal development, a greater awareness of self.”

Margaret Faliano, a student at the University of Oregon, began her college career with a week-long backpacking trip through WILD and was left inspired by Boggs and awakened to a new world view.

“Throughout that trip, Boggs’ leadership was the thing that I relied on the most,” says Faliano. “I looked to him for guidance, support, and answers to any and all questions that I had. There were many moments when he really showed his expertise and how to get through a situation with a good attitude and that was definitely when it made me feel the most comfortable going into a new adventure, stepping so far outside of my comfort zone.”

Never having stepped outside the classroom for learning opportunities before, Faliano’s trip challenged her in ways she had never imagined and left her with valuable skills that she still carries with her today. “I learned a lot about endurance and especially teamwork in situations that I am just not too much of an expert in,” says Faliano.

“In the classroom, I am very much the kind of person to be a leader, to take charge, but in wilderness survival I know nothing. I had to take a step back from the position I was so accustomed to and it pushed me so far out of my comfort zone, but that was why I am so glad I did it. I learned so much in such a short period of time.”

Experiential education has many academic benefits.

The Cone of Experience theory, proposed by American educator Edgar Dale in 1946, states that people generally remember 10 percent of what they read, 20 percent of what they hear, 30 percent of what they see, and 50 percent of what they see and hear. Combining the senses through physical participation aids the retention of new information and strengthens problem-solving and critical thinking skills, benefiting students of all learning styles. “It teaches [students] how to take something that seems complex and intimidating and break down that task and overcome it,” says Boggs.

Logan Auxier

Eric Boggs lounges in his office at the University of Oregon.

Logan Auxier

A five-year study of 12,750 students conducted by the Washington State Office of Superintendent of Public Instruction found that in 96 percent of cases, students who were involved in outdoor and experiential education programs performed as well as, or significantly better than, their traditionally-taught peers in all areas of academic assessment. Correlations between high levels of academic achievement and hands-on learning show that experiential learning is one of the most effective ways to retain knowledge and gain critical thinking skills.

Effective experiential learning is all about the process. The reflection period that occurs after an experience or outdoor adventure results in “improved self-efficacy,” says Boggs.

“You take these new skills that are intimidating and through those lessons and the community that you build, students really recognize the value that they have.”

By restricting learning to lectures and standardized curriculum, school systems may deprive students of developing a stronger sense of self and larger purpose.

“In education, we need to think about how we can set students up to figure out what they're passionate about and what they're good at, and have that turn into their purpose,” says Boggs.

By connecting classwork to current issues, community framework, and culturally relevant ideas, Boggs believes educators can work to bridge the gap between concept and curriculum and create a more inclusive learning environment. Boggs says, “in an ideal world, we’d put more focus on helping the community that you're learning in.”

Outdoor adventures, travel, community service, internships, and other experience-based activities are invaluable components of education and, in order to prepare future generations for success, should be used to enhance classroomoriented learning. “It's a crime that people can graduate college but not necessarily have a sense of who they are as a leader or communicator,” says Boggs.

“If you can't have a conversation and can’t connect with peers or colleagues, then how are you really set up to thrive in the world?”

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Areas along the Oregon coast, such as the Drift Creek Wilderness, serve as important marbled murrelet habitat.

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FIGHT FOR FLIGHT Kim Nelson and Paul Engelmeyer shed light on the importance of biodiversity through the story of a Northern Pacific shorebird.

Kindra Roy

Ian Kerr

D

awn breaks in the old-growth stands along the Oregon coastline. The mossy forests, previously quiet and dark during the night, wake in a hurry as light pours in.

The dawn chorus begins, often initiated with the singing of thrushes, with other birds joining in to create the bustling morning melody that’s so familiar. Kim Nelson, a research ecologist, takes in the joyful sounds as the birds call to each other and begin nesting. Yet, she waits in anticipation for the song of a single bird, listening carefully through the serenade. Suddenly, the recognizable tune joins the others as the first marbled murrelet flies into the forest.

Nelson began working with marbled murrelets in 1988, but her attraction to biology began as a child. “I loved wildlife, ecology, and nature,” she says, “so I knew I wanted to work in biology and do something in science.”

She has immersed herself in the research of murrelets for over 30 years. When she first heard the call of the marbled murrelet, there was nothing known about the bird. In 1988, Nelson began working on her first project with the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife, which

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entailed going out on the coast range and surveying the different stages from young forests to old-growth. At the time, there had only been a few nests found. Since then, she has continued to find nests and characterize sites, nesting behavior, and requirements for successful nesting. However, during her time working with the marbled murrelet, which relies heavily on both land and sea, Nelson has observed various changes and threats that have brought the bird to national attention.

Nelson explains that the marbled murrelet is facing several obstacles, from habitat loss to poor ocean quality.

After the bird became threatened, organizations have worked to fight these challenges, but many things still need to change in order to protect the species.

Since the dawn of history, the planet and species inhabiting it have gone through periods of immense change. It's a fact that is crucial to our understanding of the world. However, human development has led to a loss of species and natural habitats greater than imagined. It is no surprise that the choices of mankind have been destructive to the natural world. Yet, many feel only a few species will be lost, and that it will not cause too much harm.

Portland Audubon Society Ten Mile Sanctuary manager and conservationist Paul Engelmeyer says that this mentality is dangerous. He compares our lost species to the integral parts of a working machine: “You say ‘oh, we don’t need that species, and we don’t need that one, and we don’t need that one.’ I describe it as us flying an airplane.

We can get by without this part, that bolt, and this thing here, and we don’t really need that, and next thing you know the plane does not fly very well.” Engelmeyer concludes, “In fact, we could easily be doomed without knowing it.”

Many nuts and bolts on our airplane have already been lost. We are living in the greatest period of species extinction in the last 60 million years. Over 75 percent of primate species are decreasing in population and 40 percent of bird species are facing dwindling populations of their own. Amongst those bird species in decline is the marbled murrelet.

The marbled murrelet was federally listed as “threatened” under the Endangered Species Act in 1992.

According to the Oregon Fish and Wildlife Office, the main cause of population decline is the “loss and modification of nesting habitat in old-growth and mature forests through commercial timber harvests, human-induced fires, and land conversions.”

The marbled murrelet is a seabird that feeds on the fish and invertebrates found in near-shore waters.

Though they spend most of their time out on the ocean, these murrelets move inland to nest between April and September. During these months,

Lucas Hamilton

old-growth forests up to 50 miles inland become home, and the limbs of conifer trees host the single egg laid by a sexually mature adult. Marbled murrelets are selective in their nesting grounds, and require large areas of oldgrowth to nest, as they avoid fragmented, small, or partiallydeveloped forests.

The loss of this habitat—combined with increased habitat fragmentation—which is already directly responsible for the decline, then leads to more trouble for the marbled murrelets. “Fragmentation has an impact on nesting success,” says Nelson. “It changes the microclimate in the forest and the predator numbers. Their main predators, like steller’s jays and ravens, have populations above historic levels because of changes in the habitat.”

Researchers have discovered another challenge for the marbled murrelet: the ocean. As Engelmeyer explains, the marbled murrelet “go down to 150 or 200 feet, bob to the surface and then fly in and feed their chick the forage fish.

They’re one of the species that really need a healthy ocean as well as a healthy forest.”

Nelson has researched this problem firsthand during her current project of tracking marbled murrelets to better understand their space usage. “We are learning more now about the ocean. I think the ocean has always been volatile.

Some years are good and some years are bad,” she says, “but we have changed the habitat and made it less optimal for the birds, and now, with the quick-changing ocean that

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seems to be changing faster and having poor ocean years occuring more often, that's having a double whammy on the birds.”

Ocean health is playing a crucial role in nesting and movements. Nelson’s current project involves going out on the ocean and putting VHS transmitters on the birds so that she and her team can track their movements, nesting sites, and foraging hot spots. The project has brought great insight into various parts of the marbled murrelet’s challenges, especially the effects of ocean quality on the species.

In 2017, none of the birds being tracked by Nelson’s team had nested. “It was a very poor ocean year and there was not a lot of upwelling or small forage fish available for them on the near shore, so the birds went in search of food instead of deciding to nest,” Nelson says, “so many of our birds left and went to California, all the way down to San Francisco Bay, while some went up to Washington.” The team has observed a similar movement every year since then.

As crucial as these oceans and forests are to the marbled murrelet, they are also valuable to the communities around them. “It’s no surprise that they are listed under the Endangered Species Act because of

loss of old-growth forest,” Engelmeyer says. “We have converted so much of our coast range bioregion, either through development or converting it to agricultural land or plantations.”

For many rural coastal towns, logging supports the local economy and is a way of life. The forest that provides the nesting site for the bird also provides logs for mills, forestry jobs, and income for the nearby counties. For many cities, portions of logging revenue on certain land help fund roads and libraries. The mutual dependence on forests and different ideas of suitable management have launched the controversy into a two-sided argument, in which conservationists and the general public are pitted against each other, where only one can win.

Nelson believes differently. “It should be a win-win for everybody,” she says. “I think there are a lot of ways to be creative and conserve species at the same time as we continue with things humans like to do. It’s not about stopping logging or anything like that. It’s [about] being creative and coming up with a way to help mitigate an impact. People just need to get together at the table and talk more about how we can help each other, because those are the things that will make this work.”

When the marbled murrelet was classified as

threatened, specialists knew that without purposeful support the species would struggle to survive. California, Oregon, and Washington then joined together in an effort to protect the seabird. Since then, the project has blossomed as groups, individuals, and organizations work together to conserve crucial habitat.

Advocates and scientists have shed light on the situation as news reaches private landowners and government organizations. Now, within the three states’ boundaries, almost four million acres of land have been designated as critical habitat. Three million acres of federal land and one million of state, county, city, and private lands have since been protected to promote the recovery of the species. Within the next 100 years, the protected areas should increase marbled murrelet nesting habitat. These lands are not completely logging-free, though on federal lands consultations with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service are required to assess possible harm to the marbled murrelet habitat.

More interior forest will not only allow for more nesting sites, but can increase nesting success and mitigate the effects of predation. Growing buffers, or new forests around old stands, can have positive impacts on the birds and is a creative way to help the population by using the old-growth forests still in place.

Marbled murrelet tracking, like that Nelson is involved in, has allowed for a greater understanding of bird movement,

Lucas Hamilton

foraging sites, and changes happening year to year.

The tracking of their movement is imperative for state population surveys, and may allow for a more accurate representation of marbled murrelet numbers.

The effort is made possible by a variety of people and teams buying in, willing to discuss matters with those who disagree, then develop a plan and take action.

Organizations such as Conservation Northwest, focusing on conservation in Washington, and the Oregon Marbled Murrelet Project, initiated by the Oregon State University College of Forestry, are just a couple examples of groups studying or interacting in the field to protect the species.

Nelson encourages anyone interested to learn about ecology and get involved. “Pay attention to laws and changes in laws, review plans or go to meetings,” she

says. “There is always something to be done, whether it's writing letters or talking to scientists, congress people, or managers. Everyone can help with a solution somehow.”

The effort to protect the threatened marbled murrelet on the Oregon coast is just one of many conservation efforts across the United States in response to the decline in species population and healthy habitats. Nelson and Engelmeyer believe the process is just getting started, and explain that natural solutions to increase the health of ecosystems have many benefits because of the connectedness of species.

“All species are important and they are all

Lucas Hamilton

interconnected,” says Nelson, “and a lot of people think if you lose one species it really does not matter, but it does.”

Nelson explains, “one thing we are learning about marbled murrelets is the birds are carrying whole fish in their beak into the forest to give to the chick, and while the chick stays at the nest for 30 days, it’s defecating around the edges of the nest. That then deposits a ton of nutrients into the forest. The rain washes that away and microbes and bugs eat it. It truly is all connected.”

Adding to this idea of intricate connections, Engelmeyer says, “if we plant a tree and shade a stream because the water is too warm, those are two benefits. There are then 30 or 40 species that are actually riparian-dependent species that use those ecosystem benefits. So you have water quality, fish recovery, multiple species, and now there

is a new overlay.”

The interwovenness of ecosystems makes it imperative for humans to protect species, as each relies on another.

As people strive to protect marbled murrelets, salmon, or any species, they are taking a stand for our planet, and for the health of every living thing on it, including ourselves.

When we take care of the bolts in our plane, they, too, take care of us.

The effort to protect biodiversity is a fight just getting started. “It's challenging, but there are some folks that are the beginning, the pioneers of change, folks that are behind them, and next thing you know there is a wave of people engaged,” Engelmeyer explains. “There are places that are healing, but there is still a lot of work left to do.”

Perched atop Pearl Pass, Rickey Gates absorbs the view of the Colorado mountains.

ENDURANCE ARTIST Rickey Gates has been running his whole life, but as a storyteller he still knows the value of stopping to reflect.

Jadzia Engle

Jared Paisley

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Over 2,000 miles into his run across the United States, Rickey Gates pauses along Highway 24 in Utah.

“T

he beautiful thing about running is that it’s absolutely the simplest sport out there, so much so that it’s oftentimes not considered a sport at all,” says Rickey Gates, ultra runner, photographer, mountain runner, world traveler, author, running trip host extraordinaire, and Salomon-sponsored athlete. It’s not so simple to fit Gates into just one box, partly because he’s spent his whole life butting heads with societal expectations and a set trajectory for his life. The one thing that seems to stick: he has chosen to run towards adventure and self-discovery. For Gates, running offers so many dynamic facets to explore, and he has spent his life chasing them down.

Born and raised in Aspen, Colorado, Gates explored a relationship between self and the external environment, immersing himself in beautiful scenery at a young age.

The affluent community that surrounded him, something his family did not partake in, granted him a perspective that he’s grateful to have: money isn’t the have all be all to happiness. This allowed him to confidently forge his own path in life, following the ideal that “the less you have, the happier you are.”

At 14, Gates began running when he joined the cross country team as a freshman in high school, where he found a real sense of community. While he didn’t immediately show competitive potential, he cherished the experience.

Later attending Lewis & Clark University in Portland, Oregon for a year, Gates continued with the sport before making the financial decision to return to Colorado and attend a school with in-state tuition, but not before taking two years off.

During his break, Gates got his first big taste of travel, spending nearly half of that first year in South America, living very minimally and dealing with the many challenges of travel as they arose. When Gates resumed his postsecondary education in 2003 at the University of Colorado Boulder (CU Boulder), an itch to travel persisted. Gates

Rickey Gates

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decided to study abroad in Chile, this time making the decision to immerse himself in the culture before he even arrived by taking two extra months to ride his motorcycle, rather than leisurely strolling on and off a plane. “Dealing with the challenges of travel at such a young age illuminated that anything is really possible,” says Gates.

“Such a huge part of that infinite possibility is simply continuing on, day after day and mile after mile.”

This mentality pushed Gates to test his perceived limits. For the three years that he attended CU Boulder, he attempted to make the competitive cross country team at the Division I school to no avail. Yet, he continued to run, refusing to give up something that he loved. And his persistence paid off.

Gates discovered his love for mountain racing in 2005, and met success, creating a new world of opportunities.

He competed on the US Mountain Running Team from 2006 to 2011. In 2008, Gates signed on to be an athlete for Salomon, an athletic equipment and run specialty company based out of France. “I’ve been fortunate enough throughout my years to travel to nearly 40 different countries and all seven continents,” Gates reflects, going so far as to race in the glacial conditions of Antarctica in 2010.

His travels, combined with the raw and authentic experience that running evokes, granted Gates an inherent connection to those he encountered along his journey. “It’s quite a bit different going to Italy with a Lonely Planet guide and ticking off the things that a book suggests you should see, and then a different thing to go line up at a starting line and be on that line with a bunch of Italians, and seeing how they race, and then after the race sharing some beers,” says Gates. “It breaks down a lot of barriers that normal travel can’t really do.”

Gates’ last long stretch of competition in the sport introduced him to the world of ultra running. He made his biggest splash in his very first appearance in 2011 in a 125K Canadian Death Race. Down the road, to stay relevant

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Scott Jurek

within the world of running, Gates began incorporating a more artistic perspective into his athletic career.

For Gates, the realms of writing, photography, and running began to intertwine with one another in 2009, when he wrote a Trail Runner magazine article entitled “On a Shoestring,” which highlights three months of his travels in Europe, living off of nothing more than the clothes off of his back and the money he won from races.

Over the years, Gates became more in tune as a storyteller and he began to notice more about his surroundings, including others’ actions as well as his own.

Gates says that “when you’re having an experience knowing that you want to retell the experience, [it] makes you pay attention to it differently, and I would say even closer. It makes you pay attention to people’s words and what you like about someone or what you dislike about them. And it allows you to really reassess and see what it is about someone or something that has a positive or negative effect on you.”

This perspective is very similar to one gained by athletes, runners in particular, that is the result of consistently pushing the body to its limit. By doing so, they can gain both internal and external benefits that reveal minor changes in routine and how it affects the body and mind. It is only natural that Gates integrated storytelling and running in order to captivate others with astute observations of the world.

In 2015, Gates collaborated with Salomon on several short films. Each project captured an essence of running outside the realm of competition, a philosophy Gates describes as “running beyond the bib.”

This is what Gates went searching for when he departed from Folly Beach, South Carolina on March 1, 2017, running all the way to San Francisco, California over the course of five months. Shortly after the 2016 election, with the United States under new political leadership, Gates set out to run through many counties deemed politically “red.” His path traced a similar course of many historical westward journeys that traversed American soil, including that of Lewis and Clark, as well as the Trail of Tears. In his book, Cross Country: A 3,700-mile Run To Explore Unseen America, Gates explains, “to cross a place on foot is to observe and participate in a vast and complex web of infrastructure. It is to experience the history of that place in a very real and personal way. It is to have a better understanding of what that place is.”

Gates didn’t know quite what to expect as he ran through the South, but he learned a great deal about the goodness of all people. Gates says, “[when] people see this skinny guy with a beard, wearing practically nothing at all and carrying very little, their first inclination in talking to me (or somebody like me) isn’t what my political beliefs are, or whether I believe in the Second Amendment, or any of these things. They want to know about my trip, and about me. And the same goes in reverse, I want to learn about them.”

Simple interactions between strangers illuminated the influence external factors play in people’s everyday lives.

“We’re led to believe by media, by family, by so many different things… that there are really big differences from one society to another, or from one state to another, or from one political belief to another,” says Gates. “We’re very

Rickey Gates gets stuck in a bog while running the Bob Graham Round in England.

Rickey Gates

As part of his run across the country, Rickey Gates spreads out his belongings while resting beneath a bridge in Green River, Utah.

much products of our environments.”

Gates’ trip, aside from providing him hundreds of miles of solitude at a time and plenty of time to reflect on his own personal morals or beliefs, taught him a lot about people and how to overcome the factors that sway us from the real and raw truth. “I learned… that it’s extremely important for us to step outside of our comfort zone,” says Gates, “and get to know people without the assistance of… news or any of these things and talk to people one on one and really try our best to think on our own.”

During his TransAmericana journey, Gates largely refused financial aid available to him from sponsors, insisting he use his own money, around $5,000 he saved up prior to setting off. With no other external assistance, save for the periodic aid to film small portions of his trek or an arranged care-package (of not much more than a new pair of running shoes) sent by friends or family members to post offices throughout the trip, Gates spent most of his time in solitude. To endure on a shoestring budget is not something new to Gates, but as he completed thousands of miles of exploration he wanted to make the trip financially attainable so those who are inspired to partake on a similar adventure are not discouraged from the possibility.

Over a year after arriving in California, when he submerged himself in the Pacific Ocean after successfully crossing the country, Gates grappled with a way to continue to grow as a runner and a person. Once again he decided on downsizing significantly but undertaking a feat no less astounding. From continental to just one city, Gates wanted to further explore his own backyard and get to know the people within it by running every single street in San Francisco. The reason? “It’s as simple as empathy,” says Gates.

He wanted to look others in the eye, people that may normally be passed by without a second glance or too wrapped up in their own routine to make a simple connection with a stranger. From November to midDecember of 2018, Gates traversed 1,300 miles of streets stopping along the way to chat with those he encountered.

The project itself made quite the ripple in a community of runners who heard of this undertaking. “Outwardly, the

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Every Single Street project has been [my] most rewarding [project], on a community level,” says Gates. “I had done that project hoping that other people would take it on, and I really had no idea that it would take off as it has.” #EverySingleStreet can now be found plastered along many social media posts of runners getting to know their own neighborhoods or whole cities, and it is something Gates has since attempted in four other cities, one of which being his new home in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Gates has now settled down with his wife, Liz, but has yet to give up travel or running expeditions. He hosts two running trips, Hut Run Hut and Bus Run Bus, where others join him for a laid out running excursion. The Hut Run Hut trip begins in Aspen and ends at Red Cliff Mountain just over one week later, with participants sleeping in huts along the way, an experience that retraces the stomping grounds of Gates’ younger life. Bus Run Bus takes advantage of a vehicle with sleeping quarters, allowing participants to easily change locations while exploring new trails in western America.

“It’s really important to me to share that experience with other people,” says Gates. “I know that [for] a lot of people it’s simply not in the cards for them to take five months off and have an experience like that.”

Gates has been refining his own niche in the sport of running for the past 25 years, each day finding joy in its dynamic ability to simplify life into one action. His mantra: run “fun not fast,” and encourage others to participate with him.

Running has not provided all the answers to life’s questions by any means, but it has strengthened Gates’ sense of self and brings him closer to those around him. He considers his biggest accomplishment of all his “consistency and dedication to the sport,” in which he always strives to grow, pushes his perceived limits, and explores something deeper and more personal in his life, while simultaneously sharing that experience. Gates encourages others to find their own driving force, and run with it.

Rickey Gates pushes his running stroller on Highway 50 in Nevada at 6 a.m.

Rickey Gates

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UNAFRAID TO Niamh Houston finds her voice as she explores the depth of her marine passion.

Niamh Houston

Niamh Houston approaches the ocean, board in hand.

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Thomas Felton

MAKE WAVES

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Niamh Houston gazes down the scenic Oregon coast.

B

eing the only female surfer walking through a parking lot of all male locals in Oceanside, California, I feel like the obvious outsider. Everywhere I look, surfers are gearing up for a long day of surfing out of the tailgates of their trucks. Barefoot in my swimsuit, I keep my head down as I make my way through the crowd with my board.

I have been warned about the dominant nature of Southern California surfers but never before experienced it firsthand.

On the beach, I wrestle my way into my wetsuit. The familiar suffocating feeling impairs my comfort. I walk along the beach, looking for any area with fewer surfers.

My initial efforts prove unsuccessful. The locals practically coat the ocean surface. I decide to walk all the way to the opposite side of the beach. There is a small, choppy reform of a wave that will occasionally go unnoticed by the other surfers in the area. My plan is to pick up the scrappy waves that the locals pass up.

Historically, surfing has been a completely maledominated sport. The World Surfing League did not initiate a female competition until 1983. In 2018, male surfers made an average of $608,000, whereas the average female pay was only $304,000. This was fixed in 2019, and the wages are now equal. The once all-male sport has changed. It offers women a space free of prejudice and judgment.

Often, in the water, gender, racial, and age biases and injustices are completely disregarded. Everyone looks identical in full-body wetsuits. Discernment is purely influenced by personal talent and evident experience, and it soon becomes apparent that all of the locals are exceptionally better than I am. They immediately pop up on their waves, make a turn, and then perform a series of perfectly executed tricks, carves, and airs. My talent feels seriously lacking compared to these surfers.

The wind direction switches from offshore to onshore and the wave peaks turn to visibly unrideable whitewater.

I retreat from the water back to the resort. The fairly lousy day of surfing forces me to adapt my plan.

Surfing has always been my escape from reality. You have to submit to the ocean’s powerful and dangerous force. It is different from a fixed, snowy slope or skate park.

The ocean is in constant motion. As a surfer, you learn how to move with it. This dynamic connection continues to intrigue me.

Peeling off my wetsuit, I found myself daydreaming. I was reminded of a recent chance encounter with octopus specialist Lance Hayes and his octopus partner, Ragnorok, named after the fictional Thor movie. Ragnarok is a sizable, male giant Pacific octopus, the largest of its species. I had met the pair on a deadline for a story about the extensive intellect of cephalopods. Given the freedom to write whatever I wanted, I decided to use the assignment as an excuse to check an experience off my bucket list—I've always dreamed about getting to play with an octopus. I was completely ecstatic when the opportunity arose.

Hayes led me through the Oregon Coast Aquarium past multiple pristine galleries. We entered a door that led us behind the scenes. A big room with a loud mechanical whir forced Hayes and I to practically yell at each other in an effort to communicate. A spacious holding facility sat on the right side of the room.

Hayes carefully removed the lid to the exhibit. Ragnarok waited eagerly in the corner nearest us. He serves as an ambassador from a reality so different from our own, quickly altering the public’s initial response from disgust

Emelia Sherman

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Niamh Houston prepares to surf the Oregon waves.

"The ocean is truly home for me. I want to ensure that people in present and future generations can experience the ocean in the same way."

- Niamh Houston

Ragnarok the octopus eagerly awaits the return of his human partner.

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to admiration. The aquarium offers encounters with octopuses, and various other ocean creatures, to both engage the animal and educate guests.

Hayes and I plunged our hands into the water. Mine cramped from the frigid temperature. As the pain slowly subsided, I noticed a single arm motioning towards my own. Ragnarok greeted Hayes with lavish familiarity.

Then the octopus tentatively tasted my hands and arms through his skin and suction cups. Soon, he decided that I was another playmate and I too was embellished in ever-undulating arms. His suction cups felt like tiny toilet plungers methodically placed methodically placed and then pulled off my skin. The octopus’ skin was a vibrant red, his color-changing skin expressing excitement. I was overcome with amazement. All I could think to say was “he’s beautiful.”

The octopus’ extraordinary strength curiously pulled my arms to the center of his own where his beak (which injects venom into its victim) is located. Hayes continually detached me from the loving grip. With a loud pop, we were separated, but only briefly, as another arm was constantly sent over. Ragnorok playfully siphoned up jets of cold water towards our faces. Hayes told me they do this for fun. The octopus slowly rotated his body so that his mantle and eyes were visible, rather than the previously exposed

underside. His eyes looked like tiny, opalescent jewels. A horizontal pupil stretched lengthwise across the eye. The octopus’ mantle was loosely frilled and bobbed freely in the water. Ragnorok’s body was alien compared to anything found on land.

Through centuries of evolution, the octopus has developed a bevy of adaptations that make it perfectly suited for its environment. As a species, it is able to adapt to the various obstacles thrown at it.

Humans face a crucial point in our history where we will be faced with challenges that our society will have to adapt to in order to survive in our changing environment. For our society to sufficiently thrive in the climax of our obstacles, such as climate change, ocean acidification, and mass extinctions, we need to observe the natural successes of the ocean and its creatures, as well as each other.

The entirety of my early childhood was spent terrified of the water. The thought of getting in over my head gave me a paralyzing fear that inhibited my ability to function. Many afternoons were spent tantruming on the deck of the lane pool as my mom tried to get me to swim. I swore to her that I would never so much as go near the water in my lifetime.

Niamh Houston

Niamh Houston displays her board after a day of surfing.

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Luckily, she wasn't easily persuaded.

My fear was finally truly diminished when my family took a trip to Kona, Hawaii when I was 8. We drove north to Pu'ukohola Heiau National Historic Site. A small bay with a dark-sand beach sat a few meters off the nature trail. The water was murky, thick with sediment. This was unlike the pristine water we had seen everywhere else on the island.

Frantic splashes disturbed the brown, glassy water. Fins erupted above the surface and darted around the bay.

Everywhere we looked, juvenile black-tipped reef sharks swarmed. I was in awe. I had never seen this apex predator in the wild. The tropical environment was a drastic change from the Pacific Northwest coastline that I had grown up visiting. The trip truly ignited my love for the ocean. From there, my passion grew exponentially.

The ocean has completely shaped every aspect of my being. I am a different person when I am liberated from my landlocked life. Stressors dissolve and I reach a state of complete utopic mental clarity. The beauty of the ocean fills me with immense joy, which I cannot experience anywhere else. I constantly crave its presence.

I have an innate drive to defend ocean ecosystems and advocate for environmentally-friendly practices, hoping to help save increasingly threatened natural environments. I believe that knowledge is truly power. Ocean acidification, hypoxia, global climate change, mass extinction, and overpopulation are all problems that my generation will experience at their pinnacles.

As we continue to see greater effects of catastrophic man-caused phenomena, the era of human domination will cease, but life will persist. The natural habitats that we have grown accustomed to today will be utterly unrecognizable compared to the inevitable future. Our oceans will be filled with new organisms better suited for the extreme environments that we have created. The only thing we need to worry about saving is ourselves. Life will go on without

us; it will be drastically different, but it will continue.

The ocean is truly home for me. I want to ensure that people in present and future generations can experience the ocean in the same way.

On our third day of surfing, we walked through the parking lot more confidently. A surfer from the prior day waved at us out of friendly recognition. I altered my mindset, deciding to be more aggressive. Instead of picking up all the unwanted waves, I pursued nice peaks for myself.

I again walked to the very end of the beach. The first few steps into the water were absolutely frigid. The water slowly diffused into my wetsuit. I began my long paddle out.

I traveled farther out in the lineup than I had ever been before. I was the farthest surfer from the beach in my area, which is a position that is normally only claimed by a local surfer.

The swell was bigger than it had been all week. The wave face stood at about five feet tall, larger than I’m comfortable surfing at home. After about seven consistent waves, the set lagged. I sat up on my board and looked around.

Pelicans soared only a few feet above the water.

Fishermen stood on the jetty, waiting to reel in their catch.

Everything seemed perfectly picturesque.

In my distracted state, I heard my dad yell, “outside, outside!” I turned and saw an absolutely perfect wave. It had a steep face and a nice peak, perfectly suited to my board.

I started paddling. I hopped up and made a left turn.

Squatting slightly, I reached my hand out and dragged it along the wave face, water spraying out behind me. I rode the wave all the way to the beach.

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Ivan Miller enjoys the sunset atop Maiden Peak while scouting a backpacking trip for MINE students.

ADAPTING TO THE MOUNTAIN

MINE adviser Ivan Miller reflects on the unique perspective that perseverance provides.

Ivan Miller

O

n August 9, 2019, my good friend Charlie Wilshire and I pulled up to the Pole Creek Trailhead knowing full well that we were about to enter Oregon’s Three Sisters Wilderness under a severe weather system.

Weather reports warned about thunderstorms and possible snow. After a decade of adventuring throughout Oregon and California, we had seen worse.

Midway through the 7.1-mile hike to Camp Lake, ominous clouds formed over the Three Sisters. Not long after, marble-sized (big and small) hail pelted us for ten minutes as we huddled under some pine trees. Once the hail let up, we bolted to camp, moving quickly to avoid hypothermia.

A half hour after arrival, we sat comfortably under a giant tarp, our tent tucked into wind-protected trees. I read a Kelly Cordes story in Adventure Journal magazine about how climber Tommy Caldwell improvised a 5.14d dyno pitch as part of his monumental climb of the Dawn Wall on El Capitan in Yosemite. Having never successfully completed the dyno, Caldwell ended up down-climbing in the dark, creating a giant circle to finish the pitch. After years of failed attempts, Caldwell simply saw the challenge with new eyes.

With wind and rain whipping all around us, Charlie and I recalled past escapades and near blunders, often laughing uncontrollably. Some of us relish adverse situations, for they often bring out the best in a person, reminding us of the depth of human potential. The late gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson sums things up nicely: “When the going gets tough, the weird turn pro.”

Charlie Wilshire

Late into the night, I sat up and marveled at the lengthy Adventure Journal magazine I had purchased in a Sisters bookstore. I wondered if my journalism students could pull off something similar—upping their design game and creating a book of stories. I quickly decided they could.

My mind started to race at the possibility and I recorded my thoughts in an old reporter’s notebook. I savored the chance to journal, delving deeper into self-exploration, something I learned to do by accident on a lengthy road trip throughout the western United States when I was only 19. Alone and bumming from one national park to the next, the simple exercise of journaling changed my life. I found solace in recording my daily adventures and interactions.

By taking the time to find stillness and make sense of my world, I discovered ecstasy in the outdoors and found my voice, suddenly believing I could achieve anything.

As an educator, I hope for similar results in my students.

So I created the Miller Integrated Nature Experience (MINE), a combination of journalistic learning, outdoor exploration, experiential education, and one heck of a crash course in leadership.

And after six years and multiple iterations of the program, it gets pretty good results, which appear in dirtcovered student journals, as opposed to standardized test results. MINE students can flip through the pages of their journal and relive an experience—backpack trips, hikes, conservation projects, sunset sit spots, 1,000-mile road trips, late nights producing professional-level publications— stories all their own, written for no one else. Students learn to slow down and find peace, slowly building the

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confidence to set new standards for themselves, living free and transcending their everyday high school experience.

Sitting at 6,952 feet and nestled at the base of South Sister, Camp Lake is a heavily populated playground for dirtbags of all kinds, and regardless of the weather, it served as a launching pad for our adventure. Charlie and I had originally dreamed of completing the Sisters Marathon, bagging all three peaks in succession. We had to adjust to the idea of waiting for conditions to improve, for we woke to the storm in full swing, the mountains quite uninviting.

At 9:42 a.m., we departed for a summit attempt. At 1 p.m., having climbed up the south side of Middle Sister, we found ourselves socked in by clouds 9,150 feet up. On a steep glacier, we held out for half an hour hoping the clouds would pass. No luck.

We ended up back at Camp Lake, hanging out atop a knoll on the west end. At that moment, I thought of my students. I wanted them to see what I was seeing, to feel at peace when others might see failure.

Reaching the peak of a mountain shouldn’t be the point of the climb. Hopefully, the point is to exact some positive change in the individual, perhaps seeing new possibilities and feeling strong enough to take on the unexpected.

Lounging back at camp, I felt comfortable with our attempt, and looked forward to having another shot at it the next day.

On day three, we set out at 10:37 a.m., not exactly early by diehard mountaineer standards. The previous night I had pined over the map, looking for a different route to the top. After all, I had already seen the easy path up the south side. I suggested taking a more difficult route to the east (the weird turn pro), perhaps giving us a small sense of what it would feel like to take on North Sister, a decaying mess of mountain that can prove fatal in late summer attempts. After carefully navigating crumbling rock and melting glaciers, we stopped about 9,150 feet up Middle Sister. Clouds engulfed us, the sky turned dark. Prudently, we descended, returning to camp.

That night, the clouds cleared and the Three Sisters finally appeared in all their glory. Part of me was bothered

by not reaching the top. After all, we had prepared for the Marathon and we had yet to reach the top of a single peak.

On the other hand, I felt the comfort of the wilderness blanket me, and soon realized I was getting exactly what I really needed—a bit of peace, and perhaps a new challenge for MINE students in the year to come.

In the waning light of the day, I thought about education, and how it feels like we just blindly charge up the mountain trying to reach the top. I couldn’t help but feel that we often set students on predetermined paths (trade jobs, college, etc.) with very few options. Many never really discover what they’re capable of, and we simply judge them based on meaningless measurements. The result: many kids are left with GPAs and test scores, rather than deeper personal stories, individual triumphs, and life lessons learned.

Later that summer, I spent a week in the Eagle Cap Wilderness, summiting a couple big mountains with my wife before returning to teach in the fall. I brought the Adventure Journal with me, reading it front to back. I daydreamed about using the book as a measuring stick in my journalism class, knowing I had a handful of students returning, and that previous groups had created quite a blueprint on how to make an outdoor magazine.

So in the first full week of school I introduced the idea of creating a 128-page magazine to my students, the majority of which were rookies and had no previous experience in journalism. Honestly, some students never bought in (no program works for every kid), but most of them took the leap of faith.

My approach is simple: encourage students to explore the community, let them choose roles in which they lead the way, provide time for self-reflection, and take them outside. And I request that kids think of themselves not as students but as professional journalists.

Empowering students in this way works wonders. As an educator, this means encouraging students to pitch, report, and write stories they’re interested in, sending them out into the community and inspiring them to be leaders.

For six years, MINE students have helped build a

Kelsi Miller

Reading through an issue of Adventure Journal magazine, Ivan Miller rests in the alpine glow of the Eagle Cap Wilderness.

Ivan Miller assesses conditions as snow starts to fall on top of Spencer Butte.

Ian Kerr

program that works for them. Empowered as editors, designers, and photographers, they keep raising the bar every year. And after a semester, this year’s students were no different, creating a stellar 64-page community magazine, right on track to meet the goal of 128 pages for Backcountry Review. On top of that, we were set to make our annual central coast trip, where in past years we’ve really established a stronger sense of community, building up to our final magazine cycle and allowing for a big finish to the year.

Everything changed on March 13. Knowing we were in a global pandemic and about to miss school time, I met with my editors-inchief to discuss a game plan, for I don’t make all the decisions for the class.

Rather, we all have to be on board. With the encouragement of the editors-inchief, I addressed students and laid out a plan to finish the magazine.

Well, things didn’t go exactly as planned. We never returned to school and ten of 25 seniors, given the opportunity, decided to graduate early. On top of that, we were unable to cover the outdoor community as originally planned.

Sheltered in place, students could not go take photos, nor did they have the necessary tools to design the magazine. At that point, even I questioned whether

or not completing the magazine was possible. We had reached a stopping point on our climb, or so we thought.

Somehow, students came together and saw a new approach. After all, when the going gets tough, MINE kids turn pro. Editors diligently finished their lengthy feature stories. Designers got creative with unused photos from the previous year, collected contributed art, and made magic out of what appeared to be nothing. Everyone adapted to communication via group chats, Google Meet, and even the old fashioned phone call. And everyone rallied around each other.

Quite simply, MINE students are incredible, and this year they took it to another level. Self-labeled the “dirtbag family,” everyone pushed back against personal obstacles and limitations to support the larger group. I do not know that I’ve ever been more proud of a group of students. This magazine embodies not only everything that this program stands for but everything that is good about education.

I can only hope that someday my two sons, Emerson and Nash, have a similar type of opportunity to test their abilities, form meaningful relationships, and reach unknown heights. I hope they have such a powerful story to record in their own journals. For the students that passionately worked to create Backcountry Review, perhaps they’ll remember this experience the next time they face adversity, a seemingly unclimbable mountain, if you will. And whether they make it to the top or not, maybe they’ll see the beauty and strength inside themselves for having the guts to try, and maybe they’ll remember the time they unlocked the heroic narrative that lies in all of us.

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We Would Like To Thank Our Partners

SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND COMMUNICATION ENVIRONMENTAL LEADERSHIP PROGRAM

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This is a MINE publication, produced at Springfield High School in Springfield, Oregon.

Ian Kerr